Sefiros Eishi: Chased By War (The Smoke and Mirrors Saga Book 2)

by Michael Wolff

  Again, the doors swiveled clothes; again, it was blocked by an outstretched arm.

  “I think you should listen to him,” Mykel said quietly. “He’s not the sort to fool around.” Stromgald eyed the librarian in a new light. There was a fire in him that had not been there in their last sojourn. Perhaps it was from protecting the handmaiden. Perhaps.

  “I don’t care if King Arthur himself is on that barge, you’re not getting –”

  “What’s all this commotion?” An elderly black man shuffled into the light with the aid of a cane. “Why you keep these people waiting, boy? Invite them in.”

  “I’m not a “boy,” old man. My father –”

  “I don’t care who your daddy is. You’re a ward. You got here through a trade of hostages. That means you do as I say.”

  “I don’t take orders from a monkey.”

  “Then perhaps you will take orders from me.” Lazarus appeared out of thin air and cast the famous augur gaze of his directly on the manservant’s eyes. “You know who I am, son?”

  “You’re Lord Lazarus,” the ward squeaked. “My father tells stories about you all the time.”

  “Oh really?” Lazarus didn’t move an inch, yet the manservant flinched as though the Khatari’s shadow stretched over the entire world. “And who exactly is your father?”

  “M-M-Milardo, sir. Maximillian Milardo.”

  “Milardo. I remember him. Pompous jackass. You’re inherited that trait, I’m afraid. I’d suggest you remedy that attitude, young man. Else you’ll be doomed to answer the door forever. Not even your daddy will be able to help you. Clear?”

  “Cr-crystal, sir.”

  “Good. Andrew, is that you? It’s been too long.”

  “It has indeed, milord. Where are my manners? Come in, all of you. Milord Kalam has retired for the night, but he should be free come daybreak.”

  “We have need of Kalam’s audience now, sir.” Stromgald flinched at his own interruption. Damn it. Why can this one man make me feel a chastised boy?

  Lazarus grunted. “Kalam’s generosity has its limits, young one. I do not wish to disturb a baron from slumber. Especially a cranky baron. It’s more trouble than he’s worth, trust me.”

  “Very well.”

  “Good. We will see you upon the morrow.”

  “We will see you?”

  “We are on a quest. We shall accompany you on your visit.” He hissed a sigh at Mykel’s tugging fingers. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Didn’t you just say –?”

  “I know my own words, lad. Am I not able to change my mind? You. Tolrep. I think your crew’s needs will be considered better with us as support. You will accompany us on our meeting.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He didn’t sound like he meant it, though. “Thank you. But what about the meantime?”

  “Andrew will take care of them, I assure you. Now, if you excuse me, I’m retiring for the night.”

  XXVII

  Lazarus did not jest. Servants practically kicked the door open and began their work, writhing like ants set aflame. Mykel was half-tangled in his sheets before he was awake enough to know what was happening. The librarian was three steps from the room before he realized that he was within his usual attire, with nothing crumpled. The maids were to be commended if they could spare enough time to clad their guests during a furious whirlwind of cleaning and polishing. A creak to the right revealed Shayna, who had suffered the same phenomenon. What’s going on?

  A cough brought both Mykel and Shayna to a little, almost nondescript man. The way he wrung his hands constantly spoke of a great many duties that were finally taking a toll on the body as well as the mind. If the pale skin was any clue, the servant might last a week before snapping, if not sooner.

  “Lord Lazarus demands your presence in breaking your fast, milord, milady. If you would follow me, please.”

  They followed the man to a chamber, where Lazarus chatted with the butler Andrew over honey-cakes and strawberries. The smell triggered a frenzy within Mykel. Somehow the food expanded to fit his vision, and in the background, was the snicker-snap of a starving animal. When the trance cleared Mykel found himself staring at a bowl streaked with cream, pink where the strawberries touched.

  “My word. Let me take that for you, sir.”

  “Don’t coddle him, Andrew. He is old enough to clean his own plate.”

  “I suppose.” The dark-skinned butler returned to his seat, only to succumb to a fit of anxious fingers before finally snatching the plate from Mykel’s plate and running from the chamber, apologizing as he went.

  Lazarus sighed. “Fifty years a Weirwynd, and he cannot shake being the butler.”

  Mykel stared, and stared again when the butler returned. Him, a Weirwynd? Back stooped, tufts of springy hair more ash than the thick brown brows crowning wide almond eyes, at odds with the smile of yellowed, almost golden, teeth. Nowhere was the grace and presence of a manipulator of the elements. A glance of the man’s person revealed nothing but aged clothing, threads here and there despite the lint-lode rolled upon the black shirt, ratty buttons at wrist and overcoat. There was nothing...nothing extraordinary about the man. Still Lazarus named him Weirwynd. This journey had more twists than a cheap fantasy novel.

  “How are Miranda and Louise?” Lazarus smiled at his charge; this time betrayed by the shiisaa pendant at his throat.

  “Oh, fine, sir. Miranda’s crafted a woman’s circle amidst the community. Every week they collect and engage in needlepoint or some such.”

  “Some such? Andrew, do you have any idea of what they’re doing? Not what you assume. Their real purpose.”

  A shrug widened the cleft in the overcoat’s fraying shoulder. “She don’t tell me, and I don’t ask. I get a free night with pipe and flask. If I ask, she might get me involved. No free night for me, you understand?”

  “Yes, I see. And Louise? She must be thirteen, if I remember correctly.”

  “Fourteen, sirrah. And sprouting like a vine, she is. Clears me by a hand. Lately she’s been wearing sinful clothing and staying at all hours of the night. I fear she might venture those whorehouses a mile or two back. Or maybe a gentleman caller that’s not so gentlemanly.”

  “These are the horror years, Andrew. What she’s doing is perfectly normal. As for the rebellion...she’s old enough to know how to defend herself. And your master?”

  “Fine, oh fine. Unfortunately, he must cancel your morning meeting. Some fool in the neighboring region is acting up. The master’s presence is needed before it turns into a rebellion.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, that’s never no mind.” The whine of the chair’s oaken legs dragging upon weary planks of wood pulled the butler’s eyes to the threads of chipped sawdust with a gleam of greediness. “Farewell, Andrew.”

  “Farewell, sirrah.”

  Lazarus strode through the corridor with a grimness that fouled the air in its wake. “We are in trouble.”

  Mykel blinked. “Trouble? How do you know?”

  “Andrew’s daughter is named Mary, not Louise. And he only has one daughter”

  Shayna’s voice whispered through the still air. “He is plagued by spies.”

  “Yes. Someone must have discovered him casting spells. His family must be in captivity for things to escalate to this level.” Suddenly the Khatari’s face went slack with anger. “Damn! I am a fool!”

  “What?”

  “I’ve heard rumors of miracles happening in this region. I should have made the connection then. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied...”

  “Nothing can be gained by blame,” Shayna soothed. “
What matters is what we do from here.”

  “You would do well to heed her council,” he said to the librarian. The latter was about to retort when a sudden thought struck him poleaxed.

  “Wait! Is it safe to speak of these things? I mean, if Andrew has a watchdog on his heels, it isn’t a far stretch to have eyes hidden in the walls.”

  “Do not fear. We are not threatening enough to warrant investigation. Do what you want, but be sure to come to the banquet tonight. Kalam is throwing a celebration in my honor. Secretly, of course.”

  “How then do you know it?”

  “I am old enough to know a secret when I hear one.” With that the Khatari melted into a side corridor.

  The hours dragged on with frustration. How could anyone hope to maintain cover when there were myriad of secrets lying below their very boots? When at last the bell tolled in the manor’s high towers, the librarian all but ran to the festivities. Now things were going to get interesting.

  The dinner was not unlike the ones Mykel had seen as a child. Servants in robed white scurried about, balancing several trays of foreign delicacies. Idly Mykel wondered the amount of flogging they had to endure to make a feast with so little notice. Probably the same trouble it took to take local barons out of their homes to sup with a man they humored because of his status and rank.

  Seven lines of seven pies lay upon the table by seven servants, arranged so to mimic a key symbol of the lord’s coat of arms. There was a moment of panic when the pie crust throbbed and cracked, only to spin away in gossamer laughter as a family of baby doves broke free of the artificial wombs; another symbol of the lord’s coat of arms.

  Mykel never understood the purpose of musicians in such grandiose events. It was an open secret that such bards were often traded as currency for various favors; their presence a flagrant way to announce their superiority over the heads of noble brethren. For all the attention spent in possessing them, no one gave the musicians a second glance. The bards made the air velvet with the crystalline grace of their instruments, and all of it wasted on the masters they had been traded to like sides of beef. What was the point of so much trouble if their services were such a pittance?

  The murals also had a role in this debauchery. Against images of gold-woven dragons and pearl-framed firebirds were the lesser nobles, sat the third-and-fourth born sons whose destiny was no more than a fraction of their elders. Still they had their own games to play. Words hinted at the wealth and opportunity they’d seized in acquiring ever more fortune. Their masks were thinner than upon their elder siblings; they knew their power was charity and they chafed at the false generosity from which their lives depended upon. They were vipers dressed as men, eyes wide with rage that they should suffer these indignities.

  The nobles were painfully predictable. There was no one noble that did not wear silk, from shy to modest to generous. The people smiled and laughed, but Mykel saw the heat of a vulture in their eyes. The playful banter hid the ruthless ambition beneath. Words were their daggers, their eyes the scales used to separate a servant from his loyalties. It did not bother them one bit that the servant was without a tongue; a custom of the nobility to trade servants as gifts. In fact, it was all the better. Oft-times servants found their rarity in the inner workings of their former masters. Gifts with a poison needle, from which blackmail and assassinations could be expertly plotted. Too late the first nobles found their own secrets were at risk, so it became the tradition of severing a servant’s tongue to keep their machinations safe.

  The librarian toyed with his food. His real intent was mimicking Lazarus’ dissection of their host, this Heath Kalam. He was a man of juxtapositions. His slim, well-muscled frame suggested a lifetime of physical conditioning. His clothing was modest in its second-grade wool and its distinct lack of insignia. A sword lay crossways down his back so that the spike-bottomed hilt thrust up from the shoulder. His eyes were nuggets of cold gray flint, sharp despite the shadows beneath. It was whispered that he suffered insomnia in childhood, and try as he might the bags never went away. In fact, he was proud of those bags, as they tricked people into thinking him ill, so their surprise would be too late when they finally realized the opposite was true.

  “Forgive our tardiness,” John apologized as he and his team entered the room. Mykel gawked at the sight of them. They were shorn of cloak and chain-mail. Instead they wore bland and dull wool, the kind of clothing a farmer might wear on feast-days. Odd to see him outside his ranger garb.

  A sudden creak turned everybody’s heads, and there was Mathias Tolrep, outfitted in similar attire and still possessing a degree of professionalism, almost as though he was a noble himself. “Milords, milady. This castle is grand. It is a wonder nobody gets lost here.”

  Laughter brimmed from the librarian, only to turn into a barely-repressed howl when Lazarus kicked his ankle. School your surprise and pay attention on what matters, his glare said. Mykel wanted to fire back a retort, but knew the truth in the Khatari’s intent and put aside the childish notions to pay attention to the conversation already in progress.

  “The numbers of Coicro are not dwindling,” John was saying. “There is desperate need of reinforcements.”

  “And so Jekai has sent you to me for that assistance.” Kalam’s voice was sweetened by the accent of a foreign education. His motion was the very meaning of delicacy, even to the point of taking minutes to choose his words. “Lord Jekai has been generous to me in the past. However, it is with a heavy heart that I must decline.”

  John’s voice lost its friendly timbre. “This battle will spread over your territories if not stopped now. Surely you see that.”

  “Your tone is ill-chosen, my boy. Perhaps you have been too long in service to this war you speak of. With the failure of coming crops my people have descended to banditry. It takes all my influence to keep the peace. Think, young one. Divided as I am, I would wither the morale of Jekai’s troops instead of salvaging them.”

  It sounded sincere, but Mykel didn’t need the sign of Lazarus’ brows flickering to root through the sympathy to the feelings beneath. A House of the King’s Circle was a veritable hotbed of politicians and manipulators. Secrets were exchanged with wooden smiles, trades were made amidst subjects completely opposed to the conversation, and false courtesies were passed over appetizers. As always, clouds of rumor slinked across the bawdry entertainment of singing jesters, tumblers and bards. Mykel had grown up surrounded by men of double identity. Kalam was lying. That his face was an amazing imitation of sincerity spoke of long years of experience with trickery and deceit.

  “Now, my good sea captain. Tell me why I shouldn’t bind you in chains and hang you as a pirate?”

  Tolrep didn’t even bat an eye. “Because I’ve been defending your shores for a month. My men need sanctuary.”

  “Ah. The pirate speaks of honor. Unfortunately, my answer is once again no. I cannot allow this...conflagration. It might put certain ideas in my people’s heads.”

  “Or in your coffers,” Tolrep said without missing a beat. “There will be no robbing or looting from my men. You have my word.”

  “I am to trust the word of a pirate?” Kalam let loose a big, booming chuckle. “You are lucky to be still breathing, my foolish idiot.”

  Matt, to his credit, took the opportunity to disappear before he said something he’d regret.

  The rest on the meal went on in silence. The guests merely watched, and flinched away at that, too. It was hard to watch the nobleman sample foods brought from distant lands, giving each morsel his full attention. The whole affair stank, having food while young men coughed out their lifeblood on the battlefield. It was no wonder, then, for all the visitors to excuse themselves on notions of exhaustion and the next day’s early ride. The noble host was too busy stuffing
his mouth with shrimp to register their parting ways.

  Mykel ghosted from the table only to fall into the clutches of a handmaiden, offering him escort to his private chambers. Only the maiden did not lead him to the guest quarters, but instead a door that had the look of a secret passage, so deep in the shadowed cranny was it. The maiden fled to the safety of the shadows, leaving Mykel alone to creak the door open.

  “Close the door behind you, lad.” Lazarus, John and his team, Matt Tolrep, and finally the Weirwynd hidden in the guise of a butler. Andrew. Mykel paused once at the presence of the rangers in the depths of shadowed corners, and again at the tears on the wrinkled butler’s face. Mortals cry over matters both large and small, dependent on the personal violation that caused it. For a Weirwynd to cry spoke a situation that threatened to engulf anyone attempting to sooth the pain.

  “You already know Andrew,” said Lazarus, gesturing the librarian to sit. Stromgald’s face was a thundercloud, making Mykel wince. What troubles are we ensnared in this time?

  “Andrew says Kalam forced him to cast spells on the battlefield. It appears that he has been doing this for a long time now.” The Khatari’s grim fury announced his rage at having the wool pulled over his eyes so easily.

  Stromgald – now all the friendliness was purged from his warrior’s face – must have noticed the same thing. “He does not use Andrew or the others on a frequent basis. That is how he evades capture. When he does employ such power, it is regarded as a miracle. There is a priest of the Church at the side of whichever leader protects Kalam’s interests the most. His presence makes the random firestorm or the sudden blizzard an act of God. No questions are raised, and the Church finds a herd of new converts after every battle. It is a conspiracy that aids all participants.”

  “Here.” Matt gave Mykel a scroll. “Do you notice anything?”

  The scroll was a list of names, each one more alien than the last. Then Mykel read the titles the men employed and groaned. Bishops, cardinals and inquisitors. Every one of them. By reflex he continued the scroll into Shayna’s hands. Her gasps of surprise went unnoticed.