“They will learn. Obey and be rewarded. Refuse and be beaten. I learned this myself from Yazid.”
“My father taught me similarly. But make no mistake, Southlander, these are hard men. Treat them as such.”
Ahmed waved a hand, dismissing Caelwen’s concern. “We know how to deal with them. If they have any honor, they will do well in our land. If they do not, they will not survive to see it.”
“Very well. As for the rest, when we arrive, you will camp outside Nihlos proper.”
“More laws?”
Caelwen frowned and nodded.
Ahmed rolled his eyes. “Very well. We wait outside, out of respect for your preference, rather than nebulous law. You are an honorable man. We will not offer you insult when you ask us respectfully.”
“Surely Sandilianus has told you the tale of what happened the last time I promised your people would be safe in Nihlos?”
“Aye. And the rest. We do not blame you, Caelwen of House Luvox.”
“Even so, it would have been better for everyone if we had followed the law instead of whim that day, would it not?”
Ahmed realized, to his surprise, that he had been skillfully maneuvered into a logical corner. He grunted in response. “I suppose your law does have some use.” He paused, then added, “On occasion.”
Caelwen raised eye eyebrow and offered a wink and a grin. “Did I score a point?”
“One. Yes. Compared to my what? Ten? Fifteen?”
“Two or three at most, surely.”
“We should track them with cuts on each other’s forearms. Then you would not forget!”
Caelwen laughed heartily. “I'd talk to you in more depth about this some time, Southlander. Perhaps before a fire with a stiff drink in hand. I might argue honor cannot exist without law.”
“Aye, it would be a good conversation. But I suspect I will not be back this way again. Perhaps you will visit my land, eh?”
“Will my reception be better there than yours was here?”
Ahmed again gazed into the distance at what he presumed was their destination.
“Let's hope so.”
Chapter 3
Ideal versus Real
It was near midnight when Caelwen arrived at Nihlos's east gate. He scowled to see how few guards manned it, a pitiful group of four where twenty should have stood. It was a nasty reminder of how many men he had lost of late. The huge, rune-graven gate barred the broad ramp into the upper city, as it almost always did now. It was rumored to be enchanted with potent spells, though as far as Caelwen was concerned, these were nothing more than tales told by the ignorant. The commoners, when they weren't quivering in terror at the very notion of Meites, told wild tales of the founders, not the least of which was that they had a ‘spirit shield’, some sort of energy field that surrounded the city and would literally drain the life of anyone who tried to pass through it. Caelwen filed such notions where he filed other make-believe stories, such as “I didn't steal it!” or “I'm not drunk!” Commoners were fanciful people best left where they belonged, in the Undercity.
The one entrance, a small gate large enough for a single man at a time, stood open. Caelwen was surprised to find himself challenged as he tried to enter. He didn't recognize the young man in black, Nihlosian armor, but the spikes along his arm told his rank. One of Davron's men in to fill the gaps, likely.
“Sergeant?” Caelwen asked, his tone a bit haughtier than he normally would have taken with his men. “Do you know who I am?” I ought not treat them that way, like I'm better. I'm just tired, that's all.
“I do, sir,” the sergeant answered, his expression a mixture of fear and gravity. “Patriarch Polus demands your presence the moment you return.”
Caelwen felt a chill in his gut. He doesn't issue orders like that without reason. “What's going on?” he asked the young guard.
The sergeant fidgeted a moment, the muscle beneath his left eye starting to tic. He didn't meet Caelwen's gaze as he spoke. “Meites, sir. Best get the rest from him. All I know is rumor, anyway.”
Caelwen did not often visit his father's personal chambers. Polus had always been an intensely private man, the sort who kept walls around the different aspects of his life, everything compartmentalized. His own room had been for time with Caelwen's mother, before she passed, and then for mourning, and eventually simply for solitude. But the slaves had been quite clear: Polus expected Caelwen in his quarters the moment they set eyes on him.
Caelwen knocked, and heard from within, “Come.”
Polus was not an ascetic, but he was a man of practical tastes. He had few displays of wealth, but any number of comforts, not the least of which was the high-backed leather chair in which he sat, facing the roaring fireplace. He turned as Caelwen entered and gestured to the chair's twin, then raised a bottle of what appeared to be fine whiskey. “Join me.” If he invited me here for a drink, why does he look like it's an execution?
Caelwen noted his father had exchanged his uniform for a comfortable robe. “You waited up for me?”
Polus raised an eyebrow and gestured again toward the seat as he began to pour whiskey into two glasses. “What happened to your face?”
I had forgotten about that. Caelwen heaved a sigh, finding it difficult to look Polus in the eye as he answered, “A fight.”
Polus raised an eyebrow and waited several moments. “From your demeanor, it would seem this was not an official matter?”
Caelwen could not quite hide his grin, though he could feel his cheeks burning as well. “No, sir. Personal.”
Polus grunted and pushed one of the glasses of whisky across the table to his son. “How’s the other fellow?”
“About the same.”
“So, no one dead, and you seem whole enough. Not my concern, then. Sit.”
Caelwen shrugged and took both seat and glass. Don't make the mistake of thinking this is informal. It's a command.
Polus sat back, his square jaw working for a moment before he spoke, more to the room than to Caelwen. “There has been an... incident.” He spoke the last word as if it were a repulsive piece of trash he had discovered on his otherwise pristine floor, something to be handled with two fingers and quickly tossed in the garbage.
Caelwen gave Polus a wary look, but said nothing. If he were another man, I might think he was waiting for me to speak, but he's really waiting for me to show him I can shut up. It's that sort of ‘incident’.
Polus, as if able to read Caelwen's mind, offered a thin smile. “Narelki's dead. An accident, but suspicious circumstances. There will be an official version, and then there will be wild rumors, which I intend to quash.”
Caelwen nodded, eager to get to real police work. “I'll start an investigation immediately.”
Polus grimaced and rubbed at his temple a moment before fixing Caelwen with his stare. “I thought, for just a moment there, that we'd finally had a meeting of minds.”
“It would appear not.”
“I have already given my imprimatur to a specific version of the facts, one to which your friend Rithard objects.” Polus sipped at his glass and frowned. “Vociferously.”
Caelwen placed his still full glass on the table between them. “I don't doubt it. He's no more enamored with cover-ups than I am.”
“Nevertheless, you will do your duty and support the official story.”
Again, not a request. “I can hardly avoid contradicting you if I don't know the 'approved' version.”
“It's simple enough. Prandil says they were in the ruins of the brewery, both very drunk. She became convinced she'd recovered her Meite powers, and he was caught up in the enthusiasm. She climbed one of the walls and leapt.” Polus shook his head slowly, frowning. “It would seem her powers were less recovered than they thought at the time.”
Caelwen grunted. It could be true. It's hardly out of character. But.... “And what does Rithard say?”
“That the blood spatter is incontrovertible. She was hurled horizontally ag
ainst the wall with killing force.”
“He would know. So Prandil killed her. But why?”
“They're on edge right now. Davron says they think the end of the world is nigh,” Polus said. “As for me, I do not concern myself with the motivations of Meites.” He took another sip of his drink. “They are all whim and passion. This is hardly the first 'incident' I have dealt with between them.”
Caelwen ground his teeth, looking at his father and seeing no room for negotiation. “I will obey,” he said at last. “But don't expect me to be enthusiastic about it.”
Polus put his own drink down hard enough to produce a sharp report from the table. “Why should I expect understanding from my own son, after all. I make arbitrary choices for no good reason. That's what you think?”
Caelwen lowered his gaze to the floor, shame welling within him. “No, father. But I don't understand. Perhaps you could help me.”
Polus's indignation fled from his face, leaving him looking suddenly haggard in the flickering light. “The Meites police their own, Caelwen. I have told you this before.”
“But this is murder!”
“I think not, not in the way you mean it at any rate.” Polus rubbed at one of his temples as he spoke. “The rest of them returned early this morning and there was another 'incident'. Property damage and some bruises, as it were.” He chuckled briefly. “Specifically, Prandil's veranda and his face. Rest assured, if they saw things as you do, justice would have been swift. They don't waste time with such niceties as trials, after all. It seems they have rendered their judgment and decided a fine and beating will do.”
Caelwen wanted to laugh, even knowing the gravity of the situation. It would have been a fine thing to watch, to see proud, haughty Prandil humbled so. How can it be against the law when it is so obviously just? “No one should be above the law, father,” he muttered, his discussions with the Southlander heavy in his thoughts.
Polus's humor vanished as quickly as it had come. He leaned back in his chair, eyes hard, scowling. “Go on, idealist. How would you bring Prandil to account if he does not wish it? The same way you did Davron, no doubt.”
Caelwen found himself staring at the floor, shaking his head. “I didn't mean it as a criticism.”
“Of course you did!” Polus snapped. “You must forgive us our failures. We ignorant lot have had to run this city the last century without benefit of your genius. When you dream up a better solution in the brilliance of your youth, by all means, please do share it.”
“Father—”
“It's so easy for you to be idealistic.” Polus glared at his son. “You don't have the responsibility of balancing it all.” He paused again to let his words sink in, taking a sip from his glass, then added, “Yet.”
Caelwen reached for his own glass. He certainly knew we'd be wanting this, eh? “Mei! How can you balance it at all? The Meites can kill anyone they choose, at any time, and be unaccountable. That's the reality, is it not?”
Polus nodded slowly, his eyes tired, his expression resigned but satisfied. “Hence our arrangement.”
Caelwen sat long moments in silence, enjoying the burn of the whiskey in his throat and nose, brooding, considering the truth of law and justice and how to balance them. Polus said nothing, giving him space to think. Finally, Caelwen asked, “And if one of us were to kill one of them?”
Polus chuckled softly. “Thinking of using your blade instead of the law, then? I'd say it would end badly for you.”
“Davron seems to disagree.”
“I have known Davron since we were children. He's always been as mad as they are. He's like them in many ways.” Polus rubbed at his chin. “Perhaps he's one of them. He's certainly held them at bay with threats before. I'd always assumed they were simply humoring him, though.”
“You didn't answer my question. What happens if one of us kills one of them?”
Polus grunted at this. “It's never happened.”
Caelwen sat back in his chair and took another pull from his glass, feeling lost and adrift, a blind man reaching for a wall to steady himself and find his way. Perhaps it's high time it did.
Maranath circled the Southlander camp in a long, lazy arc, searching for a good spot to land, preferably with as little snow as possible. He eyed the few fires with unease. Less than twenty of them, now, and we will need them, no matter what the others think. It will have to be enough.
He settled gently on his feet behind a small copse of trees. Likely, the Southlanders would take a sorcerer landing in as stoic a manner as they did everything else, but it was habit not to frighten the mundanes. If he misjudged their calm, and they reacted poorly, they might well make short work of him. They were skilled warriors of great will, and such men were always dangerous, even to a powerful Meite. At best, he might have to kill some of them and weaken allies he knew might be needed to turn the tide. Best to be cautious.
Despite his efforts, he saw his arrival had not gone unnoticed. Sandilianus, his face still mottled with bruises, stood and looked in Maranath’s direction, alert, hand on sword, but relaxed as Maranath entered the light of the fires.
The Southlander offered a slight bow as several of his men turned, casting curious looks at Maranath, though none showed any alarm. “Welcome, old one. How may we serve you?”
Maranath waved a hand in the air in disdain. “I find relying on servants makes a man weak and soft. I'll settle for directions. I am here to see your leader.”
Sandilianus banged a fist to his chest, a gesture Maranath now recognized as a salute. “Ahmed has spoken of this. Come with me.”
Maranath returned the salute with one occasionally used amongst Meites on the rare occasion formality seemed useful, a nod and a clasping and spreading of his hands. “Lead on, proud warrior.”
Sandilianus wended his way through knots of men huddled around fires, calling out as he approached their destination, “Ahmed! Your guest has arrived.”
Ahmed, hunkered and holding his hands out to warm them at the fire, rose and waved at the pair. “Well met... Marath?”
Maranath shrugged. “Close enough, my boy.”
Sandilianus poked a finger at Ahmed’s chest. “His name is Maranath,” he corrected, in the tone a teacher often takes with a lazy student, prompting a sheepish grin from the younger man.
So it's that sort of relationship. “I've been called much worse by people who know me best,” Maranath chuckled. “Lots of speculation on my parents.”
Sandilianus snorted laughter, and Ahmed showed a broad grin. “I like you, Maranath the Gray,” Ahmed said, reaching out with the strange forearm grasp again.
Maranath shook arms with him. “Likewise.”
“Would you eat? We have only common fare, but it is filling.”
Maranath almost rejected the offer, before considering that he might give offense by doing so. “Just a bit. I don't eat as much as I used to, but I'd welcome a morsel or two.”
Sandilianus pounded his chest again. “I'll have the men bring food and drink.”
As the elder soldier headed off to round up food, Maranath gave Ahmed a serious look. “Before anything else, I have to tell you something. Everything else hinges on it. I should have told you before, but there was so much going on.”
Ahmed regarded him with a quizzical look, waiting. “I am listening.”
Maranath sighed, looking about to be certain no one would overhear. “You carry a piece of the Eye of the Lion about your neck. Did you know that?”
Ahmed's eyebrows rose, and his face grew grim. Apparently not.
The Southlander jerked the thing from his neck as if it were poisonous, snapping the leather thong that held it. He held it before him, his intense gaze shifting rapidly back and forth between Maranath and the tiny half lion head. “How can you know this?”
A more interesting question is why you are so quick to believe me. “You've seen it do something, eh?”
Ahmed was silent for a moment, as if he had been struck dumb by
the fear dancing behind his eyes. He started to speak, stopped, started again. At last, he said, in a near whisper, “I believe it brought me back from the dead.”
Maranath felt his eyes begin blinking rapidly, completely unintentionally. My turn to look like an idiot. It's only fair I suppose. He coughed briefly, unable to find words, before asking, “And why do you believe that?”
Ahmed had begun to master himself, now. He shrugged. “I am alive. Sandilianus swears I was dead when he found me with this thing about my neck, drowned from our shipwreck, and it was glowing green. When I woke, I felt as if someone had taken my place, and it was true. Another man in our group dropped dead. Somehow, this thing traded his life for mine!”
Maranath swallowed at a bitter taste in his mouth, nodding in appreciation of the tale even as he struggled to believe it. “The old texts mention something like that. I never believed them. I always thought it was metaphor...” He paused, remembering the recent battle, and the man who had been captured with Aiul. Cloaked in fear. Mei, I owe Prandil an apology for that one, and won't he cackle over it? He shook his head in wonder, and returned to the present. “Then again, I am coming to find I’ve been wrong on a number of 'metaphorical' references. You saw the Fallen man at the battle?”
“The Elgarite? Yes. We spoke. He is not what you think.”
“How would you know what I—” Maranath scowled suddenly. “Get out of my head, you! We call that sort of violation black sorcery! It's akin to rape, I should think!”
Ahmed’s seemed confused but not at all rattled. “No sorcery, old man. I can see auras, nothing more. But I can read a man's face well enough to guess his thoughts.”
Maranath snorted amusement and waved a hand in surrender. “You don't spook, do you? That's good. We'll have plenty of reason to be spooked in short order, I think.” He took a deep breath, then charged forward, “Aiul and the man you call 'Elgarite' have another piece. Aiul took it from Nihlos.”
Ahmed sat bolt upright, eyes wide. “Was it not guarded?”
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