As he turned to leave, shaking with grief, knowing he was in no state for this ceremony, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned and gaped to see Ariano staring up at him with wide eyes of flaming emerald, her gaze searching, piercing.
“Did she truly say what you said? Or were you just saving your own skin?”
Prandil bit back an insult. For the first time in recent memory, she had not offered one. He would keep the peace, at least for the moment. “She did. They were her last words. 'I feel like me again.'“
Ariano's piercing gaze still held him fast like a bug for long moments, then she nodded, convinced. “Pitiful creature. How could I have hated her? I knew what she lived with.” She patted Prandil on the back, as if she were his grandmother instead of a fearful master. “Go. Grieve. I will stand for both of us. I remember more than you, anyway.”
Prandil gave her a wary glance and wiped at his streaming eyes. “Maranath will not be pleased.”
“Leave him to me.”
Rithard eyed the half-empty decanter on his new desk, entertaining the notion of pouring another drink despite the increasingly late hour. The desk had, until recently, belonged to his Matriarch, Narelki, but she had met with an unfortunate ‘accident’, and the desk had come with his elevation to her position. Doubtless, she would find the notion of a bottle of whiskey on Amrath's desk to be some sort of blasphemy. Murder and mayhem were fine, but alcohol or bad language would have been intolerable.
He shook his head at such thoughts as unfair to her, and smiled, remembering her letter to him. Meite philosophy was truly strange. She had every reason to hate him, but she had actually respected him for his part in their little dance, enough to name him her heir and gift him with something remarkable: the secrets kept by their House, from the founding of Nihlos to the present day.
The Papers, as they were known, most of them still in their leather pouch, lay on the desk before him. He had spent the past few hours since he received them on organization and general impressions and was now taking a second pass for deeper analysis.
On the advice of Narelki in her final letter, he paid particular attention to the item she added regarding the circumstances of Theron Tasinal’s death. As she suggested, the information was explosive. Kariana Tasinal had often been fingered as the likely cause of Theron’s demise, as she had the most to gain. But it turned out, Theron was a Meite, and in a bizarre twist, had lost his own life the same way Narelki had, by coming in second in a battle between Meites. Tasinalta was innocent! Well, of murdering Theron, at any rate. And Sadrik Tasinal, Rithard’s newest ‘friend’, had at least two murders to his name. Of course, he beat me to the punch with Maralena.
Rithard felt a slight dilemma about what he should do with that information. Kariana had intervened to save his life, believing it would put her in a very difficult political position. No one, least of all Rithard, had known Davron was actually trying to keep him safe, rather than murder him to keep him quiet. Sadrik, on the other hand, was something of a comrade in arms. Who to chose?
That was a decision for later. There were other, more interesting bits in the papers, facts not simply declared but in need of teasing out. He was following several threads, but the one that had his interest for the moment concerned birth, death, and remarkable synchronicity.
Rithard drummed his fingers on the desk as he considered the two documents before him. They were both just over a hundred years old, and give or take a few hours, literally the same age. One detailed the birth of a son, Aiul, to Amrath Narelki, no listed father. Another, similar document, recorded the still birth of a son to Talus Ariano and Amrath Lothrian. And both on the same day. What a remarkable ‘coincidence’.
The timing was strange enough, but it was also unusual that Lothrian or Narelki had chosen to include a copy of Aiul’s birth record at all. None of the other house leaders had done so with any children. The Papers were for secrets, not family records or keepsakes. Such things were kept elsewhere, and open for perusal to anyone.
But even at that, it seemed downright grisly, ghoulish even, to keep a memento of a stillborn child. Unless, of course, one were a wicked sorcerer who had ulterior motives.
Rithard sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, deep in thought. He entertained, briefly, the mad notion of the Meites having used the corpse for some loathsome ritual, but dismissed it as silly. Meites were selfish, arrogant, often vain, and certainly capable of murder, but they didn’t eat children or engage in human sacrifice. That was the sort of thing they would kill over.
There was certainly a mystery to be solved, but Rithard could not see the shape of it yet. I need more data points. With a frown, he scribbled on a blank piece of paper: cross reference with burial records. He wrapped it around the two documents, and was just placing them back in the Papers packet when he heard the doors open behind him.
Rithard turned to face Slat as the old slave entered and announced, “Master, you have visitors.”
Rithard decided he would indeed have another drink. “At this hour? Send them away. Tell them I am in mourning.” He turned back to the Papers and poured two more fingers of whiskey, suppressing a snicker so as to avoid offending Slat.
Slat cleared his throat, drawing Rithard's attention again. “I don't think that will—” Slat turned quickly and tried to bar someone's passing. “Now, see here!”
Davron Noril, eyes twinkling with mirth or mischief, sidestepped Slat and entered the library, arms wide and high as if greeting a long-lost son. “Rithard! So good to see you.”
Rithard knocked back half his drink with a grimace. “Close the doors behind you, Slat.”
Davron grinned and waved as Slat passed. The old slave was not entirely successful at hiding his contempt, but he managed to close the doors without slamming them, which Rithard felt showed tremendous restraint.
Rithard sipped his drink, eyeing Davron and waiting, refusing to be the first to speak. Everything is a battle with you, eh? Even victory over a nearly crippled old man is something to celebrate?
“I'll get right to the point,” Davron said, his face serious now. “I have a guest I need you to babysit for a bit.”
Rithard snorted. “I have no children. Why would you imagine I have a talent for such things?”
Davron rolled his eyes. “It's not an actual child, you dolt!”
Rithard swirled the rest of his drink, pursing his lips as he bit back words that, if spoken, could well end up with him bleeding. The whiskey made that more difficult than usual, but Rithard was not quite drunk enough yet to feel no pain. So we'll not mention the irony of you questioning my intelligence while missing my meaning, but we will think it. “Ah, like I was your guest, you mean?”
Davron took a deep breath and let it out with exaggerated concern. “I do realize that me coming to you begging is ironic bordering on the absurd. But let's be honest, here.” He flashed what he obviously considered a charming grin, one that no doubt made the ladies swoon. “This all worked out fantastically well for both of us.”
“By blind luck!”
Davron chuckled. “No. Fortune favors the bold. I acted boldly. So did you, once you realized you had no options.” He spied the bottle of whiskey and gestured to it. “May I?”
Rithard sighed and withdrew a second glass from the desk drawer. “Help yourself.”
Davron nodded his thanks and continued as he poured. “This morning, I saw another opportunity, and I damned well charged forward with it. Considering how the fates smiled on our last venture, I thought I would offer you first refusal.” He held his glass toward Rithard in a toast.
Rithard stared at Davron and tapped a single finger on his desk, wanting nothing more than to eject his ‘guest’. But, Mei, he's intriguing me, now! He waved his own glass in Davron’s direction, the gesture apparently close enough for his visitor, who knocked his own drink back and began pouring another.
Rithard did the same, and asked, “And how badly will I be injured if I choose to pass on
your 'offer'?”
Davron leaned over, placing his hands on the desk and bringing his head level with Rithard's. “Now, listen to me: I did what I did because I had no more choice than you did. Do you really want the Meites to be totally unopposed?”
“Oh, you might sell me on that, but don't think for a second that I've forgotten the manhandling you gave me!”
Davron seemed to suddenly notice the Papers on the desk. Rithard tried to give nothing away, but knew he must have failed, as Davron's hand struck like a viper to snatch up the packet.
Davron leered at Rithard, holding the packet out of reach. “What have we here?”
“That information is the private property of House Amrath! I am the only person even authorized to look at it!”
Davron raised an eyebrow and grinned. “No, you are not. Not until the council meets. Do you want my vote?” He thumbed through the packet far too quickly to glean anything useful. It's just his way of establishing dominance.
Rithard sneered at Davron, not bothering to hide his sincere loathing for the bully. “I'm partial to women, so I doubt I have anything that would sway you.”
Davron tossed the packet onto the desk and gave Rithard an amused look. “I'm fucking your mother. I don't see how implying I'd want a boy like you actually flies, all in all.” He leaned over the desk again, “Unless you are, in fact, a little bitch.”
“My mother is fucking you,” Rithard insisted. “If you think you're in control of that situation, think again, and if you want it to continue, you might consider treating her son better.” Rithard sipped at his drink, smirking at Davron, who seemed suddenly and very uncomfortable. “But being honest, having known her my whole life, I'd advise you to conclude your business quickly. My mother is at least as bold and aggressive as you are, and more cunning by far.”
Davron’s discomfort faded quickly, and he grinned back at Rithard, suddenly best friends again. “Good! So we understand each other, yes?”
For a moment, Rithard was speechless. “Understand? You've made absolutely no sense since you barged in here!”
Davron gave him a tired look, and sighed as if the burden of the world were on his shoulders. “I tried. You wanted to spar and measure dicks, so I obliged. Are we done with that part, now? Are you ready to hear me out?”
Rithard sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He has a point, I suppose. “Fine. What did you come here to say?”
Davron said nothing, however. He simply opened the doors and gestured for someone to enter.
Slat called out, “Master, are you well? Do you need assistance?”
“I'm fine,” Rithard answered, his attention on the stranger. The man was covered head to toe in a long, flowing robe. Even his hands were sunken into the folds.
Davron closed the door and told his guest, “You can take that silly thing off now. We're among friends.”
Rithard scoffed. “Speak for yours—”
As Rithard laid eyes on the man beneath the robe, he found, to his surprise, that his words had fled entirely.
Chapter 5
Plans A, B, and C
Maranath had no love for rising early, and could have certainly made use of a few extra winks, but there was business to attend. Below him, a thin mist covered the world in cotton, rolling slowly downhill, making it seem as if the grounds of House Talus had been plucked from where it usually lay and placed among the clouds. The sun was just a glow on the horizon still, and Nihlos a larger glow beneath.
As Maranath began his gentle descent, he took some consolation to see Maklin, a well-known hater of mornings, standing slack jawed and swaying beneath a topiary bear, muttering and cursing under his breath. Ariano stood beside him, looking up at Maranath. She offered a small wave as he settled, then patted Maklin on the back with relish. “What a lovely morning!”
“I hope Cruentus eats you,” Maklin muttered, but there was no energy behind his words. He blinked rapidly a moment, then shook his head. “I almost crashed into your damned tower, you know. We could have started an hour later.”
Maranath laughed, feeling no sympathy for his old friend. “Drink less next time you have business in the morning.”
Maklin responded with an incoherent grunt of misery. “It was a funeral. You drink at funerals. I had to be civil.” He hacked and spat on the ground. “At least I beat the boy.”
Maranath eyed the skies, looking for movement. “So you did.”
“Lies,” Sadrik called from the shrouding mist. “I just chose a more civilized location. I greatly prefer lions.” He seemed to slowly materialize, hawkish face slicing through the mists like the prow of a ship.
Ariano chuckled at this, though she seemed reserved, and a bit sad. “It would have been a better choice, eh, a portent?”
Maranath scoffed. “Nonsense.” No doubt you're in your head about the whole mess with Lothrian, and it serves you right. The two of you were fools.
“Even if one doesn't believe in such, and I most certainly do,” she said, “You can hardly deny the very real effect that aesthetic has for a Meite. I appreciate symmetry.”
Maklin grunted again. “I’d appreciate you all shutting up.”
Ariano, her chipper mood gone in a flash, shot back, “Why don’t you shut up, you stupid codger!”
Maranath sighed. It was going to be a long trip.
Rithard didn’t usually eat breakfast, and certainly he never took his meals in a formal dining room, but as the new master of the house, he had obligations. He looked across the table to his Southlander guest and offered a nervous smile. A creepy smile. That's how it will be received. It always is. “You'll forgive me for not seeing you privately until now, but I was in no way expecting visitors.” Another duty I would never have had to deal with previously.
Rithard had quickly realized that Davron’s ‘opportunity’ had been little more than an excuse to avoid attending Narelki’s funeral. Now Rithard was stuck entertaining the foreigner, and Davron was nowhere to be found.
Rithard thought wistfully of the Papers, wondering when he would be able to get back to them. He had managed to push the duty of host onto Slat for the previous evening, having the slave get their visitor settled with a meal, a bath, and a bed. That had left Rithard a little more time for research, but not nearly enough. He had just managed to form some intriguing connections before he had fallen asleep at his desk.
There appeared to have been some sort of doomsday cult in the early decades of Nihlos, one in which even many of the founders had been involved, but the details were sketchy, and worse, some of the information was missing. Documents ended suddenly, and Rithard's eye was keen enough to see some pages had literally been cut from a number of books referred to by the Papers.
Perhaps most frustrating of all, some things were written in a language he could not read. A dead end. I can't even identify the language, much less translate it.
Ahmed cleared his throat, rousing Rithard from his ruminations. The Southlander set his coffee down with care, as if afraid the cup would shatter. “I take no offense. I came unannounced, and you are in mourning.”
“I appreciate your patience. Just know it's not how I normally treat guests, especially foreign dignitaries.”
Ahmed raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “How do you usually treat them?”
Rithard snorted. “I don't. I've only just taken over the house, and I have my doubts as to whether it's permanent. That's something for the council to decide when next they meet.”
“Which may be some time, I think,” Ahmed said. He drained the rest of his coffee, and reached for the decanter to pour more, but before he could, a short, fat girl snatched it up. Ahmed watched her fill his glass, a troubled expression on his face.
Rithard tapped a finger on the table. “What is your name, girl?”
She looked at him with wide, fearful eyes. Ah, lovely. Wrong tone. I'll need to work on that.
“Celisa, Patriarch,” she squeaked.
“Yo
u are excused. Oh, and please leave the carafe....”
“Did I do something wrong?”
Rithard forced a smile, which seemed to only heighten the fear in the girl's eyes. “Not at all. We just have private matters to discuss.” She seemed to relax, and he ushered her out with shooing gestures.
When the door had closed behind her, Ahmed spoke. “I am not accustomed to servants.”
“Nor I,” Rithard admitted. “It's awkward. As I said, I've only just come into this position. It carries expectations that are somewhat alien.”
“What did you do before?”
“Worked with the dead, mostly. Occasionally I healed the living as well.” Rithard polished off his coffee and set the cup down, considering whether he would pour another. “And I solved crimes, usually murders.”
Ahmed perked up at this. “You would know Caelwen of House Luvox, then?”
“Very well. We are old friends.” Rithard decided he would indeed have another cup, and poured steaming, black coffee in a measured dose, much the same as he would with liquor. “And you? What is your profession?”
“Besides soldier, you mean.”
Rithard grinned. “Are all of your people soldiers?”
“In theory. In practice, not all, but many, more than half. And beyond that, I am what Caelwen calls a 'religious'.” The Southlander grinned widely, as if it were a great joke. “Our word for it is 'prelate'.”
“Ah, yes, Davron mentioned you believe you were sent here by your god?” Rithard took a drink, uncertain of how to proceed. “I should warn you, I mean no disrespect, but I am no believer in gods. I find myself wanting to ask all sorts of questions that would likely insult you, but as you have seen, I have that effect on everyone.”
Ahmed laughed aloud at this. He set his cup on the table to avoid spilling as he wiped at his eyes. “Indeed, I saw the look on the girl's face well enough! But as for my faith, have no worry, my faith is strong, and Ilaweh has no need of your belief. Trust me, friend, his will is done whether we even know his name. I am living proof of that. Ask any question you like. I promise, I will not take the matter beyond fists.”
War God's Will Page 10
