“Master Archella sends his regards,” the latter said to the duke. “His people are going to stop by for a visit soon! And in the meantime, a bit of news.”
“Well?”
The beggar smiled, baring rotten teeth.
“Word for word, here it is: the one you’re looking for isn’t at that location. That’s all I was told to say.”
“Thank you,” the duke nodded. “Go ahead.”
The beggar deftly caught the coin Lahel tossed him, bowed, and backed into an alley. Demos looked over at Ihraz. He shrugged.
So, Izara, or Sister Tanal, as she’s calling herself now, isn’t at the monastery she claimed she ran away to. But who could be hiding her? The maids have all been questioned—they don’t know anything. The servants didn’t tell us anything new even when we tortured them. And the empress didn’t have any friends in the palace, that’s for sure. Still, she was able to disappear. Someone did such a good job helping her that even I’m in the dark. But if she isn’t at the monastery, why are even the clergy sure she’s there? Sister Tanal may not even exist at all. And, of course, we can’t rule out that Izara could long since be fish bait in one of the Uli’s tributaries.
Demos took his time getting to the palace gates. His servants didn’t say a word.
Chapter 9. The free city Givoi
It was only several nights later that Rianos was able to close his eyes—all he could think about was his encounter with Jert at the tavern. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen him before.
They probably hadn’t crossed paths in Givoi. The only Ennians there were traders and their attendants, and Jert didn’t look like one or the other. The ship Rianos took away from Sifares didn’t have any copper-headed mercenaries on it, either. That left Sifares itself.
Rianos could feel something amiss. A sense of foreboding ate away at him, sank deep in his gut, twisted his stomach in knots. The runaway’s intuition rarely betrayed him, and he was used to trusting it—his entire life had been spent expecting retaliation for his audacious feat. The masters paid slave hunters well to return their property. For that kind of money, the hunters were willing to pay a visit to the Accursed himself in the furnace. And Jert the Ennian did, indeed, look like a slave hunter—the imperial visage that didn’t draw attention in those parts coupled with the training as a fighter. He had plenty of money, too, which made it strange that he was so eager to join the Hundred. Artanna nar Toll didn’t pay much, though the work tended to be quiet.
The healer decided not to share his suspicions with his commander for the time being. Artanna had been attracting too much attention from the authorities as it was, and he had no desire to spook the slave hunter, if that was who Jert really was. That would have just forced him to lie low for a while or send someone stealthier. Of course, accusing an honest man without evidence would have been awkward, as well. Rianos decided to get to work looking for that evidence on his own.
He noticed Jert when he was leaving the herbalist’s shop. The Ennian was walking along the busy street in the direction of the market square, the weather dark and cold, but at least dry. After grabbing his basket, the healer threw a hood over his head and set off in pursuit. He wasn’t going to make the evening meal as it was, and dinner at the Wicked Monk was as good a reason as any to spend some more time observing the Ennian.
Rianos was no spy, but years spent on the run had taught him how to hide and blend in with a crowd. Jert was making no such effort. He was walking briskly, his shoulders thrown back, a smile flashed at all the passing girls, and a copper coin tossed to a beggar woman. He even paused at a flower stall to pick out a nice bouquet he then gave to a large-chested prostitute peeking out of one of the brothel windows. It was as if he had just come to the city for a good time.
On the other hand, he could have been waiting for something, though that begged the question—waiting for what?
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
At just the last second, Rianos jumped back to avoid getting trampled by a horse. His basket banged against a nearby wall; some woman in a colorful dress hissed something at him in Gatson.
Keeping his distance while not losing his target turned out to be tricky. Rianos had to go against the flow of people, as most in the city were hurrying home. Shopkeepers were wrapping up their goods, while porters kept banging into him and threatening to scatter the contents of his basket. Still, he was lucky—Jert cut a distinct figure and was going nowhere in a hurry. Once he got to the market square, the Ennian turned into an adjacent street and headed toward the port quarter via the foundries. The healer picked up his pace to make sure he didn’t lose him in the labyrinthine alleys. It wasn’t the nicest area, and Rianos had no idea what Jert could want there, especially with nightfall approaching.
He was starting to enjoy the thrill of the chase—for the first time in his life, he was the hunter instead of the hunted. His heart pounded, blood pumped into his legs, and Rianos crouched, hound-like, ready to run. Without really knowing where the feeling was coming from, he realized that he was identifying with the spies Artanna’s warriors always talked about. They were people prepared to face all kinds of danger so long as they found the valuable information they were looking for.
Slipping along the walls, hiding behind barrels and piles of trash, and getting bogged down in the mud, he kept adjusting his hood to keep his eyes fixed on the back of the person who threatened to ruin his life. To his surprise, Rianos caught himself thinking that if Jert really were a slave hunter, he would do whatever he had to in order to ensure that Jert returned emptyhanded.
A raven cawed from a rooftop. Rianos turned to look for the bird and realized it had gotten dark—it was too expensive to keep the lanterns lit where he was. Even so, he kept going, squinting to see ahead of him. He stared down the gloomy alley. The Ennian was nowhere to be seen. Figuring he’d turned a corner, the healer also remembered that there was an underground den somewhere nearby that sold pashtara. He grunted. Jert, apparently, was looking to have some fun with the forbidden powder.
The basket was getting in the way. Leaving it next to a wall and making a mental note of the spot, he pressed onward. But just as he reached the turn, a shadow slipped out from behind a corner. Rianos was pulled into the narrow alleyway and thrown up against the wall before he knew what was happening. He coughed.
“Why are you following me?”
“I’m trying to figure out who you are.”
“I already introduced myself to your mistress.”
“Artanna isn’t my mistress. She’s my commander.”
Rianos jerked, but the Ennian’s grip was tight.
“Stop it.” Jert turned the healer’s disfigured cheek to the light. “Judging by the brand, you belonged to the Ufhag family before you ran away. My sympathies—they’re some nasty people. Especially the grandfather. The old bastard went completely crazy looking for immortality.”
“You know quite a bit about my old masters.”
“I know a lot about everyone.”
Rianos peered closer into his new acquaintance’s face. He was an imperial, pure-blooded, even from somewhere farther north than Beltera. Kanedan or Osvendis. His face was chiseled, if covered in stubble. Tired eyes were set in a network of wrinkles, and he looked between thirty and thirty-five.
The healer tried to imagine what he might have looked like ten years before.
Suddenly, it hit him.
“Wait, you’re…you’re… You’re really one of them? I saw you—you came when they… Oh, merciful god…”
Panic. He hated that feeling. It was a kind of fear that froze his legs and arms, keeping him from moving, even from blinking. Sticky sweat broke out on his back; icy fingers felt around under his ribs.
His inner voice, the one that had kept him out of danger for years, the one he owe his survival to, was screaming, shouting, begging him to run. But he couldn’t. All he could do was stare into the sad, tired, dead eyes of Jert the Ennian. He coul
dn’t even force himself to shout for help.
“Good memory,” Jert replied calmly. “I’ve been wondering if you’d remember me or not.”
***
When the dagger’s long blade slipped easily through the fabric of his tunic and buried itself in Rianos’ chest, all he did was gasp weakly. There was no cry, no plea for help, not even a blink. The blow was clean and right to the heart. Something gurgled in Rianos’ throat, and his body slowly sagged. Bewilderment froze in his eyes.
“Running away is punishable by death for slaves, and all Ennians are required to carry out that punishment by order of the Magistrate,” Jert hissed. “But if that were all, I would have let you go and sworn to keep your secret. The problem is that you know too much.”
He returned his knife to his sheath, carefully gripped the healer’s torso, and dragged him into a space between two houses that wasn’t even big enough for the two of them. The spot was dark and sparsely populated—it would be morning before the body was found.
All that was left were a few final strokes. Jert pulled his dagger out once more.
Chapter 10. Missolen
Why all the commotion for one dead guy?
The funeral procession was moving catastrophically slowly. Demos had to keep glancing down, treading carefully to avoid the myriad white flowers scattered on the ground. The imperial dynasty’s standard was being carried by two members of the honor guard, their faces unintelligent. Demos remembered them. No matter how prestigious the guard was, serving in the quiet palace did nothing to improve their skill in battle.
On the other hand, their livers get plenty of work.
Behind the guards was a procession of clergy, all enveloped in white clothing embroidered with silver. The songs the masters and friars were singing praised the Keeper, his last son Gillenai, and divine love, promising eternal life to the righteous.
The casket with the emperor’s body was set on a wagon decorated richly with black cloth and harnessed to eight black horses. Drowning in a sea of fragrant flowers that still could not conceal the smell of the embalming ointments, Margius looked tranquil and at peace. Demos envied him just as much as he envied the runaway empress—she got to skip the ceremony entirely.
Eyes watered, under assault from the burnished armor of the Order’s brother protectors. The warrior monks—on horseback and on foot, armed with spears, swords, shields, halberds, and maces—carried clerical banners and echoed their prayers. Demos fixed his glance on one of the brother protectors as the latter stepped unhurriedly past the treasurer, his eyes focused straight ahead.
Not even a hello? Where are your manners, Renar? Or did you forget that we’re related now that you’re a knight in the Order? Still mad at the family, brother?
Demos and Gregor Voldhard, both close relatives of the late emperor, were first in line on either side of the wagon. Gregor’s face was focused, but that was all. The Duke of Highligland, incidentally, had it even worse than Demos—his polished ceremonial armor weighed much more than the treasurer’s thin tunic and light pants.
Shining armor, a handsome figure…all the result of a good bit of time spent in the Order, I imagine? Barely here in the capital, you’re already showing off your warrior side. Is that a hint of a threat or do they wear armor in Highligland even in peacetime?
Chancellor Irving Allantain was right behind Demos. The procession was difficult for the old man, but the Duke of Osvendis was holding steady. His overweight son Bryce was the picture of courtesy as he offered his assistance. Tired of his civility, however, the frail chancellor shushed his heir, who dejectedly found a place in the crowd.
Interesting, I wonder how sticky Irving’s ass is, what with his son kissing it all the time.
A few steps away from Gregor, glorying in the impression they made, strode the rulers of Gatson. King Enrige was in fine form—his beard was pomaded, his crown golden and inlaid with shining gems, his train brocaded. Demos couldn’t help but think the Gatsons might have confused the funeral for a wedding. Princess Vittoria, as well, was not to be outdone by her father. She was just as fabulously dressed, her head just as proudly thrown back. Demos noted the woman’s vivacious beauty, one which was presumably the work of a good dozen maids.
Looks like Gatson is maneuvering for a well-placed marriage with someone from the eastern side of the continent. Why else would Enrige have brought Vittoria? Not to say goodbye to Margius, that’s for sure.
The rest of the Small Council was there, too, and behind them a long row of lesser nobles, representatives of neighboring realms, clergy, affluent city people, and honored guests of the capital. Somewhere in the back was Lady Eltinia, Demos’ mother, who had wanted to spend the procession in talks with the emissaries from Ennia. Demos caught a glimpse of the golden-haired allies from Latandal a bit further off. Ten men and women dressed in their particular island style moved with impeccable grace. On the other hand, Lady Irital, the bearer of the Mark of Gintare, wasn’t among them.
I’m surprised the lady ambassador didn’t come to the capital. Why is that?
But Demos devoted most of his attention to the representatives of Queen Agala from Targos. The emissaries mixed with the Ennians, discussing something hotly with the southerners and occasionally nodding in the direction of the chancellor.
Rundkar and Vag Ran, needless to say, had not sent emissaries.
I can just imagine how surprised Allantain would be to see a delegation of axe-waving barbarians or arrogant, gray-haired Vagrans. At least, they would have made the day interesting.
The closer they got to the square in front of the Great Shrine, the narrower the corridor for the procession to make its way through got—thousands of people were pouring onto the streets. The city people shouted, prayed, and sang hymns. Demos tore himself away from the religious ecstasy on their faces to look over at Irving, who was breathing down his neck. Happily, the chancellor’s son was nowhere to be seen.
“Just as I imagined, the empress isn’t at the cloister,” the treasurer said, turning around.
“You just confirmed our guess.” There was so much noise in the air that Demos had to read his lips. “What’s your next step?”
“How long can you keep what happened a secret from the Targosians?”
“Quite a while. But rumors travel fast when they sense something’s wrong, so keep looking.”
“I do have one idea.”
“Just one, Lord Demos?” the chancellor grinned. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
The Burned Lord ignored the sarcasm.
“You know very well how tightly guarded the palace is.”
“And you’re wondering who could have gotten past the guards?”
Demos nodded. “Exactly. The only thing that comes to mind is Master Archella’s guild…”
“But Archella has been working for us for a long time now. You want to know who else has people that skilled?”
“There are the Ennians from Rex Gerifas, but their guild doesn’t work with outsiders. Just Ennians.”
Allantain squinted.
“Check out both options, though I’d recommend looking into a third.”
“I’m listening,” Devaton whispered.
“Doesn’t it bother you that the clergy is lying to us?”
That stopped bothering me long ago.
“I already asked myself that question, and I don’t see the logic,” Demos replied. “It’s possible the capital masters themselves don’t know that Izara isn’t where she’s supposed to be. Unless…”
“Check that out,” Allantain said shortly. Catching a glimpse of his son coming over, he fell back a few steps.
Demos looked over at the casket thoughtfully.
Getting a steer pregnant is simpler than getting something out of the clergy when they don’t want to talk, even when my brother is one of the Keeper’s servants.
***
The enormous square in front of the temple was packed with people. The white-stone cathedral, which was deco
rated with a multitude of slender spires, delicate sculptures, and lancet windows with gorgeous stained glace, inspired awe and drew attention to the trivial corner people take up in an enormous world. And the magnificent temple, in turn, was just one insignificant part of Eclusum, the domain of Great Master Ladarius. It was there that the empire’s rulers were coronated, married, and sent off on their final journey. Demos sighed in relief.
We’re almost done.
The gentry and important visitors were standing behind the masters in strict hierarchical order, with the crowd taking up the rest of the space in the square. The farewell ritual had already begun, though the city people were still arriving in hopes of seeing the imperial pyre.
Great Master Ladarius, garbed in more silver than cloth, was offering long prayers. The casket holding the late emperor was on a tall platform loaded with brushwood. Once the songs were done, Ladarius glanced at Demos and nodded, inviting the relatives to bid farewell to Margius. The treasurer turned to Gregor.
“Looks like we’ll have to go together.”
“It would be an honor.” The Highliglander smiled and helped his cousin up onto the platform.
Seeing the dukes together, the crowd broke into cheers. Flowers flew, shouts and prayers were raised, and all honor was given to the empire and the late emperor.
To be fair, that young Voldhard made quite the entrance in the castle.
Demos took a new torch from the great master, though it was something of a task for him. Down below, the monks awaited the signal to light the different sides of the wooden construction.
Two hands, both burned and tucked into leather gloves, gripped the torch’s long shaft. The flame made contact with the straw and brushwood surrounding Margius and his casket, small tongues of fire licking at the dry wood and gaining strength. His eyes on the fire, Demos felt the tension build inside him.
I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!
“Time to go,” he said simply.
The cousins stepped down gingerly. Ladarius gave the monks the signal to light the fire from below, and a few seconds later the roaring flames engulfed the casket. The crowd murmured and called out goodbyes. The clerics once again joined in song, drowning out even the logs crackling in the fire.
Dancing on the Block Page 9
