by Allan Cole
Kalasariz looked Safar up and down, studying every crease in his costume, every twitch in his face. Then he said, "The second answer is that the girl, Nerisa, is only an excuse. And that I’m here for an entirely different reason."
Kalasariz paused, fixing Safar with a stare. Then he said, "I understand you are a close friend of Iraj Protarus."
Safar was too startled to hide his surprise. "Why, yes, I am," he said. "Or, I was some time ago. I haven’t seen or heard from him in years."
"What if I told you I had different reports, Acolyte Timura?" Kalasariz said. "What if I told you that I have a reliable informant will to testify that you are communication with Protarus regularly?"
"I’d say your informant was a liar, My Lord, " Safar replied, quite firmly. "And I’d also say, who cares? Iraj Protarus has nothing to do with Walaria."
Kalasariz curled a lip. "Are you claiming ignorance of Protarus’ activities?" he asked. "Are you saying you know nothing of his many conquests?"
Safar shrugged. "I’ve heard the market gossip, Lord," he said. "Some of it might even be true. When I knew Iraj he was determined to become leader of his clan. And I understand he’s achieved this. That he’s undisputed ruler of the Southern Plains."
"Oh, his claims are disputed, all right," Kalasariz said.
"You mean by his uncle, Lord Fulain," Safar said. "And his uncle’s ally - Koralia Kan. Iraj told me about them years ago. He hated them with good reason, it seemed to me. The last bit of market gossip I heard was that Fulain and Kan were routed and have fled to Lord Kan’s kingdom. "
"You know much," Kalasariz said, "for one who pretends no interest in politics."
"Iraj was my friend, Lord," Safar said. "It’s only natural I’d take an interest in any news I heard."
"Then how did you miss the news, Acolyte Timura," Kalasariz said with a sneer, "that Iraj Protarus has been proclaimed an enemy of Walaria?"
Safar reacted, shocked. "When?" he said. "I’ve heard nothing of this."
Kalasariz smiled. "Actually," he said, "it hasn’t been announced yet. The king has entered into an alliance with the Lords Fulain and Kan. He suspects Iraj will not be satisfied with his southern holdings and will soon seek to extend his borders. This alliance will be announced tomorrow."
Safar had every reason believe everything Kalasariz said was true. He remembered quite clearly Iraj’s dreams of grand conquest - as clearly as he recalled his own vision of Iraj leading a great army.
Kalasariz’ harsh voice broke through his thoughts. "Do you still claim, Acolyte Timura, that you have had no communication with the barbarian who now claims a royal title." He spit on the floor. "King Protarus," he sneered. "Such savage pretensions."
Safar took a deep breath. "I have not spoken with him, or corresponded with him, My Lord," he said, quite truthfully, "since I left my home in the mountains. I doubt if Iraj even remembers me. Why should he? I’m no one of importance. We were just boys thrown together by circumstance."
Kalasariz gave him another long, probing look. Then he nodded, as if satisfied. "You will send word to me, Acolyte," he said, "if you hear from your old friend."
Safar bobbed his head, relieved. "Certainly, Lord," he said. "Without fail."
It was a lie, but one Safar thought was unlikely to be tested. What reason would Iraj have to seek him out after all this time? Like he told Kalasariz, it had been a boyhood friendship - long forgotten.
Then the spy master suddenly turned on his heel, signaling his men he was ready to depart. Safar sagged as Kalasariz stepped through the door. But any relief he felt was short-lived. Just as Kalasariz reached the door he swung back.
"You may or may not be the fool you claim, Acolyte Timura," he said. "Be advised that I will make it my personal business to find out."
And he was gone.
Safar heard a dry chuckle coming from the inside pocket of his robe. It was Gundara.
He heard him say: "Nice friends you have, Master. And good fortune for me. When they kill you I’ll be in much better company."
Then, to his twin, "Shut up, brother! Save it for the demons. You’ll have your turn soon enough."
Safar swatted the bulge in his pocket and heard Gundara give a satisfying "Ouch!"
"Don’t trifle with me," Safar warned. "I may only be a student, but the handling of Favorites is a first year course. And the number one rule, according to my master, the Lord Umurhan, is never to trust a Favorite. The second is to use a heavy hand. I don’t agree with Umurhan about a lot of things, but from your behavior so far I intend to take his teaching to heart."
He swatted the bulge again. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Okay, okay," Gundara said from his pocket. "Whatever you say, Master."
Then to his twin: "Shut up, Gundaree! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"
The letter, although written on expensive paper, was smudged from camp smoke and battered from being passed through many hands.
Kalasariz smoothed it out on the table and moved an oil lamp closer so the two other men could see.
This is what the letter said:
My Dear Safar
All you predicted has been coming true and at a faster pace than even I expected. Even as I write my whole camp is drunk with wine and joy at yet another grand victory. Once again our losses were few, while our enemy suffered greatly. My army grows larger and more able each day. But I’ll tell you this, my friend. I’ve learned that success can be more dangerous than failure. Every city I capture, every border I cross, increases the pressure to achieve more. For if I stop my enemies will have time to join forces against me. The greatest problem I face, however, is that I’m surrounded by self-serving advisors whose words and loyalty I’d be a fool to trust.
But you, my friend, I know I can trust. We proved our mettle together in that fight against the fiends. You know my mind, my private thoughts, more than any other. Just as I know yours.
I beg you, Safar - come to me at once. To help speed you to my side I have deposited ample funds in your name with the Merchants’ Guild in Walaria.
I have great need of you, friend and oath brother.
May the gods look with favor on you and your dear family in Kyrania.
When the men had finished reading the letter Kalasariz said, "I have verified the signature. Without question it’s that of Iraj Protarus."
"This is most disturbing news gentlemen," King Didima replied. "Most disturbing indeed."
"Damned embarrassing for me," Umurhan said. "Can you imagine how I feel? To think I’ve been nursing a viper at my bosom all this time."
"There, there, Umurhan," Didima said. "No one’s blaming you. How were you supposed to know? After all, the young man came so highly recommended."
The three men were gathered in the king’s private study. They’d ruled together for so long - equally dividing power and wealth - that they were at ease in each other’s company. They were accustomed to compromise and once a goal was set they worked smoothly towards its end. Didima was a stumpy man, with thick limbs and a barrel-like trunk. His face was round like a melon and shadowed by a dark thick beard streaked with gray. Umurhan was every inch a wizard, silver eyes glowing under a sorcerer’s peaked hat. He had heavy, bat-winged brows and a beard of flowing white. And Kalasariz was the dark presence who made this unholy trinity complete.
"Thank you for your confidence in me, Majesty," Umurhan said. "Although I must say I have become suspicious of young Timura lately. I wanted to dismiss him from the school, but I didn’t want to offend his sponsor, Lord Muzine. Instead I was going to make sure Timura failed the upcoming exams. Then I’d be rid of him without controversy."
"I’ll speak to Muzine," Didima offered. "He’ll be grateful we gave him a chance to distance himself from the little traitor."
"Let’s not mention this to anyone just yet," Kalasariz cautioned. "I want to see where this leads us."
"That’s good advice," Didima said. "Why seize one troublemaker when we might have a chance to
sweep them all in." He absently combed his beard with thick, blunt fingers. "These are dangerous times, gentlemen, as I’ve said many times before. Two years of poor harvests. Plague outbreaks among our cattle and sheep. More bandits stalking the caravans than we’ve seen in years. This has done nothing to help trade. And this increasing reluctance, which I lay to poor upbringing, of our citizens to pay the increased taxes we require just to keep the kingdom whole and on the right course.
"Now this upstart, Iraj Protarus, comes along with his army of barbarians invading the realms of innocent, peace-loving kings. Why just last month my old friend, King Leeman of Shareed, had his head cut off by this Protarus fellow. After he’d sacked the city, of course, and burned it to the ground."
Didima touched his throat and shivered. "It isn’t right," he said, "cutting off royal heads. It injures the dignity of thrones everywhere."
"I couldn’t agree more, Majesty," Umurhan said. "And I think we made a wise decision to ally ourselves with Protarus’ enemies, Koralia Kan and Lord Fulain."
"We’ll have to raise taxes again," Didima warned, "to pay for the mercenaries and arms we promised our new friends."
"It will be worth every copper," Umurhan said, "if it stops Protarus once and for all. Someday our citizens will thank for saving them from that madman."
"Thank us, or curse us," Kalasariz said, "they’ll pay just the same. But that’s old business and as much I’d like to talk politics with you two all night I want to set a proper course concerning Safar Timura. How shall we proceed?"
Umurhan indicated the intercepted letter. "How did this fall into your hands?"
"I have an informant at the Foolsmire," Kalasariz said, "which as you all know is a favorite meeting spot for the students. Safar is a close friend of the owner and has all his messages and post directed there."
"I know of this place," Umurhan said. "The owner is a cranky but harmless old fellow who distrusts authority. Katal, I think his name is. I can’t imagine him having a sudden change of heart and turning informer for the crown."
Kalasariz smiled thinly, making him look even more like a skeleton. "It’s the owner’s grandson who is in my pay," he said. "Zeman’s his name. He’s as dim-witted as he is ambitious. Full of cunning and all of it low. Zeman is anxious to inherit, but unfortunately for him his grandfather gives every sign of living on for many years. My emissaries have led young Zeman to believe that if he helps us we might hasten his grandfather’s journey to the grave."
"Excellent, excellent," King Didima said. "The blacker the soul the more willing the flesh."
Kalasariz chuckled. The sound was like a broken bone grating against itself. "That’s certainly true in Zeman’s case," he said. "He seems to particularly hate Safar Timura. I don’t know why - to my knowledge Timura has never done anything against him. I think he’s jealous because his grandfather holds Timura in such high affection. There’s also a child at the Foolsmire, a thief named Nerisa, whom he appears to hate nearly as much as Timura. Once again, I can’t say why. Nor do I care. Suffice it to say Zeman has been looking on his own for evidence against Timura for some time. We had no reason to suspect him, the gods know. And then this letter came along and Zeman contacted us immediately."
Kalasariz made another death mask smile. "He managed to construct the accusations so they involved the child as well."
"My, my," Didima said. "Two enemies at one blow. Zeman must be a very happy fellow."
"Not as happy as he’s going to be if this works out right," Kalasariz said. "I believe in keeping my best informants rich enough to dream large, but poor enough to keep those dreams just beyond their reach."
"What did Timura say when you confronted him with the letter?" Didima asked.
"I didn’t mention it," Kalasariz said. "I let him lie. He claimed he’d heard nothing from Protarus since they were boys. He also said he doubted his old friend even remembered him."
Umurhan snorted. "A likely story," he said. "That letter is clearly one of several urging Timura to join Protarus in his evil adventure. And look here..." he jabbed his finger at one phrase in the letter... "Protarus says he’s deposited funds for Timura at the Merchants’ Guild."
Kalasariz snorted. "I’ve seized them, of course," he said. "One hundred gold coins."
Umurhan’s bat-winged brows flared up in surprise. "So much?" he said. Then, "That’s more proof, as if we needed it. No one would give away such an amount casually."
Didima leaned forward. "Why do you think Timura has resisted Protarus’ pleas?"
"That’s simple enough, Majesty," Kalasariz said. "He’s holding out for a greater share of the spoils."
Umurhan looked thoughtful. Then he said, "I’m sure that’s part of his game. However, I’m also certain he wants to steal my most important magical secrets to take along with him. I caught him in my private library the other day. That is why I nearly dismissed him. The books and scrolls there are forbidden to anyone but a few of my most trusted priests and scholars."
A long silence greeted this revelation. Then, from Didima, "What of this battle Protarus refers to? The bit about the fiends? What do you make of that?"
"Some boyhood adventure, I suspect," Kalasariz answered. "Exaggerated, of course."
Didima nodded. "Yes, yes. What else could it be?"
He thought a moment, then asked, "What shall we do about Acolyte Timura?"
"Nothing just now," Kalasariz said. "Let him have his head. At the right time we’ll make certain he pays a very public visit to our executioner to have it removed." He slipped a scroll from his sleeve and rolled out it out on Didima’s desk, saying, "And to that end, Majesty, I’ll need your signature authorizing his execution and the execution of his fellow conspirators when the time comes to sweep them up. We don’t want any messy trials or other delays that might give their supporters time to whip up public support."
The king chuckled, picking up his quill pen and charging it with ink. "I see you have only Timura’s name listed now," he said.
"Oh, there’ll be more, Majesty," Kalasariz said. "You’ll notice I left a great deal of room on the page."
The king nodded approvingly. "Tulaz is anxious to improve his record," he said. "We’ll make a day of it, eh? A public holiday. Free food and drink. A bit of carnival to mark the moment." He scratched his name on the document, saying, "There’s nothing like a mass execution to calm the citizenry."
Kalasariz smiled thinly, blew on the wet signature and passed the document to Umurhan. "I’ll need you to witness this," he said. "Just a formality."
Without hesitation, Umurhan signed. "It’s a pity," he said, "I had such hopes for the lad."
* * *
Some hours later Kalasariz made himself ready for sleep. While his pretty maids drew the blankets and plumped up the bed he drank his favorite hot sweet potion, laced with brandy and mild sleeping powders.
He was a not a man who slept well. It wasn’t all the blood he’d spilled that disturbed his dark hours, but the constant worry that he’d overlooked something. His tricks and betrayals were legion and he had so many enemies he didn’t dare let down his guard. He was a master of the great lie and was therefore continually occupied with keeping track of his untruths and half-truths. During the day he never had a weak moment, but at night his dreams were bedeviled with plans that went awry because of a stupid mistake or oversight. Without his nightly ritual he’d awaken so exhausted from nightmares that he’d be stricken with doubts. And so, despite the lateness of the hour, he let his maids pleasure him after he’d had his potion. Then they’d bathed him and dressed him in a nightshirt of black silk.
He dismissed them, reaching for the black silk mask he wore to shut out any stray light. Just before he put it on he remembered the document of execution, still sitting on his dressing table. Despite the sleeping potion and the attention of his maids he knew he wouldn’t sleep well as long as it sat there unattended. Never mind that no one would dare creep into the home of Walaria’s spymaster, much le
ss rob his sleeping chamber. His unguarded mind was so active that as he tossed and turned through the night he would come up with countless scenarios in which such an unlikely deed would suddenly become real.
Close as he was to sleep, he got up to attend to it. He’d taken much care to collect the signatures of his brother rulers on Safar’s death warrant. His name did not go on it - a remarkable absence in its own right. Kalasariz rolled it up with another document which did bear his name. It was an official protest of the decision, praising Timura as a young man of many notable qualities and virtues. He locked them away in his special hiding place behind the third panel from the entrance of the bedchamber.
Kalasariz had no ambitions besides survival in his current position as co-ruler of Walaria. He certainly had no more desire to see Didima dethroned than he did to see himself king. But as Didima had said, these were dangerous times. If by some distant chance the young upstart, Iraj Protarus, should someday be in the position to seek revenge for the death of his friend, Kalasariz preferred to be viewed as one of Timura’s champions. The spymaster had little doubt he was right to support the decision for Walaria to ally itself against Protarus. But there was a slight chance the alliance would fail and Protarus and his army might someday show up at the gates. Didima and Umurhan would pay for their crime with their heads. Tulaz would most likely perform the honors, since good executioners are difficult to find and he’d be instantly welcomed into the new king’s service. Armed with the documents proving his innocence, Kalasariz would also be welcomed. Protarus would need a spymaster, and who could be a better man for the job than Kalasariz himself?
Timura had presented Kalasariz with a unique opportunity. One the one hand, as a friend of Iraj Protarus it was necessary to remove whatever danger he might represent. On the other, as an outsider great blame could be heaped upon him. He would be declared the ringleader of all the young hotheads who opposed Walaria’s rulers. A dozen or more of his "lieutenants" - in reality the real leaders of the opposition - would also earn the ultimate punishment. This would not only quell their followers and sympathizers, but outside and unnamed influences would get the ultimate blame.
