Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  The streets divided the city into eight sections, that each had a name. Some were shopping districts, others were residential, each connected by narrow streets that ran at right angles to the eight major streets.

  Bashae rode behind Ulaf, clasping hold of that long-suffering man’s waist with a grip as constricting as a fat man’s girdle. He looked up at the towers that rose to dizzying heights, seeming to brush the clouds, and he thought back to Wild Town. Gazing around him at the city of New Vinnengael, to see at every turning some new wonder, some marvel, Bashae found himself longing for the person he’d once been, the person who had been overawed by a shabby and sorry set of ramshackle hovels. He’d seen marvelous sights that he would remember the rest of his days, but he’d lost something, too. He wasn’t certain what it was, but he felt its lack.

  Jessan rode beneath the grand arches and immediately felt stifled. He paid little attention to the beauty of the city, but looked back wistfully to the green grasslands and forests they were leaving behind. The city held no wonder for him, only foul smells and gaping mouths and staring eyes.

  None of the rest of Shadamehr’s retinue paid much attention to the city. They’d been here before, many times, most of them, and were looking forward to a favorite inn, a favorite tavern, a proper meal, a mug of ale and a decent night’s sleep.

  Only the Grandmother was impressed. Only the Grandmother was awed. She was so enamored with the magnificence of what she saw that she forgot to show the agate-eyed stick, who was forced to catch what glimpses it could from the back of Damra’s saddle.

  Hearing the Grandmother softly sigh, Damra turned around to look at the elderly pecwae, riding pillion behind her.

  “Why, Grandmother, what is wrong?” Damra asked, for she saw tears coursing down the wrinkled cheeks.

  The Grandmother shook her head, snorted.

  Not understanding, thinking the pecwae was either overawed or frightened or both, Damra said something soothing and comforting, to which the Grandmother merely snorted again.

  Shadamehr joined his companions, who had waited for him outside the main city gate. Such was the flow of traffic into and out of New Vinnengael that two separate highways had been built to handle it, running beneath two enormous arches. Each highway was designed to handle one-way traffic only. Wagons and carts rumbled in opposite directions, entering the city on one highway, leaving it by the other. A large gatehouse was built into the center post of the arch. Guards asked routine questions of those entering and departing, gave the wagons a cursory search, and waved them on through.

  The gate was congested, both inside and out, with throngs of people. A merchant, who had been required to unload his wagon to prove he carried nothing illegal, cursed the guards loudly. Street urchins ran underfoot, hopeful of earning a few pence to guide people to their destinations. Idlers leaned up against the walls, hands in their pockets, whiling away the hours until the taverns opened at sunset. Hawkers stood just inside the gate, shouting their wares. Cutpurses and shysters kept a sharp lookout for gawking farm lads and drunken noblemen.

  All was not well in New Vinnengael, however. The Vinnengaelean Flag flew at half-mast and everywhere Shadamehr looked, pillars and statues were draped in black. Merchants and those of the lower classes wore black arm bands or sported large flowers made of black cloth pinned to their chests. Noble lords and ladies dressed entirely in black. The guards at the gate went about their business as usual, but there was a subdued air about them.

  Shadamehr was well known in the city, by reputation, if not by sight, for he usually avoided the place like, as he put it “skunks, spiders and ambitious mothers with marriageable daughters.” His coat of arms—a crouching leopard—that decorated his horse blanket was immediately recognized. The guards hailed him with pleased grins. Officers came out to shake his hand. People waiting in line for admittance to the city heard his name and stared at him, some asking their neighbors in fearful tones if he wasn’t a notorious bandit and wondering whether the guards were going to apprehend him.

  Street urchins, smelling money, surrounded him, shrieking at the top of their lungs and holding out grubby hands. Pickpockets took one look at the sharp gray eyes and went in search of easier prey. The idlers gathered closer, craning their necks, hoping for some excitement. Shadamehr’s horse, a fierce, ill-tempered beast, grew skittish and nervous at the crowds and the noise.

  Shadamehr dismounted to calm the horse and keep it from taking a nip at the street urchins. Thus involved, he did not see a person at the gate stare hard at him, then leap onto a waiting horse and vanish into the crowd.

  Ulaf saw this, and so did Alise. She slid off her horse and motioned for Ulaf to do the same.

  “I’m not staying up here alone!” Bashae said, and before Ulaf could stop him, he slid off the horse’s back, landed on the street.

  “Keep near me!” Ulaf ordered.

  Bashae nodded, and did as he was told. Jessan, seeing Bashae in the street, dismounted his horse and moved to be near his friend. At Shadamehr’s suggestion, they had disguised Bashae as a human child, with a cap to cover his pointed ears. No one in the crowd paid him any attention. He stared in amazement at the vast numbers of people.

  The Grandmother poked Damra in the back.

  “Let me off this beast.”

  Damra turned around. “I would not advise it, Grandmother. There are so many people and this city is large and strange. Should you become lost—”

  “Bah!” the Grandmother scoffed. “Let me down. Someone has to keep an eye on the young ones.”

  She pointed at Jessan and Bashae with her stick and before Damra could react, the Grandmother slid backward off the horse to land nimbly on her feet. Unlike Bashae, she continued to wear her pecwae garb and several people stared at her and pointed.

  Ignoring the stares, the Grandmother stumped over to Bashae and prodded him with a bony finger. “There’s going to be trouble,” she said to him in Twithil.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Bashae.

  He had decided he did not like the jostling crowds, the immense buildings, the fetid air, or the tall guards with their bright armor and shining swords.

  “Yes,” she said. “The stick told me. But don’t worry. I have found it.”

  “Found what?” Bashae asked.

  “The sleep city,” the Grandmother said in a loud whisper. “The city I visit every night. This is the place. My body and my spirit have met at last.”

  The Grandmother sighed contentedly and continued to look around her, smiling to herself now and then and nodding at each familiar sight.

  “Truly, Grandmother? Your spirit comes here?” Bashae was stunned. “To this dreadful place?”

  “Dreadful? What’s wrong with it?” the Grandmother demanded, offended. “Where else should I go?”

  “I…I don’t know. Where I go, maybe. Walking beneath the willow trees that grow near the river—”

  “Trees! River water! I’ve seen enough of them in my life.” The Grandmother gave a disdainful sniff. “Now that.” She pointed the stick at a man shoveling horse manure off the street and dumping it into a wagon. “That is something special.”

  “Yes,” said Bashae, watching the man clean up after the horse. “That’s something special.”

  “We best warn Shadamehr,” Alise said to Brother Ulaf. “I’ll come with you.”

  Ulaf nodded. Shoving his way through the crowd after Alise, he ordered the pecwae to keep near him, but was too preoccupied to look to see that they did so.

  Jessan ordered Bashae and the Grandmother to stay close. Assuming the pecwae would do as they were told, the Trevenici pressed forward to get as close to Ulaf as possible, to find out what was going on.

  Bashae started to follow Jessan. The Grandmother put her hand on his shoulder and jerked him back.

  “The stick tells me we should leave,” she said softly.

  Shadamehr stood conversing with one of the officers, a Captain Jemid, whom he’d known in his youth.
r />   After a few brief reminiscences centering around a tavern called the Cock and Bull, Shadamehr said casually, “The entire city seems plunged in mourning, my friend. Who died?”

  Captain Jemid stared. “Haven’t you heard? I assumed that’s why you were here, my lord. To pay your respects.”

  “I’ve heard nothing but the sound of my horse’s hooves the last sixteen days,” Shadamehr said dryly.

  “His Majesty the King. The gods rest him,” the captain replied, removing his hat in respect.

  “The King!” Shadamehr repeated, astonished. “Hirav was a young man. About my age. How did he die?”

  “Heart failure, my lord. He was found in bed by his chamberlain. He had apparently died in his sleep. That would be about a fortnight ago. It was a shock, I’ll say that.” Captain Jemid shook his head. “A man fit and hale and in the prime of life to suddenly drop dead. Makes you stop and think.”

  “Indeed it does,” said Shadamehr, troubled. “His son ascends the throne, I take it? How old is the boy?”

  “Hirav the Second. He’s eight years old, my lord.”

  “Poor lad,” said Shadamehr quietly. “His mother died shortly after he was born. Now he loses his father and becomes king all in one day. I assume there is a regent?”

  “The Most Revered High Magus Clovis, my lord.”

  Shadamehr cast a questioning glance at Alise, who raised an eyebrow and rolled her eyes.

  Shadamehr’s frown deepened. “Well, I will most certainly stop by the palace to offer my condolences, sign the book, that sort of thing. Best be on our way, then, Jemid. Good to see you again. Our first business is with the Council of the Dominion Lords. You wouldn’t happen to know if they are in session—”

  “I do happen to know that, my lord,” said Captain Jemid. “The Council’s been disbanded.”

  “You don’t say,” Shadamehr murmured.

  “What was that, my lord?” Damra asked in Tomagi. Standing alongside Shadamehr, silent and observant, she was so shocked by what she’d heard that she wondered if she’d translated the words properly.

  The officer glanced at her. Seeing her tabard with the insignia of the Dominion Lord, Captain Jemid bowed to her, then turned back to Shadamehr.

  “The Council has been disbanded,” he repeated, his voice and face impassive. “By order of the regent, High Magus Clovis. All Dominion Lords were told to leave the city or face arrest.”

  “I take it they left,” Shadamehr said.

  Captain Jemid looked uncomfortable. “There wasn’t much they could do, my lord. There aren’t that many human Dominion Lords to begin with and they are growing old. There hasn’t been a new candidate to take the tests in fifteen years, my lord. You were the last. The orken Dominion Lords departed long ago, angry at what they considered our betrayal when the Karnuans seized their holy site. If there were ever dwarven Dominion Lords, I’ve never seen one, and this lady is the first elven Dominion Lord to come to the city in a year or more.”

  “I don’t suppose you know why the High Magus disbanded the Council?” Shadamehr asked.

  “I couldn’t say, my lord,” Jemid replied in a tone that indicated he could say, but not in public. He saluted. “I must be returning to my duties. If you need further assistance—”

  “Make way!” a stentorian voice shouted. “Make way!”

  A force of cavalry rode into view, trotting along the wide street that led from the Palace to the gate. Each cavalryman wore a highly polished cuirass, marked with the insignia of the Royal guard. They carried swords at their hips, every sword held at exactly the proper angle. An officer rode in front, his cuirass more elaborate than the rest, his tall helm adorned with brightly colored feathers.

  The crowd scrambled to get out of the way. Wagon drivers shouted at their horses and steered their wagons off to the side of the road. Street urchins whooped and hollered and the cutpurses did a marvelous business for a frantic few moments during the confusion.

  The cavalry officer’s stern gaze searched the crowd. Spotting Shadamehr, the officer pointed at him.

  “Isn’t this kind of them,” said Shadamehr. “They’ve sent a royal escort.”

  “I was going to tell you,” Ulaf said hurriedly, “Alise and I saw someone by the inner gate who took an unusual interest in our arrival.”

  “I see. Tell me quickly, my dear”—Shadamehr caught hold of Alise by the hand, drew her close—“what do you know of this High Magus Clovis?”

  “In a word: purity.”

  “A bit too brief,” said Shadamehr. “You’ve lost me.”

  “She was always preaching purity: purity of thought, purity of motive, purity of deed, purity of the heart,” Alise said, speaking in a rush. The cavalrymen had been forced to halt for a moment as a wagon filled with sacks of flour blundered across their path. “I’m not surprised she’s disbanded the Council. She always maintained that because we did not have the Sovereign Stone, we humans should not have created Dominion Lords. It’s not that she didn’t believe in the Council. She believed too much. Unless the Council could be pure and perfect, as it was when it was first created, the Council had no right to exist.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Now run along. You and Ulaf.”

  “Absolutely not—” Alise began, fire in her eye.

  “If I am arrested you will be of much more use to me on the outside,” said Shadamehr quietly. “Now go!”

  The officer cursed at the wagon driver and finally ordered two of his men to grab hold of the horses’ reins and lead the wagon off the road. This impediment cleared, the officer cantered forward, brought his horse to a halt directly in front of Shadamehr.

  “Baron Shadamehr?” said the officer, dismounting. “I am Commander Alderman.”

  “Commander,” said Shadamehr, bowing.

  “Baron.” The commander bowed. “A request has been made, my lord, that you and the elves”—his gaze shifted to Damra and Griffith—“proceed immediately to the Royal Palace. In accordance with that request, I am here to escort you.”

  “And I do appreciate you taking the trouble, Commander,” said Shadamehr languidly. “You must have spit yourself dry polishing up your armor. But despite the fact that I haven’t visited your city for fifteen years, I recall the way to the Royal Palace. Unless you’ve gone and moved it?”

  Watching out of the corner of his eye, Shadamehr saw Alise and Ulaf melt into the crowd, taking the other members of his party with them. They did not go far. Posting themselves on the outskirts of the crowd, in strategic locations, his people patted their weapons, letting him know that they awaited his command.

  “No, we have not moved the Palace, my lord,” said the officer. “Now, if you will mount your horses and come with us, Baron, Dominion Lord and, er…Elven lord.” He bowed to Damra and glanced askance at Griffith. “I am also to bring along the Trevenici.” He pointed at Jessan.

  “What’s going on?” Jessan demanded. “What’s this fool saying? I’m not going anywhere with—”

  “Oh, yes, I think you will,” said Shadamehr. Gripping Jessan’s arm, he gave it a good squeeze and said softly, “The officer said nothing about bringing the pecwae. Keep quiet and don’t cause trouble. Oddly enough, I think I know what I’m doing.”

  Jessan glanced about. True to form, the moment there seemed likely to be trouble, the pecwae had vanished. Jessan cast the officer a smoldering glance, but kept silent.

  “Excuse us, Commander,” said Shadamehr. “My Trevenici friend feels shy about having to appear in court—nothing fit to wear, you know. I’ve persuaded him that although he’s a bit underdressed, the regent won’t hold it against him. That’s who we’re going to see, isn’t it? The regent?”

  “In the name of the King,” said the commander solemnly.

  “Of course. Actually, my companions and I look forward to speaking to Most Revered High Magus Clovis. We were intending to call at the Palace ourselves. I was going to change clothes first, drape myself in black, but if you don’t think there�
�s time—”

  “The King is expecting you, my lord,” said the commander.

  “Then far be it for me to keep the King waiting,” said Shadamehr. “He probably wants his afternoon nap. I’ll just explain to my friends what’s happening. These elves don’t speak our language. Unless you would rather tell them, Commander?”

  “You go ahead, my lord. I don’t speak elvish,” said the officer.

  Damra and Griffith caught on quickly. Shadamehr turned to them and they regarded him expectantly.

  “It seems we’re being arrested,” he said in Tomagi. “I’m telling you that we’re being taken to see the King, so if you could just smile and nod. That’s it. Someone saw us riding in and took the trouble to report our arrival. The regent has asked these guardsmen to escort myself, the Trevenici and you two elves to the Palace. What does that tell you?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Damra cautiously.

  “Who knows you have the elven Sovereign Stone? Who knows the Trevenici carries the blood knife? That’s it, just smile and nod.”

  “The Vrykyl,” Griffith said grimly.

  “I fancy that’s the case. We know that Vrykyl infiltrated the courts of Dunkarga and the Tromek. My guess is that one or maybe more have infiltrated this court—”

  “Baron Shadamehr,” said the officer, starting to grow impatient, “we are expected—”

  “Yes, yes. Takes a bit longer to explain things to elves, you know. All the formalities one has to go through. We’ve just barely made it through discussing the weather.”

  Shadamehr turned back to the elves. “The King’s been murdered—”

  “Murdered!” Damra was aghast.

  “Smile and nod, smile and nod. Not a doubt of it. The King was a hale and hearty man in his late thirties. He died in his sleep of his heart stopping. The same way you would have died, Damra of Gwyenoc, if Silwyth had not kept you from eating the soup.”