Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Where were you two yesterday?” the master demanded, as he stood in the dormitory entry glowering angrily at Malledd and Darsmit.

  Malledd had just awoken, after only an hour or so of sleep, and was not yet fully awake; he sat up in his bed and blinked stupidly at the master in response.

  “Fighting the fire at the Imperial Palace,” Darsmit said.

  The master's expression softened abruptly. “Oh,” he said.

  “Malledd here organized the bucket brigade,” Darsmit said. “He was magnificent!”

  “Oh,” the master said again. He took in Malledd's appearance, and didn't doubt the explanation – while smiths and apprentices were often blackened by smoke and metal, Malledd's filthy condition went far beyond anything a mere forge would produce. “Well, clean yourselves up and get back to work, both of you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Darsmit replied. Malledd nodded.

  The master departed, and Malledd looked around. The apprentices' dormitory was deserted save for the two of them.

  “Where is everybody?” he asked.

  “At breakfast,” Darsmit replied. “You slept through the call. I stayed to wake you, but then the master arrived...”

  “I see,” Malledd said. He looked down at himself.

  His blouse was ruined. His breeches were still serviceable, but black with smoke and ash. His boots were gone completely, and he vaguely remembered discarding them after they had been so damaged by fire, water, and abuse as to be worse than useless. He had walked back to the Armory barefoot.

  He had another blouse and a tunic, and a second pair of breeches, but no spare boots; he would have to make do with his slippers until he could somehow afford another pair.

  “Malledd, what I said to the master just now...” Darsmit began. Malledd looked up, puzzled. Darsmit cleared his throat and continued, “I just wanted to tell you I meant it. You were magnificent!”

  “The magicians did most of it,” Malledd said.

  “But still, the way you took charge and led everyone to work – the magicians would have been too late if you hadn't done that!”

  Malledd snorted. “And look what it got me,” he said, pulling his blouse up over his head and flinging it aside.

  Darsmit looked at Malledd's bare torso and gasped.

  “No, I meant the blouse,” Malledd said. Then he looked down, trying to see why Darsmit should be so astonished.

  “Oh,” Malledd said. The lower ribs on his left side were covered by an immense purple bruise, and the red slash of a half-healed burn. “A falling timber hit me there. Hurt like demons' teeth at the time.”

  “Doesn't it still hurt?”

  “A little,” Malledd admitted, working his left arm experimentally. He noticed Darsmit's expression and said, “I heal fast.” Then he pulled his spare tunic from his pack and slipped it over his head – he didn't care to risk his remaining blouse just yet.

  “I guess you do,” Darsmit agreed. “And you worked on and on for so long without tiring! You took charge of the crowd as if you were Lord Kadan himself – and you say you're a village smith, with no noble blood? I've never seen...”

  He suddenly stopped dead, and his eyes widened.

  “That's why you used to ask about Lord Duzon and the others so much!” he said. Malledd looked up apprehensively from straightening his clothes. “I should have guessed,” Darsmit said, almost shouting. “Your size, your strength... By all the gods, you've come!”

  “Shut up,” Malledd said.

  “But you are, aren't you?” Darsmit insisted, lowering his voice. “You're the divine champion?”

  “Shut up,” Malledd repeated through clenched teeth. He stood up, took a step, and grabbed the front of Darsmit's blouse. He yanked the smaller man – though Darsmit was not especially small or frail – closer until their faces were mere inches apart.

  “Listen to me, Darsmit,” Malledd said, speaking slowly and trying to avoid letting his native accent interfere with the clarity of his speech. “Whether I am the divine champion or not, and yes, I admit others have said I might be, I do not want it said that I am he. I don't know if I am, and I don't want to deal with it. Do you understand?”

  “No, I don't,” Darsmit said. “If you're the champion, don't you want – ”

  “Don't you worry what I want,” Malledd interrupted. “I'm telling you what I want. I like you, Darsmit – you're about the closest thing to a friend I've found here in Seidabar – but I swear by Ba'el, if you start announcing that I'm the divine champion I will do my best to crack your skull. I don't want it said. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “No 'buts'!” Malledd lifted Darsmit up off his feet and held him dangling from one immense hand.

  “All right!” Darsmit shouted. “All right. Put me down. I won't say anything.”

  Malledd lowered him to the floor and released him. Darsmit tugged his blouse back into shape as Malledd fished out his slippers.

  “I won't say anything, Malledd,” Darsmit said, “but can't you tell me why you don't want me to?”

  Malledd sat down heavily on his bunk and pulled on a slipper.

  “When I was a baby,” he said, “a priest told my parents I had been touched by the gods. I had a birthmark that was said to be the mark of Ba'el's claw.” He glanced down at his tunic. “I'm told it looked something like that burn, but across my face instead of my side. It faded away.”

  Darsmit sat down on a nearby bunk and listened raptly.

  “The mark was supposed to mean that I was the chosen of the gods, the next ordained champion,” Malledd explained. “My parents didn't entirely believe it – or disbelieve it. They said it didn't matter, and they were right, it didn't matter when I was growing up. What mattered was that other people thought it was important. People from the village would come to my father's forge just to look at me; they'd stare at me while I was playing, or learning my trade. Any time I did anything good, it would be dismissed – 'What do you expect? He's the champion!' And the other children, my sisters in particular, teased me about it. The only way I could have a decent life was to insist that everyone ignore it. I had to beat a few people who were slow to learn.”

  Darsmit nodded. “But you came to Seidabar...?”

  “I don't want to be the champion,” Malledd said, “but I'm a loyal Domdur. And maybe I am the champion, and even if I didn't choose it I won't refuse to defend my people if the gods insist on it. But I don't know I'm the champion, and I don't want to put up with the same harassment here I had as a child. This isn't a village; I can't very well beat up all the slow learners in Seidabar.”

  “I can see that,” Darsmit said. “But how can you not be sure you're the chosen one? You had the birthmark, the priests said you were the chosen, you're bigger and stronger than any ordinary man, you heal as if blessed by Pashima, you never seem to tire...”

  “Three or four priests have said I'm the chosen,” Malledd replied. “Others, including Apiris, say they know nothing about it. Size and strength are scarcely decisive. I'm just a blacksmith from Grozerodz – wouldn't Lord Duzon or Prince Bagar or Vrai Burrai make a better champion?”

  “But they – ”

  “Just forget about it, all right? Or at least keep your mouth shut.”

  “All right,” Darsmit said. “I think you're crazy, but all right.” He hesitated, then said, “I'd been meaning to ask you anyway, though maybe you won't believe that, but listen, my sister's wedding is the day after tomorrow. Her fiance is probably going to be sent east to fight soon – in fact, we thought he'd be gone by now, but Lord Kadan keeps postponing it. Anyway, they're getting married as soon as they can so they'll have a little time together before he goes. I'd be proud if you'd come to the wedding.”

  Malledd stared at him for a moment.

  “You're right, maybe I won't believe you were going to ask me anyway,” he said. “What you mean is that you'd be proud to have the chosen of the gods at your sister's weddi
ng. The next best thing to having Baranmel dance for you, I suppose.”

  “No, honestly – ” Darsmit began.

  Malledd cut him off. “I'll come,” he said. “You know why, Darsmit? To make sure you keep your mouth shut about me. I'll be there to keep an eye on you, no matter how drunk you get.” He stood up. “Now, let's go wash up, and then see if the rest of those pigs have left us anything to eat.”

  Reluctantly, wanting to argue further or make further protestations about the purity of his motives, Darsmit followed, limping slightly; he was still stiff from the previous day's exertions.

  He really had meant to invite Malledd anyway; he liked the big man, and he'd thought that Malledd had gotten to like him in the two seasons they'd been working together in the Armory.

  Of course, knowing that the divine protector of the Empire was there at the wedding wouldn't hurt any.

  Darsmit, as he tried to work the stiffness from his joints, noticed that Malledd, despite the bruise and burn and his prodigious feats, seemed as fit as ever. The man really was more than merely human; he ought to be wincing in pain or staggering with exhaustion, but the only difference in how he walked was that his feet rustled along in slippers, rather than clomping in boots.

  A few blocks away Prince Granzer peered down into the smoldering wreckage of the east wing and noticed the remains of Malledd's boots lying in a corner. Even in their present battered condition they were clearly neither a nobleman's boots, nor the standard military issue, but the footwear of an ordinary working man.

  “Whose are those?” he demanded. “The arsonist's, perhaps?”

  “I would think it more likely, your Highness, that they belonged to one of the firefighters,” murmured his aide, Delbur. “Even assuming that the fire was in fact arson, why would the arsonist be foolish enough to leave his boots?”

  “You doubt it was arson?” Granzer turned to glare at Delbur. The half-dozen other officials and courtiers in the inspection party moved back slightly, away from the Prince's annoyance; the dozen soldiers paid no attention.

  Delbur shrugged. “I don't know, Highness.”

  “Hm,” Granzer muttered. He turned back to the boots. “Find out whose those were. Take them to the temple and see what the magicians can tell us.”

  “Perhaps the Imperial College...”

  Granzer shook his head. “No, for information you want the old magic, the Holy College. If you want something done, maybe you call the New Magicians. If you trust them.”

  “Very good,” Delbur agreed. He beckoned to a soldier, pointed out the boots, and whispered instructions, while Granzer continued to study the damage.

  “You believe it was arson?” Lord Sulibai asked. “Might I inquire as to your reasons?”

  Granzer turned and stared at Sulibai for a moment, then asked, “It's not obvious to you?”

  “Humor me, your Highness.”

  Granzer pointed out the soldier clambering down a charred timber. “Where was he yesterday, Sulibai? Where were all the guards? The palace servants? The Imperial Council? Where were you, Lord Sulibai?”

  “I had been called away...”

  “Exactly. So had I. So had the guards. So had the servants. So had the other Councillors. And I don't know about your summons, but the call I responded to turned out to be fraudulent. The riot in the Outer City that drew away the soldiery was, according to the ringleaders we captured, bought and paid for by anonymous robed men.”

  “Priests?” Sulibai asked.

  Granzer shook his head. “I doubt it – the robes were dark, and of good heavy fabric. Our prisoners say that the men spoke with the accents of educated Domdur – nobles or wealthy merchants.”

  “So you think that everyone who might have fought the fire before it became uncontrollable was deliberately lured away? Thus, it must have been set?”

  “Exactly.”

  Sulibai nodded. “I see your reasoning,” he said, “yet I would not rule out the possibility of coincidence. Perhaps the diversion had some other purpose.”

  “What other purpose?” Granzer demanded. “And whatever its purpose, it was clearly the work of a hostile conspiracy.”

  “The rebels?”

  “Do you also think it might be a mere coincidence that when this palace has stood unharmed for eight hundred years, it should be burned when we face a mysterious and dangerous new foe?”

  “That would be hard to accept, I agree, your Highness,” Sulibai agreed thoughtfully. “But the workings of the gods sometimes are hard to accept.”

  “Then you see the hands of the gods in this?” Granzer demanded.

  “No,” Sulibai said. “No, I don't. While I do not yet consider it proven fact, I believe it most likely that you are right, and that we are faced with a conspiracy among mortals. Still, I hesitate to blame the rebels. Perhaps they're merely a scapegoat for some faction within our own people. That would not be a coincidence. How could rebels get into the palace? We've had no reports of any of them crossing the Grebiguata, let alone infiltrating Seidabar.”

  “We haven't exactly been interrogating everyone who sets foot through the gates,” Granzer retorted sarcastically. “We don't know who the rebels are or aren't. Yes, we know the names of their leaders, and we can tell nightwalkers from the living, but we don't know who else might be working with them.”

  “The Olnamians,” Delbur suggested. “Many of them, at any rate.”

  “And several Greyans and Matuans and Govyans,” Sulibai agreed. “What of it?”

  Granzer glanced down; the soldier had retrieved the ruined boots and was making his way back up. “Perhaps there are rebels among us. How many Olnamians and Greyans and Matuans and Govyans are in this city right now?”

  “Very few Olnamians,” Delbur said.

  “But hundreds of Matuans,” Sulibai added. “And the rioters, you said, were employed by Domdur.”

  “Who may have been working for Olnamians or Matuans. I think we may want to ask some of our eastern guests a few questions.”

  Delbur nodded; Sulibai looked doubtful, but said nothing.

  The soldier reached the broken edge of the floor, and two of his comrades reached down to help him up. Granzer and the others watched the operation.

  “Those are damned big boots!” someone remarked.

  “They are, aren't they?” Granzer said thoughtfully. He glanced down at his own far more elegant footwear. He was not a small man, by any means, but those scorched and blackened boots would have fallen off his feet with the first high step he took.

  “Maybe they expanded from the heat,” someone suggested.

  Several people responded with derisive noises. “Leather shrinks when it gets hot!” someone pointed out. “It dries out and shrinks!”

  “Not good leather,” someone retorted.

  “Those aren't good leather.”

  “Well, it doesn't expand, in any case.”

  Granzer listened without comment as the soldiers argued; he knew that those boots had to be close to their original size, which meant their wearer was very large indeed – at least from the knees down.

  “I'd wager the champion wore them,” a soldier said.

  Granzer snorted. He'd heard more than enough about “divine champions” ever since this crisis started, years ago.

  “They do look like the pair he had on,” a second soldier replied.

  Granzer started.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  The soldier turned, startled, and saw the Prince staring at him. He stammered, then said, “I said, your Highness, that those do look like the boots the divine champion wore last night.”

  “You saw the divine champion last night?”

  “Well, yes...” The soldier looked about in confusion. “We all did – Souldz and Garad and I. He was here leading the fight against the fire.”

  “Who are Souldz and Garad?” Granzer demanded loudly.

  Two other soldiers stepped forward uneasily.

  The sergeant in charge of
the military detachment spoke up. “If it please you, your Highness, when I received my orders this morning I thought it might be useful to have some men here who were involved in putting out the fire. I chose these three.”

  “So they were here last night?”

  “Yes, your Highness,” the sergeant replied.

  “You saw the divine champion?”

  “Yes, sir,” the three soldiers replied.

  “What did he look like?”

  The three glanced at one another; Granzer chose one at random and pointed.

  “You,” he said. “What did this champion look like? How did you know he was the champion?”

  The chosen witness hesitated, then said, “Well, he's big – very tall, and broad in the shoulders, with long, thick arms. A wide face, dark eyes and hair worn in a braid. He was dressed in an ordinary workman's blouse and breeches, and boots – those boots, by the look of them. He was striding about, giving orders, and working away at whatever needed to be done.”

  “How did you know he was the champion?”

  “Well, we didn't, at the time, but later, on the way back to the barracks, we were talking, and Garad said something and we talked it over, and we all realized that that was who he must be. We... we thought you knew, your Highness; we thought the Empress or the Council must have sent him.”

  “Hadn't you heard that Lord Graush is still looking for the champion? That all the known candidates are out at the Grebiguata, facing the enemy?”

  The soldier looked at his companions for support, then said, “But we saw him. We decided that the Empress and Council must be keeping it quiet that he'd been found, so as to take the rebels by surprise.”

  “Did you get his name?”

  “No, sir.”

  Granzer frowned. “All right, go on,” he said. “Get those boots to the priests. And don't say anything about this.”

  The soldiers hastened to obey. Granzer took a final look at the damage, then turned away.

  “Who do you think this alleged champion is?” Sulibai asked as the party made their way back down the smoke-darkened passageway to the grand entry hall.