Suddenly Lin’s breath quickened, and her expression turned to dismay. “I’ve been gone too long. I have to go.” She twisted her hands free and rushed for the door.
Ren raised her voice after her. “Tell them what happened. And also tell them I’ve reserved you for the Red Gate Covenant.”
Lin paused to give Ren a fleeting smile, uneaten pastry clutched in her hand. Then she was gone. Ren latched the door behind her and uttered a cant.
Ren’s father, Contian, had been grandmaster of the Red Gate Covenant. Was Ren still affiliated with them in some way? Did they know she was one of the Nine? Surely they had to. Or perhaps she was no longer part of that school but still felt a certain loyalty.
Thinking about sorcerers and their convoluted designs gave him a headache. “She has potential, then?” he asked.
Ren’s gaze remained on the door, a frown on her face. He didn’t like the way she’d taken control of the young girl. He knew all too well how little mercy she had for others, how deadly she was to those who opposed her or merely got in her way. Fury rose in him, hatred of all the slaver-sorcerer stood for and of all humans and their terrible ways. Contian and Jaquel had been exceptions, gems among rocks.
As he thought about his dead wife, grief almost overwhelmed him. Tarrik found the bottle of spirits in his hands without realizing it and drew long and deep of its contents, uncaring of the burn in his throat and stomach.
“I have not seen you affected by drinking,” Ren said. “But it is unnerving. Restrain yourself when we are in company.”
Tarrik’s reply strangled in his throat. He simply nodded his agreement.
As his rage subsided, he wondered why Ren taking control of Lin had caused such a reaction in him. His thoughts returned to the stable hand he’d had to kill at her command. He replaced the bottle in his saddlebag, suddenly weary of Ren and this world.
“Lin has a vast potential,” Ren said, finally answering his question. “I dislike the thought of her training under the Tainted Cabal. I’ll let the Red Gate know about her as soon as I can and arrange for her to be trained.” She went to the tray of food and nibbled on a pastry. “I’m going to wash while you finish your meal. Watching you eat so much meat makes my stomach churn. Some of the Tainted Cabal are flesh eaters.”
“We all are.”
“I meant of humankind.”
“Meat is meat.”
“No, it isn’t.” She closed the door to the preparation room behind her.
Tarrik thought he understood now why Ren hid herself when washing or dressing and had shied away when Veika had suggested an advantageous marriage to the lord of Atya. Anyone who undressed the sorcerer to lie with her would see her scars and know she was damaged. For who could escape with a sound mind after his or her body had been scribed with knives as hers had?
Chapter Thirteen
Tarrik finished the final slice of meat and wiped his hands on one of the cloths provided, then swallowed more of the spirit. He felt much better than he had for a while. While Ren refreshed herself, he sat on a lounge, stretched his legs out, and relaxed.
When Ren emerged a short time later, she looked exactly the same to Tarrik.
“Let’s go,” she said. “The meeting will begin soon, and I don’t want to be late.”
“Important, is it?”
“Very much so.”
Tarrik grabbed his spear and followed Ren out of the apartment. She walked along corridors and stairways as if she knew the palace well. Servants hurried out of their path, and the guards they periodically passed saluted Ren with fists on their chests. She ignored them all.
Eventually they entered a sizeable chamber teeming with well-dressed men and women of different races and colors. He noted a few gray San-Kharr, dusky-skinned Inkan-Andil, and a smattering of green-brown Illapa, who Tarrik recalled mostly lived in forests. Two pale-skinned Soreshi spoke in hushed tones with their heads together, their braids tied with colored cords that denoted their clan. But what stood out to Tarrik was the ostentatious display of wealth in the form of cloth and jewelry: silks and tightly woven wools, flax linen, and velvet. One woman wore a knee-length coat of pure white fur despite the heat. And all were adorned with gaudy rings and brooches and necklaces that glittered with an array of red, blue, and green gemstones.
Tarrik snorted in contempt. Such a crass display of riches was considered an appalling breach of etiquette in the abyssal realms. Power and skill were what really mattered, and there were other ways to demonstrate beauty and sophistication. Ostentatious shows of wealth made you a target and could restrict your movements. Survival mattered, whether in the wilderness or amid the demon lords’ social circles.
A few of the chamber’s inhabitants had bodyguards positioned behind them or to the side—the majority of the wealthy guests were sorcerers of some ilk or another, judging by their arrogant expressions and the talismans they had close to hand. A dozen soldiers were positioned around the walls of the room.
A large, round table sat in its center with a floral arrangement in the middle and plates of food—mostly dried fruits, nuts, skewered chunks of roasted meat and mushrooms, and pastries and cheeses—along with crystal decanters of red and white wine and scores of empty glasses. Everyone held a drink, mostly wine, but Tarrik spotted a trolley in a corner that held bottles of spirits.
“Stay close to me,” murmured Ren. She made her way to the food table, ignoring the curious glances cast at her, and busied herself filling a small porcelain plate with a little from all the offerings.
When she turned around, a mustached man dressed in gray trousers and coat with gold piping approached her but was rebuffed by Ren’s upheld hand before he could open his mouth. His face turned red, and he backed away.
Ren moved to an empty spot by a wall and concentrated on her plate. Tarrik positioned himself beside her and kept his eyes on the gathering while Ren took dainty bites of her food.
Even though everyone had noted Ren’s rejection of the first man to approach her, that didn’t stop the next. His skin had a faint bluish cast, and he was statuesque and broad shouldered. His emerald-green coat was festooned with medals and decorations, most of them engraved with a blockish, ugly script. His eyes were small, and his nose was big and slightly crooked from a break. He held two glasses of red wine and offered one to Ren as he approached. He gave off the same goatlike stench as Puck Moonan, signifying madness. Most likely one of the Nine.
Tarrik thought he shouldn’t really be surprised they’d encountered another of the sorcerers, although they should probably now be called the Eight. He suppressed a smile. Would the Eight have less success in freeing Samal than the Nine? Possibly. He didn’t know enough about sorcery to make a determination. He resolved to try to find out more from Ren later.
She shook her head. “No thank you, Indriol. I must keep my wits about me. As should you.”
Indriol grinned and took a large swallow of wine, then followed it with the glass he’d brought for Ren. Tarrik noted a copper talisman in the shape of a fish at his belt, which also bore the blockish script in red enamel. At his side he carried an ornate orichalcum dagger with a moonstone pommel.
“My dearest Lady Branwen, we weren’t expecting you. You always manage to surprise. I’d heard you were hundreds of miles away, digging up old ruins or such.”
His voice was smooth and buttery. That combined with the man’s ostentatious display of self-importance and his conceited air made Tarrik dislike him immediately.
Ren placed her plate on a side table. She crossed her arms, palms against her chest, and bowed. “Samal will rise.”
“Of course,” said Indriol, half-heartedly copying the gesture—a difficult task with a glass in each hand. “Praise Samal, Lord of Life.” His eyes flicked to Tarrik before returning to Ren. “You are of course aware of the development with Lischen.”
Tarrik kept a watch on Ren, but she merely frowned before picking up her plate again. “I sense an absence, but that could be many thin
gs,” she said.
“I have some trusted people checking on her just in case. We are too close to our goal to let a small bump upset our success, but if Lischen has”—Indriol glanced around to make sure no one was nearby—“been rendered unavailable, we need to find out who is responsible and punish them appropriately.” He took a sip of wine, studying Ren’s face.
So the Nine were close to freeing Samal; that must be why Ren was making her play now, why she had killed Lischen. The others would be positioning themselves similarly, though would murdering one of their brethren be tolerated by Samal? Tarrik wondered again how Ren would avoid the demon lord’s wrath.
Ren popped a cube of white cheese into her mouth. “I don’t know where Lischen is—or was when we lost contact with her essence. She was always the most volatile of us, though, and her madness was uncontrollable.”
Indriol chuckled. “Come now. You know we are not mad, merely . . . altered. We are Samal’s now, and always will be.”
As Ren opened her mouth to reply, someone rang a bell by a door at the far end of the chamber. The general murmur rose in volume as various men and women disengaged from their companions and made their way to the meeting of the Tainted Cabal.
Indriol placed his empty glass on the side table, next to Ren’s plate. He gestured at the doorway. “Shall we?”
Ren inclined her head and walked side by side with Indriol to the meeting room. Tarrik followed. Already the crowd in the chamber had thinned considerably. As they approached the door, a guard stepped in front of Tarrik. He was a big man, and muscled.
“Not you,” he growled, hand moving to the hilt of his sword.
Tarrik’s rage was already bubbling close to the surface. His hand moved without thought, and he grabbed the guard by the throat, lifted him up, and slammed him against the wall. The other guards shouted in alarm, and swords hissed from sheathes.
“Tarrik!” said Ren.
The man tried to break Tarrik’s grip and couldn’t. His face grew red, and he dropped a hand to draw a dagger. Tarrik swiftly jerked him forward, then stepped behind him and wrapped his arm around his throat, pulling him in so the man’s back was pressed against his chest. He leveled his spear at an approaching trio of guards and moved so the helpless guard was between him and them.
“Tarrik, enough!” said Ren. Her bindings tightened around him. “Let him go. You are not required at this meeting. I’ll be all right without you.”
“It seems your bodyguard is a bit jumpy,” said a red-haired woman standing next to Ren. She wore a bronze-colored dress that left her shoulders bare, and Tarrik didn’t need to see the circular talisman attached to her wide leather belt to realize she was a sorcerer. The corners of her mouth twitched in an arrogant smile, and she showed no sign of fear at the bared blades and sudden violence.
Ren flicked her an annoyed glance. “Yes, I have warned him about his behavior. But better him jumpy than me dead, don’t you think?”
“Oh, certainly. You should endeavor to keep him out of mischief, though. The people of the south are no better than dogs until they’re trained properly.”
The guard struggled in Tarrik’s grip, and he shoved the man away. He spun around immediately, rubbing his neck, then backed away toward his companions.
Tarrik’s pulse still pounded in his veins, drumming in his ears. He knew he shouldn’t have reacted so strongly, but his passions had overridden his common sense. With an effort of will no human could match, he forced himself to calm. Jaw clenched, fist tight around his spear, he managed a short bow to Ren and a second to the red-haired sorcerer.
“I will leave you then,” he said, and pushed past the people behind him. He went straight to the spirits trolley and poured himself a double measure of a honey-colored liquid. By the time he’d downed it, Ren had disappeared, and the door to the meeting room was closed.
Two guards stood on either side of the door; one was the man Tarrik had tussled with. He stared at Tarrik with unconcealed hatred. Tarrik poured himself another measure and raised his glass to the guard before taking a sip. The man frowned and looked away. He said something to his companion, who laughed.
“Where did she find you?”
The red-haired woman had approached from Tarrik’s other side. Her skin was pale, almost white, and colored strings were woven into her hair: black, blue, and brown. Tarrik wasn’t knowledgeable enough to determine her exact kin from the strings, but he knew she was a Soreshi clanswoman from the plains of the eastern continent of Wiraya. The fact that she wasn’t at the meeting meant she was either independent of the Tainted Cabal or so low in its hierarchy she hadn’t been invited.
“The south,” he replied.
“The south is a big place. Where?”
Tarrik wrinkled his nose at her pungent floral perfume; maybe she’d spilled the bottle over herself. He poured her a measure of the honey-colored spirit, and she took the offered glass with a nod of thanks. Her nails were painted a tawny gold to match her hair and dress.
“The Blood Shakar tribe, under Bidzil the Deathless,” he told her. “Though I’ve been exiled for years.” That should be sufficient, unless Veika had made it all up.
She held out a hand. “I’m Moushumi. Very pleased to meet you.”
Tarrik took her hand, then found he wasn’t sure whether to hang on or not. He let it go and ignored her raised eyebrows. “Tarrik, as you would have heard.”
“I did. Lady Branwen is a personage of note, and all eyes were on her, so I couldn’t miss your . . . encounter with the guard. You are quite protective of her.”
“It’s my job.”
“It is a fine thing to command such loyalty. Still, there is more to life. The Orgols from beyond the tribes have made numerous incursions northward lately. It has been a warm spring and looks to be a hot summer. If so, they’ll penetrate far into the north.”
Tarrik sipped his drink. The Orgols were a nonhuman species from beyond the savage south: heavily muscled, midnight skinned, aggressive, generally malevolent, and possessing unsurpassed speed and ferocity. They also built surprisingly advanced and beautiful cities that few humans had ever seen. Tarrik had learned a little of their complex tongue and society on one of Contian’s expeditions. If the Orgols killed some humans, it didn’t matter to him.
“If you have family back there, or anyone you care about, I’d consider returning to help protect them,” Moushumi added.
So that was her game: get rid of Ren’s bodyguard and leave her unprotected. Whoever wanted Ren dead knew sorcery wouldn’t succeed.
Tarrik nodded, as if considering her suggestion. She smiled at him, then turned to survey what remained of the crowd. Presumably, like her, they were unimportant.
She flicked her hair over her shoulder, and Tarrik caught a whiff of an animal stink underneath her heavy perfume.
Goat. She’s one of the Nine.
He stared into his tumbler as if considering whether to refill it. His heartbeat increased, and his shoulders tightened. He shrugged to loosen them and couldn’t help glancing at her bare shoulders and upper chest. Scar-free. Whatever Samal had done to break her, he hadn’t needed to go as far as he had with Ren.
“And you are paid well?” she asked him.
“Well enough.”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“I wouldn’t advise it.”
Moushumi uttered a tinkling laugh. “Oh, you’re precious. I can see why she chose you. But be careful with your mistress.”
“She is my employer.”
“Just don’t get too close to her. It’s dangerous.”
“Danger is part of my job.”
“Then I hope she is paying you well. Sorcerers are lodestones for trouble—you’ll earn your coin and more, I dare say. You have to be very brave to do this job. If you’re observant, you might even earn more. Enough to retire on. To leave this dangerous life behind.” She reached up to toy with her earring, a red star sapphire dangling from a short gold chain.
Tarrik only nodded. He was in danger here, as was Ren. Did Moushumi want him to leave Ren or to spy on her? As if he could. Her bindings wouldn’t allow him to betray her or even speak innocently of her business. If he did, it would lead to his ending. He itched to be gone from this place of vipers.
“I guard the Lady Branwen as best I’m able,” he said. The words sounded weak even to his ear, and he cursed himself for responding at all.
“But she’s inside, and you are . . . not.”
He didn’t reply. Whatever this woman wanted, he was tired of her.
“So you’re not really guarding her at all, are you?” Moushumi continued.
“She is a sorcerer and can defend herself.”
“Then why are you needed? Do you have other skills to offer a woman such as her? Perhaps at night? There are rumors about what some sorcerers get up to when in the throes of absorbing the dusk-tide. The process enervates them, it is said. Sharpens their appetites. But I forget: Serenity rarely bends to a man’s touch.”
Tarrik would wager she never forgot anything. He turned his gaze to Moushumi, who met it unflinchingly. He considered toying with her for his amusement. There was something feral about the woman; she smelled hungry. But whatever her skills, she couldn’t untangle Tarrik from this mess except by killing Ren.
“Lady Branwen does not involve me in her sorcery.”
“A shame. Well, I have to rush. Think about what I said. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.” Moushumi finished her drink and handed him the empty glass. She sauntered away, and Tarrik caught a glimpse of a thin scar poking above the back of her dress.
Not entirely untouched.
He left her used glass on the trolley, refilled his own, then made his way over to the food table. Juggling his drink and spear and three meat skewers, he found a wall to lean against so he could eat, drink, and think.
He was still wondering what Moushumi had really wanted when the door to the meeting room opened and the guards scurried out of the way. Ren was first out. She looked around, spotted Tarrik, and walked over. Her mouth was drawn into a thin line, and she was flushed.
Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1) Page 23
