Rollett nodded in understanding, his eyes wide as he mulled over the possibilities. “That’s how Nimbulan and Myri escaped last year. Yaassima must have used it to send her assassins and robbers anywhere in the world. Piedro can bring food and supplies in without going through the city. The dragongate must be why he has repeatedly blocked our attempts to construct exits from above. He doesn’t need them, so he won’t let us have them. But he won’t give us access to the dragongate either.”
“After the big kardiaquake last year, the dragongate changed,” Powwell added. “It won’t open again until the next dark of the moon.”
“Nooooooo!” Rollett howled. “Don’t tell me you came through the gate without the food. We won’t be able to continue without the food.”
“There is food down here. But we didn’t bring anything other than the journey rations in our packs.” Yaala thought back to the heavy sledges the Rovers had tried to bring through. Food for a starving city. Her city, if she could reclaim it. Would Rollett help or hinder her quest?
The city was probably more his than hers now. He’d lived and worked among the citizens for a year and a half. He’d helped them rebel against the new Kaaliph. They looked to him for leadership.
All she could claim were a few malfunctioning machines. Did I risk my life and Powwell’s to reclaim Hanassa, or merely to be near my machines? she asked herself for the first time. She had to think about that for a while.
Who was more important—more like family—Powwell or Old Bertha? The big generator was dead, unrevivable.
Was there anything left of her city to reclaim?
All she knew at the moment was that Rollett triggered emotions in her that made her question everything.
Rollett’s eyes brightened a bit, and his face calmed. “What kind of food?”
“The living cavern is full of flour and cereal grains, barrels of salted and pickled meat, dried fruit, root vegetables, and a little wine,” she replied.
Powwell searched the ceiling with haunted eyes as the ground rumbled beneath them. He clutched the nearest wall, eyes closed and breathing deeply.
Stargods! What condition was the city in if kardiaquakes rocked it so frequently and Piedro withheld basic food supplies?
The kardia stopped shifting.
“So that’s where Piedro has been hiding his regular stores. All of it is stale and a lot of it is infested with maggots.” Rollett closed his eyes. His shoulders drooped. “It’s better than nothing, but never enough. Piedro doles it out at starvation rations.” He seemed to barely notice the kardiaquake.
“There’s water down here, too,” Yaala reminded him. She knew how limited the city wells could be if the surrounding mountains had been dry during the winter. The sweet water of Coronnan seemed too bland after drinking nothing but the heavy mineral and sulfur-laden water of Hanassa all of her life.
“Open this gate. I need to see what’s here, what we need most up above.” Rollett licked his lips and stared longingly over Yaala’s shoulder toward the inner caverns.
“I don’t know how to open that gate,” Powwell replied. “Yaassima controlled it with ’tricity. No ordinary key can open it.”
“Nimbulan broke and reset it when he escaped with Myri and the others,” Yaala reminded him. “Piedro has been using it for more than a year.”
“I could break it if I had enough strength to use my magic.” Rollett shook the gate again.
The murmur of the stream grew louder. Not the stream after all. Voices coming from the upper corridor.
“The guards are coming!” Rollett swung around, his back pressed hard against the gate. “I’m trapped. Piedro will execute me for sure this time. His consort hasn’t tasted blood in almost a week.”
Chapter 16
Near midnight, Great Hall of Palace Reveta Tristile, Coronnan City
Bessel trudged into the Great Hall of King Quinnault’s palace. Chill bay water dripped from his trews, and his boots squished with every step. He’d thrown his formal robe back over his everyday trews and tunic, but it was almost as sodden as the rest of him. No amount of emptying his boots and wringing his socks would dry them.
Hours had passed, awaiting rescue and answering questions since he’d dragged Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse from Rossemeyer from the depths of the Bay.
Misery dogged his steps as much as the scraggly white mutt with long, curly fur that had followed him from the docks and kept pressing up against him. Bessel wanted to kick it out of the way, but it looked as depressed and lonely as he felt. He let it stay with him as he followed the other refugees from the barge.
Armed guards from both King Quinnault’s personal guard and from Rossemeyer had met them as they docked.
Four stern-faced warriors from Rossemeyer led them from the docks into the palace. They carried their dead ambassador on a litter. Another four warriors flanked them protectively. Behind them came the other dignitaries and their ladies, still wet and chilled. The palace guard had given them warm blankets and cloaks. But no one had offered Bessel anything.
Except the dog. When it rubbed against Bessel, he felt a little warmer.
Jorghe-Rosse’s lady stood a little apart, dry-eyed and chin jutting with determination. If she grieved, she didn’t show it in her posture.
Bessel, the pilot, and the boatmen brought up the rear, along with the bedraggled dog. Bessel didn’t need to read the sailors’ minds to smell their fear. No one knew for certain how the new widow would avenge her husband’s death. Only that she would.
Fires roared in the hearths at either end of the huge hall. The dignitaries gravitated to the bright warmth even at this late hour. Tapestries and flower bouquets gave the room an air of cozy invitation. King Quinnault and Queen Maarie Kaathliin had transformed their major reception area into a home that welcomed petitioners to the court rather than made them afraid of true justice in a cold and forbidding hall.
Bessel didn’t think there could be justice as long as Rossemeyer was involved. The entire country of mercenaries made their own rules that had nothing to do with the rest of civilization.
The king and queen entered the hall through a small back door. The king still wore riding leathers flecked with steed foam, as if he’d driven his mount to extremes in his hurry to get here. Queen Maarie Kaathliin clutched her baby tightly as they made their way to the twin thrones on the low dais. She kept looking around anxiously. Usually she left the child with servants while she accompanied her husband on official business. Today she refused the nanny who kept reaching for the child.
Master Scarface and a few of the other master magicians marched into the room, pushing aside the crowd of courtiers. Scarface took up his position between the twin thrones. The other master magicians flanked the royal dais. Bessel tried to catch Scarface’s gaze. The Senior Magician scanned every corner of the room except where Bessel stood.
Bessel sent a gentle mental query to his master. Scarface remained impassive and unresponsive.
Wind-drift, the master magician standing just to the right of the queen’s throne, a man Bessel barely knew but who had become very close to Scarface in recent weeks, sent an inquisitive mental probe of his own toward Bessel’s mind. Bessel saw it as a glowing yellow dart. It sped toward Bessel’s right eye. A hair’s breadth from contact the energy bolt stopped, turned, and backlashed to the sender at double speed. The magician reared back, clutching his eyes in pain.
Scarface opened his eyes wide in alarm. His scowl deepened.
Bessel shrugged. The magician hadn’t asked permission. No magician had been able to read his mind without Bessel’s prior consent since his experience with the outlaws as a child.
They’d exile him for sure now and he’d be alone, without the family of the Commune.
The dog plunked down on his foot. Maybe he wouldn’t be totally alone. But a dog didn’t make up for a family.
May I ask your version of the story? Please? Wind-drift asked politely. His wild red-gray mane, which usually stretched back f
rom his face as if he stood in a strong wind, crackled with the energy of Bessel’s backlashed probe.
Since you asked politely. Bessel opened his mind and let his memories of the afternoon pour forth.
Scarface still looked angry and puzzled. Was Wind-drift passing the images along to his senior or not? Wind-drift hadn’t been with Scarface in the library separating the books. Maybe, just maybe, he could be trusted.
“My condolences, Madame,” King Quinnault said as he rushed from his throne to take the hands of Lady Jorghe-Rosse. He radiated sympathy. “I, too, have lost many of those I loved. What can we do to show you and your husband the honor and respect due him?” His empathy reached out to include Bessel and the others.
“My husband earned honor as a general on the field of battle as must every man of Rossemeyer,” Lady Jorghe-Rosse replied. “He did not die in battle as was his right.” Something fanatical burned in the lady’s eyes as she stared directly at Bessel.
A chill deeper than the numbing waters of the Bay formed a knot in his belly. Senior Magician Scarface’s eyes echoed the lady’s malevolent gaze.
“A death for a death,” Lady Jorghe-Rosse demanded.
The queen gasped and wrapped her arms more completely around her baby. Everyone else in the Great Hall stared in stunned silence. Except the magicians. They nodded in agreement.
“I can’t do that, Madame,” Quinnault said, meeting the lady’s gaze steadfastly.
“Then I must take what is due me.” The dark-eyed woman whipped a dagger from the multiple folds of her black cloak. The rippled blade was as long as her forearm. Death at her hands would not be clean or swift. She raised it menacingly at the king.
The warriors dropped the corpse on the ground and drew their own vorpal blades.
Cold sweat broke out on Bessel’s face and back.
He didn’t want to die.
The dog took a protective stance in front of him, baring his teeth. A growl rumbled from his throat—much deeper and louder than a mutt that size should be able to issue. Bessel bent to touch the matted tangles that hid the animal’s eyes. The growl turned to a low moan of pleasure.
If you stay with me, the first chore is a bath, he told the dog with his mind.
It dropped to the ground and buried its head beneath muddy paws. Bessel would have expected a similar reaction if he’d spoken out loud and the creature understood the word “bath.”
“There must be no more death!” Queen Maarie Kaathliin gasped. No taller than an adolescent child, she moved beside her tall husband, keeping her gaze firmly on Lady Jorghe-Rosse. She still didn’t relinquish the burden of her child to the maid who dogged her steps.
The ambassador’s wife didn’t put her blade away. She looked down at the red-haired queen, a tall dark lily disdaining a small wild rose.
“I will hear all of the evidence, Lady.” Quinnault clamped long fingers over Lady Jorghe-Rosse’s wrist. He squeezed until she dropped the blade. It landed among the rushes, clattering loudly in the stunned silence. “I will determine the cause of death. If ’twas murder, then justice will be served. If ’twas an accident, as I was told, then we will take no further action.”
“I do not call that justice. I call that cowardice,” Lady Jorghe-Rosse screamed, struggling to free her hand from the king’s grasp.
“For that I am sorry, Lady. But that is the law.”
“A law made by cowards for cowards. My king will go to war to honor my husband! I will have the death of the one who murdered my husband!”
We will have our justice as well, Scarface reminded Bessel. You tapped illegal powers. The law will be served. The magicians of the Commune echoed his thoughts.
The pit beneath Hanassa, time unknown
Powwell turned his head sharply, trying once again to see the wraith as it flitted about the tunnel, just out of sight, out of reach.
But not out of hearing distance.
She will desert you, the wraith whispered into Powwell’s mind. Look at how she is with this other man. Her eyes linger too long on his face, on his figure. Her hands touch him fondly through the bars. She never touched you like that.
“Enough!” Powwell shouted, shaking off the insidious voice that had been plaguing him since they approached the gate. His words echoed in the caverns. Rollett and Yaala stared at him. The voices and footsteps farther up the corridor hesitated before thundering forward again.
Scrunching up his eyes and gathering all of his energies, Powwell threw a probe into the lock and shifted the tiny pieces of metal. It opened with an audible click.
Rollett nearly fell through the sudden opening. A misty form oozed through the small opening between the bars.
Thank you, the wraith chuckled and drifted away. The iron has imprisoned me for too long. Now I can find my body.
Rollett recovered and scrambled to reclose the gate before the Kaaliph’s guards descended upon them. He stared after the misty white form, mouth slightly agape.
The nagging sense of dread in the back of Powwell’s neck and the need to hide deep within the caverns evaporated with the wraith. So did his mistrust of Yaala. She’d only shown the other magician concern for his well-being as she had helped Powwell his first few awful hours in the pit.
But Powwell’s instinctive fear of being underground returned in full force. He needed all of his concentration to keep from running after the wraith without regard to the guards or the safety of his companions.
Thorny hunched his spines and wiggled uncomfortably in Powwell’s pocket.
He swallowed his fears and thanked his familiar for the reminder. He’d lived down here before. He would survive if he kept his gibbering panic under control.
“We’ll be safe down here for a while. We can hide,” Powwell whispered, gesturing for Yaala and Rollett to follow him.
“We’ve got to lock the gate,” Rollett protested. He moved his fingers trying to make the interior pieces respond to his depleted magic.
“The guards won’t cross that barrier as long as it’s closed,” Yaala replied. “They’re more afraid of this place than they are of the Kaaliph. Come on, I know a place to hide.”
“I want to hear everything that has happened at home while I’ve been gone.”
“You need to go home as soon as possible, Rollett. Nimbulan needs you to keep Scarface from ruining the Commune,” Powwell added. “I can’t go until I’ve found Kalen.”
Together they ran back into the living cavern. Yaala searched briefly right and left, orienting herself in the dim light. Powwell kept part of his senses tuned to the curses and stumbles among the guards behind them.
True to Yaala’s prediction six men slid to a halt before they collided with the gate. They opened their eyes wide in fear, chewed their lips and looked everywhere but at each other.
“The wraith has Rollett now. We won’t get him back,” one guard muttered.
“What are we going to tell Piedro?”
Tell him the truth, Powwell whispered into their minds, trying to mimic the wraith’s voice. Tell him his prey is lost in the pit. The dragongate swallowed him as well as the fresh food.
The guards backed up slowly, keeping their eyes on the gate.
Thorny squirmed within Powwell’s pocket. Together, they might have enough energy for one last trick. Slowly the gate opened, creaking ominously.
The guards turned and ran back the way they had come.
“They won’t be back any time soon. We have time to rest and eat and plan,” Powwell said.
“Plan what? The city is close to starvation. My men need another three moons to dig through the collapsed tunnel—if they’ll follow me at all after I failed in this raid. Piedro plays at cutting a staircase up the walls of the crater but mostly blocks all attempts to climb out, and this mysterious dragongate of yours is closed for another moon.” Rollett plunked himself down amidst the barrels of salted meat.
“I won’t let Piedro have my city,” Yaala said, standing with legs slightly apart and hand
s on hips. “I will do anything to regain control of my city.” She thrust out her chin in a gesture highly reminiscent of her mother, the last Kaalipha of Hanassa. Not once did her eyes wander toward the inner caverns and her machines.
“Will you do anything to regain your city, Yaala?” Powwell asked, suddenly afraid for her. “Will you murder and exploit just to feel as if you have power over someone else? Will you become as bloodthirsty as your mother?”
Chills ran up and down his spine. The wraith hadn’t scared him as much as the thought of Yaala wielding an executioner’s sword.
Chapter 17
Near midnight, Palace Reveta Tristile, Coronnan City
Bessel held his breath a moment, blocking out the malevolence behind Scarface’s telepathic announcement. The long scar running from temple to temple whitened against his ruddy skin. Bessel needed no other communication to know how deeply committed the Senior Magician was to eliminating all use of rogue magic, by whatever means at hand.
Scarface had already started on the library. Possibly he’d used the queen’s dragon dream about machines as an excuse to destroy books he’d already chosen as dangerous.
Bessel’s execution or exile for using rogue magic was the only option by the law of the land and the law of the Commune. Scarface would make sure the king and Commune would offer no mercy.
He’d have total control of the Commune without interference from anyone who had begun under Nimbulan’s benign management. Would control of all Coronnan be his next quest?
A great gulf of emptiness opened in the journeyman magician. Never again would he know the deep satisfaction of sharing magic with the Commune. Never again would the men open their lives and their souls to include him in the circle of magic. He’d almost rather die than live without that intense bond.
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III Page 16
