“I’ve been asking myself the same question for weeks now without have a certain answer.” Irrin rubbed at his eyes. “You must understand: word of this cannot reach anyone, even our allies. If it does, it could start a second Rebellion.”
“Then what should we do?” Uche rose to his feet with some effort and headed towards the arcade, the servants carrying in seats for his three guests forgotten. “Confront him?”
“No!” Irrin nearly shouted. “We would be executed for treason, even if we’re wrong, our families and our houses destroyed.”
“Then I’ll send letters to my friends. Ask them about the mood in court these past months.” The portly lord held up a hand before Irrin could voice a complaint. “Nothing that could implicate us if it were intercepted, but a start.”
“Thank you,” Irrin said, bowing.
“Until then, I have planning to do,” Uche stretched and let forth a jaw-cracking yawn.
“Plans for what exactly?”
“If what you say is true, then the best place for you is outside the walls. I’ve been planning an expedition for some time now. Not some stab into Cutaran territory, understand, but a real campaign, one that will take us far past the Front, where the real riches of these lands can be found.”
Irrin grimaced. “It sounds dangerous…”
“More dangerous than staying here and waiting for assassins to slip a knife into your back? My guard is good, but they can’t stop Highlanders. Two or three hundred miles of savanna though…”
“My men won’t arrive for two weeks yet.”
Uche slapped his knee in a very unlordly gesture. “Then we have time to prepare.”
Irrin held up a hand. “I’m all for preparation, but tomorrow. I’d like a night’s rest and time to consider, before I think about sallying out to fight the Cutarans.”
“Then I’ll have someone show you to your rooms.” Uche snapped his fingers and at the sound, a servant who had stood within the arcade stepped down into the garden. She bowed to everyone in attendance, even Grith. That surprised him. Perhaps the Fanalkiri woman didn’t realize how different he was from the rest.
“If you would follow me, I will show you to your rooms, High Lord, sirs…”
* * *
Irrin’s rooms were laid out around a garden deep within the palace and fit for the Emperor himself, consisting of a bedroom, sitting room, drawing room, dining room, and study. Uche had assured him that he would have the choice of his best servants, but Irrin’s first act upon entering the garden had been to send every one of them back to their old posts. A prudent move, Grith thought. If there was an assassin within the walls of the palace, they would have undoubtedly been placed amongst the servants, where they would draw the least attention. Having them near at hand would make his and Tain’s jobs nearly impossible.
The High Lord crossed the garden and threw open the slatted doors to his bedroom, collapsing onto the mattress and staring at the scrollwork crossing the ceiling. Tain stood at attention, or as near as he ever came. Grith however, stepped forward. “Nobody mentioned what we saw in the Eye.”
Everyone had avoided talking about the miracle they had witnessed, even the day after the strange event had transpired aboard the ship. They all acted like it was best forgotten.
“What could I do?” Irrin asked. “If I had told Uche we saw a… whatever it was, what would he have done? Think me insane?”
Grith bit his lip. “So are we all just going to assume this was just some group delusion and leave it at that?”
“That is exactly what we’re going to do.” Irrin stuck his head up. “And you won’t speak of what you saw to anyone, do you understand?”
Grith locked gazes with the High Lord. Brown eyes met blue, and for a moment, he felt the old anger return. The anger that had brought him close to murder. This man wanted to burn Kull, and kill my people. But almost as soon as the rage had reared its head, it was gone again, fled into the far reaches of his mind. Grith simply couldn’t bring himself to hate any longer. The emotion was still there, but it was like the embers of a long dead fire. Difficult to bring back to life. He nodded.
“Good,” Irrin continued. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get some rest. I want the two of you on alternating shifts tonight. Four hours each. Tain, you have the first watch.”
“I’ll set the guards up in a cordon around the arcade,” said Tain, heading towards the double doors to the garden. “No one gets in, even servants.” He looked to Irrin for confirmation.
The High Lord had already laid his head back on the pillow. The choppy waters of the Godsea had not been kind to anyone, especially Irrin. The man had spent most nights with his head over the side of the boat, vomiting up what little he ate. His only conformation was a hand, waved weakly in the air.
With Irrin’s blessing, Grith followed Tain out into the garden. Night was still an hour away, and the paths between the flower beds were bathed in the rich orange light that came before the setting of the sun.
“You’ve got time until your first watch,” Tain said, stopping at one of the many beds to study a variety of flower Grith had never seen before. It was deep red, almost like a rose, but with thorns sticking from between each pedal. “Go get some sleep.”
Grith didn’t feel tired, just drained. He had been in the Deepening since they stepped off the Wind’s Caress earlier in the day. Not enough to burn through his energy quickly, but still enough to weaken him over the hours since they had arrived. “First, I think I’ll grab something to eat.”
“Be careful,” Tain said, rising and giving the pillared walkway around them a quick scan. “Uche may be our ally, but that doesn’t mean we’re safe here. There could be assassins around every corner. Don’t trust anyone. Not servants, not soldiers, and certainly not sycophants.”
When they had first begun this journey, Grith would have called Tain paranoid, but after all he had seen and done, he found himself often agreeing with the seemingly ridiculous suspicions of his teacher.
“I’ll try,” Grith said. “Keep your own eyes open while I’m gone. This place… I don’t like it.”
* * *
The Pasha’s Palace was like a maze spawned from the mind of some sadistic groundskeeper. Grith could see it in his mind’s eye, an immense checkerboard of enclosed gardens, each an apartment given to one of Uche’s nobles, knights, or high-ranking advisors. Grith went through three such apartments, getting strange stares from the servants he passed. It took him a moment to realize why. He wore no formal uniform or insignia of rank, yet still carried his spear and bow. He was probably lucky the guards hadn’t been called. He thought of going back and changing into the something more appropriate, but ultimately decided against it. They’ll learn about me soon enough.
After a quarter hour of fruitlessly searching for the kitchens, Grith finally relented and stopped a fat faced Linsgravi servant, so old and well-dressed that he must have held significant rank within the High Lord’s household. “Sir?” he asked, his voice edged with disapproval. He looked Grith up and down with a critical eye, taking in his weapons, clothes, and dark skin in a single rise and fall of his gaze.
“I’m looking for my room,” Grith said. “And a kitchen.”
The man pulled a piece of paper from within his pocket and unfolded it. He ran his finger down the page’s length. It seemed to be some kind of list. “Name.”
“What?” Grith asked. It hadn’t even sounded like a real question.
“Your name,” the man repeated. “That thing that your mother and father presumably gave you.”
He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore his jab. Dammit, servants weren’t supposed to talk like this, were they? “Grith.”
The servant shook his head. “Not on the list, I’m afraid.”
Grith quietly cursed himself. Irrin had likely sent off his guest list before he had ever
left Selivia. “I’m a new addition.”
“Very good, sir,” the man said. At least he hadn’t called the guards when he had found Grith absent from this list of his. “I will attempt to get a room set aside for you by tomorrow.” He pulled a charcoal pencil from another pocket. “I will also need a surname and rank.”
Rank? Grith didn’t even know if he had a rank. In the pike squad he had been a common soldier, but now… what was he? “Grith… of the Shaleese.” He hated the name from the moment he said it. It made him sound so important, yet somehow provincial as well.
“And your rank,” he was reminded
“Delver.” Grith nearly spit the word out. It wasn’t the kind of title you just carelessly threw around. Tain had told him, no, ordered him, to keep his identity a secret. But this man was a master servant, probably with Uche’s family for decades. He could be trusted to hold his tongue, couldn’t he?
Tain’s word’s returned to Grith’s mind. Don’t trust anyone. Not servants, not soldiers, and certainly not sycophants. Perhaps he had said too much.
For a moment, Grith thought the servant didn’t believe him. Could he try and play off his earlier statement as a joke, low-class humor that a man like this simply wouldn’t understand? No, that would just make things worse. He had committed to his identity. To try and walk it back now would only raise suspicions.
The servant made a series of notes on his paper with the charcoal pencil and placed the page back in his pocket. “Until your room is ready, feel free to take a bunk in the guard’s quarters.” He pointed towards the edge of the palace, whose crenellations were barely visible above the rows of apartments. “That’s the outer perimeter. There are hallways there that circle the entire palace. A word of advice: we servants prefer to use those halls to expedite our movement. You’ll find it much easier and less intrusive than taking the gardens.”
“Thank you,” Grith said, genuinely surprised by the man’s sudden generosity.
The servant gave a sharp bow. “I will send someone to find you when your room is ready.” He turned and marched back the way he had come, disappearing into the shadows like some kind of ghost. Grith imagined the best servants would know to make themselves scarce when they were no longer needed.
With the information provided to him, Grith got to the perimeter with only a few more minutes of walking and found the kitchens tucked away down a darkened hall. They were fit for a palace, with row upon row of roaring ovens separated by tables large enough to prepare a feast for hundreds.
Woah!” Shouted a woman, doughy as the uncooked bread she kneaded, as Grith stepped inside the wide chamber. She came forward, using a towel to wipe the flower from her pale hands. “You can’t be in here, dark-skin! Get out or I’ll see the High Lord has you flogged!”
“I’m just looking for something to eat,” he said, holding up his free hand.
“Wait…” The woman looked confused. “You’re Fanalkiri, are you?” She looked him up and down with the critical eye of someone who had spent much of her life ordering around others.
“I came in with High Lord Irrin.”
“Ah!” Her face lit up. “Selivian then. My apologies. Here.” She took a bowl and went to a large cookpot in a corner. She ladled a scoop of steaming stew from inside and handed it to Grith along with a chunk of dark bread.
He ate standing up, watching the kitchen staff go about their work. There wasn’t a Fanalkiri among them. Uche might have trusted the southern people to make up his bed and dust his furniture, but he still wouldn’t let them near his food. Smart man, Grith thought. Prudence usually won out over convenience when your life was on the line.
He put the bowl down when he was done and gave his thanks to the cooks. They smiled and one of them, a small woman with a thin face and mousy hair, gave him a wrapped package. He peaked inside to see another piece of bread and a sliver of cheese within. She waved him off without a word, and Grith nodded his thanks.
He went back to the table and picked up the spear he had left leaning against the wall. He packed the food into one of the many crevices in his bow case and with a spring in his step, exited through the kitchen door and into the hallway beyond. The food had reinvigorated him, giving him new strength beyond the simple sustenance it would provide a normal man. Tain had told him that in a pinch, it could even be a replacement for sleep. Grith certainly didn’t feel tired.
Perhaps another hour or so of patrolling would do him some good. He hadn’t stretched his legs in weeks. He needed this. And besides, a Delver would be expected to know the palace inside and out. Why not familiarize himself with it now, while things were quiet?
He turned left, following the hall that the master servant had told him circled the entire palace. He walked for several minutes, nodding to servants in the light of the candles that hung in sconces along the wall. Night had fallen in full, and a soft blue light filtered through slit-like windows, giving the corridor an unearthly quality.
When he was satisfied he had traveled far enough, Grith took a door out into one of the gardens and passed a patrol of guards. He was surprised when they didn’t try to stop him. Word must have already spread of the dark-skinned Delver that had arrived with High Lord Irrin.
The guards carried on past him and through the exit to the outer corridor. Grith was left alone in the night, except… there was laughter coming from the next garden over. It was a woman’s laugh, light and airy, and matched by the low voice of a man. Grith could think of several reasons a woman might be laughing in the middle of the night—reasons why he didn’t want to walk through that particular garden.
But despite his better judgement, he couldn’t help but listen, reaching out with the Deepening. He came to the door to the garden and leaned against the cool marble wall beside the entrance. With his heightened hearing, he could listen to every word of conversation as if the pair of speakers stood at his side.
“Did I ever tell you about that boy, my lady?” the man asked. Grith could hear the clatter of something metallic and the click of hard shoes on tile. His voice was deep and sonorous, with an accent that sounded like it came from the Central Plateau upon which sat Kilri and Vashava.
“No,” the woman said. Her accent was similar to Uche’s—Linsgravi then. “I hadn’t even heard his name until you mentioned him.”
“Well, you know that sword he carries?” the man asked.
“No, I don’t. If you forget, I didn’t see him today.”
The man cleared his throat and Grith heard the same clink of metal yet again. “Well, he carries a saber like this one.” Grith frowned. A saber? He must have meant Tain. “A weapon he never earned. He ran away. Stole it.”
“And your order didn’t kill him?” the woman asked, sounding intrigued. “I thought you were supposed to be the best warriors in the world.”
“We are,” the man said, his confidence edged with a hint of defensiveness. “But Delvers are Delvers, and once he was under Irrin’s protection, we couldn’t touch him. Not without creating an incident that could have done irreparable damage to our order’s reputation.”
This man, he was talking about killing Tain, wasn’t he? Grith had heard enough and chose that moment to burst through the door to their garden. He smacked his boots on the ground in a rhythmic beat, trying his best to make as much noise as he could.
“Who’s there!?” the man barked. He came out from behind a flowering bush, his saber half-drawn from its sheath, the mirrored blade practically glowing in the light of Tirrak.
“I’m sorry,” Grith offered, trying to feign surprise. “I didn’t realize this garden was occupied.”
The man’s appearance surprised Grith. He was perhaps forty, with light skin and thinning brown hair cut short. He was lightly muscled and unassuming, but the way he walked spoke of a dangerous past and a quick and skilled sword arm.
“Who is it, Kret?” the woman called.
Kret shook his head and sheathed his blade. “Tain’s apprentice, my lady. The one I told you about.”
“Ah, the Delver! Well then, bring him here.”
“I really must be getting on my way,” Grith said quickly. So they had been speaking about his teacher. Tain needed to hear about this. If there was a man in the palace who knew him, and had just spoken of killing him, it could prove to be an unwelcome complication.
“Nonsense!” The woman insisted. “I want to see Irrin’s new Delver.” She hadn’t called him High Lord. Of course, neither did Grith, but that was… different.
Grith sighed and stepped around the topiary bush. He could feel Kret’s eyes following him, analyzing the way he walked, watching the spear in his hand. Grith expected him to say something, but the man held his tongue. That meant one of two things: either he thought that Grith wouldn’t threaten his charge, or that he was skilled enough to kill an armed Delver. The latter was a disturbing thought indeed.
The woman who had spoken lounged on a bench at the center of the garden. She wore a green dress over her stick-like body, atop which sat a head that seemed too large for the rest of her. Not an attractive woman—though it was clear she was trying—but still possessed of a certain presence.
“You said he was Shaleese,” the woman pointed out, looking him up and down with mild amusement. “But I didn’t expect this. Blessed Tirrak! He is a specimen, isn’t he?”
“Impressive,” Kret said in a mechanical tone. He was clearly about as interested in Grith’s looks as he was in the far side of Tirrak. “Tall, even by his people’s standards.”
Grith felt his cheeks grow hot. He was being treated like a piece of meat, and this woman was the butcher. The way she looked at him, with those hungry eyes, so gray as to be almost colorless… it was unnerving.
“And you are…?” She waited for a name.
“Grith,” he replied.
The Argument of Empires Page 25
