by Dragon Lance
The leader of the Wolves regarded his master stolidly. “Better to kill him far away,” he rumbled.
Ackal V glanced at his young wife. Halie knew Tolandruth only as a name. She wouldn’t betray her husband.
He said, “I want this army of traitors to come as close to Daltigoth as they dare. I want them to think success is in their grasp. Then, and only then, I want the farmer captured and brought before me. I will make such a lesson of him that all those country lords will take up priest’s robes!”
Tathman bowed his head, the long braid of his hair falling forward. “Your Majesty is most wise.”
“When the time comes, I may ask you to do things you won’t like,” Ackal V warned.
“If Your Majesty commands, I will pluck out an eye and eat it.”
This declaration, spoken with such conviction, made young Halie pause in her labors. The emperor shrugged his shoulders, signaling her to continue.
“Patience, Tathman. Your time approaches. The prospect of facing the legendary Lord Tol worries you?”
The question was a half-joking one, but Tathman’s reply was deadly serious. “No, Majesty. He bleeds like any man.”
The emperor smiled. Yes, he did bleed. Ackal V had seen Tol bleed. It was a memory he relished.
He ordered the Wolves back to the Inner City to receive instructions, training, and new equipment. When he explained his idea, Captain Tathman finally showed surprise.
“Objections?” asked the emperor.
“No, Majesty.”
Once Tathman had withdrawn, Halie paused her ministrations to renew the balm on her hands.
“Is Your Majesty in danger?” she asked diffidently.
“No.” Ackal put his head down again on his folded arms.
“But if you speak of what you’ve heard here, I’d have to cut off your head.”
His young consort smoothed the white unguent across his hare shoulders.
“I would never speak of it, sire. Better my tongue should be cut out!”
Now there was a possibility, Ackal mused. And Valaran liked to believe she was the smartest of his wives.
Chapter 23
TRIAL AND ERRAND
The cells beneath the gray citadel of Caergoth were much like the city itself – wide, light, and surprisingly clean. Everything about them was double the norm: the width of the central corridor, the size of the cells, the height of the ceiling. The walls also were twice as thick as usual. Tol and Egrin walked down the central passage, looking at the open, empty cells. Wornoth had sent all the prisoners to the big cages erected in the city’s main square to make room for extra soldiers and supplies for the citadel. With the overthrow of the governor, the dungeon was empty. An unnatural quiet had settled over the place. Only a few of the candles in the wall sconces were lit, so Tol carried a lantern.
The four levels of the dungeon held only a solitary occupant. No guard stood at the massive bronze-plated door to the prisoner’s cell, as the dungeon itself was considered proof against escape. Tol leaned into the deep doorway and rapped on the door to announce their entry. Once Egrin had thrown the heavy bolt and pulled the door open, Tol thrust his lantern into the grayness beyond.
It was a large room for a single prisoner, illuminated by a single candle. Cut into the far wall was a stone niche designed for a bedroll. Here, former governor Wornoth sat slumped. He did not look up as they entered.
“If you’ve come to assassinate me, I curse you both!” he said hoarsely, sniveling into the sleeve of his dirty robe.
Egrin grimaced in disgust. “Sit up, man,” he said. “Show some dignity!”
“We’re not here to slay you,” Tol said. “We’ve come to tell you about your trial.” Wornoth lifted his pale face, blinking in surprise. “You will be judged by a jury of nine warriors, chosen by lot.”
Such a procedure was unknown in Ergoth, where justice was dispensed from on high by imperial officials. At the pinnacle was the emperor, whose utterances were law. The marshals enforced this law, ruling over provinces known as “hundreds” – a term that had once referred to the number of warlords serving the marshal, but was now merely a geographical term. Each marshal was attended by wardens, whose number in each hundred varied according to the strength of the population. The Eastern Hundred, Tol’s homeland, had one warden. Caergoth had four.
At the lowest level, justice was enforced by bailiffs. These were usually Riders of the Great Horde appointed for a specific purpose – to catch a notorious outlaw, or to investigate a murder in some remote corner of the realm. Tol had learned of trial by jury in Tarsis, where the procedure was common.
“I am the imperial governor, appointed by His Majesty Ackal V! All I have done, I have done in his name!”
“Make no mistake, Wornoth. You’re not being tried for being a vicious, petty tyrant, though you ought to be,” Tol said. “The principle charge against you is failing to defend the eastern provinces of the empire. By keeping your hordes in Caergoth, you allowed the nomads to ravage four provinces. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of imperial subjects perished, villages were sacked and property destroyed by your folly. That is your crime.”
Wornoth’s face grew even paler. He whispered, “I did what I thought best. You can’t condemn me for that!”
“It is not up to me to condemn you for anything. That’s why we’re having a trial. It begins at dawn.”
Tol turned to go. Wornoth sprang from his sleeping niche and grasped Tol’s knees. Egrin’s sword was out in a trice, but alarm quickly turned to revulsion.
Tears streaming down his cheeks, Wornoth gabbled wildly, “Please, gracious lord! Please, spare me! I made mistakes, yes, but I can rectify them! I can! Please! Please!”
“Get hold of yourself!” Tol said, trying to pry him loose. “For Corij’s sake, be a man!”
“But I don’t want to die! I did only what I thought my emperor wanted me to do! Please!”
Tol managed to shove him away. Wornoth fell backward and lay still, sobbing and pleading.
“You’re going to Daltigoth, aren’t you? I can be of use to you, great lord. I know much about the emperor’s doings. I can tell you things!”
Egrin asked, “Would you betray your sovereign?”
“Yes! Yes! To spare my life, yes!”
Thoroughly disgusted now, Tol said nothing. He went to the cell door.
“You are being used, my lord!” Wornoth cried. “The emperor’s hand has guided you to the very course you’re now on! If you go to Daltigoth, you shall be destroyed!”
Tol ignored this feeble gambit, but Egrin lingered.
“Why would the emperor want Lord Tolandruth to come to Daltigoth?” he asked.
An ember of hope lit the prisoner’s eyes. “Spare me, and I’ll tell you!”
“Tell us, and we may spare you,” Tol countered.
Wornoth got quickly to his feet. “You have something the emperor wants.” He glanced at Egrin, uncertain how much to reveal. “A certain item of great value, which protects you.”
Egrin looked blank, but the words rattled Tol. The nullstone. How could Ackal V have learned of it?
The worry on his captor’s face warmed Wornoth like a draft of strong wine. He dried his face on his sleeve and fingered the long hair back from his forehead.
“The empress hired a tracker to find you, my lord. A half-breed woman. To ensure her loyalty, I was ordered to hold her father.”
“I know. She’s dead,” Tol said flatly. “And so is her father.”
Wornoth shrugged. “No matter. You’re on your way to Daltigoth, unwittingly delivering the very prize the emperor covets.” He leered at the warriors. “He dangles tasty bait before you, I know. The empress —”
Tol crossed the distance between them in three strides and seized the front of Wornoth’s robe. Hauling the shorter man to his tiptoes, he snarled, “Your information is worthless! Baited or not, I am going to Daltigoth to see justice done!”
“Justice for whom?” Wornoth raspe
d. “You – or the empire?”
“Enough!” Tol shoved him away. “Your trial takes place tomorrow.”
Wornoth had one last hand to play. From the folds of his robe, he produced a small iron key. He tossed it toward the doorway, where it landed at Tol’s feet.
“A gift, my lord! That key opens my private archive. Learn for yourself how the emperor draws you to him like a fly into a spider’s web.” Wornoth managed a smile. “What does this buy me?”
Tol’s dagger thudded into the straw by Wornoth’s feet.
“If I were you, Wornoth, I would not wait for a trial. Hanging is tricky business. If not done right, the condemned strangles slowly.” With visible relish, Tol said, “Count five ribs down on your left side. That’s where your heart is – that’s where it is on a normal man, anyway.”
High-born Ergothians had a horror of being hanged like a common criminal. Mockingly, Tol added, “I doubt you have the will to cheat the hangman, but I give you the chance.”
He and Egrin went out, and the sound of the bolt being thrown echoed in the cell.
When the warder arrived a short time later with the prisoner’s supper, he found Wornoth dead. A war dagger protruded from his left side.
His heart was in the right place after all.
*
At the head of her private army, Syndic Hanira awaited Lord Tolandruth’s review. She’d found a magnificent horse in Caergoth, a night-black steed. Mounted on its back, Hanira, in cloth-of-gold raiment, her own black hair streaming loose to her waist, cut a dazzling figure. Dusk was an unusual time to begin a journey, but it was the time Hanira had chosen.
Most of the warlords still mistrusted the Tarsans, regarding them as foreigners and enemies, not valuable allies. None had turned out for her departure. Egrin had taken Wornoth’s key and gone in search of his papers, so only the Dom-shu sisters and Tol were present. Tol was mounted, the sisters on foot.
“Give my regards to Lord Regobart,” Tol said, naming the commander of the imperial outpost near Tarsis.
“I will convey your greetings.” Smiling slightly she added, “I seldom see him, you know. I make him nervous.”
“Small wonder,” Kiya muttered.
Hanira urged her horse forward a few paces, until she was close alongside Tol. Her smooth expression altered for a moment. “Beware, my lord,” she murmured. “You are galloping hard to a precipice. Daltigoth is a maelstrom from which you may not emerge alive.”
She was the second person this evening to tell him that. Shrugging, he said, “I’ve managed to escape death there before.”
Hanira clasped his arm, warrior-fashion. “Live, my lord. The world needs you.”
At Captain Anovenax’s order, the Tarsans wheeled left and trotted away. Hanira turned her ebony steed smartly on its hind legs and cantered after them.
The Dom-shu were not impressed, muttering aloud that the Tarsan syndic was a “conniving wench,” among other things.
“She seeks some advantage,” Miya insisted. She knew the art of dealing better than anyone. “If you succeed, her position as your friend and ally is stronger than ever.”
“But what does she want?” Kiya mused. “Not Husband as mate, I’d wager.”
Miya shook her head. “She wants to rule Tarsis, that’s what I think. With Husband’s help, she could get rid of all the princes and syndics, and reign as queen of Tarsis.”
“You two are so wise!” Tol snapped. “Hanira didn’t have to come to our aid. She paid for her good deed with her own child’s life!”
Chastened, the Dom-shu sisters apologized and left him. He had given them the task of organizing supplies for the ride to Daltigoth.
As the dust kicked up by the Tarsan cavalry settled, Tol stared southwest – the route they’d taken along the banks of the Caer. In the distance, lightning shimmered across the deep purple sky.
The sisters had unknowingly touched a sore spot. Tol wasn’t certain they were wrong about Hanira. But at that moment, he felt she had as much chance of becoming Queen of the Red Moon as Queen of Tarsis.
*
Valaran held the tiny slip of parchment to the lamp flame. It curled and blackened as fire consumed it. She had read the message three times just to be certain she’d not imagined it.
Tol was coming.
She’d managed to place a spy close to him, and now knew even what road he would take. The fear that had been her constant companion for so long faded somewhat. For the first time in a very long time, Valaran allowed herself the luxury of wondering what he was like, whether he’d changed.
Almost seven years had passed. In that time she’d borne a child, learned to govern an empire, and survived the cruel machinations of her unpredictable husband. And she had killed an old woman.
In spite of her room’s warmth, Valaran shivered. She’d learned much in seven years. What had Tol learned?
*
Wornoth’s opulent quarters had been ransacked by servants and palace guards when the city fell. Fine tapestries had been torn down. Furniture too heavy to move had been chopped apart by swords and axes. What remained of Wornoth’s personal treasure had been stored in the dungeon below, for safekeeping, but random coins were scattered across the ruined, dark blue carpet like a rain of gold. Egrin was disgusted as much by the waste as by the unseemly extravagance of the governor’s rooms.
Searching through the destruction, he found several strongboxes, broken open and empty. The iron key fit none of them. Not until Egrin reached Wornoth’s bedroom did he find what he sought.
The bedchamber had received the same treatment as the rest of the rooms. The white walls had been stripped of tapestries and paintings, the furniture hacked by sabers, the broad mattress cut to ribbons. Heavy sculptures had been toppled and lay in pieces amidst shredded blue silk bed curtains. Eiderdown stuffing covered the floor and clouds of fluff swirled upward, disturbed by Egrin’s passage.
His toes bumped something solid as he reached the great bed. Egrin knelt and carefully brushed away an eiderdown drift. In the center of the wooden bedrail, he found a small slot, rimmed in black iron and hard to spot. The key fit perfectly. A click, and a drawer slid smoothly out.
The secret cache held no gold or silver, but bundles of parchment tied with string and a thick-bladed short sword. Egrin opened one of the bundles and discovered a series of dispatches from the emperor to Governor Wornoth. The last few messages were terse and to the point: Where was Tol? Was he coming to Caergoth? What had Wornoth done to defend the city?
Egrin dug deeper into the bundle. The earlier communications were much longer and wilder, sounding like the ramblings of a deranged man. In them, Ackal V railed about treachery, particularly from wizards of the Red and White orders. The emperor insisted over and over to Wornoth that, above all other tasks, he was to keep an eye on the members of those orders in Caergoth.
The next discovery was much more upsetting – a packet of messages to Wornoth from various warlords. These outlined the warlords’ struggles against the nomads and the bakali and requested that the governor send troops and supplies. As time passed and Wornoth sent neither, the requests became demands, then pleas. One dispatch from Bessian was literally spattered with blood. The invaders were closing in, it said, and the Ergothians could neither win nor escape; the governor must send aid. The governor of Caergoth, determined to defend his own neck, had done nothing to aid the dying hordes. This bundle contained no copies of outgoing missives. Wornoth had not even bothered to reply.
Coldly furious, Egrin put the pleading messages aside. The smallest bundle in the cache was not merely tied with string but also wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Egrin reached for this packet of letters, but it slipped through his fingers. He tried again. And again. And again. He glared at the bundle in perplexed confusion. No matter how hard he tried, he could not grab hold of it.
When Tol arrived moments later, Egrin told him of the strange small packet.
“I seem to have butter on my fingers. Can’t pick
this up!” the former marshal said, pointing.
Tol squatted by the open drawer. He reached for the packet. Although a flicker of heat played over his fingers, they closed infallibly on the letters. The sensation of warmth was familiar. Someone had put a spell on the letters, most likely to prevent them being tampered with, but the nullstone had negated the spell.
He handed the small packet to Egrin, who held it warily. This time it stayed in his grasp. The elder warrior muttered something about being old and clumsy.
“Rubbish, you’re just tired,” Tol said.
The cloth wrapping contained a dozen or so squares of thin parchment. The backs of the slips were scorched by heat, but lines of writing in unusual brown ink filled the other side. None of the messages was signed.
“Letters from spies,” Egrin said.
The messages all were short, and most were demands for information from an anonymous correspondent. None concerned the nomads or bakali invaders. Some asked about the morale and loyalty of the imperial hordes in Caergoth and commented on the danger of sending troops beyond the walls and leaving the city “helpless and unguarded.” Most sought knowledge of Tol’s whereabouts; Helbin, too, was mentioned.
I’ve had no word from Helbin in many days, the anonymous correspondent had written. If he comes into your hands, let me know at once. Protect him. He is a valuable ally.
“Didn’t Queen Casberry say Helbin had been captured by Wornoth’s guards?” asked Egrin.
Tol nodded absently. They had looked all over for the Red Robe. There had been no trace of the wizard among the prisoners, either in the citadel or anywhere else.
“These messages are in Valaran’s hand!” Tol exclaimed. Egrin’s graying eyebrows lifted in surprise and Tol added, “Don’t you see? Wornoth was playing both sides. He was spying for the empress, while ruling in the emperor’s name.” The duplicity of the man was incredible.
“Then why would he arrest Helbin? He knew they both served the same mistress.”
Tol shrugged. “Maybe Wornoth was duping Valaran, betraying her trust to Ackal V. If so, the last thing he’d want around would be a loyal servant of the empress.” Tol tossed the letters back in the drawer. “Helbin could tell us more. He’s probably dead, but continue the search for him anyway.”
