The Last Immortal : Book One of Seeds of a Fallen Empire
Page 52
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The fresh night wind was deadly cold where a man leaned against the ground floor of a towering obsidian building, just on the edge of the barren waste beyond the city of Nayin. Even in the bare, moon-lit quiet, there was a separate arc of shadow beneath the towering building, and it was there, under its sheltering darkness, that Sargon chose to wait, his legs crossed at the ankles, his arms folded over the thin material of his shirt.
Sargon looked up some time later at the sound of the approaching noise. Buffoon, he thought to himself. Here comes the man making all kinds of noise, all dressed up in layers of fur and wool. It isn’t that cold, he said to himself, letting the cold wind pass right through him and over his bare arm harmlessly.
Yet the frozen, bundled creature was confused and panting from the cold bite of the air filling his lungs. Sargon decided he wasn’t going to waste energy by extracting the flustered spy’s information. It was so much more entertaining to listen to what the man had to say. The man began to mumble in rasping breaths. “Tiah—huh—,” he paused, “ah—senn—i—uhns... sh—sh—ship to uh—”
Oh Hell, Sargon thought better of it and allowed his thoughts to pick over the man’s mind. The poor man wasn’t used to Orian’s cold, living on Tiasenne all the time.
Sargon listened to the scraps of the secret recordings this man had heard, but the man’s memory of them was poor, and Sargon was obliged to reconstruct missing words that the man’s subconscious had forgotten. But still it was enough. The information was worth all of the effort.
Sargon abruptly turned away and marched back towards the building, leaving his informant confused and staring, Sargon’s own face an odd mixture of triumph and unease.
He had one person to talk to, one person he trusted, one person in all of Orian whose company he was still able to tolerate.
Meanwhile, inside Sargon’s private conference room, one of his distant relatives was waiting, a great-grandson of his mother’s sister, although the young man, Luciares Garen, didn’t know he was at all related to the Great Leader. Garen had been summoned to Nayin for training a few years back, and shortly afterward, Sargon had unexpectedly promoted him to the advisory council.
Which was an honor Garen never allowed himself to forget.
“I’ve found her, Garen.” Sargon said at last, passing the threshold of his private atrium and heading towards the open door of the conference room, where Garen was supposed to help him plan the next Tiasennian land campaign.
“Sir?” Garen asked, looking up from a schematic at the sound of Sargon’s voice; the Great Leader treaded so softly that no one ever knew when he was coming if he didn’t announce his presence, which was half of why his subordinates lived in constant terror of him.
“Yes, she’s given herself away!” Sargon declared, with a ring of triumph, dropping his plain black boots within the door frame. Garen stared at them; no one else in all of Nayin was still wearing warm weather attire or could do so with complete disregard to the cold, or to possible loss of life or limb.
“The Tiasennians are building a ship with shifting hull plates, a space battleship that protects itself with shields.” Sargon explained. “Ha! They want me to believe that one of them designed it. Not only that, but the man disappeared for three months last year. Half a year on Tiasenne.” He added, in case Garen didn’t know. “Then, when he reappeared, he suddenly came up with the blueprints they’re using for the prototype.”
“I don’t understand the point, sir.” The naive, noble-minded Garen said, shaking his head.
“Of course you don’t, but she will.” Sargon smiled in amusement. “That ambitious, industrious prodigal—did they think I wouldn’t know? Well, we’ll just have to bring him here.” He declared, then gave a deep laugh.
Garen stepped back a little and watched uncertainly.