Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2

by Don Bassingthwaite

  If having Senen there was a surprise, though, it was nothing compared to the other gnome who had stood at Esmyssa’s back when they’d entered the library. Midian now sat at the far end of the table, chattering about Dhakaani history to the half-elf viceroy of House Medani. As they’d passed from the library into the dining room, Ashi had managed to exchange a few words with Midian—a very few words.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I suspected you’d be coming, so I talked Esmyssa into bringing me as a guest.”

  “Have you seen Geth since—?”

  He’d interrupted her, dropping his voice. “We’ll talk later.”

  The last guest was served. Dannel d’Cannith picked up her spoon, and everyone at the table began eating. The soup was indeed rich. Pater slurped it up with a look of pleasure on his round, rough face. Ashi watched Senen work through her bowl with the dogged determination of someone set to a chore.

  Conversation flowed around Ashi, light and casual. Esmyssa attempted to engage Senen with questions about the ancient history preserved by the Kech Volaar and the other Dhakaani clans. On Ashi’s right, the envoy of House Vadalis, a lean man named Kavrin, struck up a question about the wildlife of the Shadow Marches. Ashi described the beasts and monsters she had seen as a hunter of the wild swamps, a pleasant distraction as the soup bowls were removed and replaced with fish poached in Brelish stock. Fish gave way to pork roasted and sauced in the Karrnathi style. Ashi kept her eyes and ears alert. Around the meat course, Vounn had said—that was when it would happen.

  And, just as she picked up her fork, it did. Seated beside Dannel and across from Vounn, Laren Roole, the ambassador of Breland, leaned a little forward and asked Pater, “How goes the process of supplying Darguun’s army?”

  Pater sipped a little wine—Ashi saw abruptly that the servants who had stood behind the table, ready to refill empty glasses, had departed and that only the warforged Stitch remained—and said, “It goes well. Orien has lent an aide to Dagii’s quartermaster and he sends me reports. There was some expectation that the Valenar might attack the supply wagons, but there haven’t been any attacks yet.” He raised his glass. “Pray Kol Korran keeps it so!”

  Like the first punch thrown in a brawl, the question changed the tone of conversation around the table. Abruptly Ashi found herself in a bubble. All around her, everyone was talking about the war and Tariic, but perhaps believing that a junior envoy would have nothing to add, no one talked to her. She didn’t dissuade them. Not being talked to gave her a better chance to listen. Esmyssa turned to the Aundairian ambassador on her other side to ask his opinion of the impact of the war on Khorvaire at large; the Aundairian was tight-lipped and grim. Kavrin d’Vadalis discussed the Valenar cavalry capabilities with the Karrnathi ambassador on his right. Senen and Midian both became sought-after partners in the discussion as they related stories and histories of past conflicts between dar and elves, sometimes glaring at each other and arguing when what they told clashed. Dannel, Laren, Vounn, and Pater quietly spoke of Tariic’s new power and what he might do with it. In the two days since his coronation, he had divided his time between public appearances and the assembly of warlords, stirring pride in the Darguuls and whipping up sentiments against the Valenar—and all elves by extension.

  A game was in play around the table, with each ambassador and envoy offering up a little bit of what they knew in return for new knowledge form the others. Here and there, hints revealed plans. Vadalis hoped to convince Tariic to purchase their strong and tough magebred mounts for his army. Breland would increase patrols along their side of the Seawall Mountains in case Darguul warlords were stirred up too much, while Karrnath, having more direct experience with the Valenar, wondered if the distracted elves might pull away from their northern territories. Zilargo had hopes that the war would be brief and Tariic would settle into the role of peaceful, predictable ruler. Everyone talked about House Lyrandar and Sindra d’Lyrandar’s conspicuous absence from Rhukaan Draal.

  “We gather with our own,” Vounn had told Ashi as they’d prepared for the dinner. “We know what we’re doing, we know what we trade. We each bring a thread and from them weave a tapestry none of us could have woven alone. Everyone leaves on even footing.”

  And Vounn, Ashi saw quickly, was one of the most able players of the game. She spoke only a little, but listened with intensity, and Ashi felt sure that if a tapestry was being woven tonight, Vounn sat at the loom and threw the shuttle.

  Senen, surprisingly, was another able player. She might not have been familiar with the table manners of the Five Nations, but she was surely a veteran of intrigues among the Dhakaani clans. Her ears flicked rapidly back and forth, as if she was listening to several conversations at once. Ashi realized that with a lhesh now on the throne, the Kech Volaar and Darguun might draw closer to an alliance again. Ekhaas had confided in her that Senen suspected that she was involved in something. Ashi wondered if the ambassador could have suspicions of Tariic as well.

  Plates were cleared and glasses emptied. A lull fell into the conversation, as if the diplomats had sated their need for information along with their hunger. Ashi saw Dannel give a glance and a nod to Stitch. The warforged stepped out of the room. Dannel smiled at those seated around the table. “Let us adjourn to the library. We have sweet wine and cheese to finish.”

  She rose and her guests rose with her, Vounn, however, caught Pater’s hand and held him back as the others left the room. Ashi, waiting for the signal, stayed as well. “Pater,” said Vounn, “I need a favor.”

  The eyebrows on Pater’s round face rose slightly. “There are worse things than having House Deneith in your debt.” His voice was pleasant but his gaze was suspicious. “What do you need?”

  “I think Baron Breven will recall Ashi to Sentinel Tower in Karrlakton soon. I’ve put him off before, but I don’t think I can delay again. Ashi will have to leave Darguun.”

  The lie was simple and completely believable because it was mostly true. When Pater glanced at her, Ashi didn’t need to feign her frustration.

  Vounn continued her appeal smoothly. “Unfortunately, with conditions as they are in the country, the route could be dangerous. We’ve had no word from Dagii’s army or from Zarrthec. It’s possible raiders could be scouting the trade road.”

  “I haven’t heard anything from our caravans,” Pater grunted.

  “Yet you don’t rule out an attack on your supply wagon,” Vounn reminded him. “If I move a force of mercenaries guarding one person up the trade road, I expect the Valenar might find that too tempting a target to resist.” She gestured to Ashi. “Can you take her? I mean, are you capable of taking her should the need arise?”

  Pater screwed up his face and cast an eye over Ashi. She felt as if she was being sized up as cargo—which, strictly speaking, she was. House Orien bore the Mark of Passage. Pater’s dragonmark, though not the most powerful of Orien’s marks, allowed him to step instantly across vast distances. Vounn had told her it was an ability that the viceroy seldom used and then only to carry urgent letters and parcels, but that it was theoretically possible for him to transport a passenger on his long-distance jaunts.

  She found herself holding her stomach in, as if that would make her look like a lighter load.

  Pater just grunted again. “Aye. I won’t do it for free, though. Standard Orien fee.”

  “Of course,” said Vounn. “I regard it as a favor that you’re willing to do it at all.” She clasped his hands and smiled. “Thank you.”

  Pater’s face didn’t relax. “One step follows another, Vounn. You wouldn’t ask me like this if it was a simple transport.”

  “And you wouldn’t agree if it was just a simple transport. I know you, Pater.” Her smile took on an edge. “Not all dangers wait along the road. No one will suspect your involvement. I intend to organize a mercenary escort and send Ashi out of Rhukaan Draal with them—you meet her outside the city, on the other side of the bridge over the Ghaal
River, and take her from there. Attention will remain on the escort, which will disband a reasonable distance from the city with no sign of Ashi—or you. Will you do it?”

  Pater glanced from her to Ashi. “Aye,” he said. “I will. Give me a day’s notice when you need me.”

  “Thank you, Viceroy Pater,” Ashi said. She stepped forward and bowed slightly. “I appreciate this.”

  They were the only words she’d been allowed to say—Vounn had told her specifically to keep her mouth shut while she spoke. Pater’s assistance had been far from guaranteed and even Ashi had seen it. The words of thanks were the polish on the sword, though. Pater puffed up like a rooster strutting before hens. “You’re welcome, Lady Ashi,” he said.

  Vounn shifted her grasp from his hand to his arm and gave him another open smile. “Wonderful. Now, let’s catch up to Dannel and the others before the wine and cheese are gone.”

  They strolled out of the dining room. Ashi followed in their wake along the short passage that connected library and dining room.

  She didn’t even see Midian until he grabbed her wrist and tugged her back into the shadow of a large decorative urn.

  “You’re leaving?” he demanded.

  “You heard that?”

  “I hear a lot more than people think I do.” His eyes glittered. “I know about Tenquis.”

  He’d learned the name. “How—?”

  He scowled. “Finding an artificer was my idea. You don’t think I could ask the same questions as Ekhaas? Now it’s your turn. You’re leaving?”

  Ashi looked around. The urn concealed Midian completely, but what hid a gnome didn’t hide her. “Not here,” she said. “Somewhere private.”

  Servants had entered the dining room to clear away the dinner plates. Midian, still holding tight to Ashi’s hand, led her the other way along the passage, away from the library and up a flight of stairs. A door opened onto an airy gallery with ornate filigree screen panels forming a long wall open to the night. They were up high, well above the street. The gallery was unlit and dim to her eyes, though Midian moved with confidence.

  “Don’t touch the screens,” he warned her. “They’re Cannith gearwork, trapped to keep out thieves.”

  “How did you know this was here?”

  “I had a look around before dinner.” He let go of her hand and turned to face her. “Let’s try this again. You’re leaving?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Ashi told him stubbornly. She described her attempt to reach Geth after Tariic’s coronation—and her subsequent conversation with Vounn. When she had finished, Midian let out a hiss of frustration.

  “I wondered why you hadn’t left your chambers for the last two days. Your guard Aruget told me you were ill whenever I came around.”

  “What did you make of what happened at the coronation?”

  “I couldn’t see anything. A fat lump of a bugbear pushed in front of me. Not that I was all that eager to be seen once Makka strolled onto the dais.” Ashi could make out Midian’s face—he was chewing nervously on a thumbnail. “Sage’s quill. Tariic may know about the false rod.” He glanced at her, his blue eyes flashing in the moonlight. “So if you leave, what happens to me, Ekhaas, and Dagii?”

  Ashi shook her head. “I’m not leaving yet. Vounn just wanted to make arrangements. She spoke with Tariic yesterday on business for Deneith, and she says that he doesn’t act like he suspects anything. Or at least he doesn’t suspect us. She hasn’t spoken with Geth yet, though. Aruget hasn’t gotten close to him either.”

  “Neither have I. I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn’t find him. I have seen him with Tariic a lot though.” He hesitated for a moment, then added. “What if Tariic has the true rod? What if he’s found some way to dominate Geth?”

  “He can’t. Wrath protects Geth.”

  “Here’s the thing, though—whenever I’ve seen Geth, he’s not wearing Wrath.”

  “I don’t think that matters,” Ashi said. “When we recovered the rod, he was disarmed, but the rod still couldn’t affect him.”

  “Then why won’t he talk to us, and why isn’t he wearing Wrath? What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.” Uncertainty and fear stirred in Ashi’s gut—along with grim determination. “But we’re going to find out. We need to talk to Geth. Come see me tomorrow. We’ll decide what to do.”

  Midian nodded, then said, “We should get into to the library. Vounn has probably missed you by now, and she’ll know something is up when we come in together.”

  “That doesn’t bother me,” Ashi said. “She’s had me out tonight. She can’t confine me to our chambers now. Maybe we are in danger, but we need to get answers while we can.” She clenched her jaw. “And Geth is the only one who has them.”

  “And Geth is the only one who has them.”

  Stretched out on top of the thick outer wall, Makka hugged a clenched fist to his chest and bared his teeth. When I fight, I fight. When I stalk, I stalk. The first time he had confronted Ashi and Ekhaas, he’d made the mistake of fighting without properly stalking his prey. He’d been too hasty. He’d forgotten the lessons of the hunt. The Fury seemed to appreciate revenge well-savored, though. Patience and stalking—even with the pathetic caution of Deneith’s hobgoblin guards—had paid off.

  His decision to scale the walls of the building Ashi visited had paid off, too. As had his accidental touch of the great screen an armslength above his head. Whirring metal springing to life had gouged the skin of his fingers and palms, but the instinct of freezing in the shadows rather than running had both saved him from discovery by guards and put him in exactly the place he needed to be.

  Not just Ashi of Deneith but the gnome Midian too.

  The door in the screened chamber closed. Makka offered a silent prayer of thanks to the Fury, rose to his feet, and moved with silent steps back to the deep shadows where he had climbed up.

  Careful stalking was one of the lessons of the hunt. Choosing proper bait for the trap was another.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  28 Sypheros

  He’d had this dream before.

  Adolan sat across the fire from him. The druid’s face was calm under his red-brown beard. His eyes were the same color as the fresh oak leaves tied to the heavy shaft of his spear, with pupils as black and shining as the collar of stones around his neck. “Are you just passing through?” he asked.

  Geth could smell the stink from his own body. It had been a long time since he’d bathed. The rank odor blended with smoke from the fire, the sizzling juices of the chicken that charred on the rough spit above it, and the cool damp scent of the deep forests of the Eldeen Reaches. There was another smell, too, like hot copper. It seemed out of place, but Geth ignored it.

  “Maybe,” he answered the druid. “Maybe not.”

  Adolan’s eyes bored through him. “You should move on.”

  Geth looked at him. That wasn’t right. He repeated the words he’d said to Adolan the night that the druid had confronted a wandering, chicken-stealing shifter. “Yes. Just passing through.”

  “Good. Be on your way.” Adolan rose, supporting himself on his spear.

  “What?” Geth dropped the chicken he’d been holding and jumped to his feet. “No!”

  “Why not?” The face across the fire looked genuinely surprised. “You want to stay here?”

  “I’m supposed to,” Geth said. “That’s what happens, Ado. You convince me to stay in Bull Hollow.”

  “Not this time. This time you have to keep going.” Adolan turned away.

  The pain of the rejection was a giant fist wrapped around Geth’s chest. He felt a piercing ache in his side, like broken ribs. The hot copper smell grew stronger. He grabbed for his sword, drawing Wrath—and a part of him knew that was wrong, too. He’d still carried a plain Deneith service blade when he’d encountered Adolan. That wrongness didn’t stop him from pointing the twilight blade and shouting “Stop!”

  “Or what?” The figu
re that turned was small and dressed in black. It spoke with a strained, scarred voice. Chetiin. In his hand, he held the Rod of Kings. “I’m your friend, Geth. What are you going to do?”

  Chetiin turned around again and leaped through the window that grown in the middle of the forest. “No!” Geth screamed. He sprinted after the goblin.

  Voices shouted for him. Daavn commanding him to stop. Tariic demanding the true rod. Haruuc begging his aid. Figures flashed in the periphery of his vision. Ashi reaching out for him. Ekhaas, doing the same thing. Dagii, stern and reserved. Chetiin, his large eyes somber and wise.

  Adolan, watching. And maybe a little sad.

  Geth tried to stop, to turn back, but it was too late. He plunged through the window, and the stones of the plaza below Khaar Mbar’ost rushed up to meet him—

  He jerked and snapped upright, a roar tearing itself from his throat. From somewhere close, there was a yelp, the crash of shattering glass, and a stream of curses. Body trembling, Geth stared around. He sat in a high bed, threadbare sheets twisted around him. A low, raftered ceiling was close overhead. To either side of the bed rose stone walls that stopped well short of the ceiling and the opposite wall. The hot copper smell of his dream filled the air.

  A moment later, Tenquis peered around the corner of one of the short walls. The tiefling’s expression, at first cautious, hardened and he stepped around to stand at the foot of the bed, glaring at Geth with his golden eyes. “Horns of Ohr Kaluun, can you do anything quietly?”

  Geth squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again and the strange bedchamber made sense. The last moments of his flight from Khaar Mbar’ost came back to him. He was in Tenquis’s home, the one-time barn. The short walls closing in the bed were the sides of stalls. Cows had once slept where the bed stood. Geth lay back, wringing a sickening ache out of his side that echoed the agony of his dream. He raised his head enough to look down at himself. His chest was wrapped in bandages. More bandages swaddled his left arm, and there was something thick and crusty smeared across his face over his cheekbones. He reached up with his right hand and whatever was on his face crumbled into a lumpy powder that left his fingertips dark and glittery. The flesh underneath was tender.