The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

  “You were doing no such thing! I came here to talk reason, in a calm voice, and you told me to go prostate myself to your horse if I hoped to appease Sarta! You insult me so to my face at a royal affair!”

  The Sartan piously looked around. “Did anyone hear me say such a base thing to this man? Anyone?”

  No one, especially the other Corinthians, gave any indication of having heard the foul words. Most of them likely had not, but Nermesa suspected that Stafano’s countrymen would have denied hearing anything no matter the truth. Sarta now held that much of an upper hand over the rest of Corinthia.

  “Come, my lord,” Nermesa quietly said to the enraged count, “There is some fine food over on the table yonder! Please partake of some of Aquilonia’s finest dishes . . .”

  “Yes, do that,” the bearded Dekalatos urged politely.

  Count Stafano’s eyes all but bulged. His face went red with renewed fury. “You—you hear him? By Mitra! I’ll have your throat for this!”

  He ripped free from Nermesa, thick hands seeking his counterpart’s neck. Thomal Dekalatos started to back away, but not quickly enough. His one hand remained by his shoulder.

  With trained reflexes, Nermesa not only regained his hold, but increased it. He pulled the count from his intended victim.

  But at the same time, the Sartan’s hand pulled away from his shoulder . . . taking with it the pin. Like a viper, the hand darted forward and back in an instant.

  Count Stafano let out a gasp of pain. Glancing at the man’s hand, Nermesa saw a tiny dot of blood form near the base of the thumb.

  With his gauntleted hand, he grabbed the pin from Lord Dekalatos, but it was already too late. The count fell back into Nermesa’s arm. Another of the Black Dragons helped the captain set the stricken Corinthian to a chair. Stafano’s face was completely ashen.

  “I—I—” he stammered.

  The count fell back, and he let out a terrible groan. His tongue, now an ominous shade of purple, thrust out.

  Count Stafano let out one last, feeble gasp, and stilled.

  “You saw,” Thomal Dekalatos calmly declared. “He was coming at me with murder in mind! The man was clearly in a deranged rage! I had no choice!”

  Pallantides strode toward him. “But it is forbidden to bring a weapon of any kind in the presence of the king and queen at such an event! That pin is clearly poisoned.”

  “Merely a personal protection. And well needed, I might point out!” He thrust a finger toward Nermesa. “If that man had done his task as he should have, I wouldn’t have been forced to such a drastic measure to save myself!”

  More than one eye turned to Nermesa, who had already been berating himself for having missed the pin. True, no one could have guessed that the decorative piece could be so lethal, but as the officer in charge, any lapse was surely his responsibility.

  “Nevertheless,” continued Nermesa’s commander, “I must ask that you come with me, my lord. Now.” Pallantides reached out to take the Sartan’s arm. “This matter must be dealt with.”

  Keeping out of reach of the general, the ambassador vehemently shook his head. “I am a citizen of Sarta and protected by my rank. Do not presume to treat me like a suspected brigand.”

  “No one is doing that, but you must—”

  “Now, Thomal,” came another voice from behind the Sartan. “Keep your head, man. The general’s only doing his duty.”

  Keeping one hand on Lord Dekalatos’ shoulder, Baron Sibelio came around in front of the man. Pallantides started to say something, but the baron turned to him first. “There’s no need to make more of a scene out of this, is there, General?” He pulled his hand from the ambassador’s shoulder. “Thomal will cooperate as long as you respect his station, won’t you, Thomal?”

  Lord Dekalatos stirred himself. “Yes. We of Sarta are not barbarians and butchers, as some would think us. This was unintentional, and I will personally compensate Stafano’s family if need be.”

  He could hardly buy them a new Stafano, thought Nermesa, but from what he had seen of Corinthians’ greed, perhaps money would prove a more-than-adequate substitute for the late ambassador’s “loved ones.”

  “Good man,” remarked Antonus. “General?”

  “Thank you, Baron.” The commander of the Black Dragons waved back the two subordinates who had stepped up to assist him with the Sartan. “If you’ll come with me, my lord?”

  “Of course.” Lord Dekalatos walked alongside Nermesa’s superior as if the two were about to embark on a companionable conversation.

  Nermesa had other men quickly but respectfully remove the body of the late Teban representative. As Lord Stafano was brought away, Baron Sibelio quietly commented, “Not what you were hoping for tonight, was it? I’m sorry, Captain Nermesa.”

  “I should’ve paid more attention. This is my fault.” He glanced in the direction of the king . . . only to find Conan eyeing him in turn.

  The Cimmerian had his goblet to his mouth, but was not drinking. His eyes bored into Nermesa’s own and, in the Aquilonian’s mind, condemned the younger man’s ineptitude.

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” responded Antonus. “I’m sure no one else would.”

  No one but my liege, the heir to Klandes thought, eyes still caught by those of King Conan.

  The rest of the guests all stood silent, expectant. Conan abruptly tore his gaze from Nermesa and glanced around at the gathered guests. Without warning, he smiled broadly to them and at last drank.

  The crowd suddenly became animated again. It was as if the fight between the Corinthians and the subsequent death of one had never occurred.

  But as he excused himself from Baron Sibelio and once more took up his position, Nermesa knew that the repercussions of the terrible incident would play out for some time to come.

  And he would certainly be at their center.

  2

  NERMESA WAS NOT summoned to answer for his failure the next day nor the day after that. In fact, General Pallantides acted as if all were well between them and that he was not deeply disappointed in the young officer’s abilities and conduct.

  Somehow, that only made Nermesa feel more concerned. When his punishment did come, he expected it to be more severe, even possibly dismissal from the Black Dragons. The heir to Klandes was not certain he could live with such shame. More important, he was not certain that his parents, especially his father—who had served in the military with distinction and honor—could either.

  That made it all the more difficult to meet with them this day.

  The banner of his House hung high above as Nermesa reached the walled gates. Upon the banner’s golden field reared a red lion with twin swords—also red—crossed over the beast. When Conan had seized the crown from the despot Namedides and placed his own lion on its black field on the flags over the palace, Bolontes had actually considered changing the generations-old emblem of his clan simply so no one would think it linked at all to this upstart usurper. Fortunately, he had never followed through, and in the time since his son had willingly gone to serve the Cimmerian, the elder Klandes had mellowed to the point of respecting his king.

  Nermesa prayed for some of that calm as he handed a servant the reins of his horse. He trotted up the marble steps and past the fluted columns, where a House guard saluted him and opened the doors for him.

  In the wide, marbled corridor within, his mother, Callista, met him. A tall, handsome woman with a slight hint of gray in her bound, brown hair and clad in a favored alabaster gown, she hugged her son tightly.

  “How are you, Nermesa? Have they rectified that frightful problem with the Corinthians? Has Pallantides said anything about it to you?”

  “Nothing yet, Mother.” He peered past her at a doorway farther down. “Is Father in the great room?”

  “Yes, he had much work to do. Things are not all well with our holdings.”

  It was what Nermesa feared. “I can’t stay long. I’d better go talk with him immediately,
then.”

  “Try to keep him calm,” his mother pleaded, kissing him on the cheek. “It’s always wonderful to see you.”

  Nermesa marched up to the doors to his father’s study, where a servant stood at attention. “Don’t bother to announce me. I’m sure he knows that I’m here.”

  “Yes, Master Nermesa . . .” The balding man opened the way.

  The great room was not only where Bolontes, head of House Klandes, did his work, but also something of a shrine to the clan’s lengthy history. Each wall paid tribute to its past patriarchs and members of note. Lifelike, painted busts of Nermesa’s grandfather, great-grandfather, and many others sat proudly atop marble stands. To the right, the captain noticed the bust of his father’s eldest brother, whose death had forced Bolontes to take on the reins of the House. The family resemblance was there in both brothers, as it was in Nermesa. The eyes, the well-angled nose, the proud patrician features, almost unchanged despite the centuries. Both men were over six feet, tall even for many of their race; but Bolontes was yet another two inches more than his son, ever making Nermesa feel like a child.

  The elder Klandes had risen at the entrance of his only child. He gave Nermesa a nod and a quick survey. “The armor of the Black Dragons suits you well.” He eyed the plumed, visored helm in his son’s arm, the sleek, black breastplate with the small but savage dragon embossed on the center. Nermesa was armored from head to toe as if ready to do battle—which, as one of the king’s elite, he had to be. At the slightest call of the horns from the towers of the palace, the younger Klandes had to race back to defend his lord. “As I thought it would.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Bolontes had never much been one for physical greetings, but since his son’s near death fighting the witch Khati’s Picts and bandits, that had changed. Clad in his white tunic and red, gold-lined cloak, he came around and strongly hugged his son. “Good to see you.”

  “I told Mother that I can’t stay long. I’m certain that the general will be asking for me. There was some hint earlier.”

  “And you think it has to do with what happened at the gathering.” The gray-haired Bolontes frowned. “A grim business, that, and naturally convoluted, dealing with ambassadors, of course.”

  “Yes. But no one will speak against the Sartan, especially the other Corinthians,” Nermesa explained. “I suspect that Lord Dekalatos will be sent home, reprimanded, then returned here as if nothing happened.”

  His father snorted. “And some wonder why I never sought to enter the political arena. Running Klandes is battle enough.”

  Nermesa eyed the documents on the huge oak table that served as the elder Klandes’ desk. More than one quill lay discarded on the side and a second bottle of ink sat un-stoppered, clear evidence of the long day’s work. “You asked me here to discuss our business and to sign some agreements?”

  “Yes, as my heir, you already have a say in several of our ventures, and to have both our marks on the documents will guarantee our word even more.”

  The son’s brow arched. “Your mark isn’t enough for some?”

  “Of late, no.” Bolontes guided Nermesa around the desk, then reached for one of the parchments. Nermesa immediately saw that it was a new agreement between his House and their partners in the granaries. He read it over quickly, his eyes narrowing at the changes. “Concessions? We’ve less control over the granaries than in all previous agreements.”

  “It’s a unified demand . . . or they make a new agreement with House Sibelio.”

  “Sibelio . . .”

  “The good baron’s everywhere we are, Nermesa, undercutting our prices, offering incentives . . . it’s a wonder the man is making any profit at all, but, by Mitra, he seems to be.”

  “He has contacts in Ophir, Nemedia, Brythunia, and as far away as Kush, as I understand it, Father.” Nermesa rubbed his chin. “He was very helpful and considerate during the chaos at the gathering. He’s always so.” The captain gritted his teeth. “No, not always. Not when Orena’s with him . . .”

  Bolontes made a face. “A woman scorned, my son. I won’t ask you again why you broke off with her, but I do admit I wish it had been otherwise.”

  Trying to stifle his growing anger, Nermesa pretended to reread the agreement. Orena had planned this well, as she always had everything. His leaving her had been the first time she had been caught off guard, and she was determined to make him pay. He had originally assumed that she had married the ambitious baron both to spite him and gain more prestige, but Nermesa had realized too late that Orena had intended to use her husband’s influence and wealth to seek revenge. Face-to-face, Antonus had never treated his rival with anything other than respect and friendliness, but to placate his bride he intended to ruin the entire Klandes family.

  “It has to stop,” muttered Nermesa.

  “What’s that?”

  The son steeled himself. “I’ll talk to Orena. I’ll settle this with her.”

  “Maybe you can use Telaria as a mediator,” suggested Bolontes, studying Nermesa. “Unlike her sister, she still seems to have quite a fondness for you.”

  “I’d rather not include her in this. This is between Orena and me.”

  His father said no more about it, but Nermesa could not help suspect that Bolontes knew the truth. The breaking point between him and his betrothed had been when he had discovered her beating her younger sibling. That was also the reason that Nermesa had pushed for the queen to take Telaria Lenaro on as a lady-in-waiting.

  The situation with Orena could wait for the moment, though. Despite his determination to end their feud, the officer knew that he had to sign the papers his father presented him. Any delay to do so would further endanger the dealings of House Klandes.

  Dipping one of the unbroken quills in ink, Nermesa signed under the seal of the House as his father had done. Like the senior Klandes, he was left-handed, unusual in Aquilonia.

  “These also,” Bolontes said, handing him two other parchments. They were of a similar nature to the first.

  Nermesa set down the quill. “I’ll speak with Orena as soon as possible.”

  “I doubt that she will even see you, my son.”

  Nermesa considered. “If I talk to the baron separately first, he might arrange a meeting with her.” He cursed himself for not having known of these most recent matters before having run into the baron at the gathering. Antonus had given no sign of his latest dealings, and even Morannus had hinted nothing. But then, Orena had a way of readily controlling most men. “I think he’ll do it.”

  Not looking quite convinced, Bolontes nonetheless remarked, “Perhaps undercutting us so much is hurting him more than I imagine. See what you can do.” He stacked the documents. “How fares the trading agreement the Cimmerians negotiated? Will it stand after the Corinthian trouble?”

  “It should. Ophir, Nemedia, and Brythunia have expressed no reservations, and the last I heard from General Pallantides, Lord Dekalatos insisted that what happened would not change the decision he made in the name of his king. No matter their hatred for Sarta, I believe most of the other city-states will fall into line. To do otherwise would be to provoke war between them.”

  “Let us pray to Mitra that they keep sensible. That agreement opens many new vistas for us, Nermesa. Klandes would profit well by its adoption.”

  Nermesa patted his father on the shoulder. “All will go well. You’ll see! All will go well . . .”

  IT PROVED TO be the worst prediction Nermesa had ever made.

  The trading agreement began to unravel but two days later. It came not, as the captain would have supposed, from the incident between Sarta and Tebes, but rather from the southeast, between Ophir and Koth. Accusations flowed from the latter that their caravans, which had to depart from the city of Khorshemish, were being waylaid south of the Karpash Mountains before being able to enter Aquilonia. Blood between the two realms had long been bad. Koth’s previous king, Strabonus, had perished after he and Ophir’s ruler,
Almarus, had both attacked Conan’s realm. Koth’s current lord, Strabonus’ nephew, Gorald, believed that his uncle had been betrayed by the Ophirians despite the fact that Almarus had also been slain. The missing caravans had merely brought the matter to a head.

  And as the ambassadors of both kingdoms flung accusations at one another, Brythunia declared that it, too, had lost caravans, these traveling through Nemedia and Corinthia. With a barely concealed sneer, Zoran suggested that it was odd that nearly everyone else had lost good numbers of men and merchandise and that Aquilonia should consider itself very fortunate not to have had much in the way of such troubles. The fact that he had said so in the presence of King Conan made it all the more remarkable that he still lived, for the Cimmerian was known to be very proud of his reputation for honor.

  Over the following month, the king and his trusted advisors sought any way they could to keep the trade agreement alive. In the end, though, it was Baron Sibelio of all people who managed to at least keep the parties from withdrawing, even if actually accepting the proposal now appeared questionable.

  Nermesa had no chance to speak with the baron, for the very day after the captain visited his father, Pallantides assigned him to oversee the patrols. This meant that Nermesa spent much of his time beyond the gates of the palace making certain that order was kept in the near vicinity. It was not enough for the Black Dragons to defend their monarch should someone breach the palace; the general preferred that any assassins not even make it over the outer walls.

  It did not take long for Nermesa to ascertain that all was in order, but his duties insisted that he constantly recheck each post. On the trek from one to the next, he himself studied every person and building around him as if all might be of a suspicious nature. Having failed King Conan and Pallantides once, Nermesa would not do so again. He saw this task as a chance to redeem himself in their eyes.

  It was no simple task, either. Around him swarmed people from a dozen lands and more. Tarantia was the pinnacle of civilization. Here pilgrims came to learn and to marvel, scholars came to debate, and merchants came to buy and sell. The capital of Aquilonia was surrounded by a great stone wall with battlements and four gateways allowing entrance from the vast, surrounding plains. Originally known as Tamar—and still called so by some of the most elderly—it was a place dominated by tall marble towers, many of them painted in the traditional blue and gold. The majority of buildings, whether towers or not, had entrances flanked by high, fluted columns and great bronze doors. Over those entrances hung brilliant carved reliefs of heroes and mythic beasts.