“We thought you surely dead in the alleys of Tebes.” The Gunderman looked him up and down as if uncertain whether or not that belief still held some merit. “The baron insisted on making the city guard search high and low for you. He felt personally responsible.”
“He shouldn’t. It was my own choice . . . but I fell afoul of something.”
Betavio took the limited explanation accordingly. He gestured to the other riders, who still had their hands on their weapons. “Stand down. The baron will want to see this man.” To Nermesa, Antonus’ bodyguard said, “Please ride beside me, my lord.”
As Betavio led them back, Nermesa’s chest swelled with hope. Antonus would be very interested in what he had discovered concerning one of the baron’s own caravan masters. More important, the other noble would surely help Nermesa get word back to Tarantia as soon as possible.
Ignoring the glances of several of the drivers and guards, Betavio guided Nermesa in among the wagons in search of Baron Sibelio. Nermesa spotted Antonus first, the baron riding astride a white charger. Antonus conversed with another man whom the knight did not recognize and assumed was the caravan master.
The baron’s companion, a broad-nosed, muscular figure with long black hair and clad in the blue-and-ebony garments of House Sibelio, noticed him first. He muttered something to Antonus, who immediately turned Nermesa’s way and smiled.
“Praise Mitra! Nermesa Klandes!” The baron urged his mount toward the knight, reaching out one hand as he did. He clasped Nermesa’s outstretched one, then, when close enough, patted Bolontes’ son on the back. “Alive and well! Truly a miracle! Truly!”
“It’s good to see you, Antonus . . .”
“I’ll double that! When you didn’t return to my villa, I feared the worst! I should’ve insisted that you take Betavio with you. Things would have worked out as they should have, then.”
Nermesa leaned close so that only his host could hear him. “I need to speak with you privately as soon as possible, Antonus. It is very vital.”
“Oh?” Keeping his expression cheerful, the other noble replied, “It will have to wait until we make camp. I’ve too many things to attend to right now. Will that be all right?”
Nermesa considered. Night was only about four hours away. His news could surely wait that long. Antonus’ caravan seemed under the baron’s capable guidance. No bandits could be operating here. Antonus would know it quickly, and Betavio would deal with it even quicker.
“Yes, it can wait.” A thought occurred to him. “Just answer me this. Do you have a messenger bird with you?”
“Of course.”
Nermesa nodded. If the baron sent off a bird this evening with a note from the knight, it would surely reach Tarantia sometime tomorrow. That would be soon enough at this point.
Turning to Betavio, Antonus commanded, “Give him food, water, and whatever else he needs. Treat him well, Betavio.”
“Yes, my lord.”
With an apologetic nod, the noble returned to his other companion. Betavio gestured for Nermesa to follow him.
The other Gundermen returned to various positions along the column as Betavio led his charge to what was apparently Baron Sibelio’s wagon. It was large and more refined in appearance than the rest and had elegantly carved wooded shutters, with the attacking crane symbol of the House cut deep into each. Banners with the full House insignia hung from each corner of the roof. A team of white horses—each looking meticulously groomed despite the long trek already taken from Tebes—pulled it. The driver, another Gunderman, nodded to Betavio, then kept his eyes on the trail ahead.
Nermesa glanced at his guide. “I wasn’t aware that so many of your people served the baron.”
“The baron took them on with my recommendation.”
Nermesa could certainly understand wanting to have more such fighters. After all, everyone knew that a Gunderman could be trusted to do his duty.
From the back of the wagon, Betavio secured a flask of wine, some bread, and dried, salted meat. Compared to what Nermesa had eaten over the past few days, the simple fare seemed more like a banquet. The dried meat especially did not taste at all like that to which he was accustomed. That Nermesa had to eat while riding did not bother him, either, for at last he felt as if home was just over the horizon.
The Gunderman left him with the request that the knight remain near his master’s wagon. Not wanting to do anything accidentally to slow the caravan or irritate Antonus, Nermesa immediately acquiesced. He satisfied himself with organizing his thoughts in preparation for his conversation that evening with the baron. The other noble would have many questions, and it would only behoove Nermesa to be able to answer them as succinctly as possible.
It would be difficult enough for Antonus to accept that some of his trusted men were the very brigands threatening his and others’ caravans.
THEY MADE CAMP roughly two days from Corialan—the last bit of information according to the driver of the baron’s wagon. After seeing to his own animal, Nermesa helped with the wagon’s horses. While it was not necessary for someone of his station to do so, it kept him from growing impatient. Now that it was nearly time to meet with Antonus, the knight’s patience had begun to fray. The baron had to be convinced to send off the bird as soon as possible.
Antonus came for him almost two hours after the caravan made camp. In that time, servants of the baron had set up a large tent in the center of the circle of wagons, Nermesa noticed that the fires of the other members of the caravan were set at a safe distance from Antonus’ quarters and that the tent itself was surrounded by a ring of fierce-looking Gundermen.
“One can never be too careful,” the baron remarked as they entered. “I’ve grown powerful enough to have earned my rightful share of enemies.”
The floor of the tent was covered with colorful cloth sheets over which were draped rich, silken ones. In lieu of a bed, Antonus had long, flat pillows, atop which fat, round ones stood. Squat, brass oil lamps on chains hung from the ceiling, and a small wooden table with an ivory top stood in the center. Sniffing, Nermesa noted some flowery incense, well needed after a long day on the dirty road.
The Baron Sibelio indicated the table. “Please, sit there. Before we talk, we eat. I insist.”
Nermesa gave in, taking up a place by the table. His host sat across from him. They did not use chairs, instead sitting cross-legged on the sheets.
“Wine first, I think.” Antonus clapped his hands and a young, female servant slipped inside. In her dainty hands, she carried a golden tray with two matching chalices and a wine decanter.
As she poured lush, red wine for each of them, Nermesa could not help notice her beauty. She was slim but still curved and with black—utterly black—hair and deep emerald eyes. Clad in a gossamer gown that surely could not be the clothing in which she traveled during the day, the girl was as enticing as the women of Karphur. She gave the Black Dragon a coy smile before retreating from the tent.
“She seems to like you . . .” Antonus remarked wryly. “If you are interested, I believe that she would be willing . . .”
“Thank you, no.”
The baron suddenly frowned, as if he himself had caused some offense. “Of course. Damned of me to suggest such. Telaria . . .”
Before he could stop himself, Nermesa straightened at mention of her name. Fortunately, Antonus chose then to take a sip of his wine. When he spoke it was only to say, “Our meal should be ready by now.”
He clapped his hands again, and through the flap of the tent came three more servants. The two men were clad in the livery of the House, while the third, another young woman, was dressed in what Nermesa silently swore was even less than the previous one.
They brought a tray of prepared fruits and vegetables plus what appeared to be fresh, well-cooked goat. As one of the men sliced off a portion and put it on a golden plate for Nermesa, the knight could not help but look at his host in some surprise.
“We have a small herd of goats wi
th us,” Antonus explained as the servant put another plate of steaming meat in front of him. “They are for my use, although some is always passed on to the drivers and guards.” He smiled and sipped some more wine. “There should be some privileges for success, especially on such journeys.”
Nermesa surveyed the entire scene. “It all looks fit for a king.”
That made his host smile broadly. “Doesn’t it? Now, please . . . my cook is Ophirian, and they are known for their delicacies.”
The goat was remarkably well seasoned and all but melted in Nermesa’s mouth. He did not refuse when offered more, but the spices used demanded he also have additional drink, which was quickly poured. Bolontes’ son never noticed the girl slipping back into the tent, but whenever his chalice was empty, there she was.
Before he knew it, the meal had come to an end. The empty plates and trays vanished as quickly as they had come, and again Nermesa found the servant girl filling his cup. Then, with another coy smile, she departed the tent, leaving her master and his guest alone.
But not for very long. Nermesa suddenly sensed a third presence in the tent and when he looked toward the flap, it was to find standing there the man with whom Antonus had been conversing when first the knight had arrived.
“Caius,” remarked the baron, both greeting the man and simultaneously introducing him to Nermesa. “About time.”
“You said not to come until you were through eating,” Caius answered somewhat gruffly. “So I didn’t.”
Toying with his ring, Antonus frowned. “Mind your manners.”
His simple words seemed to have great effect upon Caius, for the dark man grimaced, then bowed his head. “My apologies.”
“Good enough. Be seated. Captain Nermesa Klandes of the Black Dragons has something very important to tell me, he says.”
Caius’ abrupt appearance did not sit well with the knight. “Antonus, this would be better spoken of alone.”
“You may trust when I say that he will tell no one anything unless I give him permission. Is that not so, Caius?”
“Aye . . . it is so.”
The Baron Sibelio turned once more to Nermesa and as he did, something glittered in the latter’s eyes despite the dimming illumination of the oil lamps. Nermesa belatedly noticed that it was the other noble’s emerald ring.
“Tell us what you know, Nermesa,” urged his host.
Not wishing to offend Antonus by asking him to move or cover up his favored ring, Nermesa looked at Caius for a moment.
“I’ve some clues to what is going on with the attacks on the caravans,” he began. Nermesa tried to meet the other man’s gaze, the better to judge him, but up close Caius’ eyes had a strange unfocused look.
But if his eyes did not seem focused, the black-haired man’s attention certainly was. “You have some idea who is responsible, do you?”
“To some extent.” Bolontes’ son looked again to his host and again the ring offended his eyes. This time, Nermesa refused to be cowed by the glitter. “Antonus . . . some of your own men are involved.”
The baron took this in better stride than Nermesa expected. He stared steely-eyed at the captain, then lowered his chalice to the table. “You are certain of this.”
Nermesa noticed that he did not phrase it as a question. He clearly respected that the knight would not have said such without being absolutely positive.
“Yes.” Nermesa’s head pounded, and he cursed himself for being too willing to drink each time the serving girl refilled his cup. “Some of them I discovered in the city of Karphur. I believe Mikonius Flavius and a senior driver named Antimedes are part. Antimedes is dead, though, at my hand.”
“Antimedes is dead, you say?” rasped Caius with what to Nermesa almost sounded like pleasure.
“He sought my own death and failed.” There was no reason to explain all the details.
“It never pays to underestimate you,” remarked Antonus, toasting him. “I’ve come to know that.”
Nermesa bowed his head in gratitude for the compliment, even if he did not feel he deserved it.
“There is surely more than that, though,” added the third member of their party. Caius had no chalice, and the baron seemed uninclined to call for one for him.
“I believe that Mikonius is part of a network of caravan masters, drivers, and the like, all coordinating information between them on when other merchant columns are on journeys. I think that they know who is the easiest of targets and plan accordingly.”
“That would require communication over a great distance,” pointed out the baron.
“Messenger birds would suffice . . . and there may even be what some would term sorcery involved.”
Antonus’ eyes widened briefly. “Their master must be a man of genius, to have organized such an effort!”
“It’s a very complex situation.” Nermesa stared into the glittering facets of the baron’s ring. Where it had once distracted him, it now helped the knight to focus his thoughts. All his suspicions came to the forefront, organized and ready to be told to his host. “I believe it entails other matters than just thievery.”
“Oh?”
“There must be agents in all the surrounding realms, not merely caravan masters and drivers, but those in stations of power. I suspect that one of those, in fact, is Zoran, ambassador of Nemedia.” Even as he made the revelation, Nermesa suddenly realized that he had said too much. He had not meant to name any names to the baron other than that of Mikonius Flavius and Antimedes. Zoran’s involvement was no business of Antonus’, even if he was familiar with the dignitary.
“The ambassador of Nemedia . . .” Caius shifted his unfocused gaze to Antonus. “Strong accusations.”
“I saw him with a mysterious Corinthian, the same man I followed in the Waste and down into the sewers below Tebes. The same man who is a devil of a sorcerer in disguise, a fiend known as Set-Anubis.”
Antonus lowered his chalice. He turned stone-faced. His eyes shifted from Nermesa to Caius, then back again. “Set-Anubis? Are you certain?”
Nermesa was already biting his lip for having mentioned the sorcerer. He had meant Set-Anubis’ identity only for the ears of the king and General Pallantides. Clearly the wine had gone to his head far more than he had anticipated.
Rather than risk revealing something else he had intended to keep quiet, Nermesa set aside his cup and prepared to rise. “Forgive me, Antonus. I’m not feeling well. Perhaps we can finish this tomorrow evening.”
“But you’ve not told us everything.”
“My apologies, but I must go.”
The baron reached up to take his arm. As he did, his ring flared bright in the knight’s eyes. “You must stay.”
Nermesa’s legs started to fold, but the Black Dragon suddenly caught himself. Politely pulling free of his host’s grip, he stood. “Good night, Antonus.”
“You should not go,” Caius now echoed. The dark man also rose, but for some reason he appeared a thinner than Nermesa recalled him. Caius pointed one narrow finger at the floor. “You will sit.”
Again, Bolontes’ son nearly did. Instead, though, he fought off the desire and started around the table. “Excuse me.”
“Look at me!” rasped Antonus’ man.
Against his own better judgment, Nermesa did. Despite the peculiarity of Caius’ gaze, Nermesa found that it snared his attention.
“Yes, look at me . . .”
Caius’ eyes filled his view. Nermesa felt a darkness begin to envelop him . . .
“No . . .” He shook his head, backing away at the same time. “No . . .” For reasons Nermesa could not explain, he reached for his sword.
And as he did, the man before him grew indistinct. It seemed that two figures stood simultaneously in the same place. One was the much more muscular Caius, while the other was wiry, much older, and clad not in the livery of House Sibelio, but some dark, voluminous cloak.
That figure became dominant. The face of Caius melted into it . . . and the
eyes closed, the lids now sealed with strong fibers.
Centered between the two shut orbs, the crimson gem gleamed evilly.
“You!” Nermesa pulled free his sword. “You!”
But he got no farther. Set-Anubis, a snarl on his cadaverous visage, muttered something. The jewel flared—
Every muscle in Nermesa froze. He strained to cut the sorcerer in twain, but could not lower his arm in order to do so. The knight tried to reach with his free hand for the gaunt spellcaster’s throat, yet, even that was forbidden him. He could breathe, he could see.
He could do nothing else.
“That did not go as planned,” murmured the man behind Set-Anubis. Baron Antonus Sibelio stepped around the sorcerer and peered at Nermesa as if studying an unusual bug. “Not at all as planned.”
“His will is strong, I told you that!” spat the monstrous figure. “Think you that he could have so easily survived my previous efforts?”
“I was beginning to wonder.” Antonus leaned close, coming almost nose to nose with the frozen figure. “Strong, yes, but not quite strong enough.”
“Not all my power is illusion. You know that. He can overcome some of what the Eye of Charon grants me, but not all. He is, after all, only mortal.”
Antonus turned to the sorcerer. As he did, he raised his hand into Nermesa’s sight. The emerald gem gleamed brightly. “And you, as always, should remember that you are, too.”
To Nermesa’s surprise, the terrifying Set-Anubis seemed to shrivel within his hooded cloak.
“I have not forgotten . . .”
“Not forgotten what?”
“Not forgotten . . . my lord.” With this raspy pronouncement, the spellcaster bowed deep, as any servant would to his master.
Smiling, the Baron Sibelio turned back to his captive. He shook his head. “Poor Nermesa Klandes! So intelligent and yet so naive! I commend you on your survival skills, though. You should have died in Tebes, or in Karphur, for that matter. I’d had messenger birds sent from Tebes to those places in which you might appear if you survived the sewer trap. Mikonius can usually be trusted to see a task like that done. Pity that there’s no way to convince you to join with me”—he looked over his shoulder at Set-Anubis—“or is there?”
The Eye of Charon Page 20
