The Sleeping God

by Violette Malan

  “Yes,” he said more quietly still. “But that was later.” Mar glanced at him again, lowering her eyes quickly when he held her gaze.

  “That’s not all that’s frightened you, is it?”

  “I didn’t know if you were paid enough.” Mar cleared her throat. “I thought you might let them take me.”

  “Fine bodyguards we would be,” Lionsmane said softly, “to let that happen. You needn’t worry about that.” He indicated his Partner with a tilt of his head. “Dhulyn might kill you herself, but she wouldn’t allow you to be taken and sold.”

  “She might kill me?” Mar rounded on him, twisting in the saddle. Was he joking?

  He shrugged. “No need to look like that. Anyone might kill you. Dhulyn’s been in slavers’ hands herself. Death is easier, she says. Not necessarily preferable, just easier. She was lucky enough to be taken from a slave ship by pirates when she was eleven, maybe twelve.”

  “Lucky? Taken by pirates is lucky?”

  “Of course lucky. She was first captured at eight, and no one takes an eight-year-old child to be a household slave.”

  “What, then?”

  Lionsmane looked sideways out of narrowed eyes. “A nice respectable family, the Weavers, eh? Did a good business but didn’t travel much?” He shrugged. “Ah well, it’s easier for the rich to indulge such vices. In certain circles, small children are sold as bedslaves.”

  Mar felt her face grow stiff. Lionsmane nodded at her.

  “The pirate who took Dhulyn was the Schooler Dorian the Black. He recognized her as one of the Red Horsemen from the south and put a sword in her hand.” Lionsmane looked ahead once more to where Dhulyn Wolfshead rode, and Mar, released from the focus of his eyes, relaxed. “We are members of the Mercenary Brotherhood. Soldiers and killers by trade. But certain kinds of people we-she and I-will kill for nothing.”

  Mar looked down, concentrating on her clenched hands.

  “Now what?” he said.

  “I’m happy to be free… and safe. But that boy died because of me. Wolfshead killed him so that he would not take my bowl.” She stopped, unable to complete the thought aloud.

  But Parno Lionsmane was nodding. “There’s guilt in being the one who walks away, don’t I know it. You’re wondering whether you should have given him the bowl, and taken your chances with your House. You’re wondering whether your comfort is worth a man’s life,” he said finally. And you’re wondering,” he continued when Mar still did not speak, “what kind of person kills for a piece of pottery, and what kind of person asks someone to do that for her?” He shook his head, his mouth twisting to one side as if he would spit.

  “Listen, little Dove, never think for a moment that Dhulyn did not save your life. He was ready to take you, that hot head boy-to sell or to slave for him, whichever took his fancy. We were past bargaining for the bowl by the time the swords were out.”

  “I tell myself that,” Mar said. “But at the time I thought… I didn’t think…”

  “You didn’t think she would actually have to kill him,” Lionsmane said. “You thought ‘this is real life, it’ll all end before the bloodshed.’ ” He sighed. “Mar-eMar Tenebro,” he said, “you did not kill Clarys of Trevel. His own people lifted no hand to stop him. He was given every chance to avoid his end, and he took none. The Cloud People are hard fighters, none better, but it would take three, maybe four of them to kill Dhulyn Wolfshead, and at that they’d have to trick her. It was Clarys’ own arrogance killed him, more than anything you did, or said. More, even, than anything Dhulyn did or said. No one else blames you,” he added when she did not reply. “And one day you’ll stop blaming yourself.”

  Mar looked down at her clenched hands. Her head told her he was right-but her head had been telling her that for hours, and her heart felt no better for it. She wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing about the bowl-and she wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing about the letters. How much was she willing to trade to regain her noble life?

  From where she rode ahead of Parno and Mar, Dhulyn had no trouble making out their words. She wrinkled her nose. That was the trouble with towns people. The little Dove had known that Dhulyn was a killer, back in the taproom in Navra. But she’d known it without thinking about it. During their journey, Mar had forgotten this thing she never thought about, and Dhulyn had become a kind of knowledgeable older sister, a guide and teacher of the secrets of the trail. More than once, Mar had even called her “Scholar.” That had ended with Clarys’ life. Now, Dhulyn knew, she would always be “Wolfshead.”

  Nothing to be done, she thought, pulling her shoulders straight. Such is the way of things. Dhulyn did not have Parno’s natural warmth, his skill with people. Even when they saw him kill someone, he never entirely stopped being “Chanter.” Parno’s childhood had been spent in a Household-why, he and the Dove were probably related in some distant and complicated way, Dhulyn realized, her heart skipping a beat. Small wonder they were comfortable together. Bloodbone tossed her head and snorted. “Easy,” Dhulyn said, knowing it was her own uneasiness the mare was feeling. Mar was not the only one on her way back to her own family, her own people. Only Dhulyn had no family to return to, and perhaps no people. And if she had? she thought, frowning. If she had?

  They entered Gotterang six days later. Dirty, tired, and bored with each other. The gates stood open, and while the guards were stopping everyone-Dhulyn saw some travelers being turned away-she saw no watching presence dressed in red and brown. She squinted. There was something else she couldn’t see.

  “Parno,” she said, drawing in Bloodbone until she was riding knee-to-knee with her Partner. “What are the odds that in a capital city like Gotterang there should be no Mercenaries among the guards at the gates?”

  “High, but not impossible,” her Partner replied. His eyes took on the faraway look that meant he was calculating. Dhulyn had first seen that look at Arcosa, where Parno had figured the enemy numbers by counting their cook fires. “I’d put us at about one in forty, in terms of Imrion’s soldiers. So, yes, there should be a few Brothers among the City Guard.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Dhulyn said. “Yet I see no Brothers ahead of us.”

  “They could be on another watch, or at another gate.”

  “They could.” But somehow Dhulyn had a feeling they weren’t.

  When they got close enough, Dhulyn examined the arched gates themselves with professional interest. They were two thirds the height of the walls, three man heights at least, and the rounded opening was wide enough for four horsemen to ride through abreast. She would give half a moon’s pay at campaign rates to get a look at the machinery that would shut the gates quickly across so large an opening. Had there been any Brothers among the guards, she might have asked for a viewing, but likely, as this was Gotterang, the Seat of the Tarkin, she would have been refused.

  “Your business here, Mercenaries?” The guardswoman spoke with barely a glance at them.

  “We escort this young lady to Tenebro House,” Parno said.

  “Tenebro House, eh? I don’t suppose you’ll want to tell me what that’s all about?” the woman said, stepping forward.

  “You suppose correctly, my friend,” Parno smiled.

  “Coming from?”

  “Navra.”

  “Navra? Is the Pass open?”

  “For military information, you’ll have to consult our House.”

  “No need to get huffy, man. I was only asking out of curiosity.”

  “It’s open enough for three people on horseback,” Parno said with a shrug. “If that’s of any use to you.”

  “See any Cloud People?”

  “Plenty of clouds, no people.”

  “Some people have all the luck,” the guardswoman shook her head. A tall man in a crested helmet approached, and the woman questioning them drew herself stiffly to attention. “Two Mercenary Brothers, and their charge, to House Tenebro, Captain.”

  “Very well,” the officer said. “
Carry on.” He turned to speak to Parno as the guardswoman began to deal with the people behind them. “Dismount, please.” He waited, but none of them moved. Even Dhulyn would have been just as glad to be on her feet; the last two nights her bed had seemed to sway, and she’d been riding in her dreams. But Mercenaries didn’t get down off their horses for no reason.

  “Except for those on City Guard business, and the Noble Houses, riding is not permitted in the city.” The Guard Captain had the air of someone who was repeating himself for the thousandth time. “You’ll go directly to your House,” the man stated flatly, biting off his words. “They’ll tell you what parts of the city you are free of, and what parts you’ll need business to enter.”

  “My friend, we’re of the Brotherhood,” Parno said. “Since when are we to be treated like thieves and rogues?”

  “I’m not blind, man. And I’m not your friend. If you wish to enter the city, these are the conditions. If not, move away from the gate.”

  “The young lady stays mounted, then,” Dhulyn said as she climbed down from Bloodbone more slowly than necessary. “She is of the Tenebro,” she said to the man’s lifted eyebrow. “Nobles, you said, may ride.”

  The officer nodded brusquely and stepped back. “Your pardon, Lady. Would you like a guard escort? These two must go directly to their House to report themselves. It would save you time.”

  “No, thank you.” Mar spoke quietly, but with some composure. “I am in no hurry.” That almost made Dhulyn smile again. From the look on the little Dove’s face, any delay would be welcomed.

  “Very well, Lady.” The officer turned back to Parno and rattled off the directions to Mercenary House as the Lionsmane listened, gravely nodding as though every Mercenary did not know where every one of their Houses could be found. He gave Mar another sharp nod, almost deep enough to be a bow, and turned his attention back to his guards.

  Parno followed Dhulyn’s example and dismounted, exaggerating his stiffness as much as possible.

  “It used to be they waited for you to make trouble before they decided you were a troublemaker,” he said casually as they strolled through the gate, but loudly enough for the retreating officer to hear. Dhulyn laughed. It would have been out of character not to grumble, however false it may have sounded to their own ears. Dhulyn shifted her shoulders, feeling the knife resting in its harness under her vest. She had the oddest sensation that she was being watched. She turned around, but no one at the gate was following their progress, nor did they seem the focus of anyone’s attention. She stroked Bloodbone’s nose. The horses seemed quite content.

  Still. “Parno,” she said, keeping her voice level and quiet. “Does anything seem odd to you?”

  “Besides these blooded rules, you mean?”

  “I mean something like what seemed odd to you that afternoon in Navra.” At this Parno gave her a sharp, comprehending look, and then frowned, concentrating within, rather than without.

  “Nothing,” he said finally. “You? Any green-eyed priests?”

  She shrugged. “No green eyes at all. Not now at any rate.”

  “Careful it is, then,” he said.

  Wolfshead and Lionsmane had been in the city before, but nothing they had told her prepared Mar for the sounds, colors, faces, and-above all-smells that assaulted her senses as soon as they exited the cold stone tunnel that passed through the thick walls into the cleared space on the inner side of the city gates. At first she was glad to be left on her old friend the packhorse, relieved to be out of the crowd that jostled even the walking Mercenaries and their led horses. Relieved until she noticed how many glances were directed at her. Most of the looks showed simple curiosity, but some she had seen before on the faces of other town girls when they saw how well dressed the Weaver’s children were.

  “Can’t I walk, too,” she finally whispered to the Wolfshead, who was nearest.

  “Best not,” the Mercenary answered in the whisper Mar had heard her use so often on the trail. “Dismounting would draw even more notice. Rest easy, we’re not so far from our House.”

  Mar was more relieved than she could say when they finally rode up a crooked street, past a large archway through which she could see a vast square filled with stalls and kiosks, and finally, through a much smaller arched entrance into the courtyard of Mercenary House. A young woman whose dark brown hair was pulled back off her face with a leather thong, but not yet removed for her Mercenary badge, ran out to take charge of the horses. Lionsmane himself reached up to help Mar down.

  “Make yourself comfortable here,” he said. “This youngster will see you get something to eat and drink.”

  “There’s fresh cider,” the girl offered with a smile, “nice and hot, and almond cakes baked this morning.”

  “There you are, little Dove,” Wolfshead said, rubbing Bloodbone’s nose before handing the bridle to the waiting girl. “Tell the House that Dhulyn Wolfshead and Parno Lionsmane are here.”

  “Can’t I come with you?” Mar clung for a moment to Lionsmane’s sleeve.

  “Sorry, little Dove. None but Brothers may enter further.”

  Another smile, a touch on her shoulder, and Mar found herself alone. She took a deep breath and looked around her, oddly uneasy with the by-now-unfamiliar sensation of being alone.

  The courtyard was as quiet and solitary as she’d always imagined Scholar Houses would be. No clattering groups of armed Brothers, no one practicing Shora, no horses, dogs, or chickens. Not even any raised voices from within, as there would have been at the Weavers’ home. Scattered through the courtyard were grapevines growing out of old ceramic urns, chipped and discolored with time. Spring was far advanced in Gotterang, and Mar could see the new growth of leaves along the tough old wood stems. Someone had strung cords across the courtyard high enough that they would be well above the head of even someone on horseback. When the heat of full summer struck here, the courtyard would be roofed in with cool greenery.

  It was hard to imagine that this small garden oasis existed in the middle of Gotterang’s stone. It was harder still to imagine that any harm could come to those who lived here and used this garden.

  “Are you the one come with the Brothers?”

  Startled, Mar almost slipped on the cobblestones under her feet as she spun around to face the voice.

  “Watch yourself, Lady, best you sit down. Days on horseback don’t make for steady footing, not on these stones.” A small boy, his shock of red hair escaping from a leather thong identical to that of the young woman who’d taken the horses away, stood near her with a tray containing a large cup full of what smelled like the best spiced cider Mar had ever smelled, and a small blue plate of almond cakes covered with a square of linen.

  The boy smiled at her and, blushing, set down the tray on the end of the bench next to the studded door that had swallowed her friends.

  Mar sat down and nudged the plate toward the boy. “I’m Mar,” she said.

  The boy took her gesture for the invitation it was and sat also, helping himself to one of the cakes. “Nikko,” he said. “I’ve been here a month, and they’re sending me to be Schooled as soon as Dorian the Black puts into port, or there’s a Brother heading toward Nerysa Warhammer in the southern mountains, that is. They wouldn’t send me alone. Are you coming to be Schooled?”

  “No,” Mar answered gravely, taking a sip of cider to clear her throat of almond cake. “I’m being taken to my House here in the city.”

  “So it was you that came in with Parno Lionsmane and Dhulyn Wolfshead?”

  “You know them?”

  “Everybody knows them! Dhulyn,” Nikko blushed again as he called his future Brother by her name. “Dhulyn’s a Red Horseman, they say the last of her Clan, the others are all dead, but nothing can kill her, she killed a whole boatload of slavers when she was just a kid like me, and Parno, he freed the kidnapped heir of Bhexyllia and got decorated by the Galan himself and rewarded with a golden sword, which, of course, he gave to our House, because
a real Brother doesn’t use such things.”

  Nikko stopped to take a breath and another bite from his almond cake, and Mar fought to keep herself from smiling.

  “So you want to be just like them when you grow up?”

  “Oh, I’m not waiting until then. Alkoryn, our Senior Brother here, he says you can be a good Mercenary before ever you have a weapon in your hands. Alkoryn says a good Mercenary-” Nikko broke off and sprang to his feet, his previous blush seeming like pallor next to the dark color that now suffused his cheeks.

  “We’re not supposed to talk to strangers,” he said, and ran off before Mar could reassure him that she wasn’t, exactly, a stranger.

  Mar leaned back, smiling, against the warm stone of the courtyard’s inner wall. This was a sunny corner, and she could feel the tension seeping slowly out of her body. It was clear that Nikko had a case of hero worship, but it was also clear that his Brothers Parno and Dhulyn were forces to be reckoned with. Whatever House Tenebro wanted with these two particular Mercenaries, Mar felt sure that two such legends among their kind would prosper. Even if only half of what Nikko believed was true. Even if she didn’t tell them about the letters. Mar closed her eyes. Her head fell back against the warm stone and she slept.

  The office of the Senior Brother of Mercenaries in Gotterang was a small but comfortable room tucked into a corner of the House’s stone outer wall. When the old building had been a noble family’s palace, back before larger houses were built on the more fashionable eastern side of town, this room had been the anteroom to a sleeping chamber. As indeed it still was, Dhulyn reflected, as Alkoryn actually slept in the inner chamber. The office’s interior walls, and its floor, were hard oak, stained dark with time. Its two windows, just wide enough, she noted with a frown, to let a slim man pass through, had been paned with real glass lights, shut now against the cool of the spring morning. The window wells were as deep as the thickness of the wall itself, and obviously built for archers. A large worktable with a single armed chair drawn up to it took up most of the floor space. Matching side chairs with thin cushions on their seats were pushed back against the wall between the arrow-slit windows. An enormous parchment showing the map of the Letanian Peninsula with Imrion in pink was fastened to the table with metal clamps. Stains on the map showed where glasses and plates had been put down on it. Racks, shelves, and pigeonholes around the walls held books, smaller maps, and dozens of scrolls.