The Sleeping God

by Violette Malan

  Dhulyn eyed the man in the room with the kind of interest she would normally have given only to his books. She had never met Alkoryn Pantherclaw, but she had heard him described by Dorian the Black. Alkoryn had seen his birth moon some fifty times, she estimated, and had been a Mercenary longer than she herself had been alive. It had never been Alkoryn’s ambition to Command a House, but that was before he had taken the blow to the throat that had robbed him of his voice. A man whose orders cannot be heard loses his value as a field officer. Thwarted in his first ambition, Alkoryn had turned his attention to developing quieter skills. Though he was still considered a formidable warrior and tactician, even among a Brotherhood of warriors, Alkoryn Pantherclaw was now more often called the Charter, and, among other things, he was the chief mapmaker for the Brotherhood.

  Alkoryn waited to speak until Dhulyn and Parno had drawn up chairs, and they had all been served with sweet cakes and hot cider mixed with a little ganje.

  “Your arrival is timely, very timely.” The old man’s voice was rough and barely louder than a whisper. “How was Navra when you left it? What of the Pass?”

  As Senior Brother of Imrion, Alkoryn Pantherclaw was, in effect, the Senior Mercenary for the whole Peninsula-should his authority ever be required by one of his Brothers. As such, he had a responsibility to collect any information that might touch upon his charge. He listened patiently while his junior Brothers told him of the dredging being planned in Navra’s harbor, the new salt mine, and the expansion of the evaporation ponds. He heard with some amusement their story of what had happened to them in Clan Trevel.

  “So Yaro Hawkwing prospers,” the old man croaked. “I rejoice to hear it. Do we now have allies among Clan Trevel?”

  “We might,” Dhulyn said. She glanced at Parno in time to see him nodding. “Perhaps if we sent them some acknowledgment…”

  “I’ll think what form it could take. I have my contacts with Clan Pompano, but we may have need of all the Clouds if what I think is coming comes,” Alkoryn said dryly. He took up the ceramic jug of cooling cider and refilled the cups. Dhulyn saw that two knuckles of his left hand were swollen, but whether from old breaking or from arthritis she could not tell. “You came as bodyguards?” he continued as he set down the jug.

  Parno exchanged glances with Dhulyn. She gave him a slight nod. “Not merely bodyguards, Alkoryn my Brother,” he began. He paused and took a sip from his cup. Dhulyn suppressed a smile. The way he was drawing out the moment, Parno should have been an actor, she thought, as her Partner blotted his lips carefully with the square of linen provided. “We have come to Gotterang as the guides and bodyguards of a Lady orphan of House Tenebro, no less. Any reason for such an exalted House to be gathering up their lesser kin?”

  Alkoryn’s lips formed a silent whistle and his eyes narrowed. “She’s not the first, and that’s a fact,” he said. “My bones tell me this may be part of what I see coming,” he said. “Though I don’t know how.” He sat back, leaning his right elbow on the arm of his chair. “The Tenebroso is an old woman and gossip says she’s failing. The Kir, Lok-iKol, is a forward-looking man, and may very well be thinking to reestablish the Tenebro claim on lost lands. But that in itself is no reason to bring the girl here.”

  “Mar-eMar feels there’s a wedding in the wind, and it’s true she has letters she hasn’t shown us,” Dhulyn said.

  “She’s not advantageous enough a match for the Kir himself,” Alkoryn said, taking a sip of his cider and returning the glass to the table. “Though there’s a cousin in the House, Dal-eDal, from an Imrion Household, not a Holding as is this Mar-eMar. A marriage there would be a way to increase the young man’s property without losing anything of value to the main branch. House Tenebro has had bad luck enough in the last twenty years or so; Lok-iKol has no cousins of his own generation left, they say, though there are some few of their children about, like this Mar of yours, and Dal-eDal himself, for that matter.” He glanced at his younger Brothers. “With things the way they are at present, it’s no bad idea for those in the Houses to put their hands on all their kin.”

  “The way things are at present?” said Parno. “Like these new regulations governing who may ride? This has some connection with the doings of House Tenebro?” Something in his voice made Dhulyn glance at him. Was he a little paler than before? What had there been in Alkoryn’s remarks to give Parno that stricken look?

  “Perhaps only in the mind of an old Brother, but I’ve seen too much to be easy with the changes of the last few years-still less with those of the last few months.” Alkoryn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The riding law is just the latest, and unpopular as it is, it helps more than it hinders. There’s always trouble in a city,” he said. “The bigger the city, the more trouble. You’d think that people weren’t meant to live together in such quantities, but there, that’s a subject for another time.”

  Dhulyn exchanged a look with Parno as the older man pushed his white hair back from his face with both hands.

  “It would be hard to pinpoint exactly when things began to go badly, or why it began, for that matter, but the normal incidents one expects in city life have grown more frequent, and more disturbing. More knifings and fewer fistfights, if you follow me. Associations and clubs are becoming gangs, and it’s not unusual now for a quarrel between two merchants to turn into a full-blown riot in a matter of minutes, or for groups to be set upon in the streets.”

  Parno searched the tabletop for a moment before finding a relatively empty spot to set his glass down.

  “You could see something was off-center,” he said, “Even walking here.” He glanced at Dhulyn. “It’s been a few years since either of us were in Gotterang-before we Partnered-but there’s a bad feeling in the streets. I can’t put my finger on it-”

  “Not enough children,” Dhulyn said, and lifted her blood-red brows as both men looked at her. “None playing games in the streets, anyway, and the people who were out, looking at each other sideways.”

  Alkoryn nodded again. “You can see the tension now, those of us who know what to look for. The City Guards are always on the alert, and they’ve taken to traveling in groups of five, instead of the usual pairs. The order restricting riding gives the Watch greater mobility, and lessens the chances of troublemakers getting away, but honest people feel it’s too severe.”

  “Can’t make the nobles walk, I suppose,” Parno said.

  “That would make them more trouble, not less,” Dhulyn said, her eyes round and innocent in her scarred face. Both men smiled.

  “There was a riot in the Calzos district two months ago, and the City Guards were overwhelmed. The Tarkin sent the Guard from the Carnelian Dome and the crowd dispersed. There were delegations to the Tarkin after that and things looked to be getting better, but every time the violence dies down for a few days, something happens that starts it up again. Things are now at the point that only the presence of the Carnelian Guard will convince people to disperse.”

  “Let me guess,” Parno said. “Something to do with the Marked or with these New Believers we’ve heard about.”

  “What haven’t you told me?”

  Parno looked at Dhulyn, and she nodded. “There was a fire in Navra,” she said. Alkoryn Pantherclaw’s face grew grimmer and grimmer as she told the story, and he was silent a long while when she finished.

  “I did not realize it had spread so far. There have been fires here as well and, I think, worse things. Nor is there doubt in anyone’s mind that the new sect of the Jaldeans are behind it,” Alkoryn said. “But proving it’s a different matter. Even those who don’t follow the Sleeping God are being turned against the Marked, being told that they profit from the misfortunes of others.”

  “Well, so do we if it comes to that,” Parno pointed out.

  “Yes,” Dhulyn said. “But we risk our lives doing it; that may keep us safe a while longer.”

  “Oh, in public and during the day the New Believers preach tolerance and understa
nding, pleading with the Marked to come to their shrines for guidance and cleansing.” The old man shook his head. “I see from your faces you’ve been told what this cleansing means.”

  “All this turmoil, at least, should mean we’ll find plenty of work, once we’ve delivered our charge.”

  “Don’t count your money yet,” Alkoryn said. “There’s been no new hiring of Mercenary Brothers for weeks, and some long in guard service have been let go.”

  “All these problems, the City Guard confounded, and no work for Mercenaries?”

  “Nothing overt has been either said or done,” Alkoryn said. “But again, this is nothing new in our history. There are changes coming, with these New Believers, and it won’t be the first time that as a Brotherhood we ride them out, rather than fight them out.”

  “And the Marked?”

  “We’ve a little something in hand for them, never fear. When you’ve finished with the Tenebro girl, I will have an assignment for you myself. But tell me, you heard nothing of this in the West?”

  “Not in the court of the Great King,” Dhulyn said. “There are Marked there, of course, but very few, and well-respected.”

  “As bad as it is here in Imrion, this whole eastern end of the world is like kindling awaiting the match. Kondria has warned the Tarkin that if there are any further attacks on the Marked, it will withdraw its embassy.”

  “That means war.”

  Dhulyn shot a glance at Parno. Was there worry in his voice?

  “And if Kondria is drawn into a religious war with Imrion, their allies will follow,” Alkoryn said. The look he gave them was grave. “The Tarkin, and his hold on Imrion, is all that keeps the east from bursting into flame.”

  “If the east is burning, it may attract the attention of the Great King,” Dhulyn said. “And bring the rest of the world into the conflict.” She frowned down at the table, tracing her finger along a shoreline drawn in deep sea green. She froze.

  FIRES

  She’d Seen fires consuming shores, mountains, and rivers.

  “With things so uncertain, perhaps you should consider moving your maps,” she said. Parno looked at her, eyebrows raised in inquiry, but she moved her head minutely, side to side.

  “What Dorian has said of you is true,” Alkoryn said after a short silence. “Your intuition is superb. It is, indeed, part of my plan to move these records to a safer spot.”

  “I would start moving them now,” Dhulyn said, gesturing around her. “I think you are so used to them, my Brother, that you don’t realize how much packing all this will take.”

  “You may be right.”

  “In the meantime, since Imrion is not yet at war, we’ll take the little Dove to Tenebro House…” Dhulyn let the words fade away as Alkoryn held up his hand.

  “The day’s well advanced. Wait until morning and take no chances. And in the meantime, I have something here that may be of use, though it cannot leave this room.” He twisted in his seat and reached over the low back of his chair. Dhulyn automatically noted that the old man was still limber enough to perform such an action. After a moment’s hesitation he selected a bundle of thin parchments rolled together and tied with a wide blue ribbon. This he untied and spread the curling papers, turning brown around the outer edges, flat on the map that covered the table. Parno passed over several stone weights from his side of the table.

  Floor plans, Dhulyn realized. Layer after intricate layer of floor plans.

  “Incredible,” Parno murmured, pulling one sheet closer to his side of the table. The house was a maze. Halls that went nowhere, others that simply turned back on themselves, forcing the uninitiated to travel in circles, fake walls, secret passages, more stairwells than normally appear in a handful of buildings.

  “Built in the time of Jorelau Tarkin,” Alkoryn said. “And reflecting the paranoia of that day.”

  Dhulyn tapped the corner of one sheet, where the mark of House Tenebro was clearly drawn.

  “How is this possible?” she said, smiling her wolf’s smile.

  Alkoryn shrugged. “Over the years many Brothers have served as guards and instructors in Tenebro House. We have three there now, as it happens. For that reason, I will ask you to exercise the greatest care while you are on their premises.”

  Dhulyn nodded, her eyes still on the plans. Mercenary Brothers might find themselves on opposite sides on a battlefield, but anywhere else they took care of one another.

  She looked up from the drawings. “Is the old Bootmaker’s Inn still in business?”

  Alkoryn nodded. “You might as well leave your horses here, however. You won’t be riding them, and it will save you their board.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all we have to worry about,” Parno said, still studying the floor plans of Tenebro House.

  Six

  “DO I HAVE TO RIDE?” Mar asked from her seat on the windowsill. The Bootmaker’s Inn had been almost full, and they had ended up all sleeping in the same room, though not, this time, in the same bed.

  Wolfshead looked up from lacing the cuff of her leggings. “Of course not, if you don’t wish it,” was all she said.

  “Then I don’t wish it,” Mar said.

  Wolfshead nodded, straightened to her feet, plucked her sheathed sword off the bed, and hung it on her belt harness. “Not that comfortable riding yesterday?” she asked.

  Mar shrugged. “Maybe if I’d been dressed differently. I kept thinking people were looking at me and wondering what a girl dressed in a shop clerk’s worn-out clothing was doing on a horse.” She looked up to find the Wolfshead watching her, head tilted to one side.

  “You’re not the Weaver’s girl anymore, that’s certain. But remember that nobility can insulate as well as expose.”

  Mar looked down, nodding. She knew what the Wolfshead said was true. But, like so many things lately, it didn’t make her feel any better.

  “Come,” Wolfshead said, her voice soft and kind. “There’s no harm in being a weaver’s girl for a little while longer.”

  Lionsmane turned from gossiping with the innkeeper just as Mar entered the yard with Wolfshead.

  “All ready, then?” he said, turning toward them with a smile.

  The innkeeper shook his head, grinning. “If I’d known you had a cousin of the Tenebros with you, I’d have charged you more for your room.”

  “Why do you think we didn’t tell you?”

  The man was still chuckling when Mar followed Lionsmane through the inn’s gated entrance out into a wide city street. The Wolfshead, for once, was bringing up the rear, with Mar safely tucked between them.

  “It’s a long walk, as walking goes, from this quarter to Tenebro House. You’re sure you don’t want us to get you a horse?” Lionsmane looked back at her over his left shoulder.

  Mar shook her head. “I’d rather walk,” she said. “I’d like to see something of the city.” They wouldn’t push her, she knew. They would realize that she was making delays out of nervousness. The Lionsmane was humming and whistling as if there was something about cities that brought out a spirit of fun in him.

  As they walked, the narrow street crossed others and widened into squares every now and then, some with public fountains and others with neighborhood ovens. The business of the day had already started for many of the people, and setting aside the difference that sheer numbers meant, Mar saw much that was familiar to her. Shops, homes, and taverns being swept out, stalls being set up in the squares, and merchants laying out their wares. These were not like the large farmers’ market she’d known in Navra, but neighborhood places, where people came to do their marketing every day.

  “Oh, look,” Mar said, as she turned aside to watch two women pulling strands of ever thinner dough from hand to hand, doubling and twisting the strands until they were almost as fine as hairs before hanging them to dry on racks made of thin wooden dowels.

  “Noodle makers,” Lionsmane said, stopping beside her. “Much more popular than rice or potatoes here. They say you e
ventually get tired of eating noodles, but it’s never happened to me.”

  After a while the streets got wider, the market squares larger and noisier, and Mar began to wish for a horse after all. Lionsmane and Wolfshead moved through the crowd as if they were alone on the trail. Light glinted off the little beads and bits of metal woven into Wolfshead’s narrow blood-red braids. Mar glanced ahead at Lionsmane. They both seemed so relaxed, striding along bareheaded and empty-handed. Both had put away their traveling leathers and were dressed once more as Mar had seen them when they had first met. Both in loose-fitting trousers tucked into half boots, the Lionsmane in a light brown tunic embroidered with gold threads that caught and reflected the gold in his hair, the Wolfshead in her quilted vest, bright with beading and ribbons, her arms bare, her skin white in the chill morning air. For the most part the two Brothers smiled as they spoke to each other and to Mar, pointing out here a spotted horse like Wolfshead’s Bloodbone, there a seller of spiced rolls that Lionsmane insisted on buying, and pausing at one point to watch a group of children play a skipping game. But Mar noticed that the Wolfshead in particular scanned the people around them, as though she were looking for something or someone in particular, not just checking for possible danger. Mar followed one especially narrow glance at a redheaded man before she realized what it was the Wolfshead looked for.

  Red Horsemen, Mar thought. She’s looking for other Red Horsemen.

  The streets became more crowded as businesses opened and serious marketing began. Still, Mar noticed that people seemed to clear a path for the Mercenaries without being aware of it.