The Sleeping God

by Violette Malan

  When they turned once more to the House door, it was to find a plainly but richly dressed woman standing on the bottom step, her House crest sewn into the left shoulder of her overtunic. Karlyn-Tan turned and stepped closer to Mar. “Lady Mar-eMar,” he said. “May I introduce your Steward of Keys?” This was a small woman whose slimness made her appear taller. The skin of her face was smooth and unlined, her hair completely covered by the embroidered headdress that marked her position and status. Dhulyn looked closely at her. Tradition had it, Parno had explained, that the Steward of Keys could never leave the House itself. This lowest doorstep was as close as the woman would ever come to the world outside.

  “Welcome, Mar-eMar,” the woman said. She bowed from the waist. “I am Semlin-Nor, your Steward of Keys.” Her voice was sharply rough, like metal that had been through a fire. “If you will follow me, I will take you to the Tenebroso.”

  Noises in the courtyard had drawn Gundaron the Scholar out of the narrow room he used as his private study to the window built into the wall outside his door. At first he couldn’t follow what was happening three stories below him. A small crowd of idlers were gathering around two, or perhaps three, people in the courtyard. Gundaron recognized Karlyn-Tan standing to one side, but… was it jugglers or actors? It seemed there was some kind of performance. Conjurers? Gundaron leaned out as far as he dared through the window, taking a firm grip on the sill. He’d always loved conjurers, ever since one had come to the farm when he was a child and made all the kittens in the house appear and disappear.

  These two-no, three, that young girl in dusty clothing was definitely with them-were performing that old favorite, pulling improbable things out of their clothing. The slighter of the two conjurers, a red-haired woman-

  Gundaron sucked in his breath, his hand going to cover his mouth. These weren’t conjurers at all, they were Mercenary Brothers; he’d seen the woman’s badge clearly when she twisted to pull something out from between her shoulder blades. A pair of Mercenaries being admitted into the House. One of them a tall, redheaded woman.

  The Red Horseman. It had to be. Dhulyn Wolfshead herself, and much earlier than he would have expected. She and her Partner must be everything their Brother here at Tenebro House had said they were. And she was a Red Horseman; no one could be in any doubt about that. He could see her natural southern pallor from here, and no dye would get hair quite that blood-red color, even if a Mercenary Brother would trouble to dye it. He let his hands fall from his face and dragged in a lungful of air. Finally, a chance to prove his theories. There’d been nothing new added to scholarship on the Marked since Holderon’s day. Nothing until now.

  Gundaron rapidly reviewed the list of questions he would ask her. He was fairly certain the books he needed to refer to were still in the large workroom where he’d first assembled them when he’d learned of Dhulyn Wolfshead’s existence. His methods might be considered a bit unorthodox by the Libraries if they ever came to light, but the benefit to the body of knowledge was incalculable.

  He blinked back to the present moment when he realized that the activity in the courtyard had changed. Karlyn-Tan had taken the hand of the young girl with the Brothers and was presenting her to Semlin-Nor. The girl was standing awkwardly, her hand looking stiff in Karlyn’s grasp, but she was acknowledging Semlin’s bow very bravely, very properly, like a frightened but well-brought-up child.

  A chill threaded its way up Gundaron’s spine. This was the Lady Mar-eMar? She’s just a girl, he thought. Younger than me. He rubbed his mouth with shaking fingers. For some reason, when he’d told Lok-iKol about her, he’d imagined Mar to be an older woman. Unconsciously, he’d thought of her as a stout matron, rather like the cook’s first assistant, the woman who made those delicious pastries. A woman well able to look out for herself. Not this, this child.

  Gundaron the Scholar found himself for the first time in his life hoping he was wrong, that the girl wasn’t a Finder after all. That no Jaldean would become interested in that bright, heart-shaped face and those eyes that showed dark blue even from this distance. His eyes moved to the Mercenary Brothers, and what was clearly a pile of weapons beside them on the flag stones of the courtyard. His plans would remove their protection from the girl. If he called out now-but it was already too late, wasn’t it? The gates were closed, the Brothers disarmed.

  The wheels Gundaron had set in motion those long months ago couldn’t be stopped now.

  When the Steward of Keys turned and pushed open the right-hand House door, it opened inward, just as the plans had indicated. Parno gave Dhulyn a wink and nodded at the space now visible. Behind the doors was a landing only deep enough to allow the doors to swing open, and which gave access to a staircase on either side. If both doors were opened at once, the stairs would be blocked, and those entering would find themselves in a shallow room open to the outside. Only a handful of people-say, three if they were carrying both shields and swords-could enter at a time, and whether or not their business was legitimate, they could go no farther unless they had opened only one door.

  An invading force which could only enter three at a time would be cut to pieces on the stairs.

  Dhulyn glanced back at Parno and nodded, smiling. Like him, she had Alkoryn’s floor plans in her head, and was even more likely to notice a certain paranoid pattern.

  They followed the Steward of Keys up the left staircase. Dhulyn walked immediately behind the woman, with Mar behind her, and Parno serving as rear guard. The hall at the top of the stair was narrow, and they continued to walk along in single file. Parno grinned after they had been led past the third window high up on a wall. From the outside, it would be impossible to tell which of these windows opened onto rooms and which into empty space. When he was a young boy in his Household, he had had a large wooden puzzle that could be put together into four different mazes. Tenebro House was like that puzzle, Parno realized, if you took all the mazes and stacked them, one on top of the other.

  Finally, the halls they walked through widened, and the walls began to be covered by tapestries and paneling. They were shown through several carefully furnished public rooms, one blue with dozens of mirrors, one gold with groupings of armchairs, one dark enough that Parno couldn’t guess its predominant color, until finally the Steward of Keys led them up another narrow stone staircase and into a large chamber made small with furnishings. Its unseen floor was completely covered with rugs and carpets, piled to several thicknesses, and its walls were hung with more rugs and the same kind of embroidered cloths that had appeared in the halls. Parno thought the effect not unlike one of Dhulyn’s vests, only duller. The other parts of the House had been cool, the stone still retaining the cold of winter, as it would until summer truly began, but this room was noticeably hot.

  Even without having seen the maps and floor plans, the Mercenaries would have known that they were now at no great distance from their starting point at the House doors. It was much too easy to get turned around in the heat of battle for any of the Brotherhood to have a poor sense of direction. No very careful observation was actually needed to tell them that they had been escorted around the long way. Each had taken care to look about them as they went, had done their best to imitate Mar’s wide-eyed awe. Their country-cousin act was wasted on Semlin-Nor, who did not even turn her head as she walked ahead of them, but Lionsmane and Wolfshead knew that there would be spyholes in the walls. The age of paranoia is never really over.

  At first, all they could see in the room was a lean, dark-haired man standing with his hand on the back of a large chair. His age was probably half again as much as Parno’s. He was richly dressed in dark blue, his fashionably short surcoat teal and black with an edge of deep red at least two fingers wide. When he turned his head to look at them as they entered, the light showed a well-healed scar on the left side of his face where someone had struck him with a mailed fist and taken out his eye. When that cold blue gaze turned in his direction, Parno shifted his own eyes away.

 
The man might have been considered good-looking before his disfigurement. But maybe not.

  Parno at first thought him the sole occupant of the room, totally out of place amid the dainty padded chairs, the small stands, and the scattered tables with their carved legs. But gradually he realized that the chair over which the one-eyed man hovered protectively had an occupant. An elderly woman with a scroll in her hands sat in it, close to the brazier table whose quilted cover had been thrown back to expose the glowing coals within. The lady was small, thin, and elegantly dressed in stiff brocaded velvet. There was no gray in her golden hair, but her amber-colored eyes were clouded with age. Neither the one-eyed man nor the old woman seemed at all surprised to see them, though the Steward of Keys said nothing before ushering them in. Of course, their roundabout route had allowed someone else to reach this room ahead of them and prepare the way. Parno watched carefully, but he couldn’t see that either of the Tenebros showed any special interest in the Mercenary Brothers.

  “You are Mar-eMar,” the old woman said in a voice low and still vibrant, though faded. “I am Kor-iRok.”

  As if there were any doubt, the mirror reversal of the woman’s name declared her the Tenebroso, the House.

  Without speaking, Mar bowed low to kiss the older woman’s hand, but remained standing. Parno raised an eyebrow in approval. At least the child remembered some of what he had taught her.

  “This is my first child, Lok-iKol.”

  The Kir. Bet you he’s tired of waiting for his mother to die, Parno thought, as the man reached up to touch his eye patch in what was obviously an unconscious tic.

  The one-eyed man bowed, but made no move to take Mar’s hand, though as Kir, heir to the House, he might have had her kiss his hand as well. “I greet you, Cousin,” he said. His voice was low, musical. Mar inclined her head, trying to imitate the motion the older woman had made.

  Parno’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth twitched. Dhulyn kept her face impassive and her eyes moving between the people and the covered walls. She’d be looking for the secret entrance the plans showed in this room.

  “Mar-eMar will have the green room in the south tower, Keys,” the Tenebroso said. “You may have her luggage and her maids sent there.”

  “The Lady Mar-eMar arrived without maids, Tenebroso.” Semlin-Nor did not comment on the sparsity of Mar’s luggage. “The two I have assigned her await in her rooms.”

  “You have come without servants? What possessed you?” The words lacked any emotion, but it was evident her indifference was a symptom of her true physical weakness, not her lack of interest. Her face was capable of expressing the patronizing dismay that her voice was not strong enough to convey.

  “As you see, my Mother, I have nevertheless arrived safely.” Mar addressed the old woman formally, as a member by blood of the House. The corners of Dhulyn’s mouth moved.

  “And these persons?”

  “Of the Brotherhood, my Mother. My guides and guards. To be paid upon my safe delivery.”

  “Of course, of course.” The Tenebroso searched the table at her side, sifting through numerous small ornaments, two books, several curling sheets of parchment, setting to one side two heavy bracelets, before finding a small pouch of embroidered suede. Dhulyn and Parno both recognized this dumb show, meant to underscore the Tenebroso’s distance from such crass matters. Of course the woman knew exactly where the purse was. It would have been brought to her while they were being led around the long way. The Steward of Keys moved forward to take it from the Tenebroso’s hand, before presenting it to Parno. He kept his eyes down, and his face lowered as he stepped forward a pace to take it.

  Dhulyn’s eyes flicked from Parno to the old lady seated at the table, and back again. There was something in the old woman’s face-something in the way the old eyes narrowed as she looked up at Parno, and in the way she so carefully did not look again. For an instant, it actually had seemed that the Tenebroso was going to forget herself enough to speak directly to a Mercenary Brother. But no, perhaps she was wrong, Dhulyn frowned, perhaps it was only Mar, after all, who drew the old lady’s attention.

  Money in hand, Parno stepped back, but when they made no further move to depart, the Kir raised the eyebrow over the missing eye. Probably meant to strike terror into their hearts, Dhulyn thought, amused. Finally, she looked at Mar.

  “Are we discharged, Lady?” she asked.

  “What? Yes, yes, of course,” Mar cleared her throat, pink cheeked. “I thank you for your service,” she said, as Parno had taught her, “Mercenaries, you are discharged.”

  Semlin-Nor, Steward of Keys, waited for the Kir to leave before returning to the Tenebroso. She found the old woman exactly where she’d left her-no surprise, since the Tenebroso was no longer able to walk. Her vanity was such, however, that she made everyone else leave the room before she had her women in to carry her.

  “What did you think of the Mercenary Brothers?” Kor-iRok asked. Semlin was surprised enough to leave tidying the table, to turn and look at her House. Questions about the country cousin she might have expected, but about Mercenaries?

  “The red-haired woman is very striking,” she said.

  “Yes, that’s so. But it’s the golden-haired man I’m asking about. He has a mole near his right ear, the Mercenary badge does not quite cover it. Did you see it?”

  “No, my House, I have to say I didn’t.”

  “Nor did anyone else, my Keys. Nor did anyone else.” The old woman smiled, mouth closed, lips pressed tight. “But I saw.” The House turned to look directly at Semlin, her head shaking ever so slightly. “I knew a young man with a mole in that precise place, Semlin. A man of my House. Of my blood. A promising young man. A wronged young man. I have plans to redress those wrongs.”

  Semlin knelt, laid her hand with the greatest gentleness on the old woman’s arm. “But, my Lady, he is a Mercenary now. He is no longer of this House.”

  “He is Tenebro.” Kor-iRok’s colorless voice left no room for disagreement. “He is my blood. I will bring him back to us.” The old woman looked at her with the remains of what had once been a dazzling smile. “And you will help me.”

  “Of course, my House.”

  “Send for him tomorrow, when the Kir has gone to the Dome. Send for the Mercenary Brother Parno Lionsmane.”

  They had only gone a short way down a new corridor when sounds from behind made them stop. A young man approached them with a broad smile on his face. He was more plainly dressed than either the Tenebroso or her heir, but his face, and his fair brown coloring, marked him clearly as one of the family.

  “I greet you. I am Dal-eDal. My cousin, the Lady Mar-eMar, begs you to stay and take the midday meal with her, while she adjusts to her new House,” he said, his smile never changing and never touching his eyes.

  Dhulyn glanced at Parno. “Tell the Lady we thank her,” she said. “But we cannot stay weaponless.”

  The man inclined his head. “Of course. Now that you are guests, you can, of course, retain your swords. If you will follow me? Thank you,” he said to the page escorting them, “I will take charge of our guests for now.”

  This was the cousin who lived in the House, Dhulyn thought, eyeing the golden-haired man with interest as he led them away. The form of his name-repeated Dal-eDal and not the reversal, Dal-eLad-marked him as having Household status, and not in line to inherit, as was Lok-iKol.

  As they followed Dal-eDal down the passage, Parno locked eyes with Dhulyn. The corners of his mouth moved. Dhulyn shrugged. Of course the man was taking them by yet a different route. Anyone providing security would make maximum use of the tools at hand-and the mazelike design of this building, however archaic, was a first-class tool at hand. Karlyn-Tan had not impressed her as the kind of Steward of Walls who would overlook any aids to his security arrangements.

  The passageway narrowed until they were walking in single file, Parno’s shoulders brushing the wall coverings to each side. When the passage widened again, Dal-eDal lengt
hened his stride slightly, his hand reaching out to the handle of a door at the end of the passage. He was three paces ahead of Dhulyn when she heard a soft snick and lunged forward, heartbeats too late. A thick, weighted net fell from the ceiling and clung to her, muffling her arms and dragging down her head. Dhulyn was aware that somewhere the scholarly part of her mind was registering shock-surprise that anyone, even in the middle of their own House, would attack Mercenaries unprovoked. But even as that thought arose, she was taking a steadying breath and bending even further, slipping the fingers of her left hand into the space between her right calf and her boot. Without hurry, without panic, she took out her moon razor, a small rounded coin of metal, flattened and sharpened along one curve, and slashed at the net in front of her. The strands parted immediately and she stepped through the cut opening and moved to one side, her left arm arched above her head, her right poised with the moon razor. She felt Parno’s back against hers in the narrow passageway and knew that his arms were raised like hers, and his hands full of blades.

  Another net fell and Parno cut through it. A third net fell before they could step from the cords of the second. A fourth while they were cutting the third. Dhulyn heard footsteps and braced herself, but the blow came not at her head or shoulders, but at her legs. She felt a hard arm around her thighs and, already off-balance, she went down in a tangle of cords and weights. She twisted and slashed. A high-pitched scream and the warm gush of blood across her hand and arm. She heard a wet crunch and Parno’s voice softly cursing.

  She was raising herself to her feet, pressing upward on the weight of net that tried to crush her to the floor, when the ceiling fell on them.

  Seven

  GUNDARON THE SCHOLAR chewed the side of his thumb, hovering just down from where his room’s corridor met the wider passage leading to the great hall. He checked for the third time that he’d wiped all the powdered sugar off the scroll of the first act of Bartyn’s Maid of the Forest. When he’d finally found it, it had been behind his copy of the eighteenth book of the Hahrgis, under a plate of jellied sweets. He cleared his throat, as a little finger of guilt scratched at the back of his mind. Good thing his old tutor hadn’t seen that. Gundaron had never been tidy by nature, and in the two years since he’d left Valdomar, some of the Library’s meticulous discipline had faded. He was still careful with his books-mostly, he thought as he brushed at the scroll again-kept his ink pots and pens clean, even if the cats did play with them. But a plate of jellied sweets on the worktable, that would never have been allowed in Valdomar.