Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  Coryden sighed. It was beginning to look like it would be a long Light Season.

  * * *

  The sound of Dualas’s footsteps marched with a steady rhythm, rebounding from the thick, stone walls with a deep, clear resonance. A thrumming intonation, rising and falling like the waves against the nearby cliffs, echoed faintly through the large structure. The long, arch-ceilinged corridor through which he walked contained many doors, but only the one at the end interested him. The armored knight standing before it nodded a greeting before he opened the heavy door.

  Within, an ornate desk stood at the center of the large room. Rich tapestries covered the walls, their colors muted in comparison to the brilliant light that streamed through the two narrow windows behind the desk. A man sat at the desk, intent on a paper he held in the light from the window; other papers lay scattered across the desk and the floor near it. He was human, no more than forty years old. He had brown hair, worn short, that contained a frosting of gray at his temples. His facial features were delicate for a human’s, almost corryn in structure.

  “Sir Dualas is here, your Blessedness,” the guarding knight announced.

  The man looked up and smiled warmly. “Sir Dualas,” he said, rising and coming around the desk.

  Dualas dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

  “Your Blessedness.”

  The Grand Patriarch made a gesture of blessing over Dualas’s head, then offered his hand for Dualas to rise. “What brings our faithful knight here from the Northmarch?”

  “A serious matter, your Blessedness,” Dualas began. “A Northmarcher has discovered a cell of Droken … a cell that includes members of the nobility.”

  “Ah? This, then, is a matter that will take some telling, and will involve some touch of Darkness.” He turned to the guarding knight, and said, “Sir Thorald, please send word to the steward to have refreshments brought to us.”

  Turning back to Dualas, he said, “I have found that discussing such matters is best accomplished in the light.” He led Dualas to two comfortable chairs that sat near the fireplace and lay in the full splash of the sunlight from the window. “Have a seat, good knight, and tell me of this Northmarcher, and of what he has discovered.”

  * * *

  “… that is how the situation now stands,” Dualas finished.

  The Grand Patriarch sipped from his second cup of tea. “You have done well to report this, Sir Dualas. This could be a very serious matter. I trust you do not doubt the authenticity of the information you have been given?”

  “I have never known Morticai to lie about important matters.”

  “Is he one of the Faithful?”

  “He does not attend regular services, but I believe he is quite devout.”

  “And why do you think thus?”

  “He wears a medallion of Glawres, your Blessedness. He has always worn it openly. Further, our captain, Coryden Lestryon of Menelcar, has found him from time to time at Glawres’s beach. Morticai claimed he had gone there to think, but it seemed to Coryden that it was more than that. I have observed him for some time. I suspect he worships there, as Glawres’s earliest followers worshipped.”

  “You understand that we cannot begin an official investigation on such unsubstantiated information.”

  “Yes, your Blessedness. Is there not a way to begin an unofficial investigation?”

  “Your friend seems to have already begun one.”

  It was not what Dualas had hoped to hear. “I … see. Is there anything specific you would have me do?”

  “Give the support you have offered. Lend your wisdom whenever possible. Lend your sword only if you must. You understand our position well enough to protect our interests. Report to me whenever you feel moved to, which I trust will be often.” The Patriarch rose, indicating that the audience was at an end.

  Dualas stood up and said, “Thank you, your Blessedness.” Bowing deeply, he took his leave.

  The Grand Patriarch allowed a slow count of ten for Dualas to make his way down the hall, and then he picked up the small silver bell from his desk and rang it.

  The door opened. “Yes, your Blessedness?” the knight said.

  “Send for my scribe, Sir Thorald. Tell him to bring his writing materials.”

  When the acolyte arrived and stood before him, he said, “Take a letter, my son, and address it to the Head of Inquisition at Abbadyr.”

  * * *

  The yard of the Crestview Club was already crowded when the ornate coach pulled under the marquee. The owner of the coach emerged wearing a full cloak and Tradelenor style hat—large-brimmed and feathered. The man was in his mid-thirties and had a long nose, sharp features, dark brown eyes, and long, light-brown hair. His naturally curly hair would have been considered the height of current fashion in Tradelenor.

  “Good evening, Lord Aldwin,” the doorman greeted.

  “Good evening to you, Wyborn. Is anyone of note here this evening?”

  “Usual customers, my Lord. Oh, a couple of merchants from Helgorn arrived a few hours ago, but no other foreigners. Should I watch for anyone in particular?”

  “No, I am not expecting anyone,” Aldwin replied.

  Aldwin made his way through the club, nodding at acquaintances. Several Watchaven merchants were engaged in an animated conversation in the main hall.

  “Lord Aldwin!” one of the merchants called, rushing over to intercept him.

  “Good evening, Master Ivar.”

  “We heard you had just returned from Dynolva. Does this nonsense continue?”

  “I am afraid so. The Dynolvans have pledged to continue their tariffs and are threatening to use Locguard and Bridlington as their main ports.”

  “That’s insane! Have all the world’s corryn gone mad?”

  “I certainly hope not. I have not spoken with any members of the other corryn kingdoms, however. If you will excuse me, I have an appointment elsewhere.”

  “But, Lord, what will come of it?”

  “I am not at liberty to say what the Council shall do next, Master. We shall soon have another meeting and consider the situation then. Good day.”

  Aldwin smiled inwardly as the lively conversation continued behind him as he entered the private portion of the club—the Red Lion Pub. The Red Lion’s atmosphere was much quieter. Small groups of noblemen sat in the muted light of the lamps and conversed in low tones. An ornate door, with stained glass representing leaves, stood in the back wall. Lord Aldwin was hailed before he could reach it.

  “Lord Aldwin!”

  Aldwin turned at the voice of Lord Orrick. The chubby nobleman approached him.

  “Aldwin, have you heard about Lord Quinson?” he asked.

  “Quinson?” Aldwin asked innocently. “No, should I?”

  “Oh, dear,” Orrick replied. “I feared that, as you have been out of town, you wouldn’t have heard. Quinson lost his son this last week in a terrible hunting accident!”

  Aldwin was genuinely confused. He knew that Quinson would have to come up with some explanation for his son’s death—but a hunting accident?

  “How?” he asked.

  “Oh,” Orrick replied, waving his hand, “you know how impetuous that boy of his was. Quinson went on a hunt and took the boy with him, but told him to remain in camp. Apparently the boy wished so much to go on the hunt itself that he tried to follow his father on foot. Well, the bear found the boy long before the hunters found the bear. They said it was a terrible sight!”

  “I imagine so,” Aldwin replied, wondering if Quinson had actually taken the boy’s remains with him to back up this story.

  “Just terrible!” Orrick reiterated. “Well, I just knew that you would want to know,” he concluded.

  “Indeed,” Aldwin replied. “Thank you.” And with a nod Aldwin took his leave and, this time, reached the d
oor with the stained glass without further interruption.

  A young woman with blonde hair and blue eyes met him just inside. Her rich, pale-pink gown was decorated with white lace edging and delicate bows. Aldwin repressed a smile—such colors were usually reserved for virgins. He knew, from personal experience, that the color was more than inappropriate.

  “Why, good evening, Lord Aldwin,” she said. “I trust your trip to Dynolva was enjoyable?”

  “As enjoyable as one could expect, I suppose,” he replied. “Is Cwena available?”

  “For you, always. I believe she is in the garden room.”

  He nodded thanks, and headed towards the mentioned location.

  Cwena was expecting him. “My Lord,” she said as he sat down beside her. “Your trip went well?”

  “It did,” he replied. He had never been comfortable in her presence. She looked to be in her early twenties, but he knew that appearance was as false as the greeter’s pretense of innocence. She was beautiful beyond comparison, with pale green eyes, copper-red hair, and an exquisite figure. She was lovely, sensuous—and deadly. He had never seen her kill, but he had watched other jevano feed. She reached a hand toward the lace cuff of his shirt. He stood up quickly, not permitting her to touch him.

  “Shall we move on to business?” he offered.

  She responded first with a pout, then with a pleased giggle. The wicked undernote of her laughter sent a chill down Aldwin’s spine.

  “You are just no fun at all, my Lord,” she said as she stood up. “But if needs must …”

  They retired to her room without further conversation. She sat on the bed, braiding her red hair, as Aldwin stepped into her dressing parlor. Removing his hat and cloak, he donned his Droken robe. Once properly attired, he touched a hidden trigger in the wall panel by Cwena’s chiffarobe and opened the secret door with practiced ease. Before him, a narrow hallway led leftward. The only light came from a stairwell about twenty feet away. Lord Aldwin knew the path well.

  The stairs led down to a small room that lay far beneath the club. Two guards, who wore full-faced helmets and chain armor, rose from their chairs as he reached the bottom. Aldwin smiled, remembering the guide’s brags about the security precautions at the Dynolvan temple. They would do well to visit ours, he thought.

  One of the guards approached him while the other maintained an easy fighting stance. Aldwin gave the sign of Droka; the guard nearest him returned it.

  “The pass-phrase, Dyagon?” the guard asked, referencing Aldwin’s temple rank as was signified by the ornate embroidery on the hem of Aldwin’s robe.

  “The harbor is empty.”

  “Evening service will begin in an hour, Dyagon.” Without further conversation, the guard turned and led him through a door and into a short hallway. Aldwin could feel the eyes of the guards, who were concealed behind the arrow slits. He stood behind a stripe on the floor as the guard approached the door at the far end of the hall and whispered his own pass-phrase.

  The door opened, and he was allowed into a larger room. The four guards who were here nodded in respect to his rank, but said nothing. His guide left him and walked back to his post.

  From that point, escort was unnecessary. Aldwin exited through the door opposite the one he had entered, traveled down another short hall with arrow slits and finally arrived in front of another door. He opened it, glad to be leaving the gatehouse.

  “Good evening, faithful Dyagon.” The man who greeted him wore the red robes of an acolyte. This room was very different from the previous ones—the floor was black marble, and tapestries depicting Droka’s battle with the Levani adorned the walls. The double doors on the opposite wall, intricately carved and leafed with gold, dominated the room.

  “I am to have an audience with the High Priest before this evening’s service.”

  “Please, proceed then,” the acolyte said, gesturing toward the gilt doors. “I would not hinder you with idle conversation, Dyagon,”

  Aldwin nodded politely and made Droka’s sign before opening one of the large doors. Behind it, the temple bustled with hushed activity. The octagonal room spanned nearly fifty-five feet across. A fifteen-foot tall image of Droka, purported to be made of solid gold, stood against the back wall. Aldwin had long suspected the statue was merely gilt over some baser metal.

  Bas-relief scenes of Droka’s triumphs covered the black stone walls. Inlaid gold defined the scenes further. An acolyte was lighting the gold candelabrums that stood like soldiers around the perimeter of the room. Aldwin frowned behind his mask. Three weeks earlier, the candelabrums were to have been cleaned of the old wax that had dripped down their sides, and still, the chore had not been attended to. Had these been Aldwin’s servants, they would have been soundly thrashed for such obvious inattentiveness.

  In the center of the room stood an upraised granite platform, also octagonal and nearly fifteen feet across. Droka’s sign, graven into the platform, was filled with dried blood. Two heavy chains ending in shackles hung from the high ceiling. More shackles, these in the form of irons, were embedded in the platform itself. Currently, an acolyte was fastening the chains out of the way.

  Aldwin watched as the acolyte finished his work. A small amount of mortar had crumbled from around the base of one of the ceiling anchors. Aldwin shook his head—it was sad to see his temple slowly sliding away from the high standard it had once held itself to. He made a mental note to bring up the issue when the Dyagons next held council.

  His gaze drifted to two more acolytes, who also stood on the platform near a small table. The table contained torture implements, which they covered with a black cloth. At least the implements appeared to have been cleaned. Once they’d placed the cover, the acolytes moved the table to the opposite side of the temple and moved it into a closet behind a door made nearly invisible by the intricate bas-relief. No holy day had occurred recently—a traitor must have been caught. Aldwin wondered if it had been anyone he knew.

  The acolytes ignored Aldwin as he crossed the room to another nearly hidden door. This one was not a closet, but led into the High Priest’s private section of the underground complex. It was a full priest, not a mere acolyte, who greeted him this time.

  “Dyagon, His Eminence awaits you.” Without waiting for a reply, the priest turned, rapped lightly on the door, then opened and held it for Aldwin. The office they entered was spacious and richly appointed, as befitted the High Priest’s station. Corryn furniture from Lorredre, a crystal chandelier from Tradelenor, and carpets from Bracar decorated the room. Behind the desk sat the High Priest. His red robe was embroidered in black and gold. As with all Droken whom Aldwin had seen, his silk mask was in place. As they entered, he closed a large book that lay before him. Aldwin noted it was one of the Books of Prophesy.

  “Sit down, Dyagon.”

  Aldwin sat. “Thank you, Your Eminence.” The High Priest said nothing further until his attendant had left them.

  “Your report, Lord Aldwin?”

  Aldwin shifted uncomfortably. The High Priest’s habit of using his name in private had always unnerved him.

  “Everything went as planned. The Dynolvan Council was furious with our proposal. They are threatening to use the Locguard-Bridlington route as an alternative to Watchaven.”

  “Excellent. Did you give my message to Ambassador Volney?”

  “Yes. He returned this.” Aldwin deposited a sealed letter on the desk. The High Priest opened it and read it silently.

  “Very good, not only are things proceeding well, but they are proceeding on schedule.”

  “Your Eminence, I … I must report one other small incident.”

  The High Priest’s head tilted slightly. “Yes?”

  “Someone broke into my estate while I was in Dynolva …”

  The High Priest held up a gloved hand, interrupting him. “Perhaps you should remove your mask befo
re you proceed, Lord Aldwin.”

  Aldwin licked his lips. There was no way around the command. Knowing the High Priest knew your identity was one thing—withstanding his scrutiny, not knowing his identity, not seeing his reactions to your words … that was unsettling. Slowly, Aldwin slid the silk mask to the rear of his hood.

  “Lower the hood.”

  He did so.

  “Now. Continue.”

  “Someone broke in. My blacksmith was coming from the coach house and encountered the thief as he attempted to leave. They wrestled, but the thief escaped. The alarm was raised and chase given, but once in the city …”

  “And you dared to come here?”

  “I had—he couldn’t have discovered anything to connect me with the Droken,” Aldwin said, almost stammering. “I had my robes.”

  The High Priest’s tone softened. “I see. Was much stolen?”

  Aldwin looked down. “No,” he said softly.

  “Did your servant describe this thief to you?”

  “My blacksmith is human, Your Eminence, and it was difficult for him to see the thief in the darkness. He said the man was slender of form, but seemed of human height. Another servant who saw the man flee thought he was corryn.”

  “Very well. You have increased the watch at your estate?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “Then, we shall consider the incident closed for now, Lord Aldwin. You will be careful, I trust.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “You may leave. Service begins shortly.”

  Aldwin took a deep breath and pulled his hood and mask into place.

  The High Priest made Droka’s sign as Aldwin stood to leave. Aldwin returned it, and with relief, left for the comfortable anonymity he always found when surrounded by others at service.

  * * *