The Great Rift

by Edward W. Robertson

  "That was awfully quick," Dante said.

  "They're all the same here."

  "That doesn't explain why you know how to pick them."

  Blays shut Kav's door behind them. "Because I'm regularly called on by you to break into people's rooms?"

  The room was lavish with rugs. Tapestries insulated the stone walls. Candles and books coated the windowsill and two desks. The bed was canopied in burgundy velvet. It was still the room of a priest, however, and thus was small. Quick to search. Dante rifled through drawers. Blays pawed through racks of finery. The third drawer of the desk was suspiciously shallow. Dante's knock was hollow. He pried away the false bottom of the drawer, revealing a cache of letters.

  He spread one in front of Blays. "What language is this?"

  "Gibberish," Blays said. "The native tongue of the Empire of Gibber."

  Foreign symbols covered the pages. It was not a script Dante had ever seen. He saw no names or dates, either. The paper looked relatively fresh—unyellowed, no scent of must on it. Of the thirty-odd letters, Dante stuffed three into his pocket, hoping Kav wouldn't notice so few had been taken.

  "It's some sort of code. What's he hiding?"

  "That mean we're done here?"

  "Let's go," Dante said. Blays spat on the floor. Dante gawked. "What did you do that for?"

  "Because spitting on people's floors when they don't know about it is fun." He eased the door open and snuck into the hall. As Dante stood watch, Blays tricked the lock back into place. Dante fought the urge to run back to his room. There, he spread the three letters on his desk and began to copy each one out onto a fresh sheet of paper.

  Blays stood before he'd finished the first paragraph. "I think I'm going to leave you to this."

  "But we're doing something sneaky!"

  "And it's fascinating stuff, the copying of nonsense from one sheet of paper to another sheet of paper. But I bet if I go see Lira right now, she will take off her clothes and throw me around."

  "Have it your way."

  The door clicked shut. Back in Kav's room, Dante had lost himself in the break-in, but with Blays gone, the raven of Cally's death returned to his shoulder. Dante kept copying, hoping to drive its impossible weight away through sheer tedium, the numbness of repetition. It helped. Darkness fell. A seaborne breeze stirred the curtains, flushing away the moist air stagnating inside his room. He began comparing the letters. Making a list of all the symbols, as well as how many times each was used, and examining where certain pairs occurred—particularly of the same symbol. He examined three-letter words in an attempt to nose out Kav's name, silently wishing Kav's parents had named him in the more traditional polysyllabic Gaskan style that would have made his name stand out like a midnight candle. Dante went to bed just before dawn, sleeping naked atop the sheets.

  It hardly helped; he woke up midmorning sweaty and flushed. On his balcony, he strung up a sheet to shield himself from the sun and got to work. The heat was tolerable so long as he didn't move. Four hours later, he'd made no headway on the code. The symbols blurred together, meaningless, aloof. He'd been interested enough in codes as a teenager to comb the library texts about substitutions and the like, but that interest had evaporated along with his fascination with snails and dead frogs. After dozens of false leads and dead ends, zero progress, and the mounting dread he was failing his mentor and friend, Dante folded up his notes and went to the scene of the crime.

  Cally's door was unlocked. The inside of the room felt cool and as prehistoric as the rings of stones where the norren chiefs met. A desk rested beside the door to the balcony. Next to it, a wine-dark stain dominated the wooden floor.

  Dante knelt beside it. The nether still clung to it sluggishly. This stain had been inside Cally just days ago. The nether, too. The floor was otherwise spotless. As hard as the servants had scrubbed, there was no erasing this marker of the man's death. If Dante closed his eyes, he could still picture him: his piercing eyes, typically full of mocking good humor, but capable of filling with insight or wrath in a moment's notice; his absurd white beard, dense as a thicket and twice as wild; his bony shoulders that bore the gnarled strength of a desert tree.

  All that reduced to a red-brown stain.

  Dante's sorrow hardened into hot-forged anger. On hands and knees, he scoured the room for stray drops of blood. If there were any here besides Cally's, it could be the killer's. A single drop would be enough to trace it through the nether back to the assassin. But he found nothing. He thought, for a moment, of searching for stray hairs or fingernail scraps instead, but the room had been swept, scrubbed, and scrubbed again. Anything left behind would be from the servants.

  He sat in the middle of the floor and gazed across the silent space. There was nothing he could do here. There was nothing to find. No one to question. He was the closest thing there had been to a witness. Unless the killer made a mistake—returned to the room, boasted drunkenly in a tavern—all he could do was work on the codes and hope they contained proof of what Kav had done. On the off chance the killer did return, Dante went to the pantry, slaughtered a mouse, and brought it to Cally's room, and brought it to unlife to act as his sentry. That done, he returned to the heat of his chambers and sat down with Kav's letters.

  Hours of scribbling and comparing got him nowhere. He went down to the courtyard and entered the monastery, combing the stacks for works on cryptography. Two hours later, he had two books. One was a history written three centuries ago, an account of the codes used during the Farraway Wars that took place some six hundred years earlier. The book looked to have few specifics, but the Farraway Wars had been a bizarre hotbed of espionage, secrecy, double agents and double-crosses between some eight mountain cities that no longer existed, and the conflict had been notable for their secret codes and symbols as well. The second book was a general theory of cryptography, or at least as the field had stood 140 years ago when it had been written. He began with that.

  Two days later, he was ready to burn his books, Kav's letters, and the whole stupid city. As he strolled through the courtyard to clear his head, he saw something that lifted his heart: Somburr passing through the gates.

  He looked haggard, even twitchier than normal. Dante went to him at once, but a servant beat him there. Kav must have been waiting for him. Hart was with him, but the servant paid the elderly norren no mind.

  Dante greeted Hart with a smile. "I'm glad to see you back."

  "Beats the alternative, doesn't it?" Hart scratched his white beard. His forehead was shiny with sweat. "I wish we'd brought back better news."

  "Oh?"

  "The king's army struck out from Dollendun two days after we lost the city. Somburr knows better than I do, but my impression is they mean to race across the Norren Territories, then turn north and come for us."

  Dante gritted his teeth. "So fast?"

  Hart sighed into his meaty fist. "I think the idea is that there are two brushfires threatening the kingdom: the norren army, and Narashtovik. If the king's men can douse the main blazes, they can use the rest of the year to stamp out the sparks of rebellious clans."

  "Bold," Dante said. "Maybe dumb. Why not spend a year or two to wrap up the norren? We're not going to be any stronger two years from now."

  "Again, I think there are two things at play," Hart said. "First, without Gallador's silver to back their armies, I think the lords of Gask are already feeling the pinch to their purses." He smiled wryly." Second, I think they are very, very mad at us."

  That brought a smile to Dante's face. "Then it's all been worth it."

  He propped open his door to coax the ocean breeze through his room and to defray suspicion as he sat in his doorway, one eye on his book, the other watching the hallway for Somburr. This tactic proved to be wholly useless. After an hour of a closed-door session between Somburr and Kav, Kav called a general assembly of the Council.

  The council chambers looked barren. Cally was gone. Varla, too. Wint and Ulev were still in the norren wild
s. Olivander remained in the eastern foothills gathering troops. That left seven councilmen out of twelve. Dante hadn't seen their ranks so depleted since the battle at the White Tree more than five years ago.

  "Somburr's spies have paid off yet again," Kav said once everyone was settled. "If you would, Somburr?"

  Somburr's gaze flicked between the other priests. He squirmed in his chair. "I have some insight into the enemy's strategy. My source says it's straightforward. They'll knock out any major resistance left in the Norren Territories, then march on Narashtovik without delay."

  He fiddled with his collar, finished already. The priests exchanged glances.

  "Well shit," Tarkon said.

  "How long are we talking until they're here?" Dante said.

  Somburr pinched the bridge of his nose with his brown fingers. "We'll all be dead in three weeks."

  Tarkon repeated himself. Merria leaned forward, a sneer creasing her lined face. "I'm sorry, did you say three weeks?"

  "Here is how my source expects it to play out," Somburr said. "The Gaskan army will make one more effort to confront the combined clans. My source anticipates this will result in the dispersal or outright destruction of the clans. Either way, a small portion of the army will be split off to control the Territories and destroy any holdouts, but it is further anticipated the Territories will surrender at this point. A few clans will still defy the king, but when haven't they?"

  Somburr paused, chin twitching. "Once that is accomplished, they will march straight here. That march is anticipated to take seven to ten days. Leaving a full timeframe of three to four weeks before the Gaskan generals are sitting in this room congratulating each other on their victory."

  "That is one potential outcome," Kav intoned. "And one somewhat less than sunny. Yet there is another option."

  Dante could see straight through the nobleman's thinking. "Oh no there isn't."

  Kav ignored him, meeting the eyes of the others instead. "We could surrender."

  "Bullshit," Merria said. "Olivander would never stand for that. You try to pull that off and Cally will burst from his grave and strangle you himself."

  Kav frowned delicately. "There is a point when the honor of resistance becomes the folly of futility. I fear we have reached that point."

  "Fear away," Dante said. "That doesn't change the fact you're not the master of this council and it's not your decision to make."

  "I never claimed I was," Kav said peevishly. "And yet I will not follow a path that ensures Cally is the last to ever rule the Council. We cannot disgrace him and this institution by committing strategic suicide in lieu of facing the facts."

  Most of the Council looked pained, resigned. Merria was the only one who appeared outright defiant. Somburr looked outright disturbed, blinking repeatedly, his mouth tightly pursed.

  "In any event," Kav continued, "it is not my intent to enforce a decision here and now. Only to broach the option and give us ample time to prepare in case events unfold as Somburr's source foresees."

  Dante clamped down his anger. They would not surrender. Not if he had to kill Kav himself and lead the troops from the very front. With no intention of tipping his hand, he left as soon as the meeting dissolved and returned to his room. He frowned. Had he left his chair pulled away from his desk? He'd hidden Kav's letters in his copy of The Cycle of Arawn. He pocketed them and headed to Somburr's room. After he knocked, Somburr cracked the door an inch, eye gleaming whitely from the dimness of his room.

  "Yes, Dante?"

  "Can we speak?"

  "We are speaking as we speak."

  "Inside," Dante said. "Alone."

  Somburr's mouth turned down at the corners. "Are you going to knife me?"

  "I'm not going to knife you."

  "Good. Just be aware I will know before you try and will have no qualms about knifing you first."

  Dante agreed. Somburr let him inside. Three sets of heavy drapes blocked the windows, reducing the sunlight to nothing and leaving the room as hot as summer cobbles. Two candles shed a little yellow light around the spartan room.

  "Who do you think killed Cally?" Dante said.

  Somburr cocked his head. "A professional. Hired."

  "By who?"

  "The list is heavy enough to break your foot, isn't it?"

  Dante examined Somburr's middle-aged face. He didn't know whether he could trust the former spy, but he ultimately had no choice: he couldn't prove the identity of the killer on his own. "I think Kav may have had something to do with this."

  "He exploited the situation very quickly," Somburr said. "Highly suspicious."

  "You've thought about this?"

  "Who hasn't?"

  "Anyone who's inclined to not accuse their leader of treason?" Dante said.

  "Contemplating whether someone could be guilty isn't the same as accusing them of being guilty." Somburr narrowed his eyes at Dante. "You, for instance, are highly ambitious. Perhaps you were tired of waiting for Cally to die. Also, you have been prosecuting this war with great ferocity, haven't you? Maybe Cally agreed with Kav and wanted to end it. Maybe you couldn't let that happen."

  "You think I did it?"

  "I doubt it," Somburr said. "But unless a thing is impossible, I don't like to rule it out."

  "I think it was Kav," Dante said. "He stepped in like he'd been expecting it. I found these, too." He took out the three letters he'd taken from Kav and handed them to Somburr, whose face took on the eager gleam of a child in the bakery. "Why would he write them in code?"

  Somburr clawed the letters from Dante's hand so smoothly he hardly felt them go. "He's been sending an extraordinary amount of letters ever since you burned down Cassinder's house. They've all been in code."

  Dante's blood went cold. "I need you to tell me everything you know about Kav."

  "Born in 867 P.C., the second son of Ronnimore and Allyria, Baron and Baroness of Landry. Showed first signs of nethereal talent at 13 and took to the priesthood at 17. His older brother died in mysterious circumstances two years later, leaving Kav with a clear path to the barony, which he took only to leave in the hands of a steward in 897, when he returned to the priesthood with a clear path to the Council of Narashtovik. To the best of our knowledge, the family barrister had wrangled a way for him to retain ownership of his lands and title even though priestly bylaws require—"

  Dante cut him off. "You know all this off the top of your head?"

  "Of course," Somburr said. "Would you like to know what I know about you?"

  "Are his ties to the capital still as strong as they look?"

  "One of Kav's first cousins is 16 steps from the throne. 15? No, it's 16, forgot the Duchess of Derriden. Kav's younger sister is married to the third son of the Earl of Prater. The other blood ties are more complicated unless you understand Nollen Theory. Do you? No? No matter. Moving on, Kav visits his homestead west of Dollendun one to three times each year. He's spoken with Moddegan in person more than once. To summarize, he has many long-standing connections to the king, the capital in Setteven, and any number of noblemen across Gask."

  "Do you think you can decode those letters?" Dante said.

  "I have before. I haven't tried to break his latest codes. He changes them yearly, not that it helps. What he ought to do is hire me to create his codes for him, but if I were to suggest that, he'd know I'd broken his old ones, wouldn't he?"

  "We have to act fast," Dante said. "Try to decipher the letters. I can get more if you crack the code. I'm going to have a look at Cally's body and see if Kav's assassin left any clues on it." He touched Somburr's elbow. Somburr flinched. "Can I trust you, Somburr? This isn't just about the Council. All Narashtovik depends on this."

  Somburr grinned like a ferret. "Why wouldn't you trust me?"

  "Because for all I know, you did it."

  The other man giggled. "That makes me wish I had. It would mean I've done a wonderful job misleading you to Kav."

  Dante smiled and left him with the letters. He
walked out of Somburr's room and into a forest of arned guards. Several monks were there, too. Competent nether-users. Shadows roiled in their hands. They were backed by two members of the Council on top of that: silent old Joseff, and Kav.

  "Dante Galand," Kav said. "I will keep this simple. You are hereby charged with the murder of Callimandicus, High Priest of Arawn, Viceroy of Narashtovik, and one of my oldest friends."

  26

  Laughter burst from Dante's throat. "On what grounds? That you're completely insane?"

  Kav held out a knife, brown with dried blood. "This was found in your room while we were at council."

  "For one thing, that's not mine. For another, all my knives have blood on them. Have you seen my arms? I cut myself more often than most men have breakfast."

  "This was the just the gust that cracked the limb," Kav said. "I feared this was your work from the very start."

  "Cally was my first teacher," Dante said. "I wouldn't be alive without him. I would never have come to Narashtovik. He was my friend. Lyle's bruised balls, why would I kill him?"

  "Because he was going to ask for a ceasefire."

  "No he wasn't!"

  "I spoke with him myself," Kav glowered.

  "Sounds like he was making a joke you didn't get," Dante said.

  "He was extremely uneasy about the prospects of a direct war with the king. He was ready to begin negotiations." Kav laid the heavy knife along his palm. "Besides, I tasted this blood with the nether. It's Cally's."

  Dante's world went red. "Someone put that in my room. Or you've had it all along and are using it to get me out of the way. I was three hundred miles away when he was killed!"

  "As if you couldn't have paid someone to do it?" Kav favored him with a tight and furious smile. "In fact, isn't that exactly what you endeavor to do in this letter?"

  He produced a piece of bleached parchment. Dante didn't bother to look at it. "I didn't write that."

  "I wished to deny it myself, but when we compared it to the other letters in your room, the writing matched." The nobleman's face grew pained. "My denial starved, withered, died."