Weavers of War wotf-5

by DAVID B. COE

  Evanthya knew she should say something, but she couldn’t speak for her weeping and the aching in her throat. After several moments Tebeo released her, though he took hold of her hands again.

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  Evanthya nodded.

  “Do you need gold?”

  “I have some, my lord.”

  “You should have more.” He let go of her hands and returned to his writing table. Opening a small drawer, he produced a leather pouch that rang with the jingle of coins. Crossing back to her, he opened the purse and began to count out gold rounds. After a few seconds he put them back and handed her the entire pouch.

  “Just take them all. It’s not much, really. Fifty qinde perhaps. But it should help.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “You should get food from the kitchens as well.”

  But Evanthya shook her head. “No one else should know that I’m leaving.”

  “Oh … of course.”

  They stood in silence, their eyes locked. Evanthya’s tears still flowed, and Tebeo seemed to be searching for something more to say. In the end, the first minister merely stepped forward, kissed his cheek, and fled the chamber.

  Just a short while after the ringing of the midday bells, the archminister heard men speaking in the corridor outside his chamber. The soldiers there and whoever else had come kept their voices low, and though Pronjed strained to hear them, he could not. He hoped, though, that men had come with orders to replace the silk ties that still held him with iron shackles.

  After some time, however, the conversation in the corridor ceased and still no one entered his chamber.

  Had the first minister betrayed him? Had she tricked him into confessing his intentions only to turn to her duke and warn him of the danger? He didn’t think so-he wasn’t even certain that Evanthya was capable of such duplicity-but in truth, he couldn’t really be sure of anything anymore.

  Actually that wasn’t quite true. He knew, with the assurance of a condemned man, that if he didn’t join the Weaver in this war he would be killed, either in the dungeons of Dantrielle, or in his dreams by the Weaver himself. And so he resolved, despite his doubts, to carry through on his promise to escape this night.

  His decision did little to calm him. In fact, as the day wore on, marked by the tolling of first the prior’s bells and then the twilight bells, his apprehension only grew. Yes, he wielded deep magics. But if Evanthya had deceived him, even they might not be enough.

  As night settled over the city of Dantrielle, darkening the narrow window of his chamber, he again heard footsteps in the hallway outside his door. A few moments later, one of the guards unlocked his door and stepped into the cell, bearing Pronjed’s evening meal. The man placed it on the floor near the archminister, and straightened, clearly intending to leave again.

  Before he could, Pronjed reached out with his power and touched the man’s mind. Immediately the soldier’s face went slack.

  “Where is the other soldier?” Pronjed whispered.

  “There is no other,” the man said, his voice flat. “I’m here alone.”

  Pronjed gaped at him. “What?”

  “I’m here alone.”

  “Since when?”

  “Earlier today. The duke says you’re not a threat anymore and we need only one man to guard you.”

  He eyed the man closely, searching for some sign that he was lying, that he had found some way to resist Pronjed’s mind-bending magic. During the last days in Solkara, as Numar planned for his siege, Pronjed had found himself unable to turn the regent or Numar’s brother, Henthas, to his purposes. He had assumed at the time that the two men had learned of his abilities and were warding themselves. But what if his power was simply failing?

  “Hit your head against the wall,” Pronjed said, pushing with his magic again.

  The man stepped to the wall, and pounded his forehead against the stone. His powers were working just fine.

  “What else has the duke done?”

  “He’s moved men out of some of the corridors leading to the tower.”

  “Which corridors?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He pushed harder with his magic until the man winced and held a hand to his temple. “I don’t know,” he said again, whining slightly, like a hurt child.

  It would have been useful information, but Pronjed could hardly complain. Evanthya had done more for him than he had dared hope. It was time for him to do his part.

  “Come here and untie my wrists.”

  The man complied instantly. In just a few moments his hands were free, and he had removed the bonds from his ankles.

  “Now, tell me where I can find the nearest sally port.”

  The man’s directions were a bit muddled, and Pronjed had to tell him to repeat several parts, but Castle Dantrielle was somewhat similar in design to Castle Solkara, where he had served for so many years. He’d have little trouble finding the hidden doorway.

  “Give me your sword and dagger.”

  The soldier appeared so docile as he handed Pronjed the weapons that the archminister nearly laughed aloud. “The mighty warriors of the Eandi,” he said, regarding the man with contempt. “Our Weaver has nothing to fear from any of you.”

  The man simply stood there, slack-jawed and helpless. Pronjed would have liked to strike at him with the blade. Let Tebeo and his noble friends think on that. But he had struck a bargain of sorts with Evanthya, and she had kept up her end of it.

  “Lie down and go to sleep,” he said.

  And as the man stretched out on the stone floor, Pronjed slipped from the chamber to begin his long journey toward freedom and the triumph of his people.

  Chapter Three

  Curtell, Braedon

  Somehow his life had become a waking vision of terror. Somehow he had allowed himself to be drawn into matters that were far weightier, far more dangerous, than any with which he had the capacity or desire to cope. Once, as a much younger man, he had hoped to wield influence within the emperor’s court, to make himself high chancellor and act as the leader of the imperial Qirsi. Not anymore, not since Dusaan jal Kania’s arrival in the court nine years ago. Stavel was too old now. He had none of the high chancellor’s ambition. His powers had faded, like muscle that is allowed to grow flaccid with years of neglect, and though he was loath to admit it, he lacked Dusaan’s intelligence as well. He always had. He had been clever enough to get by in the Imperial Palace, and even as old age had robbed him of his magic and his physical strength, his mind had remained nimble. But he had never been as brilliant as the high chancellor. Fortunately, he had never been fool enough to make an enemy of the man.

  Until now.

  It was all the fault of Kayiv jal Yivanne. If the young minister hadn’t come to him a turn or so before, accusing the high chancellor of lying to the emperor, and trying to foment rebellion among the chancellors and underministers, perhaps none of this would have happened. If Kayiv hadn’t tried to force himself on Nitara ja Plin, who, it seemed, had once been his lover, and who was forced to kill the man to protect herself, the emperor wouldn’t have grown so suspicious of all his Qirsi.

  Stavel still couldn’t say for certain why Harel the Fourth had singled him out in this way. In all the years Stavel had served the imperial court, he and the emperor had barely even spoken, except-and here was an irony-on the day Dusaan told Harel the very lie over which Kayiv eventually became so agitated. Stavel had suggested a possible solution to a dispute in the south, and Harel, happening upon him in the gardens, had complimented him on his inspiration.

  He had come to believe that this was why the emperor had approached him, of all people. Still, he thought it strange. Was it possible that Harel had so little contact with his advisors that this one encounter had made Stavel his most trusted Qirsi? It seemed impossible, yet the chancellor could think of no other explanation for what had happened that night near the end of Elined’s waxing.

  Kayiv
had been dead but two days, and for the first time in memory, the emperor’s court no longer felt like a haven from the violence that seemed to have gripped every other court in the Forelands. Stavel had just retired for the night, when there came a knock at his door. Surprised-he so rarely had visitors at any time of day-and just a bit frightened, he lit the candle by his bed with a thought, crossed to the door, and opened it cautiously.

  Two of Harel’s guards stood in the corridor, resplendent in their uniforms of gold and red.

  “Th’ emperor wants a word with ye, Chanc’lor,” one of them said, with the icy courtesy that such men always seemed to reserve for the palace’s higher-ranking Qirsi.

  His apprehension growing by the moment, Stavel quickly changed back into his ministerial robes and followed the men through the palace corridors to the imperial chamber.

  He found Harel there, pacing the stone floors, gripping his jeweled scepter with both hands. He halted when the guard announced Stavel, and regarded the chancellor for just a moment before dismissing the guards. One of his wives reclined in a nest of lush pillows near the hearth, and he ordered her from the chamber as well.

  “Sit down, Stavel,” he said, stepping to his marble throne.

  The chancellor did as he was told, but the emperor remained standing. After a moment he resumed his pacing.

  “Terrible,” he said, “this business with Kayiv.” He shook his head, a frown on his fleshy face.

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  The chancellor’s heart was pounding. Did the emperor know of Dusaan’s lie, of the discussions Stavel had with Kayiv as they tried to decide whether to bring it to Harel’s attention? Or worse, having heard that Kayiv was a traitor, that he tried to turn Nitara to his cause before forcing himself on her, did the emperor suspect that Stavel was a traitor as well? “Not very well, Your Eminence,” he said at last, his voice unsteady.

  “Do you believe he was a traitor?”

  “I believe what Nitara has told us of their encounter, so, yes, I suppose I do.”

  The emperor stopped by one of his windows, turning to face Stavel. “Do you believe the woman might be a traitor, too?”

  “I don’t think so, Your Eminence.”

  “Are you a traitor, Stavel?”

  His eyes widened. “No, Your Eminence! I swear I’m not!”

  Harel nodded. “I believe you. Indeed, that’s why I’ve summoned you here.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I’m convinced that there are other traitors in my palace. I’ve heard a great deal about this conspiracy-how it works, how its leaders entice others to join-and I find it very hard to believe that Kayiv was alone. I think this woman might have been a part of it. She shared his bed for a long time before all this ugliness. Perhaps there was more to their relations than mere lust.” He began to wander the room again. “And I suspect others may be involved as well. I want you to find out.”

  “Me, Your Eminence?”

  “Does that surprise you, Stavel?”

  “Actually, it does, Your Eminence. I would have thought that you would entrust the high chancellor with such a task.”

  The emperor gave a small smile. “Who’s to say how many people I intend to enlist in this effort? Given the nature of this conspiracy, wouldn’t I be foolish to place my faith in only one person?”

  Stavel hadn’t thought of this, and he found himself impressed with the workings of the emperor’s mind. “I see. Your Eminence is most wise.”

  “I want you to learn what you can about your fellow Qirsi, the high chancellor included.”

  Stavel felt himself blanch. “The high chancellor, Your Eminence?”

  “That frightens you, doesn’t it?” the emperor asked, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

  “The high chancellor is a … a formidable man, Your Eminence. He’s the most powerful Qirsi in your palace. Should he decide that one of us is no longer fit to serve you, he can have us banished from your court.”

  “Only with my consent, Stavel. Never forget that. Dusaan serves in this court at my pleasure, and should he try to have you banished, as you say, I won’t allow it to happen.”

  Even then, sitting in the emperor’s chamber, surrounded by the trappings of imperial power, Stavel could not help but wonder if this man, or anyone else for that matter, could protect him from the high chancellor.

  Their discussion ended a few moments later and Stavel returned to his chamber, accompanied once more by the two guards. He hadn’t spoken with the emperor since, though he had tried to find out what he could about his fellow Qirsi. He began to take his meals in the kitchens and halls rather than in his private chambers, allowing himself to overhear conversations to which, only a short time before, he would have been too well mannered to listen. He spoke with guards-casually, he hoped-about the comings and goings of the palace Qirsi, not only the ministers and chancellors, but also the healers and fire conjurers. He even dared ask about Dusaan, though to a man they denied having seen him leave the palace even once during the past several turns. This struck Stavel as odd, indeed nearly as much so as if they had told him that the high chancellor left the palace frequently, but he had no idea what to make of it.

  There were other peculiarities as well. Several turns before, it seemed, Nitara and Kayiv had left the palace together with some frequency, often returning later bearing some new trinket for the woman. And two other Qirsi, healers both, spent a good deal of time down at the wharves along the riverbank. Again, however, Stavel didn’t know what any of this meant. His was not the mind of a conspirator; he had no talent for connivance. He learned what he could, having no sense of what to do with the knowledge he gathered. Knowing nothing for certain, he couldn’t very well take any of this to the emperor. Nor could he ask anyone else what they thought of all he had learned, not without revealing himself as Harel’s spy.

  For the first time in all his years in Curtell, Stavel had truly been taken into the emperor’s confidence. And he had never felt so isolated.

  Attending the daily discussions with Dusaan and the emperor’s other advisors proved to be both the easiest and most difficult part of his work on Harel’s behalf. Whenever he spoke with the guards, the chancellor spent every moment terrified that he would be discovered by another of the emperor’s advisors. He had no such fears during the gatherings of chancellors and ministers. Even if Dusaan learned later that someone had reported to the emperor on the substance of their discussion, the high chancellor would have no way of knowing which of them was the informer. On the other hand, Stavel could not help feeling that he had betrayed all of his fellow Qirsi, and at no time was his guilt more pronounced than during these deliberations. As far as Stavel was concerned, they couldn’t end quickly enough.

  Midway through Elined’s waning, just over half a turn after the tragedy in Nitara’s chamber, Stavel began to hear rumors of a contentious exchange between Dusaan and the emperor. According to some, guards mostly, the emperor had the high chancellor disarmed and hooded before allowing Dusaan into the imperial chamber. Others said that it had gone far beyond that. The high chancellor, it was whispered, had been bound hand and foot before being granted entry. Once inside, it seemed that Dusaan had argued with the emperor, complaining about the treatment of palace Qirsi since Kayiv’s death. Exactly what the two men said remained vague in these tales, and Stavel might have been skeptical about the whole affair had it not been for a notable change in Dusaan’s demeanor soon after the day in question.

  Thinking about it later, Stavel realized that the first signs of change in Dusaan’s behavior began to manifest themselves the morning after this alleged argument. The high chancellor appeared distracted during the ministerial discussion, which itself was unusual. But more to the point, Dusaan didn’t seem bored, as he often did. Rather, he was seething, as if whatever occupied his mind so infuriated him that it was all the high chancellor could do simply to sit still. He ended their disc
ussion abruptly, long before a debate over how best to respond to an outbreak of pestilence near Pinthrel had run its course.

  The following morning was no better, and as the days went by, Dusaan’s mood grew ever darker, until Stavel began to wonder if he might harm himself or someone else.

  Only on this very morning, however, the sixth of the new waxing, did he understand just how gravely matters stood, and just how badly he had miscalculated.

  He was on his way to Dusaan’s chambers when a guard stopped him. It was one of the men who, on several occasions, had given him information about other Qirsi. A young man, no more than a year or two past his Fating, he was, nevertheless, uncommonly tall and broad in the shoulders. When he was fully grown, he would be massive. All of which made the wide-eyed, somewhat frightened expression on his face that much more comical.

  “Pardon me, Chancellor,” the man said, seeming unsure of himself, “but I know tha’ ye’ve been askin’ ’bout th’ high chanc’lor.”

  Stavel looked back over his shoulder, as if expecting to see Dusaan himself enter the corridor at any moment. Suddenly his hands were sweating.

  “Yes,” he said in a hushed voice, wishing he were elsewhere. “What about him?”

  “Well, ’e left th’ palace las’ night. First time any o’ us ca’ remember. ’E weren’t gone long. Less than ’n hour, I’d say. Bu’ when ’e come back, ’e had a large bundle under ’is arm.”

  “How large?”

  “Long like, no’ too fat mind ye. Put me ’n mind o’ a sword, wrapped in cloth.”

  Stavel could think of no explanation for this. He couldn’t imagine that a man in Dusaan’s position would need to purchase a weapon in the city marketplace. Most Qirsi serving in the court of a noble, particularly that of a sovereign, already had a sword. Stavel did. It was old, and for all he knew rusted at this point. He hadn’t so much as looked at in several years. But it was there in the back of his wardrobe, sheathed and ready should ever he need it. No doubt Dusaan had one as well. So what could he have been carrying?