Oath Keeper

by Jefferson Smith

  “Has your king returned yet?”

  “No, Ambassador.”

  “Has a message arrived from my father, or from my king?”

  “No, Ambassador.”

  “Have you people finally learned how to cook proper meat? Or make a decent cup of boh-cho?”

  “You make a sky-dweller jest, I think,” Ishnee replied. “Such things are not food fit to the court of the Gnomileshi Horde.” He looked up, judging the sky with a practiced eye. “You may break your fast soon, as we all will. The swarm will rise early today.”

  “Go on! Get away, you death-hugging rot-sucker!” Sarqi kicked dust and pebbles angrily toward the face in the little hole.

  “Many thanks, Ambassador. Such ire shall buy me a fine supper tonight, I think.” Ishnee vanished back into his hole.

  “Scumlings!” Sarqi shouted, banging a fist against the wall. It was so starvingly difficult to keep his emotions to himself in this place, and he suspected the little skites knew it too. They were always provoking him with their bland, expressionless behavior, and every time he lost his temper, more Gnomes would appear—like magic—crawling from out of the stonework to bask in his tirade. To them, emotions were like rich coin, and he was having a hard time not spraying his hosts indiscriminately with his treasure trove of riches.

  For the hundredth time, Sarqi considered simply walking out, marching up the long slope to the Lip of the Throat, and pausing for a moment, to roll a dozen or so boulders back down the slope behind him, before heading home to the Anvil. But he had given his word to stay in his “embassy” until summoned by the King or a member of the royal court. And although the Gnomes had no bond-rings or honor rituals of their own, Sarqi’s word and the honor of his father’s House meant more to him than his freedom. So he hunkered back down against the clammy stone wall of his office to await his release.

  * * *

  Chuffich drew another small gobbet from the pouch at his waist and pushed it down into the warm, damp soil along the river bank. Like all Gnome crop seeders, he had his favorite spots, and he tried to keep his new offerings quite near to previous ones, so that he could monitor the long-term progress of his territory as he worked. The oldest dimple he could identify in the soil was perhaps three weeks old. Of course, the gobbets planted there had long since dissolved to join with the general muck of the embankment, but he was pleased to see that his more recent divots showed excellent development, crawling with plump, succulent maggots. He regularly fought with the urge to sample a little treat—purely for quality control purposes, of course—but in his heart, he knew that for every one he plucked in his greed today, the eventual harvest count would be shy by another thousand or even a score of thousands. Once established, the crop would multiply ferociously, but even this was only just fast enough to keep the balance—his kinsmen were voracious harvesters. Delicate and back-aching as the work was, the balance must be maintained. Chuffich drew another fly-specked morsel of flesh from his pouch and moved along to his next spot.

  “Dark skies to you, Seeder Chuffich.”

  Chuffich whipped his head around, cursing at the interruption. “Who would sneak up on a— Oh. It’s you, Urlech. How may this one assist the Reader of the Book?” By tradition, the keeper of the shrine of the dead was welcome anywhere. Even in the midst of your mucking workplace in the middle of your work day.

  Urlech squatted down to join Chuffich, although he managed to avoid the squelchiest part of the bank, keeping his robes more or less unspattered. “Just Urlech, for this moment,” he said. “The Reader is still deep within his Book, if you understand me.”

  Chuffich raised an eyebrow. “An odd hair to be slicing,” he said. “But in that case, what do you want, Urlech? I’m busy.” He waved another of his tantalizing strips of infected meat before the shrine-keeper’s face and Chuffich was pleased to see that Urlech was a Gnome like all others. Even the Reader had licked his lips. But the temptation passed quickly, and Urlech once more wore his usual expression of peaceful authority.

  “The bones give us much, Chuffich, and today they have given me a gift that must be relayed to… certain parties, yet I do not know with certainty who these parties might be.”

  Chuffich snorted thick, black, soil-laced phlegm from one nostril and hit his latest planting on the first try. Then he stood up to confront this unwelcome intrusion directly. “Look, I don’t know what yer after, Urlech, but I’ve got wor-”

  “You know that Velch has ascended of late, do you not? And that a bone of his was delivered into my keeping that same day? It is a very curious bone that has spoken of nothing but secrets and deceits. At the highest levels, no less…” Urlech let his voice trail off, but his meaning was clear and Chuffich’s blood began to tremble.

  “I uh, knew Velch,” Chuffich admitted.

  Urlech nodded. “As I was given to understand,” he said. “Then perhaps you will be able to tell me the names of some few others who… ‘knew’ Velch. Hmm?”

  Chuffich nudged at a planting with one toe and kept his gaze away from Urlech. He was certain the Reader would be able to read his thoughts, betrayed by the very bones within his body. The Reader of Ishig’s Book was rumored to have access to all sorts of arcane knowledge, and many suspected that his powers were not limited to reading only the bones of the dead.

  Urlech seemed to sense Chuffich’s concerns and patted the seeder’s arm reassuringly. “Be easy, Chuffich. You perhaps misunderstand my intent.” Then he dropped his voice low, so that only Chuffich himself and the sack full of flapmeat could hear him. “I do not intend to expose the Resistance,” he whispered. “My aim is to join them.”

  “Ah,” Chuffich said, breathing a trifle more easily, but still not sure he could trust this conversation. “If that be your aim, then it might be I know someone who could perhaps be of some assistance, but I’ll not hand over any names. Seems mayhap I could divine a way of getting word to someone who might know how to contact those you mentioned. Give it to me and I’ll get your message to where you’ve aimed it. I’m sure if they be interested, one of ‘em will be by to make a donation to the Book. In time.”

  If Urlech had a smile to his name, he would have gladly given it to Chuffich right then and there. “That will be sufficient, friend Seeder,” Urlech said. “The message is this: The bones are unhappy. They tremble at new policies. I would offer my counsel to these ‘friends of your friend.’”

  “Well, that may be a very interesting message, Reader. I’ll see that it finds the proper ear.” Then Chuffich squatted back down in the mud and pulled another temptation from his pouch. When he’d heard Urlech leave, and was sure the shrine-keeper wouldn’t be coming back, Chuffich dropped his pouch into the mud and ran toward the market.

  A very interesting message indeed.

  * * *

  Urlech lay across his favorite rock. Alone in the darkness, he listened to the simple noises that only he could interpret. The clicks and plops of the cave around him, that to any other ear might signify a leak from the ceiling above or the settling of an unstable pile of rock or bone, were to him a quiet conversation unfolding among ancient neighbors, between generations out of time.

  There was a scuffling sound near the entry hole and the ray of light that shone through it winked out. A moment later, a shape emerged and stood upright, silhouetted now against the light from the world outside.

  “You seek the past,” Urlech said. It was the ritual greeting of this place.

  “I do not come for words from your Book,” his new guest said. “I am told by the friend of a friend that the words I seek would come from the Reader.”

  Urlech recognized the voice, as most Gnomes now did, given the recent Contest for the Crown. “Fallen Contender,” Urlech said. “Your presence is entirely unexpected.”

  “Do you mean that you were not expecting a reply so soon, Reader? Or that you expected one but are unsettled to find that it is me who brings it?”

  “Perhaps both,” Urlech admitted. “Althou
gh I judge that it is fitting. To share my message with one in such a position as yours will forestall many pointless discussions with lesser lieutenants who could only report and return. I confess that I had expected to go through this several times before finally offering my Reading to one who could act.”

  Qhirmaghen nodded. “Your thoughts reflect my own. The message you offered through our… friend suggested both import and urgency. I thought it best to set aside such tedious delays. Would it surprise you that your name is known at Court, Reader Urlech? It is a name draped in the sinews of respect. I judge that my secrets will remain my own, should our conversation not carry us any further than this place.”

  Interesting, Urlech thought to himself. As a Gnome accustomed to extracting the echoes of deeds, desires, lamentations and regrets from nothing more than the sound of a watery drip, Urlech could read much from veiled speech. Reading Qhirmaghen was no challenge. He comes alone, and offers flattery and threats. These are distractions, leading away from the question of why it was he who came. The Resistance is not as large as I had hoped. He comes because there is no other who could be sent.

  “So, tell me Fallen One, should our words prove to continue beyond this place, would I be the fourth voice of dissent, or would I be only the third?”

  Qhirmaghen, who was a relatively wealthy Gnome, having spent much of his life trading with sky-dwellers, spent a whole chuckle now. “You read the speech of the living as well as you do the reposed, my friend. And now that we have gamed our game of words, shall we talk plainly? Let me begin. Diminishing the count for Velch, your increase would bring our number back to five.”

  Urlech offered a grin as polite change and stood up, beckoning the Contender to follow. “Plain speech is not for the chamber of the Book,” he said over his shoulder. “I have a damper hole where we might be more at ease. Come.”

  By the sounds of expensive robes brushing upon rock, he knew that Qhirmaghen followed after him. Good. Because they had much to discuss. And the first order of business was going to have to be growing their ranks. Risky as it may be, they would need to gather others who opposed the King into their fold, and quickly.

  Or the war would be over before anybody could wet a finger.

  * * *

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Sarqi looked up. It was a different Gnome today. This one was standing at the edge of the river bank, looking down at the waters that raced by, plunging down this final leg of their journey into the bowels of the Throat. Sarqi had not yet met this one.

  “My executioner, at last?” Sarqi asked, unable to curb the sarcastic tongue that he now bit, punishing himself for not having mastered it before he spoke.

  “I do not know of any executions in your future, Ambassador. No, my name is Qhirmaghen, last of the failed Contenders for the Crown. I am also the Overcaptain of Minor Works, and I serve as King Angiron’s adviser. I thought it time to present myself and see if there is anything I might do to make your stay with us more comfortable. King Angiron is rather busy of late, and I’m afraid all of your demands to see him and your expressions of dissatisfaction have been routed to me. Until the King is free once more to consider his relations with your people, of course.”

  Sarqi eyed the adviser curiously. This was neither the lick-and-spit nor the kick-and-spit types of Gnomes that had visited before. Some had come to woo information from him with their assortments of promises and flattery, while others tried threats and even violence—now that such things had become possible again, with the collapse of the Dragon’s Peace—but there was little the Gnomes valued that a Djin would value too, and there really wasn’t much a Gnome could do to a Djin’s body that would compel him to any traitorous action. So their attempts had all been more entertainment to him than motivation.

  Yet this one was different.

  “This sad rock you have given me for shelter does nothing to keep out the wetness.” Sarqi gestured at the river racing past. A steady spray splashed in through the open side of his “embassy,” which was nothing more than a pair of tall stones leaning together above his head. “Dampness may be sacred fun for a Gnome, but it could cause even the hardiest of Djin to sicken and die. Is that the kind of message your ‘King’ wants to send to mine?”

  Sarqi watched Qhirmaghen calmly as the Gnome considered his reply. Probably trying to decide what kind of lie to tell. But when he spoke, the Gnome’s response was another surprise.

  “Your point is well taken, Ambassador Sarqi. I have to confess that I do not understand the reason for your confinement in such a place. The Djin are known to possess great strength. I must assume that you remain within these walls only because you have given your word to do so. And thus, since it is not the walls that confine you here, but the dictates of your honor, I see no reason why we could not permit you a larger territory to roam, were you to accept those greater limits under that same bond. Would that be acceptable?”

  Sarqi had thought his captors to be rather dull witted, and completely ignorant of the Djin, but this one seemed to know a little more than most.

  “It would be acceptable,” Sarqi said.

  The Gnome nodded. “If I have your bond-word that you will remain within sight of these walls that currently constrain you, then it is within my power to grant you that freedom.”

  “Then you have my bond-word,” Sarqi replied. “I will stay within sight of these walls.” With a nod of agreement from Qhirmaghen, Sarqi stepped out onto the slope of the riverside and stretched his lanky Djin frame until he thought his back might crack in two.

  “How does Qhirmaghen, failed Contender, come to know so much of Djin ways?” Sarqi asked, as he bent forward to stretch another set of cramped and tired muscles.

  “It has been my family’s business for many generations to act as broker in transactions between sky-dweller artisans and the merchants of the Gnomileshi Horde. I have even been to your Anvil, and to the Wind Forge of your father, on several occasions. I am in awe, though I must admit, I was terrified the entire time I was there. I do not understand how any creatures can live so far from the warm, wet embrace of soil.” Both men shuddered in vague distaste for the other’s homeland.

  Once his stretches were done, Sarqi looked around until he found a suitable grouping of rocks, clustered together, but of differing heights. He moved to face these, checking over his shoulder to be sure he could still see the walls, and then he began to ascend the rocks. He stepped lightly from one to another to the next, until he was at the top of his improvised stairway. Then he retraced his movements, descending back down without turning around. This he repeated a number of times, each time faster and more fluidly, until he had satisfied the needs of his legs and stepped easily down onto the riverbank.

  “Thank you for the increase to my embassy,” Sarqi said. The temptation to lace his thanks with scorn pulled mightily at the sour Djin, but he was determined to make some progress in his ambassadorial duties, even if he had to rip out his own tongue to do so. “Was there further purpose in your visit, or did you come only to see to my comfort?”

  Qhirmaghen nodded. “There was, yes, there was. It is a delicate matter, but one that might prove to the benefit of both our people. It is said that there were three who warded the Wagon, yourself and your two brothers—the three sons of Kijamon—and that you bore the burden of two kings upon your honor.” Sarqi’s nostrils flared slightly. Qhirmaghen paused. “I see in your eyes that I tread dangerously, Ambassador. I assure you that I have no intent against the secrets of your House or of your people. I have only recently been confirmed in my new duties as adviser, and I would understand the full story of your ill-fated journey before deciding what course to recommend to my King. I had hoped you might illuminate some details for me.”

  Sarqi closed his eyes and slowly recited the oath of his House to himself. It was a method his mother had been trying to teach him for years, to master his thoughts when they threatened to master him. Did this wet-sucker really think that Sarqi would te
ll the story about how another rot-eater had outfoxed him and his brothers and consigned the honor of their House to the shame of rust? He repeated the oath to himself again, struggling against his own rising gorge all the while. Yes, he decided. He would tell that story. And he would tell it well, with humor, and many smiles, as though he were a complete donkey about the value of his laughter. Because, Sarqi realized, if he wanted to acquit himself of this “ambassadorship” that had been thrust upon him—even though he had not asked for it—then he was going to need information of his own.

  “I would be happy to share my memories,” he said, as politely as he could manage. “Where would you like to begin?”

  * * *

  Their discussion lasted nearly an hour. At first, Sarqi had done most of the talking, but as time wound on, Qhirmaghen had inserted more of his own thoughts and interpretations into the conversation—interpretations that gave Sarqi the distinct impression that his Gnome visitor was leading toward something other than a simple accounting of Sarqi’s encounter with the sprites. Why hadn’t he asked how Zimu had managed to get free? Or why Sarqi had not? Or where Abeni and the girl had gone?

  When the story had been told to its end, Qhirmaghen rose to his feet, promising to do whatever else he could to ease the Djin Ambassador’s stay. Then Qhirmaghen glanced suspiciously toward the jailer’s bolt hole, before turning to give Sarqi a direct and meaningful gaze.

  “Thank you, Ambassador,” he said. “You have given me much that I can use. Tasty flapmeat that my own King will no doubt crave.” And then he left.

  Sarqi watched the strange little Gnome make his way back up the path and out of sight. What had he meant by that? Flapmeat for the King? That was how Abeni had kept the water sprites off balance—by offering flapmeat to the “Kings of Night.” But what did that have to do with Sarqi now? Or Angiron?