Oath Keeper

by Jefferson Smith

  Sarqi reached out instinctively to be sure the Queen was secure on her own stair, but a shriek from above jerked his attention up the steeply sloping rock face, just in time to see the child come over the edge.

  Time slowed down as he took it all in. The girl was on her chest, sliding down the rocks and picking up speed. The old woman and the Queen both reached out a hand, trying to grab her as she shot between them.

  “No!” M’Ateliana screamed, as the girl’s kirfa brushed the Queen’s fingertips. Neither woman had been close enough.

  Without thinking, Sarqi leaped.

  The tall Djin stretched out, reaching, as he sailed through the air, oblivious to the scraping of the rock against his knees and feet. One long arm trailed behind him, dragging across the stone, and the other reached out toward the girl. Time slowed even more as he felt the fabric of her clothing slip between his fingers before he could close them, but in the very last instant, he felt one fingertip brush warm skin and he snapped his hand closed with crushing strength. Instinctively, his trailing hand grabbed at a passing hand-hold, and a moment later, he hung there from it. In the other hand, he clutched a screaming child, caught by the toes of one foot.

  And then a croaking song raked at his ears from below and he knew no more.

  * * *

  Arin’s heart broke as the terrified face of her young granddaughter shot past, and her own fingers closed on empty wind. Please, no. Not again. It had been hard enough to outlive her own daughter, Siani P’leth, taken earlier this year. But now, to have to watch, helpless, as Winry too was taken… Two generations of her own kin lost to the pits of Grimorl, while she herself still clawed greedily to life. Beside her, the Queen cried out in grief and loss, but Arin could not make a sound. There was too much sadness lodged in her throat. It threatened to choke her, and for the briefest instant, she considered throwing herself after the child, wondering if her own heavier body might reach the ground first and at least allow her to precede the child into the next world.

  Then, wonder of wonders! The scowling Djin threw himself like an eagle across the sky. Arin felt her heart leap, pounding with disbelief, as she watched him snatch her precious girl from the air. Oh, how she had wronged him! All of his squint-eyed glares and surly mutterings of the last half day were gone in an instant—erased from her memory, as she watched him grab calmly onto the Stair with one hand, Winry dangling from other. Safe. Somehow, miraculously, heroically safe! Dragon protect him. If ever there was anything she could do—

  But before she could finish that thought of praise, the wind brought a snatch of Gnomish moaning and revealed the cruel truth. The Djin’s valiant flight had taken him within range of the Gnomes who were clustered together below her. Singing. Even as she watched, still flushed from the joy of Winry’s reprieve, she saw everything change. She saw the light fade from the Djin’s upturned face, as he swung there from that one mighty arm. She saw the puff of the captain’s chest as he filled his lungs to continue his chant. She saw the look of hope that had spread upon the Queen’s face turn sour, as she too caught ear of the song. And in all those seeings, Arin Sha’eh made her choice. As calmly as though she were walking to the river, the old forest auntie reached out her arms to make herself as wide as possible.

  And stepped off the Stair.

  Chapter 38

  When Qhirmaghen returned from the Spinetop to Angiron’s Court, he had expected to be thrown into a cell. Beaten, for certain. Perhaps even tortured. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew he would be punished for his crime. Treason.

  It turned out however, that in order to be punished, your crimes first had to be discovered. And if they weren’t, well then, apparently you got invited to parties instead. Because that’s exactly what happened.

  To Qhirmaghen’s complete and utter surprise, none of his deeds of the last few days had come to anybody’s attention. Nobody had noticed his absence, and nobody had reported any of the Wasketchin prisoners missing. And wonder upon wonder, he was surprised to learn that while everybody did indeed know that the Djin Ambassador was missing, nobody much cared about that either.

  Because they thought he was dead.

  Ishnee had reported the collapse of Sarqi’s new embassy building, when he had found it lying in ruins on the morning of the escape. But the building had been erected right at the edge of the river, and with one entire wall and several sections of roof missing from the rubble completely, everyone has assumed that the missing stone had simply slid into the river and dragged the Ambassador’s body in with it. A brief message of condolence had been sent to the Djin King, but there had been no inquiries or complaints, except from one old thumb harvester, who had been hoping to add a specimen from House Kijamon to a collection he was amassing: Thumb Bones of the Great Houses. Nobody else had even commented on the Djin’s death.

  As for Qhirmaghen, with so much else going on to conduct the war, and King Angiron so busy with his “special projects,” even the Fallen Contender’s three-day absence had escaped notice. Whether that was a comment upon how little he was needed, or on just how much chaos had descended upon the Horde of late was anybody’s guess, but Qhirmaghen decided that he didn’t care. He was too busy feeling relieved.

  No shackles, no beatings. Instead, the King’s Master of Tasks and Schedules—a spineless eel named Geck—had simply arrived at Qhirmaghen’s lair that morning and handed him an invitation. To a fancy ball. Rather than being beheaded, he would be expected to sample dainties, chat with the King’s guests, and maybe to cavort a little, if anybody asked him to.

  It was in that moment that Qhirmaghen realized that the Resistance might have a chance. They had begun as a few disenchanted Gnomes, hiding in corners and whispering about how terrible things were. But real resistance required more than simple grumbling. In Qhirmaghen’s eyes, it required more than merely striking a useful blow for the cause too. Even a blind fool can find the sniff-pot on the first try sometimes. Doing so didn’t make him a scent artist. The real test—the thing that made the Resistance real to him now—was simply this: they had gotten away with it. That was what made a successful rebellion—the ability to not only win battles, but to also survive long enough to win more. And realizing that he would get the chance to do just that left Qhirmaghen feeling so eager that if he wasn’t careful, he might accidentally spend a grin.

  Geck could not tell him what the party was about, of course. Useless skite. Some dignitary or other that the King had invited. A new alliance of some kind. That’s all he would say. The Master of Tasks either did not know any more than that, or would not say any more, but it seemed a grand idea to Qhirmaghen. What better way to celebrate a successful raid than to eat and drink to excess from the table of your enemy? And maybe, if Urlech or one of the others was in attendance as well, there might be some time for further plotting too. Right under Angiron’s nose.

  * * *

  The party was held in the Squabbling Warren, a large chamber attached to the royal court, that was normally used for settling grievances between private citizens. Located in the caverns below the harvest tables, the Squabbling Warren had a ready and steady supply of offal, charnel and decomposing bits and bobs—all the necessary ingredients for a good squabble. Adversaries would gather in that chamber before the King’s Adjudicator, and then snarl their grievances while rolling in the more vimful tailings and flinging the weaker mucks at each other. They would then perform some test of power set for them by the Adjudicator, using the vim they had managed to accumulate in the snarling round. Whoever won the joust was judged to be victorious, favored in the dispute by the Dragon himself.

  For the party however, most of the tailings had been cleared from the room, although some choice gobbets and smears were still visible in the corners and higher up on the walls, giving the function an air of extravagance and sophistication. Qhirmaghen was fortunate not to have any other duties or errands for the day—who made plans for the day after they expected to be executed?—so he was one of the first to a
rrive, and managed to secure a particularly slick corner for himself, wriggling with delight at the texture and fragrance of his surroundings as he settled into his corner to watch the other guests arrive.

  Most of them Qhirmaghen recognized from court. The Warden of the Table Yard, The Keeper of Tales, the Crop Master and his three Seeders. Qhirmaghen locked eyes briefly with Seeder Chuffich before the Crop Master dragged them all off to find a wallow they could dominate, but it was just as well, this was neither the time nor place for them to be seen chatting.

  After the Seeders came a variety of Hordesmen. Middle ranks mostly, but a few of the more senior staffers were still on hand to attend. Qhirmaghen knew very few of Angiron’s military stick wavers, but Barker Shleth was a hard Gnome to miss. Taller than most, but scarcely half Qhirmaghen’s mass, composed entirely of gristle and tendon, Barker Shleth was a wiry old root who had commanded the Gnomileshi Horde under both of the previous two Kings. But Angiron had set the old Gnome aside and taken command of the Horde himself, turning them from a labor force into an army, and what did a Master Tunnel Digger know about fighting battles? Shleth was Barker now in name only, but having served at court for so long, he was still very well connected, and he used those connections well. King Angiron could not openly slight him. Not if he wanted the Horde to continue following orders, anyway. Most Hordesmen were blindly devoted to the old man, as were many of the other more seasoned courtiers. An open quarrel with Shleth might have unsettled the newly won crown on Angiron’s head.

  Qhirmaghen would have loved to bring the old man into their Resistance, but he’d never been heard to say even a single word against the King, nor to grumble or gripe about having been cast aside. The risks of approaching him were simply too great. That was a tunnel they could not dig until they knew what kind of soil the old man lay in.

  Following Shleth, there were few new arrivals of note, and Qhirmaghen shifted his attention from watching the entrance hole to watching the ebb and flow of power about the room. People power, that is. Not vim. When it came to vimstench, Qhirmaghen himself was the current king of that odor, owing to his choice location.

  Inevitably however, there was little to learn. Most of the attendees were experienced party-goers, and knew better than to say anything of importance where unintended ears might be listening, and the less experienced guests were also less powerful, so they had little of interest to say.

  Everyone was still awaiting the arrival of King Angiron and his mysterious guest when Qhirmaghen was startled to find Barker Shleth at his elbow, which was quite a feat in itself, given how hard it is to sneak up on somebody who has wedged himself tightly into a corner.

  “Quite the lofty perch you have there, Contender. You must have arrived early.” Shleth was holding a cup of effluent and had slurred a few of his words, but Qhirmaghen was not fooled. The old man would never allow himself to be compromised at such a gathering. But he would certainly stoop to letting others believe he was.

  “It’s Fallen Contender, as you well know, Barker,” Qhirmaghen replied. “The Contest is over.”

  “Is it now?” the old man grumbled. “You’re sure about that, are you? So you haven’t gone and lost any dead things lately, then? Something that by rights belonged to the King?”

  Qhirmaghen froze. If he’d had any terror left to his name, it would have leaked out all over his face, but as it was, all he had to put there was blinking puzzlement.

  Shleth ignored the denial, and waved his drink companionably around the room. “Oh, I’m not saying it was you yourself, understand. But a body goes missing—a valuable one like that—and somebody high up has got to know, don’t you think?”

  Qhirmaghen lowered his voice. “Barker? I— I don’t exactly know what you’re suggesting. You th— think I’ve done something… inappropriate?”

  Shleth shot him a quick, squint-eyed glare and lowered his own voice for just a moment. “Keep your voice up, you skite. Nobody pays attention to a loud conversation at one of these things, but a whisper’s an invitation to snoop.” Then he patted Qhirmaghen on the shoulder, like a concerned uncle. “That’s right,” he said. “Vanished like a puff and nobody even knows it’s gone. Quite the feat, wouldn’t you say? Almost as great as bringing the Fury’s Finger to the Arch. Has the look to me of a Contender who’s still Contending, that’s all. Not that I’d blame him. No sir. Not one bit.”

  Shleth slapped him on the nose in a too-chummy way, playing up the inebriated oldster, then he turned and wandered away again, leaving Qhirmaghen short of breath. His eyes darted around the room, trying to see who might have overheard their conversation, but it seemed the old man had been right. Despite the loud, almost treasonous talk in the open, nobody was looking his way. There weren’t even any mysteriously quiet folk standing around, staring at their own hands or feet. Not a single soul seemed to have heard them.

  And had Qhirmaghen heard him correctly? Had Barker Shleth, commander of the Gnomileshi Horde, just declared his sympathies for the Resistance? And what was that veiled jab about a body? Qhirmaghen hadn’t trafficked in any bodies. He’d taken a prisoner. A very important, and very much alive prisoner. What body could the old man be referring to?

  The Fallen Contender would have spent more thought on the question, but Angiron chose that moment to arrive, scurrying down the entrance tunnel and emerging into the room with a flourish of the cape that he had taken to wearing at social functions, instead of the traditional crown. When all eyes were on him, he gestured back toward the entrance and waited, and all eyes turned with him. The outer door had been left open and the brighter light of the world above flickered and dipped as someone stepped into the tunnel and strode down it. The light continued to dim in spastic twitches as the figure reached the bottom, a silhouette wreathed in the yellow-white light of day, and then stepped into the gloom.

  “Give greetings to the Battle Mistress, Princess of the Miseratu,” Angiron announced. “Newly returned from exile upon the Cold Shoulder, by way of the very fires of Grimorl.” He bowed low as the hairy woman stepped further into the room, still overlit from behind and hard to see. Those in attendance craned their necks forward, peering against the strong light. “I give you my new Lady Wife and Consort.” The woman stepped forward where all could see her and nodded her head as though acknowledging their gasps of surprise. She was as ugly as a tree—a hairy tree—with long blue ear lobes.

  “Please, make welcome your new Queen. Queen Regalia.”

  Chapter 39

  “I’m getting too fat for this,” Qhirmaghen muttered, then he remembered where he was and cursed himself for speaking aloud. Sure, he was burrowed in under the floor, but that didn’t mean he was safe from prying ears. It would be just like Angiron to have a personal snoop inspect each room before he entered it. And how would that be, to be dug up by some Undergrunter and executed for treason? Qhirmaghen hunkered down in his hastily dug tunnel beneath the King’s lounging chambers and resigned himself to a long—and silent—wait.

  After the reception, he’d rushed away as quickly as he’d been able, to Ishig’s Book, in search of Urlech. After all, Urlech was the one who’d told them that the King’s new wife was a Wasketchin girl, and now here was Angiron, flaunting some other… creature, as his new Queen. Qhirmaghen wasn’t sure what she was, but she was certainly not Wasketchin, and she most definitely was not a girl, no matter what manner of beast she turned out to be. Every inch of her had radiated a single notion: ancient evil.

  Urlech’s response had been to consult the bones.

  “The Wasketchin girl is still bound to him,” Urlech had reported, after the clicking and dripping had ceased echoing throughout the cavern.

  “As wife?”

  Urlech shrugged. “Bound. That is all I can say. The bones speak without such subtleties.”

  “Then who is the crone?”

  “A replacement?” Urlech suggested. “Let us judge by the events upon the Arch during the Contest. The girl defied him openly, and stole his
Pledge. Does it seem that our King enjoys the faithful obedience of his young wife? Perhaps she is more trouble than he had hoped.”

  “Could he have annulled the marriage and chosen another?” Qhirmaghen asked, but Urlech shook his head.

  “No. An annulment would have broken the bond. More probably, he has secreted her away somewhere, out of public sight, so that she cannot interfere further. This new Queen may be a decoy. Someone to present to the Horde for now. Someone more agreeable to his aims.”

  Now it was Qhirmaghen’s turn to disagree. “No, the crone may be a decoy, but he does not have the girl. He doesn’t even know where she is. He’s been running around ever since the coronation trying to find her, but still she eludes him.”

  “Indeed?” Urlech said, widening his eyes in surprise. “A mere girl outfoxes our Trickster Prince?”

  “So it would seem,” Qhirmaghen said, nodding in agreement. “Or perhaps he simply wishes us to believe so. But where does that leave us?”

  Urlech paced around the dark cavern for a moment, rubbing his nose in thought. Then he stopped. “There are two routes to be taken,” he said. “First, we must find the girl, and give her any aid we can.”

  “Agreed. And the second tunnel?”

  “Curious for you to use that word,” Urlech had replied. “We need more information about the crone…”