by Garon Whited
“That’s unusual,” I observed. “Most people venerate one deity over others, but it’s a personal choice and usually not exclusive. All the others get some attention based on their areas of control, too.”
“It’s not a purely religious thing. He has very secular aims. In my digging around, I’ve discovered something I think is relevant.”
“Such as?”
“Did you know the mess of morons on the Kingsway were sent up there by Lotar?”
“The ones who were chanting and waving medallions at me?”
“Yes. Those.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“He hand-picked them from among the clergy. They were the most devout he could find, I think. They were the ones who leaned toward the vows of poverty, humility, good works, and personal sacrifice.”
“I did notice a shortage of shoes, now you mention it.”
“I think he’s using you—or tried to use you—as a way to deal with what he thinks of as an internal problem within his local branch of the Church. The goodie-no-shoes were meant to go up the Kingsway, be cast down and killed, and the holy war could begin without interference from the kinder, gentler elements.”
“Huh. That makes entirely too much sense. It makes me wonder if he had anything to do with Brother Perrin falling from the Kingsway. I didn’t see it, so I assumed it was an accident…”
“No idea,” Mary said. “I wouldn’t put it past him, though. Lacking a mass slaughter, he might be framing you for picking off individuals. Not the big splash he wanted, but still useful to him and his cronies. From what I hear, he’s working with someone outside the city—he has a surprising amount of correspondence going in and out, usually at least one message a day. I think they’re planning either a coup or a revolution. It might have some bearing on the troop movements in Rethven.”
“How did you find this out?”
“During the day, I can fraternize with anyone,” she replied, smiling prettily. “At night, I can’t actually enter the building he’s using as a temple—regardless of the shape, it’s apparently holy ground of some sort—but I can listen from outside. I even got a megaphone and used it like an ear trumpet to help localize what I was hearing. It was surprisingly helpful.”
“I imagine it would be. It would cut down on the extraneous sounds from other directions, making it easier to focus on what you aimed at.”
“Yep. Try it sometime.”
“I might.”
“Second thing. There’s an elf who wants to talk to you. Some eye candy named Salishar. She says she’s an emissary from the Duke of Vathula. We didn’t include her in the council meeting because nobody trusts her and she’s only the messenger. She’s been waiting here for you for about a week, so no rush.”
“I’ll see her after I have lunch with Corrin.”
“I’ll let her know.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and one more thing. I think Lissette has a concubine or consort or sideboy. I’m not sure.”
“Oh?” I felt my eyebrows rise. “That’s interesting.”
“I bring it up because I don’t know, I just suspect. I heard rumors about her and the Demon King. You might not be the father of all Lissette’s children. Seeing as they’re potential heirs, I suppose you might want to look into it.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. It’s probably Thomen, but I’ll keep my ear to the wall.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be ‘ear to the ground’?”
“We’re inside a mountain. The wall is the ground.”
“Fair point,” she agreed. “I’ll do my best to help. Anything you want me to find out?”
“I don’t know. I’m still trying to take in the big picture and digest the details. A lot happened while I was having my autopsy and I’m not feeling completely myself, yet.”
“That’s hardly polite table talk.”
“True. Blame it on my post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“You joke about it, but maybe you’re whistling past the graveyard. You have plenty of cause for PTSD.”
“I know. And I’m also aware I’m not quite myself. That’s why I want more time to think about things and settle down. I’m trying to take extra time and make extra-rational decisions because I know I could do terrible things if I don’t stay tightly focused and controlled.”
We were silent for a few minutes, getting a lot of food off the tray.
“Vlad—I mean, Halar,” Mary asked, “do we know why Lissette is throwing troops this way? I mean, it’s not because I was disrespectful, was it?”
“No, I’m sure that’s not it. Oh, it may have been a precipitating factor or a good excuse or a last straw, but the last straw can’t be blamed for the breaking of the camel’s back. I’ll give good odds I can talk her into calling it off.”
“Really? How?”
“By giving her anything she wants. That’s basically my plan.”
“Oh.” Mary was silent for a moment while I put plates back on the tray. “Isn’t that a bit one-sided?”
“Ah, but I want her to be Queen, along with all it entails. People need to know she’s in charge, ruling and reigning, and toe the line for her as they apparently did for the Demon King.”
“Hmm. Okay. If you say so.”
“Problem?”
“I’m not sure about it. We’ll give it a good try and see if it takes.”
“Fair enough. And for the meeting with the elf… I’m not in a great mood, but I think I can manage to keep my temper with Salishar. Go ahead and send her in, please. I’ll handle her first, then have lunch with Corran. Warn her His Majesty is not in the best of tempers, would you?”
“I’ll take the tray, too, Your Majesty,” she said, adding a mocking lilt to her voice. I approved; I don’t take my title seriously, either. I only make use of it.
Mary took the dishes away. A few minutes later, the door pivoted open again and Torvil escorted Salishar into the room. She entered with the usual uncanny, slightly-unnerving grace characteristic of elves. Waves roll up a beach in a stumbling, clumsy fashion by comparison. Wind staggers drunkenly through the autumn treetops. Comets lumber heavily through the sky, waving crazy tails at the stars. Clouds collide and grind together like children driving bumper cars. I’m either jealous or envious; I keep confusing the two. But when you add in some inhuman elven beauty I’m definitely disgusted.
Salishar drew back her hood and knelt as soon as she came through the doorway, crossing her hands before her face, palms out. I looked her over, trying to spot a weapon. Her outfit was a mix of silk and leather, all in shades of grey, with her silver hair matching the silvery trim on her garments. I didn’t see anything, not even a hairpin, but the bracers on her forearms and the greaves on her shins could conceal a variety of smaller nasties. Unless they strip-searched her—which I doubted they did—they wouldn’t find everything. Maybe not even then.
I decided not to dismiss Torvil. Instead, I caught his eye and nodded at the seat at the far end of the table. He escorted her there and stood behind her, sword drawn. Given the table was a slab of stone supported by two smaller slabs of stone, there was no way to throw something under the table at me. With her seat pushed hard forward, she wasn’t getting up quickly unless Torvil let her.
She made no objection to any of this. She kept her hands in plain sight on top of the table. She moved slowly, even meekly. I didn’t buy it. I’m a nightlord and I terrify elves because they remember the old days, when nightlords were the dark demigods of the world. But elves are unpredictable and treacherous. At least, everyone I’ve ever eaten seemed to think so. I haven’t really seen it, myself, but maybe they’re being extra cautious around the ancient evil demigod.
On the other hand, maybe I was feeling extra paranoid for some reason. Can’t imagine what it would be, though.
“Welcome to Karvalen,” I offered.
“It is my honor and pleasure to greet you once again, Na’irethed zarad’na.”
“Indeed, it is,”
I agreed, putting on my Egotistical Tyrant hat. “You have something to tell me?”
“I was sent to report, Na’irethed zarad’na.” She glanced to the side, as though to look behind her without turning her head. “Shall I do so now?” she asked, with a faint emphasis on “now.”
Report. On what? By whom? Why? I wanted to ask, but it would show how much I didn’t know. Was the Duke of Vathula actively serving the Demon King? Or was he aware of the deception by my darker half and simply played along? If the latter, he might be trying to find out if I was myself again. If the former, he might be disturbed to know I was myself again. Who was providing information to whom in this meeting?
Speaking of information, what could she report on? Whatever it was, she didn’t think I wanted her to talk about it in front of Torvil, which told me it was unpleasant to a degree my personal guards might find objectionable. If I insisted on a report in Torvil’s presence, it would tell her something—what, I’m not sure, but something.
Never give anything away to an elf.
“Torvil, would you be so good as to send for something? Wine, Salishar?”
“Yes, Na’irethed zarad’na.”
Torvil nodded and left the room, swinging the door closed behind him.
“Now that we’re alone, stop calling me that. Address me as ‘Dread Lord.’ Calling me ‘Master of the Lords of Shadow’ is too much of a mouthful and I don’t want to keep hearing it.”
“Yes, Dread Lord.”
“Better. Now, report,” I snapped. Her hands tensed, as though trying to grip the glossy stone of the tabletop.
“Dread Lord, with your disappearance, the Duke of Vathula set into motion the contingencies you decreed. They progress.”
“I see.” I didn’t. “Details.”
“The magician T’yl has been taken and has been destroyed. His ashes have been scattered. Several agents have been dispatched to deal with the children; the process of extermination is ongoing. However, recently there have been others who interfere with the work by doing it first. In a single night, Carrillon has lost almost a hundred of those children to some agency we have not yet identified.”
I am surrounded by child-murdering fiends in flesh. Is it something the Demon King arranged deliberately, or is it merely a side effect of employing bastards?
I took a minute to tell myself some things.
It’s the Demon King, not Salishar, who is responsible. You can’t do anything about the dead ones, but you can save the rest. Yes, you make a great guardian demon, but anyone you kill in revenge right now is only a messenger, not the one truly responsible—and the one truly responsible is in the hands of Johann. Or has Johann. Something like that.
Calm down.
I noticed Salishar wasn’t speaking. She was waiting, silently, for me to say something. Her breathing was fast and shallow and I could see the rapid-fire thump of her pulse in her throat.
Goodness. I think she was frightened. I wondered if my shadow was doing something weird even though it was daytime. I chose not to look.
“Go on,” I instructed, quietly.
“May I ask if it was something you performed personally, Dread Lord?”
“The murder of the children?” I asked. It was difficult to keep a straight face. She was asking the Demon King, or thought she was. Not me. I resisted the impulse to kick the slab of the tabletop through her chest.
“It was not,” I told her.
“Shall we attempt to discover the party or parties responsible? Or is it of concern to you who does it so long as your command is carried out?”
I thought furiously for several seconds while trying to maintain a façade of cool deliberation. It wasn’t easy. I needed the time to suppress my instant desire to leap the length of the table and put my fist through her face. I wasn’t exactly at my most calm and controlled, especially after the children’s bloodbath.
“What I wanted,” I said, lying as well as I knew how, “was the personal satisfaction involved in being the force of life and death. This has been corrupted by someone. The entirety of the thing, the artistic merit of it, is ruined. Recall the agents; there is no point in continuing.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice.
“Find out who was responsible for the incident in Carrillon. I want to know.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie. She seemed to grasp I was especially serious about that part; she momentarily raised her hands in the face-hiding gesture, as though saluting.
“I will see to it, Dread Lord.”
“Good,” I said, leaning back. “Have you more to report?”
“Yes, Dread Lord. We have attempted to locate and destroy the magician Tort in the same fashion as the magician T’yl. We have been unsuccessful. Agents did locate a body, but have since located two more. We believe them all to be decoys, not the real Tort. With this revelation, we are now concerned about the measures the magician T’yl may have taken. It is possible only decoys have been destroyed, not the magician himself.”
“Obviously, this is more challenging than expected,” I said, trying to sound as though I were merely musing. This was like a list of buttons marked Do Not Push for me. Was this deliberate on the part of the Demon King? Did he consider a time when his reign would end and prepare for it—that is, prepare contingencies to hurt and enrage me? It certainly felt like it. And, given the later manipulations by the Evil Orb, it seemed more than a possibility, maybe more than a probability.
I realized I was distracted from the conversation and returned my wandering attention to Salishar.
“Very well, continue to search. However, upon locating T’yl or Tort, take no action other than to notify me. I’ll handle them personally.”
“As you command, Dread Lord.”
“What else?”
“His Grace the Duke of Vathula requests three more human women be impregnated. He wishes to know if you desire the women sent here for your use, or to Carrillon.”
“Three more?” I repeated. “What happened to the previous ones?”
“Alas, Dread Lord, the process of changing an unborn human into an elf is arduous and long. Few survive the process. Even the early stages may prove fatal.”
I knew that. Something I’d discussed with Bob a long time ago. Elves—at least, the elves of this flat world—don’t reproduce. They weren’t designed to be self-replicating. Apparently, their creator intended them to last forever and occasionally manufactured a few more to make up any losses. When their creator-thing went away or faded out or did whatever mythological origin creatures do, they were stuck with trying to manufacture more elves. So, they figured out a way, using unborn human babies, transforming them into elves in the womb.
It failed nine times out of ten, or some such awful statistic. But so what? They didn’t care. You spend seven years working on it and it dies. Oops. Start over. Elves are immortal and they were made that way from the beginning. It’s simply how they think—infinitely long-term.
I could stand to have a dose of that sort of patience. Maybe I need more elves in my diet.
So, now, if I could assume awful things of Bob and Salishar and the Demon King—safe bet—Bob was sending human women to the Demon King for him to impregnate. The Demon King sent them back for Bob to use in manufacturing more elves.
While I’m not a fan of genocide—elves need a way to reproduce, too, I suppose—I’m not sure what other options the elves have in avoiding extinction. Their method is, to say the least, objectionable, and I’m four-square against being involved in it. At least, I object to the idea of sending pregnant women off to die in the transformation pits, or whatever it is they do.
The implications of this never really occurred to me. It was an abstract method until I realized it’s not something they might do sometime in the future. It’s ongoing, persistent—they’re doing it all the time. Which means, if I do nothing, they’ll keep kidnapping pregnant women and killing them. But can I order them to stop? Will such an order stick? Or will some of them keep right on doing as they
please?
Not all the elves serve me, I’m sure. They have some sort of reverence for nightlords, although I’m not sure why, exactly. I doubt it extends to racial suicide. Bob might obey the order; he has a very persuasive handprint on his chest. All the others would simply hide their activites more thoroughly.
They need a better way to reproduce. Since they’re superficially similar to humans, maybe they have vestigial reproductive systems. I haven’t actually dissected an elf to find out. Maybe I should. Or maybe I should just look closely without developing my vivisection skills.
Ever since the invasion of Karvalen, I’ve been somewhat less fond of elves.
“Tell Bob I may have a better idea,” I decided.
“Dread Lord?”
“I’ve been thinking about a way to make this process quicker, easier, and more reliable. Put the women on hold; he won’t be needing them.”
“As you command, Dread Lord.”
“Good. Also convey this message to… the Duke of Vathula,” I said, making it clear from my tone I found the title amusing. She smiled slightly. “I require a crown of the finest workmanship, fit for a queen. Deliver it here, however, as I have enchantments to place upon it before it ever touches her brow.” Salishar smiled, obviously thinking of the possible enchantments. I doubted we were thinking of the same ones. I once had an idea for a crown and a quantum computer core, but that would have to change, now… Where are those computer-core gems, anyway? I should find them.
“It shall be done, Dread Lord.”
“You may go.” I did not add, Get out of my sight before I drink your blood and find out if I can eat the flesh of my victims. It was daytime, but I had an urge to, quite literally, bite chunks out of her and eat them. I have the teeth for it, and she was a brutal, nasty, evil bitch who could safely be said to deserve it. If I’d had my way, she would still be embedded in a wall. Instead, she was loose and trying to find my Tort for me.
The thought saved her life. I want my Tort, and the more people looking for her for me, the better.
I’ve had a bad week. Did I say “bad”? How about awful? Atrocious? Appalling? I need a better word for it. And now I’ve got a duchy of nasty creatures run by an evil elf who is sending out death squads and assassins at the order of the Demon King. He’s also capturing women for my amusement, it seems. What else is he doing? What else did the Demon King order? Or, rather, arrange to happen after his demise, deposition, or departure?
