***
Outside Erolia
Ammon
The little priest leaned heavily on his staff, taking another rise in the foothills of the Yukiya Mountains. Hoping to make it into the camp undetected, he had left his horse just off the road. The mountain forest was dense with old evergreens, dark as pitch, and Brother Ammon tripping on a root cursed that he couldn’t risk a light. Ankathinos was supposed to be just an old name on a map—a pre-Califf’s Fire mine. As he crested the rise, he spat on the ground. The rumors were true. The mine was a busy hive of activity lit by torches and oil lanterns. Ammon crouched behind a wide pine trunk. He had been right. Fewer guards were posted around this site. It was in the middle of nowhere, so no casual curiosity seeker could stumble upon it like the other two sites.
The main shaft looked like a cave into the mountain that had been expanded or dug with old tech and reinforced by the ancestors’ strangely smooth stonework. The opening was maybe twenty feet tall and thirty wide, Ammon estimated. He jotted the measurements down in his notebook. Of the other two sites, Ilbanos was the smallest, about a third that size. Aibanos was about as big as this one. This one had less guards but more of a settled look. Tents had been pitched for the guards and workers, and one larger tent had the look of a command center. Men passed into it, or waited outside patiently, and it had by far the most light. That was where he needed to be.
Ammon had left his priestly robes on his horse and had donned dark brown trousers and tunic. The robes were comfortable but they were light gray, and designed for high visibility in the dark so parishioners could know where their clergy were during the many night ceremonies. Ammon moved slowly, using the trees for cover, until he had moved around to the side of camp with the command tent. He waited until there was a lull in movement around camp and casually walked up to the back of the tent. He checked no one was watching and crouched behind a wagon. The canvas of the command tent was inches from his face. Several figures were lightly silhouetted against the canvas.
A voice rattled off a list of supplies. Tools, food, and other normal things needed for outfitting a group of men. With each was the cost estimate. This went on for a good half hour. Ammon made notes of anything unusual, but really it was normal things. Finally the list ended and an older voice, a man, agreed on the sums and dismissed the first speaker. The next appointment came in.
“Milord, I got your summons. We are working as fast as we can, lord. Two shifts working through the night.” The man’s voice was intense with an edge of whining in it. A man not pleased with having to please someone.
“Not enough. We need the blast doors cleared before we can even attempt to open it. We are weeks behind,” said the older man, deeper, in control but angry.
“The men are disturbed by rumors that Erolia was hit by Ozuk. If there are any about, they are sure to come to this,” said the whining voice.
“That is superstitious nonsense. It’s just old tech. The scholar thinks this is It.”
The whining voice started again, “Renzeur is just a story. It’s not our fault if it ain’t real.”
“Shut up you spineless little...Our information is good and we will keep digging until we find it,” commanded the old man.
“I’ll need more men.”
“Fine,” the lord bit out. “Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a rustle of the tent flap as the man left.
Ammon waited about an hour, but the only noises were paper shuffling. Giving up, Ammon started back to the forest. Perhaps he could come back in the morning and pretend to be a miner. Or more likely, get Mizrahi to send a man. Ammon’s hands were soft from temple life, not a convincing callus on them. He ducked behind a group of tents, and made it within ten feet of the forest line when a group of miners passed from behind a supply tent.
“Hey! Who’s that?” called one of the miners.
Ammon didn’t look around, but in a trice, the miners surrounded him. There were eight of them, all very drunk.
“Who’s ‘at?” The slur came from the leader, a huge pale, bald man with tattoos on his arms.
“Just passing through. Can I buy you a drink?” Ammon gestured good naturedly back to the tent they had come from.
“What’s ‘at?” The leader glared at Ammon, and grabbed his arm. His sleeve was pulled up and the azure sunburst held up to torchlight.
“Just a tattoo. Like yours,” said Ammon.
“No,” the man growled. “You’re a sunsmith. You’re a dirty sun lover.”
“What, you come sniffin’ round here for more of your cursed metal?” A smaller man with dirty black hair spat on the ground.
Someone behind Ammon yanked his shirt back and tore off the moonpearl communion stone. The man danced around front showing it to the others. “Tryin’ to pass as a respectable temple man.”
Ammon was glad he had left his packs in the woods with his casters inside. He couldn’t claim to be clergy. These men worked for the noble faction going against the prince. But whatever they were doing, it did not sit well with them that they might be grouped in with Califf lovers. Or honest but misunderstood sunsmiths. As he was manhandled and the drunks got together bales of hay from the stables and stacked them around a young tree for a pyre, it struck him that he had been betrayed by the wayward flutter of a sleeve.
He explained himself hoarse, his fear stealing the usual eloquence from his tongue, but they were grim with determination now. They were convinced now he was a Califf lover, inhuman in their eyes. Ironically, they didn’t know enough about what they hated to know that burning at the stake was a common rite among the Califf cultists. The big one tied him to the tree. The other miners talked among themselves and as he watched, their fear fed off each other. The jeers got louder and their eyes grew wilder. As a lit torch was brought, their shouts reached a fever pitch. They wanted to see blood.
Black smoke drifted into Ammon’s face as the hay caught fire. He started to cough as the heat built, not close to his toes yet, but growing in a palpable wall around him. Sweat broke out on his brow. He couldn’t breathe, the air itself too hot. A few other men had heard the noise and joined the group. A tall, dark man with the look of the military about him leaned in to ask the miners something. Whatever he heard sent him running.
The leader wedged the torch between two bales and stepped back to watch his work.
Ammon prayed. He had lived a good life dedicated to the Goddess. He had no regrets.
He made his peace with this, and only a small part of his mind babbled with fear of the flames.
Two men came running: the dark one returning and an older man with very close-cropped white hair. Ammon coughed, but there was no clean air, only more smoke. “Stop this at ONCE!” screamed the older man. His order went unheard. He took a metal implement from his belt and pointed it at the sky. A crack of thunder smacked through their eardrums, accompanied by a flash of light and smoke from the implement. The miners jolted, and spun.
“GET THAT MAN DOWN!” commanded the older man.
“But Lord Bacrese...” one of the miners protested.
“Now!” he barked. “Or you face the guards’ swords.”
Face like a thundercloud, the lead miner kicked the flaming bales apart and cut the ropes.
Ammon staggered out of the smoke, the coughing hard and eyes watering. The dark-haired military man gave him a hand, leading him back to the tent Ammon had been spying on. Lord Bacrese stayed behind, meting out punishments to the miners. His ire was still audible by the time they reached the tent. The dark-haired man sat Ammon down at a table and poured a glass of water. He took a moment and pulled a washstand over to the priest.
“So you’re a sunsmith. What are you doing here?” questioned the man.
Thinking fast, Ammon hacked, and then took a long drink of the water. His voice was wrecked. “I heard the rumors. Thought there might be work out here.”
The other man nodded. “Stay here. The lord will be a while settlin
g the men. We don’t have a healer in camp, but one of the miners is a fair bonesetter; he’ll know what to do. He’s on shift now, though. I’ll get him. Rest, Lord Bacrese is glad you’re here.” He patted Ammon on the shoulder.
“Tell him thank you,” Ammon croaked at his back.
As soon as he was gone, Ammon was up, checking the margin in the tent flaps to see if the path was clear. If he had thought the camp empty before, now it was dead. Everyone not in the mine was putting out flaming bales of hay and witnessing noble temper. Ammon searched the tent for any useful evidence, shifting piles of papers on the table and giving them a quick skim. They were more supply lists, payroll lists, but nothing conclusive. He moved around the table and stubbed his toe on a box under it. Crouching, he pulled aside the layer of canvas on the box, and his breath hissed in at what he found. It was a box of those weapons Lord Bacrese had shot earlier. Ammon pulled one from the bottom, replaced the canvas, and made sure the papers were where Lord Bacrese had left them. Casting around quickly, he found a shirt with a hole in it that Lord Bacrese had probably left out for a servant to mend. Ammon used it to wrap the weapon and stuffed the bundle down the front of his shirt.
He slipped out of the tent, lungs aching, and made a run for it. As soon as Lord Bacrese got the full story from the miners, he would know Ammon was not just a sunsmith. And his communion stone was gone. He had to get out with the information he had and the weapon. It might be all the evidence they needed. He flew down the hill to his horse. He grabbed his bags, and was up in the saddle in a trice. He was going west at a gallop a moment after.
Whatever Renzeur was, Lord Bacrese was digging for it, and had discovered old tech weapons in the process. Nothing built since Califf’s Fire could make that noise.
CHAPTER 9
Sea Road Northeast of Lyceo
Anoni
The Dragons left the salt marsh behind without a backward glance, relieved to be back on solid ground. The road arced back eastward to Lyceo, and the forests had thinned to occasional farms. Anoni had been wrestling all day, trying to decide whether to tell Corin the last details of the conspiracy. Could they trust him? Strangely, she did. It wasn’t that he was ignorant; it was that his instincts didn’t work that way. Whatever his upbringing in that Northern province had been, it was like he had had a blessed existence where he always got what he wanted, and everyone dealt with him at face value. Maybe he had just been so important he was used to everything revolving around him. She couldn’t tell. Since he had stopped making half-hearted snobby comments at the poorer folks they passed, he seemed to be one of the most honest people she had ever met. Anoni steered Pelaki back to where Corin rode his bay, more than half asleep in the saddle. He was exhausted by the training. Since the training had started, however, he had seemed more centered, more confident.
“Hello?” called Anoni.
He jerked, regaining his balance as he woke. She envied him the talent. “What?” slurred Corin.
Anoni snickered at his dazed look and asked, “Last lesson. Ready?”
Corin came alert, turning to fix his clear blue gaze on her. “All right.”
“Markham’s agents have been trying to turn the priestesses and priests of the Moon Temple to his cause. At least four have been tortured and their bodies left in the streets,” she said. She was unprepared for his reaction. The blood drained from his face, leaving it almost gray, and his panicked eyes showed too much white around the iris.
“Are you all right?” she asked, grasping his shoulder.
Corin ran a shaking hand over his face. “The only thing between me and Markham is the temple...”
“Don't worry so much. I doubt Markham will turn his attention to you. Minor nobility probably won’t even enter the equation.” Feeling awkward from the platitude, she let her hand drop.
“The prince lays in the Ordeal Chamber, asleep, with nothing but the acolytes around him,” he said, breathing hard. “When they open the Chamber on a corpse, Markham can tell the Highlords it’s because the Goddess turned her back on him, or just that he failed and the Chamber killed him to prevent him from ruling.”
“Don’t worry,” she hastened to reassure him. “The Goddess hasn’t turned her back on him. The High Priestess has known about the plot for years. Why else do you think I’m here?”
Corin was outraged. “That bitch has known for years! When was she planning on telling the prince, at his damned funeral?”
“Alcyenne has tried to bring it up. But we are talking about accusing the prince’s best friend and his custodian of treason. He wouldn’t believe her,” explained Anoni.
“She didn’t try that hard!” He recalled several awkward conversations with the old woman, none of them getting close enough to this topic to make sense. “Too afraid of his reaction. Gutless old woman. But, really, why the hell are the Dragons here if they’re going to kill him in the chamber?” asked Corin.
“We don't know he will be killed in the chamber. Shaiso is taking an unprecedented step in turning on the temple. He could be waiting until the prince takes the throne. On the one hand, the Dragons could have been ambushed and killed because they didn’t know what was coming. On the other hand, if I wasn’t here, the Shaisos could have turned the Dragons, and they would have spent the quest getting drunk in an inn, only to show up in Aquillion with sorry faces about not being able to find a single moonrose for the prince at Asteri. That’s why we’re here. We’re here to get a pretty little flower so the prince can get crowned, get married, and get on with his life,” explained Anoni.
“You left him in the temple, alone,” he accused.
“Leben Arctuan was going handle security around the Ordeal Chamber. He was another graduate of Oruno. Unfortunately the man...” She ground her teeth. “I told him to lay off the women until the mission was over. The Shaisos figured out how to poison one of his lovers with a pox from the south.” She shook her head. “He was a great fighter, but he thought with his tool most of the time. Anyway, don’t worry. I didn’t come all this way to be outfoxed by Markham. Keep your head down and you probably won't even see any real battle.”
Corin let out a breath, almost a hiss and kicked his horse, riding to the head of the column to be alone.
***
Lyceo
Anoni
In Lyceo, their inn was close to the thick yellow crenelated stone wall that surrounded the city. Anoni skirted the more respectable establishments for the anonymity provided by a large gaming house that had overnight rooms on the second floor. The place was far enough across the tawdry line to light all its rooms with lightfish chandeliers whose globes were made of bright red and blue marbled glass. They passed through the common room of card tables, dicing, and roulette wheels. The air was thick with pipe smoke and players’ conversation. The clientele varied between the exotics traders, guides, and mercenary guards who made their fortunes across the Border Wall, and the locals who enjoyed taking their money. When the Dragons had settled their bags in their rooms, Anoni called them together in the upstairs hallway.
“Our last night in civilization, ladies and gentlemen. Make the most of it. The wine and women of Lyceo are renowned across the Empire. Tonight, I won’t hold it against you. Just try not to be too drunk to ride tomorrow,” she said with a smirk. Wix elbowed Nekobashi, scrambling to be the first down the stairs, followed closely by Giovicci and Tevix. Yupendra just shook his head and returned to his room. Vansainté caught his sister’s expression and clapped an arm around Corin’s shoulder and began leading him down the stairs out of the battle zone, with a quick invite to join him for dinner. Arjent loitered at the top of the stairs, fiddling with one of his knife sheaths. Copelia came up to Anoni with a smile.
“How about we have some fun tonight, Ryelis? Dinner, dancing, anything you want...” offered Copelia.
“Your brother would kill me,” Anoni swallowed a laugh.
“But he’s—”
Anoni cut her off “Besides, I’m tired. I think I�
�ll just stay in the inn.”
“You’re sure?” asked Copelia with a frown.
“Yeah, thanks. I think Arjent would like to show you around, though,” said Anoni.
Copelia peered around at the boy suddenly frozen in the awkward position of all young men spontaneously asked on a date. “It’ll have to do,” Copelia rolled her eyes, hung an only slightly mocking smile on her face, and went to put her arm through his. She already had the young man engaged in a carefree conversation before they reached the bottom of the stairs.
Chuckling, Anoni locked her small room’s door behind her and sat on the bed. Rolling her shoulders to relieve the tension, she concentrated.
Priestess? thought Anoni.
Yes. Alcyenne sounded tired.
How goes it?
Alcyenne sighed. Three more dead acolytes.
Goddess, I’m sorry.
Yes, Scion. When you get the ones behind this, give them a blade from me.
Anything else? questioned Anoni.
The dressmakers in Aquillion are overloaded with orders for dresses for the Coronation Ball, thought Alcyenne.
Anoni snorted.
The palace servants have bets going on about who they think the prince will choose for his wife. The current favorite is Lady Delis, gossiped Alcyenne.
That eighty-pound piece of fluff? When she shakes her head, there’s a dry rattling sound! Anoni huffed.
I don’t think the prince will be picking her for her brains, came the reply.
Hating to ask, Anoni did anyway. Who’s the second favorite?
The Lady Seriam.
Anoni shook her head. Oh! That’s outrageous! Just because she’s the daughter of Highlord Bacrese! She’s what, fourteen?
I thought you didn’t care, replied Alcyenne.
That stopped her short. I don’t. Goodnight! Anoni broke contact and ran her hands through her hair.
“Goddess damn it!” muttered Anoni. Three more dead clergy and a feeding frenzy for those bitches back in Aquillion. Shaking her head, confused feelings unsettling her stomach, she tottered to the door. I need a drink and a game or two.
A Glimmer on the Blade Page 15
