Tides of Rythe trt-2

by Craig Saunders

  “Were you, indeed? Let’s see this letter.”

  She seemed kind enough. She was smiling as one of the golden eyed warriors took the letter from his outstretched hand, the coin from his other, and took them to the lady.

  She examined the seal, and broke it open with a quick snap of her wrists.

  The messenger waited, looking longingly at the door, while she read slowly.

  Her face darkened as she read, but she did not look up until she had finished.

  He was sure he was going to die here. He would plunge his dagger into the first man to touch him, he resolved. He might die, but he would take one of them with him. It was troubling, though, that none of the men seemed armed, and they still hadn’t glanced at the dagger hanging from his belt.

  “Give him a gold coin, Unthor, and let him on his way.”

  To her, it was as though he had ceased to exist. She threw herself down on a cushioned bench. He risked one last glimpse at her as he was ushered through the door out into the sweltering heat with a gold coin resting in his palm.

  “Speak of this to no one, man.”

  “I wouldn’t, Lord! I swear!” he blurted, looking round for a swift exit, although the warrior held him fast in a firm grip.

  “Be sure of it. Now leave, and be careful in future who you take coin from.”

  He nodded eagerly, and ran into the market.

  Unthor spared a glance around him at the street. All seemed to be in order. He closed the door and barred it, turning to look at the members of his order. Tirielle was slumped, dejected, her head resting on a table.

  “Well, what did it say?” he asked.

  She looked up slowly and shrugged.

  “We are undone. It is from a friend. An assassin comes. I thought it strange that we had been attacked so surely, but it was no accident. It was not random. A death mark has been put on us. We must leave, now, and we have not found what we are looking for.”

  He pursed his lips, but let Quintal speak as their leader held his hand up to still him.

  “How do you know this?”

  “We have been betrayed.”

  “By whom?” asked Quintal.

  “I warned you to wait,” said Disper. “There is too much riding on our success to risk this intrigue!”

  “Be still, Disper. It was the lady’s decision. We do not control her, but she us. This you know.”

  Disper was silent, but remained stubborn faced.

  “What does your friend tell us of the Protectorate?”

  “Nothing,” said Tirielle, biting her lip angrily. “But I cannot think they know we are here. We would not still be living.”

  “If we have been betrayed once, we may have been betrayed twice. Whoever called the death mark must be a friend of the Protectorate. There can be no other explanation. But if assassins have been called, the Protectorate do not yet know we are here. We have time. The Protocrats do not use assassins.”

  “But assassins!” cried Tirielle.

  “Simple folk. It is nothing to worry about. But if they fail, our enemy, whoever it is, will no doubt call in the Protectorate. If they are allies with the Protectorate, they cannot risk us slipping away. We have little time, but one more night will not hurt. Assassins we can deal with. Do not fear, Tirielle.”

  “Fear?” laughed Tirielle. “I am not afraid! I’m angry! Blood friends of our oppressors. Who could be their ally? Are humans so meek that they now do the work of the Protectorate for them? What will become of Rythe when humans forget who the enemy is and fight themselves? Already we hand them our magicians, and fool ourselves that a man’s life is worth the dirty gold we are paid. Now we hand them thieves, and cutthroats, and us. Do they not know what fate the betrayed suffer? Do they think the Protectorate have gaols? Or whips? No, they have none such, just needles and nails, axes and swords and fire and salt. Bastards!” she spat, thumping her fist down on the table.

  The Sard were silent. Quintal put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off.

  “I will not be calmed! I have had enough, and I am sick!”

  “Enough, Tirielle. You rail against the people, but even among the meek there are lions. You have sent out many letters — not all have betrayed you. Only one, and the rest have stayed silent, biding their time. All is not yet lost. One rotten apple among many fine apples. And we still have time. We were vigilant before, now we know for sure what comes. We will not fail. One more night, one more attempt on your life, and then we will leave. We will find what we need tonight.”

  Soft footsteps came from the back stairs, silencing Quintal, and the Seer came into the room, blinking even in this gloomy light. No one could see her eyes, but they all knew what was there, even if the knowledge behind them was a mystery.

  “Seer, you should be in bed, resting,” said Cenphalph, rising and moving to her side to take her arm.

  “No,” she smiled and patted his arm, twice the thickness of his. “I heard your shouting from upstairs, and I need to move. We will be leaving soon. Be ready.”

  “Have you seen something, Sia?” asked Tirielle, unsure whether to be hopeful or afraid.

  “No, Tiri. Nothing. It is just time. I feel it. We have rested too long. We must move, ever onward. Be sure tonight. We will not be here much longer.”

  From her tone, Tirielle could not tell whether she meant Beheth, or on Rythe at all.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Tall shutters covered the windows, meagre light slicing out into the night. Gurt checked the street behind him — it was one of the more prosperous districts of Lianthre, but he was not looking for footpads. His enemies were more deadly.

  Sure he was alone in the darkened street, unobserved by anything but the eighth-moon, Hern partially hidden behind his larger brother, he reached out a hand and rapped on the door with a grimace of pain. The bone rot had started in his hands, but the rest of his body was still hale. It was an indignity he had no choice but to bear. A guard since his youth, and Captain in his middle years to Dran A’m Dralorn, then to his daughter, he would no longer be wielding his short sword or cudgel. But if he could aid the land in any other way, he fully intended to do so.

  Sventhan, his third cousin, opened the door with a beaming smile. Sventhan was in his middle years, but had lost none of the muscle of his youth. He was as broad as the door, with a mashed nose spread across a broad, open face.

  “I was afraid you might not come,” he said, embracing the older man.

  “As if I would forget my duties. I had much to do, but I am here now. Are you going to let me in, or shall we wait for the Protocrats to take us before their Inquisitors?”

  “Brusque as ever, my friend. Come in, of course.”

  Sventhan stepped aside. His wide shoulders had all but filled the doorway. Gurt stepped inside briskly, closing the door on the night and the enemy that prowled the city streets.

  “Come in, make yourself at home,” said Sventhan. “Tama has tea on the stove. I’ll fetch it. Sit, sit,” he bustled around the table setting cups out. Gurt heaved himself into a hard-backed chair with a grunt. Perhaps the rot was setting into his spine, too. The long ride had tired him more than expected. He rubbed his back as firmly as his hands would allow.

  Sventhan poured thick, black tea from a heavy kettle, which he set back atop the stove before taking a seat opposite Gurt. His eyes raised as he saw Gurt’s crooked fingers taking the cup, but he said nothing. Gurt sipped the tea. He was grateful for the warmth on his aching hands. Come winter he would be crippled with pain, but for now he could still use his hands. When the rot came it was often slow. Sometimes it took years. Gurt was just unlucky. A year ago he had suffered no more than a few troubling twinges. Now his fingers were already out of alignment, and the pain often woke him during the night. An alchemist had recommended a noxious paste, which burned and had cost him a goodly portion of his savings, but it did alleviate the pain, if only for a few hours.

  “Tama!” the big man called out. “She’s with the babe,�
�� he explained, with a shy smile. “She’s a beauty, too. Blessed with a strong arm, I hope, but if not she’ll be a good wife to a good man one day.”

  “I didn’t know. It seems I have been out of touch too long.”

  Tama, Sventhan’s wife, breezed into the room. She was almost as big as her husband, but possessed of a strange grace and gentleness that made her seem a woman half her size. She was as beautiful as Gurt remembered though. He greeted her with a smile, she with a kiss on his cheek.

  Gurt blushed slightly. He was never good with women.

  “Tama, I am glad to see you. You look well. How is the baby?”

  Tama beamed. “She’s fine. Six months next week. She’ll be fine for a while. I’ve just put her back to sleep. Hardly sleeps at all. But she’s so fine.”

  “I’ll see her before I go.”

  “Going already?”

  “Not yet, Tama. We’ve business to do first.”

  “Men’s business, I guess from the impatient look on my husband’s face. I do hope it involves no subterfuge. He’s but a simple man.”

  Sventhan took the criticism without a retort, just smiled lovingly at his wife and patted her on the behind. “As you say, wife. Now leave us for a while.”

  “So masterful!” she cooed, fanning her face in mock excitement. Gurt remembered. Sometimes she could seem like a little girl.

  “Go on, woman,” said Sventhan, but kindly.

  She kissed him on the cheek and with a wave goodbye she returned to her rooms.

  “She’s a good woman. You’ve been doubly blessed.”

  “And you have been a man of duty all these years. Are you sorry you were called?”

  “Not at all,” Gurt lied. Often he wondered what his life would have been like had he married, instead of serving a councillor.

  The two men fell silent, a gulf between them. Neither would speak of it again.

  Gurt picked up his hot tea, and Sventhan waited. He never spoke while food or drink was being consumed, Gurt remembered. Strict adherence to the Omerteran in all things. Gurt was not so strict, but he still followed the principles. It was in his blood. To forget his duties would mean he was no longer a builder, one of the largest family on the whole continent, and if the lore was true, outside it also.

  The room was cool enough to forget the heat outside. The shutters allowed a little breeze into the room. Gurt looked around, eyes alighting here and there — a fat, low candle, thick Pluan table, scarred from long use. An elaborately carved chest between two soft chairs, facing a cold fireplace. The furniture was not expensive, but of good quality. All the builders eschewed the gaudy, and made do with the functional. It was their way, despite their wealth.

  Gurt knew the chest was an heirloom. Sventhan would never squander his own money to buy such a piece. He would save his wages. Save them for times such as these.

  Gurt turned his gaze back to the big man. Tea finished, Sventhan broke the silence.

  “It is good to see you. I was at first pleased that you wrote. Saddened, too, that it has come to this.”

  “I am sorry I had not written for so long, cousin,” said Gurt sadly. “Would that it were in better circumstances.”

  “But we build with the stone we are given. I have read your letter carefully. The family is doing what it can. I fear it will not be enough.”

  “How much does the Imperator know? Does she know what transpires in the heart of the Conclave, or of the threat to the Kuh’taenium?”

  “She knows enough. She has hired a bodyguard. She does not know me. I’m not sure she would believe, or if we could make her. Our brothers and sisters watch her from afar. Where we are able, we watch the other council members. Unfortunately, two have been murdered. We were not in place in time to prevent it. Reih Refren A’e Eril called on you, but if you were to tell her of our family…”

  “How many councillors are under our protection?”

  “All but thirteen. We do not have enough family to watch everybody, and even those we do watch cannot be protected all day and all night. Outside, they are as safe as we can make them, but we cannot go inside their homes unless hired, or open ourselves to them. We would make direct enemies of the Protectorate, and there are not enough of us builders to withstand their enmity should we be exposed.”

  “Then what would you have me do? Do you think it is not enough just to protect them? I had thought it would be sufficient, but perhaps I have been away too long from the fold of the family. Since Tirielle’s disbarment I have not seen how serious the threat is to the Kuh’taenium. I thought the Imperator’s letter was strange, but I come. Now I fear it is too late.”

  “I hope that is not so. But as to what we can do…I think it best if you begin our return into the light. You are known to the Imperator. She knows enough of the threat, and she contacted you. Perhaps you can talk to her. Perhaps we can be hired on the Councillors’ guard, or know the names of those Protocrats who attack the Kuh’taenium…I do not know. I thought it was a good idea, but now you are here, I am not so sure. We have remained a secret for so long…and I confess, I am afraid for our family. We cannot stand against the Protectorate.”

  “If I cannot speak to the Imperator, I will…I too, am known. If I am seen by the Protectorate they will suspect Tirielle has a hand to play here…I wish I knew where she was. It must be in secret. We must not expose the Imperator, but also, for now, we must not expose the family. We could do no good should we be hunted to the death.”

  “In secret…hmm. I think there may be a way.” Sventhan smiled thinly. “But I have news for you, too. I think I may know where Tirielle was. I cannot promise she is there now. One of our sisters has seen her — in Beheth. It seems she has been stirring up trouble in the city.”

  Gurt bashed the table, forgetting his pain for a moment. “Blasted girl. She should be laying low!”

  “She is her father’s daughter. What else would you expect?”

  “I’d expect some sense from her. Still, what’s done is done. I can do little to protect her here. Reih Refren A’e Eril is our concern now.”

  “Then you will introduce us? It is time I told her of her heritage. I believe we may be facing the dissolution. We have no choice but to reveal ourselves.”

  “I will tell her,” said Gurt reluctantly. “I only wish you were wrong. I fear we are no longer strong enough to make a difference.”

  “Then what little difference we do make must be of the greatest import,” said Sventhan, reaching across the table to take Gurt’s shoulder. “We will stand for the light come the end, whether we perish or not. The secrets of the builders may be lost, but as always, others will come after us.”

  “I hope it will not come to that,” said Gurt, rising. “Time is wasting. I will find a way to contact Reih, if you can but get me inside. You will have your meeting.”

  “Thank you, Cousin. You will stay here, of course.”

  “I have taken rooms…”

  “I won’t here of it.”

  “It endangers you, to have me in your home. Think of your family, Sventhan.” Gurt spoke kindly, but did not have the heart to refuse. A room would be welcome now.

  “They are builders. We carve the stone. We are strong enough. Now, I’ll hear no more about it. Tell me more of Tirielle. We may as well pass the night away. It may be a day or two before we can find the old ways into the Kuh’taenium. They are buried now, and built over, but we will find a way in.”

  “May your hammer ring true, Sventhan. Thank you.”

  “And yours, cousin. Now, tell me about the girl. She makes waves already…I wonder if her fate is somehow tied to ours?”

  “I wonder, too,” said Gurt. “She is brave. There was a time when thieves got past the gate guard, and she was alone inside the estate…”

  Gurt talked long into the night, Sventhan merely listening with a thoughtful smile on his face. Both men found themselves enjoying the tales.

  Gurt could not forget his duty, but for a time, at least he
could forget his pain.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  It was as good a way as any to pass the time. Wen, Drun and Bourninund watched from the back of a steadily growing crowd as Shorn and Renir trained.

  In the centre of the circle of watchers the two men fought bare-knuckle, pulling their punches. Shorn was hampered without his arm-brace, but to a casual observe it would not seem so. Renir was willing to take any advantage he could get.

  Shorn crouched like a warrior. Renir stood like an idiot.

  “Idiot,” said Wen.

  “Shorn’s dropping his left, and Renir’s falling for it every time,” said Bourninund.

  “He’s a fool. Fight like that in the real world and you’ll get knocked on your arse every time. Or, if you’re unlucky, killed.”

  Renir took two blows to the head, in quick succession. He blocked a spinning backfist from Shorn, and landed his own blow to the mercenary’s ribs. No one would ever know Shorn’s leg had been ruined not more than a year ago. He was swift on his feet, and his footwork was perfect.

  “He’s still learning, I suppose,” said Bourninund. “He’s caught me a few good ones before now.”

  “No excuse for slow hands and a fool head,” rumbled Wen, crossing his thick arms against his bare chest. “He should have learned by now.”

  “How long did you take to learn?” Drun enquired pointedly.

  “Not the point. We’ve not got the luxury of years to train him.”

  “Just watch,” said Drun. “I think you’ll find Renir’s a surprising man.”

  Wen and Bourninund fell silent, as Shorn leapt, swinging a foot at Renir’s head. Instead of trying to block the kick, Renir ducked underneath it, pushing upward. Shorn thumped to the floor, and Renir fell on top of him, pining the mercenary’s leg between his own, and twisting slowly.

  Shorn tapped Renir on the arm, and strangely, the crowd applauded, slapping their sandaled feet on the deck.

  The two men rolled apart, and circled again. The crowd fell silent, watching, apart from the three older men, possibly the eldest on the ship.