The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  “Ah, nothing, nothing, sir, just a little accident, sharp slicing knives and all—” Even in the light of the lone candelabrum flickering on one of the wooden tables, Tristan could see the sheen of sweat on the baker’s fat forehead.

  “Don’t lie to me. I’ve been lied to all night, and I’m getting tired of it. I don’t think it was an accident at all. I think someone cut that finger off as a warning. Someone wearing a cloth-of-gold robe!” Tristan increased the pressure on the man’s wrist, knowing that the pooling of blood in the area with the severed digit had to be painful.

  “Commander Hiregaard—” began Sigfrid.

  “Sir, I know nothing, I swear!” Tristan squeezed tighter, and the man gasped. “They’ll kill me if I tell you anything!”

  It was a start. “I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me anything,” threatened Tristan coolly. “Look, we can’t help you if you don’t help us, all right?” His strength of purpose amply demonstrated, Tristan let the baker go. The man’s pudgy right hand went to comfort his maimed left.

  “It’s been going on for a while,” he gasped. “The priests of—”

  Luath’s growling bark reached Tristan’s ears a fraction of a second before the knife whizzed past his cheek. The blade buried itself to the hilt in the baker’s throat. His words ended with a terrible gurgle. Tristan spun around just in time to catch a flutter of cloth-of-gold as the murderer turned to flee.

  “Chase, Luath!” Tristan commanded, and the beast obeyed. Barking furiously, the hound exploded into action. Sigfrid and Tristan were out the door almost immediately afterward, swords drawn.

  It was not a long chase. Luath had speed that belied his size, and the fleeing priest had very little of a head start. He knew it, too, and ran only a short distance, ducking down an alley, before turning. Another knife sliced through the darkness. Luath saw it coming and leapt, but the blade nicked the beast’s shoulder. Luath ignored it and sprang, striking the priest squarely in the chest and knocking him heavily to the cobblestones.

  When Tristan and Sigfrid reached the scene a few minutes later, Luath was standing over the prone body. He growled whenever the man moved. “Good boy,” Tristan praised, gently moving the dog aside. He placed the blade to the killer’s throat. “Get up—slowly. And keep your hands out of trouble.”

  The priest did as bid, rising slowly, his hands raised in clear view. As he fixed Tristan with a stare full of hatred, Tristan could see the network of scars on his face. “This your priest from last week?” he asked Sigfrid, never taking his eyes off his prisoner.

  “That’s him,” said Sigfrid, moving in and beginning to search for weapons.

  A slight whimper caught Tristan’s ear, but he didn’t glance down until the whimper faded into a phlegmy hacking. He risked a quick glance to Luath, and his eyes widened.

  The dog staggered, turning in a slow, tight circle. Froth dripped from his jaws, and the whiplike tail was plastered between his legs. Luath shivered violently and raised pleading eyes to his master. “Watch him,” Tristan ordered Sigfrid. The captain ceased his search and resumed a hostile stance over the prisoner while Tristan fell to his knees beside the ill dog.

  “Careful, Tris,” Sigfrid warned. Just in time Tristan stayed his hands that itched to pet and reassure his canine friend. Luath shuddered again, and his legs gave way. He fixed a last, puzzled gaze on his master, choked again, and died.

  Tristan stared. The cut on the animal’s shoulder was nothing, but Luath was dead. “Poison,” he breathed. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Anger rose slowly in him as he stared down at Luath’s body. “You bastard. You put poison on your blade, didn’t y—”

  He turned his eyes back to the prisoner in time to see the priest, heedless of the pain, knock Sigfrid’s sword away from his throat with his lower arm. The blade bit and blood flowed. Before Sigfrid could recover, the man had drawn some knives. Sigfrid, remembering the murdered child, hesitated just a fraction of an instant too long in recovering. The next second, he was contorting his body as the priest slashed at him with the knife.

  The priest’s hands were a blur, but Tristan, knowing what was coming for him, dived and rolled to the side. The knife whizzed past and embedded itself in the wooden windowsill where Tristan’s head had been.

  The anger that had been building inside Tristan for the last several weeks finally erupted. Swallowed by its white-hot energy, Tristan knew nothing other than the desire to destroy this man. He drew his sword and charged the priest, stabbing cleanly through the man’s abdomen with minimal effort. Gasping, the dying Claw drew his final poisoned dagger and struck at Tristan with it. Tristan easily gripped the hand and twisted it savagely. It broke with a sharp crack, and the knife clattered to the cobblestones. The priest’s eyes rolled back, and he slid slowly to the ground. With an oath, Tristan jerked his sword out of the body.

  “What have you done?” Sigfrid’s voice, shrill with his own anger, penetrated Tristan’s heat. “We could have brought him in, questioned him—”

  “He used poison,” said Tristan shortly.

  “Luath was a fine, good dog, but damn it—”

  “It was self-defense! He was attacking us!”

  “Tris, you could have beaten him with one hand and you know it! What’s gotten into you?”

  “The desire to stop a killer and his whole cursed underground, that’s what.” The two men exchanged hot glances. “I have an idea,” said Tristan. “Come on, help me get him out of here.”

  Sigfrid did not reply. He was looking around. Normally, the curious or the bloodthirsty would have formed a small crowd around the dead man and his killers by now. There would be at least a few people peering out their doors or windows. But to Sigfrid’s surprise, no one had come to investigate the fight.

  “There’s no one watching, Tris,” he said slowly. “Nobody wants to be incriminated in anything that happened. The people around here aren’t just scared—they’re paralyzed with fear.”

  “My point exactly. You buried the girl, didn’t you? Without reporting her death or the cause? We’re just doing the same thing here.”

  “Come on, Tris, that was different. That was an unnatural death, and if word got out, it could cause a panic. This man—”

  Tristan whirled on his friend. “Who’s in charge here, me or you?”

  “You, of course, but the regulations—”

  “Are being waived.” Tristan continued, making his voice patient with an effort. “You yourself just commented—nobody wants to get involved. Everyone knows what’s going on, but nobody wants to point the finger. And we can’t point the finger yet, either. We have no hard evidence! We’ll be laughed out of the courtroom and get a poisoned knife in our ribs for bringing this to light. The only way we can destroy Malken and everything he stands for is to infiltrate his system. From the inside out, as it were. I’ve got a plan on how to do that, but I need your help. Now.” Tristan straightened to his full imposing height and gazed at his second. “You can blow the whistle if you like, drag our Claw here to the authorities. I won’t stop you, and I agree that you would be following regulations. But I’ll know who my friend is—or isn’t.”

  Anguish filled Sigfrid’s brown eyes. He was torn between loyalty to the man who had pulled him out of the gutter and the laws that same man had taught him to respect and uphold. At last, he capitulated. “All right, Tris, but I don’t like it.”

  Tristan’s face eased into a smile. “Good lad. Here’s my idea.”

  Mahai 11th: I see a pattern to Malken’s appearances. At first, he came every five days. Recently, it seems to be every four. It seems limited as to how often he can take over my body. It is disturbing, however, to see these limits pushed—with success. I feel, though, there is a wide enough margin of safety for me to undertake the task I have set for myself tonight.

  The priest with the scarred countenance stepped outside the Red Horse. It was well after dark, and the narrow lanes were filled with orange torchlight and the dancing sha
dows thrown by flame. For the moment, darkness was the priest’s friend. The bloodstains had been removed from his tunic, and the jagged hole through which Tristan’s sword had plunged was mended.

  Tristan’s eyes were restless, constantly scanning the street as he walked, alert to attack from things hiding in the shadows and from the shadows themselves. The three days since he had slain the Claw of Sehkmaa had provided him ample time to study the dead man’s visage. Tristan was convinced his disguise was perfect. His plan was not overly daring. He would simply travel the path the priest had trod and see if any new information revealed itself.

  He had waited the extra few days so he would not arouse suspicion from the “donors.” He turned a corner, expectant. According to Sigfrid’s account, Tristan would be contacted shortly. Sure enough, there came a slight movement in the darkness, and a small hand extended a thick gray cloak and an empty sack. Tristan accepted both, tossing the cloak over his shoulders. The bracers on his arms, like the cloth-of-gold tunic, had been taken from the dead man’s body. The knives encased within, however, were Tristan’s own, as was the scimitar. He was fortunate in that his weapons collection included scimitars, picked up decades ago when traveling with Kethmaar. Unused to dealing with poisoned weapons, the arms of a coward, he opted to use his own weapons. The discrepancy would be noticed should he need to produce them. However, he told himself grimly, if that need arose, he would leave no witnesses to report the mismatch.

  With the cloak wrapped warmly about him, Tristan felt even safer. He pulled the hood down and went to his first destination, knocking softly at the door. It opened a crack, and he was handed a small purse. When the door closed, Tristan paused to count the money. Five gold pieces, seven silver. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. Protection from the Claws apparently did not come cheaply.

  He continued his route, collecting the same amount of money at each place. Tristan skipped the baker’s door, which bore a sash of bright mourning green. No doubt the Claws would track down the poor widow and demand payment, but for tonight, at least, she would be shown mercy.

  After a little less than an hour, Tristan’s sack was heavy with coins. He did some quick calculations. The area he had covered was only a small part of the quarter, perhaps a third. Multiply what he carried by three—and that amount by four, for the other parts of the city—he stared at the bulging sack. Malken was pulling in a small fortune each week! Othmar and all his tax collectors couldn’t hope to see this kind of money in a month … not even two.

  Tristan felt a brief twinge. He was the head regent, but it was impossible for him to do right by Othmar. It was clear to Tristan that the prince was being bought. The boy was so dense, though, he probably had no idea what was going on. The same probably could be said of Ivaar. At least, Tristan hoped so.

  He had come to the end of his circuit as reported by Sigfrid and stood facing the High Road. His path had taken him to the back of the temple. The moon was nearly full, and by its ghostly light, the partially completed temple looked both ominous and pathetic—not yet a temple, more than a simple bathhouse. Tristan hesitated, then walked around to the front. His disguise would protect him, he was sure.

  For a long moment, he gazed at the yawning cavern that was the entrance to the temple. His eyes hurt from the strain of peering into the darkness all night. He rubbed them, sighing. It was late. He needed to be getting back to Faerhaaven. The evening’s activities had taken longer than he had expected, and he dared not wait to take his next serving of tea. He turned to leave. He would find a dark spot where he would be unseen and teleport back—and brew himself a cup of the magical concoction immediately upon returning. Whatever information he might hope to gather here paled compared to Malken’s discovering his doings.

  “Galbrai, what are you doing out here?” came a sharp female voice. Tristan whirled to see a woman standing on the steps. She carried a torch and ran lightly down the stairs. It was Rozalia. She was even thinner, more haggard, than she had seemed before. What was she doing, hiding in the darkness of an unfinished temple?

  “I wasn’t expecting you, but come on. I suppose this means he’ll be here soon.” Impatiently the Vistana gestured. Tristan hesitated for only an instant, then hurried up the stairs to meet her. When she saw he was following, she turned brusquely and strode back into the temple. Tristan let her lead the way, pulse racing. What was the name she had called him? Galbrai, that was it. He followed her, confused and yet excited as she took him to a hidden door and down a winding stair that seemed to go on forever. At last, it suddenly opened up, its dull gray leading into a room that exploded with bright, violent colors. The sniffing, rumbling sounds of plains cats reached his ears. He was relieved to see they were securely chained. Several small cats drowsed in a corner. One of them glanced up and fixed Tristan with slitted amber eyes as he entered. Tristan looked around as unobtrusively as possible, trying to observe everything.

  Rozalia seemed distressed. “He’s not usually late,” she pouted, walking over to the long table and seating herself. Unsure as to what he should do, Tristan followed her example, easing himself into the seat next to her. He was totally unprepared for her angry reaction. “What do you think you’re doing? That’s the master’s chair!” Hastily Tristan rose, but her snapping dark eyes followed him. “You’re lucky he didn’t see your impertinence, or he might feed you to his pets!”

  Tristan mumbled an apology of sorts and placed the sack on the table, hoping to distract her. It worked. Her face glowed with avarice as she leaned forward. “He’ll be pleased. Did the baker have the money tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed. “I wonder how he managed that. I’d heard he closed up shop for no reason a couple of nights ago.”

  “Maybe he had a good night of gambling,” Tristan ventured. She looked at him oddly. Tristan knew that the longer he tarried the more likely it would be that he would give himself away. Besides, if “the master” Rozalia was waiting for was Malken, well, he wouldn’t show if he kept to the schedule he appeared to follow.

  Inwardly Tristan winced. He needed just a moment alone to teleport himself back to Castle Faerhaaven, to the potion that had brought him this new peace. “I’ve delivered the goods,” said Tristan, trying to sound hardened and rough. “Time for me to be going.”

  Rozalia’s suspicious look deepened. “No one leaves without the master’s permission.” Her cat jumped into her lap, and she stroked it gently. She turned her face up to Tristan and smiled for a second. Then, slowly, the smile faded, and the hardness returned to her eyes. Her cat was staring at Tristan, and had begun to tremble. “He’s frightened of you.”

  Tristan’s mind raced. Was Galbrai a priest whom cats disliked? He had no idea how to respond.

  “Where’s yours?”

  The question caught him by surprise. “Around, I suppose.”

  “Call her,” she ordered.

  Tristan had had enough. No longer able to bluff his way through this encounter, he bolted for the door.

  “Stop him!” Rozalia shrieked, leaping to her feet. The cat in her lap hissed as it tumbled to the carpet.

  Malken’s combination of extreme punishment and equally extreme rewards had honed his servants well. Tristan hadn’t even reached the door before his way was blocked by four scimitar-wielding priests. His first impulse was to fight. Four to one were fair enough odds for an experienced swordsman, but he remembered Luath and stayed his hand. One scratch and he’d be dead. He couldn’t simply teleport, either; they’d attack once they realized he was casting a spell. Reluctantly, he raised his hands away from his body. Two of the guards searched him for weapons, retrieving his scimitar and daggers, while the other two kept their deadly swords beside his throat. Tristan permitted himself to be redirected into the room.

  Rozalia was now seated on the table. Three other Claws had joined her. Her quarry disarmed before her, she was gloating. “You are not Galbrai,” she stated. Tristan remained silent. Rozali
a rose and came to him. Though her eyes were sunken and her cheekbones jutted through her dark skin, there was a hint of the alluring woman she used to be in her expression. Her perfume teased his nostrils. “Who are you, then?” Red-nailed hands fingered his face. “Very good. Not just a simple cosmetic change. I know magic, too, my friend—and how to negate it.” Her hands dropped to a pouch that hung about her waist.

  She withdrew a vial and checked its color carefully to ensure that she had the desired potion. “Wouldn’t do to get the wrong one, would it?” she laughed. “Hold him,” she told the priests.

  Tristan exploded into action. He wrenched free of the guards, his clenched fist slamming into a priest’s mouth. Teeth shattered. Tristan seized the man’s tainted scimitar and whirled. A few seconds later, one of the Claws was staring at two bloody stumps that had been his arms, and a third was clutching at a wound in his abdomen. Two others were drawing their poison-dipped weapons, but Rozalia raised a commanding hand. “Don’t kill him!” she cried.

  Confused, the Claws didn’t know what to do. Tristan turned to flee up the stairs, but stumbled over one of the smaller cats. The misstep gave one of the Claws enough time to bring the hilt of his sword crashing down against the back of Tristan’s head. The knight found himself flat on the floor, his limbs immobilized by strong, angry hands. Those same hands clenched in his hair, jerked his head to one side, and forced his mouth open. Before he realized it, Rozalia had emptied the contents of the vial into Tristan’s mouth. He coughed and tried to spit out the liquid, but several hands now clamped his mouth and nose shut. He had no choice but to swallow. His vision swam for an instant, then the world righted itself.

  Even as Tristan’s vision blurred, so did the features of Galbrai that he wore like a mask. They melted, changed, shifted, the scars smoothing out, the eyes changing hue. Galbrai’s slender frame filled out to Tristan’s large form. Rozalia stared at him, her face blank with shock. Her mouth hung open. “Sir Tristan Hiregaard,” she managed. Shock faded to a smile, then to hysterical laughter. She leaned against the table as her body shook with peal after peal of vicious mirth. At last, wiping the tears away with the back of one hand, she fixed Tristan with a hate-filled stare.