The waiting, the anticipation was unbearable, and Rion had pretty much decided to open the door and charge, promising himself he would at least cut down the man on the other side before being taken down himself. After all, if the man’s cohorts were going around to the other side of the shop, they wouldn’t be able to get back into the alley before he made his escape. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a footstep ringing on the cobbles from the alleyway. Then another and another, several sets, as many as half a dozen at least, moving away from the door.
He realized that, had he charged out, he would have been dead in moments. He waited until the footsteps faded into the distance, then he waited another minute, and another. Finally, he heaved a heavy sigh and half-leaned, half-collapsed against the door, more than a little shocked to still be counted among the living. Once he got his breathing and racing thoughts under control, he stood from the wall and contemplated his next move. He did not want to go out into that alleyway—in fact, he would have preferred spending a day, maybe two, inside the shelter of the storage room. The desire to do just that was a powerful one, but he forced it away, knowing it would be fool hardy.
Whoever owned the shop would notice him sooner or later, and he didn’t much care for the idea of explaining to the guards why he was hiding in a storage room while bodies littered the alleyway outside. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was, while he’d been crouched in the storage room hoping not to be discovered, the carriages containing his friends had been making their way toward…well, toward wherever in the name of the gods they were going. If he was to have any chance of finding them, he needed to get moving. Now. In fact, it might be too late already.
No, such a thought was useless and would do him no good. He would find them. That, at least, he thought he could do, assuming Javen didn’t decide to relinquish his favor at the worst possible moment. And what will you do when you find them? a voice asked. It was part of himself, the voice devoid of any emotional attachment, the one who cared nothing for anyone else, only for his own preservation. The voice had spoken to him before, of course, often in those nights when he’d spent far longer at the tables gambling than he should have. It was the part of him that enjoyed the risk of it all, the thrill of it, the one that cared only for the tumbling dice, the cards not yet revealed.
Rion frowned. I’ll save them, that’s what, he thought back.
Oh, will you? the voice asked, and there was an amused sound to it. “Rion the hero,” is that it? Nobleman turned gambler turned savior? It’s ridiculous. Not a story found in even the wildest of childhood fancies.
Maybe, Rion thought, reluctantly agreeing, but then, it wasn’t as if he had much choice, was it? Two choices, both bad. Try to save Alesh and Katherine—and probably die. Or, instead, try to save Darl, Sonya, and Marta—and probably die. Not exactly inspiring thoughts, maybe, but true ones.
There is a third choice. A third…truth.
And since the voice was himself, Rion did not need it to explain any further. The third choice was to run, to hide. He’d been doing it, he thought, for nearly his whole life. He was good at it—maybe as good as any man could be. Blending in, pretending to be someone else, anyone else. It seemed to him, then, that his entire life—years spent pretending at being a nobody in the common rooms of inns and taverns and more than a few whorehouses—had been practice for just this moment. He could make it away, he thought. Even with the priests chasing him, no doubt searching for the one they missed in their attack on the Bard, he believed he could make it. After all, he was only one man, and it was a big city, a big world.
He could run fast enough that they would never have a chance of catching him, could run far enough they would never find him. And he could live. It was an interesting idea, seductive in its simplicity. Run and live. Or stay—and die.
The answer seemed so obvious even a fool could see it, and considering his actions over the last few weeks, Rion had to admit he probably was a fool. What business did a man like him have with gods, with saving the world? And what had the world ever done for him anyway? Made his father’s business go broke? Left people like Tesharna in charge, gave people like Sigan all the power so he could threaten Rion’s family, could jerk them from their own home like it was nothing? Rion had spent his life around nobles, the vast majority of whom cared only about themselves, their own wants, their own needs. Men and women who cared more about what they would wear, of what ball they would attend next, than about the people in the city who were starving, about the orphan children forced to fend for themselves. That was, if they thought about such things at all, and Rion suspected that most did not.
The world, he’d found, was full of cruel, greedy people who only cared about each other when it benefited them. So why would a man want to save such a place? Why would he risk his life to try? In such a place, such a world, weren’t those who profited most those most willing to dismiss others, to take advantage of them? He’d met many rich merchants and rich noblemen while running his father’s business, and Rion had noticed something: none of those powerful, wealthy men were known for their kindness. None stood in the streets handing out food to the poor or paying for healers for those who couldn’t afford it.
No. Better to worry about himself, to protect what was his as much as he could for as long as he could. If the gods themselves were unable to save the world, if some of them didn’t even want to, then what should that tell him? The truth was, a man couldn’t save the world. He’d be a fool to try and soon a dead one.
Good, the voice said, well, at least we’ve got that straightened out. So we’ll stay here another day, at least. We can hide among the shelves in case the shopkeeper does come. Then, once the priests aren’t roaming the street like a band of feral dogs, we can leave. Sure, they might have a description from Tesharna or someone else, but appearances can be changed easy enough—it isn’t as if we haven’t done it before. Some different clothes, maybe a hair cut or a hair-dye, then we’re just another man leaving the city, another man wise enough to know he can’t save the world, can only die trying and for no purpose.
Rion reached out and grabbed the door handle, wasn’t even aware he was going to do it until he did, then he hesitated. It felt heavy beneath his fingers, impossibly so. And not just heavy—solid. Heavy enough to crush a man, solid enough to knock him down and not even feel it. He told himself it was only a door, only a handle, but he knew it wasn’t. It was a decision, possibly one of the biggest he’d made or would make in what could be a very short, very painful life. It was a choice, one every man would make sooner or later.
No man can save the world, he told himself. He clenched the handle in a white-knuckled grip, so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the way his arm trembled. Then, finally, he chose and, as he did, all the uncertainty, all the confusion and doubt, suddenly vanished from his mind. He smiled. No man could save the world—it was true. And when he turned the door handle, stepping out into the dark alleyway, the cobbles soaked with blood, he did it not to save the world, but to save two young girls, and a Ferinan man he had come to know and respect. He did it to save his friends.
Chapter Fifteen
What are you doing here? Odrick asked himself for what might have been the dozenth time as he walked through the grand entryway of Armiel’s father, Landon Hale’s, estate. A servant bowed to him so low Odrick thought the man’s forehead might have actually touched the ground. “Ah, Sir Odrick,” the gray-haired man said, “Lord Armiel will be most glad you have come. Please, this way.”
Sir Odrick. Even the sound of it was ridiculous. He was a blacksmith, that was all, as his father was, but Odrick didn’t bother correcting the man, only swallowed in a vain effort to rid himself of the nervous lump in his throat and followed. The manservant led him through corridors lined with ostentatious drapes and paintings, many of which were of Lord Hale himself. Armiel’s father was—if the incredible display of wealth to be seen in the statues and embroidery didn’t somehow make it
obvious—the richest man in Valeria.
He was led past servants busily cleaning, wiping the floors or polishing some bust or visage of the rich nobleman and into a ballroom. Odrick paused in the doorway, feeling even more out of place than usual as he stared at the vast gathering of noblemen and noblewomen crowding the huge room. Long tables covered in velvet cloths lined either side of the room, their surfaces crowded with what appeared to be every possible manner of delicacy, fare ranging from steaks and roasted pig to stuffed olives and dates from the east as well as all kinds of soups and stews. The air was redolent with the heady aroma of a dozen exotic—and no doubt terribly expensive—spices. Odrick felt a headache begin to form in his temples.
Light take me, what am I doing here? Despite the fine clothes his father had insisted on him wearing, Odrick felt like a mangy dog who’d had the audacity to walk up to sit at a feast of kings and queens.
Surely, at any minute, one of the many noblemen and women would notice him, and they would laugh and scorn, ordering their bodyguards—thickly-muscled men, some bigger even than Odrick himself, who followed their masters or mistresses like obedient dogs—to throw him into the street with the rest of the trash.
None did though, all apparently too busy flattering and being flattered, or strutting and showing off their newest clothes to pay him any mind. Which was just as well, for if they’d stopped to notice him and to question his presence, Odrick wasn’t sure he’d be able to explain away why he was suddenly drenched in sweat, or why his cheeks were so red. Still, he consoled himself that he would be far from the only red-faced man in the room as Lord Hale had not only provided food in abundance, but drink as well, as evidenced by the slurred speech and drunken stagger of many of the guests. Servants moved through the crowd, carrying polished silver platters loaded with all kinds of appetizers and goblets of wine as well as doing a surprisingly successful and discreet job of being there just in time to right the course of several drunk noblemen—and more than one woman—before they knocked something or someone over.
“Sir Odrick?”
Odrick blinked, pulling his eyes away from that milling mass of humanity to stare at the manservant. Judging by the older man’s concerned, slightly annoyed expression, it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get his attention. “Yes?”
“I said Lord Armiel is this way, if you would like to follow me.”
Odrick swallowed again. “Of course.”
The manservant set off again, heading straight through the crowded room, and Odrick took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, before following. They moved through crowds of people laughing—or more likely pretending to laugh—at jokes, while others bent low in whispered conversations, brokering deals and contracts which could affect the lives of hundreds, maybe even thousands of Valeria’s citizens. The manservant slipped through the mad press with ease, navigating unerringly through the massive hall and soon they were standing in front of a wide, circular table.
“Lord Armiel,” the manservant said, gesturing to the table unnecessarily, then bowing his head to Odrick who noticed that the bow wasn’t as low this time as it had been before, the man apparently having decided—and rightly so—that Odrick was probably the least important person in the room. “Sir.” Then the older man was gone, whisking his way back through the crowd.
Odrick watched him go before turning back to the table. Lord Armiel was currently sitting with his head laid against the table, a line of drool leaking from it onto the finely-polished wooden surface. Bastion, another son of a rich nobleman, one apparently being groomed for some high position in the Church, sat beside him, stuffing his face with a variety of foods which he seemingly picked at random from the several plates and trays laid out on the tabletop. Staring at the man’s incredibly large stomach, Odrick thought it was a wonder Bastion could stand, let alone walk, but if he kept at it the way he was going, he’d have to be carried out of the ballroom by some very unfortunate, pitiable servants.
Neither of the two had noticed Odrick yet—one too concerned with gorging himself, the other too concerned with whatever drunken dream had brought a small smile to his sleeping face. Odrick considered leaving then. He still could without having to deal with either of the noblemen—they were both kind enough, if spoiled beyond reason and, if he were being honest with himself, quite stupid—but they were annoying on their best days and judging by the state of them, this was not one of their best days. He had even begun to turn with the intention of leaving the ballroom, when his father’s words ran through his mind.
Just see what you can, lad, that’s all. Learn what you can. His father had paused then, taking a moment to think about his next words as he often did. It was where Odrick had picked up the habit. No point striking the steel until you know where to hit it, his father always said. A thing done in haste often must be redone with care. It was a common saying of his father’s, one he remembered hearing since childhood, and as he’d stood in the room of their blacksmith’s shop, a closed sign over the door despite the early hour, he’d expected his father to say it again. Instead, he’d wiped his hands—covered in soot from the forge, for his father always preferred to get up early and begin the day’s work—on a rag he always carried in his back pocket while working, and gave him a wink. Who knows—you let yourself, you might even have a little fun.
Odrick thought that last bit unlikely—his palms were sweating, and his face felt flush with heat—but that was alright. His dad had been right about the rest of it. They needed to learn as much as they could about what was going on in the city, and Odrick and his dubious friendships with some of the nobles of Valeria was the best chance of doing that. Since Rion had come and asked him to take in his parents and their manservant, Fermin who had refused to leave their side—even at the not inconsiderable risk to his own life of being associated with the parents of a man marked for death by Tesharna herself—Odrick had spent every waking second at his father’s shop. He would even wake up in the night, from time to time, convinced Tesharna or one of her men would somehow know, just know the Tirinian family hid in the cellar of his father’s shop and would be breaking in even now, intent on arresting the old couple and torturing them to discover Rion’s location. And never mind that they wouldn’t know, for Rion had told neither them nor Odrick little more than that he had to leave the city before running off into the night. In many ways, Odrick realized he had led a sheltered life under his father’s protection—a protection not just built around the man’s thick muscles and lack of patience for what he considered nonsense—but mostly from his reputation as the city’s foremost blacksmith.
A sheltered life, but Odrick was not so sheltered that he didn’t understand that Chosen Tesharna did have torturers, and those torturers would ask their hard questions regardless of whether Rion’s parents had any answers, the same way an old fisherman might cast his net into a spot of water that hadn’t produced fish for days. Not because he expected any fish, not really, but just because it was what he did.
When his father had first mentioned it, Odrick had seen the wisdom of what he said. After all, the Tirinians couldn’t hide in their cellar forever and, moreover, it would look suspicious if Odrick continued to sequester himself at the shop. It was best to stick to normal routines, smarter. It was also terrifying. He had no doubt that if one of the guards he’d passed as he made his way through the city knew he was helping to hide the parents of a man marked for death, they would have been all too happy to clap him in irons and take him away. The executioner could always use practice, after all.
He told himself he’d learned enough. A quick walk through the city had shown him all he needed to see about whether or not Tesharna and her men had forgotten Rion and the others he’d escaped with. Nearly every shop wall had been plastered with a flier with Rion and his companions’ names, many showing likenesses of them so they could be easily identified. It had been a sobering thing, to see the first, and the effect had only increased with each subsequent flier he passed
until finally Odrick had felt hunted himself, had been forced to fight down the urge to look behind him constantly as if expecting an army of guards to be following him through the streets.
He decided he’d learned enough. He turned, and had even taken a step into the ballroom, when he heard Bastion speak. “Odrick? Is that you?”
Odrick winced and turned to see the fat man’s mouth spread into a wide grin displaying several pieces of food stuck in his teeth. “Gods, but it is you. Well, sit with us, old boy, sit. It seems it’s been a year since we’ve seen you.”
Odrick hesitated, not wanting to, but knowing to leave now would only cause even more of a scene. Already, several of the people nearest him had turned to look at the future-priest’s shout. Suppressing a sigh, Odrick made his way to the table and sat. “Bastion,” he said, nodding his head to the man. “I hope you’re well.”
“Oh, sure,” the fat man said, leaning back in his chair which creaked dangerously under his weight. “As well as can be expected at any rate. So tell me, what have you been up to, lately? We haven’t seen you around much.”
Odrick shrugged. “Nothing much. Just working in my father’s shop—it’s been busy around there, lately.”
“Sure, sure,” Bastion said, his voice muffled by the sweet cake he’d just stuffed into his mouth. He paused then, and Odrick wasn’t sure if he imagined the malicious gleam in the fat man’s eyes. “You hear about Erondrian?”
Odrick felt as if those piggy eyes were seeing right through him to the truth of things, and he swallowed, nodding. “I heard.”
Bastion shook his head disapprovingly. “A shame, that’s what it is. As a future priest in Amedan’s service, I’m appalled at Rion’s betrayal—helping a criminal escape the way he did, even killing some of the Chosen’s men?” He shook his head again. “It’s unbelievable. Disgraceful. Isn’t that right, Armiel?”
The Warriors of the Gods Page 15
