“Those wine taps have copper in them,” Rodel said.
He and Fetzer kicked at two taps until they broke off from their empty barrels.
“Get all of them,” Arasemis instructed.
The students stomped and pulled at each barrel. Thick black liquid rolled out of several barrels.
“Hurry, before that stuff gets in my moccasins,” Arasemis said. “Now, pile up the brass next to this wall. Good.” He gave his torch to Marlan, then took a second vial from his own belt.
“Master,” Marlan said. “You have—”
“Don’t,” Arasemis said. “I know what can be safely kept on my person. Heat the brass.”
Marlan and Fetzer put the torches to the taps and waited. Finally Arasemis waved them away and poured the void varnish on the wall and hot taps.
“Stand back by the tunnel,” Arasemis said.
They stepped through the wine ooze, and Arasemis positioned himself behind a barrel. He threw his vial, shattering it against the wall. Purple and blue flames leaped up the wall. Marlan watched as the copper in the taps liquefied, sliding up the wall as if reaching for the void varnish. It soon chewed into the earth and petrified wood, hissing and filling the cellar with a white, sweet-smelling mist. The students covered their noses with their tunics.
“It is harmless to your lungs,” Arasemis said. “It’s essentially water vapor, extracted from inside the earth and stone. Just don’t touch the copper scum. Rodel, that tapping hammer over by the first barrel, if you please. You’ll have the honor, since you noticed the black keystone marker.”
Rodel retrieved the small hammer from the wine ooze and carefully found his footing at the wall. The smoking earth looked porous like a sponge. With each swing of the hammer the earth shattered and the remaining flames died away. The hole was enough for them to squeeze through.
“Watch your step,” Arasemis said. “The copper scum will desiccate your leg if you step in it.”
One by one they stepped into the secret room beyond. Marlan’s torchlight revealed Candlestone symbols carved into the black petrified wood floor tiles. An arcade of arched tunnels branched out ahead.
“Which one shall we take?” he asked.
“All of them,” Arasemis said. “One at a time.”
72. ROWAN
Countryside near Torgsbad Castle, Alpenon Ministry
Bloomfade, 3034
“My father and brother are dead, my lord.” Rowan looked at the letter in his hand again, still finding it hard to believe Bardil was gone.
“Dark times, Rowan,” Asteroth said, shifting in his saddle. “Dark, indeed…But if you leave your wardship now, when we’re on the cusp of giving the Rugens what they deserve, you’ll be missing out on the most momentous events on this continent in a generation.”
Rowan stared into Asteroth’s wide eyes, seeing excitement, hate, and death. The big man was not one for exaggerations. “Arthan says he needs me in Rachard,” he said.
“He wants to protect you, of course. But you’re nearly a man in your own right, Rowan. And already old enough to make your own decisions.” Asteroth cocked his big square head. “Arthan cannot manage his own capital?”
“My brother’s letter says the king has appointed him to a new post in Eglamour,” Rowan said. “Marshal of Inquiry. Something about hunting down the assassins.”
“Inquiry!” Asteroth laughed, startling Rowan’s horse. “Erech’s newest magistrate, then? That sounds too right to be a jest.”
“My lord,” shouted one of Asteroth’s commanders. “Looks like they’re coming out of the woods.”
They looked ahead to see a band of riders crossing over from Rugenhav. Rowan could see it was a larger group than usual. Asteroth drew his massive sword and spurred his horse forward.
“Ride them down!”
Rowan hesitated. The borderlands were certainly exciting and he had learned much at Asteroth’s side. But Rowan found it difficult to think what might happen if war came.
He stuffed Arthan’s letter in his pocket, resentful of all his brother was accomplishing and experiencing. Rowan had not been there for the deaths of Maillard and Bardil, nor their funerals. His brother was now a lord minister and senior adviser to the king. Rowan wondered if he’d recognize Rachard.
He kicked his horse forward as the rear guard of Asteroth’s cavalry formed up around him. He could not go back to Rachard now, not to be Arthan’s steward. Here on the borderlands he was the ward of a fearsome if despotic lord. Asteroth was a man of conviction and action, and a brute. But Rowan had grown accustomed to his violence. And part of Rowan wanted to see the Rugens suffer.
There was also Etzel, the Rugen spy that Rowan had come to enjoy talking with. Asteroth had let him speak to her when they returned to Cantrileme Castle from their patrols, hoping she would give up something useful. Etzel was unfinished business for him.
Rowan had a purpose down here in Alpenon. He lifted his sword for the charge. He would not go back now.
73. WREDEGAR
Borel District of Eglamour, Toulon Ministry
Bloomfade, 3034
Unable to stay in Vesamune’s cellar a moment longer, Wredegar put on local garb and departed from a back courtyard window—as befitted a Wosmok. He frequently reminded himself that he was a knight, not a widsemer, but the dark arts had become second nature for him after all this time.
It was dusk as he set out for the slums of the Borel District, as he often did. It was a place where things happened and interesting people passed through, and he enjoyed the food. He dared not enter the taverns known for Rugen fare, lest he be identified as a Rugen or let his speech slip. Tonight he aimed for the alley lined with Ovelian grills, hoping to find fresh catch wrapped in herbs that came by sail, then wagon once each month.
As he approached the alley, his training rang an alarm in his head. The dirt streets were different. Usually they were crowded with merchant wagons, riders, barking dogs—even after nightfall. But tonight they were deserted.
Wredegar considered going back to the ambassador’s residence, but he was intrigued. He came to Borel enough to know how unusual this was. He pressed on toward the alley where the grills scarcely smoldered. As he drew closer he saw through the windows of the buildings that people were crowded within.
He approached the door to an Ovelian-style inn named Calza Aria, and it opened for him. Inside were all kinds of people, residents of Borel. He had little hope of reaching the innkeeper to buy a drink.
As he pushed through anyway, he picked up enough of the surrounding banter to realize what was happening. The merchants, tinkers, discharged soldiers, farmers, masons—everyone present was armed to the teeth. Swords, axes, shovels, picks, cudgels, and knives.
Wredegar had seen the riots in Eglamour since the king’s proclamation. From a distance. They were ugly events that usually ended with soldiers bloodying the rioters. The whole thing was utterly foreign to him. Such disloyalty simply did not exist in the grand cities of the Rugen Empire, and certainly not in the capital. But Wredegar reminded himself that the Donovards were a people of inferior culture and laws.
The Eglamour riots had also always been during the day, sparked by the latest wave of soldier discharges, food confiscations, or tax collections. But something else was stirring.
“You with Fosset’s group?” a short bald man asked him, poking his chest.
Wredegar hesitated.
“I say, you with Fosset?”
Wredegar nodded and prepared his best Donovar slum speech. “Course. What’s it to you?”
“But you’re not armed.”
Wredegar felt for his knife. He usually avoided carrying his sword when he was dressed as a commoner, to avoid attention. “Only this,” he said, pulling out the short blade.
The short man thrust a yew bow into his chest. “Shoot well? We need more archers. They’ll be pickin’ us off from the walls tonight.”
Wredegar nodded. �
�They’ll be the ones gettin’ picked off.”
The short man regarded him closely. “I don’t remember seeing you last time…”
“Came recently, from the south.”
“What’s your name?
“Ricot,” Wredegar said. “Carpenter apprentice from Gadolin.”
“Well, you came for the right one. Keep your aim true.” The short man gave him a quiver of arrows before clomping off.
Wredegar told himself to leave the inn at once, but his curiosity would not let go.
“Don’t worry much about Cid,” said a young man nearby. “Stout of stature and stout of heart, but short on brains, as we say. I’m Arnaut.”
“Ricot,” Wredegar said.
“You came to Borel just to join us?” Arnaut asked. Wredegar nodded. “I’m from Rachard in Delavon Ministry,” Arnaut continued. “There are many here from Mordmerg, too. You may have heard of it. They know how to light a proper riot. Took the minister’s army to break them, but they made their point well enough.”
Wredegar was only half listening to the chatty youth, but the mention of Mordmerg caught his attention. “Who from Mordmerg?”
Arnaut pointed toward the large table in the middle of the inn. A burly man with a black hood draped on his back and shoulders was talking with other hard-faced men and women.
“That is Lunfrid, the one with the shaggy straw hair. He was one of the leaders of the Mordmerg revolt. He organized all this with Fosset, who is down the street at Fatneck Tavern.”
“There are many more rioters making ready?”
Arnaut nodded. “Sun’s down. Will be anytime now.”
No sooner had Arnaut finished speaking than Lunfrid rose from his table. Someone slammed a mug on the table, and everyone turned to him.
“The time has come!” Lunfrid shouted to immediate cheering. “Tonight, we take Borel. Tomorrow, the palace!” Lunfrid let the crowd cheer a moment longer before silencing them. “We made the masters of Mordmerg quake, but we weren’t as prepared as we should have been. Now preparations have been made. We have joined you followers of Fosset tonight, throughout the district, to help take back homes, livelihoods, and all that is rightfully ours. The time has come!”
Lunfrid pushed toward the door and the mass of angry folk surged after him. Wredegar was swept into the flow. It was the most exciting thing he’d seen for some time, and he’d finally be able to take aim at a Donovard soldier. He could hear Vesamune’s condemnation of his behavior, but he pushed her voice from his mind.
They walked out into the street in the direction of the Borel alderman’s keep, which was situated in the middle of the district. Columns of men and women, modestly armed and mostly unarmored, flooded out of taverns, inns, meeting halls, shops, and homes. The few Eglamour guards who patrolled the streets of Borel were nowhere to be seen.
Wredegar sang along with their chants, enjoying himself. He realized the peril of his situation when the crowd arrived at the central square and found Eglamour soldiers protecting the alderman’s keep. He tried to angle out of the crowd of marching rioters, ostensibly to find a perch from which to shoot, but the crowd pushed him further toward the keep.
A horrifying melee ensued. Armored knights and soldiers skewered the commoners, but the mass of marchers pressed forward. Unable to escape, Wredegar gripped his knife with his left hand, leaving his thumb free to grip the bow staff. He drew an arrow with his right and notched an arrow, ready. The people ahead of him pressed into the soldiers and fell quickly.
His moment came when a soldier lunged for him. He feinted left, then stepped right, sinking his knife into the soldier’s exposed neck. A knight rushed forward, sword lifted high. Wredegar aimed his bow like a crossbow, shooting the arrow through the knight’s visor. Then he threw down the bow and picked up the fallen knight’s sword, keeping the knife in his left hand.
Feeling death surge around him, Wredegar could not suppress his training. He fought as he had on many battlefields prior to being pressed into Wosmok service. For the first time in a long time he felt unchained. Free of the shadows. Savoring the honor of facing one’s opponent face to face. He tore through the guards and rallied the rioters around him.
After a short time he turned toward the orange light behind him. The rioters had broken through and set fire to the alderman’s keep. Surviving soldiers scurried away if they could. Cid approached Wredegar.
“Ricot the carpenter, was it? Why didn’t you ask for a sword from the start?”
“Guess I just…” Wredegar wiped the blood from his brow, unsure what to say as he tried to calm down.
“Doesn’t matter,” Cid said. “We’ll take the guard posts throughout the district next. In the morning, they’ll send the army in on us. But we’ll be ready. Follow me, Ricot.”
Cid ran across the square toward another street, with Wredegar and many others jogging behind. As they approached an alley he veered toward the wall and let his pace slow. He stopped and bent over, as if adjusting his boots, then he ducked into the darkness of the alley.
74. ARTHAN
Rachard Castle, Delavon Ministry
Bloomfade, 3034
“You’ve changed.”
He kept his eyes on the ceiling. “Have I?”
Meriam snuggled closer on the bed. “You’ve always been confident, discerning. But now you’re resolute, and you don’t smile anymore.”
“The House of Valient is in real danger,” he said, turning his head to meet her eyes. “The kingdom is a shambles, and well-informed assassins travel freely through my lands. And the Rugens are on our doorstep. These are just a few of the obstacles to a smile.”
Meriam blinked. “I know your burdens are many. I hoped being here with me would help you forget about them for a time.”
Arthan closed his eyes. “It’s difficult to forget.”
She propped herself up on her pillow. “Your father, and Bardil, would be proud of what you’re trying to do. You’re honorably serving a king who doesn’t deserve the throne. You’re going to hunt down those assassins. And you’ll defend Delavon.”
“Perhaps not so honorable for long…”
She squinted at him. “What does that mean?”
He was not about to discuss his intention to negotiate with the Rugen ambassador, nor his intention to learn more about alchemy. “Nothing. Difficult, is all.”
“I’m shaken too,” she said. “Bellumet was like the father I never had. I hope I can serve you as chief engineer as well as he did, my lord.”
“Don’t call me that. You have my heart, Meriam.”
“Do I?” She lay back down. “You’ll be away in Eglamour for God knows how long. Again.”
“My first journey was short, and here I am.”
“But attacked twice since then,” she said. “I liked Hullen. The gently sloped domes, in the old Brintilian style. And the arches and round keystones. Now as I supervise the repair I’ll only be reminded of those assassins.”
Arthan slid an arm under her pillow and hooked her waist with the other, pulling her toward him and looking her in the eyes. “I will come back. I’m doubly in the service of the king now, for how long I cannot know. But I love you, Meriam. I will come back.”
Her skeptical eyes softened at his words, and they kissed. But Arthan could feel all the pressing issues in Eglamour creep back into his mind. He knew he wouldn’t be spending as much time in Rachard as he had hoped. As she had hoped. He tried to push these thoughts away, to savor this moment with her. He brushed her hair from her cheek.
“And I love you,” she said. “My heart is yours if you’ll but take it.”
“I desire it, all of you,” he said. He held her close again. “I will come back.”
“Then what will you do?”
“We’ll be together.”
“You know what I mean. Will you always love a low commoner?” she asked.
“I would love you if you were the lowest peasant.�
��
“But would you wed me?” she asked. He hesitated. “What are you waiting for, Arthan? The world to fall apart around us?”
“I have my duties, Meriam…”
“Do men with duties lack proper wives?”
“Must we have such formalities? My heart belongs to you, and yours to me.”
“I will be your mistress if nothing at all, but not gladly,” she said. “I want you here, with me, in the safety of Rachard. As husband and wife.”
“I am called to serve, Meriam.”
“You have changed. I fear Eglamour will make you crave crowns and power above all else, if it has not already. How else might that corrupt court change you?”
“I am still Arthan Valient. We’ve known each other since we were children, Meriam. I’ll never abandon you, or us. But I must do my duty. We are young still. Time is on our side.”
“Time sides with no one,” she said.
“Nevertheless, my father’s duties have fallen to me, and I must not fail.”
“I will be here,” she said, turning her eyes back up to the ceiling.
---
Arthan found Master Pelinaud where he always could be found, in the training hall of Rachard Castle. Arthan and his brothers had all learned the sword from him in this hall and in the courtyards. Pelinaud now spent his days teaching some of the sons and daughters of lesser nobles sworn to serve the Valients.
“My lord, wonderful to see you alive,” Pelinaud said. “I heard about what happened at Hullen.”
“Thank you, old friend. Can we speak privately?”
Pelinaud dismissed the trainees and proceeded to organize the weapons on the table as they talked.
“They got closer this time,” Arthan said, “though there were only two of them. They became distracted, or frightened…”
“By what, my lord?”
“This.” Arthan brought out Adrithayn.
Lords of Deception Page 33
