The Barrel and Blade’s walls were sandstone. At some point in the distant past, a customer had jammed a bone dagger into the wall, burying it almost to the hilt. Others had taken up the implied challenge, then more, until there were thousands, if not tens of thousands, of knives of all varieties protruding from the tavern’s walls. Every now and then someone yanked one out to settle a fight, but the regulars knew that violated the spirit of the thing, and besides, hardly anyone on Athas went out without at least one knife somewhere on their person.
Otherwise, the place had little to recommend it. The tables were rough-hewn planks mounted on three posts, and most were neither stable nor even. When a few people crowded around one, sitting on rough, mismatched stools and stumps, they had to be careful about where their mugs of ale were placed on the table, else someone lifting one mug could jar the tabletop enough to send the others to the floor.
Aric glanced around at the clientele, a mixture of every race one typically saw in Nibenay: humans, muls, goliaths, dwarves, and more. Not many other half-elves or elves, though. The drinkers were merchants, thieves, craftspeople, all free citizens and most from the commoner classes. The Barrel and Blade was not a place noble folk went.
“That’s right,” Aric said after a moment. “I don’t like it under any circumstances, but especially when I’m flush.” He waved a hand at his companions, three humans and a goliath. “Ruhm here can’t help attracting some notice, but you guys are all humans. You don’t know what it’s like to be a half-elf. Humans don’t trust you, elves don’t trust you, everyone thinks you’re aligned with the other side and would as soon slit your throat as say hello. Templars look for any excuse to enslave you. Attention? You might as well arm me with a twig and toss me into the pit against Yeves the Undefeated.”
“Surely the events in Tyr—” Torus began.
Aric cut him off with a scoffing noise. “Kalak’s overthrow makes no difference in that regard. And I’m not just talking about here in Nibenay. Look, Athas is a dangerous world, we all know that. It’s more dangerous for some of us than for others, that’s all I’m saying. Always has been, always will be. The only smart thing to do is to keep your head down and hope danger walks on by.”
“But if Tyr changes, and the other city-states follow,” Torus said, “then maybe the world will become a safer place. Don’t you think?” He lowered his voice. He was a cobbler’s apprentice, and had been for so long that Aric wondered if he just wasn’t good enough to strike out on his own, or if he lacked the ambition to do so. “I mean, if the power of the sorcerer-kings is limited, then free people will take more responsibility upon themselves, and free people have less reason to hate than those in perpetual bondage.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Aric answered. “You have to say that sort of thing in low tones, because you never know who’s listening. And you’re a human. Now take that fear and multiply it by a dozen, and you have the way a half-elf feels all the time. It’s not safe for anyone to express that sort of opinion, but it’s even less so for me. Look, none of us can change the world. If it changes on its own, if this thing with Kalak helps spur that change, that’s great. But no individual or group of individuals is going to do it. On Athas, we’re born into a certain place in the world, and that’s where we stay.”
Gitch finished chewing a bite of grilled aprig and wiped his lips with his fingers. “Do you really feel that way, Aric? How sad.”
“I do, Gitch. And will, unless I witness something that changes my mind. Twenty years now I’ve been waiting. Nothing yet.”
Gitch was a big man, almost elf-sized, although sitting next to Ruhm would make anyone look small. He worked at a livery stable, and always seemed coated in reddish dust. The smell of kanks and other creatures clung to him, as if contained in that same dust. “I hope to own the stable someday,” he said. “That’s a change of status.”
“I own my own shop,” Aric countered. And yes, I do need for my customers—the satisfied ones, at any rate—to tell others about my work. That’s a risk I have to take in order to keep the business coming in. But if they can do it without mentioning my name, I like that best of all.”
“Perhaps,” Gitch said. “I’ll drink to that, too.” The others at the table went quiet, drinking their ale, or wine in Kenif’s case, chewing their meat. Aric was sorry that he had spoiled the celebratory mood. He knew, and he suspected they all did, that no matter how much fun tonight, in the morning they would all get up and spend another day in service to those who were wealthier and more powerful than they.
On Athas, that was the best one could hope for. And it wasn’t good to spend too much time dwelling on the worst.
2
Someone was pounding on the shop’s front door. Aric sat up in bed and the room tilted crazily out from under him. He put his hands against the mattress to steady himself. His head ached, and when he thought it was safe to put his feet on the floor—that pounding continued—his vision swam.
“Coming!” he called. He gained his feet, started for the door. His left foot kicked Ruhm’s outflung hand. “Sorry,” he muttered. Ruhm just grunted and shifted, his eyes never so much as blinking open. Aric walked past him, through the door. The shop stayed so warm that he slept in the nude, and he wondered momentarily if he should cover up. But bending over to pick up clothing from the floor would certainly be dizzying, perhaps even make him fall down or get sick. He decided to see who was trying to knock his door off its hinges, then worry about getting dressed.
“I said I’m coming!”
“Hurry it along, then!” a deep voice replied.
Aric unlatched the door and swung it wide. A pair of goliaths stood on the other side, dressed in the colorful uniform of the Shadow Guard, Nibenay’s elite palace guard. Tall hats with insect leglike appendages sticking out at the sides made the goliaths appear even bigger than they were.
“You are Aric, the smith?” one of them asked.
Aric swallowed. Suddenly he was very awake indeed, and conscious of his nudity. “Yes …”
“He wants to see you.”
“He who?” Even as he asked it, Aric was afraid he knew the answer. Anxiety gripped him, curling his toes against the hard floor.
“The Shadow King.”
“Better put something on,” the other soldier said.
“Wh-why does he want to see me?”
“We didn’t ask,” the first soldier said. “He sends us on missions, we don’t ask questions. Now he calls for you. I were you, I would get dressed and come.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“But …” Aric didn’t know what to ask first. He didn’t want to see the Shadow King. He never had, although of course he had heard tales about him. He especially didn’t want to be escorted into the Naggaramakam. Free citizens didn’t come out of there alive. “I … just a minute.” He closed the door. The soldiers shifted position on the other side. He heard the shuffle of their feet, the creak of leather, the clinking of weapons.
Could he escape out the back? Not for long, he decided. He had some coins left, so if he got out of the city he could survive for a little while. But sooner or later, he would have to work again, and he knew only the one trade. If he made it to Tyr or Draj, could he open another shop of his own? No, better to dress and find out what the Shadow King wanted with him. Maybe he just wanted a sword. Tunsall of Thrace might have told him how happy Rieve was with hers. That was probably it.
“What’s going on?” Ruhm asked him. He had managed to rouse himself, and sat on the floor where he had been sleeping.
Aric pulled on fresh clothing, started to wrap a krama around his head. “Nibenay wants to see me.”
“Nibenay, Nibenay?”
“There’s more than one? Of course. There are soldiers outside waiting to take me to him.”
“What you done, Aric?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. Perhaps someone heard us talking last night, reported me. I don’t know.” He messed up
with the krama, and the whole thing collapsed when he tried to tuck the last bit of the long scarf. He had to start over, his hands shaking so much he could barely manage. Finally Ruhm stood and helped him.
“Probably nothing,” he said.
“You think so?”
“Don’t know,” Ruhm admitted. “He never summoned me.”
“These soldiers outside, they’re goliaths. Perhaps you could speak with them.”
“Because their bond with a goliath they never met will outweigh loyalty to their king?”
“Yeah, I guess that was foolish,” Aric said. “I’m just … I’m scared, Ruhm.”
“You’re done,” Ruhm said, patting his shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“About being scared? I would be too.”
“That’s a big help.”
Ruhm clasped Aric’s hand tightly. “Don’t think you done nothing wrong. You had, would come inside.”
“You’re probably right, Ruhm.”
“So see you later on.”
“Plan on it. And if I don’t come back, the shop is yours.”
Aric released his friend’s hand and crossed through the shop again. The goliaths still waited by the door. “I’m ready,” Aric told them.
“We go,” the first one said. The other one was taciturn even by half-giant standards. Ruhm was one of the most talkative goliaths Aric had ever met, and he used words as sparingly as if they were gold.
The two huge soldiers flanked him as they started down Nibenay’s morning streets at a brisk walk. People dodged out of their way, eyeing Aric as if he had already been sentenced to death or to a short, brutal life in the gladiatorial arena.
For all he knew, he had.
“Are we going to the palace?” he asked, thinking, Please, say no!
“No.”
“Where, then?”
“Temple of the King’s Law.”
That was nearly as bad. People weren’t necessarily put to death just for walking through the doors. But Djena, the High Consort of the King’s Law, seemed always to be looking for new faces to occupy her dungeons, and new slaves to join her ranks.
He doubted they would answer, but he had to ask. “Am I … am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Don’t know,” the soldier said. “Don’t care.”
Well, I care, Aric thought. I care a very great deal.
He looked about for a way to escape, giving thought once again to trying to flee these soldiers rather than face whatever awaited him at the temple.
But the streets were busy, and he the subject of many curious stares. If he tried to break away, he wouldn’t get three steps before someone, trying to curry favor with the Shadow King, would block his flight. The soldiers might even react by killing him on the spot.
Better to take his chances with Nibenay, he decided. He was curious about what he might have done to attract the sorcerer-king’s attention, if only to make sure—assuming he survived—that he never did it again.
So much, he thought as they approached the tall gray building, steps flanking it on every side leading to doors high enough for even the goliaths in their big hats to pass beneath easily, for remaining beneath anyone’s notice.
3
Why do I care about murders?” the Shadow King asked. He was back in the far corner of the room, where no lanterns or torches reached. Aric could barely see him, except for the faintest glimmer of light reflecting off his crown and his yellow eyes. But when the sorcerer-king moved, Aric was aware of a considerable presence.
A templar in a long skirt, her hair loose against her naked back, stood before the five high consorts. Although Nibenay had addressed her directly, she answered as if Djena had asked the question.
“As you are aware, High Consort, there have now been three similar crimes. A human man and an elf woman, often a prostitute—”
“Was the victim a prostitute, in this case?” Djena asked.
“We believe so. She had a single silver piece in her purse. The man had several, of similar vintage, in his.”
“They both had silver on them? They were killed in the Hill District, or near it, and were not robbed by their killer or anyone else? I am surprised.”
“Perhaps anyone who happened upon the bodies, before they were reported to us, was too disturbed by their condition to search them,” the templar speculated.
If the condition of the bodies had been described in detail, it was before the soldiers had brought Aric into the chamber. He had managed to get one of them to explain that he was being taken before the Council of Templars, and that Nibenay himself would be in attendance. But Aric was not the first item of business.
“That may be,” Djena said.
“Besides these killings,” the more junior templar added, “we can’t forget the murder of sixteen Sky Singers. That’s still got the elf community roiled up.”
“Elves,” Nibenay said. The dismissive tone of the single word couldn’t be ignored.
“Just the same, High Consort, people may not like elves but they like the goods elves can provide. Nibenay is known far and wide as a place where anything can be obtained. If the elves shut down their market, refuse to trade here, then that reputation will be in danger. We’ll lose that prestige.”
“Would the caravans stop coming to Nibenay?” the Shadow King asked. “Stop spending their coins here?”
“Some might, High Consort,” the templar said, still not answering the king directly. The question made sense to Aric, and was probably the most pertinent fact yet raised about the murders. Nibenay’s economic slide was widely known around the city-state, as if Tyr’s upheaval had caused people elsewhere to stop spending as freely as they once had. “This is my fear,” the templar went on, “and why I recommend posting guards around the elven market for a time.”
“Do that,” Nibenay said. “And keep this council apprised of any further developments.”
“Thank you, sister templar,” the High Consort of the King’s Law said with a forward curl of her hand. “You may take your leave.”
The templar bowed once and left the room. As she passed Aric and his escort, she gave him a curious glance. He offered a smile, which was not returned. Then she was gone, and Nibenay’s gurgling voice boomed out. “Is the smith here yet?”
Aric didn’t know how to respond. The templar had directed her words toward the High Consort of the Law. But she had been reporting about a crime, which would fall under that high consort’s purview. If Aric did the same, would he draw attention from the wrong high consort? He had committed no crimes that he knew of.
But one of the soldiers nudged him, hard, so he knew he was expected to say something. He took a half step forward, propelled by the force of that nudge. “I am Aric, the smith,” he said.
“Come forward, smith,” the High Consort of Thought said. Siemhouk’s voice was high, girlish.
He obeyed, walking as quickly as he could without falling down, his legs unsteady, knees locking.
“That’s far enough,” she said after a few moments. Aric stood before the five high consorts, arrayed in a half-circle about him, all seated in grand chairs.
“I have heard,” Nibenay himself said, “from Tunsall of Thrace, that you, smith, have a powerful psionic connection to metals. Is this true? You may address me directly.”
Yes or no? Aric wondered. Which answer will get me out of here fastest?
He decided the truth was his best bet, in case Nibenay was already convinced of it or was reading it in his mind at this moment. “It is true.”
“You have no objection to being tested?”
“Tested?” What could he mean by that? “No, I guess not.”
“Very well. Kahalya?”
The high consort seated on the far right rose from her ornately carved chair. Her nude body was taut and firm, with a slim waist, small breasts, and surprisingly long legs. She walked to Aric, and offered him a metal brooch. He took it from her. It was deep blue, with emerald green highlights, i
n the shape of a bird on the wing. Small gems adorned it. Aric thought it likely the most valuable object he had ever touched.
Aric never knew precisely what metal would say to him. Sometimes he handled metals that didn’t speak at all, that were simply inert objects, as they were to most people. Other times he saw, in his mind’s eye, vivid images of who had last handled the thing, or pictures of where the metal had been before, what it had been part of. But his most powerful connection came when he worked with the stuff, when it “told” him how to shape it, how to combine it with other metals to achieve strength, flexibility, sharpness, or some other attribute.
He closed his hand around the brooch, hoping his psionic ability wouldn’t let him down before such a distinguished audience.
He needn’t have worried.
Images flooded his mind, like water filling a basin. An elf, thin and bedraggled, hanging from a gallows, rope cinched tight around a distended neck, eyes bulging. A human woman, a member of the nobility, wearing fancy clothes; her hand clapped to her shoulder, fingers twitching as if feeling for something that wasn’t there. Another human, an artisan, shaping the bird. Then Aric saw the bird itself, as the artisan had seen it, in full flight, wings pounding against the sky as it gained elevation.
Kahalya yet stood before him. He handed the brooch back to her, and she closed her small fist over it.
“A man saw a bird in flight, and was inspired to create this brooch,” Aric said. “It fetched a high price, from a noblewoman. She wore it to.… I don’t know, a party, some sort of event. It was stolen by an elf. When he was hanged as a thief, it was recovered.”
“Close enough,” another high consort said. Aric recognized Djena, High Consort of the King’s Law. Kahalya returned to her seat as her sister templar spoke. “He was hanged because he tried to sell the brooch, but we had been alerted to its theft and we were looking for it. When we found out about him, we captured him. Apparently you’ve seen the result.”
City Under the Sand Page 7
