The Black Star (Book 3)

by Edward W. Robertson

  "I will. And thank you for looking into this. Now, how do you feel about feasts?"

  "I live for them," Lew said.

  Vinsin went to talk to a few people, and within minutes, a dozen locals had dropped what they were doing to gather in one of the kitchens to attack kettles, pots, and foodstuffs of all stripes. Dante was puzzled by their vigor: were they that grateful to Narashtovik's envoys?

  A meal materialized on the tables. Fried fish, stewed greens, farmer's cheese, roasted quail, thick slices of bread embedded with whole grains. Dante was too tired from hiking to fully appreciate the flour-smudged people thronging around the tables throwing plates of food at him, yet it lifted his spirits. If they'd forged a new connection with these people, and repaid, to some extent, the easterners' aid during the war, then perhaps the trip hadn't been a waste after all.

  At sunset, he approached Ast. "Thanks for showing us the way. It was a bit of a trek, wasn't it?"

  Ast smiled wryly. "Anything to help this land. It's a tough enough existence as it is."

  "I know the feeling." They shook hands.

  At dawn, Dante was among the first to rappel down the cliff and have a look around the vacated village. There were no tracks or kapper spoor. He signaled to the cliffs and others climbed down to solid ground. After a meal and a few goodbyes, he and Lew walked across the meadow, descended the stone staircase, and began the long trip back to Narashtovik.

  "So is it true?" Lew said.

  "Is what true?" Dante said.

  "That they found Blays."

  Dante gazed at him sidelong. "You were listening in?"

  "Not on purpose," Lew said. "It's not like I had much choice. That cave was so tight you could hear a cricket fart."

  "Wouldn't that be extremely noisy?" Dante pulled up his collar against the cold. "I don't know if he's been located. These reports come in all the time."

  "I met him a couple times," the young monk mused. "I was just an acolyte, but he was always pleasant to me."

  "He occupied a curious niche in the Citadel." Dante stepped over a fallen branch strewn across the switchbacked trail. "For years, he had no official position or power of his own. Some of the Council regarded him as nothing more than my servant. I think that left him sympathetic to all who had a similar role."

  "I dunno. I just thought he was a nice guy."

  They traveled on foot for two days, sleeping in cliffside caves. At last they reached the lowlands and retrieved their horses from the Gates of the Mountains, a modest town that marked the unofficial boundary between the civilized lands and the scattered mountain people. The glassy yellow autumn light shined on fields of grass gone to seed and farms nearing harvest. Gusts of wind raced from the west, watering Dante's eyes. After so long in the mountains, the neutral air felt warm and welcoming. After so many nights of blankets in caves, the beds of the inns felt like magic.

  Miles outside Narashtovik, the plains were replaced by pine forests. The road was dotted with light traffic: farmers and peasants on foot, dressed in long jackets that swished below their knees. Wagons and traders, too. The forest ended. Across the plain sat Narashtovik.

  For the finale of the war, Moddegan's troops had marched right into it, but the battle had centered on the Sealed Citadel and lasted a single day. Prior to that, the ten thousand redshirts mustered against the city had accomplished plenty of looting, burning, and killing, but by the standards of war, the damage had been slight. While the fringes of the city were thick with abandoned and ruined houses, those had been there for decades. Centuries, in some cases. Narashtovik had a long, long history. The Chainbreakers' War was just the latest in a string of conflicts. Whatever damage it had caused, Narashtovik continued to enjoy a renaissance.

  Dante and Lew rode into the outskirts of the city. On Dante's first visit, this had been a forest of young pines sprouting in the ruins of old houses. But these trees had made for easy firewood, and the last of them had been chopped down years ago. Much of the lumber had been used to build new homes, many of which were a patchwork of blond timber and old stone.

  The land was patch-worked, too, with small homestead farms bordered by fieldstone fences. Though the city had a well-managed granary, one of the key strokes of the war had been securing a supply of wheat from Tantonnen, another former Gaskan territory that sprawled two hundred miles to the south. Late that summer, as the king's men rolled through the Norren Territories, displacing clans, villages, and entire towns, Narashtovik had funneled the Tantonnen wheat to the refugees, saving countless lives.

  The lesson was that in times of crisis, there was no such thing as too much food. On the conclusion of the war, Dante brought this lesson before the Council. Like everything else, the institution had been depleted by the fighting, but it still boasted many formidable members. Olivander was the commander of the military and currently the acting regent, and possessed a strong logistical mind. Somburr, the spymaster, had traveled extensively, observing all kinds of municipal programs and arrangements, and had the keenest understanding of politics and their consequences. And Tarkon was as old as the hills and had lived in Narashtovik all his years; his understanding of the city and its people was second to none.

  Between them, they'd hammered out a simple agreement: any citizen or immigrant who wished to farm the city-owned land could do so. Narashtovik's soldiers (who no longer had much soldiering to do) would even assist them in the construction of their homes and the cleanup of the land. This would cost the homesteaders nothing—but in the event of war or emergency, the city would be allowed to purchase all the farmers' excess food at a steep discount.

  It had worked out as well as they'd hoped. Hundreds of family farms cropped up around the city's borders. Thriving markets emerged in the formerly quiet streets of the outer districts. Merchants arrived to act as middlemen, porting the excess to Dollendun, Yallen, and the harsh lands of the northwest coasts, where storms and rough terrain made large-scale farming impossible.

  In one sense, setting up programs like this was extremely tedious. In another sense, however, administering Narashtovik and its lands was like a massive, real-life version of Nulladoon.

  With the Citadel located in the center of the city, Dante rarely had any call to roam around the edges of the city. As he and Lew rode in from the hinterlands, it was deeply rewarding to see the effects of his policy on the commonwealth. They passed through the Pridegate, the first of the two walls. These neighborhoods had prospered, too, rowhouses and storefronts packing people into each block. Dante wasn't wearing the black and silver uniform of Narashtovik, and despite being on horseback, he was often forced to maneuver around lumbering wagons and knots of haggling traders. The city was thick with the smell of dung, equine and human, mollified somewhat by baking bread, diverse perfumes, and the smell of hot black tea wafting from countless stalls, public houses, and shops dedicated to its consumption.

  Dante crossed beneath the Ingate into the heart of the city, a cluster of hills dominated by two structures: the Cathedral of Ivars, which flung its marble spire nearly five hundred feet into the sky, and across from it, the Sealed Citadel, a titanic block of granite encircled by a thirty-foot wall. The gates, as always, were closed, but the guards manning them were quick to spot Dante. The grille opened with an iron screech. The guards shouted greetings. The handful of troops, acolytes, and servants in the courtyard glanced his way and inclined their heads. Dante nodded back.

  Groomsmen hastened to see to the horses. Dante dismounted stiffly, sore from days of riding. He had hardly made it inside the front doors before he was intercepted by Gant, the Citadel's majordomo, whose pale skin and facility for seeming to be everywhere at once prompted speculation that he moved faster than sunlight.

  "Lord Galand," Gant said to Dante in his exquisite accent—sheer Narashtovik stevedore, yet somehow Gant made it sound as elegant as brushed nickel. The man himself was as thin and sinewy as a riding crop. "We are blessed to have you back. Was your trip satisfactory?"

&nb
sp; "We may have fulfilled some of our hazy objectives," Dante said.

  The majordomo turned to Lew. "And you?"

  The young monk shrugged. "Always nice to be allowed out of the city."

  "Excellent. Lord Galand, I am certain Olivander will want to see you at the soonest opportunity."

  "And I want a flying carpet," Dante said. "Or at least a narrower horse. Where's Nak?"

  Gant cocked his head. "I expect he is in his quarters. Should I let him know you will see him after you've spoken to Olivander?"

  Dante chuckled at the man's polite manipulation. "How about the opposite?"

  "I don't believe such an arrangement would please Lord Olivander."

  "Then you're just the man to smooth his ruffled feathers." Dante smiled at Gant and jogged through the cool stone foyer. Gant knew better than to make any serious attempt to stop him.

  Dante entered the stairwell to the upper floors where most of the Council kept their rooms. Sunbeams cut through the bubbly glass windows. His footsteps racketed up and down. After a long climb—too long, really, considering the age of many of the Council, though many of them rarely left their floor—he exited into a hallway. This was lit by lanterns and sparsely decorated with tapestries woven with the image of Barden, historical battles, and so forth. Dante barely saw them as he approached Nak's door and knocked three times.

  Nak answered promptly. He wasn't the most dashing figure on earth: short, pudgy, middle-aged, and almost but not completely bald. Nor was he the brightest theologian or the most powerful sorcerer. Not an obvious candidate to elevate to the Council. At the time, some of the other monks had whispered he was a mediocrity at best.

  But he was cheerful, dogged, and thorough, traits that allowed him to pursue matters more deeply and effectively than a man of greater talent but lesser focus. A lot like Lew, in fact, or rather, what Lew might turn out to be, if he pushed himself to the limits of his ability. Dante thought Nak's promotion had been an excellent decision, adding a sturdy keel to the ship of Narashtovik's governing body.

  Nak smiled smugly. "You got here fast."

  "I've made an amazing discovery," Dante said. "Did you know that if you move your legs, you can cross distances?"

  "I'm sure news of Blays had nothing to do with your haste."

  "Where is she? The woman who thinks she saw him?"

  Nak's smirk shrank. "Oh, she's here. Ish."

  "Ish? Which room, Nak?"

  "Here," he gestured vaguely. "In the city."

  Dante's scowl was as dark as the hailstorm they'd endured in the mountains. "She brought news credible enough to loon me about—to call me home early—"

  "Leaving early was your decision!"

  "—and you let her run off as she pleases?"

  "I couldn't very well lock her up in a cell, could I? Merely letting her inside the Citadel was a breach of protocol. Would you like me to send her a note at the inn she's staying at?"

  "Please," Dante said levelly.

  Nak adjusted his black robe. "I bet you'll hear from her within the day. You can thank me then."

  "Deal. And if she's gone, I'll put you in the stocks. A wheeled form of my own invention that can be carted around by a team of diarrhetic goats."

  Nak frowned, then waved a stocky hand. "You're awfully skeptical for the future leader of a religious order."

  "How can you trust a thing until you've interrogated it within an inch of its life? Including priests."

  Nak rolled his eyes. Dante exited and headed down the hallway to see Olivander. As he grabbed the handle to the Council regent's chambers, the door swung inward, revealing a surprised-looking Lew.

  "Ah, found you," the young monk said. "Olivander's right here."

  "In his room?" Dante said. "Good thing I have you around as a guide. How else would I find my way around this Citadel I live in?"

  Lew reddened and examined a corner of the room. At its far end, Olivander rose with a grin. "Dante! Finally decided to heed your superior's summons, did you?"

  Dante entered the chamber. Olivander was a soldier and a hunter and his quarters were adorned with antlers, bows, boar spears, and tapestries depicting famous hunts of myth, including the harpooning of the dodecapus by Viadella. Before seating himself in one of the stuffed chairs, Dante turned on Lew with a stare that bordered on a glower. Lew gave a little wave, exited, and shut the door behind him.

  "Do you spend a lot of time chatting with the monks?" Dante said.

  Olivander shrugged a broad shoulder. "Since you refused to see me, I thought I'd see Lew in lieu." He looked surprised. "Look, I've made one of your jokes."

  "And you've also made me regret my decision to come see you."

  "But you're here, and there's nothing we can do about that now. Did you find the source of the signs?"

  "Didn't you get the recap from Lew? Don't trust his powers of observation?"

  "He's keener than you believe," Olivander said. "But it never hurts to have a second perspective."

  Dante summarized the trip, beginning at Soll and continuing through their trek into the wilds, their encounter with the kapper, and their witness of the lights that took the shape of Barden. Olivander's face was lined from sunshine, battles, and forty-odd years of existence, and as Dante explained what they'd seen, those lines grew as deep as the ravines of the Woduns.

  "Kappers are real?"

  "I doubted, too," Dante said. "Then one mistook me for a walking breakfast."

  "I knew they once existed." Olivander gestured at the walls. "We have some of their relics around here somewhere. I thought they'd been rooted out centuries ago."

  "What does it mean that they weren't?"

  "That we ought to stay out of the Woduns?"

  "Stop stealing my ideas," Dante said.

  "How did Ast Modell perform? I found him an admirable guide when I was rallying forces in the east."

  "Hesitant to get started, but effective once we got on the trail. Or, more accurately, once we got on the rickety piles of rock that may never before have been scuffed by human soles."

  Olivander leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his stomach. "Now that you've seen it for yourself, what would your recommended course of action be?"

  "Is this a test of my leadership?"

  "So is every decision we make. Except perhaps those we make in the water closet."

  "You're getting cruder. I think we're spending too much time together." Dante tipped back his head and considered the ceiling. "I think we should send a monk with a loon to Soll. If there are further developments, I want to know about it right away. Additionally, I'd like some of the senior monks—or a Council member, if there's a volunteer—to study the scales I removed from the kapper. I don't like anything I don't know how to kill."

  The regent watched him. "Studying puzzles sounds like something you'd typically do yourself."

  "I will, too," Dante said quickly. "Like you said, it never hurts to have another set of eyes."

  "If I said it, it must be true. Agreed on all counts. I'll put together an escort and send a monk to Soll. Thank you for making the trip. It may have felt pointless, but building our relationship with the mountain people could pay off handsomely should it turn out Moddegan's plotting his vengeance against us."

  "Is that possible? What has Somburr heard?"

  "Nothing to twist your skin about," Olivander said. "But it's a mistake to assume the enemy's standing still. I'm sure he's scheming and strategizing no less than we are. Strengthening our alliance in the east can only help to dissuade him from poor ideas." He reached for parchment and a quill. "I believe we're done. You'll be around if I need you?"

  "Sure," Dante said. "After a week of banging around the mountains, my feet would mutiny if I tried to march them another mile."

  The lie was so egregious he didn't even feel bad for telling it. He killed time in his room examining the kapper's scales. He didn't do anything that might impact or damage them—merely touched them with the nether, which
slid off as cleanly as water from the scales of a fish. Though each try yielded the same results, he repeated it tirelessly, trying to watch a different part of the reaction each time and thus understand why it was happening.

  Partly, he employed this method to pass the hours while waiting for word from Nak, but it was his preferred approach to all investigations. When confronted with a thing he didn't understand, he liked to quietly watch until that thing began to make sense. Only then did he dive in with active prodding, poking, and attempts to change, test, or break the object or concept in question.

  He wasn't always able to go about things in this manner, particularly out in the field, when time was scarce and lives were on the line, but for once, time wasn't at a premium. So he sat on his balcony overlooking the city, the afternoon light glinting from the bay washing the north shore, the smoke of chimneys and forges mingling with the damp sea air. Despite his complaints, he enjoyed traveling—seeing new corners of the world, accomplishing things at the front of the action—but he also enjoyed being alone like this, ensconced in his room with an object of interest. When the knock came at the door, he was actually annoyed.

  He cracked the door. Nak stood on the other side, looking smug again. "I told you I hadn't lost her."

  Dante threw the door open. "Which room?"

  "You're in for a crash course in the ways of our sharp-eyed lady. She's not in the Citadel. She wants to meet at midnight. At the King's Folly."

  "The King's Folly? That's more than a little inconvenient. Think she plans to assassinate me?"

  Nak rolled his eyes. "I imagine Narashtovik's top nethermancer might be able to handle a run-of-the-mill assassin."

  Dante gazed down the hallway. "What if she does mean to kill me? Coming here with 'news' of Blays is a sure-fire way to get me to leave the Citadel."

  "Which you never, ever do otherwise."

  "Point taken. Thanks, Nak. If I don't come back, take my revenge?"

  "Along with all your property."

  At ten-thirty that night, Dante descended the stairwell, lantern in hand, and exited into the courtyard. A chilly seaborne breeze flowed over the walls. The guards at the gate opened the reinforced side door and he walked north. The plaza between the Citadel and the Cathedral was well-lit, but the streets beyond were often as dark as the skies. He didn't truly believe this mysterious woman was here to kill him, yet he couldn't shake a paranoid mood, and found himself glancing over his shoulder at every intersection.