“What about the guards?” Mannevy demanded, turning to glare at Gergen accusingly. “Why did they leave their posts?”
“They say they were blinded,” the messenger replied. He opened his pouch and pulled out a roll of parchment which he passed down to the general.
Mannevy moved to take it. Gergen passed it to him without pause. Mannevy scowled as he read the message.
“The locks were melted!” Mannevy growled. “The metal dripped out of the cells!”
“One of the gods, surely!” Gergen said. “Has anyone upset Vorg or Veva recently?”
“Ophidian,” Mannevy said with a groan. The general gave him a questioning look, so the minister explained, “We shot a wyvern, if you recall.”
“Oh,” the general said. He cocked his head. “But Ametza’s protection — we’re in her realm, surely Ophidian would respect that?”
“Ophidian is one of the oldest,” Mannevy reminded him. “He lives by his own rules.”
“I’m sure he has his reasons,” Gergen said, careful not to sound critical and trying to avoid glancing nervously to the skies above.
“One of the prisoners said that Ophidian had blinded the guards,” the second messenger said in confirmation.
“And they can see now?” Mannevy asked in surprise.
“They have all fled,” the messenger said. He glanced toward the general. “Colonel Walpish asks where we can get replacements.”
“First we have to get locks, from what you tell me,” Gergen said, glancing toward Mannevy.
“It seemed like the doors — at least — will have to be replaced,” the second messenger said in agreement.
“You may leave,” Gergen said to the first messenger. “Your colonel may need you.”
With a nod, the messenger turned his horse around and spurred it into a gallop back out the cobblestoned courtyard.
The second messenger turned to the general, waiting patiently. Gergen glanced toward Mannevy who jerked his head in a dismissive agreement.
“Go,” Gergen said to the second messenger. The messenger saluted down to his general from his saddle and nodded toward Mannevy before spurring his horse out the gates.
“I’ll let the king know,” Mannevy said, turning away. “And I’ll talk to Hewlitt.” Peter Hewlitt was responsible to Mannevy for spying in — and out of — the kingdom.
“What about Prentice?” Gergen asked. Minister Prentice, the Exchequer and second minister, was responsible for the king’s taxes and treasury.
“Of course,” Mannevy agreed. “We’ll have to dip into our funds.”
“And raise taxes,” Gergen predicted sourly.
“Which means we’ll need the jails for those who won’t pay,” Mannevy agreed airily. He paused in sudden inspiration. “I have it — an air tax!”
“Air tax?” Gergen said.
“To protect our skies from vermin like wyverns and dragons,” Mannevy explained.
“Oh, I see,” Gergen replied, not sounding too relieved. “Will it be assessed by acreage of land or per person?”
“Both,” Mannevy said, glancing approvingly toward the general.
“That will be hard on the farmers,” Gergen grumbled.
“I shall adjust it suitably,” Mannevy said, recalling that General Gergen had vast holdings just outside the town. He smiled as he added, “Perhaps I’ll include an exemption for those in the king’s service.”
“I must be about my duties,” Gergen said.
“As must I,” Mannevy agreed, striding off quickly towards the castle’s throne room.
#
“Two weeks, Lord Hewlitt, in two weeks we’ll be ready to begin our war,” King Markel said to the small, wiry man who knelt before him. “Then, when we make our triumphant entrance into Soria, our queen will suffer a catastrophe.”
“At the hands of Sorian spies,” Peter Hewlitt agreed, raising his head to meet his king’s eyes and smile. “They’re in place, they know their duty.”
“And the men to handle them?” Markel asked. “We can’t leave any witnesses.”
“I’ve assigned the troop to hunt them down,” Hewlitt replied. “They are troopers in the king’s guard, under colonel Walpish.”
“But no one else knows, do they?” Markel said. “None of the other troopers.”
“None,” Hewlitt assured him.
“Good,” Markel said. “You may go, I can hear that idiot Mannevy returning.”
“I shall strive to discover what occurred in the jail,” Hewlitt said.
Markel waved him out of the room. Hewlitt left through the secret door that he had discovered years before when Markel had first started to plot the overthrow of his father, King Alavor.
#
“More tea, my dear?” Queen Arivik asked Madame Parkes, hovering the tea pot over the other’s fine porcelain cup.
“Indeed, yes!” Suzanne Parkes, the madame of the Inn of the Broken Sun, said with great pleasure.
“It’s my own brew, you know,” Arivik said with a little giggle. “Guaranteed to fix all that ails you!”
“Oh, indeed your majesty,” Madame Parkes agreed easily, raising the now-full cup to her lips and pretending to take a big sip. She knew, from bitter experience, what sort of concoctions Queen Arivik preferred, and Suzanne Parkes wanted a clear head for all her dealings, not one muddied with visions of flying pixies or other small creatures. “You simply must let me bring some home for my girls, please say you will.”
“I’m sure I can arrange something,” the queen returned with an airy wave, raising her cup to her mouth and emptying half of it with great relish. She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and let the visions take her. Some moments later, she opened her eyes again and said, “Now, where were we?”
“I asked if you could supply me with some of your excellent tea,” the madame said, careful to not sound irritated with the lengthy delay in their transaction.
“Of course,” Arivik said. She waved a hand for one of her servants who approached on her right side from the rear and leaned forward enough to come into the queen’s view. “You there, what’s your name?”
“Whatever you wish it to be, your majesty,” the young lad said with just the slightest hint of fear.
“What was it yesterday,” Madame Parkes asked lightly, throwing the lad a warning look. His name was Alain, he was late of the southern lands, and he’d come to Madame Parkes’ employment a number of months ago. His features were exotic: blond hair and dark eyes, his build slight and wiry — she knew at once that the lad would be perfect as a consort for the queen.
“Yesterday it was Britches,” Alain said.
“Britches! Yes, that was it!” Queen Arivik said. She glanced toward him and smiled with all her teeth. “Tonight I think you’ll be ‘No Britches!’”
Madame Parkes nodded peremptorily to the young man who swallowed and nodded in return: orders given and received. The Queen would have a pleasant night.
“No Britches,” Queen Arivik said, laughing a brittle twinkly laugh, “Madame Parkes would like some more tea.”
“No, your majesty,” Parkes corrected smoothly, “I misspoke. I asked for some of your marvelous tea to bring back to my girls.”
“And why would they want that?” Queen Arivik wondered. The question bored her and she forgot it with a wave of her hand to the young lad. “Just be sure to get what Madame wants, little Britches.”
Alain nodded wordlessly and stepped back out of the queen’s sight. Madame Parkes followed him with her eyes and give him a slight nod in assurance. Alain had a little sister who was a guest at the Inn of the Broken Sun: he would do everything to ensure that she didn’t become an employee. Madame Parkes encouraged him in this notion. She would bide her time: little girls grow and want the pretty things in life; she would ensure that little Lisette would fi
nd all the pretty things she wanted at the Inn of the Broken Sun. By then, she knew, Alain would not be in a position to even think to complain, if he were in a position to think at all. The Queen insisted her ‘friends’ partake of her tea… with very predictable results. Even now, Madame Parkes could see that the sharp young lad she’d sent to the Queen was less sharp than he had been the month before. Soon he would become a vapid, giggling lover of a vapid, giggling queen.
Or perhaps the queen was not so vapid. Just as Madame Parkes was considering ways to make her departure, Queen Arivik reached down to her neck, grabbed her necklace and brought it up to her nose. At the end hung a gleaming red jewel. She sniffed at it and shuddered violently for a moment, before turning, steely-eyed to Madame Parkes.
“What do you know?” Queen Arivik demanded.
“Of what, your majesty?” Parkes asked, trying to sound innocent.
“The jail break, the flight of the airship, the scheming of kings and ministers, what else?” Arivik returned icily.
Madame Parkes took a deep breath and a small sip of her tea.
Chapter Four: Interlude at Ibb’s
“The Inn is back that way,” Ellen said, pointing back over Rabel’s shoulder as he strode briskly down a side street.
“It is,” Rabel agreed. “But it is too crowded for us, I think. I know a better hiding place.”
Ellen tucked her head against his shoulder to keep from the cold. It was nice to be held, to be warm, even if only on her front. Her backside was exposed to the wind as were her feet, dangling down front and back on Rabel from where he held her single-handedly on his right side. She could feel the strength of him, his taut muscles — he was nothing like the old man she’d met in the jail.
“Why would a god give you gifts?” Ellen asked, not raising her head from his shoulders but trusting her words to reach his ears.
“We made a bargain,” Rabel said gruffly. “Now hush and rest. We’ll be there soon enough.”
#
The maze into the back of Ibb’s shop — the proper shop — was something Rabel had memorized years before but it still took caution and patience. He made his way slowly, with more caution than he would have used if he’d been unburdened — some of the moves required coordination and his balance was off with the weight of the little girl.
He hit the final touch point and grunted as the shadows in front of him changed. Closing his eyes, he stepped through the portal and gave a small sigh as he felt the air behind him indicate that the ‘door’ had been closed once more.
“We’re safe,” he said, shifting his weight to nudge the child.
Ellen blinked and looked around, leaning away from the man to indicate that he could put her down. Rabel did so and she stood, her feet telling her they were standing on wooden floor which had been sanded smooth and coated with varnish. A proper floor. “Where are we?”
“Safe,” Rabel repeated.
“Even from the gods?” Ellen asked.
Rabel barked a laugh at her impudence. “Safe enough, then.” He took her hand and led the way forward, feeling for and opening a door into a lighter gloom.
Another doorway and they were in a dim light. Rabel moved around, touching some knobs on shapes hanging above them and abruptly the room was much brighter. It took Ellen a moment for her eyes to adjust.
“I know this place!” she said, turning around in excitement. “This is Ibb’s lair!”
“And what do you know of Ibb?” Rabel asked.
Ellen’s face grew closed and secretive.
Rabel accepted her silence without comment. He pointed forward and to the left. “The kitchen’s that way.”
“Ibb eats?” Ellen asked in surprise.
Rabel chuckled, shaking his head. “He believes in feeding his guests.”
“So what does he eat, if not food?” Ellen asked.
Rabel answered her with a grin and the same silence she’d used earlier. She gave him a sardonic look before gesturing for him to lead the way.
In the kitchen, Rabel rummaged in an icebox — the ice had been replaced by the icemen recently — and pulled out some eggs and milk. He found a well-used pan by the sink and started a fire in the stove.
“How did you do that?” Ellen asked, frowning at the flames glowing under the stove.
“By Ophidian’s grace,” Rabel told her, raising a finger to his lips to indicate that it was a secret.
“Can you teach me?” Ellen asked.
Rabel frowned in thought. “It’s not an easy gift to bear and it comes with a price.”
“It’d be nice to be warm,” Ellen said hopefully.
“You can be too warm,” Rabel warned.
“Fine! I’ll bet you can’t teach me anyway,” she said in a huff.
“The gifts of the gods are dangerous.”
“You took them, why can’t I?”
Rabel gave her a look then turned back to the stove to scramble the eggs with some of the milk. He put another pot on the stove and set water to boiling.
When the eggs were done, he pulled out some plates and split the eggs between the two. He nodded to Ellen. “Take these to the table. There’s salt and pepper there, if you want.”
While she was doing that — one plate at a time — her stomach rumbling in excitement, Rabel rummaged through a drawer and pulled out two forks. He waved them at her and she dashed back to get them, placing one beside the far plate and digging in to her food with the other —
“Ahem!” Rabel coughed loudly. She looked up at him. “Say some thanks to the gods. It’s only fair.”
Ellen gave him a wide-eyed look. “Why? What have they done for me?” Rabel gave her a warning look and she sighed. She closed her eyes and said softly, “Gods, I thank you for this meal. And I thank you for giving me the blue demons. And for the pennies I got from the captain.” She paused a long while before adding shyly, “And I thank you for bringing me to Rabel.”
“Ophidian…” Rabel began softly, then finished with a deep sigh, “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”
“What?” Ellen said. “And aren’t you afraid to anger the god?”
“Ophidian and I know each other well,” Rabel said.
“You know a god?”
“I’ve made bargains with him before,” Rabel allowed, turning back to the pot of boiling water and busying himself with making tea. When he was done, he brought the pot on a tray with some milk and two mugs.
Seating himself, he placed a mug in front of her and then himself. He poured the steaming liquid into each cup, adding some milk to his and began to eat his meal.
Ellen had already finished her scrambled eggs and was wondering if she could get more when she noticed her steaming mug. It smelled good. She glanced at Rabel then reached for it. She blew on it as he had and then took a sip.
“Ow!” she cried, nearly dropping the mug to the table. “It’s hot!”
“Put some milk in,” Rabel told her mildly, gesturing to the bottle.
Ellen glared at him but followed his suggestion. Eyeing the mug dubiously, she tried another sip. When she brought the mug back from her unburnt lips, she smiled at him. “That’s good!”
Rabel, who had finished his eggs, sat back in his chair. “What did you learn?”
Ellen gave him a confused look.
“With the tea, and the eggs,” Rabel said, gesturing to her mug and empty plate. He turned to gesture toward the stove, “With the stove.” He turned back to her. “What did you learn?”
“Huh?”
“How’s your tongue?” Rabel asked with a hint of a smile in his eyes.
“It’s getting better,” Ellen said.
“Good,” Rabel said, nodding firmly. “So there’s no reason you can’t use it.” He continued, “So, what did you learn?”
“I learned to let the tea have
some milk before I burn my tongue,” Ellen said. Rabel nodded and gestured for her to continue. So encouraged, she said, “I learn that you can do something with fire that has to do with a gift from Ophidian.” She paused, then asked, “Why not Vorg or Veva?” Rabel gave her a questioning look, so she explained, “They’re the gods of fire.”
“The young gods of fire,” Rabel said in agreement. He shrugged. “It was Ophidian who offered me the bargain, not them.” Ellen accepted this with a shrug of her own. Rabel pressed on, “What else?”
“You are friends with Ibb and know your way around his kitchen,” Ellen said, feeling on a more solid footing with this, it being close to all the spying she’d done in her past in order to survive. “You don’t like the King and you aren’t worried about offending our goddess.”
“Is she your goddess?” Rabel asked her in a mild tone.
Ellen gave him a worried look, took a breath and let it out, deflated, unused for her answer. Finally, in a small voice, she said, “Everyone says that she is our goddess.”
“They do?”
“Everyone except you,” Ellen said. She hunched her shoulders and leaned forward to whisper, “She hears everyone and everything.”
“Not in this room,” Rabel said. “Not in this house.”
“How can that be?”
“Ibb,” Rabel said. “He made it so that no words uttered in his abode are heard by the gods.”
“How did he do that?” Ellen asked in wonder.
“I don’t know,” Rabel told her. “But I know it’s true.” He nodded toward her. “You can speak freely here.”
“I can?”
“And, you should know, the gods usually don’t listen to everything we say,” Rabel told her. “They listen when you ask and really mean it. Other times they really don’t need all the noise.”
“Noise?”
“Us,” Rabel said, pointing a finger at himself and then at her. “‘All that talking is so boring’ — those are Ametza’s own words. ‘Don’t you think we’ve got better things to do with our time?’ — that was Ophidian.”
Twin Soul Series Omnibus 2: Books 6-10 Page 3