by Ari Marmell
“Kaleb,” Jassion said, “what now? Seilloah was Rebaine’s closest ally, or so I understand. If she didn’t know where he is …”
The sorcerer nodded. “There’s a spell,” he said softly, “that I can use to locate people. It—”
“What?” Even knowing what Kaleb was capable of, it took all Jassion’s limited self-restraint to keep from hurling himself upon the sorcerer, fists flailing. “Then why by all the gods haven’t you—”
“Shut up, you yapping pest, and let me finish! First, it requires the blood of a close relative to work. And second, it’s easily blocked, at least over any significant distances, and I can guarantee you that Rebaine has any number of spells cast on his person to prevent easy location.”
“Oh.” Jassion gnawed on the inside of his cheek. “Then why bring it up?”
“Because there’s someone else who may know where Rebaine is. I don’t know yet where to find her, either, but I do have access to one of her blood relatives.”
“What do you … Kaleb, no!” Jassion could feel the blood drain from his face as understanding washed over him. “Gods, no, I will not involve her in this!”
“She’s already involved, Jassion. She’s been involved for twenty-three years.”
“No! If you so much as go near her—”
“Do you want Rebaine, or don’t you?”
Jassion cursed, vilely, and struck the branches off several nearby trees with the Kholben Shiar. “We talk to her,” he said finally, his voice strangely soft, almost child-like, “and only talk. If you hurt her, if you threaten her, if you so much as look at her the wrong way, I swear to every god I’ll kill you. I don’t care how much I need you, or what sort of power you have.”
Kaleb just looked at him. “Are you through?”
“If I’m understood, yes.”
“Fine. We just talk. Let’s get out of this forest before we try it. You’re going to be a bit worse for wear after the spell, and I’d rather not chance being attacked by something else while you aren’t up to fighting.”
“Decided I’m useful, have you?”
“Sure. You make an excellent diversion.”
As they resumed their trek, Jassion glanced one final time at the hut they left behind. For an instant, on the clearing’s far side, he saw a pair of eyes—a large squirrel, or perhaps a rabbit, the first he’d seen in this wretched place—peering at him, unblinking, from amid the trees. But even as he considered drawing Kaleb’s attention to it, the creature was gone, leaving nothing but waving grass in its wake.
Jassion shrugged once, castigating himself for letting his nerves affect him so, and followed Kaleb back into the woods.
Chapter Six
THE WEEKS PASSED in an unending march, and the byways of Rahariem grew ever more crowded. This was, in part, accounted for by the soldiers, extra patrols assigned to the streets since a captive noblewoman and her entire household had vanished into the night, leaving a trail of corpses in their wake.
But only in part. Most of the newcomers were Imphallian, not Cephiran: citizens of the many hamlets and towns that sprouted throughout the region, wild toadstools of expanding civilization. As the invading forces advanced, conquering community after community, it simply made sense to arrange their captives and forced laborers into fewer, larger groups. Thus did Rahariem receive a constant influx of newcomers, prodded along at Cephiran swordpoint.
And with these new arrivals, like camp followers straggling behind, came news and rumors.
Cerris sat in a small office in one of Rahariem’s great halls, hunting some of those wild rumors. He wore nondescript tans and greys, and his chin was newly shorn. Without the concealing growth of beard, his cheeks looked hollow, his flesh deeply etched with lines. He looked … Well, much as it galled him to acknowledge it, he was starting to look old.
Maybe even old enough to justify his presence on the streets, rather than as a laborer in a work gang. So the beard was well lost, no matter how much he missed it.
‘Of course you miss it. Never were one for showing your true face to the world, were you, “Cerris”?’
Across from him, a flimsy writing table bowed beneath the weight of heaps of parchment and an array of inkwells. Faint impressions in the old carpeting suggested that a much larger, sturdier desk had stood here not long ago, but it, like so much else of value in Rahariem, was now beautifying the chambers of some Cephiran officer. And behind that desk, chatting on in his infamous drone that could likely have put an erupting volcano to sleep, stood the fellow Cerris had come to see.
“… fortunate we permitted you entry at all,” he was saying, one hand tugging absently at the autumn-red bottlebrush mustache that was his most distinguishing feature—and also the only hair on a head otherwise as bald as a cobblestone. “I almost failed to recognize you without the beard.”
“That’s sort of the point, Yarrick,” Cerris said with a forced grin. “I really don’t want a lot of people recognizing me just now.”
Yarrick, head of the Rahariem division of Imphallion’s Merchants’ Guild, nodded sagely. “Yes, I can certainly understand why anonymity might be advantageous under the present circumstances.” He sat and offered Cerris a shallow smile, which was about as affable as his expression ever got. “What can I do for you, my friend?”
“Well …” Cerris decided to work his way up to it. “First off, I was wondering if you’d heard anything from outside.” He frowned, idly tapping his fingers on the armrest. “I know the Cephirans must keep a pretty close watch on you …”
Again Yarrick nodded. “On everyone whom they permit to remain active in governing Rahariem. They require our aid to keep the city functioning, but they trust us no more than they must.”
“Right, but you’re in charge of the largest Guild still operating. You must have some contact with the newcomers they’ve been herding into the city.”
“Some,” the bald merchant admitted. “Alas, I’ve heard nothing to suggest that anyone shall be coming to our aid anytime soon.”
The old wood of the armrest cracked as Cerris’s grip clenched. “What the bloody steaming hell is wrong with them, Yarrick?” he demanded. “This is a godsdamn invasion they’re ignoring!”
“If I knew anything for certain,” Yarrick said with a shrug, “I would tell you.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’d not even reveal this much, were you not a member in high standing of my own Guild …”
“Yes?” Cerris, too, found himself leaning forward.
“A portion of it may, of course, be the standard jockeying for position that’s ensnared our government for years now. The Guilds will not commit themselves without consensus, and the nobles are reluctant to relinquish to the Guilds what little authority they have remaining. But it’s more than that. I’ve heard no details, but rumor has it that a number of nobles and Guildmasters were lost recently. I cannot speak to the nature of the attack, or accident, or whatever it may have been, but Imphallion may be facing threats from within as well as without.”
“Perfect.” Cerris grunted, falling back in his chair. “That’s all we need, isn’t it?”
‘Ah, if only,’ that inner voice taunted, ‘there was someone in charge who knew what he was doing …’
“Indeed. It almost makes one long for the days of Audriss the Serpent. At least then we understood the threat we faced.”
“Not really,” Cerris muttered under his breath.
“But surely, Cerris, you’ve not come to me merely seeking gossip and rumor.” Yarrick chewed thoughtfully on the bristles overhanging his lip. “You’ve your own contacts among Rahariem’s merchants and vendors, you could have learned this much on your own.”
“Not as quickly. But you’re right, there is something else I need.” It was Cerris’s turn to glance nervously around the room, as though he could somehow spot any prying ears that had so far gone unnoticed. “As part of the Cephiran puppet government—um, no offense …”
“None taken. It’s an a
pt enough description.”
“Then you must have some insight into their schedules. Specifically, you’d know when their next major supply caravan is due.”
Yarrick’s expression soured, as though he’d just discovered lemon juice in his mustache. “That’s a dangerous question, Cerris. You’re not preparing to cause any trouble, are you?”
“I’m trying to avoid trouble,” Cerris lied. “Frankly, my friend, I’m planning to get the hell out of here—sooner rather than later—and I want to make sure I don’t run into a few hundred Cephiran soldiers on the road. A few sentries or a single patrol, I can avoid, but a caravan …” He left it hanging, concluding the sentence with a sickly grin and a shrug.
“All right,” Yarrick said after a few more moments of mustache chewing. “But if anything goes awry, you didn’t hear this from me.”
“… FIVE DAYS FROM NOW,” Cerris explained to the crowded, smelly workshop that evening. Irrial stood beside him, pressing close, while the others sat on scattered benches or empty barrels. “It’s not coming from Cephira, but from some of the outlying Imphallian villages that they’ve already taken. Consolidating supplies, that sort of thing. There’s no certainty as to what time they’ll arrive, but I imagine it’ll be early in the day. They’ll probably make close camp the night before.”
“We’re not going to have a lot of options.” It was Andevar who spoke, rising and striding toward the front of the room. Ludicrously squat and thickly bearded, he looked rather as though the gods had stuck a lion’s head atop an enormous link of sausage and called it life. But he was also the former bodyguard of a local aristocrat who hadn’t survived the Cephiran siege. Andevar possessed considerable tactical acumen, and had taken his failure to protect his lord as a personal affront. When Irrial had introduced Cerris to the various leaders of the burgeoning resistance, he’d not been at all surprised to find Andevar among them.
He stopped before Cerris and Irrial, gestured at the parchment map they’d unrolled atop a barrel. “Land’s too flat, and the Cephies have cut down too many of the nearby trees. Nowhere to hide there.”
“But ambush is our only option,” Irrial protested, bolstered by nods and grunts of agreement from the assembly. “We can’t possibly take the caravan by main force.”
“I think maybe we could,” Andevar said thoughtfully, “but even if we did, the losses wouldn’t be worth it. No, I agree, it’s got to be ambush, and that means it’s got to be pretty far out from the city. Here?” he suggested, landing a finger on a tree-bedecked bend in the road toward the very edge of the map, two miles from Rahariem proper.
Cerris cocked his head. “It’s not optimal, but I agree it may be our only choice.”
“We’ll need to figure out how to get our people out of the city and down the highway without being spotted,” Irrial pointed out.
Everyone glanced about, hoping someone else would offer a suggestion.
“Look,” Cerris said finally, “we’ve got the schedule, and we’ve got a few days to figure it out. It’s late. Let’s call it a night, and work out the details tomorrow.”
“All right,” Andevar said. “But we should assemble at the alternative site. We’ve used this one three nights in a row, and it’s making me nervous.”
With a rumble of slowly receding conversation, the room emptied by ones and twos, the rebels doing their best to move inconspicuously out into the streets, until only Cerris, Irrial, and Rannert remained—and the latter only briefly, for he soon departed to ensure the various doors and windows were latched.
With a dull groan, more of exasperation than exhaustion, Cerris collapsed to the nearest bench. Irrial stepped behind him, running her fingers through his hair. “Thank you again,” she told him softly.
“Don’t thank me until we’ve survived this insanity, Irrial. I still think we should be on the road to, oh, anywhere.”
“Maybe,” she said, hands dropping to his shoulders. “But you stayed with me, and that’s what counts.” She leaned in, kissed the top of his head. “And look at what we’ve already accomplished. They wouldn’t have had the weapons to even consider something this major without my resources, and without you …”
‘Oh, yeah, she’s provided just enough weapons for these morons to run out and get themselves neatly diced into small, fleshy cubes. You’ve done wonders for your cause. Again.’
“Shut up!” Cerris hissed under his breath. Then, at Irrial’s puzzled blinking, “Ah, sorry. Not you. Just … Talking to myself. Considering options.”
Poor, very poor. Pathetic, even. But what else could he offer her? Oh, that? I’m just talking to a creature who shared my head for so long that his voice seems to have stayed around even though the bastard’s long since gone to hell. Literally. Somehow, he didn’t think that’d go over very well. At best, she’d think him haunted; at worst (and most likely), a lunatic.
Cerris himself wasn’t entirely sure which of the two options he preferred. But so long as it—the voice, his apparent madness, whatever it was—caused him no tribulations other than the occasional bout of self-loathing and the need to tell himself to shut up, he could endure.
‘Really? Guess I’ll have to try harder, then.’
Irrial blinked one last time, then sat on the bench beside him. “You know, you never did mention how you found out when the caravan’s due.”
“Yarrick.”
“What?”
Cerris chuckled. “Relax, m’lady. I didn’t tell him anything about our plans. He thinks I’m just trying to escape without being caught.” He paused. “If this works out, though, we might consider bringing him in. He’s got resources and connections you don’t, and he’s got no reason to love Cephira. They may have left him his office and his Guild, but they’re pulling his strings and he knows it.”
“Gods, must we? The man’s dull as lettuce, Cerris.”
“He really, really is. I understand that sheep count him when they’re lying awake at night.” He smiled at Irrial’s laughter. “But if he can be useful …”
“Oh, all right. If this first operation works out, we’ll talk about it.” She gave him a smoldering look from beneath her lashes. “But if he starts putting me to sleep, I’m making it your responsibility to figure out new ways to keep me awake.”
“Well.” Cerris rose to his feet, double-checked to ensure the door was securely bolted, and turned her way once more. “I’d better start practicing, then, hadn’t I?”
ASSUMING ALL WENT even remotely to plan, getting back into the city wouldn’t be an issue. In addition to all the supplies they could carry, the resistance would find themselves in possession of a whole mess of Cephiran tabards and armor. And since the city’s main gates remained open during the day—to allow the labor gangs passage—the rebels need simply hide in the wilderness overnight and then return, by ones and twos, in the same disguise that had served Cerris so well.
No, as Irrial had rightly pointed out, it would be getting out through Rahariem’s heavily manned western gates that would prove difficult. Suggestion became discussion became argument, and days flew by within the beats of nervously pounding hearts. Only two nights remained before the caravan’s scheduled arrival, now, and still every strategy they developed offered more risk than reward.
“I’m starting to think it would be a damn sight easier,” Andevar barked in frustration, pacing irritably before the assembled insurgents, “for us to just attack the fucking walls directly.”
And following on the heels of that comment, a plan crept fully formed into the forefront of Cerris’s mind. For several long moments, as the others continued their fruitless debate, he examined it in horrified disbelief. Yet over the past days, he had spent much time walking the streets, idly examining Rahariem’s defenses, seeking inspiration—and despite himself, he had to concede that it might actually work.
‘Wow. You really have gone insane, haven’t you?’
Every face in the room lit up with elated anticipation when Cerris announced
that he had an idea—expressions that swiftly grew hostile when he refused to tell them what it was.
“Look, it’s better you don’t know,” he explained—lamely, he admitted—trying to quell the rising chorus. “It’s something I need to handle on my own.”
“Cerris, you can’t ask us to …”
“… could you possibly do by yourself that we couldn’t …”
“… not staking my life on a plan you won’t even …”
“… bloody idiot if you think I’m going to trust …”
And on, and on, until the individual words lost all meaning, the voices coalescing into a meaningless, angry rumble. But Cerris stood, arms crossed, unrelenting—and struggling fiercely to ignore that wretched voice, needling him, reminding him ‘There was a time they wouldn’t have questioned you. They wouldn’t have dared. Gods, you’ve grown soft in your old age. Or maybe it’s old in your soft age. But soft and old, regardless.’
Finally, the verbal floodwaters subsided enough that he might make himself heard over the din. Perhaps “Everyone shut the hell up!” wasn’t the most politic way he might have made his case, but it bought a moment of astonished silence.
‘That’s a little more like it. Still needs work, though.’
“Perhaps,” he said more quietly, “I’ll be able to explain later. I can’t now. It was you,” he said, meeting Andevar’s glare, “who chose the supply caravan as our target. And you”—now directing a somewhat gentler expression toward Irrial—“who begged for my help. Well, I’ve helped, and I’ll continue to help, but I’ll do it my way. I remind you that we no longer have the time for debate. I need you …” His gaze swept every man and woman present before ending, once more, on the baroness. “… to trust me,” he finished gently.
Nobody left the meeting happy that night, and the new suspicion in Irrial’s eyes sunk painfully into his gut like a steel-shod hoof, but at the last they had agreed. What else, ultimately, could they do?