The men spent a few days discussing with Joseph, when he wasn’t resting, all he’d learned while in Chiran. Ezra also told them of a man, Adli, a Chiranian deserter and convert to Ehyeh’s ways, who now lived in the City of Light and who visited sanctuary frequently. Adli looked for ways to assist anyone interested in traveling to Chiran. More specifically, he forged documents for those seeking to go there. It was Adli who’d given Joseph the information he needed to infiltrate the guard before he’d set out on his journey.
Marshall and Jerrett sought out the man’s whereabouts. When they found him at sanctuary, standing upon a corner, preaching of the dark days Oosa would enter if it didn’t stop Zarek in his tracks, they engaged his services. Days later, after acquiring what they needed from him, they met again with Ezra and Joseph.
“Adli is quite an artist,” Joseph said, examining the documents the man had provided. “These certainly look genuine to me. They’re animals though—the Chiranian guard, I mean. Truly, I don’t recommend your going there.”
“We need to find out what Zarek’s plans might be,” Marshall said. “Besides, we have reason to believe that he’s already causing trouble here, in Oosa.”
“But maybe there’s another way.”
“This is the best way to get the information, the personal intelligence, that we require,” Jerrett said, “and quickly. We need to infiltrate the guard in Chiran.”
“Yes,” Marshall agreed. “And Adli’s documents name me as Cark’s newly appointment right-hand man, so that should help.”
“What of you, Jerrett?” Joseph asked him.
“We’ll see where they position me,” the Oathtaker said. “I’ve infiltrated Chiranian ranks in the past. I can do it again.”
“Well then, there are a number of guards stationed in Darth who run messages from place to place. If you could get yourself assigned to those ranks, you might be able to read things before delivering them elsewhere. You may learn something that way.” Once again, Joseph scanned Jerrett’s tattoos. “You’ll fit in well there.”
The Oathtaker grinned as he glanced at his forearms. “Yes, they serve a useful purpose now and again. But I wonder if there’s anything I can do to help increase my chances of becoming a messenger.”
Joseph’s brow rose. “Can you read?”
Jerrett pulled back. “Yes, of course.”
“Don’t let them know that.”
“Well, I guess that’s it,” the innkeeper said. “If you two still insist on going, then go with the Good One’s blessings.”
“We’re all packed,” Marshall said. “Are you ready for this?” he asked Jerrett.
“If you are.”
“I am. Someone’s got to keep you out of trouble.”
“No time like the present then, I guess,” Jerrett said, chuckling, as he made his way to the door.
Chapter Nine
Having arrived at Darth, Chiran, the previous day, Marshall and Jerrett stood in line behind a long string of unsavory characters, all seeking to serve in the guard.
An officer sat behind a paperwork-laden table that evidenced his short stature, meeting him at mid-chest. His yellowed skin tattled on his history of excessive drinking, as did small broken veins on his broad bulbous nose that appeared too large for his face. Dark puffy circles hung below his yellow-brown eyes. His scant gray hair, parted nearly to his ear, did little to cover his bald crown. Overall, he appeared cadaverous.
Marshall hated the man at first sight. Having watched him for several continuous hours while awaiting his turn for processing, he witnessed the officer’s pettiness and dishonesty. From what he’d seen since arriving in Chiran, he concluded that the man was typical of most of the Chiranian guard.
The recruit standing just in front of Jerrett and next in line, stepped up to a scratch drawn on the wooden floor a few feet before the table. The officer did not look up. He reached to his side, where stood his assistant. The aide approached the next recruit, took his application from him, and then handed it to the officer.
The officer put the paperwork down, looked it over quickly and scribbled something on it. He motioned toward the recruit as he handed the paper back to his assistant, all without looking at either of the men or otherwise acknowledging them.
The assistant turned away.
“Ahem,” the officer cleared his throat.
The aide slowly turned back toward his commanding officer. “Pardon me, Grik, sir,” he said. “With your permission, sir, I will deliver your authorization.”
Long seconds passed in silence.
“Sir,” he repeated.
The officer leaned back, and turned toward the man. “You forget yourself, Roko.”
Roko looked down. His shoulder length dark hair hung forward, partly hiding his expression, though any onlooker could see the flicker of disdain that momentarily passed across his face as he raised his head and looked at Grik. His expression turned stoic. “Pardon me, sir, I only thought you might like—”
“You’re not paid to think,” Grik interrupted. He stood and then ran his eyes down his assistant’s form. “And it’s a good thing you’re not, as you’d likely have starved to death by now.”
Roko flinched. “Yes sir, Mortal Grik, sir.”
The officer’s eyes widened, then narrowed into slits.
Marshall sensed that Grik wanted to challenge the assistant for his use of the title Mortal. It seemed to have been delivered as a sly reminder to Grik that he, too, was but a pawn of Zarek. Even so, the officer could not call attention to the use of the title without suggesting that he believed himself superior to the others—which, of course, he could not do—at least not in so many words.
“You are dismissed.”
Roko’s eyes flashed his way. His brow rose in question.
“You will report to Chenkow in Public Conveniences, immediately.”
The man looked away, clearly cautioning himself against revealing anything via his facial expressions, then nodded. “Sir.”
“I’m told they’re in particular need of men for latrine digging duty.” Grik sat again. He rummaged through his papers, found the document he sought, scribbled something on it, and then handed it to Roko. “Your new orders.”
The clerk took the paper. “With your permission then, sir.”
“You are dismissed.” After watching him walk away, Grik turned back toward the men before him. He glared at Jerrett, next in line, motioning him forward. “Your application?”
The Oathtaker handed over the single page form indicating his desire to join the guard.
The officer took it, scanned it quickly, then wrote on it. He looked up. “Jabari?”
“That’s right, sir.” He and Marshall had discussed using false names while in Chiran. They knew that there were people living there with more Oosian sounding names. Jerrett even remembered Velia telling him of a man by the name of “Freeman,” who’d accompanied Lilith back when she pursued the infant twins. It was a consequence of the transfer of people between the two empires over the years. Still, the Oathtakers wanted to fit in as smoothly as possible and so, chose to use names with a more local sound to them. Jerrett resorted to one he’d used in the past: Jabari Creed.
Grik’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve served in the guard before?”
“No, sir.”
The Chiranian looked closely at the Oathtaker, paying particular attention to his tattoos and shaved head. “Step closer,” he ordered.
Jerrett approached.
“Show me your forearms.”
He put his arms out.
Grik lifted his chin. “Closer.”
Jerrett stepped nearer the man.
The officer examined his tattoos. “Interesting.”
“Sir?”
“Your tattoos tell an interesting story.”
Jerrett knew the full meaning of his tattoos. The symbols told the obvious story of death—but also of something more. When, as a young man, he left his old life behind, he’d made changes to his
body art. The renderings now hinted not only of death in the broad sense, but of death to self, and of service to a greater cause—that of life and freedom.
“You read?” Grik asked.
“No, sir,” the Oathtaker said.
“Who filled out your forms?”
“The men at the station back there,” Jerrett said, motioning toward the back of the line.
“You’ll do.” Grik put Jerrett’s application to the side, then glanced back up.
“Sir?”
“As you see, I’m in need of an assistant. You’ll do.”
“Should I report in for my uniform and weapons in advance, sir? Or shall I begin to serve you immediately?”
Grik’s eyes ran down the Oathtaker’s form. “You don’t serve me. You serve Zarek now.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
“You’ll begin immediately. You can report to the Office of Supplies after I dismiss you for the day, at which time you’ll inform them that you’re to attend to me personally.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grik stared at him. Several seconds passed in silence. “Well?”
The Oathtaker flinched, then took up Roko’s former position. He turned to face Marshall who, standing next in line, held out his application. Jerrett passed it to Grik.
The officer reviewed it. “You are . . . Mansur?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your orders indicate you’re to serve as second in command to Mortal Cark.”
“That’s right, sir.”
While the officer scribbled on his papers, Marshall’s eyes flashed toward his friend. Unsure where Cark was stationed, the two couldn’t be certain whether, going forward, they’d be able to communicate silently via the magic crystals they carried.
“Report to the Office of Supplies immediately.” Grik motioned toward the door. “Then take the last coach of the day out to Mortal Cark’s outpost. Here are your orders.” He handed the signed document to Jerrett, who with his approval, handed it to Marshall, who bowed.
“None of that here,” Grik said with a wry smile.
“Yes sir.” Marshall made his way out. He inquired of a guard as to the location of his intended destination, and for information as to when the last coach of the day would leave for Mortal Cark’s outpost. Then he went to the Office of Supplies. There, an attendant handed him two uniforms, one for daily use, and one for dress occasions. He also provided the Oathtaker with a pack for carrying his extra items.
“Change there,” he ordered, “into your common uniform.”
Marshall entered the designated back room where he found a number of new recruits in various states of undress. Cautious to keep his Oathtaker’s blade hidden, he quickly changed clothes. Once done, he transferred his leather pouch of magic crystals to a pocket of his new uniform. When through, he returned to the soldier in charge.
The man glanced at him, nodded his approval, and then reached for his hand. Before Marshall knew what had happened, the soldier had pricked his finger with the tip of his knife.
He pulled his hand back.
“Put a drop here,” the man ordered, gesturing at the channel he held.
Marshall stared at him, a question in his eye.
“It is the means by which we identify a channel’s owner.”
“What is it?” Marshall asked, feigning ignorance.
The soldier held up the weapon. “This is the most important of all your gear. It’s never to leave you.”
“What does it do?”
“It’s for use only in the most dire of circumstances. Your blood will link you to it. If it’s ever used against anyone but yourself, the link will identify you as its owner.” He straightened his shoulders and looked Marshall in the eye. “In which case . . . you will die. And you can trust me when I say it would not a pleasant way to go.”
“I put a drop of blood there?”
“That’s right.”
Marshall did as bidden. The channel seemed to soak his blood into its shaft.
The guard handed the weapon over, the pointed end turned down. “That holder on your belt there is for carrying it safely,” he said.
“And what— When—” Marshall hesitated, unsure how to phrase his question.
“When are you to use it? If taken captive. Use it to claim your life before you can bring harm to Zarek or to Chiran. It’ll grant you a quick and painless death.”
“And if something happens to it?”
“It had best not. Don’t ever be caught without it, under penalty of death.”
“You said it was linked to me. How does that work?”
The man sighed. “The one who uses a channel against another, cannot remove it from his victim. Only another may do so. In such a case, the hunt would be on to find the weapon’s owner.”
“I see.” Marshall placed the channel into its holder. “How is the owner identified?”
The soldier chuckled. “You don’t want to know.”
“I assume then, that once found, you would use the weapon against its owner?”
“That’s right. And as I said, in that case, the channel’s magic will not bring a quick and painless death. Rather, it will make for a long and excruciatingly painful one.”
Marshall nodded, then set out to catch the last coach out to Mortal Cark’s outpost.
Chapter Ten
Like his fellow Oathtaker, Dixon, Marshall’s attendant magic included the ability to get by on little sleep, after conditioning himself to do so. He’d been increasing his powers over the past few weeks while traveling. He found with some practice that he operated best when he reduced his requirement to not less than a single hour of rest per day. Even so, that left him a great deal of time for other endeavors—time during which most others were unaware of his wakefulness or of his actions.
After arriving at Camp Cark, he went to work for the man, as his second in command. More than anything, the position meant that he served as Cark’s personal attendant, though from day to day, his duties varied widely. Occasionally Cark ordered him to assist with guarding his premises from late afternoon and into the wee morning hours. Almost immediately, the other soldiers discovered that even when they dropped off to sleep while on duty, Marshall never did. They quickly came to depend on him to notify them if something important transpired.
Notwithstanding his gratitude for his attendant magic, Marshall soon found that even without it, he would not have slept much. The sounds—the cries—that originated from Cark’s abode in the late night hours, turned his stomach. Now he understood why Cark’s wife had begged Joseph for his channel.
The day had been busy as several soldiers spent the better part of it, under Marshall’s direction, unloading wagons of supplies just delivered to the camp for raising a new building. It would serve as a place for women—a brothel of slaves. Soldiers discussed the plan with enthusiasm. Chiran had a shortage of women, a gross discrepancy created when Zarek instituted programs decades earlier that rewarded families with sons, while simultaneously punishing those with daughters. Cark, seeking to take advantage of the situation, formulated an unconventional plan for increasing his personal wealth.
“Mansur!”
Though still finding it odd to be called by that name, Marshall turned to the cry.
Cark stood outside his abode. “Get my wagon ready immediately,” he ordered. “You’ll accompany me again today.”
The Oathtaker rushed to the stables and with the help of the men stationed there, quickly prepared Cark’s wagon. It was an open affair with two seats for riders, one facing forward and one back, drawn by four horses.
Once ready, he jumped into the driver’s seat, then brought the conveyance to the front door where the man, who disliked waiting for anyone or anything, waited.
Prone to gluttony, Cark’s steel gray dress uniform, which he wore whenever he left Camp Cark, bulged out from the buttons at his chest. He left the lower ones undone, whether by accident or design, Marshall could only wonder.
/> “You’ll take me to the main camp,” Cark said, wiping his hand over his nearly black hair, shorn close to his head and looking like steel brush bristles. “My wife, Chaya, will accompany us.”
At that moment, a woman exited the house. Barely more than child-sized, a finely woven, nearly transparent black shroud hung from the top of her head and then cascaded down over her face. She made her way toward the carriage.
The event surprised the Oathtaker, as he’d never seen the woman leave the residence before.
“To the main camp,” Cark ordered as he lumbered up and into the wagon ahead of his wife.
Marshall waited until they both sat, then urged the horses forward with a click of his tongue. He strained to hear, over their jingling and the sounds of their fast moving hooves, any conversation between his riders, but they spoke not a word.
Upon arriving at the main camp, a man directed the Oathtaker to the same building where he and Jerrett had signed up for the guard. There, he halted.
As he dismounted, Cark ordered Marshall to wait.
“I hope he dies and rots in Sinespe,” Chaya muttered, the moment Cark was out of sight.
“Ma’am?”
She leaned forward and responded, her voice louder this time. “I said, ‘I hope he dies and rots in Sinespe.’”
Marshall rolled back his shoulders and looked about. All appeared busy with their duties; no one seemed to notice the wagon. He dropped his head so that no one could see him when he spoke. “Some things are certain, ma’am,” he said. “Cark will die one day, and from all I’ve heard, he’ll most certainly be doomed to an eternity in Sinespe.”
She gasped. “You know of Sinespe? The great under?”
He lifted his head and, without turning her way, nodded.
“What kind of Chiranian are you?” she whispered. “Zarek forbids the teaching of such things.”
At that moment, the door to the building opened. Cark stepped out. Grik, then Jerrett, followed.
The wagon squeaked and groaned as Cark resumed his seat. Then he motioned for Grik to sit near him, their backs to their driver.
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