The Seer - eARC

by Sonia Lyris

  “If I knew where she was, she would be here. It only makes sense that she would go to Perripur, fleeing you.”

  “Don’t you think she’ll reason similarly and then go somewhere else?”

  “I don’t think she reasons at all. I think she simply has an unusual instinct for speculation.”

  Speculation, not prediction. Well, Innel understood that; he had doubted her ability as well, once. Then he had become Royal Consort, Lord Commander, and Cern had been crowned.

  “My expensive hound believes he can persuade her to come to me.”

  “Perhaps he can. But if he can’t, you want her dead. Do I correctly understand your intent?”

  “You do, but finding her—”

  “Finding her is the harder part. If you can find her, I can take care of the rest.”

  His confidence was heartening. A far cry from Maris’s objections and explanations.

  “What about her ability?”

  “No one is invincible. From what you’ve told me, she needs at least a little time to speculate, then act. I will not give her that time.”

  “You would fight one of your own?”

  A small smile. “She is not one of mine, Lord Commander. I have no reason to believe there is any magic in what she does at all. At best it is untrained potential.” He steepled his fingertips together. “But it does not matter; I have no intention of fighting. I will take her consciousness, then I will take her life. There is no struggle. It is quite simple.”

  Keyretura’s words were like holding a well-made sword of good steel, straight and clean and ready. For the first time in the years since Botaros, Innel had the sense that this matter might truly be resolvable.

  “I will find her,” Innel said. “Then, perhaps, I will have you do this thing.” He glanced back at the stack of books on his desk. Another thought occurred to him. “Do you know anything about accounts and ledgers?”

  “Of course.”

  “There is something not quite right with these,” He said, indicating the stack. “Would you consider taking a look?”

  “Audits are far more effective when all involved know a mage is conducting them. I suggest you obtain for me a list of the names of everyone who has helped assemble and most particularly those who have signed the books you want examined, making sure everyone knows who is examining them.”

  It was an excellent suggestion. Now Innel understood why the Perripin hired mages as advisers. “I shall do so.”

  “In the meantime,” said Keyretura, “have them sent to my rooms.”

  “Your slave misses you, Sire,” Innel said, bringing a chair close to the bedside.

  Between being busy and not really wanting to see him, Innel had been coming less often to visit the old king. Today he had finally summoned both time and resolve.

  “What now?” the king asked with a wheeze. “Your pizzle too small? Have your mage thicken it for you while you sleep, which I’m assuming is alone, since I hear nothing about my daughter’s growing belly.”

  How could a man ill and bedridden for nearly two years continue to be so offensive? Should he not be made meek by this extended illness?

  No. This was Restarn esse Arunkel, chosen by the Grandmother Queen to rule instead of her own children, whom she had found wanting. He was made in the same mold as his formidable grandmother, and mere illness would not make him compliant.

  Perhaps it had even made him less so, having nothing left to lose.

  “I have questions, Sire,” Innel said, finding it impossible to keep his resolution to stop using the honorific.

  “Bring me my dogs.”

  “Naulen, perhaps. Your dogs are ill-mannered and upset the queen.”

  “She’s easily upset. I should have had her beaten more often. Go on, boy, amuse me with your questions.”

  Well, then; no sense in being polite. Or drawing this out.

  “I had Sinetel in hand. Months of the expected ore shipments. Now the numbers are short again and they claim not to know why. Also Erakat, Lukata, Rott. I can’t send force everywhere to keep order. What should we do?”

  “Ah, Erakat. Grandmother’s eighth consort came from there, did you know? His family still owns a large estate. Breeds dichus, very fine ones indeed. A little delicate, but fast and mean. Maybe they could send me a couple to replace the ones you stole.”

  Innel ignored this. “Garaya is short on taxes. The governor wants us to send force.”

  “They have you dancing to the tune of their farts, boy. Stop letting them drag you about by your balls.”

  It would be so easy to hit this thin, weak old man.

  Just once, in repayment for the countless times he and his brother had been hit. Just once.

  No, tempting as it was.

  “I sent soldiers to the mining towns, Sire. They resumed shipments, then—”

  “Then it all turned to shit or you wouldn’t be here whining about it. Halfwit! It’s not about your soldiers. It’s about you.”

  Innel found he was breathing heavily. “What do you mean?”

  “If it were me sending the army, ore would be flowing into the city like water, and Garaya wouldn’t be showing you their puckered asses instead of the coin they owe. They don’t respect you, Innel.”

  Innel reminded himself that testing and needling was what Restarn was best at. Finding weaknesses. Eroding confidence.

  But it put him keenly in mind of his outsider origins.

  No. He was the Royal Consort. Lord Commander. His lack of bloodline no longer mattered.

  “What do you suggest I do, exactly?”

  “Show them you’ll stop at nothing. I thought you knew this. Why do you think I selected you from the Cohort?”

  “You didn’t select me. Cern—”

  “My daughter is a poorly trained dog. You think you’d stand where you do now without my hand directing the matter? Are you really such a fool?”

  Innel left his chair, kicked it to the floor.

  “Next time, Innel, bring Naulen,” Restarn said.

  Innel swallowed hard, struggling to contain his temper. “What about Garaya?”

  “Pah. Garaya is a pragmatic old whore. She opens her legs to the strongest. She spread for my grandmother and if you make a brave show with drums and fanfare over the backs of a few thousand men, she’ll bend over and spread for you, too.”

  “Shall I send him in?” Srel asked.

  It was increasingly difficult for Innel to go anywhere unnoticed. He had given up meeting his informant Rutif in the basement root cellar. Now the man came to see him at his offices, in the open.

  “First take them somewhere else.”

  The two dichu dogs to which he referred were sprawled in front of the fire, taking up, it seemed, as much floor space as they possibly could. Innel had not yet had time to do anything with them besides keep them away from Cern.

  Srel gave the large creatures an uncertain look. One of the dogs slowly thumped her tail a few times then returned to a gentle snoring.

  “Yes, ser. Where did you have in mind?”

  The two dichu made people almost as nervous as Keyretura did, but interviews went better without the dogs present. “Her Majesty didn’t recognize them before,” he said. “She probably won’t now. Take them back to the kennels. Then send in Rutif.”

  It took a few minutes to rouse the sleeping beasts and put them on leads, but then the dogs were gone and Rutif stood before him instead. The man listed slightly to the side of his shorter leg, a gap-tooth smile on his face. He gave a short bow.

  “Lord Commander. I have something for you.” From outside the room, Rutif drew a small figure inside. A boy, perhaps nine, dressed in overlarge clothes with sleeves and cuffs rolled back, and matted, greasy hair. Someone had tried, though not very hard, to make him presentable.

  The boy looked around the room, gaping, eyes wide, then dropped to all fours, his forehead on the wood. A full, formal bow.

  Innel snorted, gestured to the man to get him up. The
boy fearfully resisted, seeming to prefer the floor. Finally Rutif grabbed a fist full of the boy’s oversized shirt and yanked him to his feet, shaking him.

  “What is this?” Innel asked Rutif, feeling the press of the books and maps and ledgers that demanded his attention.

  “You’ll want to hear this, ser. He walked here from Varo. Tell him what you saw, boy.” Another shake of the child. He released him to stumble forward toward Innel.

  “Your Majesty—” began the boy, grinning a wide, uncomprehending smile.

  “No,” Innel said sharply. “That is what you call your monarch, your queen, which I clearly am not. Your queen: Cern esse Arunkel. Surely you know this?”

  The boy gave a sheepish look followed by a shrug.

  “That he doesn’t know,” Rutif admitted, “Tell him what you do know, boy.”

  “If he’s not the king, who is he?” the boy asked Rutif, whose hand flicked out to slap the boy’s head. The boy yelped.

  “Where you came from in Varo. What you told me.”

  “What should I call him, then, if not ‘Your Majesty’?”

  “Lord Commander, you call him,” said Rutif. “Tell him about the goats.”

  Innel lifted a finger, about to signal Nalas to remove both of them.

  “The goats!” the boy said, turning back to Innel. “The wagon stank, Lord Mander. Like a shithouse, you know, because it was. A goat shithouse!” he laughed.

  Again Rutif flicked.

  “Ow!”

  “Just tell him, boy.”

  “I was hiding behind a tree, watching. One of the goats escaped out of the wagon when they weren’t looking. He ate some nettles. Then he pooped gold.”

  Innel lowered his finger. “Gold? From a goat’s ass?”

  The boy nodded vigorously.

  Across the room, Nalas was visibly suppressing laughter. Innel gave him a hard look, then turned the look on Rutif. “You waste my time with this.”

  Rutif held up his hands, as if to beg a moment. “So I thought as well, Lord Commander, but no—the boy is a loyal citizen. Allow me to give you proof.” He held out his hand and in a showy gesture slowly fanned opened his fingers to reveal a lump of pale ore perhaps a finger’s width thick.

  Rutif and the boy watched Innel as he walked around his desk and took the item from Rutif’s palm, examining it closely.

  “It’s clean,” the boy said unnecessarily.

  It was also, without question, gold.

  Someone in Varo had goats who were eating gold ore. Or perhaps being fed it in an effort to quietly take it somewhere else.

  “You did well to bring me this,” he said. “Where in Varo, boy?”

  “Outside Seele,” the child said, the smile suddenly gone from his face.

  “You walked all the way from Seele to Yarpin?”

  “Yes, Lord Mander.”

  “Alone?”

  The boy’s mouth twisted downward along with his gaze. He nodded.

  “Where are your parents?”

  A shrug. “I don’t know. My village was burning, so I left.”

  “Who burned it?”

  “Didn’t see. Too busy running away.”

  The answer was too quick. An obvious lie. The boy was scared. He might not know who ruled his empire, but he knew the colors of the Arunkel military.

  “Were they wearing red and black, like what I’m wearing?”

  The boy looked right, left. A hard swallow, then another. He gave a single, small nod.

  Most interesting; Innel had directed no military action in the province of Varo.

  Of course, there should be no gold ore in Varo, either.

  Innel nodded his dismissal at Rutif, who grabbed the boy and drew him out the door, a triumphant smile on his face at the credit with Innel this would have earned him.

  When he was gone, Nalas made a sober, thoughtful sound. “Deserters, you think? Looting and burning the town?”

  “Likely,” Innel said, not wanting to think of the alternative, that it was his troops doing a little unauthorized tax collection. To Srel he said, “Rutif knows to keep his mouth shut. Get him extra coin to make him even happier about it. The boy . . .” He exhaled. He had no choice; a child that age could only be forced to keep secrets. “Get him to the slave market, somewhere far from the city where no one will care what he says.”

  “Yes, ser,” Srel said softly.

  “Nalas, send some reliable and trustworthy scouts to Varo. Have them look for signs of gold.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  While the rest of the household slept, Amarta stood in the garden listening to the sounds of birds beginning their loud discussions as the morning brightened. She examined the vegetables and spices they had planted, and knelt to pull weeds, tossing them into the wild tangle of jungle beyond, where vines and grasses were ever eager to take over their garden.

  Perripur was a marvel to her. Gentle rains and fragrant flowers, succulent fruits that grew wild in the encroaching forest, all just steps from the house. Warm nights and bright days. This was winter?

  In only three months they were eating from the garden they had planted. The land was rich, Maris explained, the sun powerful.

  A beautiful land, a comfortable home. Plenty to eat. And no winter. It was hard to imagine anywhere she would rather be.

  If only she could stay.

  Maris left on her own every tenday or so, returning days later with food and supplies, clothes to replace the ragged ones they had been wearing. They offered to go with her but she declined.

  “Best keep you out of sight. You are safe here, and I need the time to myself.”

  Dirina seemed to come into full color these months, like the flowers thick across the high mass of green that shaded the house. She looked happier each day. Perhaps it was that they were no longer hungry and tired and running.

  Amarta felt her spirits lift as her sister hummed as she prepared food, as Maris showed Pas how to weed the garden. When the three of them helped Maris reassemble the pipes leading from the well to the house that gave them running water inside as well as out, Amarta could not remember being so happy.

  One day Pas burst in from playing outside. He ran to Maris, grabbed her hand, began to pull. “A frog, Maris. Orange eyes. Come see. It has orange stripes!”

  She remembered this moment in vision, felt a pang of sorrow amidst the sweetness. She smiled at him and asked: “Can it wait?”

  “No!” he said loudly, with a face of such delight that it seemed her heart would burst from joy.

  It was time.

  Maris smiled and shrugged, to show how helpless she was, and rose from her chair at the table where she had been laying out strands of plants to dry, letting him tug her to the door.

  “You should go see it, too,” Amarta gently urged Dirina. A look of confusion passed her face, but she, too, went to see the frog.

  Alone in the room they shared, Amarta pulled out her pack and began to gather her belongings.

  By the time they returned, she was packed to go. Pas’s face and hair had somehow accumulated a great deal of dirt. He was happily breathing hard from some exertion.

  “Pas,” Amarta said. “Remember about wiping your feet on the mat at the door?”

  “Yes. But helping in the garden. More important than feet.” He sat on the bed, saw the pack, frowned. “I don’t want to leave.”

  “Good, because you are not going to,” Amarta said. “You stay here with Maris and your mother.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Dirina demanded.

  There was no way out of this moment that did not end in tears. She took her stunned sister’s hands in her own. “He will come here. Not tomorrow, not next month, but soon. He will come. We all know it.”

  “Maris will protect us.”

  “And when the Lord Commander hires another mage? Will she fight against him for us?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then shall I be the cause of another Shentarat Plains? No, I will not.�
� Amarta saw another shirt she should take. She stuffed it into her pack.

  “But in Munasee you always knew the hunter was coming and you got away from him. You kept us safe every day.”

  Her sister had known, then. All along. She sighed. Why couldn’t they tell each other the truth? “He will find a way,” she said. “And how many are looking for me now? In time, someone will silence my foresight.” Perhaps another mage, one who didn’t have the affection Maris had for them. “And then what?”

  Then Dirina and Pas would be in danger again. She had to leave them while they had this chance.

  “We’re safe here,” Dirina said stubbornly. “Maris will protect us.”

  “Shall we risk her, too, as we have so many others? No.” Pas was determinedly untying a knot on her pack. She drew her sister to sit next to her on the bed, pulling Pas’s hand away from the pack, holding him tight. “Diri, you and Pas have a home here. I have wanted this for you, a place you could both be safe. Here it is. But only if I am somewhere else.”

  “You can’t, you—”

  “There’s going to be a war. I have pushed the visions away, but they haunt me every night. All across the empire. Fight and terror. Illness and hunger.”

  “There have always been wars and illness.”

  “Not like this.”

  “You can’t prevent it.”

  That might well be true. But staying here was the same as letting it happen, the same as letting her parents die.

  Enana. Nidem.

  Now that Dirina and Pas were safe, comfortable and happy, she would draw the hunter’s attention back where it belonged. To her.

  She stood, looking around to see if there was anything else to take.

  “Where do you mean to go?” Dirina asked.

  Her sister surely knew this answer, at least some part of her knew, but she did not want to. Amarta understood that, all too well.

  She could answer that she was going farther south to lead the hunters away from them. That she planned to cross the sea to the lands beyond, and there she would be safe from all of this.

  Had it always been this way between them, pretending, telling each other half-truths to keep each other going through all the achingly wretched times? Here and now, in these last minutes together, should she say something comforting and untrue?