“Nay, Milady. The gods ain’t blessed me with a baby, or a husband for that matter.” She laughed, but there was a little sadness in the chuckle. She had probably grown up with the hopes of marrying another member of the king’s staff but her looks were against her and it was difficult, bordering on impossible, for one who served in the palace to find a match with a member of the city’s general populace. Physical appearance, which mattered little in the unions of nobles and royals, was crucial in situations like Posie’s; it was the only currency a palace servant had.
Myselene felt a moment’s stirring of pity. “Are there good midwives in the palace?” She made the question sound innocuous but knew Posie would read much into it. The answer didn’t matter; the seed was planted. Within a day, it would be whispered throughout the palace that the queen-to-be was with child. Soon, the rumor would spread throughout the city. As the royal mistress, there were limited arrows in her quill, but she had just fired one of them.
Azarak made his appearance around mid-afternoon and his stormy arrival sent Posie scurrying from the room. She had attained a level of comfort and familiarity with her mistress; the same couldn’t be said of the king, even though she had known him for much longer.
“How is he?” asked Myselene as soon as they were alone. It would have been imprudent to begin with the question foremost in her mind: was she now free to come and go within the palace as she pleased?
“Not seriously injured, thankfully. Someone hit him on the back of the head with something hard. He didn’t see it coming, didn’t sense anything out of the ordinary. Knocked him out cold but, other than a little bleeding, a headache, and some dizziness, he’s fine. Grumbling about being confined to bed for a few days by the healer but I’ll not have him exerting himself until we’re sure there are no lingering effects.”
“Do they know who did it?”
Azarak shook his head. “None of the guards saw anyone and it’s all a blur to Toranim. He was walking in the rear gardens, as is his routine in the morning before caucusing with me, when someone struck him from behind. The attacker’s motivation is unclear but killing or seriously injuring Toranim wasn’t their intention. They could have accomplished either with little difficulty. Knocking him out was the purpose.”
“So it’s a message.”
Azarak nodded. “It would seem that way. Someone impressing on me that not even the palace grounds are safe. The question is: who’s sending the message? Ferguson? The rebellious nobles? Or someone else? That’s the problem with having so many enemies. When one of them makes a move, it can be difficult to assign responsibility.”
“It a more petty move than I’d expect from your enemies to the south.” It seemed ridiculous to Myselene that a wizard massing an army and orchestrating a city-crippling heat bubble would seize the opportunity to crack Vantok’s chancellor on the head.
“Agreed. I’m inclined to place the blame on someone within the city. The scales tip in Ferguson’s favor. The nobles, for all their bluster, aren’t likely to try something this brazen, at least not at this stage of their would-be coup. The timing doesn’t make sense. They know that such an attack would force me to respond martially. And, since Toranim is arguably more popular than I am at the moment, it would dampen any widespread support they’re hoping to gain.”
“How would Ferguson profit?”
“He wants to remind me that he’s not to be trifled with. He knows I’ve issued a warrant for his arrest. It hasn’t been made public but he has enough spies to have learned what I intend. This is his warning to relent and accede to his view of how power should be distributed in Vantok going forward.”
“Something you can’t do.”
Azarak nodded. “Something I won’t do. The time for the prelate’s power passed along with the gods. It made sense to share with him when he enjoyed divine support. But, no matter how hard he tries to keep the citizens of Vantok ignorant, the plain fact is that the gods are no more. Ferguson must either submit to my authority or face the consequences. Attacking Toranim only makes me more determined to bring him to heel.” The king paused. “The thing is, he knows me well enough to understand that such a tactic won’t cow me. So why do something so foolish and counter-productive?” He let out an explosive sigh. “I doubt the investigation will turn up anything if it was Ferguson. I guess we’ll just have to wait for his next move.”
“Am I free to leave my rooms?”
“I’ve doubled all the guards and put in some additional checkpoints, but I don’t expect any incursions into the palace. If you go outside, make sure there are at least three men with you at all times, and twice that if you go into the city. Other than that, there are no restrictions on your movement. For now, though, come with me. There are some things we need to discuss about your father’s arrival.”
As they were exiting Myselene’s chambers, an out-of-breath guard approached hurriedly. After executing a crisp salute, he stood at attention. His insignia marked him as a courier.
“You have a message?”
“Aye, Sire. I am bid to inform you that a dispatch arrived moments ago from the nobles’ quarter. Duke Bantok was murdered this morning while walking the grounds of his estate. His skull was cracked open ‘like a melon.’ The three members of his personal militia attending him are missing. It’s unclear whether they were victims or the ones who perpetrated the attack.”
“Bantok was one of the rebels?” asked Myselene.
“One of the leaders. He and Yarbin, both former members of my council. It appears this was more than an isolated attack on Toranim. Too much of a coincidence to be anything but a two-pronged attack. What the hell is Ferguson’s goal? It’s a sloppy way to play us off against one another.”
“If it is Ferguson,” said Myselene. Maybe another noble, a rival of Bantok’s, had seen a way to gain an advantage.
“Let’s go see Toranim. He may be bedridden but maybe he’ll have some ideas about whether we have a new threat to identify.”
* * *
He was home, if any place in the wide above-ground could be considered “home.” It was a strange feeling. He had been gone only a season, yet it seemed like a lifetime since he had walked these streets. For the moment, Sorial was cloaked in anonymity, but it wouldn’t last. It was too late in the day to announce himself but, on the morrow, he would present himself to King Azarak and let it be known that he had arrived to claim his bride and serve the city - in that order. He would agree to be Vantok’s wizard once he and Alicia were wed and established in a house suitable for one of her upbringing. He could live in a stable but he didn’t think that would suit her. She didn’t like mice.
Vantok at twilight was as he remembered it, although it was more like a late Planting evening than one near Midwinter: mild with only a hint of chill, much warmer than it was a few days’ travel away. People scurried from place to place, trying to finish duties and chores so they could get home to be with their families. Others headed for inns and pubs where a few mugfuls of ale and a bawdy song or two would help them forget their troubles if only for a night. The normalcy was surreal to Sorial after all he had been through. No one took any notice of him. Dressed in the same shabby clothing he had worn on the road, he was just another peasant wandering the streets.
Sorial’s feet took him in the direction of The Wayfarer’s Comfort. He intended to visit the stable and reveal himself to Rexall but not to enter the inn, where his anonymity would be put to the test. Even if Warburm wasn’t there, the serving wenches all knew him and he hadn’t changed enough to be unrecognizable... or had he? Best not to risk it.
Although Warburm could provide access to the king or, at the very least, Ferguson, Sorial had selected another, more sure way. Plus, as a matter of pride, he didn’t want to be in a position to request something from the innkeeper. In any future dealings they might have, Sorial intended to maintain the upper hand. He would never again be placed in a situation where Warburm could manipulate him. He had taken the reins of control
in Havenham when, as a newly minted wizard, he had saved the innkeeper’s life.
Seeing an unfamiliar guard patrolling Tower Street near The Wayfarer’s Comfort gave Sorial a pang of regret. That had once been Brendig and Darrin’s post. Those two, inseparable while on duty, had kept the order in this part of the city since Sorial had been a child. They had spent countless days together watching the sun rise - a beloved pastime of theirs that Sorial had come to share. Now, both were gone, having given their lives for the city. No one would know of their sacrifice. Yet Sorial recognized that, without them, he wouldn’t be here. Tomorrow’s sunrise, like today’s and perhaps many more in the future, was their gift to him. With Warburm and Lamanar, they had guided him through the mountains and to Havenham. Then, after Darrin’s death, Brendig had been instrumental in freeing him from imprisonment and delaying his pursuers long enough to allow him to finish at the portal.
Little had changed at the inn since Sorial had worked there. The open front door allowed air to circulate through the typically stuffy common room while the tumult of merrymakers and drunkards washed into the courtyard. Sorial thought he caught snatches of Warburm’s stentorian voice over the commotion, but he couldn’t be certain. Someone started an off-key rendition of a popular tavern song and soon everyone joined in.
The stable was manned but not by Rexall. A lad of about 13, the stableboy sat idly on a bale of hay while chewing on a piece of straw. Sorial could tell at a glance that the stable was busy; more than half the stalls were occupied. The weather being what it was, Vantok was the place to be at this time of the year. People came here to escape the grip of Winter as it stalked the land. With this many animals, there should be chores aplenty; this boy reminded him of Visnisk, who had worked shifts during Sorial’s early days at The Wayfarer’s Comfort. Visnisk had been allergic to hard labor and overly fond of whores. But Sorial wasn’t here to evaluate anyone’s work ethic. He was here for information.
“Is Rexall around?”
The boy looked up at the sound of a strange voice then, seeing that the speaker had the appearance of a vagabond, he declined to get up. “Who?”
“Rexall, chief stableboy of The Wayfarer’s Comfort.”
“Never ’erd of ’im. Recksall, you says? I be chief stablemasser here.”
“You?” Sorial couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. True, he had been chief stablemaster at 13, but he had worked grueling, sweaty 15-hour shifts. Surely it wasn’t that difficult to find good workers?
“Aye. As for this Recksall, I think he up an’ left some time lass season. Pissed some people off as I ’member. Got me ’ired, though, so I ain’t gonna complain.”
“Who hired you?”
“Misress Ponari, the ole lady in the kitchens. Masser Warburm promoted me when ’e got home from ’is trip.”
That answered Sorial’s question about Warburm. Additional conversation with the boy, who went by the name of Quickfinger, revealed little except that the city was in a state of restlessness with nobles withdrawing their support from the king. He didn’t know much else but that wasn’t surprising. When working here, Sorial had paid careful attention to the comings and goings of the stable’s patrons but he knew he was unusual in that. The average stableboy only noticed a customer when he suspected a tip might be forthcoming.
Sorial’s next stop was The Delicious Dancer, the inn at which Rexall had worked for so many years. He didn’t expect to find his friend there; Rexall had left on bad terms with the innkeeper, but he might be able to learn something of his whereabouts. Rexall’s departure from The Wayfarer’s Comfort was concerning, especially since it had happened before Warburm’s return. Still, even if he learned nothing about where he might be able to locate Rexall - that might take a visit to every stable in the city - he could get a better understanding of the news Quickfinger had provided.
* * *
Sorial awoke after a deep, refreshing sleep on his first new morning in Vantok. He had slept naked to allow maximum contact between his body and the soft, springy ground beneath with the babbling of the gently flowing river having lulled him to sleep. This morning, it provided him with a way to sluice the dust of the road from his body, allowing him to be more presentable to those he would encounter today. It was one thing to look dirty and bedraggled while wandering the streets as an unremarkable traveler. It was another thing altogether when revealing himself to be the first wizard Vantok had known in nine hundred years.
Sentimentality had influenced his choice of a sleeping location. He could have easily afforded Vantok’s most expensive inn, The Golden Stag, but he had chosen instead to lie under the naked sky near the place where he and Alicia had sometimes flirted during their irregular courtship. The river was lower and murkier than it had been when Sorial last visited a year ago; even though it originated far from Vantok, its passage through leagues of dry, hot countryside had taken a toll, reducing the once-mighty waterway to a gentle stream.
Once he was bathed and dressed, Sorial took a deep breath and began the short walk along the well-groomed path leading to Carannan’s mansion. For the first time since beginning the return journey to Vantok, he felt a sense of anxiety. This was his last chance to back out. He could easily summon his rock wyrm and return to the quiet solitude of his cave. No one need know he had come back. But what would that accomplish? And, more importantly, how would that further his desire to be reunited with Alicia? No, this was the path he had chosen. Whether he was ready to take his place in public as a wizard was another matter altogether, but he might spend another ten years in a subterranean world and not come closer to accomplishing what a true Lord of Earth should be able to. The time had arrived for him to reveal himself and stand against his sister and The Lord of Fire. He trusted he knew enough to ensure he wouldn’t be easy prey for them. Whether he could survive a conflict was a question time would almost certainly answer.
His evening at The Delicious Dancer had proven fruitful, especially once it was known that, despite his method of dress, he had coin aplenty and was willing to spend it. It was amazing how a couple of free rounds loosened tongues. The city, it seemed, was not a contented place. Although most of the common folk approved of the king, there was tension between the Crown and some of the influential nobles. It was unclear where the Temple stood in all of this, although the concept of the gods having passed from existence was not seriously entertained by a majority of the populace. The prevailing belief about the heat and drought was that it was a punishment from the gods and men would be best served by righting the wrongs of their ways, whatever those might be. Any who thought otherwise were outliers or perhaps heretics. A mention of the word “wizard” had earned Sorial treatment as an eccentric. But, as long as he was paying, no one had minded how odd or outlandish his opinions might be.
There had been some trouble this morning. The story, once leaked, had spread like fire. Apparently, Chancellor Toranim had been attacked and one of the noble leaders killed. No one was sure what this meant but a common rumor hinted that both sides had sent out assassins with the king’s proving more adept than those of his enemies. There was also much talk about the upcoming royal nuptials. Opinion was divided about the new queen, especially since she had such strong ties to Obis, but everyone agreed she was beautiful and it was past time Azarak produced an heir of his blood.
Any consideration Sorial might have entertained about arriving unannounced at the palace gates and requesting an audience was dismissed by the news of the attack. Without the influence of a highly placed person, Sorial’s only avenue past the army of guards to the king would be to use magic - something he didn’t want to do. The image of him, clothed only in dirt as he emerged through the floor, wouldn’t be one to inspire bards. It might also get him feathered with arrows before he could identify himself.
For a noble, Duke Carannan had a modest abode, although it dwarfed even a large inn. Nevertheless, despite its significant size - thirty rooms over three floors - it was simply constructed with f
ew of the flourishes favored by those who flaunted their wealth in the outward appearance of their home. Walls of the smoothest white reflected the midday sunlight with blinding intensity. The roof was constructed with overlapping red clay tiles and the front door was made of iron-bound wood. There were no frescos, no gargoyles, no impossibly endowed nude statues. The guards’ barracks and stable, both separate buildings located a goodly distance from the main house, were more simply made with conventional wooden walls and thatched roofs. The once-grand gardens surrounding the house had fallen victim to the inconsistent weather; only the heartiest plants thrived and those would die of heat and lack of water by mid-Planting unless a way could be found to blunt the drought and cool the air. Sorial continued to mull over ideas; it would likely be the first task assigned to him in his new position. It was one thing to have reasoned out how the heat wave was maintained but another to determine how to dissipate it. Fire and air were feeding and sustaining it. What could earth do to interrupt the flow?
He was a distance from the house when two armed guards approached, motioning for him to stop. He complied, assuming an unthreatening position by dropping his right arm by his side and keeping the stump of his left concealed under his cloak. He had no wish to advertise his infirmity.
“By the gods!” exclaimed one of the guards as they came close enough to identify him. “Sorial!” They sheathed their weapons and rushed forward to clap him on the back and shake his hand. He knew them immediately: Rotgut and Samir, two of the men he had served alongside during his period as a member of the militia. One reason for choosing Carannan as his means of access to the king was that he knew he would have no problem obtaining an audience with the duke. He was known, respected, and liked here. And Carannan knew his secret and the mission that had taken him away from the city. He would be eager for a meeting.
The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) Page 15