The Key To The Grave (#2 The Price Of Freedom)

by Chris Northern

  “If we get separated?”

  He rolled his hips forward and set his mount to walk down the slope. “Head upriver. I'll find you.”

  #

  “Do you remember her name?”

  Dubaku was playing his role to the hilt, though I now knew he was not playing. He genuinely had travelled over a thousand miles north in search of his people, presumably in order to free them and take them home. Now he stood in an open marketplace, wrapped against a fine drizzle of rain, and asked the name of a woman who might or might not be a distant relative of his. I paid as little attention as I could get away with. I didn't really care about Dubaku, or his people. True, he had saved Jocasta's life once, and for that I was grateful; also, he had saved Sapphire's life. I owed him something, but in all honesty I didn't care about him much, and I had never met the people he searched for, so why should I and how could I care about them?

  “She was called Sunflower,” the market trader sounded nervous, though I couldn't imagine why.

  I was aware of Dubaku shaking his head and asking if the man had heard any other name; just as I was aware of Sapphire pretending to haggle over a set of throwing knives as he in actuality watched everyone and everything, just as I myself was doing. A town has a pattern; every community does; a pattern of interconnected lives. What he and I were both doing was looking for were people who did not fit into that pattern; people like us; people who didn't belong. It wasn't a big town; you would have thought it would be easy to spot Ishal Laharek, Tahal, and his dozen warriors, but they were nowhere in evidence. Jocasta I did not expect to see; she would be held somewhere, safe and secret, kept for her knowledge. In time it would be tortured out of her. I didn't like to think of it. I had first-hand experience of their methods and the memories still haunted me. While they were on the move I felt she was safe enough; I didn't know how secure Ishal felt in his power over these people, or how much influence he had on them. Was he secure enough here to torture a city woman without fear of being challenged? We are known everywhere to avenge harm done to our people. Whoever ruled here would be wary of word getting out if he condoned such an outrage.

  “She belonged to Yul Epherrat, he's dead now but his son works labor for the chieftain. The lad's name is Irral. He might know more, she lived in his household when he was growing up.”

  There were only thirteen hundred people here, more or less, a few strangers should stick out like a sore thumb. Of course, I was aware of the other side of that coin. We should be equally conspicuous to them. Sapphire had been right and I had known it. My reckless streak had manifested itself again and I knew that, but didn't care. I can blame the drink, or I can blame my own basic nature. It didn't matter which was true, or if both had an element of truth, I would doubtless find myself throwing caution and carefully laid plans to the wind on a whim again and again, and I cautioned myself to be wary of it, knowing even as I did so that it would do no good.

  “Where will I find this Irral now?”

  The market trader shrugged. “He labors for the chieftain's brother, I said,” he pointed to the square cut keep on the edge of the town. It stood on an artificial hill, the top of which could be seen over the nearby rooftops; the tree trunks that dammed the earth of the man-made hill still stuck out of the earth here and there. What could be seen of the keep was surrounded by wooden scaffolding and work was in progress raising the keep to new heights.

  “Thank you,” Dubaku said, turning away.

  “I heard,” I muttered as I steered us to where Sapphire was tossing the knives casually into a round of wood thirty feet away. The blades struck with a solid and satisfying thunk, each one he threw as we approached marking off a near perfect square. He retrieved them, saw us coming as he turned away from the target and made to hand them back to the trader, placing them on the stall when the trader seemed reluctant to accept them.

  “A gram of salt for the four, then,” the trader assayed a final price.

  “No,” Sapphire said, joining us. “Anything?”

  “Nothing,” I told him.

  “There is a man who may know what her name was,” Dubaku commented, ignoring my answer. “His name is Irral, and he works there,” he pointed to the keep.

  Sapphire eyed the keep with seeming indifference. “You want to go and ask questions there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let's walk,” I said, and moved off without giving them the option of discussing it further. It felt conspicuous, standing around in the middle of a busy market. I didn't like it. They came with me. I wasn't walking toward the keep, but I wasn't walking away from it either. Intuition told me that that was where Jocasta would be, captive of Ishal Laharek who doubtless was trying to persuade the chieftain to cooperate in whatever plans he was hatching at the moment. I was nervous of this possibility. There is a standard math to how many fighting men a community can support; fifty people can support one warrior or soldier, it makes no difference which. So here there would be twenty-six warriors, if I had guessed the population of the place correctly. They would include the chieftain and his family, and possibly no more than the men of his extended family. It wasn't a great many to add to the dozen that Ishal Laharek had brought with him but it was more than I felt we could handle. In the larger scheme of things, they were very few to add to the couple of hundred that Ishal Laharek's colleague already commanded, if that is what he was about – fermenting a rising of the clans to join the rebel Alendi. He might have another agenda, but I couldn't guess what it might be. It was a possibility but not something I needed to worry about right then; I resolved to thrash the idea out with Sapphire for inclusion in a report to my father. It would be his problem, and my Uncle's problem perhaps. That greater threat might only become my problem if Meran and Lendrin Treleth caught up with me, bringing two hundred city soldiers nominally under my command into this potentially seething cauldron. I put that future headache aside as well. One thing at a time, I resolved.

  Unconsciously I had been steering for an inn tucked away in the corner of the market square. I angled away from it as soon as I noticed what I was doing; we needed to talk and could not talk freely anywhere. I was suddenly conscious of the fact that we might be surrounded by enemies. As a patron of the city I should be able to declare myself and expect free passage and fair treatment, but I was not travelling as myself and my aims might be at odds with those of the local chieftain. Certainly they were at odds with the desires of Ishal Laharek. Would the local chieftain take my part were I to declare myself and my interest here? There was no telling, though I would normally have every expectation that he would; foreigners do not lightly challenge the power of the city. At the moment, however, with the rising of the tribes to the south just recently put down, I was not so sure. Any clan of the hills might be an enemy, possibly a long-standing ally of the Necromancers. There was no telling, and not knowing made me nervous.

  “I will go and find this man Irral and speak to him alone if you wish,” Dubaku said.

  “No. No, best we stick together. But remember why I am here. I will help you as I can, but try and remember to help me in return.”

  Dubaku nodded solemnly and took a side turning off the street, heading obliquely for the keep. I kept an eye on the people we passed, ordinary people about their daily tasks, but I saw that they were wary of us. They would not meet my gaze, man or women. The town was big enough to attract people from the surrounding areas and sometimes from further afield. Dubaku might be a little odd to them, but Sapphire and I looked no different from any other Gerrian tribesman of the region. I didn't think to wonder how he had garbed himself to suit that role, doubtless someone had died to provide the tribal homespun cloth that he wore. We looked a pair and blended in well enough, I thought, and a town this size should have bred at least some tolerance for strangers. I thought about it as we walked, watching the children, gathered in small clusters, fearful with that thrill of excitement so common to children who do not yet know what true fear is. “They know that Ish
al Laharek is a Necromancer,” I said softly.

  Sapphire nodded. “They are afraid. They know what he represents, at least. Rumour has spread word of them.”

  “The tinker was nervous,” I commented, “and the cutler that you spoke to.”

  “The Necromancers are an abomination,” Dubaku murmured. “They are right to fear them. Better if they destroyed what they feared so that it no longer threatens.”

  I grunted, half surprised.

  “I have not forgotten Jerek,” Dubaku said.

  Neither had I. I wished I could. Kukran Epthel had summoned a spirit named Jerek, a brutalized and broken shade of a child whose skill lay in knowing the weakness in a man's heart. Jerek had told him that mine was love and Kukran had determined to find what I loved and control it so that he could control me. Well, I had my own opinions about that. I had once characterized alcohol as the cause and solution to all my problems; I'd always drunk more than was good for me. Ironic, then, that I should desire not to do so just as Kukran's servants fed me a drug that made me an addict. If I let myself I would drink until insensible, then rouse and drink again. I can't describe the effort it took to resist the urge to do so, instead to sip only a little to stave off the craving for a time. Even though I seemed to be mostly succeeding, I was never quite sober and the temptation to get drunk was fierce.

  “Is he...Jerek, what happened to him?”

  “My family are caring for him, nurturing his spirit and protecting him as best they can.” Dubaku told me. “Yet still he is called by others and dare not resist the call. They broke his will, diminished him, these priests,” that last word was uttered like it left a bad taste in his mouth. I knew how he felt about priests, having once made the mistake of comparing him to one. He had characterized priests as rapists, taking what they wanted from the spirits they controlled, diminishing them in the process. Having seen Jerek with my own eyes, helpless and pitiable victim that he was, I understood what Dubaku had meant.

  I shook off these thoughts, once more focusing my awareness on the immediate situation - my mind has a tendency to wander, especially during times of stress.

  The keep stood some two hundred yards beyond the edge of the town, separated by a deliberately cleared area. The artificial hill rose at an acute angle and would be a complete bastard to climb, especially when defenders were busy throwing rocks, hot oil, and whatever other nastiness they could think of. Fortunately an assault on the place was the last thing I intended. I couldn't help a snort of derisive humour at the thought; the three of us attacking a keep, storming up that incline intent on taking the place by force. In fact, fortified positions rarely fall to enemy action; apart from by us, of course. Magic does give us the military edge. Any one of a number of spells will bring down a wall, and when serious about the matter we can bring large enough stone to bear, and sorcerers of enough skill to use them, to level a city in a few moments of extreme violence. Luckily for our potential enemies, gratuitous destruction has rarely been our objective. A ruin is no use to us and corpses generate no wealth or trade.

  The keep was accessible by a path that spiralled twice around the hill. To run at full tilt up that path would take more than a minute, and end at a door that looked formidable. An assault by natural means would mean carnage to an enemy. Siege engines might bring down a wall in time but would not be able to level the entire keep or do anything about the artificial hill it stood on, so a large numbers of casualties would be taken by any attacker. It is common enough for sieges to be settled by other matters long before a military solution occurs. Often, I had read, disease or hunger would end it. Either side could fall prey to either malady. A besieging army goes through provisions at a more or less fixed rate, and can strip the surrounding land bare in no time, bringing starvation to people for miles around and eventually to themselves.

  Again, I shook of these extraneous thoughts. We had been noticed by workmen and guards alike. Men either glanced our way or watched us openly, depending on their profession and how busy they were with it. I let my gaze roam freely, pretending indifference. I caught Sapphire's gaze for a moment, and he smiled like a wolf.

  Oh, gods, I thought, not again. I'd had my fill of violence when we had together broken free of Kukran Epthel that first time. I didn't even know how many men I'd killed then and at the time I hadn't cared. My only other choice was to be their victim and I was damned if I was going to be that. Still, I did not like to think of myself as a killer, as a man who kills other men. Yet I could feel it now, that tension, that excitement, and that desire to resolve things now and without ambiguity. I wore the sword my father had gifted me, a good blade magically enhanced that balanced like a feather in my hand. I did not wear my armor though, aside from the protective belt, and that lack could be a problem; still, Dubaku was here and could summon a spirit to heal me should I take harm. I could feel the grim smile on my face and knew it was the twin of that Sapphire had given me. Was this who I was? Had violence stained my soul? Was it as addictive to me as drink had proved to be?

  “We are not here to fight,” I said through that smile. “Not yet.”

  Dubaku looked at me, his expression unreadable. Sapphire's grin widened, became more feral. “Not yet,” he agreed.

  #

  “She told me her name was Tamaya.”

  Irral was a middle-aged man, balding and grizzled, tall and strongly built. For some reason I'd been expecting someone younger. I pretended to listen as I eyed the keep, watching the guards watch us, trying to see through the walls and guess the layout of the place. I knew Jocasta was in there. I'd cast the seeker spell as we closed on the keep, and sensed the direction she lay in shift as we circled the hill, coming at last to the top. She was in there and I meant to get her out. Somehow. I examined the scaffolding and saw that it would, as I had suspected, give handy enough access to the roof and the new storey being added to the keep. But the guards would know that too, and doubtless keep watch well enough so that there was no way we could climb without being seen. At least, no way that I could do so. I knew Dubaku could summon a spirit to cloak him sufficiently that he could not be seen in full daylight. But my ego would not let me send him in alone. Still, he had come once to find me alone among our enemies, to meet with Sapphire who had also come to rescue me. Oddly it occurred to me only then to ask why Dubaku had done it; he had no real loyalty to me, why had he risked himself for my sake? It didn't seem like a good time to ask and I put the matter from my mind.

  Dubaku smiled. It was a fleeting thing, more a twitch of the lips than a true smile, but to me, used to his expressionless features, it was clear. He had recognized the name.

  A warrior was making his way toward us, not hurried but purposeful. I ignored him; men who have nothing to fear do not show undue tension when an official approaches. Doubtless he would want to know our business there, and we would tell him what had become the truth; we were seeking Dubaku's lost people. And if that smile was anything to go by, we were on their trail.

  “Where did she come from?” Dubaku said. “I heard she was raided from the south, from the city?”

  Irral shook his head. “From the south, yes, but not so far as the city.” He was pleased enough to answer Dubaku's question. “The way I heard it, the Alendi had been raiding us and we them in return. She came to us from a raid, but had come from the west. She and her husband had escaped from some western kingdom, only to fall again as slaves to one of the western Gerrian tribes. She'd been traded and stolen away a dozen times before she came to us.”

  “Did she die peacefully?”

  Irral screwed up his face, half puzzled at the question and half trying to remember. “Old age, I guess. She was sixty or more. Not a bad age.”

  The guard was close enough that he couldn't be ignored. If we ignored him now it would be suspicious in itself, so I turned and gave a casual salute in the Gerrian manner.

  He returned it. “What is your business here?”

  “They want to know about the old black
woman who died some years back,” Irral answered for us and I almost smiled my thanks, His acceptance lent us legitimacy.

  “I remember her,” the warrior looked over Dubaku and drew his own conclusions. “Your sister, black man? She was a good woman, for all her strange looks. Had a way with children; they warmed to her, I recall.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Dubaku said. “Did she have children of her own?”

  “A couple; Murali and Aten; sold north as I recall.” The warrior shrugged, his attention already divided between Sapphire and myself. “You two look like you've been through the wars.”

  Damn. Who had I told that we hadn't been involved in the fight against the city? No, that was some days ago, another place. “The Lurians are in the south,” I said, trying to sound disinterested.

  “Alendi, are you? Come with me, my father will want to talk to you.”

  Damn.

  #

  I avoided looking at Sapphire as we followed the guard to the keep's single doorway. I didn't want to see his expression. I was thinking furiously but not making any headway. If Tahal saw me he would surely recognize me. If he saw me, there would be no choice but to declare myself and try and brazen it out. No chieftain, no king or prince of a foreign land would lightly harm a patron of the city. We were fussy about the safety of our citizens, we went to war to ensure their safety and everyone knew it. We'd been doing it for centuries. And there were legions just a couple of days south of here, ready to march. Still, a small war to avenge my death would not make me any less dead. What else might happen? Ishal Laharek might recognize me; but I really did think that unlikely. When I had dragged Kukran into the flames there had been plenty of other things to hold his attention; our advancing army for one, the sudden outbreak of violence from Kukran's former servants for another. I doubted he had caught more than a glimpse of me, and I doubted he had seen me since the fire had taken my hair and marked the skin of my face.