The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2)

by Matt Gilbert

  Soon was a relative thing. By the time he at last heard a key rattling in the lock, he'd almost lost his enthusiasm at the prospect.

  Rithard leapt to his feet and took up a position to the side of the door, poised to hurl his weapon at the head of whomever entered. As it happened, however, the one who entered was the only person who could stay his hand.

  Teretha, resplendent in a provocative black silk dress, stepped through the door. Davron entered behind her, literally in tow. She was arm in arm with him.

  Teretha turned to see Rithard, frozen in place, hand held high and ready to strike. Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in suspicion. “What are you about, Rithard?” Davron's hand lowered, hovering at his blade, but he said nothing.

  Rithard lowered his weapon with a great sigh, and cast his eyes to the ground. He was neither pleased nor surprised to see Davron's hand move away from his sword and around to Teretha's backside. So, she's taken control here. I should have expected such. “It would seem I misunderstood the situation.” He gave her a sour look and added, “Of course, I was lacking any number of data points that might have prevented that.”

  “Don't be petulant, Rithard,” she chided. “It's a safe bet that if I didn't have you snatched up, Narelki would have.”

  “And my friend is dead because of it!”

  Davron rolled his eyes at this. “Mei, he's fine, nothing worse than a headache and a sore jaw. We can send for him later, if you'd like proof of that.”

  Rithard raised an eyebrow. “An interesting way to put it. You imply I am your prisoner.”

  Teretha reached up with delicate hands and physically turned Rithard's head to face her. “I want you safe until this sorts out.”

  Davron nodded at this. “The sooner it's done, the sooner I'll get my father's sword back.”

  Teretha turned to him and laid a hand on his chest. “In good time.” She smiled at him and added, “It will be pleasant enough, I assure you.”

  Davron's face seemed to go to war with itself for a moment, torn between outrage and desire, at last settling for surrender.”My father would not approve,” he sighed.

  Teretha's eyebrows rose in shock and offense. “Of me?”

  “Oh, no, my dear. My father was quite fond of women, too, to my good fortune. No, I was thinking of my ignoring the theft of his blade in order to plant my own.”

  Teretha reached up to pat his cheek. “Your father would want you to have an heir, and theft is such a strong word. I've merely borrowed it for while. It's not as if I've asked overmuch for its return.” She turned back to Rithard, a calculating smile on her face. “Save one son, and make another. Fighting and fucking have ever been passions that men find difficult to resist.”

  Rithard shuddered inwardly to hear her speak so frankly, and thanked whatever gods might have had a hand in his birth that that he was the one man in the world immune to her manipulations. At least those kind. She has other strings to pull on me, but they are not so strong. “So I am a 'guest', now?”

  Davron stepped back from the door and waved an arm at the hallway. “You'll have the run of my grounds, but no further. I can't protect you if you leave.”

  “So I am to spend my life as a guest of House Noril?”

  Teretha caressed his cheek, her eyes suddenly deep wells of compassion. And here are her strings for me. “No, my love,” she said softly, as if he were still her babe in the cradle. Then her eyes grew cold again. “I think you will not have to wait here very long at all.”

  Rithard knew when she was taunting him. She enjoyed dangling bits of information in front of him, like string with a cat. “You know something. Tell me.”

  She gave him a cryptic smile. “You'll work it out soon enough. In the meantime, I'll enjoy knowing something you don't. It happens so rarely, it really ought be relished.”

  Chapter 9: Voodoo Boots

  Ilaweh’s Will anchored fairly close to the spot where Ahmed had last seen Yazid, at the mouth of the river. Ahmed allowed himself a brief moment to feel wistful sadness at the loss of the only father he had ever known. He followed that moment with another of pride and the belief that somewhere, Yazid could see what he had accomplished and was proud.

  Then it was time to turn back to business. He and Sandilianus were in his cabin, sitting across from one another at the desk. Ahmed looked up from his mental travels at his second in command. “It is a tricky issue, to be certain.”

  Sandilianus nodded in solemn agreement. “I once heard a puzzle about a farmer trying to cross a river with his animals and grain. This feels similar.”

  “Aye. Eleran is a fine fistsman, but I would not trust him with the gold alone.”

  Sandilianus, who had spent much time with the Nihlosian of late, laughed out loud. “He would tell you himself not to trust him with that. It would be too much of a temptation.”

  “Likewise, if we go with him, these fools will steal the ship, though.”

  Sandilianus shrugged. “Obviously, we must split our forces.”

  “I do not like that notion. We are in enemy territory. We must not split up and weaken ourselves even more.”

  Sandilianus shook his head, frustrated. “We have been over this! You must choose one unpleasant alternative or the other. Stop acting like a boy and be done with it!”

  Ahmed glared at Sandilianus, and considered challenging him to fists simply to prove he was not afraid, but he did not relish a beating merely for pride’s sake. Some other time, perhaps, but now there was important work to be done.

  Ahmed closed his eyes, thinking. The ship was certainly a rarity, but he would never find another warrior to equal the ones he had, not here. Losing the ship would be a setback; losing his men would be disaster.

  The ship, then, must be risked. Yet leaving it in the hands of these savages was no ‘risk’. It was sacrifice, plain and simple. Was there truly no other way?

  Ahmed listened intently for guidance, for the voice of Ilaweh, but heard nothing. It was not entirely unexpected. If Ilaweh intervened at every stubbed toe, there would be no need for men of resourcefulness and courage. Ilaweh cultivated such things in men through adversity and challenges just like this one. Ahmed was on his own.

  That very realization shifted stumbling blocks in his mind. He could feel his face warm as a grin spread over it. “Bring me the Nihlosian!”

  Some hours later, Ahmed was ready to implement his plan. It was hardly perfect, but it at least tilted the ship back into the ‘risk’ category. That was enough for him. It had to be.

  Sandilianus’s voice rang throughout the ship. “All hands before the mast!”

  Ahmed took his own place at the fore of the ship, standing at parade rest while the crew gathered. Sandilianus made run a through berthing, searching for stragglers, slapping at the backs of their heads.

  When they were assembled, Sandilianus took his own place at Ahmed’s side. “All hands present and accounted for, Captain.”

  Ahmed nodded. “Very well.” He took a moment to look over the fifty some odd men, ranging in color from coal black to tan to (in one, singular case) fish-belly white. It was a motley crew, indeed. Would the locals buy it? They certainly wore that gullible, stupid look on a fairly constant basis of late, so there was that factor on his side.

  There was really only one way to find out.

  “As you know,” he called out, “We are here to hire on a new crew to replace you. This is the bargain I have made, and I will stand by it.” He paused for drama, then pressed on, “We demons are bound by certain rules, and must adhere to the letter of our bargains.”

  Gasps rippled through the natives. Ahmed studied the faces of his men carefully, searching for any hint of humor. They were strong warriors, but it could be very difficult not to laugh at such things. He was relieved to see that each and every man’s face was a mask of gravity.

  “Yes, it is true. We thought to deceive you and take you all to hell, but your man Bendaro saw through us. He forced me into this bargain. Yo
u should thank him.”

  Ahmed paused again, allowing the natives to do just that. They looked at Bendaro with reverence and gratitude. Bendaro, for his own part, looked quite uncomfortable. Damn! Has he changed his mind?

  “But know you this!” Ahmed roared. “Bound by a bargain I may be, but I am a powerful sorcerer, as well as a demon! And if you break our bargain, you will break my bonds, and you will feel my wrath!”

  The natives’ eyes were wide with fear. Ahmed could see some of them were actually trembling with it. Good. Time to rub it in.

  Eleran spat on the ground and called out, “Bullshit.”

  Desperate, strangled cries burst from several of the crew. Cries of, “Idiot!” and “Shut up, fool!” rang out across the deck. Eleran clenched a fist and took a step toward his closest detractor. The man shrunk away.

  “Yeah, you know what to be scared of, don’t you?” he muttered to the man, then spoke to the crowd at large. “I’ve told you fools for years! They ain’t demons! And he ain’t no sorcerer, either! I’ve seen sorcerers!”

  Ahmed pointed a finger and him and shouted, “Dog! You dare defy me? Suffer!”

  Eleran clutched at his chest and screamed, staggering this way and that over the deck. The natives screamed along with him, stumbling over one another in desperation to avoid him as he bumbled about. At last, he collapsed to the deck where he writhed in convulsions, still screaming.

  The crewmembers were practically gibbering in fear by now. Sandilianus drew his blade and brandished it. “Silence!” The other Xanthians also drew their blades and stepped back from the crowd. The natives huddled together, looking in all directions at once.

  Ahmed gestured to Sandilianus. “I will show these fools I am not to be trifled with! Bring me his boot!”

  The crowd parted before Sandilianus as he moved toward Eleran. Eleran had stopped screaming now, and was flapping about like a fish on the deck. His lips were flecked with foam, and his eyes rolled in his head, unseeing. Sandilianus grabbed his right boot and began pulling.

  “The left boot!” Ahmed shouted.

  Sandilianus switched to Eleran’s left foot, scowling.

  Ahmed called out, “It must be the left boot, fool! You do not understand sorcery. Do you wish to test me today?”

  Sandilianus shook his head, fear on his face. “No, dark master!” He jerked Eleran’s left boot from his foot and brought it to Ahmed.

  Ahmed tried to present as evil a face as possible as he cried out, “Behold, dogs, what happens to those who incur my wrath!” He formed the words as slowly as he could, and finished by raising the boot high above his head. He brought his other hand just beneath it and held it there, twisting his fingers into a claw.

  Fire sprung from his hand and licked at the boot. On the deck, flames sprung up on Eleran as well. Within brief seconds, he was engulfed by them. Screaming, he leapt to his feet, rushed to the ship’s railing, and dove overboard.

  Ahmed waited a moment for the whole scene to sink in, then cried in his best voice of doom, “Bring me your boots, dogs! The left ones! And know if you betray me, I will strike you down in the same way!”

  As Ahmed and his men walked down the makeshift gangplank of Ilaweh’s Will, there was little doubt in his mind that the ship would remain just where he had left it. Sandilianus, just behind him, carried a heavy sack over his shoulder, said sack containing nearly thirty left shoes. The natives watched them go, their faces so pale with fear that they looked more like Eleran’s people than their own.

  Ahmed bit his tongue to keep from laughing. “Don’t look,” he gasped. “It only makes it harder!”

  Sandilianus nodded. “I know. Too late. I already did.”

  Eleran met them a mile upriver, looking none the worse for wear. “Did they buy it?”

  Sandilianus shook his head. “I am almost ashamed at the fear we have put in their souls. Those men will starve to death before they leave.”

  Eleran beamed. “Neat trick, eh? Did I earn my share of the gold?”

  Ahmed clapped him on the shoulder. “Indeed! How did you manage that flame, anyway?”

  Eleran smiled secretly. “I could tell you. But then I’d have to— ”

  “Kill me,” Ahmed completed, sighing and waving his hands about his head as if to ward off gnats. “Fine, keep your secrets. Let’s get on with this. We have far to go.”

  Chapter 10: Pain as a Truth Serum

  Prandil paused writing for a moment, considering the image in his head. House Veril was a wretched lot of indulgent, insipid fools who practiced the most shallow of arts, performance. They were barely a half rung above thieves and beggars. It wasn't as if their opinion mattered overmuch, so there was no worry about going too far. Still, insult and mockery were art forms in and of themselves, and it wouldn't do to get it half right. The rest of the houses would all be reading this in the morning paper, after all.

  He was still considering when Thrun, his personal slave, entered the study, a piece of paper in his hand.

  “Ah, just in time,” Prandil called. “Are the presses ready for the morning run? I have some fine print here. Tell me, would you prefer outright calling Sadrina Veril a vacuous, flatulent cow? Or something more subtle, say a waste of food and air?”

  Thrun leaned against one of the many bookshelves and stretched, shaking his head and grinning. “She's dead, Prandil. Kind of harsh.”

  “Oh, it's not 'kind of'. It's full and intentional. You know what they're doing, don't you?”

  “The protest? Yeah, it would be hard not to, with you bitching about it all the time.”

  Prandil grinned and raised both arms in victory. “That's just the point! I intend to mock them without mercy until they grow up and put forth a house leader.” He paused a moment and lowered his hands, noting the paper in Thrun's grasp. “What have you there?”

  Thrun started a bit, suddenly remembering why he had come. “Oh! A letter from House Amrath. The slave who delivered it said it was 'very important', so I assumed some juicy news on recent events.”

  Prandil raised an eyebrow at this. “Well, there are all sorts of leaks we might find useful from there of late, eh?” He made a twirling, hurry up gesture with his hands. “Go on, let's hear what it says! We have taught you to read, yes?”

  Thrun gave him a sour look, but opened the envelope and began to read. “Amrath Narelki extends her invitation to Idlic Prandil to join her for dinner at a place to be determined, and would visit House Idlic to discuss said location.”

  Prandil considered a moment, pulling at his beard, his smile growing wider with each passing second. “Well, now, that is a pleasant surprise!” He quickly took the letter from Thrun and held it to his nose to sniff at it. “Perfumed. So it is, at least ostensibly, a romantic overture.” He looked at it again. “Mei, I thought you were just a clod paraphrasing words you didn't understand. This is the actual text, hmm? Who wrote this? A slave?”

  “A lawyer, more likely,” Thrun opined.

  “Certainly not an editor or other literate.”

  “I hear tell editors can fix your mistakes, but are otherwise unable to communicate via the written word.”

  Prandil raised an eyebrow and nodded at this wisdom. “That is true. I actually have to remove one hat and put on another before I can perform my duties properly.” He looked at the letter again in amusement, then folded it and put it in his pocket. He took in a deep breath, relishing it, and let it out, the scent of the perfume still faint in his nose. “So her writing is stilted. She has other qualities that interest me.”

  “I haven't seen you this excited since they started adding bran to the pancakes.”

  “Nonsense! I'll have you know I was at least as excited as that to run the headline of Sadrina's timely demise.”

  “Well, true, that was a happy day for us all,” Thrun chuckled. “Still, I guess there's more between you two than I know about.”

  “I suppose you are a bit lacking in details compared to your father.” Prandil felt sudd
enly and very wistful. First Narelki stepping out of the past, and then to think of Alric. The man had practically raised him. “I won't apologize for outliving him, but I miss him terribly.”

  “He told me a lot of stories about you, but not this. I'm guessing there's a good reason.”

  “I shudder to hear the sort of tales he might have told you of my youth, but this is from a bit later, and nothing complicated. Narelki and I used to be lovers some hundred years ago.” Again, Prandil felt a deep, pleasant nostalgia rising in him, remembering things he had thought gone forever. Ah, it is so lovely to find a hope one counted lost. “She was the sort of beauty that might freeze a man in place, just contemplating her. And a regular hellcat in bed!” He gave Thrun a conspiratorial wink, then waved as if dismissing a ghost, shaking his head. “It's not surprising you don't remember. What are you, all of fifty and learning to shave?”

  Thrun chuckled at this, and poked back, “What's that make you, like a thousand?”

  Prandil feigned shock and placed his hands on his hips in an indignant pose. “One hundred eighty seven and still vigorous enough to thrash a strapping young lad like you!” He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “And take your women, too. You remember that, boy. Age, treachery, and cold, hard currency trump youth and beauty every time.”

  Thrun rolled his eyes at this. “Well of course you can beat me up. You're a Meite!”

  Prandil gave him a smug look. “And why aren't you?”

  “You're stalling. Misdirecting. Must be some real meat to this one.”

  “You're like a pit bull, Thrun. Who taught you this tenacity for getting a story, I wonder?”

  Thrun chuckled. “I wonder. Come on, plate the meat. Why'd you quit her?”

  Prandil, never the sort of man to try to conceal even the tiniest emotion, suddenly wished he had bothered to learn at least some small talent for it. Clearly, just the look on his face told plenty.