Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  Rolen fixed him with a grave expression. “The Sheason Order is already dead, my friend. At least as it existed when you and I took our oaths. What it becomes … we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “You won’t live to see any of it,” Vendanj observed, without malice. “You deplete your own Forda to heal these dogs. Without sleep and food, you can’t properly replenish what you expend. They’re killing you, sure enough. They’re just doing it slowly.”

  “If I’m going to die,” Rolen offered another of his smiles, “I’d rather do so returning health and peace of mind—”

  “To your accusers and jailors?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you know their intention is the end of all Sheason?” Vendanj stared through the dimness, feeling his anger turning toward his friend.

  “If I follow the dictates of my conscience only when it’s convenient, then my oath means nothing.” Rolen shook his head. “I think we’ve said all this before.”

  “I’d hoped mealy bread and daily beatings might make you sensible.” Vendanj smiled through the darkness.

  “Is that a joke?” Rolen said back, delighted surprise and humor in his voice. “Maybe there’s hope for you, after all. What have those Hollows boys taught you that I couldn’t?”

  Vendanj struggled to his feet. “You know I won’t stay here. You’ll be left to your slow death unless you come with me.”

  “Again, I think this is ground we’ve covered before,” Rolen said, smiling weakly. “What of the Randeur? I’ve not heard where his heart lies on the matter.”

  Vendanj rubbed the back of his head, feeling the bruises there. “I don’t know if he’d join you in this prison cell, but I’m not sure he’ll see my logic, either.”

  Rolen nodded, seeming neither pleased nor grieved. “You know what that means.”

  He did. If the Randeur decided he and Vendanj weren’t aligned on the Sheason path, it would leave Vendanj at the head of a Sheason faction that must part ways with the order.

  “I’m not alone,” Vendanj replied. “There are many who believe we should give men what they need, not what they think they need.”

  Without condescension, Rolen replied, “The danger, my friend, is you thinking you know what they need most.”

  Vendanj held his silence for a long time. It was too late for rethinking any of this. He wasn’t wrong. He lived in a confusing time, in an age of rumor. Even good men, guided by conscience, had fallen into a way of thinking that threatened them all. Like Rolen. How could he make his friend see?

  Ultimately, he left it alone. Rolen was as stubburn as Vendanj himself, if in a quieter way. He only hoped that before it was all done, Rolen hadn’t gone too soon to his earth.

  He smiled as he considered that his friend would be thinking the same of him.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “But think of the Castigation during the Second Promise. Think of Siwel Trebor, when he defied the Randeur, and nearly brought destruction on the Tabernacle of the Sky. Think of the Commiseration of Soljan, when he took a dangerous view of the Whited One. Think of Jo’ha’nel himself. Be careful of complacency in your service. It’s worse than daring to challenge, even if you’re wrong.”

  Rolen seemed hesitant to ask some question. Finally, with a cautious tone, he said, “You say there are many, but are you organized?”

  “I’ve no Sheason army.” He gave a low laugh that sounded darker than he’d intended. “But that’s not what you want to ask.”

  “No, it’s not.” There was a moment when it seemed Rolen wouldn’t ask after all. He heard his friend swallow hard. “Do you, or any of those who follow you … seek Solemnity?” Rolen kept a hard, fixed gaze on Vendanj.

  Vendanj had considered it. A practice whispered about long after fires died to ash and the whisperers could be sure no one overheard. It was one of few Sheason abilities that could not be taught, and among a handful that were considered profane. The power itself was an acknowledgment that in the heart of every servant lived something coarse and bitter. Some said it was one side of a balance scale, a necessary side.

  It was a secret within a secret. Its pursuit was tantamount to heresy, to being Quiet oneself. Just the thought of it chilled him.

  He stared back through the gloom. “I hope none of us ever goes so far.… But don’t mistake me. There’s only one response to the Quiet. And I’ll use any means.…”

  It was his friend’s turn to draw out the silence between them. “That’s where you and I differ, I suppose.”

  Unreconciled, they began to laugh.

  Vendanj would soon leave his friend to his suffering. But he wasn’t ready to go yet, fearing that he might never see him again.

  They spoke of simple things for a while, old memories, the missteps of their youth, time spent together in Estem Salo. Sometime later, Rolen asked, “So what precisely did you do to get thrown in the pit?”

  Vendanj explained. Rolen nodded, and shared that he’d been Tahn’s First Steward at his Standing, which had taken place in this very cell.

  “Glad it was you to guide him into his years of accountability,” Vendanj said.

  A long stretch of silence fell between them again. They each seemed to be deep in their own thoughts. Vendanj spoke first.

  “The schism may be too wide to bridge.” His own voice hinted that he hoped Rolen would argue with him.

  Instead, Rolen nodded and smiled sadly. “The divide is our intentions. I’m sure you know that.”

  “You don’t think I can convince Thaelon to help me.”

  Rolen sighed, and shook his head as a parent does when talking to a defiant child. “I’ve touched the boy’s soul. I know about his birth. I know it flies against the principles of the Charter Thaelon holds in his heart.” Subtle judgment came with his friend’s next words. “And I know how you would use Tahn. The difference between you and Thaelon is your regard for the boy.”

  “Then the gap is too wide.” He clenched a fist. “But I will still try to bridge it. Someone must speak sense to Sheason who wallow in thought and won’t choose the right fight.”

  “You realize,” Rolen said, tapping his temple to emphasize that he was going to share a thought, “you’ve offered Roth the best possible argument for broadly fulfilling the legal allowances of the Civilization Order. Maybe you’re overdue for a good wallow.”

  Just then, the door at the top of the cell steps opened. Passing into the harsh glare came three silhouetted forms, quickly descending the stairs. When Vendanj’s eyes had adjusted to the intrusion of light, he saw that one of the men carried a heavy black bag—the type placed over the head of one being executed.

  “It would seem you’re right,” he said to Rolen, “about the Civilization Order. Not the wallow.” He smiled, keeping his eyes trained on the leaguemen who circled around him. “Good-bye, my friend.”

  The men rushed in, seizing him. He concentrated, calling a minimal amount of Will to swell each of the men’s throats, closing off their air. They all stumbled back, clutching at their necks, struggling to breathe. Gasping sounds resounded against the high ceiling of the cell as Vendanj unfettered himself from his chains and hastened from the pits of Solath Mahnus.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Bargains

  To succeed with a buyer, establish if he’s caught in a condition of fear, whether personal or societal. The fearful man is a practical buyer. Men with no fear are impractical.

  —Merchant Fundamentals, a guide for stock and trade, published by House Callister of Ebon South

  Beyond the walls of Recityv, Helaina wandered slowly from cart to cart along the market road. The bright of day had yet to fill the sky, leaving the world in a palette of chill blues. The barkers and beggars hadn’t awoken or arrived yet. Only the industrious small-shop owners moved through the early morning, silently preparing their wares and foods for sale.

  Wearing her hood up, she liked to come before the crowds arrived. She’d casually shop for small items that mo
st would find unbefitting her office. It was a good way to limber herself for the day ahead, too. Always, Artixan walked at her side, more friend than protection. And he kept the silence, seeming to take pleasure in the speechless industry of early-morning preparations.

  Many here knew her. A few for her true self. But mostly as a customer who came often and paid generously. They were vagrant merchants who capitalized on the traffic of the road. And lately, traffic had been brisk.

  These morning strolls, handling vegetables and fruits, looking over kitchen tools and fabrics both coarse and fine, had become her best way to stay connected to the people. Prices inside Recityv walls had driven the poor to this market road beyond the walls to buy their salt and shoes. The state of her politics and the health of her economy could be understood most clearly in the exchanges heard here. What’s more, she could deduce the needs of her people by the items available for purchase and their prices. It was a simple practice her father had taught her, and one that somehow escaped the understanding of so many merchants.

  Today, she was disturbed to find an inordinate number of weapons dealers. Carts of handknives, small swords, arm-bows, axes, and short spears abounded up and down the market road. For the most part, the workmanship was poor, but it probably matched the skill of their buyers. And while the threat from the Quiet was real enough, she didn’t think the demand for weapons came from those rumors alone. Regardless, citizens who were scared and armed would prove a dangerous mixture.

  But more alarming than the weapons was the small number of carts displaying food—it had dwindled significantly. Seasonal fruits were either coming late this year, or not at all. In either case, a simple apricot bushel was priced at three thin silver, nearly eight times its usual rate.

  The man at the fruit cart smiled vaguely at her, and she gave him a single thin realm mark, taking two apricots from his display. She handed one to Artixan, and rubbed the other against her overcloak. Then she bit through its rather crisp skin, her mouth filling with a tangier-than-usual nectar. The fruit had been harvested too soon, rushed to market. She didn’t mind the taste, though, and took another bite, savoring the freshness and wiping some juice from her chin.

  It was a delightful moment, and her favorite reason for coming here. “The people might blame us for these prices,” she said to Artixan.

  “You don’t give them enough credit,” he countered. “They know it’s you who makes commerce on the roads safe and keeps taxes low.”

  “And what of this weapons trade?” She motioned toward a cart loaded with knives.

  “Troubling,” Artixan said. “But the people will also remember that it was you who changed the laws about private knowledge and made it accessible to everyone, not just those who could sell and profit by it. My guess is there are more new tradesmen than citizens carrying knives.”

  “I think you’re pandering to me,” she said, and grinned.

  “And I think you should hear the excitement I do when I speak to the merchant houses who no longer talk to you.” Artixan took a bite of his apricot.

  Her brows went up. “Oh?”

  “Your Convocation has them excited at the prospect of trade across many nations and king roads.” He wiped his chin. “Your vision is winning you new respect.”

  She hoped it was true. “Speaking of trade across nations, I haven’t heard from the Mors yet. I’m going to send an envoy. I’ve spoken with Belamae at Descant, and he says he has a young student who should go with us. Apparently her song is something like the Refrains. He believes it will help.”

  Artixan nodded. “Sounds promising.”

  “Now, if I could just get Roth to see that we share some common ground.” She took another bite of her fruit.

  At the next merchant stand up the road, Artixan showed more than casual interest in a variety of personal items set out on a broad swath of black felt. Helaina continued to enjoy her apricot as she watched him thoughtfully pick up several items and examine them at arm’s length with his aging eyes—a pen set, complete with sander; a better-than-average hand mirror; a walnut-wood snuffbox; a silver locket large enough to hold a small item or two.

  He kept at it, shopping with a will now … until he picked up a pinch comb with a pearlescent finish. He turned it over in his fingers twenty times before a satisfied smile touched his face. He raised a hand to the merchant, inquired on the price, and paid the man without a single word of dickering.

  “It’s not even my name day,” Helaina said, joking over the intention of the purchase.

  He turned with a bit of apology on his face, then saw her smile, and laughed. “It’s for Yolen. We’ve been together … my skies, must be fifty years. Just a small token to celebrate.”

  She looked at the fine pinch comb in his hand. “You’re a dear man not to have resorted to buying an older woman practical things.”

  “My Yolen ought to have a chest of these for tolerating me,” he said, holding up the comb.

  “I won’t argue with you on that.”

  His easy laugh came again. “Our friends will bring practical things. They think she needs household items. We have enough stoneware for one of your midwinter receptions.” He shook his head with good nature. “But they mean well.”

  “I have a gift for you both. Delightfully impractical.”

  He half-bowed. “Thank you, my friend. And though you’ll think me ripe with sentimentality, waking up to Yolen each day is gift enough.”

  “You’re a rare one. But for all the right reasons.” She hooked her arm in his and they continued on.

  And despite their small diversions this morning, her interests were more than casual. A few carts down she found one of the usual traders. A good man. Nonperishable items. And one of the rare merchants who worked the realms east of Vohnce.

  “Timothy,” she said warmly.

  The man stood up, bracing his back a bit and uttering a small groan.

  “You,” he said, keeping her identity secret, as was their standing agreement. “What’ll it be this morning? I have a few hand vases, turned in Kuren.” He uttered a rough squeal. “Oh, and a poem book out of Naltus Rey. Pain poets, wouldn’t you know.” He finally turned and winked. “That one would set you back several full real marks.”

  “I’ll take the poem book,” she said, and stepped close enough that she could whisper without being overheard. She handed him ten thick silver marks. “And your understanding of the best trade route into Y’Tilat Mor.” She quickly added, “Keep your voice low, and just look bored.”

  The old merchant didn’t miss a stitch. As he plopped the coins into a purse at his waist, he fumbled for the book and spoke softly. “One day, you’ll tell me why, since only fool traders go that way. But the best road starts at the south of Falett Range. Cardal Point. Hard to miss. But also hard to follow once it hits the forests of the Mors.”

  He then proffered the book. She took it and turned away casually, raising a hand of thanks. She wasn’t sure she’d need Timothy’s information, but she knew enough to be ready if she did.

  She’d returned to her routine and gotten past another handful of carts, when in the distance, the sound of urgent hooves broke the morning’s peaceful spell. When she turned, she saw three riders moving fast in her direction. In the predawn light, she couldn’t make out their garb, though it appeared uniform.

  Helaina turned into the road and waited, Artixan beside her. A few moments later, out of the dark of early morning, Roth and two of his ranking lieutenants appeared, coming to an abrupt stop before her. Their horses chuffed in the chill, their nostrils flaring. Roth didn’t step down, but rather bent forward, extending a hand filled with papers.

  “You’ll want to read these,” he said.

  Even before she received the parchments, she noted that the leagueman had known where to find her. He’d likely been tracking her movements for months. She might have guessed it, but was disappointed her Emerit guard—hiding somewhere out of sight—hadn’t discovered that she was being
trailed.

  Roth gently shook the parchments once. “Please, my lady.”

  Helaina stepped forward and took hold of them. “Do you intend to make me read these, or will you simply tell me what they say?”

  He sat tall again in his saddle, resting his hands on the horn. “The time has come for more decisive action, my regent.” He looked at Artixan. “You have remained lax on issues that concern your people. I’ve taken their interests to heart, and secured the votes I need to act on that order.” He pointed to the parchments in her hand.

  “And what is it?” she asked.

  “The Civilization Order,” Roth replied.

  “Which is already law.” She glanced at the parchment, confused.

  “An amendment has been added, witnessed and signed by over half of the High Council.” Roth softened his voice, adopting a more personal tone. “Whatever you may think, Helaina, I didn’t really wish to do this. But there have been rumblings since this Vendanj conjured his abomination in full view of your Convocation. Even I feared riot if we didn’t take action.”

  “What action, Roth?” she demanded.

  He stiffened. “No longer will abstention from rendering the Will be sufficient. Members of the Sheason Order will be killed on sight.” Again he softened his voice, playing both sides of this game. It sickened her. “Their very presence unsettles the people, makes them distrustful, even violent. There have been fights these last two days between those who support the order and those who fear it. Fights, my lady, with steel.” He pointed a finger toward a nearby cart, where Helaina had a moment before been browsing a selection of weapons.

  Artixan’s calm voice rose from beside her. “This isn’t binding,” he said. “Such an order must be discussed in chambers. How are we to have full faith in these documents and signatures? Any more than the diary of Sodalist E’Sau? No, Ascendant, this will not be considered law until it can be heard in Council.”