The Shining Ones

by David Eddings

  ‘Your own sisters?’ Engessa sounded shocked.

  ‘Of course. If I die before I’m married, everything I’ve won becomes the property of my mother, and my sisters will inherit all of it. They already think of themselves as women of property. They’ve turned down perfectly acceptable suitors because of their pride of position and the wealth they think they’ll inherit. I’ve been too busy making war to think much about marriage, and every year that passed made my sisters feel that their ownership of the herds was that much more secure.’ He grinned. ‘Mirtai’s sudden appearance is going to upset them terribly, I’m afraid. One of the customs of our people obliges a bride-to-be to spend two months in the tent of her betrothed’s mother – learning all the little things she’ll need to know about him after they’re married. During that period my mother and Mirtai will also select husbands for all my sisters. It’s not a good idea to have too many women in one tent. That will really upset my sisters. I expect they’ll try to murder Mirtai. I’ll warn them against it, of course,’ he added piously. ‘I am their brother, after all. But I’m sure they won’t listen – at least not until after Mirtai’s killed a few of them. I’ve got too many sisters anyway.’

  ‘How many?’ Engessa asked him.

  ‘Eight. Their status will change drastically once I marry. Right now they’re all heiresses. After my wedding, they’ll be possessionless spinsters, dependent on Mirtai for every crust of bread they eat. I think they’ll bitterly regret all the suitors they’ve refused at that point. Is that somebody creeping through the shadows over by the wall?’

  Engessa looked toward the Interior Ministry. ‘It seems to be,’ he replied. ‘Let’s go ask him his business. We don’t really want anybody going inside that building while Atana Mirtai and the thieves are in there.’

  ‘Right,’ Kring agreed. He loosened his saber in its sheath, and the oddly mismatched pair moved silently across the lawn to intercept the furtive shadow near the wall.

  ‘How far is it from here to Tega, Sarabian?’ Ehlana asked, looking up from Sparhawk’s letter. ‘In a direct line, I mean?’

  Sarabian had removed his doublet, and he really looked quite dashing in his tight-fitting hose and full-sleeved linen shirt. He had tied back his shoulder-length black hair, and he was practicing lunges with his rapier, aiming at a golden bracelet hanging from the ceiling on a long string. ‘About a hundred and fifty leagues, wouldn’t you say, Oscagne?’ he replied, contorting his body into en garde position. He lunged and caught the rim of the bracelet with the point of his rapier, sending the bracelet spinning and swinging on the string. ‘Blast!’ he muttered.

  ‘Perhaps closer to a hundred and seventy-five, your Majesty,’ Oscagne corrected.

  ‘Could it really be raining there?’ Ehlana asked. ‘The weather’s been beautiful here. A hundred and seventy-five leagues isn’t really all that far, and Sparhawk says right here that it’s been raining on Tega for the past week.’

  ‘Who can say what the weather’s going to do?’ Sarabian lunged again, and his rapier passed smoothly through the bracelet.

  ‘Well thrust,’ Ehlana said a bit absently.

  ‘Thank you, your Majesty.’ Sarabian bowed, flourishing his rapier. ‘This is really fun, you know that?’ He crouched melodramatically. ‘Have at you, dog!’ He lunged at the bracelet again, missing by several inches. ‘Blast.’

  ‘Alean, dear,’ Ehlana said to her maid, ‘would you go see if the sailor who brought this letter is still on the premises?’

  ‘At once, my Queen.’

  Sarabian looked inquiringly at his hostess.

  ‘The sailor just came from Tega. I think I’d like to hear his views on the weather there.’

  ‘Surely you don’t think your husband would lie to your Majesty, do you?’ Oscagne protested.

  ‘Why not? I’d lie to him if there was a valid political reason for it.’

  ‘Ehlana!’ Sarabian sounded profoundly shocked. ‘I thought you loved Sparhawk.’

  ‘What on earth has that got to do with it? Of course I love him. I’ve loved him since I was about Danae’s age, but love and politics are two entirely different things, and they should never be mixed. Sparhawk’s up to something, Sarabian, and your excellent foreign minister here probably knows what it is.’

  ‘Me?’ Oscagne protested mildly.

  ‘Yes, you. Mermaids, Oscagne? Mermaids? You didn’t really think I’d swallow that story, did you? I’m just a bit disappointed in you, actually. Was that the best you could come up with?’

  ‘I was a bit pressed for time, your Majesty,’ he apologized with a slightly embarrassed look. ‘Prince Sparhawk was in a hurry to leave. Was it the weather that gave us away?’

  ‘Partly,’ she replied. She held up the letter. ‘My beloved outsmarted himself, though. I’ve seen his letters before. The notion of “felicity of style” has never occurred to Sparhawk. His letters usually read as if he’d written them with his broadsword. This one – and all the others from Tega – have been polished until they glisten. I’m touched that he went to all the trouble, but I don’t believe one word of them. Now then, where is he? And what’s he really up to?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say, your Majesty. All he told me was that he needed some excuse to be away from Matherion for several weeks.’

  She smiled sweetly at him. ‘That’s all right, Oscagne,’ she said. ‘I’ll find out for myself. It’s more fun that way anyhow.’

  ‘It’s a big building,’ Stragen reported the following morning. ‘It’s going to take time to go over it inch by inch.’ He, Caalador and Mirtai had just returned from their night of unsuccessful burglary.

  ‘Have you made much progress?’ Sarabian asked.

  ‘We’ve covered the top two floors, your Majesty,’ Caalador replied. ‘We’ll start on the third floor tonight.’ Caalador was sprawled in a chair with a weary look on his face. Like his two companions, he was still dressed in tight-fitting black clothing. He stretched and yawned. ‘God, I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I’m getting too old for this.’

  Stragen unrolled a time-yellowed set of drawings. ‘I still think that the answer’s right here,’ he said. ‘Instead of opening doors and poking under desks, we should be matching dimensions against these drawings.’

  ‘Yer still a-thankin’ there’s sekert passages an’ cornsealed rooms in thar, ain’t ya, Stragen?’ Caalador drawled, yawning again. ‘That doesn’t speak too well for your taste in literature, old boy.’

  Sarabian gave him a puzzled look.

  ‘Thalesians are addicted to bad ghost stories, your Majesty,’ Caalador explained.

  ‘It gives the copying-houses in Emsat something to do now that they’ve exhausted the body of real literature.’ Stragen shrugged. ‘We’ve got a whole sub-genre of highly popular books spewing out of grubby garrets on back streets – lurid narratives which all take place in cemeteries or in haunted houses on dark and stormy nights. The whores of Emsat absolutely adore them. I rather expect the policemen at Interior share that taste. After all, a policeman’s sort of like a whore, isn’t he?’

  ‘I didn’t exactly follow that,’ Mirtai said, ‘and I’m not really sure I want to. There’s probably something disgusting involved in your thinking, Stragen. Caalador, will you stop yawning like that. Your face looks like an open barn-door.’

  ‘I’m sleepy, little dorlin’. You two bin a-keepin’ me up past muh bedtime.’

  ‘Then go to bed. You make my jaws ache when you gape at me like that.’

  ‘You should all get some sleep,’ Ehlana told them. ‘You’re the official royal burglars now, and Sarabian and I would be absolutely mortified if you were to fall asleep in mid-burgle.’

  ‘Are we ready to be practical about this?’ Caalador asked, rising to his feet. ‘I can have two dozen professionals here by this evening, and we’ll have all the secrets of the Interior Ministry in our hands by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘And Interior will know that we have them by tomorrow afternoon,’ Stragen added.
‘Our impromptu spy network isn’t really all that secure, Caalador. We haven’t had enough time to weed out all the people Krager’s probably subverted.’

  ‘There’s no real rush here, gentlemen,’ Ehlana told them. ‘Even if we do find the documents the policemen at Interior are hiding, we won’t be able to do a thing about them until my wandering husband finds his way home again.’

  ‘Why are you so positive that Sparhawk’s deceiving you, Ehlana?’ Sarabian asked her.

  ‘It’s consistent with his character. Sparhawk’s devoted his entire life to protecting me. It’s rather sweet, even though it is bloody hindering awkward at times. He still thinks of me as a little girl – although I’ve demonstrated to him that I’m not on any number of occasions. He’s out there doing something dangerous, and he doesn’t want me to worry. All he really had to do was tell me what he was planning and then lay out the reasons why he thought it was necessary. I know it’s hard for you men to believe, but women are rational too – and far more practical than you are.’

  ‘You’re a hard woman, Ehlana,’ Sarabian accused.

  ‘No, I’m a realist. Sparhawk does what he thinks he has to no matter what I say, and I’ve learned to accept that. The point I’m trying to make is that no matter what we dig out of the walls of the Interior Ministry, there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it while Sparhawk and the others are out there wandering around the countryside. We’re going to disband Interior and throw about a quarter of the Empire’s policemen in prison. Then we’re going to place all of Tamuli under martial law with the Atans enforcing our decrees. The Daresian Continent’s going to look like an ant-hill that’s just been run over by a cavalry charge. I don’t know what Sparhawk’s doing, so I don’t know what kind of impact that chaos is going to have on him. I am not going to let you put him in any more danger than I think he’s already in.’

  ‘Do you know something, Ehlana?’ Sarabian said. ‘You’re even more protective of Sparhawk than he is of you.’

  ‘Of course I am. That’s what marriage is all about.’

  ‘None of mine are,’ he sighed.

  ‘That’s because you’ve got too many wives, Sarabian. Your affection’s dispersed. Your wives each return only as much love as you give them.’

  ‘I’ve found that it’s safer that way.’

  ‘But dull, my friend, and sort of boring. Being consumed with a burning passion that only has a single object is very exciting. It’s sort of like living in a volcano.’

  ‘What an exhausting prospect,’ he shuddered.

  ‘Fun, though,’ she smiled.

  Baroness Melidere had retired early, pleading a painful headache. It was not that she found her duties as Ehlana’s lady-in-waiting onerous, but rather that she had an important decision to make; and she knew that the longer she put it off, the more difficult it would be. To put it rather bluntly, the Baroness had reached the point where she was going to have to decide what she was going to do about Stragen.

  We must candidly admit that Melidere was no innocent. Few members of any court really are. An innocent girl has only one option in her dealings with the opposite sex. A more worldly girl has two, and this was the crux of Melidere’s dilemma. Stragen, of course, would make a perfectly acceptable paramour. He was presentable, interesting, and he had exquisite manners. Melidere’s reputation at court would not be tarnished by a liaison with him; quite the reverse, actually. That had originally been her intention, and the time had come for her to take the final step and to invite him to her bedchamber and have done with it. The liaison could be brief, or it could be extended – renewed each time Stragen visited Cimmura. That would give the affair a certain status, while at the same time leaving them both free to pursue other amusements, as was normal in such situations. Melidere, however, was not sure if that was all she wanted. More and more, of late, she had found herself thinking of a more permanent arrangement, and therein lay the dilemma.

  There is a rhythm, almost a tide, in the affairs of the heart. When that tide reaches its high point, a lady must give certain signals to her quarry. One set of signals points toward the bedchamber; the other, toward the altar. Melidere could no longer put it off. She had to decide which set of signal flags to hoist.

  Stragen intrigued her. There was a sense of dangerous excitement about him, and Melidere, a creature of the court, was attracted by that. It could be intoxicating, addictive, but she was not entirely sure that the excitement would not begin to pall as the years went by.

  There was, moreover, the problem of Stragen himself. His irregular origins and lack of any official status had made him overly sensitive, and he continually imagined slights where none had been intended. He hovered around the edges of Ehlana’s court like an uninvited guest at a banquet, always fearful that he might be summarily ejected. He had the outsider’s awe of the nobility, seeming at times to view aristocrats almost as members of another species. Melidere knew that if she decided to marry him, she would have to attack that first. She personally knew that titles were a sham and that legitimacy could be purchased, but how was she going to persuade Stragen of that? She could easily buy him out of bastardy and into the aristocracy, but that would mean that she would have to reveal the secret she had kept locked in her heart since childhood. Melidere had always concealed the fact that she was one of the wealthiest people at court, largely because her fabulous wealth had not been legally obtained.

  And there it was! She almost laughed when she realized how simple it was. If she really wanted to marry Stragen, all she’d have to do would be to share her secret with him. That would put them on equal footing and tear down the largely imaginary barrier.

  Melidere was a baroness, but her title had not been in her family for very long. Her father, a man with huge shoulders and a mop of curly blond hair, had begun life as a blacksmith in Cardos, and he had amassed a fortune with a simple invention which he had crafted in his forge. Most people look upon gold coins as money – something with intrinsic and unalterable value. There are some, however, who realize that the value of a coin lies in the social agreement saying that it is worth what the words stamped on its face say that it’s worth. The words do not change, even if the edge of the coin has been lightly brushed with a file or a sharp knife a few times. The tiny fragments of pure gold thus obtained do not amount to very much if one files or carves the edge of one coin. If one tampers with a thousand coins, however, that’s quite another matter. Governments try to discourage the practice by milling the edges of coins during the stamping process. A milled coin has a series of indentations around its edge, and if the edge has been filed or carved, it is immediately apparent. Melidere’s father had contrived a way to get around that. He had carefully crafted a set of re-milling dies, one die for each size coin. A blacksmith will not handle enough coins in his entire life to make enough to pay for the effort of hammering out such equipment. Melidere’s father was a genius, however. He did not make the dies for his own use, nor did he sell them. Instead, he rented them, along with the services of highly trained operators, taking a small percentage as his fee.

  Melidere smiled. She was positive that very few gold coins in the whole of Eosia were of true weight, and she also knew that five percent of the difference between face value and true value was stacked in ingots in the hidden vault in the basement of her own manor house near Cardos. Once she had made Stragen aware of the fact that she was a bigger and more successful thief than he was, the rest would be easy. His illusions about her nobility would fall away to be replaced with an almost reverential respect for her consummate dishonesty. She could even show him the source of her wealth, for she always carried the most prized memento of her childhood, her father’s original dies. Even now, they nestled in velvet in the ornately carved rosewood case on her dressing table, polished steel jewels more valuable than diamonds.

  Even as she realized that the means to marry Stragen were at hand, she also realized that she had already made her decision. She would marry him. She would
, the very next time she saw him, hoist those signal flags rather than the others.

  Then she thought of something else. Her father’s activities had been confined to the Eosian Continent. All of Tamuli was literally awash with virgin coins unviolated by file or knife-edge. Once he realized that, Stragen would not walk to the altar, he would run.

  Melidere smiled and picked up her hairbrush. She hummed softly to herself as she brushed her long, honey-blonde hair. Like any good Elene girl, she had attacked the problem logically, and, as it almost always did, logic had won out. Logic was a friendly and comforting thing to have around, particularly if morality didn’t interfere.

  ‘Hold it,’ Stragen whispered as the three of them started down the broad staircase descending to the third floor. ‘There’s still somebody down there.’

  ‘What’s he doing this late?’ Mirtai asked. ‘They all went home hours ago.’

  ‘We could go ask him,’ Caalador said.

  ‘Don’t be absurd. Is it a watchman?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Stragen replied. ‘I didn’t see him. I just caught a flicker of candlelight. Somebody down there opened a door.’

  ‘Some drudge working late, most likely.’ Caalador shrugged.

  ‘Now what?’ Mirtai asked.

  ‘We wait.’ Caalador sat down on the top step.

  Stragen considered it. ‘Why don’t the two of you stay here?’ he suggested. ‘I’ll go have a look. If he’s settling in for the night, there’s not much point in camping on these stairs until morning.’ He went on down, his glovesoft shoes making no sound on the mother-of-pearl tiles. When he reached the hallway below, he saw the fine line of candlelight glowing out from under a door at the far end. He moved quickly with the confidence of long practice. When he reached the door, he heard voices.