The Sleeping God

by Violette Malan

  He was resting when the Tenebro Lord Dal-eDal came. His was a red flame. No danger there. The man held himself stiffly, as if he would rather be elsewhere.

  “I am sent by the Tenebroso Lok-iKol,” Dal-eDal said, coughing to disguise the roughness in his voice.

  “It is true, then. The House has Fallen.”

  “It has.”

  “He gives me a time?”

  “Tonight, if it is possible.”

  He nodded. “Tonight it shall be.” He closed his eyes, and the Tenebro Lord went away.

  “Go out, my eyes and ears,” he whispered when he was alone again. “Go out, all my tongues, and whisper. It is time.”

  “Are you sure we’re not lost?” Mar pulled the hood of her cloak closer around her face as the rain that had started threatening soon after they’d left Tenebro House began to fall in small, sharp drops. The balcony under which they stood was too narrow to give them any real cover, but at least the rain was keeping most of the townspeople off the streets.

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  Mar pressed her lips together. Why was it that fear so often made people angry? She’d been so pleased when he’d called after her, she’d known that Gun was braver than he’d thought. She only wished he was brave enough not to be annoyed now that he was doing the right thing. Though, with luck, he wasn’t irritated enough to be mistaken about the way… she’d followed his lead, trusting that he knew where he was going, but once they’d left the wider avenues for the warren of alleys, laneways, and courtyards that lay to the north of the Great Square, she was well and truly adrift.

  Gundaron tapped the wall they stood by. “This is the east wall of the Bootmaker’s Inn, the one you told me about.” His fair brows drew down in a vee. Mar opened her mouth… and closed it without asking again if he was sure. Gun looked over at her.

  “I’m thinking,” he said, “that we might not want to just walk up to the Brothers’ front door. Maybe we should be a bit more circumspect.”

  “If this is some way to get out of going there,” Mar began, but was silenced by his tight-lipped headshake.

  “We’re not having that argument again,” he said, voice gruff. “But we might not be the only ones looking for Dhulyn Wolfshead.” His lips trembled as though there were words he held back before continuing. “I’d like a chance to see if there’s anyone there we wouldn’t want to run into.”

  Mar nodded. That made sense. She shifted her pack higher on her left shoulder.

  “If you follow along until the end of this wall and turn right, a little ways up you’ll come to one of the big archways, one of the entrances to the Great Square; then, just a bit farther along, Mercenary House is on the right-hand side, the same side as the entrance,” Gun said. “There’s another laneway on the left, just before you get there.”

  “And so?”

  “So you can walk down and then turn into the other lane. You’ll look like you’re going down toward the Old Market, but you can see if there’s anyone suspicious around Mercenary House.”

  Mar took her lower lip in her teeth. “Why me?” She thought it extremely unlikely she’d know what “anyone suspicious” looked like.

  “Because no one from Tenebro House is likely to recognize you in clothes they saw you in for five minutes four days ago. Me, they’ve been living with for two years.”

  At first Mar was inclined to argue further-after all, no one could be looking for them yet, and when the search began, if it began, surely no one would think to look for them here. Still, she felt Gundaron’s logic, and second thoughts persuaded her that this was exactly what Dhulyn Wolfshead and Parno Lionsmane would have done.

  “Mar-eMar,” Gundaron said, when she still hadn’t spoken. “If you’re not sure-you don’t have to do this.”

  Mar looked up sharply, but his eyes were firmly on hers, his gaze direct and open. This was no ploy to get her to change her mind; Gundaron was really worried about her, was really offering her a chance to think about it. It had all seemed so clear when she was explaining it to him around the corner from the Scholars’ Library. She couldn’t believe she was in any danger, but now she couldn’t help remembering what the Lionsmane had told her on the way to Gotterang. Anyone might kill you.

  She dragged in enough air to fill her lungs. They’d saved her life. Dhulyn Wolfshead had killed someone for her. The Caids only knew what had been done to them in return. She owed them an explanation and an apology. Nothing changed that.

  “Keep my pack for me,” she said, slipping the book bag off her shoulder and stepping out around the corner.

  Gun watched her walk away, head high, step sure. Everything he’d said to her was true. It was better, and safer for both of them for Mar to go. But he felt like a coward just the same. Was there anything he could do to help her? Could he Find danger? He closed his eyes.

  The Library. Something trying to reach him… he recoils. The green fog. The shelves and tables laden with scrolls and books form walls around it, keeping it away, keeping him safe. Gundaron looks at the book nearest him and sees a name. Mar-eMar. He puts his hand on it. Stay here. Stay with me. It’s safe here.

  The rain was a bit heavier away from the shelter of the wall, and Mar hunched her shoulders against it, holding her cloak closed in front of her. Makes it less likely anyone’s around to see me, she told herself, hoping that it was true. She followed the wall down to its end and turned right. The street jogged to the left-something Gundaron hadn’t mentioned-and Mar’s heart thumped loudly as at first she saw neither the Mercenary House, nor the laneway that she was supposed to dodge into before she got there. But as she followed the street along, she recognized the arched entrance to the Great Plaza and breathed more easily. A man came sauntering out of the archway, and her heart skipped a beat until she saw that, though he wore a sword under his cape, he was far too well-dressed to be on any guard’s payroll. He was bareheaded, his hair cropped short, and his face was clean-shaven, revealing a tattoo of thin black lines over the left side. He acknowledged her with a shallow bow before he turned and walked toward the Mercenary House.

  Cloudman, she thought, Racha man, too. Mar remembered seeing the same tattoo on Yaro of Trevel. She continued down the road until she’d passed the archway and crossed as she drew abreast of the lane leading away on the left, just where Gun had said it was.

  And there was the small gated archway of Mercenary House, and the Racha man just going in the postern door. Mar had taken a half step toward the House, forgetting Gundaron’s plan, when a guardsman wearing a black cloak with a familiar crest on the left shoulder and a broad teal stripe along the bottom approached the Mercenary’s gate from the far side, and called out to the still open door. Mar ducked into the lane before the man could turn to look in her direction. Only after several minutes had passed did her heart slow down and her breathing return to something like normal.

  Mar could hear voices as the guard in Tenebro colors exchanged words with the Brother answering the gate at Mercenary House, but their voices were low, and the rain was noisy enough that she couldn’t overhear what was said. Now is the time to move, Mar thought. While the attention of the guard from Tenebro House was taken up by the Brother. Mar took three slow, deep breaths and stepped out of the lane, turning immediately back in the direction she’d come from. Remembering something Dhulyn Wolfshead had told her in the mountains, Mar dragged her left foot a little with each step, changing entirely the way she walked, and forced herself to go slowly, as if she hadn’t a care in the world besides getting home for her supper.

  By the time she got back to the semi-dry corner where Gundaron waited, the pain in her left foot was real, and her stomach was tight as a fist. She pushed back her hood, welcoming the cool touch of the rain, as she told Gundaron what she’d seen.

  He licked his lips, looking from her to the corner of the wall and back again.

  “Most likely it’s the Mercenary Brothers they’re looking for, but I’d be very surprised if that guard has
n’t orders to watch the place, at least for tonight.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “It’s late, and later still for us to find a room somewhere even if we could afford it.” He frowned. “If we can make our way into the Old Market, we should be able to find somewhere to lay up until morning. Give us a chance to figure out what to do next.”

  Mar swallowed, picked up her pack. If he was anything like as exhausted as she was, he’d be glad of any place out of the rain where they could sit down.

  “I’m not promising much,” he said, and he started to retrace their steps.

  “I was almost a moon on the road with Mercenaries,” she said. “I don’t expect much.”

  Hernyn Greystone was making himself small and unnoticed behind a pillar in the Carnelian Dome’s outer courtyard when his Senior Brother came out of the building alone. With his damaged voice, Alkoryn Pantherclaw rarely went about the city unattended, and Hernyn had begged for the privilege of accompanying him on his errand. The chance to be of service to Dhulyn Wolfshead and Parno Lionsmane was only part of it, he assured himself. Only people with necessary business were let inside the Dome, however, which left him cooling his heels out here. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Hernyn made his way across the cobblestones and around a carriage being pulled out of a nearby stable entrance to Alkoryn’s side.

  “Tenebro’s Deputy Steward of Walls came in half an hour ago,” he reported to the older man.

  “With news I’ll tell you as we go,” Alkoryn said, walking briskly to the Dome’s open gates. “Did the Deputy see you?”

  “No.” Hernyn hesitated, but as Alkoryn Pantherclaw was already on his way across the courtyard, he could do nothing but follow.

  “Our Brothers?” he managed to murmur once they were out in Tarkin’s Square, a broad expanse of normally sun-drenched pavement fronting the massive pile of buildings that was the Carnelian Dome, seat of the Tarkins of Imrion.

  “Detained.”

  Hernyn listened in growing disbelief as Alkoryn told him of what had passed within.

  “But-did you know this of Dhulyn Wolfshead?”

  Alkoryn shrugged. “It’s rare for the Marked to become Mercenaries, and Seers are the rarest of the Marked…” His whisper died away. “There’s nothing in the Common Rule about such a thing. Nothing to tell us what to do or, or what to think.”

  “Is she still…?” It was so unthinkable Hernyn couldn’t bring himself to say it, but fortunately Alkoryn knew exactly what he wanted to ask. And he knew the answer, too.

  “Of course she is,” he said. “Brotherhood ends only with death.”

  But for all that, there was something troubling the older man, Hernyn could tell that much.

  The streets near the Dome were much more crowded than Hernyn would have expected, given that it was late and just beginning to rain. As they turned into the avenue that would eventually lead them to the Great Square and their House, they ran into a group of men blocking almost the whole of the way. Hernyn stepped forward.

  “If we may pass?” he said.

  Several young men, and one not so young, stepped back out of the way with nods. What I wouldn’t give for a horse, Hernyn thought as Alkoryn returned the nod of a bearded shopkeeper he obviously knew by sight. And what’s a silk merchant doing here? Hernyn wondered, making his own assessment of the man’s clothing. They passed out of the quarter of Noble Houses that crowded as closely as they were allowed to the Carnelian Dome and through the neighborhood of jewelers and metalsmiths. Here there were still shops, but these were the lesser trades: food sellers, weavers, cobblers, bakers, and the like. Though rain was falling more heavily, and the shops were closed and closing, there were still a surprising number of people, both men and women, on the streets at a time when most should be at home preparing for their suppers. Nor did they appear to be on their way home. Small groups formed and re-formed, and some, though talking in friendly enough fashion, kept looking over their shoulders. One tall fellow with a smith’s heavy shoulders and a familiar amulet around his throat, stared hard at Hernyn’s green cloak as they walked by.

  Hernyn tossed back his hair to draw attention to his Mercenary badge, bared his teeth in a strained smile, and placed his hand casually on his sword hilt. And knew without looking that Alkoryn had done the same.

  “If I were you, my Brother,” Alkoryn said, tugging at Hernyn’s dark green cloak once they’d left the smith behind, “I’d think about getting something in a different color.”

  “It was a good price,” Hernyn said.

  “And now you know why.”

  As streets wide enough for two coaches became narrower and shorter, they passed shops which were now closed for the night, and the small knots of whispering folk grew fewer, and farther between. They were able to make better time here, and Hernyn had picked up the pace when Alkoryn spotted a woman in dark green creeping from doorway to doorway, taking advantage of every shadow the rainy evening offered her. As they drew near, she pressed herself into a doorway, turning her face away from them and waiting to let them pass. Hernyn was just thinking that she’d better hurry-curfew for the Marked was the setting sun, and with the rain it was hard to prove that the sun had not already set-when Alkoryn signaled to him with a quick finger snap and stopped in front of the woman, effectively shielding her from any others who might pass by.

  “Korwina Mender,” he said, his soft whisper making it perfectly safe to say her name. “I thought you were gone from Gotterang.”

  Seeing who it was, the woman looked up, but didn’t leave the deep shadow of the doorway. “Your advice was good, Charter, but we left it too late. We were turned back from the gate.”

  Hernyn winced at a sudden bad taste in his mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Korwina, that can’t be good,” Alkoryn said.

  “So we thought, and it’s followed by worse. I’m to present myself and my family at the Jaldean High Shrine tomorrow morning.”

  Alkoryn shook his head. “Do they know your family? How many…?”

  “If they don’t, there’s plenty of my neighbors will tell them.” The woman’s tone had no resentment, no bitterness, Hernyn noticed. They’d got used to this kind of thing in Gotterang. She shrugged. “They’ll have to, to save themselves. Still, I’ve been going round now, to my best customers, to see if there’s any will hide my children. If they’re not there tomorrow, the Jaldeans can’t take them, no matter what tales the neighbors tell. But no one dares.” Again, she sounded as if she didn’t blame them. “They don’t know, you see, what the Jaldeans may do to us once we’ve gone to them. They can’t risk that I might tell…” the Mender drew in a shaky breath. “That I might tell where my babies are hidden.”

  “Send them to us,” Alkoryn said.

  Hernyn looked up in surprise.

  “Come to Mercenary House.” Alkoryn’s voice sounded harsher than usual. When the older man turned to him, Hernyn had had time to school his face.

  “You go with her, my Brother, make sure she and the children are safe and none see you. Your Brothers in the House will know what to do with them. Tell your Brothers further what has occurred at the Dome; tell them to bar all doors and gates, and to make the lower chambers ready. Then join me yourself at the Dome.” Alkoryn looked off into the middle distance, as if he were listening to some music only he could hear. “Tell them that if we are not back by sunrise, Fanryn Bloodhand is Senior.”

  “But, Alkoryn-”

  “I’m a fool, Hernyn, I’ve been too long with my maps. The time for counsel and waiting is passed. Go now, do it quickly.”

  His mouth suddenly dry as sand, Hernyn nodded, and stepped round to take the Marked woman gently by the elbow.

  “Waste no time,” Alkoryn said. “In Battle.”

  Hernyn touched his forehead. “Or in Death.”

  “The Caids bless you,” the Mender said in the ancient way, “the Sleeping God hold you in his dreams.”

  “Someone’ll have to,” Hernyn m
uttered, as he followed the Mender woman down a narrow corridor between two buildings. She did that well, he thought, almost like a Mercenary. It was surprising what people could learn when they had to.

  Tek-aKet, Tarkin of Imrion, stood a long time at the window of his private room, watching his reflection dance on the rain dripping down the panes of glass, and running his fingers from time to time against the five words scratched there by some unknown ancestor’s jewel. Like Dhulyn Wolfshead, he did not know the language, though he also thought he could draw the letters from memory.

  The sound of the door latch drew him around, and made the old dog sleeping in front of the fire raise its eyelids.

  Larissa-Lan, junior page for this old tower, and therefore the one who usually brought whatever was required to the Tarkin’s private workroom, entered balancing a tray with practiced ease on her left hand. On the tray, along with cutlery, linen, and a breadbasket, was a heavy ceramic dish whose close-fitting lid barely the contained the familiar odors of a wine sauce.

  “Here we go, sir,” said the young woman, smiling. “Still hot, and unsampled, though I had to threaten Kysh with a beating.”

  “What is it?” Tek asked, though he thought he knew.

  The page looked up in surprise. “Why, your favorite, Lord. Kidneys in jeresh sauce.” She advanced on the worktable, set down the tray, and laid out a heavy place mat for the hot dish. Beside it on the right she placed a crisp napkin folded in the shape of a crane, along with one of the new silver forks, and arranged the small breadbasket to the left.

  Tek did his best to nod naturally even while his throat closed and his stomach dropped abruptly. This was coincidence with a vengeance-and altogether too pat for comfort.

  “And who ordered this treat for me?”

  “The Tarkina, my lord. At least, that’s what the cook told me. I was to say, with the compliments of the Tarkina.”

  “Excellent, Larissa, thank you.”

  “A pleasure, sir. Enjoy.” With the confidence of familiarity the young woman left the room.