“Molik,” I said, and the frightened eyes turned to me. “Will you guarantee to leave us—and Volitar—alone, in exchange for your life? Will you stop harrassing Tarani?”
“Yes. Anything.”
“You expect a roguelord to keep his word?” Thymas asked. He lifted the sword slightly.
“He will keep it,” Tarani said softly. “I know him that well. And our association is over now. Forever. Isn’t that right, Molik?”
The fear faded from Molik’s eyes, and was replaced with something new as he looked at Tarani. Tenderness.
“I regret it,” he said. “But I do accept it. Goodbye, Tarani.”
“This fleason has come between us!” Thymas exploded at the girl. “You told me you hated him. You wanted him dead. Prove it now. Say to kill him, and I’ll do it. Say Molik’s death,” he challenged her. “For us, Tarani.”
“Rikardon …” Tarani said uncertainly.
Years of hating him, and hating what she did for him, I thought to myself.
“I’ll step aside, Tarani. The decision is yours.”
There was a full minute of silence. Molik seemed frozen in his chair, his gaze locked to the girl’s face. Then Tarani said: “Let him live.”
Molik slumped back.
Thymas let out an angry roar … and swung his sword.
Molik’s headless trunk slid down into the blood-soaked chair.
I grabbed Thymas’s sword wrist and squeezed until I felt the bones grinding together. The sword fell to the carpeted floor. Then I buried both my hands in the boy’s tunic and shoved him hard against the wall.
“If you weren’t Dharak’s son, I’d tie you to that corpse and leave you for the Living Death to find. Now, we are going to continue with the plan as scheduled. After we’re safely out of Chizan, we’ll ride for Inid and see if we can trace Volitar from there. And if you so much as blink when I’ve told you not to, I’ll cut off your ears and feed them to you. Got that?”
Thymas swallowed, and nodded.
I looked over my shoulder at Tarani, who had one hand pressed over her mouth. She looked ready to go into shock. “Do you know where Molik keeps his cash?” I asked. She nodded numbly. “We’ll need some traveling money.”
She went over to a corner of the room and began to fiddle with the stones in a section of the wall.
I turned back to Thymas. “Tell Ronar to come to the outskirts of the city, grab the first vlek or glith he sees, and eat it. We’ll meet the sha’um an hour or so out, toward the Zantro Pass.”
I let Thymas go as Tarani came up with a small, heavy, brass chest. We took a handful of coins each.
“Are you all right?” I asked Tarani. “Can you manage the illusions?”
“Yes. Let’s please …”
I wanted out of that blood-stinking room, myself. I opened the door and called in both the guards. They saw me, and heard me, as Molik—until they lay unconscious on the floor. Then Thymas, Tarani, and I walked out of Molik’s office.
Everyone in the salon saw Molik, the girl he had taken to his office a few minutes earlier, and one of the guards. We even got a salute from the Living Death beside the stairway. On the first floor, I ordered two men to watch Molik’s door, saying that I had assigned the others elsewhere.
It wouldn’t be too long before they got to wondering why Molik had gone out during his habitual sleeping hours. But it was the best we could do, and we had to hope for an hour’s grace, at least.
Outside, it was growing light. As soon as we were out of range of the gaming house, Tarani let the illusions fade, and we scattered, each of us to find water and food for ourselves. In our room, half an hour later, we packed our supplies, then checked out of the inn.
Less than two hours after we’d left Molik’s office, Tarani and I were astride Keeshah, riding beside Thymas toward the Zantro Pass. I was glad enough that the boy hadn’t spoken a word to either one of us; I was still seething over Molik’s death. I didn’t want to think of the chaos Chizan would be in in a few hours.
Tarani’s hands rested on my shoulders. Every now and then, they tightened for a few seconds, then let go.
She didn’t want him dead, I thought. But he’s gone, now, for good. His memory can’t hurt her any more, unless she lets it.
18
“It is not our habit to speak of one traveler to another,” said the Elder of Inid. He was standing in Inid’s gate, stiff with the affront to his ethics.
“Respected Elder Nerral,” I said, moving Tarani aside, “I am called Rikardon. I hope that, in respect for my friendship with Balgokh, you will allow this one exception. The man we seek is Tarani’s uncle, and he has been in serious danger. Tarani is eager to know if he is well. Please tell us if he has been here.”
At the sound of my name, the man had thawed. I reminded myself to thank Balgokh, sometime, for the good press.
“In that case, I would help you if I could, but the truth is, no one named Volitar has come through this refreshment house.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry if that is unplesant news.”
Tarani made a soft sound. Thymas started to put his arms around her, but she stepped away from him.
“It may not be bad news,” I said suddenly. “Molik’s men would have planned things so they wouldn’t have to stop here—or maybe only one of them came in, and got water for all three of them. If Volitar got away and was running, he couldn’t have been sure of not being followed. Probably he would have given a false name—to protect his life, Respected Elder.”
“But how can I know, then, whether he has been here?” Nerral asked. “In the past three seven-days, I have seen a hundred men traveling alone. He could be any of those.”
“Tarani, can you show him what Volitar looks like?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “With your permission, Respected Elder?” She pointed at Thymas. “If you look closely, you will see my uncle, Volitar …”
I tried to see the illusion, too. I’m sure it was not as solid and real-looking as it was for Nerral, but I was able to see it. Volitar was a small man with brown head fur that almost seemed reddish. He had lines of tension around his eyes, but his mouth seemed ready to smile. His hands were finely molded, with strong fingers. The entire image gave me an impression of neatness and precision.
“Why, yes, I have seen that man,” Nerral said happily, as the illusion faded. “But he wasn’t traveling alone, not any of the three times he has been through here.”
“Who was with him the last time?” I asked.
Simultaneously, Tarani was saying: “Was he all right? How did he look?”
“Uh—” the Elder began, confused. “I should say he was all right,” he said then. “At least, he wasn’t injured in any way, though he seemed … distant, preoccupied. In fact, it was his companion who introduced him. The name he was given was Shandor, I believe. Yes, Shandor.”
“And his companion?” I asked, exchanging a look of total bewilderment with Tarani.
“His companion I know well,” Nerral said, with the neutral tone I had begun to recognize as passive disapproval among the Fa’aldu. “It was the caravan master, Gharlas.”
Tarani started to say something, but I put a hand on her arm and squeezed. “You say the man you know as Shandor had been here twice before? Was Gharlas with him then?” Nerral nodded. “How long ago?”
“Oh, it has been moons,” he said, “since I last saw him—though Gharlas, of course, comes through here regularly. I’m sorry I can’t give you a more precise answer, but I would say it has been over a year ago, and then his visits were two or three moons apart, as I remember.”
With my hand still tight on Tarani’s arm, I thanked Nerral, and went through the formal request for shelter for the night. Again, I was asked to be the guest of the Fa’aldu, but this time I protested. We had two sha’um to feed, I said, as well as ourselves. I admitted we had nothing to trade, but would he not bend the rules far enough to accept coin payment, only this once?
Tarani broke away f
rom me at that point. “We do have something to trade,” she said, and slipped her travel bag off her shoulders. She rummaged in it for a moment, and brought out the beautiful gown she had worn on stage at Thagorn. Nerral caught his breath as the soft blue fabric spread out in the breeze, and sunlight glinted from the hundreds of tiny beads which decorated the collar and armbands.
“The dress will be useless to your women as it is,” Tarani said. “But the fabric is fine quality and these beads—” she ran her thumb across the glittering surface of one of the armbands “—were made for me by Volitar, after he finally accepted the idea of the show.” Abruptly, she extended the dress toward Nerral. “Take it, please,” she urged. “I will not need it again.”
The elder’s hands enfolded the soft stuff carefully. “This is part of your life, Tarani. I thank you, and I hope that the giving of it brings you good fortune. Come in, and be welcome, all of you.”
We gave him our swords, and a boy led Thymas and Tarani away, while I made arrangements for meat and water to be left outside the wall for the sha’um.
It’s all right to start without me this time, Keeshah. I need to talk to Tarani.
Inid was twice the size of Relenor and twice as crowded, a fact I might have predicted by the number of caravans traipsing across the Zantro Pass. We had been able to buy meat for the sha’um out of one of the supply herds.
There was no question of private rooms at Inid. Tarani and Thymas and I would be sharing again. I hoped we’d all make it through the night alive.
As I approached our room, I could hear voices through the door. I hesitated with my hand on the latch. I told myself that it might be best not to interrupt. Nobody wants to admit to a desire to eavesdrop.
“—Gharlas?” I caught the end of Thymas’s question.
“I don’t know any Gharlas,” Tarani said. “I told you, I heard his name for the first time in Molik’s office, after he had taken Volitar.”
“In his office?” the boy sneered. “Not in his bedroom? I saw the way he looked at you—that was not a passion two years dead.
“And you lied to me,” Thymas went on. “First you had ‘borrowed money from him.’ Then he had ‘taken advantage of you.’ You ‘hated him.’ Hate? A Sharith kills his enemies, Tarani. You spared Molik when you had the chance to see him dead.”
“Don’t think that was an easy decision, Thymas,” Tarani retorted. “I did hate him—enough to kill him, myself, if Rikardon hadn’t stopped me.
“In that moment when my word could destroy him, I had to see things clearly. Molik did nothing except agree to a business deal. He was weak, and that was unfortunate. But I have been blaming myself for his weakness, then blaming him for my guilt. I was making him more important than he was. His passion was fresh, yes—because he knew he still had a hold on me.
“When I faced Molik’s death, I finally put him where he belonged—in the past. You were wrong to kill him, Thymas. I am free of him now. To let him live, wanting me, and knowing I was out of reach—that would have been a more severe punishment.”
“A Sharith kills his enemies,” Thymas repeated.
“I am not Sharith,” Tarani said. “I won’t be going back to Thagorn with you, Thymas.”
I caught my breath and held it. You fool, go away, I told myself. This is none of your business, remember? I didn’t move.
Thymas’s voice was hard. “We’ll talk about this after we have your uncle safe again. You’re upset now, because I killed Molik in spite of what you said.”
“We have been playing Molik’s game without realizing it,” Tarani said. “In Thagorn you wanted to see—and I let you see—only the part of Tarani which might fit into the Sharith life. I didn’t deceive you deliberately. I told myself that it was what I wanted, too. I was trying to run from a past that I, myself, was keeping alive.
“I have great respect for the Riders and the women of the Sharith, Thymas, but I don’t belong there.
“If you don’t believe me, ask Ronar.”
“Ronar? But he doesn’t hate you, Tarani,” Thymas said. “He only … doesn’t want you … to ride.” His voice slowed, stopped.
The silence stretched out until I was about ready to go in, just to end it. Then Tarani said gently: “You understand now, don’t you? Ronar doesn’t accept me because you can’t accept me. Not the whole person. Not the real Tarani.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” Thymas said angrily. “Someone has come between us, all right, but it wasn’t Molik. Keeshah lets ‘the real Tarani’ ride. So Rikardon—”
Id heard enough; I opened the door. Both of them looked at me when I entered the room. I didn’t bother pretending that I hadn’t heard anything.
“Thymas, for once in your life, listen to what somebody says,” I ordered. “Tarani rides with me because she can’t ride with you. It’s that simple.
“Now, Tarani, what, in the name of Zanek, is Volitar doing with Gharlas?”
“That’s what I want to know, Captain,” she said. “Who is Gharlas? Is Volitar still in danger?”
“Gharlas stole—”
“Tarani is not Sharith!” Thymas interrupted.
“You sit down and keep quiet, Thymas.” The boy’s face clouded, and he headed for the door. “Do as I say!” He stopped, considered, then walked back to sit sullenly on one of the blockbeds.
“Gharlas stole a gemstone called the Ra’ira from Raithskar,” I resumed the story. “Have you heard of it?”
“Only that it is beautiful, and highly regarded by the rulers of the city.”
“The Council of Supervisors,” I supplied. “The Ra’ira is a symbol, historically, of the right to rule. Gharlas is convinced that he can re-create the Kingdom and rule it from Eddarta, with that stone as proof that he is the rightful King.”
“He sounds mad,” Tarani said. “And dangerous.”
“Very dangerous. He has the same kind of power you do, Tarani, but without your conscience. What did Nerral’s description of Volitar remind you of?”
She saw it immediately. “Compulsion?” She shivered. “It would be necessary, to involve him in something dishonest. Volitar has a high sense of honor. The compulsion—it must be terrible for him.” She shuddered. “But what use can Volitar be to Gharlas?”
“Just what does Volitar do?” I asked. “I mean, what kind of glass objects does he make?”
“You saw the beads on my gown,” she said. “He delights in fine work like that, and he has won a reputation for brilliant, precise colors in his glass. Sometimes, for his own amusement, he creates glass pieces that look exactly like gemstones …”
Her voice trailed off.
“What does the Ra’ira look like?”
“It’s an unfaceted blue stone about this big,” I said, shaping it with my hands. “The color seems to darken toward the center, and there is a suggestion of a crystalline pattern as you look through it.”
“I have seen something like that,” she said. “Wait, let me think this through—” She paced around the room for a few seconds, then began talking as though she were explaining something to herself.
“The nervousness I’ve thought to be a sign of age—could it have meant that he was frightened of someone? That’s been going on for two years now, at least. And I knew he took a trip, but he didn’t mention going to Raithskar with anyone.”
“He went to Raithskar? A year ago?” I demanded.
She stopped pacing. “Yes, he left with no warning at all. I found a note from him on one of my visits to his workshop. There were other incidents this past year. I always send Lonna ahead with a message for Volitar, when I know I’ll be in Dyskornis by nightfall. Three times, he sent a return message saying not to come see him, he was too busy. Two of those times, I respected his wishes, though it was very unusual, and it worried me. The third time, I decided to go anyway.
“As I arrived at the workshop, I saw someone leaving hurriedly. I got only a glimpse of him, but he was standing in the light of the doorwa
y for a second or two. What does Gharlas look like?”
“Tall,” I said, pulling out Markasset’s memory. “His features are a lot like yours, actually, except his eyes are set closer. There is an intensity about him—”
“What color is his head fur?” Tarani asked.
“I’ve no idea,” I answered. “I’ve never seen him when he wasn’t wearing desert headcovering. Thymas? Do you know?”
“Dark,” muttered Thymas. “His head fur is almost as dark as Tarani’s.”
Tarani was nodding. “Yes, that fits the man I saw. I remember noticing the head fur particularly, since it is so uncommon. To be sure … Thymas, look at Rikardon, and see the man who was running from Volitar’s workshop.”
I felt nothing as Tarani cast the illusion, but Thymas’s eyes widened. “Yes, that is Gharlas.”
“Volitar was beside himself when he saw me,” Tarani continued her story. “He wouldn’t calm down until I assured him that the man could not have seen me well enough to recognize me again. Then he refused to say anything else.
“He also covered up something hastily when I walked in and surprised him,” she added. “It looked like the blue gem you’ve described.”
I felt as though I had lost my step on a treadmill. “How long ago was this?” I asked.
“Three moons ago, more or less.”
“Then it couldn’t have been the Ra’ira itself,” I mused. “And if it was a duplicate—that was long before the theft. Why didn’t Gharlas take the thing with him, and use it to replace the real one? It might have given him some extra time.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t a good enough copy?” Tarani suggested. “I still don’t understand how Volitar could have gotten involved in this. He couldn’t have made a duplicate—if that’s what it was I saw—under compulsion. A compelled person surrenders will and initiative, and all creative thought. Any artistic effort would fail.”
“Let’s get down to the big question,” I said. “Where are Gharlas and Volitar right now?”
“I’ve sent Lonna to Dyskornis,” Tarani answered. “It is an easy trip for her from here, since she doesn’t have to cross the mountains. She will be back by morning.”
The Glass of Dyskornis Page 16