by Lee Carlon
Fahlim let go of Vincent’s hand and muttered, “Maybe this is both the time and the place.”
Vincent pushed his knife back into its sheath, determined not to use it. He skimmed through the table, raised his right elbow and drove it into the young man’s chest knocking him off his feet to slide across the floor. Vincent advanced on him and said, “If we were not in this room, I’d kill you.”
Tysin gasped for breath, but he managed to say, “Rhysin wouldn’t permit it.”
An old man’s voice said, “Oh, he might.”
Vincent turned and saw it was Lord Obdurin who had spoken.
The Lord addressed Vincent, “Have you finished assaulting people?”
“I apologize, Lord. I submit myself to whatever punishment you deem necessary.”
“But you don’t regret your actions?”
Tysin stood up behind Vincent. Vincent glanced at him, and said, “No, Lord. The apology is for disrupting your council. If he had said those words to me elsewhere, I would have killed him.”
Tysin protested, “I am a member of Rhysin’s Circle, I—”
“Yes, yes,” Obdurin dismissed the acolyte and gestured for Vincent to come closer. “I have need of you, young man. We can discuss punishments later when the need has passed.”
Vincent nodded.
As though speaking to himself, Tysin persisted, “It’s not bad enough that Frake’s Stronghold is full of foreigners, now we can add traitors to the list.”
“I may be old, Mr. Tysin, but I assure you my hearing is excellent. There are no traitors in this room unless you know something I do not.” Obdurin paused as if to give Tysin a chance to speak. “The foreigners you speak of are my guests, and you will afford them every courtesy.”
“They are not Rhysin’s people,” Tysin muttered.
“You should remember that I was not one of Rhysin’s people before coming to Frake’s Peak to petition Lord Benshi.” To Vincent, Obdurin said, “I’m told you destroyed two of my favorite buildings earlier today.”
From his position at the council table, Walden said, “Vincent stopped an offensive that would have brought the Damarians far too close to Frake’s Peak.”
Lord Obdurin smiled at this, “Oh, good, so you’re not just acting out a vendetta against my city.”
Vincent nodded politely, uncertain what to make of Lord Obdurin.
“Come closer,” Obdurin said.
Vincent glanced at Thwart, the crimson dimin.
Lord Obdurin said, ‘Oh, don’t mind him, he’s harmless. A mere kitten. Come, come.’
Vincent stopped next to Lord Obdurin’s throne, vulnerable with every eye in the room on him.
Obdurin looked Vincent square in the eyes and said, “I need a reliable man.”
Vincent knew that Walden had already spoken for him, so there was no need to say more. He nodded once.
“You have been briefed about my intentions?”
Vincent nodded again. “I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
Obdurin smiled, and the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Be careful, young man. Not everybody sees necessity the same way.”
“I’ll leave that to you, Lord. Tell me what needs to be done, and I’ll do it.”
The smile faded from Obdurin’s face and was replaced by a narrowing of the old man’s eyes. He looked disappointed. After a moment, Obdurin said, “Thank you, Vincent.”
Realizing he’d been dismissed, Vincent stepped back a pace but then he stopped. “Lord, if I may?”
“Go on,” Obdurin said.
“I stood before you eight years ago.”
“I remember it well,” Obdurin said.
“Perhaps not as well as I remember it,” Vincent said, grateful he didn’t need to remind Obdurin. “In the six years that followed that day, I promised myself if I ever got the opportunity to thank you, I would do so. Things have changed, the Cleansing,” Vincent looked at Tysin as though remembering the acolyte’s words. “The six years between my father’s death and the Cleansing were the best years of my life, and I am grateful to you for them. I will repay you, in any way I can.”
“Thank you, Vincent. It pleases me to know that Walden will have you with him. Now, please take a seat. There is something I’d like you to see.”
Vincent moved around the table to where Fahlim sat, but he hesitated before sitting down.
“Don’t be shy,” Fahlim said. “The show is about to start. Oh stars, any fool can sit down, Vincent.” Fahlim glanced at some of the councilors sitting at the table and added, “Just try to bloat yourself up with your own self-importance.”
Several of the men at the table turned to look askance at Fahlim.
Fahlim grinned at Vincent and added, “Oh, and menacing, you must try to look menacing, but not too menacing.” In a stage whisper loud enough to carry to everybody in the room he said, “We wouldn’t want anybody to take you too seriously.”
3
Peace Talks
Vincent took the seat next to Fahlim and looked around at the faces he hadn’t seen yet. There were several gray-haired councilors. Walden was at the table, not as gray as the older men and women, but on that path. Next to Walden sat a broad, black man in his forties who had hands big enough to crush rocks. Vincent remembered him, his name was Ethan, though he was surprised to see him here, he’d been a soldier in his father’s army. Next was a slim woman who smiled politely at him. Vincent returned the smile but his gaze moved on. After a cluster of empty seats, his attention wandered to the floor to ceiling windows overlooking Peak City and the Rhyne desert beyond.
A column of black smoke tilted in the breeze and reminded him of the explosion that had killed Chen.
It’s still burning. I am so sorry, Chen.
I should leave and see to her burial.
Movement at the entrance drew Vincent’s eye. An old stork of a man with more gray hair than most of the councilors, but whose presence was still formidable, entered the audience chamber. Vincent suppressed a smile. Gordon Chi’Obdurin Bondsan had seemed old when Vincent was a boy.
Gordon nodded once in Vincent’s direction, and Vincent was unexpectedly touched by the gesture.
Behind Gordon came two of his bondsan, identical to Gordon in every way except for the air of command that surrounded the first-sworn.
Next came a tall man with sun-darkened skin, wearing the colorful, loose-fitting silks of Damar’s noble warrior class. The silks left his thickly muscled arms free. His style of dress and the absence of weapons were conspicuous. Behind and to either side of the tall warrior came two more men, both of average height and unarmed, dressed in a similar fashion, but with less color in their clothes.
“I say,” Fahlim whispered, “take a look at our friend’s mouth.”
Vincent looked, but it took him a moment to see the faint black lines crisscrossing the man’s lips. “Sewn shut?”
“Lord Rarick is a delight, isn’t he?” At Vincent’s frown Fahlim said, “He sends a man incapable of speech to peace talks.”
“Peace talks, but we’re planning to—” Vincent started.
“That doesn’t mean we can’t talk about peace,” Fahlim said.
The rest of Gordon’s cadre had filed into the audience chamber and formed a loose line separating the Ambassador’s party and the people sitting at the council table. Gordon Chi’Obdurin Bondsan stopped in front of Lord Obdurin and announced, “The Damarian Ambassador.”
“Does he have a name?” Obdurin asked.
“If he does, I wasn’t given it,” Gordon said.
Without rising from his chair, Obdurin said, “Ambassador, welcome to Frake’s Peak.”
Staring furiously at Lord Obdurin, the Ambassador thrust his right hand forward. He held a small black device with buttons along one side. Gordon’s cadre stood calmly by, watching. Vincent guessed the bondsan had searched the Ambassador and was satisfied his device was harmless.
Ethan stood up at the council table.
The
Ambassador pressed one of the buttons, and a voice said, “I am here to accept your surrender and witness your ritual suicide.”
The voice was high-pitched and stilted, it didn’t sound like it came from the warrior standing before them.
“Ambassador, please. We are here to discuss—”
The Ambassador pressed the button again. “I am here to accept your surrender and witness your ritual suicide.”
“What is your name?” Lord Obdurin asked.
“I am here to accept your surrender and witness your ritual suicide.”
“Please, Ambassador, what is your name?” Lord Obdurin asked. “Let’s talk like civilized men and find a solution to our differences.”
“I am here to accept your surrender and witness your ritual suicide.”
Ethan walked around the table. He leveled a laser-cutter at the Ambassador.
“Ethan, no,” Lord Obdurin said.
“Why persist if he’s not interested in talking?” Ethan asked.
“Because we desire peace between Rhyne and Damar,” Lord Obdurin said.
The man to the Ambassador’s right wiped sweat from his forehead and cheeks and said, “It’s too late for peace.”
“It is never too late,” Lord Obdurin said with a trace of irritation creeping into his tone.
Flustered, he looked at Ethan and gently pressed the barrel of the laser-cutter down away from the Ambassador. In a calmer voice, Obdurin said, “We simply have to believe peace is worth the effort.”
“I am here to accept your surrender and witness your ritual suicide,” the voice from the device said again.
“There is no reason for our two nations to be at war. The differences that existed before the Cleansing have gone. Since the Cleansing, there are no border or trade disputes. Very few people even live at our borders anymore. There is no reason for us to be at war. We don’t have to play these deadly games.”
The Ambassador pressed the button on his device again. “I am here to accept your surrender and witness your ritual suicide.”
Obdurin looked down at his hands for a moment. When he looked up, his voice turned hard. “If Rarick refuses peace, he should be careful. He thinks I am at his mercy now, he has my city under siege, and my allies are turning their backs on me. My time is almost done, but this game has a way of shifting unexpectedly. I have pieces on the board that he hasn’t seen yet and how he treats me now will determine his fate when the board shifts under him. I will say it once more, we can have peace. We just need to believe it’s worth the effort.”
The Ambassador sneered and pressed another button, “Lord Rarick, Emperor of Central Newterra orders you—”
Fahlim cut in over the top of the recording, “Emperor of Central Newterra? When did this happen?”
The Ambassador tried again, “Lord Rarick, Emperor of Central Newterra orders you—”
Fahlim hooted with laughter drowning out whatever came next, “Emperor! He has taken a step up in the world hasn’t he?” Fahlim looked at one of the dour-faced councilors opposite him and said, “It’s all very exciting, isn’t it? Are you excited?”
The Ambassador turned his angry stare on Fahlim and waited for the immortal to stop speaking.
Fahlim smiled at him and said, “That’s Rarick’s voice, isn’t it?” When no response came, Fahlim continued, “It is, I recognize it. Tell me, are we conversing directly with Lord, oops, sorry, the mighty Emperor of Central Newterra?”
The Ambassador pressed a new button. “I am the Ambassador, I am the extension of Lord Rarick’s will.”
Vincent glanced at Lord Obdurin to see how the Chosen felt about Fahlim hijacking the proceedings, but Obdurin’s expression was unreadable.
“Ah, very well, so we are not speaking with Lord Rarick,” Fahlim said. “In that case, when you get back to Damar, tell him I’m still quite annoyed with him.” Turning to Vincent, Fahlim said, “He tried to have me killed the last time I was there, can you imagine?”
The Ambassador continued to glare at Fahlim. Fahlim said, “Okay, I’m done. You may continue.”
The sweating escort told Fahlim, “The Emperor does not tolerate fools.”
“Oh, I find that very hard to believe,” Fahlim said.
“When Emperor Rarick arrives, you will be made an example of.”
“You know, I knew an emperor once,” Fahlim said. “Well, he declared himself to be an emperor, and not long after that he announced I was to be put to death. It was a silly misunderstanding, I won’t bore you with the details, but my point is this, I am still here, and he is not. Be careful who you threaten.”
The Ambassador’s second escort broke formation and wandered across the room away from the council table to stand at the floor to ceiling windows. Everybody in the room watched the man who stood with his back to them, taking in the view. The Ambassador and the sweating escort exchanged confused looks.
Lord Obdurin took the opportunity to take back control of the meeting. “Ambassador, have you been authorized to discuss matters other than my surrender and ritual suicide?”
“I am here to accept your surrender and to witness your ritual suicide.”
“If I comply with your master’s wishes, what will become of Rhysin’s heart? Will you put it on? Will you become Rhysin’s Chosen?”
The Ambassador glanced at his remaining companion and frowned.
The man by the window spoke over his shoulder, “They don’t expect you to comply, and as such, haven’t planned how to proceed if you do.”
Lord Obdurin asked, “If they, you, don’t expect me to comply and they aren’t here to talk, why are they here?”
“They’re here to provoke you and to martyr themselves.”
Obdurin took this calmly and asked, “And why are you here?”
“Silence!” the sweating escort yelled. “You’re not being paid to chat with these people.”
The man by the window took a currency stick from the folds of his silk robe and tossed it to his companion. “Now I’m not being paid at all.”
“Lord Rarick will hear of your insolence.”
Fahlim said, “That’s unlikely to happen if you two martyr yourselves. Who’d tell him?”
Obdurin repeated his question, “Why are you here, if not to provoke me and martyr yourself?”
“To offer a suggestion and make a proposal.”
“Enough of this,” the sweating escort spat, but everybody ignored him.
The man by the window continued, “My suggestion—”
Obdurin cut him off. “First, what is your name?”
“I am Sorros d’Shan.”
The sweating escort said, “That’s not the name you gave us.”
“Sorry, Fral, but you can probably see why that is now,” Sorros said.
“And your suggestion?” Lord Obdurin asked.
“Have your man here,” Sorros indicated Ethan, “throw the Ambassador and his friend off Frake’s Peak. They won’t be in a condition to deliver your refusal to Lord Rarick in person, but I think he’ll get the message.”
“I like it,” Ethan said.
“So do I,” Obdurin said.
“This is an outrage,” Fral bellowed.
“However,” Obdurin said, “I still believe in diplomacy.”
“Buzz kill,” Fahlim said with a tut.
“But whatever you do, do it quickly,” Sorros said.
Sorros attempted to step through the ring of Gordon’s bondsan, but one of the bondsan blocked his path.
“Let me pass.”
“No,” the bondsan said.
“You’ll have to do far more than appear to betray Rarick to win our trust,” Walden said. “Rarick might not be the most creative thinker in the world, but his intelligence man has some interesting ideas. I wouldn’t put it past him to use somebody like you, an apparent rogue, to win our trust and then betray us.”
4
Martyrs
The Ambassador and Fral exchanged glances and as one advanced on Sorros,
looks of grim determination on their faces.
Sorros said, “It won’t work. I won’t let you do this. Go back to Rarick and tell him what happened here.”
The Ambassador raised a hand and held it out to his remaining companion. Fral looked at it once, then clasped it. Their hands sizzled, and smoke rose from them spreading the smell of cooking meat around the chamber. The expressions on their faces were strained, but their eyes glowed with fervor, and the muscles in their arms bunched as they gripped their hands tighter.
Sorros had backed up to the window.
“What is this?” Ethan demanded.
“Join us,” Fral said. “Your hesitation is understandable, but you must join us. Maiten will welcome you.”
Sorros darted forward. He gripped Fral’s shoulder with one hand and used his other hand to force the man’s head to turn further than it was meant to go. Fral’s neck snapped audibly. Smoke rose from Sorros’s right hand where he’d touched Fral’s face, but Sorros didn’t stop to tend to himself. He moved behind Fral who had dropped to his knees, dragging the Ambassador down with him. The Ambassador tried to follow Sorros, but his hand was fused to Fral’s.
Behind the Ambassador, Sorros produced a stiletto blade from his silk shirt and drove it into the man’s neck and withdrew it. He dropped the blade to the floor and backed away. Blood sprayed, and a single drop of it landed on Sorros’s cheek where it sizzled and sent a tangled tendril of smoke rising above his head. When the Ambassador’s blood struck Fral, thick black smoke bubbled into life.
Sorros reached up to the place where the drop of blood had struck his cheek and wiped it with the collar of his silk shirt. Despite the smoke that had risen from his flesh when the drop of blood had hit him, Sorros’s skin was unmarred. He glanced at the hand that had smoked when he touched Fral.
Gordon’s cadre closed in around Sorros with their weapons drawn. One of them crossed to a wall panel, pressed a button and an unseen vent sucked the black smoke from the room. The first-sworn asked, “Is the smoke dangerous? Do we need to—”