by Ulff Lehmann
“Much like you, mate.” Glaithan raised his mug, the perfect imitation of what went on in every tavern.
“Why did she move in there?” He just couldn’t make sense of it. Sure, most houses had seen their share of death, after all, most people died at home, but why would Jasseira choose his house?
“Gotta ask her that yourself, mate. Today I learned more about you in here than you ever revealed back in the day.”
“Never told her much either,” Drangar said and reached for his mug. Cold milk, he relished the taste, one gulp, another, it felt like months had passed since he had drunk cow’s milk. Thankfully the Fiend had remained quiet so far.
“Hesmera?”
“Aye, should have told her more, really.”
“That don’t bring her back, quit worrying about it.”
“So, you have no idea why Jasseira moved in there?”
“Aside from keeping it out of Lord Jathain’s hands? No.”
“Jathain? Isn’t he Duasonh’s cousin?”
“Was, got himself hanged right and proper; not many shed a tear for the bastard. Insisted we didn’t need to be at full strength on the battlements during the night, stupid fart.”
“Jass wanted to protect our… my property?” Drangar said, replacing the mug on the table.
“Sure, you two had paid for the thing in full, remember?”
“Course I remember. What do you think I am? A dimwit?”
“No, just really out of touch with city politics. I mean, think on it, a decent sized house on the north side of town, not that far from Beggar’s Alley and Trade Road. Jathain could have bought it at a bargain price, with the notoriety the place has, thanks to you. With the only true suspect gone, the bugger would’ve been sold to pay for gods-know-what. Jass produced the right paperwork and moved in there. And before you ask, we helped procuring the deed.”
Drangar’s eyes grew wide. His friends had bent the law to save the house, save it from being owned by someone very much like Danaissan whom he had punished for being a self-serving swine. Sometimes the end justified the means. The law was merely an instrument to treat everyone justly, and when some people excluded themselves from it they forfeited their right to being treated by the same tenets. Like the High Priest, the Baron’s cousin had only got what had been coming. “Damn,” he growled and reached for his mug. He took a pull, swallowed, and asked, “Any idea if the Watch has stored some of our stuff?”
Glaithan shook his head in denial. “Sorry, mate, we searched the place, procedure you know? But since you and the murder weapon were missing we soon put two and two together. Of your possessions we took nothing, we knew who lived there so why bother?”
“Maybe that’s the other reason Jass moved in?” he muttered, wiping milk from his upper lip.
“What did Rob say to all of this?”
“Said I shouldn’t dwell on it, and he was right. Problem now is that I have a very good lead.” From his pocket Drangar withdrew the amulet and presented it to Glaithan. “Best lead there could be, and a basic confession spoken before witnesses to boot. Can’t get much better than this.”
“You talk like a Lawspeaker.”
He wanted to say that he felt like one as well, but did not want to overburden his friend, any of his friends, with too many of his problems. For long moments, Drangar merely sat there, gazing at the trinket, letting the road that had led him to this point pass by. No, he couldn’t return to his old habit of locking everyone out of his life. “You know, there’s a part of me that feels like a Lawspeaker. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
Glaithan held up his hand. “Gods!” he exclaimed, eyes flashing excitedly. “Took you long enough to figure that out!”
“Say what?”
Now the enthusiasm reached the Sword-Warden’s mouth and he grinned broadly. “All of us saw it.”
“Saw what?” He felt more confused with each heartbeat.
“We’re your friends, oaf; we saw how much you yearned for justice. You always claimed Lesganagh had blessed you, but one look into your eyes, when you saw someone treated unjustly there was this gleam in them, this anger at all the shit that keeps good people from being happy. We knew, I mean all of us knew it wasn’t the Lord of Sun and War smiling on you, but the Lawgiver. That’s why it was so hard to believe you had killed Hesmera; we just couldn’t see you doing it.”
It was as if he was looking at Glaithan through new eyes, with a new mind behind them. Little Creek came back to mind, but he now saw things in, yet again, another, different angle. He had felt betrayed, cheated, and that fury had released the Fiend. It all made a little more sense now. Everything he had done, even the murder of Pol Haggrainh. He knew this was a slim edge he walked, murder could never be the last resort, otherwise he’d be no better off than Danaissan, Lord Jathain and the gods only knew who else. Smiled upon by Lliania. “Me and my cursed sense of justice,” he muttered, shaking his head, wondering at the revelation.
“Don’t take the law into your own hands, though, or we’ll have to throw your ass into the dungeons,” Glaithan said, his voice a mixture of mirth and sincerity.
“I try not to, mate.” He held out his mug and Glaithan refilled it.
“So, you wanna annoy my warriors?”
“Your warriors?” Drangar echoed dumbly, and then remembered he wasn’t talking to a Constable of the Watch, but a Sword-Warden of the Palace-Guard. “Sorry, too much to mull over. Sure, sir, lead on.” Then he remembered something else, or rather someone else. “Hiljarr! Bloody Scales get me to the stables in the inner bailey, please.”
“Your horse there?”
“Aye, I neglected the old boy far too long. Here I was looking for someone to talk to and forgot him.” Glaithan, he recalled, loved horses. “You’re going to love him.”
“White stallion? Has a temper?” Glaithan asked, as he went to the door.
“How’d you know?” Drangar replied, finished his milk and rose as well.
“Stablemaster had to put him into a separate box; was making every other fucking horse in the Palace nervous. Doesn’t like to be caged in much, does he?”
The air that greeted the pair as they left the night-guards’ quarters immediately banished even the memory of the cozy fireplace. For an instant Drangar thought he had left not only his cloak, but every other garment behind, and only the itching of rough spun linen all over reminded him this was not the case. “Damnation!”
“We usually don’t go inside until the shift is done, just messes up your entire body,” Glaithan said. “So, what about the stallion? Why’s he so uncomfortable in a stable?”
How long they had spent inside the house he did not know. The fog had grown thicker, so what should have been a quick walk toward the inner gatehouse turned into a crawl. The going was slow, even for Glaithan who was by far more familiar with the Palace.
“Hasn’t seen much of a corral or stable for the past two years. Before that you could have put him into any box and he would’ve munched his oats like every other horse, but now…” he trailed off, trying to figure out how to explain. Finally, “He’s been herding sheep for so long he probably forgot what he really is.”
“Herding sheep?” Glaithan asked then halted. He banged his fists against wood, shouting, “Open the bloody thing!”
“Halt! Who goes there?” a woman’s voice sounded from above them.
“Either one of your own, Brennah, or some really sneaky foe,” Glaithan replied. “Open the bloody thing!”
“Password?” the guard asked sweetly, and Drangar detected more than a trace of well-meant humor.
“I was the one who gave you the fucking password, woman!”
“Aye, that you did, but still procedure is procedure,” was the reply. Then Brennah added, “Sir!”
Glaithan sighed, but Drangar could tell his friend was smiling. “Very well, it’s ‘Oh Gods, oh Gods, please let me die!’ Are you happy now?”
“Yes, sir!” And with the reply the gate grate
d open.
“Thank you,” Glaithan said acidly.
When they were in the inner bailey, out of earshot of the inner gatehouse, he asked, “Oh Gods, oh Gods, just let me die?”
“Please let me die,” the Sword-Warden corrected, and he could tell the man was smiling.
“Bloody brilliant,” he said, chuckling.
“It is, isn’t it? Should anyone get captured, even if they torture him, the only answer they’ll get in the end is this sentence or some other one. They change irregularly. The Baron came up with it; us wardens had a good laugh, when he explained it, so did the warriors, when we told them. Ah, here we are.”
Inside the stable was a dim lantern, which Glaithan turned to full glow before they proceeded. “There’s a second, smaller section at the end, usually reserved for visiting nobility and such. Your horse is lucky.”
Not that the adjacent stables were that much different Drangar noted as they stepped through the door. Six boxes, and in the last one on the right Hiljarr stood, sleeping. As soon as the light spilled into the compartment, however, the stallion snorted once, and blinked at Drangar.
“Hello, mate, sorry I’ve been such an ass,” he said. The charger looked well fed, maybe even a little too chubby. “Can you give us a moment?” he asked, turning around to look at Glaithan who nodded and retreated to the far door.
Hiljarr, now fully awake, walked over to him and nudged his shoulder rather forcibly. The charger did so whenever he was annoyed, and this time Drangar got bumped a good dozen times before the stallion allowed him to scratch his ears.
Gods, until now he hadn’t realized how much he had missed him. For more than two years he had only known two constant companions, and one, Dog, was dead. The only being who had accompanied him all the way was here, nuzzling his cheek. He hugged Hiljarr’s neck, causing the charger to shy away for just a moment. Letting go immediately, it now was the horse embracing him by putting his neck across Drangar’s shoulder and pushing his snout against his back. He was more than willing to return the affection. “I missed you, mate,” he whispered, getting a snort as reply.
When he had first spoken to Glaithan tears had run down his cheeks, but now he was weeping. “I missed you so much.” Then everything that had happened since he had last seen the horse left his mouth in a flurry of words and sentences. It felt almost like it had back near Carlgh, when the long summer evenings kept everyone awake. Now that he thought of it, he had revealed more of his heart to Hiljarr and Dog than he ever had to any human. Maybe that was because the animals needed him, or maybe it was just plain easier to talk to somebody who did not talk back and advise, but just listened. Not that it mattered why he had spoken to them when he had barely been able to exchange more than a few words with any of the villagers. It didn’t matter. Hiljarr was as good and patient a listener as any Caretaker.
As he told of his woes, he looked around the otherwise abandoned stable and saw his saddle and gear hung neatly upon several hooks. “Bleeding Scales,” he muttered. Why hadn’t he seen this stuff before? He had visited Hiljarr after his return to life but had been unaware that his riding gear had been stored anywhere near the stables.
The charger seemed to sense his surprise and let go, releasing Drangar to check on saddle, bridle and bags. The leather was well oiled, the metal rust free, but the bags were empty. Not that he had expected anything else. A week ago or so, he hadn’t thought about the stuff. How could he have? There were so many things going on that it was nigh impossible to keep everything straight. Maybe the Chosen had kept his possessions from being stolen. Jass and the house had to wait, he decided.
“Glaithan?”
“Yes?” his friend’s reply echoed toward him from the entrance to the noble’s stable.
“Can you put in a good word for me and get me into the Palace?”
“You have any idea what you’re asking of me?”
“Sure I do. I need to speak to the Chosen. I might not be as poor as I thought,” he answered then headed back to Hiljarr.
“You’re crazy, but I’ll try, at least I’ll have company should they hang me.”
Drangar shook his head, smirking. “They won’t hang you for disturbing somebody’s sleep.”
“Sure, whatever you say.” Glaithan sounded unconvinced.
“Sorry, mate,” he told Hiljarr. “I need to go, but we’re gonna get you out of here soon, I promise.” Seeing the horse reminded him of so many things they had shared, and it pained him to leave again so quickly. There was no way he could take Hiljarr with him now, as surefooted as the stallion was, it was more than likely one of them would make a false step and then the horse would only be good for a couple of dinners. He was grateful for being able to share his thoughts and worries with the stallion, yet, he realized with a start, he now had people he could talk to as well.
“See you tomorrow, I hope,” he said, giving the charger one last scratch. When he turned, Hiljarr’s head darted forward and he nibbled on his arm. “I promise I come back, all right?” Drangar said, laughing as he pushed his horse’s head away. “I have to go!”
CHAPTER 40
“We need to get in touch with our man,” Baron Duasonh said, again. It was the third time today and the seventh in total, and Ealisaid had quite enough of it.
“I’m trying, milord,” she replied, “but this constant badgering is not helping any. Not only do I have to find ways to communicate through the spiritworld, Kildanor is also asking for me to teach him how to enter it.” She realized that Duasonh knew she was doing her best, but improvising, testing what could and could not be done in the spiritworld took time, and she also had to prepare for the mission to Phoenix Citadel. For two days now she had tried, and failed, to reach the spy Jesgar Garinad who was deep behind Chanastardhian lines. “This would all work much better if I was in the Citadel, researching in an environment where I won’t be disturbed!”
“I need to get in touch with Garinad first,” Duasonh retorted in the same voice he had used the last four times. “When he returns we would just have to send him back in with a new mission, I’d rather be able to speak with him now. Come on, woman, you are a wizard, make it happen.”
Gods, was it possible the Baron could be any more dense? “I am doing all I can, milord, but to put it into layman’s terms: I am a blade hammered into shape but not yet tempered.” She knew she had used the same phrase twice already, and had hoped it had left an impression, but Duasonh seemed more anxious than ever before.
“A blade does not get tempered by laying around, lass, one thrusts it into oil or water, preferably cold.”
It was the same dance, and she had grown tired of it. With a resigned sigh, she said, “Milord, I am unable to help you at this point. You can let me try for the next day, week or month and it won’t change a thing. Please let me go to the Citadel and see what I can scavenge from there.” Gods, she prayed silently, let him relent this time.
“I can do it,” piped Ysold from behind her.
Duasonh’s eyes grew wide, but Ealisaid dismissed the girl with a quick shake of the head. “No, you can’t, if I am unable to do it, so are you.”
“But I know how to…”
Her snapped words interrupted Ysold. “Lass, you have no idea…”
Now it was the Baron interrupting her. “It’s settled,” he said, his eyes looking confused and haunted at the same time. “The girl will relay messages between here and Garinad.”
“But…” the protest died on her lips, as she remembered having sent Ysold to the library to study. Swinging her entire body around, Ealisaid searched the space behind her for any trace of her apprentice. It was empty. “Bloody Scales,” she hissed, and then understood: Ysold had practiced walking in the spiritworld long before she had, and apparently the child’s mind wasn’t as bogged down by conventional thinking as hers.
“Girl,” Duasonh said to empty air, “You are now my messenger.” To Ealisaid he said, “Lady Wizard, I’m afraid you have to make the trip to Phoe
nix Citadel by yourself, your apprentice is needed here.”
A spot to her left erupted in excited cheers. Apparently, Ysold didn’t mind at all being left behind. “Great!” After a brief pause, the lass asked, “Um, when do I start, milord?”
“Now,” the Baron said. “You may leave whenever you are ready, Lady Ealisaid.” He bowed, headed for the door, and while opening it turned and added, “Girl, my study, now!”
“Yes, milord!” piped Ysold.
When the door had shut behind Duasonh, Ealisaid allowed herself a smile. Maybe it was for the best to proceed alone. First, she had to be sure of her magic before she could trust her feelings. Anger, confusion, fear, there was still enough of any of them within her, and she had to master them as much as the magic.
Now that she had time to consider it, feeling abandoned was still strong in her, and why not? Torn out of her time. Maybe this loneliness was just a reaction, not the truth. Whenever she laid eyes on Culain’s face, she saw desire, maybe even a flicker of something more. Did she look at him the same way? A shrug. It didn’t matter, not right now at any rate. When all this fighting came to an end, and if both of them survived, then she would have time to search her heart, to do so now was the epitome of foolishness.
Still, the smile returned.
In its basics, she had mapped out the entire Citadel in her mind, knew where the arrival chamber was, and had gone through the casting of the displacement spell.
“Now is as good a time as any,” she muttered. There were no further preparations to make; warm clothing was useless up there since the enchantment kept the temperature in and around the Citadel at a comfortable level. From what Kildanor had told her, that magic had spread farther, now covering almost the entire eastern portion of the lower Shadowpeaks. Maybe, given time… no, it was pointless to think about the future now, when her future might come to a stop the instant the transportation spell was cast.
No long good byes were needed; she and Culain had said them many times over the past two days or so, and a part of her yearned to be back in bed with him, the worries of the world shut out by a thick layer of blankets. With a firm shake of her head she banished those thoughts and concentrated on the spell. So much could go wrong, but if everybody thought this way, not a single thing would ever get done.