by Bill Fawcett
“Welcome, Eronucu,” said the gold-haired female. “We once more find that we need you.”
“Thank you, Felior,” he replied. This time Mithmid took note of the name. “Lanalia, have you anything to report?” The last name! He knew them all, Mithmid thought, not realizing just how well he had learned to be a spy, even when with his own side.
“Nothing useful,” she intoned. “We have fought, but we have not spoken. In other words, everything is normal.” Borlin smiled wryly. Gaelor looked away.
“Then let me start with this,” Eronucu said. Even his voice sounded familiar to Mithmid. “What have you discussed about Draldren and Gerianan?”
It was Sorilia who spoke. “The noble is in Gerianan’s employ. Jremm has discovered that for us.”
Jremm! Mithmid almost said aloud. I didn’t say anything about him. They must have....
“Do we know what Gerianan wants him to do?” Eronucu’s manner was brusque, but he was able to get answers.
“Set up a kidnap, as far as we can tell.” Sorilia was clearly glad to have Eronucu’s presence. She seemed relieved to be able to speak without censure.
“When?” asked Eronucu. “And how?”
Lorleen spoke now. “We’ve been through this,” she said disgustedly. “And you already know the answers. Why are you asking again?”
Eronucu sighed. “First, to see if anything new has happened. This is a court of sorts, after all. And secondly,” he said, looking at Mithmid, “we have a new Council member, and he has a right to know the details.”
“He’s not a Council member yet,” Gaelor muttered.
Felior rose to her feet. She pointed at Gaelor and started to speak, but Sorilia raised her arm to stop her. Reluctantly, Felior sat down.
Lorleen again. “Friends,” she said, her voice low and soothing, “we have already lost Sruss. We cannot afford to lose Andelemarian. Whoever does not want to cooperate must now leave.” Soothingly though she spoke, everyone stopped and listened. Mithmid guessed that no one dared oppose her, at least not now.
They had all told him their names! A cold chill descended upon his spine and he fought to keep the fur of his neck from bristling. For years he had studied and served in hopes of joining the Council. Now he had no choice. Only one other thing would guarantee his silence.
“Our choices are simple,” she went on, and when she looked at Eronucu the mrem nodded agreement. “We either stop Gerianan, or we back him. Either he becomes king or Andelemarian remains king. Sruss is not ready to return, so Gerianan is now de facto heir to the throne.”
“When we look at it that way,” Eronucu continued, “there is no choice at all. Andelemarian has faults, among them a failure to recognize virtue in the young” (Mithmid raised his eyes at this, remembering the king’s encouragement to him) “and his refusal to consider his brother a rival. But he has ruled well and he now rules wisely. Gerianan is a brilliant warrior, and he dreams of expanding Ar far beyond its present borders. Those are his attractive qualities.
“But the king’s brother is brash, arrogant, and totally mistrustful. No intrigue is beneath him, and he would turn the court into a battleground, a brothel, and a butcher’s house.” He paused, then continued. “There is, as I’ve suggested, absolutely no choice.”
The agreement was swift, and Mithmid realized all this had been discussed before. The meeting, it seemed, was for his benefit as much as for theirs: for some reason they wanted him part of the decision. When the vote came, all concurred. They would save the king from his brother, using whatever power they had.
Suddenly it came to Mithmid that perhaps they had no right to discuss these things at all, because the king, and not this Council, ruled Ar. Then again, he wondered how often before the fate of Ar had been decided in this room. He counted the king a friend. What would he have done had they decided for Gerianan? But now that he was part of it, now that he knew he had been accepted by the others, those who shared his magical abilities, he had no choice. Bralittar had given him his gifts for some purpose, and this was likely it.
“One last thing,” Eronucu said. He rose from his chair and walked to the door. Opening it, he reached into the corridor and pulled in a handcart, in the middle of which sat a filthy wooden barrel. From within it he pulled a fine golden tray. Atop the tray were gold cups, a ladle, and graincakes of various kinds.
“Mithmid,” he said, “come here and help serve the wine.” When the young mrem approached, Eronucu lowered his hood and opened the barrel once more.
“And if you don’t mind,” he said smiling, “would you please give me back my apron? I’d hate to get these robes dirty.”
All Mithmid could do was blush, and listen to the laughter that echoed through the room.
ARBUNDA’S REST was once every bit as fashionable as any other tavern in Ar. As its owners had succeeded one another, they all had been determined to maintain the established excellence of its sources of supply and its clientele. At one time, during the reign of Andelemarian’s grandfather, it was even considered a proper haunt for nobility and royalty.
But during Andelemarian’s youth, all of that changed. The Rest was purchased, in all good faith, by a middle-aged mrem named Barswin, who took it upon himself to revamp the inn and establish business connections of his own. At first, the clientele applauded this move, saying that the Rest had, after all, become a little stuffy and outdated. But before long, that same clientele began to stay away.
What Barswin hadn’t known, or perhaps had known all too well, was that the Rest’s connections were by far the best in all the surrounding land. From Eiritu had come the wine, from Ballibon the sweetmeats and the pastries, and from Surisa the varieties of flour and the rich tapestries and bedclothes. And these were simply the best there were. Merchants could name their price on these goods and sell them where they wished. When Barswin made the decision to look for other suppliers, he insulted the established ones and turned them from the Rest for good.
For a while, of course, it didn’t bother him. All he had to do was find others. But when he tried to do just that, he ran into dead end after dead end. He was now forced to buy his goods from the small towns, and even the villages, and the merchants from the cities seemed intent on destroying his business. They would sell him what he wanted, but much that he bought was either secondhand or shoddily made. Any items of top quality were ruinously expensive.
By the time he died, the damage had been done. He willed the Rest to his son Rory, who tried in vain to build it back to its former glory. Ten years ago Rory had been killed in one of the Rest’s famous brawls, and the inn was bought by its current owner, Turmer of Eiritu. He was not well-liked, this foreigner, and his takeover ensured the tavern’s final demise. Only travelers, lowlifes, and (some said) spies frequented Arbunda’s Rest these days.
The two mrem who now sat at a table in the corner seemed to be all three rolled into one. The fur of one was a mixture of brown and dark yellow, and of the other black and gray, setting them apart immediately as travelers. They were dressed in worn tunics and torn breeches, with old leather sacks slung over the unoccupied chair. They were smoking dream plant in cheap wooden pipes that could be found in all the lowhouses of Ar. These mrem talked quietly, looking now and then carefully around them, so that any insightful observer would probably conclude that they were afraid to be discovered. Travelers, lowlifes, and spies, the mainstay of the new Arbunda’s Rest.
“The Lords rule all,” the brown one said.
“The Lords rule all,” came the reply.
A password, perhaps, except that the two mrem repeated it a few minutes later. “The Lords rule all,” the black mrem said first, and his companion mimicked him exactly. Each time they said it a trace of a smile crossed their lips, and again they would huddle down and begin their whispering anew.
“You’ve missed much, Karth,” muttered the brown one. “Draldren h
as entered the Lords’ service, although I’m sure he doesn’t realize it.” He laughed. “And his daughter—”
“Rennilan?” The black one looked surprised.
“Yes, Rennilan. A pretty one, she is. She’s taken to working here, upstairs.” He pointed toward the ceiling. “I don’t know why she’s there, but it’s pretty clear Draldren doesn’t know about it.” He hunkered lower. “I think she’s from the court.”
The black one smiled. “A spy? Rennilan?” He chuckled under his breath. “I doubt it, Varlin. She has neither the brains nor the courage.”
“Not so,” Varlin answered. “She certainly has the brains, and by working here she’s proving she is brave enough. At least, that’s how it seems to me.”
“Maybe she just likes the job,” Karth cut in.
The brown mrem shook his head. “Now it’s my turn to doubt. Yang’s Teeth! She can have the pick of the best-looking mrem of the court. Why should she bother with this lot?”
He swept his hand to take in the entire room. Arbunda’s Rest was almost filled that night, and the smoke clung to the whiskers of those near the fire and shrouded most of the tables in a gray, obscuring cover. The air was murky, and the room smelled of acrid smoke, old wood, and sweat.
“What about Gerianan?” Karth whispered. He looked about as he said it.
“He’s an idiot,” Varlin replied, almost bitterly. “We’ve always known that, but it’s been impossible to prove. Should be easier now, though. He’s starting to make some moves that are ridiculously easy to read.”
“Is everyone reading them?” The black one’s questions were always sharp, always penetrating.
Varlin shook his head. “Of course not.” He paused a moment, then continued. “Andelemarian,” he whispered, “will hear no wrong about his brother from the H’satie, and most of the court are idiots, too. Some of the nobles, the more powerful ones, are disgruntled, but by themselves they can’t do very much. They see themselves losing power a little every day, and they’re hoping Gerianan will be less of a king. A most likely view, in my opinion.”
The black mrem nodded. “Funny, the nobles’ grandsires had the power once, then the kings in the cities, soon the only power will be that of the Lords?”
“Soon,” Varlin whispered in reply. “All we have to do is try to keep things going as they are. As the nobles become more and more discontented, more’ll be siding with Gerianan against Andelemarian. Some are almost ready to act now.”
“Who?”
The brown-furred mrem smiled. “Now, Karth,” he said. “You know I can’t tell you just anything. We both have our secrets.”
Karth scowled, then smirked. “True. You have yours, I have mine.” He leaned forward. “Trade?”
The other laughed aloud. “No, Karth, not yet. Be patient, my friend. Sooner or later—”
“Sooner or later I’ll be dead, Varlin,” the black mrem whispered.
“Well, I’m not dead yet, and I prefer to keep it that way.”
“Things could change.” There was a dangerous purr in Karth’s voice.
“As you wish,” Varlin whispered.
For a moment the two mrem were quiet, sipping the sour wine the inn served those who didn’t know enough to order better. Then Varlin resumed. “The trick is the army. They don’t like Gerianan, even though he is a superb war-leader. If we can get him completely in charge, they won’t have any choice but to follow him. By that time, he’ll be with us, and so will some of the nobles.”
“Isn’t Gerianan already in charge of the army?”
“Only to a degree,” the brown mrem replied. “Andelemarian still gives the commands, at least those that matter. Gerianan carries out his brother’s wishes.”
Karth leaned forward. “Well, why don’t we just kill the king?”
Varlin smiled. “I thought you’d ask that. Two reasons. First, it’s not easy killing a king. Second, Gerianan isn’t ready yet. If Andelemarian dies now, Ar could see civil war, and Gerianan would not likely win. We have no control over a situation like that. It might end too quickly and then the city would be fully mobilized.”
“The Lords rule all,” a third voice whispered.
“The Lords rule all,” Varlin acknowledged, and after a moment Karth did the same.
“You are talking far too loudly,” the newcomer insisted. “I could hear you easily from several steps away.” He looked at both of them. “Keep your voices down.”
“There was nobody near,” Varlin protested. “We judged that as we looked around.”
“Nevertheless, you cannot know who is listening. From now on, keep down your voices, especially in a place like this.” His voice was firm, and both mrem slowly nodded.
He was light-furred, this late-comer, the color of sand. Younger than both Varlin and Karth, he was more intense, more somber, and clearly more intelligent. His eyes shone in the dim tavern light, but their shining was not of joy. These eyes shone with hatred, and those who looked into them saw the reflections of their own fears and frustrations.
On the table he spread a map. It was small, and he leaned over it to keep it from the sight of the other tables. For a moment he studied it, and then he turned to Karth and whispered almost inaudibly.
“This is Cragsclaw,” he said, putting his finger on a fortress in the middle of a mountain pass. “You will be traveling there, starting tomorrow. Once in Cragsclaw, you are to study its walls and other defenses. Let no one know what you are doing. Kill anyone who suspects. I need spies now, not warriors.”
Karth’s eyes protested, but he said nothing.
“You, Varlin,” the newcomer continued, “are to remain here and keep gathering whatever news you can. Listen carefully for plans of attack and defense. Plant rumors of a Na-mrem invasion from the north, because the real invasion is going to come from the south.
“Cragsclaw,” he whispered, pointing to the map, “blocks the pass we need to get through the mountains. I am under orders to destroy it or take it. That is all I will say.
“Except this. If you reveal anything I have said, you will surely die. You are not the only mrem I have working for me.”
He stared into their eyes, and for a time they tried to stare back. But, as always, eventually their faces fell. When they raised their heads, they could only say, “As you wish, Cwinyd.” And the newcomer rose and left the table.
“I DON’T BELIEVE you.” The mrem’s voice was sneering and rough, and it spat its words out of a dirty mouth. His fur was a brilliant crimson, but the color was hard to distinguish under the over-layer of grime. Grime also covered his tartan breeches. The pattern was one that anyone could buy from a trader, but his belts and weapons were spotless. He appeared to be one of the many clan-less warriors who wandered the highlands selling their allegiance and swords to whichever chief would accept them.
Crethok staggered against a table, knocking over a large cup of wine. The stain it caused was hardly visible among numerous others on the wood planking that constituted the inn’s floor. For several seconds he watched it drip, then put his right hand on the table for balance and turned toward his opponent.
“Who the hell are you not to believe me?” he shouted. “I’m Crethok, Urllo damn it, and you’re nothing but clan-less scum. No scum accuses Crethok, the next ClanMrem, of being a liar.” His voice rasped in his throat, and his mouth emitted an overwhelming smell of strong wine.
The crimson mrem only sneered more. “Crethok,” he spoke loudly, “everyone here knows your brother is the only one to worry about. You’ve got as much chance of being ClanMrem as I have of being High Priest of Ballibon. Right now you’re drunk out of your mind, and you couldn’t win a knifing contest if your life depended on it. And I don’t believe you have any money, so I’ m not going to fight you.”
Crethok’s face burned with fury. He started toward the crimson mrem, but two others
, daggers drawn, grabbed the clansmrem’s arms until he slowed his breathing. He shook them off, and stared with hatred into the other mrem’s eyes.
“You will regret those words, Challro,” Crethok shouted, but his voice stumbled and the effect was lost.
Another voice sounded over the shouts. “I’ll play,” it said, and all eyes turned toward it.
An older, beige-furred mrem stepped toward Crethok’s table. A hint of a smile showed on his face, but the smile was not mocking. Crethok had never seen him before, and to judge by the looks of the others no one else had either.
“What’s your name?” Crethok slurred.
“It’s not important,” came the reply. “I’m on my way through the area, and none of you will ever see me again.”
Crethok stood up, his arms shaking. “I said, what’s your name, and I want an answer.”
“My friend,” the older mrem answered, “a name is something to be guarded, not given lightly. I choose to guard mine well, because being known has a whole range of problems.”
Again Crethok was furious. “Do you know who I am?” he hissed.
“No,” said the other. “I have never heard of any Crethok, nor do I wish to know more than that you are a braggart.”
Crethok sat down. Disgust raged on his face, and he bent his head backward and clawed his skull with his hands. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could start the older mrem stepped toward him.
“I will throw last,” he announced, and the whole inn gasped.
Knifing was illegal in every city, but in the taverns of the steppes and the mountains it was practiced quite commonly. The idea was to loose a series of birds in a large room in the back of the inn, and as they flew the players would take aim with their knives and throw to kill. The first bird was large, the second smaller, and the third smaller yet, and so on. Whoever brought the bird down was credited with a kill, unless the opponent could show his throw had already injured it. In that case, the first knife took the credit.