Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4)

by Thater, Glenn

  Guildmaster Slyman stood, crumbs tumbling down his stained satin tunic. So rare was it to see the guildmaster stir from his seat before session’s end that his colleagues quieted and ceded him what remained of their attention. “These debates have gone too long,” he said. “Each matter at hand must be decided once and for all. I call again for a vote.”

  “On which issue?” said Chancellor Barusa, his hand playing with an empty goblet, his eyes downcast.

  “The Thothians,” said Slyman. “They are good people. Hardworking, proud, and productive. They deserve the same rights and privileges as all Lomerians. It’s time we grant them full citizenship.”

  “They’re not Lomerians,” said Harringgold. “They loathe Lomion and our very way of life. To grant them citizenship is madness. Some of them don’t even want it and those that do only seek free services, benefits, and rights not available to foreigners. They want to use us, not join us.”

  “You’ve spewed that hate one too many times,” said the Vizier. “Your prejudices are unbecoming a member of this esteemed council, and I’ll hear no more of them. Continue on that course at your own peril.”

  Lord Jhensezil jumped to his feet, his jaw set, his face beet red, arm waving and pointing at the Vizier, though no words escaped his mouth.

  “No hate lives in my heart, Councilor,” said Harringgold. “Nor is it I making threats, it’s you. If you will hear no more from me, then leave. You will not stop me from speaking the truth.”

  “You’re so filled with hate, you no longer know what the truth is.” said the Vizier.

  “Is it hate to repeat the Thothians’ stated goals,” shouted Jhensezil, “using their own words, not ours? They admit that they plan to foster a revolution against our government, against this very council. They boast that they will transform Lomion into a theocracy under the rule of Thothian Law in the model of Tragoss Mor and Tragoss Krell. Is that what you want?”

  “Free speech and liberty is the law of the land in Lomion,” said Chancellor Barusa. “The Thothians are free to proselytize all they want. By naming them enemies, you betray yourselves as malcontents and harbingers of hate. You can’t see beyond your misguided and outdated prejudices. And those miscreants that follow you are little more than mindless, toothless fools. It’s you and your narrow-minded followers that should be silenced and censured by this council, not the Thothians.”

  The Vizier stood. “Councilors, this has grown too heated and far too personal. We all know the merits of the issue and have our own opinions. None of us will be swayed by further debate, therefore, such debate is a waste of all our time. We must vote. I call for hands. Citizenship for the Thothians, yea or nay?”

  “The treasury cannot sustain the cost of feeding half the city,” said Harringgold. “The realm is already far too deep in debt. We cannot afford this folly.”

  “Folly, Councilor?” said Chancellor Barusa. “You think it folly to feed starving citizens? Starving children? Let the poor go hungry while you sit fat and happy in your keep? You're a heartless bastard, Harringgold.”

  “How could anyone of good conscience withhold food from the needy?” said Slyman, his girth and the stains on his shirt proclaimed that none had ever been withheld from him. “As leaders of this realm, no, as human beings, we have a responsibility to care for others, to help them whenever and wherever we can. To do any less is simply inhuman and uncivilized. For you to advocate that we turn away and ignore their suffering disgusts me. Shame, Councilor, shame. We can feed the hungry, and so we must. It’s as simple that. Don’t you agree, Bishop Tobin?” Slyman nudged the bishop awake with a poke to his ribs.

  “What, ho?” went Tobin, opening an eye. “We mustn’t let the commoners starve,” he said before his lid slid closed again. “That just won’t do at all.”

  “Few citizens in Lomion are truly in need,” said Jhensezil. “And there's no one starving. Most of those few that go hungry are foreigners too lazy to work or citizens that waste their money on wine, tobacco, or carnal pleasures. They’re responsible for their own predicament. The rest of the realm shouldn’t have to pay for them.”

  “I challenge every point you’ve made,” said the Vizier. “Who are you to say who's lazy and who isn’t? How would you even know? This is just more of your xenophobia, your bias, and bigotry.”

  “It’s more than that,” said Barusa. “Councilor Jhensezil steadfastly refuses to support levy reform. He knows that he and his wealthy supporters don’t pay their fair share, and he seeks to keep the burden of funding the realm on the backs of the common people. That desire motivates every vote he casts on this Council. It’s despicable.”

  “The wealthy pay nearly all the levies collected, Chancellor, as you well know. The common folk pay almost nothing. It’s they that don’t pay their fair share.”

  “No matter how many times you repeat that lie, Councilor, it remains untrue,” said Slyman. “We are for the people and you are out only for yourself and your rich friends.”

  Jhensezil shook his head, and stood for some moments at a loss for words.

  “A vote is called for,” said the Vizier. “Shall the government fund food relief for the needy of Lomion City or not? I call for hands. Yea or nay?”

  “Let us finalize the matter of the tribunal,” said the Vizier, “and close our business so that we may all enjoy some much needed rest.”

  “Lomion has long had nine high magisters serve on the Tribunal,” said Arch-Duke Harringgold, “throughout all living memory and beyond. To add a tenth is unprecedented and unwarranted. You seek advantage for writs blustered through this council that violate the Articles of the Republic.”

  “You say that with such strength and confidence,” said the Vizier. “Unfortunately, your thesis is entirely untrue and goes to pattern. The Tribunal has indeed numbered ten high magisters at times in the past. For many years, the Republic had but five, then a sixth was added. During the time of Potrades, four more were added to the Tribunal. For the past 150 years there has been but nine. There is no reason there cannot be a tenth or more.”

  “Might I remind the Council,” said Jhensezil, “that King Gornon the Bold sought to add five High Magisters during his reign, all in an attempt to stack the Tribunal with his men. That measure was soundly defeated as should the one before us now. It is a slippery slope that must be avoided.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Barusa, “this council has the authority to alter the number of High Magisters and if that be our will, we will do so.”

  “Garon Kroth’s name has been put forth for the post of High Magister,” said the Vizier. “I hereby call for a vote regarding his confirmation.”

  “Kroth is well known to have little regard for the Articles of the Republic,” said Jhensezil. “He’s publically stated on several occasions that our Articles are outdated and don't reflect the times. He's subverted them at every turn.”

  “He’s well known to be a good and honest man with the best interests of the realm in mind,” said Slyman. “That said, who cares what he thinks of the Articles? We have every reason to believe he’ll do the right thing on the Tribunal. What more could we ask of any Magister?”

  “Who cares?” said Jhensezil. “Upholding the Articles of the Republic is the very core of the Tribunal’s charge. If we know he will not do that, we cannot appoint him. If fact, if he does not intend to keep faith with the Articles, then by definition he does not have the best interests of the Republic in mind.”

  “Outrageous!” spouted Slyman.

  “You are out of order,” said Chancellor Barusa. “This council will not tolerate such slanderous remarks. I’ll caution you once again to tread carefully, Lord Jhensezil.”

  “It is for this council and the Council of Lords to make the laws of the land,” said Jhensezil. “The Tribunal’s role is to see that they’re applied properly and to identify and strike down those edicts that violate the Articles. That is a cornerstone of the Republic. Without it, the Republic could fall into despotism.
”

  “Your words insult every member of this esteemed council and those of the Council of Lords,” said Barusa. “To assert that we would violate our oaths to serve Lomion, that any amongst us would act against the interests of the people, is scandalous, hateful, and borders on treason. Check your tongue councilor. I warn you, check your tongue.”

  ***

  Lord Harringgold entered his private chambers in the great fortress of Dor Lomion. His face was careworn and his eyes were downcast and red from fatigue. The usual spring in his step, gone, his energy depleted. He reverently placed his leatherbound copy of the Articles of the Republic on the sideboard by the door, dropped a thick clutch of papers beside it, and engaged the heavy deadbolt despite his picked guards that hovered outside. He doffed his heavy cloak, hat, scarf, and gloves and hung them on pegs beside the door. He could have dropped them all wherever — the servants would have collected them on the morrow and cleaned and folded them all proper, but he would rather do such menial tasks himself. That just felt right to him.

  A long and stressful day, and a week to match — one of the most trying in memory. No sleep to speak of and not a decent meal in days. At least here, door secured, he was safe and free from disturbance. No one could enter without his knowledge or leave. He could put aside the cares of the day as best as his mind would allow. He would have a brandy by the fireplace. It would relax him. He would escape into a book, some fantasy to rouse the spirit and set sail the imagination. Once lost in such a place, the stress would fall from his brow and his muscles would relax. Soon he would think clearly again, reason ruling over emotion, fears, and doubt.

  Then he would think things through until his mind quieted enough for sleep, if it did. He would sort out the meaning behind the maneuvers recent made in the Council chambers. He would set a plan. He had devised many stratagems of late to deal with the League and its machinations and been outmaneuvered at every turn, but whether by poor luck, happenstance, or superior guile, he could not yet be sure. He would adapt his plans, again, and again if need be. He would not let Lomion fall — not from within, no more than he would allow it to fall from without. Such was his duty. Besides, he was not a man to lose; he had no skill at it, and wouldn’t learn now. He would think on things again when he woke. A good night’s sleep always provided a better perspective. Perhaps things would seem less bleak in the morning.

  He poured his brandy from the ornate decanter on the sideboard and turned toward his favorite chair. A cloaked figure sat beside the fireplace.

  Assassin! Surprise filled his face, but not fear. The tumbler dropped from Harringgold's hand and faster than you would imagine he pulled a long dagger from his belt and assumed a fighting stance. The assassin’s hand shot out nearly as fast, though it was empty. Strangely, Harringgold heard no crash of the glass and glanced down to see the tumbler suspended in midair.

  “Be at ease, Duke,” said the cloaked figure, his voice strangely familiar. “I’m here for council, not knifework.” The figure pulled back his hood. It was Pipkorn, deposed grandmaster of the Tower of the Arcane.

  “Magic,” said Pipkorn.

  “What?”

  “You were about to ask how I got past your guards. We’ve weighty matters to discuss that can't wait and are best spoken in secret.”

  Harringgold's jaw was set, and his mood blackened further. “Grandmaster or not, you’ve no business stealing into my private chambers.” The fact that Pipkorn could, likely meant others could as well. The very thought was frightening, almost paralyzing. His one bastion of safety and sanity was violated and proven woefully insecure. He knew full well that there were those about that desired his death. Knowing that there were ways past his security, how would he ever rest easy again? He couldn’t. Not ever.

  “I would have met with you tomorrow if you had sent word,” said Harringgold. “Tonight, I’ve no energy for more council, best you get gone, and don’t presume to enter uninvited again.”

  “The hour is later than you know, Duke,” said Pipkorn, his voice as sharp as the Duke’s knife. “My words can't wait, so seat yourself, and sip your brandy. Actually, if you don't mind, pour another. We’ve a bit of candle to burn, and I could use one too.”

  The tumbler sailed smoothly through the air and into Pipkorn's outstretched hand. He leaned back in the chair and took a sip while Harringgold poured his glass. “I need you to arrange an audience for us with the king,” said Pipkorn. “We must meet with him tomorrow morning, which is why I couldn’t delay speaking with you. We need to inform him of the events of today’s Council meeting and discuss their ramifications.”

  “I didn't see you on the chamber floor.”

  “I didn't choose to be seen.”

  “Fine. Then inform him and leave me to get some sleep.”

  “The king holds little love for wizards, and less for me than most. He may not see me at all, and if he does, no doubt he’ll make me wait for longer than the realm can afford. I need you to get me in.”

  “You seem to need little help in letting yourself in.”

  “True enough,” said Pipkorn, “but Tenzivel’s security is more . . . complex. A conventional entry would be best, I think. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “I know that you’ve no love for the Thothians. I’m against their citizenship as I’ve made clear, but that resolution’s passing is hardly a crisis. What is your urgency?”

  “The matter of the Tribunal is the greater threat, as I hope you understand. I must have Tenzivel's thoughts on that. He must be made to see the road down which the realm is heading, before it’s too late to change its course.”

  “Tenzivel is still the King, I grant you,” said Harringgold. “But he’s withdrawn from the government. Dead gods, he's withdrawn from the world. He spends most of his time drooling in his cups. Who cares what he thinks? Why bother meeting with him at all?”

  “Wise council remains within him,” said Pipkorn. “We need only extract it. One must never underestimate any man who has risen so far as he, even though he inherited the position.”

  “You think to convince him to resume his role in the government?”

  “You don’t have the power to stop what’s coming, Harringgold. The king does, if he chooses to use it. We need his support.”

  “Then we should include Sluug and Jhensezil in these discussions, for they have strong opinions on these matters and their support is surely needed as well.”

  “Traveling in force to the throne room would not go unnoticed,” said Pipkorn. “Little birds would sing of a conspiracy against the League. That wouldn’t do, at least not just yet.”

  IV

  FLAME AND PARLEY

  Shrill Tragoss Morian whistles, claxon calls to arms, blared from ahead and behind as Claradon’s group limped toward the dock ward, two of their number left behind, dead in the street. Blood trailed from more than one of the survivors. Ob and Seran Harringgold trotted at the van; both spattered in blood, though most not theirs.

  Artol hobbled along behind Ob, battered and bloody. He leaned heavily on Par Tanch whose face dripped with sweat and was frozen in a grimace of pain from supporting the huge soldier. Theta carried Claradon's limp form over his left shoulder, his shield in his right hand. Despite his heavy burden, Theta kept pace and even pushed the others. Kayla jogged beside him, her hand on Claradon's side; tears streamed down her face. Dolan followed closely behind, bow in hand and arrow nocked. He ran backward as oft as forward, gliding along easily, exhibiting no fatigue or emotion. Any monk or Alder man that pursued received naught for their efforts but one of Dolan’s arrows in their chest.

  The group smelled the dock ward well before they saw it, for a foul, fishy odor hung heavy in that quarter and spread over much of the surrounding environs with the afternoon sun. Merchants’ Way, the wide avenue that ended at the wharfs, carried them in sight of the pier where The Black Falcon lay berthed. The last blocks before Dock Street, which usually thronged with street hawkers and seamen at this h
our, lay deserted, shop doors shuttered, street stalls hastily abandoned, still stocked with wares.

  “Hold up,” said Ob as he signaled to Seran and came to a halt. The others stopped behind them. “Something’s not right,” he said, breathing heavily. “Where is everybody?”

  Seran readied his shield. “There’s movement in the upper floor windows,” he said, pointing.

  “Bowmen or lookyloos?” said Ob, a hand to his forehead to cut the glare.

  “Can't tell,” said Seran. “Too far.”

  “Shopkeepers and citizens,” said Theta. “Let’s move on.”

  “How can you possibly see that?” said Tanch.

  “He eats his carrots, Magic Boy,” said Ob as he looked back to check on Claradon, concern on his face. “Stop your whining. Theta, what do you figure drove them buggers inside?”

  A troop of Freedom Guardsmen dashed down Dock Street, across the avenue's mouth, paid the group no heed, and turned onto The Falcon's pier.

  Ob looked back at Theta. “There’s my answer. They're headed for the ship. There's been trouble. That’s why the locals took cover.”

  “Let’s move,” said Theta.

  When they reached Dock Street, the wide wooden wharf that ran along the bay’s edge, they spotted a squadron of Tragoss Morian soldiers and monks gathered at the next pier over. They were deployed, weapons drawn, around a group of Alder marines led by Blain Alder and his son, Edwin. Behind them, a large ship with black sails, which could only be the infamous Gray Talon that had long dogged their heels. The Alders spotted Claradon's group and shouted and pointed at them.

  “Rat dung!” said Ob. “Now they'll have that lot on us.”

  Sure enough, half a squadron of Freedom Guardsmen and several monks broke off from their dispute with the Alders and charged Claradon’s group, whistles blaring, shouting for them to stand down.