“Glad to do so, Commander,” Linsha said with a mischievous smirk. She added a bit of swagger to her walk. “So you and Shanron having a bit on the side?”
The words flew out of her mouth before Linsha knew what possessed her to say such a thing. The question was certainly in keeping with Lynn’s crude persona, but Linsha’s face flamed to her auburn roots, and she was so astonished by her temerity she nearly stumbled over her own feet. Commander Durne slowed, his face filled with displeased surprise. Angry at herself, Linsha scrambled to think of something to say.
Before she could apologize or make any move, he said, with an edge as sharp as a sword blade, “By the staff of Hiddukel, you are an impertinent wench.”
Wench? Plenty of men had called her that in the past, but she’d never grown used to it. She hated that patronizing appellation, whether it was spoken by a half-drunk Khur in a tavern or by the commander of the Governor’s Guards. Linsha jumped on the opportunity to hide behind her chagrin and anger. Her green eyes turned to green fire, and the red of embarrassment on her face faded to a fiery clay of outrage. She planted her hands on her hips and said tightly, “What I said was out of line and I regret it, but don’t call me “wench” again, or I’ll rip your tongue off at the root.”
Several guards grooming their horses nearby turned around in surprise and stared at the sight of a new recruit yelling at the commander like a back-street ruffian.
Commander Durne’s brows rammed together. His lips thinned to pale lines. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, implacable. “You are no longer on the streets of the waterfront. Do not use that tone with me again. Nor will you issue threats against a commanding officer in this unit. If you do, you will be dismissed from service and removed from this city. Is that clear?”
Not one word was spoken above a calm, moderate tone, but Linsha felt as if she had been punched. Her mouth opened, then closed with a click. She knew she had gone too far. It was time to beat a hasty retreat. Taking a step back, she snapped to attention and brought her fingers to her chest in a crisp salute. “I apologize, Commander,” she said, loud enough for the other guards to hear.
He directed a soul-freezing glare at her, then turned on his heel and marched away, his back as straight as a board under his scarlet surcoat.
A sigh, soft as a whisper, escaped Linsha as she watched him go. Well, if her rudeness didn’t alienate him, nothing would, she thought. He would probably report her offensive behavior to Lord Bight and avoid contact with her from now on. Linsha sighed again. She allowed her heart to indulge in self-pity for just a moment. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that the first man she liked and respected and felt any desire for in too many years would have to be someone she dared not have. The Clandestine Circle would have her sword if they knew.
Linsha ignored the smirks on the faces of the watching guards and went sadly into the stable to saddle Windcatcher and report to the horse master.
Mount Thunderhorn did not blow “at any moment” as Elder Chan Dar had predicted. Instead, the dome near the summit of the volcano slowed its growth and festered like a huge, steaming boil on the face of the peak. Since it showed no immediate inclination to burst, Lord Bight took advantage of the respite to do a complete inspection of the lava dike encircling Sanction. For a full day he rode with a squad of his bodyguards and a team of dwarf stonemasons, examining the entire length of the fiery moat.
Linsha rode with them, a squire in training, observed, and kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t paid much attention before to the maintenance of the moat and its retaining walls, and she stared, fascinated, while Lord Bight and the dwarf engineer, Chert, studied the walls and the sluggish flow of the red-gold molten stone and made their decisions on what sections needed repair and which ones could wait for another time. A few places had eroded dangerously close to the softer earth and needed immediate attention.
At these points, Lord Bight stood close to the fiery moat, drew on his power, and diverted the lava long enough for the dwarves to remove the failing slabs of rock and replace them with new slabs skillfully cut to fit neatly into place. Then Lord Bight smoothed over the new wall, casting a spell to help seal it from the intense heat and friction of the flowing lava.
Although Linsha witnessed this process twice that day, try as she might to understand what the governor was doing, she couldn’t discern how he drew on his magic. It was widely believed among the Solamnics that he was a powerful geomancer, yet he did not verbally invoke any words of power or use complicated spells. All through the long, hot afternoon, she racked her thoughts to decide if he was drawing on the ancient magic that fueled the sorcery her father taught at his academy, using the mystic energy of the living spirit, or using some hidden item charmed with the old high sorcery of the gods. Magic was difficult to use in any form, and as far as anyone knew, Lord Bight had never trained at the Academy of Sorcery or at the Citadel of Light. Nevertheless, he wielded his power with subtle effectiveness and enigmatic strength.
When the inspection was complete and the lord governor and his guards rode back late that night, Linsha was perplexed and impressed, but no closer to understanding the secret of Lord Bight’s power.
The following morning, the day after the death of the captain of the Whydah and the announcement of the governor’s decree, Lord Bight rode out to check the progress of the aqueduct and to meet with the tax collectors to establish the tax rates for the approaching harvest season and make provisions for hardships resulting from the hot, dry weather. To her disappointment, Linsha did not go with him this time, for she was ordered to attend her training and learn more of her new duties at the palace. She reported as ordered to the weapons master and the master of recruits and hoped she wouldn’t draw the attention of Commander Durne. The commander, she was told, was busy with the City Guards in the harbor district. May he stay perpetually busy, she thought, and forget all about me.
That hope was banished the fourth day of her service.
As soon as she finished her noon meal, Commander Durne was there barking orders for her to don her full uniform and attend a meeting of the Governor’s Advisory Council as an observer. As silent as a statue, he waited for her, then escorted her to the large audience hall in the palace and positioned her by a window and a wordless guard.
“Do not talk. Just pay attention. Lord Bight will be here shortly,” Durne said before he left the chamber.
Linsha could only salute and obey.
Patiently she balanced her weight on both feet and prepared to wait for a long time. She did not try to talk to the motionless guard across the window from her. He did not speak, move, or even glance her way. His hand rested on a light spear at his side, and a sword hung at his waist.
To her right, the long, narrow window was open to catch a slight breeze, and if Linsha leaned back a little, she could see the hazy, hot sky and, in the distance, the trailing plume of smoke from Mount Thunderhorn caught on an westerly wind. The guard softly cleared his throat in warning, and Linsha straightened in time to see the first of the officials arrive for the meeting: Chan Dar, the leader of the newly organized Farmer’s Guild, accompanied by his assistant. Both men were lean and baked brown from days of hard work in the fields, and both looked slightly uncomfortable in the long, flowing robes adopted by the city’s elders. They glanced around the hall, perhaps surprised that they were the first to arrive.
A long table with cushioned chairs set around it had been arranged in the center of the hall. A servant, arrived bearing a tray with a pitcher of cooled wine and plates of honey cakes, plums, and date bread. He showed the two elders to their places at the table, laid the tray before them, and left them to fetch more trays.
Chan Dar had no sooner poured himself a cup of wine than Lutran Debone, head of the City Council, bustled in with two assistants, a scribe, and a small boy bearing a fan.
Linsha saw Chan Dar roll his eyes in such an exaggerated expression of dislike, she had to stifle a smile.
“Ah, good day to
you, Chan Dar,” Lutran greeted heartily. “I see your fields are still free of the burning rivers of lava from Mount Thunderborn.”
The farmer snorted. “Not that it makes much difference. The heat and the lack of rain are shriveling our crops as surely as a volcano’s eruption,” he replied, his long face morose.
The portly elder took his seat across from the farmer. He did not make a reply while his boy poured wine and fetched cakes and arranged the cushions just so. When at last he was comfortable and the scribe had settled himself on a bench nearby, Lutran clucked his tongue. “What about your new irrigation system you pushed through council last year? Is it not finished yet?”
Chan Dar steepled his fingers and cast a withering glance at his colleague. “You know well it is not. Not after your ploys delayed the money to pay the wages of the laborers. Thanks to your petty interference, the canals weren’t finished in time to catch the spring runoff.”
“My petty interference?” Lutran looked shocked that anyone would think such a thing. “If I remember correctly, it was one of your farmers who brought up the land dispute and your engineers who bickered over the layout of the canals.”
“Problems that were quickly settled, but the laborers—”
“Are you two worrying that same bone again?” said an unfamiliar voice from the door.
Linsha turned her head just enough to see a woman enter the hall. She recognized her immediately—Asharia, the priestess of the Temple of the Heart. Although Linsha had never had the opportunity or need to meet Asharia, she knew the middle-aged priestess by reputation. Not one to be content to stay in her temple, Asharia organized the refugee camp north of the city, ran a small temple school for those who wished to study the mystic arts, kept a regular schedule of healers available to help the citizens of the city, and served on the City Council. She admitted forthrightly that she was not an exceptional healer, but any lack she had was more than compensated by her organizational skills and her enthusiasm. Linsha suspected the lord governor had her on his council to act as a buffer between the bickering elders.
Asharia walked sedately to a chair beside Elder Lutran and smoothed her long gown before she sat down. The men glowered at each other but let their argument slide away. The priestess was known to have a sharp wit and a scorching tongue.
As soon as Asharia seated herself, the rest of the Governor’s Advisory Council arrived. Mica the dwarf, with an armful of scrolls, parchments, and books, stamped to the table and dumped his burden on the polished surface. He straightened his garments and flicked off some lint from his sleeve before he sat beside the priestess. Vanduran Lor, head of Sanction’s powerful Merchants’ Guild, came with the chief magistrate for the city. The new harbormaster, looking young and ill at ease, walked in next, followed by Lord Bight’s treasurer, the governor’s scribe, and last of all Ian Durne, Commander of the City Guard.
They took their places around the table while servants brought more wine and finger foods and served the refreshments. Only Lord Bight’s chair remained empty. The company made small talk in hushed tones among themselves while they waited. Even Lutran stopped annoying Chan Dar and concentrated on his wine and cakes.
Linsha tried not to fidget, but she was hot in the new uniform and unaccustomed to standing still for so long. Sweat trickled down her lower back and itched maddeningly around her waist. When she shifted slightly to scratch it, she caught Commander Durne’s warning eye on her and froze in place.
Bootsteps echoed in the hall, drawing her attention, and Lord Bight entered from a separate doorway. The council members rose to their feet and bowed as one. Linsha studied Lord Bight appreciatively as he strode to the large chair at the head of the table. The governor had put aside the simple clothing he preferred to wear and was dressed in a formal robe of the finest linen and silk, dyed a rich golden brown. Thick gold threads embroidered the hem of the robe and its sleeves, and a gold belt hugged his waist. He wore a heavy collar of gold, studded with tiger’s eyes and topaz, and a simple gold circlet in his thick blond hair.
The governor inclined his head to the council and asked them to sit. He remained standing at the head of the table and leaned forward, his hands resting lightly on the wood. “I’ve called this special session of the Governor’s Council to discuss the disaster that is building in the harbor district. For those of you who do not know all the details, Mica will tell us about the contagion and how it is spreading.”
The dwarf pushed aside a pile of papers and scrolls and drew out a list. “From the reports I received this morning, there are now thirty-five people stricken with the disease at the sick house, and there are rumors that the disease is starting to break out in the Street of the Courtesans and the northern neighborhoods. Besides the entire crew of the death ship, there have been nineteen deaths that we know of. That includes most of the crew of the Whydah, the harbormaster and his wife, and the serving girl from the tavern where the last sailor died. Worst of all, there doesn’t seem to be any protection from it. Once a person becomes ill, he or she usually dies within two days.”
“Two days!” repeated Chan Dar in dismay. The farmer had been busy outside the city in the farms of the vale and had not, until today, learned of the virulence of the disease. “What is this plague?”
Mica tossed his list down and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know. I have found no records of anything like it. We have had agues that are similar and plagues of buboes that are as deadly, but I’ve never seen a sickness with this combination of symptoms. The skin discolorations are very unusual. For lack of a better name, we have been calling it the Sailors’ Scourge.”
Lutran had been nervously sipping his wine while Mica spoke, and he gestured to his boy to pour some more. “But what about the healers?” he asked as the boy splashed the light white wine into his goblet.
Asharian answered for Mica. “Our healers are doing what they can. Unfortunately, this disease drains a great deal of energy to bring it under control. I have sent more healers to the sick house, but … even healers are not immune. Already two of our healers have died.”
“Are there any persons who have had contact with the death ship or the sick crew who have not become ill?” Chan Dar wanted to know.
Mica nodded. His broad fingers drummed on the table as he thought. “Apparently some kender shared an ale with one of the Whydah’s crew. They reported to the sick house but have not become ill. They’re driving the healers crazy trying to help. And two full-blooded dwarves. It could be that human blood is the most susceptible to this sickness. Interestingly, only two of the minotaur crew that repaired the Whydah are sick.”
Lutran groaned. “Human blood. That’s most of our population.”
“Lord Governor,” Vanduran spoke up. He shifted in his chair to face Lord Bight. “I, too, have heard the rumors that the disease is spreading into other areas. Not everyone is obeying the law of quarantine. The merchants are getting worried, not only for their own safety, but for the health of Sanction’s economy. Already we’ve had several ships turn away before they loaded their cargoes. Other shipments are sitting on the wharves and rotting. Half of the dockhands did not come to work today. They are terrified of catching this plague. What can we do to stem this disease before the news leaks out to the rest of Ansalon and we are ruined?”
Lord Bight stood and paced slowly back and forth. The council watched him quietly, for he appeared to be deep in thought and no one wanted to interrupt him. To Linsha’s surprise, he walked over to her window and stood beside her, looking out, yet his mind was far away, and his golden eyes looked deep into visions only he could see.
Ignoring Commander Durne, Linsha turned her head and looked directly at the lord governor’s profile. She wondered what was going on inside his head.
“Much and little,” he said, so softly only she could hear.
She started and stared at him, astonished. Had he understood her thoughts? No, that was impossible … she hoped. He cocked his head slightly, one eyebrow ra
ised. “First it’s pirates and volcanoes, then it’s the Dark Knights at the back door, the Legion at the front door, the Solamnics at the side door, and the black dragon next door. Then it’s taxes, clean water, farmland, refuse disposal, just laws, security, shipping rights, and refugees. Now it’s a plague. What next—the return of the gods? You know,” he said to Linsha as if he was about to impart a long-kept secret, “it’s not easy being lord governor.”
And by Paladine, if he didn’t wink at her!
In spite of the tension and the seriousness of the situation, Linsha wanted to laugh. That, she thought, was one of the things she liked about him, the self-confident rascal in him that could not take things too seriously because he was convinced he could handle any crisis, no matter how small or large.
Linsha lifted her chin a little and said in her most serious tone of voice, “Aye, Lord. But you’re so good at it.”
“Yes,” he said, grinning at her. The glint of humor was still in his eyes when he turned back to the puzzled council and resumed his pacing. “This plague,” he said, raising his voice so they all could hear, “is threatening to destroy everything we have built here.” He took three long strides back to the table and banged his fist on the wood. “We have put too much into this city to let this plague rip it out of our grasp. We will find a solution no matter what it takes or how bitter it is to swallow. That means,” he added with a meaningful look at Lutran and Chan Dar, “that we will have to work together, without the usual bickering. I expect total cooperation from everyone here.”
Chan Dar rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Does that mean from the volcano, too?”
The others stared at him to see if he was serious. The farmer was usually so pessimistic and humorless they never expected him to try a joke.
“Absolutely,” Lord Bight replied, deadpan. “Thunderhorn has already agreed not to blow his dome until this crisis has passed.”
The Clandestine Circle Page 11