Oracle (Book 5)

by Ben Cassidy

  Maklavir gave a half-smile. “I thought they might be.” He stood from his chair. “I’ll expect those food convoys crossing our border within the week, gentlemen. Until then, I am afraid I have other pressing matters to attend to.” He gave an elegant bow. “I bid you all a good day.” He turned without looking and strode out of the room.

  In the hall, Maklavir turned into another, empty room. He sighed heavily, rubbing the neatly trimmed black goatee that covered his chin.

  Behind him another man entered the room and closed the door softly behind him. “They sure left in a huff. What did you say to them, anyway? Did they agree to sell us the food?”

  Maklavir turned with a thin smile. “Actually, Sir Vladi, I threatened to invade their lands with our army.”

  Vladi, a portly man in his sixties with gray hair and busy eyebrows, stared in shock at Maklavir. “You…did what?”

  Maklavir gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Relax, it was just a bluff. They bought it, though.” He grabbed a wine bottle off the table and pulled the cork free. “They should send the food in a week or less. If they don’t, I suggest throwing a few cavalry troops over the border.” He poured a generous helping of wine into a goblet and gave Vladi a reassuring smile. “Not anything serious, mind you. Just enough to keep the threat real.”

  Vladi shook his head with a low whistle. “Remind me never to play poker with you, Mr. Maklavir.”

  Maklavir downed the glass of wine all in one go. “Used to be quite the card player in my youth. Not so much anymore.”

  Vladi nodded sympathetically. “The Despair has changed all of us, I’d wager. For better and worse.”

  Maklavir resisted the urge to reach again for the bottle. “That it has.” He turned to the nobleman. “Make sure those Merewithian nobles get safely back over the border. An escort would be in order, I would think.”

  “Of course.” Vladi grinned. “We’re lucky to have a diplomat of your caliber helping us out during all this chaos, Maklavir. When all this is said and done, I’ve no doubt the King will reward you handsomely for your efforts here.”

  Maklavir winced. “We’ll see,” he said darkly.

  Vladi turned and headed out the door to the room, almost bumping into a pretty young maid who was entering at the same moment. “Oh, excuse me, lass,” he said as he exited.

  The girl smiled shyly, then came over to the table that Maklavir was standing next to. “Take that glass for you, sir?”

  Maklavir returned the smile. “Thank you, yes. The bottle too, if you don’t mind. I feel like I could drain the whole thing if it stays.”

  The girl dipped her head, then took the glass and bottle. She paused uncertainly for a moment, her face blushing. “If…if there’s anything else you might be needing, sir, you only have to let me know.”

  Maklavir pulled a pocket watch out of his vest, glancing at the time. “That’s kind of you, but no.” He looked up at the girl with kind eyes. “I can just make afternoon prayer at the temple, if I hurry.”

  A flicker of disappointment showed in the girl’s eyes. She lowered her head. “As it pleases you, sir.”

  Maklavir pocketed the watch and turned for the door.

  The steps to the temple were crowded with worshippers exiting the building.

  Maklavir pulled his feathered cap down further onto his head. Winter was long gone, but here in Valmingaard spring still came slowly and with plenty of chill. Rain glistened on the stone steps of the temple, and dribbled down out of the gray sky above in a monotonous fashion.

  He reached the bottom of the steps, and glanced back behind him.

  The great temple of Vorten was still being repaired, and was covered with wooden scaffolding. It had suffered much during the firestorm that had consumed much of the city during the opening of the Void. Even now, the Plaza in front of the temple was mostly blackened from the fire and great heat that had devastated the area.

  Still, Vorten was rebuilding slowly but surely. With the war still on the work had been going at a snail’s pace, but the restoration of the dome-topped temple had become a symbol of Vorten’s recovery from ruin.

  Maklavir shivered in the cold drizzle that spattered down on his head and shoulders. He gave a heavy sigh, then turned away from the temple and back towards the street.

  Joseph was there, standing just ten feet away.

  Maklavir was taken aback for a moment. “Joseph? Great Eru, man, how long have you been standing there?”

  The bearded scout looked up at the towering temple. “Not long. Just a few minutes.”

  Maklavir came over to him. “I had no idea you were back in Vorten. It’s good to see you again, old chap.”

  Joseph nodded, but said nothing. He continued to stare up at the temple.

  Maklavir frowned. Joseph had always looked the part of a grizzled pathfinder, but he looked worse than usual. His beard was unkempt, shaggy and uneven. His face was stretched, his eyes weary and dark.

  And the man’s clothes were the worst of all. Sure, he had undoubtedly been spending a lot of time out of doors, but that greatcoat he wore was absolutely filthy. It was a travesty.

  “You just missed the service,” Maklavir said. “There’s another at sundown. If you want, we could—”

  Joseph gave a resigned shake of his head. “No thanks, Maklavir. Can’t really say I’m in a praying mood right now.”

  Maklavir tried to conceal his surprise. He glanced down at the pocket of Joseph’s greatcoat, the one that always bulged with the copy of the Blessed Scriptures that the man lugged around with him wherever he went.

  It was empty.

  “I didn’t know you had started attending services.” Joseph’s voice sounded distant, almost as if he was disinterested in the conversation. “You were never a religious man.”

  “Yes, well…” Maklavir tugged self-consciously at his cape. “A lot has changed, I suppose. I saw demons of the Void with my own eyes, creatures I had thought were only figments of a theologian’s imagination until then.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to argue with that. And I’m not the only one. A lot of people in Vorten have turned back to the old ways, looking for answers.”

  Joseph tore his gaze away from the temple. “Best of luck to them.”

  Maklavir tilted his head. “You don’t agree?”

  Joseph rubbed a hand across his face. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. “Let’s just say that I saw a lot of proof of demons during the battle here.” He looked back up at the half-repaired temple, a hard look in his eyes. “But Eru? Not so much.”

  Maklavir kept his poker face on, hoping it hid just how truly shocked he felt. Joseph had never spoken like this before. In fact, Joseph had never voiced any kind of doubt in his faith before. He gave Joseph a comradely pat on the shoulder. “Come on, old man. You look exhausted. I’ve got a house here in town. Not much, but I can throw together a spare bed for the night.”

  Joseph eyed Maklavir darkly. “Yes, you’ve done fairly well for yourself, haven’t you?”

  Maklavir straightened. “I’ve been doing a lot of work for the city, in fact. Most of it legal, sorting out property disputes after the battle and fire, that sort of thing. A little diplomatic work, too.”

  Joseph gave a cynical chuckle. “How does the King feel about that?”

  Maklavir tried to keep his voice pleasant. “I…don’t know. Varnost is sealed up tight. Vorten is on its own right now.” He looked closely at his old friend. “Are you all right, Joseph?”

  Joseph turned abruptly, pushing his shoulder between himself and Maklavir. “Fine.”

  Maklavir followed quickly after the man, skirting around a growing puddle. “You don’t seem fine.”

  “I didn’t ask your opinion.”

  “Well I’m giving it anyway.” Maklavir stepped along beside Joseph. He shifted his cap against the falling rain. “Come back to my place, Joseph. Hot food, a bed. I’ve even got some Baderan brandy if you fancy.”

  “No thanks, Maklavir.” Joseph head
ed straight across the plaza, stepping indifferently over the burnt cobblestones. “I’ve got some business to see to here.”

  Maklavir actually laughed. “Business? Here? You don’t know anyone here, Joseph.”

  “Army business,” Joseph said heatedly. “You’re not the only one who’s found work, you know.”

  “I wasn’t saying that, old boy.” Maklavir softened his voice. “Look, the offer’s open. Come late if you need to. I’ll have the doorman—”

  “Thanks, Maklavir.” Joseph stomped through a circle of water on the cobblestones. He waved a dismissive hand. “See you around.”

  Maklavir stopped short, unused to being dismissed in such a matter.

  Joseph kept walking.

  “Joseph,” Maklavir called.

  The pathfinder hesitated for a moment, then turned back.

  “Have you seen her yet?”

  Joseph opened his mouth as if he was about to answer, then closed it and shook his head. He looked at Maklavir. “How is she?”

  For a moment, Maklavir saw his old friend, that one that he had crossed half of Rothland with.

  “The same,” the diplomat said at last.

  Joseph looked away as if he had been struck. The rain dripped steadily off the brim of his hat.

  “She’s being well cared for, over at the Sanitarium.” Maklavir said. The moment felt tense. Awkward. “I’m paying a private nurse. Good woman. A Baderan, but she knows her stuff.” He paused, feeling a surprising pressure in his chest. “I go to see her every day. To check up on her.”

  Joseph looked up. There might have been tears in his eyes, or it might just have been the falling rain. “Has…there been any kind of change? Anything at all?”

  Maklavir felt a heaviness on him that seemed would crush him completely. “No,” he said at last. “I’m sorry, Joseph. She hasn’t stirred. Not a mumbled word. Not even a flickering of her eyes.”

  Joseph turned his head away quickly.

  Maklavir saw a flash on his friend’s face. Anger. No…rage.

  “See you around, Maklavir,” Joseph said without turning his head.

  Maklavir opened his mouth to speak.

  Joseph stormed off through the steadily increasing downpour.

  When the pounding came from the front door, Maklavir assumed it was Joseph.

  He rolled over in bed, half-asleep and irritated by the reminder that the pillow next to his didn’t contain the head of a beautiful young woman. He fumbled for the bedside clock, breathing out a string of ungentlemanly curses as he struggled to read the hands.

  No use. The curtains cut out any residual moonlight only too well.

  The front door opened downstairs. There were softly murmured voices.

  Maklavir buried his head obstinately under his pillow. Regnuthu take Joseph if he was showing up at this hour of night. He could find his own way to bed.

  The tromp of feet came up the stairs.

  Maklavir kept the pillow firmly pulled over his head.

  There was a soft rap at his bedroom door.

  Maklavir stuck out his head. He was filled with the unreasonable anger of a man who has been deprived of sleep for so long that regaining it again becomes an epic undertaking. “Come in,” he said.

  The door opened a tentative crack. Golden candle light flooded into the room.

  “Sir?” A head poked into the room.

  Maklavir sighed.

  It was Guvin, the footman. The man usually had better sense than this.

  Maklavir gave a wave of his hand. “For Eru’s sake, man, just put him in the spare bedroom. Give him some of the leftover roast if he’s hungry. And get that light out of my face.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Guvin sounded confused. “It’s…it’s a man from the gendarmes, sir. One of Potemkin’s men.”

  Maklavir opened his eyes all the way. He sat up in bed. “Give me ten minutes,” he told the servant.

  Ten was pushing it. Most mornings required at least thirty to get properly prepared to meet the challenges of the day, but then Maklavir supposed that in the dead hours of the morning even the demands of style had to be relaxed.

  Still, it was barely enough time to get dressed and pull his boots on, and before Maklavir quite realized what was happening he had been shoved into a coach which was soon clattering down the streets of Vorten. To his sleep-fogged brain the things the gendarmes were telling him seemed to make no sense whatsoever. Even as he exited the coach and entered the Jailhouse that was adjacent to City Hall, his mind still could not quite comprehend what he was being told.

  The reality of the situation did not fully seem to hit him until he actually saw his friend Joseph sitting behind bars in the dimly-lit cell.

  “He asked for you, sir,” the gendarme said sheepishly. “I know it is the middle of the night, but—”

  “It’s all right, gendarme.” Maklavir tried his best to keep the tiredness out of his voice. “I’d like a word with him, if you please.”

  The gendarme saluted sharply. He left the room through the iron door that was the only entrance or exit.

  Maklavir walked to a wooden bench that was set against the wall, and collapsed onto it. He covered his face with his hands.

  Joseph kept his face towards the ground. “Hey.”

  Maklavir dropped his hands away from his face. “Hey? Hey? That’s all you have to say to me? Hey?”

  Joseph looked at his friend through the bars. In the guttering candlelight of the cell, several purple and black bruises were clearly evident on his face. Dried blood stretched from a cut across his scalp. “I don’t need a lecture, Maklavir.”

  “Really?” Maklavir’s voice became more strident than usual. “Because from where I’m sitting, you do.” He leaned back against the stone wall. “They say you started a fight with three of Ibramovich’s thugs. In his own tavern, for Eru’s sake.”

  Joseph turned his face away. “I didn’t start it. They did.”

  “Does it matter?” Maklavir felt a mixture of anger and frustration burn inside him. This must be what it was like to have children. Teenage, irresponsible children, anyway. “Look at you, Joseph. You look terrible. Your face is a mess.”

  Joseph gave a half-smile. “You should see the other guys.”

  “You’ll be lucky if they don’t press charges.” Maklavir spread his hands out before him. “Joseph, what in Eru’s name were you thinking? What were you doing in that tavern in the first place?”

  Joseph looked away uncomfortably. “Just looking for a drink.”

  “At the Stamping Stallion?” Maklavir shook his head. “Ibramovich owns half the docks, has ever since the Despair hit Vorten. He and his men are no one you want to mess with.”

  “I’m a big boy, Maklavir.” Joseph’s eyes flashed angrily. “I can take care of myself.”

  “It that right?” Maklavir was done holding back. He was tired, he was cold, and his naturally sarcastic self was aching to get free. “Then why am I here at…at whatever ungodly time of the morning this is? If you’re so amazingly capable, Joseph, then why in Zanthora are sitting behind metal bars right now?”

  Joseph didn’t answer. He hung his head, staring back down at the floor.

  Maklavir sighed and looked away himself. “The gendarmes were babbling things at me the whole ride over. They say you nearly killed one of the men. Badly wounded another.”

  “One pulled a knife,” Joseph said.

  “They’re saying the whole thing started over liquor and a card game.” Maklavir kept talking as if he had not even heard Joseph’s last comment. “I’ve known you a long time, Joseph. You’ve never gambled at cards. Not once.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “Ashes, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink anything stronger than ale.”

  Joseph stared at the ground as if his gaze would melt a hole in the floor. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

  “Maybe I don’t,” Maklavir said harshly. He gripped his hands together until the tips of his fingers blush
ed purple. “Tuldor’s beard, Joseph, you’re acting like Kendril.”

  Joseph’s head shot up at the name.

  “No,” Maklavir continued. “Worse than Kendril. At least he never got himself locked in a town cell.”

  Joseph’s face worked in anger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You keep saying that.” Maklavir paused for a second. He unclenched his hands, staring hard through the bars at his friend. “This isn’t you, Joseph. You were always the dependable one, the rock. Kendril? Eru only knew what he would ever do. Violent and unpredictable from the day I met him.” He shook his head at the memory. “But you…you were always different. Steady, reliable. If you said something, I knew I could trust you.” He hesitated for a long second. “So did Kara.”

  Joseph shot up from his seat. “Don’t you talk about her. Not like this. Not here.”

  Maklavir rose up as well. “And why bloody well not? Who’s been taking care of her all of this time, Joseph? You? You were gone with Dutraad’s army with the first thaws.”

  Joseph looked as if he would tear the bars apart with his bare hands.”How dare you? I’ve been fighting out there, in the cold and the filth, fighting for you and your Void-cursed country, while you’ve been hanging out here in Vorten and—”

  “And what, Joseph?” Maklavir’s face was set like steel. “Living the high life? Sleeping on down pillows while you’ve been braving the hardships of the wild? Please. I’ve been working my fingers to the bone trying to rebuild Vorten, to stop the surviving nobles from tearing each other to pieces, to restore what little functioning government we still have, to negotiate what scraps of support we can get from our neighbors.” A flash of anger appeared in his eyes. “So don’t you play the martyr with me. Not when you’re standing behind bars.”

  Joseph turned away, his face red with anger. He looked as though he would drive his fist into the brick wall behind him.

  “What in Zanthora happened to you, Joseph?” Maklavir’s voice was suddenly low again. “You’ve changed. You’re not the same man you used to be.”

  “Maybe.” Joseph leaned against the wall. His voice was small and distant. “Or maybe I am, and this is really who I always was.” He turned his face back around towards Maklavir. “All right, you’ve said your piece. You can go if you want.”