The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  “Wait!” Tristan cried, reaching out imploringly.

  “There are more plains cats than priests, Father, and people need my help!” Ivaar called over his shoulder. He ran down the street, clear of most of the crowd. Tristan saw him raising his hands and ordering more of the wild creatures back to the sewers.

  He returned his attention to Othmar, hauling the boy up by one arm. The prince appeared to be uninjured, but still shaken. Two of the prince’s guards hastened up, their torn uniforms testifying to their own encounters with the cats. Tristan shoved the prince at them. “Take him back to Stonegard,” he ordered. They nodded and complied.

  Now Tristan could hear other voices, some as youthful as Ivaar’s, others gruff and deep, here and there the dulcet tones of women. It was the same command each time, using that strange name of Sehkmaa, and it was having a miraculous effect. None of the men and women had to draw their scimitars; their orders seemed to be their weapons. The cats were deserting like rats from a sinking ship. Othmar taken care of, Tristan wanted a better look at what was going on. He worked his way through the crowd, hacking at the cats that still remained until he reached a tall building beside the High Road. He climbed its stone stairs and peered out from this superior vantage.

  More and more cats were abandoning the crowds and vanishing down the sewer entrances. Others converged on the southern gate of Kantora, running full tilt toward their natural environment. Tristan turned his attention back to the High Road and was relieved to see Othmar, his guards, and the four other regents fleeing back toward Stonegard. Here and there in the crowd, he saw others wearing the same outfit that his son was wearing. He recognized it now from his excursion into the Hungry Tyger. These men definitely considered themselves priests—perhaps true ones, if they could banish the plains cats with a few words.

  He caught a brief glimpse of Tavolys’s youngest boy, Raphael, arms raised as he intoned a command that Tristan was too far away to hear. A few yards to Raphael’s right, a big, brawny man with grizzled gray hair was doing likewise. Though this man’s form, more suited to a dockyard bully than a priest, contrasted sharply with Raphael’s golden-haired youth, their garb and gestures marked them as members of one brotherhood.

  Others had found the higher steps of the building to be a sanctuary from the tumult down in the streets. Tristan now turned his attention to the wounded. There were surprisingly few of them, considering the staggering number of cats, and most of the wounds were minor. Tristan, anxious to reassure the frightened populace, said as much to one young woman as he made a makeshift sling from a strip of her long gown.

  She gazed at him with glowing eyes. “Don’t you see? Sehkmaa and his priests saved us!”

  Tristan paused in his work and glanced at the others who were with the woman. They all nodded eagerly. Tristan thought about the men in the Hungry Tyger. They didn’t seem like holy men to him.

  The following evening, when the full contingent of the Claws of Sehkmaa appeared at the banquet that Prince Othmar hosted in their honor, Tristan was surprised to see the variety in their number. Two at least were nobles: Ivaar and Raphael. Others Tristan recognized as merchants’ children or even the merchants themselves, moved by the call of the cat god to leave their vocations and follow him. Most were in their twenties and thirties, although the group encompassed men and women as old or older than Tristan himself. A few seemed, to Tristan at least, shifty-eyed and untrustworthy, but he was a man who judged by deeds not appearances. All had the mark of Sehkmaa: three claw marks across their cheeks. It lent them an air of deadly seriousness.

  As was usual with Othmar, the banquet was even more opulent than perhaps the occasion warranted. The food was all overly seasoned as far as Tristan was concerned. He appreciated fine cooking as long as the foods thus prepared were still recognizable.

  Sigfrid chewed absently on a slice of rye with honey butter and said quietly to Tristan, “Look at that one down there. The skinny one with the black hair. He’s eating as if he hadn’t seen food for a week.”

  Tristan looked where Sigfrid indicated. The thin priest, or Claw as they preferred to be called, was indeed packing away the fare as if he could store it for later usage. “Perhaps he hasn’t,” said Tristan soberly.

  Othmar stood. This occasioned a hidden grin from Tristan; Othmar’s garb would put a peacock to shame. His vest was of purple velvet, covering a silk shirt of a pale lilac. Breeches of blue leather matched thigh-high boots of the same hue. A ruby brooch was pinned to the vest, and an even larger one adorned the prince’s golden belt. He had forsaken his crown for a large black hat that half hid his face. Its brim was graced by a scarlet feather, which bobbed up and down as the prince spoke.

  “We were saved from certain death by the intervention of the Claws of Sehkmaa, who drove the dark plains cats from our fair city of Kantora,” stated Othmar. He spoke deliberately and without inflection. “Dozens of our loyal subjects were likewise spared a horrible fate. The debt of Kantora to you Claws is great. We hope that this feast, in some small way, welcomes you and your god to Nova Vaasa.”

  A general chorus of “Hear, hear,” greeted this ponderous statement, and there was a smattering of applause. Othmar’s face changed, became more animated, better suited to a youth of fourteen. “I want to hear more about Sehkmaa and what the Claws want to do here,” he said, dropping the royal “we” like a snake he had mistakenly picked up.

  To Tristan’s surprise, it was Ivaar who rose to speak. Obviously, the youth held a high position among his brethren. “I speak for one who cannot be here today, but who has appointed me to speak for him: our High Priest. He has direct communication with Sehkmaa, and as result cannot always choose where he might be.

  “Our goals are simple. We wish to help all Nova Vaasans, rich and poor alike, to learn of Sehkmaa and follow his teachings. To that end, we both ask help and offer it. We want to build an orphanage and give the orphans Sehkmaa and the Claws as their family. On the same grounds, the Claws will teach any children who wish to come. Education is always an advantage, even to the noble classes.” He smiled a little, and a quiet chuckle went around the table.

  “We have already talked some with the less wealthy of the city,” Ivaar continued, “and come to some agreements. A bored person is an unhappy and dangerous person, my lords and ladies. Give him or her enjoyable pastimes, and everyone benefits.”

  To prove his point, he reached down to a heavily laden pouch that hung beside his sheathed scimitar. Untying it from his belt, he casually tossed it on the table in front of Othmar. It landed with the heavy chinking sound of coins. The prince’s eyes went wide.

  “What’s this from?” he asked.

  “Donated to the Claws of Sehkmaa from various honest businesses in all four quarters of the city,” Ivaar replied. “We in turn donate it to the Crown to be used as our prince deems wisest. We have kept other funds to clothe and feed our brothers and sisters and to fund our planned orphanage and temple school. Do you not agree, Prince Othmar, that Sehkmaa and his followers can be a boon to the city?”

  Othmar nodded his dark head eagerly as he gathered the coins to him. “Indeed,” he murmured.

  Tristan gazed searchingly at his only child, trying to sort out his conflicting emotions. Apparently, Ivaar was not only learning to work with his government and country, but was aiding it. In turn, the Claws were bending the government to help their own needy. It seemed to be a perfect partnership, but Tristan instinctually mistrusted the Claws of Sehkmaa.

  “There’s something not quite right about this,” said Sigfrid at his ear. “It’s too pat, too easy. Change like this doesn’t just happen overnight.”

  Tristan nodded slowly, reluctantly. There was still a great deal of the idealist in him—a fact that might have shocked Ivaar. But years of diplomacy had taught him caution. He focused on Ivaar, who continued speaking. The boy stood confidently in front of the most powerful men in the land, holding their attention easily. His arguments were logical, well founded.
He’s a natural diplomat, Tristan thought; but is he on the right side?

  At the end of the feast, Othmar invited everyone to stay for some entertainment. Though Tristan normally enjoyed watching the singers and dancers who performed at Stonegard, he wanted a chance to talk to his son. When chairs were pushed back and the sated diners withdrew to the dance hall, Tristan went to Ivaar. “Do you have a few moments to spend with your father?” he asked.

  He expected Ivaar to decline, or at best, sulkily agree. Instead, his son smiled eagerly. “Indeed, I do. I’ve learned much in the last few days, Father, and I’d like to share it with you.”

  They left the merriment and music behind, opting for the cool seclusion offered by the royal gardens. Topiaries shaped like fanciful creatures pranced beneath the moonless sky. The flowers were in full bloom, and delicate fragrances filled the air.

  “I would not have envisioned a cat god as a benevolent deity,” Tristan began, seating himself on a carved stone bench next to a sundial.

  “Well, Sehkmaa isn’t, exactly,” said Ivaar. He bent to inhale the perfume of a rose, smiled a little, then seated himself next to his father. “He is very demanding of the Claws, as you’d expect.”

  “What about other … followers?”

  “Loving and lenient. Above all, he wants his followers to learn and grow. That’s why we’re putting so much emphasis on the school and the orphanage.” He smiled in the darkness. “We’ve already got places for the temple, school, and orphanage—donated by the faithful. Building began today.” His face grew sober. “Sehkmaa alone knows how we will house all the orphans of this land, but we’ll try. We’ll train them in useful skills, and when they are old enough, they’ll leave and contribute to the society that helped them. Then we will have more room for other unfortunates.”

  Tristan changed the subject. “Your room has been kept for you,” he said, “in case you change your mind about living at Faerhaaven.” He paused, and added, “I’ve missed you.”

  The words came hard, and Ivaar knew it. Cautiously, as if he were afraid Tristan might bite, Ivaar laid a hand on his father’s arm. “Thank you, Father,” he said gently, “but I would prefer to get a room here in town. I want to be near the temple. It’s … it’s important to me. Do you understand?”

  “I do, son. Go with my blessing. But,” he joked, “you didn’t have to destroy your room before you left.”

  Ivaar looked puzzled. “I didn’t. I just left you the note, that’s all.”

  Tristan frowned. “There’s no need to lie about it now. I forgive you.”

  “I’m not lying. Why would I destroy my room?”

  “I assumed you were angry with me, and …” For Ivaar to have left his room in such a state was childish. The young man seated before him seemed incapable of such reckless destruction, and Tristan suddenly felt ashamed for suspecting Ivaar. Still, if he hadn’t destroyed the room, who had? Some disgruntled servant? He would have Guillaume look into it.

  “Tell me about Sehkmaa’s creed,” he invited. The youth brightened, and began to chat animatedly about Sehkmaa’s desire to protect the weak and make all men and women equal. His father listened with half an ear. It seemed like a good thing, the coming of Sehkmaa and his priests. Tristan, however, couldn’t shake the memory of the hard-eyed men he had seen at the Hungry Tyger.

  It was late when he returned home, but instead of heading straight for his bed he went into his sorcery chamber. His mirror was on the table, and Tristan seated himself before it. It reflected his tired visage.

  “Show me Sehkmaa,” he asked, wondering if, now that he knew who Sehkmaa was, it would make any difference. It did not. The mirror clouded over, its shiny surfaced replaced by the swirling fog Tristan was coming to hate. “Show me Ivaar Hiregaard.”

  The fog didn’t change. Frowning, Tristan leaned forward. The last time he had ordered the mirror to show him Ivaar, it had complied. Now, it balked at the command. Tristan wondered if his own mental strength was to blame; he was, after all, quite tired. His temples throbbed, and he rubbed them fiercely. “Show me the signature killer.” The mirror cleared, and for a moment Tristan’s hopes rose. But when the reflecting glass refused to show him anything but his own face, he swore and brought his fist slamming down on the table.

  He would try again in the morning. Obviously, he was too weary to bend the mirror’s powers to his command tonight.

  Sigfrid lingered at Stonegard. It wasn’t often he was invited to royal events as a guest. He lay, relaxed, on a pile of pillows and enjoyed the precise movements of the dancing. When a young page tapped his shoulder, he looked up inquiringly. “Captain Skolsson, a Sergeant Valdisdottir wants to see you.”

  Osric Laars, lounging nearby, turned his attention to the young soldier. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. Sigfrid’s sense of serenity evaporated. He rose at once and went down to the courtyard.

  Dagmar was there, pacing back and forth tensely. When she saw him appear, she nearly ran to him. The torchlight was kind to her, kinder than the daylight, making the mass of scars that was her face less visible. She saluted smartly.

  “What is it, Sergeant?” asked Sigfrid, though he felt certain he knew what the problem was.

  “We’ve discovered another body.”

  “Same markings?”

  Dagmar nodded. Then she tensed slightly. Her eyes flickered over Sigfrid’s shoulder and then back to his face. He read a warning in their blue-green depths. Somebody was standing behind him.

  “As you know, Sergeant, we’re not permitted to allot any more men or funds to this useless hunt,” he said, making his voice slightly louder than normal. “But mark it down, just for the records. Dismissed.”

  Badly as he wanted to go and scout out the murder scene, Sigfrid forced himself to turn around and head back into the palace. As he expected, he saw Osric

  Laars lingering in the doorway. What startled him was that Laars was not alone. The slim figure of Lord Adal Keirin, another one of Othmar’s regents, was with him.

  One skill Sigfrid had learned when he was a young thief in Kantora’s streets was the art of deception. He nodded casually to the two regents and ascended the stairs to the revelry without undue speed. He felt their eyes boring into his back, but he knew neither his face nor his body had betrayed him.

  He would ride out to Faerhaaven first thing in the morning. Things were starting to get out of hand.

  Rozalia smiled to herself, surveying the changes six days had wrought. Several philanthropic Kantorans had donated an entire block to the Claws of Sehkmaa for their use. Rather than raze the buildings and build new ones, which would take far too long for the impatient Malken, the Claws used most of them as they were.

  One group of four buildings had become the orphanage, the Paw of the Cat. Work was progressing on a stone wall about four feet high that would encircle the buildings. At the center, opening invitingly in the direction of the High Road, was a large stone arch. There were no gates.

  The temple itself was a public bathhouse, donated by Osric Laars as a gift to Sehkmaa from the city. Its basic structure had not been altered. A short flight of stone steps led up to the columned building, which contained many small rooms in addition to the large bathing area. All that was necessary was that the baths be drained and filled.

  It was well past twilight, and the workers had gone home. Rozalia ran up the bathhouse stairs, unafraid of the yawning darkness inside the building. Malken was waiting for her, carrying a small lantern. He led her carefully around the drained but still unfilled pools to a corner behind a pile of tools left by the workers.

  “Do you like surprises?” His voice, floating from behind a fish-head mask, was mirthful. Rozalia nodded.

  Malken’s gloved fingers groped on the wall until they touched something that clicked. He pushed gently, and the Vistana saw that there was a door in the wall, hidden so expertly that she doubted she would have seen it even in the daylight. The door swung inward. A flight of stone steps spiraled down.
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  Wordlessly, Rozalia followed Malken as he descended. What she saw dazzled her. Malken had his own sanctuary, buried deep beneath the temple. The stone stairs opened into a large, lavish room.

  “It’s only been six days!” she gasped. “How …?”

  Malken chuckled. “It was simply there, waiting for me. Power has its privileges.”

  “The clever gray malken,” said Rozalia.

  Inviolate and secured by means both mundane and magical, this underground refuge ensured that Malken need fear no intrusion on his various perversions. Thick, blood-red carpeting covered every inch of stone floor. Tapestries, their subjects engaged in violent acts, adorned some of the walls. Other walls were bare, save for steel shackles and chains. Every room, and there were many, were filled with beautiful objets d’art—carved woods and statues, paintings, bone china, cabinets inlaid with gold and extremely rare, imported mother-of-pearl. Malken at times enjoyed admiring beauty; at other times, he took pleasure in its destruction. He made sure he had ample supplies to satisfy either craving.

  As Malken and Rozalia entered, three huge plains cats, secured to the wall with heavy chains, swiveled their ears toward their master. Other cats, smaller than their cousins but no less wild, also tensed.

  With a savage rip, Malken tore at the high collar of his robe. “Ah, that’s better,” he said. The scales of his fish-head mask were made of glittering blue metal, and the staring eyes seemed to have a life of their own. Its gaping maw, complete with hook embedded in its papier-mache lip, was wide enough to let him eat, but dark enough that his features remained concealed.

  He and Rozalia went to the black marble table that sat in the center of the room. From side doors, two servants, clad in the robes of the Claws, entered silently. “Dinner for two,” Malken told them. As quietly as they had entered, the servants slipped away. Malken eased himself into a chair, reaching absently to fondle the ears of one of the great cats. Fruit and cheese were brought in, along with a bottle of red wine. Rozalia poured while Malken heaped his plate high.