The guard with the pike motioned for Sorial to move further away, which he did without resistance. When he was out of earshot, they put their heads together and conversed in urgent whispers. The result was that Sorial was told to wait while one of them departed to get direction from a superior. Over the course of the next two hours, Sorial was forced to repeat the message to three other men, each of a higher rank, before he was finally ushered inside and shown to a small, empty room where he was gruffly informed that the general would attend him at his pleasure. A half-hour later, the door swung open and a decorated officer entered flanked by two common soldiers.
Sorial drew back his hood. The mask he wore was sufficient to hide the damage done to his features by Uthgarb but it showed enough of his unruined face to allow recognition by anyone who had previously met him.
When he looked at Sorial, Greeg nodded in satisfaction. “I thought it might be you. No one else would be bold enough to speak of that night within these walls.”
The general was younger than Sorial had expected, with no hint of white yet in his umber hair. His skin was dusky, an indication that his ancestry lay to the west, in Andel. He was a big man and, in full armor, looked gargantuan, standing a foot taller than Sorial and outweighing him again by half. As Myselene had promised, Sorial recalled him from Vantok, where he had been one of several impressive, silent soldiers shadowing his king. Now, he was seeking to emerge from that shadow to claim the position.
“General,” said Sorial neutrally, inclining his head in a gesture of respect.
“I never thought to see you again. I supposed you died with everyone else in Vantok. I guess wizards have a way of wriggling out of circumstances when decent men perish.”
“As you can tell from my scars, I haven’t escaped injury.”
Greeg snorted. “Injury and death are distant cousins at best. Why are you here, wizard? I’m not one who enjoys long conversations, so I would hear your message, send you on your way or order you imprisoned, and get on with my day.”
“I’m in Obis in the company of one who would like to converse with you regarding the succession.”
“Really? I haven’t heard anything indicating she’s in the area. But let’s say that, for argument’s sake, I accept she is. What would I have to gain by meeting with her? Having renounced her citizenship here in order to marry the late King Azarak, she rendered herself irrelevant when it comes to the throne of Obis. That’s probably why whoever killed the rest of her family didn’t bother coming for her. What’s in it for me if I agree?”
“You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
Greeg considered. In the end, curiosity won out. “Bring her here. I’ll see her.”
“She’d prefer a more neutral location. You can understand why she might be reluctant to walk into The Citadel.”
“You did.”
“I ain’t restricted to exiting by doors.” Technically, neither was Myselene, as long as he was with her, but there was no reason to mention that.
“Hard to forget that. All right, we can meet at Call to Arms. It’s a tavern on Constabulary Street. Not Obis’ finest drinking establishment, but far from its worse. I’ll come alone, ’cept for these two louts who follow me everywhere. Can’t even take a piss or have a fuck without them there. You can act as her bodyguard. Only fair that she have someone with her, I s’ppose. But only you - no one else. Make it an hour after dusk. You’ll have to violate curfew but I doubt that’ll pose a problem for one of your talents.”
* * *
Myselene was dressed in her courtesan garb with a veil hiding her face. In the parlance of the trade, that meant she was currently “engaged” for the night and was not available to field offers for companionship. Sorial sat next to her at the large table where, with their backs to a wall, they had a clear view of the common room of Call to Arms, including the door. The place was well-attended but not packed, with plenty of tables available. The atmosphere was almost funereal. Drinking here was an act of dour necessity, committed with great seriousness and little joy. No one sang songs, banged on a table, or shouted bawdy jokes. For one who had spent his youth around a place like this, Sorial found the difference in mood to be disconcerting.
The wizard and the queen had mugs of ale in front of them but neither was drinking. They had arrived early to beat the curfew but the time of the meeting was now upon them.
Sorial was uneasy about this situation. He didn’t trust Greeg. The general clearly harbored ill-will toward him for his role in what had transpired in Vantok and he suspected Greeg was no less kindly disposed toward Myselene. If revenge was part of the warrior’s code in Obis, Greeg might see this as an opportunity to eliminate two of those he viewed as being responsible for his sovereign’s demise.
“Relax. You’re too tense,” said Myselene. Sorial glanced at her and was forced to acknowledge that she did in fact appear unperturbed. She was dressed every inch like a high-priced whore, with a translucent gown that showed off her body and a wanton attitude. He wondered how much of that was playacting. Had this element of her nature captivated Azarak? His mother would have known but his mother was dead or trapped or both.
The front door opened and three common soldiers entered. Of course, one was Greeg, but he had removed all indicators of his rank and wore a uniform as simple and threadbare as the ones donned by his fellows. He bellowed an order for three beers to the barkeep then approached the table where Sorial and Myselene were seated. He executed a flawless yet perfunctory bow before speaking. His action was shadowed by the two soldiers accompanying him.
“Your Highness. A most becoming disguise.” Lust smoldered in his deep, dark eyes as he drank in the sight of the young woman in front of him. A barmaid arrived with his beer and, after downing it in one swallow, he took a seat across from Myselene and Sorial. His companions remained standing.
“Last we met, you were Captain Greeg. I’m pleased to see that your loyalty and efforts have been met with a promotion.”
“After what happened in Vantok, the choice was either to promote me or execute me. I was fortunate. You seem to have lived a charmed life. Rumor had you dead either at the hand of the man sitting next to you, executed following the Battle of Vantok, or even assassinated at Basingham. Yet here you are, alive and playing the courtesan in the heart of the city that bore you. Your costume may fool the commoners but there are elite spies who’ll recognize you instantly. Obis isn’t the safest place for you.”
“No,” agreed Myselene. “If I was interested in safety, I would have holed up in some tiny fishing village far to the south and waited for the storm to blow over. As for the ‘elite spies,’ most of them are in the employ of Gorton, who serves as my chancellor. I came here because war is on the horizon. The army of The Lord of Fire is moving inexorably toward Obis and the city must be whole in time to face this threat.”
“And you believe you’re the one to make it whole. Entirely in keeping with what I’d expect from a child of King Rangarak. He always spoke of you as the least brittle of his brood. More than once I heard him say: ‘If only she had a cock between her legs.’”
“If I was to announce my candidacy tomorrow, the people of Obis would flock to my banner.”
“The uneducated rabble might but they’re nothing without the military. We control the city now regardless of what those fools on the Council of Nobles might believe. Kings of Obis are allowed to ascend the throne at the sufferance of the army. They remain in power by showing their mettle and taking command of us. I don’t see either thing happening in your case, Your Highness. Being backed by the peasantry has little value in a succession war.”
“True. Which is why we’re meeting. I have the name and the bloodline. You have the backing of a sizeable contingent of the military but no support outside the army.”
“You’re remarkably well informed.”
Myselene merely smiled.
“You propose an alliance?”
“I’m asking if you might be persuaded
to support my candidacy.”
“Perhaps. If the offer is sweet enough.”
“Oh, I think I can promise that much.” She reached across the table and brushed a finger teasingly across the back of the general’s hand. “We’ll meet again. I’ll send Sorial to you once I’ve had an opportunity to stockpile some honey.”
* * *
“Something about Greeg bothers me,” said Sorial when he and Myselene were reviewing the meeting in their room that night.
“He doesn’t like me and he absolutely hates you, so it’s only natural he would make you feel ill at ease. But he’s a straightforward man with a rigorous code of honor, and he seems more open to my overtures than Otto.”
“It’s obvious he wants to fuck you.”
“Which is precisely what I intended. Sex is just another form of currency.”
“Do you think he blames you for your father’s death?”
“Undoubtedly, although he probably sees you as the chief culprit even though you weren’t in Vantok at the time. I doubt he’ll move against you while you’re under my protection.”
“So what’s next?”
“More waiting, unfortunately, and maybe a little more spying. Given a few days to consider the shifting landscape, Otto might reconsider and try to make contact. He’ll consult his ‘keepers’ and they’ll probably make the final decision. Greeg is more difficult to read. He’s at war with himself: principles against ambition. If the latter wins out, he’ll be more receptive the next time we approach him.”
“Have you figured out who killed your family?”
“It wasn’t Otto or Greeg. Greeg was on the road between Vantok and Obis when that happened and Otto lacks the stomach for such a decisive act. So it was either Clairmont or someone behind the scenes - perhaps one of Otto’s backers. With any luck, we’ll learn the answer to that question in the near future. Can you tell where Justin is now?”
Sorial closed his eyes and concentrated. Since marking Justin, it had become possible to track the other wizard’s presence, although he had briefly lost him several weeks ago, right around the time Alicia’s signature had vanished. “He’s south and east of here. My understanding of geography is limited - there weren’t much need to study maps while working in a stable - but if I was to guess, I’d say he’s at Earlford.”
“Right on schedule, then. Give him a few weeks to regroup, incorporate Earlford’s surviving male populace into his army, and put a vassal on the throne, and he’ll be on his way to Syre. He’ll be at the gates of Obis around Midwinter, which gives us sixteen or seventeen weeks to stabilize this city and get it ready for war. So little time…”
“How do we know when to make our next move?”
“That’s in the hands of our would-be allies. We wait to see who tries first to assassinate me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY: THE NARROW GAP
By the time the disorganized mass of two-thousand undulated through the mouth of Widow’s Pass, Ferguson had become the undeclared leader of Vantok’s refugees; this accumulation of displaced of humanity was his flock. It unsettled Carannan to acknowledge this but, as a witness to all that had transpired, he could understand why it had happened. These people had lost everything - their homes, their loved ones, their city, and even the certainty of their gods. Ferguson, a resplendent figure in his prelate’s regalia, offered solace and the possibility of a brighter future. He preached sermons of healing and represented himself as the “one true link” between the turbulent yesterdays and the hopeful tomorrows.
Until recently, Carannan had considered himself to be Ferguson’s ally. He had deemed Sorial’s persecution of the prelate to be unwarranted, but now he was no longer sure. In light of what had happened with Gorton, his son-in-law’s charges of murder and recklessness had gained greater relevance. It didn’t escape his thought process that circumstances orchestrated by Ferguson could as easily have resulted in Alicia’s death as her transformation. Ferguson’s fanaticism had expanded beyond where it had plateaued for his many years as the figurehead of a long-standing secret cabal in Vantok to something self-serving and dangerous.
Carannan was caught in the middle. Myselene had named him Overcommander of the Army of Vantok, but he was no longer sure the position remained valid or meaningful. The men he nominally commanded still respected the chain of command and took his orders… but only as long as they were in line with Ferguson’s. The prelate’s command was absolute and Carannan had little doubt that if Myselene returned at this moment, the refugees would only bow knee to her if Ferguson told them to. By leaving the current chancellor within grabbing distance of power, Myselene had committed a grave error. He couldn’t fault her judgment, however. None of them had seen this coming. None except Sorial. What Carannan had mistaken for deep-rooted personal animosity on the wizard’s part might in fact have been a clear character appraisal. Ferguson was no monster but he was blind to everything outside his immediate goal and ruthless in pruning away obstacles and distractions. Annie, Kara, Lamanar, Sorial, Alicia, Gorton, Azarak, Myselene, himself, perhaps even Justin… all tools to be discarded when they had served their purpose.
Yesterday, shortly after the back end of the train had reached the inside end of the pass’ notorious “first bridge,” Ferguson had given Carannan a “mission.” The prelate had commissioned his overcommander to escort two dozen “candidates” to the Ibitsal portal to determine their suitability as future wizards. It was a relatively straightforward assignment, although not without danger from the roving groups of bandits that preyed on unprotected travelers in the North, but hardly the kind of operation requiring the participation of the chief military officer. Carannan would be in charge of ten soldiers, all hand-picked by Ferguson. Not being able to choose his own men was a warning sign. Although Carannan didn’t doubt the need for Ferguson to know who might represent viable replacements for the current wizards, he recognized that his being selected to lead the expedition was a convenient way to separate him from the army. Once he was gone, Ferguson could erode the remnants of personal loyalty that existed for him within the ranks. He assumed that Rexall, who had once worked directly for Ferguson, would be named as his replacement. The prelate had surrounded himself with cronies and Carannan, by virtue of his independence and continued loyalty to the old order, was now a liability. His term as a useful tool was at an end.
This was his final night in camp. Tomorrow morning, he was slated to ride at the head of a column bound for the northeastern end of Widow’s Pass. Thus far, movement through the treacherous mountain road had been slow and deadly. They had lost two wagons and about fifty people in several different incidents. They had entered the pass five days ago and Carannan’s advance scouts estimated it would take another four or five days before this part of the journey was over. The second bridge, longer and more narrow than the first, loomed ahead. Although many of the wagons had been abandoned before entering the pass, with only the smallest being deemed suitable, even those were liabilities on the bridges, with no room to spare on either side. A slight slip could plunge a vehicle and its contents into a chasm - something that had already happened twice and would undoubtedly be repeated. If nothing else, departing on this mission would get him out of Widow’s Pass sooner.
Although it was still early Harvest across the rest of the continent, with the warmth of Summer lingering in the lower country, up here in the mountains, it felt like Winter. Even huddled deep in his heavy wool cloak, Carannan found it difficult to stay warm. There was little refuge from the cold, biting wind that howled its relentless fury all day and night. After dark, when the temperature dropped below freezing, moist patches along the narrow, winding trail turned slick. With the peaks so high and close on either side, there was never direct sunlight; the entire journey occurred in a perpetual twilight. At its widest, the trail was perhaps fifteen feet from side-to-side, but there were spans where it was less than half that. Although the sides were frequently walled by sheer, unclimbable cliffs, there were places in whic
h the edges dropped off into seemingly bottomless chasms. All the deaths had been the result of men, women, and whole wagons going over those drops.
They struck camp an hour before the light failed to give people enough time to find relatively secure places to bunk down for the night. Fires were set but they were scattered and feeble, with little fuel to sustain them. People lay together, relying on body heat for warmth. That hadn’t stopped several elderly people from slipping away during the night. Carannan recalled that Alicia had made this trip a half-season later in the year and he couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for her. Somewhere up here, probably close to where they now were, Vagrum had met his end, shot in the head and forced over an edge by a would-be assassin.
Carannan was hunkered down by a tiny patch of glowing embers that gave off little heat and less light when Rexall approached him. The younger man sat down next to him, rubbed his hands vigorously over the “fire,” and spoke, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “I’m hearing rumors that you ain’t coming back. Ferguson no longer views you as reliable.”
Carannan nodded. The same could be said in reverse. He no longer doubted Ferguson’s ruthlessness although he was a little surprised that Rexall was the source of the warning. Maybe another of the prelate’s loyalists was wavering. “I’m just about the only one left in camp who might challenge his authority. And one of the few still true to Myselene. With her and Sorial away, it’s easy to forget that she’s our rightful ruler.”
“You underestimate your support and hers, at least among the military. But it ain’t hard to understand the people’s swing of allegiance. Many have known and revered Ferguson for decades. Myselene is a newcomer, not long married to the hereditary king. Her subjects might know and respect her, but there ain’t any ties. It would have been different for Azarak, but he’s ash.”
“Tell me, is the goal still Obis?”
“I don’t know for sure. Officially, that’s where we’re headed but I suspect we won’t go further than Sussaman. Ferguson will probably hole up there, wait out the battle, then make an accommodation with whoever wins. Then, as wizards die, he can replace them with new ones who are personally loyal to him. That’s where your mission comes in, only you won’t be finishing it. He really does need to know which of these people could have future importance and which are just ordinary citizens - your sister included.”
Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) Page 27