"Define'a lot,'" Dante said, gazing out on the thousands of bones.
"Drink plenty of water," Larrimore winked. He used his torch to light another by the door. "Don't shut this door, either. We've only got the one key, and sometimes I lose things. Got a lot of responsibilities for one man, you see." He flashed his eyebrows, then picked his way out into the corridor. Dante heard him whistling on his way through the gloom.
He turned around. Bones from wall to wall. Was this another test? Larrimore had barely told him what to do. The man gave the impression he didn't care about anything, but somehow he was the one who kept the wheels of the Citadel greased and turning. Dante swept an open circle with his feet and sat down. Larrimore wanted bones, did he? He took up a rib, grasping the natural handle where the bone would meet the spine. This bone had once been a part of someone, he thought, then realized he didn't give a damn. That man had been dead for decades. Whoever he'd been, he hadn't even had the simple courtesy not to get dug up and stored in a forgotten basement until his remains could be involved in some morbid ritual.
Dante set the quill in his lap and with the knife he drew a light incision below his left thumb. His blood gleamed a blackish red in the uneven light from the torch ensconced beside the door. He picked up the quill, glad for the small favor that no one was here to see this bizarre melodrama, then dipped it in the blood in his hand and held the rib close to his face. He painted the letters delicately, one stroke at a time, adding a flourish to their ends. He held out the rib, eyeing it critically. Bind it? With the nether? He blinked back the frustration that was crowding his mind. Shadows sucked up from under the piles of bones, coursing up his arm and wrapping themselves around the rib's white surface. He let his desire become a semiconscious thing, felt rather than verbalized, the way he recognized he was hungry without thinking "apple" or "roast chicken," and smoothed the shadows over the length of the rib. Become one, he thought, and twitched back as the shadows pulsed and then sunk into the bone like water spilled on hot sand. The formerly creamy rib had grown gray, lined with the red-brown letters of Arawn's name, and when he set it aside he had a creeping sense of energy—not warm, not motile, certainly not conscious, but far sharper than the bland feel of the bones around him or the still air or the stones of the wall. He grunted and placed it gently on the floor.
The second bone was easier. He misspelled Arawn's name on the third and lobbed the thighbone into a far corner. After that first mistake he moved quickly, pinching the skin around the cut on his hand to keep it from clotting. Each bone was the work of no more than five minutes, and within half an hour he had the start of a pile lying beside his knee.
Last night's talk with Blays felt impossibly distant. He no longer had any way to deny he was doing the work of the Arawnites. Delivering letters was reasonably harmless; no doubt 90% of them said nothing but empty chatter. Bodyguarding men who couldn't help themselves was a respectable enough position, Blays' similar occupation notwithstanding. Capturing criminals was no more wrong than when the watch did it in every city on the planet. But this—painting bones with blood and locking them up with nether for use in what could only be their attempt to unleash Arawn—there was no defense of that. Mercenaries and men off the street couldn't do what Dante was doing now. If they succeeded in releasing the old god—not that he thought such a being even existed—Dante would be in part responsible for that success; and if he failed again when it came time to kill Samarand, perhaps that too would have its roots in what he was doing down in this neglected ossuary.
He grasped a jawbone, tensed his arm to hurl it against the opposite wall. All at once his feelings broke, his conflict left him like a hulled boat slipping beneath calm waters. Let him do Samarand's work with one hand while with the other he honed the knife meant for her heart. Let him tell Blays he was biding his time even while he used Nak to learn everything the monk could teach. Uncertainty and self-doubt wouldn't help him. No army was going to smash down the Citadel's gates, no heavenly hand was going to guide him through his trials and lead him to justice. He had nothing and no one but himself, the strength of his hands and his head and his will. If he was going to become the kind of man he intended to be, that would be enough.
The wound on his palm had scabbed as he brooded and he cut a parallel beside it. He worked without thinking, adding to the pile near his knee. He broke for lunch and wandered upstairs, wanting beef, red meat and fruit and a barrel full of water. Servants and guards watched him walk by the way he'd watch a wolf pad through the brush of the open woods. He ate by himself and returned downstairs without a word more than what he'd needed to get his meal. Once more the logic of the nether took his mind. He knew his part. One bone at a time, he created order from the decay.
"Make any progress?" Larrimore called to Dante when he'd halted for the evening and was making his way through the keep.
"See for yourself," he said, ignoring whatever the man said next as he stepped into the yard. Back at his room, Nak had prepared a thick sheaf of notes and lessons. He paged through them, recognizing more of the words than he would have expected, then set the papers aside. Too much lust for knowledge was the trappings and vanity of an unreal world.
He spent the next day with the bones, seeing others only at meals. Scabbed lines lay across his palm like tallies on a prison wall. Midway through his third day in the sub-basement he heard footsteps, the first that weren't his own. He didn't turn away from his work.
"Impressive," Larrimore said.
"I'm busy."
"That's enough for now. I've got something else for you."
"More important than laying the foundation of our finest hour?"
"Oh, be quiet." Larrimore walked around in front of Dante. He pursed his mouth at the boy's blank expression. "The council's meeting in an hour. I want you cleaned up by then. You look like you haven't bathed in a week."
"I haven't." Dante blinked up at him. "What does the council want with me?"
"It's not what they want, it's what you want. Up with you. Time for a lesson in politics."
Dante snorted and finished up the summons for the rib bone he was still holding. "Sounds enlightening."
"Stop sulking like a child or you'll miss the self-important men puffing their throats and preening their tails." Larrimore beckoned. "Come. Take a bath, for the gods' sakes. Samarand's Hand's Hand will never be of any use if he doesn't understand how the council works."
"Awful lot left," Dante said, nodding to the numberless bones, then the few score he'd prepared.
"That's enough. I told you the council'd been working on this before you. Come and see the court before I punch you in your gross little teeth."
It wasn't the threat that stirred Dante, it was the life behind it. He stood, knees and ankles popping. Larrimore stepped forward and patted him on the cheek hard enough to sting.
"There's some fire for your eyes. The way you carry yourself in that chamber will reflect on me, you know. The only way to keep those old bastards in line is to remind them just how old they are."
"Shall I dance for them?" Dante pulled out the collar of his doublet, tipped back his chin. "Where's my fancy jacket? Don't trained apes wear fancy jackets?"
"Better." Larrimore gave him a self-satisfied smile and led him back upstairs, leaving the stacks of bones behind. In the main hall he found a young man in a black cassock and dispatched him to gather the fruit of Dante's basement labor. Larrimore summoned a gaggle of servants and rattled off a line of orders in Gaskan. Dante could follow enough to pick out the words "bath" and "dress" and how the price of sloth would be a word he hadn't learned, but whose etymology meant "the breaking of limbs from the body."
"Go make yourself presentable," Larrimore said to Dante. "I'll send for you in forty minutes."
Before Dante could smart off the man strode off for other business in the deeper rooms of the keep. Dante turned to the servants with something close to guilt. They ducked their heads and gestured him upstairs, where a steaming b
ath had already been drawn. He barked at the pair of servants who'd stayed with him to turn away as he undressed, then allowed himself a brief soak. They waited with fresh clothes when he climbed out and he accepted their finery, slapping away their hands when they attempted to help him put them on. This was how royalty lived? For two full minutes Dante fumbled with the ends of a sash apparently meant for his middle, then sighed, looked up at the ceiling, and let the servants' swift hands secure it around his waist. He suffered them to dose him with perfume, waving them off after the first application.
"I'm a man, not a tulip garden," he mumbled in Mallish, then ordered them away before they could convince him it was the way of court. He brushed his hair, which had grown back out a bit since he'd had it trimmed before Samarand's sermon on Ben, then paced around the cushy quarters until Larrimore showed up. The man's mouth was tight, but his eyes danced with mirth as they jumped down Dante's laundered frame. Dante scowled at him. "You people are ridiculous."
"Deal with it like a man." Larrimore gave him a closer once-over, from his combed black hair to the fine silver trim on his cape and doublet and breeches, eyes coming to rest on the scuffed and scarred leather of his boots. "Where are the shoes? What's that garbage wrapped around your feet?"
"The boots stay."
"Fine. Look like a peasant who tripped over his hog and fell into a rich man's closet."
"You dress like you lost a fight with a wildcat!"
"And I've earned that right. All right, Little Lord Spitpolish, let's be on our way." Larrimore turned on his heel and took them to a staircase leading to the upper floors. "I'm guessing you're going to think the old men are stupid. You might even be tempted to try to educate them to the specific nature of their idiocy."
"Surely an idiot could never attain a position as lofty as theirs," Dante said, suspicious he was about to be told what to do.
"Indeed. So I'm going to entrust you with your toughest challenge yet: keeping your damn mouth shut. If you try to toss your pair of pennies into the hat, they're just going to laugh at you. Have you ever heard the sound of eleven corpses laughing? It isn't pretty."
"I've been writing on bones with my own blood for the last three days."
"And that will seem like a beautiful dream."
"I'll be good," Dante promised.
"Good. I don't like making threats."
Dante fell silent, pensive rather than with the moodiness that had consumed him for the last few days. What was Larrimore doing? Was he grooming him for leadership? No doubt he thought this was funny, in his perverse way, but the man's eyes sparked with something more. Dante'd gotten the impression no one around the keep really liked Larrimore. They feared him more than they derided him, granting a grudging respect to the undeniable efficacy of Samarand's Hand, no matter how slapdash a demeanor he wore on his cool brown face while executing his many charges. But they did laugh behind his back, imitating the sharp tone of his words, perhaps thinking he used too many or thought himself too clever; they muttered obscenities and the kind of mild threats that carried no weight. They did what he said, but they didn't like him. Perhaps the only one who did was Samarand, and she was so busy handing down orders from on high Larrimore was all but autonomous. As far as Dante knew the man had no pull with the council—clearly he hated them, resented them for his own obscure reasons. His lot was wholly thrown in with Samarand, and if for any reason she lost her seat, he would lose his as well. Was that it, then? He was snagging up Dante before anyone else noticed his potential? Shaping him up into an ally to help Larrimore carve out his own tiny piece of the empire inside the Citadel's gates?
Dante thought so. Larrimore had kept a close eye on the long leash he gave his pupil. His attention had gone beyond the way all adults had of trying to turn the younger people they had influence over into shorter versions of themselves, that strange instinct they had to stamp any sign of youth into their own mold, as if the existence of different opinions and methods threatened their very lives. It was like old people were terrified of dying without duplicating their minds on those who would replace them.
That instinct, too, was in the things Larrimore did. But unlike most men, it wasn't his driving force. He had other intentions for Dante. He wanted the boy to be able to hold his own. Perhaps, in time, to be able to watch Larrimore's back. That's what this sit-in with the council was about, Dante decided. The council was his weak point. He wished he had a little more time to build Larrimore's loyalty to him. There would come a time when it would be tested against the man's ties to Samarand. Maybe with another couple months, half a year, Dante would pull harder than her. He hoped when that moment did come it would at least cause Larrimore to hesitate long enough to lend Dante the advantage.
"Care to share the thoughts twisting your face up like that?" Larrimore said, spitting Dante with a severe look.
"What insults an old man most? Calling him withered, weak, or impotent?"
"Why not try all three?" Larrimore said. They reached the landing to the floor of the council chambers and he took Dante aside before they went into the hall. "I want you to pay close attention to the individuals," he said, voice low. "It would be a huge mistake to think their minds are united. The most important thing you can learn is what divides them. Pay special heed to the oldest man there—Tarkon Vastav. He's the nominal voice of what you might call the men of moderation. Doesn't speak his mind as freely as he once did, but perhaps that's a sign he's starting to lose it. This meeting might rouse him."
"Are you expecting a fight?"
"Not from him. I expect more trouble from Olivander. Brown-haired, ogrish-looking, ten or twelve years my senior. You'll know him by the way he fawns on Sama's every word."
Dante filed away the nickname. "If he's so taken by her, why would he be causing trouble?"
"Because she plans to leave him behind while she's off earning the glory."
"What? Why would she do that?"
"You'll see," Larrimore said, and would say no more. He opened the dark-stained door and took them down the corridor that led to the chambers, brushing past servants too busy with preparations to give him and his protege a second glance. Larrimore paused outside the council's double doors, the ones imprinted with the stylized tree of Barden, then cleared his throat and straightened his collar. He opened the door, revealing the long, simple table Dante had seen through the eyes of his rat. Sunlight spilled through the north-facing window. A half mile distant, the gray waters of the bay foamed against the shore. Dante counted eleven taken seats: ten men and one norren, enormous as a rampart, his brows and hair and thick gauzy beard looking white and tempestuous as a storm around a peak. The seat at the head of the table was empty. Servants stood frozen against the walls, eyes and ears trained on the deep, deliberate chatter of the assembled council. Dante looked at Larrimore for help and the man jerked his head and circled around the table to stand behind and to the right of the empty chair. Dante moved to take his left, and with a discreet tug of the boy's cloak Larrimore shifted him behind and to his own right.
About half of the council were white-haired and in varying degrees of personal antiquity, but from the look of resigned martyrdom on one of the old men's unbearded face Dante took him to be Tarkon, dissenter. He sat silent, unheeded. Olivander was one of if not the youngest, a bare hint of gray in his well-trimmed brown beard, and when he spoke the men around him turned their heads to listen. A few of the council cast glances Dante's way, examining this novelty in their cloisters—the norren, Tarkon, a middle-aged man with a long nose and his hair in a queue. All outsiders in their way, Dante guessed. Before he could parse out any more details the talk died off and Samarand emerged into the airy chamber. Larrimore stood straighter, tilted his chin. By reflex Dante did the same. She made her way to the head of the table, giving Dante a distracted look as Larrimore pulled out her chair.
"Anything new about the rebels, Olivander?" she said, and already Dante was lost. He'd expected a prayer or something to start it off.
They were priests, right? She did speak in Mallish, at least, and he didn't have to trust his spotty Gaskan. He'd come to learn almost every man of means in the dead city was bilingual while many men of the south never bothered to learn the tongue of the north, with the result being most conversation in mixed company took place in Mallish. It was almost a point of pride among the Mallish men to speak no other language but that of their birth.
"Our scouts are nipping around their heels," Olivander said in a steady baritone. "They have a few hundred, four at the utmost. Good men, but they've been living in the wilds for weeks. No official backers, from what I've seen. Just rabble."
"Do they look especially schemish?"
Olivander frowned, as if he didn't recognize the word. "I don't expect they've come all this way to shake their fists at us. Best prepare for something."
"Right." Samarand put her hands flat on the table and met the eyes of each man in turn. "I'm not going to waste words. I'm only taking six of you."
"Six?" the old norren rumbled after a general exchange of looks.
"That's all we need. I'm not going to triumph in the field and then return here to find a smoking crater."
"We do have a few soldiers," the norren said. "Not to mention a tall set of walls."
"Look," Samarand said, and pressed her lips together. "We need seven. Anyone else would be lace frills. Nice to look at, not terribly functional."
"And wearing all your lace at once doesn't usually leave you open to invasion," Olivander added. Dante watched Samarand smile with half her mouth.
"Who's to come?" said the man with the long nose and longer brown hair.
"Walter, Baxter, Vannigan, Vaksho, Fanshen, and Pioter," Samarand ticked off on her fingers. None of the men Larrimore'd named for him.
Olivander's nostrils flared. He pinched his brows together. "My lady—"
"Stow it," she said. "I need you here overseeing the Citadel. Take pride in that responsibility."
The Cycle of Arawn: The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 36