Hero in the Shadows

by David Gemmell

  “Follow me, girl,” said Omri.

  “I have a name,” she said, an edge of irritation in her voice.

  Omri paused, then turned slowly. She expected an angry response, but he merely smiled. “My apologies, young woman. Of course you have. So let us not keep it a secret. Pray share it with me.”

  “I am Keeva.”

  “Well, that was easily settled, Keeva. Now will you follow me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He moved across the hall and turned right into a broad corridor, which led to a wide staircase, which descended into shadow. Keeva paused at the top. She had no wish at all to spend the night in this ugly, flat dwelling. But to go underground? What kind of man would spend his wealth building a home burrowed under the earth? she wondered.

  The servant Omri was a little ahead of her now, and Keeva moved swiftly down the carpeted stairs. The whole building seemed dark and dingy, occasional lanterns casting sinister shadows on the walls. Within minutes Keeva felt hopelessly lost within a gloomy labyrinth.

  “How can you live here?” she asked Omri, her voice echoing in the bleak corridor. “It is an awful place.”

  He laughed with genuine amusement. It was a good sound, and she found herself warming to the man. “It is surprising what one can become used to,” he told her.

  They passed several doors before Omri took a lantern from the wall and halted before a narrow doorway. Lifting the latch, he stepped inside. Keeva followed him. Omri moved to the center of the small room, took a candle from an oval tabletop, and held the wick to the lantern flame. Once it was lit, he replaced it in a bronze holder shaped like an open flower. Keeva looked around. There was a bed against the wall, a simple piece, unadorned and crafted from pine. Beside it was a small cabinet on which was placed another candle in a bronze holder. Heavy curtains covered the far wall.

  “Get a little rest,” Omri told her. “I will send someone to you tomorrow morning—early—to explain your duties.”

  “What is it that you do here?” she asked him, her words tumbling out in her anxiety not to be left alone.

  “I am Omri the Steward. Are you all right? You seem to be trembling.”

  With a great effort Keeva smiled. “I am well. Truly.”

  Omri paused and ran his thin hands through his thinning gray hair. “I know that he fought and killed the men who attacked your settlement and that you were captured by them and treated … badly. But this is a good house, Keeva. You are safe here.”

  “How could you know all that happened?” she asked.

  “One of our guests is a Chiatze priestess. She can see over great distances.”

  “She practices magic?”

  “I do not know if it is magic. There are no spells cast. She merely closes her eyes. But it is, I must admit, beyond my understanding. Now get some rest.”

  Keeva heard his footsteps echoing along the corridor. Safe she might be, but she was determined to stay in this awful place not one heartbeat longer than necessary. Never before had Keeva been afraid of the dark, but here, in this underground palace, she found herself staring at the little candle, pitifully grateful for its flickering light.

  Weary from the long ride, she removed the cloak, dangling it over the back of a chair, then slipped out of her dress. The bed was comfortable, the mattress firm, the blankets clean, the pillow soft and yielding. Keeva closed her eyes and slipped into a dream-filled sleep. She saw again the Gray Man ride from the forest to confront the raiders, but this time, when he came to rescue her, his face was bleached of all color. He took her by the arm and led her to a wide hole in the ground, dragging her in. She screamed and woke, heart pounding. The candle had guttered and gone out, leaving the room in total darkness. Keeva rolled from the bed and scrabbled for the door latch, dragging it open. In the corridor a distant lantern was still burning. Taking the second candle from the bedside cabinet, she ran to the lantern, lighting the candle wick from its flame. Then she returned to her room and sat quietly, berating herself for her fear.

  “In life,” her uncle had told her, “there are two kinds of people: those who run from their fears and those who overcome them. Fear is like a coward. If you back away, it becomes a fearsome bully who will beat you into the ground. Face him and he shrinks to a tiny noisome insect.”

  Steeling herself, she blew out the candle and, lying down, pulled the blankets back into place. I will not give in to night terrors, she told herself. I will not panic, Uncle.

  This time she slept more peacefully, and when she awoke, there was the faintest of lights within the room. Sitting up, she saw that the light emanated from a crack in the heavy curtains of the far wall. Rising from the bed, Keeva crossed the room and drew back the curtains. Sunlight flooded in, and she found herself staring out across the brilliantly blue Bay of Carlis, the morning sun glittering on the waves. Tiny fishing boats dotted the bay, their white sails gleaming in the light. Above them gulls swooped and dived. Astonished now, Keeva opened the wood-framed glass doors and stepped out onto a curved balcony. All around her, on different levels, were similar balconies, most larger, some smaller, but all looking out over the beauty of the bay.

  She was not underground at all. The Gray Man’s white marble palace had been built on the side of a sloping cliff, and she had entered at the top, unable to see its true magnificence.

  Keeva glanced down. Below the balcony she saw terraced gardens and walkways and steps angling down toward the distant beach, where a wooden ramp extended into the sea. A dozen sailing boats were moored there, sails furled. Returning her gaze to the palace itself, she saw that two towers had been erected to the north and south, huge structures, each with its own terrace.

  Everywhere gardeners were already at work among the scores of flower beds, some clearing away dead plants, others sweeping leaves from the paths and gathering them into sacks slung over their shoulders. Still more were planting fresh border flowers or deadheading the many rosebushes.

  Keeva was so entranced by the beauty of the scene that she failed to hear the gentle tapping at her door or the creaking of the latch as it opened.

  “I think perhaps you should come inside and dress yourself,” said a voice. Keeva whirled and saw a young woman with braided blond hair. She was carrying a neat pile of folded clothes. The woman grinned at her. “The priests might catch sight of you, and what would happen to their vows then?”

  “Priests?” asked Keeva, stepping inside and accepting the clothes from the woman.

  “Chiatze foreigners. They are studying the ancient books that the Gentleman keeps in the library of the north tower.”

  Keeva took a white cotton blouse from the pile, shook it out, then slipped it over her head. The material was very soft, like a summer breeze on the skin. She shivered with pleasure, then stepped into the long gray skirt. It had a belt of silvered leather and a bright silver buckle. “These are mine?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “They are wonderful.” Keeva reached up and touched the embroidered tree on the right shoulder of her blouse. “What does this represent?” she asked.

  “It is the Gentleman’s mark.”

  “The Gray Man?”

  “In public we call him the Gentleman, since he is not a lord and far too powerful to be merely a landowner or a merchant. Omri says you came in with him last night. Did you bed him?”

  Keeva was shocked. “No, I did not. And you are very rude to ask such a question.”

  The blond woman laughed. “Life is very different here, Keeva. We speak freely and think freely, except in front of the Gentleman’s guests. He is a very unusual man. None of us are beaten, and he does not use the young women as his personal slaves.”

  “Then perhaps I shall like it here,” said Keeva. “What is your name?”

  “I am Norda, and you will be working with my team in the north tower. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let us get some breakfast. You have a great deal to learn today. The palace
is like a rabbit warren, and most of the new servants get lost.”

  Some minutes later, after what was for Keeva a bewildering journey through endless corridors and several sets of stairs, the two women emerged onto a wide paved terrace. A long breakfast table was covered with a score of deep dishes containing cooked meats, vegetables, smoked fish, cheeses, and fruits. Freshly baked bread had been set at one end, and flagons of water and fruit juices at the other. Keeva followed Norda’s lead and took a plate, heaping it with bread, a slab of butter, and some smoked fish. Then they walked to a table by the terrace wall and sat down to eat.

  “Why did you ask if I’d slept with the Gray Man?”

  “The Gentleman!” corrected Norda.

  “Yes, the Gentleman.”

  “There is great harmony here between the servant girls. The Gentleman does not play favorites, and neither does Omri. Had the Gentleman bedded you, it would have caused discord. Many of the young women would like to … enchant him.”

  “He is a strikingly attractive man, but he is very old,” said Keeva.

  Norda laughed again. “Age has little to do with it,” she said. “He is handsome, strong—and immensely rich. The woman who captures his heart would never want for anything—even if she had ten lives to live.”

  “From what you say, it is surprising he has taken no wife,” observed Keeva.

  “Oh, he has taken many.” Norda leaned in close, dropping her voice. “Gold wives.”

  “He pays for his pleasures?” asked Keeva, astonished.

  “Always. Isn’t that weird? Most of the girls here would rush to his rooms at the merest gesture from him. Yet he sends his carriage to bring whores from the town. Oh, fancily dressed and bedecked with jewels, but whores nonetheless. For the last year his favorite has been Lalitia, a redheaded strumpet from the capital.” Norda’s face reddened, and Keeva saw her pale blue eyes grow cold.

  “You obviously don’t like her.”

  “Nobody likes Lalitia. She rides around in a gilded carriage with liveried servants, whom she treats abominably. In her house she has been known to thrash the maids when the mood takes her. She is a vile creature.”

  “What does he see in her?” asked Keeva.

  Norda laughed aloud. “Oh, you’ll recognize it when you lay eyes on her. Loathe her as I do, even I have to admit she is astonishingly beautiful.”

  “I would have thought him a better judge of people,” offered Keeva.

  “You don’t know much about men, do you?” Norda said with a quick smile. “When Lalitia passes by, you can hear the sounds of jaws striking the ground. Strong men, bright men, scholarly men—even priestly men—all fall under the spell of her beauty. They see what they want to see. Women, on the other hand, see her for what she is: a whore. And not as young as she pretends. I’d say she was closer to forty than the twenty-five she claims.”

  Other servants had begun to arrive, gathering their food and finding places to sit and eat. A young man in a gray mail shirt approached them. Removing his helm, he smiled at Norda. “Good morning,” he said. “Will you introduce me to the newcomer?”

  Norda smiled. “Keeva, this is Emrin, the guard sergeant. He thinks he’s more handsome than he is and will do everything in his power to lure you to his bed. It is, sadly, his nature. Do not judge him too harshly.” Keeva glanced up at the man. He had a round, good-looking face and blue eyes. His hair was light blond, short, and tightly curled. Emrin extended his hand, and Keeva shook it.

  “Do not believe everything Norda says about me,” he told her. “I am really a sweet, gentle soul seeking the perfect partner for my heart.”

  “Surely you found him the first time you looked in a mirror,” Keeva said with a sweet smile.

  “Sadly, that is true,” Emrin said with disarming honesty. Taking her hand, he kissed it, then turned his attention to Norda. “Be sure to tell your new friend what a great lover I am,” he said.

  “I will,” said Norda. She glanced at Keeva. “The best ten heartbeats I’ve ever experienced.” Both women laughed.

  Emrin shook his head. “I think I should leave,” he said, “while I have a modicum of dignity left.”

  “Too late,” said Keeva. The man grinned and moved away.

  “Neatly done,” said Norda. “He will pursue you with even greater vigor.”

  “Not something I desire,” Keeva told her.

  “Oh, don’t rule him out,” said Norda. “As he says, he really is quite good in bed. Not the best I have known but more than adequate.” Keeva burst into laughter, and Norda joined in.

  “So who was the best?”

  Keeva knew it was the wrong question as soon as she spoke. The good humor faded from Norda’s face. “I am sorry,” Keeva said swiftly.

  “Don’t be,” Norda told her, laying her hand over Keeva’s. “Now we’d better finish breakfast, for there is much to do. There are several more guests due to arrive today, and one of them is a Chiatze. Believe me, there is no race so fussy.”

  3

  USING LONG, LAZY strokes, Waylander swam through the cold water. He could feel the warmth of the sun on the skin of his back, and he dived deep, through shoals of silver-backed fish, which scattered before him. Rolling and twisting, he felt a surge of joy. Here there was silence and—almost—contentment. Relaxing, he let his body float upward toward the sun. Breaking clear of the surface, he drew in a deep breath, tossed back his head to clear the hair from his eyes, and trod water while he gazed around the bay.

  At the harbor opposite were a dozen ships unloading their cargoes, while anchored farther out on the bay were twenty more waiting for the signal to dock. Twenty-eight of the ships flew under the flag of the tree. His ships.

  It seemed incredible to Waylander that a man like himself, without a great understanding of the subtleties of commerce, should have become so ridiculously wealthy. No matter how much he spent now, or indeed gave away, more gold flowed in. Matze Chai and other merchants had invested Waylander’s money well. But even his own ventures had paid off handsomely. It is all a grand nonsense, he thought, as he floated in the water. He had lost track of the number of ships he owned. Somewhere above three hundred. Then there were the mines—emerald, diamond, ruby, gold, and silver—scattered from the hinterlands of Ventria to the eastern Vagrian mountains.

  He swung in the water and gazed up at the white marble palace. He had commissioned it six years earlier after an idle conversation with a young architect who had talked passionately about the overwhelming and delightful problems of construction and of his dream to create a marvel. “Why should we always seek out flat ground?” asked the young man. “Where is the wonder in that? Great buildings should make an observer gasp.”

  Three years in construction, the White Palace was indeed a wonder, though the young architect had not lived to see it finished. A nobleman from House Kilraith, he had been stabbed to death one night by assassins from a rival house. Such was life among the nobles of Kydor.

  Waylander swam for the beach and emerged onto the white sand. His steward, Omri, left his seat beneath the olive tree and walked out to meet him, a long linen towel folded over his arm. “Was the swim beneficial, sir?” he asked, extending the towel and draping it over Waylander’s shoulders.

  “It was refreshing,” said Waylander. “And now I am ready for the pressing matters of the day.”

  “The lady requests an audience with you, sir,” said Omri, “when you have the time.”

  Waylander looked at the older man closely. “Is something bothering you, Omri?”

  “Were you aware she is a mystic?”

  “No, but it is not surprising. I have known many priests with talent.”

  “I find it unsettling,” admitted Omri. “I rather feel she can read my thoughts.”

  “Are your thoughts so terrible?” Waylander asked with a smile.

  “Occasionally, sir,” Omri admitted, straight-faced. “But that is not the point. They are my thoughts.”

  “Indeed so. What
else requires my attention?”

  “We have received a message from Lord Aric saying he will visit in ten days on his way to the Winter Palace.”

  “He needs more money,” said Waylander.

  “I fear so, sir.”

  Dry now, Waylander moved into the shade of the olive tree and pulled on a black silk shirt and a pair of soft leather leggings. Tugging on his boots, he sat back and gazed once more over the bay. “Did the lady say why she wished to see me?”

  “No, sir. But she did tell me of your fight with the raiders.”

  Waylander caught the note of criticism in the old man’s voice. “It is too fine a day to be chided, Omri,” he said.

  “You take great risks, sir. Largely unnecessary risks. We have thirty guards here and a dozen tough foresters. They could have been sent after the robbers.”

  “Very true. But I was close by.”

  “And you were bored,” said the old man. “You always ride off into the wilderness when you are bored. I have come to the conclusion that you do not enjoy being rich. It is, I must say, hard to understand.”

  “It is a terrible thing, boredom,” said Waylander. “It has come to me over the years that wealth and tedium are great bedfellows. When one is rich, there is nothing to strive for. Every pleasure I desire is available to me.”

  “Obviously not every one, sir. Otherwise you would not be bored.”

  Waylander laughed. “That is true. Now enough of this soul-searching, my friend. What other news is there?”

  “Two retainers from House Bakard were murdered in Carlis two days ago, supposedly by men hired by House Kilraith. There is great tension in the town. The merchant Vanis has requested an increase to his loan. He claims to have lost two ships in a storm and is unable to meet his debt payments. Also …” Omri pulled a slip of parchment from the pocket of his gray robe and perused it. “… the surgeon Mendyr Syn has asked if you would be prepared to hire three extra students at a cost of six silvers a month to assist him. There are now no spare beds in the infirmary, and Mendyr has been working fifteen hours a day trying to aid the sick.” Omri folded the parchment, returning it to his pocket. “Oh yes, and the … er … Lady Lalitia has invited you to attend a celebration of her birthday in three days.”