by Shel, Mike
With the sun setting, they came upon a larger clearing featuring a longhouse, just as the innkeep at Wisdom’s Repose had described it: low stone walls with canvas pitched to form a slanting roof. There were three attendants at the shelter. Auric approached the nearest one, a sour-looking fellow with sparse gray hair and stubble on his pock-marked face, clad in dark gray robes.
“We require shelter for the night, sir,” he began, tipping his riding cap as a courtesy. “Do you have room in your shelter for six of us?”
Close up now, Auric could see a faded tattoo on the right side of his face of a bloated toad, its mouth open for a thunderous croak. The grizzled man looked to Auric from beneath heavy brows and spat out phlegm he loudly gathered from the back of his throat. “Aye, pilgrim, if pilgrim you be.”
When the man spoke, Auric noted a droop on the tattooed side of his face: the after-effects of a stroke suffered. “Yes, we are pilgrims, sir, bound for Gnexes, seeking Pember’s wisdom.”
“A crown a head,” he grumbled, looking over Auric’s shoulder at the rest of his comrades. “There’s space, but ya’ll hafta supply yer own bedrolls. This ain’t a fancy inn. Don’t expect room service, or someone sent up to warm yer bed.”
The man made Auric’s skin crawl, though he had trouble saying exactly why that was. He reached in his purse and retrieved six silver coins. “Of course. We’re grateful for a place to rest ourselves, and pray.”
Eyeing Auric’s purse, the man perked up a bit. “An’ another half-crown a head for coals, for the stove. Gets mighty chilly this close t’the clouds at night.” Without comment, Auric handed over another three coins. The man gave him a smile with half of his face and gestured to the longhouse. “Go on in, then. Find yerselves a spot. Early enough in th’ evenin’ to get closer to a stove. You can tie your horses up around back. An’ leave th’ wagon where ‘tis.” He tipped a knuckle to his forehead and sauntered off, dragging his left foot.
“He seemed nice,” observed Chalca, sidling up to Auric.
Auric chuckled. “My silver brightened him up quickly. Our hostess at Wisdom’s Repose told me that these shelters are tended by failed priests of Pember. Bitter folk who’ll try to wheedle coin from you for worthless horoscopes and such.”
“Charlatans, then,” said the actor. “I know them well. Magicians, mentalists, tricksters of all sorts cross the paths of honest theater troupes, Sir Auric. I caught enough of their patter to know a faker when I see one. I suppose people headed to the oracle are hungry for knowledge of the future. It’s natural that fakers would prey on that vulnerability. Disgusting.”
“Quite a rarified attitude for someone who isn’t above lifting a man’s purse,” said Auric.
Chalca smiled. “Oh, Kennah begs for such treatment, Sir Auric, you must admit. Honestly, it’s a useful skill to possess. When wealthy patrons fail to honor the contract they’ve signed, it’s important to have alternate means to see the terms fulfilled. I’m not a common thief.”
“An uncommon one then.”
The pretty man rolled his eyes. “Really, Sir Auric. I would hope you were a bit more evolved in your attitudes. You invited me along on this expedition for those very skills, did you not?”
Auric smiled. “Aye. Though ‘invited’ is an odd choice of word.”
Chalca returned his smile and massaged his wrists; the marks of the manacles he had worn in the queen’s dungeons had all but faded. “Of course it was an invitation! And vastly preferable to the alternative Her Majesty’s justice had on offer. I thank you again, sir, and hope I prove my usefulness to you.”
“You already have, lad.” Auric gave in to an urge then, to ask something of the man while they were alone. He spoke in a quieter voice. “Keep an eye out for Agnes, would you?”
Chalca frowned and nodded. Auric had trouble reading the emotion. “I do for all my friends, Sir Auric, but Agnes is a big girl, you know.”
Auric bit back an angry retort as the attendant approached again, wearing his unnerving half smile. He held in one hand a basket of coals and in the other something covered with a soiled, careworn cloth. Auric turned his attention from the actor to the unpleasant man.
“A proposition for ya, sirrah,” the man began, setting down the black coals and unwrapping what turned out to be a deck of cards. A mere ghost of the gilding on their edges remained, and the back of the top card featured a grimy, wart-covered toad. “A reading, sirrah, from the Deck of the Far-Seein’ Eye, by one of the anointed o’ Pember. All for a small contribution to the church. No pilgrim should enter Gnexes without a good sense o’ what the future holds, eh?”
“No, thank you,” Auric replied, still feeling his irritation with Chalca. Of course he knew Agnes was a grown woman! He only asked that Chalca make it his duty to have her back when Auric couldn’t do so himself. How was that an unusual request?
“Oh, sirrah, really, a reading is necessary! For only a single sovereign ya’ll be warned o’ pitfalls that lie in yer path. Let me light the way for ya!”
“I said no, quite clearly, sir! I have no need of claptrap from a defrocked priest.”
The attendant’s feigned affability vanished, replaced by a feral half-sneer. He began wrapping his deck again in its soiled cloth. “Ya look down yer nose at me, sirrah. That’s fine. I’ll take my wisdom elsewheres then. Pearls a’fore swine!” He pointed a crooked, quivering finger at Auric’s face. “But here’s a bit o’ wisdom fer free, high an’ mighty lord: the road t’ Gnexes’s is fraught with dangers, and the caves has swallowed up their fair share o’ arrogant ’ristos and sword swingers thinkin’ their shit smelled o’ perfume.”
With a final hateful scowl, the man kicked over the basket of fresh coals and stomped off.
“You did not make a friend there, Sir Auric,” offered Chalca.
“Shut up, lad,” he answered.
They had half of the shelter, thirty feet wide and twice as long, nearly to themselves. Another cluster of pilgrims, clad in the robes of penitents, were gathered at the other end of the building. Auric and his companions ate a meal from the supplies they had secured in Farwind Vein. Chalca provided entertainment with stories of his adventures with the theater troupe, with lusty Scylla at his side. Auric found it hard to stay angry with the lad, with his wry wit and flair for the dramatic tale. Agnes was withdrawn with Auric, had been since Farwind. He gave her the distance she required. He had learned that this was the way to handle her pique, though he had to fight his natural inclination to explain himself, to try to work it out. He spoke briefly with Sira after dinner.
“Something troubles me,” Sira had said to him. “The healing of both Kennah and Agnes seems complete, but some discomfort remains. And the effort of assuaging their suffering, it has taken more out of me. I worry that it might be our impious task. Perhaps a sign Belu does not fully countenance our mission.”
Auric hadn’t responded to the priest, just nodded thoughtfully. Soon she was reassuring him, as she always did. But she also seemed slightly distracted, her attention darting back to Agnes and Kennah, who were laying out their bedrolls a few feet away. The priest worried over them both.
Auric positioned his own bedroll on the side of the stove away from the rest of his people. He wanted some privacy, in case Szaa’da’shaela spoke to him. The Djao blade hadn’t communicated since Ironwound, and for some reason he craved its counsel. He lay awake long after the others slept, the sword lying at his side in its leather sheath, silent. He fondled the coin the bishop had given him in Ironwound, wondered how it could be employed to his advantage. It was like any other penny now, and he felt a bit foolish, returning it to a pocket.
Just past midnight, he gave up trying to ignore the urging of his bladder. But just as he made to get up, the metal edge of a blade pressed against his throat and he heard a voice in his ear.
“It pays t’keep a knife sharp,” whispered the voice. It was the att
endant whose offer he had spurned. “Like mine here. I could drag it ‘cross yer throat in a flash, an’ ya could do naught but gurgle and spit while yer blood seeped out on th’ground. So, keep yer mouth shut an’ listen t’this d’frocked priest, Auric Manteo. Yeah, I know yer name. Still have some o’ the Second Sight, enough t’know you an’ yours is trouble. Big trouble.”
Szaa’da’shaela trembled next to him, but Auric didn’t dare reach for the blade, let alone unsheathe it. Was this how his life ended? Throat cut by some petty ex-priest he had carelessly offended? It was a joke that would surely please Timilis.
“Ya seek to de-throne Pember,” continued the man, “to topple them from their perch in the high heavens.”
“I assure you,” Auric said in a quiet, even tone, “we wish no harm to Pember or his cult. We are merely pilgrims—” The knife’s edge biting into his skin silenced him.
“Ya can’t lie to the Second Sight, sirrah! I had a dream las’ night, drippin’ with prophecy it was, the kind high speakers and deacons have. Six souls, faces hidden from me, but I knew it was you, the second I laid eyes on ya. Ya walked up the road to the oracle an’ entered the mountain, an’ you went down to its roots, an’ ya pulled the whole bloody mountain down! It came tumblin’ down, crushed everyone in its path. An’ the rock and dust blotted out th’sun.”
The tickle of a bloody tear from the shallow cut in his neck stayed Auric’s tongue.
“I ain’t decided if I’m gonna kill ya, Auric Manteo,” the attendant said, his breath warm and wet in Auric’s ear. “Part o’ me says, ‘No. Let it happen. Bring down the whole fuckin’ mountain, on all our heads.’ I’m ready t’meet Marcator, an’ spit in his smug face, goddammit! Maybe I should let you do whatever it is yer plannin’ t’do. Might be ya don’t mean to make it all happen, but I’ll dance a jig when it does, when everythin’ falls apart. Life’s played enough cruel jokes on me, but maybe it’s okay if I’m in on the last big one. Yer here t’murder prophecy, Manteo. Yeah, to murder it! Should I let it happen? Let the whole bloody earth burn to cinders? Or should I just go ahead and slit your high an’ mighty throat right now?”
Auric tensed when the knife’s edge bit deeper into his neck. Then the steel backed away at the sound of a familiar tenor.
“You’re a bitter old fraud, aren’t you?” said Chalca, who Auric realized had his own knife to the defrocked priest’s neck. “I had you marked as a vindictive cunt the moment I set eyes on you. I’ve seen plenty of your type in my day and I won’t lose a wink of sleep to end your miserable days. But I fear your blood will stain Sir Auric’s bedroll. So why don’t you drop that blade and skulk off somewhere to suck at whatever rancorous teat nourishes you in the night?”
The man exhaled and dropped his knife, slipping away into the darkness. Auric put a hand to the nick on his neck.
“Has he cut you badly, Sir Auric?” asked Chalca, a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s superficial,” he responded. “No more than an inch across. I thank you for your intervention. That might have been the end of my journey.”
“No,” said the actor, wiping his dagger on a cloth he retrieved from a pocket. “His type likes to frighten people. It’s a common enough trait in con men—they’re bullies, which means they’re cowards at heart. I doubt we’ll see him again. Best we get some sleep.”
Chalca returned to his bedroll opposite their stove, where the coals the defrocked priest had sold them glowed red. It brought to mind what the man had said to Auric: Let the whole bloody earth burn to cinders! That failed seer thought they journeyed to Gnexes in order to somehow bring harm to Pember, a lesser god of the pantheon. Perhaps he still possessed the Second Sight but misinterpreted the signs. They were on their way to kill a god, but a god greater than Pember. Mountains falling, fires that consumed the earth. What would they unleash upon the world if they succeeded?
28
A Ravenous Hunger
The number of events the old man needed to witness through sorcerous means was multiplying by the day, some of them occurring simultaneously. The most recent was last night’s meeting of the Ecumenical Council, during which the assembly had confronted the Church of Timilis over the assault on the Citadel. The cult’s representative—Peflin Orba by name, a tall man with a crooked back that made him look like a bent, emaciated tree—had responded with their faith’s usual glibness.
“Where is your evidence that shows us culpable?” Orba asked in a reedy voice, feigned affront seeming to dangle from him like the beads of his pyramidal hat of burgundy. “If you have it, why do you not present it for all to see? No, brothers and sisters, we shall not serve as whipping boy for the act of every malcontent or each public scuffle that disrupts your strange need for perfect order. Though the Lord delights in surprises and monkeyshines, humanity is capable of stirring up its own chaos free from divine intervention.”
There was a rumble of outrage from the gathered delegates, all clad in the vestments of their respective deities. A bishop of Marcator in coal-black robes, waving a rod of black and silver, began quoting from scripture in stentorian tones. Orba crossed his eyes and held out both arms, as though submitting for comic crucifixion, drawing more howls of protest. The presiding delegate, a white-haired priest of Chaeres in green robes, banged her gavel to quiet the restless flock of priests. “The delegate from the Cult of Timilis has the floor, brothers and sisters! Please comport yourselves with the dignity this council requires!”
“I thank you, sister,” said Orba with mock gravity. He gave a dramatic bow to her chair and held the awkward posture, his bony fingers scraping the floor. After a pause that lasted a few seconds longer than was proper, he shot up and held out his arms again, fingers splayed. “Persecute us no longer! We are all siblings, devoted to the pantheon, watched over by our wise and benevolent gods. Look elsewhere for an explanation of the disorder and let us worship the Lord of Laughter as befits his lofty rank.”
The assembly descended into shouts and insults and petty bickering, all of it clearly pleasing a gloating Peflin Orba. Ush’oul appreciated how well it mirrored the chaos that was unfolding faster than he had anticipated; he sensed collapse and wildness everywhere—it was in the air around him, and it found expression in the increasing lawlessness on the streets of Boudun. What physical evidence there was that the cult was behind the disorder had conveniently disappeared. Auguries and bloody rituals conducted by priests of Tolwe to suss out the truth yielded nothing of use for either the Ecumenical Council or the city watch.
The old man sighed. For the first time, he was uncertain. Perhaps, he thought, I have miscalculated. Perhaps this aged body cannot see me through the work that remains. But he must complete his task. For ten thousand years he had wandered the earth, hopping from body to body, gathering wisdom, waiting for the opportunity to see justice done. Please, Creative Spirit of the Universe, he prayed, allow me to accomplish what I must in this form.
But of course he would do whatever was necessary. Should this body fail him…well, he had a solution, though it pained him to think upon it. Simply pray that the Creative Spirit will let that cup pass from you, he thought.
The old man stood now beside Countess Ilanda Padivale in the queen’s bedchamber, hidden from all present but the countess herself by a simple spell of concealment. The Grand Chamberlain, Ulwen, sensed his presence, but he was too distracted by the deterioration in the queen’s appearance to do a proper search. Bless the Universal Spirit of Creation for that—this vessel couldn’t last much longer, and every exercise of sorcery, no matter how small, abridged what time he had left in the body. The boy, Ghallo, who was almost always nearby, waited in the quarters they shared in the countess’s suite of rooms. The old man sensed the lad’s unease, even from here.
“Ilanda, darling,” sang the queen, flesh worn away almost completely from the right side of her face, exposing the yellowed bone beneath, “Forgive us, but we wonder if we hav
e taxed you too hard.”
Ilanda gave the queen her most enchanting smile, an act of enormous will, given the queen’s malodorous, hideous presence. “Why do you say so, Majesty? Time spent with you is always a delight.”
The queen batted at Ilanda with an antique fan, green and gold like the colors of the banner of Hanifax. A black claw traced the fan’s lacquered wood. “Those are bags under your eyes, dear.” She held up her fan. “No! Do not deny it! We can see through the cosmetics you wear. Your maidservants are not to blame; as you know, we are quite perceptive. You do not get enough sleep.”
“You are so perceptive, Majesty! It’s a foolish girl who tries to sneak something past your notice. But it has nothing to do with the time you require of me. I have simply had difficulty sleeping of late. Do not trouble yourself, Your Majesty, I beg you.”
The queen smiled, or affected what would be considered a smile were it not for her rot-blackened teeth—it looked like the mouth of a particularly uninviting cave, the entrance trimmed with jagged and sooty stalagmites and stalactites. “Darling girl, nothing concerns us more than your welfare. You are precious to us. We will have the court alchemists concoct a potent sleeping draught for you.”
The old man saw that the queen’s regard for the countess in that moment was more akin to a tavern patron’s regard for a cut of meat displayed by the chef before it was laid on the grill. There was something even more troubling about Imperatrix Hanifaxa this morning, he decided. Something that felt more predatory…ravenous. He wondered if he should probe that something further, but he would need to tune out this vapid banter, and one never knew when some bit of consequence would be tossed in with the queen’s usual inanity. This was the first time anyone other than the old man himself detected the strain in the countess. So much time spent with her monstrous monarch, intelligence reports from Harkeny’s spy network hinting at great things afoot in the duchies. And yet, still no word of her husband’s death. Marburand must be employing sorcerers of considerable skill to have kept the news hidden for this long. Soon, thought the old man. Soon you will know, Ilanda Padivale. Will the weight of it break you? I must see that it doesn’t. You have an important role to play in the coming events and must survive the first waves of chaos. Again, whatever the price. Another thought that gave him pause. Will its bitterness poison you, young countess? That would upset matters as well. Careless, stupid of me not to have considered that possibility. How can this be remedied?