Hero in the Shadows (6 page)

Matze Chai had many such drawings in his own home, by some of the greatest Chiatze masters. Kysumu was talented but by no means exceptional. His compositions lacked, in Matze Chai’s opinion, the harmony of emptiness. Kysumu’s work had too much passion. Art should be serene, devoid of human emotion. Stark and simple, it should encourage meditation. Even so, Matze Chai decided, he should—at the journey’s end—offer to purchase one of the sketches. It would be impolite not to do so.

A servant brought him a cup of scented tisane and, with the temperature dropping, laid a fur-lined robe around Matze Chai’s thin shoulders. Then two of the bearers, using forked wooden poles, carried an iron brazier glowing with coals into Matze Chai’s tent, setting it down on a pewter base plate to keep cinders from singeing the expensive rug.

The incident with the robbers had proved spiritually uplifting. As the mountains spoke silently of the fleeting nature of man, the sudden peril had brought to the fore just how much Matze Chai enjoyed life. It made him aware of the sweetness of the air he breathed and the feel of silk on his skin. Even the tisane he now sipped was almost unbearably fine on the tongue.

Despite the discomforts of travel Matze Chai was forced to
admit that he now felt better than he had in years. Wrapping himself in the fur-lined cloak, he settled back and found himself thinking of Waylander. It had been six years since last they had met, back in Namib.

Matze Chai had at that time recently returned from Drenan, where he had, on Waylander’s instruction, purchased a skull from the Great Library. Waylander had then sold his home and journeyed north and east, seeking a new land and a new life.

Such a restless soul, thought Matze Chai. But then, Waylander was a man on a mission that could never be completed, a quest born in despair and longing. At first Matze Chai had believed Waylander to be seeking redemption for past sins. That was only partly true. No, what the Gray Man sought was an impossibility.

An owl hooted close by, breaking Matze Chai’s concentration.

Kysumu finished his sketch and replaced it in the leather folder. Matze Chai beckoned him to sit in the second chair.

“It occurs to me,” said Matze Chai, “that had the remaining robbers not panicked and run, you would have been overwhelmed.”

“Indeed,” said Kysumu.

“Or if my guards had not attacked the second group at just that instant, they could have run at the palanquin and killed me.”

“They could have,” agreed the swordsman.

“But you did not think it likely?”

“I did not think of it at all,” said Kysumu.

Matze Chai suppressed a smile but allowed the feeling of warm satisfaction to flow through him. Kysumu was a delight. The ideal companion. He did not gush or chatter or ask endless questions. He was, in truth, harmony itself. They sat thus for a little while. Then food was brought, and they ate quietly.

At the conclusion of the meal Matze Chai rose from his
chair. “I shall sleep now,” he said. Kysumu rose, pushed his sword and scabbard into the sash around his robes, and strolled from the camp.

The captain of Matze Chai’s guards, a young man named Liu, approached his master and bowed deeply. “Might I inquire, lord, where the
Rajnee
is going?”

“I would imagine he is seeking out the robbers in the event they might be following,” Matze Chai told him.

“Should some of the men not go with him, lord?”

“I do not believe he has need of them.”

“Yes, lord,” said Liu, bowing and backing away.

“You did well today, Liu,” said Matze Chai. “I shall mention it to your father upon our return.”

“Thank you, lord.”

“You were frightened, though, were you not, before the fighting began?”

“Yes, lord. Did it show?”

“I am afraid that it did. Try to exhibit a little more control of your expressions should any similar incidents occur.”

The Gray Man’s palace had initially both surprised and disappointed Keeva. Darkness had fallen as they had arrived. They had ridden slowly up a dirt road through thick woods, emerging onto open ground and an area of well-trimmed lawn bisected by a wide stone avenue. There were no fountains or statues. Two spear-wielding guards were patrolling the front of a long, flat single-story building around two hundred feet long. There were few windows to be seen, and even they were dark. The only light Keeva could see came from four large brass lanterns hanging in the wide marble-pillared entrance. It looks like a mausoleum, thought Keeva, as the Gray Man rode his horse forward.

The black doors opened, and two young men ran out to meet them. Both wore gray livery. Weary now, Keeva dismounted. The servants led the horses away, and the Gray Man
beckoned her to follow him inside. An elderly man was waiting for them, a tall, stooping figure, white-haired and longfaced. He, too, was wearing gray, an ankle-length tunic of fine wool. At the shoulder the image of a tree had been beautifully embroidered in black satin. He bowed to the Gray Man.

“You look tired, sir,” he said, his voice deep and low. “I shall have a hot bath prepared.”

“Thank you, Omri. This young woman will be joining the staff. Have a room prepared for her.”

“Of course, sir.”

Without a word of farewell the Gray Man strode away across the marble-tiled hallway. He had said little since they had moved away from the ruins, and Keeva wondered if she had said or done something to annoy him. She felt confused and uncertain and gazed around at the velvet hangings, the ornate rugs, and the walls adorned by fine paintings.

“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.