Servant: The Dark God Book One (Volume 1) (29 page)

“Zu, your daughter was showing me her fine saddle. We were talking in the courtyard.”

“Atra,” he said and waved her out.

She turned to Talen and curtseyed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I hope your mule was well-watered.” Then she scurried out and slipped past her father.

“I want you off my land.”

“I was hoping to get your help,” said Talen.

“I don’t care what you were hoping.”

“Zu,” said Talen.

But the glass master folded his arms.

Talen nodded. And walked past the glass master and out of the stable.

“Zu,” said Nettle. “We need your help.”

The glass master said, “Your uncle is a great man.” He turned to Talen. “And I’ve never had anything against your da. But it’s clear you need to stay to your own people. Atra’s too expensive for you, even if you were to be adopted by your better half. Now, I need you to leave.”

Better half? Talen’s initial humiliation now turned to anger. “You know what’s down in Whitecliff has nothing to do with me.” He pointed at Nettle. “Do you see his ear? I’ve been falsely accused of slethery. Him of aiding. We’re here to ask for an escort. If you won’t do it for me, then do it for Argoth’s son.”

The glass master shook his head. “I’ve got my own household to protect.”

Talen looked past the man’s shoulder and saw Atra glance at him then enter the house. He turned back to the glassmaster. “Sleth blood does not run in Koramite veins. It does not run in mine.”

“I didn’t say it did, boy.”

He stared at the glass master, but it was clear the man was not going to budge. He’d judged Talen by mere association.

“Thanks for the well water,” Nettle said.

“I wish I could help,” the glass master said. “But there are sleth running about. I cannot spare a man.”

He could, but he wouldn’t. “Good day, Zu,” Talen said. Then he walked over to Iron Boy, took him by the halter, and turned the wagon around. Someone stood at the front window of the house. For a moment he thought it was Atra, but it was Elan flapping her hand at him with that simple grin on her face.

Talen waved once. He would never be able to afford a girl like Atra. He probably couldn’t even afford even Elan, and it wasn’t because of the money.

He climbed up on the wagon seat next to Nettle, and they rode out of the yard. When they turned into the road, Talen let out a heavy sigh.

“You can’t listen to people who make glass,” said Nettle. “What do they know?”

“They know who they want their daughters to marry. They know that it was a Koramite in Whitecliff.”

“You didn’t learn anything back there, did you?”

Talen had learned plenty. He’d learned that Koramites would never rise as long as they protected and hid the bad elements among them. He’d learned that no matter what he did, his blood would drag him down. He’d learned that the sleth woman had stolen from him, stolen from them all. Talen flicked the reins and started Iron Boy walking faster.

First he’s beaten by villagers who know him. Next he’s attacked by hunters and accused of slethery. Now this. It was clear would only get worse. There was only one way to turn things around. He had to prove in some way that what that woman did was not a Koramite thing, that evil did not run in his blood.

He’d told the glass master he had nothing to do with sleth. And yet he himself was falling into the trap, hiding the bad elements.

“I’m going to turn in those hatchlings,” said Talen.

“You do,” said Nettle, “and you start the wheels of your own doom. They’ll pry the fact that your da hid them out of that little blind one. What then?”

“Look,” said Talen. “We wouldn’t hide a thief or murderer; why then should we hide sleth, which are both? There’s got to be some way to deliver them and preserve ourselves.”

“There’s only one way to do that,” said Nettle.

“And that is?”

Nettle gave Talen a sober look. “Dead. You’ll have to deliver them dead.”

28

Alliances

THE SKIR MASTER Rubaloth stood on the portico, the sun-warmed marble under his naked feet, the warm breeze washing across his legs and bringing the sulfur scent of the hot mineral pools. Behind him in the chamber, the Lord of the Fir-Noy, the one they called the Crab, lay on a couch trying to gather his wits.

“Pour him another cup of the tea,” Rubaloth said to Leaf, the dreadman who was his guide.

Rubaloth had just performed a seeking and then a minor binding on this man, forming a link between the Crab and an escrum, a weave that would allow them to communicate over distances. Such bindings initially disoriented the one bound, making him dizzy and stupid. However, Rubaloth did not have the time to let this man sleep it off. It would take a few days for the binding to cure completely, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be useful before then.

Leaf picked up the tea. Rubaloth heard him fill the cup again.

“This is a bitter brew,” said the Crab.

Rubaloth did not reply. He waited for the clink on the platter that would signal Leaf had returned the empty cup. Rubaloth had been cold the whole time on the sea and rummaging through this man’s mind made him feel filthy. He ached to submerse himself in the hot water that lay at the end of the marble path.

“So what is it you want us to do?” the Crab asked.

“I want you to find out all you can about this Captain Argoth. Where his family is from, his business dealings, the types of foods he eats. I want to know if he has a regimen of exercise.”

“Exercise, Great One?”

“I want to know what he puts in his body and what comes out. You’ll dig in his privy. You’ll search his pantry and root cellars. Anyone who uses the lore needed to eat certain foods to keep the body from wasting. They needed to exercise in a certain way to prepare the body for the moment of quickening.”

“Do you suspect him?”

“I suspect everyone, Clansman, including you.”

“Argoth’s sister married a Koramite,” said the Crab. “There are a number of us in the Council who have never trusted him.”

“You will provoke nothing,” continued Rubaloth. “He must know nothing. His wife must suspect nothing. You will take action only upon my command. And that will come through this minor binding.”

“What about questioning the Koramite?”

“Your tower is not secure. You’ll move him immediately. Far from Whitecliff.”

“Yes,” said the Crab.

“Do not touch him.” If the Koramite had anything to do with the rebellion here, if he had any secrets, Rubaloth would seek them out himself. He did not want to risk incompetent men killing or damaging the man.

“You do not want us to press him?”

“What did I just say?”

The Crab bowed. “Please forgive my stupidity, Bright One.”

“Be faithful over these few things and you shall be made ruler over many. Fail me, and you will be cast aside like rancid meat.”

He heard the Crab rise. His voice slurred slightly. “My heart is given to Mokad,” he said.

His heart was given to Mokad only because he saw that as his path to glory. Rubaloth felt that clearly during the seeking. He also felt nothing to suggest the Crab was part of the cabal that had murdered Lumen, which meant such ambition could be used.

“Prepare yourself. Wait for my command to use the weaves I’ve given you.”

“Yes, Bright One.”

Rubaloth turned the screw one last time. “I expect great things from you. Remember, the Glory is searching to replace Lumen. He is looking to raise one or two as Candidates. It is . . . not impossible for a man of your experience and talents.”

The Crab bowed even more deeply. “I will not disappoint you, Bright One.”

Rubaloth dismissed him and let Leaf walk him out. When Leaf returned, he asked, “Do you trust him?”

“I trust his ambition,” Rubaloth said. He took a breath, satisfied with this part of his plan. “Where’s Uram?”

“He’s coming, Bright One.”

Moments later the sound of studded sandals echoed down the hallway and stopped in the room. “My Lord?” said Uram in his pleasing voice.

Rubaloth said, “Argoth must come to the ship willingly. That is your mission. If he tries to escape, subdue him, but avoid killing him at all costs. When we’re out to sea, I will be more comfortable pressing him. But not a moment before. Defer to him, treat him as you would a lord.”

“May I respectfully suggest that we do not know the enemy’s size or strength. Will it not be safer to take him directly to the ship, Bright One?”

“Safer, yes, but also less effective. This enemy is a serpent, Captain. The moment it feels threatened, it will attack or flee. And so we shall give it no cause for alarm. When he’s cut off from all help and all prying eyes, I shall crack his mind like a nut. In that moment, surprise will be on our side. We will know his secrets. And if he is sleth, then I will direct our allies here to quickly and quietly move on them all.”

“Yes, Bright One.”

“You may go, Uram. I will see you on the morrow.”

Rubaloth turned to Leaf. “Now our part. We cannot let a pack of traitors think we are uneasy, can we?” He held out his arm for Leaf to take and turned to the pools. “Have you brought the wine?”

“Yes, Bright One. I have also arranged for a young man to work the knots out of your back.”

“Excellent,” he said, and then they walked out of the chamber and down the path arm-in-arm. At that moment a clamor arose ahead, punctuated by screams.

Rubaloth felt for Leaf’s mind so that he might see more clearly in the world of flesh what he saw in the world of soul. Had they underestimated the enemy?

Through Leaf’s eyes, he saw a number of knee-high, red-faced beasts run across the path. A troop of green and white clad servants ran after them with sticks and stones.

“G’alls!” he exclaimed. “Woodikin?”

Leaf drew the sword he kept at his side.

The beasts ran up the hill on his left and disappeared over the top with many screeches. The servants followed, throwing rocks and ringing bells.

Another servant carrying the wine walked along another path as if nothing were happening. Leaf called to her. “Hoy, what is this?”

The servant bowed deeply. “Monkeys, Zu.”

“Monkeys?” said Rubaloth.

“Yes, Bright One, we must be ever vigilant to keep them from the baths.”

Rubaloth shook his head in disgust. “What Lumen saw in this land I will never know.” He released his hold on Leaf’s sight. Using Leaf’s eyes was not something he wished to do often, for after long periods of soul walking a man could lose himself, leave his body and not return. And so he continued with Leaf to the pool and soft steams, seeing them as they were in the yellow world.

* * *

Argoth sat upon Courage, his tall black warhorse, sandwiched between five dreadmen who rode ahead and five who rode behind.

The bright, brass armor of the dreadmen clinked and clattered and blazed in the sunlight. Beneath it they wore close-fitting scarlet tunics and black pants. But this armor was meant only to dazzle the eye. The metal of their cuirasses was exceedingly thin. Brass was not a metal to stop swords.

If they had wanted protection, they would have worn steel segments or plate on top, a chain mail tunic underneath, and padding beneath that. They would have worn helms with face plates to deflect arrows. But they weren’t worried about being attacked by cohorts of men. They were worried about him escaping, about facing a smaller group of attackers. That much was transparent.

And why would the Skir Master expect a loyal servant to run? He wouldn’t. He would only expect it from someone he didn’t trust. These dreadmen would be on their guard, watching his every move.

A breeze blew crossways and carried the dust from the horses’ hooves out over the half-mown fields of hay on his right.

Argoth’s plan was simple. He would bind the Skir Master and force him to reveal who knew about his secrets. His plan hinged on getting a great quantity of Fire which he would use to quicken a weave that had been in his family for generations, a weave that would enthrall the Skir Master.

Argoth had sent a messenger to Matiga with two requests. He knew the Skir Master would have the man followed, but what other choice did he have? Besides, the messages would be coded. The messenger would simply relay the news of the Divine’s arrival, and then he would ask if she was going to need any help this year preparing her garden for the frost. That was her signal to bear the Grove away.

Next the messenger would say that Captain Argoth wanted a sour apple pie for dinner this evening. Matiga was known for her pies and tarts. In fact, there were some in Whitecliff who sent servants to fetch her pies once a week. What was not known was that this specific request from any of the Grove meant one thing—they needed to tap into the Grove’s reserve of Fire, something that could only be done in extreme need. Matiga held the Grove’s weaves, two of which were stores of Fire.

When he got the Fire, he would replenish his guttering flame. Then he would quicken the weave that would enthrall the Skir Master.

It would not be an easy task, but it was less risky than declaring open war. Keep small, keep quiet, avoid attention—that was the way the Order had survived all these years. But this time he did not want to run. And if he failed? He would fire the ship, sending all who sailed upon it to the depths.

He didn’t relish that idea. But at that point he wouldn’t have the luxury of finding out who had the knowledge of the Order and who didn’t.

This raised another issue. If he succeeded and returned, he would have to deal with Shim.

Tucked under his sash was a message forced into his hand back in Whitecliff by an unmarked messenger:

To Argoth, Old Woman’s Delight:
I was right; we are now in our extremity.
Remember the offer of a practical friend.
Do not turn your back on those who love you.
We await your reply.

There was no seal or signature, but Argoth knew the sender. “Old Woman’s Delight” made that clear. Shim gave him that name one day long ago when he and Shim found themselves past the Gap in the great woods with the sun going down. They were forced to sleep in hammocks far above the ground to avoid the wurms that hunted below. It took them almost a week to escape that death trap, and during that time he told Shim a story from his distant past.

Of course, he didn’t reveal to Shim his true age, but eighty years ago, as a boy of sixteen, his father began to receive and make marriage offers. One such came from a very ugly, but very rich woman. She tried to seduce Argoth and, failing that, tried to pressure his father into marrying him off to her.

Shim found the story hilarious and made Argoth tell it a number of times. However, Shim had never repeated it to others. Only Shim had ever called him “Old Woman’s Delight.”

The practical offer mentioned in the letter obviously alluded to Shim’s offering to ally himself with sleth. Shim knew what Argoth was, but that wasn’t as fearful as the “we” in the final sentence.

Shim had told others; he’d won them to his idea. But who? Men of their own clan? Or had he talked to other warlords? Either way, the more people that knew about Argoth’s powers the greater the risk.

The Grove would have three choices when he returned: flee, kill Shim and all those he’d told, or bring them into the Order.

And if he brought them into the Order, as Shim desired, they would want to fight as multiplied men. Knowing Shim, this would not be a handful of men. Shim was thorough. He would have gathered up enough to defend the land.

There was no way to hide that many. Introducing such a force would reveal the Order to the world.

He imagined the people of this land throwing off the blinders put upon them by Divines. They would live to the age of trees like the ancients had. A man and a woman would have the power to heal their children, but also every living thing in their domain: oxen, goats, chickens, a generous fruit tree succumbing to a blight. It was said that the ancients at times walked with the Creators. Maybe if the Order came out and flourished, such things might occur again.

Of course, they’d tried. Many years ago, Lord Shaydis, the head of the Order, disappeared with many eager members into the deep interior of this land, intent on laying the foundations for a city patterned after the ancients.

A great secret trail led to that city. Groves manned the waypoints, each knowing only the preceding and subsequent waypoint and the places and signals for meets. This ensured the traveling members found help along the way, but it also reduced the risk that any in the standing groves might be caught and questioned. Hogan’s was the last waypoint, but none in this grove knew the final destination. Their instructions were to lead whoever was traveling to the city to a certain lake three-day’s travel through the mountains. They were told Lord Shaydis would send someone to gather them in.

But none from Hope had come for a number of years. Some of the Order had struck out to find the city. Most did not return. Those that did spoke of terrible creatures that burrowed vast warrens, small men that lived in the tops of the great trees, a salt sea, mountains that smoked, and other wondrous and perilous things.

Fifteen years ago was the last time any group had been gathered in. Since that time, the flow along the great trail diminished to a trickle and then dried up altogether. But the hope of such a city had not died. And Shim was now providing a new, if precarious, opportunity to build it.

Argoth saw a land brimming with Divines. It was a bright and overpowering vision. Maybe too bright.

On the other hand, it was possible that Shim was loyal to Mokad, that he was an agent of the Seeker, trying to ferret out information about the Order. Argoth didn’t think so. He trusted Shim with his life. Always had. Still he would have to test him.

As he rode, he thought of how to write the message and get it to Shim anonymously. When he got home he found a new parchment and wrote:

Show me the depth of your love.

He sealed it with a blob of wax, but not with any mark that would give an indication of who had sent it. Then he secretly gave it to a servant and told him to deliver it without being seen by even Lord Shim himself.