Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) (31 page)

Where were they? Ferguson had given orders to the escort soldiers that, upon reaching Ibitsal, they were to send a messenger to Sussaman to report and receive further instructions. Even assuming a conservative pace, the messenger was past due. The weather had been conducive to travel in the North, so that couldn’t explain the delay. Ferguson was growing increasingly concerned that something might have happened to the expedition.

An attack by a large group of bandits was a possibility but not a likelihood. The ruffians who roamed this part of the world typically preyed on small, weak collections of travelers - two-dozen refugees with half that many armed guards would represent too intimidating a target considering the likely payoff. A greater concern was one Ferguson had initially dismissed - that the trivial number of deserters, which had included Carannan’s lieutenant, the rapscallion Rexall - could in some way be responsible. He assumed they had fled to avoid combat but now he wondered whether their goal might have been more organized and damaging. What if they had hijacked the expedition? That would explain why no one had reported. It also made it questionable whether the candidates had reached Ibitsal.

There was no easy way to ascertain the truth, although he had sent out a party of a score armed men to scout the likely path between the mouth of Widow’s Pass and Ibitsal. With every passing hour, the possibility of a messenger’s arrival grew less likely and that made Ferguson’s position precarious. Not only was the key to his future plans tied to the candidates but, in the likely event that Justin won at Obis, his inability to present them could be seen as a betrayal regardless of how he framed it.

That worry aside, however, things were going as expected. He had been welcomed at Sussaman and, although the village was ill-equipped to accommodate such a large group of people, the inhabitants had done what they could to set up temporary shelter for the refugees and share their provisions. Wintering so many people here would eventually become a problem but Ferguson hoped that, one way or another, events at Obis would resolve it. If Myselene won, she would be eager to feed and protect the citizens of Vantok. If Justin won, he could probably be prevailed upon to share some of the spoils of Obis. Either way, there was no reason to implement a program of rationing… yet.

He supposed it was late enough in the game to send a message to Obis, if only to learn whether Myselene’s efforts to secure the throne had succeeded. There had been no word from the North’s biggest city - the few eastbound itinerant merchants who passed through claimed ignorance of any change in the scramble for the crown, although there were indications that partial martial law had been declared. Ferguson needed to send word of Gorton’s unfortunate demise and explain his decision to keep the refugees in Sussaman - for their own protection, of course. Whether the queen agreed with him or not was immaterial. If she survived the inherent dangers in seizing the throne and managed the unlikely task of defeating Justin and his army, Ferguson would figure out a way to pacify her. For now, however, he had more pressing concerns than justifying his actions to the arrogant bitch who, as a result of having seduced the weak-willed and short-sighted Azarak, believed herself to be his rightful sovereign. The time for him to pretend obedience to one such as her was fast approaching its end. Ferguson would be glad when circumstances allowed him to shake free the yoke and finally begin to act as his role demanded.

* * *

Despite having spent more years as an adult within the confines of Sussaman than anywhere else, the small, cramped village didn’t feel like home to Warburm. Most of the people he had known back in the “old days” were dead and gone, their remains in the bone-yard just north of the settlement. A few familiar faces remained, like Aiden and Yuman, the First Brother, but Warburm more keenly felt the absences than the presences. Somehow, without Kara and Lamanar, this seemed like a foreign place.

His wife and daughter had settled in nicely into his “house” - a ramshackle cottage that had been kept in decent repair by the residents in case he chose to return. If nothing else, the men and women of Sussaman took care of their own, even if they had been absent for more than a decade. Warburm’s family was glad to have a roof over their heads for the first time since Vantok and he couldn’t blame them. But he was restless, a caged animal who had been too long deprived of his freedom. He yearned to be gone from here, whether to join the fighting in Obis or head south to retake Vantok. Anything other than waiting here - something the prelate was content to do.

He no longer trusted Ferguson. It was a hard thing to admit that the man he had for so long admired and followed had fundamentally changed, and not for the better. The great prophet whose lone concern had been guiding humanity through the dark years had been replaced by a self-serving megalomaniac who saw himself as being above the laws of men and gods. Events on the journey from Basingham to Sussaman had convinced Warburm that the prelate now viewed it as his right to eliminate those who disagreed with him or represented an impediment. Once, deaths ordered by Ferguson had come only after much deliberation and soul-searching. No longer, apparently. Gorton’s demise had been too convenient to be a coincidence. After that, in quick succession, the disappearances of Carannan and Rexall… Anyone in a position of power who might thwart Ferguson, regardless of any past association, was gone. Warburm was half-surprised no one had come for him during the night. He supposed the prelate still trusted him, although there was no guarantee of that.

Ferguson had placed him in the unenviable position of being the liaison between the refugees and the village. It was a duty full of annoying administrative details, and one that kept him away from his fire and his wife’s bed except in the darkest hours of the night. This evening, as dusk fell along with a few wayward snowflakes, he was wandering the streets again, searching for someone from Sussaman who could accompany one of Ferguson’s priests to Obis to learn whether Myselene had crowned herself queen.

“Lord Warburm?” The voice was tiny and querulous, yet it startled Warburm. He turned to meet two of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. They were perhaps the only remarkable thing about the girl in front of him. She wore the heavy furs one might expect of someone outside in the latter days of Harvest, although her head was bare, covered only by a thick mane of blonde hair. She was thin - far too thin for Warburm’s taste, although he recognized that many would consider her to be pretty.

“
Lord
?” His tone was amused. Had he ever been addressed by that title before? Innkeeper, yes. Barkeep, occasionally. Fat bastard, often. Cheap-ass, to be sure. But Lord?  Not that he could recall, although his memory wasn’t as clear as it had once been.

She nodded somberly. “Me name’s Shiree, Lord Warburm. They say you might be able to give me news of a man in Vantok’s army. Name of Rexall.”

Warburm arched an eyebrow. The girl’s name was familiar - Rexall had mentioned her a few times. On each occasion, his expression had been like that of a man probing a bad tooth with his tongue. Pain, regret, a wish to forget - Warburm knew those feelings well, having experienced them regularly over the course of his misbegotten years. Shiree’s emotions were easy enough to read. She was besotted. Poor her. Poor Rexall too, if he was still alive.

The “official” story was that Rexall had deserted in Widow’s Pass, abandoning his fellows out of cowardice. The penalty for desertion was hanging so it was unlikely he was going to make an appearance in Sussaman even if he some dire fate hadn’t befallen him. Some rumors claimed he had been thrown into one of the crevasses by Ferguson’s priest-guards. Others indicated he had left in the company of like-minded men seeking to prevent Carannan from being hacked to bits by those serving under his command on the journey to Ibitsal. Warburm didn’t know the truth of the matter, but he wasn’t going to burden this poor young girl with tales of woe concerning her lover. Better to lie. That was something Warburm had always been good at.

“I served with him all the way from Vantok to Widow’s Pass. He didn’t come to Sussaman with the rest of the refugees; he were sent to rendezvous with Queen Myselene at Obis.” Then, in an embellishment Rexall might curse him for, Warburm added, “He mentioned you a few times. Even asked me to inquire after you once we was all settled. Said ta tell you he’d find you afore it were all over.”

When he saw the way those sapphire eyes lit up with pride and joy, Warburm wondered if he had done her any favors.

“Thank you,” she said with an intensity that Warburm found unsettling, then was gone, plumes of frosty breath trailing behind her.

Just like that, he had manipulated her. Her and perhaps Rexall. Once, that might not have bothered him but, as he stood in the middle of one of Sussaman’s narrow streets with the snow gathering in intensity around him, he suddenly felt uncomfortable. For the first time, he saw how little difference there was between him and Ferguson, except perhaps in a matter of degree. Their methods were the same: deceive and control. He might argue that the words he had spoken to Shiree were in her best interests, but that was the same argument Ferguson proffered for everything he did. Like a true student, Warburm was emulating his master without even thinking about it. When his actions seemed to be for the greater good, it never bothered him, but now that Ferguson’s achievements had lost their purity, so much was tainted. Oh, to be back in those days when life was simple…

That was when Warburm knew what necessity demanded, and its recognition chilled him to the marrow. He had lived his life as a man of action, one who never shied away from doing a thing that had to be done. For the first time, he wondered if he might lack the courage. Then he thought of Sorial and Alicia. Remembering everything they had been through and imagining what might be to come, he decided that, regardless of the cost, he could show no less resolve than his former stableboy and the bratty little noble’s daughter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THE PATH TO THE THRONE

Stalemate. One glance at the frosty plain of Myselene’s face as she exited the palace chamber where the Council of Nobles met told him the result hadn’t changed. All the riches she had paid (obtained courtesy of Sorial’s plundering underground stores of gems) and all the promises of power positions she had dangled weren’t enough to sway the final crucial vote that would legitimatize her coronation. It was six-to-six and Otto’s clasp on the five votes beyond his own was too strong. Time might erode that grip but she couldn’t wait for that to happen. Greeg’s intelligence put Justin at Syre’s gates; he would be outside Obis with an army of 20,000 in no more than six weeks. Too little time in even the best of circumstances.

Sorial hadn’t been allowed to accompany her inside, so he rejoined her once she exited. Her future bridegroom, despite having gone in with her, was no longer by her side.

“Where’s the general?” asked Sorial. Although Greeg had shown nothing but support, at times verging on cordiality, since the agreement for him to co-rule Obis had been finalized, Sorial’s distrust hadn’t diminished. Greeg’s enmity wasn’t gone, it was merely camouflaged.

“Twisting arms. Calling in favors. Shoring up my support in the ranks. None of that has worked so far, so I’m not sure why he thinks it will be different. With all options exhausted, we’re going to have to do what I didn’t want to do.”

By that, she meant extending an offer to Otto to join her coalition. Sorial saw the sense in this but Myselene was reluctant. She viewed the duke as incompetent and unprincipled. Her first instinct was to have Otto assassinated but that could prove difficult, not to mention counterproductive. He had sequestered himself on the top floor of his house - not an easy place for an earth-wizard to reach without exposing himself - and was surrounded by warriors whose loyalty was beyond question. While it was true that
anyone
could be gotten, the time factor was again in play.

The option of giving Otto the position of chancellor, despite having been endorsed by both Sorial and Greeg, made Myselene uneasy. She had explained her concern by saying that, as chancellor, Otto would be able to consolidate a currently shaky power base and align his forces for the eventual usurpation of the throne. With her ruling and rebuilding Vantok a continent away, all he would have to do was remove Greeg. As chancellor, he would be the logical choice for viceroy if the king died and the queen chose to establish her seat of power elsewhere. From Sorial’s perspective, that was more Greeg’s problem than Myselene’s unless she had reconsidered her decision to focus on Vantok. Maybe she was indeed thinking of empire building. At the moment, however, Sorial was far more concerned about Justin and the Otherverse than who might rule Obis in a year’s time. All that mattered was for Myselene to be wearing the crown when the season ended.

They didn’t converse further until they were within the confines of Myselene’s temporary quarters - a suite of rooms in Obis’ most exclusive inn, The Gentleman’s Repose. Neither of them was naïve enough to believe that this location was secure from the ears of spies so Sorial used his magic to create a loud buzzing that would confound eavesdroppers.

“This situation is intolerable,” spat Myselene, sitting on her bed and yanking off her boots. “One damned vote! I’ve half a mind to let you kill a few of Otto’s lackeys if you can’t get to him.”  That wouldn’t happen, of course. If a member of the Council of Nobles died, the position would have to be filled before another vote could be taken - a process that could last almost as long as appointing a new king. That was one reason why they couldn’t afford Otto to suffer an accident.

There was another option. Myselene could seize the throne and disband the council. Greeg had cautioned against this in the strongest possible language. Such a move would almost certainly lead to a civil war and, although Myselene had enough of the army behind her to emerge victorious, it would result in a divided Obis when Justin arrived. So, like so many other possibilities in “ideal” times, that one wasn’t viable. Myselene needed at least one vote and that meant capitulating with Otto.

“You ain’t got a choice in the matter,” said Sorial, stating the obvious.

“No, I don’t. And that’s what I hate. They all know this needs to be resolved quickly. Justin’s threat is no longer a distant possibility. The itinerant merchants are leaving. The common people sense something’s up. And the nobles have all read the reports. Otto knows I can’t wait him out so he’s going to use that leverage to press his claim, thereby subordinating the security of the city to his personal ambitions. I think he’s decided that viceroy sounds as nice as king.”

“Do you think Greeg will be that easy to kill? He doesn’t seem like an easy or willing target.”

“With his rich allies, Otto has a bottomless money pouch. For the right amount, almost anyone can be bought. Once I’m settled in Vantok, Greeg won’t last a week.”

“He’s in favor of making Otto chancellor. He’s no idealist. He must know the danger.”

“He thinks Otto is a weak opportunist and he puts too much faith in the men around him to protect him - which they generally would unless offered several hundred gold. To save Greeg and protect my interests in Obis, we’re going to have to ensure that Otto doesn’t survive Justin’s attack. Death in combat with a proper eulogy about his courage and sacrifice later.”

“I’ll have more important concerns to occupy my attention during the battle than worrying about whether Otto lives or dies.”

Myselene smiled. “Don’t worry. Once I’m queen, I’ll have access to a wide array of assassins. Many owed their loyalty directly to Gorton and that will be transferred to me.”

As Myselene began to undress, Sorial withdrew to his own chamber, a small, adjoining room. He didn’t bother to light the lantern but instead doffed his boots and lay down fully clothed on the bed. At one time in his life, he might have marveled at the luxury of this pallet, but his mind was too full of dark thoughts for him to notice. Something was going to go wrong. He
knew
it. He just hoped that, when it happened, he’d have time to address it before it gave victory to Justin.

* * *

“It’s going to take more than the chancellorship to woo him,” said Greeg.

“Money?”

“Some of that, although he’s got enough already. No, he wants greater authority than any past chancellor. A second seat on the council. A full division of the army under his personal command. And probably a few more perks as well. Plus, he’ll want to be able to choose the vice chancellor and have full command of Gorton’s network.”

Myselene was incredulous. “And that’s all? No nighttime assignations with me thrown in as a sweetener?”

Greeg shrugged. “I’m sure he wouldn’t object. He’s said to have an insatiable appetite when it comes to variety in his bed.”

“So, I have to give him whatever he wants?”

Although the question was rhetorical, Greeg answered anyway. “Mostly. Unless you want to wait. Otto’s coalition won’t hold up forever, especially if you start applying pressure. That’s what would happen during a normal struggle for the crown. Long-term, his only hope would be your death, which he would be assiduously trying to arrange. But with the enemy in Syre enhancing his forces and showing no inclination to stop despite the onset of Winter, we’ll have an army at the gates two weeks into the new year. That doesn’t give us the luxury of waiting out Otto, and he knows it.”

None of this was surprising but that didn’t prevent Myselene from uttering a few choice expletives before voicing her decision. “Make him an offer. Give him enough to get him interested but no more than you have to and especially avoid military protection; I don’t want my chancellor having a substantial personal army at his command. Then let him know I want to meet him in person to close the negotiations - we can do it here, there, or at the Citadel. This has to happen immediately. I want a Council re-vote the day after tomorrow at the latest and I want to be on the throne by next week.  The official coronation ceremony can wait.”

“But the wedding can’t, at least not if you want my backing. We can have a private ceremony investing you with Obis’ rule in concert with our marriage. Only then will our alliance be formalized.”

“I’m well aware of what needs to happen between you and me,” snapped Myselene. “Now go bring Otto into the fold.”

With a stiff bow that spoke more loudly than any words of Greeg’s anger at being treated with such disdain, the general stalked from Myselene’s suite.

After Greeg’s departure, Myselene indicated that Sorial should institute the anti-eavesdropping magic so they could speak freely. Once that was accomplished, she said, “You know the layout of Otto’s house. Is there anything you can do there that might make him more tractable in negotiations?”

Sorial considered for a moment, considering and dismissing a number of alternatives. Despite the security deployed by Otto, it likely was possible to kill him by magical means, but not without instituting a bloodbath. And, although that approach would assure Myselene’s eventual confirmation by the Council, it would delay the process since Otto would first have to be replaced. So the objective wasn’t to kill or maim the duke; instead, it was to unsettle him. Sorial knew a means by which that could be accomplished.

“There’s a way,” said Sorial. “Without harming Duke Otto.”

“Then do what needs to be done and report back to me once it’s finished. Otto may be my next chancellor, but I won’t have him coming to me in a position of power. And I want him suitably cowed that any aspirations he might have for the throne will at least be temporarily diminished.”

* * *

Considering the calamity that had befallen Duke Otto’s home, his bedraggled appearance was understandable. He had been forced to take refuge in the house of one of his fellow nobles until the scourge could be cleansed from his property. No one could understand where all the rats had come from but there was no doubting the impact of their arrival. There were hundreds of them, all suddenly swarming through cracks in the foundation. Otto kept five cats to eliminate the small number of rodents one normally encountered in houses like his, but the felines had quickly become gorged and ended up taking naps with rats scurrying all around them. He had been forced to hire a professional rat-killer who claimed this to be the worst infestation he had ever encountered.

With the ducal estate not fit for habitation and Otto unwilling to venture into an inn (no matter how upscale), the meeting took place in a bare room in the Citadel with only the principals in attendance: Myselene, Sorial, Greeg, and Otto. The duke’s half-dozen guards were stationed immediately outside the door along with an equal number of protectors for the queen. Greeg, feeling safe and comfortable at this location, didn’t need a special assemblage of guards. If he was threatened, a hundred men could come to his aid within a minute.

“You look unwell, Duke,” said Myselene, smiling sweetly. “I hope issues with the succession haven’t been impeding your sleep.”

“My apologies if my appearance isn’t up to my usual standard,” said Otto. “My manse has been infested by a plague of vermin and I have been forced to temporarily relocate.”

“Rats,” said Sorial, his voice emerging like a low growl from the shadows of his hood. He lowered the timber for theatrical purposes as he recited his prepared lines. “Animals that crawl on the ground. Unsanitary at the best of times and quite unpleasant if hungry. Still, it could be much worse. There are less palatable things dwelling in the deep recesses of the earth. It would be unfortunate if those were to find their way into your house.”

Otto gaped at Sorial. His pasty skin lost what little color it had retained as he realized that this robed and hooded man, who was always at Myselene’s side, wasn’t just a priest. Myselene continued to smile, her expression one of apparent innocence. Greeg’s features were their usual mask of impassivity.

“My condolences on the regrettable situation at your house,” said Myselene. “Let’s hope there’s nothing worse forthcoming. Now, shall we proceed to the purpose for which we’ve gathered this morning?”

“I… Yes, of course, Your Highness.” Otto responded without taking his eyes from Sorial.

“Don’t stare, Your Grace. He doesn’t like being looked at. That’s why he wears the robes.” On the surface, her tone was playful, but there was a hint of steel in those words.

“My apologies, Your…” He came up short, not sure what the proper address was.

“…Magus. It’s understandable you wouldn’t know, Your Grace; it’s been a thousand years since someone has needed to use that honorarium. But it’s my future title, not his, that brings us here. Have you considered the offer submitted by General Greeg? I believe you’ll agree it’s a generous one. Not only does it increase your current status but it establishes you as the head of the continent’s most elaborate intelligence network. Chancellor of Obis - a title that carries great weight all across the continent.”

The proposal submitted by Greeg to Otto had called for the Duke to be elevated to chancellor following Myselene’s coronation. He would gain an additional vote on the Council of Nobles - one for him in his position as duke and one for him in his new role - and would be given nominal control of Gorton’s network of spies and assassins. What Otto didn’t know is that Myselene only planned to give Otto management of some of her former chancellor’s agents. The best would report directly to her, creating a second network.