Shapers of Darkness (35 page)

But Pillad knew better than to be afraid. No one paid any attention to him; nobody cared what he did. His duke had lost faith in him long ago, and because of that, the movement had little use for him anymore. Uestem, the Qirsi merchant who first convinced Pillad to join the Weaver’s cause, had scarcely spoken to him since the first minister received his gold. For one brief moment, it had seemed that he was a prize coveted by both sides in this conflict. His loyalty had been a battlefield on which Qirsi and Eandi contended, until he chose to cast his lot with his people, and with the shadowy figure of his dreams who would be the Forelands’ first Qirsi king.

It hadn’t taken him long to understand that this had been a hollow victory for, the Qirsi and a loss without cost for his duke and the Eandi courts. He was worthless. He could provide answers to a few questions that the Weaver’s servants deemed important: How would Renald respond to the empire’s invasion? How would he allocate his men if Braedon’s army laid siege to the city and castle? How long would Galdasten’s stores hold out if the siege went on? But beyond these scraps of information, he offered little of importance. He had thought that Uestem cared for him, that they might find in their shared struggle against the courts something more than comradery, something more even, than friendship. He knew now that he had been a fool. All the merchant had wanted was to deliver him to the Weaver. In some small way then, he had been a prize, but knowing this did nothing to heal his wounded pride or ease the pain in his heart.

The ale, though. The ale did both, at least it did after the third or fourth helping. He had gold enough to drink, and time
enough to be drunk. And perhaps, if he came to the White Wave each day, and remained here through to the prior’s bells, he would see Uestem again. The merchant couldn’t avoid this place forever, not if there were others in Galdasten he wished to turn to the Weaver’s cause.

He drained his cup and motioned to the serving girl for another, pulling another five qinde piece from the pouch on his belt. The girl glanced briefly at the barkeep, a tall, spear-thin man with eyes the color of sea foam and long white hair that he tied back from his face. The man filled a cup and brought it to the table himself, placing it in front of Pillad before sitting beside him. The first minister noticed that this was Galdasten ale, not the Thorald.

“This isn’t what I’m drinking,” he said, glaring at the man.

“I think it should be, cousin.”

Pillad glanced about the tavern. He was the only one there, other than the barkeep and his servers.

“Why should you care? I’m putting gold in your pocket. It’s not as though others are beating down your door to drink your wares.”

“It’s not my business that concerns me, Minister.”

“My point exactly.”

The man grinned, though the look in those pale eyes remained deadly serious. “You’ve a sharp wit, sir, and a good mind. A man as clever as you should know better than to act a fool.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Pillad started to stand, but the barkeep laid a firm hand on his forearm, forcing him back into his chair.

“The Eandi are watching all of us right now, particularly you, looking for odd behavior, or extravagance. You’re showing them both.”

He’s with the conspiracy
. Pillad felt himself begin to sweat. It hadn’t occurred to him that there were others in Galdasten aside from Uestem and himself, though of course it should have. Who better than the owner of the tavern in which Uestem had his discussions and collected prizes for his Weaver?

“You fear for me, cousin?” Pillad asked. But the bluster was gone from his voice.

“I fear for all of us. You don’t strike me as the type of man who could endure much on the torturer’s table. I suspect that before you died, you’d tell the duke’s men all they wanted to know.”

Pillad searched for some response. Finding none, he reached for his ale. But the barkeep put his hand over the cup.

“This is the last you’ll have today, Minister. And the next time you come to my tavern you’ll drink only the Galdasten ale. Two cups, and then you’ll be done.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.” His voice quavered, and he cursed himself for being so weak.

“No, I can’t, at least not so that anyone else can hear me. But there are others who can. All it takes is a word from me. I think you know who I mean.”

It might have been Uestem, or perhaps the Weaver. It didn’t matter. In the Eandi world, where Pillad was first minister, this man was nothing. But their status was reversed within the movement. The barkeep held Pillad’s life in his hands.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I know.”

“Good.” The barkeep grinned again, and removed his hand from the cup. “Enjoy your ale, cousin.”

He stood, but before he could start back toward the bar, someone appeared in the doorway. It was a Qirsi man, one Pillad didn’t know. His eyes were wide, and though his hair and clothes were drenched, he didn’t seem to care.

“They’ve started it!” he said. “They’re fighting out on the bay!”

Pillad heard fear in his voice, and uncertainty. This man wasn’t with the movement, or if he was, he didn’t understand how eager the Weaver had been for this war to begin.

The minister and the barkeep shared a look. Then they both followed the man out into the storm.

It was a short walk from the tavern to the Galdasten quays where they could watch the warships struggling to flank each other. A crowd had already gathered, and with the wind blowing
cold off Falcon Bay, driving a stinging rain into his eyes, Pillad could barely make out what was happening. It wasn’t long, though, before he heard a groan go up from the others, and he knew that the empire’s fleet had drawn first blood.

“They haven’ a chance agains’ those Braedony ships,” he heard one man say.

And another added, “There’s jus’ too many of ’em. If we had the Wethy fleet with us, maybe. But no’ like this.”

“You’d best be getting back to your duke, cousin,” the barkeep said, his voice low, his mouth so close to Pillad’s ear that the minister could feel his breath. “If the duke’s first minister is seen in Galdasten City as the realm is going to war, it’s certain to raise questions.”

Pillad nodded and began to back away from the crowd. More people had gathered behind him, and he had to push his way through the throng. The rain and wind helped; with his hair and clothes soaked, and his breath stinking of ale, he hardly looked like the most powerful Qirsi in the dukedom. In just a few moments he was free of the crowd. Leaving the quays, he followed the quickest route through the city and back toward Galdasten Castle. The duke’s guards were still following him, watching from byways and narrow lanes, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. If he tried to return to the castle by way of some obscure, winding route, it would draw even more attention to the fact that he had been in the city. Best to be seen, to endure the sneers of Renald’s guards. All of them knew that the duke no longer confided in him; one didn’t have to be a genius to notice that. Perhaps they already knew that he was drinking.

He faltered in midstride, his innards turning to water. Renald’s spies might already have seen him ordering the Thorald golden, spending his gold in the White Wave like a drunken noble.

If they knew you were a traitor, they’d have hanged you by now, or they’d be torturing you in the dungeons, demanding the names of others in the movement
. He knew it was true, but he found no comfort in the thought. Was it pride to prefer torture and execution to indifference?

A woman bearing a basket of sodden cloth hurried past, staring at him as though he were mad. Pillad realized that he was standing in the middle of the lane by the marketplace, allowing himself to be doused by the rain. Drawing attention to himself yet again.

Did he want to be caught? he wondered, continuing on toward the castle. Was he that desperate to feel that he mattered? And though he understood instantly that he had no desire to be imprisoned or killed, he also knew that he needed to be more than what he had become. It sobered him, as if purging his body of the ale he had downed in the tavern. By the time he reached the north gate of the castle, his mind was clear. One of the guards raised an eyebrow at the sight of him, but the first minister no longer cared. He returned to his chamber, changed his clothes, and went in search of the duke.

The duke’s men refused to allow him entry to Renald’s chamber, saying something about the duchess being with him. Pillad would have liked to laugh at them—as if the duchess being with the duke were cause for closed doors and hushed voices. She hadn’t loved him in years. No doubt she was telling him how he ought to deal with the coming siege and Kearney’s pleas for help.

He climbed the nearest of the towers, intending to watch the battle, but upon reaching the ramparts, he saw Ewan Traylee standing at the wall, staring out at the bay. There had been a time when Pillad and the swordmaster got along quite well. They were never truly friends, but in a land where sorcerers and soldiers were often at odds, they had worked together on their duke’s behalf, eventually coming to respect one another. Or so the first minister had thought. For when Renald began to question Pillad’s loyalty, Ewan stopped speaking to him as well. True, the swordmaster had merely been following the duke’s example, but still, it stung.

Pillad turned to go back down the stairway, moving silently lest Ewan should notice him.

“First minister!”

Pillad took a breath, then turned. “Forgive me, swordmaster. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Not at all. Join me.” Ewan faced the bay once more, his expression bleak. “You heard that the fighting had begun?”

“Yes. I was in the city.”

Ewan looked over at that.

No sense in lying to the man. Perhaps candor could regain some of the trust he had lost. “I frequent a tavern there. The duke has little use for me anymore, and I prefer to be outside the castle.”

The swordmaster nodded, his gaze returning to the warships. “These are difficult times, First Minister. Many of us are frightened. None of us knows who to trust anymore.”

“You include yourself in that.”

“Yes.” The man’s grey eyes flicked Pillad’s way for just an instant. “I’m sorry. You’ve done nothing to raise my suspicions, but I have them just the same.”

“Because I’m Qirsi.”

“Yes. All Qirsi are suspect now. Surely you understand that.”

“Of course I do,” he said, and meant it. Abruptly, he knew what he would do, what he had to do. The Weaver would be angry with him, as would Uestem. The risk to all of them was great. But he couldn’t go on this way. War had come to Galdasten, and even Pillad, who knew little of such things, could see that the Eibitharian fleet was being decimated by Braedon’s ships. If he wished to be of use to the Weaver and his movement, he needed to win back Renald’s trust. Quickly. He could think of only one way to do so. “I understand perfectly well, swordmaster. That’s why I went to speak with the duke just now, but his soldiers wouldn’t allow me in to see him.”

Ewan looked at him again. “I don’t follow, First Minister. Has something happened?”

“I’m afraid it has. I should have come to you sooner. I see that now. I’ve suspected for some time, but I couldn’t prove anything.”

“Suspected what?”

“You have to understand, swordmaster, I have no desire to be hated by my people, nor do I wish this man ill. But I can’t ignore what’s happened.”

“First Minister, please!” the swordmaster said, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Tell me what’s happened.”

Pillad swallowed, as if deeply troubled by what he was about to say. Actually, for the first time in so long, he was enjoying himself.
Let him think twice about speaking to me as if I’m some common Qirsi juggling flames in the Revel or serving drinks in his little tavern
.

“As I said a moment ago,” he began, resting his hands on the stone wall, lowering his gaze, “I’ve spent a good deal of time recently at a tavern in the city. It’s called the White Wave, and it’s a Qirsi establishment. I’ve noticed the barkeep there eyeing me strangely at times, as if he wished to speak with me. Today he finally approached me. He asked me why I spent so much time in his tavern, why I wasn’t with the duke. I told him to mind his own affairs, but then he told me that he’d heard some saying I’d lost the duke’s confidence.”

“Did he say who?”

“No. But that’s not the worst of it. I tried to deny that this was true, but he wouldn’t believe me. ‘If the duke still confided in you,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t be here so often.’” Pillad shook his head. “He has a point, I suppose. This is my own fault. The next thing I know he’s offering me gold, telling me that he can help me get back at the duke for his faithlessness.”

Ewan’s eyes were wide, his face nearly as white as a Qirsi’s. “He’s with the conspiracy?”

“So it would seem.”

“You’re certain?”

“As certain as one can be about such things.”

The swordmaster pushed away from the castle wall and started toward the stairs, grabbing Pillad by the arm. “We have to tell the duke.”

“He won’t believe me! He thinks I’m a traitor!”

“You’re telling him of a Qirsi renegade. You’re offering him a chance to learn a great deal about the conspiracy and its members. If it turns out that you’re right, and this man is a traitor, the duke will have no choice but to trust you again.”

A chance to learn a great deal . . .
“What if the barkeep claims that I’m a renegade as well?”

“Are you?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Then don’t worry about it. Torture will make a man say almost anything; the hard part is separating lies from the truth. The dungeonmaster has done this before. He’ll learn what he can from your barkeep.”

Pillad eyed him briefly, then nodded, wondering if he had made a terrible mistake.

“Come along, First Minister. I’ll make certain that the duke sees you.”

There were dirty cups everywhere and more than a few spills that needed cleaning, but Mittifar didn’t mind, not after a night like this. He would have expected that the war would chase men back to their homes, and if that didn’t, then certainly the rain, which continued to deluge the city, swept by winds that seemed more appropriate for the snows than the planting. He had even gone so far as to send his serving girls home early, thinking to save himself the price of their wages. With a war coming, there were bound to be many slow nights in his future.