Shapers of Darkness (36 page)

But while he had thought to stay open for a handful of his regulars, who came in every night no matter what, Mitt soon realized that he had miscalculated badly. By the time the guards on the city walls rang the gate close, the White Wave was packed. Rather than hiding from the war, it seemed that Galdasten’s Qirsi wished to take comfort in his tavern, drinking his ale and eating his food. Perhaps they sought refuge from their fears in the company of others. Perhaps they thought to get their fill tonight, before the emperor’s soldiers began their siege. Whatever the reason, Mitt spent the entire evening running about the place like a puppy, chasing down orders and drained cups. Escaping the noise and pipeweed smoke for a moment in the alley behind his tavern, he spotted a boy wandering about, picking through refuse. Mitt gave him two silvers and sent the lad to fetch his servers from their homes, but they never came. He was on his own, and though he was exhausted by midnight, and the
place was still full, he took some solace in the fact that every qinde left on his tables belonged to him. He paid no wage this night, and he shared no gratuities. He’d be cleaning the tavern until dawn, and would have little chance to sleep if he was to open on time in the morning, but he’d easily clear three hundred qinde tonight.

“It looks like there’s been a war in here.”

Mitt turned at the sound of the voice, startled. He could have sworn that he had locked the door when the last of his patrons left.

Uestem stood in the doorway, his hooded cloak darkened by the rain. He was smiling, but as always, something seemed to lurk beneath his apparent good cheer. The merchant had brought Mitt into the movement, had paid him his first gold, and for that the barkeep would always be grateful. When at last Qirsi ruled the Forelands, and Mitt received his reward for serving the Weaver’s cause, he would have Uestem to thank. But just as the merchant’s smile was a mask for something more unsettling, his gifts carried a cost. Over the past year, much to Mitt’s dismay, the White Wave had become a center for all the movement’s activities here in Galdasten. When Uestem wished to speak with others who served the Weaver, he did so here. He had turned Galdasten’s first minister over a cup of Mitt’s ale, and so, in a sense, was responsible for the fact that Pillad returned here each day, drinking his Thorald golden and endangering everything for which they had all worked so hard.

“Can I help you with this mess?” the merchant asked, looking around the tavern and then picking his way to where Mitt stood.

“No, thank you. I’m used to it.”

“I would have thought this would be a quiet night.”

“I thought the same. That’s why the girls aren’t here.”

Uestem looked around again, nodded.

“I hear that you had some trouble with the first minister today.”

Mitt had been bending over to wipe up a spill, but he straightened now, his eyes narrowing. “How did you hear about that? There was no one here but me and the g—” He
stopped, gave a small bitter laugh, and shook his head. “They’re with the movement, too.”

“One of them, yes.” The merchant raised a hand, as if anticipating Mitt’s next question. “I’m not going to tell you which, so don’t even ask.”

“Can you at least tell me if you turned her before or after she started working for me?”

The smile again. “The First Minister?”

Mitt didn’t often back down from a fight. He wasn’t particularly strong, nor did he wield the most potent of Qirsi magics, but he could hold his own against most men. Uestem, however, was one of the Weaver’s chancellors, which not only meant that he had tremendous influence within the movement, but also that he was a fairly powerful sorcerer. He wasn’t a man to be crossed, and both of them knew it.

The barkeep shrugged. “He’s been in here a lot recently, drinking several ales at a time. Thorald golden, not the Galdasten swill. I told him today that I thought he should drink less, and be a bit more frugal in his choice of ales, lest someone take notice of all the gold he’s spending in my tavern. He didn’t like me telling him what to do, but I expect he’ll be more careful the next time he’s here.”

“You did the right thing.”

“Thank you.”

“But you made him angry, more than you know.”

Something in the man’s voice . . . It suddenly seemed that the air in his tavern had grown cold. Uestem hadn’t moved, but Mitt had to resist an impulse to back away from him. “But surely the Weaver will understand—”

“The Weaver is the least of your troubles, Mitt. Pillad went to the duke and accused you of treason. Even as we speak, Renald’s men are gathering in the castle ward, preparing to come here and arrest you.”

“I don’t believe you. Pillad would have spoken to his duke hours ago. Why would Renald wait until now?”

“I don’t really know. Perhaps he feared sending his men into a tavern full of white-hairs, not knowing which of them he could trust and which were with the conspiracy.”

Actually it made a great deal of sense. Gods, it was freezing
in here. “Doesn’t Pillad realize that I’ll do to him exactly what he’s done to me? If I’m to hang as a traitor, he will as well.”

“I’m not certain that Pillad thought this through very carefully, Mitt. He was angry, and he needed to prove his loyalty to the duke. Knowing Pillad as you do, are you surprised that he couldn’t see beyond his wounded pride and his fear of Renald?”

The barkeep’s stomach heaved. “You won’t let them hurt me, will you, Uestem? I’ve served the Weaver well. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”

“Yes you have, Mitt.”

“Take me onto your ship! I can serve as one of your crew. They’ll never think to look for me there.”

Uestem gave a sad shake of his head. “I’m afraid that would be too great of a risk. You may be right: they might never look there. But if they did, and if they found you, it would endanger far more than one life. It might destroy the movement. I don’t mean to boast, but I’m quite important to the Weaver and his cause. You understand.”

Mitt nodded, tried to swallow but couldn’t.

“But neither can we allow you to be taken by Renald’s men. I don’t wish to see you tortured, Mitt.”

A different kind of fear gripped his heart. “I wouldn’t say anything about you, Uestem. When I said that I’d do that to Pillad, I meant just him. Not you. Certainly not the Weaver.”

“I know that. But torture does strange things to people. And to be honest with you, Pillad is valuable to us. He wasn’t before, but he’s made himself important again.” Once more, Uestem smiled, and at the same time he reached out and grabbed the barkeep’s hair with a powerful hand. An instant later, his other hand was at Mitt’s throat. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

“Uestem, no!” he sobbed.

“This will be quick. I swear it.”

He didn’t even have time to struggle. His eyes closed, his heart hammering in his chest, he felt nothing, and heard only the snapping of bone.

Chapter
Fourteen

Dantrielle, Aneira

ehind you, my lord!”

Tebeo spun, his sword arcing downward, intending to cleave his second attacker in half from shoulder to gut. The soldier danced away, avoiding his blade, and the duke allowed his momentum to carry him all the way around so that he faced the other soldier once more.

Let them think on that!
he thought with some satisfaction.
I may look like a fat old man, but I’ve some fight left in me still
.

As if intent on proving him wrong, the man in front of him lunged forward, sword held high, his dagger hand leveling a killing blow at Tebeo’s side. The duke wrenched himself down and away from both blades, stumbled and fell heavily on his side. Fortunately, one of Dantrielle’s men was there to meet the assault and drive back the Solkaran soldier. It was the second time in the last few moments that Tebeo had needed aid from one of his soldiers just to stay alive.

A small group of Solkarans had caught them unawares, apparently entering the castle through a sally port that had been left unguarded. Bausef DarLesta, his master of arms, had taken several men to secure the entry, leaving Tebeo and perhaps two dozen soldiers to deal with the intruders. It was more than enough men—they outnumbered the Solkarans by nearly two to one—but Tebeo’s mistakes had forced the other men of Dantrielle to fight not only for their own lives, but for his as well. He should have found a way to retreat, to allow his soldiers to take care of the enemy and be done with it. But pride held him there.

There had been a time when Tebeo was thought to be one of the finest swordsmen in the realm. Back in the days when Tomaz the Ninth still ruled in Solkara, and Aneiran soldiers raised their steel against one another only in contests of skill, Tebeo had fought in his fair share of battle tournaments. Most considered Vidor of Tounstrel the land’s best—certainly he won the lion’s share of the competitions, though Tebeo had long thought that Bertin, the old duke of Noltierre, was Vidor’s equal—but when the betting began, there were always a few who chose to risk their hard-earned gold on Tebeo, and on more than a few occasions their faith in him had been rewarded.

Those days seemed centuries gone. The duke felt old, sluggish, like a plow horse that’s been worked too hard. He could still see the battle in all its intricacies, but too many years and too many castle feasts had taken their toll. He recognized feints, but he couldn’t adjust swiftly enough to guard himself against the true attack. He saw openings, weaknesses in the defenses of his opponent, but he couldn’t strike quickly enough to exploit them. In a sense, even the strengths that had come to him with advanced age worked against him. He remembered the excitement of old battle tournaments, the surge of strength and alacrity that used lo come wilh it. And he saw much the same thing in the young soldiers he commanded. Warriors had a name for it: battle fury. But Tebeo was too wise to succumb to such emotions, even knowing that they might fuel his fighting and counterbalance some of what he had lost to age. This war was destroying them, weakening the realm when it most needed to be strong, giving aid to Qirsi enemies who needed none.

The second Solkaran soldier advanced on the duke again, his sword and short blade raised. Tebeo scrambled to his feet and readied his steel, his eyes darting to the left and right. All of his men who were close enough to come to his rescue were engaged in combat. He’d have no help with this fight.

The Solkaran, a large, yellow-haired man with small dark eyes and a drooping mustache, gave a harsh grin, seeming to sense this as well. He closed the distance between them with one great stride and leveled a blow at Tebeo’s head. Looking for
any advantage, Tebeo tried a trick Bertin had once used against him. Just as the man committed to his attack, Tebeo switched his sword to his left hand, turning his stance just enough to throw off the timing of the Solkaran’s assault. The big man’s sword whistled harmlessly past Tebeo’s head. And as it did Tebeo hacked at the man’s shoulder with his own blade. The soldier’s mail shirt absorbed most of the blow and kept Tebeo’s sword from drawing blood, but the Solkaran was staggered and when he faced the duke again, his grin was gone.

He wasted no time beginning his next assault, though he advanced more cautiously this time, and aimed his strike at the center of Tebeo’s chest, giving the duke no opportunity to turn a second time. Instead, he was forced to block the man’s blade with his own, the force of the blow numbing Tebeo’s arm and shoulder. The Solkaran raised his sword to strike again, the grin returning when he saw Tebeo back away. The duke flexed the fingers on his sword hand, trying to get some feeling to return. He took another step back, but came up against the castle wall. Seeing this, perhaps sensing that the end was at hand, the Solkaran launched himself at the duke. Their swords met again and Tebeo’s entire body seemed to shudder with the impact. Rather than stepping back to strike at him again, the Solkaran continued to press forward, crushing Tebeo against the stone, pinning the duke’s sword beneath his own. Tebeo could feel the man’s breath on his face, and even as he tried to free his own dagger, he sensed that the Solkaran was doing the same.