Ruby Guardian (5 page)

that lined the second story of the rathrur. He led the way inside. “And safer. You may still be the Ruby Terror, but your face remains too pretty to be bouncing mugs.”

Xaphira followed the man into the alcove, which was little more than a tiny closet with a table and a pair of benches, all firmly attached to the walls. The thick curtains were enough to muffle the worst of the noise from outside and below, though. Xaphira sat down opposite her old friend and just looked at him.

Still the same, she thought again, though she noted that many of the lines in Quill’s weathered face had deepened in the past twelve years, and his eyes had a different look to them. Sadness and wisdom, she decided.

“I won’t even ask where you’ve been all this time,” he began, settling onto the bench opposite Xaphira and just looking at her in an appraising sort of way. “Though whatever you’ve been at, it’s suited you.”

Xaphira felt herself flush a tiny bit, remembering all over again the shivers he once gave her whenever they found time to be alone. The memories took her back in a rush.

“And you haven’t changed a bit,” she replied, smiling warmly.

“You’re the worst kind of liar,” Quill said, smirking, “but I’ll let you get away with it just this once.” The smile left his face, then, and the man leaned forward and rested his elbows on the edge of the table, folding his arms in front of himself. “I missed you. I always wondered—” His gaze flinched away as he stopped himself from finishing the sentence, and Xaphira felt pangs of guilt wash over her. She knew it would come to that eventually, that she would have to answer for disappearing all those years ago, without a word. It still hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Quill began to dismiss the issue with a wave of his hand. “No promises were made,” he said. “We both know the soldiering life is like that.”

“I know, but—” Xaphira began, but then she, too, stopped herself. She wanted to tell him the whole story, explain to her old companion why she had fled the city of Arrabar nearly a dozen years before, to prevent her nephew from being framed for murder. But she couldn’t. There was still too much at stake, still a chance that events from before could come back to plague her and her family.

‘ “I had to leave in a hurry,” the mercenary officer revealed. “If events had permitted, I would have gotten word to you. Someday I’ll explain it all.”

Quill nodded, and Xaphira thought she could see his shoulders straighten the slightest bit, as though a burden had been lifted. “I always knew you were alive,” he said, though Xaphira wasn’t sure she believed him. “And I wondered—but by Tempus’s axe, it’s good to see you!” he bellowed, reaching across and grasping her hands in his own. His touch was both firm and gentle, a mixture of hearty friendship and the hint of something more, something Xaphira remembered all too keenly. He gave her hands one extra squeeze, leaving no doubt he remembered, too.

“Quill,” Xaphira said, pulling her hands away. It would be too easy to get lost in his touch, and she wanted to, but it would have to wait for another time. Her family was in danger, and she needed to focus on other things at the moment. “I need some help.” She almost winced, then, when the barest hint of hurt flashed in Miquillon’s eyes. He understood that she had not come back just to see an old friend, an old lover. The pain was brief, though, gone again and replaced by that warm smile once more.

“Anything,” he said, perhaps a little too matter-of- factly. “Name it.”

“I just need some information,” Xaphira replied. “I need to find someone who doesn’t want to be found.”

Quill scowled. “If someone wants to stay hidden, it could be difficult to track them down. You, of all people, should know that.”

Xaphira started, realizing the implications behind the man’s words. How long did he search for me?

“If anyone knows a way to do it, you’d be the one,” the mercenary said, reaching out again to take Quill’s hand. She held it gently, letting him know that she understood the pain her disappearance had caused him. “I know you still have the best information, even after all this time.” She laughed and added, “Or you wouldn’t be the Quill I remember.”

Quill gazed at Xaphira for a long moment, almost to the point where she began to feel self-conscious. “How much do you remember?”

“Enough to know I like what I see right now,” Xaphira replied, and she meant it. “But I still have obligations, Quill, things that go all the way back to nearly twelve years ago. I never forgot. But I had to disappear.”

Quill nodded. “Who is it?” he asked. His eyes were warm, with no reproach visible at all.

Xaphira sighed in relief. “His name on the streets is Junce Roundface.” The woman noticed the man across from her start slightly. He knew of whom she spoke. “No one knows him, or where he spends his time. Or, at least, no one’s talking.”

Quill nodded again. “I’ve heard of him. Dangerous character. Not someone you want angry with you.”

“Well, I’m pretty angry with him, and I want to find him. Can you help?”

“Maybe,” Quill replied doubtfully.

Xaphira could sense his reluctance. “It’s important,” she said earnestly, leaning forward. “He’s crossed my family, and I’ve got a score to settle with him.”

Quill took in a deep breath and nodded a third time. “All right. I think I might know someone who can get you where you need to go. I’ll try to arrange a meeting. Come back tomorrow night.”

Xaphira smiled, feeling a surge of hope that she might finally track down the man who was tormenting her family. So long as Junce Roundface roamed the streets of Arrabar, the Matrells were in danger. It was time to put an end to that.

“Thank you,” Xaphira said, giving Quill an appreciative smile. “I owe you.”

“Yes, you do,” the man opposite her replied, getting a devilish grin on his face. “And I intend to make you pay,” he added.

Xaphira smirked and shook her head in wry amusement. Then, as she rose to leave, she leaned across the table and gave Quill a kiss. It was just a quick peck, all she would allow herself for the moment, but it rekindled a fire that she had not felt burning in many years. The warmth felt good. “I’ve got to go,” she said breathlessly and slipped out through the heavy curtains.

Behind her, the man she knew as Quill stared after her departing form, a worried frown on his face.

II • •

Pilos Darowdryn’s slippered feet made a soft swish-swish sound on the thick carpet that ran the length of the hallway leading to Grand Syndar Mikolo Midelli’s personal quarters. While he didn’t exactly hurry—moving too fast with a full pitcher balanced on one’s tray was a certain recipe for

mishap—the Abreeant priest also did not dawdle. Mikolo would be ready for bed soon, and he did not like to wait for his nightly dose of warmed milk. Pilos was not about to disappoint the highest-ranking priest in the entire Temple of Waukeen if he could help it.

As he walked, Pilos casually eyed the rows of ornate artwork flanking him. Magnificent paintings, fine needlework wall hangings stitched with thread-of-gold and other precious materials, bas-relief wood carvings highlighted with gold and silver leaf, statuary decorated with precious stones, all representing aspects of the Merchant’s Friend and her faithful, either hung from the wall or glowed within magically illuminated alcoves. The young priest had seen them all many times, but each trip down the lengthy hallway brought with it an awareness of some new nuance, some previously unnoticed facet of the displays that caught his eye and made him catch his breath in delight. The opulence was truly a fitting tribute to Waukeen in all her splendor.

At the far end of the passageway, two ceremonial guards stood smartly at attention on either side of the wide, deeply stained wooden doors leading’ into the Grand Syndar’s private quarters. The duo was dressed in highly polished adamantine chain shirts, over which they had donned white-and-blue striped tabards. Each guard held a halfspear perfectly vertically, the butt of which rested next to his respective right foot. Though largely ceremonial, the guards were veteran soldiers, seasoned in the temple’s mercenary forces for quite a few years before being given the honor of warding the Grand Syndar’s well-being.

The Abreeant knew the two guardsmen well, and as he passed between them and pushed open the twin

doors into the high priest’s chambers with his rear end, he gave them a respectful nod and murmured, “The Lady’s blessings on each of you.” Then he was through the portal and pushing the doors shut again with one foot.

Mikolo Midelli’s rooms took up almost an entire wing of the temple, with numerous windows and shaded balconies opening to the outside, suitably trellis-covered to let in the breezes but not the heat of the sun. They had been further screened to keep in the multitude of tropical birds that were permitted to roam freely inside the chambers. The hallway Pilos had navigated was the only means of ingress to the chambers, and it opened into a large sitting room dominated in the middle by a large pool with a rather ornate marble fountain. A number of overstuffed divans and throw pillows were scattered around the perimeter of the pool.

Pilos crossed the room diagonally, heading toward the Grand Syndar’s study. “I brought your milk, Reverent One,” the younger priest called out as he approached the doorway. He intentionally spoke loudly and clearly, knowing all too well that Mikolo had grown somewhat hard of hearing in more recent years. As he passed through the inner doorway into the study, he added, “I’ll just set it over here on the table, and I’ll—”

Pilos started in mid-stride, nearly dropping the tray as he pulled up, staring at the desk situated in the far corner of the room. The Grand Syndar was there, as Pilos had expected, but the aged priest was slumped awkwardly over the top of the desk, his head lolling on one arm.

“Grand Syndar!” Pilos yelled, practically tossing the tray on the table as he dashed across the space toward the desk, heedless of the milk that sloshed out of the pitcher. He reached the elder priest and gently

took hold of the man’s shoulders, pulling him upright. The younger man was astonished at how thin and frail Mikolo felt, how little he weighed.

The Grand Syndar slouched back as Pilos righted him. A string of drool ran from the corner of the high priest’s mouth to the table, and his eyes, usually so clear and amber, seemed glazed, staring at nothing. Desperately, Pilos felt for signs of life. The Grand Syndar’s heart still beat, but it was slow and weak.

Without thinking, Pilos extracted a stylized coin from within his robes and placed his other hand upon his leader’s brow. Closing his eyes, the younger priest began to mutter a prayer, the words familiar and delivered by rote. He felt the tingling presence of his goddess flow through him and down his arm, passing into the still form of the most influential man in the entire temple.

There was no visible effect.

“Guards!” Pilos screamed as loudly as he could while he tried to lift the man from his chair. The younger priest had both arms around Mikolo’s chest and was just beginning to drag him out from behind the desk when the two soldiers who had been flanking the entrance burst into the study. When they’ spied Pilos struggling with the Grand Syndar, they both approached hesitantly, spears held before them, unsure of what they were seeing.

Realizing it appeared that he was assaulting Mikolo, Pilos said, “He’s very ill! One of you, help me, the other go fetch a high priest. Quickly!”

Though unused to accepting orders from a mere Abreeant, both guards recognized the urgency of the situation, and neither one of them delayed a moment. As one spun on his heel and dashed back out of the chamber, the other set his ha lfspear aside and came on.

“Take his feet!” Pilos instructed. “Help me get him to his bed.”

Together, Pilos and the guard, Atabi by name, carried the ill priest out of his study and into his sumptuous bedchamber. They crossed the floor, strewn with finely stitched carpets and throw rugs, to the large bed that sat near one screened-off window. Very carefully, the two men laid the Grand Syndar down atop his light covers. Pilos grabbed up several pillows and propped the aged priest’s head up and tried to position him so he appeared comfortable.

Atabi stepped back and stared, his brow furrowed in worry. “What happened?” the guard asked.

“I don’t know,” Pilos replied, checking the ill man’s vital signs once more, hoping his hands weren’t shaking so visibly that the soldier would notice. “I found him like this at his desk. I have no idea how long he was there. A healing orison did nothing.” Pilos felt his heart thudding madly in his chest, though he hoped his barely controlled anxiety was not visible to the guard.

Pilos had just decided to try another healing spell, one that was more powerful, but just as he was reaching for his holy coin, there was a commotion out in the antechamber. Several voices, all raised in alarm and clamoring one atop the next, began echoing in the sitting room as the doors banged open. Pilos felt relief wash through him. The arrival of older, wiser priests lifted a burden from the younger man that he had not realized he was feeling until that moment.

The priest spun around just in time to see a cadre of high-ranking Waukeenar enter the bedchamber, led by Grand Trabbar Lavant. The rotund high priest strode purposefully across the floor, his eyes focused intently on Mikolo lying atop the bed, while

the others crowded in behind him. Some of them were terribly flustered and gesticulated and babbled animatedly as they followed Lavant toward their ill leader.

Pilos had to work to keep from scowling. He found the fat priest to be both condescending and vaguely unsettling in his demeanor, especially toward novice priests such as Pilos himself. And the way the others seemed to be deferring to him discouraged the younger man all the more.

Surely some of the others are more effective in the healing arts than Lavant, Pilos thought. Why do they let him dominate the situation?

Now is not the time, the younger priest reprimanded himself. The Grand Syndar’s health is at stake.

Grand Trabbar Lavant stepped past Pilos without so much as a glance, and the other high priests shouldered their way past the young Abreeant, as well. The pudgy Waukeenar placed a hand upon the aging pontiff’s brow and reached for his holy, emblem, which hung from a chain against his bulging stomach. The other priests fell into an immediate hush.