Springwar (37 page)

“He doesn’t know anything you can’t learn elsewhere at a price.”

Another puff. “Suppose I simply want him to suffer? He cost me a son I loved.”

“And a brother he loved a great deal more, by all accounts. That argument doesn’t hold much force, I’m afraid. Not that that will aid you in the long run. People understand law and justice. They also understand cruelty and pettiness, but they never like them or approve of them.”

“Then why do so many attend public executions?” Barrax countered. “Because they get a chance to see someone do what they wish they were free to do themselves.”

“There’s still the matter of Merryn.”

“What would you do with her?”

Lynnz gnawed his lip. “She’s a much harder call. She’s the
reason we took War-Hold, and there’s no denying that. She’s also a source of potential information, but the more imphor we give her, the more resistance she builds. Eventually we’ll turn a vulnerability into a source of strength.”

“More of that balance I was mentioning.”

“Aye. But she’s also one of your best hostages, since she’s both kin to Eron’s King and a shining light of her generation.”

Barrax tried not to snap back at that. He had
not
planned on the destruction of War-Hold, which had taken with it a valuable source of potential hostages. Of those he’d acquired, most were Common Clan or clanless. Not one subchief from either the King’s clan or War-Hold’s ruling clan had survived. Which was the main reason he’d killed Lorvinn: to assuage his anger. But that execution, he conceded, had, perhaps, not been wise.

Lynnz was gazing at him curiously, his eyes slightly glazed, which suggested that fresh air might be prudent. “Have I told you what you wanted to hear, Majesty?”

“Maybe what I
needed
to hear,” Barrax grumbled. “Especially if what you said is borne out by my other advisers—which remains to be determined.”

Lynnz nodded, and rose. “By your leave, Majesty,” he murmured, with a sketchy bow.

“The Gods watch you,” Barrax replied absently. “Oh, and send in the embassy that arrived this morning. We’ve let them wonder if they’re going to live or die long enough.”

“It is done, Majesty,” Lynnz said. And strode out.

Barrax took time to infuse the preponderance of poppy smoke in the tent with a small amount of imphor wood burned in a brazier by the door, in case those he was about to entertain should prove vulnerable to its myriad effects. Probably they weren’t.
He
certainly wasn’t. A word to a servant produced a selection of food and drink on small tables ranged between the low audience chairs around the room, so that by the time Barrax had resumed the crowned helm he’d doffed for the interview with his commander and positioned himself on his portable throne, he felt and looked suitably regal.

A moment later, the door flap was lifted by one of his younger guards, who simply said, “Your Majesty, the visitors from Eron.”

Barrax nodded his assent, and the guard backed away, raising the door flap higher to admit three fit-looking men in white hoods and tabards—the former raised, per Eronese custom, to indicate that they functioned in a particular role.

Barrax studied them with interest, noting that their faces showed a fair bit of weathering, and that their hair, while black like that of most Eronese, was clipped shorter than he’d been informed was the norm. Nor did he miss the fine mail beneath the rich fabrics, nor the quality of their knee-high white-leather boots.

“Enter and be welcome to the presence of Ixti, which lies below you and above you and around you and before you,” Barrax intoned. He did not rise—Ixtian monarchs didn’t do such things—but he didn’t bridle at the token bows they bestowed upon him, either.

“Majesty,” the one in the middle acknowledged.

“Please be seated. Eat if you will, or drink. If you mistrust either, I will be glad to sample before you.”

The leader sniffed the air appraisingly, raising a knowing brow, but saying nothing. “Caution is wise when one is not in one’s own country,” he observed in Ixtian, “but caution of this sort is futile.”

Barrax grinned.

The man spared a thin smile. “There is Eronese law, and there is … ours.”

“Perhaps you should state where the difference lies.”

“You received our message?”

“I received
a
message that said there was a … I believe the term was ‘invisible power’ in Eron that wanted to have converse with me. I take it you represent that power?”

The man nodded.

“Do you have a name?”

“Names are less important here than titles, Majesty. Where I come from, I am called the Chief of the Ninth. It would please me if you styled me thus.”

“The ninth what?”

“The Ninth Face of The Eightfold God.”

“I sense an enigma.”

“The other eight faces are those the folk of this land see, from unclanned up to the King. But who is to say that The Eight do not have
more
faces to reveal?”

“Ah, then your King does not know?”

“We are a shadow within shadows.”

“To what end?”

“To our ends. Which are the same ends as yours, ultimately: the preservation of power.”

Barrax leaned forward with genuine interest, enjoying this verbal sparring. Though certainly not part of the official Eronese government, these were the most high-ranking folk of that land he had actually treated with. At least until he could proceed with his attack on South Gorge.

“And if you lost this power, what would really change in your lives?”

“We would lose the freedom to determine our own destinies.”

“If you are what I suspect—let me be blunt: a radical arm within the officially sanctioned Priest-Clan, known by few but suspected by many—you fear that you might have to do like all the other clans, which is to say actually produce something besides words, Wells, and rituals for a living.”

The Chief’s face was solemn. “Oh, but The Eight do exist, as does The Ninth. I have proof of that.”

“So,” Barrax sighed, suddenly impatient. “What is it that has brought you to me?”

The Chief sampled a pastry. “We serve, first of all, ourselves and The Nine. What King we serve, or speaks with Their mouth, concerns us less. You seem a practical man, Barrax of Ixti. I’m sure you know that the people will embrace your rule far more willingly if their lives change as little as possible. Most of Common Clan and the clanless believe unquestioningly in The Eight. High Clan, in spite of the genuine piety of the King, increasingly do not. But the people need The Eight and we—Priest-Clan and the Ninth Face alike—need the people. The people believe that we alone can intercede with The Eight. Let us say that a
discovery has lately been made that challenges that belief—and many others. We do not need our efficacy questioned. In this the clan’s public front is one with our own.”

“Does the clan of which you are a part know you exist?”

“Most do not—and by telling you this, we give you a certain amount of power over us. Having said that, we have found ourselves in grave danger of having our existence revealed more widely—more publicly—than we desire. This would inconvenience us. If another King, with goals more in line with our own, sat the throne of Eron, we would feel more … secure.”

“So you betray your King?”

“The King is the voice of the God and the personification of the people. He would agree that both those things should come above himself.”

Barrax snorted in disgust. “Then that is a remarkable King you have. What is it you propose?”

A deep, measured breath. “That in exchange for our support—or lack of resistance—in your efforts to subdue Eron you help us destroy those people and institutions that would stand between ourselves and our goals.”

“Which are?”

“Bluntly stated: The people must continue to approach The Eight only through us.”

“There is reason to suspect otherwise?”

“There … may be.”

Barrax nodded cryptically and settled back in his chair, stroking his chin. “I believe I require confirmation of that.”

The Chief showed no emotion. “What I tell you I offer as proof of our loyalty—our potential loyalty, one might say.”

“Go on.”

The Chief took a sip of wine. “Very well. Some two eighths ago, we received word from a young but reliable source that a certain accomplished … friend of his from Smithcraft had discovered a most intriguing gem. One with amazing and, to us, troubling, properties, including, apparently, that of enabling men to speak mind to mind. We also have reason to suspect that this same gem can confer the power to … project oneself out of oneself, as the King and
some of our craft do when they drink from the Wells. More specifically, we think it allows them to enter the realm of The Eight. Should the unclanned, the clanless, and Common Clan learn that we can access The Eight directly … Well, you recall what I have said.”

Barrax steepled his fingers. “And can you describe this gem?”

“We have not seen it, but it is reported to be a red stone the size of the big thumb joint, smooth-surfaced and full of sparkling inner facets, somewhat like an opal.”

“I … see,” Barrax replied casually. “And you believe this? Enough to risk what you do on such preposterous suppositions?”

The Chief shifted in his chair. “There have been other gems with powers come out of that place, though few. So yes, until we know otherwise, we do believe.”

“That’s why we need priests anyway, isn’t it? So we’ll have someone to tell us we need faith.”

The Chief’s face was unreadable, though he tensed at that last. “Majesty, we have presented the bones of our proposition. We will remain to discuss them further, or withdraw so that you may take what action you will, at your leisure. But we have said what we came to say.”

Barrax smiled. “You have indeed said interesting things, many of which bear further consideration. I trust, however, that you will not take it amiss if I offer you our hospitality until certain other measures have been enacted?”

“We expect no less,” the Chief acknowledged solemnly.

“You may go. It is likely that I will summon you again before much time passes.”

“Your Majesty of Ixti is gracious.”

“Better say … curious,” Barrax retorted. And sat on his throne unmoving as the Ninth Face of The Eightfold God departed.

A guard followed hard on their heels, however. “Majesty,” he ventured. “Is there anything you require?”

A pause for thought. Then: “Send me my son.”

“At Your Majesty’s will.”

Barrax indulged himself in a full glass of thick Eronese
wine and a slice of buttered bread as he paced the room. It was times like this he needed someone to confide in. Some beloved kinsman. A bond-brother, perhaps, such as the Eronese had. Such as his son all but had. He had his own opinions on these and other matters, but he needed someone he could
trust
, dammit. Someone whose agenda mirrored his own, and who valued the same things he did.

Briefly furious, he flung the goblet at the nearest tent pole, not caring that expensive glass shattered. He was pouring another as the guard entered, with two others. Kraxxi stood between them, dressed in a clean belted robe of Ixtian cut and Eronese cloth, shaved and bathed and with his hair combed, but looking gaunt for all that. He was also barefoot and barelegged beneath the padded shackles that bound his ankles and his wrists. His eyes, however, were calm.

Without asking, the guards thrust him into the seat vacated by the Chief of the Ninth. Barrax wondered idly if it was still warm, and if Kraxxi would notice, as he’d seemed to notice other things Barrax hadn’t expected.

“Lord Lynnz and I have been discussing your fate,” Barrax rumbled, giving neither name, relationship, nor title, as he had vowed not to do in Kraxxi’s presence.

Kraxxi, as was typical, did not reply.

“You are allowed to speak.”

“I have already told you what I had to say.”

“About the gem?”

“I gave you Eron. You should either give me freedom or end my life.”

Barrax glared at him. “The woman gave me far more of Eron than you did. But tell me, what form would this freedom take? Would you go north or south?”

“Perhaps I would do neither. Perhaps I would go where there is none of this endless contention and playing of games. Perhaps I would go east, take ship, and sail until I could sail no farther. Or go west over the mountains, to the unknown land beyond.”

“Alone?”

“I’ve survived alone before.”

“Or I could kill you.”

“We both know that. Clearly you have a reason for keeping me alive.”

“More than Lynnz knows. Would you like to hear them?”

“No, but I suppose you’ll tell me anyway, since they’re bound to be things that would hurt me to know.”

“You know me well, you think.”

“I have known you long. That’s almost the same thing.”

“Very well, you’ve been frank. So will I. You’re bait.”

Kraxxi’s eyes rounded ever so slightly, but Barrax caught the gesture. “I see you’ve guessed for whom: your friends the triplets. They also have sentences of death upon them. I would enjoy watching you watch them die.”

“You enjoy watching death, period. Maybe that’s because you’re already dead inside.”

Barrax all but leapt to his feet. “You dare! You hope to goad me into killing you.”

Kraxxi shrugged. “I have little to lose by making the attempt.”

“Your life.”

“Such as it is.”

“The woman’s life. Don’t think I don’t know you love her.”

“Did love her, perhaps.”

“I keep thinking how interesting it would be to have her conceive a child by you. A child I could hold for ransom. Or a child I could use to torture you. A child you could watch cut from her womb. A child you could both watch … die.”

To Barrax’s surprise, Kraxxi looked less shocked than sympathetic. “Don’t look at me as though I’m mad, boy,” he raged. “I am entirely too sane, I assure you.”

“Merryn’s clan will kill you,” Kraxxi said simply. “They—”

He broke off, for a warrior had burst into the room, fresh from the road, to judge by his travel-stained clothes. Still, he had doffed his sword before entering, which few had grace to do. It took Barrax a moment to identify him: Lord Orlizz. He’d been on patrol to the northwest. “Majesty—I apologize, but you had wanted to be told at once …”