Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity (25 page)

“About?” she asked. The steward refused to speak. Several eyebrows rose around the circle. To counter the suspicions, Humi said, “These are my most trusted advisors. What you tell me, they are free to hear.”

“Two matters. First, the captain was sent to investigate the light in the sky on
that
day.” No one was permitted to mention the death but the Lady of the Deep. “Second, he has a message for the hand of Lord Kragen from the hand of Zandar, King of Zanzibos. What shall I tell the good captain?”

Humi shrugged. “Why, nothing until I read the message he bears. Bring it to our study. It shall be for our eyes alone.”

The other members of the sept began to object, but she cut them short. “You two may wait in my parlor till I have finished.”

Humi’s bearers slid poles under her wooden chair and raised her aloft, carrying her swiftly back to the lord’s tower. After dining briefly on fruit, she opened the King’s seal on the scroll and began reading. The letter was longer than she expected, but she went over the text three times before feeding it to the brazier in Kragen’s workshop. She stared out at the Inner Sea until the mortal sun conceded and fled the sky.

When she entered the parlor, her first act was to send her steward on an errand. He paled at her order and whispered, “Are you certain, milady? It took ten years to repair. We’re not sure it will live up to its former glory. Our lord stored it away because the cost of using it was ruinous.”

She nodded sagely. “Our lord was wise. But he stored it so that it could eventually be used. Get the shipwright now. He is paid well for the secrets passed to him by his grandfather. It is time.” The steward bowed and departed the parlor, leaving her alone with the two mages. Their questions hung in the air as she rang for tea. One had to keep up one’s vital energy.

When it suited her, the Lady said, “Officially, the king’s message was never received. We shall draft a counter-letter explaining our situation and that we threw the scroll on our lord’s funeral pyre unread.”

“Unofficially?” pried Vlekmar. Humi was amused that one so aged should have the least patience of them all.

“Our true enemy has been revealed. Once the tree of the Guild has been uprooted, we will use it as a lever to topple the throne of Zanzibos. His majesty insulted my heritage at great length in his letter.” The word half-breed hung in the air unspoken. “His majesty said that I would get his royal approval and the return of my ancestral lands over his dead body.”

She stared both men in the face as she added coldly, “An unfortunate choice of words on his part.”

Necrota didn’t bat an eye at the treasonous statements; instead, he stroked his thin mustache and revised the scope of his plans outward. “We’ll need to move cautiously. There are several key warehouses we should discretely acquire and certain influential citizens to subvert. Innisport will be easy if we can get all of our troops in place without arousing suspicion. The general population won’t even recognize it as a hostile action. We can use the feud as cover for our troops to keep the peace in the surrounding area. We’ll get those currently in possession of your lands to sign a document acknowledging your claim. With the primary port to the Inner Sean our hands and Tamarind Pass in our pocket, Zanzibos will be in a tight vice indeed. The Prefect of Bablios appears be too busy with matters on his eastern flank to interfere. We have ferried some of his soldiers into Semenos already. It should provide the necessary diversion. When the King of Zanzibos realizes his position on the board, you’ll be able to force him into whatever settlement you wish.”

“Seven bands of seven, your ladyship,” said the younger mage. “He hasn’t been informed of the lord’s circumstances as of yet, as per your orders. The news missed him on the road.”

“I say we feed them well, give them our best accommodations, and after they send their report, kill them all in their sleep,” she said, adding sugar to her cup and stirring.

Vlekmar choked on his tea.

“This offends you?” asked the Lady wryly, considering the man was known to drain young maidens of all life force after taking their virginity.

“Stop being such a pansy,” Necrota complained. “What did you think we were going to do once we finished the Project? Did you think the rest of the world was just going to roll over for you?”

“Don’t warn your opponent so soon!” the old man cautioned. “Instead, send them to the farthest reaches of the realm chasing wild geese. Tell them the phenomenon they seek fled deep into the desert, and offer them guides. Make sure their water runs out sooner than expected and the tribesmen hear of the treasure they carry.”

Necrota smiled. “Our desert kin have a saying. Even the strongest man must eventually pull down his breeches to squat by the paba tree. Then can the patient man pull out his entrails.”

“How will we storm Innisport?” asked the cautious Vlekmar.

Humi said, “I’ve already taken care of that. The shipwright has been ordered to ready the Imperial warship my lord salvaged.” The ship had last been used to carry refugees in the Scattering, one of the few vessels that survived the brimstone raining from the sky, the churning waters, and the malcontents along the shores. The great mast had been replaced but never tested. The wards woven into the frame of the ship lay dormant and uncharged since its retirement. No one could be sure what to expect from it when it challenged the open sea again. “Our troops will creep up on our unsuspecting enemies like a nightmare while they sleep.”

Vlekmar couldn’t raise his cup again lest he show the trembling in his hands. These would be terrible days ahead that would shine in history. But to live through such a history, he wouldn’t wish on any man.

Sulandhurka’s smith found
a hole where he could rest in Innisport. He arranged to lease a single, shabby room iniversity District. He’d always wanted to attend university, but his parents had been the wrong nationality. The room had no frills or services, but it provided him two valuable commodities: time and anonymity. He used the time to rest, recover, and think. The rising tide of violence in the city told him that the hunters were now after him in packs. Furthermore, he was no longer sure what his motivation for returning to Tamarind Pass would be. The guildmaster wouldn’t reward his news and the Sword of Miracles would be taken from him. Indeed, when Dhagmurna heard the reason for the blood feud, the smith knew his own life could be used as a peace offering.

No, as loyal as he felt toward the Brotherhood, being used as a bargaining chip didn’t appeal to the smith. Strangely, the potential loss of the Sword of Miracles troubled him even more. It represented something. He who bore that blade protected the empire itself, and that he couldn’t trust in the hands of anyone else. But before it could be used, the blade would need to be repaired. After examining the shards at length, the smith despaired. The techniques used in its construction were far beyond his training. The feathering of the sesterina surface alone could have taken him a lifetime to master. He needed someone skilled, a craftsman who might have made Honors from their raw components.

There were no such craftsmen native to the area, but many types of people had been displaced by the Scattering, unable to return home. When he tried to tap his sources in the local Brotherhood, the smith almost got caught by an ambush party. Several executioners were cut down running from the burning chapter house. The bribes, fees, and encouragement required to discover the same information on his own drained his limited resources within the week. He concentrated on social clubs and bars where the patrons missed the era of Imperial rule. The aging loyalists at the Sixth Digit helped him just for the joy of talking to a young man about the good old days.

The smith had a lead on one of the bar’s regulars when he returned home one night. As he walked up his street, a twenty-year-old, Imperial, astronomy student from a few doors down motioned him toward the alley. The smith didn’t suspect robbery because the kid had the clean conscience and shaving habits of someone half his age. He expected the young man to ask him to straighten another needle. Instead, the tall student passed him a poster.

“Reward for information leading to the capture of executioners,” the smith read.

“Your landlord figured he could get the bounty and rent your room out twice for the same month,” whispered the student.

Alerted, the smith could see changes in the street scene, thugs who were out of place in the university setting. Inching around the corner, he glimpsed his landlord on a patio at a nearby tavern, waiting to point the finger that would identify him. The smith growled as he crumpled the poster. Fortunately, he carried the shards with him at all times. But his hammer, travel gear, and uniform were trapped in the room. The smith searched his memory as he retraced his steps back to where his rescuer hid. “You’re called Little Pine?” he whispered.

“Close. Pinetto,” replied the astronomer. “It wasn’t long ago that they were hunting down Imperials and folks helped us. I’m just repaying the favor.”

He blushed in shame that he’d been unable to recall the name of the man who’d saved him. “This isn’t about our parents. I owe you a life and I remember my debts,” the smith said, clasping the astronomer firmly on both shoulders before vanishing into the dark maze of and archways.

****

That night, Lord Strellikan, the superintendent of the Royal Mint of Zanzibos, received a rude awakening. The dogs guarding his property were barking again. He was just about to shout a reprimand when he noticed the grime-streaked figure lurking in his window. The ancient superintendent was of the true blood, and could see everything in the room clearly. Nothing had been taken. All of his wigs were still lined up in perfect order and dust-free. The superintendent no longer had hair of his own, but he had a distinguished hairpiece for every conceivable occasion. Each wig had taken months to make and cost more than six gold coins. Gems could be replaced, but his lordship wouldn’t leave the house without his hair. The intruder held up his hands and placed a finger to his lips.

“Who are you?” demanded the head metallurgist of the kingdom.

“A fellow shaper and loyalist,” the smith said cryptically. “I bring you a challenge that may help rebuild that which has been sundered.” A rustle of cloth followed and the shards of Miracle sparkled by the light of the Compass Star. Strellikan gasped. In seconds, he was out of bed, examining the treasure in nothing but his night shirt.

“As the bearer, I seek your aid, in the name of the office you held before the Scattering,” the smith asked formally.

The older man’s eyes flashed in annoyance at the distraction. Then he considered the weight of the request. If successful, this piece would be the achievement of his career. It put the creation of jewelry and coins for vain nobles to shame. Men would judge his work for centuries to come, using it as comparison. Looking at the fragments, he nodded. “It’ll be possible to make it whole again. I’ll need the right forge. The shape may be different because some of the pieces may not fit the same way again.”

The bearer smiled. He knew that he had chosen the right craftsman. “One condition: you can’t tell anyone about it until we’re finished.”

Strellikan was already four steps down this road. “Don’t teach your grandfather to suck eggs, boy. I take a vacation to go to the desert mineral springs once a year. No one will raise an eyebrow if I leave early because of the feud. But I’ll need to bring an assistant.”

The former executioner held up his hand. “You’ll have me.”

The Imperial considered this condition for all of ten heartbeats before saying, “What shall I call you, sir?”

It had been a long time since anyone had referred to the smith by something other than a nickname or job description. None of the old titles seemed to fit. Because of the blood feud, he couldn’t risk his real name either. Brotherhood names stood out from the common ethnic and cultural choices in this region. He prided himself on the ability to blend to local speech patterns when on an assignment, and hiding his accent. Too many of the executioners spoke in a guild patois designed to segregate them from the masses.

“My apologies, milord. For now, I must remain anonymous.”

No stranger to court intrigue, the bald lord took the second condition in stride. “Very well, Sir Anonymous. We’ll leave in the morning.” Strellikan put in an eye lens and began to analyze the metal, muttering notes to himself.

The bearer looked relieved. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare place to sleep wuld you?” Being accustomed to the road for so long, he meant the stables, but the casual reply surprised him.

“About thirty-seven, actually. But I don’t want to wake the staff. Take my bed. It’s still warm and I won’t be using it tonight; there’s too much to plan.” The Imperial looked two decades younger as he pondered the possibilities.

****

Morlan arrived back at the Temple of the Unseen very early in the morning, rowing the repaired, spell-protected craft. Under cover of night, he and three other loyal, Kragen retainers hauled the crated bell into the master’s tower. Then he delivered several messages from the battlefront before writing up a detailed report about his experiences and what needed to be done next in the campaign. Finally, he sent his gear and uniform out for a proper cleaning. He wore only his ceremonial kalura and breeches. As he retired to his room, he was intercepted by the steward. “Sir, I realize that it’s almost dawn and you still haven’t rested from your journey, but our lady wishes to see you.”

Morlan nodded and went up the stairs without hesitation. Lady Humi greeted him in her sitting room, dressed only in a robe. The maid and steward were sent back to bed, leaving the two of them alone.