Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity (29 page)

The monk interlaced his own fingers and stared down at them. “I see no harm in answering a few innocent, hypothetical legal questions from a young penitent, even if I might never see that person again.”

The boy stared at the monk’s face, trying to read it. “You want to save him, both of us. You know of a way.”

“A wise man lights a candle in the dark,” the monk quoted.

“I suppose you can’t get accused of heresy yourself if all you do is quote scripture. You want me to look more closely at some detail right in front of me.” The boy paced, staring at the intricate mosaic on the floor, made of wood squares in every hue. “Why three days?”

The legal expert said, “In the event of any death sentence thought unjust, the accused shall have three days to make appeal to the king. In this time, the kingok more clot refuse his plea.”

The monk whispered, “To solve the problems of others, we must first look at the path of our
own feet
.” Brent looked down at the floor mosaic. The scene depicted an ox and a brazier filled with rich, wooden flames. When he raised his eyes again, the monk had disappeared. Where the scholar had been standing was etched the caption ‘the Judgment of the Gods’.

Soldiers entered the room before he could attempt to find the man again. When the front soldier scooped him up, Brent shouted, “I demand the right to petition the King!”

The soldiers all looked at each other, unsure, until the head of the squad said, “He sure sounds like a lawyer. First, we’ll carry him to the Hall of Petitioners, and then we’ll take him to the dungeons. But keep him under guard at all times.” One of the men snickered.

Brent waited in the Hall of Petitioners all morning and afternoon. His guards took shifts by the exit. About dinnertime, a smartly dressed, thirteen-year-old boy stepped out of the throne room, and snapped, “What are you still doing here?” The boy had brown hair and a fake mole over the right side of his lip.

The guards immediately stood straighter. Perhaps this was the royal page. Brent seized his chance. “I came to petition the king to pardon a death sentence.”

The popinjay smoothed his fur lapels and said, “Impossible. Those things are signed for a reason. It’d look weak if the king reversed such a thing. There’s nothing I can do. They’ll be throwing you off the top of the east wall in three days.”

“But you have to let me plead…,” Brent began.

“I already have,” countered the young man in green. “By the way, haven’t you forgotten something important?”

Brent was puzzled until the guard behind him forced him to kneel. Slowly, the truth became clear. “Forgive me, your majesty. Nobody told me it was you.” He vaguely recalled hearing that King Rensalier had died last year, naming his son Renald his successor. Nobody had dared mention how young the new king was. But it helped to explain why the Sons of Semenos held such power if the High Gardener did most of the governing till he reached the age of majority.

The young man cackled at his deception. “Relax, it’s not like I can kill you twice.”

“You don’t to kill me at all. An important king like you can do anything he wants,” Brent tried.

Renald shook his head. “Your friend is preaching that women and men are equal. This gives my older sister Lavender the idea that she should be rightful ruler instead of me. She took off last night with all her maids and all the guards they could seduce with their wiles. They went to join the rebellion in the hills of Cardinado. If I let you fellows go, I’ll be agreeing with her and my head will be rolling in a ditch by Emperor’s Day.”

Brent did the only thing left to him and cried. One of the guards forgot himself and stooped to comfort him, but snapped back up at a sharp glance from the young monarch. The king sighed. “Take it easy. I like you. It’s nothing personal. Just to show you what a great guy I am, I’ll let you choose how you’re going to die.”

The king resented being put on the spot, but had heard enough gruesome stories in his childhood to fill in the details. “We take punishments for each of the crimes you committed, say wooden spikes, a burning moat, and wild, starving dogs. Next, we take a sacrificial animal to represent the accused.”

“Like our ox, Red?”

“Exactly. Then we chase it off the wall. Whatever happens to the animal then happens to you. It’s left to the gods to decide. The system’s pretty foolproof. If, say, it misses all the spikes and just breaks its legs, it can’t run. Then we set the dogs loose, and they tear it to pieces, wailing in agony. You don’t want that. An arrow through the heart with blindfolds would be peaceful.”

“What if the ox survives?” asked Brent, hopeful.

The king shook his head. “Every time that happened, they added another row of blocks to the Wall of Judgment. It’s too high for anything to survive.”

“But what if?” pressed the boy.

“Then the gods will have made their desires clear. You and your friend would go free,” the king said, humoring the poor, condemned child.

“The Judgment of the Gods it is then! Thank you, sire. I won’t forget this,” said Brent.

As the guards led the boy away, one of the advisors appeared from behind a curtain and said in the king’s ear. “Wisely done, sire. I will amend your original decree at once. This’ll guarantee us a much larger audience, and the boy seems almost happy. He’ll go to his grave praising nd yoname.”

The king was not so pleased. “Jenson, what if this man really was the Herald?”

The advisor smiled patronizingly. “Your majesty, I seldom take the time for debates about religious trivia when there is a war to win.”

The smith fidgeted as a tailor fitted him with a black, silk vest
to go over his white, linen kalura. He’d been posing in front of a gold-trimmed mirror for over two hours, and he’d rather have faced a street mob than continue for another minute. Strellikan arrived just in time, dressed in a casual, midnight-blue robe and his favorite, brown wig. His lordship pulled the tailor aside and said, “Wonderful work, Jacamo. How has our young guest been?”

“My, he’s a big one,” the man with the chalk and measuring cord whispered with a lisp.

The master of the Royal Mint wasn’t flustered by this comment. “Yes, well he needs to be big to do his job. The current unpleasantness in the streets makes it necessary for a man of my station to protect himself. A personal bodyguard seemed prudent.”

“And tasty,” the tailor said with enthusiasm. “Have you seen the interesting brand on his shoulder?”

At this, Lord Strellikan raised an eyebrow. “Jacamo, might I have a moment alone with my new retainer to discuss the arrangements for tonight?”

The tailor sighed audibly and left with the encouragement, “With that beau in my clothes, everyone will be so jealous of you.”

The smith looked relieved when the clothier departed, but came to attention when the lord approached him. Strellikan waved at him. “Relax. I came to give you an update. After tracing all the runes, fitting all the pieces, and studying the layering to the best of my ability, only one step remains before we can begin repair. I need to identify the maker and the method used to apply the sesterina. This information is critical if I am to restore the Sword of the Defender accurately. We also have a certain duty to preserve any historical data that would be destroyed the moment we heated the metal or struck with a hammer. To this end, I’ve handed the hilt over to a scholar friend of mine to examine.”

The smith put his hands on his own forehead to avoid clamping them around the master of the Mint and shaking him. “You what?”

The aristocrat remained as placid as ever, holding up his pale, vein-riddled hand. “It’ll be safer there than on my estate. The royal guards have been through my work area twice, commandeering every weapon we have. There are bigger problems than yours in this kingdom. There seems to be a war afoot in our back yard.”

“Has the blood feud escalated?”

Strellikan brooded for a moment before saying, “No, I’ve heard rumors that it’s much more serious than that. How much more, no one in my employ is certain. I aim to find out tonight.”

“You’re running a reconnaissance patrol into Innisport?”

The Lord wrinkled his lip at this suggestion. “I’m throwing a fete.” When the smith’s confusion seemed to deepen, the aristocrat explained. “An outdoor dinner party with entertainment. A civil war demands a civil gathering.”

ght="0" width="29">The smith’s disbelief couldn’t have been more tangible. “Are you making a cruel joke or just insane?”

The Lord of the Mint stared him right in the eyes and said firmly, “My good Mr. Anonymous, you wanted noble help. Well, this is how nobles do things. If we want to know something, we feed a large number of officers and officials, loosen their tongues with wine, and listen. And before you object to the scope of the party, the easiest way for you to meet my scholar friend is by meeting half the blue bloods in the area. People are watching my movements now, and two visits so close together would generate unwanted speculation. Do you have any other problems?” His voice made it clear there should be none.

Leaning close, the smith muttered, “This outfit makes me look ridiculous.”

“Nonsense. It’s all the rage with men your age. You’ll need to look the part if you’re going to tag along with me at the party. I’ve told everyone you’re my new security specialist, which is true after the way you just wandered unchallenged onto my estate. As long as you remain silent and stay close to me, you should learn a great deal.” He continued, offering random pieces of fete etiquette. The master of the Mint wrapped up by adding, “Don’t stare and don’t appear too interested in anyone you’re eavesdropping on. Maintain the illusion that every discussion is private. Are you almost finished here?”

The aristocrat wrinkled his upper lip again. “Yes, well perhaps there’s a reason for that. We’ll start with a good cleaning, a trim to neaten the edges, and then the curling irons.” When the smith screwed up his face to object, Lord Strellikan silenced him. “Enough childishness, sir. If we were going to invade a brothel and beat an inebriated wastrel into making a loan payment, I would dress like you to appear disreputable and menacing. But when in the Inner Islands, do as the islanders do. You need to pass unnoticed among the cream of Zanzibosian society. The hair makes the man.”

Chastised, the smith grumbled, “All right. But if that tailor tries to take my inseam one more time, I’m going to pound him into next week.”

Amused, Strellikan decided to avoid the issue. “That’s between the two of you, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I have other preparations to make.”

****

The fete was splendid, grander than any party the smith had ever been to. There were flutes playing in the foyer, wine in the fountain, a fire-eater in the courtyard, and seven different types of appetizer on one table alone. As per their agreement, the smith hung back and glowered like a bodyguard, while the master of the Mint hobnobbed in turn with each of his guests for a length of time appropriate to their station. Strellikan made sure to preen, showing off his newest wig. The smith-turned-bodyguard also used this time to adjust the snug stockings that kept riding up his crotch. He swore the tailor must have done this to him out of spite. After talking to Lord Strellikan, a few guests smiled and waved at the smith for no apparent reason; some even blew kisses or winked as they passed.

True to his word, the aristocrat had most of the city news in short order. He took a moment out on the balcony in the cool, night breeze to share the intelligence. “A few days ago, there was a major skirmish between the factions of the blood feud down in the waterfront district. A few hands of the king’s men got caught in the crossfire and accidentally killed.”