Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity (40 page)

The smith torqued his head to the side and said through clenched teeth, “Why not just pay the person in front of him the two silvers like he asked when we got here?”

Pinetto winced. “Two reasons. Once someone has passed the line, you can’t talk to them unless you’re inside, too. Most practically, if the gates aren’t opened, we can’t get to our rooms. There’s no point in paying my last coin to someone when it won’t get me any closer to a bed.”

“Surely there are other doors,” the smith pleaded, trying to hold his temper.

“University entrants must check in through the office of the Dean, no exceptions,” recited the drab guard who’d been listening stone-faced to their conversation.

“This is ridiculous. A university can’t run without students,” the smith complained.

The guard had unlimbered his truncheon and was about to evict these rabble-rousers from their place in line. The astronomer addressed the guard apologetically. “Forgive my friend. He doesn’t know that the university is on break today and these security measures are necessary for a nation at war.” Pinetto withdrew a single silver coin and held it out. “Maybe you could settle a bet between us. We realize the rules are there for a reason, but the Lord of the Mint had a personal message to give to his counterpart here. My associate bet me that we could arrange for an appointment with him sooner.”

The coin disappeared. “Lord Paymaster is three doors uphill, but has a longer line than this one. The average wait there is two days,” said the bored guard, with no trace of emotion.

“What if I had a message from the gods?” the smith ranted. “Where would I have to wait?”

Having no sense of humor, the guard replied, “Office of Religious Affairs and Charity would be the other side of the city, at the base of the hill. The line there takes about five days, unless you want to talk to the gods yourself; in which case, we can arrange that without delay.” Another guard poked his head out from the portcullis at the end of the tunnel, squinting to see if his co-worker was in trouble.

Pinetto glared and shelled out another silver. “Any time you make him talk, it costs us money,” hissed the astronomer. “Would you cut it out?”

Instead of being mollified, the smith bellowed in outrage. “Kingdoms are rising and falling by the hour. We don’t have time for this sideshow. There are four dead, northern assassins in our boat starting to stink in this sun!” He was a heartbeat away from smashing the Codes of Entry, or the gates themselves, with the hilt of his sword.

Everyone gawked at him, open-mouthed. The guard’s face brightened, truly awake for the first time that morning. “Well, that’s different. The Bureau of Security is the first gate at the top of this hill. Allow me to escort you.”

The university gate closed down while two guards walked them through the maze. The smith was ecstatic, but the astronr had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. By lunch, they were heroes with access to the inner fortress and the constant accompaniment of a security envoy. However, their anonymity and privacy was forever gone.

The Minister of Statistics saw Pinetto and the sword-bearer six hours later. As a visiting knight from an allied kingdom, they allowed him to retain his Honor;
however, they set a magically enhanced wax seal between the hilt and sheath. They couldn’t prevent him from carrying the weapon, but he had to swear not to draw the sword inside their fortress. If the seal had been broken or even tampered with upon his departure or any time he passed a guard post, his freedom and very life could be forfeit.

Most bureaucrats wouldn’t have allowed him a private audience with such a blade, even with the seal. The statistician was either a very trusting man or very secure in his lair. Physically, the Minister was a small man, with wispy, salt-and-pepper hair and a long, narrow mustache. His eyes were wide and as sad as a hound the smith once knew. His uniform shirt had the regulation shoulder epaulets and a single blue patch of rank. The old mathematician sighed as the two men came in, shuffling through the avalanche of papers on his desk for one that seemed relevant. “Dinnertime already?” He squinted in the dim light and corrected himself. “You’re not the kitchen help; you’re the heroes. Sorry to keep you waiting. There are so many numbers to refigure. Sit, sit. We owe you gentlemen a great debt. Yes, indeed.”

The smith demurred. “We just did what any concerned citizens would have.”

The statistician barked out a sharp laugh. “Most citizens would have pulled themselves safe into bed and come out when it was over. You got half of them, your friend said.”

“Four out of nine. We think the last one was a local noble,” Pinetto clarified.

The Minister nodded sagely. “He’s the mole. We’re trying to find him with cross correlation. He can’t hide long once we’ve focused our attentions. Still, four Glass Daggers isn’t a bad night’s work for two young students. They’re a nasty lot. Some people around here didn’t even believe they existed until you showed up with the proof.”

“One student,” corrected Pinetto. “My friend here did all the work.”

“Indeed,” said the wispy, old man, re-appraising the swordsman before him. “I told those bureaucrats there were rats in the wainscoting, but they wouldn’t believe me. We have over seventy key command and control positions in this complex. How many do you think die or retire each month?”

Pinetto jumped in. “With an average service duration of twenty years, and seven months per year, about half a person a month, sir.”

“Excellent,” said the mathematician, pleased to be talking to a peer. “What would you say the likelihood was of having four die the same night?”

“That’s an entire year’s worth!” gasped Pinetto. “All the assassins that we let escape have killed people already?”

“Outstanding. I wish I had more like you on my staff, young sir. See my aide if you want to earn a few coins for expenses while you’re attending university. You have a keen mind. Actually, our overweight, chief pastry chef died in bed of natural causes. We’d been execting him to die any year now. The kitchen wench he had in his bed with him just hastened that eventuality.”

Having found the sheet of paper he desired, the Minister squinted again, held the paper closer and began to read, his voice changing from cordial to grim. “A rich, minor port official was killed in an apparent, dock-side mugging. His heirs are already fighting over the family warehouses, which coincidentally provide grain for our troops. The lawyers have frozen shipments until the dispute is resolved. The Master of Herbal Lore in the university, who’s long been battling a lung ailment, ended his own life with a pot of poisoned tea and a hand-written poem about freedom. Would you be surprised to hear that this herbalist personally inspects all medicines sent to our soldiers? His second-in-command is at the front lines, and the third is the king’s own physician. The nearest, practical replacement, a distant fourth on the qualification list, will take three weeks to locate, notify, and escort back here. He’s doing berry research with some southern tribe.”

The bureaucrat shook his head, setting the paperwork down. “And finally, the Minister of Protocol, who frequently goes fishing in the morning before work, slipped on a loose rock, stunned himself, and slid into the water where he drowned. What a mess that’s been. Assuming the mole isn’t an active killer, three out of four Glass Daggers succeeded in their missions the same night they landed, an incredible success ratio for such a venture. That also assumes that none of their personnel fill a support role. From your description, subgroups of them did seem to have a certain degree of specialization. Therefore, I think there may have been more than one ship.”

“That’s horrible,” said Pinetto.

“It’s what any sound military thinker or farmer would do. Never put all your eggs in one basket,” reasoned the smith. “So we’re looking at a minimum of thirteen enemy operatives, probably working in teams of three, dagger assassin, spear scout, and sword for a clean escape, with some cross-training for backup.”

The mathematician looked at the hulking smith with something approaching admiration, and took notes on the observations. “Not to worry. Now that we’re on to them, we’ve tightened security for the Library. No one gets in without the proper authorization. Once we catch the mole, we’ll catch the whole nest of them, I’m sure. The whole South owes you a debt of gratitude, as do I personally for vindicating my department. How can we repay you?”

Expecting at least two hours of interrogation and no reward, the smith fumbled for a moment. “We only want what we asked for, sir: a room, a meal, and a chance to study some of the ancient scrolls.”

The Minister of Statistics grunted. “A meal, that’s a capital idea. I’d forgotten about that.” He scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment and sealed it with candle wax, handing it to Pinetto. “There. I don’t have any authority over housing, but for the duration of your stay, you’ll dine on my account. See my secretary for a pass to the Library stacks, non-classified of course. One of my best runners, Cedric, will see to your needs until you can get one of your own.”

Both men thanked him for his generosity and shook his hand. Cedric had been waiting for them outside, along with their security envoy. Cedric was an efficient, young man concerned more with reading his current book than with conversation. His unrumpled, linen robe was the quality worn by the upper-middle-class. He rarely spoke and blended into his surroundings. The only clue they had of his runner status, other an his youth, was the fact that his sandals had been re-shod so often that he had tiny, metal plates tapped into the heels to slow the wear. Whenever runners walked by at a brisk pace, one could often hear their signature clicking.

Their next stop was the kitchen. The head chef beamed and lavished praise on the companions after reading the letter from the Minister of Statistics. While they were served up heroic portions of leek soup and stuffed game hen in orange sauce, Cedric set about finding them suitable lodging. The kitchen staff buzzed, catching fragments of the tale and embellishing them more with each re-telling. One brown-haired lass, an assistant cook of some sort, took a special interest in the burly smith. “You killed an entire ship full of assassins single-handedly?”

The smith tried to ignore her attentions, but Pinetto, eager for recognition of his own, kept fanning the flames. By the end of the meal, the young woman was hanging on the smith’s arm, admiring his vest, and flirting. When Cedric arrived to escort them away, the lass sighed, “Leaving so soon? But you’ll miss
my
course. I’ll have to make you one of my
special
desserts later.”

The smith waved and moved rapidly into the hall. Even Cedric raised an eyebrow at this. He cast a meaningful look at Pinetto, who replied, “I’m not sure. He did get his letter of reference from the Lord of the Mint, who also picked out those fashionable clothes of his. But I didn’t ask.”

“I’m engaged!” the smith protested. “Anna is a very good woman to whom I’m determined to remain faithful.”

Still a bit surly that the woman had chosen his friend instead, Pinetto pried, “So what is it that this Anna has that the tart chef does not?”

“Breath, you buffoon,” shouted the smith, exasperated. “Liking another person’s smell is very important in a marriage, and so is trust.” The other two men glanced at each other in a way that said they had never considered these criteria before. “Speaking of smell, did something die in here?”

Pinetto sniffed his own cape, deciding that the foul odor of fermenting snake intestines may have had something to do with the damsel’s choice after all.

When they reached their apartments on the second floor of a distant wing, the smith was awestruck. Above the doorway hung a brass version of the flare militant, the original holy symbol of the Temple of Tamarind Pass. “How did you know?”

From inside the room came the answer. “One can tell by the design of your very interesting sword hilt, my good sir.” A dignified man with peppered, black hair, a soft, five-cornered hat, and a wrinkle-free, spotless, blue robe stepped out to meet them. “I’m Darius, the steward of this floor. The gate guard mentioned that you were a religious man. When Cedric recognized your affiliation with our departed Captain Jotham, we thought it appropriate that you should use his quarters. Everything confidential has been removed, of course, but it is otherwise the same as the day he left. Jotham was an avid devotee of your faith. Though the active practice of this faith is technically forbidden by the kings, I cannot find faulits adherents. The chief researcher was the kindest, wisest man I have ever met, and the best tenant I have ever had. He’ll be sorely missed.”

The smith bowed. “Your hospitality will not be forgotten.” To his runner, he said, “Cedric, you sneak. Blessings be upon you, your children, and your children’s children. You’ve done better than I could have imagined. Take off the rest of the day.” Cedric blushed, bowed in reply, and scampered off to take his ease.

Darius smiled and gestured for the two to enter. “You should find everything you need to refresh yourselves in the bathroom between the first two suites. If you have need of anything before curfew, simply ring the bell at your doorway and a servant will be dispatched to fulfill your request.”

The smith stumbled around, gawking at the amenities. Each of the three rooms in this section was twice the size of his barracks at the guild Fortress. Despite the lack of gaudy ornaments or excessive luxury, the suite could have belonged to a council member. “It’s so big.”