Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (44 page)

“No, that’s…that’s not what I meant.”

The vision blessed him with her gaze a second time. 
“No?  I find that hard to swallow.”  She marked her page with one finger and
shut the book over the exquisite digit.  Her gaze, already icy, grew colder as
she ordered, “So tell me then, exactly what it was you
were
after.”

Marik’s spine tingled as she fixed him with her
stare.  She expected a response, except his brain froze.  While his mind
fumbled with working out a smooth response, his mouth continued on. 
Interested, he listened to whatever it would say.

“Only…to talk for awhile.  Like I said.”  Marik winced
inwardly.  He sounded as inexperienced as he felt.  “Everyone else is gambling
or drinking or with the other…uh…other women.”

“That’s why I brought this,” she shot him down,
holding up the tome.  “And since that’s the second time you mentioned those
‘other women’, it’s obvious which of your brains is in control at the moment. 
I would like to finish this, so be a gentleman, and shove off.”

Cold disinterest exuded from her as she returned to
her pages.  Desperate, wishing his mouth would stop making a fool of him, he
tried to repair the damage.  “I never meant it that way!  I was only—arggh!”

His sudden shout drew her gaze, but this time he took
no notice of it.  The tingling along his spine transformed into a dagger
stabbing through his centerline.  It had been long since he’d experienced this
sensation, and he finally recognized it for what it was.  Marik cursed himself
for the worst breed of fool while he ran from the startled lady.

“Dietrik!” he bellowed, bursting into the hallway. 
His friend was nowhere to be seen.  There was no time to wait.  Marik ran fast
into the dining room, erupting into young nobles still gathered and laughing. 
Harsh comments lashed at him which he ignored, pushing through the herd. 
Hilliard had gone up
that
stairway over there.  So did Marik.

He ignored the demands for explanation and climbed
with fevered speed.  At the top where both staircases curved to meet, a long
hallway lined with doors stretched into eternity.  Where in the hells might
Hilliard be in this mess? 
No time.  No time.  Gods, I hope I’m not already
too late!

Adrenaline pumped through him.  Without sparing a
thought for it, he managed a feat he had never before successfully
accomplished.  Running down the hallway, he switched over to magesight.  Then,
going one step further, he drifted, letting his consciousness float through the
walls while his body ran on automatically.

The first room to the right held a noble and one of
the ladies.  They were enjoying themselves on a high-backed couch.  When he
concentrated on the man’s features illuminated by his aura he knew it was not
Hilliard.  Faster than a striking hawk, he shot through the side wall into the
next room along the hallway.  Unoccupied, so he jumped across the hallway to
examine the first room on the left.

Halfway down the hall, he finally found his charge. 
Marik’s body ran closer, still two doors away, a fact that would have turned
his spine from cold straight to ice if his body’s sensations were available to
him.  Hilliard lay face down on a bed, unconscious for all Marik could tell. 
The woman who had led him away straddled his back.  In the light from their
auras, he saw the silhouette of a long knife in her hands.  She raised it, and he
returned to his body, forcing it to greater speed than he had ever demanded of
it before.

“Medicines!  Cures for all your ills!  No need to
suffer when the gods have provided!  Come and leave your ailments behind!”

A passing woman stopped long enough to pick out an
envelope filled with powdered willow bark.  Colbey handed her six Tullainian
coppers as change from her ten-copper coin, then smiled warmly and wished her
the best of the day.  He resumed his calls until the sun disappeared behind
Kallied’s skyline, succeeding in reeling in three additional fish from the
passing crowd.  When the last golden sliver dipped behind the turquoise domes
of Markis-gune’s semi-palace, the merchants around him began packing away their
remaining goods.

Colbey did as well, wishing to avoid attention. 
Martial law in Kallied under the invaders demanded that all merchant business
cease with the setting of the sun.  Careful to keep his hidden sword covered,
Colbey opened the tinker’s pack to store the various medicines displayed on the
blanket.

From behind where he knelt, a harsh bark of foreign
syllables issued a demand.  Colbey found an invader glaring at him.  A woman
accompanied him, dressed in typical Tullainian attire; loose white pants and
the long-sleeved tunic that was actually a strange form of shirt with
ankle-length tails hanging down the front and back.

The invader gave her a command in Traders that Colbey
mostly understood.  It suited him to pretend he did not.

She addressed him in Tullainian.  “The soldier wishes
to check your identity.”

This marked the first time Colbey had been asked. 
He’d been waiting for this to occur.  With a reply in perfect Tullainian, he
said, “Of course.”  He displayed his hand for the invader to inspect.  “Have I
transgressed?”

“I don’t think so,” she told him, secure in a language
beyond the soldier’s understanding.  “He is randomly checking people.”

Colbey stood still, his calm, affable manner
succeeding in projecting his innocence.  After the invader inspected his forged
tattoo, he barked a new question to the woman.  To Colbey, it sounded like,
“What did he say?”

“He only wished us well,” she replied.  This satisfied
the soldier, who nodded at Colbey.

Colbey bowed a formal Tullainian farewell, palms
together, eyes downcast.  His dark brown hair fell over his eyes, obscuring
everything about the invader except his black steel greeves.  After the man and
his translator moved on, Colbey rose and brushed his hair back to clear his
vision.

He should have cut it as soon as it had dried from its
dying two days previous.  Oh well.  There had been more important matters on
his mind.

Such as overcoming whatever illness persisted in
hounding him.  It must be a flu, though his temperature seemed to remain
steady.  Except that could be hard to judge.  Everything about Tullainia was
hotter than Galemar.  In a land with far fewer trees and five times as much
dust, gauging by his normal standards would produce skewed results.

As soon as he had entered Kallied in the middle of the
night, he’d broken into an apothecary.  The lands around the city were devoid
of the specific plants that would ease his odd sickness.  Since time was a
matter of concern, he’d kept his search restricted to the terrain near him
while traveling, planning to acquire what he needed after sneaking past the
security ringing Kallied.

Once inside the apothecary, Colbey changed his plans. 
He took what he needed, also grabbing the dye for his hair before proceeding to
rob the small shop of every herb he recognized.  The tinker who previously
owned the pack had specialized in small repairs.  Colbey refused to waste his
time in the enemy’s camp by spending the days repairing some murderer’s boot
soles.

With his new stock, he visited several taverns. 
Careful questioning taught him the regulations surrounding peddlers these days,
and one unconscious drunkard’s hand had yielded Kallied’s tattoo.  In the
morning he set out his blanket as close to sites of possible interest as he
could manage.  Today he sat half a block from a military headquarters, and only
three streets away from the former high-lord’s semi-palace.

Merchants with stalls were untying sheet boards,
letting them fall with loud
clacks
over the windows.  A quick glance
around ensured that everyone tended to their own matters.  Colbey strapped his
sword to the pack with uncanny speed.  He hoisted it quickly onto his back. 
The blade was sandwiched between the large pack and his spine, his head
concealing the protruding hilt.

Kallied’s citizens had not been aquatinted with cheer
since falling under conqueror’s law, yet heads still nodded in greeting when
Colbey walked past.  Still smiling, he nodded back or wished them a pleasant
evening.  After half a mile he ducked into an alley devoid of people.

The smile disappeared at once.  His affable manner and
friendly demeanor were instantly replaced by his customary coldness.  Control. 
Simple as that.  A smile was only a stretching of muscles, and yet these
outlanders were always eager to be undone by one.  Imitating a pleasant tone
was little different than imitating the sounds of the wild forest denizens
around his home.

Night descended, and work lay ahead of him.  The
previous night he had scouted.  Tonight he would expand on the particulars he
had noticed.

Already he’d learned much during his two days in
Kallied.  From his previous investigations around Tullainia he recognized the
differences in the invaders’ uniforms.  While peddling in the streets today he
had seen a high number of uniforms belonging to officers.  The belief that
Kallied served as the central base for the invaders proved justified.

But how long would that be the case?  From a hundred
minute signs, this army prepared to move.  Not for a heartbeat did he believe
they were returning to whatever hellhole had spawned them.  They must be
pushing further toward the border.  North to Perrisan, or east to Galemar? 
That, as yet, remained an open question.

Colbey climbed a vine covered wall to perch atop a
roof overlooking a different merchant square.  Last night he’d followed two
carts that had exited a supply gate in the wall surrounding the high-lord’s
residence.  They had come to this place.  Tullainians had driven the
horse-pulled the carts, not invaders.

Closer examination in the late night candlemarks
suggested they belonged to a merchant who supplied the residence with food. 
Only
an outlander,
he thought in disgust,
would cave in to invaders who had
stolen his home.  And only an outlander would hope to profit from it instead of
utilizing his energies to fight back.

Still, this information could be profitable for him,
if not the merchant.  Colbey seriously doubted all the food for the high-lord’s
palace would be provided by a single merchant, but any knowledge regarding
supply lines outshone gold’s value.

The same two carts came around a corner, driven by the
same men.  Colbey tweaked his vision, enabling him to closer study the clothing
worn by the drivers.  No visible tags or identification were displayed.  Too
bad.  If the soldiers guarding the gates merely required an identification
emblem, Colbey could have stolen these drivers’ tags to gain entry.

That was the biggest problem facing him.  He could sit
on their doorstep until winter and only learn so much.  Colbey needed a way
inside the palace structures.  Since Kallied served as the primary hub in the
wheel of the invaders’ army, it only stood to reason that the leaders would
have confiscated the palace for their own uses.  The hundreds of soldiers
allocated to the palace’s security, exceeding those guarding the city walls,
supported that assumption.

Calm.  Patience.  There must be a way to find what I
need.  I refuse to accept otherwise.

The drivers pulled into a small courtyard attached to
the merchant’s building.  They shut the gate, unhooked the horses and led them
away to a small stable around the back.

These carts?
 
Possibly.  Perhaps he could hide among the food barrels and pass the guards. 
That would also mean hiding from the porters loading the carts.  Doubtful he
could manage that.

Still, it bore investigating.  After waiting two
additional marks for full dark and curfew to take effect, Colbey climbed across
the rooftops to drop onto the cart.  Nearby stood a loading door into the
merchant’s storage house.  No lock bared his way, the foolish outlander
trusting to the lock on the gate to keep out trespassers.

Inside, the storage house was rather small as such
structures went.  The far wall contained a minor hive of small iron doors, each
with massive padlocks.  Food barrels destined for the palace only crowded the
area immediately inside the doors.  Colbey’s opinion of the merchant dropped
further.

Obviously the man’s business in perishables had only
recently been launched.  Before the invasion he must have made his fortune
trading gems or expensive jewelry or other useless trinkets small enough to be
locked away behind the iron doors.  With unescorted travel outside the city
equal to a death sentence, he’d switched over to selling the invaders food to
keep the coins flowing into his greedy palms.  A selfish, indulgent outlander
to be certain.

Colbey inspected the barrel closest to the door to
find the top unsealed.  He lifted the circular lid.  Flour.  The cost for such
a common item had become unbelievable lately since shipments from Tullainia’s
farms were under the strict control of the invaders.  Given current prices,
this barrel could sell for ten silvers.

He dropped the lid back, prompting a floury puff to
cloud the air momentarily.  Nothing else in the storage house proved
interesting.  Most importantly, he could see no way to conceal himself inside
any crate or barrel and sneak past the soldiers.

Patience.  It is has ever been the Guardians’
watchword.  Blind actions birth nothing but mistakes.  I will continue studying
the security around the palace again this night.  I will eventually find a way
inside.  Rushing will solve nothing.

He was reaching for the door handle when a new voice
countered the first, a voice echoing up from deep inside, not merely within his
mind.  Words that rang though his entire
self
. 
Why wait?  I may not
be able to strike a deathblow, but a weak enemy is easier to fell than a strong
one, is it not?  And if I weaken them now, will they not be easier to destroy
later?

The surging fog roiled in his head, clouding his
vision’s edges, obscuring all except for the barrel.  From a far distance, he
thought he could hear Liam and Sylvia agreeing with him.

He quickly found what he wanted in the pack.  A fair
quantity of cyanide had also been lifted from the apothecary.  No doubt meant
to decrease the rat population in people’s homes, it would serve a far nobler
purpose.

Colbey emptied the entire paper envelope into the
flour.  The paper, rolled into a stiff tube, worked well to mix the poison
until the top layer of flour looked ordinary.

He left the merchant’s storage room.  Though he’d
taken a solid step toward his goal, a strangely hollow void yawned within his
gut, as it had after killing the white-robe in Durrac. 
It must be this flu,
he decided.  A hard shake of his head, a deep breath to settle his body, then
he departed for the palace to spend the evening in further study.

*        *        *        *        *

Time was passing too slowly.  Time was passing too
quickly.

Marik forced his legs to pump harder.  The muscles in
his calves strained to push his weight forward, taunt from the relentless
exertion he demanded.  Still one doorway away, he knew he could never cross the
last twenty feet in time.

This doorway was flanked by small potted trees.  Marik
cursed.  They hid the doorframe so he could not see if the hinges were on the
inside or the out.  All he could do was hope.  And pray.

He came within feet of his goal.  Enough time had
passed for the trees to sprout a few new leaves.  Blood pounded through his
eardrums.  A molding strip covering the crack formed where the two doors in the
frame met.  That must mean they swung inward, right?  The strip on one door
would block the other from opening outward.

Marik never glanced at the handle.  He knew it would
be locked.  Shifting his weight, he smashed into the side nearest to him.  A
splintering crash sounded when the molding ripped away down the center, the
door flying inward as if borne by a hurricane.  The fractured door made a
thunderous bang when it struck the wall.

The impact killed his momentum.  He stumbled across
the threshold.  A flurry of long hair whirled in a dervish across the room as
the woman’s head spun to face him.  Amazingly, she had not killed Hilliard yet.

Yet.

She was naked to the waist, her legs straddling
Hilliard’s back.  Her raised hand held the long knife he’d seen from the
etheric silhouetted in her aura’s glow.

Marik charged her.  She evaluated her situation in a
heartbeat.

He saw when she reached back in preparation to
swinging a wide arc.  Marik instantly judged his options.  His battle
experience told him not to underestimate her.  The mail under his shirt could
protect him from most strikes her blade was capable of, but a skilled knifesman
could also negate its protections.