Farmers & Mercenaries (8 page)

It always strikes me how clean the air is here, so unlike the stench of the rest of the city.

The building the boy led him to—called the Ques’lian, meaning great hall in the Old tongue—stood three stories high with a mass of ivy growing up its northron face. Grand lead-lined, stained-glass windows ran the length of every level, giving the building a feeling of elegance that escaped other stone buildings of its type. They entered through a set of large wooden double-doors that led up a small flight of steps to an entrance hall area. Several doors pierced each wall and two staircases emptied into the room. Tapestries, most depicting nature scenes in various seasons, hung between the doors. Of the furnishings there were little. A few benches lined the walls. Lit braziers stood in strategic places, casting light around the room. A small desk and chair took up one corner. As with every time Clytus had been here, an attendant sat at the desk. This day, a young man in a gray robe sat behind it. The gray robe he wore, with a small yellow starburst on the breast, marked him as an Initiate of the Academy. The guide-boy walked up to the desk and waited.

The Initiate did not pause in his reading at first. Finally, he looked up and eyed the young boy in front of him. “Yes?”

“Mir’am Rillion to see the Council of Elders by marked appointment as confirmed by Initiate Wirlane.” The boy did not relax from his formal stance.

“My thanks, you may return to your post.” At a wave of the Initiate’s hand, the guide-boy bowed with a nod, turned, and marched out of the reception area. “Mir’am Rillion, please have a seat, the Council of Elders knows of your arrival and sends word they will see you shortly.” The Initiate smiled then buried his nose back in his book, effectively dismissing Clytus.

Arrogant, even before they learn to control their gift.

Clytus walked across the room toward the row of benches. Before he had a chance to sit, a familiar voice called out from behind him. “Master Rillion, how nice to see you again.”

Turning, he faced the elderly man descending the staircase. A warmth sprang in Clytus that his face reflected. Sier Felstar Lysentoc approached him, dressed in his usual deep-blue silk robe. Fringed with golden starbursts around the cuffs and hem, the robe marked the man as a Master Shaper. His long, white hair raced down his back in a vain attempt to catch up to the even longer gray-white beard flowing down his chest. Clytus had no idea how old the Sier was, yet his wrinkled, age-spotted hands and face betrayed the straight back and walk of a younger man.

Sier Lysentoc crossed the chamber with purposeful strides and clasped Clytus’ outstretched hand. “I feared you had already left before I could bid you well on your journey.” The old Sier held his hand with a fatherly grace.

“Nix, Sier Lysentoc. I was going to come see you after I met with the Council. How is your health this fine spring day?”

“Better, my thanks to you.” Felstar motioned toward the benches. “Please, let an old man sit with you while you wait.”

“I would be honored.” Both men took a seat. “Why do I sense this meeting of ours is no accident?” Clytus glanced around the room to insure no other could overhear their conversation.

“How clever you are, for a simple
Tat’Sujen
.” The title, though the Sier barely whispered it, made Clytus flinch and glance around the room once more. Just the mere mention of Tat’Sujen could be deadly if spoken in the wrong ear. Felstar’s smile took any sting from his words, however. “I wanted to speak with you before you went inside.” The old Sier lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Those fool Elders will ask you for something, something you are forbidden to accept by your
Order
.” He stressed the last word, and Clytus knew the Sier would not repeat the Tat’Sujen title even if they could not be overheard.

“My son—” Clytus stopped speaking when the old man raised a hand and pressed his fingers to Clytus’ lips.

“We have little time, friend. You will understand when you hear the Council’s offer. It appalls me that they would even ask this of you. And I did protest. Alas, those old fools on the Council never bother to heed my words. They, like most Shapers, do not believe in the Foretelling, as it has nothing to do with Melding the Essence. I do not blame them for this. So many charlatans have proclaimed to have it. Know this, Clytus, my good friend, the men in that room are the most dangerous ever appointed to the Council. Alas, that is no concern of yours. You must forgive an old man’s rants.”

“What I have come to say is this—you must accept their terms. You have my word that you will not have to fulfill them.” Felstar sat back.

Clytus’ insides tightened and bile rose in his throat. “Sier, as you say, I am,”—he could not help himself and glanced around the room once more to insure their privacy remained secure—“Tat’Sujen. You may be the only person outside of our Order in all of Mocley who knows my Order even exists. Just you knowing could end your life. Yet, you know some of the truth to our Order. You know I cannot break a vow once given. If they ask a service forbidden to me—if I accept, I must keep to my word. If I cannot…”

The Sier simply smiled and patted Clytus’ hand once more. “My old friend, I know your Order better than you think. And yes, I know what you must do. You know I have always been true to my word as well, although I have never thought you truly believed in my Foretelling.” He raised a hand to forestall Clytus’ rebuttal once more. “Hear me, there is even less time now. They are about to call you in. The Council will offer something they think will tie you to them. Something they will not understand that you cannot agree to. To this thing, you
must
agree! If you do, you have my word you will not have to fulfill this vow, and your son, Sindian, shall live. If you deny them, Sindian will die. These two paths I have seen clearly.”

Sier Lysentoc was correct. Clytus was unsure if he truly believed in Foretellings. Yet, hearing his old friend speak of Sindian’s death sent a wave of agony through Clytus’ very core.

“Mir’am Rillion?” The Initiate’s voice rang out across the room. “The Council of Elders is ready for you now.”

Clytus nodded to the boy before returning his attention to Felstar. “Sier, as always, you have given me much to think on. I will take your words to heart.” Rising to his feet, he helped the old man stand.

“I have cherished your friendship. I will miss it most of all.” Sadness coated Felstar’s voice.

This made Clytus chuckle. “I shall only be gone for a few moons—” He meant to say more. The look of sadness in the old Siers eyes stopped him. A wave of resolve rippled through him. Adopting a more formal tone, he inclined his head. “I am grateful, Sier Lysentoc. For your council, as well as your friendship. I shall miss these as well. Alas, I will pay what needs be paid, if it means my son shall live.”

The two men shook hands once more, this time with great intention. Clytus turned and stalked to the door leading to the audience chamber he had visited so many times before, as if the Headsman himself waited within. He did not look back at his friend.

I will pay what needs be paid!

The audience chamber was not a large room. On a center dais at its far end rested a curved, lacquered, redwood table, beautiful in its simplicity. Behind this sat seven high-backed chairs, each made to match the table, and each holding one member of the Council of Elders of the Shaper’s Order. No other furniture occupied the room. Crossing the chamber, Clytus came to a stop a pace short of the table and eyed the men who sat across from him. The seven men occupying the chairs were all old. Each he knew by name, most he thought were good men. All wore the same deep-blue silken robes trimmed in the golden starbursts of their Order.

Master Shapers all.

Yet each also wore a large, golden sun medallion hanging from a gold chain around their neck.

Leaders of an Order that stretches to almost every corner of the Plane.

Some wore beards, others clean-shaven. All were men of great power here within Mocley.

The Proctor of Mocley may
think
he has power—with command of the city guard, outrider patrols and naval fleet
—
yet it is these seven men who truly rule this city, if
not Ro’Arith entirely.

“Mir’am Rillion.” Arthimius Blanch, the Grand Elder, sat in the centermost chair looking at Clytus with withered, baggy eyes. “You have made your preparations I may assume?”

“I have, Grand Elder.” Clytus found that proper etiquette with this group worked better than not.

“And when do you plan to leave?”

“On the morrow, if you have the device I need.”

“We have it.”

None of the men made a summons, yet a side door opened. A boy dressed in an Initiate robe entered carrying a leather pack, which he offered to Clytus. The Initiate left by the same door while Clytus opened the pouch.

“The apparatus is quite simple to use. Insert it into the beast and it will extract the blood automatically. It will also keep the blood fresh for your journey home. Once the blood of the Drakon is in our possession, we will then be able to save your son from his illness.”

Closing the pack, he returned his attention back to the Shapers. “My thanks to you, Grand Elder.” He pivoted to exit through the door he had entered by.

“Mir’am Rillion, we have not yet agreed to a price.”

His heart sank and his mind reeled.

What is the price going to be that I cannot agree to?

Turning back, he faced the Council. “My apologies, I am anxious to set upon my task.”

“Your son has Dispaxion, with less than one season to live, I understand.” Clytus forced his jaw to relax—it tensed at the mention of his son. “To cure the boy we need a very rare component, the blood of a Drakon, which is Essence infused.” The Grand Elder recited this as if reading it from a script.

Again with the formalities! You say this every time we meet old man. As if
I need the reminder that my son has little life left to live!

“You are to provide this blood, as we have no means to retrieve it ourselves. Even with this ingredient, the risk to those who will heal your son is great. A Shaper himself may die from the feedback the Essence could unleash during the Melding that is required to cure this illness. Not to mention, it will take over a tenday to Meld the Essence in the boy and rid him of the sickness. This risk will be shared by the eight Shapers it will require to accomplish the Meld.” Arthimius leaned forward in his chair. “For this we require an equally valuable payment.”

He is like a wolf standing over a cornered hare.

“I have already told you, Grand Elder, however much narian it takes, I will pay.” Clytus knew by the feeling inside him, he was not going to like the next few moments of his life. It was a feeling that he had had many times before. A feeling that usually ended with something sharp piercing a part of his body that he would rather not have pierced.

“Gold? You think the Shaper’s Order has need of more gold?” Arthimius shook his head. “No, Mir’am Rillion. This council has a different sort of payment in mind.” He sat back. “Your reputation as a swordsman is well known. Some even drop the name of Tat’Sujen when speaking of you. Common folk have always loved their mythical tales.” The old Sier hacked into a white linen cloth. “However, you are good to your word, and the merc troop you command seems well trained and disciplined. Fanciful tales aside, sir, the Shapers can use a man like you from time to time. We shall save your son, provided you bring us the blood we need. As payment, we require five turns of the seasons worth of service from you and your mercenary band. You shall be paid your normal wages during this time, of course, yet you will do as this council bids.” He waved his arm around the room to indicate the other six men. “Without question, without hesitation.”

A stabbing agony shot through Clytus’ heart. Head spinning, his knees weakened.

I need to sit down. Nix! I need to get drunk!

Clytus stared at the old man behind the desk as if he had never seen him before. “You know…” He bore his gaze into Arthimius’. “You are taking a grave risk, Grand Elder.”

“And how is this so?” A bit of uncertainty laced the old man’s words.

“You say you do not believe in the tales of the Tat’Sujen, yet like all men, you have heard them. If the Order truly exists, and if I were one—for as you say, it has been dropped from time to time—you know that I would be forced to decline your offer. The tales say the vows of that Order would never let one of them agree to such terms.”

“Why would that be, sir?”

“Well, in the stories, a Tat’Sujen can never go against their core principles. To agree to serve someone unconditionally, someone who is not bound by those principles, could make things… complicated.” Sweat started to bead on Clytus’ brow.

“So? If you were one of these farcical Tat’Sujen, what grave risk have I taken, then? You would simply decline our offer.” Arthimius waved a negating hand. “Your son would die for some stupid principles of some preposterous Order that does not even exist.”

“Ah, yet, Elder, remember the stories. A Tat’Sujen will resort to killing if it means keeping his Order secret. Every street urchin knows this. If I decline, it would prove that I am Tat’Sujen and that this farcical Order truly exists. I would then have to kill everyone on this council to conceal myself and my Order, would I not?” Clytus let his left hand come to rest on the hilt of his sword.

Arthimius’ eyes opened wide, and Clytus enjoyed watching them dance from his face to his sword and back again. And not just the Grand Elder, each of the old Siers sitting at the table were eyeing him with growing trepidation. Clytus’ laugh resounded through the room. In fact, he had to restrain it from becoming a hysterical outcry. “Siers, Siers.” Holding up his hands, he waved them not to stand. “I am astounded that men of such learning could believe, in the smallest way, a myth like the Tat’Sujen Order.” He bowed low to hide the horror he knew must be spreading across his face. “My apologies, Siers, for the jest. It has been long since I was able to see humor in anything.” He let out a laugh again as he held up both hands in submission. “Of course, I will accept your terms. Five winters of loyal service from myself and my troop in payment for the life of my son is nothing.” Clytus’ insides wove into knots and then twisted upon themselves.