Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity (41 page)

“Good. You knew him. How serendipitous. The second suite was used by Sir Jotham himself, and the last two for his personal research library and journals.”

“
Sir
Jotham?” asked the astronomer, trying to straighten out all the ranks and relationships.

Darius waved his hand. “A formality, really. I think he was knighted for one of his treatises on ancient warfare. He wrote so many that I don’t remember which one.” As they chatted, the steward told them more about Jotham, and they recounted their adventures with assassins and bureaucrats.

The smith chewed on the information, and an idea germinated. It would be too much to hope for, but he decided to push his good fortune just in case. “Would those records by any chance include a catalog of Jotham’s household items?”

“Yes…,” said the steward cautiously. “But those accounts are pretty out-of-date by now. If there’s something specific you desire, perhaps I could be of more assistance.”

The smith scratched his neck and feigned disinterest. “I happen to know that his personal guard had a fine, Imperial blade. As a historian, Sir Jotham may have chronicled its lineage. As a man of the forge, I appreciate learning all I can about great weapons and like to read stories about them.”

The steward spread his hands. “Paper is expensive and hard to come by. The vegetable books were categorized as duplicates of non-essential information and hence available for re-use.”

This, Pinetto understood. Explaining to the smith, he said, “They write with a different ink between the lines, in margins, and on the blank spaces between chapters.” Poor university students often adopted this practice. Occasionally, a ribald romance might be found copied between the lines of some dull tome on alchemy. One could read just about anything in class with the proper cover.

“You have been issued two glow globes, one per bedroom. Please take great care with these as it is difficult to find artificers to replace them in times of war.” Darius pointed to the lamp above them. Upon closer examination, they found that the light came from a cool, glass orb in the center of a polished, tin replica of a lotus. The flower petals reflected and directed the yellow glow about the room. Seeing that his guests were unfamiliar with the devices, he added, “No flames are permitted inside the walls of the Library proper. When you wish to extinguish the light, turn the dark half of the globe up. To turn them on, face the night side down. Each morning, we must charge the globes by placing them on that shelf by the very short window where the morning sun comes through. The cleaning crew will handle that for you, if you wish. On cold nights, the window slot can be plugged with that board much the same as you would bar a door.”

Both traveling companions began to play with the minor, magical device immediately. When the light flicked back on for the third time, the steward cleared his throat. “Anything else I can do for you this evening, sirs?”

The smith pondered this for a moment before asking, “Can I count on your discretion?” Darius looked offended. “Very well, I can trust you. Because of my orders, I’ll need livery suitable for a retainer of the royal house of Kiateros. For my own peace of mind, I’d like a barber for myself, and laundry service for my friend.”

“
Very
good, sir,” approved the man in the blue robe. “I’ll contact a barber tomorrow. Leave your clothing in the hallway tonight and suitable clothes tailored to fit you will be on your doorstep in the morning. Since we are speaking in complete confidentiality, I’d also advise you not to mention the Fortress of Tamarind to anyone here.”

The smith was startled by the deduction. “How could you tell?”

Darius laid a finger aside his nose. “It is the job of a gentleman’s gentleman to know such things. I’m only being rude enough to broach the subject because Tamarind is currently under siege by a contingent of some thirty Babliosian Honors for suspicion of treason. This charge is reinforced by their refusal to open their gates for inspection.”

The smith considered this news. “Technically, the treaty says that they must open their gates to the
combined
armies of Bablios and Zanzibos. It’s not treason until both ask together.”

The steward shrugged. “I’m neither a lawyer nor a politician, but a humble host who wants the best for his guests. Even the appearance of conspiracy should be avoided in a place such as this.”

“If you could tell my origins, won’t others?”

Pinetto interjected, “Not everyone’s as perceptive as our host. Your new clothes and hair will give the others an excuse to look the other way. My father says that voluntary blindness is the glue that holds civilization together, especially when you know who all the nobles are sleeping with.”

“I won’t know about that, sir,” claimed the steward. “But apart from that example, your father seems to be a wise man. Breakfast for this wing begins at sunrise and will be carried here tomorrow at your convenience. Beyond that, I’ll need a copy of your schedule for my own planning. My duties discharged, I bid you good evening.”

The smith shook his hand in thanks. But when he took out a coin, the well-groomed gentleman raised his nose and left without touching the money. When the hall steward had left, the smith said, “I didn’t mean to offend him. I’m not used to these new bribery rules yet.”

“Why did you ask for Kiateros uniforms?” demanded his friend.

“A certain higher authority has entrusted me with a mission regarding the heir of Lugwort,” he confessed vaguely. Pinetto drew a finger across his own throat. “No!” the smith insisted. “Why does everybody always assume that all I do is kill? It’s quite the opposite. But I can only tell you if you’re coming with me to the northern kingdoms.”

Pinetto was intrigued at first, but after some thought said, “And leave all this? No, thanks. I’ve had enough danger for one lifetime. Just out of curiosity, does this mission involve a
message
?” When the smith started to open his mouth, the astronomer changed his mind and held out his hands to block the reply. “I don’t want to know. Forget I asked. But you’ve got to tell me one more thing. You don’t read for pleasure. You can barely read at all. Why the nonsense about the catalogue?”

“The historical records of the sword of Akashua,” the smith prompted, unwilling to say more out loud.

“Ah, right,” the astronomer said, remembering their research goals. “So I’m supposed to spend all tonight and most of tomorrow slogging through the complete, annotated history of vegetables in hopes of finding a clue?”

The smith nodded. “After you take off your clothes. I intend to help you search as much as I can. But I refuse to be enclosed in the same room with that smell any longer.”

Pinetto blushed. “I didn’t have time or money to buy new clothes and I don’t… that is to say I’m not wearing…”

It took a moment for the smith to understand the difficulty. “I have an extra kalura in my pack, if that would help.” His companion nodded. While the smith located his own glow lamp and then the catalogues, the astronomer changed into his borrowed night clothing.

The final two rooms were not just lined with books, but crammed with as many shelves as would fit, arranged like ribs in a man’s chest. The smells of oiled leather and dust permeated the entire suite. Only one person could pass through the stacks at a time, and the smith had to turn sideways to squeeze through some areas. For both of them to fit at once, they had to stand in front of a small desk beside the entrance to the room.

After three hours of scanning the tiny, precise lettering in brown ink, the astronomer located not one, but two references to the former Imperial warlord Akashua. Rubbing his eyes, he said, “But the text doesn’t make sense. It’s all jumbled, like some kind of code. Weird.”

“Let me see,” said the smith excited. “Hah! What a sneaky, old bird. He hid the most important information in plain sight. It’s a pity we’ll never meet this Jotham fellow; I’ve grown to like him.”

“Show me!” demanded the astronomer.

Suddenly, the smith grew cautious. Grimacing, he said, “Sorry. Secrets of the Order. I’ll have to ask you to step outside. If I showed you, I’d either have to swear you into the Brotherhood or kill you.”

Pinetto laughed. The sword-bearer didn’t. After a tense moment of locked gazes, the astronomer said, “Religion. Pah! You can keep it.” He left the room in a huff. Once by himself, the former executioner found the proper marks on the pages in separate volumes and dovetailed them together. The biggest secrets of the Way could not be trusted to just one repository; replication and obfuscation were common practice in matters of higher learning. He read, carefully tracing the unified text with his fingers. After finishing the relevant passage twice, he put one volume back where it belonged and mis-shelved the other under a stack of notes on famous battlefields in the final room of the suite. While hiding the evidence, he uncovered a detailed map of the north and tucked it into his sash. It might prove useful.

Then, he went to share the information from the manuscript with his friend. Pinetto was sulking, however, and had to be cajoled and told how valuable he was for some time before he’d listen. Once he was won over again, the smith explained, “We were right about Akashua being our culprit. His official title was marquis of some island that I’d never heard of; the Scattering wiped it off the map. Once the emperor’s chief warlord, this sword-bearer retired early to protest Myron’s insane behavior. Normally this wouldn’t be permitted, but some by-rule of the Imperial military allows for elder members to join a monastic order of their choice to live out their days in quiet contemplation. This retirement is often exercised by people who lose their reflexes or those in disfavor who choose a self-imposed exile. This protects the man’s family name and shields him from retribution from the throne.”

Pinetto nodded. Such clauses were not unheard-of even in the present kingdoms. The smith continued, lowering his voice, “Akashua took the sword with him. Since the obscure, splinter order he joined had a vow of poverty, all of his worldly possessions had to be sold and the money sent to the church. This guy was filthy rich, and it took almost a year to clean out his estate.” The astronomer gave a low whistle. “When the money for the last piece of property arrived, the sword was sent back sealed in a teak box. Everybody accepted the transaction at face value. But what if he or the cult kept the true sword?”

“What was this cult called?” asked Pinetto.

The smith sighed. “It was a corruption of the six-fold Way, calling themselves the Hand of Life. They persisted long after the Great Silence, and their wealth protected them from notice. This temple was built in the mountains at the juncture of all three northern kingdoms. They claimed it was a place of power, but I never bought into those theories about ley lines or special places. The laws of Nature and Magic should hold the same in any place you visit. What worries me is that the Sword of the Defender was the last artifact made by the Traveler himself. What the blazes did this cult want with it?”

“And what did they offer an obscenely wealthy Imperial warlord to get it?” asked the astronomer, adding to the mystery and yawning at the same time.

The sword-bearer began to pace. Sitting in an alcove with a narrow cot covered by a coarse, brown blanket, Pinetto’s eyelids began to droop.

When his companion asked him the same question for the third time, the astronomer shook himself awake. “Sorry. Some of us didn’t get a nap today like you did. What did you say?”

The smith came out of the adjoining room with a glow globe of his own. “I’m going to Darius. I need access to the stacks. I can’t rest until I get some more answers about this cult.”

Not wanting to move from his warm spot, the astronomer complained, “What’s the rush? This thing has been stolen for more years than you’ve been alive.”

“You’ve been a tremendous help already. Get some sleep while you can, friend.”

Groggy, Pinetto walked him to the door. Standing in a borrowed tunic, the astronomer said, “Good luck in your search. I won’t bar the door so you can get in.” After the smith disappeared down the corridor, the astronomer happened to glance down at the threshold. He noticed a small, cloth-wrapped lump, tied shut with a bow made of red, silk cord such as one would find on expensive curtains or throw pillows. “Hello,” Pinetto said, picking up the parcel.

A tiny note on the bundle read, “to the hero.”

Pinetto looked in both directions down the hall and then untied the bow. A single, plump, powdered-sugar-dusted confection nestled inside. It smelled wonderful, and the filling was still warm. The astronomer licked his lips. “A warm tart is offered. It wouldn’t be polite to refuse.” He weighed the smith’s baseless fears about poison against his empty stomach. “A small taste wouldn’t harm me either way,” he reasoned. With the first bite, sweet, apple filling gushed into his mouth and he moaned with pleasure. His knees nearly gave out, it felt so good. His breath quickened, and his heart raced. The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the floor licking every drop off his fingers, the offering devoured. His hand trembled from the rush of sugar to his system. Sated, he shut the door, turned out the light and climbed into bed, draping the soft cord from the parcel across his pillow in remembrance.

He’d been dozing for a while when he heard the door open. There was no light, but he heard the brush of fabric nearby. “What took you so long?” he mumbled.

“Someone’s eager to get started,” purred a female voice.

Pinetto sat bolt upright as a warm body slid over the covers and sat atop him. For the span of two or three heartbeats, he considered keeping his mouth shut and enjoying the hidden benefits of the adventure business. But something in him couldn’t take advantage of the young woman, no matter how attractive he thought her. “Wait,” he squeaked, his body trying to squelch the refusal. “You have the wrong man.”