The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2) (33 page)

"Alright. I understand. Now, tell me how this test is to proceed."

"You understand? I sincerely doubt it. But we shall proceed with the test. I have never heard of a kragh who possessed this ability, and while you may be the first, the odds are against it. Still, it has passed the time. Now, you must demonstrate your natural talent for controlling others by believing yourself one of them. Pick something simple: a fish, perhaps, or a bird. They have limited minds. Then, I want you to attune yourself to it, and simply give it a nudge. Move it in a way that it wouldn't have done of its own accord. If I see you do that, I'll concede you have the ability. If not, well..." Gregory smiled widely.

Tharok nodded. A fish or a bird. No; a visceral part of him rejected starting so small, so humbly, so pathetically. He cast about until his gaze fell on Grax, and then he stood. Gregory followed his line of sight, realized his intention, and immediately doubled over laughing.

"You would work on Grax? A mind more alien to you than anything possible? A mind so hard to reach that at times I doubt it exists? Please, I would rather not die when your tribe comes roaring to discover why my troll killed their warlord."

Tharok's father had once said that the truest test of a kragh was how he acted when his life was in danger – which was why he had taught his sons how to fight with real weapons, dealing cuts that would take days to heal. He had always said that when the danger was real, the learning curve was steepest.

So, Tharok took a deep breath, reached down into the fire, and as quickly as he could, drew forth a smoldering log and hurled it at Grax's head.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tiron ghosted up to the mouth of the alleyway and glanced out into the street. It was shadowed by overarching wooden extensions built out from the second floor and a medley of brightly colored awnings. Everything was different and alien, from the smells of spices and honeyed meat that rode the breeze to the flowing robes that the people were wearing, the strange peaked shape of the windows that were filled not with glass but wooden lattices. People were arguing at shops whose wares were displayed in large windows beneath the awnings, and a quick glance showed it all to be metalwork of some kind, ranging from pots and lamps to ornate statuary and blades.

Voices called out in amusement, others were raised in anger, and somewhere a flute trilled a high-pitched song. Sunlight illuminated a slender strip down the center of the street, and the clothing of those who passed through it would blaze a brilliant crimson or buttery yellow, catch fire or smolder before they passed back into the shadows.

A man was watching him with wide eyes – a beggar, his legs missing below the knees, sitting across from the alley mouth on a dirty mat with a beaten pot of copper in front of him. Tiron ignored him and stepped out into the street, Ord right behind him, then Iskra, followed last by Hannus. Assuming a scowl, Tiron lifted his chin and began to walk confidently through the shadows, stepping around street dogs who lay sleeping on the cobblestones and ignoring the stares of everyone he passed. Conversation stilled around them, people elbowed each other and pointed, and Tiron began to walk faster.

A large, rose-colored building stood at the edge of the street, a jagged vertical sliver visible between the balconies that crowded in on either side, its massive dome whose surface was carved in a snake scale pattern, a golden spike at its peak. A church? A palace? He had no idea.

Their plan had been a simple one. As no one in their party spoke Agerastian, there was no point in asking for help or directions. Instead, they would walk until they either found the palace or were accosted by the authorities, at which point Iskra would make it clear that she wished to see the Agerastian emperor, and all would proceed smoothly and without any further difficulty from that point on.

It was a wretched plan, but their complete ignorance of Agerastos precluded anything more subtle. Tiron had been in favor of mugging passersby's for their clothing, but Iskra had ruled against him; they would not begin their attempt to sue for an alliance by committing crimes against the locals.

Through the crowd Tiron made out three guards standing at ease in the sunlight, skewers of dark meat in their hands. They were wearing short vermillion jackets chased in gold, black pantaloons, and yellow sashes around their waists. Heavy, curved blades hung from their belts, and they had that air of disdain and confidence that marked all men in positions of authority. Tiron slowed, considered turning back, and decided against it.

He walked up to the three men, his hands suitably far from the hilt of his sword, and slowed as they caught sight of him. Iskra stepped forward, and Tiron felt a wave of admiration pass through him. She exuded nobility, from the rich weave of her clothing to the poise with which she held herself. The sunlight burnished her hair a deep auburn, and Tiron thought she had never looked more beautiful.

The guards stepped up warily, two of them tossing their skewers aside while the third, slightly plumper than the others, slid his quickly under his yellow sash. Their leader had a round face with a weak chin, but his eyes were lively and his interest seemed sharp. He asked them something in a stream of Agerastian: a question, Tiron judged from the lilt on which it ended.

Iskra gave a formal nod. "My apologies, but I do not speak your language. Please, take us to someone with whom we can converse."

The lead guard frowned, hesitated, and then looked past Iskra to examine Tiron and his two guards. He considered their swords and their sodden clothing, then gave Iskra a wary nod in return. He said something slowly in Agerastian, then pointed at Tiron's sword and gestured that it be handed over.

Iskra turned back to him. Doubt flickered across her face, but then she nodded. "We'll not accomplish our goals here with the blade. Please disarm, Ser Tiron."

A blank refusal rose up within him, but he checked it savagely and made sure his expression remained neutral. It felt profoundly wrong, but he unbuckled his sword, wrapped the belt around the scabbard, and stepped up to extend it slowly to the guard. The man said a single word, and the second man who had thrown away his skewer stepped forth to accept it, along with Ord's and Hannus' blades.

Their leader relaxed and gave a stiff smile. He hesitated, clearly wishing to ask questions, but finally he gestured politely that Iskra should follow him, and took a few steps before glancing back. Iskra inclined her head and followed, at which the man turned and resolutely began leading them down the street.

A large crowd had gathered to watch this exchange, and Tiron heard countless whispers as he and his men followed Iskra down the street. The other two guards followed them, and in such manner did they leave the street and emerge into a large, irregularly shaped square that was dominated by that rose-colored building. It was large, as tall as a castle tower and built with a massive ground level, but the guard did not lead them toward it. Instead they crossed the square, which seemed to serve as a sparse market, its sides crowded with tents and stalls, its center bare beneath the midday sun but for a solitary plane tree whose canopy shielded a slumbering mass of about a dozen hounds.

The guard captain led them across the square, around the sleeping dogs, and up to a stall whose front was laden with slender pamphlets and small, framed sketches of buildings, maps, and strange monsters. A man rose to his feet behind the stall as they approached. He was of medium height and perhaps fifty years of age, his face lined and well-tanned, his hair touched with gray. He had the suspicious and alert expression of a dog used to being kicked.

The guard captain said something softly to his plump underling, who nodded and jogged away. He then turned to the stall owner and spoke rapidly to him. The owner's eyes widened, and then he turned to consider Iskra, gaze flickering past her to Tiron and the others before he nodded to the captain.

He stepped out from behind the stall, bowed in a surprisingly elegant manner, and said in a heavily accented voice, "Please excuse me. Many years since I speak Ennoian. I am Orishin. Is this your language?"

Ser Tiron felt a knot of tension relax within him; at least they had avoided being stabbed to death before they had a chance to explain their cause.

Iskra nodded graciously to the man. "It is, and well met, Orishin. I am Lady Iskra of Ennoia, come to seek an audience with your emperor."

Orishin translated rapidly for the captain, who was listening with intense focus. The captain rubbed his nose and replied sternly and at length, after which Orishin turned back to Iskra.

"Captain Patash welcomes you to Agerastos. He says you do us much honor by visiting, and he hopes your stay is pleasing to you."

Tiron restrained the urge to raise an eyebrow. That didn't match the tenor of the captain's questions.

Orishin pressed on. "He humbly ask, how you come to Agerastos and how many more of you here."

"Please tell the captain that we came by way of a secret Lunar Gate, that this is our full number, and that our intentions are peaceful. Please ask him to conduct us to the palace as quickly as possible, and tell him we are most grateful for his assistance."

Again Orishin translated quickly and quietly while Tiron watched Patash. Was the translation faithful?

The guard captain tossed off an immediate response.

"He ask, where is Lunar Gate?"

Iskra smiled apologetically. "That, we will not reveal to anyone but the emperor."

The captain clearly was not pleased with this response, but he gave a pensive nod.

The sound of hurrying footsteps caused Tiron to turn, and he saw without much surprise the plump guard returning with eight other guards at his heels. These men had come quickly, their hands on the hilts of their swords, but Patash gave a curt wave of his hand and they relaxed, fanning out to surround Tiron's small group, their faces hard but their eyes alight with curiosity.

Iskra ignored them completely. Captain Patash smiled stiffly again, then bowed and gestured, saying something that sounded courteous to Tiron's ear.

"The captain ask, you follow him? He says it is his pleasure to escort you to palace."

"Very well," Iskra said. "Thank you."

The captain turned to the large crowd that had gathered and clapped his hands twice, barking a command as he did so, and the crowd reluctantly dispersed. With the captain in the lead they walked down the side of the square to the mouth of a large street, four Agerastian guards ahead and six behind. Tiron checked Ord and Hannus; they were tense, but calm. Good men.

Orishin walked alongside Iskra, hands laced behind his back. Tiron stepped up on his lady's far side, feeling the absence of his sword acutely.

"Lady Iskra, if I may ask." Orishin assumed a disarming smile. "You are come to ask for peace of the emperor?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Iskra. "Our intentions are most certainly peaceful."

Orishin nodded vigorously. "Yes. You come for - no, I mean, you are emissary of Ascendant?"

Iskra's smile was apologetic. "You will forgive me, but that I shall reveal only to the emperor himself."

"Yes, yes, of course. Orishin, he ask too many questions. Please forgive."

"Not at all," said Iskra, smiling politely. "How did you come to learn Ennoian?"

Tiron kept an eye out as they walked. He was starting to discern some general patterns in the crowd, a different manner of stare depending on who was looking at him. All were curious, but in the hard faces and cold eyes of most he saw animosity if not growing hostility as the crowd realized who they were. That made perfect sense; with an Agerastian army on Ennoian soil, he and Iskra represented the enemy.

Yet the curiosity of some was mingled with raised eyebrows and thoughtful gazes, showing not anger but something akin to hope. Tiron mulled that over. It was natural for those related to the soldiers to wish for their return. Perhaps not all of Agerastos was fervently in favor of the war continuing.

"...for which I was punished, Lady Iskra." Orishin was still telling his tale. "I was removed from academy and not allowed to work as scribe again. Very cruel, most unfair. Now I sell cheap work in market. Enough to buy food, water, shelter, but not much more." He gave a resigned shrug. "Life! It does not reward curiosity. At least, not in Agerastos."

Iskra nodded. "I am sorry to hear that, Master Orishin, though your fate has led you to cross my path." Her smile was warmer this time. "Something for which I am most grateful."