The False Martyr (24 page)

Ambassador Chulters took a
breath and reluctantly unbuckled the belt that held his scabbard.
“No belt, just sword,” the old Morg commanded, startling the
ambassador again.

“
Give him your swords,”
Cary ordered the rangers, buying the noble some time to come to
terms with the loss of his rapier. If the cloak had been a month’s
wages, the sword would pay the soldiers for years. Cary had never
seen the actual blade, but it had a full guard that was heavily
worked with gold and sapphires. Why the man had brought such a
thing with him in the first place was a mystery, but it appeared
that he had never considered having to give it up despite all his
talk of Morg communalism.

The soldiers gave up their
weapons with far less concern. These had come from the garrison
armory and were of no more personal value than their uniforms. Cary
simply held out the long knife he carried at his side. In his job,
a sword was a burden, and he could barely use one in any case –
Cary had been so poor at all forms of fighting during his training
that his only option beyond courier likely would have been as a
cook.

“
Keep knife,” the Morg
said. Cary gladly slipped the hand-length blade back into its
sheath and watched the ambassador hold out his sword to the Morg as
if offering his first born son. The old warrior took it with a
casual scoff. He examined it, raising his eyebrow at the thin blade
and gaudy hilt then leaned it in a corner with the weapons of the
other soldiers as if it were of no more significance than their
utilitarian hunks of iron. Their weapons secured, the old Morg
returned to a stool by his brazier with not another word, leaving
Ambassador Chulters to approach another door with a final longing
look.

Steam billowed out when
the door was opened, condensing into fog as it hit the cooler air
and blocking all vision of the room beyond. Ambassador Chulters led
his group slowly, carefully through the steam into a room
illuminated only by a few widely spaced lamps high on the walls,
their light refracted into a hazy glow by the steam that seemed to
fill the air until it was hard to breath. Cary took a deep breath
of the steam, feeling the warmth seep into his bones and relieve
the ache of the cold. The air smelled strongly of minerals with the
lingering tang of sulfur.

“
Close the door,” a voice
bellowed from the far end of the room. It sounded like that of the
man who had greeted them outside the lodge. Cary tried to find him,
but he was lost in fog and shadow.

“
You heard him,” the
ambassador snapped at the guard closest to the door.

Cary stepped out away from
the rest of the group, following the sound of dripping water, and
found the low walls of a great wooden tub. “Baths?” he whispered.
And hot by the steam and warmth of the room – he had switched from
shivering to sweating in seconds.

“
Clean yourselves,” the
voice called. “The wives do not allow a man’s stink in their homes.
Leave your clothes. You will not need them here. Someone will meet
you when you are finished. Your gift has been accepted by Nyel ut
Torswauk. You are guests. The gurth ral are open to you until our
negotiations are completed.” The man stood – Cary knew only because
of the sound of the water sloshing and running from his body. Heavy
steps sounded. A door opened, flooding the far end of the room with
misty light, revealing the naked Morg as an enormous shadow. A
second later, he was gone.

Cary was the first of the
group to get down to his small clothes but was not sure how much
farther to proceed. Certainly, he planned to remove his clothes for
the bath but did not want to be the first one to do so. He
hesitated, took a step toward the first tub and peered through the
steam and gloom. There was a man already inside, still, eyes
closed, arms and head limp. Was he dead? Cary gasped and stumbled
back.

The man’s head shot up. He
looked around in surprise and groaned – not dead then. He spoke
what had to be a curse in his native language and pulled himself
from the tub, water running in streams from his muscular body,
gathering in rivulets to flow down the thick hair the covered him.
Under the blond hair, he was red as a royal rose. He looked like he
had been cooked. And he was completely naked, manhood hanging out
like a stallion in the breeding pen. He seemed not the slightest
bit shamed by these outsiders seeing him. He walked to a large
bucket off to the side lifted a ladle and poured a long stream of
water over his head. He gasped and shook then followed with another
ladle into his mouth and across his back. With no more thought to
the men who were watching, he sauntered to the center of the room,
took up soap and a brush and began scrubbing himself.

Ambassador Chulters was
the first to pull himself from the daze. He valiantly pulled down
his cotton shorts, revealing the last of what proved to be a
universally wiry body. “I’ve heard public baths are very common in
Pindar,” he said as he stepped toward the tub.

“
I’ve got nothing ta
hide,” the sergeant announced and revealed the truth of the
statement.

The other soldiers
followed with varying degrees of willingness, but Ambassador
Chulters first step into the water restored their trepidation. He
stepped boldly down into the tub, which stood a few feet above the
floor but continued down past his waist. His face screwed up so
that it appeared he might cry. He was clearly fighting to keep
himself from screaming, entire body clenched. “Hot!” he finally
managed to gasp. The other men backed away.

Cary was about to do the
same when someone pushed him. He stumbled, arms pinwheeling but
unable, despite all their effort, to propel him into the air. He
hit the water all at once. It was scalding. His entire body was on
fire. His skin must have been melting. He fought to rise and heard
more splashes, felt bodies falling on top of him, limbs tangling
with his, hands pushing him down. Instinctively, he dove to the
bottom and toward the side. He rose from the water just in time to
see the Morg cast the last of the soldiers into the tub. He
chuckled then mumbled something in his own language as he walked
away. The soldiers screamed and cried as they came to the surface,
panting, and fighting to get away from the burning
water.

“
Keep your heads!”
Ambassador Chulters ordered. “You’ll get used to it in a moment.
Don’t shame your country. You’re not children.”

The Morg laughed at that,
seemed to be enjoying his joke. Even as he spoke the ambassador’s
words seemed to find the truth. The water, though still scalding,
became tolerable. Cary slowly relaxed and felt the water warming
him all the way to his bones. It pulled the tension from his
muscles and sent his head spinning. He eased onto a bench at the
side where he had to remain on his knees to keep the water from
rising over his head and leaned against the back wall. The others
did the same, and in a few moments, he could understand how the
Morg had fallen asleep.

Simple robes waited on
pegs when Cary and his fellows emerged from the last of the
scalding baths. At Ambassador Chulters’ command, they had followed
the example of the Morg through each stage -- scrubbing themselves
clean with herbal soap, rinsing from the buckets of refreshingly
cold water, soaking in a second scorching bath. The Morg had
finished the process, by rubbing himself with a scented oil that
smelled at the same time of flowers, herbs, and musk. Cary had
heard that such scented oils were common in the Palace of the
Rising Sun and among the merchant lords of Pindar but never would
have considered using such as that himself. He applied it as
sparingly as possible then reached for a robe. There were maybe
twenty of them all in the same shade of dark tan. He searched for
the smallest – the pegs were above his head and the robes hung to
the floor. None was close to his size. Conceding, he took one and
felt silk.

He nearly dropped it. Cary
was not sure he had ever touched silk in his life, much less worn
it. He marveled at the collection of robes. The stories said that
the Morgs were wealthy beyond belief, but he had never really
believed that. No Morg Cary had ever seen seemed to be wealthy –
despite how much they were reportedly paid. The Morg lodges would
have the wealth of hiring themselves out in the Pindarian Wars not
to mention the furs and metals they traded with the Pindarian
merchants who had included favorable trading terms as part of the
agreement. Cary slipped the robe on, trying to bunch the fabric so
that it would not drag on the ground – he failed. It was the most
luxurious thing he had ever worn. His every nerve seemed to
celebrate at the slick, cool feel of the fabric.

The men around him seemed
to think the same. Several of them commented on the feel of the
robes, the luxury of wearing silk. The ambassador was the only one
not overawed. He made his way through the gathered men – reeking of
the scented oil – and approached yet another door. Cary could only
imagine what waited on the other side. Would Kizarian girls now
trim their nails and file their callouses? With a breath, the
ambassador opened the door and entered a small, bright room defined
by doors to either side and a wooden bench along the back wall. A
man in a brown robe waited on the bench.

“
You must be the
Liandrins,” he greeted. “My name is Juhn. I have come to guide
you.” He rose from the bench and approached. Until he spoke, Cary
thought he might be a southerner. Of an age with the ambassador and
the height and build of the tallest of the rangers, he did not seem
nearly big enough to be a Morg. His features were sharp and clean,
eyes sparkling blue. But most telling, he was bald and wore no
beard.

“
We greatly appreciate
your assistance,” Ambassador Chulters barely contained his obvious
relief at having a guide. “My name is Sir Regis Chulters of
Hensall, honorable representative of His August Majesty King Elpert
Risbourg de Nardes, lord and ruler of the most esteemed under the
Order nation of Liandria.” He bowed slightly, maintaining a
remarkable level of decorum given the voluminous robe he
wore.

Juhn stopped. His nose
crumpled, brow furrowed, and mouth became a line. “You assume too
much!” he spat. “A sister would never lie with an outsider. To even
think it is an insult beyond speaking.”

Ambassador Chulters took a
step back and stammered. His face fell. He looked like he might
faint, then something seemed to dawn on him. “These were the only
clothes available at the end of the baths,” he explained quickly.
“We meant no offense by wearing them. I can only offer my sincerest
. . . .”

“
Where were the clothes
you wore when you arrived?” Juhn interrupted

“
The man who met us
outside told us to remove them. He said that new ones would be
provided. We assumed this was what he meant.”

“
And the joining
oil?”

The ambassador had to
think on that one. Cary had already figured out what had happened
and searched for a way to help his superior without making the man
seem daft. “The scented oil at the end, you mean?”

“
The joining oil,” Juhn
reiterated. “It is only for those who wish to join with one of the
sisters.”

Ambassador Chulters ran
his hand through his hair as if that would remove the oil he had
used to slick it into place. “We did not know,” he admitted, face
brightening. “We followed another man and simply did as he did. It
was not our intent to presume or offend.”

“
Nabak? He was taken by
his wife. There are no sisters waiting for you. Nor will there ever
be.”

“
And we would never expect
it to be otherwise. This is wrought entirely from our
misunderstanding of your ways. I can only beg your kind
forgiveness. Please, may we retrieve our clothes so that we end
this offense brought on by our ignorance?”

Juhn snorted what could
have been a laugh. “I think Ithar was having fun with you. You are
fortunate that I am not a warrior. I might not have waited for your
explanation. It is clear that I will have to keep a close eye on
you if the Order’s will is to be preserved.”

“
A counselor,” Cary
blurted before he could stop himself. He was barely aware that he
had spoken out loud except for the sets of eyes that turned like
hot irons toward him.

The Morg’s were the only
ones that were amused. “Yes. Here we are referred to as, yaruth
plajaa, or ‘Order Keepers’ in your language.”

Ambassador Chulters looked
from Cary to the Morg. He bowed again. “May you find peace in the
Order,” he offered as if to start again.

“
And you,” the Morg
returned with his own bow. “Please, retrieve your clothes and wash
away the oil. Then I will show you to the place where we eat. After
your meal, you can sleep.”

Juhn motioned them back toward the baths,
but he kept an eye on Cary, smiling as if seeing an attractive girl
who had expressed an interest.

Chapter 15

The 21 –
22
^nd
Day of Summer

Ipid emerged from the room
that the te-am ‘eiruh had given him. He had bathed, put on clean
clothes, bandaged his foot, and thought a thousand times about what
Eia had said. Her words – before and after the portal – were on a
loop in his mind. They had struck too close to home, had been too
perversely correct for him to believe that they had only been said
to raise his emotions. And hadn’t his emotions already been
heightened? Why had she needed more? Even if it had been necessary,
it had been too much, had been sadistic, and he was not sure he
ever wanted to expose himself to it – or her – again. Yet even as
he thought that, he looked down the halls of the inn hoping to
catch a glimpse of her, longing to see her flirtatious
smile.