The False Martyr (36 page)

Ipid could only sigh and
shake his head as he turned to the nearest warrior. “And the other
te-am ‘eiruh?”

The warrior responded by
leading him to the next door down the hall. He pounded on the
polished wood so that Ipid thought it might fly from its hinges.
“K’amach-tur Ipid,” he bellowed at the wood.

The door opened almost
immediately. A black robe stood in the doorway, entirely obscuring
the man beneath – at least Ipid assumed it was a man. He stood
slightly taller than Ipid, and his robe held its line around his
body, suggesting that its owner maintained the posture of youth.
“How may I help you?” he asked in the te-am ‘eiruh language that
seemed to be universally understood by all who heard it. His voice
was smooth and friendly. He brought his head up and enough light
penetrated his hood for Ipid to see a short growth of black beard
around a thin, brown face.

“
I am sorry that we were
not introduced,” Ipid began. He stepped into the room and held out
his hand. “My name is Ipid Ronigan.”

“
It is an honor to meet
you. My name is Iluliano Ummaataar of the Nobutu. You may call me
Liano. I am sorry, but it is not the custom of my people for men to
touch other men. The sharing of our names is enough.” The man
backed away from Ipid’s outstretched hand and tucked his own hands
into his sleeves so as to eliminate any possibility that Ipid might
grasp one in his ill-fated attempt at courtesy. “You have been much
the talk with the Belab,” Liano continued as if to lessen the sting
of his refusal. “It will be my great pleasure to assist
you.”

“
Thank you,” Ipid said and
lowered his rejected hand. The cultural disconnect was forgotten in
his sudden thoughts about what Belab might have said about him. An
awkward pause resulted before he was able to gather himself and
continue. “Are you able to transport yourself as I have seen your
kind do? I think Eia called it the see-um tallu, or some
such.”

“
The sie-eium taloru?” the
man corrected with a chuckle. “Yes, that is within the limits of my
gift. And though this part of the city is nearly abandoned, the
soldiers gathering outside are quite unsettled. They should provide
the energy I need. Where is it that you need to go?”

“
Not me,” Ipid corrected.
He had no desire to travel through the terrible portal unless the
need was truly dire. “I need you to carry a message.”

The man nodded slowly. He
seemed to stiffen. Ipid wondered if he had somehow insulted him.
“The Belab asked me to do anything you require, so if it is a
messenger that you need, that is what I shall be.” His voice was
tight, the friendly tone seemed to have been replaced with
formality.

Ipid did not have time to
consider the man’s feeling. “Thank you. I need you to go to Arin.
Please ask him to return the knights that he captured yesterday.
You can assure him that he will have them before the Battle of
Testing with Liandria, but I need them right now.”

Liano laughed, a long,
deep chortle. “You want me to make a request of the Darthur chief?”
He laughed again.

Obviously, Ipid had
suggested something far outside the bounds of custom, but he did
not have time to talk with Arin himself. Certainly, he should have
thought of this the previous day, but there had simply been too
much on his mind, and it was too late now.

“
I will go to the Belab,”
Liano said when he had recovered. “I will tell him of your need. If
he agrees, he will take your request to the va Uhram. You should
know that those of our order do not speak with the Darthur. Only
the Belab can bring himself to share words with them.”

“
That will be fine,” Ipid
said through his surprise. “Tell the Belab that those men are well
respected throughout the Kingdoms. I need them to take command in
the places I cannot be.”

“
It shall be as you
request. When do you need these knights to return?”

“
As soon as possible.
Tomorrow, I hope.”

“
I will tell the
Belab.”

“
Please, thank him for his
help.”

“
I will. Now, if you want
this done with haste, I should be away.” The man bowed again and
pushed the door closed behind him before Ipid could even manage his
thanks. A second later, he felt the, now familiar, wave of calm
rush over him.

With a deep breath, he
turned back to the hall and the cadre of warriors it held. Eia
waited, looking like a lost child in their hulking presence. She
smiled and turned to show off a gaudy pale-lavender dress. As Ipid
had guessed, she was very close to the same size at the Stully’s
youngest daughter. The dress was tight across her chest where she
had more of a woman’s endowment and it hit the floor a bit early,
but it was otherwise passable, if a bit juvenile for a full-grown
woman.

“
Is this what you had in
mind, my lord?” Eia asked with a smirk. She stepped toward him and
caught his arm. “I especially like the butterflies.” She looked
scornfully at the fancifully colored butterflies that fluttered up
from the ground, rising all the way to the high bodice. “I swear
the girl does not have a single dress without butterflies on it and
all in the most hideous shades of pastel. I thought I had entered
some fantasy garden when the crones held them up.”

Ipid smiled. As he looked
closer, he realized how inappropriate the dress really was. Not
only were there butterflies but also a large bow in the back and
pink crinoline beneath the skirt. He had thought the girl old
enough to be past such childish fashions. Still, it was good to see
Eia looking uncomfortable for once.

“
If I keep wearing these
dresses, people will begin to wonder about your tastes. I could
almost pass for twelve in this.” Ipid realized suddenly that she
was speaking Darthur rather than her magically universal speech. He
smiled at that.

“
As you said, you have not
been twelve in many years.” Eia gave him an obligatory scowl. “I
think the larger concern is that they will doubt your fashion
sense, and rightly so. The only thing worse than that creation is
the robe you normally wear.”

“
Is it not a husband’s
duty to see that his wife is properly dressed?”

“
The dressmaker will be
here soon enough, my dear. They’ll make anything you
want.”

Eia smiled, mischief
sparkling in her eye. “Anything? Now, that is something to
consider.”

“
Keep in mind you are to
be the wife of the Chancellor.”

“
Chancellor now? I know we
said that you needed to rule decisively, but don’t you think that
is taking it a bit too far?”

“
I wish it were that
simple.”

“
Then I truly will have to
think about those dresses. The wife of a chancellor must make
statements, set trends, push her people in new directions.” She
seemed now to be really thinking.

“
I think we’d be best
served if this chancellor’s wife draws as little attention as
possible.”

“
Ah, but you are thinking
about this the wrong way.” Eia held his arm as she led him down the
hall to the stairs. “The more attention that is placed on my
clothes, the less there will be on me and how often I whisper in
your ear.”

Chapter 22

The
24
^th
Day of Summer

“
The Mother requests you,”
Juhn said as soon as Cary cracked the door.

“
Excuse me?” he managed to
ask as he blinked against the lamp light that filled the hall. The
windowless room where he had been sleeping was as black as the
Maelstrom’s cold heart. It could have been noon or midnight, and
Cary would have had no way to tell. He could have been sleeping for
hours or minutes – it felt like minutes. Behind him, the other
members of the Liandrin delegation stirred and moaned but made no
indications that they would rise. A light sleeper by training, Cary
had jumped from his bed when the knock sounded, but that did not
mean he was awake.

“
Nyel ut Torswauk requests
you,” the Morg counselor repeated, more amused than annoyed. “She
has asked me to fetch you.”

“
What . . . what time is
it?” Cary rubbed the shin that he had banged on his way to the door
and tried to remember which of the beds Ambassador Chulters had
chosen the previous night. He had been so tired by the time they
were shown to this simple bunkroom that he had fallen into a bed
and been almost instantly asleep.

“
The sun rose hours ago,”
Juhn offered. “But in these summer months it barely bothers to set.
More significantly, the sisters are just now setting the
breakfast.”

Cary buried his palms in
his eyes and took a deep breath to fend off the yawns that
threatened to reveal his tonsils to their host. “Give me a moment
to rouse the ambassador.” He looked back into the room. It was
pitch black. Every shape looked the same. The rangers were already
not fond of him. The last thing he needed was to make enemies. “Do
you happen to have a lamp I can borrow?”

Juhn smiled in a way that
seemed out of place on a Morg, turned, and lifted an oil lamp from
a hook on the wall to his side. He turned the knob to increase the
flow of the oil and nearly blinded Cary. “Thank you,” he managed to
say through the squinting. He took the lamp and turned to the
room.

Men rumbled and cursed as
the light found them. They threw arms over their faces and turned
from it. The exception was Ambassador Chulters, who was already
rising from the bottom bunk of the bed in the farthest corner of
the room. Cary had certainly not known that he was there. The room
held twenty bunk beds, a dozen chests, and one table big enough for
only four chairs. The beds were simply made, but larger than any
Cary had ever slept in – he had felt like a child in his – and
lined with thick animal furs that made them incredibly
comfortable.

“
We’ll be ready to
accompany you in five minutes,” Ambassador Chulters called from the
end of the room that he had taken for himself. None of the beds
around his was occupied, and he had moved two of the chests to
create a sort of wall to block it from the common portion of the
room. He had not said anything the night before, but it had been
clear that he was not pleased to have to share a room with the
common men in his company. “Cary, please turn down the lamp, place
it on the table, and close the door.”

“
What did he tell you?”
Ambassador Chulters was on Cary almost before the door clicked
shut. He kept his voice low, but it was filled with
desperation.

“
He . . . he said we’d
been requested by the . . . the Mother,” Cary stammered, through
the shock of a noble clasping the front of his shirt and spitting
into his face.

“
Hilaal’s balls,” the
ambassador gasped. His face went white in the light of the lamp,
and he backed away. “I read back through my father’s diaries last
night. He never mentioned seeing a Morg woman in all his time here.
What could the Mother possible want of us?”

Cary did not bother to
answer. He didn’t even know what they were talking about – whose
mother was it? He just watched the noble struggle, eyes pivoting,
mouth working, face twitching. He looked like a man chased to the
street by the ghosts in his mind – crumpled by sleep and mumbling
incoherent. “Can we delay her?” he asked himself. “What possible
excuse could we have? Why now? Why us?” He continued asking
questions, eyes on Cary but clearly not seeing him.

Finally, his mind seemed
to come to terms with what was happening. His eyes cleared, spine
straightened, and mumbling stopped. “Get dressed, Cary. Your dress
uniform as quickly as you can manage. You’re coming with me to meet
what may be the most powerful woman in the world.”

#

It took far longer than
five minutes for Regis Chulters to get ready. Cary waited by the
doors, sitting so that he would not pace. His foot twitched where
it was elevated across his knee. His fingers crept time and again
to his mouth to chew at his nails – a habit that only gloves seemed
capable of curing – and his mind spun. He was going to meet the
Mother of a Morg lodge. His only knowledge of Morgs, let alone
their reclusive women, were the stories men told around their cups.
Most of those had to do with how many men a Morg could kill with
his bare hands or how a hundred of them could defeat entire armies.
Though the few Morgs he had seen had been imposing, Cary had always
taken the stories with a grin. A single stab in the right place
would bring down a bull, and the Morgs, for all their grandeur,
were no more indestructible than a bull.

The only stories he could
muster about Morg women were of men – usually very drunk ones –
pondering how they’d ever fuck a woman that was taller and broader
than they were. The line of reasoning had always been on the edge
of an insult for Cary, who was smaller than most women – and he’d
had more women than most of those men with very few complaints,
thank you very much. Any man who couldn’t figure out the mechanics
of it simply wasn’t using his imagination.

The key to bedding women
was to not be picky. Cary had been with women as tall as a man and
as short as a child as thin as a reed and big as a cow. He found
them in nearly every city and village he visited. Never the pretty
girls with boys hanging off them. Not the smart ones or funny ones
or rich ones. The broken ones. The ones that the boys made fun of,
the ones that didn’t have any friends, the ones whose husbands
ignored them. He’d learned from an early age that those were easy
targets. All you had to do was show them some attention, make them
feel special, and they’d give you anything you wanted. He wondered
if Morg women were the same, and his mind wandered to the idea of
being the only outsider in history to fuck a Morg. He had to say he
liked the idea.