War in Tethyr (26 page)

Blinking to keep back the tears, she said, "You seem concerned, Your Grace."

Seated at the table, the most recent of her steady stream of visitors raised his head sharply from his hand, like a man who's caught himself dozing off. "It is nothing, Zaranda Star. Or rather… but I cannot allow personal considerations to cloud my vision of duty to city and country."

"Which is to say the lord of the city pays too close attention to your daughter."

"Enough!" snapped Duke Hembreon, jumping to his feet with alacrity a younger man might envy. "I have taken pains to see that you are treated well, but you are still a prisoner. Do not presume too greatly upon my goodwill."

"Still a prisoner," Zaranda said, "and still charged with nothing."

Hembreon frowned. "As of today charges were formally levied against you in council. I have brought a bill of particulars." He held up a scroll tied with a purple ribbon.

"And why was I not present to answer those charges, as Zazesspurian law requires? I certainly didn't have any conflicting appointments."

He failed to meet her eye. "There were special considerations-extraordinary circumstances…"

"Just keep talking that way," Zaranda said mock-approvingly. "We'll make a chaotic of you yet."

The old man's spine stiffened. "These are trying times. It is always easy to see which is the path of righteousness when one isn't actually called upon to make the choice."

"I appreciate that. But are you certain the path you want is the one marked, 'His Royal Majesty, Faneuil I'?"

"He stands for the rule of law. He stands for what Tethyr needs."

"Does he? I say he's unleashed disorder on Zazesspur. And it's due to get worse."

"On what do you base your reasoning, young woman?" He tried to sound sternly dismissive. He didn't quite make it.

Got you, you thin-lipped old pillar of rectitude, she thought. Doubt was her ally. "He wants you to go on and declare him king. Yet various of your fellow councilors already have second thoughts about the wisdom of acclaiming him lord of Zazesspur. He'll perceive that, or Armenides will. He needs some new crisis to catapult him onto the throne, and knows it."

" 'Crisis'? " The duke was too polite to sneer.

"Crisis. I think Zazesspur's due for a dose of civil disorder, sooner rather than later. Something that will make the people cry out for a strong hand to restore order." She tipped her head to the side and tapped one finger against her cheek. "I think he'll use Ravenak's ruffians. They're like boulders balanced precariously on the very brink of a precipice, wanting only the tiniest zephyr to bring the whole mountainside crashing down."

"Preposterous!"

"You think so? Try this thought on for size: did anyone encounter a single darkling on Zazesspur's streets before Hardisty began his climb?"

"Woman, I will not stand to hear our new lord's name besmirched. Good evening. Officer of the watch, I wish to be let out at once!"

Immediately bolts began to slide back on the far side of the door. "All I ask," Zaranda said, "is that you remember what I told you."

He gave her a lambent-eyed look of disgust and went out.

No matter how you fight it, no matter what you do, you will come to Me,
that hated voice hissed.
Why struggle against the inevitable? You might spare yourself no little pain.

Still she fell. As she fell, she seemed to glimpse scenes flashing past: a seething caldron whose contents she did not dare examine; foul creatures opening a grate that led to the streets from the sewers beneath the city; a procession of wailing children, yoked together neck to neck, shuffling forward toward a black galley lolling at anchor in some vast flooded cavern… And always the blackness below, yearning for her, reaching for her with tentacles of black…

She was dashed into consciousness as if by a plunge into icy water. For a moment she lay gasping, so coated in sweat that she seemed in imminent danger of slipping off the bed onto the floor. Then her ears resolved the sounds that had brought her out of sleep.

Bells. And a faint murmur, as of many distant voices raised in anger.

She rose and walked to the window. No planets were visible, and the moon and its bright attendants were absent. But by pressing her face hard against one wall and staring as far to one side of the window as she could, she could see orange light staining the sky, as if Selune were trying to rise in the south.

Zazesspur was burning.

"I'm sorry," she said, "about your shop, and most of all, about your father."

Simonne Soiltender-"White Eyebrow" had been her father's nickname-sat on Zaranda's stool looking very small. She wore a leather jerkin over a saffron blouse and sand-colored hose. Her voluminous black hair was done up in a bun and covered by a bandanna whose gaiety clashed with her demeanor.

"You of all folk are the last who owe apology," she said. She was turning her toothed-wheel holy sign of Gond over and over in strong, capable fingers. It was finely milled of steel, which the god held the noblest of metals, preferring its utility to the showiness of silver, platinum, or gold. "You warned him time and again."

"And yet I might have helped precipitate his murder, by facing down those ravers in his shop last year."

"Just as likely you forestalled it. Such folk want victims, not confrontation; it's weakness that arouses their bloodlust. My father's confirmed passivity marked him as a target. Once we mustered opposition, ill-armed and untrained as it was, the rioters fell back smartly enough."

She let the medallion drop and buried her face in her hands. Tears leaked between the fingers. "Oh, Father, Father. If only I'd had the strength to disobey you before it was too late!"

Zaranda came to her and laid an arm around shaking shoulders. "Grieve, for you must. But don't burden your soul with regrets. You won't serve your father's memory by crippling yourself with might-have-beens."

The priestess clung to Zaranda, and her slight but sturdy frame was racked by great, silent sobs. Zaranda gently stroked her friend's head. Her blue-gray eyes leaked a few tears of their own, but silently; she would do her grieving for White Eyebrow later, if she were still alive.

At last the tremors dwindled, and Simonne pulled away. "You're right," she said. "Gond teaches us ever to look to the future."

"Well said, my friend." Zaranda sat down in her chair across the desk from her visitor. "What do you see the future as holding?"

"Extinction for the gnomes of Zazesspur," Simonne replied, "unless we fight back."

Zaranda smiled. "Fighting back is a commodity I specialize in."

Simonne nodded. "I know. I didn't come just to bear news of my father's death." She sat upright. "I wish to engage the services of Star Protectives to teach us how to defend ourselves. My father left some treasure hidden where the marauders couldn't get to it, and I have some small wealth of my own."

"You needn't concern yourself-" Zaranda began.

The priestess held up a hand. "Please. Followers of Gond give charity, but do not accept it. Nor is it wise for gnomes to come to you larger folk as supplicants; my father was right about that, as about so many things."

"Indeed, your father was a wise gnome. And you're a worthy daughter. But let us leave the matter of payment for later; I'll trust you to pay, and if you so choose, you will trust me not to gouge you."

"So let it be done," Simonne said with a businesslike nod.

"Now, my freedom of action's a bit curtailed right now, so when it comes to training, you're best advised to try to reach my people outside the city. In fact, since you insist on giving recompense, your so doing would be of great service to me, and go far toward repaying whatever help I render you."

"We can do that. We prefer to live within the laws as much as possible, but as you know, we're not slavish. When the law becomes intolerable, it is our way to slide around insofar as we can."

"I know."

"So rest assured that we shall quickly contact your friends outside; walls and patrols cannot contain us."

Zaranda gripped the table's edge for support; the flood of relief made her dizzy. Though her people could do nothing to help her, though the rumors of dissension and dissolution might well be true-still, what a relief to
know
how her friends fared.

"Thank you. Now, you managed to extemporize a self-defense force to rout the Hairheads. That's an excellent start. I can tell you-"

"A moment, please, gnome-friend." Simonne's large eyes were solemn. "The council-or at least Baron Hardisty-looks askance at attempts by the people to defend themselves. Can we safely discuss such matters, here in the heart of city hall?"

Zaranda laughed out loud. "Of all my visitors, you're the first to question that. The powerful and the putatively wise have been tramping through my humble abode by the hour, working their jaws with never a thought that anyone might be eavesdropping!" She shook her head. "There are tricks I've heard of, speaking tubes built directly into a building to convey conversations to secret listeners. I've found no sign of such in my cell, though I'm far from expert enough to guarantee we're safe. And I've sensed no dweomer play directed against me-but again, a sufficiently puissant wizard could cast a clairaudience spell and I'd never feel it."

She shrugged. "But among my ever-so-candid visitors have been almost all the council.
They
saw no reason to guard their speech. Perhaps neither their intellect nor wisdom are such as to astonish all Toril, but I trust them to be astute in the matter of keeping their own hides intact."

"Fair enough," the priestess said. "Now, what can you tell me?"

For an hour Zaranda sketched out a plan for whipping up a serviceable self-defense force. "Now," she concluded, "a show of force-more, of determination-will most likely deter would-be pogrom-makers like the ravers; as you said, they seek sport, not the chance to see their own blood spill. But if you face organized aggression-" she meant the bronze-and-blues, but saw no reason to tempt fate by being unnecessarily explicit "-it's paramount not to confront them directly. Never meet strength with strength; instead give way like water, and like water flow around and in behind them. And, like water, you can erode them, given patience and resolve."

The priestess rose. "Your words are sound. I will remember them. Thank you. Now I must go. I'll get in touch with your people as soon as I can."

She turned to go. "One thing," Zaranda said. "I've been having… disquieting dreams…"

"As have we all."

"During one especially bad one I had a vision: a black galley, moored in some half-flooded cavern beneath the city, taking on a load of stolen children."

"I've heard the rumors," Simonne said.

"Fell things go on beneath any city; that's the way of Faerun. But my dreams… they seem to come from
below."

"The darklings come from the sewers."

"So they do-but stay clear of them; you'll not have the strength to meet them on their own ground. The black galley, though-"

"We can deal with its crew and accomplices, if indeed they're down there. Such evil must be stopped." The priestess showed a distinctly nongnomish grin. "And who knows? We may bring some fascinating bits of knowledge to light."

Lying on her back, Zaranda moaned and thrashed her head from side to side. There was no escaping the sibilant caress of that Voice.

Come to me, Zaranda. You are mine already. Come to me and know the power; come to me and spare yourself the pain.

Shapes resolved from the glare as her eyes adjusted: Duke Hembreon, tall, cloaked, and grave, backed by city police. Others filed in until the small chamber was packed-Lord Hardisty, Armenides, Shaveli Sword-Master, the latter carrying a large leathern bag.

"To what do I owe the honor?" she asked.

The duke shook his magnificent white head. "Ah, Zaranda, to think that I believed you when you said you intended no treachery. Poorly have you served my faith."

She slid her legs over the bed's edge and sat all the way up, winding the sheet more carefully about her. "What are you talking about?"

"We have brought you a small present, Countess Morninggold," Armenides said unctuously. The baron nodded. Shaveli opened the sack, thrust his hand in.

It came out holding the head of Artalos the armorer by the topknot.

"The Sword-Master's specials caught him attempting commerce with the enemies of Zazesspur and Tethyr," Hardisty said. "We have had a most enlightening conversation."

The severed head opened its eyes. "Zaranda," it croaked. "I'm sorry. I thought I could help. Please-"

Armenides clapped his hands. Artalos's eyes rolled upward in their sockets, and his long jaw hung slack.

Gods! Zaranda thought. Simonne! Blood began to seep into the wad of sheet clutched in her right hand, where the nails had bit clean through linen into the palm. "Why have you done this to him? Even if he sought to reach my friends, they're no enemies of Zazesspur."

Shaveli laughed. "I loved the look in your eyes when he opened his. Have you missed me, then, my pretty little countess?"

"Faneuil, silence your cur!" snapped Hembreon. The Sword-Master looked poison at him. Ignoring him, the old duke stepped forward to stand gazing down at Zaranda with pain in his deep-sunk eyes.

"Your Star Protective Services are encamped before the city," he said. "They swear to free you by force. A thousand strong they are-"

Zaranda's laugh rang like a brazen gong of Thay. "A thousand against a city such as Zazesspur? What kind of threat is that? They might as well be a thousand children for all the harm they can do to you behind your walls!"

"-and more march hourly to join them, from all over Tethyr."

She stood. "But that's absurd. If nothing else, Shield of Innocence knows better than to lead such troops against fortifications so strong, manned by regular troops."

"Our intelligence indicates the orog no longer leads," Hardisty said.

"And if we required further proof of your perfidy, consorting with a great-orc of the Thighbone-Splitter tribe would suffice to condemn you," Armenides said.

"He's been accused of treachery in what these miscreants choose to regard as your 'kidnapping,' " the Lord of Zazesspur continued. "He is transported in chains. A mute ranger leads the rebels, and a half-elf bard speaks for him."

Zaranda sank back to the bed and covered her face in her hands.

"We should welcome the advent of all the rebels in Tethyr," Armenides said. "When they have conveniently gathered together in the open country around Zazesspur, Lord Faneuil will muster the civic guard and the knights of the city, and behold!" He held up his hands and flung open his fingers with the air of one unveiling a major miracle. "No more rebellion."

"Zaranda Star," Duke Hembreon declared, "your treason is manifest. Therefore, not without regret, the city council of Zazesspur has decreed that you must pay the penalty. At noon tomorrow-that is, the day following this morning's sunrise-you shall suffer death by breaking upon the great wheel of justice in the midst of the plaza. At the same hour shall the lord of the city be crowned King Faneuil I of all Tethyr."

She looked up. Her eyes gleamed with wetness, but her cheeks were dry.

"Nothing your executioner can do," she said in a low voice, "will cause me half the pain of the tidings you've brought me."

Shaveli's ugly face split in a sunny smile. "Don't count upon that, Countess," he said. "For I'm the one who'll do the honors."