When the Heavens Fall (15 page)

“I grew up near Talen,” the Guardian said. “Know the ground. There's only one oasis near Cenan they had any chance of making. Surprised they even got that far.” He nodded at Merin. “You too. Avallon sent you to your death.”

The tyrin shrugged. “Given time, the sacristens would have stirred up a rebellion. The emperor wanted them dead at any cost.”

Luker grunted.
Aye, I saw what price was paid.
He had witnessed the aftermath of the siege of Cenan when he'd arrived to deliver the heads of the sacristens. The sandstone walls of the ancient citadel had been stained red with the blood of the dead. The Second was butchered almost to a man; the Fourth suffered crippling losses. The bodies of the dead, friend and foe alike, were stripped and piled outside the city walls for the creatures of the Waste to feast on. For nine days the desert sands boiled with sandclaws and roths, and carrion birds had formed a cloud that could be seen from leagues away. And all so the emperor could stick a pin in a map and pretend the city was his.

There was a knock at the door. At Merin's call, the shaggy-haired Bratbak from the front gate entered. He crossed to the tyrin and whispered something in his ear before departing.

Frowning, Merin turned to Luker. “There's a woman outside asking for you. Were you followed?”

“No. I told her to meet me here.”

“Why?”

“Because she's coming with us.”

Merin eyed him coolly. “I wasn't told about this.”

“I'm telling you now.”

“That's not what I meant. You're here at the emperor's command. It's not for you to say who travels with us.”

It seemed the tyrin needed setting straight on a few things. “It is if you want me to come with you on this Shroud-cursed fool's errand.”

Merin set his fists down on the desk. “Have you told her about the mission?”

There was something in the tyrin's voice that gave Luker pause. “No,” he lied.

“So why's she coming?”

“She has her reasons. None of which have anything to do with you, or the Book. Anyhow,” the Guardian added, “she'll only be with us part of the way.”

Merin stroked his jaw. “Who is she?”

“A friend.”

“Does this friend have a name?”

“Jenna.” Luker watched for the tyrin's reaction, but there was no flicker of recognition.

“Can she be trusted?”

“Aye.”

The silence stretched out.

Luker's gaze held steady on Merin's dark, unblinking eyes. Doubtless the tyrin was used to his subordinates shrinking beneath the weight of his stare, but Luker wasn't going to back down just because of a bit of eyeballing.
Bastard will want me “sirring” him next.

“If she steps out of line,” Merin said finally, “I'll hold you to account.”

The Guardian's sense of foreboding returned. That was too easy, but he'd have to worry about what the tyrin was up to later. “Wouldn't let her come if I thought she'd slow us down.”

Merin was already turning to the map on the desk. He beckoned the others to join him, and Luker stood. Chamery remained slouched in his chair.

The map was the largest Luker had ever seen, showing the lands stretching from Brena in the south to Majack in the distant north. It was also the most detailed, charting the route of the White Road where it passed through the Forest of Sighs north of Arandas, and even the spice routes that snaked across the deadlands of Kal. As the Guardian studied the territories that separated Arkarbour from Arandas, his chest tightened. If Kanon's silence since his last message spelled trouble, Luker was too far away to help his master.

Merin said, “I've been giving some thought to the route we'll take to Arandas. We're a couple of months behind Mayot Mencada, meaning we've got no time for sightseeing. We'll follow the Bone Road north to High Fort, then cross the Shield to Point Keep and descend—”

“Aye, just like that,” Luker cut in. “The Kalanese'll be watching the road down from Cloud Pass.”

Merin ignored him. “From Point Keep, we head east toward the Black Cliffs before turning north again. We've no idea how much of the Gollothir Plains are under Kalanese control, but by skirting the Waste we should be able to stay clear of their scouting parties.”

“We'll also put the desert at our backs. If we hit trouble, we'll have nowhere to run.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Helin,” Luker said, tapping the map. “Should still be a few ships willing to risk the Wind Straits this time of year.”

“The Kalanese have blockaded the port.”

“A small boat could slip through—”

“I'm not done,” Merin interrupted. A corner of the map had curled up, and he unrolled it again. “Getting to Helin would be the easy part. Scouts report the Kalanese are on the move toward Arandas. Their army would lie between us and the city.”

Chamery spoke from his chair. “Then we go round. Head east from Helin to Point Keep and approach Arandas from the south.”

Merin shook his head. “The Kalanese will expect Avallon to hit back after Malek's defeat. Most likely place to strike from is Helin. Kalanese will be watching the city like crakehawks. There's no way we'd get out unseen.”

Luker rolled his shoulders and heard them crack. In truth he didn't care which route they took. Either way, the Kalanese would be lying in wait. “Have you heard any more from Kanon?” he asked Merin.

The tyrin's mouth was a thin line. “No. There should be news when we reach Arandas.”

Chamery was rolling his staff along the armrests of his chair. “And if the city has fallen by the time we get there?”

“Won't happen,” Merin said. “The emperor tried to take Arandas before it joined the Confederacy. Ended up getting his nose bloodied. The place is a nest of vipers. The Kalanese won't take it without a fight.”

“The city will be under siege, though,” Luker said. “What happens then?”

“Then we make contact with one of the emperor's agents in the surrounding towns.”

“Did Kanon's last report say where Mayot was heading?”

The tyrin crossed his arms. “I've told you all I can.”

“Why?”

“Because those are my orders.”

And you always do what you're told.
Luker focused his Will on the tyrin, discreetly enough to ensure his target did not sense his questing, but found Merin's mind as unyielding as his handshake had been. Given time, Luker might be able to wrest some information from him, but not without doing permanent damage.
Let's hope for his sake it doesn't come to that.

The Guardian looked at Chamery. “Where will Mayot take this book?”

Chamery waved a languid hand. “As far from here as possible.”

“He knows he'll be tailed, then?”

“Hah! Into the Abyss itself.”

Merin spoke. “Why? What can the Book do?”

Chamery sneered. “In Mayot's hands? Nothing. He doesn't have the wit to use it.”

“And if you're wrong? I need to know what I'm dealing with.”

“No, you don't. Your job is to find Mayot, that's all. I'll deal with him from there.”

The silence that followed was broken by a knock at the door.

Just as things were getting interesting …

Merin frowned at Chamery for a moment before shouting, “Come!”

The shaggy-haired Bratbak was back with another whispered message, pausing to jerk his thumb toward the door through which he had entered. The tyrin listened in silence, his expression masked. When the guard finished speaking, Merin rose. “Gentlemen,” he said, looking from Chamery to Luker. “We'll have to finish this later. My clerk has booked us rooms at the Gate Inn. I'll join you there shortly.”

He strode from the room.

Beyond the door, Luker caught a glimpse of a short, dark-robed figure—a woman, judging by the white gloss on her fingernails. Her skin was olive-colored, and the fifth finger on each hand was missing.
A Remnerol.
The woman's face remained hidden by the shadows of her cowl, but Luker could feel her gaze on him nevertheless.

Then Merin closed the door between them.

Luker glanced across at Chamery. The mage had straightened in his chair, a calculating look on his face.
Aye, even the boy senses it.

Something was afoot.

 

C
HAPTER
5

E
BON'S THOUGHTS
were dark as he approached Lamella's house. The memory of his father's frailty would not leave him. Isanovir had always hated weakness in others, and he would not spare himself the same disdain. Already he had lapsed into brooding and introspection. The end, when it came, would be a relief to him, Ebon suspected, and that end could not be far off. A matter of weeks, if the Royal Physicians were to be believed, but at least that left time for Ebon to make his peace with the king.
No, king no longer.
Just a father, perhaps for the first time in Ebon's life. Had there ever been a time, he wondered, when he had been anything but a prince to Isanovir?

He felt a twist of guilt for his deception at the gathering earlier, for while he had not spoken out to deny Janir's accusations of spirit-possession, he hadn't volunteered the truth of what had happened at the forest either. Would he be able to hide the fact the voices had returned? He had to try, that much at least was clear, for if Ebon was forced to abdicate, civil war would likely follow. His brother did not command the respect of the King's Council any more than Janir did. Of the other domens, Hebral Pallane or Dorala Feriman might stake a claim. The chancellor, too, had made no secret of his ambitions. None of them would bow the knee to the others, even if popular opinion turned against them. For years now, the only thing keeping the disparate factions in line had been Isanovir. Now that responsibility would fall on Ebon.

The jostling for places had already started. Following the showdown in the Royal Quarters, Ebon had attended a series of meetings with various domens, the King's Companions, the heads of the Guilds—all hastily convened by the queen in order to shore up Ebon's position, and consequently her own. For more than two bells he had cajoled and coerced, received promises of allegiance and given assurances of friendship in return. After a time, the discussions had begun to blur into a confused murmur, indistinguishable from the whispering of the spirits in his head. When Ebon had finally called a halt to the proceedings, Rosel's disapproving look had made it clear she knew where he was going.

Reaching Lamella's house, the king heard the strumming of a harp inside. He opened the gate and stepped onto the path beyond. Candles had been placed along its borders, their light reflecting off the front of the building. Standing a short distance away was a Pantheon Guardsman. Her full-face helmet covered all but her eyes, yet Ebon still recognized her from the image of a dove etched into the left cheek-piece.

“All quiet, Corporal Balia?”

The soldier's voice was muffled. “As Jirali's grave, sir,” she said, moving aside.

Ebon could feel the day's stored heat radiating from the house. Dozens of yellowfoot lizards clung to the fa
ç
ade, but they scattered as the king drew near. The front door was unlocked, and he entered and closed it behind him. Crossing the shadowy hallway, he drew aside the heavy curtain on the opposite wall. The room beyond was lit by yet more candles that crowded the tables between the divans and piled cushions. The shutters on the windows had been thrown open against the heat, and gauze curtains fluttered in the gentlest of breezes.

The music died away.

Lamella sat in a chair beside her harp, her hands motionless over the strings. Her long strawberry-blond hair was swept back and held in place with bone combs. She wore a white susha robe, tied at the waist with a belt. A threadbare tasseled shawl covered her shoulders. She looked up as he entered.

Her eyes were red again.

Rising awkwardly, she shuffled over to him, her twisted right leg dragging behind her. The scars round her knee appeared unusually lurid in the candlelight. Ebon folded her in his arms and breathed in the scent of her hair before lifting her from her feet and spinning her about. She laughed breathlessly, then told him to set her down. He did so, drawing back to look into her eyes.

“I knew you'd come,” she said. Then her gaze fixed on the wound at his temple. Taking his chin in one hand, she turned his head to catch the light. “Why haven't you had that seen to?”

“I wanted to see you first.”

Her expression softened. “Come.” She led him to one of the divans. Before he could sit, she placed a hand on his chest. “Take off your shirt.”

He gave a half smile. “You do know it's my head that was cut.”

Lamella blushed. “Fine.
You
can wash the blood off the chair when we're done.”

Ebon's smile broadened. Unbuttoning his shirt, he peeled it from his back and tossed it onto the floor. Lamella's eyes widened when she saw the insect bites across his arms and torso. She made her way to a bureau near the harp and returned with a small bag and a wooden bowl filled with water. Setting the bowl down on a table, she sprinkled some powders into it from the bag, then lowered herself onto the divan and gestured for Ebon to join her. The acrid fumes from the water made him gag. Lamella dipped a cloth into the water, wrung it out, and touched it to his wound.

Ebon gritted his teeth against the sting.

“What happened?” she asked.

He told her about the Kinevar raid, leaving out all mention of the spirits. By the time he was done, Lamella had finished cleaning the wound. She crossed again to the bureau and returned with a clay pot and a needle and thread. After threading the needle, she placed its point in the flame of one of the candles until the metal glowed red. Her hand was trembling as she raised it to his temple.