Wizardborn (26 page)

“It is a small thing that I ask,” Feykaald persisted. “These men are of limited worth to you. They have endowments
now,
but you must ask yourself how long this will be true. Four hundred Invincibles is not a force that Raj Ahten takes lightly. He will order the deaths of their Dedicates, lest his own men come against him. They will die—innocent Dedicates—men, women, children. They will die, and to what purpose? So that you can parade a few Invincibles as trophies of war?”

Gaborn studied Feykaald with growing dislike. “Are you begging a favor, or seeking to extort me?”

“Extort? Never!” Feykaald said. “I do not speak of what I would do. But I know my master's mind.”

Gaborn did not doubt that Raj Ahten would do as Feykaald warned.

“You are right,” Gaborn said. “Indhopal is their homeland,
and I will allow any Invincible who wishes to protect his people to return to Kartish.”

Jureem beamed, as if he had not expected such a boon.

“Thank you, O King of all the Earth,” Feykaald said with a bow.

“But—” Gaborn added, “my Earth Powers also warn that there is great danger in Indhopal, and none of the men who go there will survive. I must warn them of this.”

Feykaald's eyes grew steely. He nodded acquiescence, but his face was unreadable. “One more small favor, I beg you.”

“Another?” Gaborn asked.

“Forcibles. If you could spare even a few hundred, they might be of incalculable value.”

Now the man was asking too much. “I have none to spare.”

Feykaald bowed his head in acceptance. “Very well. One more thing I ask of you, then.”

Gaborn felt as if he were in a market, haggling with one of Feykaald's countrymen. Feykaald was asking for much, giving up nothing. Gaborn warned him, “One more thing you may ask of me, but I weary of your requests.”

“Peace. I beg of you: ride to Kartish yourself. If you fear Raj Ahten, you can Choose his armies, and thus be assured that they will protect you.”

“I cannot.”

“I beseech you by all that you hold dear, by your love of the land, by your honor and virtue,” Feykaald begged. “Without the Earth King to guide us, our men are as dross in the fire. If you could but see my people, you would Choose them as you Chose the people of Carris.”

Gaborn shook his head. Words could not express how much he wanted to comply with this last request, but his power of Choosing was gone. And he had another path to tread. “I have battles of my own to fight, on other fronts. Your master will have to make do without me.”

Feykaald lowered his eyes. He shook his head. “Forgive me. I took it upon myself to come here, to beg your aid. I
cannot go back to Indhopal—not now. Raj Ahten will see my deed as treason. I am willing to accept this, to be named a traitor, if I can do some small good for my country. Therefore, I throw myself on your mercy, and beg asylum. I offer my services, as Jureem has done. I will serve you well, so long as you do not ask me to betray my own people.”

The man sounded sincere. His hands were trembling, and his eyes pleaded for this boon. Yet Gaborn could not trust him. Nor did he sense any danger to Feykaald.

“Go back to Raj Ahten,” Gaborn said. “He will not harm you.”

“By the Powers, by the Earth, I beg of you!” Feykaald whined. “Have mercy. Have mercy on an old man! You cannot guess the fate he would devise for me.”

Gaborn wondered. Perhaps in Feykaald's twisted mind, these threats were real. Or perhaps he feigned fear to achieve some greater end.

There was something in this man … a blackness at the core of him. Gaborn felt no immediate threat. Feykaald would not draw a knife on him now. Yet he did not doubt that Feykaald would cause great mischief if given the opportunity.

Or is that my own fear talking? Gaborn wondered.

In the House of Understanding, in the Room of Faces, Gaborn had learned to spot deceit in a man. But he could not be sure of Feykaald. A lying man will often avert his eyes, or blink when trying to assert his falsehood. The pupils of the eye may become constricted. But Kaifba Feykaald watched Gaborn steadily, without blinking. And the opium he had smoked obscured the true size of his pupils.

A lying man may tremble, but Feykaald held calm. A lying man will often have muscles tighten in his neck, and so he may toss his head, trying to appear aloof.

Feykaald showed none of those signs. Yet, there was a message in his body language. He hunched forward, possibly from a stooped back. But Gaborn suspected that it was more than that. His manner was not that of a liar, but
of a merchant, intensely interested in making a sale.

Feykaald was trying to sell him a story. Gaborn did not buy it.

He considered possible motives. Perhaps Feykaald truly wanted to milk Gaborn for aid. Perhaps he sought to paralyze him into inactivity, or to divide his forces.

Or perhaps … Raj Ahten wanted Feykaald to remain nearby.

As Gaborn considered that, a cold certainty grew. Of course Feykaald was a spy. That's why Gaborn felt so uncomfortable in his presence, felt a lingering sense of danger.

I could easily send Feykaald away, Gaborn thought.

He looked to his counselors, considered what his Wits had told him the night before. “You must turn your enemies against one another.” It was possible that he could turn Feykaald against his master, by feeding him false information.

At the very least, there was one advantage to keeping Feykaald close by. He had served Raj Ahten long and well. By keeping the old man here, under any pretense, he would be denying Raj Ahten the use of a counselor.

It seemed a prudent thing to do. He could put Feykaald up someplace where he would do no harm, have him watched. There were residences built for that very purpose at the Courts of Tide.

But all such plans were swept away by one other thought: perhaps I can truly turn him.

“I thank you, Kaifba Feykaald,” Gaborn said. “You have given me much to think about. I will consider taking you into my service, but my mind must be clear on the matter. Will you ride with me today?”

“Tell me only how I can better serve you,” Feykaald said, bowing so low that Gaborn feared he would fall from his horse.

   19   

In exchange for his numerous worthy entitlements, the duties of a baron are these:

1. To prudently oversee the lands with which he has been entrusted.

2. To uphold the king's laws, offer up the king's taxes, and to maintain highways and other edifices of public benefit.

3. To offer up his own life, or the life of a son or suitable tenant, in the king's service during times of war.

—
From the
Book of Common Law

“Did you hear that, boys! My Waggit's a baron now!” Scallon laughed. The big man slapped Waggit on the back and forced another mug of rum into his hand. All around, men in the inn at Carris grinned at Waggit and congratulated him.

Waggit remembered riding the king's horse. Waggit remembered being knighted. It was better than a dream.

He closed his eyes and promised himself that he would remember those things. But it was hard to remember. He always forgot everything. He'd promised himself last night that he'd try to remember killing the reavers, but already the memories were fading. He could only remember killing two or three. He only knew that he'd killed nine of them because everyone told him so.

“Don't just sit there squintin' at it—drink it down, now,” Scallon shouted. “If you're going to be a baron, you'll have to learn to hold your liquor in something more watertight than your hand.”

Everyone laughed and pounded Waggit on the back. They leaned in so close that he could smell their breath, and he took a huge swallow. The rum burned his throat. Waggit didn't like the feel of it, but he liked to get drunk. The only problem was that whenever he got drunk, he'd always wake up and find that his money was gone.

And the only way to keep it safe was to give it to Scallon. He'd keep it hidden good.

“Can you believe it?” Scallon shouted to the crowd. “Waggit's a baron! He'll be having a house and lands, and moneybags so heavy that even he won't be able to lug them around.”

Lugby, a friend who worked the mines in Silverdale with Waggit and Scallon, said, “And I suppose you'll be there to help him?”

Scallon laughed. He was a big man with a beard, and when he laughed, spittle flew everywhere. “Who else but his best friend? He'll be needing a chamberlain now. Who better than me?”

“Just about anyone,” Lugby blurted.

Scallon glared at Lugby, who was old and going crippled in the back from long hours bent double in the mine. Waggit had never seen Scallon so mad. “You'll be eating your words, now,” Scallon said in a dangerous tone. “You'll eat them or choke on them.”

Scallon reached down with a beefy fist, gripped the long knife slung in his belt. Lugby lurched backward, terror in his pale eyes.

The room went quiet, and men retreated from the two. Waggit wondered what was going on. Why was Scallon mad enough to kill? He'd seen the big man beat others senseless before, but he'd never seen him kill.

“I—” Lugby said, his eyes flickering through the common room. “I meant no disrespect. I was only thinking that if you're to be his chamberlain, you might be needing a good man to work the kitchens.”

Silence hung in the room for a moment as everyone waited to see how Scallon would react.

Scallon laughed heartily. “Aye, we'll need help in the kitchens.”

Lugby began to grin at his good fortunes.

“Can he cook?” Waggit asked.

“Can he cook?” Scallon roared. “Why, he can boil you up the finest mess of beans you've ever tasted!”

That was good enough for Waggit.

He grinned and drank some more, until he could not feel the rum burn his throat raw any longer and the room began to spin. Waggit lost all sense of time. He stared at the spit dog treading around in its circle as a young hog roasted over the fire. He wanted to pet the dog, but he knew that the innkeeper would just slap his hands with a ladle. Innkeepers were firm about that: no stopping the dogs from their work. That's what life was all about, after all. Work.

Waggit worked all day long, swinging his pick in the mines. Work made money. Work and beans had made him strong—strong as a bear.

Waggit roared like a bear, and everyone around him stared and laughed. So Waggit roared again and stood up, raking the air with his fingers. It was a good joke.

Scallon was talking to another fellow, a man in a greasy leather apron. After a moment, Scallon jabbed Waggit with an elbow and said, “Did you hear that? The king owes you some forcibles for killing the reavers. Nine forcibles. You're going to be a rich man.”

“Oh, he doesn't… owe me nothin',” Waggit said, the words coming thick to his mouth. “He let me … he let me ride his horse.”

“Well, he does owe it, see,” Scallon said. “It's the law. It's an old law, written before he was born, written before we were all born. If a man kills a reaver, he can go to the king and get a forcible. That way, a brave man like you, even if he's lowborn, can become a knight.”