Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 (12 page)

Beyond Khaar Mbar’ost, the daytime revelry of the games spilled over into the night. Bonfires burned in the middle of some of the wider streets, and the people of Rhukaan Draal gathered around them to sing and dance and drink. The guards that had patrolled the city during the period of mourning were all but gone. Those few Geth spotted as they passed through the shadows were celebrating as heartily as the rest of the crowd. Here and there, vast casks of ale stood open and whole roast hogs were laid out courtesy of those with aspirations to the throne. Geth recognized the chiefs of a few lesser clans calling out the virtues of Aguus or Iizan or Garaad. The warlords had called on their allies to help support the costs of their campaigns of popularity.

“I don’t see anyone touting for Tariic,” he said.

“He’s being clever,” said Dagii. “Here all the food and drink blur together. He’s concentrating his attention on the arena and on winning over the unallied warlords.”

“He may win over some with a previous allegiance, too, if the others push their client-clans too far,” Ekhaas added.

The street where the artificer lived was far from the busy parts of the city. Here no light but moonlight illuminated the crooked streets. In spite of the silence and the darkness—or maybe because
of them—Geth felt a distinct unease. When Ekhaas’s illusion finally dissipated in a flickering of ghostlight, he was more than glad to be rid of it. The sight of Wrath and his great gauntlet might hint at his identity to anyone watching from the shadows, but they would also be a greater deterrent to attack than a gown and a girdle.

The buildings in the area were, for the most part, dark and in poor repair, leaning on each other like a bunch of drunkards. Ekhaas guided them to a low stone building that was doing most of the work of propping up its neighbors. It had the look of human construction rather than
dar
, and Geth guessed that it predated Haruuc’s creation of Darguun and the establishment of Rhukaan Draal. With a wide double door and only a few small, high windows, he suspected it had originally been a barn or a dairy or some other outlying farm building. Light shone around the door and the shutters. Ekhaas gestured for him and Dagii to hang back along the stone wall, then she went forward and knocked in a short rhythm on the double door.

A moment later, light stabbed her face as a peephole opened up. Geth heard a murmuring voice. Ekhaas gave an answer. The peephole closed again, then bolts rattled and one half of the door opened wide. Ekhaas waved for them to join her and stepped inside. Holding the bundle containing the Rod of Kings close, one hand on Wrath, Geth went after her.

Barn, he decided as he stepped through the door, the stone building had definitely once been a barn. The central room of it was lined with the remains of stalls and the cobble floor showed channels where filth had once been sluiced away. Any animal odor was gone, however, replaced by a strange smell like hot copper. The stalls had been lined with shelves which were in turn filled with books and papers and strange implements. Everbright lanterns hung from the rafters, illuminating the space with an unwavering magical light.

Ekhaas was in conversation with their host—a horn-browed tiefling. As Dagii closed the door behind himself, both turned to face them. “This,” said Ekhaas, “is Tenquis.”

The tiefling was tall and lean, his skin of his face smooth and dark brown. Geth would have said that he was probably a little
bit older than either Ekhaas or Dagii, possibly even around his own age. It was difficult to tell because his eyes were solid golden orbs without white, iris, or pupil. Descendants of ancient mages who had bargained with devils, tieflings showed the taint of their ancestors’ bid for power. Tenquis’s strange eyes were echoed in gold flecks on the polished heavy black horns that curled back from his forehead above dark, wavy hair. Horny spikes edged his chin in imitation of a sharp goatee. He wore a kind of long vest embroidered in an intricate labyrinthine pattern over a much-laundered shirt and brown leather trousers; in the back, vest and trousers were cut to make room for a thick fleshy tail, brown like his skin.

And as Tenquis stared at Geth staring at him, the tail rose and lashed the air. “I know you,” he said. His teeth, sharp as a shifter’s, flashed white with each word. His voice had a husky rasp. He glared at Ekhaas. “A Dhakaani artifact? I know what you want! By the sorcerer-kings, get out before you ruin me!”

“Tenquis, wait,” said Ekhaas, raising her hands. “Everything I told you this afternoon is true. Listen to us before you answer. You don’t know what we want—”

“I can guess.” He pointed a finger at Geth. His nails were the same color as his horns, black flecked with gold. “You want a copy made of a Dhakaani artifact. What artifact does Haruuc’s
shava
hold? The rod of the Dhakaani emperors. I’m no idiot. I am not bloody copying the symbol of the lhesh’s rule! Get out!”

He strode toward the door as if he could throw them out. Dagii stepped in front of it, crossing his arms over his chest. The tiefling pulled up short and looked at Dagii, then back at Ekhaas. “Don’t try to intimidate me,” he said, his voice sinking into his chest as his tail whipped from side to side. “I don’t appreciate intimidation.”

“We’re not trying to intimidate you,” Ekhaas said. Her tone was soothing yet beguiling at the same time. “If you know who Geth is, then you can make a good guess at who we are. We’re the ones who found the rod for Haruuc and we’re trying to fix a mistake before it destroys Darguun. We need your help to do that. The rod is cursed.”

“Cursed?” The word dripped with disbelief.

“Believe what you want,” said Dagii grimly. “It’s the truth.”

Tenquis looked at the young warlord, then at Ekhaas, then at Geth. “And how do you know this?”

Ekhaas opened her mouth, but Geth spoke first. “Haruuc told me,” the shifter answered, meeting the golden-eyed gaze. “The rod drove Haruuc to hang the warriors of the Marhaan on along the road to Rhukaan Draal. It drove him to sell their women and children into slavery. It drove him to torture Keraal on a Dhakaani grieving tree. It almost drove him to lead Darguun to war.”

“I know a lot of Darguuls who were happy with all of that.”

“Haruuc wasn’t. He knew that what the rod wanted would destroy Darguun.” Geth hesitated, then plunged on with the truth—or at least part of it. “It was created to guide the emperors of Dhakaan, but this isn’t the world the Dhakaani knew. Whoever holds the rod sees the memories of the emperors.”

“The memories of emperors?” Tenquis’s eyes opened a little wider.

Beyond Tenquis, Geth saw Ekhaas’s ears stand tall and remembered what she had said in the arena, that the artificer was fascinated by the lost knowledge of the ancient Dhakaani
daashor
. He fumbled with the ties that held the bundle closed. The leather fell open to reveal the Rod of Kings. Geth lifted it free.

Tenquis stared at it, his lips open just a little bit, his tongue running across the tips of his teeth. He reached out with one hand. Geth pulled the rod back. “Don’t touch it! That’s how it passes on the memories.”

Tenquis drew back, but just a little bit. “How can you hold it then?” he asked.

Geth dropped the leather and drew Wrath with his other hand. Behind Tenquis, Ekhaas smiled. “The histories preserved by the Kech Volaar,” she said in the tones of a trained storyteller, “tell of three artifacts created by Taruuzh
daashor
from the vein of byeshk he named
Khaar Vanon
, the Blood of Night. The first was Aram, or Wrath, the Sword of Heroes that was lost by Rakari Kuun in Jhegesh Dol when he killed the daelkyr lord of that place. The second was Muut, or Duty, the Shield of Nobles that was shattered as Dhakaan slid toward the Desperate Times. The third was Guulen, or Strength, the Rod of Kings. Three great artifacts, each the equal of the others in power.”

“Wrath protects me,” Geth said simply. “I’m the only one who can safely touch the rod.”

Tenquis’s gaze moved from the rod to the sword and back again. He swallowed. “Taruuzh made these.”

“You’ll be the first artificer to have the chance to study them,” said Ekhaas. “You won’t get this opportunity again.”

Tenquis looked longingly at the rod once more, then his lips pressed together into a thin line and he turned to Ekhaas. “What exactly do you need from me?”

Geth took a long breath of relief. Dagii relaxed a little, too. Ekhaas’s face remained impassive, however. “An exact copy of the rod, enchanted to enhance the presence of the one who holds it—”

Tenquis snorted. “Easy enough.”

“—and ready in three days.”

The snort turned into a twitch. “Three days? That’s not possible. This isn’t like forging a horseshoe. Six, maybe. Byeshk is hard to work with and I’d need to find some first—”

“We can have the byeshk here in the morning,” said Ekhaas.

“I’ll need more than byeshk. Other materials. They won’t be cheap.”

Dagii stepped past Geth and tossed a fat, clinking pouch to Tenquis. “That should cover the price of anything else you need.”

Geth wondered where he had come up with the money. The Mur Talaan clan was highly respected, but it wasn’t wealthy. Tenquis rolled the pouch between his fingers, looking both startled and pleased. “I’ll need to study the rod,” he said. “Make sketches, take measurements.”

“You have tonight,” Ekhaas said. “No touching it. Geth can hold it for you.”

The tiefling flicked his fingers dismissively. “Gloves,” he said. “Has anyone tried holding the rod while wearing gloves?”

Geth looked at Ekhaas and Dagii, and felt a flush of embarrassment warm his face. They’d been too worried about the danger of the rod to consider it, but the priest at Haruuc’s funeral had held the rod on a tray and felt nothing.

Tenquis raised an eyebrow at their silence. “I didn’t think so. I’ll want to study the sword, too.”

“Another time,” said Ekhaas. “Can you do better than six days?”

Tenquis pursed his lips and glanced at Geth and the rod. “I may be able to make it in five.” He held up a finger. “I have conditions. Nobody outside of this room can know about my involvement. Not any allies, not your mothers. I’m not losing my head for you.”

“That’s fair,” said Ekhaas.

Tenquis held up a second finger. “There will be a … fee.”

Dagii’s ears pressed back. “The pouch has more than you’ll need for materials. The rest is yours.”

“More than money.” Tenquis looked at Ekhaas again. “I want to know what the Kech Volaar know about the
daashor
. Histories, stories, legends—anything.”

“I’ll tell you everything I know,” Ekhaas promised. “After the rod is copied. Five days, no more. If the Rod of Kings passes into the hands of an heir, we’ve run out of time. Do we have an agreement?”

Tenquis smiled. “We have an agreement.” He held out his hand. Ekhaas drew a knife. The tiefling’s smile faltered for a moment, then returned. “By your people’s custom, then.” He pulled an ornate dagger from his belt and touched the blade to Ekhaas’s, sealing the deal in
dar
fashion. Then he dropped the dagger onto a nearby table and pointed at Geth. “Bring the rod, here. If I only have tonight to examine it, I need to get started.”

Tenquis worked quickly, clearing a large table and directing Geth to set the rod on it. Multiple everbright lanterns with arrangements of mirrors and lenses directed bright light onto the rod, lighting it up as if the sun were shining into the converted barn. The artificer produced paper, pens, and ink, a measuring stick, calipers, and more lenses. He began with a careful examination of the byeshk shaft—with Geth turning it as he instructed—then took calipers and began transferring the dimensions of the rod onto paper. As quickly as he worked, though, the copying took time. Ekhaas found a chair among the shelves and books, stretched out, and dozed off. Dagii simply lay down on a carpet that covered a section of the stone floor.

Geth didn’t have that luxury. He could move about, stretch, occasionally sit down, but it was never long before Tenquis called on him to turn the rod—the tiefling had tried handling the rod
with thick gloves, but while they protected him, they were also clumsy. Geth’s hands were more dexterous. At Tenquis’s request, he laid Wrath alongside the rod, so the artificer could compare the runes scribed on the two artifacts. Half the night seemed to pass and Geth watched him fill page after page with careful sketches of the rod in the most minute detail. Tenquis was a talented artist—the drawings he made were vivid and fine. His dark hands, calloused and nicked in ways that set them apart from a fighter’s hands, moved with swift certainty from pen to calipers and back again, adjusting a lens on a lantern, grabbing for a fresh piece of paper, or flipping back to consult a previous sketch.

After a time, he realized that Tenquis was glancing up at him as well. He twitched his gaze away. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Tenquis set his pen down and stretched his hands. The joints popped. He leaned back on the stool he occupied and looked at him. “The rod and the sword aren’t the only artifacts you carry.”

Geth touched the collar of black stones, each one roughly polished and marked with a symbol, that he wore around his neck. “You mean this.”