Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 (17 page)

“Unfortunately, she can,” said Midian.

Ashi twisted around to find the gnome leaning against a chair.

Midian thrust out his jaw, tipped back his head, and said in an arrogant tone,
“You serve the Kech Volaar and the memory of Dhakaan, daughter of the dirge. You will do as I say!”

It was a flawless imitation of Senen Dhakaan. “How long have you been listening?” Ekhaas asked.

“Long enough. Ashi’s right. This is bad timing.” He raised an eyebrow “But you look as tired as Geth and Dagii this morning and I don’t think they were just out seeing the city last night. Did you find—?”

Ekhaas flicked a finger to silence him, glanced around, then jerked her head toward the stairs leading down from the gallery. The antechamber outside the throne room was hardly less crowded when they reached it, but the envoys, ambassadors, and their various assistants who frequented the galleries were always listening for bits of information. The warlords who had flooded into the antechamber were thinking of nothing but war. Ekhaas found a momentarily quiet corner, beckoned them into it, and whispered, “We found an artificer who can make what we need—in five days.”

Midian wrinkled his nose. “Three days after the end of the games.”

“Two if we count today.”

“Even if you do, Tariic won’t want to wait that long for his coronation.” The gnome folded his arms around himself. “He’ll want to take the throne immediately.”

“You think it will be him?” Ashi asked.

“Do humans hit their heads in gnome houses? Even if it’s not, it doesn’t matter. We need to find a way to delay the coronation.” Midian tapped his fingers against the wall. “I’ll talk to Razu. Maybe I can put a knot in her plans or persuade her that the ceremony needs to be more elaborate.”

“Anything to buy time.” Ekhaas’s ears stood tall suddenly and her already soft voice dropped even more. “Ashi, Vounn is here.”

Ashi looked over her shoulder. Vounn stood a discreet distance away with Aruget and another hobgoblin guard, Krakuul, just behind her. As Ashi met her gaze, she raised one eyebrow. “I’m returning to our chambers,” she said. “Would you like to come with me?”

Her tone said clearly that it was neither a question nor an invitation. Only a month ago, Ashi would have rebelled against the command, but the new understanding that had grown between her and Vounn was stronger than that. She looked briefly at Ekhaas. “I’ll find you tonight,” she said, then went to fall in beside Vounn.

Her mentor said nothing as they swept out of the antechamber and nothing as they climbed the stairs up through Khaar Mbar’ost. Not until they had reached the chambers Haruuc himself had assigned to them and were inside with Aruget and Krakuul standing outside the heavy door did she speak—and when she did, it was without turning to look at Ashi.

“I think,” she said, “it’s time you told me what’s going on.”

Ashi glanced sharply at the gray-haired lady seneschal. Vounn ignored her, instead walking to look out of a window that presented a wide view of the city below. “I know there’s more going on than you’re telling me,” she said. “You know that I know. I am your mentor and your superior in the house. If there’s something happening that could put either of us or the operations of Deneith in danger, I should know about it.”

Ashi tried to think of what to say. Perhaps mistaking her silence for reluctance, Vounn continued. “Just before Haruuc’s assassination, Geth summoned you away with no words other than, ‘Haruuc needs your dragonmark.’ Whatever he needed it for, I presume you were too late. I have not asked for an explanation.”

She finally looked at Ashi. “The night Haruuc died, I was prepared to send you out of Darguun with the next Orien caravan. Circumstances prevented it. War has arrived—between Darguun and Valenar perhaps, but still war. When I report what happened here today to the head of the house, I expect that he will demand that you, as the bearer of the Siberys Mark of Sentinel be moved out of Darguun for your own safety. Give me a reason to keep you here.”

“I … I can’t.” Ashi clenched her teeth and lowered her voice. There was no lie she could think of that would cover everything, not with the looming possibility of being sent away from Rhukaan Draal just when the others needed her most. “Vounn, something is going on, but I can’t tell you what. I’ve made an oath. All I can say is that it doesn’t present a danger to you or Deneith. You have to believe that. It may even save—”

Vounn held up a finger, silencing her. “If it’s so important you’ve taken an oath to keep it secret, don’t say anything more.” The older woman studied her. “Whatever is going on doesn’t present a danger to me or Deneith. What about you? Does it present a danger to you?”

“Yes,” Ashi said bluntly. “But it’s a danger I’m willing to face.” She raised her chin. “It’s a danger I have to face.”

Vounn’s eyebrow twitched. “Will it advance House Deneith when it becomes known?”

Ashi felt an ache like a punch in the gut. “If it’s successful, it can never become known. No one will ever know about it.” She drew a breath and stepped closer. “Vounn, you know what I’m capable of. I can look after myself. I’ve proved that.”

“I know,” Vounn said. “That’s why I’m not sending you back. Baron Breven d’Deneith can rant all he likes. You’re in my charge.” She reached out and took Ashi’s hands. “But promise me that if you ever need my help, then you will come to me. I can keep secrets, you know.”

Relief put a smile on Ashi’s face. “I know.”

“Good.” Vounn held her hands a moment longer. “I want you to do one thing though. Whenever you can, take Aruget with you. Two swords are better than one, and I know that he can keep a secret, too.”

“I will, Vounn.” Ashi fought to keep her smile from getting wider. She didn’t think her mentor would appreciate knowing that her guard already knew more than she did.

M
oving through Rhukaan Draal with Pradoor on his shoulders gave Makka a feeling like nothing he had felt before. On the one hand, he felt very small and very humbled. The wizened goblin had saved his life. Now he was her beast of burden, guided by her taps, and sometimes her punches, on the side of his head. He strode along streets not knowing when Pradoor would catch some clue—a familiar odor or sound, he still wasn’t sure how the blind woman found her way—that would prompt her to pull on his ear and command him, “Turn!” At times it was almost as if he had a god or some divine spirit on his shoulders directing the order of his existence, a sensation intensified by Pradoor’s spontaneous recitation of stories and lore of the Dark Six.

On the other hand, he felt as large as if he had blundered into the middle of a
duur’kala’
s tale. At times, he didn’t carry a divine spirit—he
was
a divine spirit. Everywhere that Pradoor directed him, people stepped aside. That, Makka was used to, but what he wasn’t used to was the respect with which they looked at the pair of them. People nodded to them and lowered their eyes.
Dar
who wore the
muu’kron
touched it as they passed. They knew Pradoor by name and while they might not have known Makka, they included him in their greetings not with a casual
saa
but a formal
saa’atcha
.

But it wasn’t just goblins and hobgoblins and bugbears who moved out of their way. In the rush of his first day in Rhukaan Draal, Makka hadn’t understood how many different races inhabited the city. Nor had he appreciated the range of those who made
prayers to the Six. A stout dwarf merchant dressed in fine silk bent his head to Pradoor. A shifter with feral eyes and matted hair simpered and whined like a dog. A rangy gnoll, as tall as Makka and with a head like a hyena, bowed low and forced the coffle of slaves she led to their knees as well. Even a fey eladrin, wrapped in a silvery cloak that the ilth of the streets did not seem to touch, lowered pearly eyes as they passed.

And there were offerings! From the moment that he and Pradoor had left the alley where he had come close to death, people had thrust gifts upon them. Sometimes they requested blessings—

“A new sword, Pradoor!”

“My children, Pradoor!”

“I fight in the games tomorrow, Pradoor!”

—but often they were given up with only a word of praise for one or all of the Six. Meat, bread, wine, beer, a fine knife, coins of copper and silver, so many offerings that Pradoor directed Makka to take a sack from a shop. The merchant bowed and scraped as if the theft was an honor.

Much of what they were given was handed out again to beggars, but Makka’s belly was full and the sack was never empty. The knife found a place at his belt. When Pradoor was tired, it seemed like all they had to do was turn a corner and they were met with an offer of a place to rest.

“Pradoor,” Makka said as his third day in Rhukaan Draal drew toward dusk, “are there other priests of the Six in Rhukaan Draal?”

Pradoor laughed her shrill cackle. “Ah, it speaks! I wondered if the Keeper had kept hold of your voice when I snatched you back from him.” She tugged on one of Makka’s ears. “Yes, there are other priests. Haruuc spread the faith of the Sovereign Host, but the old faith of the people never went away. Priests of the Six are like mice in Rhukaan Draal—and most hide like mice too! They scurry about in shrines and temples, afraid of Haruuc’s pet cats. They’ll grow bold sometimes, but only Pradoor has the faith to walk the streets!”

“You don’t walk, I carry you,” said Makka.

Pradoor pulled his ear hard enough to make him wince. “You serve as I serve!” she said. “I keep the old ways alive. The faithful
may seek out shrines from time to time, but they see me and they remember the hold of the Six on their lives. When the city starved, I led the famine march. When the Night of Long Shadows falls, I tell the stories that make the faithful roar and nonbelievers tremble. I feel the mood of the streets and the people.” Her voice sank into a harsh croak. “The age turns. Rhukaan Draal is the axle and I am the pin.”

“Do you mean the war with the elves?” Makka asked.

Rumors had spread through the streets all day, growing wilder and wilder with each telling. Raiders had destroyed clanholds. Fires had consumed eastern Darguun, the smoke blotting out the sun at dawn. Valenar cavalry had crossed the Mournland and were riding on Rhukaan Draal. Darguun would follow Dhakaan into the dust of ages. All of the elves of Eberron had risen to war, determined to exterminate the
dar
—unless
dar
marched to destroy them first, which they undoubtedly would because Haruuc himself had returned from the dead to reclaim the Rod of Kings and lead Darguun to victory!

Makka believed less than a quarter of what he heard. Something was happening, there was no doubting it, but it could have been anything from a pitched battle to a mere skirmish. Still, he had seen hobgoblins and bugbears with the look of seasoned warriors checking armor, sharpening weapons, and glaring murder at any elves they saw. War it was, then.

Pradoor’s ears twitched. “The war is a part of it as I am a part of it and you are a part of it,” she said. “The Six give straw to some, clay or steel to others. What we are given makes no difference—we are judged by what we make of it.”

Sudden certainty uncoiled in Makka’s mind. “I am given steel,” he said.

“Yes,” said Pradoor. “You are a warrior called to serve.”

Makka twisted his head so that he could see Pradoor out of the corner of his eye. “What were you?” he asked. “What are you given?”

Pradoor laughed again, her cackle rising above the noise of the street. “No one who has served me has ever dared to ask that question!”

“Are you going to answer it?”

Blind eyes turned to a red sky and the setting sun. “I was a midwife,” said Pradoor. “I am given souls.” Then she pulled back her hand and smacked the back of his head. “Now turn here!” she commanded. “And hurry. We are expected.”

Makka turned and strode along another narrow crooked street. A hobgoblin working the edge of a well-used sword with a whetstone glanced up and gave him a nod. Makka returned it.

Full dark had fallen and the streets had come to life when the tight-packed buildings fell away. A crowd stood in the space beyond. Makka instinctively held back to assess what lay ahead. Pradoor smacked his skull. “Keep going.”