Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 (24 page)

The plain little room that opened onto one side of the dais in the throne room had memories attached to it—not good ones. Here Geth had witnessed the argument that had broken the friendship between Haruuc and Chetiin. From here and out onto the dais, Geth had followed Haruuc in the wake of that argument and discovered the terrible influence that rod held over its wielder. Into this room, he had led Ashi in a desperate effort to reach Haruuc and use her dragonmark to break the rod’s hold on him, only to watch as he was struck down.

It was still too easy to think of the assassin as Chetiin. Another of the
shaarat’khesh
, Geth reminded himself, services paid for by Midian.

He also tried to remind himself that the small room would soon also have a more triumphant memory attached to it. From here, Tariic’s reign as lhesh of Darguun would begin—although it was hard to be optimistic when the air in the room was stifling from the bodies crowded into it. Tariic, wearing bright armor of brass-chased steel, the chestplates worked into the pattern of a skull, the helmet riveted with rows of sharp blades. Razu, staff in hand, fussing as she awaited the arrival of the priests of Dol Arrah, Dol Dorn, and Balinor. A hobgoblin servant, likewise awaiting the appearance of the priests, held the spiked crown of Darguun on a velvet cushion. Daavn of Marhaan, grasping Tariic’s sword. Aguus of Traakuum, carrying a heavy cape of tiger skin edged in the soft white fur of a tiger’s belly. Munta the Gray, balancing a tray holding a pitcher of water and a silver basin.

And Geth, holding the false Rod of Kings. The shifter who had claimed—for nearly three weeks—the throne of a goblin nation and in doing so had saved it. His mouth curved into a grin.

“You look pleased with yourself,” said Munta. “Ready to give up the rod?”

“More than you know.”

Munta laughed. “I’ll tell you something Haruuc told me,” the old hobgoblin said. “Sometimes he wanted to leave the throne behind and go back to being the warlord of Rhukaan Taash or even just a warrior of the clan. He couldn’t, though. The throne held him tight.”

“He told me something like that once, too.”

Munta’s ears flicked and he smiled. “You’re luckier than most warriors who leave the battlefield to take a throne, Geth. You’ve tasted power but you have the chance to walk away—and without anybody trying to kill you!” He laughed again.

Geth laughed with him. Heads around the room turned to look at the pair of them. The stares didn’t bother Geth. He felt a flush of confidence. Beyond one of the room’s two doors, the throne room was full of all the warlords of Darguun and all the ambassadors and envoys in Rhukaan Draal. He could hear them. Soon the responsibility for Darguun would be in Tariic’s hands. All he had to do was keep the true rod hidden for a little longer.
For a moment, he even dared to dream about what he’d do after they’d found a way to deal with the true rod. He had friends in Fairhaven in Aundair and in Zarash’ak in the Shadow Marches that he could trust to keep a secret. The stories he’d be able to tell them …

Across the room, Daavn said something to Tariic. The new lhesh laughed at it, but Daavn’s eyes darted toward Munta. The old warlord didn’t seem to notice, but there was something in Daavn’s gaze that Geth didn’t like. Something cunning. Something scheming.

The confidence he felt coalesced into a need to act. He’d held off telling Tariic about Vounn d’Deneith’s suspicions of Daavn for lack of any hard evidence. He’d never gotten the chance to bring Daavn and Ko the changeling face-to-face to see if there was any recognition between the two of them. Maybe there was one last thing he could do before he passed power on to Tariic.

He left Munta and crossed the room to the two warlords. “Tariic,” he said, ignoring Daavn, “I need to talk to you for a moment. Alone.”

He tipped his head to the door that opened into a corridor beyond the little room.

Under his helmet, Tariic smiled. “Of course.” He nodded to Daavn—who shot Geth an angry glare—and led the way out the door. Once they were in the corridor, he sighed extravagantly.
“Maabet
, if you think it’s hot in there, you should try wearing this.” He rapped his helmet. “What did you need to talk about?”

He seemed more relaxed than Geth had seen him since Haruuc’s death, but then Geth felt more relaxed, too. It almost seemed wrong to spoil that. He did it anyway. “It’s Daavn,” he said. “I think he’s been getting close to you so that he comes into power when you take the throne. Some of us think it may actually have been him, not Keraal, behind the attempt to kidnap Vounn. We don’t have anything more than guesses right now, but the changeling in the dungeon who made the attempt might be able to—”

“Wait.” Tariic held up his hand and Geth stopped with the explanation still on his tongue. Tariic smiled. “I know.”

Geth almost choked. “You … knew?”

“I’m not stupid, Geth. I grew up in Haruuc’s court. I’ve known politics all my life.” He lowered his hand. “I didn’t know about the kidnapping, but I’ll ask him about it after the coronation.”

“But why let him get close?” Geth asked. “He’s using you.”

“No. I’m using him.” Tariic’s ears, poking out through holes in the helmet, twitched. “A king—a lhesh—needs someone he can trust. My uncle had Munta, then his three
shava
, and then you. I’d never take Daavn as
shava
, but as the saying goes in Sharn, you can always trust a greedy man to watch out for himself. It’s handy to have someone like Daavn around.”

“Oh.” Geth’s confidence fell as limp as an empty wineskin.

Tariic knocked his knuckles against the steel of his great gauntlet. “Don’t worry, Geth. I keep an eye on him. I know what he’s doing and I won’t let him get beyond my control. I appreciate that you tried to warn me.” He nodded at the rod. “I appreciate that you took care of that for me, too.”

Geth forced a smile. “It might not have been you that the warlords chose as lhesh.”

Tariic’s ears stiffened and his eyes turned hard. “No,” he said. “It was always going to be me. I was always going to be
lhesh.”

The hair on Geth’s arms and on the back of his neck rose. He didn’t have a chance to say anything, though. Tariic’s eyes shifted to look past him and the new lhesh said, “Finally. You’re here.”

“Your guards wouldn’t let us in,” answered a thin, shrill voice that struck Geth as strangely familiar.

“That won’t be a problem again.” Tariic opened the door into the little room and called, “Razu, join us.”

Geth turned around—and stared in shock at the bugbear who filled the corridor and the old, blind goblin woman who sat on his shoulder. The hair on his arms and neck rose even higher. Pradoor still wore the same ragged dress she had when he’d set her free from the dungeons of Khaar Mbar’ost, but now she was wrapped in a fine, dark green mantle as well. Makka wore the bear hide vest Geth remembered from the Marguul camp in the mountains. Apparently he’d survived the mortal wound Ashi had dealt him after all. The thick hair of his chest had recently been gashed in a savage design: a serpent with the outstretched wings of a bat.

Makka looked at him and his black eyes narrowed. His hand moved to the sword—Ashi’s bright Deneith honor blade!—that hung from his belt but Pradoor slapped the back of his head and his hand dropped.

Geth heard the tap of Razu’s staff on the floor, then he heard the mistress of rituals gasp.

“Razu,” said Tariic, “there’s been a change of plan. The priests of the Sovereign Host won’t be participating in the coronation. This is Pradoor. She’ll be taking their place. If everything else is ready, we can proceed.”

Ashi shifted her weight from foot to foot in an almost imperceptible movement. Vounn had tried to teach her the technique as an indispensable skill of courtly manners, a way to make standing through long speeches and parties bearable. At the time, Ashi had been amused—it was the same trick she had learned as a hunter, a way to keep legs and feet from aching as she waited for prey. Now, after months as a part of House Deneith, she knew better. Hunting and attending court weren’t so very different after all.

The throne room of Khaar Mbar’ost was filled and everyone was standing. The carved wood benches that provided seating for the assembly of warlords had been moved out. Dust had been shaken from the clan banners that covered the walls. Braziers had been heaped with incense that gave off the resinous smell of cedar. The tall windows behind the blocky throne showed a blue sky and a city at peace, though Ashi knew that the streets around and the plaza before Khaar Mbar’ost were actually packed with a lively crowd. The common people of Rhukaan Draal didn’t attend the coronation except in the form of a delegation of nine individuals plucked from the street and deposited in a corner of the throne room to gawk at the power gathered around them.

Even the grieving tree that still stood on one side of the dais looked strangely beautiful: white and gleaming, a piece of strange sculpture rather than an ancient device of torture.

Buzzing excitement drifted through the crowd, but Ashi doubted if anyone could be quite as excited as she was—after all, no one else knew what had been at stake leading up to this moment. Not even the dire whispers that passed between those she stood with could darken her spirits.

“I’ve had a letter from friends in House Lyrandar,” said Pater d’Orien. “They confirm there are factions within Lyrandar that see a greater profit in committing their services to Valenar than in selling to both sides.”

“Sindra among them?” Vounn asked. Her lips barely moved.

Pater snorted. “What do you think?”

Esmyssa Entar ir’Korran raised an eyebrow. “Orien and Deneith were quick to sell their services to Darguun,” she pointed out. Ashi wondered why the ambassador of Zilargo had bothered to stand with them. When the ceremony started, the little gnome wouldn’t be able to see anything—Midian had paused to greet them earlier, then passed on to get closer to the dais. The conversation must have been worth more to Esmyssa than the view.

Pater just snorted again. “Selling cartage to Valenar elves is like selling stone to dwarves. Their warbands carry everything they need. Our routes in Valenar are limited to runs between a few established fortresses.”

“Deneith’s relationship with Valenar is nearly as important as our relationship with Darguun,” said Vounn. “An offer was made, of course. Neutrality saw Deneith through the Last War. More, I don’t know. Details of forces contracted to opposing sides in a conflict are kept secret.”

“And if you were to speculate, Lady Vounn?” asked Esmyssa.

Vounn pressed her lips together for a moment before she said. “If I were to speculate, I would say that the Valaes Tairn declined our offer. This war is as much a point of honor for them as it is for the Darguuls. We were only able to contract to Darguun because the mercenaries were their own people. The war is a test of ancient blood against ancient blood.” She bent her head to the fifth member of their group.

Senen Dhakaan dipped her head in return, but added, “My blood, but not yet my people. The Kech Volaar will watch the war, though. An alliance with Darguun may still be a possibility.”

Esmyssa’s eyes flashed with delight. “I’ve heard,” she said, “that the Kech Shaarat clan have embraced the war and have already approached Tariic about sending warriors to ight.”

Senen’s ears lay back. “The Kech Shaarat would fight pigs in a wallow and call it a rout. I wouldn’t put much value to their boasting—”

The wail of Darguul war-pipes burst over the throne room, followed a moment later by the throbbing of drums. Conversations ended instantly and all heads turned to the dais. As the martial music rose to a pitch, a door opened and a procession emerged, one by one, to take up positions behind the throne. Razu came first—and Ashi’s curiosity stirred. The old mistress of rituals looked shaken.

Munta, a pitcher and basin on a tray in his hands, followed her. His face was dark and troubled. Ashi glanced at Vounn. Her mentor was frowning.

“What is it?” asked Esmyssa. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Ashi told her.

Aguus came next, then Daavn. The warlord of Marhaan seemed smug. Then—

The breath caught in Ashi’s throat. Her hand went to the sword at her side, gripping the hilt and ready to draw.
Makka
stood on the dais with the spiked crown of Darguun in his hands. Her reaction, however, was lost in the chaos that gripped the throne room. Many people—warlords and ambassadors alike—gasped. A piper’s instrument struck a screechingly bad note.

A very few warlords, after a moment of shock, shouted out, “Praise the Six!”

“Quill and staff, what’s happening?” Esmyssa finally gave up and squirmed forward through the audience as only a gnome or goblin could.

Ashi ignored her, spinning to face Vounn. “That’s Makka!” she said.

“That’s the goblin who led the famine march!” Vounn stared at the old goblin woman, her eyes milky white, Makka carried on his shoulder. “What is this?”

Pater’s round face was tense. “Host shield us,” he said. He pointed at the goblin woman, then at Makka. “Dark green is the color of the
Devourer. The winged wyrm is a symbol of the Fury. Tariic has gone back to the Dark Six.”