A Hero's justice

Chapter 23

The cells beneath the gray citadel of Caergoth were much like the city itself-wide, light, and surprisingly clean. Everything about them was double the norm: the width of the central corridor, the size of the cells, the height of the ceiling. The walls also were twice as thick as usual. Tol and Egrin walked down the central passage, looking at the open, empty cells. Wornoth had sent all the prisoners to the big cages erected in the city’s main square to make room for extra soldiers and supplies for the citadel. With the overthrow of the governor, the dungeon was empty. An unnatural quiet had settled over the place. Only a few of the candles in the wall sconces were lit, so Tol carried a lantern.

The four levels of the dungeon held only a solitary occupant. No guard stood at the massive bronze-plated door to the prisoner’s cell, as the dungeon itself was considered proof against escape. Tol leaned into the deep doorway and rapped on the door to announce their entry. Once Egrin had thrown the heavy bolt and pulled the door open, Tol thrust his lantern into the grayness beyond.

It was a large room for a single prisoner, illuminated by a single candle. Cut into the far wall was a stone niche designed for a bedroll. Here, former governor Wornoth sat slumped. He did not look up as they entered.

“If you’ve come to assassinate me, I curse you both!” he said hoarsely, sniveling into the sleeve of his dirty robe.

Egrin grimaced in disgust. “Sit up, man,” he said. “Show some dignity!”

“We’re not here to slay you,” Tol said. “We’ve come to tell you about your trial.” Wornoth lifted his pale face, blinking in surprise. “You will be judged by a jury of nine warriors, chosen by lot.”

Such a procedure was unknown in Ergoth, where justice was dispensed from on high by imperial officials. At the pinnacle was the emperor, whose utterances were law. The marshals enforced this law, ruling over provinces known as “hundreds”-a term that had once referred to the number of warlords serving the marshal, but was now merely a geographical term. Each marshal was attended by wardens, whose number in each hundred varied according to the strength of the population. The Eastern Hundred, Tol’s homeland, had one warden. Caergoth had four.

At the lowest level, justice was enforced by bailiffs. These were usually Riders of the Great Horde appointed for a specific purpose-to catch a notorious outlaw, or to investigate a murder in some remote corner of the realm. Tol had learned of trial by jury in Tarsis, where the procedure was common.

“I am the imperial governor, appointed by His Majesty Ackal V! All I have done, I have done in his name!”

“Make no mistake, Wornoth. You’re not being tried for being a vicious, petty tyrant, though you ought to be,” Tol said. “The principle charge against you is failing to defend the eastern provinces of the empire. By keeping your hordes in Caergoth, you allowed the nomads to ravage four provinces. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of imperial subjects perished, villages were sacked and property destroyed by your folly. That is your crime.”

Wornoth’s face grew even paler. He whispered, “I did what I thought best. You can’t condemn me for that!”

“It is not up to me to condemn you for anything. That’s why we’re having a trial. It begins at dawn.”

Tol turned to go. Wornoth sprang from his sleeping niche and grasped Tol’s knees. Egrin’s sword was out in a trice, but alarm quickly turned to revulsion.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Wornoth gabbled wildly, “Please, gracious lord! Please, spare me! I made mistakes, yes, but I can rectify them! I can! Please! Please!”

“Get hold of yourself!” Tol said, trying to pry him loose. “For Corij’s sake, be a man!”

“But I don’t want to die! I did only what I thought my emperor wanted me to do! Please!”

Tol managed to shove him away. Wornoth fell backward and lay still, sobbing and pleading.

“You’re going to Daltigoth, aren’t you? I can be of use to you, great lord. I know much about the emperor’s doings. I can tell you things!”

Egrin asked, “Would you betray your sovereign?”

“Yes! Yes! To spare my life, yes!”

Thoroughly disgusted now, Tol said nothing. He went to the cell door.

“You are being used, my lord!” Wornoth cried. “The emperor’s hand has guided you to the very course you’re now on! If you go to Daltigoth, you shall be destroyed!”

Tol ignored this feeble gambit, but Egrin lingered.

“Why would the emperor want Lord Tolandruth to come to Daltigoth?” he asked.

An ember of hope lit the prisoner’s eyes. “Spare me, and I’ll tell you!”

“Tell us, and we may spare you,” Tol countered.

Wornoth got quickly to his feet. “You have something the emperor wants.” He glanced at Egrin, uncertain how much to reveal. “A certain item of great value, which protects you.”

Egrin looked blank, but the words rattled Tol. The nullstone. How could Ackal V have learned of it?

The worry on his captor’s face warmed Wornoth like a draft of strong wine. He dried his face on his sleeve and fingered the long hair back from his forehead.

“The empress hired a tracker to find you, my lord. A half-breed woman. To ensure her loyalty, I was ordered to hold her father.”

“I know. She’s dead,” Tol said flatly. “And so is her father.”

Wornoth shrugged. “No matter. You’re on your way to Daltigoth, unwittingly delivering the very prize the emperor covets.” He leered at the warriors. “He dangles tasty bait before you, I know. The empress-”

Tol crossed the distance between them in three strides and seized the front of Wornoth’s robe. Hauling the shorter man to his tiptoes, he snarled, “Your information is worthless! Baited or not, I am going to Daltigoth to see justice done!”

“Justice for whom?” Wornoth rasped. “You-or the empire?”

“Enough!” Tol shoved him away. “Your trial takes place tomorrow.”

Wornoth had one last hand to play. From the folds of his robe, he produced a small iron key. He tossed it toward the doorway, where it landed at Tol’s feet.

“A gift, my lord! That key opens my private archive. Learn for yourself how the emperor draws you to him like a fly into a spider’s web.” Wornoth managed a smile. “What does this buy me?”

Tol’s dagger thudded into the straw by Wornoth’s feet.

“If I were you, Wornoth, I would not wait for a trial. Hanging is tricky business. If not done right, the condemned strangles slowly.” With visible relish, Tol said, “Count five ribs down on your left side. That’s where your heart is-that’s where it is on a normal man, anyway.”

High-born Ergothians had a horror of being hanged like a common criminal. Mockingly, Tol added, “I doubt you have the will to cheat the hangman, but I give you the chance.”

He and Egrin went out, and the sound of the bolt being thrown echoed in the cell.

When the warder arrived a short time later with the prisoner’s supper, he found Wornoth dead. A war dagger protruded from his left side.

His heart was in the right place after all.

At the head of her private army, Syndic Hanira awaited Lord Tolandruth’s review. She’d found a magnificent horse in Caergoth, a night-black steed. Mounted on its back, Hanira, in cloth-of-gold raiment, her own black hair streaming loose to her waist, cut a dazzling figure. Dusk was an unusual time to begin a journey, but it was the time Hanira had chosen.

Most of the warlords still mistrusted the Tarsans, regarding them as foreigners and enemies, not valuable allies. None had turned out for her departure. Egrin had taken Wornoth’s key and gone in search of his papers, so only the Dom-shu sisters and Tol were present. Tol was mounted, the sisters on foot.

“Give my regards to Lord Regobart,” Tol said, naming the commander of the imperial outpost near Tarsis.

“I will convey your greetings.” Smiling slightly she added, “I seldom see him, you know. I make him nervous.”

“Small wonder,” Kiya muttered.

Hanira urged her horse forward a few paces, until she was close alongside Tol. Her smooth expression altered for a moment. “Beware, my lord,” she murmured. “You are galloping hard to a precipice. Daltigoth is a maelstrom from which you may not emerge alive.”

She was the second person this evening to tell him that. Shrugging, he said, “I’ve managed to escape death there before.”

Hanira clasped his arm, warrior-fashion. “Live, my lord. The world needs you.”

At Captain Anovenax’s order, the Tarsans wheeled left and trotted away. Hanira turned her ebony steed smartly on its hind legs and cantered after them.

The Dom-shu were not impressed, muttering aloud that the Tarsan syndic was a “conniving wench,” among other things.

“She seeks some advantage,” Miya insisted. She knew the art of dealing better than anyone. “If you succeed, her position as your friend and ally is stronger than ever.”

“But what does she want?” Kiya mused. “Not Husband as mate, I’d wager.”

Miya shook her head. “She wants to rule Tarsis, that’s what I think. With Husband’s help, she could get rid of all the princes and syndics, and reign as queen of Tarsis.”

“You two are so wise!” Tol snapped. “Hanira didn’t have to come to our aid. She paid for her good deed with her own child’s life!”

Chastened, the Dom-shu sisters apologized and left him. He had given them the task of organizing supplies for the ride to Daltigoth.

As the dust kicked up by the Tarsan cavalry settled, Tol stared southwest-the route they’d taken along the banks of the Caer. In the distance, lightning shimmered across the deep purple sky.

The sisters had unknowingly touched a sore spot. Tol wasn’t certain they were wrong about Hanira. But at that moment, he felt she had as much chance of becoming Queen of the Red Moon as Queen of Tarsis.

Valaran held the tiny slip of parchment to the lamp flame. It curled and blackened as fire consumed it. She had read the message three times just to be certain she’d not imagined it.

Tol was coming.

She’d managed to place a spy close to him, and now knew even what road he would take. The fear that had been her constant companion for so long faded somewhat. For the first time in a very long time, Valaran allowed herself the luxury of wondering what he was like, whether he’d changed.

Almost seven years had passed. In that time she’d borne a child, learned to govern an empire, and survived the cruel machinations of her unpredictable husband. And she had killed an old woman.

In spite of her room’s warmth, Valaran shivered. She’d learned much in seven years. What had Tol learned?

Wornoth’s opulent quarters had been ransacked by servants and palace guards when the city fell. Fine tapestries had been torn down. Furniture too heavy to move had been chopped apart by swords and axes. What remained of Wornoth’s personal treasure had been stored in the dungeon below, for safekeeping, but random coins were scattered across the ruined, dark blue carpet like a rain of gold. Egrin was disgusted as much by the waste as by the unseemly extravagance of the governor’s rooms.

Searching through the destruction, he found several strongboxes, broken open and empty. The iron key fit none of them. Not until Egrin reached Wornoth’s bedroom did he find what he sought.

The bedchamber had received the same treatment as the rest of the rooms. The white walls had been stripped of tapestries and paintings, the furniture hacked by sabers, the broad mattress cut to ribbons. Heavy sculptures had been toppled and lay in pieces amidst shredded blue silk bed curtains. Eiderdown stuffing covered the floor and clouds of fluff swirled upward, disturbed by Egrin’s passage.

His toes bumped something solid as he reached the great bed. Egrin knelt and carefully brushed away an eiderdown drift. In the center of the wooden bedrail, he found a small slot, rimmed in black iron and hard to spot. The key fit perfectly. A click, and a drawer slid smoothly out.

The secret cache held no gold or silver, but bundles of parchment tied with string and a thick-bladed short sword. Egrin opened one of the bundles and discovered a series of dispatches from the emperor to Governor Wornoth. The last few messages were terse and to the point: Where was Tol? Was he coming to Caergoth? What had Wornoth done to defend the city?

Egrin dug deeper into the bundle. The earlier communications were much longer and wilder, sounding like the ramblings of a deranged man. In them, Ackal V railed about treachery, particularly from wizards of the Red and White orders. The emperor insisted over and over to Wornoth that, above all other tasks, he was to keep an eye on the members of those orders in Caergoth.

The next discovery was much more upsetting-a packet of messages to Wornoth from various warlords. These outlined the warlords’ struggles against the nomads and the bakali and requested that the governor send troops and supplies. As time passed and Wornoth sent neither, the requests became demands, then pleas. One dispatch from Bessian was literally spattered with blood. The invaders were closing in, it said, and the Ergothians could neither win nor escape; the governor must send aid. The governor of Caergoth, determined to defend his own neck, had done nothing to aid the dying hordes. This bundle contained no copies of outgoing missives. Wornoth had not even bothered to reply.

Coldly furious, Egrin put the pleading messages aside. The smallest bundle in the cache was not merely tied with string but also wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Egrin reached for this packet of letters, but it slipped through his fingers. He tried again. And again. And again. He glared at the bundle in perplexed confusion. No matter how hard he tried, he could not grab hold of it.

When Tol arrived moments later, Egrin told him of the strange small packet.

“I seem to have butter on my fingers. Can’t pick this up!” the former marshal said, pointing.

Tol squatted by the open drawer. He reached for the packet. Although a flicker of heat played over his fingers, they closed infallibly on the letters. The sensation of warmth was familiar. Someone had put a spell on the letters, most likely to prevent them being tampered with, but the nullstone had negated the spell.

He handed the small packet to Egrin, who held it warily. This time it stayed in his grasp. The elder warrior muttered something about being old and clumsy.

“Rubbish, you’re just tired,” Tol said.

The cloth wrapping contained a dozen or so squares of thin parchment. The backs of the slips were scorched by heat, but lines of writing in unusual brown ink filled the other side. None of the messages was signed.

“Letters from spies,” Egrin said.

The messages all were short, and most were demands for information from an anonymous correspondent. None concerned the nomads or bakali invaders. Some asked about the morale and loyalty of the imperial hordes in Caergoth and commented on the danger of sending troops beyond the walls and leaving the city “helpless and unguarded.” Most sought knowledge of Tol’s whereabouts; Helbin, too, was mentioned.

I’ve had no word from Helbin in many days, the anonymous correspondent had written. If he comes into your hands, let me know at once. Protect him. He is a valuable ally.

“Didn’t Queen Casberry say Helbin had been captured by Wornoth’s guards?” asked Egrin.

Tol nodded absently. They had looked all over for the Red Robe. There had been no trace of the wizard among the prisoners, either in the citadel or anywhere else.

“These messages are in Valaran’s hand!” Tol exclaimed. Egrin’s graying eyebrows lifted in surprise and Tol added, “Don’t you see? Wornoth was playing both sides. He was spying for the empress, while ruling in the emperor’s name.” The duplicity of the man was incredible.

“Then why would he arrest Helbin? He knew they both served the same mistress.”

Tol shrugged. “Maybe Wornoth was duping Valaran, betraying her trust to Ackal V. If so, the last thing he’d want around would be a loyal servant of the empress.” Tol tossed the letters back in the drawer. “Helbin could tell us more. He’s probably dead, but continue the search for him anyway.”

He left Egrin to finish examining Wornoth’s secret papers. Queen Casberry was departing, and Tol wanted to see her off.

Egrin waited until his friend and commander had gone, then picked up certain of the bundles again, riffled through them, and extracted a sheaf or two. These he burned in the flame of his lamp, watching the doorway all the while.

Tol, Casberry, and her bearers were just inside the north gate of Caergoth. Evening had come and Luin was rising, casting its pinkish light over the open landscape.

Tol asked the kender queen about her escort and received the breezy assurance that both Royal Loyals and Household Guard were “around somewhere.” She had already turned down his offer of an armed escort, saying she might not be heading directly home. Kender were afflicted with wanderlust, and the queen was the most kenderish of them all.

Front and Back hoisted the heavy sedan chair onto their shoulders, seemingly without effort. As usual, Queen Casberry offered a steady stream of advice to the duo on the best way to carry the chair and, as usual, the men ignored her. Tol smiled. They were certainly an odd threesome.

When he thanked her again for her assistance, she patted him on the head. “You’re a good fellow, for a human.” Putting her little prune face close to his head, she added, “You’re getting a bald spot up here, you know that?”

Tol cleared his throat and stepped back. He was past forty now, and it was true. Age was beginning to tell on him in many ways.

“Okay, boys, pick up your feet!” she said, and Front and Back headed for the open gate.

“Oh, your Majesty!” Tol called. “Where should I send the payment you were promised for your troops?”

Casberry lifted both arms and waved. Her arms, from wrist to elbow, were covered with gold and silver bangles.

“Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of that!” she said, cackling.

The little party seemed so lonely, so vulnerable, Tol found himself following them out. The bearers kept to the center of the white-pebbled road, which curved away to the northwest. Before Casberry had gone a quarter-league, however, small shadowy figures joined her out of the darkness. Kender. More and more appeared as she progressed, falling in behind their clever, rapacious queen.

The cryptic phrase Casberry used so often-”no kender is ever alone”-was, Tol knew, true enough. He also knew the treasure recovered from the nomads was by now somewhat diminished. It didn’t matter. The kender had earned their “found” valuables.

Tol walked back into the city, and the guards closed the gate. He rode through the darkening streets, now empty of the crowds of refugees. Trash blew along the wide lanes, last reminders of the thousands who had crowded into Caergoth to escape the chaos outside. On their own initiative, a brigade of street sweepers had organized to clean the city. Before long Caergoth would once more be a byword for cleanliness in the empire.

Daltigoth lay forty leagues southwest, a ride of five or six days on the Ackal Path. Daltigoth was his journey’s end. All Tol’s goals were there, he reflected, with Valaran his prize. So wrapped up was he in thoughts of his distant love, that Tol didn’t notice a caped figure emerge from an alley as he passed. But after a few paces, he said (without turning around), “Did you find her, Tylocost?”

The elf chuckled. “Your senses aren’t bad for a human, my lord.”

“Your sandals creak.”

Tol had dispatched Tylocost to find the Pakin princess, Mellamy Zan, reported by Hanira to be in Caergoth.

“I found her,” Tylocost said, putting back his hood. “I believe she will accept my protection. Her advisors were against it, but she overruled them. She seems remarkably intelligent and accomplished-for a human.”

“Remember where your allegiance lies, General.”

With irritating Silvanesti aplomb, Tylocost inclined his head gracefully. “I remember, my lord.”

Tol offered his hand. As Tylocost clasped it, Tol said, “Thank you. And now you’re free, General. You are no longer my prisoner.”

Tylocost’s eyes widened. “But so much remains to be done!”

“I know, but I also know that I may not return from this last ride. You’ve done amazingly well by me, and I’m grateful, so I give you your freedom.” But he tightened his grip until Tylocost winced. “That does not excuse you from the duty I expect you to perform.”

“Of course not. I would wish you luck, my lord, but you seem plentifully supplied already, so I’ll give you a warning instead: be certain of nothing.” Pale blue eyes bored into Tol’s brown ones. “You stand in the center of events so complex and loyalties so tangled that even I cannot see all the threads. Make certain your will is as hard as that steel blade you carry, and trust no one.”

Smiling a little, Tol asked, “Not even you, General?”

The elf’s expression was grim. “Not even I.”

Before Tol could say more, Tylocost was gone, melting into the darkness. Instinct told him he would never see the Silvanesti again.

It was very late when Tol retired to his room in the Riders’ Hall, but hardly had he lain down when someone slipped into the room.

“Peace,” said the figure, and he recognized Kiya’s voice. “I wish to sleep here tonight.” ¦

He was dumbfounded. Not in twenty-odd years together had they ever been so intimate, despite Kiya’s status as his wife.

He stuttered rather incoherently for a moment and she hissed, “I’ve not come to seduce you! My father snores so loudly, I can’t sleep in the room he shares with his men. Move over, Husband.”

He complied, but felt oddly shy. Kiya lay down with her back to him and muttered, “Don’t get any strange ideas.” There seemed no safe answer to that, affirmative or negative, so Tol said nothing.

He was just dozing off when someone else entered the room. “Husband, I-Kiya! What are you doing here?” Miya demanded.

“Trying to sleep! Shut up!”

“Both of you shut up,” Tol growled. He was exhausted, and in no mood for sisterly wrangling.

Miya elbowed her way in next to Kiya. “You think I can sleep with Father’s snoring? And I’m certainly not leaving you two here alone.” Kiya told her she had too much imagination.

With the two tall forester women in the bed, there was scarcely room for Tol. He slid off onto the flagstone floor. While the sisters sniped at each other, he claimed a blanket and curled up beneath it.

Twenty years together, and now his wives wanted to sleep with him. The prospect was so daunting he vowed to get the final drive to Daltigoth underway as soon as possible.

The day dawned cloud-capped and windy. Before sunrise, the Army of the East marched out of Caergoth and formed on the great road to the capital-the Ackal Path. Virtually every Rider in the city had joined Tol, giving him a total strength of forty-four full hordes, six demi-hordes, and the two hordes of Juramona Militia, the only foot soldiers in the Army. There was great disaffection among the imperial warriors for their poor treatment by the emperor and the emperor’s deputy, Governor Lord Wornoth. The proud Riders were ready to march on Daltigoth and present their grievances to Ackal V in the most direct manner possible-at sword point.

Even so, it was a tenuous coalition, held together by anger and injured pride. The Riders of Caergoth and the provincial Riders of the landed hordes would fight if contested, but privately Tol wondered how they would respond if the emperor sought to appease them. That didn’t seem likely. Ackal V was clever, but he was not the sort to placate anyone, even with a sword at his throat.

The first rays of sunlight had just touched the tops of the city wall when the last men fell in place. Each horde commander rode out to meet Tol, who waited in the center of the road on a new mount. The Riders’ stables had yielded up a fine dappled gray war-horse.

Tol greeted the horde commanders by name and assigned them their places in the march. Two wings of twenty hordes each would ride west, each wing flanking the imperial highway. The bulk of the army, and the baggage train, would proceed on the road.

“If we are challenged, do we fight, my lord?” Lord Wagram asked.

“We’re not going to Daltigoth to attend a festival!”

There was much smothered laughter at Zanpolo’s quip. The legendary warlord was mounted on a large horse as black as its rider’s forked beard.

Wagram reddened, demanding, “Do we attack imperial troops on sight then?”

This was a legitimate question, one Tol had long been considering. “No, my lord. If any hordes confront you, try to parley and convince them to join us. If they spurn your advances, ride on. If you’re attacked, fight back. But don’t start battles yourselves. Our quarrel is with Ackal V, not every Rider in the Great Horde.”

Another of the Caergoth warlords, Quevalen by name, asked, “What exactly is our quarrel, my lord? Wornoth has paid for his perfidy. Are we to depose the emperor, or merely seek redress for our many grievances?”

Tol wouldn’t impose his private vengeance on every man in his service, but neither would he deceive them.

“Ackal V seized power illegally from Prince Hatonar, his brother’s heir,” he said. “And I have evidence he was behind the illness and death of his brother, Ackal IV.”

He sought the eye of every warlord before him. “We seek the ouster of Ackal V and the restoration of the imperial throne to the rightful heirs of Pakin III and Ackal IV. The new emperor will see to it our grievances are heard.” Again, he stared at each of them, slowly turning in his saddle. “If anyone here cannot accept this, let him depart now without blame.”

There was restive movement, especially among the younger officers, but none broke ranks.

“Remember, my lords, no one here is a rebel. We do not seek to overthrow the empire. We mean to save it!”

He put heels to his war-horse’s sides and set out at a trot. Egrin and Pagas came close after, then the warlords of the landed hordes-Argonnel, Mittigorn, Trudo, and the rest. Soon the whole army was in motion. The noise of massed hoofbeats was thunderous.

In the rear, at the head of the baggage caravan, Kiya slapped the reins against the backs of her four-horse team, setting the animals into motion. Miya, sitting next to her on the wagon seat, finished tying a scarf over her head and signaled to the teamsters to follow.

“Can he do it?” Miya asked.

Kiya squinted against the rising dust. “Husband is doing it.”