Clandestine Circle

Chapter Twenty-Two

The sentries at the back courtyard gate had received no orders about the squire, Lynn, and after seeing her in a proper uniform and listening to her explanation, they let her pass. They watched her proceed down the hill and onto the path that led to the Temple of the Heart and were satisfied.

To appease her conscience and to be sure the dwarf had not yet returned, she went to the temple first to inquire about Mica. The stately white building gleamed pale gold in the rising sun, and its windows were thrown wide open to catch the morning breeze. Despite the hour, the temple grounds were nearly empty and unusually quiet. Linsha walked up the path from the woods, across the neatly tended lawn, and up to the front portico before the door porter saw her and welcomed her inside.

Priestess Asharia overheard her inquiries to the door porter and, drawn by the red uniform of the Governor’s Guards, came to see the visitor for herself. Although her face was drawn and thin from overwork, she smiled pleasantly at Linsha. “Mica has not returned yet. He went to the refugee camp last night to check on some patients.”

Linsha let her face fall, and she shuffled her feet indecisively. “I have an important message for him from Lord Bight. I need to deliver it in person.”

“Oh. Well, if you want to risk the camp, you could deliver it there. I just don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“Perhaps I’d better. Lord Bight needs him.”

Asharia’s hands clasped together. “Lord Bight is not ill, is he?” she asked worriedly.

“Oh, no,” Linsha hastened to assure her.

“Then if you are going anyway, could you carry something to the infirmary there for me? I was going to send a runner, but you’ll do.”

Linsha agreed. While she waited for the package to be brought, temple servants served a glass of wine, since the meager supply of water was for medicinal purposes only. She sipped it slowly, and she had just finished when the priestess returned lugging a large pack with straps. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” said Asharia. “The extract of lupulin had not been bottled.”

Linsha dredged her mind for that familiar name and came up with memories both uncomfortable and unpleasant of her grandmother forcing the stuff down her throat after she fell ill from a bad meat pie. “Cinnamon, hops, and yarrow for stomach cramps and diarrhea.”

Asharia nodded, impressed that Linsha recognized it. “With a touch of valerian to relax the patient. It’s an old remedy for grippe and dysentery. It isn’t widely used, but we’re trying anything. We’ve discovered most of our patients die from loss of fluids, so we’re hoping to slow down the dehydration and maybe give the people a chance to fight the illness.”

That sounded logical. “Treat the symptoms,” Linsha said.

“For now. Until we can stop the cause.” Asharia paused and laid a hand on Linsha’s arm. “Be careful, young woman. Do not enter the camp. We have guards and runners on the roads, so give your load to one of them and have him find Mica for you. If you do go in, touch nothing. Mica thinks the plague may be spread by touch.”

The lady Knight nodded. “He told me that already,” she said as she hefted the bulky pack. The bottles of extract had been so well packed, she didn’t hear any clink of glass. She bowed a farewell to the priestess and took the dirt road down to Asharia’s refugee camp on the hill just to the west of the temple.

Unfortunately the busy camp, due to its proximity to the temple and the healers, had naturally evolved into a hospital camp and had been one of the hardest hit areas of the city. As soon as Linsha crested the slope near the camp, she saw two large dirt mounds at the side of the road, mass graves for the victims of the plague. A third hole had already been dug, and a row of bodies lay wrapped and waiting to be placed within. Linsha held her breath as she passed. In the intense heat, bodies deteriorated rapidly and the flies gathered in dense clouds. There was a light wind from the west, but all it did was stir the dust on the well-beaten tracks and spread the stench of illness from the camp.

Before her, the road wound along the hill and plunged into a complex of tents, huts, and permanent wooden buildings. She could see only a few people moving about. Many more lay on pallets inside the tents, in the shade of awnings, or under the few scattered trees. If the stench was bad, the sound was worse—worse than bedlam, worse than anything she had ever heard. An endless drone of mingled groans, moans, and soft sobbing filled the air of the camp like the aftermath on the field of battle, and over that rose a babble of shouts, rantings, and screams from those patients trapped in the nightmares of delirium.

Linsha’s footsteps slowed at the edge of the camp. Her hand went unconsciously to the dragon scale beneath her shirt. She looked around for a guard or runner in Temple robes, but everyone still upright was busy in other parts of the camp. She saw only a short gnome sitting on a stool by the roadside. He was busy with pen and paper balanced precariously on his knee.

“Excuse me,” Linsha said. “I’m looking for Mica. Is he still here?”

The gnome scratched his head with end of the quill pen, smearing some ink in his white hair. “Uh, no.” He went back to his sketching.

Linsha tried again. “Sorry to bother you, but I need to know where he is. And I also have this pack of bottles from Priestess Asharia. It is to be delivered to your infirmary.”

The gnome sighed at her interruption. He carefully laid his paper aside and hopped off his stool. “I’ll take the pack to the infirmary. We’re not supposed to let anyone pass inside.”

Linsha looked dubiously at the gnome, for he hardly looked bigger than the pack itself. “It’s heavy,” she warned.

He smiled for the first time. He was a young gnome, Linsha realized, with unlined brown skin and brilliant blue eyes, and he proved quite capable of lifting the pack to his back and carrying it. “Mica left early this morning. He said he was going back to the temple,” he said, turning to go.

Linsha waved her thanks and gratefully turned away from the camp. Now she didn’t know what to do. Mica hadn’t returned to the temple, and he wasn’t in camp. He must be in the city. The only problem was where… She knew she shouldn’t be absent from the palace for long, nor could she search the entire city, but she didn’t want to give up the hunt yet. Maybe, she thought, he went back to the scribe’s house to look for more records. She could look through that neighborhood and hope for a bit of luck.

Setting off at a trot, she followed the track along the outside wall down past outlying cottages and businesses and into the heart of the outer city. She saw signs of the ravages of the plague everywhere she went: barricaded houses, yellow paint splashed on doors, grim demeanors of the people who ventured out, and here and there hastily dug graves in gardens and small parks. The stench of death and sickness fouled the air. Many of the people she did see wore masks or veils to help filter out the dust and smell.

It didn’t take her long to find Watermark Street and the scribe’s shop. To her disappointment, there was no sign of Mica. The shop was shuttered and locked as before; the only difference was a splash of yellow paint on the doorframe. Linsha looked up one side of the street and down the other to no avail. With nowhere else in mind to check, she was about to turn back to the palace when a soft rustle warned her of Varia’s approach. The owl landed on the edge of a roof nearby.

“He is two streets over, in an outdoor tavern,” the owl hissed with excitement, and she winged to another roof across the road. Linsha hurried after her.

From her days patrolling this district, Linsha knew which tavern Varia meant, for it was one of only a few that offered tables set outside in a small garden. Apparently the tavern keeper was either desperate or overly optimistic to have opened his bar this day. Striding with purpose, Linsha took an intersecting street over three blocks and worked her way back through a shaded alley to come upon the tavern from the rear. The outdoor portion of the establishment lay at the back on a bricked patio shaded by a large latticed roof hung with a thick canopy of vines. As Varia reported, Mica sat at a round table, facing Linsha. A human man sat across from him, listening to his hushed talk. Because he had his back to her, Linsha couldn’t see the man’s face, but something about his grizzled hair and the angle of his shoulders looked vaguely familiar.

Linsha knew her red uniform made her too conspicuous to simply ease into the small number of tavern patrons, nor was there enough cover to get close enough to hear what Mica was saying. She had to content herself with a shaded corner behind a pile of empty crates and a framed view of the dwarf and his companion through a gap in the stack.

Varia flew silently across the rooftops and landed with a faint rustle in the foliage of the lattice. She, too, hunkered down to watch and listen.

While she waited, Linsha studied the man with Mica. She had seen him before, she knew that. At the moment, his head was bent over a mug, so the only part of him visible was his hunched back and shoulders and his long, gray-black hair pulled back in a leather thong. Just then a barmaid walked out the door with a tray of mugs, and the man looked quickly around, giving Linsha an unencumbered view of his profile.

A spark of recognition electrified her. By the gods, it was Calzon, the Legionnaire who sold his turnovers undercover in the Souk Bazaar. He looked younger than his usual disguise and better dressed, but Linsha could recognize his aquiline nose and strong chin anywhere. Linsha thought she knew most of the Legionnaires in Sanction, but if Mica was meeting with this member of the Legion of Steel, then he was probably either an informer or a member himself of the Legion. It was possible this meeting was nothing more than a friendly get-together between friends, but Linsha doubted it. Not here; not in the middle of this crisis. She would bet any number of steel coins that Mica was a Legionnaire. A Legionnaire placed undercover as the lord governor’s healer. Linsha wanted to laugh. This is what the Clandestine Circle deserved for disregarding the Legion of Steel.

For one mischievous moment, she thought about sauntering over and renewing her acquaintance with Calzon. Fortunately her better sense convinced her not to. It could jeopardize her cover, and possibly Mica’s as well. No, it would be better to keep this secret in her back pocket for future reference. She settled back in her hiding place to observe what would happen next.

A short while later Calzon finished his drink. He clapped Mica on the shoulder and exited toward the street. Mica watched him go. He fiddled with his drink for a while longer, then smacked a few coins on the table and strode out. Linsha kept him in sight and followed as best she could in her red uniform in the light of day. Yet the dwarf made it easy. Looking neither left nor right, he stamped single-mindedly to Shipmaker’s Road and headed directly back to the temple.

When they neared the city gate, Linsha signaled to Varia and waited for the owl to find a perch. “Did you hear anything?” she asked hurriedly.

Varia chortled. “He was talking about you. He was telling the man he thinks you are an agent for the Solamnics. Apparently you talked in your sleep yesterday.”

“Wonderful. Well, I guess we’re even,” Linsha remarked thoughtfully. “I think he’s a Legionnaire. He was meeting with one of the men I know.”

“He also thinks there is a traitor in Lord Bight’s council, but he did not want to say more until he has more evidence.”

Linsha scowled after the dwarfs retreating figure. “Did he mention what evidence he wanted?”

“No. He was very agitated about something, and he was very annoyed that you were following him around yesterday.”

A quick smile lit Linsha’s pensive gaze. “He’d better get used to it. If he discovers who this traitor is, I want to be there.” She wiped the sweat on her brow and went on. “Follow him to be sure he’s going to the temple. I’m going to get ahead of him and meet him there.”

“Linsha, I think he is being followed by someone else.”

The lady Knight stiffened. “Are you sure?”

“No,” said the owl, bobbing her head, “but there is a man in plain clothes ahead of you. I just saw him again. I don’t think he is aware of you yet because he is concentrating on Mica.”

“All the more reason to vanish. Can you watch them both?”

“If the man continues to follow, yes.”

“I’ll see you at the temple,” Linsha said softly. Turning left, she broke into a jog again back to the northern neighborhoods, up the road past the refugee camp and its sad mounds, and along the track to the temple. Panting and drenched with perspiration, she arrived at the temple doors two minutes ahead of Mica.

The porter was explaining to her that Mica had not yet returned when the dwarf stamped up the walkway and brushed past her. His bearded face was red from his brisk walk. He gave her an irritated glance and demanded, “What are you doing here?”

Linsha rolled her eyes. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said, breathing hard. “The priestess even sent me to that ghastly camp so I could find you.”

“What for?” he asked in a tone that doubted her intelligence.

“She has a message for you,” the porter put in to he helpful.

Oops. Linsha forgot about that. Thinking fast, she pulled the dwarf into the foyer away from prying ears. “Lord Bight has been trying an experiment that so far has been successful, and he wanted me to inform you for your research.”

“Why you?” He curled his lip in tolerant mockery.

Linsha kept her expression blank, her tone matter-of-fact. “Because I am the experiment.”

The dwarf examined her with keen eyes, then indicated she was to follow him. He led her down a flight of stairs to a lower level and a large room filled with shelves of books. A worktable stood in the middle of the room, half buried under stacks of scrolls, books, and old manuscripts. Linsha recognized the bound records of the priest-scribe stacked at one end.

Mica lit several oil lamps hanging on chains from the ceiling. He crossed his arms.

“Explain,” he demanded.

Linsha walked to the table. She didn’t know if Lord Bight wanted this known or not, but surely he hadn’t meant to keep it from his healer. “The lord governor told me he suspects the plague may have a magical origin. He has given me a talisman to protect me.”

“Huh. So that’s why he sent you with me into the city. I thought maybe he was hoping to be rid of you,” Mica said, his words snide.

Linsha ignored that. Now that she had a strong suspicion of Mica’s identity, she was more willing to overlook his grouchy personality. Any operative who had made it this far in Lord Bight’s court and survived more than two years like Mica had to be good. “No,” she said lightly. “He sent me to help you because I can read and wield a sword. The talisman was an addition.”

Mica cast an eye over her, as if looking hopefully for signs of fever. “Is it working?”

“So far.”

He snorted. “What is it?”

“A bronze dragon scale.”

Mica was startled into saying, “A what?”

In reply, Linsha pulled the gold chain out from under her tunic and showed him the bronze disk. In the light of the oil lamps, it gleamed with a cool fire.

“I’ll be a gully dwarfs squire,” he exclaimed, leaning forward to see it better in the light. “Did he say where he got it?”

“He said he found it. It’s supposed to be ensorcelled with protective spells.” She turned it over in her hands. “It looks so new. I’d like to know where he found it—considering he’s been here for thirty years and has forbidden the Good dragons to enter the city, to appease Sable.”

“I daresay that edict is freely ignored by those metallics who can take the shape of a person.” He waved a hand at her to put the talisman away. “For now, keep that scale safe, Alley Cat, and don’t show it to anyone else.”

Linsha tilted her head and looked sidelong at him. “Anyone in particular?”

He leaned forward, his expression serious. “If you have the favor of Lord Bight, it would be wise not to make it known, or the knowledge could be used against him… or you.”

“The lord governor has been good to me,” she replied, pushing off firmly the idea of any special preference, “but he is using this only as an experiment, not a mark of favor.”

“So you think. Just follow my advice.”

Her eyes lit with a sparkle of fun, and she grinned. “Why, Mica, I didn’t know you cared.”

A frown crossed the dwarfs face. The grump was back to normal, Linsha thought.

And yet somewhere in the conversation a small advance had been made and accepted. Without words or conscious effort, the secret knowledge each had of the other had altered their perceptions and reactions. Their different orders were not allies, but they were not enemies either, and some time or some where in this deadly game of intrigue, they might need one another.

“Can you really read?” Mica asked, pondering the stacks before him.

“Common Tongue, Solamnic, Plains Barbarian, and Abanasinian,” she answered bluntly.

“Impressive.”

She shrugged, bringing a twinge to her healing shoulder. “I get around. I know the thieves’ hand talk, too, but that won’t be found in any books.”

He picked up a large pile of record books and tomes. “Good. You start with these,” and he dumped them in front of her.

Linsha picked up the first one, an old treatise on common herbal remedies. “What are we looking for?”

“Anything having to do with a disease like our scourge or any mention of magic being used to create a widespread illness.” He settled down in a chair and selected another book. “I suspect Lord Bight is right, but I can’t fight something I don’t know.”

“Are you sure there was nothing in the ship’s log from the death ship?”

“I read it cover to cover.”

Linsha pulled up another chair, sat down, and opened the book. Her attention wandered into the pages. “Hmm,” she said as she read. “It’s a pity we couldn’t talk to the ship’s captain before he died.”

A strange, speculative light flickered in Mica’s eyes when he considered her words. “A pity,” he murmured.

The captain of the black ship, Lady’s Sword, unrolled his map on the chart table and looked up at the other captains gathered around. The map at his fingertips was a new one, richly inked and carefully drawn. It showed the eastern half of the Newsea, marking in the swampy realm of the black dragon, Sable, the diminished lands of Blöde, and the holdings of the Knights of Takhisis based in their city, Neraka. Sitting like a blot in the middle of it all was Sanction, a rich jewel perched at the toe of Sanction Bay on the easternmost point of the Newsea.

“Plans are well under way,” the captain said, pointing a callused finger to Sanction. “Our informants say the plague has decimated the lower city and seriously weakened the guards. As soon as we receive the signal, we will sail for the harbor.”

One captain, a tall fair-haired man, tapped a finger on the western side of the peninsula separating their ships from Sanction Bay. “Our fleet is scattered in all these coves and inlets. Will there be time to reassemble?”

“If all goes well, the volcano’s eruption will be visible enough to give us time before our contact’s signal arrives. If not, we’ll try to regroup as we sail. The harbor’s entrance is narrow anyway, so we will have to enter in groups of three.”

A loud commotion on deck interrupted his words, and all heads turned to the door just as it crashed open. Three muscular sailors shoved a pair of young fishermen into the captain’s cabin. The two men were forced to kneel before the assembled captains. Fear and recognition shone like sweat on their faces.

“Who are these men?” barked the captain.

One of the sailors grinned nastily. “We found them snooping around the cove. They spotted the ships before we caught them.”

“Unfortunate,” the captain commented. He turned cold eyes on the fishermen. “A little far from your fishing grounds, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no, sir,” one of the young men hastened to explain. “The heat has driven the fish from the shallow waters. We were just out looking for some deeper holes where the fish might have fled.”

“They were carrying nets on their boat, but they didn’t have so much as a baitfish on board,” a sailor said.

The captain lifted a dark eyebrow. “Scouts? Has Bight heard rumors of us?” When no one answered, he moved swiftly to the front of the fisherman who spoke and clamped his hand over the man’s face. Muttering under his breath, he drew on the power of his dark mysticism and projected it into the mind of his victim. He used neither gentleness nor patience, and the force of his will ripping into the man’s mind brought forth a shriek of agony and terror from the prisoner.

The other captains looked on impassively, but the second captive stared with bulging eyes and a face filled with mingled anger and horror.

After a minute or two, the captain broke the link and withdrew his magic. The fisherman slumped to the floor, his eyes rolled up into his head, his body already slack in death.

“Bight is only guessing,” the captain told the others. He turned to the sailors. “Dispose of these two. Double the guard and bring any more spies you capture to me.”

The sailors gave a salute and dragged the prisoners away.

“Now, gentlemen,” the captain said in satisfaction. “Let us discuss the order of battle.”