Shapers of Darkness

Chapter Thirteen

Galdasten, Eibithar

From the tower atop Renald’s castle, it seemed a dance of sorts, the slow circling of partners at the outset of some court fourstep. Until the first Braedon ship rammed its prow into the hull of the lead vessel in Eibithar’s fleet. After that, there could be no mistaking what was taking shape on the waters of Falcon Bay. For the first time in over a century and a half, Eibithar was at war with the Braedon empire.

Renald was soaked to the skin. A hard rain sliced across the castle ramparts, driven by a cold wind. It should have been warmer-nearly half of Elined’s Turn was gone-but it felt more like the harvest than it did the final days of the planting season. Elspeth would have thought him a fool for standing up here in the rain, watching a battle whose outcome had long since been decided. She would have called him weak and worse had she known how he quailed at the very thought of what was happening aboard those ships. As a child, he had heard seamen at the Galdasten quays recounting tales, passed down to them from their grandfathers, of the previous naval wars with Braedon. The Empire Wars, they were called. Braedon had prevailed in those conflicts as well, gaining sovereignty over Enwyl Island in the Gulf of Kreanna. And it had taken the shipbuilders of Galdasten and Thorald more than ten years to rebuild the Eibitharian fleet.

But it wasn’t the rammings that stood out in Renald’s memory, the descriptions of rending wood and the ghostlike groan of a hull taking on too much water. No, it was the combat that followed the collisions. The boardings and bloody sword battles as the warriors aboard those ships clashed, fighting for control of the vessel that remained seaworthy.

He could still hear the voice of one old sailor-a grizzled old man with leathery brown skin and a misshapen stump where his left arm should have been-asking his companions how many soldiers had been swallowed by the dark waters of the bay during that last war, and laughing at what he saw on Renald’s face. Even as a foolish child, easily impressed and more easily frightened, Renald had known that this man could not have fought in the Empire Wars, and later he had come to wonder how much of what those men told him that day had been true, and how much of it had been the blustering yarns of old sailors eager to scare a court boy. Still, watching this new battle in the cold Galdasten rain, Renald thought he could see bodies falling over the sides of the Eibitharian vessel, lost forever to Amon’s waters.

The fleets of the two realms had been arrayed against each other for several days, their commanders waiting far longer than Renald had ever guessed they would to begin the war. It almost seemed that both sides were awaiting some sign that they should attack. That sign had finally come this morning, and much to the duke’s surprise, it had been the Eibitharian fleet that made the first move. Renald couldn’t be certain, but he thought it likely that the rain and wind prompted the attack. On open waters, in calm weather, Eibithar’s ships had little chance against Braedon’s larger fleet and more skilled seamen. Perhaps the captains of Eibithar’s vessels thought that this storm would mitigate the empire’s advantages somewhat.

Already it seemed clear to the duke that they had been tragically mistaken. In the span of only a few heartbeats, two more of Eibithar’s ships were rammed, and now he was certain that he could see soldiers dressed in the gold and red of Braedon swarming onto the stricken vessels. It would be a slaughter.

“My lord!”

Renald started so violently that he nearly lost his balance. He hadn’t heard Ewan Traylee’s approach for the rain and the keening wind. “What is it, swordmaster?”

“Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord, but the duchess is asking after you, and no one knew where you were.”

“Well as you can see, I’m right here,” he said, staring out at the ships again. “And I’ve no desire to speak with the duchess just now.” It wasn’t a tone he would usually have taken with Ewan. Damn this rain. Damn the empire.

“Yes, my lord.” The swordmaster looked out at the bay as well. An instant later, his voice rising again, he said, “They’ve begun!”

“Yes. Just a short time ago.”

“It’s going poorly.”

Renald glanced at the man. Rain plastered his black hair to his brow, and ran down his broad face before being lost in his beard. “Did you doubt that it would?”

“Not really, my lord. But I had hoped. .” He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the battle.

“Is all ready for a siege?”

“Yes, my lord. We can withstand whatever the emperor’s soldiers throw at us.”

“Very good, Ewan.”

They stood in silence for several moments watching the ships dance. For a time it seemed that Eibithar’s vessels might actually be gaining the upper hand. No more Eibitharian ships had been rammed, and in fact they managed to incapacitate two Braedon ships in quick succession. But their success was short-lived, and it soon became clear that the empire’s vessels were simply too swift. What had started as a battle was fast turning into a pursuit. Eibithar’s ships were no longer looking for openings to attack, but were instead doing all they could to avoid being shattered and boarded.

“Do you think the king sent word to Wethyrn?” Ewan asked after some time.

“He would have been a fool not to. Wethyrn’s ships are the only ones in the seven that would stand a chance against the empire’s fleet.”

“Then perhaps there’s hope yet.”

“Not unless they arrive today. Now that this battle has begun, it won’t last long.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He should have been pleased. Certainly that was what Elspeth would tell him. Soon Kearney’s guard would be routed by the empire’s men, and when the army of Galdasten joined the war, turning the tide for Eibithar, the throne would be his. Still, he couldn’t help thinking that he had betrayed his forebears, his people, and his kingdom. What if Kearney had been telling the truth? What if the conspiracy was behind the murder of Lady Brienne of Kentigern? What if Tavis of Curgh was not a butcher, but rather a victim of white-hair treachery? Then wasn’t Renald himself helping the renegades? Wasn’t his refusal to fight the invaders tantamount to treason?

“You say the duchess wishes to speak with me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you know what she wants?”

Ewan grimaced. It took Renald a moment to realize that he was actually grinning. “The duchess rarely tells me anything, my lord.” He looked like he might say more, but then he merely shrugged and faced the bay again.

“It’s not you, Ewan. She’s like that with everyone.” She knows that she’s smarter than all of us, and it galls her that she doesn’t lead this house.

“Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

Renald’s hands had grown numb gripping the stone ramparts. He wanted nothing more than to return to his chambers where he might change into some dry clothes and sit before his hearth. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ships.

“I’ll keep watch for you, my lord. If something changes, or-” he swallowed, “or if it ends, I’ll let you know first thing.”

What would his father have said? The lords of Galdasten had long envied the supremacy of the House of Thorald. For more than one hundred years now, there had been no measurable difference between the size of Thorald’s army and that of Galdasten, between the riches in Thorald’s treasury and those in Galdasten’s. Yet, by dint of the Order of Ascension, determined hundreds of years ago, Thorald was the highest ranking house in the land, and Galdasten second. Over the course of Eibithar’s history, Thorald kings outnumbered those from Renald’s house by nearly three to one. Yet in all that time, no duke of Galdasten had ever led a rebellion against the Rules. True, no duke of Galdasten had ever faced the bleak future that awaited Renald and his sons.

But did that give him just cause to defy the Rules? He could hear Elspeth’s reply. Hasn’t Galdasten suffered long enough under Thorald’s dominance? Don’t the other realms of Eibithar deserve to be freed from a supremacy that has no basis in fact?

You are weakening the realm to nurture your own ambitions. His father’s voice. And once again it was countered in his mind by Elspeth’s, just as reasoned, and far more strident. You do this for our sons, so that they might fulfill their destiny and rule this land.

“My lord?” Ewan said, interrupting the colloquy in his mind.

“Yes, swordmaster, thank you. I would be grateful for a warm cup of tea and a fire.”

“Go, my lord. I’ll keep you apprised of all that happens.”

Renald nodded, but stood there a moment longer, watching the ships, searching for some shift in the course of the battle, some sign that Eibithar’s fleet might still prevail. Seeing none, he finally left the tower, descending the winding stairs to the lower corridor, and making his way from there to his bedchamber. Even the cold stone of the castle passages seemed pleasant after the wind and rain. His chamber was bright and warm, and as comfortable as a child’s blanket. He stripped out of his wet clothes and a servant helped him into a dry robe. He was just tying it when he heard a knock at his door. Before he could call a response, Elspeth let herself into the chamber, looking lovely and formidable in a dark violet dress, her brown hair tied back from her face and her eyes glittering with the lamplight.

Her gaze flicked about the chamber, coming to rest briefly on the servant before returning to Renald’s face. “I summoned you some time ago. Where have you been?”

He wanted to rail at her for speaking to him so. He should at least have demanded an apology. It was one thing to use such a tone with her duke when they were alone, but to do so in front of others, even a common servant, was unacceptable. But it was all he could do just to say, as if a boy offering excuses to an irate parent, “I was on the tower. The war’s started.”

Her entire bearing changed. She took a step toward him, eager, a fierce smile on her flawless face. “They’ve started? You saw them fighting?”

Renald nodded.

“What’s happening? Can you tell how the fleet is faring?”

“Not well. They’ve already lost several ships, and were on the verge of losing more when I left the tower.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, then stopped, glaring at the servant. “Leave us!”

The boy nearly jumped to obey, scurrying from the room with a quick backward glance.

“You think it will end quickly?” she asked when the boy was gone, avid and dazzling, her color high.

“I fear it will.” He winced at his choice of words, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

Little chance of that.

“You fear it will?” she repeated, the smile vanishing.

“I only meant that I wish so many didn’t have to die.”

“It’s war, you fool. Of course they have to die. Eventually you’ll have to lead men to kill and be killed. You’ll have to raise your sword as well, or fall in battle. You are prepared to do all that, aren’t you, Renald?”

“Yes, of course-”

“Because if you’re not, you’d best say so now. There still may be time to salvage something from this mess you’ve created.”

“I’m prepared to do whatever I must to take the crown, Elspeth. I’ve told Ewan to prepare the castle for a siege. Even if I wanted to meet the emperor’s army on the strand, it’s too late now. I’ve chosen my path and I’ll travel it as far as it will take me.”

“Good, Renald. Very good.” She began to circle the room, like a wolf stalking her prey. “What does Ewan think of all this? He can’t be happy about it.”

“I’ve told you before: Ewan is a good soldier. He’ll do as he’s told. I’ve made it clear to him that I intend to be king, and that he has only to follow me and soon enough he’ll be commander of the King’s Guard. I’m sure that he laments the loss of life as I do.” He paused, eyeing her briefly. “As we all do. But he understands that some sacrifices must be made if we’re to rid ourselves of both the invaders from Braedon and the usurpers from Glyndwr and Curgh.”

She continued to roam the chamber, passing just behind him, her shoulder brushing his back and her scent, lavender and woodbine, filling him, intoxicating him. He closed his eyes for just an instant, inhaling deeply.

“The usurpers,” she said, her voice low. “I like that. Did you think of it yourself?”

“Actually, I did.”

“What if the emperor’s men besiege the castle? What if it’s Kearney who must come to our aid, rather than us to his?”

Renald shook his head. “I don’t think that will happen. This is an invasion. A prolonged siege here gains them nothing. Even if they were to prevail-not that they will-but even if they were to, they would only succeed in giving Kearney time to marshal his forces. They need to strike quickly at the heart of the realm. They need to destroy the King’s Guard. If they can do that, the houses will fall in turn. At least, that’s what the emperor’s commanders will think.”

“You reasoned this out as well?”

“Yes. Ewan agrees with me,” he added quickly, lest she think him overly confident.

But Elspeth smiled at him, a radiant smile, seemingly free of irony or scorn. It had been years since he last saw a smile like this one on her face. She had circled close again. The air around them was redolent. “I agree with you, too.” She stopped behind him, slipping her arms beneath his and resting her cheek against his back. “You’ve been watching Pillad, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he whispered. He felt the beginning of an erection pressing against his robe, and he prayed that she wouldn’t notice. “I have men watching all the Qirsi, the first minister in particular. He spends a good deal of time in the city, drinking alone at a tavern there. But he never speaks with anyone, and aside from the ale, he never spends any gold.”

She reached a hand inside his robe and began to rub his chest gently. It had been so long since she’d touched him like this. “Still, I wouldn’t trust him with anything of importance. Not now, not when we’re so close.”

Renald closed his eyes. “Of course,” he said. In a far corner of his mind he thought, If I’d known she’d respond like this, I’d have led a rebellion years ago. He nearly laughed aloud.

A moment later she stepped around to stand before him. Glancing down, seeing the bulge at the front of his robe, she smiled again, though not with her usual cruelty. Still smiling, looking into his eyes once more, she reached down to untie the sash.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, and then instantly regretted the question.

But she merely gazed at him placidly. “I told you some time ago, Renald, if you were to lead this war as would a king, you could have me again.” She reached within his robe and gently took hold of him. “I’m a woman of my word.”

She withdrew her hand and began to unfasten the buttons that ran down the length of her dress.

Renald touched her hands with his own, stopping her. “May I?” he asked, something in his voice reminding him once more of a child.

Elspeth’s eyes were luminous as she led him to the bed. “Of course.”

The White Wave was nearly empty, as it usually was so early in the day. Pillad was already on his third ale, and the darkness that seemed to come with all drink in recent days was already upon him. He no longer bought the ale that was made here in Galdasten, though it was fine enough for most. He preferred the light brew from Thorald, the finest in the land. And since he had gold enough to afford whatever ale he wanted, he didn’t think twice about drinking it. True, there might have been some danger in flaunting his newly acquired taste for Thorald’s golden. With rumors of the conspiracy running rampant through the realm, and Braedon warships poised off the coast, any Qirsi spending too much of his or her wage was suspect in the eyes of Ean’s children. Even his Qirsi masters would not have approved, seeing in his recklessness a threat to their movement, to their very lives.

But Pillad knew better than to be afraid. No one paid any attention to him; nobody cared what he did. His duke had lost faith in him long ago, and because of that, the movement had little use for him anymore. Uestem, the Qirsi merchant who first convinced Pillad to join the Weaver’s cause, had scarcely spoken to him since the first minister received his gold. For one brief moment, it had seemed that he was a prize coveted by both sides in this conflict. His loyalty had been a battlefield on which Qirsi and Eandi contended, until he chose to cast his lot with his people, and with the shadowy figure of his dreams who would be the Forelands’ first Qirsi king.

It hadn’t taken him long to understand that this had been a hollow victory for, the Qirsi and a loss without cost for his duke and the Eandi courts. He was worthless. He could provide answers to a few questions that the Weaver’s servants deemed important: How would Renald respond to the empire’s invasion? How would he allocate his men if Braedon’s army laid siege to the city and castle? How long would Galdasten’s stores hold out if the siege went on? But beyond these scraps of information, he offered little of importance. He had thought that Uestem cared for him, that they might find in their shared struggle against the courts something more than comradery, something more even, than friendship. He knew now that he had been a fool. All the merchant had wanted was to deliver him to the Weaver. In some small way then, he had been a prize, but knowing this did nothing to heal his wounded pride or ease the pain in his heart.

The ale, though. The ale did both, at least it did after the third or fourth helping. He had gold enough to drink, and time enough to be drunk. And perhaps, if he came to the White Wave each day, and remained here through to the prior’s bells, he would see Uestem again. The merchant couldn’t avoid this place forever, not if there were others in Galdasten he wished to turn to the Weaver’s cause.

He drained his cup and motioned to the serving girl for another, pulling another five qinde piece from the pouch on his belt. The girl glanced briefly at the barkeep, a tall, spear-thin man with eyes the color of sea foam and long white hair that he tied back from his face. The man filled a cup and brought it to the table himself, placing it in front of Pillad before sitting beside him. The first minister noticed that this was Galdasten ale, not the Thorald.

“This isn’t what I’m drinking,” he said, glaring at the man.

“I think it should be, cousin.”

Pillad glanced about the tavern. He was the only one there, other than the barkeep and his servers.

“Why should you care? I’m putting gold in your pocket. It’s not as though others are beating down your door to drink your wares.”

“It’s not my business that concerns me, Minister.”

“My point exactly.”

The man grinned, though the look in those pale eyes remained deadly serious. “You’ve a sharp wit, sir, and a good mind. A man as clever as you should know better than to act a fool.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Pillad started to stand, but the barkeep laid a firm hand on his forearm, forcing him back into his chair.

“The Eandi are watching all of us right now, particularly you, looking for odd behavior, or extravagance. You’re showing them both.”

He’s with the conspiracy. Pillad felt himself begin to sweat. It hadn’t occurred to him that there were others in Galdasten aside from Uestem and himself, though of course it should have. Who better than the owner of the tavern in which Uestem had his discussions and collected prizes for his Weaver?

“You fear for me, cousin?” Pillad asked. But the bluster was gone from his voice.

“I fear for all of us. You don’t strike me as the type of man who could endure much on the torturer’s table. I suspect that before you died, you’d tell the duke’s men all they wanted to know.”

Pillad searched for some response. Finding none, he reached for his ale. But the barkeep put his hand over the cup.

“This is the last you’ll have today, Minister. And the next time you come to my tavern you’ll drink only the Galdasten ale. Two cups, and then you’ll be done.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.” His voice quavered, and he cursed himself for being so weak.

“No, I can’t, at least not so that anyone else can hear me. But there are others who can. All it takes is a word from me. I think you know who I mean.”

It might have been Uestem, or perhaps the Weaver. It didn’t matter. In the Eandi world, where Pillad was first minister, this man was nothing. But their status was reversed within the movement. The barkeep held Pillad’s life in his hands.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I know.”

“Good.” The barkeep grinned again, and removed his hand from the cup. “Enjoy your ale, cousin.”

He stood, but before he could start back toward the bar, someone appeared in the doorway. It was a Qirsi man, one Pillad didn’t know. His eyes were wide, and though his hair and clothes were drenched, he didn’t seem to care.

“They’ve started it!” he said. “They’re fighting out on the bay!”

Pillad heard fear in his voice, and uncertainty. This man wasn’t with the movement, or if he was, he didn’t understand how eager the Weaver had been for this war to begin.

The minister and the barkeep shared a look. Then they both followed the man out into the storm.

It was a short walk from the tavern to the Galdasten quays where they could watch the warships struggling to flank each other. A crowd had already gathered, and with the wind blowing cold off Falcon Bay, driving a stinging rain into his eyes, Pillad could barely make out what was happening. It wasn’t long, though, before he heard a groan go up from the others, and he knew that the empire’s fleet had drawn first blood.

“They haven’ a chance agains’ those Braedony ships,” he heard one man say.

And another added, “There’s jus’ too many of ’em. If we had the Wethy fleet with us, maybe. But no’ like this.”

“You’d best be getting back to your duke, cousin,” the barkeep said, his voice low, his mouth so close to Pillad’s ear that the minister could feel his breath. “If the duke’s first minister is seen in Galdasten City as the realm is going to war, it’s certain to raise questions.”

Pillad nodded and began to back away from the crowd. More people had gathered behind him, and he had to push his way through the throng. The rain and wind helped; with his hair and clothes soaked, and his breath stinking of ale, he hardly looked like the most powerful Qirsi in the dukedom. In just a few moments he was free of the crowd. Leaving the quays, he followed the quickest route through the city and back toward Galdasten Castle. The duke’s guards were still following him, watching from byways and narrow lanes, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. If he tried to return to the castle by way of some obscure, winding route, it would draw even more attention to the fact that he had been in the city. Best to be seen, to endure the sneers of Renald’s guards. All of them knew that the duke no longer confided in him; one didn’t have to be a genius to notice that. Perhaps they already knew that he was drinking.

He faltered in midstride, his innards turning to water. Renald’s spies might already have seen him ordering the Thorald golden, spending his gold in the White Wave like a drunken noble.

If they knew you were a traitor, they’d have hanged you by now, or they’d be torturing you in the dungeons, demanding the names of others in the movement. He knew it was true, but he found no comfort in the thought. Was it pride to prefer torture and execution to indifference?

A woman bearing a basket of sodden cloth hurried past, staring at him as though he were mad. Pillad realized that he was standing in the middle of the lane by the marketplace, allowing himself to be doused by the rain. Drawing attention to himself yet again.

Did he want to be caught? he wondered, continuing on toward the castle. Was he that desperate to feel that he mattered? And though he understood instantly that he had no desire to be imprisoned or killed, he also knew that he needed to be more than what he had become. It sobered him, as if purging his body of the ale he had downed in the tavern. By the time he reached the north gate of the castle, his mind was clear. One of the guards raised an eyebrow at the sight of him, but the first minister no longer cared. He returned to his chamber, changed his clothes, and went in search of the duke.

The duke’s men refused to allow him entry to Renald’s chamber, saying something about the duchess being with him. Pillad would have liked to laugh at them-as if the duchess being with the duke were cause for closed doors and hushed voices. She hadn’t loved him in years. No doubt she was telling him how he ought to deal with the coming siege and Kearney’s pleas for help.

He climbed the nearest of the towers, intending to watch the battle, but upon reaching the ramparts, he saw Ewan Traylee standing at the wall, staring out at the bay. There had been a time when Pillad and the swordmaster got along quite well. They were never truly friends, but in a land where sorcerers and soldiers were often at odds, they had worked together on their duke’s behalf, eventually coming to respect one another. Or so the first minister had thought. For when Renald began to question Pillad’s loyalty, Ewan stopped speaking to him as well. True, the swordmaster had merely been following the duke’s example, but still, it stung.

Pillad turned to go back down the stairway, moving silently lest Ewan should notice him.

“First minister!”

Pillad took a breath, then turned. “Forgive me, swordmaster. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Not at all. Join me.” Ewan faced the bay once more, his expression bleak. “You heard that the fighting had begun?”

“Yes. I was in the city.”

Ewan looked over at that.

No sense in lying to the man. Perhaps candor could regain some of the trust he had lost. “I frequent a tavern there. The duke has little use for me anymore, and I prefer to be outside the castle.”

The swordmaster nodded, his gaze returning to the warships. “These are difficult times, First Minister. Many of us are frightened. None of us knows who to trust anymore.”

“You include yourself in that.”

“Yes.” The man’s grey eyes flicked Pillad’s way for just an instant. “I’m sorry. You’ve done nothing to raise my suspicions, but I have them just the same.”

“Because I’m Qirsi.”

“Yes. All Qirsi are suspect now. Surely you understand that.”

“Of course I do,” he said, and meant it. Abruptly, he knew what he would do, what he had to do. The Weaver would be angry with him, as would Uestem. The risk to all of them was great. But he couldn’t go on this way. War had come to Galdasten, and even Pillad, who knew little of such things, could see that the Eibitharian fleet was being decimated by Braedon’s ships. If he wished to be of use to the Weaver and his movement, he needed to win back Renald’s trust. Quickly. He could think of only one way to do so. “I understand perfectly well, swordmaster. That’s why I went to speak with the duke just now, but his soldiers wouldn’t allow me in to see him.”

Ewan looked at him again. “I don’t follow, First Minister. Has something happened?”

“I’m afraid it has. I should have come to you sooner. I see that now. I’ve suspected for some time, but I couldn’t prove anything.”

“Suspected what?”

“You have to understand, swordmaster, I have no desire to be hated by my people, nor do I wish this man ill. But I can’t ignore what’s happened.”

“First Minister, please!” the swordmaster said, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Tell me what’s happened.”

Pillad swallowed, as if deeply troubled by what he was about to say. Actually, for the first time in so long, he was enjoying himself. Let him think twice about speaking to me as if I’m some common Qirsi juggling flames in the Revel or serving drinks in his little tavern.

“As I said a moment ago,” he began, resting his hands on the stone wall, lowering his gaze, “I’ve spent a good deal of time recently at a tavern in the city. It’s called the White Wave, and it’s a Qirsi establishment. I’ve noticed the barkeep there eyeing me strangely at times, as if he wished to speak with me. Today he finally approached me. He asked me why I spent so much time in his tavern, why I wasn’t with the duke. I told him to mind his own affairs, but then he told me that he’d heard some saying I’d lost the duke’s confidence.”

“Did he say who?”

“No. But that’s not the worst of it. I tried to deny that this was true, but he wouldn’t believe me. ‘If the duke still confided in you,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t be here so often.’” Pillad shook his head. “He has a point, I suppose. This is my own fault. The next thing I know he’s offering me gold, telling me that he can help me get back at the duke for his faithlessness.”

Ewan’s eyes were wide, his face nearly as white as a Qirsi’s. “He’s with the conspiracy?”

“So it would seem.”

“You’re certain?”

“As certain as one can be about such things.”

The swordmaster pushed away from the castle wall and started toward the stairs, grabbing Pillad by the arm. “We have to tell the duke.”

“He won’t believe me! He thinks I’m a traitor!”

“You’re telling him of a Qirsi renegade. You’re offering him a chance to learn a great deal about the conspiracy and its members. If it turns out that you’re right, and this man is a traitor, the duke will have no choice but to trust you again.”

A chance to learn a great deal. . “What if the barkeep claims that I’m a renegade as well?”

“Are you?”

“Of course not, but-”

“Then don’t worry about it. Torture will make a man say almost anything; the hard part is separating lies from the truth. The dungeonmaster has done this before. He’ll learn what he can from your barkeep.”

Pillad eyed him briefly, then nodded, wondering if he had made a terrible mistake.

“Come along, First Minister. I’ll make certain that the duke sees you.”

There were dirty cups everywhere and more than a few spills that needed cleaning, but Mittifar didn’t mind, not after a night like this. He would have expected that the war would chase men back to their homes, and if that didn’t, then certainly the rain, which continued to deluge the city, swept by winds that seemed more appropriate for the snows than the planting. He had even gone so far as to send his serving girls home early, thinking to save himself the price of their wages. With a war coming, there were bound to be many slow nights in his future.

But while he had thought to stay open for a handful of his regulars, who came in every night no matter what, Mitt soon realized that he had miscalculated badly. By the time the guards on the city walls rang the gate close, the White Wave was packed. Rather than hiding from the war, it seemed that Galdasten’s Qirsi wished to take comfort in his tavern, drinking his ale and eating his food. Perhaps they sought refuge from their fears in the company of others. Perhaps they thought to get their fill tonight, before the emperor’s soldiers began their siege. Whatever the reason, Mitt spent the entire evening running about the place like a puppy, chasing down orders and drained cups. Escaping the noise and pipeweed smoke for a moment in the alley behind his tavern, he spotted a boy wandering about, picking through refuse. Mitt gave him two silvers and sent the lad to fetch his servers from their homes, but they never came. He was on his own, and though he was exhausted by midnight, and the place was still full, he took some solace in the fact that every qinde left on his tables belonged to him. He paid no wage this night, and he shared no gratuities. He’d be cleaning the tavern until dawn, and would have little chance to sleep if he was to open on time in the morning, but he’d easily clear three hundred qinde tonight.

“It looks like there’s been a war in here.”

Mitt turned at the sound of the voice, startled. He could have sworn that he had locked the door when the last of his patrons left.

Uestem stood in the doorway, his hooded cloak darkened by the rain. He was smiling, but as always, something seemed to lurk beneath his apparent good cheer. The merchant had brought Mitt into the movement, had paid him his first gold, and for that the barkeep would always be grateful. When at last Qirsi ruled the Forelands, and Mitt received his reward for serving the Weaver’s cause, he would have Uestem to thank. But just as the merchant’s smile was a mask for something more unsettling, his gifts carried a cost. Over the past year, much to Mitt’s dismay, the White Wave had become a center for all the movement’s activities here in Galdasten. When Uestem wished to speak with others who served the Weaver, he did so here. He had turned Galdasten’s first minister over a cup of Mitt’s ale, and so, in a sense, was responsible for the fact that Pillad returned here each day, drinking his Thorald golden and endangering everything for which they had all worked so hard.

“Can I help you with this mess?” the merchant asked, looking around the tavern and then picking his way to where Mitt stood.

“No, thank you. I’m used to it.”

“I would have thought this would be a quiet night.”

“I thought the same. That’s why the girls aren’t here.”

Uestem looked around again, nodded.

“I hear that you had some trouble with the first minister today.”

Mitt had been bending over to wipe up a spill, but he straightened now, his eyes narrowing. “How did you hear about that? There was no one here but me and the g-” He stopped, gave a small bitter laugh, and shook his head. “They’re with the movement, too.”

“One of them, yes.” The merchant raised a hand, as if anticipating Mitt’s next question. “I’m not going to tell you which, so don’t even ask.”

“Can you at least tell me if you turned her before or after she started working for me?”

The smile again. “The First Minister?”

Mitt didn’t often back down from a fight. He wasn’t particularly strong, nor did he wield the most potent of Qirsi magics, but he could hold his own against most men. Uestem, however, was one of the Weaver’s chancellors, which not only meant that he had tremendous influence within the movement, but also that he was a fairly powerful sorcerer. He wasn’t a man to be crossed, and both of them knew it.

The barkeep shrugged. “He’s been in here a lot recently, drinking several ales at a time. Thorald golden, not the Galdasten swill. I told him today that I thought he should drink less, and be a bit more frugal in his choice of ales, lest someone take notice of all the gold he’s spending in my tavern. He didn’t like me telling him what to do, but I expect he’ll be more careful the next time he’s here.”

“You did the right thing.”

“Thank you.”

“But you made him angry, more than you know.”

Something in the man’s voice. . It suddenly seemed that the air in his tavern had grown cold. Uestem hadn’t moved, but Mitt had to resist an impulse to back away from him. “But surely the Weaver will understand-”

“The Weaver is the least of your troubles, Mitt. Pillad went to the duke and accused you of treason. Even as we speak, Renald’s men are gathering in the castle ward, preparing to come here and arrest you.”

“I don’t believe you. Pillad would have spoken to his duke hours ago. Why would Renald wait until now?”

“I don’t really know. Perhaps he feared sending his men into a tavern full of white-hairs, not knowing which of them he could trust and which were with the conspiracy.”

Actually it made a great deal of sense. Gods, it was freezing in here. “Doesn’t Pillad realize that I’ll do to him exactly what he’s done to me? If I’m to hang as a traitor, he will as well.”

“I’m not certain that Pillad thought this through very carefully, Mitt. He was angry, and he needed to prove his loyalty to the duke. Knowing Pillad as you do, are you surprised that he couldn’t see beyond his wounded pride and his fear of Renald?”

The barkeep’s stomach heaved. “You won’t let them hurt me, will you, Uestem? I’ve served the Weaver well. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”

“Yes you have, Mitt.”

“Take me onto your ship! I can serve as one of your crew. They’ll never think to look for me there.”

Uestem gave a sad shake of his head. “I’m afraid that would be too great of a risk. You may be right: they might never look there. But if they did, and if they found you, it would endanger far more than one life. It might destroy the movement. I don’t mean to boast, but I’m quite important to the Weaver and his cause. You understand.”

Mitt nodded, tried to swallow but couldn’t.

“But neither can we allow you to be taken by Renald’s men. I don’t wish to see you tortured, Mitt.”

A different kind of fear gripped his heart. “I wouldn’t say anything about you, Uestem. When I said that I’d do that to Pillad, I meant just him. Not you. Certainly not the Weaver.”

“I know that. But torture does strange things to people. And to be honest with you, Pillad is valuable to us. He wasn’t before, but he’s made himself important again.” Once more, Uestem smiled, and at the same time he reached out and grabbed the barkeep’s hair with a powerful hand. An instant later, his other hand was at Mitt’s throat. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

“Uestem, no!” he sobbed.

“This will be quick. I swear it.”

He didn’t even have time to struggle. His eyes closed, his heart hammering in his chest, he felt nothing, and heard only the snapping of bone.