The Outcast

9

Timor stood on the balcony on the third floor of his palatial estate in the templars’ quarter, gazing out at the sun’s rays gleaming off the Golden Tower. Kalak’s palace had stood empty ever since Tithian had disappeared. No one resided there, not even the slaves who had kept it clean, tended the lush gardens, and seen to Kalak’s slightest whim. The slaves had all been freed, and the Golden Palace now stood merely as a monument to the days when the city had a king, rather than a democratic council. It was such a waste.

Tithian would not be coming back. Timor was certain of it. By rights, he was next in line. Tithian had ascended to the Golden Throne because he had been Kalak’s senior templar. Tithian himself had appointed Timor senior templar, and now that Tithian was gone, Timor felt the right of succession should have passed to him. Except that Tithian had not been declared dead. His fate remained unknown. The council ruled in his absence, but there had never been any formal move to settle the question of a new king for Tyr. Sadira and Rikus had seen to that. They had always been conspicuously silent on the subject of Tithian’s disappearance.

Timor had not pressed the issue. He knew the time was not yet right. Both Rikus and Sadira had a great deal of support among the people of the city, and most of the council members, sensitive to the prevailing winds, had supported them, as well. However, the overwhelming popular support they had enjoyed as the heroes of the revolution was beginning to erode. They had slain the tyrant and they had freed the slaves, and with each passing week, they had consolidated the power of the council, passing edicts in Tithian’s absence that granted more freedom to the people of the city and would make it more and more difficult for Tyr to return to a monarchial form of government. That was, of course, their plan. Bit by bit, they intended to legislate the monarchy out of existence. They were waging another revolution, one that was much more subtle, but no less effective. The longer Rikus and Sadira remained in power as the dominant voices on the council, the more difficult it would be for Timor to supplant Tithian as the king of Tyr.

Difficult, thought Timor, but not impossible. Time worked for him, as well as for Sadira. Since the new government had been instituted, Sadira had consolidated her power on the council, in that, she had been quite successful. But while she was a clever female, she had no experience in government, and she had made one very big mistake. In her rush to free the slaves of Tyr, she had failed to take into account the devastating impact that would have on the city’s treasury and trade.

There was not enough work for all of the new citizens, and as a result, the ranks of the city’s beggars and thieves had swelled dramatically. Wages had fallen as more people competed for fewer jobs, and there were frequent mob brawls in the warrens and the elven market, even in the city’s merchant district. Mobs of beggars attacked recently freed slaves, whose presence in the streets threatened their own livelihood. Bands of thugs roamed the city at night and even during the day, attacking citizens and robbing them. In the warrens, in the elven market, and in the merchant district, vigilante groups had been formed to dispense summary street justice to protect their neighborhoods. The city guard lacked the manpower and the resources to deal with all of the unrest, and they were frequently attacked themselves.

Already, there had been several large fires in the warrens as the angry and frustrated poor people of the city vented their rage on their own neighborhoods. The fires had all been brought under control eventually, but entire city blocks had burned to the ground, and many of the merchants who had their businesses there had left the city in disgust With each caravan that departed for Altaruk or Gulg or South Ledopolus, there were wagonloads of people who had decided to leave the city and make a new start elsewhere, despite the uncertainty they faced. All this worked in Timor’s favor.

During Kalak’s reign, the templars had been hated by the people of the city, who had seen them, quite correctly, as oppressors enforcing the will of the tyrant. But with Kalak’s death and Tithian’s ascension to the throne, that attitude had gradually begun to change. While Tithian had struggled to consolidate his own power, Sadira and Agis, another hero of the revolution, had moved quickly to ram some of their progressive new edicts through the council, and Tithian had been forced to approve them. Timor had seen to it that the templars went along with the new edicts, and that they assisted as much as possible in their implementation. He had made certain his templars were conspicuous throughout the city, keeping order and mediating disputes, functioning as diplomatic liaisons between the people and the council and the city guard. He had waged a subtle campaign of public relations to change the image of the templars from that of oppressors enforcing Kalak’s will to that of Kalak’s helpless victims, trapped in the thrall of the king and forced to do his bidding.

Day by day, the attitude of the people toward the templars became more and more favorable, while their attitude toward the council grew worse and worse. The heroes of the revolution were starting to be looked on as the inept managers of a city on its way to ruin under their stewardship. People were starting to talk among themselves, recalling the days of Kalak’s reign, when things had run more smoothly, when the templars had been in control. Perhaps, they said, Kalak was a tyrant, an insane defiler obsessed with his mad lust for power, but the templars were the ones who really ran things, and the city had fared much better under their efficiency. Timor had spared no expense to start this whispering campaign, but it was paying off. The people were no longer whispering. They were now openly speaking out against the council and blaming them for all the city’s woes.

Soon, thought Timor. The time was not yet right, but soon. Sadira’s days were numbered, as well as those of that hulking mul who sat at her right hand. There remained but one more link that would complete the chain of the events that he had set in motion. There still remained one potential threat to the templars’ plan to seize power—the Veiled Alliance.

With Kalak dead, the templars had no magic anymore. He had channeled his power through them, but they were not sorcerers themselves. Except for Timor. For years, he had steadfastly pursued the craft in secret, developing his own power. Nevertheless, his own ability, while not insignificant by any means, was still a far cry from the power that Kalak had wielded. He could not and would never be able to empower his fellow templars. He would have to be a sorcerer-king himself to do that. That meant the Veiled Alliance was still a serious threat. Timor was confident of his defiling abilities, but he was not fool enough to think that he could stand against the Veiled Alliance by himself.

His plan was to induce them to come out into the open. With Kalak dead, Tithian gone, and defiler magic outlawed in the city, there was no longer any excuse for the Veiled Alliance to remain an underground society. They had once been criminals, but Kor—at Timor’s urging—had already proposed an edict that would serve as a blanket pardon for the Veiled Alliance, providing that all of them came forward and took part in helping to rebuild the city. As he had said during the last council meeting, who better than the members of the Veiled Alliance, who followed the Path of the Preserver, to oversee the new farm program that would feed the city and revitalize the desert tablelands? He had already seen to it that his remarks in council were reported to the people of the city, and he had placards posted everywhere, calling upon the Veiled Alliance to come forward and take part in “the greening of Tyr.”

Once all the members of the secret group were identified, then he could make his move. The plan was already in place. In one night, in one fell swoop, the templars and their agents would eliminate the Veiled Alliance while the city was distracted by a massive, widespread riot that would be triggered at Timor’s signal. Fires would be started throughout the city, though not, of course, in the nobles’ quarter or the templars’ quarter, which would be heavily protected. Only isolated, controlled incidents of looting and burning would occur there, merely for the sake of appearances. Timor planned to have his own mansion burned to the ground—after most of his possessions had been discreetly removed—so that he could claim kinship with the populace in that he had been one of the victims. The mobs would be incited to a looting rampage in the merchant district. In one night, the Night of the Scourging, the templars would seize power and declare a state of martial law.

In the interest of public safety, Timor would move into the palace and appoint himself dictator until law and order could once more be restored. The meetings of the council would have to be suspended indefinitely, since many of its members—Sadira, Rikus, and all those loyal to them—would have been killed during the rioting. To punish those who had destroyed the city and brought down the government, rioters and looters would be arrested by the city guard and condemned to slavery, so that they might rebuild what they had helped destroy. And to keep the peace and prevent the recurrence of such massive suffering, Timor would “succumb to the pleas of the populace” and have himself crowned king.

It was a lovely plan, and it covered all contingencies, but before it could be implemented, the threat of the Veiled Alliance had to be removed. That meant they had to be forced out into the open. Timor’s informers had heard rumors that some members of the Veiled Alliance were in favor of disclosure, so they could take their rightful place in Tyrian society and work with the new democratic council to help rebuild Tyr. However, certain highly placed members of the Alliance power structure were resistant. They did not trust the templars, and they did not trust Sadira, who was known to have practiced defiler magic in the past, although she had forsworn it.

Somehow, thought Timor, those preservers had to be identified and neutralized. The question was, how? And now there was this new threat, reported by this so-called “herdsman,” Sorak. If Nibenay had, indeed, sent spies to Tyr to search out the city’s weaknesses prior to an invasion, that could disrupt his plans. He had to pursue this investigation with all vigor, despite the fact that he did not believe for even one moment that this Sorak was a simple herdsman.

He had caught a brief glimpse of the sword Sorak wore beneath his cloak. It had a most unusual configuration, and though Timor could not be certain, for the blade had been covered by its scabbard, it appeared to be a metal one. A simple herdsman did not carry such a weapon. It would be way beyond his means. Moreover, a simple herdsman did not carry himself the way Sorak did. The elfling had the bearing of a fighter. There was definitely more to him than met the eye, and Timor wondered if he was not a plant from Nibenay, sent to spy out any potential weakness in the council.

He had assigned some templars to investigate the claims Sorak had brought to the council, for he could afford to take no chances. At the same time, however, he had sent a team of templars to work in shifts and have Sorak watched. As each watcher was relieved, he reported back to Timor on Sorak’s activities. The most recent report had been especially enlightening.

Sorak had been escorted by Captain Zalcor and a squad of city guard to the warrens, so that he might secure some cheap accommodations while ostensibly waiting for the investigation to confirm the validity of his claims. No sooner had Zalcor left, however, than Sorak had made his way straight to the Crystal Spider, and a short while later, Rikus himself had been seen entering the gaming house, as well. This could not be coincidence. It was a well known fact that the half-elf female who operated the gaming house had once been a gladiator, as had Rikus. Undoubtedly, they knew each other. And now Sorak was there, as well. It was a clear indication of collusion. Only, what was their plan?

Was it possible, Timor wondered, that Rikus and Sadira had somehow managed to get wind of his plans for the Night of the Scourging? Then, just as quickly as the thought occurred to him, he dismissed it. If that had been the case, he would surely have been arrested, even the absence of proof would not have stopped Rikus and Sadira from moving against him. Sadira was not above letting the end justify her means. No, it had to be something else. If he was plotting against them, then could they not at the same time be plotting against him?

Neither Rikus nor Sadira made any secret of their distrust and antipathy toward the templars. However, for the moment, the templars had strong support among the people of the city. If Sadira moved against them now, she would have difficulty justifying her actions, and she would be perceived as using Kalak’s methods. On the other hand, if she could make a strong case against the templars...

“Of course,” said Timor to himself. “She plans to accuse us of collusion with these so-called spies from Nibenay. The elfling is her cat’s-paw. The whole thing was contrived to make the templars look like traitors to the city.”

“My lord....”

Timor turned around. One of his templars stood at the entrance to his chambers. “Yes, what is it?”

“We have apprehended two of the spies,” the templar said. “We found one at the merchant house of Kulik, and the other was arrested in the elven market, coming out of the Drunken Giant wineshop. He was observed at several inns and taverns, making inquiries about the Veiled Alliance.”

“Indeed?” said Timor. “Where are they now?”

“Downstairs, my lord, awaiting your pleasure.”

“Excellent. Have them brought in.”

He poured himself some wine and raised the goblet to his lips. A moment later, he heard shouting on the stairs, and then a scuffle. He frowned. There was more shouting, and the sounds of blows falling, then several of his templars entered, accompanied by soldiers from the city guard, dragging the two prisoners. Oddly enough, the prisoners were not so much resisting them as trying to get at one another.

“What is the meaning of this?” Timor said, his voice a whip crack. “How dare you create a disturbance in my home?”

The two men fell silent as they stared at him. Then one turned to glower at the other and spat out, “If you tell him anything, you misbegotten son of a silt Wader, I shall tear out your tongue and feed it to you!”

“Silence!” Timor said sharply. “The only one to make any threats here shall be me.” He turned to the soldiers. “Leave us.”

“But, my lord, these men are dangerous....” the sergeant of the guard protested.

“I said leave us. I shall interrogate these men myself. You are dismissed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The soldiers left, leaving only Timor and his templars with the prisoners, whose hands were bound. Both men glared at him defiantly.

“What are your names?” asked Timor, raising the goblet to his lips once more.

“You tell him nothing, you miserable turncoat!” said the one who had spoken before. The second man lunged at him, and the templars had to grab them both to keep them apart.

“Very well, then,” Timor said, fixing his gaze on the first man. “You shall tell me.”

“Til tell you nothing, templar!”

Timor stirred the wine in the goblet with his forefinger. He mumbled something under his breath. He looked up at the prisoner. “Your name.”

The prisoner spat at him.

Timor grimaced with disgust and wiped away the spittle, then dashed the wine from his goblet into the man’s face. Only it was no longer wine. As the droplets struck the prisoner’s skin, they began to burn into his flesh, and the man screamed, doubling over in pain, unable to raise his hands to his smoking face as the acid ate it away. The second prisoner’s eyes grew wide with fear as the first man fell to his knees, screaming in agony.

“Tour name,” said Timor softly, once again.

“Rokan!” screamed the prisoner. “My name is Rokan!”

Timor softly whispered the counterspell and made a languid pass with his hand. The prisoner abruptly felt the burning stop as the acid turned once again to wine. He remained on his knees, doubled over, whimpering and gasping for breath.

“There now, that was simple, was it not?” said Timor. He turned toward the second prisoner and raised his eyebrows.

“D-Digon!” the man sputtered quickly. “My name is Digon!”

Timor smiled. “You see?” he said. “Things are so much easier when people are cooperative.” He turned back to glance at Rokan, still kneeling, doubled over, on the floor. “You two seem not to Eke each other very much,” he said. “Why is that, I wonder?”

“Because he was my chieftain, and he feels I betrayed him,” said Digon hastily.

Timor raised his eyebrows. “And did you?”

Digon looked down at the floor and nodded. “I had no choice,” he said. “My will was not my own. He made me.”

“Who made you?”

“Sorak, damn his eyes!” said Digon, spitting out the name. “I curse the day I met him!”

“Sorak?” Timor said. “How very interesting. Tell me more.”

After seeing what Timor had just done to Rokan, Digon let the story come tumbling out of him. He told all about the plan the marauders had to ambush the caravan, and how Sorak had run into them while they were posted on lookout duty on the ridge overlooking the city. Timor listened intently as Digon described how easily Sorak had dispatched the other lookouts, leaving only Digon alive, and the templar looked even more interested when Digon described how Sorak had disarmed him and then probed his mind, reading all his thoughts.

“There was nothing I could do, my lord,” said Digon as he finished the story. “He knew that if I tried to go to Rokan and warn him, Rokan would kill me for failing in my task. I had nowhere else to go except to Tyr, for I could not rejoin my comrades, and I knew that if my path crossed with his again, he would read my thoughts and know if I had failed him. The task that he demanded of me did not seem to be so difficult. Go to Tyr and make inquiries, contact the Veiled Alliance and tell them he was coming. That was all, and then I would be free.”

“And you were so afraid of him you dared not disobey?” asked Timor.

Digon shook his head. “You do not know him, my lord templar. The elfling is a powerful master of the Way, and he fights like a fiend. It was worth my life to disobey him.”

“And you say he came down out of the mountains?” Timor asked.

“He must have,” Digon replied. “From our vantage point, we would have seen anyone approaching from any other direction. We never expected anyone to come down out of the mountains. There is nothing up there, no villages, no settlements, nothing.”

“And yet that is where he came from?” Timor asked again.

“I can think of no other explanation, my lord templar,” Digon said.

“Hmmm,” said Timor. “Interesting. Most interesting. So the marauders had been sent to Tyr, to infiltrate spies into the merchant houses and attack the caravan to Altaruk?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Where is the attack meant to take place?”

Digon told him the exact location where the marauders waited.

“And who are the spies?”

Digon told him that, as well, and Timor was fascinated to discover that what he said matched Sorak’s report to the council down to the last detail. That seemed to eliminate the possibility that Sorak himself was a spy from Nibenay, as did the fact that he came down from the Ringing Mountains. Nibenay was dear on the other side of the tablelands. So then what was his game?

“Please, my lord,” Digon pleaded, “I have told you all I know. I beg you, do not kill me. I shall do anything, I am still of value. I can guide your soldiers to where the marauders wait to attack the caravan. I can identify those who are among the caravan party itself.”

“You pathetic, groveling, piece of kank dung,” Rokan said, his voice hoarse as he looked up at his fellow marauder with disgust.

Digon gasped. Rokan’s face was a ruin. Not even his own mother would have recognized him. The acid had eaten deeply into his flesh, in some places clear through to the bone. His face was a horror. With his hands bound behind him, he had not been able to protect himself. By reflex, he had turned his face at the last moment, so that most of the damage had occurred only to one side. One eye had been dissolved, leaving a raw and empty socket. An exposed cheekbone gleamed whitely, and a corner of his mouth had been eaten away, giving him a frightening, permanent rictus, a death’s head grimace. As the drops of acid had run down his cheek, they had etched trails in his flesh, so that it looked as if it had been raked by claws.

“You may kill me if you like, templar,” Rokan said, his one-eyed gaze boring into Digon, “but if the dead can have one last request, set free my hands for but one moment.”

Timor smiled. “I have no intention of killing you, my friend,” he said. “I dislike to waste potentially valuable resources. You possess strong spirit. It is a mean spirit, but it is mean down to the bone. I can always use a man like you. But this pathetic wretch,” he added, turning toward Digon, “has no perceptible value whatsoever.”

“My lord templar, no!” shouted Digon. “I can help you! I can serve you!”

“Your sort would serve any master, for you have no backbone,” Timor said. “I will not soil my hands with you. Your request is granted, Rokan.”

He made a languid motion with his fingers, and Rokan felt his bonds fall away. With a snarl, he launched himself at Digon. His hands still bound, Digon was defenseless. He screamed and tried to kick out at his attacker, but Rokan moved too quickly. He had his hands around Digon’s throat, and as he choked him, he forced him to his knees, then pushed him down flat upon his back and sat astride him. Digon’s mouth was open wide as he gasped in vain for breath. Timor poured himself some more wine, then sat comfortably in a high-backed chair, watching as Rokan took revenge.

With one hand, Rokan continued to apply relentless pressure to Digon’s throat, while with the other, he reached into the man’s mouth and grasped his tongue. With a savage yank, he ripped Digon’s tongue out, then crammed it back into his mouth, forcing it down his throat. The marauder screamed and gagged, both on his own blood and on his tongue.

“Your tongue always was too loose, Digon,” Rokan said. Then his fingers dug in and wrapped themselves tightly around Digon’s trachea. With an abrupt, powerful motion, he tore his throat out.

“I see you keep your word,” said Timor, recalling the marauder’s threat. “A commendable trait.”

Rokan stood and faced him, breathing heavily. “If I thought I could, I would tear out your throat, as well, templar.”

“I have no doubt that you would,” said Timor, “if you thought you could. But why direct your anger at me? I am but the intermediary of your fate. It was Sorak who suborned your late, unlamented comrade and learned all your plans, and it was Sorak who exposed those plans to the Council of Advisors. He gave us your names, he gave us detailed descriptions of you, he told us where you could be found. He warned us of your plan to attack the caravan after it leaves Tyr. Our soldiers will be waiting for them, and they will all be slaughtered to the last man. Your fellow spies will all be brought before me, perhaps even before this night is through. You have journeyed from the Mekillot Mountains all the way to Tyr, only to meet your utter ruin, and it has all been brought about by just one man. Not even a man at that, but an elfling half-breed whom you have never even met”

“It was not the elfling who has ruined my face,” rasped Rokan, his one eye filled with hate.

“No, that is quite true,” said Timor, “but look at it another way. You and your confederates were all described to us in great detail, and that description was passed out to every soldier in the city guard. Your face was known. Now, no one would recognize you. When you consider it that way, I did you a favor.”

“And you expect my thanks?”

“No, not really,” Timor replied, “only your obedience, which I could easily compel. However, a man serves a master best when he serves himself, as well.

You have lost everything, Rokan. I offer you the chance to take revenge on the one who laid you low.”

“Sorak,” Rokan said violently. “Yes, Sorak. I can tell you where to find him. And when the rest of your confederates are brought in, they shall have to choose between converting to my cause or dying. I think we both know which way they will choose.”

“You desire this rifling’s death?” said Rokan. “Consider it done. I need no help. I can take care of him myself.”

“Oh, I think not,” said Timor. “The elfling is a master of the Way, and apparently quite skilled with a blade, as well. It would be best to take no chances. Perform one service for me, and for yourself, and you will have proved your worth.”

“And then?” said Rokan.

“And then you will find the rewards of serving me far greater than looting caravans or spying for Nibenay.”

“What of my face?” asked Rokan. “Can you use your sorcery to heal it?”

“Perhaps,” said Timor with a smile. His fingers played with the stem of the goblet “In time.”

“How much time?” Rokan asked. “Why should I believe you? You ask much, but promise little.”

“I promise more than you could ever imagine, you fool,” said Timor. “As for restoring your face, consider it an incentive.”

“Defiler magic is still outlawed in Tyr,” Rokan said. “I am sure the council would be fascinated to know that the senior templar is a secret practitioner of defiler sorcery.”

Timor chuckled. “Yes, I am sure they would, but you will never tell them.”

“What is to stop me? You could kill me anytime you wished. It would only spare me the suspense of waiting.”

“Killing a man is a very simple matter,” Timor replied. “Using him constructively is more creative, and ultimately more rewarding. As a leader yourself, you understand that as well as I. You may not be afraid of death, but you are a survivor. You are even arrogant enough to attempt bartering with your betters. I respect that. But I am the future of Tyr, Rokan, and without me, you have no future. Observe.”

Timor reached out casually, and mumbling a quick spell, he brought his fingers and thumb together, as if squeezing something between them.

Rokan felt his throat constrict. He grabbed his neck and tried to cry out, but nothing except a feeble croak escaped his lips. He could not speak. All he could manage was a rasping, grunting sort of sound.

“Imagine your future, Rokan,” Timor said. “Deprived of speech, your face a horrid ruin, you would be reduced to begging in the streets. Sitting there and croaking like a misshapen lizard, hoping some passer-by will not be too repelled by your appearance to pity you and drop a measly ceramic in your palm. There are worse punishments than death, Rokan. I could simply leave you like this, and let you live.”

He pulled his fingers apart, and Rokan gasped for breath and broke into a fit of coughing.

“I think we understand each other, do we not?” asked Timor softly.

“Yes, my lord,” said Rokan, finding his voice again.

“Excellent,” said Timor with a faint smile. He spoke to his templars. “Take this man downstairs and see that he is well fed and rested. Prepare a room for him in the servants’ quarters. He will require weapons. I am sure he is best qualified to tell you what he needs.” He turned to Rokan. “They will see you to your quarters. Remain there until I send for you. And think about the elfling, Sorak. Your downfall was his doing. His will be yours.”

As the templars took Rokan away, Timor poured himself some more wine. He was beginning to feel warm and satisfied inside. Things were progressing nicely, he thought. Very nicely, indeed.