| |
WOMEN ARE THE GIVERS of children. Respect them and the sacrifices they make on behalf of us all. To dishonor a woman is to dishonor your own mother.
—Zorot Durantis, trade ambassador
* * *
CLOAKED AND MASKED bodies packed the underground amphitheater. Each wore a nondescript, deliberately simple mask, and the hooded cloaks were simple wool. Incense hung in the air, and people spoke in hushed whispers. The entire affair seemed solemn yet officious. Sensi attended four gatherings prior to this evening; each time the meeting place was slightly larger, to accommodate the increasing numbers. Attendance had doubled in as many months. With each meeting, the atmosphere sobered, and the gatherings gradually became ceremonial in practice. The attendees spoke excitedly among themselves in anticipation of the proceedings.
Sensi engaged in simple, even inane, chat with the woman to his left. He had no idea whom he talked to, which was the point. Short of recognizing voices, there were only two ways to know the true identity of a person here—to have invited or been invited by him or her. Sensi had brought no new recruits to the secret circle. As a consequence, he knew only the twins for certain.
"But when it comes to a hanging garden," concluded the mystery woman. "I find the best moss to be grown here in the Heights. Imported from the Midlands is cheaper but of lesser quality."
"Considering the cost of dragon shipments, I’m surprised anything from the Midlands is cheaper here," he replied.
"Well, the imported moss is inferior but abundant. To them it is essentially worthless, so to even get a bit of coin for it is something to the Midlanders."
"Makes sense to me," said Sensi. "I suppose if I could gather up something worthless and sell it for cash, I would do it too."
A delighted giggle escaped from behind the plain white mask. The woman covered the thin line of the mouth with her hand out of habit.
A man in the same gray robe and white mask stepped to the center of the stage that occupied the amphitheater. He tapped on the floor a simple wooden staff to gather everyone’s attention. The various conversations died off, and the strangely clandestine meeting came to order.
"Fellow Unknowns," the robed figure said, "we have gathered here to reaffirm our goal to rid our society, the greatest on Godsland, of the superstitions and religious claptrap which holds us back from achieving true greatness. While we are assured people of the Heights have created the greatest of living societies, we also know for certain that the ancients, our direct ancestors, achieved far more in this world than we have ever dreamed."
The meetings had been growing steadily for months and were getting better organized all the time. For an organization that ostensibly didn’t have a leader, things were coming together nicely. The speaker continued.
"Despite our lofty ambitions, there are those who would oppose us. Those who cling to outmoded ways and obsolete traditions. Those who would keep us in a state of perpetual darkness and ignorance. Those with minds so closed, they cannot understand when the world has moved on and left them behind."
The man paused for dramatic effect. An angry muttering moved throughout the crowd; Sensi could tell the sermon reached them. Sensi almost felt something himself. The words were passionate, but his cynicism ran too deep to allow him to respond.
"So we remain Unknown, so we may stay hidden and continue our work. That we may bring a brighter, more glorious future to our descendants. That we may challenge the accomplishments of the ancients—nay! Eclipse them!"
His words brought cries of agreement from the crowd, whose fervor infected the air.
"The unenlightened will hold us down until our doom is upon us," said the orator. "The priests and elites would keep us ignorant, forbidding us from the dangerous magic of the ancients. They say it is evil, unnatural, and was the destruction of our ancestors.
"But we know it to be untrue! The ancients were powerful, yes, and perhaps even magical, but they were not evil and destructive. By studying what they have left to us, we may advance ourselves and our people and leave a great legacy for our descendants."
The speaker shook the staff in his hand as if challenging the gods.
"The priests will tell you the ancients were destroyed because they dared challenge the power of the gods. But we know there are no gods! There never were! Why do we restrain ourselves based upon old superstitions? Why do we refute our greatest birthright, bequeathed to us over thousands of years? Why forsake power for imaginary beings?"
Sensi began to enjoy the rhetoric. This kind of talk circulated throughout much of the Heights these days. Certainly many were still devout servants of the gods and the religious orders that espoused them, but many were also tiring of the priesthood’s influence and that of the Great Families over the affairs of the city.
"We will not give up. That is our answer," intoned the robed orator. He tapped his staff on the stage for emphasis. "We are Unknown. We will persevere. We will overcome. We will inherit."
The man bowed with grace and dignity and backed off the stage.
The audience didn’t react at first. Then a few began clapping hesitantly. Some more joined and before long, the entire room enthusiastically applauded the speech.
"Quite rousing, don’t you think?" said the mystery lady. She yelled slightly to be heard.
"I agree! Can’t wait to see what the next gathering will be like," Sensi responded.
* * *
WHEN SENSI MET WITH the twins later, the euphoria still gripped him. The sheer energy and excitement fostered by the speaker had rubbed off on him, despite himself. Lornavus and Altavus, however, were their usual reserved selves.
"Well, tonight’s gathering was certainly something to see," said Sensi. "I might have been skeptical at first, but the speaker really changed the tone of the meeting." A tray laden with goblets and a decanter sat nearby. Sensi poured himself some wine.
"Agreed. His powers of speech are compelling," said Lornavus. The twins had another tray, this one full of food, between them and were busy picking at a pair of roasted fowl.
"It was also interesting to see all of the Unknown in one place," said Sensi. "There’s getting to be quite a few of us."
Altavus raised an eyebrow at him. "What makes you think those were all of the Unknown? That was but one small gathering. Others just like it are happening all over the city. Our message is being repeated, and the people are receptive."
Lornavus added, "It also wouldn’t be smart to gather every single member in the same place at the same time. Far too easy for the movement to be wiped out in one fell swoop by a single informant. No, we continue to gather in small groups, like you saw tonight."
"Small?" replied Sensi.
"That is but a fraction of our total number," said Lornavus. "Before much longer, it will be impossible for us to remain hidden."
"When that occurs, the true purpose of the meetings will become clear," chimed in Altavus. The twins exchanged a cold smile, the nature of which sent a shiver down Sensi’s back. The fat man shook himself deliberately and continued to speak.
"There is another complication," he said, chasing the smiles from the faces of the twins. "Some matter about a missing Guard."
* * *
"ARE YOU SURE THIS IS correct?" asked Onin, his skepticism obvious.
Fargin shrugged. "It’s the only lead we’ve found," he said. "It’s the last place anyone saw him."
"What would Rabbash be doing in the underbelly?" asked Hangric. Officially the king didn’t acknowledge the existence of the underbelly, so officially the Guard had no business there. To be caught there might force the king to acknowledge the existence of the place, and thus the Guards avoided it.
"Whatever it might be, it must have been important," concluded Onin. He looked at the other two friends imploringly. "He wouldn’t do such a thing on a whim."
"Could he have been blackmailed?" said Hangric. "Extortion would explain why he had to go there. He could have been ordered against his will."
"I’ve never known him to do anything worth the trouble of blackmailing," said Fargin. All three recognized the truth of the statement. Rabbash had been inconveniently scrupulous during their academy days, even refusing to cheat during academic exams.
"We might get away with it, but there would be a price to pay," Rabbash would say. "Mark my words."
Each friend seemed to have those remarks echoing in their memories. Onin decided to break the silence and utter what each had been thinking.
"If we’re going to go into the underbelly," he said, "we’re going to need some nondescript clothes. And some gear. Nothing that will mark us as Guards."
"No armor," said Fargin. "Armor will make us stand out there as much as wearing our uniforms."
"I have a blacksmith cousin who has a few simple swords he can be convinced to part with," said Hangric. "Some daggers, too, I imagine."
"What about a guide?" said Onin. "We’re sure to get lost down there without one. Stories say it goes on for miles."
"Rabbash certainly wouldn’t have gone without a guide," said Fargin. "Although he was seen entering the underbelly by himself."
"Then he must have met a guide on the inside," said Hangric. "How do we know who to talk to?"
"The watch," said Onin, scratching his beard. "The watchmen come and go from the underbelly. They must know someone. Come to think of it, I wonder if a watchman could be persuaded into leading us there."
"Who knows someone in the watch?" asked Hangric.
The three of them exchanged glances, and they surmised none of them did.
"Well, then," said Fargin. "It can’t be so hard to make friends with the watch, can it?"
"I suppose we’re going to find out," said Onin. He drained his ale. "But not tonight. I have to be home. Can we meet here tomorrow night, and we’ll plan further?"
His friends gave their assent. Then Onin was off to his home.
* * *
HOWLE, THE MANESPIKE steward, met Onin at the door, as usual. He had a knack for anticipating Onin’s arrivals, always on hand to take his cloak, apprise him of the situation in the manor, and otherwise see to his needs. He also seemed to know when Onin would be hungry or thirsty, and always had food or drink on hand at the right time.
It being a warm night, Onin had no cloak, and comestibles were far from his mind. To his unspoken question, the steward said, “Her ladyship is on the terrace."
Onin headed straight there; though, in honesty, he still felt uneasy in her presence. Things had improved dramatically with the happy news of the new dragon clutch, and they could be in the same room without squabbling incessantly, but Onin still had the nagging feeling Yolan didn’t like him much.
The terrace provided a spectacular view of the mountainside below them. The Cloud Forest formed a base around the city, like a protective ring of the brightest colors, from emerald green to sapphire blue to the richest purple of amethyst. The only sounds to reach them were the distant cries of birds and forest creatures from below and the whispering breeze ever-present in the Heights.
Yolan reclined on a divan, looking like a lazy cat. She was absolutely alluring, and her shapely legs were revealed from beneath the folds of her robes. Yolan's usual gaggle of servants attended her—a pair of serving girls and the well-muscled fan-bearer, despite the cool breeze. She dazzled him with her smile when he approached. Despite all she put him through, Onin still got weak in the knees when she looked at him in such a way.
"Ah, my husband," she said. "Come and grace your wife with a kiss."
Onin leaned forward willingly, bringing his lips closer to hers, but at the last moment, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him onto the divan with her. Their lips met and the moment seemed to go on for a long time. Onin struggled not to crush the slight woman under his full weight. He certainly liked the way her lips felt on his own. But just as he was beginning to enjoy the intimacy, she pushed him away.
"All right, get off of me, you great oaf," she said. Her tone sounded playful, but Onin sensed the sincerity in her words. As usual, she could shift from one extreme to another in seconds. Onin had no sense of boundaries with her. Acceptable behavior one day would be considered a great offense on the next.
Onin sat up on the edge of the divan while she beckoned to a servant girl.
"Bring me the new dresses," she commanded, and the girl scurried to a pile of objects to the side of the terrace. No doubt the pile represented the day’s “spoils,” as his wife often described her purchases. "I visited the most amazing dressmaker this morning. He’s only been operating his own shop for a year, but his designs are fabulous. Every lady of courtly bearing is waiting for one of his newest dresses, and I got six of them today!"
She clearly took great joy in her victory over her peers, and her voice dripped with pride. Onin watched with feigned interest as she displayed each of the gowns to him, pointing out the intricacies of the patterns or the accessories she had picked to accompany them or the nuances of the stitching. They did seem fine to him, even beautiful, but the true genius of the dressmaker remained lost on him. He smiled in thanks when one of the serving girls placed a goblet of wine in his hand, unasked. The girl responded to his grateful look with a shy smile and curtsy.
"I’m hungry," announced Yolan. She began to look around, and the other serving girl presented a tray of fruits and cheeses. Yolan surveyed the tray and wrinkled her nose. Her voice took on a petulant tone.
"I want eggs," she said. Her bottom lip turned down in the slightest pout, and Onin smiled despite himself.
"Eggs?" he repeated.
"And yogurt," she added. Her face brightened. "Made from goat’s milk."
"Eggs and yogurt made from goat’s milk," Onin said. "Do you want them cooked together?"
"No," she wrinkled her nose at him. It only made her more adorable. "I want the eggs poached and the yogurt served separately. And a steak. A rare steak."
Onin wondered if she just enjoyed testing him. Still, he grasped at anything to improve their relations. "Howle!" he yelled.
The steward was present within moments. He stepped onto the terrace, not moving more than a foot beyond the threshold.
"Yes, m’lord?"
"Some poached eggs, a rare steak, and some goat’s yogurt for m’lady," said Onin. "We have all of those things on hand, yes?"
"Indeed, we do, sir," Howle said and departed the terrace promptly.
Good old Howle, thought Onin.
* * *
ONIN ARRIVED LATE AT the chosen tavern, the Dancing Dove. Fargin waved him over to a corner table as he entered the place. After some discreet inquiries, this location had turned up as a tavern favored by the watchmen. Perhaps it was a bit more rowdy than most places, specifically because it catered to men of the watch. After all, who was going to show up and break up any scuffles? Onin took his seat and ordered ale from the passing barmaid, who gave him a bored look in response.
"How goes it so far?" asked Onin.
"Seems to be moving along," said Fargin. "No one has taken serious notice of our presence here. Apparently we are unrecognized."
As a member of the Guard, moving around without drawing attention was often difficult. Many members of the elite order were prominent public figures and recognized almost everywhere in the city. While none of the circle of friends had such distinction, they could be known by sight to total strangers.
A boisterous outburst came from the back of the tavern’s main room. Onin looked quizzically in that direction then at Fargin.
"Hangric," they both said together.
"He’s making friends," Onin added.
Onin took his ale and went to observe. There were about a dozen people huddled around a table, with two figures seated across from one another. Their arms were locked together in a contest of strength, muscles bulging and faces turned red with exertion. Onin recognized Hangric just as the big man slammed his adversary’s hand to the table with a crash. Hangric threw his arms in the air and bellowed his triumph. When he spied Onin, his eyes lit up.
"Onin, old friend!" Hangric shouted and in an instant jumped out of his seat and had Onin wrapped in a bear hug. Hangric belched in Onin’s face while embracing him, and Onin swooned slightly from the reek of ale. Hangric just as abruptly released him and spun around to the man he’d just been arm wrestling.
"Caris! This is the friend I was talking about," said Hangric. His voice was slurred and his balance unsteady. "We must have another drink together and get you two acquainted."
The man peered at Onin owlishly. He was stocky, with thick arms, and his beard was shot with gray. He wasn’t one to bet against Hangric, but he would have given this man good odds in a test of strength.
Apparently deciding he liked the look of Onin, Caris extended his hand in greeting. "Caris." He slurred so badly that Onin couldn’t make it out completely. He was glad Hangric had spoken the name first.
"Onin," he said and clasped the man’s hand.
With one giant stride, Hangric was between them, an arm around each of their necks. "Now, Caris," said Hangric. "A bet is a bet."
"Aye, lad," said Caris. "You won but don’t rub it in."
Hangric detached himself and held his hands up in front of him. "Surely not, surely not. I am just excited about my winnings."
"Winnings?" said Caris. The grizzled watchman looked incredulous through the drunken stupor. "I thought you were joking. Who in their right mind wants to go there?"
Hangric grinned at Onin, obviously gloating over his success.
"Oh, we are not in our right minds," said Hangric with slurred conviction.