5 

Staring hard into the rainy dusk, Kien shifted his sword and called out, “I am Kien Lantec—Tracelands’ judge-advocate to General Rol! Identify yourselves!”

This pack of miscreants didn’t have to know he was in training. Let them think the entire army would be after them if he died.

Kien’s challenge prompted less coherent sounds. Scuffling. And a splash. Followed by a boyish whine. “Ya don’t havta take off m’ ear!”

“We should!” a man’s deep voice snarled. “Get up! Stop whimpering and catch that horse.”

Three shadowed men emerged from the evening’s gloom, every bit as rain-bedraggled as Kien. The smallest shadow emitted a beckoning whistle and scurried off in the direction of Kien’s horse, while the taller forms lifted their hands. One man called, “Sir, no offense was intended. Let us explain, and we’ll make whatever reparations you demand.”

Kien approached them warily, leveling his sword to their throats. “Talk!”

The man obliged, hands still upraised, his voice low and sensible. “In the past few months we’ve been fighting off robbers. We’ve never had trouble with such until recently. The town’s council agreed to form a night watch. Otris—that brainless louse!—was overeager and took aim at you.”

“More than took aim,” Kien snapped. “He struck me! What would have become of your town if I’d been trampled and killed for this Otris’s stupidity? Crippling fines at the very least, with Otris slapped into chains!”

“Sorry, sir,” the other shadowed form offered. “Might we step out of the rain and properly introduce ourselves?”

Tempted by the idea, Kien asked, “Can you manage introductions while keeping your hands lifted?”

“Suppose so,” the first man agreed, his tone gloomy as the weather. “I’m Chully, he’s Giff. Not the best welcome to ToronSea, sir. Our apologies. Follow us, please.”

They slogged along the road in silence, until Otris’s voice lifted in the distance, cheerful for a youth who’d nearly committed manslaughter. “I’ve the horse! What now?”

The second man yelled, “Put it in the stable and be sure it’s rubbed down and covered. Then drag your worthless hide to the inn.”

A public inn? Kien grimaced against the easing raindrops, hoping the place was clean. More lights came into view, framed by small windows in stone houses and stout, short towers. ToronSea would have looked cozy and welcoming if he hadn’t been assaulted at the town’s limits. Anyway, best to not enter a building with his sword drawn. No sense in provoking ill will before explanations had been made.

Keeping his movements slow and hushed, Kien slid his sword into its scabbard as the first man kicked at the door and called out, “Hey, lift the latch!”

Following a brief delay, the door creaked open. A low light shone from within, accompanied by convivial voices and the doorman’s uproarious greeting, “Chully! Giff!” He slugged each man on the back. “What’s wrong? The latch wasn’t down. What’re ya doin’ with yer hands all upraised? A new dance, eh?” The doorman waggled his fingers and turned, shaking his rump.

“We’ll dance all over you if you don’t move,” Chully snarled. “Your son is acting like his father again!”

“Otris?” The doorman blinked at Kien as he followed Chully and Giff into the warm firelit room. “Well, I don’t see blood anywhere. Guess he’s still alive.”

“You might wish he weren’t.” Giff turned to face Kien, revealing ordinary features and a remorseful expression. “May we be seated, sir?”

“I believe so.” Kien hung his dripping cloak on a peg near the door. An ache worked through his shoulder, tempting him to rub the bruised area and test his arm’s range of motion. But not in front of the inn’s half dozen other patrons. Normal-seeming people, it appeared. However, the most normal-seeming people could become animals, given certain provocations.

Evidently noticing that Kien had replaced his sword, Chully and Giff lowered their hands.

Chully motioned to tables and benches along one of the stone walls. “Anywhere here, sir. Please yourself. The place is quiet tonight.”

Kien chose a table and sat facing the other tables. Chully and Giff settled on the benches opposite him. With cooperation from all parties concerned, Kien hoped to fulfill the Infinite’s orders this evening and leave for Munra in the morning—he must speak with Akabe of Siphra as soon as possible. Before he could say a word, the doorman leaned on the table. “What’s my Otris got to do with anything? Is he in trouble?”

“Probably not,” Kien said. The two men opposite him visibly exhaled in unison, their expressions relaxing a bit. “However, I have a few questions for you all.”

Giff wrinkled his nose. “I suppose we could answer them.”

“I’m certain you can.” The scent of food reached Kien now—aromatic enough to make his mouth water. “Does this inn serve meals to travelers?”

“One sixteen-noble or a Trace-bit buys a good meal,” Chully said. “But it’s fish stew and bread most evenings.” He motioned to the nosy doorman. “Rit, you’re buying this man’s evening meal. Otris sling-stoned him off his horse. It’s the least you can do.”

Sling-stoned? Kien lifted his eyebrows, then hurriedly covered his surprise. A sling-throw, properly executed, should have broken his shoulder or stopped his heart. It seemed young Otris needed more practice with the weapon. Thank You, Infinite!

“The least I can do?” Rit let his mouth sag open, then protested, “The boy should pay, not me!”

Exasperation crossed both Chully and Giff’s faces. Chully unlaced his coin pouch from his belt and upended the leather bag on the table. An assortment of Tracelandic and Siphran coins clinked onto the polished tabletop. “There! Take enough for three and order us each a bowl and a cup. Then leave us alone.”

Rit grumbled. “Ya could’ve spoke a cup for me, seein’ how I’m runnin’ yer errands.” But he ambled off, the coins in his fist.

Kien eyed the Siphran coins. Most likely they’d been brought into the Tracelands by Siphra’s Atean faction. “I see you carry Siphran coins. I’ve heard ToronSea has accepted refugees after the Siphran crisis.”

Chully shifted on the bench. “‘The Siphran crisis.’ A pretty way to say it, yes.”

Giff glanced over his shoulder at the inn’s other occupants, then gave Kien a frown. “You said you’re a general’s judge or some-such. Why are you here? What have we done that the military is interested in ToronSea?”

“The military isn’t interested in ToronSea.” Kien leaned forward. “The Infinite is.”

Chully snorted. Giff stared. Rit returned with three steaming mugs and a grin. “There, y’are! Steeped char root with syrup. I’ll bring our stew in a blink or three.”

“Thank you.” Kien chose a random mug and hoped it wasn’t poisoned. He sipped, then set down the mug and waited. No burning. No throat-closing. No giddiness. He drank a bit more.

And he watched his reluctant hosts. Mentioning the Infinite had made them nervous. Chully drank. Giff cleared his throat. “What would you–with your military sword and your fine East Guard speech—know of the Infinite?”

“Enough to ride here at His command for almost two days in the rain, when I’d rather not, to speak to people I’ve never met.”

Chully paused, holding his mug in midair. “Meaning us?”

Was the man going to throw the drink at him? “Do you follow the Infinite?”

“Some people have honor enough to follow the ancient ways,” Giff muttered.

“And some don’t,” Chully added, with a scowl at Giff that threatened a clash.

Kien took another drink, evaluating his argumentative hosts. They seemed to be friends, though with a few unsettled quarrels. Not helpful. Perhaps he’d been too certain of finishing this business tonight. Even so, he must hurry matters. “If I need to speak to those leading the Infinite’s faithful here in ToronSea, where would I go to find them?”

Giff remained silent. Chully thumped his now-emptied mug on the table. “Why?”

His patience thinning, Kien said, “Because they’re being tempted to follow the ways of the Atea-worshipers from Siphra. The Infinite sent me to warn any strays that He is displeased.”

Both men stared at him as if he were the bumbling Rit. Giff leaned forward. “You’re claiming to speak for the Infinite?”

“Will you listen if I do?”

Chully laughed. “What if no one believes you?”

“That is their problem.” Kien supposed it would be counterproductive to pull out his sword again. Though the impulse intensified as the irritating Rit trotted over, bearing a tray. With a flourish, Rit displayed four wooden bowls of thick stew, spoons, a round loaf of bread on a board skewered by a knife, and a slender clay pitcher. He thumped the bowls, spoons, and bread on the table and plopped himself on the bench beside Kien.

“So, my Otris dealt ya a wallop?” He chortled, seeming pleased by the thought.

“Yes. Fortunately, I’ve survived.” Kien watched as Rit lifted the miniature pitcher and poured a golden stream of sauce over his stew and—without asking—over Kien’s. Fermented, oily fish sauce by the smell of the stuff. Was it considered rude in ToronSea to refuse the local food? Kien stirred the sauce into his stew, then lifted a spoonful, hoping that hunger would make this mess edible. Not bad. Hearty. Flavorful and a bit salty.

Encouraged, he spoke to Chully and Giff again, determined to speed along his mission in order to seek help in Siphra for Ela. “I was also instructed to speak to certain refugees you’ve sheltered here.”

Rit swallowed, then stuck his spoon into the stew, where it remained upright. “Why? Ya sound as if it’s a bad thing that we’ve offered a home to th’ poor Siphrans.”

“Whether it’s a bad thing or not depends on the Siphrans themselves, doesn’t it?”

“Well, ye won’t find ’em here tonight.” Rit lifted his spoon. “They’re at worship, with some from the town. Otris’s taken by their ceremonies.”

Chully was frowning. “Quite taken, it seems. I’d wager he’s abandoned the night watch.”

“Not that it matters,” Giff added. “He’s caused enough turmoil for one night.”

Had Otris forgotten to tend Father’s horse? Even if the poor beast couldn’t match an eyelash to Scythe, it deserved a thorough grooming and proper food. Not to mention that all of Kien’s gear was still tied to the creature. He swallowed the last of his stew, then stood and bowed his head slightly toward the others, taking leave. “Which way to the public stables?”

Chully grunted. “Four houses to the right, turn, then three buildings to the right.”

“Thank you.” Kien lifted his cloak from the peg near the door, flung it on, and hurried outside. The rain had departed, leaving a fog that misted his face and hair. Counting his way past the houses, then turning right, Kien rushed down the street and found the stables.

Worse, he found them unbarred and unattended. If Father’s horse was missing—

Inside, an oil lamp barely glimmered within a stone niche high in one wall. Kien waited until his eyes had adjusted, then checked the stalls. Father’s horse was in the third stall, evidently untouched and still bearing Kien’s gear. Sighing with relief, he unburdened the creature, groomed it, then found water and hay. Good hay, he noted. Sweet scented and dry. Enough like East Guard’s that he needn’t fear colic, he was sure. A sick horse couldn’t carry him to Siphra.

Finished with the horse, Kien shouldered his gear and trudged from the stable. Good thing Otris was honest. Or, more likely, distracted by the chance to escape night watch in favor of the Atean ceremonies.

The ceremonies. Was Otris in attendance?

Kien paused in the misty night, listening intently. Nothing. He walked farther into the town until remote chanting caught his attention. Repetitive, almost lulling rhythms echoing from a wooden slant-roofed structure, unlike the other stone structures in ToronSea. Surely these were the Ateans.

Kien glanced around. No one. And the mist would obscure anyone trying to see him from a distance. He placed his gear in the darkness beneath a tree, then crossed the clearing before the slant-roofed structure and studied its walls. Several narrow backlit ventilation slats gleamed just beneath the roof’s edge, but there were no windows. To be expected.

Ritual strangulations demanded concealment.

Obviously, if he wished to halt any murderous rites, then he ought to approach the door as anyone else would. Thin slivers of light showed beneath the door and near its hinges. Kien focused on those slight gaps at the hinges. He crept up the stone steps and leaned down, shifting until he gained a fractional view of the hall’s interior.

Lamps rimmed what he could see of the walls. As for the worshipers . . .

Granted, he saw no evidence of ritual strangulations being performed. But murder was, perhaps, the only thing Kien didn’t glimpse within the hall.

As the pulse-beats of the chants intensified, some of the worshipers ran blades over their arms and chests, allowing blood to flow down their skin. Others were disrobing and indiscriminately reaching for partners. And there was young Otris, reveling in the midst of it all.

Kien winced and turned away from the door. This was Atean worship? An orgy of bloodletting and intimate intermingling?

Appealing rites, in the most primitive way. Provided one didn’t, or couldn’t, consider the potentially dire disease-sharing consequences of such licentious behavior. Shuddering, Kien hurried to collect his gear. He felt unclean, longing to scour those fragmented images from his eyes and his thoughts.

No wonder the Infinite had sent him here.

Tomorrow, he must deal with the Ateans. Lifting his knapsack, Kien gritted his teeth against the stabbing ache in his shoulder and against images of the worshipers capering through his thoughts.

How could he speak to those reprobates civilly with such dissolute images frolicking in his mind?

Impossible!

If the Ateans said or did anything offensive tomorrow, he would run them from ToronSea at sword point.