The refugees came, just as Merros had predicted. Well, Merros and nearly everyone else she had spoken to. As the Empress, Nachia did her best to make certain that they were taken care of.
There were a great number of landowners in the city, and many of them were outraged at the notion of having strangers coming into Canhoon and taking up residence.
The innkeepers and the owners of apartments, however, didn’t seem to have as much trouble with the idea. They seemed quite pleased by the notion of increasing their prices.
Some things, she felt, you simply could not do anything about.
Adding to the interesting aspects of the situation was a large coalition of landowners who were currently arguing among themselves while she watched. They did not know she was watching, of course. She was hidden away in one of Desh’s secret areas. She could see them but they could not see her. They also couldn’t see the sorcerer, who was standing beside her.
“Why exactly are they fighting?” she asked him.
“Some of them think it’s inappropriate to charge newcomers more money than they would normally charge and others are determined to see the prices increased throughout the city.” Desh crossed his arms and shook his head. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, of course, but never on this scale.”
“The ones who argue for keeping the prices the same, who are they?”
“Followers of Etrilla and Luhnsh, apparently. The priests have been busy trying to remind people that the gods are there and will help those who are good to their fellows.” Desh frowned. “Which reminds me, Majesty. We are now receiving rumors from the east about a rather large gathering of the faithful led by a man called the Pilgrim. It seems he’s gathering quite a following from the far east and heading in this direction.”
“How far east?”
“Elda, Danaher and even Morwhen.”
Nachia nodded her head. Morwhen was so far away that she had never been allowed to visit the place. Apparently barbarians ran the area, or at least they had in the past. It was hard to keep up with the areas of the Empire that were so very distant.
“Do you think these people are friends or foes, Desh?”
In the room they were looking into, a dark-haired woman raised her voice and stood up, causing several of those around her to look at her as if she had lost her mind. She pointed first at one of the men and then at another, a round-bellied man who had tried on several occasions to get the property taxes lowered, and who usually claimed that he was near poverty. For a desperate man he wore a great deal of finery.
“She looks familiar. Who is she?”
“That is the woman Merros is spending his time with. The widow of Wollis March. Dretta, I believe, is the name. You met her son and sent him off to the Mounds.”
“No, no. You sent him to the Mounds. I merely approved your decision.” She would not let the old fool rewrite the truth on her. That had been the folly of her cousin and not one she intended to mirror.
“Semantics.” He waved a dismissive hand. “In any event, she was wise enough to buy up a few pieces of land before the worst started. She is likely going to make a good deal of coin in the coming months.”
Nachia frowned. “What side does she argue for?”
“Leaving prices as they are and helping out the newcomers.”
“Well. Then I suppose I like her.”
“Why wouldn’t you like her, Majesty?” Desh did not turn and look at her, but his eyes left the increasing agitation of the crowd on the other side of their hideaway. “Are you planning to choose the general’s next romantic partner?”
“Hardly.” She felt herself blush a bit and looked away, but she also saw the smile on Desh’s face. He knew.
“Speaking of romantic partners, we still have to consider the viable candidates for you.”
“Absolutely not. There is a war on and I have no time for looking at possible mates.”
Desh said nothing to that and she continued looking away. “What will we do about this ‘Pilgrim’ and his followers?”
“We need to have a proper discussion with the church leaders. I know how little you want to risk their wrath, but we have to, and as much as I like Merros Dulver, I don’t believe he’s the right person to gather the elders together.”
“Then perhaps you could?”
“At least half of the churches look at sorcery as an affront to their gods,” Desh pointed out. “I should rather not risk being tortured or worse in the name of any deities.”
“Well, then I suppose that leaves me.”
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
Nachia sighed. “I will require the presence of my First Advisor.”
“Naturally.”
“Does the general’s concubine have any preferred deities that we know of?”
“By all the gods, Nachia. I don’t even believe they have that sort of relationship.”
Nachia smiled. That question had successfully been answered.
She didn’t know exactly why it was important that she know the details of Merros’s love life, but she most definitely wanted to know.
He was a tall man, broad of shoulder and lean of waist. He walked with the confidence of a well-trained warrior, but he did not strut as so many did when they felt invincible. He had seen too much in his time and now he would see more.
There were gods to meet with and this was the place where he was most likely to find them. This was where the temples to the gods rose highest and where the greatest numbers of followers could be found.
He was a Pilgrim and his quest was a holy one.
He had much to discuss with the gods and time was growing short. He had to return to Canhoon as soon as he could if he were to help the gods with their sacred task.
Eyes that had seen the Empire before it was old looked upon the city of Goltha with an odd blend of pity and contempt.
They did not know. They could not know. The people ahead of him had been raised in ignorance. He intended to refresh their memories, though there was no reason to think they would thank him for the education.
The Pilgrim looked out across the valley ahead and frowned. He and his followers had a great deal of traveling to do yet, and he had not gathered enough of the faithful to take care of his appointed task.
Well to the east of the Blasted Lands, in an area of Fellein that had never once tasted the ashes of the ruined territory, several towns and cities gathered along the shores of the Empire’s largest fresh water lake, Gerhaim.
Lake Gerhaim was spoken of many times by poets and scholars alike. Spanning an area large enough that the earliest settlers thought they had found a sea, the body of water had gathered thousands of people to its shores and in time those thousands had spread, building towns and finally cities.
The largest of those cities was Goltha, a place built largely from stone and fortified by walls that were legendary in their strength. Over the years Goltha had been attacked numerous times and repelled all comers.
In time the city of Goltha became the country of Goltha, and in turn that country became a part of the Fellein Empire. Goltha grew larger both as a city and as a country when the Empire came along. It was in Goltha, a city nearly at the center of the Empire, that the highest buildings had been raised. It was in Goltha that, according to the most common wisdom, all roads in the Empire met.
Goltha lay ahead of him and offered possibilities.
Behind him the faithful were moving on, heading toward Canhoon. He did not doubt that they would reach the city without him. They understood how important what they did was, and he had faith.
He had to have faith.
The sky ahead was dark with storm clouds.
“Sarmin.”
The woman he called for moved to his side. She had been with him since he’d killed the men who were planning on harming her. Not because she had anything they needed, but simply because they were bored. He had followed a trail of bodies and come across them as they were attacking her farmhouse. Her husband was also alive as a result of his actions, but he was further back, hindered by the damage done to his leg.
Sarmin was strong in body and in faith. She was a devout follower of Plith and insisted that the Pilgrim’s arrival was the answer to her prayers. So far he had not been able to dissuade her of that notion.
He had not tried very hard. The faithful were necessary.
“Keep them on track, please. I go to Goltha now. I believe we can finally gather enough of the faithful there. Time is short.”
“We could go with you. We could show them the way.”
“No. They must come willingly and they must not be intimidated into this. Had I come to you with four hundred people behind me, what would you have said?”
Sarmin looked down. “I’d have likely run away.”
“The same is true anywhere. Strength in numbers is not the same as strength in faith.”
“I will strive to keep the faithful on the right path.” She lowered her head.
“Lemblo, Powl and Longrid should be able to help you in this.” He paused for a moment. “Sarmin, I am grateful for all that you do.”
“We all live to serve the gods.” She looked at him with an uncomfortable level of affection and then moved away.
The first blade came from his left, carried by a boy no older than ten if he had to guess. The second came from behind and that was the one meant to kill him. The boy was only a distraction.
His left hand reached out quickly and slapped the young arm that carried the dagger. The boy let out a squawk of surprise and pain as a bone in his forearm snapped. He fell to the ground quickly, the pain from the damage likely larger than anything he’d ever felt in his life before.
The sword was a different matter entirely.
The Pilgrim ducked and allowed himself to fall to the ground in the alleyway. The man had him. If he had not dodged aside, the blade would have cut deep and very likely killed him.
Though his assailant was taken by surprise by the maneuver, the advantage would not last long. His leg kicked out, striking the man in the knee. Something deep in the tissue of the man’s leg cracked and he screamed, falling back, trying to keep his balance on a knee that no longer supported his weight.
The Pilgrim pushed himself into a standing position and drew his short sword from the worn scabbard.
“No! Wait! Please!” The man hopped backward on his one good leg, one hand out to ward off any blows, the other trying to hold his sword and support his injured leg at the same time.
The Pilgrim’s sword cleaved through the mugger’s jaw and throat with one swing. Satisfied that the man was dying and could no longer harm him he turned back to the boy.
On the ground now, lying in a puddle of muck, the lad looked his way with wide, terrified eyes.
“Is this how the people of Goltha welcome strangers?” The Pilgrim’s voice was not tempered with kindness.
He had travelled far to the east of the Blasted Lands, to an area of Fellein that had never once tasted the ashes of the ruined territory. That had been a very long time ago, and now he was headed back to the west and places he had once sworn he would never see again. The gods had different plans for him.
“Get up, boy. I have places to go, and you will take me to them.”
Though he whimpered as he rose, the boy did, indeed, stand. The Pilgrim was not the sort a smart boy disobeyed. Broken and scared, the boy knew enough to listen.
“I need you to take me to the Tower of Etrilla. Do this, and quickly, and I shall forgive your transgression.”
The words seemed a bit of a struggle for the boy, but he nodded just the same. A moment later the lad was moving, holding his arm and whimpering as he moved through the streets. If there were any others with the boy, they chose not to come to his aid.
They moved down what seemed a nearly endless run of sidestreets and alleyways, until the Pilgrim began to wonder if his guide was trying to prepare another assault of some kind. He was considering asking exactly that when the boy stopped moving and pointed with his uninjured arm toward the vast marble structure ahead.
It was not a tower, really, but the building was tall enough to be impressive. Etrilla was the God of the Cities and as such most of the monuments to his glory were like fingers pointing toward the sky. There had likely been a time when the temple had been the largest structure around, but it had been overshadowed by others as time went on.
Seventy feet in height, the Tower of Etrilla was festooned with the images of hundreds of faces, each different and likely sculpted in the likeness of a person living back when the entire structure was being finished. Each visage wore an expression as unique as the people they were modeled after, and though there was truly no time for such luxuries, the Pilgrim spent a few minutes absorbing the details. Few of the manmade structures he had seen this far east were as breathtaking.
The boy did not wait around. As soon as the Pilgrim lost himself in staring his guide slipped away into the stream of people moving through the great city.
That was just as well. He had served the Pilgrim’s needs and was no longer of any significance.
The Pilgrim entered the greatest of the temples in the city and strode with purpose through the marble hallway leading to the center of the structure. As with the exterior of the temple, the interior was filled with endless likenesses of people both common and extraordinary.
At the very center was a large table carved from a dark wood that had been polished meticulously. Sculpted into the center of the table was a likeness of Etrilla, a stout figure with arms heavy from years of labor, carrying a massive block upon one shoulder. Unlike many of the images of gods, Etrilla remained unchanged.
Four stood before the table, though there was certainly room for many more. There were no benches or chairs within the structure: Etrilla believed that work came before rest and offering places for the latter did not inspire the former.
The people all wore robes. That had changed. Etrilla was a laborer. Robes were not designed to aid in strenuous efforts.
The gathering smiled their welcome – though the oldest among them eyed the sword at the Pilgrim’s side.
“Do you seek solace here?” The oldest spoke carefully, his eyes leaving the hilt of the Pilgrim’s sword reluctantly.
When he spoke, the voice was not his own, but belonged to the being for which the tower had been built. “Do you know me?”
They were devout, the four who stood before the Pilgrim. They knew who spoke to them.
When the Pilgrim spoke, the followers of Etrilla listened.
The Inquisitors were, as a rule, very scary individuals.
Darsken Murdro was one of the scariest. He knew that and used it to his advantage. He was not extraordinary in height, though he was bulkier than most. His skin was the color of dark mahogany and his long hair was coiled into several braids that ran halfway down his back. The people of Louron were much darker than the average person in Canhoon, and that led to a great deal of unease for many of the people he dealt with.
Louron was known for many things and few of those things were considered pleasant in the eyes of most. One of the things the swampy area was best known for was dark sorcery. The other point that attracted most people’s attention – and more so even than the claims of sorcery – was that Inquisitors were trained there to handle their tasks.
The man before him was doubtless guilty of numerous sins. He could see the pulse in his neck, the sweat on his skin and the way he looked everywhere but directly into the Inquisitor’s eyes and know that.
According to his masters back in Louron, there were three primary skills required of any Inquisitor: Empathy, Observation and Patience. Empathy let an Inquisitor read the intentions and conscience of a subject. Observation allowed for all of the small details that could learn the truth of any circumstance. Patience allowed for terrorizing a subject properly. An angry man could be scary. A patient man who gave away nothing in his expression was usually worse in Darsken’s experience.
He knew, without any real consideration, that the man calling himself Captain Callan was not a murderer. Would he kill if cornered? Most would. Would he kill if his life depended on it or if someone were trying to take from him? Very likely. Would he kill twenty-one men, including a cousin of the Empress?
He doubted the man was capable. His crew could have helped, but there was still a great deal of niggling doubt involved in the notion.
“What did you see, exactly, when the men died?”
“I saw nothing. I wasn’t here.”
Darsken smiled thinly and stared hard into the man’s eyes. He made absolutely certain he was the center of the captain’s attention by tapping the edge of his stick on the deck of the ship. “I doubt that. Think very carefully and answer me again. What did you see when those men were killed?”
Callan looked from him to the stick and frowned. All of the inquisitors carried a short staff of one form or another and most were personalized. In this case there were deeply detailed engravings circling the wooden staff from the foot to the crown. Darsken knew each of them intimately as he had carved them during his lifetime of training.
Callan looked away from the stick, more unsettled than before.
“There were two people that attacked them. They were in the shadows. I didn’t see them clearly. I think one was a woman but I couldn’t say for sure.”
Darsken took one step closer, his eyes locked furiously on Callan’s. His smile faded, and his voice lowered by a full octave. “Why did you lie to me, Captain Callan?”
“Because…” Callan looked away again, trying hard to find the right words that would save him from the Inquisitor’s wrath. “I was scared. I was paid to bring those men here.”
“Who paid you?”
Callan looked away, desperate now, and his eyes sought Tataya. Darsken knew her, of course. They had been associates on several investigations in the past. She shook her head, offering no help.
“I give you a name and that name comes for me. He hires twenty more just like the ones on the dock, only this time around he’s paying them to kill me.”
“Did you know you were bringing assassins into the seat of the Empire?”
“Assassins? I was told they were mercenaries! Bodyguards!”
Had he the time and the patience Darsken knew he could have broken the captain. Instead he nodded his head. “You tell me the name. If you do not tell me what I want to know, I will look more closely at why a ship the size of yours only brought twenty men into the port instead of unloading a great deal more.”
“I–”
Three sharp taps of the stick on the deck and the captain stopped speaking. “I have more important affairs to investigate than your deliveries. Keep it that way. Tell me what I need to know.”
The man looked once more toward Tataya. She nodded almost imperceptibly.
“He said his name was Foster. Losla Foster.” Callan’s skin was paler than ever and his pulse was singing in the veins of his neck.
“I am done with you. I appreciate your honesty.”
Callan did not speak, but he nodded and backed away.
Darsken made a small gesture to Tataya, asking without words if she would walk with him.
As she passed the captain she placed a consoling hand on his shoulder and moved to follow Darsken.
Where Darsken walked, the crew from the ship and the City Guard parted to let him pass. Two wagons had been loaded with the corpses from the docks and were already moving away, their cargo hidden under baskets and blankets. People would talk, but the exact scene of the crime was already cleared, courtesy of the guard and the rain.
When they had walked far enough away to suit him Darsken looked to Tataya and smiled mischievously. “Was he sufficiently scared, do you suppose?”
Tataya smiled back and let out a small laugh before she caught herself. “I think he came close to wetting his breeches.”
“He is not the killer. You already knew that, of course.” Darsken paused a moment. “He is also guilty of many crimes, but none I am concerned about.”
“Callan has done favors for the Empire.”
“Which is why I do not care about his many crimes.” Tataya looked at him carefully and he offered nothing but his usual placid smile. The sorcerers never could quite decide what to do about the Inquisitors. The feeling was reciprocated. According to the laws of many areas within the Empire, sorcery was against the law. According to the Empress it was not. Also, and this was important, wizards were extremely dangerous when cornered.
That might have dissuaded almost any City Guard from dealing with the sorcerers, but the Inquisitors, some of them at least, were trained to handle the risks that wizardry offered. Some, including Darsken, used sorcery of their own in cases. There were rumors that the Inquisitors even used necromancy. Darsken did nothing to dissuade such rumors.
“Darsken, we have known each other for a long time.”
“I dare say yes.” He smiled and waited for her questions.
“Do you know anything of necromancy?”
His smile did not change. “If I say yes?”
“I might ask for your assistance with an unusual case presented by the enemies of our Empress.”
“The corpses of the soldiers returned from the Blasted Lands?”
“How do you know about that?” She seemed genuinely surprised.
“I tend to hear many forms of confession, Tataya.”
She nodded her head. “Would you be able to help?”
“Are the bodies here?”
“Some samples, nothing more. Most were in Tyrne, and they were burned even before the city.”
“That is the best way to handle dead things.” He nodded.
“I know you don’t raise the dead, but can you or any of your people talk to the dead?”
Darsken looked away from her, knowing what she would ask next.
“There are ways, Tataya.”
“My sister… Goriah….”
“What is forbidden for you is also forbidden for me.” He walked again, slowly, and she followed.
“So you cannot?”
“That is not what I said. I said it is forbidden. We have ways. Sometimes the need to learn who killed someone requires more than questioning those who might have seen the crime.”
She didn’t actually ask. She didn’t dare.
“We will talk soon, Tataya. If you feel the need. For now, I must find out more about a man who was paid by the Imperial Family to kill at least one member of the same bloodline.”
“Who?” He had surprised her a second time. That was a rare feat.
Losla Foster was the personal assistant to Laister Krous. If what the captain had said was true, the Krous family was very likely to be at war with itself in the near future.
He could have told her. She might have appreciated the information. She might also have run to the man he was about to hunt and warned him and Darsken could not allow that.
“Soon, perhaps. Before I mention more I must confirm certain details.”
She didn’t question him. She knew better.
“Tataya?”
“Yes, Darsken?”
“I am truly sorry for your loss. Goriah was an extraordinary lady.”
No more words were spoken. None were needed.
Despite the incredibly early hour, Nachia Krous agreed to see the Inquisitor.
He was a dark man, wearing dark clothes, with a square face and a body that most closely resembled an effigy made of tree trunks and a large barrel for ale. She had seen larger men, but few who looked so unsettlingly solid. She could easily understand how he would prove intimidating to most people.
Having been raised in a family of royals, she was not easily intimidated and being tutored by a sorcerer had guaranteed that few could make her uneasy.
The Inquisitor – she had already forgotten the man’s name, but knew that Desh, standing to her right, had not – smiled and his face brightened with the expression.
“I am grateful, Majesty, that you agreed to see me. I am afraid I bring unfortunate tidings.”
She suppressed a shudder. Her mind immediately went to invading armies and the dread that they had moved on to another target so quickly. Still she managed to keep her expression blank of any worries, a skill Desh had taught her long ago.
“What has happened, Inquisitor?”
“Majesty, I was asked to investigate an attack this morning. Over twenty men were killed in the night, near the docks. I am so sorry, but one of them was a relative of yours, Windhar Krous.” He paused a moment while she looked at him and for the first time the man looked uncomfortable in her presence. “He is your second cousin, I believe.”
“Was. He was.” She paused a moment and swallowed. She knew Windhar, of course, but aside from being another courtesan in the family crowd she could not have told anyone much about him. Pleasant enough to look at, but not really much of a conversationalist and hardly the most significant member of her family. Brolley would be upset, however. They had been much closer. “Do you know who killed these men?”
“It is my understanding that these men were brought here by a man named Losla Foster, though I cannot say why they were brought here, I do know that a man with the same name has been employed for several years by Laister Krous. I could not currently say if that is the same man, or if it is merely a coincidence.”
She liked the Inquisitor. He had a way of carefully avoiding making accusations he could not back up.
“I would like very much to know the absolute truth of this, Inquisitor. Until you have an answer for me I must ask that you work only on this investigation.”
The man looked at her for a moment and lowered his head. “I cannot promise discretion in this investigation, Majesty.”
Nachia smiled at the man. “Not at all, Inquisitor. I would not ask that of you. By all means, let it be known that you are investigating the murder of one of my family and that I intend to bring the full might of the Empire down on the heads of everyone involved.”
When the Inquisitor smiled again it was a cold thing, a smile that allowed for no hope of happiness or peace for those who managed to block his path.
“As you wish, Majesty.”
The Inquisitor left the room and Nachia looked toward her First Advisor. “Do you think Laister could actually be that foolish?”
Desh pulled down the hood that had, once again, hidden his face and sighed. “I think Laister is fairly convinced that he is invincible. So, yes.”
Nachia leaned back in her throne, ignoring the way it made her back and side ache.
She stared at the distant wall and shook her head. “Danieca will not be happy.”
“Considering that she has made her support of Laister well known, you might consider getting the information to her by one means or another.” For the first time since Goriah’s death, there was a tone of amusement in Desh’s voice.
“Oh, I plan to. Just as soon as I can.”
Desh nodded his head. “Merros has begun moving troops.”
“Where?”
“He’s clearing a pathway between here and Trecharch for the refugees. He is also planning a few surprises for those who follow them.”
“Will they be followed?”
“I believe it’s already happening, though proving it is difficult. The Sa’ba Taalor don’t quite follow the normal rules of engagement. Their troops move as they will. They do not seem to have supply trains or established routes.”
“How are they managing that, Desh? How are they getting where they need to be without forming proper columns?”
“Here’s the thing, Majesty. They are adept at moving through the Blasted Lands and surviving there. As I understand it the main sources of meat for the Sa’ba Taalor have always been hunted in that wasteland. They hunt and kill and live off the meat of the Pra-Moresh.” He paused to make sure she understood how insane that concept was. She did.
“After that, finding food to eat in virtually any part of the Empire must be the easiest thing in the world for them.”
Nachia remained quiet for a long while, her brow knitted in thought and her mouth working silently at what words she might need to say.
Finally she responded, “What can your magics do to make that more challenging for them?”
Desh looked at her hard for a moment, his expression almost tempestuous, and then he laughed. “I had never thought of that. Not a once.”
Nachia smiled. Her smile was exactly as warm as that of the Inquisitor before he left her presence. “Give it a great deal of thought, Desh Krohan. I want to make their lives more difficult as soon as possible.”
Desh nodded his head and started across the chamber. “With your permission I wish to speak to a few of my associates. Corin is more of a specialist in these matters than me, but I suspect we can come up with something… appropriate to your needs, Majesty.”
Nachia waited until he left the vast room and then got off the throne. She preferred walking when she was thinking and she had so very much to think about if she wanted to save her Empire from the Sa’ba Taalor.