The Lair of Bones (48 page)

“Balimar?” he called. “Balimar Mahaddim?”

A young man quickly thrust his head out from behind a hide flap of the lean-to. His eyes were red, as if he had been weeping or had lain awake sleepless the whole night.

Surely he had been searching for his little sister and brother, the beggars from the market. Now, worn from a lack of sleep, his wits would be dull. At least, Turaush hoped that they would.

“Yes?” the boy asked. “You called”—he glanced at Turaush's fine robes and lowered his eyes in respect—” O Great Kaif?”

“I called,” Turaush said. “Your little sister and brother were found begging for food in the markets last night.”

“You know where they are?” Balimar asked with a tone of relief.

“I do,” Turaush answered. “Would you like to see them?”

The boy Balimar pushed himself out from under the flaps of his lean-to, and grabbed onto the wall for support. Turaush could see the white weal of a scar on his hip, and the boy's leg was still bandaged, but he looked to be mostly healed. He had a brawny build, with a thick neck and strong biceps, but his eyes showed no intelligence. He was a facilitator's dream—brawn, stamina, perhaps even grace. Such a young man had a wealth of possibilities.

“Where are they?” the boy asked suspiciously.

“They sold themselves for food,” Turaush said.

“As slaves?” the boy asked, his voice thick with disbelief.

“As Dedicates,” Turaush said. “They now serve our lord Raj Ahten.” Turaush put all the power of his voice into this last, hinting by his tone that theirs was a noble service, something to be desired.

“I… “the boy's voice faltered. Words failed him. “I've never met the man,” he apologized.

“He is a great lord,” Turaush said, “the greatest who ever lived. Not two days ago, they say he slew a great reaver in Kartish, the Lord of the Under-world. And even now he rides to defend our realm from the evil kings of Rofehavan. You should be proud of your brother and sister. They render a great service to our lord.”

Balimar looked about in confusion. He was a bit darker of skin than his brother and sister, almost as if he were a bastard, fathered by a stranger. His eyes were darker than almond. He had his hair cropped short, in the style of young men who like to wrestle in the streets on feast days, hoping that by their skill they may win entry into the Raj's army. “My mother will be sad to hear this, when she gets back.”

“Where is your mother?” Turaush asked.

“She went to see her sister, who lives in Jezereel. She was hoping that her sister's husband would take us all in. But that was last spring, and she hasn't returned.”

“The village of Jezereel is less than a week's walk from here,” Turaush said after a moment's thought. He was an inspired liar, and often amazed even himself with the way he managed to twist the truth. “But the trail through the hills is rife with robbers and thieves. I suspect that your mother will not return. I fear that she fell to them.” Turaush let a note of false grief accompany his tone, as if to confirm the woman's death, rather than just raise the possibility. “How will you ever take care of your brothers and sisters?”

Balimar looked down hopelessly. “My leg is healing well. I'll be able to work again in a month or two.”

“Without nourishing food,” Turaush whispered, “you will only languish. And when you die, the little ones will surely follow.”

Balimar looked about hopelessly, his eyes watering with grief at the thought. “What can I do?” At his back, a pair of toddlers now appeared. Two small children with big eyes, staring plaintively at Turaush. Their hunger was plain on their faces.

“Come follow me,” Turaush said. “Give yourself to our lord, and we shall feed you well—you and the little ones. You can tend them there in the palace. They will not be left comfortless.”

Balimar looked about helplessly. “What can I give that would let me care for the children. My hearing?”

“You would not hear the cries of the young ones in the night then,” Turaush argued gently. “Give stamina, I think. You will be able to care for them.”

“And what of my leg?” Balimar asked. “It will never heal.”

Turaush merely smiled, letting his glamour argue for him.
You fool,
his
smile said,
to be so full of concern.
He added after a moment, “The finest physics in all of Indhopal grace the Palace at Ghusa. For a thousand years, the lords of the land have come to take the air in its lofty towers, to bathe in the healing springs at its base. We shall find herbs and balms for your wound. In a week or two, the muscles will mend, and the pain will be gone.”

Balimar's lower lip was quivering, and he stood belligerently, the way an ox will stop at the butcher's stall when it smells the blood of its fellows.

This one is not as stupid as he looks, Turaush thought. The leg will never heal once he grants his stamina, and the boy knows that.

He reached out his hand, and grasped Balimar's. “Come,” Turaush urged. “The time is short. Your brother and sister call for you, and breakfast awaits….”

32

Each of the greater endowments
—
brawn, wit, stamina, and grace
—
can be transferred only at great risk to the giver. Often the death is instantaneous. For example, if a man gives too much brawn, his heart may stop for lack of strength, or a man who gives wit may simply forget how to breathe. But with both stamina and grace, the death is more often lingering.
…

—
excerpt of a letter sent to Raj Ahten by his chief facilitator, Beru Shan

Chemoise tried her best to wait patiently to give her endowment. She dis-covered as she stood in line that all the facilitators in Heredon, along with all of their apprentices, had gathered at the castle. Sixteen of them worked near the hilltop. They'd been slaving for nearly two days in an effort to complete their great work, taking no time to eat, no time to rest.

Their voices were weary and coarse.

“Are you sure that you dare do this?” Dearborn asked at her back in a whisper. “Won't giving grace put your child at risk?”

“It's a small risk,” Chemoise said. “Yet don't we ensure our destruction if we refuse to stand against our enemies?”

“Let someone else stand in your place,” Dearborn said.

“I can't,” Chemoise whispered. “Iome was my best friend at court, and in the short time that I've known Gaborn, I've learned to admire him as much as any man I've ever known. The facilitators need your love and devotion to transfer an endowment. How many others here really know the Earth King?”

“I've never met the man,” Dearborn admitted, “but I know what he's up against, and I'm willing to give whatever I can.”

“So, you offer an endowment because of your love for a principle, while I offer mine for love of the man. Do you think our love is equal?”

“It could be,” Dearborn said, “if one loves one's principles enough.”

There was a cry up the hill from an attendant. Chemoise glanced up, knowing before she looked what she would see. One of those who had granted brawn lay on the lawn, and several healers quickly threw a black sheet over his body, then hustled him away, lest the death of one Dedicate poison the resolve of others who had come to grant endowments.

Chemoise took that moment to push her way to the front of the crowd, past others who offered themselves as Dedicates. Darkness was falling, and soon full night would be upon them. Gaborn had warned that the attack would commence by sunset.

She only hoped that she could give her endowment in time.

“Let me through,” she said, elbowing past a fat man to the front of the crowd.

Almost immediately, a blunt-faced facilitator came downhill. “Next?”

Chemoise didn't recognize him. If he had been King Sylvarresta's old chief facilitator or one of his apprentices, she'd have stayed in the crowd. For the facilitator would have known of her pregnancy and refused to take her endowment.

“Here,” Chemoise called.

She burst from the crowd just as the facilitator reached the front. “An eager one!” he rasped. “What's your pleasure?”

“Grace,” Chemoise said. “I offer my grace.”

He took her elbow. “Thank you,” he said. “Few there be who will give up grace. I'd walk in your footsteps, if I could.”

“You have your job to do,” Chemoise said, “and I have mine.”

He led her up to a tent, past Dedicates who lay all around the entrance in piles, like the wounded on some macabre battlefield. People were moaning, like the sound of wind through rocks, and nearby crickets had begun their nightly carols. The scent of stewing meats wafted over the fields.

“Tell me,” the facilitator asked. “By any chance, do you know the Earth King?”

He threw back the flap to a red pavilion.

“I know him and love him,” Chemoise said. She knew what he wanted to hear.

“Good,” the facilitator rasped. “Good. Think of your love for him during the endowment. Think only of that. Can you manage that?”

She entered the pavilion. Inside, a single candle burned in the center of
the small room, shining like a star. On a cushion, curled in a fetal position, lay a young woman. Every muscle in her body was clenched, unable to move. Her fingers were balled into a fist, and she grimaced as if in pain. Even her eyelids were clamped tight, unable to relax. She wheezed as she breathed shallowly, unable to draw much air.

The facilitator stopped, let Chemoise see the woman for a moment.

“This is Brielle. She was a dancer at an inn at Castle Groverman until she granted her grace to our king. She will serve as his vector. By giving grace to her, you will be transferring it to your king.”

“I understand,” Chemoise said.

“This is what you will look like in a few minutes, if you proceed,” he apologized. “Do you dare to go on?”

Having her muscles corded into knots was not the worst of it, Chemoise knew. Giving an endowment of grace affected the gut. The first few weeks would be hard. From now on, she would only be able to eat broth and thin soups.

“I'll bear it gladly,” Chemoise said.

“Good,” the facilitator said. “Good girl.”

He went to a small pile of forcibles and picked one up, held it near the candle for a moment, studying the rune on its head. It looked like a tiny branding iron. He must have found some imperfection, for he pulled out a small blunt instrument and began pressing one edge of the rune outward.

“Forgive the wait,” he apologized. “The blood metal bends easily, and is often damaged during travel.”

“I understand,” Chemoise said.

Chemoise watched Brielle. Aside from her shallow breathing, Brielle showed little sign of life. Chemoise saw a tear seeping from one eye.

It's painful to be so clenched, she realized. Giving an endowment of grace is torture.

When the facilitator finished, he glanced at Chemoise. “Now,” he said. “I want you to look at the candle.” Chemoise glanced at the candle, then turned her attention back to Brielle. Each time that she had seen the endowment ceremony before, the potential Dedicate had stared at the lord who would receive his gift.

“No, don't look at her,” the facilitator warned. “Keep your eye on the candle. Look to the light.”

Of course, Chemoise realized. We look at our lords because they are handsome, with their endowments of glamour, and it makes it easier for us to give ourselves. But staring at a wretched vector would only unnerve a potential Dedicate.

Chemoise looked at the candle as the facilitator began to half chant, half sing, in a rich voice. She couldn't understand the words. As far as she knew they were only sounds. But they were sounds that comforted her, and made her want to give of herself. She could feel that yearning grow, like a potent fire.

The candle flame flickered and sputtered as the facilitator whirled around the room several times, and then placed the forcible on Chemoise's arm.