Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (26 page)

 
          
He
grinned at the thought of his father's rage; then felt the smile dull: he was
safe only so long he
was
under Varent's protection, just as Bracht had
said. Without Varent he was lost, no better than a refugee, outlawed from his
home city and perhaps hunted by the Chaipaku.

 
          
That
new thought chilled him and he rose, water splashing from the tub. Then shook
his head, fighting that surge of panic.

 
          
There
is a teacher... Trust him ,. . And one will come after…

           
He tracked wet footprints across the
tiled floor as he concentrated on the words of Reba's prophecy. They had to
refer to Varent and Bracht. The one had come offering him escape, refuge,
offering fulfillment of the spaewife s vision,- the other was a comrade, a
sword to guard his back. Bracht's dour warnings stemmed from his dislike of
Varent, nothing more. He was safe while Varent protected him: he grunted,
irritated with himself, irritated that Bracht should place such doubts in his
mind.

 
          
What
was it the
byah
had said?

 
          
Trust
is your ally and your strength.

           
Well, he trusted Varent. If Bracht
chose not to, that was the Kern's affair.

 
          
You
must choose your friends with care.

           
The tree creature had said that,
too, and he had chosen Varent. For every pessimistic argument of Bracht's there
was a positive view: it depended on the observer.

 
          
His
logic pleased him and he walked from the bathroom into the chamber, seeking
fresh clothes.

 
          
Varent's
servants had taken his own travel-stained garments for cleaning, but there was
a well-stocked wardrobe from which he selected a shirt of fine white cotton and
breeks of dark blue, a pair of boots, and a loose tunic of grey silk. He
decided the chart would be safe enough here, leaving it in the wardrobe, and
went in search of Bracht.

 
          
His
knock was answered by a muffled voice that he took as invitation to enter and
he pushed the door open, stepping into the room. Bracht and a yellow-haired
girl looked up from a confusion of sheets and he felt his cheeks grow hot,
mumbling an apology. The mercenary grinned.

 
          
"Varent's
hospitality is everything he promised."

 
          
Blushing,
Calandryll sprang back, closing the door, feeling the warmth that pervaded his
face grow deeper as the girl's shrill laughter rang in his ears, echoed by the
Kem's deeper chuckling. He cursed, angry with himself, uncertain whether he was
angry once more with Bracht or merely envious, and decided to find the library
Varent had described.

 
          
A
servant showed him to a chamber filled with books, shelves rising from a floor
of polished pine to the white- plastered ceiling, a single window spreading
light over a desk of mahogany, a padded leather chair drawn up before the
bureau, two others set either side of a cold hearth.

 
          
The
books were cataloged and he had no difficulty in finding the tome Varent had
mentioned, Marsius's
Comparison of Religions,
and settled at the desk,
rapidly immersed. Bracht found him there as dusk fell, engrossed in his
studies. The Kern was smiling cheerfully; Calandryll closed the book.

 
          
"Our
host's servants are most enthusiastic," Bracht grinned, leaning against
the desk. "Rytha offers some small compensation for this confinement."

 
          
"I'm
pleased you're ..." Calandryll sought the right word, .. satisfied."

 
          
"With
her, yes," Bracht nodded, rising to peer from a window. "With other
things, no."

 
          
"What
troubles you now?" Calandryll demanded.

 
          
Bracht
turned to study his face, frowning curiously.

 
          
"The
girl offends you?"

 
          
"No!"
he said, a little too quickly. "Why should you not avail yourself of the
... amenities?"

 
          
Bracht
shook his head, a quizzical grin exposing white teeth. "Did you not?"
he asked.

 
          
"No.
I... No, I didn't."

 
          
The
Kern seemed about to say something, but thought better of it and shrugged
instead; Calandryll sought to change the subject, embarrassed by his
inexperience.

 
          
"What
troubles you?" he repeated.

 
          
"Confinement."

 
          
Bracht
went to a chair; dropped into it. Calandryll said, "Varent explained why
we must remain here."

 
          
"Indeed,"
Bracht nodded, "And most convincingly."

 
          
"Then
why do you protest?"

 
          
Bracht
shrugged again. "We come to Aldarin by secret ways; in the city we must
remain behind his walls. It smells too much of prison."

 
          
"Hardly
a prison," Calandryll argued, "and Lord Varent explained the
reasons."

 
          
"Do
you notice that when you take his side you honor him with a title?"

 
          
The
question was mildly put, but still Calandryll felt himself blush, irritation
stirring afresh. He shook his head, dismissing it.

 
          
"He
seeks only to protect us from Azumandias. Dera, Bracht! You've seen what he can
send against us!"

 
          
"
'Deception cloaks your path and you must choose your friends with care,' "
Bracht quoted. "You heard the
byah,
Calandryll."

 
          
"Yes!"
he snapped, "and I believe it spoke of Azumandias."

 
          
"I
believe it spoke of Varent," Bracht returned, his voice still mild.

 
          
Calandryll
shook his head, sighing. "We come full circle again. Have you witnessed
evidence of treachery? What has Lord Varent done to earn this mistrust?"

 
          
"Perhaps
nothing," Bracht murmured. "Perhaps I am wrong, but it seems to me
that a man who sends demons to do his work takes a straightforward path.
Deception is less obvious."

 
          
"That's
sophistry," Calandryll declared.

 
          
Bracht
frowned, uncomprehending.

 
          
"Your
argument trips on its own subtlety," Calandryll explained. "Who else
sent the demons but Azumandias? Their very appearance confirms Lord Varent's
integrity."

 
          
"I
am certain of only one thing: Varent wants the Arcanum," said Bracht,
"Of that I'm certain, if of little else. He plays some game of his own
with us as pawns."

 
          
Calandryll
shook his head wearily, tiring of the Kem's unrelenting suspicion. "I play
the part willingly," he said.

 
          
"As
do I, for now," Bracht returned, grinning as he added, "Five thousand
varre buys my trust. Until I know more."

 
          
"And
should you leam more?" Calandryll wondered. "Should you be
right?"

 
          
Bracht's
smile grew wolfish.

 
          
"Then
we'll hold the book, and that must be the key to this riddle. When that's in
our hands, we'll see where Varent stands."

 
          
Calandryll
sighed, not knowing what he could say to convince the freesword of Varent's
honesty.

 
         
Varent
did not return that night, so Calandryll and Bracht ate in lonely splendor,
attended by servants who were politely deferential and tactfully vague when the
Kem attempted to question them about their master. All he was able to extract
from them was that Lord Varent den Tarl was the scion of one of Aldarin's
oldest families, unwed, and a trusted adviser to the Domm, Rebus. Of Azumandias
they professed ignorance, and when questioned on the subject of Varent's own
occult talents murmured smooth replies that left the freesword little the
wiser. Eventually, to Calandryll's relief, Bracht gave up and concentrated on
the excellent meal; at least until they had finished eating and the servants
had left them alone with a decanter of the distilled wine, in a comfortable
withdrawing room off the dining hall.

 
          
"They
protect him," Bracht declared obstinately. Calandryll shook his head in
resignation. He was enjoying the luxury of Varent's mansion, knowing that soon
they must embark for Gessyth and such comforts would lie behind them: he would
have preferred to savor the liquor in peace.

 
          
"They
have nothing to tell you," he said.

           
Bracht fixed him with a blue stare
and said, "You trust too easily."

           
"And you suspect too
readily," he countered.

           
The Kem shrugged and rose to his
feet, crossing to a window. Outside, the night was dark, moonless behind rolling
banks of cumulus blown in from the sea, the sounds of the city muffled by the
protective walls. Lanterns lit the room with a mellow glow, striking highlights
from the richly polished furniture, a fire burning in the hearth, reminding
Calandryll of the comforts of his home. He thought of fetching a book from
Varent's well-stocked library, contemplating an hour or two of literary
indulgence before finding his bed, but Bracht gave him no chance.

 
          
The
freesword turned from the window and moved toward the door, pausing as
Calandryll asked, "Do you retire?" Thinking that he likely sought the
girl, Rytha, or some other compliant wench. But Bracht shook his head and said,
"No. I'd take a stroll."

 
          
"Where?"
Calandryll inquired; a turn about Varent's gardens might be pleasant.

 
          
"Into
the city," Bracht said.

 
          
"You
heard Lord Varent," Calandryll protested. "He warned us that
Azumandias likely watches this house."

 
          
"And
may send more demons against us?" Bracht shrugged. "I've thought on
that sending, and it occurs to me that Azumandias's demons are somewhat clumsy—
four could not defeat us, and they were slow-moving creatures. Should I
encounter any, I'll turn tail."

 
          
"Dera!"
Calandryll came to his feet. "Can you not wait a little while?"

 
          
"No,"
said Bracht, and quit the room.

 
          
Calandryll
hurried after him, his protests falling on deaf ears as the Kem strode to his
chamber and secured the falchion about his waist. Calandryll snatched up his
own blade, not sure whether he acted from loyalty to Bracht or to Varent, but
determined that the Kem should not go unaccompanied.

 
          
"Perhaps
you should remain here," Bracht suggested.

 
          
"No."
Calandryll grew obstinate now. "If you're determined to ignore Lord Varent's
wishes, I'll go with you."

 
          
Bracht
nodded and returned down the corridor, Calandryll close on his heels. They
found the entrance hall and went out into the courtyard. The air was chilly,
salt- scented and promising rain before dawn, a solitary night bird serenading
the starless sky. As they reached the gates two men stepped from the shadows
beneath the arch, positioning themselves before the portal. The lights shining
from the mansion glinted on mail shirts and half helms.

           
"I'd go into the city,"
Bracht said.

 
          
"Forgive
me, but Lord Varent left orders that no one is to leave."

 
          
The
man spoke politely enough, but an obdurate note underlined his statement.

 
          
Bracht
said, "Stand aside."

 
          
"Lord
Varent left orders," the guard repeated. "I believe they are for your
safety."

 
          
Calandryll
heard the angry intake of the Kem's breath and feared he would attack. Instead
he asked, "Are we prisoners, then?"

 
          
"I
obey Lord Varent's orders," the guard intoned doggedly. "I understand
the city is dangerous for you."

 
          
"I
believe I can take care of myself," Bracht snapped.

 
          
"No
doubt." The guard remained unmoved, unmoving. "But my orders are
clear."

 
          
The
Kem studied the two armored men as though weighing his chances of felling them.
They, in turn, set themselves shoulder to shoulder, hands on swordhilts.

 
          
"Bracht,"
said Calandryll, warningly.

           
"What's amiss?"

 
          
Calandryll
turned to see Darth approaching, three others of Varent's retinue with him.

 
          
"We
are denied the freedom of the city," Bracht responded.

 
          
Darth
chuckled, shrugged, and said, "Lord Varent protects you, man."

 
          
"I
can protect myself," grunted the freesword.

 
          
"Against
blades, no doubt. But against magic?" Darth lowered his voice, glancing at
the gates. "Lord Varent has enemies who'd see you slain, I think. Come
back to the house and drink with us, if you've a mind. And I believe Rytha
anticipates warming your bed."

 
          
He
winked as he said it, grinning. His companions smiled, but Calandryll saw that
they ranged themselves, albeit casually, between Bracht and the gates.

 
          
"Come
on," Darth urged, indicating the two guards with a thrust of his chin.
"These fellows only do their duty."

 
          
"And
you?" Bracht demanded,

           
"I serve Lord Varent,"
Darth said. "And he's left orders ..."

 
          
Bracht
fingered his sword, then shrugged: "So be it."

 
          
Calandryll
breathed a relieved sigh as the mercenary allowed Darth to lead him back across
the courtyard into the house. He followed, but when Darth suggested he join
them, he shook his head, declaring his intention of retiring with a book, and
went to the library.

 
          
He
fetched the copy of Marsius from the shelf and carried it to his chamber. He
hoped to find some reference to the Arcanum in the weighty tome that would
furnish more information, but it told him nothing he did not already know and
after a while he set the book aside, yawning, and promptly fell into a sound
and dreamless sleep.

 
          
Sunlight
woke him and he rose, wondering if Varent had returned from the palace. When
servants brought hot water and the announcement that his host awaited him, he
bathed and dressed quickly, eager to hear what news Varent brought.

 
          
The
ambassador was settled comfortably in the dining hall, breaking his fast with
fresh-baked bread and fruit. He smiled as Calandryll entered, motioning the
younger man to a chair. Calandryll sat, helping himself to food.

 
          
"I
understand there was some small misunderstanding last night," Varent
murmured.

 
          
"Bracht
had a yen to explore the city." Briefly Calandryll wondered if he should
advise Varent of the Kem's misgivings,- dismissed the thought: it would be a
betrayal of Bracht's confidence.

 
          
Varent
sighed as if he considered Bracht a necessary but troublesome adjunct to their
purpose. "Our Kem friend has an independent nature," he murmured.
"Surely I explained why that is not possible?"

 
          
He
studied Calandryll's face speculatively, his own radiating a mixture of
resignation and mild irritation.

 
          
"Yes,"
Calandryll agreed, "but Bracht has little fondness of confinement."

 
          
"Sadly
needed," Varent said, "At least until I've arranged your passage. The
sooner the better, I think."

 
          
Bracht
came into the room then. Calandryll saw that his eyes were somewhat bloodshot,
purple crescents darkening the tan beneath. Varent offered a greeting that was answered
with a grunt as the freesword slumped into a chair.

 
          
"I
understand you've found favor with Rytha," Varent smiled.

 
          
It
seemed to Calandryll he sought to bridge the gap between them, showing the
mercenary a greater courtesy than their respective positions warranted. If so,
Bracht appeared unaware of the gesture, or chose to ignore it: he nodded and
said, "Your guards refused to let us out."

 
          
"I
thought we had agreed you'd not leave," Varent said, unruffled.

 
          
"I'd
not thought to find myself a prisoner."

 
          
"A
guest," said Varent smoothly. "Whose welfare I'd protect."

 
          
Bracht
glanced at him and filled a mug with aromatic tea.

 
          
"I
was saying to Calandryll, I'll find a ship as soon as possible." Varent
raised a napkin to his lips. "And once you've finished eating we'll
examine the maps."

 
          
"There's
my money, too," said Bracht.

 
          
"Indeed.
Half on arrival in Aldarin, as we agreed."

 
          
Bracht
nodded.

 
          
"Less
the one hundred already paid."

 
          
"A
trifle," said Varent.

 
          
"Less
that," Bracht insisted.

 
          
"You're
scrupulous," smiled Varent. "A matter of honor?"

 
          
"Aye."
Bracht nodded again, staring at the ambassador. "Honor is important, do
you not agree?"

 
          
There
was a hint of challenge in his voice and Varent met it with a frozen smile,
then ducked his head: "Aye, it is."

 
          
"Shall
we sail direct to Gessyth?" asked Calandryll, seeking to deflect the
confrontation he feared might explode.