Antiphon (8 page)

Aedric’s face was red with anger, and he started to stand. “You can’t—”

Rudolfo raised his hand. “It’s fine, Aedric.”

He knew the words were true. Certainly, his Wandering Army was the fiercest group of fighters in all the Named Lands, but these were men with homes and farms and families to tend. They were never intended to maintain borders or operate in a constant climate of vigilance and conflict. He looked at Lysias now with narrowing eyes. “You would not say this if you did not also have a solution.”

The old general nodded. “It is time,” he said, “for the Ninefold Forest to join the rest of the Named Lands.” And Rudolfo knew the words that were coming; he dreaded them and winced as Lysias spoke them.
“It is time for you to outfit a standing army and establish a firm and permanent presence both within the forest around your assets and along your borders.”

Rudolfo glanced to Jin Li Tam where she sat. She looked away, but not before he saw agreement in her eyes. She’d suggested the same to him not long after they’d returned from the Council of Kin-Clave, and it had led to the first strong argument in their marriage. Her mouth was tight now.

He looked from her to the child in the built-up pine chair beside her. He, too, wore his green turban of office and his rainbow-colored scarves of rank.

Change,
he remembered,
is the path life takes.
But at what point did that change rob life of its value? A standing army in the Ninefold Forest? A kept and guarded border? It was far beyond the life he’d inherited from his father and his father’s father before him. It smacked of everything they’d disdained about their joyless neighbors, everything they’d vowed they would leave in the Old World when they’d left its ashes and madness behind them.

What are you inheriting, my little late-coming prince?

Rudolfo sighed and finally spoke. “I do not wish it—and I do not accept that it is the only answer.” He paused, stared at the food on his plate that he knew he would not eat. When he looked up again, he glanced first to Aedric. In the young captain’s fuming, Rudolfo saw the boy’s father, Gregoric, in the tightly clenched jaw and the narrow eyes. Then, he turned to Lysias. “Draw up the plans for it. But it is to be kept secret at all costs. Our kin-claves are tenuous at best, and this is not the Gypsy way.” Even as he spoke, his hands moved in the sign language of House Y’Zir.
Work with him, Aedric.

Aedric did not answer at first. Then, his hand moved, though with reluctance.
Yes, General.

Now Jin Li Tam’s face was troubled.
Do not ask me,
Rudolfo willed, but she did it anyway, her fingers moving along the side of her wineglass.
Are you certain, love?

Rudolfo stood and looked to her, hoping his eyes would not betray his answer. “I beg your forgiveness,” he said. “Please excuse me.”

Then, turning, he left the dining room. He stepped quickly past the Gypsy Scouts assigned to guard him, ducked around a corner and slipped into one of dozens of passages kept hidden for just these reasons. He walked at a brisk pace along the narrow corridors and slipped through a hidden door into the garden.

His Whymer Maze towered in the moonlight, and the frogs raised their voice to the blue-green moon. Looking over his shoulder to be sure none followed him, he moved past the maze and into a copse of trees he rarely visited these days.

There, near a white stone marked simply with three names, he sat upon a marble meditation bench that none had sat upon for decades. After a long silence, he finally spoke, and it was the voice of a frightened boy.

“Father,” he said to the stone, “I do not know this path.”

Then, in silence, Rudolfo sat still and begged answer from the ground of Jakob’s Rest.

Petronus raised his eyebrows and looked at the man who rocked to and fro before him. “So what you’re proposing”—he glanced to the report from Grymlis in his hands, looking for the name once more—“
Geoffrus
, is it?” At the man’s hurried nod, Petronus continued. “What you’re proposing is that you and your company of men supply our entire outpost with hunting, trapping and scouting services for—” He scanned the report again, but the numbers ran together into a blur. “Well,” he finally said, “for significant barter, primarily in metal goods and fabrics from the other side of the gate.”

Geoffrus nodded. “Yes, Luxpadre. I—or I should say
we
—are prepared to execute on a time-is-of-the-essence basis, immediately, that is, to give you and your Ash-Men the best our Madding Lands can offer.”

Petronus sat back in the wooden chair and rubbed his eyes. Here in the shade, the afternoon sun still kept the day warmer than comfortable for his tastes, accustomed more to the cool seaborne breezes on Caldus Bay than the hot wind of the Churning Wastes. Already, his robe was damp from sweat, though the man across the table from him looked dry and comfortable.

The Waster was a slight man, dressed in tattered clothing shored up with patches and bits of leather. He’d sought audience at least three times before over the past several months, and Petronus had managed
to hold the meeting at bay. But finally, he’d relented and agreed to see the man when it became obvious that this Geoffrus was not going to pick up on the subtle social cue of disinterest Petronus had attempted.

Petronus offered a weak smile. “I’m certain your offer is very generous, Geoffrus.”

The man beamed, the black root stains showing on his teeth. “You will not find more generous terms and conditions, Luxpadre.”

Petronus went back to the report and found Grymlis’s scribbled note. “Yes, I’m sure of it,” he said, “but there is the matter of
what
game you intend to provide us? As you no doubt know, the Ninefold Forest keeps us well provisioned, to include game.”

Geoffrus nodded again, this time with added vehemence. “Yes, yes, the contract is flexible in that regard, of course, to provide you and yours with the finest selection our
significant
and
highly desirable
skills might provide. Such succulent tasties as the Rainbow-Men could not imagine.”

Petronus knew better, of course. He and Grymlis had gone over his report earlier that morning. The men he’d sent into Fargoer’s Station had gathered every bit of information they could on this part of the world, including what scraps could be found on this Geoffrus and his small band of Waste thieves. He already knew the rumors. People who trusted these particular men tended to disappear. He wondered what further information Isaak might be able to send him from the archived records of the Office of Expeditionary Unction—but also knew that that knowledge wasn’t necessarily worth the effort when he already knew his answer. “I’m certain that you are highly skilled,” he said. “Though to be perfectly honest, we do not require your services at this time.” Then, he smiled. “However, I am deeply gratified by your proposal. I recognize that you’ve gone to enormous efforts on our behalf, with nothing but our best interests in mind.”

Geoffrus grinned again. “Aye, we have. Aye, we have,” he said, repeating himself quickly.

Petronus returned the smile. “Therefore, I am pleased to offer you and yours tokens to assure you of our gratitude.” He motioned, and a young Androfrancine approached, carrying a haphazard pile of folded fabric.

As the tattered Waster took in the armful of cloth his eyes went wide along with the smile. “This is indeed most generous of you, Luxpadre.”

“Ask him about the runners in the Wastes.”

Petronus looked up at the nearby voice, recognizing it but not placing it. “I’m sorry?”

Geoffrus said nothing. Beside him, the young man with the cloth also remained silent.

Petronus looked around to see who else could have spoken, but other than these two, no one else stood close enough. Still, the voice was one he knew. When had he heard it last?

He felt the blood drain from his face when the memory found him.
You heard it yesterday, old man.

Suddenly, he wanted very much to leap up from the table and flee but forced himself to stay. A new smell filled his nose, driving out the acrid scent of the hot wind and the dried sweat of the unwashed man before him. No, it was roses and lavender he smelled now, as a summer breeze caught the aroma of his gardens and wafted them into his office window, and—

Petronus blinked, forcing himself back to the conversation. “These,” he said, “are a gift. But I can offer you something even finer in exchange for a bit of information.”

Geoffrus looked to the stack of cloth and then back to Petronus. “What
finer
?” he asked. “What
information
?”

Petronus drew in his breath. “What do you know about runners in the Wastes?”

Geoffrus’s eyes narrowed. “Ash-Men do not run. Rainbow-Men run.
Renard
runs.” At the man’s name, he spit in the dirt. “And Geoffrus runs.” He licked his lips. “What
finer
for me and mine?”

Petronus closed his eyes, only for a moment, but when he opened them the world had bent and twisted away. Once more he sat in his papal office. Outside, the smell of summer was heavy from the gardens below.

He looked back to the table, and now, across from him, sat the man he’d seen the day before. He was bent over a large map that was spread out, and Petronus saw it was a map of the Churning Wastes. “Intelligence is problematic, of course,” the man said, “but we’re aware of runners here, here and
here
.” Each time, he pointed to a different section of the map with a chewed pencil. “They are magicked. We suspect blood magicks, though they do not appear constrained in the same way that the Marshers have been.”

Petronus blinked again and tried to recall where he’d been just now. There had been heat. And smell, though nothing quite as lovely as roses on the wind. “Who are you?” he asked.

The man looked up, his eyes hollow. “We suspect they’re looking for the same thing we are, but it could be worse than that.”

“And what are we looking for, exactly?”

The man studied Petronus before answering. “We’re looking for the mechoservitors,” he finally said.

Mechoservitors.
The word held meaning for him, but in this context he could not find it. Still, something the man had said registered with him suddenly, and a new question spilled out before he could stop himself. “And if it’s worse?”

“If it is worse, then they’re looking for the Homeseeker.”

Another familiar word that he could not place, and Petronus glanced back to the map.
Here, here and here.
He felt something like an ocean swell pulling him back, and he closed his eyes against the sudden feeling of vertigo that seized him.

This time, when he opened them again, he was lying on his back while hands held him down and still. He struggled at first until he saw Grymlis’s worried face as he knelt over him.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard Geoffrus ranting and hooting. “Luxpadre has the madness,” he cried. “Luxpadre has the madness.”

Petronus opened his mouth to speak but found no words, but the Gray Guard captain must have read the questions in his eyes. “You’re fine now,” Grymlis said. “You fell over.” Here, his brow furrowed with worry. “You were convulsing, babbling. Nothing coherent.” His voice lowered. “I think it was glossolalia.”

Petronus winced.
Ecstatic utterance.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to lie still and recollect himself.

Where had he been? He vaguely remembered a voice and a map.
Here, here and here.

He dug at the memory, pried at it, and found nothing but noise that hurt his head and made the afternoon light unbearable. One final tug and he found the recollection he sought.

“Runners in the Wastes,” he said, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He nodded to Geoffrus. “Ask him. Pay him.”

Grymlis squeezed his shoulder. The firm hand felt reassuring to Petronus. “I’ll see to it, Father. After we get you to your cot.”

Petronus wanted to protest, wanted to insist that he not be carried to bed as if he were a child. But as he opened his mouth, he suddenly felt the dampness of his robes, and the heat of shame flushed his face. His bladder had cut loose during the fit.

Hoping no one would see that he’d wet himself, the Last King of Windwir let his ragged men lift him and carry him to his cot.

Vlad Li Tam awoke from too little sleep and sat up in his narrow bed. The windowless room offered no light, though he blinked and rubbed his eyes as if it might if only he were patient.

When they’d returned to find the island and its Blood Temple abandoned, he’d gone through the massive building assigning quarters to his family. He was careful to be sure that this room became his once again, though he wasn’t sure exactly why. Perhaps it was an anchor to the pain of that time, something to keep the memory banked like a fire.

His recollection of those months was a blur of agony and terror. Nights spent huddled in the corner, sleeping fitfully, open-eyed with his back against the wall. And underlying those memories, Ria’s voice—filled with love and comfort—as she worked her knife or as she sat at his table and conversed with him while he lay twitching upon the floor.

Other voices joined hers. The voices of his children beneath the knives, offering up their last words to him as he watched, echoing long after their final breath as he waited here for the next day’s cutting.