Morticai's Luck (10 page)

“Hmm. That isn’t good to hear. The kingdoms are polarizing.”

“Yes, although so far, Menelcar has managed to stay out of it. And all of this is because of manipulation of the Trade Council.”

Geradon shook his head. “It’s truly frightening. I might have expected something like this between Tradelenor and Lorredre, but here? What about the monarchs? The Trade Council cannot pass any new regulations or tariffs without their approval, can they?”

“You are right, the monarchs in both kingdoms must approve the actions of their Councils. But the nobility hold so little power that the nobles would consider it a dire threat if the monarch interfered. And I believe the monarchs are aware of that. In any event, the manipulation is occurring on such a subtle level that I doubt they have any quarrels with how their Councils are proceeding.”

“What of the Confederacy? Is there any talk of involving the Great Council?”

“Not yet. The Great Council will stay out of it if at all possible. Dynolva and Watchaven have been stable for so long, I believe they think this is nothing more than a minor trade squabble. Thanks to Locguard, these frontier kingdoms have a reputation for a lot of shield thumping.”

“Unfortunately,” Rylan continued, “that has never been true of these two kingdoms, but I doubt that any on the Great Council, particularly the southern kings, realize that they are any different from Locguard. And of course, the Great Council will not meet until the Day of Aluntas. Who can say what will happen between now and then?”

“How can we stop it?” Geradon asked.

“The question is not how can we stop it, but how can we prove it? There is the problem. How is Richard doing?”

“He joined the Northmarch about a week ago and has taken up quarters with Morticai’s squad members. He’s trying to stay as close as possible. The problem is that Morticai does not bunk with the rest of his squad.”

“What? Why not?”

“I never really found out why, but Morticai sleeps in the attic.”

Rylan laughed. “Why not? Former street urchin, former thief, former loner … you were right, it looks like this is going to be interesting. I just wish it weren’t so serious.”

With that, Rylan blew out their candle. The noise from without instantly flooded back.

Chapter Seven

Prince Luthekar waited impatiently for evening service to end. At last, the door opened and the High Priest entered. “This had best be important,” the prince said. He didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

The High Priest stopped, midway to the chair before his desk, and tilted his masked head. “Do you think I would bother you with something trivial?”

“I have much to tend to, and coming here is awkward. I presume something urgent has developed since our last meeting.”

“Yes.” The High Priest sat down in the chair before his desk—Luthekar already sat in the chair behind it.

“Something I thought you would want to know about Lord Aldwin. He has passed some information down the chains in hopes of learning more about his thief.”

“He withheld information?”

“Well, let us say, he has not been as honest as he should have been. He apparently recovered a dagger and some rope that the thief left behind. Rather than share that bit of information with us he went to a local witch named Madam Luvena. He learned from her that the thief is a member of Watchaven’s Northmarch, and that the man is a corryn orphan.”

“The Northmarch? Indeed, this is troublesome news. This witch needs to be visited again.”

“That has already been seen to.”

The High Priest rose and opened the door that led to the temple. A lovely, dark-eyed woman came into the room. She smoothly slid into the chair before the desk and smiled seductively at Luthekar.

“Cwena?” Luthekar asked, smiling.

“What do you think, my Lord? Is this form not pleasant?” She flipped the long hair behind the chair.

“Yes, it is—quite different from your usual shape. Does the witch still live?”

“Unfortunately not. I would have liked to have kept this form, but now I can only make it last a few days.”

“Do not worry, Cwena. As you gain more experience you shall find that you will be able to retain the shapes of those you feed on for longer periods of time. Eventually, you will be able to recall any of them.”

Cwena smiled again. It was a cold, feral smile, a parody of the smiles that had graced Madam Luvena’s lips.

“Were you able to learn more from the witch as you fed?” Luthekar continued.

“Yes, my Lord, but only one, small thing, I am afraid. The corryn thief was working alone.”

“Are you certain? He was not working on behalf of the Northmarch?”

“Yes, I am certain. He was working alone. It was something the witch determined after Lord Aldwin left her. Aldwin had been fearful that the Northmarch was behind it, or so Madam Luvena believed, so she recast the spell, looking for that particular thing.”

Luthekar leaned back and laughed a cold laugh.

“Good news, is it not?” the High Priest asked.

“Yes, very good news. So, if Madam Luvena was correct, our thief must be using his position in the Northmarch to conceal his criminal activities—perhaps even to further them.

“Indeed,
if
the witch was correct,” the High Priest agreed.

“And our man in the Northmarch?”

“Unfortunately, he is out on patrol. He should be returning from Dynolva even now, should arrive back in Watchaven in three days. As soon as he gets in, I shall set him to discover the name of the thief.”

“Excellent. We have worked far too hard to reach this stage. It has taken too long to convince the nobility to fight against the yoke that the Faith has placed upon them. I shall not tolerate even a small blemish on this campaign.”

“However,” the High Priest said, “this still leaves us the problem of Lord Aldwin. Should we deal with him now?”

Luthekar waved a hand. “Let it wait. The man has been barely competent through this whole affair. It will be a pleasure to see him die, but it can easily wait. Before long, the Trade Council will cease to be important—Watchaven and Dynolva will be at war.”

* * *

Morticai tried to hail the serving girl. She moved back to the bar, oblivious to his signaling. Morticai sighed and squinted across the table at the knight. “Dualas, this is ridiculous! How do you ever get served here?”

Dualas raised his eyebrows. “I have never had any difficulty. But, of course, I do not normally come at this time of day.”

Coryden tapped his glass impatiently. “Morticai, I don’t understand why you had to wait until now to eat. You should have eaten in the mess hall, long before we came here.”

“Are you kidding? When I walked in there this morning for breakfast, you’d have thought I was Glawres himself! Everyone stopped eating so they could stare. At least
here
I’m not being treated as though I’m a condemned man.”

“No,” Coryden observed, “here you’re just being ignored.”

Dualas raised his hand. Immediately, the serving girl rushed over to their table, smiling sweetly.

“Can I get somethin’ for you, Sir Dualas?” she asked.

Morticai rolled his eyes and rested his chin in his hand.

“My friend here,” Dualas said, indicating Morticai, “would like some of that delicious chowder your sister makes.”

Morticai straightened up and opened his mouth to object, but the girl rushed off. “What do you mean, chowder?” he asked. “I hate chowder, Dualas!”

“But that’s what the Foaming Tankard is famous for, Morticai. Besides, how can you live in Watchaven if you don’t like fish?”

Morticai sighed again.

“So,” Coryden asked, “what is it we’re supposed to do?”

“Huh?” Morticai asked. “When?”

“At Fenton’s! Why do you want us to go with you?”

“Oh. Uh, well, Fenton, as I said, is a merchant—a, uh, low-class merchant—and he doesn’t have the best sort of customers.” Coryden and Dualas were looking at him suspiciously. “Anyway,” Morticai continued, “I thought that with all this Inquisition business, it might be nice if the two of you came along. You could, y’know, keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”

Coryden and Dualas exchanged glances.

“Morticai,” Coryden began, “there’s nothing wrong with coming out and saying that you don’t trust the man, y’know?”

“Well, it’s not that I don’t trust him.”

“Uh huh,” Coryden said, unconvinced.

“When are we supposed to meet him?” Dualas asked.

“At six o’clock.”

“Morticai,” Coryden complained, “it’s almost six now! If we’re going to make it we need to get moving.”

“But I haven’t eaten,” Morticai complained.

The clock at Grandhaven Sanctorium struck the quarter hour, punctuating his comment.

“See?” Coryden continued. “We’ve only got a quarter hour. Come on!” With that, Coryden rose from the table.

Dualas rose also and threw enough money on the table to cover the cost of the chowder. Begrudgingly, Morticai rose and followed his two friends.

* * *

Fenton’s shop lay at the far end of one of the twisting underground tunnels that comprised Watchaven’s Lower Bazaar. Centuries before, the merchants had discovered that shops built underground were easier to heat; that way, they could enjoy a healthy business even during Dark Season. Thus had the Lower Bazaar been born. During Light Season, however, it was less expensive to operate out of above-ground shops that did not require lamps. Consequently, most merchants had a shop both below and above ground and opened their Lower Bazaar shops only during Dark Season. Now, the tunnels were largely deserted, with light coming from only a few widely scattered shops.

“I can see why you wanted us to come along,” Coryden whispered, as though the quiet tunnels would have protested any louder volume. “How much farther is it?”

“We’re almost there,” Morticai replied. “I think it’s at the end of this tunnel.”

“Don’t you know for sure?” Coryden asked.

“Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. But I’m almost positive this is the right tunnel.”

Coryden shook his head and wondered how—and why—he’d let Morticai drag him into such a situation.

Soon, they saw dim lamplight emanating from a far doorway. Morticai held up his hand for them to stop.

“Okay. I think the best way to do it would be for Dualas to come with me and you,” he indicated Coryden, “to wait out here.”

“
Sir
, yes, sir!” Coryden replied.

“Oh, Coryden,” Morticai complained, “you know I don’t mean anything. Besides, we’re not on patrol.”

Coryden smiled and nodded, knowing he’d made his point. “Right. I’ll wait here. Just get on with it—I could be back in quarters catching up on my rest.”

“We shouldn’t be too long,” Morticai said, handing the lantern to Coryden.

* * *

“No matter what happens,” Morticai whispered to Dualas as they approached the door, “let me do the talking. Fenton is a little strange.”

Dualas asked, “ Strange? What do you mean …” but Morticai had already gone through the door. As he followed, a cord attached to a metal wind chime announced their entrance into the small shop. Worn tapestries and strung shells adorned the upper walls. Below them, every section of available wall space was lined with narrow shelves that held row upon row of small jars. Dualas moved closer to look at the jars. Herbs.

A short, fat, balding man had come into the room through a back doorway. He smiled broadly and stretched his arms out to embrace Morticai. They grasped arms in greeting “Friend Dyluth,” he said, “it has been far too long since you have honored my humble abode with your presence!”

Dualas realized that Fenton, for this must be the merchant, was referring to Morticai by that strange name—Dyluth. An alias, perhaps?

Fenton caught sight of Dualas. “And who is your friend?” he asked in a much more reserved tone.

“Fenton,” Morticai said with a grand gesture toward Dualas, “I’d like you to meet Dualas. Dualas is a man I would trust with all that I have.”

Dualas found the formal phrasing of the last sentence strange, almost ritualistic. Picking up on the cue, Dualas bowed deeply before the man.

“I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

That seemed to suffice. With a pleased smile, Fenton gestured to the back doorway. “Please enter. I know that Dyluth would not come unannounced without good reason, nor would he bring an unknown friend without the same.” He then went directly to the front door of the shop and locked it. Dualas looked at Morticai to see if Fenton’s action had alarmed him, but Morticai, seemingly unconcerned, gestured for him to come along.

The room they entered was even smaller than the shop had been, although the furnishings were rich. It was styled in the Bracarian tradition—thick carpets, low tables, and a large number of pillows. Newer tapestries hung on the walls, but much of their beauty was lost in the dim lighting. A single lamp sat in the center of a low, round table. Dualas noted that the lamp’s chimney was in desperate need of cleaning. Morticai had moved to where he could watch the doorway, which Dualas suspected was not an accident. He followed suit and sat on the floor beside him. He had never been fond of Bracarian customs and felt awkward sitting on the floor.

Fenton entered and closed the door behind him. The room was stifling; Dualas hoped they would not have to be here long. Fenton moved to a samovar that sat on a nearby table—Dualas had not noticed it before.

“Well, Dyluth,” Fenton began, “it has been a long time since we have talked. Are you still in the Northmarch?”

“Yes,” Morticai said, chuckling.

“That is funny?” Fenton asked.

“Well, I’ve seen a few old friends lately, and they all ask me the same thing.”

“Ah. I suppose it’s because you’ve never seemed to, how shall I say, belong in the Northmarch. I have never been able to imagine you sitting on a horse, wearing chain armor and swinging a sword.”

“I’ll have to come by sometime in my armor.”

“Please, don’t. And your friend?” Fenton gestured to Dualas. “Are you also in the Northmarch?”

Fortunately, Dualas caught the slight dip of Morticai’s head before answering.

“Yes, I am.”

It was not a lie, but normally he would have answered that he was a knight of the Faith in service to the Northmarch.