The Cult of Sutek (10 page)

“He does, but they are skeptical of outsiders, especially women.”

“They always are,” she spat.

“I’m not, and I do have influence. If you are interested in joining I can set up a place for you to showcase your skills and prove your worth.”

“I prove my worth to no one. I know what I can do, and I have no desire to die for someone else’s cause.”

“My father’s a good man, and there are those who seek to do him harm.”

“He’s not the first.”

The boy leaned in close. “Some say the Cult of Sutek is involved.”

“Don’t care about it.”

“I was told warriors like yourself had honor,” he said with a bunched face as if confused.

“I thought you said you knew what not to believe in those tales Rondel spins. Warriors like me care only about two things. Wealth and glory.” She thought of the Jewel of Bashan. “Your father can’t afford the price I’m seeking to satisfy either of those things.” She took a bite of bread. “Now let me eat in peace.”

Jahi scowled, but stood and spoke politely anyway. “Very well. Enjoy your meal.”

Rondel’s raspy laughter rose over the clamor of conversation. It made Andrasta’s stomach turn.

Not likely.

* * *

“. . . and that’s how it happened.” Rondel finished the tale of his escape from prison once more with a satisfying feeling of relief. He had repeated the story four times since the feast began and he felt the last time had been his finest as he even did a serviceable job of mimicking the voices of others in spite of his damaged throat.

Horus heard each telling of the story, and the king had sat as enraptured the fourth time through as he had the first. Rondel always liked the man for his ability to enjoy a good story or song. People like him encouraged his best performances. Their attitudes became infectious and before long entire audiences hung on his every word.

“The story is riddled with holes and inconsistencies,” said a voice. “You and a woman, regardless of how large she is, killing that many men? I don’t believe it.”

The voice sounded low, but because of the conviction it carried, it cut through the enjoyment.

He searched the audience of a dozen of the king’s closest men and a few of his allies. Four seats to his right sat a young man with coal-black hair and beard. His eyes shone a deep-blue and the candle light reflecting off them reminded Rondel of lapping waves. The laughter faded as the young man’s stare bore into Rondel. He said nothing more, waiting for Rondel to defend himself.

There’s one in every crowd.

In the past, he would dismiss or subtlety embarrass his detractors in such a way that might cause them to fade away while he regained control of the audience. He once commanded that sort of power with ease, but as he gazed at the rest of the table filled with faces waiting for him to address the accusation, his confidence wavered.

Rondel cleared his throat, but found it dry, barren, with no words to support his story though he had barely embellished the tale.

He felt small. Weak. Insignificant.

I’m nothing now. I can spin a good yarn, but many can do that. What once separated me from others was my voice, but it’s a shadow of what it once was.

He looked down at the drab clothing visible under a mismatch of cheap armor—browns and grays decorated with dirt and sweat, a far cry from the lavish outfits he had once been known for.

And a far cry from those worn by the nobles around me.

I’m an embarrassment to the name I once held. I can’t believe I thought I could just slide back into this life. Doing so tarnishes what legacy I had. Perhaps it’s better for people to think that Rondel the Bard is dead.

Just be Rondel. Nothing more. Better to move on.

He swallowed hard while searching for the best response to the young man’s accusation. The only thing that came to mind was an apology.

Fitting. I can start by apologizing to them for thinking I still belonged in their company.

“Thabit, that’s enough. You believe what you want to believe. Of course it has some embellishments here and there, but what story doesn’t, right Rondel?” asked Horus, slapping the former minstrel on the shoulder like an old friend.

Rondel found his voice, seizing the opportunity offered by the king. “You are correct, my lord. It makes for a more interesting tale. However, the essence of the story is true.”

“Of course it is. And what better proof of that than the fact my daughter is here with us again. Now let’s give our guest a break. He is the one we should be entertaining.”

Rondel forced a smile, relieved that the king had deflected attention away from him. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, graciously. “I’m sure that like many celebrations, there is much business that still needs to be addressed. Please do what is needed and I’ll return to my meal.”

He looked down at his plate. He had barely taken a bite since the celebration began. Once he started spinning tales, he couldn’t stop himself from moving into another.

Realizing that, he actually felt embarrassed.

I just had to make myself the center of attention again. And by craving center stage, I left myself open to Thabit’s remarks.

“Well spoken,” said Horus before turning to an advisor.

And just like that, Rondel was forgotten. Conversations shifted to the political climate and the king’s worries of an imminent war.

Gradually, he was pushed down the long benches lining the table as people of more importance took his place in order to join the discussions.

Maskini, one of the lesser nobles, stood out as he tried to work his way into various exchanges. The gangly man kept stumbling over his words as much as he did his feet when moving from one person to the next. Despite his best efforts at inclusion, he inadvertently offended several powerful people.

Once upon a time, Rondel would have snickered at the man’s ineptitude. Instead, sympathy tugged at his heart for he finally understood what it meant to be pushed aside in such a setting.

Duke Engren took more than my voice and a few fingertips.

“But you must help me convince Horus,” said Maskini, his voice rising as he spoke with the noble two places down from Rondel. “The proof I have is irrefutable.”

“Just like the proof you had about Akar’s wife sleeping with Salatis’s nephew,” said the other noble, eyes practically rolling out of his head.

“That was nearly eight years ago!” hissed Maskini.

“And the damages from your claim are still being felt.”

“How was I supposed to know that—”

The noble raised a single finger. “Tell your silly tales to someone else. I’m not interested.” He gave Maskini his back.

Maskini left the noble’s side and settled next to Rondel in a huff. Nervous sweat beaded on the man’s forehead. Cheeks red with embarrassment peeked through a thin beard. He took a long swallow of wine before muttering a few curses to himself and something that sounded like “I was never proven
wrong
about Akar’s wife.”

“Everything all right?” Rondel asked without thinking.

Gods, do I really care?

Maskini looked up. “What? Oh, yes. Everything’s fine.” He shook his head. “Well, no. Not really.”

“A hard crowd to please,” he said, surprised at his efforts at conversation when moments before he wanted to crawl under the table and die.

“Very. Unfortunately, not everyone has the ability to captivate an audience as you do.”

Really? The man must be blind. Thabit humiliated me.

“Not everyone was captivated. I definitely didn’t end on a high note.”

“Thabit’s a donkey’s rear,” Maskini whispered. “Because of recent rumors, no one will believe what I have to say. Rumors I know he started.”

“Rumors?”

Maskini turned his head. “I’d rather not talk about them. If you’re truly interested I’m sure someone will inform you.”

“No. My apologies.”

A short silence passed before Maskini spoke again. “They’re fools, you know. Menetnashte is stockpiling kilogen. Some say he managed to secure a large supply of urilaudium as well.”

Rondel raised an eyebrow. He knew from previous travels with a famous alchemist that urilaudium was a dangerous and highly volatile substance. The alchemist had told him that the rarity of it put many rulers at ease since hardly enough of it could be found to make a difference in a war. With kilogen’s primary purpose being to amplify the effects of other chemicals, Menetnashte wouldn’t need a lot of urilaudium.

“And Horus doesn’t believe you?”

“No. Urilaudium is so rare that no one believes anyone could have obtained enough of the substance to be a threat.” He shook his head. “They’re wrong. It is possible, and from what I heard, it wouldn’t matter how many soldiers Horus could recruit, a compound of kilogen and urilaudium would wipe them out in a matter of moments.” He sighed. “If I could just speak to Horus in private and show him my proof, then perhaps he’ll listen. However, few took me seriously even before Thabit’s rumors. Being the fourth son of a minor noble is only one step above peasantry in their eyes.”

And at least two steps above a crippled minstrel.

Rondel took a bite of the spiced lamb and chewed, unsure how to respond.

Well, at least the food is good
.

* * *

The long dinner came to a close, but as Rondel expected, the festivities had only begun.

As was the case on the streets where citizens enjoyed the Festival of Nut, King Horus had every intention of celebrating the return of his daughter until dawn. In the past, Rondel would have no problem enjoying himself, but after his embarrassment at the hands of Thabit, the celebration lost much of its appeal.

Servants skillfully ushered patrons out of the dining area through wide double doors and into the adjoining large hall with high ceilings. Entertainers swarmed the center of the room.

Women dressed in bright oranges and reds danced seductively with long, flowing ribbons, spinning and twisting to the music played by a small group of musicians in the far corner. Sistrums, drums, and cymbals joined the melody of harp and trumpet. The style of music being played had never been one of Rondel’s favorites.

But it is music, and that’s enough for now.

Despite his phantom fingertips itching for the caress of a lute, he relaxed to the sound of familiar melodies.

He watched the musicians until two jugglers tossing scimitars and daggers across the room caught his attention. The projectiles arced above the fire-eaters and baton twirlers between them.

Rondel smirked as he caught Andrasta taking everything in. The woman looked even less comfortable than he felt.

After a few minutes of appreciating the skill of the entertainers, Rondel regained some of his confidence. He began to mingle with other guests, knowing it was still too early to approach Horus about a reward for the return of Dendera.

Gods, I hope Dendera’s claims about his financial difficulties aren’t as bad as she let on.

Not wanting to open himself up to another embarrassing encounter, he took a passive approach to the conversations, keeping them centered on areas the person he spoke with would be most interested in. Rondel was in the midst of one such conversation when he noticed a familiar woman approaching.

Jamila.

His former conquest had been absent at the dinner, arriving fashionably late only after the entertainment began. He shouldn’t have been surprised at the woman’s appearance as Jamila had always enjoyed making an entrance. However, the last thing on his mind had been running into her.

The years had been less kind to Jamila than they had been to him. Nevertheless, the moment he saw her lust-filled gaze, he knew her immediately. He also knew he wanted no part of what might still be lurking behind those eyes.

I’m not that desperate.

Rondel ended several conversations prematurely, disappearing across the hall when she would drift his way, starting new conversations where she could not spot him easily.

Most discussions he participated in gravitated toward the political tension present throughout the realm and how King Horus would respond to pressure from the other kings under the Emperor’s rule.

Horus had more going against him than he or Dendera had let on. Rumors insinuated that the powerful kings in the north of Iget held sway over Emperor Chuma. If true, that explained why the monarch seemed to care little about aggressions against Horus, comfortable to hide in Iget’s capital of Akor. Menetnashte, Horus’s chief rival, was the name thrown around most often among the northern kings.

It seems that Menetnashte can’t take complete control of the Emperor or perhaps even the monarchy itself with Horus still in power. Horus is too much of a loyalist and too powerful among Iget’s southern kings.

He made that observation to the person he spoke with, a middle-aged man, bald and clean shaven except for the faintest line of a mustache over his lip.

“Exactly,” said the man. “And the problem for Horus is that everyone of importance knows of that unspoken threat.”

“People haven’t decided who to support?”

“Not entirely.”

“And yourself?” asked Rondel.

The man frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Have you decided? I assume you’re at least leaning toward Horus’s cause based on your attendance tonight.”

The man chuckled nervously. He began coughing. “Pardon me. I need to step out for a moment.” He turned away and disappeared through a side door.

“I see you continue to have a resounding impact on your audience.”

Rondel faced Thabit. The young man, somewhere in his mid-twenties, had walked up beside him unnoticed. He sipped wine from a bronze goblet with a twinkle in his eye. He must have seen something in Rondel’s expression because he eased back a step and offered a slight bow.

“Please, forgive me. I seem to have offended you which was not my intention. Unfortunately, I have a curse of speaking my thoughts without considering how others might perceive them.”