The Eyes of God (63 page)
Authors: John Marco
“Tark, I’m off to Lionkeep,” he called. “See that those wagons are loaded and the new mounts quartered in the eastern stables.”
Colonel Tark nodded. “Yes, sir,” he called back. “Will you be back, sir? I can wait up for you.”
“I’m going to get some sleep, Tark,” replied Trager. “I suggest you all do the same.”
“Understood, sir.”
Tark’s smile was picked up by the rest of the officers. Like Trager, they had all been up since dawn, preparing for the mission. They nodded their good nights to Trager as he turned from the battlement, letting the noise of the grounds fall away behind him. He was on the second level of the tiered structure, and when he entered the hall of his offices the lack of sound was astonishing. A few of his aides scribbled in ledgers, counting up the vast numbers of supplies that were arriving. Only the scratching of their pens disturbed the silence. Trager walked past them without a word. Making his way down a stone staircase, he found the first floor of his headquarters as empty as the second. A pair of Knight-Guardians, his personal bodyguards, stood at the bottom of the stairway. Silently they awaited his orders.
“We’re going to Lionkeep, then home,” he said tersely.
The Knight-Guardians did not reply. They simply followed him out to the stables, then all the way to Lionkeep.
In the last few years of Akeela’s reign, Lionkeep had become remarkably desolate. It was no longer the place of gaiety it had been in the early days, when Lukien had hordes of friends and “Akeela the Good” was available to every visitor. Now it was a shadow of itself, a vast prison for Akeela and Cassandra both, and few people entered its ancient courtyard. Despite Akeela’s wealth, most of the place had fallen into disrepair. The stones were covered with vines and moss and the gates creaked with rust. Even on the clearest night the keep looked haunted, collecting pockets of fog and throwing crooked shadows across the grounds.
When Trager arrived at Lionkeep he saw the moonlight reflected in the windows and a few lonely candles, and that was all. He rode at the head of his tiny column, bidding his Knight-Guardians to remain in the courtyard as he went to seek Head Warden Graig. The Wardens still held sway in Lionkeep, and Graig had complained more than once about the Knight-Guardians, a group he viewed as competitive to his own venerable order. Trager had stopped arguing about the issue years ago. He was safe enough in Lionkeep, and needed no wardens or Knight-Guardians to protect him. He left his men in the yard, heading through the portcullis. Two wardens, dressed in the timeless uniform of their order, greeted him as he entered but Trager did not speak to them. They let him pass without question. It was very late and Trager was impatient. He wanted to get home and sleep, or at least spend some time with Dia, his mistress. Dia had promised to wait up for him, and Dia always kept her promises. But first Trager had to make a report to Akeela. And that meant seeing Graig.
Graig’s office was on the ground floor of the keep, not far from the main entrance. Candlelight glowed over the threshold, telling Trager that Graig was still awake. Trager paused in the hallway, listening. He didn’t like having to see Graig before visiting Akeela, but such were the rules of Lionkeep. Graig still had enough influence with the king to get his way on small matters. It was just one more reason to hate the old man.
Trager headed to the office and knocked on the open door. Graig was at his desk, smoking. On his desk were papers and a flagon of wine. Trager noticed immediately that there were two cups, one half full, the other empty. Graig leaned back in his chair and studied Trager over the long pipe in his lips. The air stank of tobacco, a substance the immaculate Trager had always detested.
“Good evening, General,” said the Head Warden. There was a hint of slurring in his voice and just the trace of a smile.
“I’m going up to see King Akeela,” said Trager. He turned quickly to go. Surprisingly, Warden Graig called after him.
“Wait, General, a moment.”
Trager peered back through the doorway and looked at him. “What?”
Graig waved him into the room. “Don’t rush off,” he said merrily. “I’ve got myself some wine from Akeela’s private cellar. A gift for my birthday.”
“Your birthday? How old are you? A hundred?”
“So witty. Here. . . .” Graig hefted the enormous flagon and began pouring into the empty mug. “Have some.”
“I have to see Akeela,” said Trager.
“It’s late. King Akeela is probably asleep.”
“Akeela never sleeps, you know that.”
“So then your news can wait all night, right?”
“What do you want, Head Warden?”
Graig shrugged. “Company.”
Will Trager was by nature a suspicious man. He could read faces like playing cards, and Graig’s face told him something was afoot. He had been waiting for Trager, and not just to bid him access to the king. Trager stepped into the little office warily. He detested Graig and always had, but the old man’s forwardness intrigued him. And the late hour meant no one would see them together. Trager sensed an opportunity.
“All right,” he relented. “It’s been an arduous day, and I’m as dry as the Desert of Tears.” He took off his cape and laid it over the chair. From the corner of his eye he caught Graig smiling, obviously pleased with himself. “I suppose Akeela can wait for his report,” he continued. “Not much to tell, anyway.”
“You’re still arranging your men and supplies?” asked Graig as he held out the goblet.
Trager nodded, taking the cup and sitting down. His greaves creaked as his knees bent. Resting felt wonderful. “Lots to do, and not much time,” he said with a sigh. He knew that Graig wanted to talk about the Jadori mission. He decided to oblige. Like nearly everyone in Koth, Graig was kept in the dark about the happenings with Jador. He only knew that masses of men were gathering for a march to Jador; he did not know why.
“Drink,” bade Graig, hoisting his own glass. “Toast my good health.”
“If I must,” sighed Trager. They clinked goblets and Trager took a long, exquisite pull of the wine. It was excellent, the best he’d had in months. As he lowered his cup he stared at its ruby contents. “This is very fine. Akeela gave you this, you say?”
“For my birthday,” Graig repeated. “Drink up. There’s more.”
The old jealousy rose up in Trager like a cobra. In all the birthdays he had marked in Koth, he had never received a single gift from Akeela, and certainly nothing as fine as this flawless vintage. What did a man have to do to curry such favor, he wondered? He took another sip, not caring how much of Graig’s gift he consumed, and in a moment had drained his goblet. He slammed it down on the desk.
“More.”
Graig obliged, filling Trager’s cup. Trager watched him, thinking him remarkably stupid. He could see the Head Warden’s plan a mile away. First he would ply him with wine, then with questions. But the wine was good and Trager was tired, and he knew that he could endure the Head Warden’s company. Dia would wait for him. Like a loyal bitch she would stay up until dawn for her master to return. If he still hungered for her he would take her, and she would allow it unquestioningly. He knew that she loved him, and that her love had made her weak. She always tried to please him, and Trager recognized that weakness from his own past. It was so easy to use it against her.
Trager emptied his goblet again before Graig could speak. And again the old man filled his cup. This time, though, Trager slowed his drinking.
“Good,” remarked Graig. “Take it easy. We are in no rush, you and I.”
“Just trying to catch up with you,” said Trager. “How long have you been sitting here?”
“Oh, a couple of hours. It’s nice this time of night. Quiet.”
“You were waiting for me,” said Trager.
Graig’s only reply was a smile. He took a sip from his goblet and leaned back in his leather chair, propping his feet up on the desk. Trager took notice of his comfort and realized that Graig was not setting up a pretense. He wanted to talk, and made himself plainly obvious. Trager was glad the man credited him with some sense.
He realized suddenly that in all the years they’d served together, he had never really talked with Graig. They had argued, had fought for access to Akeela, but they had never actually
talked.
Trager instantly blamed Graig for the silence. He had been a willing part of the king’s little clique, an inner circle from which Trager had always been excluded. Hatred bubbled up in Trager as he remembered all the old insults. Now, at last, he would take the chance to tell Graig what he really thought of him.
talked.
Trager instantly blamed Graig for the silence. He had been a willing part of the king’s little clique, an inner circle from which Trager had always been excluded. Hatred bubbled up in Trager as he remembered all the old insults. Now, at last, he would take the chance to tell Graig what he really thought of him.
But not quickly. First, small talk.
Graig talked about the warden service and about his rheumatism, which had been acting up for years and kept him confined mostly to Lionkeep. He spoke endlessly about his service to Akeela, and occasionally dropped a question to Trager, to keep him in the conversation and, it seemed to Trager, to get him used to answering questions. The two continued drinking from the enormous flagon. Graig was liberal with his gift. He laughed and told jokes, and was surprisingly good company. Trager listened and occasionally smiled, and spoke a little about his father, whom Graig had known and never really cared for. The wine loosened both their tongues, and within an hour they were thoroughly relaxed, admitting things neither had spoken of in years. Trager felt his inhibitions slipping away. He gloried in the ability to speak the truth to this man he’d always hated.
“My father was a bastard,” he said. “The first time I fell off a horse he beat me. He was embarrassed, because there were friends around. The most important thing in the world to my father was the opinion of others.”
“And you hated him for that,” said Graig, his voice slurring badly.
“Yes,” admitted Trager. “I did.”
The memory of his father overwhelmed Trager suddenly. He set the goblet down on the desk, his head swimming. Remarkably, he felt like weeping.
“I was never good enough, you see,” he continued. “No matter how much I accomplished, no matter how many tourneys I won against the other squires, he was always telling me to do better, always pushing, pushing. . . .” Grinding his teeth, Trager shut his eyes. “And I was so glad when he died. I thought I was rid of that kind of jeering forever. But I wasn’t, because there was Lukien to replace him. My new competitor.”
Silence. Trager opened his eyes and saw Graig staring at him.
“What?” barked Trager. “Surprised to hear me say that?”
“A little,” the old man replied. “I haven’t heard anyone mention Lukien in years. Akeela forbids his name to be spoken.”
“As it should be,” sneered Trager. He picked up his cup and drank, stoking his anger. The temptation to slander his old nemesis was too great to ignore. “Akeela is wise not to perpetuate the Bronze Knight’s legend,” he continued. “I’ve done my best to bury it, and it hasn’t been easy, let me tell you. I still hear men speak his name in the Chargers. Still, after all I’ve done for them.”
“Lukien was a good man,” said Graig. “You do wrong to injure him. If you had known him—”
“How could I have known him?” roared Trager. “How, when all of you shunned me? You had your little gang, your little circle of friends, so tight you couldn’t slip a fingernail between you. And did you ever ask me to be part of it? Did any of you ever once show me some bloody courtesy?”
Graig looked away, unable to answer.
“I thought not,” snorted Trager. “Beasts, every one of you. Just like my father. Will Trager was never good enough for you.”
Now he was the one who looked away, his head pounding, bitterness choking his throat. Again the hateful need to weep crept over him, but he slammed it down hard. He would never let this horrible little man see him cry like a woman. He had already told him too much already.
Too much,
he thought blackly.
More than he deserves to know.
he thought blackly.
More than he deserves to know.
“I’m close with Akeela now,” he said proudly. “Closer than you even, Graig. Closer even than that old fool Figgis. That makes me important in the world. And you know what you are? You’re nothing.”
Graig gave a thin smile. “If that makes you happy, General, I’m glad.”
“No you’re not. You’ve never been glad for me,” countered Trager. “You opposed me when I became general, and you’ve opposed me every day since. But look at your history, old man. I’m the one Akeela listens to, not you. When I urged him to dissolve the chancelleries, he took my counsel. And when I told him to banish Baron Glass to the Isle of Woe, he listened. Akeela does what I say now, because he values my opinion. He knows I’m smarter than you or any of his other lackeys. You’re the last of a dying breed, Graig. Your time is over.”
Graig’s face was hard as stone. He reached out for the almost-empty flagon, taking it from the desk and setting it on the floor next to him. “I think you’ve had enough,” he said.
“Oh?” Trager flashed a menacing grin. “But it’s so early, and you haven’t even asked your questions yet.”
“Questions?” asked Graig. “What do you mean?”
The evasive answer disappointed Trager. Apparently, Graig still thought him a fool. “Come now, Head Warden, I may be drunk but I’m not an imbecile. This was all a ruse. I knew it from the moment I sat down. You want to ask me about the Jadori mission. So ask.”
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