The Hero's Lot (42 page)

Hadari laughed and stepped back from the book. “Would you like to read it?”

Errol leaned forward, preparing to take that first irrevocable step to discovering Hadari's secret. He stopped. There was no point. Someone had to die, and it didn't take a scholar to see that the kingdom needed Liam more than it needed a former drunkard like himself. No, let Hadari keep the knowledge of his book. Errol's destiny lay in the arena.

“No. I am done with books and secrets. Whatever you want from me is beyond my ability to give.”

For the barest instant, the guard's large face, dark and blunt, showed a longing almost beyond human capacity to express. Hadari wheeled, his shoulders taut, and closed the book. “Perhaps another time, then, infidel.” His tone carried a note of finality, and the way he said
infidel
no longer spoke of teasing but of wrenching loss.

Errol followed him from the ilhotep's treasure room. The other guard fell in line behind them, and they followed a twisting route that Errol could never have duplicated back to the slave quarters underneath the arena. Neither Errol nor Hadari made any further attempts at conversation.

Back in the sleeping room, Errol sat on his bunk amidst the sound of men dozing around him. His subconscious found a spot in the upper part of the wall through which an unobstructed arrow would find Valon's heart. Books and questions faded from his awareness.

When the morning meal and light through the slits announced sunrise, the guards came for Naaman Ru and Merodach. Both men returned within an hour, dusty but hardly out of breath.
Merodach, his silver blond hair glinting in the light, returned to his whispered consultations with Rale, his blue-eyed gaze darting often to Errol.

Ru, meanwhile, walked about the quarters snorting and voicing his disgust. “We're wasting time. The ilhotep's councilors will tire of our easy victories and begin sending us against their best.”

“How would you propose we escape?” Rale asked. “I'm open to suggestions.”

Errol returned to his bunk. There would be no escape, and until whatever end awaited him arrived, there was little to do except eat, sleep, and fight. He was ready to accept his fate, but when he thought of Adora . . . He tried not to think of the princess.

He slept often and spent his waking hours following Valon's movements as surely as if the man walked before him.

Cruk and Rale visited the arena and returned as quickly as Ru and Merodach. Hadari came for Errol the next day at noon to lead him to his next battle. “The crowd does not like you or your friends, infidel.”

“Why is that?” Errol asked.

“They are here for a show, and you disappoint them with your quick kills.”

“Then they should send us better opponents.”

Hadari laughed as if Errol had made a great jest. “Well spoken. The men you have defeated were counted fierce among the bandits and criminals they lead. It is a great honor to have three captains of the watch fighting in the arena, but who is this other man, Naaman Ru?”

Errol did not trust Hadari's companionship despite their visit to the treasure room. “He is a caravan master who is good with a sword.”

“You weave a rug with missing threads.” Hadari smiled. “There are some who have noticed Ru is . . . comfortable here, as if he has seen Merakh before.”

Errol let the unasked question slip by. “I'll wager he would rather be in the kingdom right now.”

“Perhaps we will talk on this again, infidel.”

Errol couldn't tell if the man's words were an invitation or a threat. But thoughts of Hadari and his secrets faded as he entered the glare of the arena to choose his weapon. Swords or staff? He moved along the rack toward his sword case and stopped, his attention arrested by a smooth, gray rod.

“What is this?”

Hadari approached. “It is a metal staff. Your priest, the one you call Martin, had it with him.”

Errol lifted it from the rack, amazed at its light weight. Despite the sweat on his hands, the metal gripped well. It did not slide from his grasp. He stole a glance across the circular stretch of ground. His opponent stood impassive under the noise of the crowd, waiting.

Foolishness, he told himself. Only an idiot would take an untried weapon into battle. Doing so practically begged for death.

He grabbed the staff and returned to Hadari.

“You would face a sword with a glorified stick, infidel? I thought you wise. I see my estimation was in error.”

Something about the feel of the metal staff, lighter than ash and stronger than oak, made him want to laugh. “You may be surprised, Hadari, what may be done with a stick.”

The guard nodded, and Errol left him to approach the center of the ring.

The jeers of the crowd faded as his opponent came forward. “I see you, northlander,” the man said. A thick black beard covered his face and waggled when he spoke. “You insult me with your choice of weapon. Do you not realize I have killed over a hundred men, both northlanders and countrymen alike? Pig.”

Errol stepped forward, the staff moving slow circles in preparation.

Moments later Errol replaced the staff in the rack with a pang of regret, the crowd silent behind him. Hadari inclined his head in acknowledgment, less than a bow, more than a nod. “You surprised many today, northlander. There has never been a warrior in the ring who has chosen to fight with a stick.”

“Staff,” Errol corrected.

“Hardly the weapon for a warrior of renown, but now it is easier to believe the tales,” Hadari said.

“I never wanted renown or to be a warrior.” His voice thickened as his detachment cracked and a wash of emotion that threatened to become a tidal wave came through. “Maybe I should have. But getting other things I wanted hasn't helped much.”

A glint appeared in Hadari's visage, of cunning or something else Errol couldn't tell, but the big guard escorted him back to the slave quarters with the abstraction of a man making plans. When he stopped at the door and motioned Errol inside, he gave a cryptic smile. “It would be good for you to rest now, infidel. Unforeseen circumstances come to us all.”

It was barely an hour after noon. Sleep seemed a ridiculous notion, yet conversation with the rest of the company did not interest him. He lay down on the bunk. His gaze traced invisible paths along the upper part of the wall, following Valon's movements. Errol's mind wandered through the days of the past year, seeking an escape from the pull of the Judica's compulsion.

The message. If he had refused to take the message, Luis would never have discovered his talent. There would have been no compulsion to force him to Erinon. He would have remained in Callowford with Cilla.

With Antil.

He rolled, tangling himself in the thin blanket that covered his pallet, found himself staring at the stone slabs that formed the floor. His answer must lay further back. The face of his adoptive father, Warrel, loomed before him again, pale and closed with pain.

The fracture in Errol's detachment widened, threatened to burst, allowing emotions he'd locked away to drown him. When had he ever been in control of his own life? He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to shut away the useless memories. What would have been different if he had never crawled into the ale barrel?

No. It was no use. The seekers for the church would have
tested him at fourteen and taken him to Erinon. He would have been spared Antil's abuse and his own intemperance, but in all likelihood he would be dead now. The conclave would have uncovered his talent as an omne. Valon would not have left him alive. A knot of rage built in the back of his throat. The grip of destiny had its foot as firmly planted on his future as it did his past. There had never been any escape for him.

The struggle to keep his emotions in check exhausted him. He slept.

A hand on his shoulder brought him to wakefulness. The sighs of men dreaming of freedom surrounded him. Hadari's silhouette hovered over his bunk. Errol rose and followed the guard as before, but this time Hadari seemed uninterested in conversation.

At the entrance to the slave quarters, guards removed Errol's clothes and outfitted him in the white linen of a Merakhi soldier. A guard bent and belted a curved sword, a shirra, at his waist. Curious, Errol tested the edge with his thumb. It was dull, so dull it could only be used as a club.

Hadari stepped in front of him and wrapped Errol's face with the linen cloth attached to the shoulders of the uniform. “With your sun-browned skin and dark hair you could almost pass for a Merakhi.” He leaned close. “Keep your hands empty. To draw that weapon is to die. Do you understand?”

Errol nodded.

“Good. Do not speak. Your voice would give you away.”

With two guards in front of them and another two behind, Hadari led them through the tunnels that connected the buildings of the ilhotep's city until they arrived once again at the treasure hall of Merakh's ruler.

This time all five guards accompanied Errol into the room. Without preamble, he was escorted to the back corner where the book lay. When they turned the corner, Errol stopped short. In front of him, surrounded by another five guards, all of them as big and dark as Hadari, stood the ilhotep.

The guards with Errol knelt. Oversized hands moved to pull him down before the ilhotep's raised hand stopped them. On
impulse, Errol completed the gesture on his own, his right knee cold against the polished marble floor. When he rose, Errol looked upon a man who wore the ilhotep's features and rich clothes, but whose posture and personality bore no resemblance to the indolent pouting man he'd seen in the palace.

 41 
Magis's Folly

A
RE THE ENTRANCES SEALED?”
the ilhotep asked.

Hadari bowed. “Yes, my ilhotep. None may enter without your knowledge or permission.”

Merakh's ruler turned his eyes to Errol. Away from the indulgence of his throne room, the ilhotep seemed more like a panther than a kitten. Black, shoulder-length hair accentuated the intensity of his face. His eyes, dark to match his hair, had lost their heavy-lidded somnolence, burning instead as they scrutinized Errol from eyes to soles, noting every detail. Yet the smile that appeared in the midst of his neat beard seemed welcoming enough.

“Doubtless, Earl Stone, you wonder why I would have you brought here in the middle of the night.”

Errol nodded. “Ilhotep, I'm surprised that you would address me by a title few of my own countrymen use. To most of them I'm a boy, or a peasant.”

The ilhotep's eyes blazed. “Yes, so my informants have told me. Yet you have accomplished great things, and the hope of Illustra rests on your shoulders.”

“No,” Errol said. “I do not think so, or they wouldn't have sent me on this fool's quest.”

Laughter greeted his statement, showing the ilhotep's white, even teeth. “Do not confuse those who vie for power with those who work for good. Men like your Duke Weir would rather perish as king than live as duke. Unfortunately, he is powerful enough to obtain his desire.”

“Pardon me, Ilhotep, but why are you telling me all this? If you know as much about me as Hadari says, you know I must kill Sarin Valon or go insane. Merakh will be at war with the kingdom when Rodran dies, at any rate.”

The ilhotep stepped closer. Errol kept his hands in plain view, away from his sword, surprised to discover the ruler was his own size. The intensity of his face and manner had made him seem larger. “What would you think if I said I do not desire war?”

Hunger flared in Errol, then died almost as quickly. “I have seen too many men die, Ilhotep—some of them by my own hand—to wish for anything but peace, but I must kill Sarin Valon or lose myself.”

The ilhotep brushed aside his objection. “Valon will die. He is insane and serves Belaaz rather than me. The spirits—the ones we call the roukh—have eaten his mind. The intelligence you see looking out from his eyes does not belong to a man. After you left the throne room he went mad with fear. He knows why you are here.” The ilhotep paused to laugh. “And now that he knows he cannot see you coming, he is petrified along with the rest of the council. Beware, Earl Stone, they will not be content with waiting. Every moment you draw breath is one in which a sword stroke may deprive the roukh of their host.”

The ilhotep ran his fingers along the edge of the book, then nodded to himself. “The matter is simple. In four days we will celebrate the feast of the god Belaaz.”

Errol started.

The ilhotep's lips parted in a sardonic grin. “No, northlander, it is not a coincidence. My chief councilor has taken the name of the roukh that possesses him. His feast will be our opportunity.”
His face grimaced in disgust. “The roukh drive their hosts relentlessly on such occasions as they indulge their . . . appetites. Eventually, even they must rest. On that day you will be provided with a map and allowed to escape. If you wish to avoid war, as I do, kill Valon and the council.”

The enormity of the ilhotep's request daunted him. “Ilhotep, even if they are unconscious, they will be guarded. Any alarm will put the council and Valon beyond reach.”

Instead of answering, the ilhotep turned from him. He stilled and for a moment appeared to doubt himself. “The council thinks me safely under their influence, but I do not want war.” His right hand came to rest on the book Hadari had shown Errol before. “I have come to see things differently. Errol Stone, you are Illustra's—and Merakh's—only hope for averting conflict.”

Errol pulled his gaze from the ilhotep's with an effort. Almost he confessed that it was Karele who protected the Illustrans, that alone, Errol might be visible to Valon and his circle. But the presence of so many guards silenced him. He trusted Hadari, wanted to trust the ilhotep, but the rest of the Ongolese guards were unknown to him.

He bowed. “I will consider your plan, Ilhotep.”

The leader of Merakh didn't bother to hide his disappointment, but instead of trying to persuade Errol further, he turned his full attention to the book. He knelt to press his head against the cover, and his lips moved, though Errol could hear no sound. The ilhotep ruler rose. “Do you know what this is, Earl Stone?”

“Hadari showed it to me,” Errol said. “It's a book.”

The ilhotep laughed, joyful and light. “Yes, he showed it to me as well. Though a good number can speak it, not many in Merakh can read the language of your kingdom. But my father, who was ilhotep before me, gave me the finest education in the world, and I require men of intelligence to guard me.” He turned to Hadari. “Because he discovered and showed me this book, he has become more than a servant; he has become my greatest friend.”

Hadari smiled and bowed, bending at the waist until his head faced the floor.

The ilhotep's fingers traced the book with reverence. “In the kingdom, the loss of this book is known as Magis's folly.”

Remembrance flooded through Errol. “It can't be.”

The ilhotep smiled, pulled his mouth to one side in a smirk. “When the roukhs were all destroyed? Yes, but there were men with that army as well. They fled with the book and brought it back here. Anything the kingdom thought precious enough to guard, they thought worthy enough to take. When they discovered the book held no incantation or secrets of power, they put it here to gather dust. But the power of the book is far beyond mere chants, Earl Stone. Can you read?”

“Yes.”

“Then I would have you read the book,” the ilhotep said. “Time is short, but we have some few days yet. Hadari will bring you here each night.”

The enormity of what the ilhotep proposed began to sink in. “If your council discovers your plan, they will kill you.”

The ilhotep smiled. “Yes, Earl Stone. My life hangs by the thinnest of threads, but in you I have found a weapon that may defeat the council and their roukhs and prevent war.”

The simple admission caught Errol off guard. “I am your slave, Ilhotep. Why not just order me to do it? You could have me killed if I refuse to cooperate.”

The ilhotep's face softened. It retained its fire, but something gentle came into the set of his features. “Since I have read the book, I find that I no longer desire needless deaths.”

He left surrounded by eight of the ten guards. After he left, Errol shook his head. “He is very different than what I expected.”

“He is very different than what he was, infidel,” Hadari said.

“But not as wise as he should be.” Errol bit his lip. “Ten men are too many for the secret he's trying to keep.”

“You know not of what you speak, infidel. The nine are my brothers, sworn to his protection. None would betray him.”

“For all our sakes, I hope you are right.”

Hadari pointed toward the book. “We have a few hours before dawn.”

Errol stepped to the table and opened the cover.

He fought in the arena again the next day. His opponent, dressed in rough, ill-fitting rags, blustered and yelled, inciting the crowd. Someone threw a melon that landed a few feet from him as Errol stood, waiting for the introductions to end. One of Hadari's brothers jumped the barrier that separated the stone seats of the coliseum from the arena proper. No one threw anything else.

The brazen-throated sound of the horn signaled their bout, and Errol's attention snapped into focus. The man facing him, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, moved across the hard-packed sand with surprising grace. Errol circled, trying to make sense of the conflicting impressions.

The man's clothes and manner marked him as just another bandit or criminal sent to meet his eventual end in the arena. But his movements and the neatly trimmed beard and hair said something else. Errol backed away, ignoring the jeers of the crowd. His opponent took a casual swing with his shirra, and his ragged sleeves inched up his arms.
There.
Errol recognized the tattoo on his forearm. He had seen the same three indigo circles marking some of the soldiers of the spire.

He was fighting a palace guard.

“Why did they dress you like a bandit?”

Surprise showed in the man's eyes. “You have good eyes, northlander.” He bowed in respect, his hand scraping the ground.

A cloud of sand covered Errol, blinding him.

He backpedaled, blinking. His vision rippled, his opponent and the arena undulated like a mirage. He caught the first blow by luck. Riposted with the staff and caught the man with a grazing blow to the head.

The Merakhi guard wobbled. Errol retreated, scrubbing his eyes. The Merakhi attacked again, his sword catching the light. Wet. The blade gleamed with a yellowish cast.

His opponent needed only mark him and Errol would die.

Panic coursed through him, shattering his detachment. He pushed the light metal staff he had once again chosen for this bout, spinning it ever faster until the ends disappeared in the sound of a thousand angry hornets. He moved on the guard, striking his sword hand with a crunch of broken knuckles. The sword fell to the ground, and the guard clutched for a dagger Errol saw strapped at his side.

Before he could draw, Errol struck. Driving faster than ever before, he beat the Merakhi on the head, hitting him over and over again, striking even as he fell.

Sightless eyes gazed at the sun. His opponent's guards came forward at a run to reclaim the weapons. Errol stooped, pulled the dagger from the dead man's waist, and scooped up the sword before running back to Hadari.

Ten paces away, drawn bows stopped him.

Hadari cut his gaze left and right. “Drop the weapons, infidel. The fight is over. Your opponent has paid for bringing a hidden weapon to the arena.”

Errol let them hit the ground. “They're poisoned, Hadari. The sword and the dagger have styrich on them.” He stepped well away from the weapons as the men caught up to him from behind.

Hadari acknowledged them with a brief nod. “The infidel says the weapons are poisoned, Jaba.”

A tall man with narrow eyes spat. “You would believe a pale barbarian?”

Hadari approached, coming close enough to dwarf his counterpart. He made a show of looking at the poison on the sword and then smiled. “Of course not.”

Back in the tunnel he pulled Errol aside. “You must decide quickly, northlander. Belaaz grows impatient for your death.”

Rale's brows furrowed when Errol related the events in the arena, as well as the details of his conversation with the ilhotep. Cruk made extensive use of his vocabulary. Ru echoed him, and even Merodach's stoic impassivity cracked enough to show concern.

“I don't have any choice, do I?” Errol asked. “I have to try and kill them.”