The Palace (Bell Mountain Series #6) (35 page)

“When the wolf lay dead,” he concluded, “it turned back into a man. Then everybody was able to see it was the wicked shaman who stole the gods’ beer offerings and was punished by being turned into a wolf.”

Fnaa, who wasn’t the least bit sick, laughed.

“It’s a good story, Chief,” he said, “but what about all those poor people that the wolf killed? The gods did worse to them than they did to that shaman!”

Uduqu shrugged. “That’s the Abnak gods for you,” he said—“never great ones for thinking things through. But that’s the story as we’ve always told it.

“If I can live long enough, I want to learn how to write down some of those old stories, so people could see what chumps they were for worshipping such silly gods when, for all those years, they might have had the real God who created them. King Ryons himself, back when he was just a slave, once said to me that it was a great favor God did us, making us Abnaks and giving us just the kind of country and way of life that we like best. From then on I was never jealous of all those things that the people in the cities had.”

He might have said more, but then Jod came in with Gurun.

“What is it that you mean to do?” Gurun said. “Tomorrow is the coronation.”

“I won’t let them crown me,” Fnaa said. “I’ve been thinking and thinking about it, and it wouldn’t be right. They only want me because they think I’m a ninny. I took King Ryons’ place, Gurun, because you said I had to. You said it was for the best. But I won’t take his crown.”

“Which leaves us in a quandary,” Jod said. “We can’t pretend forever that the king is sick. Merffin Mord and the Thunder King’s prester are bound to find out the truth before too long.”

“I don’t care about them,” Fnaa said. “Here’s what I’ll do. Tomorrow I’m going to stand in front of all the people and tell them that I’m not the king—that the real King Ryons had to run away to Lintum Forest because these men were plotting to get rid of him. Just like they got rid of the real First Prester so that man from Silvertown could take his place! Well, I won’t let them do it.”

“The real First Prester? Do you mean Lord Orth?” Jod said. “Who told you about Lord Orth?”

“You did! I mean, I heard you talking about it with a friend of yours. I don’t know much about presters, but I do know when enough is enough.”

Uduqu laughed softly. “Well said, boy! I’ll make an Abnak of you yet.”

Jod glared at him. “Did you counsel him in this?”

“Who, me?” Uduqu said. “All these plots and schemes just make my head spin. I don’t know how you city people stand it. But I think if Obst were here, he’d say that telling the truth is what God likes best.”

Gurun and Jod exchanged a glance.

“He is right,” Gurun said. “We lied for a good purpose, but now it is time we told the truth.”

Jod shook his head and smiled. “For twenty-five years I’ve been a prester,” he said, “and yet I needed a boy and a girl and an old scalp-taker to tell me that! Very well. Let it be as you say. And if they kill us all, we die in God’s service.”

CHAPTER 38

How Jack Left the Palace

An hour after Gallgoid left, Martis tapped on the door to alert the Dahai guard, unlocked it, and let himself out into the hallway. He beckoned to the guard at Goryk’s door, who joined them.

“What is it?” his guard asked.

“I can’t sleep,” Martis said, “so I thought I could use some fresh air. And then I got to thinking that you men have been cooped up in this palace long enough without having any fun. You deserve some, don’t you think? My treat, of course.”

“What kind of fun?” demanded Goryk’s guard.

“I know a few places, not far from here, that are open all night, where a man with coins in his hand can enjoy a drink and the companionship of friendly women. But if you’d rather stay here, I’ll understand.”

They wouldn’t rather stay, and the thought of deserting their posts didn’t seem to trouble them. All four of Goryk’s Dahai—the other two were sleeping—hadn’t set foot outside the palace since their arrival days ago.

“We don’t want to get in trouble, though,” said Martis’ guard.

“You can have a couple of hours of pleasure,” Martis said, “and no one will be any the wiser. We can be back an hour before sunup, if not sooner.”

“It sounds all right to me.”

“We’ve earned it,” said the other guard.

Accompanied by the Dahai, Martis followed the main corridors and left the palace via the front doors. Seeing he was guarded, no one questioned them.

Martis was grateful for the chance Gallgoid had provided him. “Another day or two without Jack turning up,” he thought, “and Goryk won’t trust me anymore. He already has his doubts.” All the same, he didn’t like having to leave Jack’s rescue in Gallgoid’s hands. “Now that I’m out of the palace, it won’t be so easy to get back in—except as a prisoner.” But it did cheer him to be back out on the city streets.

“It smells like we’re going to have some rain before too long,” one of the Dahai said. “I wonder if they’ll have their king crowned in the rain.”

“I heard the boss say no—they’ll do it right here at the palace, on the steps,” said the other. “The people can all stand in the square and get soaked.” The main entrance to the palace faced Government Plaza, with room, but no shelter, for a multitude.

Martis nodded. No one had said anything to him about shifting the coronation to the palace steps. “Goryk already doesn’t trust me,” he thought. “All the more reason for me to get away now.” He’d heard nothing, either, about the king being sick.

They crossed the plaza and went up a side street, Martis leading the way to a house of entertainment that he knew. With so many people flocking to Obann for the coronation, all such houses were bound to be open tonight.

Filidor’s had been an oligarch’s townhouse, once upon a time. Tonight lights burned in all the windows, and jolly squeezebox music and the sound of revelry came wafting out the doors. Martis paused to press silver coins into the Dahai’s palms.

“What’ll we say?” asked one. “Neither of us can speak Obannese.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Martis said, and ushered them inside.

All the partitions had been removed from the ground floor, leaving a wide space crowded with men drinking wine and beer, with a raised stage in the middle for the squeezebox players and a young woman dancing to their music. Martis found a cramped table for the Dahai and bought drinks for them.

“My friends desire women’s company,” he told the waiter. “They’ll pay for it with Obannese silver.” He tipped the man a penny, and before very long, two women wriggled into seats beside the Dahai.

“My friends don’t speak Obannese,” Martis said, “but do what you can to make them merry.”

“Merry it is, old sport!” said one of the women, when she saw the money.

With his two guards thus occupied, Martis slipped away through the crowd and into the city streets he knew so well.

Wytt wanted very badly to get out of the palace, but he wouldn’t leave Jack. The boy, with the other scullions, slept on a rag-pile in the kitchen. With so many people around, even though they were asleep except for a clerk who sat at a table drowsily examining some lists, Wytt stayed in hiding between a keg of flour and a wall.

He was as close to being frantic as any Omah ever came. They had to get out, and soon. Whatever it was that the men from Silvertown kept covered in their room, its presence now could be felt throughout the palace. It gave Wytt a queasy sensation in his bowels and killed his appetite; he hadn’t eaten all day long. That the Big People couldn’t sense it was a source of wonder to him. Hadn’t they noticed there were no flies in the kitchen anymore?

His ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps: not soldiers’ heavy steps, but a soft, light tread. No menace in it—but he tensed his muscles nevertheless and tightened his grip on his stick.

A young woman came into the kitchen. The clerk didn’t bother to look up at her. Quietly she crept about the room, pausing to look at sleepers’ faces, ignoring the more important staff who slept on cots.

She bent over Jack and gently shook his shoulder. Wytt moved out from behind the keg, just a little closer.

Jack woke, bleary-eyed. The woman knelt and whispered into his ear. Wytt heard it.

“Get up, Jack. Come with me. I’m helping Martis.”

At the mention of Martis’ name, Jack rubbed his eyes and struggled to his feet. Wytt strained his senses, but there was nothing about the woman to alarm him. For the time being he would restrain himself from leaping out and jabbing his stick through her instep.

“Martis?” Jack mumbled.

“Come with me. For Martis.”

She took Jack by the hand and led him out of the kitchen. The clerk kept studying his lists. Jack went along; he must have seen no harm in it. Staying close to the walls and keeping to the shadows, Wytt followed, knowing that the boy’s perception of danger was much duller than his own.

The girl could have only gotten Martis’ name from Martis himself, Jack thought, so that meant she could be trusted. As sleepy as he was, he understood the need for silence and asked no questions of her.

Moments later a man, another servant, stopped them.

“Where are you going?”

“Lord Stott has taken ill again,” the girl said. “There’s a mess to be cleaned up.”

The man grinned. “Overate again, did he? Well, go on—better you than me.”

They went down a flight of stairs, traversed a long, deserted corridor, and entered a room piled high with bales of cloth and boxes. A man was waiting for them. Jack froze for a moment when he saw it wasn’t Martis, but then he recognized Gallgoid.

“Where’s Martis?” Jack said. He made ready to turn and flee if he didn’t like the answer.

“Thank you, Zilla,” Gallgoid said. “Go back to bed.” The girl nodded to him, smiled at Jack, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

“Martis is safe, Jack. He’s on his way out of the city to meet Roshay Bault.”

Jack startled when suddenly, behind him, Wytt chattered. Gallgoid didn’t seem surprised.

“He remembers you,” Jack said, “from when you came down the mountain with Ellayne. You’re Gallgoid, aren’t you? Wytt says you’re all right, we can trust you.”

“We don’t have much time to talk about it,” Gallgoid said. “I’m going to take you out of the city. I don’t know exactly where Roshay Bault is camped, but it must be somewhere on the coronation field. Come, we have to hurry.”

He shifted a stack of boxes out of the way and opened a door that was disguised as a piece of the wall. “We’ll have to climb down a rather long ladder,” he said, “but don’t worry. It’s solid. When we get to the bottom, I’ll light a lamp for us. You go first.”

Martis would have had his doubts about this, Jack thought. But if Wytt was satisfied with Gallgoid, that was good enough. And what else could he do? He peered into a dark space, found the rungs and handrail of a ladder, and began his descent. Wytt went on ahead, chattering softly so that Jack would know he was there.

When Gallgoid pulled the secret door shut after him, it plunged the whole space into total darkness. Jack gasped, and for one awful moment his right foot slipped and he almost lost his grip on the rail. He would never have believed that anywhere could be quite so dark as this. It was as if he had no eyes.