The Redemption of Althalus (67 page)

“I’ll find them, Argan,” Ghend replied, his eyes burning. “Believe me, I’ll find them.”

“Yakhag could probably locate them for you,” Argan suggested.

“No. Keep Yakhag out of sight. I’ll take care of Smeugor and Tauri myself.”

“Whatever you say, old boy,” Argan replied.

———

The south window in the tower looked out over the city of Kanthon, and Bheid gave Eliar directions to a rather nondescript tavern in the commercial district.

“I won’t leave the door open while you two are inside that tavern,” Eliar told Bheid and Althalus, “so whistle when you want to come home.”

“You don’t really have to come with me, Althalus,” Bheid said with a slightly anxious took.

“What’s bothering you, Brother Bheid?” Althalus asked.

“Well . . .” Bheid said uncomfortably, “I’m really not supposed to tell anybody about these people. It’s one of the most closely guarded secrets of the Church.”

“I wish you’d get your loyalties straightened out, Bheid,” Althalus told him bluntly. “Dweia’s a little peeved about this scheme of yours, and I’m going along to unruffle her feathers. Personally, I’m not as upset with your notion as she is, but I
would
sort of like to have a look at your assassins to find out for myself whether they’re professionals or just religious enthusiasts.”

“All right,” Bheid said, throwing up his hands. “Anything you say, Althalus.”

“Let’s go then.”

They went through the door and emerged in the alleyway behind the tavern. They were both wearing ordinary clothes to avoid notice, and they moved out into the street to mingle with the few passersby.

The outside of the tavern appeared sedate, even slightly stuffy, and a pair of what seemed to be ordinary tradesmen were standing in the doorway talking about the weather. Bheid stepped slightly in front of Althalus, making a peculiar gesture with his fingers, and the two men politely stepped aside for him. “It’s just a precaution,” Bheid said quietly to Althalus as they entered. “The proprietor’s not very enthusiastic about random patrons walking in off the street.” Then he smiled faintly. “I should probably warn you in advance about something. I wouldn’t drink too deeply of the ale that’s served here.”

“Oh?”

“It’s strictly for show, and it doesn’t taste very good. People who have no business here may stop by once, but they almost never come back.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Worse, actually. This establishment is supposed to
look
like a tavern, but that’s not really why it’s here.” Bheid led the way to a table near the back. “I’ll fetch us a couple of tankards and speak with the proprietor. He’ll send for Sarwin and Mengh.”

“Your hired killers?”

Bheid nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

Althalus sat down and looked curiously around at the counterfeit tavern. The few patrons were all soberly dressed, and their ale tankards for the most part sat untouched on the tables while they idly talked with each other in quiet tones. Almost in spite of himself, Althalus was very impressed. The entire tavern, including most of the patrons, was an elaborate sham, and he was fairly certain that if someone who wasn’t supposed to be here entered, an argument—quickly followed by a brawl—would break out.

Bheid returned to the table with two ale tankards, and one sniff was all it took to persuade Althalus not to taste whatever was in the tankard.

“Awful, isn’t it?” Bheid said.

“It might be all right for washing your socks,” Althalus agreed. “How long has this place been here?”

“Several centuries, at least. The Treborean clergy’s essentially Black Robe—which is to say that they worship the correct God—but they refuse to accept the authority of our Holy Exarch. We’ve tried for thousands of years to persuade them that their position verges on heresy, but they seem to be blessed with invincible ignorance, and—” Bheid stopped, looking at the faint smile that had come across Althalus’ face. “What?” he demanded.

“Think, Bheid,” Althalus told him. “Hasn’t your theological position changed just a bit here recently?”

“I was only trying—” Then Bheid laughed ruefully. “It’s a habit, I guess,” he admitted. “Maybe I’m overtrained. My responses are almost automatic. When you get right down to the core of it, there’s not much difference between Treborean theology and that of Medyo. We disagree on matters of Church politics, and that’s about all, really. Anyway, this tavern is a sort of hidden outpost of the true religion—if there really
is
such a thing—and it gives us a place where we can further Black Robe policies.”

“Which occasionally involve murders, I suppose?” Althalus added.

“Now and then, yes. We don’t do that sort of thing very often, of course, but the option
is
there.”

“You don’t have to be so apologetic with
me,
Bheid,” Althalus told him. “I’m very tolerant about things like that. I gather that your murderers are on a salary of some kind?”

“A yearly retainer with a bonus for each murder, yes.”

“Then they aren’t just assorted fanatics who kill for their God?”

“Good heavens no! Fanatics
want
to be captured and executed. That makes them martyrs, and martyrs are rewarded in heaven. Our assassins are thoroughgoing professionals who
never
get caught.”

“Good policy. Never hire amateurs when you can get professionals.” “

There they are now,” Bheid said, looking toward the back of the tavern.

The two men who had just entered the tavern through the back door were so nondescript as to be virtually invisible. The word “medium” covered almost every aspect of their appearance. They were neither tall nor short, light nor dark, and their clothing was neither ragged nor elegant. “I just can’t understand what’s come over Engena here lately, Mengh,” one of them was saying to the other as they approached the table. “Nothing seems to suit her anymore. She doesn’t like our house, she doesn’t like the neighbors, and she doesn’t even like our dog.”

“Women get strange on you sometimes, Sarwin,” Mengh replied sagely. “They don’t think the same way we do. Buy her some presents and make a bit of a fuss over her. That’s what
I
do when Pelquella starts getting grouchy on me. It’s not really the gift that matters so much. It’s the attention. When you stop paying attention to your wife, you’re in for trouble.” Mengh looked quickly at Bheid. “Well, hello there, Mister Bheid,” he said. “We haven’t seen you here for quite some time.”

“I’ve been just a bit busy,” Bheid explained. “Why don’t you gentlemen join us?”

“We’d be happy to, Mister Bheid,” Sarwin said.

The assassins seated themselves at the table and signaled to the proprietor for tankards of ale.

“I’m glad you gentlemen happened by,” Bheid told them. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Oh?” Mengh said. “What was that?”

“That business matter we were discussing the last time I was here.”

The two murderers both looked pointedly at Althalus.

“This is my partner, Althalus,” Bheid said, “my
silent
partner, usually. Something’s come up here recently, and he wanted to speak with you personally. Our plans have changed just a bit.”

“Changed?” Sarwin said sharply. “Are you saying that you don’t need our services anymore?” His eyes grew hard.

“That’s not what he said, friend,” Althalus said. “The timing’s changed, that’s all. The pay’s still the same, and so’s the job. We just want you to hold off a bit—market conditions, you understand. Several things have to happen before we’ll be able to go ahead, and if you gentlemen just happened to be a little premature, it might alert our competitors. We’re out to make a big coup in the market, so to speak, and we don’t want the competition to know what we’re up to. I’m handling the details in several other cities, and Mister Bheid is taking care of things here. Timing’s absolutely crucial in our particular business.”

“That’s the advantage
we
have in our profession,” Mengh said with a perfectly straight face. “Time’s not really very important when
we
set out to make a coup. We can hold off, if that’s what you want. Just have Mister Bheid give us the word when you want the job done. Would you gentlemen like to drink to that?” He lifted his tankard inquiringly.

Althalus made a face. “I really think I’d rather not,” he replied.

“I was rather hoping you’d say that,” Sarwin said, pushing his tankard as far away as he possibly could.

“Are you busy, Althalus?” Sergeant Khalor asked the following morning.

“No, not really. Why?”

“Do you I suppose you could look in on Twengor over in Poma? I’m not really worried—Twengor knows what he’s doing—but I like to keep abreast of things. If the invaders are doing things right, they’ve committed about a third of their army to Poma, but house-to-house fighting’s very tricky, and if they beat Twengor—or manage to slip away—Gelta’s going to have an extra hundred thousand or more troops to throw at Mawor. I’d go myself, but I’m rather busy right now. If Twengor thinks those people might be able to get away from him, I want to know about it.” He hesitated a moment. “This is just between you and me, Althalus, but what I
really
want to know is whether or not Twengor’s still sober. If he’s backsliding, I should probably know about it. I wouldn’t talk about it, if I were you, but you know what to look for.”

“I’ll go wake Eliar,” Althalus said, turning toward the stairs.

“I just now got to sleep,” Eliar complained when Althalus woke him.

“This won’t take too long, boy,” Althalus told him.

“I’m going to talk with Dweia about this,” Eliar grumbled. “Everybody’s making sure that Sergeant Khalor gets enough sleep, but nobody ever thinks about me.”

“You’re the doorman, Eliar. Quit complaining. We’ll use the regular door to Poma.”

“Why not use the special door in the tower?”

“There’s fighting in the streets in Poma, Eliar. I don’t think I want to come out in the wrong house. Besides, Sergeant Khalor’s using that window beside the door.”

“I see what you mean. The regular door’s in the east corridor.”

“You’d better bring your sword.”

“Right.”

They went through the quiet house to the east corridor and peered through several doors until they located chief Twengor’s command post. The city was largely in ruins by now, and many of the houses and shops were burning.

“What’s afoot, Althalus?” Twengor asked when one of his kilted clansmen escorted Althalus and Eliar into the room where the burly Chief crouched beside a window.

“Nothing all that unusual, Twengor,” Althalus replied. “We just stopped by to see how things were going.”

“There’s nothing really unusual happening here. Oh, I’d keep my head down, if I were you. There’s an archer in that house across the street who’s quite a bit better than average. He’s come very close to parting my hair a couple of times. I’ve got some of those Wekti shepherds up on the third floor trying to get a clear shot at him.”

“How are they working out?”

“Not bad at all. I’ve got several archers who are almost as good, but archers need a supply of arrows, and all a slinger needs is a rock that he can pick up anyplace.”

“How much of the city have the invaders overrun so far?”

“They’re more or less in control of the northern quarter.”

“More or less?”

“Things are sort of fluid. They mass up troops and make an assault on some house or shop. My archers and those shepherds make it very expensive for them when they attack. We hold the house for a while and then pull back.” Then the bearded Chief chuckled. “Our enemies have learned not to hold any victory celebrations at that point, though.”

“Oh?”

“The capture of a house that might just collapse on top of you is a hollow sort of victory, wouldn’t you say? My men had enough time before the invaders broke down the walls to weaken the walls and ceilings in nearly every building in Poma. We brace them up with timbers while
we
occupy those buildings, but we take those timbers with us when we leave. I think if it got down to a count, the houses have killed more of the enemy than my men have. First the invaders have to fight their way into the house, and then the house falls down on top of them. I’ve told my men that it’s perfectly all right to laugh loud enough for the enemy to hear when that happens.”

“You’ve got an evil mind, Twengor.”

“I know, and I enjoy every minute of it.”

“If none of the houses or shops are safe, the citizens won’t really dare to come back when the war’s over, though, will they?” Eliar asked.

“That’s too bad,” Twengor replied indifferently. “If those skinflint merchants had paid their taxes, the walls might have held and we wouldn’t have to do it this way. By the time this is over, there won’t be much of Poma left, but that’s really none of my concern.”

“Is there much of a possibility that the invaders will just give up on Poma and move on?” Althalus asked. “Khalor’s a bit concerned about that. He doesn’t want these people to march on Mawor—or just bypass Mawor and move on to Osthos.”

“I’ve pretty much got them locked in place here, Althalus,” Twengor replied. “I gave them several neighborhoods near the breach in the north wall just to lure them into the city far enough that pulling back out is going to be almost impossible—particularly when my archers and those Wektis with their slings are on top of every roof in that part of town. They’re trapped here.” Twengor glanced out the window, and then he started to chuckle an evil sort of laugh. “Come here and watch this,” he invited them.

Althalus and Eliar joined him at the window.

“My men just signaled. That house across the street’s been irritating me for the last three days. One of the boys just took care of that.”

An arrow buzzed spitefully through the window.

“
That’s
what’s been irritating me,” Twengor said. “Nobody’s been able to get a clear shot at that fellow. Watch.”

Clouds of oily smoke began to billow out through the windows of the half-ruined house across the street.

“That’s a stone building,” Althalus noted. “How did your men manage to set it on fire?”