The Silent Army (14 page)

Murdro’s smile did not change at all, but his eyes looked over Merros carefully. “As you wish, General. As I believe you are fluent in their language that would be extremely beneficial.”

Merros nodded and wondered exactly how the man knew he spoke the language of the Sa’ba Taalor. Well, one of them at any rate. There were several apparently and he only understood the one. “Do you have her properly secured?”

Desh answered him. “She is currently unconscious and very well restrained. Tataya is with her and making certain of that.”

Nachia sighed. “Kindly go find out what you can. I want to know everything that she knows as quickly as possible.”

The Empress strode around her throne room. Merros and the rest followed her with their eyes. “We are still heading for the mountains?”

“Yes, Majesty.” Desh didn’t seem at all happy to report that fact.

“I thought you said you had several sorcerers working on that problem.”

“Yes, Majesty, but they’ve had limited progress.”

She spun on Desh and the First Advisor stood his ground. Few would have.

“Either find a way to move the damn city or find a way to burn down one of the mountains if you have to. It would be a preposterous way for all of us to die.”

“All respect, Majesty, but it might not come to that. It’s possible that we will clear the mountains completely.”

“Desh, make certain of it. I don’t care how.” He lowered his head and she continued, “I want Arlo Lancey here as soon as possible. Do not tell him why he is summoned, simply make certain that he gets here before the day ends.”

Pellinger nodded and left the room. The Empress seldom stood on decorum when it came to the meetings and it was best to do what she wanted.

“If we cannot manage walls for the refugees, then I want tents. I don’t care where they come from. The soldiers have their rooms. If they have to give up their tents for this, then so be it.”

Merros nodded, but did not try to clarify that the soldiers didn’t have personal tents. There had been a time for that, but not in his lifetime.

Nachia looked around the room for a moment and then speared each of them with a hard glare. “Why are you still here? Go! Get me answers, get me results!”

Merros took the hint. He and the Inquisitor walked together to the cell where their first Sa’ba Taalor prisoner waited.

Trying to ignore the presence of Merros Dulver at his side, Darsken Murdro headed for the cell where his next assignment waited. There would have been a time when he wondered why he had been chosen over the other Inquisitors, but he already knew the answer. He was chosen because he was good at his job and because he was currently in favor with the sorcerer and the Sisters.

All that meant was that he had to do his job well. There were a lot of people who thought he was ambitious, and perhaps he was. But they didn’t understand the Inquisitors and how they worked.

He would rise to a new rank if it became necessary, but he was in no hurry to get there. The higher in position one rose, the more one became a target. He was respected, he was occasionally feared, and he enjoyed his duties.

People like Merros Dulver could think what they wanted. It changed nothing.

The guards opened the door for them and Darsken stopped at the door and smiled to Tataya, who smiled back and rose from her seat. As always, her beauty struck him. As always he nodded politely and then got to business.

Merros also nodded at Tataya, as Darsken got his first true look at a Sa’ba Taalor. She was lean, all hard muscle, and dressed in the clothes of a street person. Perfectly camouflaged. No one would have reason to suspect her of anything, until they saw her face.

As the girl was unconscious he stepped closer and looked at her carefully. His hand moved across her gray face, feeling the raised flesh of a dozen or more scars under several spots where her flesh was freshly bruised.

At first he thought that an overzealous guard had punched the girl in the mouth until it split several times but upon a second, careful glance he understood better.

“So that is the reason for the veils.” He opened each of her mouths, studying the fully developed teeth, the musculature, the tongues. They were properly damp and his hand felt the breath that came from each. If they were born that way it was a wonder they ever knew how to speak.

Merros looked over at the girl and stared at her mouths, horrified. “By the gods.”

Tataya spoke softly. “Drask was different. His mouths had more… symmetry.”

Merros looked at Tataya for a moment and then looked back at the girl. He took one of the layers of her shawl and drew it over the lower half of her face. “Jost. This is Jost.”

“Are you certain?” Darsken did not ask to be rude, but rather to assess the facts.

Merros was wise enough to understand that, despite his active dislike of the Inquisitor. “Yes. We traveled together for months.”

“Do you know if she is fully grown? Her body is that of a young woman, but I had heard the Sa’ba Taalor were giants.”

“Not giants. Some of them are very large, yes, but only a few stand taller than me.”

Tataya nodded. “They are not giants. They are merely very, very fit.”

Darsken ran his hand over the girl’s arm and then her leg, nodding. He could feel hard muscle and still more scar tissue under the clothing. He also felt several concealed knives, which he carefully extracted from folds in her attire. He took his time, running his hands in places that might have been deemed inappropriate had this been any other female, but he was not going to leave the young woman in question with any surprise weapons. He had been cut more than once in his line of business.

When he was done there were eight blades, an even dozen small darts and three lengths of wire he didn’t quite trust should be left on her person, all set to the side.

“Can you wake her please?”

A word, a gesture from Tataya and in seconds the girl was awake. She bucked and thrashed and tried to get free from the shackles on her legs and wrists.

She failed.

Darsken waited patiently while she tried several times.

Finally he said. “You will find the best way of gaining even a little freedom is to comply.”

The girl continued struggling. Merros Dulver spoke and the girl cocked her head and answered.

“I have no answers for your questions.” Merros’s voice, but he knew the words belonged to the girl called Jost. He did not look away from her, but merely waited for the translations from the General’s mouth.

Darsken nodded. “Then you will stay here.”

“If that is what my gods demand.”

He shook his head. “It is what my Empress demands. Your gods do not matter in this place.”

“My gods are all that matter. You will learn in time.”

“How many of your people are in Canhoon?”

“Enough to kill you all.”

“You will not leave this cell alive if you do not tell me what I need to know.”

“Then I will have honored my gods.”

Darsken looked to Merros and then to Tataya. “This will take time.”

He looked back to Jost. She was staring at him with her oddly glowing eyes. “A lot of time.”

Arlo Lancey did not have any bodyguards. Many of his fellow ministers did, but he felt no need to waste his finances. First, he was only the Minister of Lands. He did not mint new coins; he could not change the taxes. He only did what he was told to do. In exchange he made enough coin to live comfortably and he ruled over a small gathering of people who listened to him and obeyed not because he was a harsh man, but because he was pleasant enough to work for.

He did not consider himself a bad man. His predecessor, Lirrin Merath, on the other hand, had been a fat, bloated lump of a man with too many connections, too much money and too little empathy. Arlo had worked with him on many occasions and both of them had understood that land was ultimately power. But where Lirrin had willingly changed the rules as he pleased to gain more power – there was never enough, you see. Power is a feast for fools. The more you have, the hungrier you become – Arlo did not follow suit. He wanted to. Let’s not misunderstand that. He would have gladly gained as much power as he could and appreciated the starvation as so many others did. Arlo would have considered being greedier, and he most certainly would have hired bodyguards, but he had been told not to.

One did not argue with the woman who held your fate.

He did not know a name. Not for the woman. He could tell you the name of her god. If he ever failed to remember the name Wrommish, it would be the death of him. That he believed with unyielding conviction. The woman, a little tall, but nothing remarkable, had killed five men in front of him to make her point. The first four were trained mercenaries, capable killers, and she’d broken them in a matter of seconds.

The last one had been his predecessor, Lirrin.

The nameless woman was the enemy of the state. She was a murderer. She was a cutthroat. She had probably had a hand in all of the mindless murders running through the city.

Arlo had no doubt that if he hired bodyguards, she would kill them and then him. She had already said that he would do his job the best he could and follow her orders, or he would die.

He looked at the thin scar on the back of his right hand. All that had happened was a scratch from the woman’s nail. She’d scraped him and promised that before that wound healed they’d talk again.

She’d kept her word. The very day he was appointed as the new Minister of Lands, after he’d celebrated with friends, consumed far too much wine and whored his way home, she was waiting for him in his apartments.

She was not there to sleep with him.

“Do you remember the name?” Her words were a soft, silky whisper in his ear as he was drifting to sleep.

He sat up quickly in his bed, heart thundering, breathless and looked around the room.

She had watched him undress, watched him fall on the bed and roll across the sheets before his head found the pillow, and had watched him patiently as he fell into a drunken stupor.

He had never guessed her presence.

“The name.” She was just out of arm’s reach. Her dark eyes looked at him without even seeming to blink.

“The name?”

“The name of your new god. The name that can save you.”

Oh, how he’d scrambled then. His body did not move. It dared not, but he thought hard and sorted through his memories of the night Lirrin died in a pool of his own blood, rainsoaked and lifeless while the shadow-shape of his killer stood and watched Arlo. She had spoken a name. It was important. Had he not been drunk he would have remembered instantly. He looked down at his hand and saw the scratch and then finally remembered, “Wrommish?”

She’d nodded and he’d thanked the new god with all of his heart.

And then she’d explained all that he was to do.

It came down to paperwork, ultimately. The laws of the Empire were clear. The right scrap of paper with the right seal meant that you owned a parcel of land. Arlo was paid dearly to make sure that there was no confusion in the matter. Ever.

He was not performing his tasks to the best of his ability. To do so would have been his death.

The Empire wanted all available lands that were not being used to hold the people now living on the streets. Several prominent citizens had already offered properties for that very purpose. The people staying there did not own the properties. They were merely tolerated, but it was a step. Others were allowing the refugees to stay for a price. Most were fair about it. Some were not.

There were hundreds of places that could have been offered. They were not, and despite the fact that he had been tasked with finding the owners of those properties, Arlo had deliberately failed.

Sooner or later they would come for him.

He was prepared. If he could just explain to someone the nature of his dilemma, perhaps they could offer him safety within the Palace. He had all the paperwork he needed. It was sorted and ready for them, but he dared not offer it up without some sort of protection.

“Wrommish knows what is in your heart, foolish man. You have prayed to him.”

He knew the voice instantly. Arlo turned fast toward it and reached for his sword. It was a foolish thing, ornate and more for decoration than function, but he knew how to use it and he was desperate.

His eye exploded with pain and Arlo dropped the sword, screaming and reaching to cover his wound. His eye could still see but the lid was trying to close over something that was in the way and every motion of any type caused more pain.

“You are a weak man and you would betray me. For that reason you are already dead.”

His good eye saw her as she moved away. Anger surged. She had hurt him and she wanted to kill him and while he was not a fighter, there were limits. Arlo surged toward her and promptly fell to the ground.

“Do you know that you can buy a dozen spices here that will kill a careless person? You just have to cook them the right way.”

“Why? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“They are coming for you and you would have. As I said, Wrommish knows what is in your heart. You prayed to him. He knows all he needs to know of you.”

Without another word she knocked his oil lamp to the ground, where it spilled its fiery contents across a woven rug and began to smoke and burn. The rug was a gift from an admirer. It was lovely. It was also flammable.

Arlo tried to reach for it. With effort he could put it out and only get minor burns.

His arms did not move. His body was sluggish. He should have been screaming but nothing happened.

The woman walked away, but as she left she made certain to scatter his paperwork across the blaze. Deeds burn brightly when they burn.

Swech slipped from the window of the apartment easily enough. The rope was still tied where she’d left it and climbing was not a challenge.

She’d hoped Arlo might be a worthwhile investment and he had been, but his service was no longer required.

As she reached the roof of the building black smoke started spilling from the window she had just vacated. The sun was still up, but the day was overcast. They were high enough up that the clouds did not block the sun so much as they swallowed the city entirely.