Will Power (2 page)

With me so far? I hope so, because—as is now graven in theater lore—nothing kills a story like exposition. I once had to be in this play when nothing happened for twenty minutes because all this backstory had to be wheeled out for anything later to make sense. Not surprisingly, we got booed offstage a quarter of an hour in. So I’ll be moving on. That’s who we were and what we’d been doing. But by this point,
even I had become conscious that—if I might milk the python metaphor one last time—the flavor of warm gazelle meat was becoming a rather distant memory.

Thanks to my investigative brilliance, this was about to change, but before we got to the adventure bit there was food to be eaten. We were dining in the Waterman, one of Stavis’s many traders’ inns, in the northwestern part of the city. It was eight o’clock, and, perhaps for the first time this season, the landlady was lighting a fire in the main hall’s grate to ward off the chill that came with early autumn. To our left was a party of wool merchants who ate nothing but baked potatoes straight from the oven: no butter, no salt, no herbs. Yet they were munching with an enthusiasm which meant they either came from somewhere that had little or no food of any kind or that they were seriously delusional. To our right was a family of ebony-skinned Trellenians swathed from head to foot in lustrous silk and eating a curry that would strip varnish. At the bar was an elderly man in dignified black, sipping Venarian claret. And on the table in front of us was a large game bird known locally as a rossel, roasted and carved to perfection, surrounded by tiny links of smoked sausage and a moat of thick, hot sauce made from tart red berries, the whole sumptuous display sitting among spinach leaves and wedges of lime, steaming invitingly. Even the wool traders’ mouths were watering.

“Where was I?” I said as the serving boy left us. “Oh yes. So then Venario is on stage by himself, lying in wait for Carizo and Bianca. His sword is drawn and he’s ready to attack Carizo and have his way with Bianca. He has a few smug words with the audience and takes his position behind one of the front pillars. Then, hearing a noise, he leaps out. But it’s not Carizo. It’s the ghost of Benario, rising out of a trapdoor and wailing: ‘See here, O cursed wretch, the gaping wounds/Which thou didst carve into my living flesh . . . ’ ”

“Who’s Benario?” said Garnet.

“What? Oh,” I began, “he’s the bastard son of Duke Ferdinand, the one that Venario killed in the first act because he saw . . .”

“Who’s Venario?” said Lisha.

“Who’s Venario!” I exclaimed. “Haven’t you been listening at all? All right. Venario was exiled from the court for having an incestuous relationship with his sister, who he later murdered with a poisoned pot of geraniums and . . .”

“I thought you had word of a job,” murmured Mithos.

I gave him a long, pained look. “Don’t you want to hear what happens next?” I said, injured.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I thought we’d come here for a job.”

“Fine,” I replied, testily. “Fine. Right, forget the play. It’s not important. After all, I only wrote it. . . .”

“All right. . . .” Mithos sighed.

“No,” I inserted. “No. We are here for a job, so that’s what I’ll tell you about. Firstly . . .”

“Wait a moment,” Orgos said, eyes glued to the rossel’s golden brown breast.

“Do I get to finish a sentence tonight?” I asked.

“Not yet,” said Orgos. “It would be criminal to discuss business over so excellent a feast.”

Mithos sighed again and added, without any enthusiasm whatsoever, “So serve it.”

He had a way of discussing the most exotic or delicate meals like they were day-old porridge. He ate them like that, too, mixing things together and spading it down his throat so that it barely touched his tongue. Garnet regarded the great bird with the blend of curiosity and distaste he usually reserved for me and took a forkful gingerly, as if it might come back to life and bite his hand off. Only Orgos seemed to accord the food anything like the respect it deserved.

This had been intended as a surprise feast to celebrate our next adventure, though I should have known that the adventure itself was the only sustenance they needed. I, still sulking about not being able to finish my story, chewed in sullen silence and resolved to make them wait for the day’s big news: news which, with a tremendous effort, I had managed to keep to myself thus far.

Earlier that day I had been sampling a pint of milk stout in one of Stavis’s less seemly hostelries, nostalgically reliving my Cresdon days as a cardsharp, actor, and storyteller, when I fell into conversation with a man of about fifty-five whose eyes held a strange and compelling light. He had some very interesting news.

In a matter of minutes this helpful chap, whose name was Mensahn, would join me and the rest of the party in the Waterman and give us vital information which would allow us to release Dantir, the famous rebel hero. Yes,
that
Dantir: the guy who had pinned down the Empire’s fourth army during the conquest of Bowescroft with little more than rumor and a handful of well-trained archers. He was the Empire’s prize
captive, and they periodically threatened to execute him when things got unruly anywhere in Thrusia. The rebels (and that included most adventurers) wanted him back, partly because he was a bit of a legend and partly because he knew just enough about rebel operations to be dangerous.

And we could save him. Pretty heady stuff, eh? And it was all thanks to me. Our recent inactivity had allowed some of the suspicion with which the party had first greeted me to resurface, if only in muted forms, but this new triumph would remind them of my genius, and my usefulness. After one brief operation they would be feasting me, putting my name in songs, throwing gold at me, and—in Renthrette’s case—maybe herself, too. As I said, I would soon be joining Dantir himself in the rebel’s Hall of Heroes. I munched on the tender flesh of the rossel and my good humor returned.

“I’ve not been in here for weeks,” said Orgos, glancing around the place. “Months, even. Not since that idiot Lightfoot took over the Empire’s intelligence sector.”

There was a flicker of amusement around the table and Orgos snorted to himself, as if remembering something funny.

“Who’s Lightfoot?” I asked.

Garnet took up the story, an uncharacteristic grin splitting his pallid face. “He was a staff sergeant in the Oakhill garrison for years. Then—God knows how—he got himself posted here to intelligence, probably because nothing ever happens here for him to get in the way of. He must have been a terrible liability in Oakhill.”

“I heard he once slaughtered and burned a flock of sheep that the garrison had impounded for their winter meat,” inserted Renthrette, “because one of them reminded him of a local rebel. Something in the eyes, I suppose. The soldiers were famished for weeks.”

“He’s insane?” I ventured.

“Let’s say ‘eccentric,’ ” Orgos qualified. “He sees rebels everywhere and has devoted his life to lunatic schemes designed to flush them out. Almost every month he goes from tavern to tavern trying to lure adventurers or members of the resistance into an ambush with tales of Empire treasure convoys or defenseless generals. Then, at the appointed time, he shows up at the pub or wherever with a hundred soldiers and storms in. It is always deserted except for a few random traders. He interrogates them for a few hours and then lets them all go with an official
pardon and a couple of silver pieces in compensation. It costs the Empire a fortune.”

“Really?” I said, slightly uncomfortable.

“Lately,” Garnet joined in cheerfully, “he’s reverted to that ludicrous yarn about Dantir the great rebel hero. As if the rebels would do anything to get that old drunk back anyway. The only secrets he had concerned the whereabouts of the Empire’s cache of Thrusian grain whiskey.”

“Hasn’t Dantir been dead for years?” asked Renthrette.

“At least two,” answered Mithos, distantly.

“Really?” I managed again. Against all odds, I had lost my appetite. Beads of cool sweat had pricked out across my forehead. This was not good.

“How could even someone as harebrained as Lightfoot believe that anyone would fall for such an obvious ruse?” Renthrette wondered, sipping her wine. “I mean, how asinine can anyone be?”

“The story which is supposed to bring us all running into the arms of the Diamond Empire this time says that Dantir is being moved around,” Garnet continued, now breaking into outright laughter, “with an escort of elderly ladies, or something. . . .”

“One Empire platoon, actually,” I spluttered thoughtlessly. “It’s not
that
preposterous!” My voice was rising defensively. “All right, it might not be likely, exactly . . . but it is, you know . . .
plausible
. Kind of. I don’t see why you think it’s so
obviously
ridiculous. If you lot didn’t already know of this Lightfoot character you might have fallen for it. It is possible, you know, that your bloody perspicacity wouldn’t be so dazzling if you didn’t have all the facts in front of you. They
could
have been moving Dantir around. They could!”

There was a momentary silence as the smiles and good humor slipped away as if I’d mentioned that one of their elderly relatives had just kicked off.

“You didn’t,” growled Mithos across the table.

“Well . . .” I began, but, unable to shake off his eyes as they burned dark and hard into mine, I decided to leave it there.

“
That
was the big adventure you promised us?” stuttered Garnet as realization dawned like an unwary sun in a very cold place. “
That
was what you brought us here for? You stupid, simple-minded, moronic . . .”

“Lightfoot is going to arrive here any minute with a hundred troops?” said Lisha quickly, clarifying.

“Actually,” I faltered, glancing at the clock over the bar, “he’s slightly late.”

There was a thundering of chair legs on the wooden floor as they leaped to their feet. Almost simultaneously, there came the distinctive creak and slam of the inn’s door being flung out onto the chill evening air. I spun to see the white cloaks and silver scale of Empire troopers filing in, two abreast.

We weren’t exactly armed to the teeth right now, and a pitched battle against a force this size would have led pretty quickly to our being carried out in casserole-sized joints. There were no obvious ways out of this situation. Our options were starting to look like hanging or beheading (at best) when Lisha prodded me firmly in the ribs. I turned, my face aghast and sickly, to find her staring up into my face, her black eyes even narrower than usual. She took hold of my wrist and gripped it firmly, as if I was about to run (she knew me pretty well by now). Through barely parted lips she hissed, “You got us into this, Will. Now get us out.”

That was all she said, but the looks of menace I was getting from Garnet and Mithos underscored the point. Renthrette had closed her eyes, frustrated at herself for believing for a moment that I wasn’t a walking death trap with the mental agility of a beer keg. Orgos glanced around the room as it flooded with soldiers, as if he was still calculating the odds of a last-ditch stand. His hand strayed to the hilt of that huge sword of his, the one with the yellowish stone in the pommel.

Turning swiftly toward the approaching footsteps I found myself looking into the slightly wild eyes of Lightfoot himself, now out of his rags and dressed in his best uniform. Uncertain what else to do, I smiled warmly and extended a hand. “Commander Lightfoot,” I announced heartily, “how good to see you again.”

There was a flicker of confusion in the officer’s eyes. After a pause he shook my hand cautiously, saying, “I wasn’t aware you knew my name.”

“How could I not, sir?” I breezed. “Commander Lightfoot, the supreme intelligencer, the Empire’s most acute and watchful eye.”

“But when I spoke to you earlier,” said Lightfoot, dimly, “I gave you no clue to my identity.”

At his elbow, two officers exchanged knowing glances.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “it seems we were talking at cross purposes. I was under the impression that you wanted me to try and locate Mithos and his gang for apprehension using the Dantir ruse to lure them to this place? No?”

“Well, yes,” he muttered, “but I don’t see . . .”

“I am a good citizen of the Empire, sir, and, knowing your methods, resolved to do all I could. Alas, as you can see, I was unsuccessful. I decided to dine with my friends here so I could pass on the news.”

“Indeed . . .” said Lightfoot, uncertainly. One of his soldiers smirked and looked down.

Encouraged by this, I went on. “But I do have word, from a very reliable source, close to Mithos’s party, that a raid is intended on the south garrison where they believe Dantir is being held.”

At this, two things happened. Lightfoot’s eyes lit up with anticipation, but the looks exchanged by his men changed. What had been a mixture of bored exasperation and embarrassment instantly became suspicion. It seemed that out of the entire population of Stavis (no small city), only Lightfoot and me were stupid enough to believe that Dantir was alive and worth rescuing. I thought I heard Orgos groan.

One of them, decked out in the white linen cuirass and silver helm of a young sergeant, stepped forward, hesitating awkwardly. Then, in a stage whisper, he addressed Lightfoot. “Excuse me, commander, sir, but these people do actually fit the descriptions we have of Mithos and his group.”

“Nonsense,” spat the commander, with barely a glance at where we stood around the table. “Mithos is on his way to D garrison. We should be on our way to intercept him.”

“Sir . . . if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I doubt it.”

“What is this insubordination?” muttered Lightfoot, turning on him.

“I don’t think this man is to be trusted,” responded the sergeant, with a glance for support at some of his comrades, “and I don’t think we should act on what he tells us. In fact, we should take him and his ‘friends’ into custody immediately.”

“Custody?” bellowed Lightfoot.

“Yes, sir. The party that arrived in Stavis three-and-a-half months ago was described as looking just like them,” the sergeant continued, his voice rising, as he opted to disregard protocol. “I was on gate duty then and I remember. A pale man and a blond woman”—he said,
indicating Garnet and Renthrette—“a black man”—stabbing a finger at Orgos—“and an olive-skinned man with dark hair and eyes, who may be Mithos himself.”