:Oh. I like that. Jermayan can guard me from any treachery. I can rely on him; he is very good defensively.:
That meant Dallen was going to tell Jermayan at least. Mags wondered how long Jermayan could keep this a secret from Jakyr.
Possibly a long time. Jakyr isn’t all that good at Mindspeaking.
Bey nodded, as if he found this completely understandable. “Wise, and I cannot blame you in the least. Let it be so.”
Bey closed his eyes and relaxed . . . and Mags scooted back in his bed to put a good bit more distance between them, and took his knife in his hand.
The story unrolled in Mags’ mind as Dallen got it from Bey. The House of the Sleepgivers had once been a clan so large as to be considered a nation. They were famed for their single warriors, rather than for their army. Their home was, not unlike parts of Valdemar, an insalubrious place to live; but unlike Valdemar it was hot, dry, mountainous desert. Their warriors were all they had to sell, so sell them, they did. They sold the warriors’ services, and literally sold the warriors in some cases, when the warrior’s family was in great need or great debt.
Mags watched as Dallen sent him the images he got from Bey’s mind. If there was a spot not unlike hell, this desert was surely it. Furlongs of sand and scrub interrupted by barren mountains, hot and dry in summer, cold and dry in winter. The only water came from infrequent rains and deep, deep wells, wells that were guarded with the lives of those who possessed them.
The only two ways to live in this desert were by herding and by fighting. Only those families that controlled a well could herd, however. So the clan became very, very good at fighting. Now, under most circumstances, “fighting” would turn to “raiding” as they stole the property of their more prosperous, and better-watered, neighbors. But they were too poor to afford decent weapons, and a cadre of fierce fighters armed only with what they could make with wood and stone could not prevail against those armed with steel. They turned to another sort of fighting and raiding—making it the passage into adulthood for a young boy to kill a fully armed warrior of the “fatlands” and steal all his weapons. Thus, they became incredibly efficient and incredibly stealthy murdering machines.
Once an adult, such training did not suit going into an army or even a mercenary corps; but as a bodyguard, or even a gladiator, they were second to none. So they sold their young men, and their young men commanded the highest prices.
So . . . they prospered. But when you sell your young men, soon your numbers begin to dwindle. And that is what happened. So the Shadao—the great lord of the clan—had decided that there was only one solution.
Sell death itself.
Death that came on silent feet, came by night or day, at any hour, struck without warning, and was gone.
:It’s interesting though,:
said Dallen as Mags watched Bey’s quiet face.
:At one point they were very careful, almost ethical, in what jobs they took. They saw themselves as the hand of the gods. They destroyed those whom the gods should have. But after a while the money just got too good, and they took any job at all.:
Dallen paused.
:Bey is . . . he wants to go back to the old ways. He
hates
that the House of the Sleepgivers has given up what he considers “honorable work” in favor of “highest bidder.” He also hates what the House has become in terms of the Sleepgivers themselves.:
Once the Sleepgivers had never released a man to do their work unless he had reached the pinnacle of his “profession”—which essentially meant, someone like Bey. But they discovered . . . something . . .
Mags couldn’t quite make out what it was; it seemed that even Dallen’s thoughts were foggy on the subject. It had to do with the talismans and the drugs. There was some transference of memory involved, as he knew. The talismans held a coercive spirit of some sort. Dallen seemed to almost understand it all, but he just couldn’t quite grasp what it all was and how it all worked.
:Don’t worry about it. It’s nasty and it’s brutal. That’s all you need to know.:
Maybe it worked like the Karsite demons. There was probably more than one kind of those.
So now, instead of being carefully taught and nurtured, inculcated with philosophy and ethics as well as the deadly arts, the House of Sleepgivers was turning out . . . killing machines. As soon as a boy could walk, he was taken from his parents. He was put into training, a sort of training where friendships were discouraged and cutthroat competition encouraged. Then, at adolescence, the trainees were tested and divided into three sorts. The first were the expendable ones, who were led to believe that good performance would lead to a rise in the ranks. This was not true. This would never be true. They were well trained, yes, but they would never be missed if they were killed in their commissions. Those were the sort that had been sent north in the initial contract with Karse—because the Shadao felt that the House might as well have someone else pay for the expenses of the search for his missing heir and wife. If they were caught, their talismans would kill them, and they were allowed to be aware of this, as incentive not to get caught.
The second rank was of those who were like Levor and Kan-li. They were very, very good and very, very skilled. They knew the secrets of the herbs and the talismans. They were entrusted with many things. But they were not the best of the best.
Those were very few indeed, and Bey was one. They never used the herbs. They were never given
those
talismans, only another sort that hid them from Mind-magic and—other magic?
Mags couldn’t quite grasp that.
:Doesn’t matter,:
Dallen insisted, and he trusted Dallen.
Things was all fuzzy when we talked about the Truth Spell, and the stuff that guards Valdemar and drove that first fellow mad. Maybe it’s part of all that.
All right then.
The ones like Bey, the best of the best, the young ones at least, had grown restless since the old Shadao died, and the new one, Bey’s father, had come into power. They longed for the old days of real honor and ethics, when they served as the hand of the gods. They scorned the expendables as corrupt and the second rankers as those without vision. They wanted elite to truly mean
elite.
Bey wanted the old ways back. He wanted to know that when his knife brought the sleep of forever, it would be to one who
deserved
it, not to one who was merely inconvenient to someone else. On one level, Mags could almost agree with that. Almost. But it was still killing people, and it was one thing to kill someone when he was trying to kill you, and another thing entirely to go and kill him in cold blood, in stealth, and in full knowledge that you planned his death.
But if it really was someone who deserved it?
If he had a chance to kill the leader of the Karsites, or even one of those priests that summoned demons, would he? Could he?
Just as he began pursuing that train of thought, Bey started to droop . . . then got pale.
Dallen reacted instantly.
:We need to stop now. This is beginning to hurt him. He’s not used to being examined with Mind-magic so intensely.:
“Dallen says we should stop,” Mags said aloud, “I guess we are taking a good bit out of you with this.” And Bey breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, my cousin,” he said, and opened his eyes, then swayed a little. “I see now why we wear the talismans,” he continued, with a dry chuckle. “It is not only to hide ourselves from your magic, it is to
protect
ourselves from your magic. It is very powerful. You may not be my equal in arms, my cousin, but you are my superior in this. It seems there are warriors of the mind as well as warriors of the knife.” He bowed a little and swayed again, catching himself with one hand on the floor. “I believe . . . I should go and lie down now.”
He got up, slowly and carefully, and staggered a pace or two until he could get one hand on the wall. As he leaned against the wall and took slow, deep breaths, clearly trying to find some strength, Mags was torn—should he go and help the young assassin? But that would put Mags right within easy striking range of a killer who could have been feigning all of this. How easy it would be to lure him on and on, then pretend weakness, so that he could get Mags close enough to do anything he wanted to.
“Stay where you are, my cousin,” Bey said, waving at him. “A momentary weakness will not harm me. I will go to my rest place. I will return at dawn, I think. This time I will warn you.” He toed the talisman toward Mags. “Or rather, your familiar will warn you. I will leave this with you so that you may know I am honest. Sleep well, my cousin. We will resume this talk soon.”
With that, he slipped into the darkness, and in a moment he was gone. But now Mags could sense him, moving deeper into the caves. Deeper than Mags would dare to go with a lantern, and he was walking in total darkness.
:He got here when we did, following us. All the time we’ve been out, he’s been exploring. And he’s used to caves and tunnels; the House of Sleepgivers is one giant warren under a mountain. He’s probably got a map of every little bit of cave in this valley in his head.:
Mags felt a bit weak himself after all that.
:Have you and Jermayan told Jakyr yet?:
Surely by now Dallen had said
something.
He was afraid of what would happen when they found out. Even if Bey was gone now, Jakyr would barge right out into the teeth of the blizzard without a cloak and—
:No, and we aren’t going to,:
Dallen said. Mags felt—well, he wasn’t certain what he felt. Shock, relief, both together? He
wanted
to believe Bey. Bey was giving him virtually everything he had been craving all his life. Kin. Answers. Sympathy. Even admiration . . .
And this could all be poison wrapped in a delicious crust. Bey was a killer, and killers are trained to use all sorts of weapons, especially those that can get them close to their target, get their target to trust them, so the murder is easy and escape sure. Even if Bey didn’t intend to kill him, he could still get Mags close enough to incapacitate him. And all he had to do was keep Mags unconscious with that talisman around his neck, and his friends would not be able to find him even if he was hidden right under their noses.
:Now that he’s taken that talisman off, we can have him down before he can blink,:
Dallen said. Not only was this unexpected, Mags was . . . shocked. Because when Dallen said
down
what Dallen meant was
dead.
He’d never, ever heard of a Companion stating calmly that he could kill with Mind-magic.
It wasn’t that Companions didn’t kill—because they did. They were fierce fighters in battle and had no trouble caving in an enemy’s head with their wicked hoofs. But—
:We don’t do this lightly. Or often. Maybe once in a generation at most. But this is extraordinary, and we must take extraordinary risks and be prepared to take extraordinary actions. We’ve never had an opportunity like this, to change an entire nation with just a single encounter. These people could go back to being a force for good, Mags.:
:If it’s true,:
Mags reminded him. There was always that. If it all was true. Bey could be lying. It was very, very hard to lie with your thoughts, but it was possible; or, more accurately, it was possible to keep only what you wanted someone to know on the surface and conceal the things you did not want him to know deeper.
:If it’s true. But the deeper he lets us go, the more we can be certain of what is true and what isn’t. Are you willing to take the risk?:
Dallen’s Mindvoice hardened.
:If you’re not, and you are prepared to take partial responsibility for it, I’ll kill him now, and only you will ever know he was here. Jermayan and I will do that for you. We can go on with the plan of having you declared dead, only now, it will be with a great deal more information about the Sleepgivers to make it more believable to them.:
Mags had to think about that, very, very hard. There was so much at stake here, far more than just him, because these were people who had done their level best to fulfill a contract with Karse that meant destabilizing the government of Valdemar at
best,
and assassinating one or more of the Royal Family at worst. And this, allegedly, was one of the highest-ranking people in that organization. So . . . could, should he trust his feelings and trust what Bey told him? Take a chance on one man he didn’t know, and hadn’t even met until a couple of candlemarks ago? Based only on what he and two Companions felt? When there could be something dark and dangerous lurking under that affable exterior?
Or should they snuff him out like a candle and discard him, the way any of these Sleepgivers themselves would eliminate anyone who was in his way. Coldly, calmly, assassinate Bey. And—then what? What would happen then? Bey said that his father did not know he was here—could that be trusted? What if this ignited some sort of blood feud between Valdemar and the Sleepgivers? What if he made things far worse by killing Bey than they already were?
Logic said to allow Dallen to kill him. He was pretty sure that Bey had not been lying when he said the Shadao didn’t know where he was. And even if the Shadao guessed, how would he find a body rotting away in the depths of some obscure caves in an obscure part of Valdemar?
His gut said, logic be damned. His gut said that this young man could be trusted. That they weren’t so different, he and Mags. That the difference was mainly in how they saw the world and what they were willing to do. Bey was willing, if he could change the Sleepgivers back to what they were, to assume the gods knew what they were doing when the Sleepgivers were assigned a target that “deserved” to die. Mags was not. But . . . Mags could also not swear he would not find
himself
in a position one day that would require that he kill in cold blood.
And after all, hadn’t Dallen and Jermayan just offered to do that for
him?