Kaavl Conspiracy (17 page)

Her feeling of disquiet persisted as she slipped into class, but she paid close attention to Verdnt’s lecture.

Afterward, she went to the supply room to finish sorting the seed grain, but Old Sims said, “Not today. You’ll be wanting to practice for the Tri-level. Go on with you, then.”

“Sims! Thank you so much!” Methusal impulsively hugged the elderly man, and a faint flush crested his cheekbones.

“There now, girl,” he said gruffly. “No need to go on about it. I just want you to do your best.”

“I will…”

“You won’t!” This snarl came from the doorway.

Methusal whirled. A scowl contorted Liem’s features. Several prominent council members crowded around behind him. “You’re coming with me.”

Liem wielded no authority over her, and if he thought she’d meekly go with him, then he was sadly mistaken. She tried to keep her tone level and respectful, even though it was difficult. “What’s wrong?”

“You will not play in the
Kaavl Games
,” he spat the words. “You are going to jail.”

The number of people in the hall tripled.

Methusal’s tongue engaged before her brain could. “Do you—and your mob—plan to force me back to prison?”

Liem’s face mottled purple and he lunged for her. Before she’d realized that he’d moved, Sims stood between Methusal and Renn’s grieving father. She’d never known Sims could move so fast.

“Hold on, young man.” Sim’s voice quavered, betraying his true age. “I know you blame Methusal for Renn’s murder. But she is innocent until proven guilty. And if you want my opinion, she’s innocent. Your facts need checking, Liem.”

“My
facts,
” he glared, “point straight to her!”

“Circumstantial evidence.” Methusal interjected. “And I tell you, I’m innocent! I’d never hurt Renn. I cared about him like a brother.”

Liem’s furious expression made it clear he did not believ
e her.

Time to remind Liem of the facts before it was too late. She would not let an angry, grieving man—or his mob—drag her back to prison. She never thought she would use her uncle’s name in her defense, but she did so now.

“Petr released me from jail. He knows the evidence against me is weak. It cannot prove that I’m guilty. He’s the Chief of Rolban. He told me I can play in the Kaavl Games, and that is what I’m going to do.”

“Petr is incompetent!” Liem spat. “He’ll lose this election. And as soon as I gain office, you’ll go to jail. And you’ll pay the ultimate price for killing my son!”

Methusal’s tenuous hold on her temper snapped. “Then
you
will be guilty of murder!”

“Move aside,” Petr rumbled. Erl and Petr shoved their way into the supply room.

“What is going on?” Erl demanded.

Sims retreated and took a shaky seat on his stool, apparently content to let Methusal’s father defend her now.

“Liem wants to throw me back in prison,” Methusal exclaimed. “And he’s gathered a mob to drag me there now.”

Erl turned a scowl upon Liem, who took a step backward. “Is that true?”

Liem jabbed a finger in the Rolbani Chief’s direction. “Petr freed her. What message does that send to our children? That murderers can freely roam Rolban’s halls and be rewarded with the Kaavl Games? I say
no!
” Behind him, the crowd murmured in agreement. “She needs to be locked up. No one is safe with that murderer running loose, and walking the same halls as our children!”

“Yes,” murmured a few mothers in the tightly packed passageway.

“I am innocent,” Methusal cried out. Fear made her chest feel tight. Clearly, Liem would go to any lengths to punish her for a crime she hadn’t committed. “But you can’t see reason. You just want to execute someone! Who cares if I’m innocent? What is
wrong
with you?” Now she was screaming, and Erl took her arm and pulled her backward.

Her heart pounded, and she struggled against her father. “I won’t be executed for a crime I didn’t commit!” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Silence!” Petr thundered. When Liem opened his mouth, Petr roared, “
Silence!
”

One could hear a whip slither in the utter quiet that followed.

“Good,” Petr said. He straightened his burly frame to achieving his full, intimidating height. His white beard bristled with irritation. “Liem, I know you’re grieving your son. But my decision stands. The evidence is not strong enough to convict Methusal. Yet.”

People in the crowded hallway murmured. Methusal couldn’t tell if they agreed with Petr or not. Her uncle frowned at Methusal, clearly not thrilled to have to defend her. By doing so, he may have hurt his reelection prospects. So why had he done it? Out of fairness? Or because of the unknown pressure brought to bear that he’d previously mentioned?

“The truth will come out, I promise you,” Petr said. “And the real murderer will be punished.”

“She’d better be!” someone in the passageway shouted. It sounded suspiciously like Pogul.

“As for you, Liem.” Petr scowled. “Your emotions are
driving your decisions. You are not thinking clearly. To become
Chief, you must be able to think clearly in all situations, and most especially personal ones. Methusal is my niece, and yet she is first on my suspect list. In addition, she spent the night in jail. Liem, you must learn to separate your emotions from your actions, if you want to be a good Chief.”

Petr’s words reminded Methusal of Kitran’s new kaavl training precepts. His next words seemed to confirm it.

“If it wasn’t for kaavl training, I would be just like you, Liem. I’d let my emotions cloud my judgment. I would be a poor leader. But just like the successful leaders of Dehre and
Tarst, I am one of the top kaavl contenders in our community
. I continue to grow in kaavl wisdom and discipline.” Petr clearly addressed the crowd now, and it sounded suspiciously like a rehearsed campaign speech—albeit one she had never heard before. “A man who possesses these qualities will make the best leader for Rolban.”

Liem’s face darkened. “Kaavl is not a part of leadership here, Petr. Anyone can become Chief.”

Methusal knew that the position of Chief in both Dehre and Tarst could only be won by the very best kaavl contenders in their communities. On the other hand, the Rolbani elders had always upheld that kaavl could not be a deciding factor in any election. All men should be allowed a chance to become Chief.

Petr nodded. “As it should be, Liem. But I submit to all Rolbanis now: Consider, for the first time, the qualities required of Bi-level and Primary kaavl contenders. To reach those levels, one must prove that one is focused, disciplined, hardworking, highly observant, and smart. These are also the qualities required of the finest leaders.

“I have trained for years in each of these kaavl leadership qualities. Liem has not. I understand that you are grieving, Liem. But rash fits of anger and gathering a lynch mob is not the way to run a great community like Rolban. Consider my words. Besides Kitran, I am the highest level kaavl player in this community. And I will continue to grow in both kaavl and my responsibilities as Chief when I am reelected in three weeks.”

The crowd was silent. And then Methusal heard the soft sounds of moccasins slipping down the hall. The spectacle was over.

Methusal was thankful for Petr’s support. Amazed, too, at how he’d turned the entire incident around to extol his own superior qualities as Chief. And he’d entered kaavl into the election debate—unheard of in Rolban. Also a gutsy move for her uncle to make.

“This isn’t over,” Liem snapped. “I’ll prove Methusal is guilty. And when I do, you’ll go down, right along with her.” With a hard twist of his stocky shoulders, he disappeared down the hall.

Methusal felt relieved, but a bit shaky, as if she’d been punched by invisible fists. She turned to her uncle. “Thank you.”

Petr frowned. “Don’t make me regret it.” He lumbered into the hall.

“Are you okay?” Erl wrapped a tight, comforting arm around her shoulders.

“I’m fine, Papa.” Tears stung her eyes at his uncharacteristic gesture. “Thanks to you. And Sims, too.” She offered a wobbly smile to the supply room manager.

“Off with you, my girl. Time to practice your kaavl,” Sims said bracingly.

Erl tightened his arm. “I’ll be rooting for you. Remember, you’re never alone.”

“Thank you.” She hugged him. But she couldn’t deny it—she was scared. “Papa, what if Liem finds more evidence? Someone is trying hard to frame me. What if he plants so much evidence that I’m convicted of something I didn’t do?”

“Shh,” Erl said. “I won’t let that happen.”

“How? If Liem is elected Chief, he can do whatever he wants. He could order me executed!”

“The Council must agree.”

“Papa. With evidence…”

“You will be fine, Methusal, I promise you.”

“I would be fine if
you
were Chief.” And that was the perfect
solution to her problem. “It’s not too late. You could put in a bid to become Chief again. You’re more popular than both Petr and Liem put together. And Verdnt doesn’t have much of a chance. What do you think?”

“Thusa, it’s late in the game. And it’s not fair. I was Chief for eight years…”

“And Petr has been Chief for four. He’s had his turn.”

Erl shook his head, but she could tell he was thinking about it. Her spirits rose. “You’ll do it?”

“No.” Her spirits dropped again. “But,” he amended, “I
will
put my name in as an alternate, in the unlikely event two candidates drop out of the race.”

That would never happen, of course, but Methusal kissed her father’s cheek. “Thank you, Papa. I appreciate it.”

Dehre

The newly orphaned boy
ate little of Hendra’s food. After nibbling a few bites, he retreated to a far corner of the orphan’s tent. He did not want to be touched. In fact, he whimpered if anyone came near him. Hendra understood the feeling, so she left him alone.

The woman in charge of the orphanage had approved the idea of a long day walk, and had organized the older children to go with Hendra. The younger ones would stay behind. Hendra felt certain the walk would not be dangerous—not in the daytime. She didn’t think anyone would be there during the day. And even if there were men working at their secret tasks, they probably wouldn’t feel threatened by Hendra or the children. Still, she’d scout ahead to ensure the children’s safety. And she’d make her own secret observations, too, before the men could hide their activities.

Hendra gathered her six charges, along with dried meat for a snack and several water skins and buckets for the return trip, and they started out. She and several of the older boys also carried kaavl sticks in case they encountered a whip beast. It was early morning now, and still cool. She estimated they would reach the hills before it became uncomfortably warm.

“Where are we going?” asked an older girl named Srata. Her stringy hair fell in clumps around her thin, dirty face. With the scarcity of water, full baths were impossible in Dehre. Hendra used a cloth and a bucket of water to keep herself clean, but it wasn’t enough. Today, she’d brought several bars of soap from the orphanage in case they found a private place to bathe.

“There.” Hendra pointed in the direction in which she believed the fires burned at night.

The children did not question her decision. They walked silently beside her. Several found a few tagma berries along the way. Gobbling them up lifted their spirits. Soon they sang old battle chants, and Hendra joined in. It took several long hours to travel the long distance. As they drew closer to the hills, though, she fell silent. Sensing her mood, the children did too.

“What’s wrong?” Srata asked.

“Let me look ahead. I think I saw something.” In truth, Hendra had seen something—smoke—several nights ago. “Stay here until I call for you,” she instructed.

“Why?” a boy objected. “We’re not scared.”

“Stay,” Hendra repeated. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The boy grumbled, but obeyed. Hendra sprinted up into the low hills. A few sparse, bent and withered trees grew there, anchored deep in the dry, pebbled earth. It had been a long time since she’d seen a live tree. She pressed on, moving quickly. She didn’t want to leave her charges alone for long.

She crested the hill and a faint, acrid scent drifted to her nose. Her gaze swept the small valley. The new stream, recently diverted from the mighty Tarst River, flowed through a shallow gorge in the center. Grassy banks edged it, although only a few scraggly, dead looking plants dotted the upper reaches of the valley.

The rushing stream was about two lengths wide, and the shallow ravine it flowed through looked like it had been cut through the earth long ago. Perhaps the stream had naturally run through here long ago, even before the dam up north had diverted the water here. Hendra hadn’t seen so much water in years, and she itched to run and soak her feet in it. But first she needed to make sure it was safe for the children.

Again, she scanned the area. Empty. No one was there, so it was safe. Plenty of fire pits edged the stream, but she saw nothing else. No tools. No ore. No weapons.

Whatever Mentàll’s men had been doing, they had apparently completed their project and packed everything out.

Time to get the children. She quickly brought her charges up the hill.

“Look!” a girl cried out. “Water!”

“Be careful,” Hendra called. Most of the children ran down to the stream to fill their buckets, but Srata dogged Hendra’s steps. The girl seemed to need a friend. Hendra longed for a friend, too, and was happy to be Srata’s. But she wished she had one her own age, too.

“What is this?” Strata wanted to know, kicking the blackened debris with her moccasin.

“I don’t know.” Hendra scanned the ground, searching for clues. It felt strange to walk through trampled green grass. She’d felt nothing but hard dirt beneath her feet for so long. Tiny green bushes sprouted along the water’s edge. The valley would be the perfect place to plant crops. If they had seeds. …Or maybe not. During a rainy year the stream might widen and flood this valley. That would destroy the crops planted on the riverbanks.

“Look!” Srata cried. She tugged an enormous metal hammer from the ground. She didn’t lift it very far, however. “It’s heavy.”

The large, thick tool was fashioned of ore. When Hendra took it, it felt heavier than a four-year-old child. Only a strong man could wield a tool this monstrous.

“In the old days they used hammers like these to pound ore into shapes,” Srata supplied helpfully. “My teacher showed me one, once. He said now metalworkers use them to fix hunting knives, or old pots.”

“You’re right.” So what metal shapes were Mentàll’s men fashioning with this huge hammer? Large pots?

Hendra snorted. Of course not. They were making the objects in secret for a reason. They probably needed high tensile strength. And the fruit of their labor was likely prohibited by the Great War Peace Plan 200 years ago. Otherwise, why work here in secret, in the dark?

Swords?

Was Mentàll breaking the Peace Plan? She didn’t want to believe it, but…

The unease in her gut grew. What was Mentàll planning? The Alliance might be signed even now by Rolban, and Tarst was a given. What more could her cousin want?

The next few hours passed quickly, and Hendra found no other clues. She and the children bathed in the river, taking turns to ensure privacy, and then filled their water skins and buckets and headed home. Hendra didn’t know what to do with the information she had discovered. Little enough as it was. Certainly no
proof
of illegal activity.

Should she confront Mentàll with it? Her cousin was smart…in fact, she suspected he was brilliant. He would quickly deduce that she’d gone spying on purpose. Would he be angry with her?

What would he do to her?

Fear squeezed her insides, but the logic of their long history
together argued against it.

Mentàll would never hurt her. Hadn’t he taken her into his tents four years ago? More than that, he’d protected her, whenever he could, for her entire life.

No, she was safe with him. He would certainly never raise a hand to her. In fact, she’d only seen him raise his hand to two people in her life. Both men. And both had bitterly deserved it. But she’d heard tales of others Mentàll had ruthlessly cut down to size in other ways. Had they all deserved it? Or had he done it to keep his grip on power?

Why was she so afraid? Hendra bit her lip until tears formed. He was her cousin. And she loved him, even if she may not fully understand the man he had become. She couldn’t let him speed to his destruction. The Prophet had warned that those who wielded the sword would die by the sword.

Die.

She couldn’t let him die. She
wouldn’t
let him die.

Mentàll deserved her loyalty. She would speak to him when he returned. She had to stop him before he made a fatal mistake.