Kaavl Conspiracy (40 page)

“She’s awake,” Lina whispered.

“Good! It’s hard, trying to be so quiet.”

Hendra smiled when Methusal sat up and yawned sleepily. “It’s time for dinner. Do you want to come with us?”

Methusal nodded, and stifled another yawn. Her skirmish
with Mentàll flooded her mind, but she shoved it into the back of her thoughts. Sleep had made one thing clear. The man was a menace. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to prove that he planned to make a move against Rolban. Maybe she should try to make it home before the Dehrien Chief arrived. Then she could speak to her father and Petr…that thought brought her up short. As if Petr would listen. The whole thing seemed hopeless.

“We’re having freshly grilled slug monster tonight,” Retra
said, hopping down the stairs.

“Slug monster!” The brisk twilight air revived Methusal’s disturbed spirits. “Where did they find that?” Slug monsters were a rare delicacy.

Lina shrugged. “We don’t know, but the cooks said to get there early if we want a good piece.”

Spirits rising, Methusal trotted into the warmly lit dining hall. A delicate, tantalizing aroma wafted from the serving tables. Already a long line stretched halfway around the room. Evidently slug monster was a special treat for the Tarst, as well.

“Look, there’s Behran,” Hendra said, and with a small smile, quickly moved to join him at the end of the line. Behran’s face lit up when he greeted the Dehrien girl, and a sharp twist of an unidentified emotion stabbed Methusal. Her steps slowed as she approached the two.

Behran’s warm smile, and his total attention was focused upon Dehrien girl. He had never looked or acted that way with Methusal. Did he have feelings for Hendra? Another, sharper twinge stabbed her, but she glanced quickly away.

Already the line behind her stretched through the open doorway, and every face looked hungry and expectant. The line slowly moved forward. Hendra and Behran fell silent as they neared the serving tables.

The tables were laden with bread, bowls of torn up logne leaves sprinkled with nuts, and two trays of slug monster. The tender white meat was thinly sliced, so everyone could have a taste of the delicacy. Aenill served from the platter to make sure no one took more than his or her fair share.

“Methusal!” The Chief’s wife greeted her warmly when
she stepped
up to the tray. “Congratulations on your win today.” Her eyes twinkled as she forked two slices of meat onto her plate. “Kitran was right to boast about you.”

The kind words made her smile. “Thank you. But I almost came in second. If I’d been a moment slower, it would have been a Tarst victory.”

Aenill nodded, pleased by her response. “Denl is a good boy. Maybe next year he will win.”

The crowd behind pressed her on, so Methusal continued to the next table, where she tossed several forkfuls of leaves and a bread bun onto her platter. She was sad to see there was no sweet tagma bark tonight.

Since Behran and Hendra lingered to wait for Lina and Retra, Methusal was the first to arrive at the visitor’s table.

Conversations ebbed and flowed around her as she steadily chewed her way through the meal. She didn’t feel much like talking.

The slug monster was delicious. Its tender, firm meat held a hint of a sweet/sour taste—unlike anything she had ever tasted before. In Rolban, the slug meat automatically went to the Chief and those he invited to eat with him. None had been captured while her father was Chief.

“Look!” Retra elbowed her.

Pan stood at the shell amplifier on stage, and four stout Tarst flanked him. Each of the four men wore bleached white breeches and a red tunic, and had slicked his black hair back to a point at his nape. Except for slight variations in height, they looked like exact copies of each other. Each held oversized kaavl disks in their hands.

“Ahem.” Pan coughed discreetly. “Ahem!”

Silence fell in the Great Hall.

“Thank you. In honor of our special guests, our dance singers have prepared a salute to the Kaavl Games. Please welcome the talented Tarst Quartet!” He jogged down the platform stairs amid foot stomping, thunderous applause.

Dance singers? Rolbanis didn’t dance much. Children occasionally made up little dances, but that was all.

The identical men slashed their metal disks together and began to hum. The low sound intensified, and then broke up into a series of staccato blasts. Another resounding crash of the disks, and they began to march. Each man’s humming differed slightly in pitch, which created a pleasant, harmonizing effect. The humming grew rhythmic, and slowly the four stepped to the time of their own music.

Each successive dance pattern grew more complicated than the last, corresponding to its song. The tune was varying, complex, and indescribably beautiful. Spellbound, and spirit unexpectedly lifted, Methusal wished they would never stop.

Gradually, though, their steps slowed and the metal disks lightly brushed together. Three soft, staccato blasts, and it was over. Everyone in the dining hall rose to their feet and cheered and whistled. Even the implacable Dehriens clapped.

Slowly, Methusal sat down again, enthralled by the music
still pulsing through her soul. She felt as if she could have listened to the quartet forever.

“Weren’t they great?” Retra’s eyes shone.

She could only nod, because she didn’t want to break the spell of the moment.

Next, Pan introduced a fleet of jugglers. More acts followed, and the evening sped by. The Tarst Quartet performed a final encore. Then it was late.

Dreamily, Methusal said goodnight to Behran and Kitran, and wandered with Retra and Lina to their own cabin. Hendra had disappeared.

“That was the best entertainment I’ve ever seen,” sighed Retra, flopping onto her cot.

“Maybe we could talk to Petr about having more singing and dancing in Rolban,” Methusal suggested. She snuggled down in her warm fur. Her spirit still felt bright from the wonder of the evening. Surely even Petr would love it.

“We should!” Lina agreed. “I didn’t realize what we were missing out on until we came here.”

Methusal squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to savor the feeling of peace that still permeated her soul. She didn’t want to think about Mentàll. Maybe it was foolish, but just for a little while she wanted to believe that everything would be all right. That her worries only existed in her imagination.

Methusal drifted into a dream world perched in a cloud. Nothing but blue sky and white, puffy clouds surrounded her, as far as her eyes could see.

Until night encroached.

Speeding shadows darkened the landscape. The clouds turned gray, and then black.

Thunder rumbled through Methusal’s soul, and a cold, stiff breeze chilled her skin.

The time for peace had ended.

In the pitch black,
Hendra crouched in the shadows of the Tarst Chief’s cabin. Warm lights spilled from the small side windows onto the grassy earth. She’d seen her cousin enter minutes earlier. Voices murmured indoors, but frustratingly, she could not hear what they said.

Maybe if she crept closer to the front of the house she could hear better. That’s where they were standing. The only trouble was, at that spot two large windows beamed bright light outside. Someone might spot her.

But hadn’t she played it safe for long enough? People’s lives could be in danger.

She had to chance it.

Hendra slipped around a bush and tiptoed to the front corner of the house. She pressed her cheek to the rough wood. Sure enough, the voices were a little clearer. Maybe if she moved just a
tiny
bit closer to the window…

“Got you!” Pain bit into her arm and someone yanked her upright, onto her tiptoes.

Hendra gasped with terror.

Ludst Lst’s cruel face grinned down at her. “Well, if it isn’t little miss meek and mild.” He dragged her closer to him. She gasped again, and horror spiraled. He was too close. Every instinct in her screamed to flee. She wrestled frantically to free herself.

He smiled, as if pleased by her terror, and pushed his face closer her own. “Would Mentàll be happy to find you out here?”

“No,” she gasped. “Let go. Let me go
now!
” The large hulk of him terrified her. The fact that he could overpower her horrified her. The fact that he was a man, and even worse, one with no scruples or morals, threw her into an uncontrolled panic.

She couldn’t catch her breath. Hysteria blanketed her mind. “Let me go,” she cried out. Terror screamed through her mind, and she choked on a gasp. She couldn’t bear it!
Not for one more second.

Her knees buckled, and she collapsed into blackness.

* * * * *

Voices whispered, mixing with the wind whipping through Methusal’s dreams.

“Do you think that’s necessary?”

“They are behind the times. Both have agreed that stronger kaavl leadership is needed.”

“But taking over their government?”

“No, no. Of course the agreement calls for nothing so drastic. I would merely provide counsel to their leaders. Counsel they desperately need.”

Methusal fought sleep. She struggled to wake up. Mentàll. Pan…

Voices. With a gasp, she sat straight up.

Mentàll and Pan were meeting tonight. Maybe right now? She rubbed her eyes, and yawned so hard her jaw crackled. Her brain felt fuzzy.

Had she just heard Pan and Mentàll talking?

Yes. She had to hear their conversation again. She
must.

She could. She must relax to hear… Sleep curled like tiny, anesthetizing tendrils through her mind. As she relaxed the voices filtered in again.

“If they agree they need counsel so badly, why do I have to sign this document?” Pan sounded confused.

“Petr and Kitran know what is best, but the elders do not.” The Dehrien Chief’s cool, persuasive voice slid into Methusal’s ears. “You see,” parchment rustled, “Petr sent this letter of authorization. You can read his wishes in his own handwriting.”

Letter of authorization?

Methusal tensed, and the last threads of sleep vanished.

“It is Petr’s handwriting,” Pan agreed.

The Dehrien Chief said, “You must understand that Rolban
has strayed far from the Old Kaavl Master’s teachings, Pan. Kaavl is only used for entertainment there. They desperately need kaavl back in their leadership, but the elders will not allow it. Only a few understand how urgently it is needed. Rolban needs
me
to show them how to get back on the right track, Pan. And Petr agrees. Petr cannot sign the treaty, but he wants you to do so. His letter makes his wishes clear. This treaty, together with the Alliance, will force the Rolbani elders to listen to reason. It is for their own good.”

“I don’t know…” A nervous flipping of pages tickled Methusal’s ears.

“It is only for three weeks, at first,” the Dehrien Chief said. “Then I will assess their progress.”

Assess their progress?
Whose progress? Petr’s? The Council’s? And how?

Methusal sat up on one elbow. What exactly was going on?

Clearly, Mentàll wanted Pan to sign a treaty that would affect Rolban’s government. So did Petr. In fact, he’d apparently sent a letter via Mentàll to give to Pan, which told Pan to vote in favor of Mentàll’s new, second treaty.

Other bits of information lingered, too. Mentàll wanted to force Rolban to accept his counsel for three weeks. But why?

The rest of the conversation faded as she tried to understand.

The Alliance Petr had signed!

The second clause stated that one community must abide by a law passed by both of the other communities. So, if two communities passed the same law—or treaty—then the third community must obey the law too; whether they agreed with it or not. In this case, Mentàll was trying to convince Tarst to sign a treaty with Dehre which would force Rolban to accept Mentàll’s counsel for three weeks.

The whole thing seemed crazy. What did Mentàll really want? And Petr’s lust for power had clearly blinded him to common sense. Her heart beat rapidly. Erl had tried to warn the Rolbanis about that clause!

A door banged shut. “Did he sign it?” whispered a man.

“Yes, the fool. Now Rolban is mine.”

Methusal’s palms beaded with perspiration. Rolban was
his?
What did that mean?

Her heart pounded. Mentàll obviously meant to use that agreement to gain complete power over Rolban. That was the only conclusion that made sense.

She rubbed her clammy hands together. Rolban had to be warned, and Kitran, too. Surely Kitran wasn’t the thieving murderer. In her heart she couldn’t believe it, and right now she needed to trust someone. Rolban had to be warned about Mentàll’s schemes before the Dehrien Chief arrived.

Then a horrifying thought hit her—the Dehrien merchant delegation had already arrived in Rolban! What if they weren’t there to negotiate trade deals? What if they were waiting in Rolban for Mentàll to arrive? What was the final piece of his terrible plan? Rolban could be in danger right
now
. And her parents, Deccia, Sims…

Quietly, so she wouldn’t disturb her roommates, Methusal pulled on her moccasins and an extra tunic. Hendra was still missing.

Methusal strapped the pack to her back and slipped silently into the dark, moonless night. Led only by the soft glow through the shutters of the men’s cabin, she silently slipped to the Rolbani men’s cabin. The bonfires in the courtyard had burnt out, and the moon hadn’t risen yet, so the night was an inky black. A sharp knock brought Behran to the door. A small triangle of orange light spilled into the shadows.

“What’s going on?” His gaze took in the pack on her shoulders, and his brows flew together. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Get Kitran! Quick.”

Behran withdrew from sight. “Kitran…” His voice was muffled.

Methusal waited. The velvety darkness that enveloped her felt like a living thing. Suffocating…evil. Her heart beat harder. A few faint, shuttered lights glowed from across the courtyard. Their occupants were snug inside, protected from the dark night. Besides those muted lights, everything was pitch black. And silent.

“What is it, Methusal?” Kitran’s voice sounded unnaturally
loud in the stillness. He stood on the top step of the cabin. The orange light backlit his body, so his face was in shadows.

“I need to speak to you about Mentàll. It’s urgent.” She hoped she was doing the right thing by trusting Kitran.

“I can barely see you.” Methusal heard the frown in Kitran’s voice. Grass softly rustled nearby. “What’s this all about?”

But an overpowering urge to flee had seized her, and her feet itched to run
now
as hard and fast as she could. Her words tumbled out in a jumbled heap, and made little sense.

“Slow down. Tell me again about the treaty. And how do you know about it?”

A rising, uncontrollable terror tightened her throat, but she forced the words around her uncooperative tongue. “I said, Mentàll had Pan sign…”

“Sign what?” The words hissed from the darkness behind her and she jumped. Cold, hard fingers bit painfully into her shoulder. “If you are making accusations about me, Methusal, perhaps you should make them to my face.”

A squeak flew from her lips when a vicious jerk sent her staggering backwards two steps and turned her partway around. His form was outlined in jet black, larger than life against the midnight sky.

It was so dark. The Dehrien’s body now partly shielded her from Kitran’s limited view. Kitran could barely see her before. Surely he couldn’t see her at all now.

Her lips trembled, but she fought a rushing, paralyzing panic. “Let me go.”

“I don’t think so, Methusal,” Mentàll murmured. His grip tightened, threatening to squeeze muscle from bone, while his other hand clamped over her mouth, preventing her from crying out.

The Dehrien Chief’s voice lightened as he addressed
Kitran. “Evidently this young woman has been eavesdropping.
That is unfortunate. Obviously, she has misunderstood what she heard.”

“Then the treaty she was talking about…”

“Exactly what you and I have discussed. I am willing to show it to Methusal so she can see that her concerns are groundless. The agreement is for the good. Something a young girl might not understand.”

Anger surged at his condescending tone. She violently wriggled and twisted, trying to free herself.

Kitran seemed satisfied with Mentàll’s explanation. “The agreement is for the best, Methusal. Let Mentàll explain it to you, and you’ll see.”

“Right. Come along,
Methusal
.” Her name was a chill rasp in her ear. Desperately, she bit down and caught a pinch of skin on his palm. His hand jerked away.

“But he plans…” Her cry was stifled when Mentàll’s large hand clapped across her face again, painfully gripping it.

“I will have her straightened out in no time, Kitran. Goodnight.”

The night was so inky that Methusal knew Kitran couldn’t see her desperate, lunging attempts to free herself from Mentàll’s rib squeezing embrace. One arm crushed her chest, holding her feet inches above the ground, while the other held her jaw painfully immobile.

He carried her, kicking and squirming, across the square. She thought she had a chance when he released her mouth to open the door to his cabin, but she had let out no more than a strangled cry when he thrust her hard inside, sending her sprawling across the wooden floor.

She’d only gained her knees when she was propelled upright and shoved into a chair. A kaavl strip quickly lashed her wrists together behind her.

“Now,” Mentàll stared down at her, and a thin, humorless smile curved his hard lips. A ball of leather was clenched in his right hand. “Do I need to use this? Or will you keep quiet on your own? No one will come, you know. A Chief can do what he likes.”

“This isn’t Dehre!” she spat. “The Tarst aren’t animals!” Terror whirled inside her. He could kill her now.

“Perhaps not, but no one will dare question me.” The pale eyes glittered.

You’re a monstrous beast!
But she clamped her mouth shut, glaring instead of speaking. Any fight or fear she showed now would only goad him on.

Mentàll abruptly knelt before her, and hard fingers gripped her chin. She tried not to flinch back, but his face was so close to her own that she could see the little streaks of red in the whites of his pale blue eyes. His familiar, nauseating breath filled her nostrils.

He murmured, “What am I going to do with you?”

Instinctive revulsion made her shrink back.

A faint smile curved his lips, and hard satisfaction glinted. Clearly, he had just obtained his goal. In one swift movement, he rose to his feet. “You fear me. Good. That is as it should be.”

She hated that she had revealed weakness to him. Now he knew how to intimidate her. “That’s because you’ve tied me up!” she snapped. “And you’re threatening me.”

“You expect me to set you free?”

“I expect only the worst from you. You are an abominable
whip!”

“Watch your tongue.” Threat chilled the low tone.

Methusal shuddered, but managed to keep her chin up.

“You should learn respect for authority.”

“I have no respect for you, slug monster!” she managed to spit.

With predatory purposefulness, he stalked closer, which forced her to crane her neck back in order to meet his gaze. Swelling fear made her heart pound in response to his calculated intimidation.

A handbreadth from her, he hissed, “What other names would you like to call me?”

She swallowed. “None.”

“So your tongue can be tamed. Respect, in its basest form.”

“I was wrong before. You’re not a whip. You’re a wild beast. Completely uncivilized and vulgar.”

“I warned you.” When he went down on one knee beside her, terror galloped through Methusal. Why couldn’t she control her mouth?

When his thumb brushed her lower lip, she closed her eyes in horror. What would he do to her now? She was a fool!

Her voice trembled. “You’re threatening me in the basest possible way.”

“Perhaps I am attracted to you.”

A disbelieving laugh choked out. “You
despise
me.”

“Yes. But you are beautiful. And a challenge. I never turn away from a challenge.”

“Don’t…don’t touch me anymore,” she gulped out. It hurt to capitulate; to allow him to win this battle of their wills.

When he stood, she gasped softly with relief.