Temple of the Traveler: Book 02 - Dreams of the Fallen (3 page)

Between the thunder and the repetition of his dream about the spinning coin, Emperor Sandarac got no sleep that night. In his former life as entertainer, all he’d needed was his wavy, black hair and bright, white teeth. He could get the crowds to do anything if he displayed enough confidence. Imprisoned as a thief, he’d escaped repeatedly by sheer daring. His role in politics combined the two careers. But for the first time, Sandarac wasn’t in control.

After his four-course breakfast in bed, he let the courier in. “Majesty,” said the runner from the rookery as he bowed.

“What news from the Vale of Reflection? Have the Prefect of Bablios and the southern armies reached our ambush point?” asked Sandarac, dabbing at the corner of his lips with a purple, linen napkin.

“They’ve stopped early due to the bad weather, sire,” said the courier. When the emperor wrung the napkin like a chicken’s neck, the messenger hastened to add, “But General Garad assures you that they might still be able to spring the trap properly. The High Gardener’s diversionary force from Semenos has been ordered to put up heavier resistance to delay the invader’s progress. Tonight’s encampment should be in the mouth of the Vale.”

Sandarac could still win. It was just a matter of the price.

By midday Ginza, his chief bodyguard, was nowhere to be found, so the elders of the Keepers of the Holy Mountain sent the news directly to the emperor. After the emperor cleared the audience chamber, the messenger reported, “Sire, a terrible disaster has befallen us. Several members of the artifact recovery and preservation team have died. For the first time in Keeper history, the Nightfall affect has not abated at dawn.”

“Damn that sheriff!” Sandarac canceled the rest of his docket for the day. Without Ginza to help hide the emperor’s inability to walk, even routine bureaucracy had become difficult. Next, he summoned Hisbet the Viper.

When the spymaster from the kingdom of Intaglios arrived, Sandarac snapped, “Our recent guest has made a mess of the Holy Mountain. Find out what he’s done and put a stop to it! We need to resolve this before anyone other than the elders knows.”

Hisbet nodded. “We’ll scout using deaf prisoners. Early experiments with them showed the most promise. Perhaps they can get close enough to investigate.”

“Are you sure you have enough deaf prisoners? This is of the utmost urgency,” Sandarac stressed.

The Viper held back a smile at the naïve comment and chose the appropriate euphemism to soothe the emperor. “I assure you, Highness, we’ll
find
them.”

****

As the wind gusted, the burly smith said to his Imperial friend, “Pinetto, I want to be in a dry tent by the time this weather hits.” Considered tall by southern standards, the smith was two hand-spans shorter than the thin Imperial marching beside him.

Pinetto watched the beautiful woman with the starched, red collar who was limping in front of them. Ambassador Sajika wore pants, a top-knot in her hair, and all the other trappings of an explorer, but she’d never left her birth city before. “The blisters on her feet must be getting worse.”

“The bruising made her eye swell shut. And for the record, I
do
shave.”

“You smear your face with cream and let the cat lick the whiskers off,” the smith teased. He’d served a dozen years in the Executioner’s Guild, and he’d never met a kinder human being. One of the kid’s warnings had saved his life.

“If you see any Imperials in the woods other than me, assume they work for Emperor Sandarac. Any soldiers that aren’t guarding the old throne at the Center flocked to him,” Pinetto explained loudly enough for the ambassador to hear, too. His friend knew most of this, but the ambassador might not. If he tried to brief her, it wouldn’t go well.

“You mean the Pretender?” asked the smith.

“He has all the qualifications except the backing of the College of Wizards. If you hear someone whispering about the emperor, it’s probably the enemy. But until the other kingdoms concede, his banners only have three lions and the Imperial crown.”

“Some of them are. King Renald is only thirteen, and the High Gardener has been a terrible regent. People who have suffered under his reign are following Renald’s older sister Lavender.”

After another hour, the smith lost patience and handed his pack to the astronomer. When he attempted to sling the woman over his shoulder, she almost kneed his teeth down his throat. The men escorting them to the camp stared. Pinetto intervened. “Pardon, ambassador, my mistake. I told him there was something wrong with your right boot.” He dropped the pack and made a show of inspecting her calf.

“You need help,” whispered the smith.

“I’ll walk into that camp with the dignity due my station,” she spat. “Lay hands on me again, and . . . oh . . . that’s better.” Pinetto had removed a dagger from her boot sheath and salved where the hilt had rubbed. He may have lingered on the shapely leg a few heartbeats longer than necessary.

The smith set her down and reclaimed his gear. He said nothing when the torrents began to fall. After dark, drenched to the bone, they slogged into the allied camp. Their fine, Kiateran livery had been ruined by the mud. It was just as well that it was raining, for it hid the stray tears Pinetto noticed running down Sajika’s cheek. The two men were stuffed into a tiny, oilskin, servant’s tent while the ambassador went ahead to report to the generals.

They talked while wringing out their clothes. The smith eventually struck a chord with, “Why’s she acting so high and mighty? I was trying to help her. Just a little while ago she was undercover as a kitchen tart. When we were alone in Cardinado, she was military but human.”

The Imperial astronomy student, Pinetto, checked for eavesdroppers before replying. Up until a few days ago, Sajika had been a member of the Library Secret Police. “She has to maintain her cover role, as do we. And please don’t say the word ‘tart’ again. She might hear you.”

The smith stared at his friend, who had coined the term. “All I want to know is how to treat her. How do I know what mask she’s wearing or what she wants?”

Pinetto pondered the rain through which they’d soon have to run. “I think there is a piece of her in every disguise, to make it real. As for how you treat her, I’m working that one out myself. For now, we should let her do all the talking, because she’s the only friend we have in this mess. Friends trust each other. If you say the wrong thing to one of these generals, all three of us could end up worse than dead. As far as how to treat her personally, she’ll teach us how if we let her. But it begins with listening and respect.”

Moments later, their summons came. They put on their gambling faces and slogged through mud to the command tent. Once inside, the smith stood at attention. Pinetto stood one pace behind the ambassador, guarding her back.

Prefect Khalid was the only noble present when they arrived. He looked fifty and had his hair cut short on top in the fashion of executioners. His body had a fit tone that came from a combination of daily workouts and good parentage. The Prefect was only a top-knot shorter than the smith. Though he massed half again Pinetto’s weight, there wasn’t an ounce of fat visible anywhere on him. His skin had an olive tinge like many from the old capital city of Bablios. His sole facial flaw was a broken tooth behind the bicuspid, visible when he grinned like a predator. Unlike many commanders, he carried his own sword and wore no ornamentation other than a gold tabard on his right shoulder. Even now, he wore leather under-armor so that he could be ready to fight in moments.

The next morning, Baran Togg and the others in his band were milling around in a large tent waiting for the important members of the southeastern alliance to arrive. The rain had tapered off to a miserable drizzle, and the men ate yesterday’s biscuits at the rear of the tent. Ambassador Sajika had an actual seat in front of the podium and was served hot tea with her muffin. She arrived a little later than most because Pinetto had hidden her boots until he could scavenge salve and fresh bandages for her blistered feet. Eventually, Queen Lavender of Semenos and her retinue were the only ones holding up the meeting. Everyone was grumbling about the wait.

While Pinetto propped Sajika’s feet up on a stool and took notes, the smith overheard someone mention Lugwort. A motley gang of thugs clustered in one corner, passing around a wineskin. Their leader was a twentyish rogue with unwashed, curly, black hair, and muddy, brown leather armor. He was short, with several scars on his ears and hands. There were patched holes on his outfit where several other weapons might have intruded upon his flesh. The golden patch on his shoulder maed the one on the smith’s dandy-like, courtier outfit. The smith strode quietly over to the rabble to get a closer look.

Pausing in his ribald story, the near-dwarf leader turned to the smith and snapped, “What’re you staring at, you dumb ox? Why are you wearing our silkies?”

Baran Togg dreaded what would come out of his mouth next, but being the messenger of a god, he had little choice in the matter. “Art thou the Heir of Lugwort?”

The man’s companions fanned out around him, hands on weapons. The curly-haired rascal sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Aye. Legato’s the name. What’s this about?”

Baran fell to one knee and looked the man in the eye. In a booming voice that silenced every conversation in the room, the smith shouted, “Hear me, son of the mountains. I have not forsaken thee even in the hour of my own greatest need. I’ve sent this man with a Sword of Miracles formed of my own sweat and pain to take you to your stolen legacy. The Obsidian Throne is being held in a village just south of our border—the Crystal Grotto. You’ll find it deep in a closed mine. Make haste, show me the steel of your bloodline, and we shall restore both your kingdom and my might.” So saying, the sword-bearer ripped free the Defender of the Realm and held it high for all to see. The silvery surface shone with an inner light, and runes danced half-visible on the sides. Before the retinue could react, Baran offered the sword to the Prince, palms up and head bowed.

“Bugger me,” mumbled Legato.

“So much for state secrets and careful planning,” sighed the ambassador.

The Prefect was fuming when he got them alone, bristling with barely restrained anger. “When were you planning on telling me?”

The smith was a bit dazed from the event. “The message wasn’t for you. There’s no way I could have.”

The Prefect opened his mouth and snapped it shut again. He turned to Ambassador Sajika and asked, “Is he having me on?”

She shook her head sadly. “No. He’s not bright enough to make this stuff up. It’s a common restriction placed on messengers. He may not have even known the words himself until the trigger condition happened. I should’ve set the initial meeting up in a more private place, General. I bear the blame.”

After allowing a brief period for the information to be digested, Sajika added, “But there are upsides to this situation.”

The Prefect stared at her stonily. “Go on.”

The ambassador began listing positive ramifications on her fingers. “The morale effect on our own troops was significant. Word that we hold the Defender spread like wildfire. The men are convinced that this is a sign that the gods are siding with us in this matter: that moral right will strengthen our hand.”

The Prefect shook his head. “Nice try, but victories do more for morale than a hundred rumors. A rumor just shows that the average soldier will believe anything. That’s hardly encouraging. Worse, it will eventually beg the question of who the true emperor should be. What person is the Defender protecting? We don’t have a decent Imperial candidate anywhere in the south. Even if we did, I rather like things the w they are now without an emperor to interfere.”