The Betrayed (21 page)

Three days later, he was invited to interview the Widow Nespos. His head swam in riddles, clues, unanswered questions, leads that made him twitch and miss hours of sleep at night. The annals were an infinite warren of information. He wished he had some of the young investigators with him, to simply help him bear the brunt of so many details, so much data.

He knew one thing. They were lying to him. Everyone. The council, the guild members, friends and relatives of the murdered. There was lots of money involved in this dark plot, whatever it was.

His carriage arrived shortly before noon. He stepped out, smoothed his robe, and waited for the butler to admit him. The richer Caytoreans loved pomp and etiquette. Much of their wealth was wasted in purely trying to impress others.

Like most nobles, Nespos had carved a statement of his power in marble and alabaster and a miniature forest, all within the walls of his mansion, which vied with hundreds of others for recognition among the finest and richest of Eybalen, on the crest of a hillside overlooking the lower city and the harbor.

Armin had to admit the vista was splendid, though.

“We meet again, sir,” the servant said.

Armin ignored him, not sure how to respond to small talk from the help. Sirtai’s slaves never spoke to their masters unless spoken to. And then, there was no consideration how one should treat them, although it was unpopular to be rude or savage.

Widow Nespos was called Cybilla. She was a rather surprisingly beautiful and young woman, just a trifle chubby, with a healthy complexion and big, doelike eyes. Like most Caytoreans, her skin was two shades paler than his.

He had expected to meet someone more like his age. This momentarily threw him off-balance.

“Greetings, Lady Cybilla,” he said.

“Investigator Wan’der Markssin, it’s a pleasure,” she replied, her smile and her eyes in discord. She grimaced unconsciously as his name rolled off her tongue. Was it the fact that he had more than one?

They sat on a terrace, beneath an awning of vines ripe with early autumn grapes, sipping wine, eating olives. The whole of Eybalen was before them. The hundreds of docking ships looked like pearls on a cushion of blue suede.

The butler came to ask him whether he preferred lobster or squid. For all the cardinal differences between the two nations, they did share the same sea and the same catches.

“I have heard you are trying to solve the mystery of my husband’s death,” she said, drinking her third glass of wine. Armin made a quick mental note.

“Including several other murders,” he said.

“I wish to help you,” she stated dramatically.

Armin would have made his brows arch up—if he’d had any. “I’m grateful.”

Cybilla squirmed, recrossing her legs. He could not help noticing how her soft flesh bounced beneath the satin of her dress.

“I will ask you some questions.” He produced a mangled booklet from one of his pockets, flipped a few curling pages, and found what he wanted. It took him a moment to translate from Sirtai; he wrote in his native language to reduce the chance of casual spying.

“Was your husband a follower of the Movement, a Feoran?”

Cybilla was quiet for a moment, then burst out laughing. She had a very big mouth and a very annoying laugh. “You must be joking, Investigator Markssin!” Some of the wine sloshed up her nose, and she gargled, “Oh, my husband was not a believer of anything. Like most of us.”

Armin let her talk. But this new fact was most intriguing.

“Gods are for the poor and unfortunate. Rich people do not need them. They can make their own destiny. Like myself, like the entire council, Nespos was an atheist.”

The investigator ran a quick mental check. “I was aware that most merchants and nobles donated significant sums of money to the houses of gods.”

“Definitely” she said, unfazed. “The patriarchs do have their merits, despite their misplaced beliefs. They keep the riffraff in check. Common people are so easily cowed. The clergy make for such splendid chaperones.”

Another important fact. “Do you have any idea where he sailed in the last few months?”

Cybilla let her smile fade. “Not really. My husband was not very forthcoming regarding his explorations. He did not want other chart-makers to know exactly where he would be going. But he mostly explored the seas.”

“Did you notice anything strange?”

She shook her head, gulping more wine. “Not really. He would leave, then return after several weeks. And I would stay here, all alone and bored.”

Armin was not too well-informed in the art of flirtation in Caytor, but he felt Lady Cybilla was much more forthcoming than he had expected.

“I’m a widow now. All I have left is the memory of my husband.”

And his entire wealth, Armin thought, perhaps a bit unfairly. “Did he keep his…maps at home, perhaps? Maybe a sailing journal?”

Her mouth full of wine, she shook her head. She was flushed. “Larol, leave us. Do not disturb us until I say so.”

Nodding stiffly, the butler retreated.

“Do you know what the most powerful aphrodisiac is, Investigator Markssin?”

Armin wanted to tell her, the blood of the blue lizard from Conoya, but he said nothing.

“It’s grief,” she slurred slightly. “I’m lonely. I have no one to keep me warm at nights.”

“That is very unfortunate, my lady,” he agreed formally.

Cybilla let one of the shoulder straps of her dress slip. Armin was fascinated by the soft, pale skin of the continentals.

“Will you indulge a widow, alleviate some of her grief?” she pleaded, doe-eyed.

Armin shrugged. Caytoreans were very conservative regarding multiple partners, but Sirtai knew better. His wives would be proud of him.

CHAPTER 19

A
yrton did not know why he had decided to leave the city. Maybe it was his desire to seek out revenge against the patriarchs. Maybe it was the simple need for survival. But he was thinking about it quite a lot as he led a procession of soldiers and refugees away from the ruins of Talmath.

The gods and goddesses must have smiled upon him that day. He had managed to hold that mass of deranged and lost people in thrall, had managed to maintain his authority over them. Perhaps, all people ever needed when in dire peril was someone who looked a little less frightened, a little more confident.

The battle for Talmath was lost. No one would acknowledge it aloud, but it was the bitter truth. It had been a matter of days before the Caytoreans launched the final offensive and captured it. The fires had proved to be a useful distraction. Under the veil of smoke and confusion, he’d led his ramshackle army out of the city under the cover of night, slipping past the thin siege line west of Talmath. He had cut through the Borean Woods, an old forest of oaks and hornbeam, and was now wandering across the vast, rolling plains of the central Territories.

Two days away from anarchy and carnage, they could still see the smoke above the plains, a big blot of gray against the soft blue summer sky.

His convoy was a ragged one. He commanded less than three thousand Outsiders and about five thousand refugees of all kinds. They stretched for two miles behind him, weak, confused, and hungry. Every day, more and more people lagged or got lost. Caytorean parties prowled the region and hunted anyone and everyone mercilessly.

Ayrton knew with ice-cold certainty that before the week’s end, most of his refugees would be gone, for better or worse. They would scatter through the countryside, heading toward villages they knew or thought they knew, seeking sanity and help there. Others would perish by the sword and disease and the oncoming autumn cold.

He would have a fool’s luck if he managed to remain with as many as half his soldiers. These animals, too, would wander off as his grip on their hides weakened. But he would be a fool if he tried to worry or protect everyone. He was powerless. His best hope was to march west, away from the killing.

Ayrton drank from a skin. Luckily, water should not be a problem. There were many springs about, and rains came regularly in the late summer.

He did not really know where to go or what to do. He could march toward Jaruka, the holiest city in the Territories. But he also felt a need to seek out the patriarchs. His anger was slowly eroding, but the ugly, empty feeling of betrayal sat in the pit of his stomach like a ball of lead. He needed to know why they had abandoned the people in Talmath.

Most of the villages they found were deserted, the inhabitants having fled the rumors of war. The countryside was empty, fields left unharvested. They plucked turnips from the ground and spitted corn over small fires. Ayrton hardly slept four hours a day and found himself dozing while marching. The few soldiers with bows tried to hunt, but found very little game. Animals had much better instincts than people.

As the week stretched out, Ayrton found himself leading a band of pilgrims a third of its original size, most of the refugees gone. Some still hung on, hoping the man in the front had some sort of a plan. Bandits and vagabonds avoided them; they were too large a group to prey on.

On the ninth day of their grueling journey, they encountered the first populated hamlet. The word of fighting had still not yet reached here—or the people treated it with the typical disdain of the condemned. The roads were mostly empty, but here and there, a wagon rolled or a family walked toward one of the shrines, carrying offerings. There was no sign of the great armies of the Cause.

Ayrton wondered where the patriarchs hid. Had they all fled the cities at the first sign of peril? Was the creed so…shallow? People devoted their lives to the gods. People believed and trusted and expected the patriarchs to protect them.

He made his convoy halt half a mile from the village and proceeded on foot, followed by a small band of soldiers. They crossed a short bridge of stone arching over a narrow creek. The village was a random collection of a dozen houses and a mill, yet a large crowd stood in the small square occupied by a shrine.

Coming closer, he could see most of the people wore the smooth, monotone robes of different colors. His blood heated. The patriarchs?

The robed assembly noticed the newcomers and dispersed. A group started in their direction. Ayrton slowed and bade his men relax.

“Greetings,” one of the men shouted.

Ayrton raised a hand in friendly gesture. “Greetings,” he called back.

“You must be soldiers of the Cause,” the man spoke again; his robe was blue and stained with dust.

“We are,” Ayrton said.

“I’m Under-Patriarch Lenard,” the priest said. “How many are you?”

Ayrton hesitated. “About two thousand or so, including some refugees.”

Lenard looked shocked. “So many. Where do you hail from? Are you here to join the march on Talmath?”

The Outsider stared at him stupidly. “We come from Talmath.”

Under-Patriarch Lenard seemed confused. “I don’t understand.”

What in the name of gods was happening here, Ayrton thought, apprehension clenching his gullet. “Talmath is lost. The Caytoreans have overrun it. Didn’t you know?”

There was absolute silence on the other side. One of the other robed men sank to his knees and started to pray mutely. Another started to cry.

Lenard was pale as a worm. “Where are the patriarchs?”

Ayrton gritted his teeth. “We don’t know. But they have abandoned the city.”

Silence, again. “Come with me,” the man spoke after a long time.

They were led into the village. Close to a hundred clergymen and clergywomen clustered near the shrine. Some were armed.

Lenard went to talk to a group of priests who stood slightly apart from the rest. An old woman with a definite aura of authority came forward. “I’m Matriarch Alda, serving Goddess Selena, blessed be her name.”

The soldiers bowed in reverence. They let her touch their brows and murmur blessings.

“Under-Patriarch Lenard tells me you come from Talmath and that it has been lost,” she spoke, her voice sad.

Ayrton matched her gaze. “Yes, holy one. The Caytoreans have breached the defenses. We could not fight them. The lower city was burned to the ground. We fled while we still could.”

She took the news with the same blunt shock as Lenard. Her resolve wavered. “We have had no news from Talmath in a while. But we knew that the city was strong with faith. It has…it had thousands of strong defenders.”

Mostly peasants, fools, and animals, Ayrton thought.

“You said the patriarchs have abandoned you,” she whispered.

“I don’t know, holy one,” Ayrton managed to say in a composed voice, but it was a strain. “We don’t know where they are or when they left. We came one day to the monastery, seeking their guidance. The monastery was empty. Only the combat priests have remained.”

A wave of emotion rippled through the colorful lot. Ayrton could almost pinpoint every combat priest and priestess in the lot. The pain and despair that twisted their features was too obvious.

“We thought the patriarchs would have gone west, to warn others and rally more people,” Ayrton said.