Water Sleeps (3 page)

Murgen drifted through the Palace like a ghost. He found that thought vaguely
amusing, though nothing made him laugh anymore. A decade and a half in the grave
destroyed a man’s sense of humor.

The rambling stone pile of the Palace never changed. Well, it got dustier. And
it needed repairs ever more desperately. Credit that to Soulcatcher, who did not
like having hordes of people underfoot. Most of the original vast professional
staff had been dismissed and replaced by occasional casual labor.

The Palace crowned a sizable hill. Each ruler of Taglios, generation after
generation, tagged on an addition, not because the room was needed but because
that was a memorial tradition. Taglians joked that in another thousand years
there would be no city, just endless square miles of Palace. Mostly in ruin.

The Radisha Drah, having accepted that her brother, the Prahbrindrah Drah, had
been lost during the Shadowmaster wars, and galvanized by the threat of the
Protector’s displeasure, had proclaimed herself head of state. Traditionalists
in the ecclesiastical community did not want a woman in the role, but the world
knew this particular woman had been doing the job practically forever anyway.

Her weaknesses existed mainly in the ambitions of her critics. Depending who did
the pontificating, she had made one of two great mistakes. Or possibly both. One
would be betraying the Black Company when it was a well-known fact that nobody
ever profited from such treachery. And the other error, of particular popularity
with the senior priests, would be that she had erred in employing the Black
Company in the first place. The terror of the Shadowmasters being expunged in
the interim, by agency of the Company, did not present a counterargument of any
current merit.

Unhappy people shared the meeting chamber with the Radisha. The eye
automatically went to the Protector first. Soulcatcher looked exactly as she
always had, slimly androgynous, yet sensual, in black leather, a black mask, a
black helmet and black leather gloves. She occupied a seat slightly to the left
of and behind the Radisha, within a curtain of shadow. She did not put herself
forward but there was no doubt who made the ultimate decisions. Every hour of
every day the Radisha found another reason to regret having let this particular
camel shove her nose into the tent. The cost of having tried to get around
fulfilling an unhappy promise to the Black Company was insupportable already.

Surely, keeping her promises could not have been so painful. What possibly could
have happened that would be worse than what she suffered now had she and her
brother helped the Captain find the way to Khatovar?

At desks to either hand, facing one another from fifteen feet, stood scribes who
struggled valiantly to record anything said. One group served the Radisha. The
other was in Soulcatcher’s employ. Once upon a time there had been disagreements
after the fact about decisions made during a Privy Council meeting.

A table twelve feet long and four wide faced the two women. Four men sat behind
its inadequate bulwark. Willow Swan was situated at the left end. His
once-marvelous golden hair had gone grey and stringy. At higher elevations, it
had grown extremely sparse. Swan was a foreigner. Swan was a bundle of nerves.

Swan had a job he did not want but could not give up. Swan was riding the tiger.

Willow Swan headed up the Greys. In the public eye. In reality, he was barely a
figurehead. If his mouth opened, the words that came out were pure Soulcatcher.

Popular hatred deservedly belonging to the Protector settled upon Willow Swan
instead.

Seated with Swan were three running-dog senior priests who owed their standing
to the Protector’s favor. They were small men in large jobs. Their presence at
Council meetings was a matter of form. They would not take part in any actual
debate, though they might receive instructions. Their function was to agree with
and support Soulcatcher if she happened to speak. Significantly, all three
represented Gunni cults. Though the Protector used the Greys to enforce her
will, the Shadar had no voice in the Council. Neither did the Vehdna. That
minority simmered continuously because Soulcatcher arrogated to herself much
that properly applied only to God, the Vehdna being hopelessly monotheistic and
stubborn about keeping it that way.

Swan was a good man inside his fear. He spoke for the Shadar when he could.

There were two other men, of more significance, present. They were positioned
behind tall desks located back of the table. They perched atop tall stools and
peered down at everyone like a pair of lean old vultures. Both antedated the
coming of the Protector, who had not yet found a suitable excuse for getting rid
of either, though they irritated her frequently.

The right-hand desk belonged to the Inspector-General of the Records, Chandra
Gokhale. His was a deceptive title. He was no glorified clerk. He controlled
finances and most public works. He was ancient, hairless, lean as a snake and
twice as mean. He owed his appointment to the Radisha’s father. Until the latter
days of the Shadowmaster wars, his office had been a minor one. The wars caused
that office’s influence and power to expand. And Chandra Gokhale was never shy
about snatching at any strand of bureaucratic power that came within reach. He
was a staunch supporter of the Radisha and a steadfast enemy of the Black
Company. He was also the sort of weasel who would change all that in an instant
if he saw sufficient advantage in so doing.

The man behind the desk on the left was more sinister. Arjana Drupada was a
priest of Rhavi-Lemna’s cult but there was not one ounce of brotherly love in
the man. His official title was Purohita, which meant, more or less, that he was
the Royal Chaplain. In actuality, he was the true voice of the priesthoods at
court. They had forced him upon the Radisha at a time she was making desperate
concessions in order to gain support. Like Gokhale, Drupada was more interested
in control than he was in doing what was best for Taglios. But he was not an
entirely cynical manipulator. His frequent moral bulls got up the Protector’s
nose more often even than the constant, quibbling financial caveats of the
Inspector-General. Physically, Drupada was known for his shock of wild white
hair. That clung to his head like a mad haystack, the good offices of a comb
being completely unfamiliar.

Only Gokhale and Drupada seemed unaware that their days had to be numbered. The
Protector of All the Taglias was not enamored of them at all.

The final member of the Council was absent. Which was not unusual. The Great
General, Mogaba, preferred to be in the field, harrying those designated as his
enemies. He viewed the infighting in the Palace with revulsion.

None of which mattered at the moment. There had been Incidents. There were
Witnesses to be Brought Forward. The Protector was not pleased.

Willow Swan rose. He beckoned a Grey sergeant out of the gloom behind the two
old men. “Ghopal Singh.” Nobody remarked on the unusual name. Possibly he was a
convert. Stranger things were happening. “Singh’s patrol watches an area
immediately outside the Palace, on the north side. This afternoon one of his
patrolmen discovered a prayer wheel mounted on one of the memorial posts in
front of the north entrance. Twelve copies of this sutra were attached to the
arms of the wheel.”

Swan made a show of turning a small paper card so the light would fall upon the
writing there. The lettering appeared to be in the ecclesiastical style. Swan
failed to appreciate his own ignorance of Taglian letters, though. He was
holding the card inverted. He did not, however, make any mistakes when he
reported what the prayer card had to say.

“Rajadharma. The Duty of Kings. Know you: Kingship is a trust. The King is the
most exalted and conscientious servant of the people.”

Swan did not recognize the verse. It was so ancient that some scholars
attributed it to one or another of the Lords of Light in the time when the gods
still handed down laws to the fathers of men. But the Radisha Drah knew it. The
Purohita knew it. Someone outside the Palace had leveled a chiding finger.

Soulcatcher understood it, too. Its object, she said, “Only a Bhodi monk would
presume to chastise this house. And they are very few.” That pacifistic,

moralistic cult was young and still very small. And it had suffered during the
war years almost as terribly as had the followers of Kina. The Bhodi refused to
defend themselves. “I want the man who did this.” The voice she used was that of
a quarrelsome old man.

“Uh . . . ” Swan said. It was not wise to argue with the Protector but that was
an assignment beyond the capacities of the Greys.

Among Soulcatcher’s more frightening characteristics was her seeming ability to
read minds. She could not, really, but never insisted that she could not. In
this instance she found it convenient to let people believe what they wanted.

She told Swan, “Being Bhodi, he will surrender himself. No search will be
necessary.”

“Hunh?”

“There is a tree, sometimes called the Bhodi Tree, in the village of Semchi. It
is a very old and highly honored tree. The Bhodi Enlightened One made his
reputation loafing in the shade of this tree. The Bhodi consider it their most
holy shrine. Tell them I will make kindling wood out of the Bhodi Tree unless
the man who rigged that prayer wheel reports to me. Soon.” Soulcatcher employed
the voice of a petty, vindictive old woman.

Murgen made a mental note to send Sahra a suggestion that the guilty man be
prevented from reaching the Protector. Destruction of a major holy place would
create thousands of new enemies for Soulcatcher.

Willow Swan started to speak but Soulcatcher interrupted. “I do not care if they
hate me, Swan. I care that they do what I tell them to do when I tell them to do
it. The Bhodi will not raise a fist against me, anyway. That would put a stain
on their kharma.”

A cynical woman, the Protector.

“Get on with it, Swan.”

Swan sighed. “Several more of those smoke shows appeared tonight. One was much
bigger than any seen before. Once again the Black Company sigil was part of all
of them.” He brought forward another Shadar witness, who told of being stoned by
the mob but did not mention the demon Niassi.

The news was no surprise. It was one of the reasons the Council had been
convened. With no real passion, the Radisha demanded, “How could that happen?

Why can’t you stop it? You have men on every street corner. Chansdra?” She
appealed to the man who knew just how much it cost to put all those Greys out
there.

Gokhale inclined his head imperially.

As long as the Radisha did the questioning, Swan’s nerve stood up. She could not
hurt him in ways he had not been hurt before. Not the way the Protector could.

He asked, “Have you been out there? You should disguise yourself and go. Like
Saragoz in the fairy tale. Every street is clogged with people. Thousands sleep
where others have to walk over them. Breezeways and alleyways are choked with
human waste. Sometimes the press is so thick you could murder somebody ten feet
from one of my men and never be noticed. The people playing these games aren’t
stupid. If they’re really Company survivors, they’re especially not stupid.

They’ve already survived everything ever thrown at them. They’re using the
crowds for cover exactly the way they’d use the rocks and trees and bushes out
in the countryside. They don’t wear uniforms. They don’t stand out. They’re not
outlanders anymore. If you really want to nail them, put out a proclamation
saying they all have to wear funny red hats.” Swan’s nerve had peaked high. That
was not directed at the Radisha. Soulcatcher, speaking through her, had issued
several proclamations memorable for their absurdity. “Being steeped in Company
doctrine, they wouldn’t be anywhere around when the smoke emblems actually
formed. So far, we haven’t even figured out where they come from.”

Soulcatcher unleashed a deep-throated grunt. It said she doubted that Swan could
figure out much of anything. His nerve guttered like a dying lamp. He began to
sweat. He knew he walked a tightrope with the madwoman. He was tolerated like a
naughty pet for reasons clear only to the sorceress, who sometimes did things
for no better reason than a momentary whim. Which could reverse itself an
instant later.

He could be replaced. Others had been. Soulcatcher did not care about facts,

insurmountable obstacles or mere difficulties. She cared about results.

Swan offered, “On the plus side there’s no evidence, even from our most eager
informants, that suggests this activity is anything but a low-grade nuisance.

Even if Black Company survivors are behind it—and even with tonight’s
escalation.”

Soulcatcher said, “They’ll never be anything but a nuisance.” Her voice was that
of a plucky teenage girl. “They’re going through the motions. They lost heart
when I buried all their leaders.” That was all spoken in a powerful male voice,

by someone accustomed to unquestioning obedience. But those words amounted to an
oblique admission that Company members might, after all, still be alive, and the
final few words included in a rising inflection betraying potential uncertainty.

There were questions about what had happened on the plain of glittering stone
that Soulcatcher herself could not answer. “I’ll worry when they call them back
from the dead.”

She did not know.

In truth, little had gone according to anyone’s plan out there. Her escape, with
Swan, had been pure luck. But Soulcatcher was the sort who believed Fortune’s
bright countenance was her born due.

“Probably true. And only marginally significant if I understood your summons.”

“There are Other Forces Afoot,” Soulcatcher said. This voice was a sybil’s, rife
with portent.