The Sleeping God Part 26

Only when they were alone did Lok sit down in the Tarkin's chair. "I must have time to solidify my position before I can give you what we agreed upon. A moon, perhaps two." As the priest narrowed his eyes, Lok smiled and spread his hands. "Come," he said. "Have we not prospered?" He leaned forward and poured himself a gla.s.s of the wine. It was a dark, full red that Lok knew from experience would taste of the oak it had been aged in. "When I am anointed, I will prepare the proclamations that shall give you what you've asked for." He sipped at his cup of wine, savoring it in his mouth a moment before swallowing. And, once I'm anointed, I won't need you. And, once I'm anointed, I won't need you. "The support and countenance of the Tarkin for yourself and your followers. Dominion over the Marked." "The support and countenance of the Tarkin for yourself and your followers. Dominion over the Marked."

"Why do you wait? Every delay allows the Sleeping G.o.d more time to awaken."

Lok ground his teeth. The man's beliefs were becoming more than a nuisance. Lok set his winegla.s.s back on the table, fixing his guest with his eye. The Jaldean was not even looking at him. "I have declared Tek-aKet Fallen, but in the absence of a body, there are rumors," he said, with more force than he had intended. "Rumors which force me to move much more slowly than I had originally planned."

Beslyn-Tor brought his gaze back from the distance and fixed it on Lok-iKol, the jade-green eyes as bright as though they'd absorbed the light of the setting sun that streamed through the windows. The new Tarkin of Imrion suddenly wished he was not sitting down. He would feel stronger on his feet. It seemed the whole room had darkened.

"You think to put me off. I warn you, do nothing you will regret."

Lok brought his fingertips together and tapped his lips. "Do you threaten me? You stirred the people against the Marked; that is a great power you have. But Tek-aKet was taken by surprise, I will not be. That trick cannot be played again."

The Jaldean priest waved the statement away with the closest thing to a smile Lok had ever seen him make.

"I seek to give you what you want most."

"And that is?"

"You have named it. Power."

Lok-iKol felt the cord of his eye patch move as he drew in his brows. "I am Tarkin."

"Is that the extent of your ambition? What if there were more power to be had?"

Lok sat back, gripping the chair arms with his hands. This was too much.

"What? Will the Sleeping G.o.d bless me and hold me in his dreams? Do you think me as gullible as the rabble you rouse to frenzy? You are a useful tool, Beslyn-Tor, and I will reward you as promised, but do not presume too much on my grat.i.tude."

As a sign that the audience was over, Lok-iKol stood. Beslyn-Tor sighed and heaved himself to his feet, his age suddenly showing in the noise of his effort.

"My lord Tarkin, " he said, lowering himself to one knee. "Forgive an impatient man. Allow me to be the first to give you my allegiance." He bowed his head and reached up his right hand.

Lok-iKol hesitated, but there was no irony, no smug sarcasm, nor even any calculation on the old man's face. He took the offered hand between his own. The priest's skin was warm and dry, his grip firmer than Lok would have expected in so old a man. Lok licked suddenly dry lips.

"I receive . . ." he began, and shook his head in irritation. For a moment he couldn't remember the words. He blinked and focused again on Beslyn-Tor's face, the man's jade-green eyes. The room around them grew darker.

The Seer was lost.

For a moment the body's heart stopped beating.

She must be found, this Mercenary, this Wolfshead. Who could do so?

The Scholar. He had Found once already. But the Scholar himself was missing. Karlyn-Tan Cast Out. Dal-eDal. That one always knew more than he told.

He looked down at the old man on the floor.

"Jelran," he called and was pleased by how swiftly the page entered.

"Have the junior priest who accompanied Beslyn-Tor enter. His master appears to have suffered a stroke."

The young page glanced at the figure on the floor and licked his lips. "Of course, my lord."

He watched, feeling the inside of this shape, testing the strengths, tasting the skills, as they helped the stricken man dodder out of the room.

"Jelran? Tell Gan-eGan to cancel the amba.s.sadors' supper and send for my cousin Dal-eDal to come to me."

"At once, my lord."

I have got nothing to worry about, Dal-eDal told himself, nodding to the pale-faced Dome Guard as he dismounted at the Ironwood Gate. If Lok was ready to have him killed, he needn't bring Dal to the Carnelian Dome to do it. Far more likely to suffer some "accident" at home, like so many others of the Tenebro family. No, the difference today was that the summons came not only from his House, but from his Tarkin. Dal-eDal told himself, nodding to the pale-faced Dome Guard as he dismounted at the Ironwood Gate. If Lok was ready to have him killed, he needn't bring Dal to the Carnelian Dome to do it. Far more likely to suffer some "accident" at home, like so many others of the Tenebro family. No, the difference today was that the summons came not only from his House, but from his Tarkin.

Or someone's Tarkin, anyway.

Dal smiled and tossed his reins to the waiting stable girl, thanked his escort and began the long walk across the fitted flagstones of the wide interior yard to the Carnelian Dome's Steward of Keys, waiting on the steps of the grand entrance known as the Tarkin's Door. Like the stable girl, and a couple of the Carnelian Dome Guards for that matter, the Steward's face showed a pallor and a stiffness that spoke of underlying uncertainty. Not unlike, Dal thought, the look on the faces of the people in Tenebro House on the morning the House fell.

"Not your your first time here, at any rate, Lord Dal," the Steward said with the ghost of his usual smile on his lips. first time here, at any rate, Lord Dal," the Steward said with the ghost of his usual smile on his lips.

Dal tilted his head with a smile of his own. He felt and recognized the need for normal conversation in these most abnormal times. "I barely remember that event," he said. The Steward gestured, and Dal preceded the man through the gateway. "I was four when my father became head of his Household, and I came with him to give his oaths to the Tenebroso, and to the old Tarkin."

The Steward made a half-aborted motion with his right hand, and Dal coughed. So it was better not to mention even Tek-aKet's father, was it?

"I wasn't Steward then," the man said. "I don't believe I remember your father."

"He was only in Gotterang once more. In fact, he died on his way home from that last visit to the Tenebroso. Fell from his horse."

"You became Household then? Or was there an older sibling?"

"No, I was Kir for my Household, but at eight years old, my House thought it better to put a Steward in place and brought me to her in Gotterang." No need to tell the Carnelian Dome's Steward of Keys that such young children were used as hostages; the man well knew that for himself.

"And, of course, you've been here ever since. Once in the capital, who would want to leave?"

Dal smiled, his lips pressed tightly together. Ever since. Ever since his father, who must have guessed something something about that summons from which he never returned, had kissed him good-bye whispering, "Stay alive, Son. See you survive to avenge me." about that summons from which he never returned, had kissed him good-bye whispering, "Stay alive, Son. See you survive to avenge me."

Still alive, Papa, he thought. he thought. Accomplis.h.i.+ng that much at least. Accomplis.h.i.+ng that much at least.

"It must have been strange for you," the Steward said, as he opened the third set of double doors for Dal to walk through. "I remember being very homesick when I first came here as a child." Dal stood to one side as two pages, heads down and mumbling their excuses, came stumbling through the opened door.

"Not exactly homesick. Though there were no children my age in Tenebro House," he said, after the young pages were out of earshot. "And I'm afraid I found my cousin Lok-iKol very . . . impressive."

The Steward of Keys, with a glance at Dal's face, nodded his quick understanding.

At first, Dal had been too shocked by grief and the change in his circ.u.mstances to remember his father's last words to him. Afterward, he'd needed to be sure that it wasn't wasn't just homesickness and an aversion to Lok's company that made him want to kill his one-eyed cousin. The longer he waited, the harder it became to do anything. If he killed Lok openly, he would be killed himself. Failing in his father's first command to him. If he killed Lok by stealth, he'd become the heir, something he'd never wanted-still didn't want. So he'd spent years studying the situation, gathering information, in part to protect himself, in part to find a safe way of enacting his father's vengeance. All in all, he'd been gathering information for a long time. just homesickness and an aversion to Lok's company that made him want to kill his one-eyed cousin. The longer he waited, the harder it became to do anything. If he killed Lok openly, he would be killed himself. Failing in his father's first command to him. If he killed Lok by stealth, he'd become the heir, something he'd never wanted-still didn't want. So he'd spent years studying the situation, gathering information, in part to protect himself, in part to find a safe way of enacting his father's vengeance. All in all, he'd been gathering information for a long time.

When he'd realized just why why Parno Lionsmane had seemed so familiar, only the iron discipline of years had stopped him from running singing through the House. He'd thought all his problems were solved. As kidnapped Mercenary Brothers they would kill Lok, and as a first cousin, Par-iPar Tenebro would set aside his Mercenary Brotherhood, become heir, and Dal could finally go home. Parno Lionsmane had seemed so familiar, only the iron discipline of years had stopped him from running singing through the House. He'd thought all his problems were solved. As kidnapped Mercenary Brothers they would kill Lok, and as a first cousin, Par-iPar Tenebro would set aside his Mercenary Brotherhood, become heir, and Dal could finally go home.

But the Brothers were gone, and Lok was now Tarkin.

"My lord." The Steward of Keys motioned Dal to one side. Approaching them down the corridor were three individuals dressed completely in dark green, escorted by two guards in Tenebro colors and two Jaldean priests. From the corner of his eye, Dal looked at the Steward's impa.s.sive face. For it was clear from their air of stumbling confusion that something had been done to these Marked. One of them, a short stout woman, was supporting a man almost twice her height, holding him around the waist. She merely looked red-eyed and blotchy, tears still rolling down stiff cheeks, but the man was vacant-eyed and drooling. The third, perhaps their son, was white as paper, and breathed shallowly as if in great pain.

"I thought the Marked were being taken to the Jaldean High Shrine," Dal murmured to the Steward of Keys.

"Last night the new Tarkin gave orders for them to be brought here," the Keys said. Something in the man's voice made Dal look at him closely, but the Keys kept his eyes lowered. His lips, Dal saw, were trembling.

Once the Marked had pa.s.sed, Dal and the Steward of Keys fell silent. They continued down the hall until it widened before the delicately carved doors of the Cedar Room, the small audience chamber. Here, there were comfortable cus.h.i.+oned chairs set out for waiting dignitaries, grouped around small empty tables that normally carried jellied fruits, salted nuts, and carafes of wine and cider. The place, usually crowded with pet.i.tioners and the younger children of the n.o.ble Houses, was deserted.

Suddenly, Dal didn't want to go any farther.

"If you would wait a moment," the Keys of the Dome said. "I will see if the Tarkin is ready for you."

Dal sank into one of the cus.h.i.+oned chairs. Once again he reminded himself that Lok need not bring him to the Dome to kill him. So what did did Lok want? Dal thought about the message he'd received this morning from Karlyn-Tan, that the former Steward of Walls could be found at the Blue Dove Tavern. And where, Dal wondered would Gundaron the Scholar and the Lady Mar-eMar be found? Dal did not believe for a moment that the two had anything to do with the Fall of the House, but it was evident that Lok wanted them, and that meant Dal might gain something by finding them himself. Lok want? Dal thought about the message he'd received this morning from Karlyn-Tan, that the former Steward of Walls could be found at the Blue Dove Tavern. And where, Dal wondered would Gundaron the Scholar and the Lady Mar-eMar be found? Dal did not believe for a moment that the two had anything to do with the Fall of the House, but it was evident that Lok wanted them, and that meant Dal might gain something by finding them himself.

Lok had asked Karlyn-Tan to find the Mercenary woman, and the Steward of Walls had refused and been Cast Out. Was Dal now about to be asked? And if he he refused? What would Lok do then? refused? What would Lok do then?

The Keys pushed both doors of the small audience room open, gone so pale that his mustache and eyebrows stood out dark against his skin. "You may go in, Lord Dal-eDal." He gestured toward the open doors.

Stomach twisting, wis.h.i.+ng he had the courage to simply turn and walk away, Dal went through.

Whatever he'd expected to find, it wasn't Lok in what was clearly the Tarkin's great chair-carved out of white cedar, studded with carnelians, and just smaller than the official throne-talking to Chief Counselor Gan-eGan. Dal hovered, unwilling to approach more closely. The older man was on his knees on Lok's right side, his hands clinging to the arm of the great chair, as a man in the sea clings to the side of a raft. Dal licked his lips and took a hesitant step forward.

With a soft sigh the counselor stood, lifting a trembling hand to his mouth, sketched a shaky bow, and headed for the door. Dal actually had to step out of the man's way, as Gan-eGan-usually so punctilious it was almost laughable-pa.s.sed him without acknowledgment of any kind.

"Cousin." Lok's voice was curiously flat, as if he was too tired to speak with more animation. Perhaps he'd found being Tarkin to be more work than he'd expected, Dal thought as he crossed the floor to his cousin's side. He performed a more elaborate version of the counselor's bow and straightened, forcing a smile to his lips.

"All is well at the House," Dal said. "Tenryn-For is settling well into his duties as Walls." As well as he can after less than twenty-four hours, and after Karlyn-Tan's Deputy Jeldor-San had unexpectedly refused the post. As well as he can after less than twenty-four hours, and after Karlyn-Tan's Deputy Jeldor-San had unexpectedly refused the post.

Lok nodded, but with an air of a man who is listening to something else. He got to his feet and gestured to Dal to fall in beside him as he walked toward the smaller, private door behind the great chair.

"Come with me, Cousin," he said. "I would ask something of you."

If I didn't know better, Dal thought as he followed Lok through the door and nodded at the redheaded page who waited there and fell into step behind them, Dal thought as he followed Lok through the door and nodded at the redheaded page who waited there and fell into step behind them, I'd think he was drunk. I'd think he was drunk. There was just something a bit too careful, too focused, about the way Lok was speaking-and walking, now that Dal thought about it. There was just something a bit too careful, too focused, about the way Lok was speaking-and walking, now that Dal thought about it.

Any other time Dal would have welcomed the chance to walk through the private corridors of the Carnelian Dome, places that the public-even relations like the Tenebros-never saw. As it was, he kept his eyes on his cousin, and only took in the occasional detail, here a portrait of a heavily bewigged Tarkina, there a rug showing the bright dyes that marked it as a product of Semlor in the west.

Lok finally stopped outside a thick oak door, reinforced with embedded iron bars, whose ma.s.sive frame was carved to look like snakes. Treasure room or armory Treasure room or armory, Dal thought, recognizing the motifs of the Culebro Tarkins. The page, pale, wide-eyed, and tight-lipped, once more took up his position to the right of the door, ready to wait until he was wanted.

Lok unlocked the thick door with a final twist of the key and walked straight into the room. Dal stopped dead on the threshold, until he realized that the reason his mouth felt dry was that it was hanging open. Treasure room he had thought, and treasure room it was, but thought is one thing, and sight another. A long central aisle stretched out between tiered shelving, every shelf covered with dark blue felted cloth, and every finger span of cloth covered. Plates and tableware used on state occasions filled more than half the room, personal jewelry by the basketful-including the cat's-eye rubies the Tarkina had brought with her on her marriage-and, halfway along one side, the Tarkin's gold crown, bracelets, ear clasps, and pectoral of woven snakes, every one with gleaming carnelian eyes.

"The lists say there is a relic of the Sleeping G.o.d here," Lok said, so quietly that Dal almost did not hear him. "A bracelet with green stones."

Dal took a step forward. "Did you wish me to look for it?" His voice sounded harsh in his own ears, but Lok did not seem to notice.

"No, I wish you to find me the Mercenary Dhulyn Wolfshead." Lok stopped, turned to the shelves on his right and picked up a pendant, a square-cut emerald set in silver wire. He frowned and set it down again.

Dal almost smiled as he watched his cousin pick up yet another piece of jewelry with a green stone and set it down again. Finally, a chance to learn why Lok found this woman so important.

"The Mercenary?" Dal said, careful to show no real interest. "What is it about this woman . . . ?"

Lok had stopped again, this time to pick up a bracelet made of gold links set with square smooth-polished stones. From that, and from the color and thickness of the gold, it was obviously very old. These stones, too, were green, but seemed likely to be jade. As Dal watched, Lok pushed it on over his hand, barely able to move it past the root of his thumb, to where it hung closely about his wrist.

Dal cleared his throat to ask his question again, but he hesitated, as his cousin had closed his eye, tilting his head back as if he were listening to some favorite music. Glancing down, Dal saw the bracelet on Lok's wrist move, as if it were suddenly a living thing, its colors suddenly painfully bright, and then fading, dissolving as it was absorbed into Lok's wrist, until it seemed he had a tattoo there, where his skin had been clear and clean a moment before. Even as Dal took a breath to exclaim, the tattoo faded, and Lok's skin was clean again. Dal looked up, but his cousin's eye was focused on the spot on his wrist where the bracelet had been. And his shadow, cast on the wall behind him was not his own, but larger, darker, than it should have been, and somehow the wrong shape. Dal's own shadow was beside it, pale and small and normal.

"Lok, what . . .?" His voice was paper thin and Dal cleared his throat. Without moving the rest of his body, Lok twisted his head to look at him and Dal saw that Lok's right eye, clear and beautiful in the unmarred side of his face was green green. Not crystal blue as it had always been, but a soft jade green. And Lok's eye patch had s.h.i.+fted, perhaps because of how he'd turned his head and Dal lifted his left hand to his own face, as if to indicate to his cousin what had happened, but he froze, unable to move.

Both of Lok's eyes were green. of Lok's eyes were green. Both Both of them. of them.

Seventeen.

KARLYN-TAN HAD TO STEEL himself not to twitch away from people, not to hug the walls as he walked down the street. He recognized his feelings as the horizon sickness, though he'd never suffered from the fear of open s.p.a.ces before. There was not was not too much s.p.a.ce, he told himself, just more than he was used to-and too many strangers. Already this afternoon he'd had to convince two young toughs that he wasn't someone they could prey on. Thank the Caids, Dal-eDal had given him a sword. He now walked with his hand openly resting on the sword's hilt, as a message to any other tough boys in the area. too much s.p.a.ce, he told himself, just more than he was used to-and too many strangers. Already this afternoon he'd had to convince two young toughs that he wasn't someone they could prey on. Thank the Caids, Dal-eDal had given him a sword. He now walked with his hand openly resting on the sword's hilt, as a message to any other tough boys in the area.

He kept walking, following the market crowds into the Great Square, resisting the urge to run back to his inn-run away from outside outside . He took a deep breath and looked around him, forcing his shoulders down. Was it his imagination, or was everyone around him walking too quickly, heads ducked, cloaks held more closely than the warm day called for? He frowned. He'd been Walls too long to remember what people on the outside were like. . He took a deep breath and looked around him, forcing his shoulders down. Was it his imagination, or was everyone around him walking too quickly, heads ducked, cloaks held more closely than the warm day called for? He frowned. He'd been Walls too long to remember what people on the outside were like.

Karlyn walked directly across the square, heading for the steps in the southeast corner that would lead him out into Swordsmiths Street and Mercenary House.

There were several people on the wide stone steps leading from Great Square to the street below and Karlyn's attention kept being drawn to one of them in particular. Fair-haired, medium height, fair width of shoulders . . . and the right shoulder hitched up a bit, as if he was used to carrying a pack or heavy bag slung over it. Horizon sickness forgotten, Karlyn increased his pace. He knew that walk and that shoulder hitch even without the Scholar's tunic; he'd been watching them around Tenebro House for the last two years. So Gundaron of Valdomar was was still in Gotterang, and where was he heading now? still in Gotterang, and where was he heading now?

She was listening carefully for the short three-note whistle that would mean Gundaron had entered the alley. She'd answer with the agreed-upon variation, and then watch from her hiding spot as he walked to the end of their lane past the entrance to their cellar and turned the corner. She'd wait for a count of fifty and, if the lane stayed empty, she'd whistle again. Gundaron would double back and meet her as she let herself down from her window hole. This was just one of the ways they'd figured out between them-her from stories she'd picked up from Dhulyn Wolfshead and Parno Lionsmane, Gundaron from his fund of reading-of watching if anyone was following them, or if anyone had found their hiding place. Still, Mar was getting heartily sick of spending most of her time watching her back.

When the whistle finally came, she answered it, and Gundaron glanced up to where he knew she would be. When their eyes met, a new look pa.s.sed over his face, a familiar look.

Oh, Caids. I know that look. She'd seen it on Parno Lionsmane's face when he looked at Dhulyn Wolfshead. She'd wanted someone to look at She'd seen it on Parno Lionsmane's face when he looked at Dhulyn Wolfshead. She'd wanted someone to look at her her that way. The blood hammered in her ears and her hands shook, even as a small flower of joy bloomed under her heart. that way. The blood hammered in her ears and her hands shook, even as a small flower of joy bloomed under her heart.

"It's a judgment on us," Gun said.

Mar's hand stilled. "What do you mean?"

"We're surrounded by people we can't trust," he said, looking up from the small lamp he was refilling with the last of their scrounged oil. "Maybe it's because we we can't be trusted." can't be trusted."

"I'm trusting you," she said, touching his forearm lightly with her fingertips. It felt just as hard as the metal cup in her other hand. "And you're trusting me. And . . . we were used by the people we did trust, both of us," she added. "That makes a difference."

Gundaron rubbed his face with both hands, the corners of his mouth turned down. "I don't think the Mercenary Brotherhood are going to feel that way about me me."

Mar pressed her lips together. She did trust him, just as he trusted her. And yet there was still something Gun wasn't telling her. What could be worse than what she'd done, betraying people who had saved her life? Maybe it was because she hadn't read the stories Gun had, maybe it was because she'd spent so much time with the Mercenaries, but she honestly didn't believe she or Gun were in any danger from the Curse of Pasillon.