The Eye of Strife, page 14
When Cuialfil began to joke about torturing him, I guessed right away that he had already located our quarry. I had seen Kulf murder Headman and heard Cuialfil admit to two other killings in his youth, but those two had been permissible under the laws and customs of his city. For Headman’s death I simply could not blame him. And he had forgiven my father, Elic, whom he could have accused of deserting him. Whatever Kulf had planned, Cuialfil had changed his mind about torturing Juanian. When I saw the pathetic beggar he fetched in from the gate, I understood that Skamp had punished him enough already.
But there were still times when I glimpsed Kulf hiding under the facade. So far a touch of my hand on his arm had always suppressed him and brought Cuialfil back, but I worried that one day it might not.
I couldn’t imagine anyone, even Kulf, hurting Juanian more than the Father already had. Not that there wasn’t a spark of the sly old caravan master left in the human wreck who gorged himself on our offerings until I feared he would burst. He told us his story before, during, and after the meal.
But he didn’t tell it all. Iliana was the first to comment.
“So what happened to this Eye that you saw looking back out at you when you peered in the wrapping? You dropped it, you said. And just left it there, on the plinth beside the marble feet?”
She is normally a very forgiving person and I had rarely heard her sound so scornful.
“I dropped it,” the beggar said, “and I couldn’t see where it went. I was terrified of it! And I was terrified of what was going to happen to me, struck stone blind out there in the forest, a two-hour ride away from home.”
“So eventually you rode away with your son and left it? You didn’t send him up to look for it?”
Perhaps, after twenty years in the darkness, Juanian had forgotten how faces could give people away. He looked very crafty as he said, “I did not, because I did not want him to be blinded also. Besides, it might have rolled and fallen off.”
“So you have no idea what happened to it?” Iliana prompted.
“Just that my boy said, ‘Maybe the other man took it, Papa, because he went up the stairs and down again very quickly—I mean, he didn’t stay up there very long.’ That was why my boy had taken so long to answer my shouts, see—because he’d seen another man come to the steps from the far side, and was scared of him.”
Then Kulf spoke, and in a tone of such extreme menace that it sent shivers down my back.
“Poanir’s accursed son Juanian, twenty years ago you took my silver, but then you tried to murder me. You sold me into slavery. You stole that package from me. If you think you can cheat me again, then I will have to disabuse you of your misconception. Who was that other man?”
Under the dirt, the beard, and the fleabites, the beggar had turned pale. He did not know then who the other man had been, he said. His son had said he had not been a Kogoluin, but probably a Quistirian, many of whom lived in and around Festant and the boy had likened the stranger to some he knew.
“But you know who he was,” Iliana said.
I had come to the same conclusion.
The beggar seemed to shrink even more, as if expecting a blow from somewhere. His sightless eyes moved shiftily, but he turned to look in the direction of the gentler voice. “My lady?”
“You questioned your son at length, I am sure. This town is not so large that a stranger goes unnoticed. Strangers are its business. Strangers bring money. You were blind, but you still had friends back then. So what did you find out about him?”
Juanian smiled mawkishly. “My lady! I am a poor man, as poor as any man can be. I have much enjoyed your generous hospitality tonight, but you will not be here always. I have nothing to look forward to except the Dark, and that holds no threat for me now. But until—”
“Don’t you try to bargain with me,” Cuialfil said, and again the voice was Kulf’s. “What was his name?”
I laid a hand on his arm and spoke up. “Poanir’s son, we appreciate your suffering, and we will try to make life easier for you, I promise on my oaths as a priestess. But you must tell us everything you know about this man your son said he saw going up and down the stair.”
For a moment I feared that the wretch would still defy us, but then he whispered. “He was my wife’s gigolo. That’s how Poanir knew him.”
The rest of us exchanged glances. That might be an outrageous lie, an attempt to set us onto Juanian’s rival, or it might be a significant clue to what had really happened.
“What was his name?” Cuialfil asked again.
“He was using a false name, lord!”
“How do you know that?” Kulf’s hand flashed to his sword and I gripped his arm harder. Elic began to draw, also, but he would have been far too slow to block Kulf. Cuialfil froze and turned to look at me with anger, fading to dismay as he realized how close he had come to losing control.
Juanian had not seen the fate he had just escaped. “Because he called himself ‘Tapeworm’, Your Magnificence.”
Since he had been brought into the group we had been speaking a mixture of Avily and Kogoluin, and the word he used meant nothing in those languages. It undoubtedly meant tapeworm in Vasquian, though.
Fighting back a smile, Elic said, “Your wife was seduced by a man calling himself Tapeworm?”
“She didn’t know what it meant! My sons did, though. There are no secrets in this town, and the juvenile whoreson had been staying at one of the gentry’s inns, flaunting his money around, buying drinks for people. The whole town was in on the joke.”
“Juvenile?” someone asked. “How old was he?”
“Old enough,” the beggar said angrily. “If only just.”
I know I started counting in my head and I expect the others did so to. His Wolma had been the mother of two sons, one of them old enough to take on a long day’s ride, so she had been at least twenty-five, maybe thirty. Her husband’s bitterness at being cuckolded would not be eased by knowing that a mere youth had stormed his castle. But that had been twenty years ago. Tapeworm would not be a stripling now.
“Have some more wine, friend,” Elic said. “What else do you know about Tapeworm?”
“You will give me some money, my lords?”
“We will look after you better than that,” I promised.
“Yes we will,” Elic said, because some men won’t take a woman’s word for anything.
“He was from Syboarsh,” Juanian said. “That night I took my belt to bed with me, see? And when Wolma came, I got it around her neck and threatened to strangle her unless she told me all about her darling Tapeworm. She said he was from Syboarsh. He’d told her that, and other people, too. She believed it because her sister married a jade trader from Syboarsh, and he had spoken the same way. But then she said some things about Tapeworm that drove me mad, and I gave her a sound beating for them.”
Iliana and I rolled our eyes. Men, men! If ever a husband had needed to forgive and forget it had been Juanian then. How many days after that did he awaken to find his wife and sons gone? She would have needed time to sell the house. None of us bothered to ask.
The men were looking glum, so I said, “Tell me about Syboarsh.”
“Second biggest city on the Plains,” Cuialfil said. “After Nisoim.”
None of us had ever been there. It would not be easy to find Tapeworm or the missing Wolma, assuming she had gone to seek refuge with her sister.
Could the young seducer Tapeworm have been Skamp? We discussed that at length, and of course everyone expected me to know the answer by divine inspiration, but I didn’t. Although it is never possible to predict the actions of the immortals, especially Skamp, we decided that it was not likely. Much more probably, he had been a mortal inspired by Skamp. In the end it was obvious that we would have to go on to Syboarsh. Nobody disagreed. And we would take Poanir’s son Juanian with us. By then it was dark, but Cuialfil took him over to the bathhouse to get him cleaned up and deloused.
Next day we bought some decent clothes for him, and began our search for a boat heading downstream.
Interlude
“Syboarsh! We definitely want to hear about Syboarsh.” King Zaryqa was still sitting on the emperor’s shelf, dangling his spurred boots, and keeping the back of his head to the god’s feet. Few people would have dared do that in a village chapel, let alone in the Father’s own house. He had tucked the Eye back in his pocket.
“Quite understandable,” Priestess Monal said. “Since Syboarsh is located immediately south of your pipsqueak empire, and you haven’t yet plucked up the courage to attack it.”
The Home of the Father went absolutely silent for a few seconds as the king stared at this upstart hussy. Finally he said, “You are definitely booked for a spanking later, priestess. Don’t think your precious robes will protect you, because you shall not be wearing them by then. This is what you are asking for, isn’t it?”
“What I was asking for is a denial that your so-called Headwaters Alliance is in fact an attempt to restore the Vasquian Empire.”
“You won’t get it. The glory will return.”
“Then will you deny that Syboarsh stands right in your path, but its army is stronger than Vasque’s, and you dare not menace it with your usual demand for unconditional surrender?”
“You won’t get that either. When I am ready, I shall inform the camarilla that runs Syboarsh that their day is over, and if they defy me, the Eye will deliver them into my hands.”
“Ah, the Eye. That is the problem, isn’t it?”
The king looked to the high priest. “Is this charade about over? It grows late and I am anxious to have missy there escorted to my playroom.”
The high priest had been watching the spitting match with apparent indifference. “Nearing the end, sire. One of them should tell us how they located the man they were looking for.”
Priestess Monal nudged her companion, Acceptor Cuialfil.
“Your turn again, darling.”
“Oh, it’s ‘darling’ is it now?” he said. “What were you trying to do with that display of insolence? Get me so mad with jealousy that Kulf will run across and break the royal neck?”
“No, no. You haven’t had a Kulf attack in weeks.”
“I had one in Syboarsh.”
“True, but that was different. I wasn’t there.”
“Just in case you change your mind, Nisoimian,” the king said, “please keep in mind that I am armed and you are not. Furthermore, a cohort of the Cubicularian Guard is keeping watch at the only exit from this building. They have orders to make sure that I am the first to leave. Now may we proceed?”
Elic yawned and said, “Let me tell.”
15: How They Came to Syboarsh
We went from Festant to Syboarsh the way any sane person would: by boat, down the Fest to Thicon, then up the Trium. The others elected me their nautical expert, and I bought passage on Swift, a handy little craft owned by a Quistirian who was always referred to as Captain Foamy, although that cannot have been his real name. She was about forty feet in length, with a shallow draft, and two masts—one square rigged and one lateen. For precision docking she could be handled with sweeps, which are big oars. She was more nimble than swift, but well designed for river travel. Below decks she had cramped bunks for her crew and up to eight passengers, although the privacy was scanty, especially for the women, and she specialized in transporting traders who dealt in the sort of high-value goods that can bear the Desolation Road’s transportation costs.
I was quite impressed by the time I finished my inspection, and I suggested we contract for the journey to Thicon, and there we would mutually decide whether or not we would continue on to Syboarsh together.
Foamy accepted the terms, and we agreed on a price. I had to take the quality of the food on trust, but it turned out to be better than most river boats offer. As we were shaking hands, he said something that surprised me.
“Don’t mention that you’ll be going on Syboarsh.”
Of course I asked why not.
He shrugged. “Just better not. There’s war talk in the air.”
Of course I passed the warning on to the others. War means Strife, and we were hunting for his Eye, so we did wonder if there was a connection, but it seemed too far fetched. We took Poanir’s son Juanian along because Monal had promised to look after him and that was the easiest way to do it. He seemed quite eager to accompany us, but nobody asked whether he just wanted care and company or had dreams of finding his sons, his wife, or the adulterous Tapeworm in Syboarsh.
We greatly enjoyed the voyage and agreed that sitting at ease on deck and watching green hills drift by beat endless days on horseback amid endless sand and rock. Cuialfil had improved a lot since our first meeting, when he had tried to throttle me. His murderous temper still lurked below the surface, but Monal always seemed able to calm him with a touch. Iliana and I could not help but notice that he preferred to sit with his arm around her, and she never seemed to mind. We just hoped that they both remembered he was older than her father—me—so his dreams should always remain only dreams.
All river traffic ties up at night, both for safety and to take on food and clean well water. Many people use these one-day hops for local travel, but we learned little by listening to their news, for their worlds are puddle-size and they care only for what happens in the next village or two—roughly about as far as family ties extend.
Foamy employed a crew of four deck hands, all of them originally from Syboarsh. They were extremely uncommunicative, and it took us several days to understand that they distrusted us because we were not traders, so of course they thought we must be spies, for either the city’s enemies, or their own government. Even Monal’s intense charm could not melt their reticence.
I did slightly better with Foamy himself, when I got him alone, because I had spent much time on the river as a child. We had that little in common. He was a lifelong bachelor; “wedded to the river” was how he put it, a solid, no-nonsense man who had learned his trade at his father’s knee. His nickname referred to the cloud of white curls that covered his entire head, with only eyes, nose, and the tips of his ears visible. He had a Syboarsh trading license to protect, and I soon guessed that he would be required to report on all incoming strangers. As a spy himself, he would have a duty to unmask all other spies, and a party consisting of two swordsmen, two priestesses, and an emaciated blind beggar was hardly run-of-the-mill.
A day or so out of Thicon, we had a huddle, a sort of council of war, to decide what we would do there. Swift would be tied up for a few days there, unloading and loading cargo.
“I suggest,” I said, “that we stay with Foamy all the way to Syboarsh. This boat is much better than average.”
My daughter nodded doubtfully. “Yes, but we need to find out what’s behind all these rumours of war. If the people in Thicon are as closemouthed as the crew, that may take us weeks.”
“It shouldn’t,” I said. “I’ll just go and have a chat with the king.”
I think I mentioned earlier how, on the last time I passed through, a cousin of mine was about to marry into the royal family. Foamy and his men were willing enough to talk about Thicon, and from them I had learned that the intervening twenty years had brought some rough politics to the city. My cousin’s wife had survived to inherit the throne, so he was now king consort, which in practice meant king period. Crippon was his name. I recalled him as an amiable, fairly witless boy, but he had survived in his present situation for several years, so perhaps his wife had supplied the wits required.
I drafted up a letter of introduction. When we docked, I sent it off to the palace via a messenger boy. He returned in an hour or so in a open carriage driven by liveried flunkies and drawn by four white horses. I gave him the rest of his fee—judging by his grin, he ought to have been paying me—and handed my wife aboard to head for our royal audience. We left Cuialfil behind to look after Juanian, and Monal to look after Cuialfil.
Located at the junction of the Fest and the Trium, Thicon is a very strategic city, because it controls the Plains’ best access to the Desolation Road. As a result, its wealth is great and its politics bloody. The palace on what they call a hill looks much more like a fortress, and the guards inspected us carefully before conducting us to the royal presence. I had to surrender my sword, of course.
Crippon had changed surprisingly little from my memories of him. He was larger than he had been, and bore a very flimsy blond beard, but he was still round-faced and seemingly lackadaisical, with watery, bulbous blue eyes. We found him in a grandiose office, at a desk piled high with documents, but he jumped up and came to meet us. I presented Iliana; he made us welcome and led us out to a balcony, where we sat and sipped wine from crystal goblets. The view was nothing much, just roofs and chimney-pots, because we were back in the Plains.
I had forgotten what excellent wine they have in Thicon.
We chatted about family affairs, just like old times. My father had died, which I had not known before, but it was hardly surprising. My brothers sometimes passed through Thicon, Crippon said, and of course they always paid their respects to him.
“I thought you were dead,” he told me. “They think so too. You entered the what-do-they-call-it?, the Abode, and then just disappeared—never mentioned again.”
I explained that I had accompanied another Acceptor on a mission to the Eastern Shores, had married there, and was now on my way to Syboarsh.
“And the young priestess with you is your daughter, or Cuialfil’s wife?” His pale eyes glinted and my estimation of his intelligence ratcheted up several notches. No one who can be last man standing in a royal massacre should be underestimated.
