Shadowbred_ The Twilight War Part 19

"How many of the Blades are available at this moment?" Mirabeta asked.

Malkur rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand and pondered. "Three score are away on jobs. I have about a hundred men to hand. And all are eager. Most have been idle for nearly a month."

Elyril and Mirabeta shared a satisfied look. One hundred men would be enough. Elyril knew the Blades to be a diverse force. Most of them were former Sembian and Cormyrean soldiers with a taste for violence, but Malkur also commanded a few wizards, a cadre of warrior-priests in service to Talos the Thunderer, and a handful of highly skilled men who could act as scouts or a.s.sa.s.sins for the larger force.

Mirabeta said, "Malkur, I have some ... delicate work that needs to be done. You have the stomach for it. Know that it is for the good of Sembia."

Malkur snorted derisively. "Sembia can sink into the Inner Sea for all I care. And I mean no offense, Countess. I am interested only in the payment."

Mirabeta smiled tightly. "I understand. Then have eighty of your men ride south along the Rauthauvyr's Road. Weerdon Kost has communicated with Lady Merelith already. The Saerloonian delegation to the moot is on its way north. They will skirt Selgaunt. I want your men to attack them."

Malkur did not flinch from the politically sensitive nature of the targets. Elyril thought he would have made a fine Sharran.

"All of them should die?"

Mirabeta shook her head. "No. Attack them from the south, in the guise of Saerbians and Selgauntans, as they move toward Ordulin. Through my house wizards, I will provide you with magical sendings telling you the exact day. Kill some and let the rest escape northward to me. I want them to bring me news of the attack."

Malkur stroked his whiskers, thoughtful. "You have the uniforms of Saerb and Selgaunt?"

Elyril shook her head. "Uniforms are too obvious."

Mirabeta nodded. "Your men should act in some way to convince the Saerloonians that their attackers are in service to Saerb and Selgaunt. I am sure you will think of something. After the attack, the men should return in small groups to Ordulin. It goes unsaid that none of your men should know of the nature of the attack until it happens."

"It also goes unsaid that none of them should be taken prisoner or left dead on the field," Elyril added.

Malkur looked at Elyril. "My men have never lost a battle, Mistress. Some n.o.bles out of Saerloon and their ceremonial guard are not going to change that." He looked at Mirabeta and leaned forward in his chair. "The proffered payment, Overmistress?"

Mirabeta leaned back in her chair. "I will pay your men twice their normal fee. And you, Malkur, have my promise that when the time comes, you will be reinstated into Sembia's army and named my commander general."

Malkur tried to disguise it, but Elyril caught a flash of interest in his eyes. He had once been a general in Sembia's Helms, but Kendrick Selkirk had dismissed him from his post for excessive brutality in policing the roadways.

Malkur, pretending to ponder the offer, shrugged. "Promises are hard to spend, Overmistress."

"Triple the fee," Mirabeta said, and Malkur smiled. One of his front teeth was missing.

"Done, Overmistress," he said. "I will muster the men and await word from you."

Mirabeta said, "You cannot lead them, Malkur. I have a special task for you and a handpicked group of your men to perform."

Malkur's eyebrows rose in a question. The man fairly sweated greed. "Oh?"

"My informants have located Kendrick Selkirk's sons. They are in Scardale, preparing to journey to Ordulin."

Her words hung in the air, fat with implication.

Malkur's eyes narrowed and he said, "I would enjoy nothing more than seeing the sons of Kendrick Selkirk at the end of my blade."

"Here is your opportunity," Elyril said.

Malkur nodded and looked to Mirabeta. "Some of my Blades are skilled at what you require. And I have a diviner who may be able to locate them on the road. But Miklos Selkirk will be accompanied by his Silver Ravens. You will have a large battle to explain."

Elyril knew that Miklos commanded his own mercenary company called the Silver Ravens. They were less swords-for-hire than adventurers-for-hire. One of the Silver Ravens had been operating as a spy for Mirabeta for the better part of a year. He had informed them of Miklos and Kavin's whereabouts.

"No," Mirabeta said. "He is traveling in disguise, with only his brother. Few know he is coming. He hopes to arrive in Ordulin in secret and perform his own investigation of his father's death before revealing himself to the moot."

Malkur leaned forward in his chair and put his elbows on the table. "Miklos is well known, Overmistress. If word got out ..."

"Word should not get out," Mirabeta said. "That would put us both in grave danger. That is why we can trust one another, Malkur."

Malkur nodded. "The Selkirk job will cost more. For the men, and for me."

Mirabeta smiled. "I would expect nothing less, dear Malkur. Quadruple the fees, then. A deal?"

Malkur looked pleased. He pushed back his chair and stood. "A deal, Overmistress. I can muster the men immediately."

Mirabeta stood and extended her hand to Malkur. He took it, kissed it, lingered over it.

"It is always a pleasure to be in your company," he said suggestively.

Mirabeta smiled, clucked her tongue, and waved Elyril from the chamber.

"Leave us, Elyril. We have ... more business to discuss."

Elyril had no doubt. As she left her aunt and the mercenary leader to their lovemaking, she touched her invisible holy symbol and thanked Shar. The plan to employ the Blades to attack the Saerloonian delegation had been largely hers. With one stroke, they would invent a rebellion, make Saerloon a staunch ally, and eliminate Miklos Selkirk, a man who would have stood firmly against Mirabeta's appointment as war regent.

Sembia soon would explode as surely as a Gondsman's firebomb. Elyril chuckled when she considered how easily Sembia would descend into civil war. The tools had been in place for years. They had wanted only someone to wield them.

[image]

Daylight showed Selgaunt for the rouge-covered wh.o.r.e she had become. Cale was appalled by how much the city had changed over the last year.

Groups of dest.i.tute refugees crept out of the alleys and dark places of the city and sat listlessly on the walkways or streets until shopkeepers or the Scepters moved them along. Many begged alms and almost all of them looked hungry. Surrept.i.tiously, to avoid being mobbed, Cale slipped a few silver ravens into the palms of the women and children he pa.s.sed.

Selgaunt had been a wealthy city for so long that seeing so many poor on its streets shocked him. Cale guessed they must have come south from the upcountry, fleeing the drought, the Rage, the Rain of Fire, and the daemonfey.

He thought of Varra's words: The world is too big to save everything The world is too big to save everything. Looking into the dull eyes of the hungry, he thought she had been as much a prophet as Sephris.

The streets lacked the usual vendors hawking day old bread and browned fruit. The typical smells of breakfasts cooking did not fill the morning air. Instead, stick figures wandered the streets and the air smelled of dumped nightsoil and despair.

Shopkeepers tried to hold up the pretense that Selgaunt was still Selgaunt-sweeping their stoops, setting out their wares-but even they looked underfed. Selgaunt reminded him more of Skullport than anything else.

He made his way as best he could through the deprivation. He knew that he could pray to Mask for the power to cast spells that created food. He knew the priests of other faiths could do the same, and wondered why they had not. At least two score priests lived in the city who were capable of casting the spell.

Perhaps they were seeing only to the needs of the wealthy? Or perhaps they were were casting the spells for the needy and the magic was not enough. It occurred to Cale that the famine was not simply a problem of feeding the refugee villagers. The villagers had been the ones to feed the city with their crops and livestock. The recent disasters had forced the farmers into the city, and not only did they need food, they were no longer producing food for Selgaunt. The problem would only get worse with time. It would take a small army of priests to feed a city the size of Selgaunt. casting the spells for the needy and the magic was not enough. It occurred to Cale that the famine was not simply a problem of feeding the refugee villagers. The villagers had been the ones to feed the city with their crops and livestock. The recent disasters had forced the farmers into the city, and not only did they need food, they were no longer producing food for Selgaunt. The problem would only get worse with time. It would take a small army of priests to feed a city the size of Selgaunt.

A disturbance in the street ahead drew his eye. A wave of people jumped to their feet and pushed toward the middle of the avenue, all racing away from Cale. Many shouted, raised their fists. Cale fought his way through the press to see.

A caravan of mule-drawn wagons from the outlying farms rumbled down the center of the city. Turnips, leeks, and sacks of grain lay piled in the wagon beds. Armed Scepters surrounded the caravan and held the press of people at bay with their shields. Two Scepters rode in the wagon, straddling the food as if it were gold.

"This food is going to the market!" one of the Scepters shouted. "Make your purchase there!"

"Purchase!" a man near Cale shouted. "We cannot afford to pay! A bag of turnips costs a fivestar! We are hungry here, guardsman!"

Many in the crowd shouted agreement and pressed closer.

The Scepters looked alarmed, as did the teamsters driving the wagons. Even the mules looked skittish. The Scepters pushed the press of bodies backward with their shields and brandished their blades. The people fell back and the carts moved onward toward the market, leaving crying children and despondent parents in their wake.

The crowd started to disperse, grumbling in their despair. Cale put a hand on the shoulder of the thin man who had shouted about the price of turnips.

"Did you say a fivestar for turnips?"

The man turned and regarded Cale with hollow eyes. "Aye. The price of food has left all but the rich sc.r.a.ping for dog sc.r.a.ps, unless you are willing to wait all day in a priest's food line and swear to the worship of his G.o.d. Where have you been living?"

Cale held his tongue and let the man go.

A year ago, a sack of turnips would have cost a copper, maybe two. But a fivestar! Half of Selgaunt would be unable to eat at those prices. There would be riots.

Cale immediately decided that the new Hulorn was incompetent. He picked up his pace. Perhaps Tamlin could get the Old Chauncel to act.

Halfway to the n.o.ble District, on the sharply angled, shop-lined Adzer's Way, Cale caught sight of a mounted trio of Helms patrolling the streets. They sat atop warhorses and each wore the customary round steel cap and blue tabard emblazoned with Sembia's coat of arms, the raven and silver. Cale stared at them for a moment in disbelief. He had never before seen soldiers of the Sembian army patrolling city streets. Sembia's merchants had always shown a strong distaste for soldiers. The nation's army was small and decentralized and kept deliberately so. Sembia was positioned to conquer through the force of its trade, not through force of arms. The Helms' duties had always consisted of patrolling the trade roads and villages outside of Sembia's major cities.

Cale decided that the new Hulorn was not merely incompetent, he was an idiot. He had put soldiers on the street-not city guardsmen accustomed to peacefully resolving disputes among the citizens, but soldiers, accustomed to answering problems with steel.

Shaking his head, Cale steered wide of the Helms and hurried on. He had been isolated in his cottage for too long. He had not known things had deteriorated so far, so fast. He needed to see Tamlin; he needed to understand what had happened.

The sounds on the streets were strangely subdued, tired, pensive. Cale moved through the street traffic, dodging thin horses, men pulling empty carts, pedestrians trying to pretend that life was normal. He followed a line of people that snaked almost an entire block until he reached a warehouse with its wagon doors thrown open. Inside, priests of Lathander and Tymora spooned porridge out of huge pots into whatever container the hungry carried. He imagined Temple Avenue must look much the same.

When he reached the n.o.ble District he found the streets dotted with armed men. Patrols of Helms and Scepters walked the streets. The gatehouses of the Old Chauncel manses were manned, not by two or three armed house guards, but by five or six.

Cale endured the suspicious gazes of the soldiers and headed south, past the towering walls of the Old Chauncel manses, toward Stormweather Towers. A group of mail-armored Helms stood in the street before his old home, blocking the walkway that led to the gatehouse. Shields hung from their backs; crossbows dangled from shoulder slings. All bore broadswords at their belts. Cale gauged their number at about a score. The pedestrian traffic-there was little-steered clear of the soldiers. But not Cale. He walked toward them, keeping his hand clear of Weaveshear as he approached. With conscious effort, he kept shadows from sneaking free of his flesh. The Helms saw him coming and three of them detached from the rest and stepped forward to halt his advance.

"The Hulorn holds audiences only on the tenth of each month," said the oldest of the three, a thick-set warrior with a square jaw and hard eyes. "Leave your name with the clerk in the palace and you will be seen in due time."

At first Cale could not make sense of the words. "The hulorn? Why is the hulorn in Stormweather?"

The man's eyes never left Cale's face. The eyes of his two comrades never left Cale's blade hand. "Lord Uskevren resides-"

Cale took a step back, incredulous. "Tamlin Uskevren is the hulorn?" hulorn?"

The Helms looked agitated at his tone. "Calm down, goodsir. Of course Tamlin Uskevren is the hulorn-has been these four months past. You are new to the city?"

Cale could not believe that Tamlin had been stupid enough to fill the streets with soldiers. He shook his head.

"No, but I have been away for a time."

Too long, it appeared. He said, "I have business with the Hulorn. He is expecting me."

The Helm took in Cale's appearance and weapons and looked doubtful. "He has not sent word that we should expect a visitor. If you leave your name with the clerk at the palace-"

"I am leaving my name with you," Cale said, a bit more sternly than he'd intended. "Please inform the Hulorn that Erevis Cale is ..."

Cale trailed off. Behind the Helms, he saw a familiar face emerge from Stormweather's gatehouse.

"That tone will get you a day in the gaol," the Helm said.

Cale ignored the Helm and shouted past him. "Ren! Ren! It's Mister Cale!" Cale raised a hand in greeting. "Here!"

Cale had saved Ren's life a year ago, when slaads had used the young man as a hostage and taken three of his fingers.

Ren, in the attire of an Uskevren house guard, heard Cale's shout and looked around. He saw Cale waving and furrowed his brow.

"Ren! It's me, Erevis Cale."

"Move along," said the Helm, and he put his hand on Cale's chest.

"Mister Cale?" Ren called.

Shadows emerged from Cale's flesh and wrapped the Helm's hand. The man exclaimed, recoiled in alarm, and drew his blade. The other Helms did the same. Cale's hand went instinctively to Weaveshear but he stopped himself before drawing.

"What in the Nine h.e.l.ls are you?" the Helm said, pointing his blade at Cale.

Cale ignored him and spoke to Ren. "Yes, Ren! It's me!"

Ren wore the blue and gold Uskevren livery over his armor and shield. He hurried down the pathway and scowled at the Helms.

"Scabbard that steel," he said to the Helms. "Now."

To Cale's surprise, the Helms obeyed-reluctantly, and eyeing Cale all the while.

The leader of the Helms said, "This man-"

"Was serving the hulorn when you were still chasing brigands down Tildaryn's Road, Vol," Ren finished.

Vol's lips pursed, but he nodded tightly and held back whatever he might have wanted to say.

Ren regarded Cale, clasped his forearm. "G.o.ds, it is you, Mister Cale. I did not recognize you with the hair." He c.o.c.ked his head. "And there is something else different, too."

"Dark sorcery," muttered Vol, eyeing his hand where Cale's shadows had touched him.

Cale ignored the Helm. Ren did not.

The house guard held up his hand to show his missing fingers. "You are insulting the man who ensured that I lost only these rather than my life."

Vol looked away. The other two Helms eyed the road.

Cale thumped Ren on the shoulder. He had left Ren an uncertain young man. Now he seemed a senior leader in the house guard. He had grown a neatly-trimmed beard, and he'd put on some weight.

"It is good to see you," Cale said.