The Sleeping God Part 13

"Gundaron," she said, her heart beating faster. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at his clasped hands. He didn't look up.

"Scholar." Mar raised a tentative hand to touch him on the shoulder. He shuddered and straightened, showing her a pale face with dark circles under the eyes.

Gundaron blinked, for a moment not recognizing the silhouette, backlit by the branched candlesticks farther down the pa.s.sage. Scholar, Scholar, he thought, shaking his head and blinking again to clear the fog from his brain. This was Mar-eMar. He straightened. Had she asked him a question? he thought, shaking his head and blinking again to clear the fog from his brain. This was Mar-eMar. He straightened. Had she asked him a question?

Mar motioned with her hand and Gundaron shifted over. The window seat was more than wide enough for them to share.

"I said, are you all right? You look very pale."

"I don't know," he glanced around. "I must have dozed off. I . . . I don't remember."

"Did you hit your head? What's the last thing you do do remember?" remember?"

"Pasillon." The word popped out of his mouth before he could stop it. "Oh, Caids, Caids," he said, as the scene in the Kir's workroom came spilling into his mind. What was he doing sitting here? How did he get here? The light spun, and he clutched at the hand Mar had placed on his arm to steady himself.

"Who is Pasillon?"

Could he tell her? Certainly he had to give her some reason for the fear he saw mirrored in her face.

"Not a who, a what. When I was a boy, in the Library at Valdomar, I used to sneak downstairs, late at night when I was supposed to be asleep, to read the books we weren't old enough to read yet." He swallowed, and a smile's ghost rested a moment on his lips. "There was one in particular, the Book of Gabrian, Book of Gabrian, that told of Pasillon." that told of Pasillon."

Mar-eMar settled herself, half-turned toward him, her face steady and unsmiling.

"It's a plain," he said. "Far to the west of here and south, in the country that's now Lebmuin. The plain has another name now, but when it was Pasillon, there was a great battle there, between two city-states, Tragon and Conchabar. It was Tragon that won."

"I've never heard of them."

"Practically no one has, but that's not why people remember Pasillon." Gundaron twisted to face her. "There were Mercenary Brothers on both sides-"

"Both sides?" sides?"

"They're like Scholars, the Brotherhood, free of all countries, citizens of the world. And during battle-" All at once Gundaron was back in his midnight Library, shivering in the cold. Mar took his hands in hers and began chafing them. "During battle they'll kill each other, if they come upon other Mercenaries on the opposing side. They think it's the best way to die, at the hands of one of their own."

Mar drew down her brows, nodding. "Yes, that's what they would think."

Gundaron took a deep breath and released it slowly. He could feel sweat on his upper lip. He freed his hands from hers and rubbed them on the smooth cloth of his hose.

"That day, the day of the battle at Pasillon, the lord of Tragon had been killed, or maybe it was his son-I only read Gabrian Gabrian that one time, so I'm not sure. But, with this special grievance, the Tragoni fought harder and won." Gundaron looked closely into Mar's face, searching for the glimmer that showed she understood. "But their loss made it a sour victory. And the taste of it left them angry, so they chose to take no prisoners. The Tragoni killed the Conchabari as they fled, allowing no one to surrender." that one time, so I'm not sure. But, with this special grievance, the Tragoni fought harder and won." Gundaron looked closely into Mar's face, searching for the glimmer that showed she understood. "But their loss made it a sour victory. And the taste of it left them angry, so they chose to take no prisoners. The Tragoni killed the Conchabari as they fled, allowing no one to surrender."

"Oh, no." Mar raised her shoulders and drew her sleeves down over her hands.

"But the Brotherhood, the Mercenaries, they had no reason to flee. Their Common Rule says that those who fight on the losing side submit to the victors and are ransomed by their own Brothers. But not that day. Not at Pasillon. Blinded by victory, enraged by its cost, the Tragoni pursued their fleeing enemy and fell upon any who stood in their way. They did not see why a Mercenary badge should buy someone's life.

"They'd forgotten they had Mercenaries on their own side. And those men and women were quick to come to the aid of their Brothers. And then the real battle of Pasillon began." Gundaron leaned back against the cold stone embrasure, eyes closed, looking back at the boy he had been, reading an exciting and forbidden book by candlelight when he should have been in bed.

"Exhausted, outnumbered," he went on, "some injured, forty or fifty Mercenaries stood against more than five hundred. Gabrian Gabrian describes how they stood back-to-back on a rise of ground and cut down wave after wave of enraged Tragoni until finally, long hours later, when the sun had set, three injured Brothers crept off in the darkness, leaving the rest to cover their escape. And finally, finally, the last Mercenary fell. The victors-the few Tragoni who were left, looked about them and shook their heads, thanking their G.o.ds that it was over." describes how they stood back-to-back on a rise of ground and cut down wave after wave of enraged Tragoni until finally, long hours later, when the sun had set, three injured Brothers crept off in the darkness, leaving the rest to cover their escape. And finally, finally, the last Mercenary fell. The victors-the few Tragoni who were left, looked about them and shook their heads, thanking their G.o.ds that it was over."

Gundaron blinked, and focused on Mar once more. Her eyes were wide, whites showing all around, and the corners of her mouth were turned down.

"Except it wasn't over." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The army of Tragon continued to die after that day. Not everyone, just the men who were there that day. Just the men who had killed Mercenaries. And the officers who did not stop them. And the lords who gave orders to the officers.

"People spoke of bad luck and the Curse of Pasillon, and many went to Healers and Finders and Menders, even Jaldean shrines, since they were soldiers, to see if the Sleeping G.o.d would cleanse them. The Healers saw no illness, the Finders found no poisons, the Menders nothing broken, and the Sleeping G.o.d slept on. But many shrines housed Scholars, and the Scholars saw that this was the work of the Brotherhood."

"I don't understand."

"Don't you see? It was the Mercenaries, the Brothers who escaped. They carried the story back to their Houses, and their Schools, and the Brotherhood acted, to teach everyone in the world that mistreated and betrayed Mercenaries would be avenged." He looked away. "Will be. Still will be."

"No, I understood that part. I don't understand what made you think of all this now? Why you're so frightened."

He looked at her, licked his dry lips. Realizing that he could not tell her. Could not tell her of the look on Dhulyn Wolfshead's face and the word Pasillon on her lips-Gundaron pressed his clasped hands between his knees to steady them.

"It was seeing the Mercenaries," he said finally. "Not the tame ones who live here and guard the walls, but the strange ones, your your Mercenaries. They made me think of it and I had a nightmare . . ." Mercenaries. They made me think of it and I had a nightmare . . ."

The girl pressed her lips together, frowning. "Something else has happened." else has happened."

Gundaron looked down at his hands, suddenly clenched into fists without his even realizing it. What else happened? He'd been in the Kir's workroom and Dhulyn Wolfshead had said "Pasillon," and then . . . and then. Nothing.

He looked at Mar-eMar. His hands were shaking.

"Nothing," he said. "There's nothing there." He pitched forward as the yawning blackness swallowed him again.

While her cousin Dal-eDal sat in his room and played vera with himself.

Dal didn't even bother to sweep the tiles back into their box when a knock sounded at the door.

"Come," he said, looking up from the pattern on the table and smiling his inquiry at the man-at-arms who came in.

"I don't know how you knew it, my lord, but you're right. The upper armory's been unlocked and restocked, though nothing's missing from the lower armory, and nothing's been delivered from outside so far as I can find out."

Dal tapped the tabletop with the tile in his hand, keeping his face impa.s.sive. "And the other matter?"

"I did as you told me, my lord, and asked in the kitchens. The Scholar and the Kir are are using the big workroom, leastways food and drink have been taken there, and up to the small room in the north tower as well. But there's something else, my lord. Lights and braziers have been taken down to the western subcellar, the wine rooms." using the big workroom, leastways food and drink have been taken there, and up to the small room in the north tower as well. But there's something else, my lord. Lights and braziers have been taken down to the western subcellar, the wine rooms."

Dal lifted his eyebrows, but slowly, careful to keep his excitement off his face. Lights to the wine rooms were one thing, but lights and heat heat? He sat back in his chair. Wine rooms indeed. Cells didn't stop being cells because you called them wine rooms. Light and heat down there, that meant new prisoners in the old cells. And new, unaccounted-for weapons in the armory? That gave him an idea of who the prisoners were.

If he was right, if the Mercenaries were still in the House-what, if anything, was he going to do about it?

He knew what his father would have done, if Lok-iKol had left Dal's father alive to do anything. Mil-eMil would have gone straight to the nearest Mercenary House with his tale of kidnapping and forced imprisonment. And not because he wanted to remove an obstacle to his own ambition-he'd had none, though Lok-iKol had never believed it-but to protect the House. And maybe, said the voice of the little boy who still lived inside Dal, maybe just because it was the right thing to do.

What would my father do? he thought. Something more than stand back collecting information, that was certain. And what had happened to make him think of his father just now? he thought. Something more than stand back collecting information, that was certain. And what had happened to make him think of his father just now?

"Thank you, Juslyn, you've done well. Ask the Steward of Walls to be good enough to join me in the upper armory at his earliest convenience. I require his advice for a new sword."

"Very good, my lord. Thank you, my lord." The man-at-arms bowed his way out of the room, his crooked teeth showing in his wide grin.

Dal turned over the tile he'd set down and looked at it. The picture on its face was tiny, but unmistakable. A Mercenary of Swords. He sat up straight, concentrating on the tile. There had had been something. Something that had made him think for a split second of his father. When he'd led the two Mercenaries through the halls to the trap point, something-a shiver of familiarity-about the man Lionsmane had triggered a thought, a memory. What had it been? He frowned, placed the Mercenary of Swords back into the olive-wood box and began sliding the others into his palm. No time to chase down stray thoughts now. been something. Something that had made him think for a split second of his father. When he'd led the two Mercenaries through the halls to the trap point, something-a shiver of familiarity-about the man Lionsmane had triggered a thought, a memory. What had it been? He frowned, placed the Mercenary of Swords back into the olive-wood box and began sliding the others into his palm. No time to chase down stray thoughts now.

He closed the lid of the olive-wood box with a snap.

And if his one-eyed cousin was was keeping four Mercenary Brothers in a cell and one in a nice room-when she wasn't tied to a chair-what, precisely, could Dal do about it now? keeping four Mercenary Brothers in a cell and one in a nice room-when she wasn't tied to a chair-what, precisely, could Dal do about it now?

A brisk knock, and Lan-eLan entered with a click of high heels. She shut the door behind her, leaning against the k.n.o.b.

"Why knock if you don't wait for me to say 'enter'?" Dal said, good training bringing him to his feet. As usual, she ignored him. They'd long ago come to an understanding; a free exchange of information between them helped them both.

"Mar-eMar was told she'd get her lands back."

Dal sat slowly, holding the edge of the table like an old man.

Lan nodded, a stiff smile on her lips. "She wondered, as innocent as you please, should she ask about it now or wait. I told her she should wait, of course, or speak to you."

"Sound advice, in any case. Though she'd wait a long time. Do we even own the lands still?" Dal shook his head. It felt strange to know that once upon a time he'd been this naive himself. "Did she say what she'd done to expect this gift?"

"I gave her every chance to tell me," Lan said, spreading her hands wide. "But the moment pa.s.sed. She must have been asked for something something . . ." . . ."

Dal thought he knew what Mar-eMar had been asked for-and what she'd brought. But why why?

"I'll find a chance to speak to her myself," he said. "See what I can get from her." Lan nodded and left as abruptly as she'd entered.

What was so important about these Mercenaries? Dal pushed his chair back from the table, stood, and picked up his box of tiles. He'd asked the Steward of Walls to meet him, and he'd better go. He could give the good Walls a nudge in the right direction. With luck, this affair might become his chance to finally do what his father had asked of him. Avenge his death. Stay alive himself.

Maybe the Mercenary Brothers would solve his problems for him.

Dal-eDal looked up from the dagger he was examining. "We're alone, Karlyn, or will be if you shut the door."

Karlyn took a step forward and let the oaken door, reinforced with strips of iron, swing shut behind him. St.u.r.dy wooden shelves lined the walls, and low tables divided the floor s.p.a.ce into long sections with clear pathways leading toward the far end of the room. A fine layer of dust covered innumerable pieces of weaponry laid out in orderly rows, everything from a gilded mace to a dagger small enough to fit in a glove. Many pieces were ceremonial, or so jeweled as to be almost useless.

"What's this Juslyn tells me about a new sword? Are you sure you don't want one new-forged?"

"I'm afraid I misled Juslyn slightly." Dal was looking him directly in the face, but Karlyn thought there was something stiff and unnatural about the man's smile. "It's not so much a new sword I'm looking for, as a particular one. My father's, to be precise. I seem to remember it was among the effects I brought from my Household."

Karlyn started off to the left, heading for the far corner. "If it was, this is the place to look, right enough. Private blades-family blades that is, or anything jeweled should be along here."

"Do you remember my father?"

Karlyn nodded, without turning around. "I met him once, just before I became Walls. A big man, golden-haired like a lion." Karlyn turned to look more carefully at the other man. "Like you. You must look quite like him, though I won't lie to you, I don't remember his face. That would be, let me think . . . I've been Steward of Walls in Tenebro House for fifteen years, and served almost as many before that, since my my father brought me here. So close to twenty years ago." father brought me here. So close to twenty years ago."

"The Tenebroso never objected to your father bringing you?"

"Because he was her husband, you mean?" Karlyn shook his head. This was a question he'd answered many times over the years. "His children by other women did not affect the succession. And she liked me," he added, seeing that it was Dal he spoke to. "Trusted me enough to make me Walls when old Norwed-Gor died, though my father was gone himself by then."

"A man's made Walls of a House as much for his judgment as for his skills," Dal said. "I think we may have need of your judgment now."

Karlyn heard Dal's last words, but at first they did not register. He had reached the section of the tables where the swords were laid out in wooden racks, hilts first. He had stopped at a particular sword about one third of the way down the rack on the left. A sword lacking the patina of dust worn by those around it. A sword he knew.

Dal's father might very well have had a sword like this one; forged by a master, perfectly balanced, sharp along the full bottom and back perhaps two thirds of the top edge. But this was not Dal's father's sword. Karlyn knew this sword. Knew the horsehead pommel, knew the very slight nick in the guard. He'd had this sword in his hands within the last three days. And if her sword was here, then the red-haired, gray-eyed Mercenary and her companion had not, not, after all, left Tenebro House two days ago-Karlyn-Tan struck his thigh with his fist and turned on Dal-eDal. after all, left Tenebro House two days ago-Karlyn-Tan struck his thigh with his fist and turned on Dal-eDal.

"What do you know about this?"

"Little more than you."

"You helped him, don't deny it."

Karlyn saw Dal consider reprimanding him for his tone, saw the n.o.ble's face relax as he changed his mind.

"My cousin the Kir doesn't always leave me in a position to refuse when he commands-as you very well know."

Yes, Karlyn knew. Dal had come to the House a frightened boy, hostage for the good behavior of his mother and the safety of his sisters. The women were gone now, dead or married off, but the habits of years were not so easily shaken away.

"I heard the same story as you. The Mercenaries gone from the guard after the incident of the bad food, as their Common Rule requires. Mar-eMar's escort seen leaving Gotterang by the North Gate. I was relieved when I learned that they were gone."

"Looks like your relief is short-lived," Karlyn said. And mine, And mine, he added to himself. he added to himself.

Dal was nodding, as he brushed the dust off the sword next to Dhulyn Wolfshead's with a fingertip. "Lok's not impressed by the Curse of Pasillon, you know. He says the power of the Brotherhood has pa.s.sed, and there are too few of them left in the world to pose such a threat."

"He's a great one for logic, is the Kir," Karlyn said, his anger rising hot enough to burn his throat. "But logic's a two-edged blade, and can cut both ways." He hefted the Mercenary's blade for emphasis. "Even in these times, people have a way of dying when Mercenaries go missing or abused. How's this for logic? If their numbers are fewer in these years, would they not be all the more careful of each other?"

"What is so important that Lok would put the whole House into danger this way?"

Karlyn spat to one side. "It's that snake sp.a.w.n Beslyn-Tor behind this." Dal's head jerked up, and his eyes narrowed as he studied Karlyn's face. "Did you think I didn't know? I'm Walls, for the Caids' sake. That poison's been coming to the House for months now." Karlyn laid the sword back down in the rack. He'd never regretted having to let anyone into the House as much as he regretted having to let in the leader of the New Believers. Not that he much liked the Jaldean's underlings either. Hard to make out which was worse, bona fide poisonous snakes, or their tail-kissing followers.

"What will you do?"

This time Karlyn did not trouble to hide his disgust. "I am Steward of Walls of Tenebro House," he said. "My oath, and my responsibility are not to you, Lord Dal, nor to Lok-iKol, nor even to the Tenebroso herself. My Oath is to the House. And it is the House I will protect."

Karlyn-Tan swept by him so brusquely that Dal had to take a step back to keep from being shoved off his feet. The hand that he put out to steady himself knocked against the rack of swords, setting the blades of some ringing like bells. The nearest blade was knocked from the rack entirely, its dusty tip rapping the tabletop sharply. This sword was marginally shorter than the Mercenary's weapon, slightly curved and sharp on only the bottom edge. However, it, too, had an animal's head for a pommel, this time, a mountain cat. One of the cat's ears had been hammered flat, when the pommel itself had been used to strike a blow. Dal sucked in a breath, wrapped his hand around the cat's head.

This was his father's sword.

Blood. And. Demons. Dhulyn turned on her side, hugging herself in the feathery warmth of the bed. That was the Finder's fire in Navra, certain sure, so why should she be Seeing that now? And as for the circle of women . . . Espadryni women. Herself older she'd Seen, many times, but never without her tattoo. Dhulyn blinked. Not herself without her Mercenary badge, but her mother mother.

Not the future, but the past past.

Could this be the work of the fresnoyn? Or had she been having Visions of the past all along, and never known it? Dhulyn laughed aloud. No wonder wonder the Sight had been of so little practical use to her-she'd have to look at each one more carefully than before. She squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps the fair-haired boy she'd seen was not Parno's child, but Parno himself? the Sight had been of so little practical use to her-she'd have to look at each one more carefully than before. She squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps the fair-haired boy she'd seen was not Parno's child, but Parno himself?

Dhulyn shook her head and took another, deeper breath. She had no time to fully consider these questions now. First things first. They had looked for her, old One-eye and his leashed Scholar. Looked for her specifically because she was who she was . . . what what she was. she was.