Nolyn Read online

  The palatus at the desk leaned forward in his seat. “I said, may I—”

  Mawyndulë didn’t answer the clerk, just as he wouldn’t engage a barking dog on the front porch of a tenement where the rent was overdue. With long strides, he crossed the room, made his way down the hall, and with a casual flick of his hand, the door to the legate’s office burst open. It banged hard against the inner wall.

  “Demetrius! What is—” Legate Lynch, the legion commander and acting governor of the Imperial Province of Calynia, stopped the moment he saw Mawyndulë. The two had but a brief history, but Mawyndulë had obviously made an impression.

  “I’m sorry, sir!” Demetrius shouted. The little man came running.

  Mawyndulë slammed the door shut the same way he’d opened it, hoping to time it to hit the staff officer. He missed but still enjoyed the satisfying thud when Demetrius, who was unable to stop in time, banged into the door.

  “He’s still alive,” Mawyndulë declared to the legate. Then, after seeing Lynch’s sight track to the door, Mawyndulë frowned. “Not the palatus, the prince.”

  As if in confirmation, the door latch rattled as Demetrius struggled unsuccessfully to open it.

  “You again,” Lynch said, demonstrating far less respect than Mawyndulë felt he deserved. Although, if they were going by that scale, nothing short of Lynch groveling at his feet would do.

  “Yes. Did you think I wouldn’t wait to see if the job was done?” Mawyndulë snapped. “I gave—I mean, the emperor gave—strict orders to arrange for his son’s death. Nyphron didn’t want Nolyn returning from that assignment, and yet, he’s back. Did you happen to forget?”

  “I appointed Prince Nolyn as the prymus of a tiny scouting party,” Lynch replied, “and ordered him into a dead-end gorge deep in goblin territory. The chances of his survival were nonexistent.”

  Lynch was the worst sort of Rhune—or human, as they were called these days—old, sagging, white-haired, and worn out. His skin had the pitted texture of a rotting gourd. Mawyndulë guessed his mind suffered in much the same way.

  If his head is rancid on the outside, how good can it be inside?

  “And yet, he lives.”

  “Exactly. So how do you explain that?” The legate pushed back his chair and folded his arms with an overdeveloped sense of confidence.

  Mawyndulë was baffled about why the buffoon was posing the exact same question that Mawyndulë was demanding an answer to. “Obviously, you’re terrible at your job.”

  “I didn’t rise to the rank of legate by being incompetent.”

  “Oh? Then what’s your explanation?”

  “Providence,” the legion commander declared, saying the word as if it held magical attributes. “That order was wrong. The emperor shouldn’t murder his own child—especially without cause and in such a cowardly manner. Although the emperor may want his son dead, the gods clearly don’t. There is no other possible explanation.”

  Mawyndulë stared at the fool for a moment, considering his absurdity. “And you fear the gods more than the emperor?”

  “As any sane man would.”

  “Huh.” Mawyndulë nodded, making a mental note that in the minds of humans, gods trumped emperors.

  Mawyndulë’s improvisational plan was merely to threaten Lynch further. As Nolyn’s commanding officer, the legate could once more arrange for the prince’s demise. Now, however, a completely new idea took shape—a wonderfully poetic payback that was just too glorious to resist.

  If providence is in play here, then never before have I been dealt such a wonderful hand.

  “Okay, fine, but what if I told you that I’m not an imperial envoy sent by the emperor? And that the soldiers who were with me last time were paid to act as escorts and give false credentials on my behalf, and that I stole this uniform and forged the imperial seal on the document I presented? What if I said I had been making plans for decades, which is why I knew the protocols, all the right names, and the correct terminology.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” Lynch got to his feet, and a smile rose on the man’s lips.

  Because he’s bigger and I’m unarmed he has no fear. And being commander of over five thousand men, he wrongly believes he’s in control.

  Mawyndulë nodded. “But what if I revealed that I am a god? You seem to believe they can overrule emperors.”

  Lynch laughed. “You’ve got some big ones. I’ll give you that.”

  “Ah, I see, you don’t believe me. You need proof.” Mawyndulë called out, “Demetrius!” As he did, the latch finally worked, and the door swung wide.

  The staff officer stood on the far side, staring suspiciously at the door.

  Mawyndulë made a curling motion with his forefinger and coaxed Demetrius into the office.

  The legate took another step forward and stood even straighter, arching his back and puffing out his chest. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. Instead, he was dressed in a robe similar to the imperial version of the ancient Fhrey asica, a fashion choice that Mawyndulë didn’t approve of. Lynch, it appeared, was growing a bit too used to his role as governor.

  Lynch commanded, “Demetrius, this fool has just confessed to treason. Fetch the guards.”

  The palatus made a crisp nod and pivoted toward the exit. He took one step before the door slammed shut again.

  “How is it doing that?” Demetrius asked, mostly to himself. He looked around. “A draft?”

  “No,” Lynch said. “This impostor has rigged up some kind of trick. He’s trying to impress, make us believe he’s a god.” He shook his head in disgust. “Out here, it takes more than slamming doors.”

  “Fine. You need a demonstration.” Addressing the clerk, he said, “Demetrius, walk around in a circle for me, will you?”

  “What?” Turning back toward the other two, the palatus had a confused expression.

  “My error,” Mawyndulë said. “I didn’t mean to form that as a request. Do it. Now!”

  The palatus began circling the office. He, too, was dressed in the pallium style of robes, but his attire was not nearly as well tailored as the legate’s and lacked the fine gold edging. He strolled with arms swinging at his sides.

  Hmm, he has a short gait and a simple heel-toe step.

  “Demetrius, I gave you an order,” Lynch snapped.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I—I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t stop myself.”

  Mawyndulë held up a hand, and the palatus halted. “Look left,” he said, and Demetrius turned his head, presenting his profile. Mawyndulë studied it for a moment. “Now right.”

  Frustrated, and more than a little angry, Lynch crossed the room and tried the door handle himself but found it just as inoperable.

  “You have an extremely stiff posture and sort of a waddle when you walk,” Mawyndulë told the palatus. “Okay, now I need to hear you speak and not just a few words. I’ll require you to—oh, I know, why don’t you recite that awful poem that’s so popular among the soldiers. The one about the Wicked Brothers. Surely you know it. Everyone seems to these days.”

  Squirming, Demetrius took a deep breath and began,

  “Dill and Will Wicked and Nasty Bill Fricked

  were pirates who sailed on the sea.

  They decided to steal their very next meal

  from the people who ruled McFee.

  The job didn’t go as they hoped.

  Poor Bill drowned in the moat.

  And the Wicked boys’ luck got stuck in the muck,

  leaving both far away from their boat.”

  “Demetrius, what are you doing?” Lynch admonished. “Stop that and get over here and help me with this stupid door!”

  Demetrius continued,

  “The two were caught and hopelessly brought

  to trial, which made quite a scene.

  Locked in a cell not much more than a well,

  the judge both vicious and mean.

  He laughed at the two, said this day you will rue;


  you shall never again be free.

  You’ll stay here forever chained helpless together,

  I’m throwing away the key.”

  Mawyndulë walked around Demetrius, studying him, listening to how the words were pronounced, his accent, the lilt of his voice, and placement of the inflections. Mawyndulë didn’t think he had to get the mimicry perfect, but he wanted at least a good understanding of the palatus’s basic speaking style. The man’s mannerisms were easy when compared with his speech patterns.

  Demetrius went on,

  “You’ll never be fed, released when you’re dead,

  proclaimed His Excellency.

  You’ll get sick and have at least one tick,

  the punishment for stealing from McFee.

  Dill and Will Wicked thought maybe Bill Fricked

  was more fortunate than they.

  For drowning was better than living forever

  chained on a pile of hay.”

  “For every god’s sake, shut up!” Lynch shouted.

  “Yes, that’s enough.” Mawyndulë raised a finger, and Demetrius took another breath, but said no more. Turning to Lynch, Mawyndulë added, “Now for that proof. Watch closely or you might miss it.”

  Mawyndulë snapped his fingers, and the palatus exploded.

  Chapter Seven

  The Thief and the Poker

  “It’s just like Gronbach, isn’t it?” Seymour said, sitting before the hearth in Sephryn’s home. He wasn’t looking at her anymore; instead, the monk stared into the fire he had built, using the iron poker with an odd sort of precision to adjust the logs. He sat on the little maple-wood stool, the one Sephryn had bought for Nurgya that stood just a foot off the ground. Still an infant, her son had yet to use it. The thought that he never would knocked on the door to her mind, demanding admission—a door she braced against with all her might. She couldn’t let it in. If she did, Sephryn knew anguish would consume her. She had to keep her head clear, had to think, but that was so difficult with the constant knock, knock, knock drumming inside her consciousness. In her mind, she saw flashes of Nurgya: his pudgy face laughing, his mouth gurgling, his hands reaching, fingers clenching only to open and close again. So small, so helpless, and now gone.

  What’s happening to him? Is he locked in a box somewhere, crying for me?

  Sephryn felt as defenseless as her son. She couldn’t cry—there was no time for that. She had to think, had to do the impossible. The tears would come later. They would follow the last roll of the dice, when she either got him back or lost him forever.

  “I mean, the way he’s preying on you, forcing you to do his bidding. It’s classic Gronbach.”

  Sephryn had told Seymour about her trip to the palace because he was the only one she could tell. Exempt from the Voice’s edict of secrecy, the monk became her sole confidant. Their chance meeting and mutual discovery of the bloody message had placed Seymour in danger, and yet, Sephryn was so grateful for his company that she wondered if his arrival was truly an accident. Perhaps it had been the gods who put her feet on such a horrific tightrope, but they’d also provided a balancing pole. If so, they likely did it more for entertainment than empathy. They wanted a dramatic show with many acts. For that, Sephryn’s sanity had to last, and to last, she needed help.

  The monk looked at her, and his eyes widened. “Maybe that voice in your head is Gronbach!” His shoulders bunched as if with cold, and he shivered.

  “It’s not him,” she said with more contempt than she’d intended. Seymour was only trying to help, but his idea was preposterous, and she couldn’t entertain ridiculous notions with her son’s life in jeopardy.

  The fable of Gronbach was a child’s tale. The story told of a deceitful dwarf who made a deal with a group of women, whom he’d promised to reward if they rid his town of a monster. Against impossible odds, they accomplished the amazing feat, but the dwarf refused to honor his word because he was greedy and dishonest.

  The story was blatantly partisan and insulting to dwarfs, and she couldn’t tell if it was the result of a long-standing prejudice or the cause of it.

  Sephryn had both read the story and heard it directly from her mother, who claimed to have been present at the famous betrayal. But her mother insisted on a great many things that were too far to fetch. Moya’s version, unlike the one in The Book of Brin, wasn’t a children’s story, since it was laced with old-world profanity—curses in a wide variety of languages including a vast assortment of Fhrey obscenities. Moya had also added a few new scenes regarding conversations that Brin hadn’t heard. Sephryn had concluded long ago that the story was utter crap. That she had ever believed it—or any of her mother’s crazy tales—embarrassed her. But children were apt to accept the word of their parents because they trusted them.

  “Who it is doesn’t matter. What’s important is how do I get the horn.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Seymour asked.

  “I’ll have to find help. I can’t do this alone.” Seeing the hurt look, she added, “We can’t do this by ourselves. We need someone who can open the vault, and it would be helpful if we knew more about the horn. I can’t afford to make a mistake and grab the wrong item.”

  “Being as old as you are, I’m surprised you aren’t already familiar with it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Just because I’ve lived a long time doesn’t make me an expert on everything.”

  Seymour’s hurt expression deepened.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just that people always bring that up. It’s become a personal tic. Although . . .” She thought a moment. “When I mentioned the horn to Illim, he knew exactly what I was talking about and seemed surprised I had heard of it. He even questioned how I found out.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That my parents told me—a total shot in the dark, but he accepted that explanation. That probably means my father knows about it.”

  “You can’t tell anyone. The kidnapper will kill your son if you do.”

  Sephryn nodded. “Trust me. I’m well aware of that. I’d love to go to my father. He and Nyphron were close once. He could likely get this horn, no problem.” She shook her head. “If only he weren’t so far away, I might . . . no, it’s too dangerous. Losing Nurgya would kill me; losing them both is unthinkable. I considered talking to the First Minister or even Havilinda. She’s the council’s secretary, loves to gossip, and knows practically everything. But you’re right. I can’t tell anyone anything. But I can involve others. I just can’t tell the truth. I’ll have to make something up.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have no idea, but what I do know is I need a thief.”

  “Sorry. Can’t help you there.”

  “True, but I know someone who might.”

  “Who?”

  “Arvis Dyer. She knows everyone on the shadowy side of the street. Maybe she can help me find someone who knows how to break into a stone vault. If she can’t, I have no naffing idea what to try.”

  “Naffing?”

  “It’s one of my mother’s profanities.” Sephryn wasn’t sure what it meant, but she was clear on how to use it.

  “What can I do?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  “You? Nothing.”

  Again, the puppy face. “You don’t want my help?”

  “No, that’s not it. I just don’t want to put you in more danger than you already are. Besides, you shouldn’t be volunteering. I’m plotting a crime against the leader of the known world because of a wayward voice in my head. You’d be insane if you don’t run from here and turn me in to the first city guard you can find.”

  Seymour looked toward the stairs, and Sephryn could guess what he was thinking. Even after scrubbing, a few bloodstains had remained.

  “I don’t think reporting you would be healthy. And as I can’t unlearn what I know, leaving you might be dangerous. I don’t hear the Voice, but we are in this together. If I’m seen as a help, perhaps I can avoid . .
.” Again, he looked at the steps.

  She looked, too. “You might be right.”

  “So, once again, what can I do?”

  “Well . . .” She thought a bit. “There is something you would be perfect for.”

  Seymour’s expression brightened.

  “Can you write as well as read?”

  “It’s a requirement of my order. Bran demanded that all monks spend a portion of our day creating copies of The Book of Brin.”

  “Okay, so maybe you could find a description of the horn or maybe even an illustration. You could make a copy and bring it back here. That would help me identify it, assuming I can get the vault opened.” She paused, waiting for approval or condemnation from the Voice. Then she looked at the ceiling as if the owner of the Voice lived on the second floor and asked, “Is that okay?”

  No answer. The Voice either didn’t care or wasn’t listening at that moment, and she guessed the latter to be the case. It seemed unlikely that even a god would spend all his time listening to every random conversation she had.

  “It’s called the Horn of Gylindora. If my mother knew about it, that would suggest it has something to do with the Great War or the times shortly after. She lived to age seventy-four, so it had to exist before the Imperial year of Forty-Four. If you could search through the parchments at the records office and write down anything you find about the horn, that would help.”

  “Where is that?”

  “At the palace. There’s a little building just inside the gate to the left of the entrance. I can show you tomorrow. There are a lot of parchments down there, many of which are related to the founding of the city.”

  “Is it open to the public?”

  “No, but I can get you in. I’ll just have to tell them you’re working for me. So, congratulations, you’re my new scribe.”

  Sephryn looked for Arvis Dyer in West Market Square. Being the premier location to buy and sell food in the world’s greatest city, the cobblestone plaza offered visitors the greatest variety of comestibles ever known, pulled from the far reaches of the empyre: ostrich steak, sea urchins, starlings, woodcocks, scorpions, fish eggs, peacocks, dolphins, herons, nightingale tongues, parrot heads, camel heels, and ground elephant trunks. A circular arcade of white pillars provided shelter to hundreds of merchants, and since almost everyone visited the market at least once a day, it was the pulsating heart of the city. Six streets converged on the aromatic gallery, and its center was always crowded with basket-carrying customers and delivery carts. Sephryn spotted Arvis, as she usually did, on the northeast side.