Percepliquis Page 19

  “What do you intend to do, then?”

  “There is a greater issue at stake. We do not face just the extinction of the empire, but of mankind. Modina and her actions will doom all of us.”

  “Her preparations to defend the city certainly appear to—”

  “Her efforts are useless, but that is not of which I speak.”

  “You’re referring to the mission to Percepliquis?”

  “Yes! It’s by this that she imperils all.”

  “But you were at the meeting. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because that mission is necessary. It’s imperative that the horn be found. The danger lies in who finds it. That horn is a weapon of incredible power. What Modina does not know—what even Saldur and Ethelred did not know—is that they have been fooled into searching for it. The enemy needs to lay hands on it as much as we do. Whoever wields it controls all. It’s he who they obey. They have always been his pawn. For centuries, he has planned this, his hand guiding every move, hidden in the shadows, manipulating forces unseen. They think he is gone, that he is dead, but he is not. He is clever and crafty, his magic is beyond imagining, and he seeks revenge. A millennium of preparation comes down to this moment and it is he who desires the horn and with it will make all of mankind bow to him. Even the elves will pay for crimes committed a thousand years ago. They will hand the horn to him, for they do not see the danger traveling with them.

  “Right now, in the depths of this world, ten individuals are delving into the past and discovering what never should be known, and with that knowledge the world will be undone, unless…”

  Merton waited, and when the Patriarch said nothing more, he asked, “Unless what?”

  The old man, with his barren brows and bluish hair, looked back as if pulled from a terrible nightmare. “I did what I could. I managed to strike a deal with a member of the empress’s team. At the right moment, my agent will betray them.”

  “Who?”

  “I will not say. You are a good servant of Novron, but I cannot take a chance of revealing his identity even to you—not with so much at stake.”

  “Can you at least tell me who this evil one is? Who can span the course of a thousand years to bring this about?”

  “Think hard, Monsignor, and you will know, but for now pray—pray to Novron that my agent will succeed in his charge.”

  “I will, Your Holiness. I will.”

  “Good, and pack your bags lightly.”

  “Am I going somewhere?”

  “We both are.”

  CHAPTER 12

  THIEVES END

  Royce heard whispering.

  He estimated it was an hour before dawn. Although he wasn’t certain, it would surprise him if he was very far off. Royce had experience keeping track of time underground. He had developed a surprisingly accurate method during his incarceration in Manzant. During those days, tracking minutes had focused his mind, keeping it off other, more painful thoughts. This was the first time in many years he had allowed himself to remember those days. He had carefully locked them away, packaged them into a back corner of his mind with a dark blanket laid over top, just in case he accidentally looked that way. Only now did he welcome the memories. The pain they caused worked much the same way as keeping track of time had in Manzant, much the same as biting a finger, or squeezing his fist until the fingernails dug half-moons into his palm. They distracted him from thoughts of loss far more fresh—far more crippling.

  More than a decade had passed since the First Officer of the Black Diamond had betrayed him, since he had tragically killed Jade and as a result was sent to Manzant Prison by his best friend. Manzant was a dwarven-constructed prison and salt mine. He could still remember the dark rock with streaks of white and fossils of shellfish. The walls were shored up with timber. Dwarves never used wood. Men added that years later as they carved deeper, hauling the chunks of rock salt out to the elevator in baskets. It was easy to tell the man-made sections from the dwarven by the height of the ceiling. Those being punished worked in the dwarven tunnels, and Royce often found himself there.

  He recalled the constant clink of pick on stone and the heat of the fires boiling the brine out of underwater lakes. Huge pans, bubbling and hissing, filled the stale air with steam. If he closed his eyes, he could see the line of bucket men and the walkers chained by their necks to the huge wheel powering the pump. He could also see men driven to exhaustion until they collapsed into the furnace pit.

  Water was plentiful, so it was available to those who worked, but Ambrose Moor, the owner of the prison mine, did not waste his profits on food. They were lucky to receive a single small meal a day, usually the spoiled remnants of what a crew of indentured sailors refused to eat. This was just one of many deals Ambrose arranged to minimize operation costs. Royce would fall asleep to dreams of killing Ambrose and the thoughts lingered throughout the day. In the two and a half years he spent in Manzant, he killed Ambrose five hundred and thirty-seven times—no two alike. He killed many people in Manzant and not all of them were imaginary. He never thought of them as people. They were all animals, monsters. Whatever humanity a man had possessed going in was leached out by the salt, pain, and despair. They all fought for rotten food, a place to sleep, a cup of water. He learned how to sleep light and how to appear like he was sleeping when he was not.

  Never seeing daylight, never breathing fresh air, and being worked to exhaustion each day, and beaten for mere recreation, had killed many and driven others insane. For Royce, Manzant was only part of his prison, the latest incarnation. The real walls he had been building up brick by brick for years. Escaping Manzant was impossible, but it was ultimately easier than escaping the prison of his own making.

  Nim had started him on the path, and later Arcadius and Hadrian had guided his way, but it was Gwen who had finally unlocked the cell door. She shoved it open and stood just outside calling, assuring him it was safe. He could smell the fresh air and see the brilliance of the sun. He was almost through, almost out—almost.

  The whispering came from near the pool.

  He thought everyone was asleep. They had traveled a long distance that day over hard terrain. No one had called for him to stop, but he had seen them stumbling—all except the dwarf. The little rat never seemed to tire but continued to scurry, and more than once, Royce had spotted a little smile behind the mustache and remains of his beard.

  He had almost killed Magnus that first night they had spent at The Laughing Gnome. The thought had danced teasingly on his mind. That was before Myron came back from dinner and got all chatty. Royce would not admit it to anyone, but the dwarf was useful, and on surprisingly good behavior—which showed even more good sense. More than that, he discovered he no longer had the desire. Like everything else, the dwarf’s crime had been made trivial by Gwen’s death. Both love and hate were banished from him. He was a desert, dry of all passion. Mostly he was tired. He had one last job to do and he would do it, not for the empire, not even for Hadrian—this was for Gwen.

  He got to his feet silently, out of curiosity more than concern. The whispering was definitely coming from the party—not some intruder. He spotted the princess lying on her side, wrapped in twisted blankets. She was jerking and thrashing again, that creepy robe glowing different colors, fading out and lighting up. He had no idea if the robe was causing her to dream so violently or if her dreams sparked the robe’s response. He did not see how it was any of his business and moved on.

  At first, he thought it might be Magnus and Gaunt whispering. He frequently spied them traveling together and talking when the rest were too far to hear. Drawing closer, he discovered the source—it was Elden. He could see the huge reclined form up on one elbow under the blanket. His conspirator was on the far side and blocked from view. Wyatt lay a short distance away. He too was awake and watching.

  “What’s going on?” Royce whispered to the sailor. “Who’s Elden talking to?”

  “The monk.”

 
; “Myron?”

  Wyatt nodded.

  “Is it normal for him to talk to strangers like that?”

  Wyatt looked at him. “He’s talked more to that little monk in the last three days than he has to me in the last decade. They were doing this last night too, and I swear I heard Elden crying. I once watched while a ship’s surgeon put a red-hot poker to a wound on his thigh. Elden didn’t make a sound, but last night that little monk had him weeping so bad his eyes were red the next morning.”

  Royce said nothing.

  “Funny thing, though, he was smiling. All day long, I saw Elden grinning from ear to ear. That’s just not like him.”

  “Best get back to sleep,” Royce told him. “I’ll be waking everyone in another hour.”

  Royce stopped again.

  Hadrian could see him over the heads of the others from his position at the rear. This time, Royce knelt down, placed the lantern on the ground beside him, and scraped the dirt. Alric approached and stood slightly to one side.

  The party spent most of that day, like the one before, traveling in a single column in the narrow corridor. Overhead, water dripped, soaking their heads and shoulders; likewise, their feet felt pickled from wading through ankle-deep pools.

  “What is it this time?” he heard Degan mutter with disdain. “He’s stopping every twenty feet now. This is the problem with monarchies and the whole feudal system, for that matter. Alric is in charge by no other virtue than his birth, and the man is clearly incompetent. He lost his own kingdom twice over in a single year, and now he is in charge of us? We should have a leader who is elected on merit, not lineage. Someone who is the most talented, the most gifted, but no—we have Alric. And the king in all his minuscule wisdom has chosen Royce to guide us. If I were in charge, I would put Magnus out front. He’s obviously far more gifted. He’s constantly correcting Royce’s mistakes. We would be making twice the time we are now. I’ve observed that people respect you.”

  Hadrian noticed Gaunt was looking at him. Up until that moment, he had not known who Gaunt was speaking to.

  “No one says it, no one bows or anything, but you are highly regarded, I can tell—more than Alric, that’s for certain. If you were to support me, I think we could persuade the others to accept my command of this group. I know Magnus would.”

  “Why you?” Hadrian asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Why should you be in charge?”

  “Oh—well, for one thing I am the descendant of Novron and will be emperor. And second, I am smarter than that oaf Alric, by far.”

  “I thought you said you wanted a system based on merit, not lineage.”

  “I did, but like I said, I am far better suited to the task than he is. Besides, why else am I here if not to lead?”

  “Alric has led men into battle, and when I say led, I mean it. He personally charged the gates of Medford under a hail of arrows ahead of everyone, even his bodyguards.”

  “Exactly, the man is a fool.”

  “All right, it might not have been the smartest choice, but it did show courage and an unwillingness to sit back in safety while sending others into peril. That right there gives him credit in my book. But okay, I see your point. He might not be the smartest leader. So if you want someone with brains and merit, then Princess Arista is your clear choice.”

  Degan chuckled, apparently taking his comments as a joke. When he saw Hadrian’s scowl, he stopped. “You’re not serious? She’s a woman—an irritating, manipulative, bossy woman. She shouldn’t even be on this trip. She’s got Alric wrapped around her finger and it will get us all killed. Did you know she tried to free me from that dungeon all by herself? She failed miserably, got herself captured and her bodyguard killed. That’s what she does, you know. She gets people killed. She’s a menace. And on top of that she’s also a wit—”

  Degan struck the wall with the back of his head, bounced off, and fell to his knees. Hadrian felt the pain in his knuckles and only then realized he had hit him.

  Gaunt glared up, his eyes watering, his hands cupping his face. “Crazy fool! Are you mad?”

  “What’s going on?” Arista called back down the line.

  “This idiot just punched me in the face! My nose is bleeding!”

  “Hadrian did?” the princess said, stunned.

  “It was… an accident,” Hadrian replied, knowing it sounded feeble, but not knowing how else to describe his actions. He had not meant to hit Gaunt; it had just happened.

  “You accidentally punched him?” Wyatt asked, suppressing a chuckle. “I’m not sure you have a full understanding of the whole bodyguard thing.”

  “Hadrian!” Royce called.

  “What?” he shouted back, irritated that even Royce was going to join in this embarrassing moment.

  “Come up here. I need you to look at something.”

  Degan was still on his knees in a pool of water. “Um—sorry ’bout that.”

  “Get away from me!”

  Hadrian moved up the line as Wyatt, Elden, and Myron pressed themselves against the walls to let him pass, each one looking at him curiously.

  “What did he do?” Arista whispered as he reached her.

  “Nothing, really.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You punched him for no reason?”

  “Well, no, but—it’s complicated. I’m not even sure I understand it. It was sort of like a reflex, I guess.”

  “A… reflex?” she said.

  “I told him I was sorry.”

  “Anytime today would be nice,” Royce said.

  Arista stepped aside, looking at him suspiciously as he passed.

  “What was all that about?” Alric asked as he approached.

  “I, ah—I punched Gaunt in the face.”

  “Good for you,” Alric told him.

  “About time someone did,” Mauvin said. “I’m just sorry you beat me to it.”

  “What do you make of this?” Royce asked, still on his knees and pointing to something on the ground beside his lantern.

  Hadrian bent down. It was a leather string with a series of stone beads, feathers, and what looked like chicken bones threaded through it.

  “It’s a Trajan ankle bracelet,” he told them. “Worn for luck by warriors of the Ankor tribe of the Ghazel.”

  “The ends aren’t torn,” Royce said. “But look how they are bent and twisted. I think it just came untied. And it is partially buried under the dirt, so I am thinking it’s been here awhile. Regardless, we are in their neighborhood, so we’d better start moving a bit more cautiously. See if you can keep the chatter down to a minimum.”

  Hadrian looked at the bracelet and caught Royce by the arm as he was about to move forward again.

  “Here,” he said, keeping his body positioned to block the view of the rest of the party. He placed Alverstone into Royce’s hand.

  “I was wondering where that went.”

  “Time to re-claw the cat, I think,” Hadrian said. “Just be a good boy, okay?”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  The party moved forward again. Hadrian did not return to the rear. He thought it was more likely they would encounter Ghazel from the front, and he also did not relish the idea of returning to Gaunt.

  The corridor widened until they could walk three abreast. Then abruptly the passageway ended. It stopped in a small room where the far side narrowed to no more than a crack. In the center was nothing more than a sizable pile of rocks.

  Gaunt shook his head in disgust. “I told you he was incompetent,” he said, pointing at Alric. “He was so sure this was the right passage, and here we are days later standing at a dead end.”

  “You said I was incompetent?” the king asked, then looked to Hadrian. “No wonder you hit him. Thanks.”

  “What about us?” Gaunt asked. “How many days of food do we have? How much time have we wasted? We’ve been down here—what? Three days now? And it took us two days from Aquesta. That’s five days. Add five days to get back and even if
we were to leave right now, we will have been gone ten days! How long do you think we have until the elves reach Aquesta? Two weeks? We’ll blow most of that time just retracing our steps.”

  “I did not hear you suggesting a different choice,” Arista said. “Alric picked as best he could and I don’t think anyone here could have chosen any better.”

  “How surprising—his sister is defending him.”

  Mauvin stepped toward Gaunt and drew his blade. The sword picked up the light from the lanterns on its mirrored surface and flashed as Mauvin raised the point to Gaunt’s neck. “I warned you before. Do not speak of my king without respect in my presence.”

  “Mauvin, stop!” Arista ordered.

  “I’m not going to kill him,” he assured her. “I’ll just carve my initials in his face.”

  “Alric.” She turned to her brother. “Tell him to stop.”

  “I’m not certain I should.”

  “See! This is the oppression I spoke of!” Gaunt shouted. “The evils of a hereditary authority.”

  “Somebody shut him up,” Royce snapped.

  “Mauvin,” Hadrian said.

  “What?” Mauvin looked at him, confused. “You punched him!”

  “Yeah, well—that was then.”

  “Lower your blade, Mauvin,” Alric said, relenting. “My honor can wait until we are through with this.”

  Mauvin sheathed his weapon and Gaunt pushed himself away from the wall, breathing heavily. “Threatening me doesn’t change the situation. We are still at a dead end and it is—”

  “It’s not a dead end,” Magnus stated. He stomped his boot twice, got to his knees, and placed his ear to the ground. Then he looked up and glared at the pile of rocks. He got back to his feet and began throwing the rocks aside. Beneath were several pieces of wooden planking and, below them, a hole.