“The Eternal keep you, boy,” Hammen whispered.
Standing up, he shouldered the satchel and walked out of the room. The door slipped shut behind him.
“It’s almost dawn.”
Zarel wearily looked up and nodded his head.
“And?”
Uriah looked around nervously.
“Go on.”
“He deserted Bolk during the rioting. He has not reported to any of the other Houses.”
“Will you stake your life on that report?”
Uriah remained silent.
“Damn you, will you stake your life on that?”
“Yes, Master.”
“I want it made clear to the House Masters. If One-eye fights today in their uniform, I will turn my fighters loose on them, right there in the arena. I beat the mob today. They won’t dare to intervene. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Uriah.”
“Yes, Master?”
“The pots, the clay pots. How?”
Uriah felt his blood run to ice.
“Someone added them into the shipment. The creatures were conjured, their power maintained by a small bundle of mana in each of the pots.”
“And how did they get in?”
“I don’t know, Master.”
Zarel fixed Uriah with his gaze and a lash of probing washed over him. Uriah stood still, struggling to control his thoughts.
“You’re afraid, Uriah.”
“I’m always afraid before you, sire.”
“I feel you’re concealing something from me, some knowledge, something that you know and I don’t.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Uriah whispered.
Zarel finally nodded and laughed with a hoarse whisper.
“No. You’re too much of a coward to try and deceive me.”
Zarel turned and looked away, satisfied that in his terror the dwarf was thus still loyal to him.
“You understand what’s to be done. Once the Walker leaves at sundown we attack the House of Bolk and kill Kirlen. I want Kirlen’s head placed in my lap before the night is over. Bolk is to be destroyed for their insolence.”
“The Walker?”
“He’ll be gone and it will be another year before his return. What can he do then?”
Uriah said nothing in reply.
I will also have that hag’s books and her mana, Zarel thought. Perhaps that will be enough to do it. If not, then the other Houses will go as well, their mana adding to the strength needed to pierce the veil. It has to be now. My support is slipping thanks to this damned One-eye. It has to be now.
“And the mob? You’ll have a quarter of the city, all the Brown supporters, looking for murder.”
“Let them try,” Zarel snapped. “Fentesk’s followers have always hated Bolk more than the others. Make sure today that Fentesk’s stands are showered with gifts. Tonight I want them satiated with blood and wine. They’ll back me.”
“And myself?”
“As I promised. You will be the new Master of Bolk.”
Uriah smiled.
“The Walker is not to know of what happened here this week. If Kirlen tries to approach him, I want her dead. We can blame the troubles on her.”
“And what if One-eye appears?”
Zarel hesitated. Perhaps it might just be as he surmised, that this One-eye was out for bigger game, that he had something planned against the Walker. Perhaps, just perhaps it might work to my advantage. But then again, he might be out after me.
“I think he’s gone,” Zarel said quietly. “He must be gone; there’s no place left for him now.”
And Uriah could sense that his master’s words were meant as much to reassure himself as they were meant to try and convince someone else.
Uriah withdrew and finally let his thoughts relax. The memory of what he had seen in the arena still haunted him. In the other fights One-eye had been nothing but a distant figure. But he had come to stand before the throne and in that moment all was made so clear. He was Galin. The boy who so long ago had ridden on his hunched-over back, laughing with childish squeals of delight and then enfolding him with childlike hugs and kisses.
But now he is a man, Uriah thought, a man who must be betrayed if I am to survive.
Groaning, Garth One-eye stirred. He tried to stretch but could not move. His arms were pinned and he tried to move his wrists. He could feel the cord that bound his wrists but there was more holding him.
“Damn him!”
Garth tried to turn, somehow to move out of the circle of the spell, but he remained pinned to the floor, as helpless as a swaddled infant.
The second bell of morning sounded as the sun broke over the horizon, rising dark and ruddy through the pall of smoke that hung over the city, its light shining in horizontally though the shutters of the garret.
“Help me this day,” he whispered. “Help me finally to set you to rest, both in my soul and in the lands you now walk. Help me now!”
He lay in silence for long minutes, concentrating, trying to break the spell through force of will. But it would not break. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, stinging his eyes, and still he prayed, turning his thoughts outward, and then he sensed the presence.
The door cracked open and a dark form stood before him.
He exhaled nervously.
“Last night I somehow sensed you were looking for me,” she said softly. “I knew where you were hiding; I followed you from the arena last night. I had to come.”
He heard her footsteps and she knelt down by his side.
“Hammen’s doing?”
“Yes.” His voice came as a hoarse whisper, the power of the spell still holding him.
She pulled her dagger out and he could just barely see her waving it about in a ritual manner. She moved around him, waving the dagger, cutting the air above him, then waving it again. As if a great weight had been pulled back, he felt the spell shatter. Gasping, he sat up and she cut his bindings.
“You called for me, didn’t you?” she whispered.
Exhausted from the struggle, his head throbbing from the blow, he nodded.
“I saw Hammen leaving here with your satchel.”
“So why didn’t you come quicker? He’s been gone for hours.”
“I half agreed with him. But then I sensed your calling and”-she fell silent for a moment-“damn you, Garth, I couldn’t say no,” She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“Enough of that for now,” he whispered. “Where the hell did that bastard go?”
“Toward the arena.”
“The oilskin bundle in the corner, please bring it to me.”
She went across the room and brought it back to him.
He brushed off the dirt that had clung to it from the hole where he had hidden it before first coming into the city. Untying the hemp rope wrapped around the bundle, he slowly opened it up and spread out the contents. Bowing low before it, he struggled to fight back the tears that clouded his eye.
Recovering his composure at last, Garth stood up and slowly started to undress. He hesitated, looking down at her.
“You might not remember but I helped to dress you once before”-she paused-“along with Varena.”
“Could you help me one more time?” Garth asked quietly.
The procession weaved its way down the main boulevard that ran from the center of the city, out through the gate, and on to the arena. The crowds lining the street were sullen, barely raising a halfhearted cheer even when the remaining champions passed by.
Zarel looked around at the crowds. They wouldn’t dare to try anything, not today, not with the Walker arriving. The crowd stared at him in silence, barely stirring when the girls flanking his sedan chair tossed out coins.
The procession reached the gate and for a moment he had a view of the harbor below. The water was dark with bobbing bodies and splashes of pink where the giant empreys and sharks continued their feeding frenzy. There was so much to eat that the harbor would not be cleaned by the time the Walker arrived. It would have to be explained. An outbreak of plague would be sufficient.