“But psionics are involved,” Siemhouk said. “Which fall under my sphere of influence.”
That was the weakest case she could have made, Kadya thought. Because they were taking one half-elf along, in order to make use of his psionic ability? Why not argue that there should be a High Consort of the Walking Dead, who should take charge because the person who had brought the news in the first place had been one of those?
Perhaps, though, she had underestimated Siemhouk’s influence with her father. “Of course,” he said. “And I feel inclined to grant your request. You others will feel slighted, no doubt, but when all have a claim on something, then not everybody can prevail. Kadya is a capable templar, and I have every faith that under her leadership the expedition will be a grand success.”
Kadya was astonished. It had been so easy! Now she felt as if every gaze in the room burned in on her. She felt her cheeks color. She stood and went to the center of the room, dizzy, hoping her balance did not desert her. It wouldn’t do to fall down. “Thank you, Sire,” she said. “I shall endeavor to live up to your confidence, and more.”
“See that you do,” Nibenay said. His voice had turned suddenly cool. “And if you fail to acquire metal in amounts unheard of before, then might I suggest that you don’t return at all? Your fate alone, naked and unarmed in the middle of the Sea of Silt would doubtless be more kind than the reception that would await you here in our glorious city.”
Kadya didn’t know how to respond to that. “I … if the metal is there, I shall deliver it. And if it’s not, then I’ll never again darken the city’s gates.”
The Shadow King was silent. When that silence had dragged on for an awkward period of time, Djena clapped her hands together once. “Then we are adjourned,” she declared.
Kadya walked slowly to the council chamber’s doorway, lest her quaking legs reveal her terror at what had just transpired.
She had just let Siemhouk seal her fate, one way or another. Either she would return to the city celebrated, or she would die.
For most people, life’s options were not so wildly divergent. Or so final.
But she was not most people, she was Kadya, a templar of Nibenay. And her fate, as of this moment, was almost entirely out of her control.
VI
Preparing to Embark
Because literacy was frowned upon by the Shadow King and his legions of templar wives—and by most sorcerer-kings, or that’s what Aric had heard—punishable by enslavement, time in the city’s dungeons, or worse, when Aric wanted to read he had to go to great lengths to find reading material. Sometimes books or scrolls could be had from the elven market, but even there, they were kept under the tables, and one had to know at which stalls to ask about them. They were expensive and had to be handled with discretion, tucked away under a cloak or in a satchel before anyone could spot the contraband.
Aric had no experience with adventuring, and he didn’t know many who did. So to find out what to expect, he went to the elven market and made some discreet inquiries. From there he was directed to a merchant in the Hill District, which he typically thought of as a place one went to acquire lethal poisons, banned weapons, and other dangerous objects. He suspected that he was being set up for robbery or murder, so he wore his bone dagger close to his hand, visible to one and all, and he took Ruhm along.
Ruhm refused to enter the abandoned building in which Aric had been told reading material might be available—he did not read, and wanted nothing to do with those who did. Aric went in alone, nose tickling at the thick dust covering every surface. A gaunt man whose tattered, filthy clothing made him look as if he and the building were separate parts of the same whole stepped out from an interior doorway and smiled at him, revealing a mouth with more gaps than teeth. “You’re here for what?” he asked.
Aric couldn’t help glancing about to make sure they were unobserved, even though he knew Ruhm stood guard outside. “Something to read,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He hoped his hands weren’t visibly shaking. “Adventurer accounts, of the wastelands?”
“Adventurers, eh?” the man said. He scratched his voluminous beak of a nose. “I might have something like that.” He ticked his head toward the doorway through which he had just emerged. “Come in.”
He turned with smooth, practiced grace and flowed back through the door. Aric followed. A lantern hung on one of the walls of the windowless room, where the bedraggled man stood between tables and shelves of books, pamphlets, tabloids and scrolls. Aric had never seen so many words in one place in his life. Some were clearly handwritten but others were not—some of the works were present in multiple copies, each identical to the last in every way. “These are printed,” he said, struck with awe.
“That’s right. I know a man in Tyr with a press. Printed right under old Kalak’s nose, in fact, and smuggled out with caravans. Now, of course, he can operate freely, and will until some other tyrant solidifies his position there. But for the moment.… it’s a different world.”
“But not here in Nibenay.”
“Oh, not here,” the man agreed. “Here the tyrant hangs on.”
Aric didn’t like that sort of talk. Nibenay had a reputation as a tyrant, it was true. And it was his law that could punish Aric simply for knowing how to read. But the Shadow King had been pleasant with him, had invited him to share in an adventure that could even elevate Aric’s status in life, if all went well. He knew all the arguments—Nibenay maintained the barbaric practice of slavery, he ruled the city with a merciless hand, the rights of individuals were sacrificed to the whims of the state. And for the most part, he agreed with them. He just found it hard to reconcile them with his positive experience of the king himself, only the day before, and he didn’t want to be party to any treasonous discussion.
“And the adventurer logs?” he asked, changing the subject.
The man swept to the far wall. “Here,” he said, indicating a cabinet with a fluid gesture of his long-fingered hand. “What location interests you? Balic? The Ringing Mountains? Perhaps the Hinterlands?”
“Surely no one has visited the Hinterlands and returned to write about it!”
The man touched the side of his nose, nodding his agreement. “It could well be that this one is miscategorized,” he said. “It should, perhaps, be kept with stories and legends.”
“I expect so.”
“Still, you might be surprised. The yearning to adventure often seems to come with a desire to share the experience in writing.”
“These must be exceptional people,” Aric said. He could read passingly well, but writing was far more difficult for him. Although he would embark on a long journey, mere days hence, he did not expect to have the ability or inclination to write about what he saw. He would save his tales for the Blade and Barrel, or else to entertain customers while they waited for his services.
“Is there a particular place you want to read about?”
“Actually, I’m not certain what my destination is. Have you anything about a place called Akrankhot?”
The man’s smile faded. It was only an illusion, surely, but it almost seemed like the flame in the lantern dimmed, giving the room a more somber aspect. “I’ve only ever seen one reference to it in writing,” he said. “And that the journal of a man looking for it. The journal was acquired posthumously—do you know what that means? After his death. I knew a noble who was interested, and paid plenty of gold pieces for it. Not from me—I saw it once, held it in my hands, read a few passages, but never owned it.”