Pillad turned to go back down the stairway, moving silently lest Ewan should notice him.
“First minister!”
Pillad took a breath, then turned. “Forgive me, swordmaster. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Not at all. Join me.” Ewan faced the bay once more, his expression bleak. “You heard that the fighting had begun?”
“Yes. I was in the city.”
Ewan looked over at that.
No sense in lying to the man. Perhaps candor could regain some of the trust he had lost. “I frequent a tavern there. The duke has little use for me anymore, and I prefer to be outside the castle.”
The swordmaster nodded, his gaze returning to the warships. “These are difficult times, First Minister. Many of us are frightened. None of us knows who to trust anymore.”
“You include yourself in that.”
“Yes.” The man’s grey eyes flicked Pillad’s way for just an instant. “I’m sorry. You’ve done nothing to raise my suspicions, but I have them just the same.”
“Because I’m Qirsi.”
“Yes. All Qirsi are suspect now. Surely you understand that.”
“Of course I do,” he said, and meant it. Abruptly, he knew what he would do, what he had to do. The Weaver would be angry with him, as would Uestem. The risk to all of them was great. But he couldn’t go on this way. War had come to Galdasten, and even Pillad, who knew little of such things, could see that the Eibitharian fleet was being decimated by Braedon’s ships. If he wished to be of use to the Weaver and his movement, he needed to win back Renald’s trust. Quickly. He could think of only one way to do so. “I understand perfectly well, swordmaster. That’s why I went to speak with the duke just now, but his soldiers wouldn’t allow me in to see him.”
Ewan looked at him again. “I don’t follow, First Minister. Has something happened?”
“I’m afraid it has. I should have come to you sooner. I see that now. I’ve suspected for some time, but I couldn’t prove anything.”
“Suspected what?”
“You have to understand, swordmaster, I have no desire to be hated by my people, nor do I wish this man ill. But I can’t ignore what’s happened.”
“First Minister, please!” the swordmaster said, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Tell me what’s happened.”
Pillad swallowed, as if deeply troubled by what he was about to say. Actually, for the first time in so long, he was enjoying himself. Let him think twice about speaking to me as if I’m some common Qirsi juggling flames in the Revel or serving drinks in his little tavern.
“As I said a moment ago,” he began, resting his hands on the stone wall, lowering his gaze, “I’ve spent a good deal of time recently at a tavern in the city. It’s called the White Wave, and it’s a Qirsi establishment. I’ve noticed the barkeep there eyeing me strangely at times, as if he wished to speak with me. Today he finally approached me. He asked me why I spent so much time in his tavern, why I wasn’t with the duke. I told him to mind his own affairs, but then he told me that he’d heard some saying I’d lost the duke’s confidence.”
“Did he say who?”
“No. But that’s not the worst of it. I tried to deny that this was true, but he wouldn’t believe me. ‘If the duke still confided in you,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t be here so often.’” Pillad shook his head. “He has a point, I suppose. This is my own fault. The next thing I know he’s offering me gold, telling me that he can help me get back at the duke for his faithlessness.”
Ewan’s eyes were wide, his face nearly as white as a Qirsi’s. “He’s with the conspiracy?”
“So it would seem.”
“You’re certain?”
“As certain as one can be about such things.”
The swordmaster pushed away from the castle wall and started toward the stairs, grabbing Pillad by the arm. “We have to tell the duke.”
“He won’t believe me! He thinks I’m a traitor!”
“You’re telling him of a Qirsi renegade. You’re offering him a chance to learn a great deal about the conspiracy and its members. If it turns out that you’re right, and this man is a traitor, the duke will have no choice but to trust you again.”
A chance to learn a great deal. . “What if the barkeep claims that I’m a renegade as well?”
“Are you?”
“Of course not, but-”
“Then don’t worry about it. Torture will make a man say almost anything; the hard part is separating lies from the truth. The dungeonmaster has done this before. He’ll learn what he can from your barkeep.”
Pillad eyed him briefly, then nodded, wondering if he had made a terrible mistake.
“Come along, First Minister. I’ll make certain that the duke sees you.”
There were dirty cups everywhere and more than a few spills that needed cleaning, but Mittifar didn’t mind, not after a night like this. He would have expected that the war would chase men back to their homes, and if that didn’t, then certainly the rain, which continued to deluge the city, swept by winds that seemed more appropriate for the snows than the planting. He had even gone so far as to send his serving girls home early, thinking to save himself the price of their wages. With a war coming, there were bound to be many slow nights in his future.
But while he had thought to stay open for a handful of his regulars, who came in every night no matter what, Mitt soon realized that he had miscalculated badly. By the time the guards on the city walls rang the gate close, the White Wave was packed. Rather than hiding from the war, it seemed that Galdasten’s Qirsi wished to take comfort in his tavern, drinking his ale and eating his food. Perhaps they sought refuge from their fears in the company of others. Perhaps they thought to get their fill tonight, before the emperor’s soldiers began their siege. Whatever the reason, Mitt spent the entire evening running about the place like a puppy, chasing down orders and drained cups. Escaping the noise and pipeweed smoke for a moment in the alley behind his tavern, he spotted a boy wandering about, picking through refuse. Mitt gave him two silvers and sent the lad to fetch his servers from their homes, but they never came. He was on his own, and though he was exhausted by midnight, and the place was still full, he took some solace in the fact that every qinde left on his tables belonged to him. He paid no wage this night, and he shared no gratuities. He’d be cleaning the tavern until dawn, and would have little chance to sleep if he was to open on time in the morning, but he’d easily clear three hundred qinde tonight.
“It looks like there’s been a war in here.”
Mitt turned at the sound of the voice, startled. He could have sworn that he had locked the door when the last of his patrons left.
Uestem stood in the doorway, his hooded cloak darkened by the rain. He was smiling, but as always, something seemed to lurk beneath his apparent good cheer. The merchant had brought Mitt into the movement, had paid him his first gold, and for that the barkeep would always be grateful. When at last Qirsi ruled the Forelands, and Mitt received his reward for serving the Weaver’s cause, he would have Uestem to thank. But just as the merchant’s smile was a mask for something more unsettling, his gifts carried a cost. Over the past year, much to Mitt’s dismay, the White Wave had become a center for all the movement’s activities here in Galdasten. When Uestem wished to speak with others who served the Weaver, he did so here. He had turned Galdasten’s first minister over a cup of Mitt’s ale, and so, in a sense, was responsible for the fact that Pillad returned here each day, drinking his Thorald golden and endangering everything for which they had all worked so hard.