Dhulyn narrowed her eyes, but it was clear his words were innocent of any hidden meanings as he continued with his message.
“Our purpose is to remove the usurper Lok-iKol Tenebro from the Carnelian Throne, and restore the Culebro Tarkin, Tek-aKet.” He cleared his throat, giving her a chance to respond, but she only smiled her wolf’s smile. “If we live, there will be time to see what will follow.”
Dhulyn crossed her arms and, with her head to one side, studied the former Steward of Walls. If their House was being watched, no one, not even Karlyn-Tan, could simply enter and not be seen to come out again. Fortunately, Alkoryn had thought of even this contingency when she’d gone to consult with him.
“When the moon has set, bring Dal-eDal to the Fountain of the Rivers. You will be met and taken to the Tarkin.”
“There are two others I believe you will want as well, for the information they may have, Mar-eMar Tenebro, and the Scholar of Valdomar, Gundaron.”
She raised her eyebrows. They were alive, then, and likely to stay that way if Karlyn-Tan had taken them under his wing. Still, she told herself, she had no wish to see either the Scholar or Mar-eMar Tenebro again.
“The Scholar, at least, was intimate with Lok-iKol, and has information that may be of use.”
Dhulyn sighed. Of course he did. And she was a blooded fool not to think of that herself. “Very well, you may bring them.”
Dhulyn found Parno and Alkoryn already seated with Tek-aKet at the table farthest from the low entrance, with Fanryn and Thionan half-sitting on the edge of another table against the left wall. This was another one of the many caves that honeycombed the earth under Mercenary House and even the Great Square itself. Dhulyn had no idea what its intended use had been, perhaps a storeroom for contraband; the uneven ceiling was low enough in places that she had to duck her head, and those taller than she, including Parno and Tek-aKet Tarkin, had found themselves seats as quickly as they could to remove the strain of standing hunched over. The Tarkin had chosen the two shortest of his guard to stand against the rock wall behind him. Dhulyn hoped the sweat on the face of the blond on the left came from too much clothing, and not the enclosure sickness.
Instead of a large council table, such as could be found in the public meeting room in the House above them, here were half a score of small round tables, scattered over a floor leveled with sand and inlaid cobbles, each with chairs or stools to allow three or four to sit, making the place resemble nothing more than the taproom of a small tavern. All it lacked were windows and a serving bar. Ganje, water, bread, and dried fruit had already been laid out on the tables.
Dhulyn was alerted by noises in the passages behind her to the arrival of Cullen of Langeron, a lean, wiry man with steel-gray hair and the feather tattoo covering the left side of his face. The ceilings did not allow for Cullen’s Racha bird, Disha, to ride in her accustomed place on his shoulder, and Dhulyn was intrigued to see that the bird nevertheless accompanied her Partner, walking on the ground almost under his feet in the manner of a playful cat. The Cloud went immediately to Tek-aKet and saluted him with the formal bow of an ambassador.
“Don’t stand on ceremony, Cullen of Langeron,” Tek-aKet said. “At the moment I’m Tarkin of nothing but this room.”
“On the contrary, Tek-aKet Tarkin,” the Cloudman said sharply. “It is precisely because you are Tarkin of more than this room, that ceremony will be observed.” The two men locked gazes, and after a moment Dhulyn saw a loosening of the tension of Tek-aKet’s shoulders, a lessening of the darkness in his eyes. Guard yourself better, she thought, make your thoughts harder to see. The Tarkin of Imrion nodded, just once, as if in answer to her thoughts, and gestured to seats at the nearest tables.
“I have just been telling our host that most of the army is away on the borders to the south and west, keeping the Kondrians honest. I don’t know how many might come to us.”
“I believe we may have time to put that to the test,” Alkoryn said. He signaled to Fanryn Bloodhand.
“The latest news,” Fanryn began, “is that the Anointing and Dedication scheduled for the new moon has been postponed. Lok-iKol has sent for the Mesticha Stone, and tells people he’ll wait for its arrival. What this means, no one knows, but it’s only the last and strangest of the changes the latest days have brought us. As we know,” Fanryn said, tossing her hair back out of her face and accepting the cup of ganje Thionan had brought her, “the first few days found the Houses of Jarifo and Esmolo coming and going in the precincts of the Dome, giving themselves airs about the court and the city itself.”
“It seems there was to be a wedding,” Thionan added, “between Lok-iKol and Riv-oRiv Esmolo.”
“She’s young,” Tek-aKet said. “Too young to marry in any case.”
“Too young to marry, but not too young to be promised in marriage.” Parno drew their attention as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It’s a good move,” he added. “Buys the support of an important House without really committing himself to anything.” He shrugged. “A great deal can happen between now and the time the girl can actually marry.”
“Well, the wedding’s no longer spoken of,” Fanryn said. “Now both those Houses have taken down their flags and flowerets, pulled their men off the streets, closed up their enclaves. Like those other Houses who were neither for you nor against you, Lord Tarkin, they now bide their time, waiting to weigh Lok-iKol’s power, waiting to see who they should salute. What’s changed them, though, that we can’t find out.”
Disha the Racha bird suddenly hopped from the floor to the back of an unoccupied chair. As if it were cause and effect, Cullen spoke, his soft voice cool and dry.
“So the Houses are playing their tiles carefully. There’s nothing new in that,” he said.
“But if the Houses have withdrawn their support, it may be we have a chance to regain the Throne if we act quickly. I’ve sent out word through the old network,” Alkoryn added, “letting people know that you’re alive, Lord Tarkin, and that you will return. Soldiers and guards alike are presenting themselves at safe contact points. One who’s come to us quietly with no fanfare and on foot so as to draw no attention is Fen-oNef Penradoso. He says to tell you that he doesn’t forget his promise to your father, nor yet the one he made to you. If you want Lok-iKol dead, say the word.”
Tek-aKet exchanged looks with those around the table, returning Parno’s broad smile with one of his own. Tek-aKet’s skin looked less bleached, Dhulyn thought, and the muscles of his face had regained their youthful firmness. This was what he needed to hear; that there were those who had believed in him, who were willing to support him still.
“He’s a tough old man, Fen-oNef,” he said, still smiling. “And I’ve no doubt that he would try. But it’s too dangerous.”
“Exactly what I told him. And it’s too dangerous for him to house the would-be soldiers who keep turning up. One of the things we must think of, is a place to gather troops.”
“What of the Jaldeans,” Dhulyn said, leaning forward. “And the Marked?”
Fanryn’s eyes flicked at the Cloudman, her question as clear as if she’d spoken it aloud. How much did they know? Dhulyn shrugged. It no longer mattered, she thought. As the Clouds revered the Marked, she was probably safer with them than with anyone besides her own Brothers.
“There’s a mystery there somewhere.” Fanryn shook her head. “At first, there was great rejoicing from the Jaldean Shrines, and people were talking about the dream of the Sleeping God as if they were about to join it.
“But now petitioners are being turned from the shrines, told to come back, and when they do, they’re turned away again with excuses and soft words. There are no services or meditations, and the priests aren’t seen in the streets. Beslyn-Tor has not been seen in over two days-not even by his own people-and some others who were believed touched by the god are also conspicuous by their absence. People are wondering what has happened to the promises the Jaldeans were making before the fall of Tek-aKet Tarkin. The very people who were so quick to support them, are now murmuring against them.”