Amber and Iron Page 8

  “Bring Mina to me, and I will start your son’s soul on its journey to its next bloody conquest,” said the Lord of Death.

  “I will return with Mina,” said Zeboim, “and I will let you know what I find out about this Tower. I’m sure there must be some mistake. My brother would never deceive me.”

  Liar, thought Chemosh.

  “I merely told you as a courtesy,” he replied nonchalantly. “What Nuitari does or does not do with his Tower holds no interest for me.”

  Liar, thought Zeboim.

  “Until we meet again, dear friend,” she gushed.

  “Until we meet again,” said Chemosh suavely.

  “Ugh, how I hate that wretch!” Zeboim said to herself as she strode across the ocean floor. “I’ll make him pay!”

  “Conniving witch,” Chemosh muttered. “I’ll fix her.” He raised his voice. “Krell! You can come out now! Mina will soon be restored to us, and when she is, I want to be ready to act.”

  naware his life had been used as a bargaining chip by his goddess, Rhys remained in Solace, as he had promised Gerard. Several days passed after their conversation, during which time Rhys saw very little of the sheriff. Whenever he did run across him, Gerard would always rush past with a wave of his hand and the muttered words, “Can’t talk now, but soon. Very soon.”

  Rhys returned to his work at the inn, where he received a warm welcome from the inn’s proprietor.

  “I’m glad you’re back, Brother,” said Laura, wiping her hands on her apron. “We missed you, and not just for cutting up potatoes, either, though no one else around here can cut them into those neat little squares like you do.”

  “I am pleased to be back,” Rhys said.

  “You have a way about you, Brother,” Laura continued, bustling about the kitchen. She lifted a lid and a gush of spicy steam rolled out of a kettle. She peered into the pot, dipped in a spoon, and shook her head. “Needs more salt. Where was I? Oh, yes. You have a kind of calm that spreads over everyone when you’re around, Brother, and evaporates when you’re not.”

  Lifting a ball of bread dough from a crock, she began to deftly knead it, working as she talked.

  “The day you left, Cook quarreled with the scullery maid, who was so upset she spilled a pot of ham and beans and nearly scalded herself. Not to mention the two fistfights we had in the yard, and then there was the youngster who took a notion to slide all the way down the banister from tree-level to ground and ended up breaking his arm. When you’re here, Brother, nothing like that ever happens. Everything just seems to go as smooth as my lady’s backside.

  “Oh, dear!” Laura clapped her hand to her mouth and flushed bright red. “I beg your pardon, Brother. I didn’t mean to be talking about my lady’s backside.”

  Rhys smiled. “I think you overrate my influence, Mistress Laura. Now, since it is close to supper, I should be starting on those potatoes …”

  Rhys sliced potatoes and onions, hauled water, and listened sympathetically to Cook’s complaints about the scullery maid, then he soothed the scullery maid, who didn’t know what she could ever do to please Cook. He enjoyed working in the inn’s kitchen. He liked the hectic times, such as dinner and supper, when he was often doing three things at once, working with his sleeves rolled up past the elbow, rushing about with no time to think of anything except worrying that the potatoes were underdone, or that the haunch of meat roasting on a spit over the open fire was cooking unevenly.

  When the crowds departed and the doors of the inn closed for the night, Rhys enjoyed the peace and quiet, though there were mountains of crockery to wash, and kettles and pots to scrub, and the floor to sweep, and water to haul, and bread dough to mix so that it could spend the night rising. The simple, homely tasks reminded him of his life at the monastery. His arms elbow-deep in sudsy water, he would wash out ale mugs and reflect on Majere and wonder what the enigmatic god was doing and why he was doing it.

  When Rhys ended up breaking a mug, he realized that he was still angry at Majere and that, far from abating, his anger was being fueled by the god’s continued stubborn presence in Rhys’s life. Like some spoiled and ill-behaved child whose parents persist on coddling him no matter how much he misbehaves, Rhys did not deserve the god’s care of him; he felt guilty accepting it when he couldn’t return it.

  He came to almost resent the emmide. Yesterday he had tried leaving it behind in his room, only to find he felt awkward and uncomfortable without it, almost as if he were walking through Solace naked, and Atta was so bothered by its absence (she kept halting to stare back at him with a puzzled expression), that he eventually gave up and went back to fetch it.

  He had other trials of faith. Sometimes Laura would send Rhys to the market to do the daily shopping, if she was too busy to go herself. On his way, he would pass by the street known among the citizens in jest as “God’s Row.” Here the clerics of the various gods of Krynn were building new temples of worship to welcome back the gods who had long been absent from the world. The temple of Majere was a modest structure located about halfway up the street. Rhys would often see Majere’s clerics working in the gardens or walking about the grounds, and he was sorely tempted to enter the temple and thank Majere humbly for his care of his unworthy servant and to ask the god’s forgiveness.

  Whenever he thought about doing this, whenever his feet started to carry him in that direction, Rhys would see again his brethren lying dead on the floor of the monastery, their bodies twisted in the agonies of their death throes. He would think of his brother and all those his brother had duped and murdered. Even Zeboim—cruel, arrogant, willful, and unreliable as she might be—had done more to help Rhys to find answers to his questions than the good and wise Majere. Rhys would turn away from the temple and return to the business of buying onions.

  While Rhys was chopping vegetables and wrestling with his god, Nightshade roamed the streets of Solace, keeping an eye on the Beloved. Atta accompanied the kender, keeping an eye on Nightshade. Atta did not have much work to do to keep the kender honest. Nightshade was particularly inept at the time-honored and much celebrated (among kender, at least) art of “borrowing.”

  “I’m all thumbs and two left feet,” Nightshade would admit quite cheerfully.

  He wasn’t very good at borrowing because he wasn’t all that interested in the things that interested other kender. He wasn’t curious enough, he supposed, or rather, he was curious, just not about other people’s possessions. He was curious about their souls, especially those souls who had not yet advanced onto the next stage of their life’s journey. Nightshade had the ability to communicate with such spirits, be they lost and wandering, angry, unhappy, vengeful, or destructive. He could also, as Rhys had told Gerard, see the Beloved for what they were—walking corpses.

  Sometimes, however, the kender’s hands would take on a life of their own and start to think for themselves, and then they would find their way into someone’s pocket or purse or absentmindedly stuff a bag of kumquats down the kender’s pants’ leg or carry off a pie that was reduced to crumbs before Nightshade became conscious of the fact he hadn’t paid for it.

  Atta had been taught to keep a close watch on the kender, and whenever she saw Nightshade stand too close to anyone or veer off toward the baker’s stall, the dog would swiftly interpose her body between that of the kender and the potential victim and herd the kender gently back onto the straight and narrow.

  Thus it was that Nightshade was able to steer clear of the sheriff’s deputies and concentrate on his search for one of the Beloved in order to set a trap for it.

  He was, unfortunately, successful.

  Three days after their meeting, at about midafternoon, as Rhys was dicing potatoes, Gerard shoved open the kitchen door and thrust his head inside.

  “Brother Rhys?” he called, peering through the steam. “Oh, there you are. If Laura can spare you, I’d be glad of your company.”

  “Go along, Brother,” said Laura. “You’ve done work enough for
six monks this day.”

  “I will be back in time to help with dinner,” Rhys said.

  Gerard cleared his throat. “Uh, no, you won’t, I’m afraid, Brother.”

  “We’ll make do,” Laura said. As Rhys was removing his apron, she frowned at Gerard. “You take care of him, Sheriff.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Gerard, fidgeting while Rhys hung up his apron and rolled down his sleeves.

  Laura wiped her face with a flour-covered hand. “I’ve seen you, Sheriff, and my brother, Palin, with your heads together, talking in whispers. You’re up to no good, sir, both of you, and I don’t want you dragging the Brother here into it.”

  “No, ma’am,” said Gerard. “We’ll be careful.”

  Latching onto Rhys, Gerard hustled him out of the inn.

  “Everything’s ready,” he said, as they hurried down the long flight of stairs. The kender and Atta stood waiting for them at the bottom. “Nightshade’s found a candidate. We’ll set the trap tonight.”

  Rhys felt chilled. He would have much preferred being back at his work in the kitchen. “What does Palin Majere have to do with this?” he asked sharply.

  “Well, aside from the fact he’s the Lord Mayor of Solace and it was my duty as sheriff to inform him of any danger threatening our city, he is—or was—one of the most powerful sorcerers in Ansalon. Before that he was a White Robe mage. I wanted his advice.”

  “I’ve heard he renounced the magic,” said Rhys.

  “That’s true, Brother,” Gerard said, adding, with a wink, “but he hasn’t renounced those who practice it. Here we are, Nightshade. Where are you taking us?”

  “Over to the bridge stairs,” said Nightshade. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Sheriff, but he’s one of the Vallenwood Guards. You probably know him. His name is Cam.”

  “Cam! Damnation!” Gerard swore, his brow darkening. “Are you sure?”

  Nightshade gave a solemn nod. “I’m sure.” He rested his hand on Atta’s head. “And so is she.”

  Gerard swore again. “This is going to be hard!” He frowned at the kender. “I hope to heaven you’re wrong.”

  “I hope so, too, sir,” said Nightshade politely, then added in a mutter beneath his breath. “But I know I’m not.”

  “What is a Vallenwood Guard?” Rhys asked to distract Gerard, who was taking this news very hard.

  “They guard the stairs that lead up to the walkways,” Gerard explained, pointing overhead to the narrow bridges that ran from tree branch to tree branch. This was a busy time of day and crowds of people were walking the bridges, either going to and from their treetop homes or frequenting the businesses that were built in the trees.

  “With the city growing so rapidly, there came to be too many people tromping about on the bridges. They weren’t built to carry such a load. Boards came loose and fell down on people’s heads. One of the swinging bridges almost collapsed. Several ropes gave way, causing the bridge to sag suddenly. People were hanging on for dear life.

  “We decided to limit the number of people who go up there. Either you have to own a house up top, in which case you’re given a pass, or you have to prove that you have business up there. The guards man the bottom of the stairs and keep track of who goes up and comes down.”

  They came within sight of the wooden stairs that led up into the tree branches. Two young men, both wearing green uniforms marked by an embroidered vallenwood leaf on the breast, stood at the base of the stairs, asking people questions, and either allowing them to ascend or sending them on their way.

  “That’s him,” said Nightshade, pointing his finger. “He’s one of the Beloved.”

  “Which one?” Gerard asked, eyeing the kender. “There are two young men standing there. Which one is the Beloved?”

  “The one with the red, curly hair and the freckles,” Nightshade answered promptly.

  “That’s Cam, all right,” Gerard said with a sigh. “Dammit to the Abyss and back again!”

  “I’m sorry,” Nightshade said. “He has a really nice smile. He must have been a good guy.”

  “He is,” said Gerard glumly, “or rather, was. What about you, Brother? Can you verify the kender’s claim?”

  “If Nightshade says he is one of the Beloved, then I take his word for it,” Rhys replied.

  “What about Atta?” Gerard asked.

  They all looked down at the dog. She stood alertly at Rhys’s side, and they could all see her gaze was fixed on the red-haired young guard who was chatting and laughing with two girls. A low growl rumbled in her chest. One corner of her lip curled.

  “She agrees with Nightshade,” said Rhys.

  Gerard glowered. “Forgive me, Brother, but you’re asking me to trust the word of a kender and the growl of a dog. I’d feel better if I had your opinion. I know young Cam, and I know his parents. They’re good people. If I’m going to have to apprehend him, I want to know for sure he’s one of these Beloved.”

  Rhys stood, unmoving. “I am not at all certain I like this, Sheriff. What kind of trap are you proposing we set?”

  Gerard didn’t answer. Instead he gestured over to where young Cam was talking and laughing with the young women.

  “He may be arranging to meet one of those girls this very night, Brother.”

  Rhys still hesitated, then said, “Take Atta away. If she sees me going near one of the Beloved, she might attack him. I will meet you back at the inn.”

  When Atta was out of sight, Rhys gripped his staff and walked over to the stairs. He knew what he was going to find. Neither Nightshade nor Atta had ever been wrong before. He walked up to the young man, just as he and the young women burst into laughter.

  Seeing Rhys approach, Cam turned from his flirting to attend to his duty.

  “Good afternoon, Brother,” he said, giving Rhys an engaging smile. “What is your business up top?”

  Rhys looked directly into the young man’s green eyes.

  He saw no light, only shadows—shadows of hope unfulfilled, shadows of a future that would never come to pass.

  “Are you unwell, Brother?” asked Cam, placing a solicitous hand on Rhys’s arm. “You don’t look good. Perhaps you should sit here in the shade and rest. I could bring you some water.…”

  “Thank you,” said Rhys, “but that will not be necessary. I will rest a moment here where it is cool.”

  Several vendors had put up stalls near the bridge stairs to take advantage of the near-constant traffic. This included an enterprising seller of meat pies, who had set up tables and benches for the convenience of his customers. The two young women with whom Cam was talking were supposed to be selling ribbons from their stall, though at the moment they were doing more giggling than trade.

  “Suit yourself, Brother,” said Cam, and he turned back to his conversation with the young women.

  Ignoring the glares and pointed remarks of the meat pie vendor, who did not like non-paying customers taking up table space, Rhys sat on the bench and listened to the conversation Cam was having with the two girls. He did not need to listen long. One arranged to meet Cam this very night.

  Rhys rose to his feet and took his departure, much to the gratification of the meat pie vendor, who bustled over quickly to where the shabby monk had been sitting and dusted off the bench

  hys found Gerard and Nightshade standing outside the inn in the company of two people, both of them strangers to Rhys.

  “Well, Brother?” Gerard asked.

  Rhys had no need to answer. Gerard could tell by the expression on Rhys’s face that the news wasn’t good. He swore and angrily kicked at a clod of dirt with the toe of his boot.

  “The young man arranged to meet one of the young women at a place called Flint’s Lookout tonight, an hour after Darkfall,” Rhys reported.

  “We can discuss business later. You forget that I await the pleasure of an introduction, Sheriff,” said one of the two strangers.

  “Mistress Jenna, Head of the Conclave of Wizards,” said Gerard, “and
this gentleman is Dominique Helmsman, Holy Warrior of Kiri-Jolith. Brother Rhys Mason, former monk of Majere.”

  “Former monk?” repeated Mistress Jenna with a quirk of her eyebrow.

  A woman in her later years, Mistress Jenna was still alluring, still able to fascinate. Her eyes were large and lustrous; the fine lines around the eyes seemed to fade in the light of their splendor. She was dressed in red velvet robes trimmed with gold and silver. Jewels sparkled on her fingers. The pouches she wore at her waist were made of the finest leather, hand-painted with fanciful flowers and beasts. A very fine emerald hung from a golden chain around her neck. Mistress Jenna was not only one of the most powerful wizards on Ansalon, she was also one of the wealthiest.

  “I’ve never met a ‘former’ monk of Majere before,” she continued archly, “and you must explain why your robes are a rather unusual shade of green.”

  Rhys bowed but remained silent.

  “Brother Mason has found favor in the eyes of Zeboim,” said Gerard.

  “Not too much favor, I take it,” said Mistress Jenna, eyeing Rhys’s sea-green robes with amusement.

  “You are fortunate in having Zeboim’s regard, Brother.” Dominique Helmsman stepped forward to hold out his hand. “Far better to have the Sea Witch for you than against you, as my people know well.”

  Dominique had no need to name his people. His surname, Helmsman, as well as his jet-black skin, proclaimed him an Ergothian, a race of ship-builders and sailors who lived on the island of Ergoth in the western part of Ansalon. Because Ergoth was an island and its people dependent on the sea for their living, the Ergothians built numerous temples to Zeboim and were among the most dedicated of her followers. Thus it was that even an Ergothian Holy Warrior of Kiri-Jolith, god of Light, could proclaim his respect for the dark and capricious goddess of the sea and feel no conflict.

  Rhys had heard of these paladins of Kiri-Jolith, god of righteous war, though he had never before met one. Dominique looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was tall and muscular; his face was handsome, though he seemed somewhat stern and unapproachable, as though he were constantly reflecting on the serious side of life. He wore a brown and white surcoat emblazoned with the head of a bison, the symbol of Kiri-Jolith, over glistening chain mail. His black hair was plaited in a single braid that hung down his back, as was the custom of his people. He carried the longsword that was the sacred weapon of the god buckled around his waist in a scabbard etched with holy symbols. The knight’s hand was never far from his sword. By this and other signs (a yelp from Nightshade), Rhys judged the sword to be a holy artifact blessed by the god.