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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Since entering the Vizierate—a squat, ancient ziggurat—Druadaen had lost his sense of direction. This was no doubt an intentional consequence of its design. Some corridors were straight, others were curved. Its various rooms and halls and chambers were arrayed in a maze of clusters, each separated from the others by long, empty stretches of corridor.

Besides, it was difficult to see much, walking at the center of a square of the Hazdrabar’s own guard. All but one of the men was at least as tall as Druadaen, and their plumed helmets made it impossible to get more than fleeting glimpses of the featureless walls. They did not so much walk as march, every one of them more heavily built and broader in the body than he was. More daunting, they all moved lightly, surely: no heavy-plodding brawlers in this handpicked unit.

So Druadaen had no idea where he was when the contingent turned abruptly left, took three long strides and entered a room shaped like an arena, narrow skylights illuminating the center of it.

The back half of the arena was raised, a narrow aisle for scribes at the bottom, behind whom a much higher tier rose up. Eleven seats were perched atop it in an even arc, as well as a twelfth, well off to the left-hand side. Seven of the heavy wooden chairs were currently occupied by men of considerable years. The man in the twelfth, and less stately, side chair was only middle-aged.

Behind each of the eleven viziers, a veritable squad of advisors, scholars, assistants, and guards waited, and beyond them a motionless group of what Druadaen presumed were runners. A pair of guards also stood before each one down on the floor of the arena itself, in the center of which stood an empty table. The Hazdrabar’s lieutenant motioned Druadaen toward it, holding out a hand for his sword.

Druadaen removed the scabbard from its baldric, but did so as he walked toward the table.

Most of the guards started toward him, but as Druadaen held the sword to his side, hand firmly around the center of its scabbard, two of the older viziers motioned them to stillness.

Druadaen placed the sword on the table and then walked around to stand in front of it, stopping two paces closer to the viziers.

“You stand behind the table, brute,” muttered one of the guards who’d started forward.

Druadaen glanced over his shoulder. “The weapon is to my rear, and if by some feat of acrobatics I could reach it before you stop me, I would be further away from the august gentlemen of this council. So you tell me: all things considered, am I not in the place where I present the least threat?”

“Filth, you shouldn’t have your sword at all,” another guard growled, leaning forward.

“Stop your growling, dog,” the leftmost vizier muttered irritably. “He refused to appear before us without the sword. He agreed to lay it aside as he came before us. So, if his respect for our rules and our authority is wanting, his attention to our insistence upon safety is apt.” The vizier turned his almost black eyes upon Druadaen. “Still, you are willful, Outlander.”

Druadaen nodded at the mixed messages in that comment. It verged on rebuke, but the vizier had used “outlander,” which was marginally more respectful than “foreigner,” which was in turn better than “barbarian” or “savage.” “I apologize for seeming defiant, Respected Vizier. But I gave an oath not to be parted from that blade. And if the cost of that oath had been to forfeit the honor of appearing before you, then I would have had to pay that cost.”

The grumbles among the viziers combined grudging respect, impatience, and scorn for such childish trifles as “oaths.” The same vizier rapped his signet ring on his onyx side table. “Outlander, you give your name as Druadaen. This name is unknown to us. What is its root?”

Druadaen was grateful that the first question was simple to answer truthfully without conveying any meaningful information. “I do not know the exact origins of my name, Respected Vizier. Its sound is similar to some words in old Tyrmcysan legends, but beyond that… ” He concluded with a shrug but remained alert to any sign of a short report being made to any of the viziers. If there was a wyrdward—or mantic, or master of some other mystic art—who could discern not merely untruths but any intent to deceive, they now had reason to alert their masters.

However, most of the viziers were occupied with appearing bored, sipping wine, or rolling their eyes at the impossibly unrefined provincial who had come before them. Druadaen made note of the three who were not indulging in such distractions: the speaker, the very old one at the center of the arc of viziers, and the middle-aged one occupying the twelfth chair set apart from the rest.

The speaker frowned. “So you are from the lands near Tyrmcys?”

Druadaen shook his head. “No. I have merely heard of it. It is actually quite far to the west.”

Another of the viziers, a very thin one, leaned forward abruptly. “So you are from the Godbarrows, then?”

“Beyond that. It is a very far land, farther than the mountains on the edges of your maps.” Again, all true… strictly speaking.

One of the eye-rolling viziers frowned and pointed a chubby finger at Druadaen. “No one has asked you about the quality of our maps. We are asking for the name of your town.”

Druadaen shrugged again. “I am not from a town.”

“So you told the Hazdrabar’s numerous, witless seneschals. Then give us the name of the closest town, foreigner!”

He chose the village closest to where he’d grown up in Connæar. “Houênne.”

“Never heard of it!”

Druadaen shrugged. “It would have been very strange if you had.” Again, entirely true.

The one who had spoken initially laid his hands flat upon the arms of his chair. “You requested this meeting. It is unprecedented.”

“So was my means of making the request,” Druadaen deadpanned.

“You know the significance of those fragments?”

“I know what others told me.”

“To whom did you show it?”

“A merchant, chance-met on my travels.”

“And what was his name? And city of origin?”

“Again, I did not share mine and so did not learn his.” Druadaen saw and responded to irritated stares. “It is not an unreasonable precaution, for a traveler about to enter an unknown land.” Or who wishes to protect a fingerless antiquarian who wants to stay well clear of the affairs of captains and kings.

“Very well,” said the vizier who was the apparent spokesperson for the group, “just tell us where and how you came by these shards you presume to be important to us.”

As if I’d be here if they weren’t. But he answered, “Certainly,” with a deep nod and then launched into the complete tale of his encounter at the hilltop ruins. He added the aftermath he had seen at the watchhouse, but by putting it second, led them to believe—without ever claiming—that it took place after his battle with the abomination. He naturally left out any mention of Aleasha.

Then came the part of his tale he was most hesitant to include: the encounter with the three men who’d ambushed him at the camp. Initially, there had been as many reasons to leave it out as include it, but given the unexpected alacrity with which the viziers had convened, the three reasons to share it became decisively compelling.

Firstly, having tested his martial experience, Druadaen suspected that beyond the exchange of information, the Vizierate might have further employment in mind. If so, the outcome of the campsite ambush might prove useful in securing the coin needed for daily life and his attempts to answer an ever-expanding list of questions. Of course, the actions of the velene and the sword would have to remain unmentioned.

Secondly, the episode at the camp might help correct the rest of his tale’s one possible flaw: a strange lack of complications and spurious details. As it stood now, the interval between his encounter at the ruins and his arrival in Sarmasid left so great a silence that some vizier, acting on either suspicion or spite, might decide to ask questions that required Druadaen to either lie or demur. However, if he included the story of the ambush, that vacuum was filled and his tale became convincingly detailed and messy.

Lastly, sharing the story might ultimately gather as much information as it gave. If, as Aleasha had suggested, Sarma had worries about that region, the viziers might reveal much through their comments or questions. If so, this council was an ideal place to play dumb and learn more.

As soon as he began to unfold the tale of the ambush, their reactions confirmed his hunch about their concern with the region or the powers that might be abroad there. Significant looks were exchanged in the chamber.

By the time he concluded, several of those glances became accusatory glares. The thin vizier who’d asked Druadaen if he was from the Godbarrows jabbed a finger at his colleague who had called the Hazdrabar’s lieutenants “seneschals” and deemed them “witless.” “Did I not say the watch post at the Haze needed funding? Did I not foretell that the Sentinels were too weak to man it?”

The accused vizier waved a dismissive hand. “They are of no consequence and their order was an expense we could ill afford. And for what? If they were so thoroughly dispatched as this barbar—er, foreigner claims, then a few more of them with slightly better equipment would not have changed the outcome. As it is, our investment in them was perfectly balanced.”

“They died, to a one!”

“And in doing so, warned us of the probable use of the Haze.” His voice became evasive. “And so, suggests a connection to other recent concerns.” He shot a glance at Druadaen. “Are you sure you found nothing else at the watch post? No tracks leading away? No documents? No strange writings or rubbish?”

“No tracks or strange rubbish. And I would not know strange writing if I saw it, Respected Vizier, not being familiar with the scripts of these lands. About which: if those men were an order of sentinels, what were they guarding?” He knew the answer—the reference to the Haze had established that—but if he was to learn more of their concerns and to conceal his own connection to it, it was necessary to feign ignorance.

The vizier who’d put the questions to him frowned, affronted as if a cockroach had spoken to him. However, his accuser provided the answer. “Those men are—well, were—the Sentinels of the Lorn: an order that watches for… for intrusions into the lands of Lorn Hystzos. They are from many lands, and this was their largest watch post.” He glared at his disinterested colleague. “It is doubtful that they shall recover from the loss of so many senior members of their order.”

Druadaen affected an uncertain frown. “Were they there to keep watch over the ruins atop the hill?”

“No,” snapped the disinterested one without looking at him, “and you are here to answer questions, not ask them.”

The main spokesman on the far right leaned forward. “Let us turn to that part of your account, Outlander. The abomination: did you know in advance that it laired in those ruins?”

The inquisition that followed was not exactly brusque, but it was certainly brisk. Druadaen was somewhat surprised by the often painstaking nature of their queries about the monster’s anatomy and behavior. They ended by asking if he tried to communicate with it before attacking. Druadaen answered that, given several score of well-gnawed human remains and the creature’s violent response as he approached, its intent was clearly to consume visitors, not converse with them.

If they heard his sardonic quip, they ignored it in favor of debating among themselves about the creature’s particulars. Their primary concern was whether this was of the same breed that had been reported in the various Broken Lands, some of which were rumored to possess rude speech. But in discussing their depredations, they did not speak of them making an incursion, but rather of being “introduced.”

Druadaen risked further disapproval by echoing, “Introduced?”

The speaker preemptively held up a hand to still his more arrogant peer. “Yes, introduced. Why? Do abominations with the power of thought occur naturally in your land?”

Druadaen shrugged and told the pure truth: “In my land, abominations do not occur at all.”

This generated a buzz of surprise and consternation among all the viziers. The man in the smaller seat to the far left did not join in the discussion, but glanced at Druadaen as if just noticing him.

The speaker for the council turned back toward Druadaen. “But you know the name we use for them—abominations—so surely you have heard tales?”

“Well,” Druadaen said, thinking of the strange patchwork beast he and his companions had encountered in the subterranean library of Imvish’al, “I have heard tales, and I may have seen ancient examples of them”—which happened to be alive—“but I did not know that they were a species. Nor did I know your name for them until I shared my story with other travelers.”

“They are not a ‘species,’” the man in the smaller side chair stated sharply.

The speaker nodded. “It is our understanding that they do not breed naturally and that compared to smaller ones, larger and more capable varieties are less stable.”

Less stable?

“They were known to our distant forefathers, and many now still believe them to be mere legend. But it seems they are being reintroduced to our lands, either from the Cloudcap Mountains or the Shun beyond them.” He surveyed his fellows. “It is all the more ominous that it was found with this.” He held up the Annihilator shard with which Druadaen had set the present meeting in motion. “Tell us: what do you know of the Annihilators?”

“Beyond the name, very little.”

“How little?” snapped the perpetually annoyed vizier.

“That those who bore the name destroyed the great kingdoms of these lands and very possibly others beyond. But I am uncertain how much to believe.”

“But have you not seen their aftermath all around you?” the thin one asked. “Do you not have ruins in your land?”

Careful, now. “We do,” he said, remembering the First Consentium ruins he had seen on Arrdanc. “However, where I am from, they are less plentiful than those which I saw at the eastern edges of the Broken Lands.”

“You say you are uncertain of what you have been told about the Annihilators,” mused the spokesman. “Who did you ask and what did they tell you?”

There was no need to hide any part of the truth. “I did not broach the topic with chance-met fellow travelers. Rather, I waited until I reached Sarma proper, where I was resolved to find persons of higher station and education to ask about them. However, they did not deign to speak to me, except to command me to make way for their palanquins.

“So I sought out scribes, merchants, junior administrators: people who are accustomed to gathering and assessing information. But without fail, they made warding signs and fled at the mere mention of the Annihilators. Ultimately, I hit upon speaking to older persons without family, particularly those who had fallen on hard times.”

“Ah, so you relied upon beggars in their dotage. A singularly reliable source of information, I must say.”

Druadaen faced the dismissive vizier with a cool smile. “The primary impediment I encountered was a lack of willingness, Respected Vizier, so that was the first barrier to be overcome. About which: I have observed that age often makes solitary people garrulous for want of company. And those who have little coin feel the lack of it more keenly as infirmity takes a greater toll on their vitality. Only then did I spend the additional time required to determine if literacy had figured in their work and if their wits remained keen. So, if I gained information on the Annihilators, and I helped fill the pockets of a person in need, it was a beneficial exchange for both of us.”

The snide fellow adjusted his robes. “And what pearls of wisdom did your softheaded charity buy you?”

Druadaen let his smile become wider. “There were many. That the Annihilators were wanton killers from northern empires, and were ultimately struck down by the gods for their pride. That they were not of this world at all. That they were great wizards who despised and sought to exterminate all rivals to their power. That they were a scourge sent by the gods themselves, after which those deities became mute: a final punishment for the hubris of the peoples of that time. Quite a collection of pearls, is it not?” He turned to the spokesman. “But you began by saying that it was particularly worrisome that this abomination had these shards in its lair. Why? Are they creatures of the Annihilators? Does it portend their return?”

Several of the viziers sat straight at those words. “We have said too much,” the arrogant one huffed.

“For once I agree with Vizier Bapalkas,” the man in the side chair snapped. “You have all said too much. But now that you have, it would be foolish not to aim our inquiries directly at what we wish to ascertain, even if that requires sharing a bit more to get it.”

“Such as?” the thin one asked.

“Details of the ambush he recounts. Specifically, the nature of the wyrding the attackers used.”

Druadaen nodded. “I will share everything I remember.”

“And I will surely die of boredom where I sit.”

“Be silent,” hissed the man in the side chair.

“I am the Vizier of Prince Zetya—!”

“You are an over-padded, arrogant burden to this council… Respected Vizier. Now, Vizier Manakon, will you commence questioning the foreigner, or must I?”

The spokesman regarded the other man down a long, patrician nose. “Do not take airs with me, Circline Fasurem. My Prince—and his faction—will hear of such behavior with great displeasure.”

“I crave your pardon,” Fasurem lied in a monotone.

But Manakon had already turned toward Druadaen, as if the other man had evaporated. “Outlander, tell us every detail you recall of the ambush. Nothing is too small.”

Druadaen complied, leaving out the actions of the velene and sword. When he finished a quarter of an hour later, most of the viziers were leaning forward in their chairs. After a long moment of silence, they began jabbering without any regard for order:

“You heard the barbarian’s descriptions; that is magic of the old school. Those two were not wyrdwards or hedge-wizards.”

“Come now: you truly believe the sorcerers of the northern hills endure? After all this time?”

“Just because they have not moved openly upon the land, do you conclude that they remained in their hiding places until they were slain by old age?”

“No: by each other! That is their way!”

“His tale is nonsense. Every bit of it. Why would masters of the old art have a porter that repeatedly cries out that he is death-vowed? Insipid.”

“Well, is it impossible that they were Nightfall cultists?”

“Which you conclude just because one of their number cried out the mantra of their martyrs?”

“You mean, ‘their berserkers’—and you are conveniently ignoring that the one who worked an effect wore a purple-tinted robe.”

“You are saying a sorcerer wears the robe of a cultist? Absurd. They can’t be working together!”

“Unless they are one in the same, or have been united under the banner of this new warlord, Ancrushav. Which I’ve been speculating for—”

“It cannot all be chance. An abomination, agents of the Nightfall cult, the old arts, and the strange adventuress—all in the same time and place?”

“Perhaps those ruins are where she encountered the abominations first, drew others with her. Perhaps the one killed by the foreigner simply remained—or was left—behind.”

“And the group that ambushed the outlander: could they have been searching for her?”

“To what end?”

“Who can say? But her arts and theirs are more similar than different.”

“Which signifies what?”

“That she could be a threat, an ally, or a tutor.”

“Or that she misled them as completely as she later misled us, here in this very chamber.”

It wasn’t until the last one mentioned that the “adventuress” had been where he stood now that Druadaen was certain that the “she” of whom they were speaking was someone other than Aleasha. He had doubted it from the outset simply because he could not imagine her entering so decadent a place as Sarmasid—or being so convincing a dissembler. But if she wasn’t the adventuress, then he needed to know:

“Who is this woman of which you speak?”


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