David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

“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.

“Can I help you with this mess?” the merchant asked, looking around the tavern and then picking his way to where Mitt stood.

“No, thank you. I’m used to it.”

“I would have thought this would be a quiet night.”

“I thought the same. That’s why the girls aren’t here.”

Uestem looked around again, nodded.

“I hear that you had some trouble with the first minister today.”

Mitt had been bending over to wipe up a spill, but he straightened now, his eyes narrowing. “How did you hear about that? There was no one here but me and the g-” He stopped, gave a small bitter laugh, and shook his head. “They’re with the movement, too.”

“One of them, yes.” The merchant raised a hand, as if anticipating Mitt’s next question. “I’m not going to tell you which, so don’t even ask.”

“Can you at least tell me if you turned her before or after she started working for me?”

The smile again. “The First Minister?”

Mitt didn’t often back down from a fight. He wasn’t particularly strong, nor did he wield the most potent of Qirsi magics, but he could hold his own against most men. Uestem, however, was one of the Weaver’s chancellors, which not only meant that he had tremendous influence within the movement, but also that he was a fairly powerful sorcerer. He wasn’t a man to be crossed, and both of them knew it.

The barkeep shrugged. “He’s been in here a lot recently, drinking several ales at a time. Thorald golden, not the Galdasten swill. I told him today that I thought he should drink less, and be a bit more frugal in his choice of ales, lest someone take notice of all the gold he’s spending in my tavern. He didn’t like me telling him what to do, but I expect he’ll be more careful the next time he’s here.”

“You did the right thing.”

“Thank you.”

“But you made him angry, more than you know.”

Something in the man’s voice. . It suddenly seemed that the air in his tavern had grown cold. Uestem hadn’t moved, but Mitt had to resist an impulse to back away from him. “But surely the Weaver will understand-”

“The Weaver is the least of your troubles, Mitt. Pillad went to the duke and accused you of treason. Even as we speak, Renald’s men are gathering in the castle ward, preparing to come here and arrest you.”

“I don’t believe you. Pillad would have spoken to his duke hours ago. Why would Renald wait until now?”

“I don’t really know. Perhaps he feared sending his men into a tavern full of white-hairs, not knowing which of them he could trust and which were with the conspiracy.”

Actually it made a great deal of sense. Gods, it was freezing in here. “Doesn’t Pillad realize that I’ll do to him exactly what he’s done to me? If I’m to hang as a traitor, he will as well.”

“I’m not certain that Pillad thought this through very carefully, Mitt. He was angry, and he needed to prove his loyalty to the duke. Knowing Pillad as you do, are you surprised that he couldn’t see beyond his wounded pride and his fear of Renald?”

The barkeep’s stomach heaved. “You won’t let them hurt me, will you, Uestem? I’ve served the Weaver well. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”