Don Bassingthwaite - Word of traitors

Chetiin was on him instantly, drawing his knife expertly across an exposed throat.

The sounds of combat from the camp were growing. Dagii turned for the game trail they had followed into the wood, pushing his way through tree branches and undergrowth. For the first time, Ekhaas saw the arrow-meant for Marrow-that protruded from high on his shoulder, lodged in armor and flesh. “Dagii!” she called after him. “You’re wounded. Let me heal you.”

He glanced back at her, then reached over his shoulder and snapped the shaft of the arrow between his fingers, breaking it off short. He threw the fletched wood to the ground. “Heal Marrow,” he said. “Follow when you’re able. Chetiin, stay with Ekhaas. Watch for more ambushers.” Then he turned again and plunged on through the trees.

Ekhaas looked at Chetiin, but the goblin elder only jerked his head at Marrow. Her ears laid back flat, Ekhaas turned to the panting worg, pressed her hand against the beast’s wounded flank and sang as she tugged on the arrow embedded there.

25 Sypheros

There’s no sign of the rod,” said Daavn. “And no sign of Geth. Maabet, Tariic, he shouldn’t have been able to walk away from the fall he took, but he did. The guards I have searching haven’t found him. No one has seen him. The streets were practically empty this afternoon-anyone who was out had gathered to see you after your coronation.” He pursed his lips and added, “If we could be more specific in our description, it might help. ‘A wounded shifter wearing a black steel gauntlet’ might jog more memories than just ‘a wounded shifter.’”

“No,” Tariic said.

The lhesh stared out of the window into the night. Unlike Tariic, Makka found more to look at inside the chamber than out. The final transition of power in Khaar Mbar’ost seemed to find a reflection here. What had been Haruuc’s royal quarters were now Tariic’s. Old trophies of war had been shuffled out and luxuries brought in. Makka couldn’t have guessed where the rich goods came from other than somewhere beyond Darguun’s borders. Thick carpets in strange patterns. Furniture carved with delicate vines and flowers. Small chests of hammered metal inlaid with bright stones. Sweet-scented candles of uncommonly smooth wax in stands of fine ironwork. All had been haphazardly placed or tumbled about the room, abandoned when Tariic had ordered the servants out.

A grin of pleasure spread across Makka’s face. He belonged to the Fury. He knew the currents of vengeance. When Tariic had told Pradoor about Geth’s treacherous theft of the Rod of Kings, asking if she knew any prayers or divinations to locate lost objects, he’d recognized the hands of the Six. Pradoor knew no such prayers.

As if sensing the smile, Tariic turned and met his eyes. His ears went back. “Pradoor, I permit your servant’s presence. I won’t suffer his insolence.”

“He isn’t my servant, Tariic,” said the old goblin. Pradoor perched on top of a spindly little table, her fingers idly tracing the deep carvings of the dark wood. “He serves the Six. Surely his insolence is no greater than yours.”

Tariic bared his teeth, speaking between them. “Have care, Pradoor!”

“Or what?” Pradoor turned white eyes in the direction of Tariic’s voice. “Perhaps you don’t believe you need to humble yourself before the Six, but you need me. My words brought you the people. My words can take them away.” She smiled and her blind gaze softened. “But there is nothing in that for me, lhesh,” she added. “Continue to show favor to the Six as you promised and I will be your most loyal councilor.”

Tariic’s eyes narrowed, but his ears and face relaxed a little. “You use me, Pradoor.”

“As you use me, lhesh,” said Pradoor, inclining her head. “Consider this my best advice: why do you seek the Rod of Kings with such vigor when you possess what you need? The rod you hold has power even I can feel. All accept it as if it were the true rod. Rule with it and find Geth in your own time.”

“The rod was a triumphant gift from my uncle to the nation. It is my duty to recover the true rod. It would be a shame upon him if I didn’t.” A harsher tone crept into his voice. “And as long as I don’t possess the true rod, there is the risk that the false rod will be revealed. I must have the Rod of Kings in my hands as quickly as possible.”

If Makka hadn’t been looking directly at Tariic-and if Tariic hadn’t been looking at Pradoor as he spoke, his reactions attuned more to her blindness than to anything else-he would have missed the momentary tightening of the lhesh’s face and the darting of his eyes to the false rod where it rested alongside the spiked crown of Darguun on a velvet covered sideboard.

The grin on Makka’s face slipped away. Tariic’s glance had the look of greed, of a hunter who had made a good kill, but still wanted more. Makka felt a twinge of unease.

Tariic seemed to regard the fading of his smile as nothing more than proper concern. The hobgoblin’s ears rose and he nodded to Makka. “Yes,” he said, “there’s nothing amusing in that, is there?” He gathered the tiger skin cloak that was still fastened around his shoulders and sat down in a nearby chair. “Until the rod has been retrieved, this matter is a secret. No one outside of this room is to know that Geth is being hunted. Daavn, find another explanation for the death of the guard he murdered on the stairs. The guards who were with you when he jumped-where are they?”

“Out in the streets. Searching for him.”

“Deal with them.”

There was a hard finality in his words. “Mazo,” said Daavn. “But people will start to wonder what’s become of Geth.”

Tariic sat back. “I have a solution ready,” he said, ears twitching. “One that Geth himself made possible and inspired.” He raised his voice. “You can come in now.”

A door opened and Geth stepped into the room.

Makka held back his rage, just as he had when he had faced the shifter before the coronation. To be so close to one of those he had sworn to kill and yet be forced to cooperate with him…

Yet something was different. Geth looked nervous, but not startled or ready to attack as he had before. He looked at them all in turn before his eyes finally settled on Tariic and he gave a little bow. Pradoor slapped Makka’s thigh.

“What’s this?” she demanded. “Who’s there?”

“Geth,” Makka growled. “But not Geth.”

Tariic frowned. “Perceptive.” He looked at Geth. “Well?”

“I only met him once,” Geth muttered. “I don’t have much to go on. It would be best if I stayed away from people who know him well. You think this is easy?”

“It’s easier than dying in a corner of my dungeon,” Tariic said. “Show them.”

Geth wrinkled his nose-then his face flowed and changed, becoming dusky-skinned and softly formed with wide eyes milkier than Pradoor’s. Makka’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “Wax baby,” he spat and Pradoor cackled.

The changeling looked more uncomfortable now than he had as Geth. He didn’t look any more uncomfortable, however, than Daavn. The hobgoblin’s ears flicked furiously, almost pulling back flat. He stepped in close to Tariic and tried to whisper in his ear. Makka caught some of his words. “You can’t trust a changeling, Tariic. They’re treacherous-”

Tariic pushed him back. “Daavn,” he said coldly, “this is Ko. Have you ever met before?”

Daavn drew a breath, then spread his hands. “If we have, I didn’t know it. You know what they say about changelings: they all look the same or else completely different-”

The lhesh cut him off. “Ko, have you ever met Daavn of Marhaan before?”