Troy Denning: The Obsidian Oracle

Tithian stood in the anteroom of the White Palace, peering through a casement, counting the number of ships in Balic’s harbor. The port lay at the edge of the city, where a haze of silvery dust lingered over the bay, drifting as far inland as the inns surrounding the dock area. Still, the Tyrian king found the task an easy one, for the masts rose out of the murk like the charred boles of a burned forest.

“What’s your interest in King Andropinis’s armada?” inquired Tithian’s escort, a young man wrapped in the cream-colored toga of a Balican templar. He had a haughty chin, an upturned nose, and short hair as white as his robe. “Surely, at Tyr’s distance from the Silt Sea, you’ve no reason to worry about our navy.”

“I’ve no particular interest in the fleet,” lied Tithian, continuing with his silent count. “But I had not imagined your port would be so crowded. How many craft does your king have?”

“That’s not something we discuss with strangers,” replied the templar, taking Tithian by the arm. “Nor do we allow them to count our sails.”

Tithian jerked his arm free of the young man’s grasp. “In my city, you’d be flogged for such impudence!”

The templar showed no sign of concern. “We are not in your city, and you are not a king in Balic,” he replied. “Now, step away from the window.”

“I will-when King Andropinis is ready to receive me,” said Tithian, struggling to keep his temper under control. “If you touch me again, I’ll kill you-and I assure you, Andropinis will do nothing about it.” He slipped his hand into the satchel hanging from his shoulder.

The templar’s guards, a pair of flabby half-giants standing almost as high as the ceiling, leveled their wooden spears at the Tyrian’s chest. Dressed in leather corselets with white capes pinned over their stooped shoulders, the hairy brutes had slack-jawed expressions that did little to belie their slow wits. Tithian gave them a contemptuous sneer, then returned his attention to his escort.

“Give this to your master,” said Tithian. He withdrew a small medallion of copper that had been molded into an eight-pointed star. It was the crest of Kalak, the sorcerer-king from whom Tithian had usurped the throne of Tyr. “Tell him I have grown tired of waiting.”

The templar remained unimpressed. “I’ll relay your message-and you shall wish I hadn’t.”

With that, the man spun on his heel and left, leaving his charge in the custody of the half-giants.

“You made a big mistake, Tyr king,” said one of the brutes. “That was Maurus, Chamberlain to His Majesty.”

Tithian gave the guard a wry smile. “I think Maurus is the one who made the mistake.”

The king returned his attention to the masts. From what he could tell through the haze, the harbor seemed unusually full, with no empty dock space available and dozens of craft moored offshore. To fulfill his needs, he would require only a small portion of the armada gathered in the bay.

Now that he felt certain he’d be able to procure enough troops and ships, Tithian allowed his gaze to wander over the rest of Balic. The city shimmered with a pearly light, for its blocky buildings were faced in blond marble and its avenues paved with pale limestone. Encircling the White Palace’s fortified bluff were the pillared emporiums of the Merchants’ Quarter, as striking in their size as in the clean lines of their architecture. Beyond this district lay the dingy warrens of the Elven Market, the stadium, the workshops of the artisans, and the chamberhouses where most of the city’s population lived. All in all, Balic seemed a prosperous and pleasant metropolis, one which Tithian would have been glad to call his own.

One day, he chuckled silently, I might.

When Maurus did not return for several more minutes, the king allowed his thoughts to wander to the man who had been stalking him in the desert. Tithian had first learned of his pursuer when his spy, an elven desert runner hired to watch his back-trail, reported that a Tyrian noble of Agis’s description had been asking about him at an oasis. Despite the reasonable fee the elf had quoted for murdering the noble, the king’s heart sunk. Of all the men who might have come after him, Agis was the only one he could not bring himself to kill.

It was a flaw in his character Tithian did not understand. He made many excuses for his weakness, telling himself it would be foolish to assassinate such a valuable statesman. When that did not seem enough, the king reminded himself of Agis’s superior knowledge of agriculture, which made Tyr’s farms more productive than those of any other Athasian city. Other times, he thought of the riots that would be caused by the noble’s death, or of any of a dozen other equally valid reasons for leaving Agis alone.

Still, Tithian knew he was lying to himself. Agis had incited the Council of Advisors to defy the king in a hundred matters, from letting paupers drink free at city wells to converting royal lands into charity farms. Such insolence would have cost anyone else his life, but Tithian had always stopped short of murdering his old friend.

Even now, when Agis’s meddling endangered the most important endeavor Tithian had ever undertaken, the king could not bring himself to kill the noble. Instead of telling Fylo, whom Tithian had found seeking employment as a caravan cargo bearer, to kill Agis, the king had merely asked the oaf to detain the noble.

Tithian hoped he would not regret the decision. Agis had demonstrated many times that he could be as resourceful as he was determined, and even a giant might not hold the noble for long.

Given that possibility, the king thought it might not be such a bad thing if Fylo ignored his instructions and killed Agis. Then, at least his friend’s blood would not be on Tithian’s hands.

He banished the hope from his mind as quickly as it came. Such an accident hardly seemed a fitting end for a king’s only friend. Agis had not always been a political enemy, and there had been times that the noble had stood by Tithian when nobody else would. If the time came when his friend had to die, Tithian decided, it would be by the king’s own hand.

Agis deserved that much.

The chamberlain’s officious footsteps echoed down the hall, putting the king’s concerns about his friend out of his mind. When he turned away from the window, Tithian found a smug grin on Maurus’s narrow lips.

“King Andropinis normally addresses the Chamber of Patricians at this time,” the chamberlain said, a malicious glint flashing in his eyes. “He asks that you meet him there.”

Maurus and the guards led Tithian down a corridor lined by the lifelike statues of ancient statesmen, then across a broad courtyard to the White Palace’s marble-faced assembly hall. The building was perfectly square, with a colonnade of fluted pillars supporting an ornate entablature. Without awaiting an invitation, Tithian marched up the stairs, but before he could enter the building, the chamberlain scrambled past and blocked his way.

“Allow me to hold that for you,” said Maurus. Being careful not to touch his guest, he motioned at the satchel on Tithian’s shoulder.

Tithian opened the sack and displayed its interior. “As you can see, it’s empty,” he replied. “No reason for concern.”

Maurus did not move. “Nevertheless, I must insist,” he replied. “Things are not always what they seem, are they?”

“They seldom are,” Tithian allowed.

He reluctantly took the bag off his shoulder. Maurus’s suspicions were well-founded, for it was a magical satchel that could hold an unlimited number of items and still appear empty. Before leaving Tyr, the king had placed inside an ample supply of food, water, coins, and many other items he expected to need on his journey. Of course, the supplies also included a broad selection of weapons, but that was not why Tithian wanted to keep the sack in his own hands. He had something else inside that would convince the Balican ruler to give him what he wanted, and he had wanted to keep the bag so he could time the appearance of the items for maximum effect.