Dryad-Born
Page 122
Kiranrao killed another sentry on his way out, leaving the man crumpled in his bones. He did not even bother lingering to taste the man’s memories. It was not a great distance to the Romani hideout. They were lurking all around the camp, awaiting orders to launch a raid or strike at the enemy’s supply lines. They were waiting for him to return with news of the King’s death. They had waited in vain.
He released the pommel of the sword and shrugged off the magic that hid him from the sight of others. He would sleep in a bed tonight. In a bed on a wagon. He wanted to get drunk. He craved it with a great thirst. He would not give in to the craving. Not tonight. He would plot the king’s death again. He would find a way to stop the assault. He would rally. He always did.
As he approached he found the Romani alert, as always. Beckett was a Preachán with a sharp nose. He was digging beneath his fingernail with a jeweled spike.
“He’s here,” Beckett said, nodding to the unhitched wagon at the far edge of camp.
Kiranrao looked at the little man, scrutinizing his face. “What?”
“I said he’s here. Arrived a little while after you left. Offered a bet that you wouldn’t succeed.”
Kiranrao’s scowl made some of them step back. “And how many of you craven dogs took that bet?”
Beckett flicked a rind of fingernail away. “No one bets against Tyrus of Kenatos.”
Kiranrao shut the door of the wagon, narrowing his eyes at the small candle flame illuminating the face of Tyrus. The Paracelsus was a large man and he seemed to dwarf the size of the wagon interior. There was a half-wince of pain in his expression.
He has pain in his back from a knife wound that did not heal fully. It was a death blow but he survived it. Below his shoulder blade. His neck is exposed. He has magic protecting him but if you move quickly, you can kill him before he brings it to bear. See his right hand?
“How did you find me?” Kiranrao asked softly, glancing at the strange brass cylinder half-hidden behind the big man. Was it a weapon or a defense?
“I know how to find those I seek,” Tyrus replied evasively, as Kiranrao expected he would.
“I should kill you now. You are at a disadvantage.”
A small smile. “A scholar’s ink lasts longer than a martyr’s blood.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It is what has always motivated me, Kiranrao. I care not for ducats or duchies. I want to leave a legacy in this world. I want to be known as the man who stopped the Plague. You will help me achieve this.”
Kiranrao leaned back against the door, studying the Paracelsus quizzically. “Why would I care to do that? If you could not tell, I have my own problems to sort through.”
“Because, as the Romani like to say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Tyrus leaned forward, his expression haggard yet intense. “Your enemy is not the King of Wayland, Kiranrao. He is only the Arch-Rike’s puppet.”
Kiranrao stepped closer, smelling the other man’s scent for the hint of fear. He was so close. One thrust from Iddawc would end him. It would end all of his tricks and mischief. What toys and trinkets did he hide within those robes?
“And you can bring down the Arch-Rike?” Kiranrao asked with silk in his voice.
“When the Plague is conquered, the Arch-Rike’s power will fail. With no more threat of death, do you think people will willingly submit to living in that pus-pool of a city? It is truly a prison, Kiranrao, as you well know. Only those confined there are confined voluntarily. Fear keeps them inside its walls, nothing more. Remove the fear and you remove the prison. When the Arch-Rike falls, his power falls. And so does his grip on the King of Wayland’s leash.”
Kiranrao rubbed his finger on the edge of the wooden wall. “You know as well as I do that the Arch-Rike will still hold power even if the Plague ends. Men like us do not yield power. It must be forced.”
“How does it feel, Kiranrao?”
“You grow tiresome, Tyrus. Perhaps I will kill you now.”
“Your weakness is your lack of imagination,” Tyrus replied with a hint of arrogance in his expression. “You think that I am trapped here, come to barter with you for your aid but defenseless against you should you turn on me. I assure you I am not. My knowledge of the Paracelsus ways is invaluable to you. I know how to breach their defenses. More importantly, I know what the Arch-Rike secretly fears. I have a weapon against him.”
Kiranrao arched his eyebrows. “Another weapon?”
“This weapon is a person. You know of the Quiet Kishion. You abandoned us to him back in Silvandom.”
He released the pommel of the sword and shrugged off the magic that hid him from the sight of others. He would sleep in a bed tonight. In a bed on a wagon. He wanted to get drunk. He craved it with a great thirst. He would not give in to the craving. Not tonight. He would plot the king’s death again. He would find a way to stop the assault. He would rally. He always did.
As he approached he found the Romani alert, as always. Beckett was a Preachán with a sharp nose. He was digging beneath his fingernail with a jeweled spike.
“He’s here,” Beckett said, nodding to the unhitched wagon at the far edge of camp.
Kiranrao looked at the little man, scrutinizing his face. “What?”
“I said he’s here. Arrived a little while after you left. Offered a bet that you wouldn’t succeed.”
Kiranrao’s scowl made some of them step back. “And how many of you craven dogs took that bet?”
Beckett flicked a rind of fingernail away. “No one bets against Tyrus of Kenatos.”
Kiranrao shut the door of the wagon, narrowing his eyes at the small candle flame illuminating the face of Tyrus. The Paracelsus was a large man and he seemed to dwarf the size of the wagon interior. There was a half-wince of pain in his expression.
He has pain in his back from a knife wound that did not heal fully. It was a death blow but he survived it. Below his shoulder blade. His neck is exposed. He has magic protecting him but if you move quickly, you can kill him before he brings it to bear. See his right hand?
“How did you find me?” Kiranrao asked softly, glancing at the strange brass cylinder half-hidden behind the big man. Was it a weapon or a defense?
“I know how to find those I seek,” Tyrus replied evasively, as Kiranrao expected he would.
“I should kill you now. You are at a disadvantage.”
A small smile. “A scholar’s ink lasts longer than a martyr’s blood.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It is what has always motivated me, Kiranrao. I care not for ducats or duchies. I want to leave a legacy in this world. I want to be known as the man who stopped the Plague. You will help me achieve this.”
Kiranrao leaned back against the door, studying the Paracelsus quizzically. “Why would I care to do that? If you could not tell, I have my own problems to sort through.”
“Because, as the Romani like to say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Tyrus leaned forward, his expression haggard yet intense. “Your enemy is not the King of Wayland, Kiranrao. He is only the Arch-Rike’s puppet.”
Kiranrao stepped closer, smelling the other man’s scent for the hint of fear. He was so close. One thrust from Iddawc would end him. It would end all of his tricks and mischief. What toys and trinkets did he hide within those robes?
“And you can bring down the Arch-Rike?” Kiranrao asked with silk in his voice.
“When the Plague is conquered, the Arch-Rike’s power will fail. With no more threat of death, do you think people will willingly submit to living in that pus-pool of a city? It is truly a prison, Kiranrao, as you well know. Only those confined there are confined voluntarily. Fear keeps them inside its walls, nothing more. Remove the fear and you remove the prison. When the Arch-Rike falls, his power falls. And so does his grip on the King of Wayland’s leash.”
Kiranrao rubbed his finger on the edge of the wooden wall. “You know as well as I do that the Arch-Rike will still hold power even if the Plague ends. Men like us do not yield power. It must be forced.”
“How does it feel, Kiranrao?”
“You grow tiresome, Tyrus. Perhaps I will kill you now.”
“Your weakness is your lack of imagination,” Tyrus replied with a hint of arrogance in his expression. “You think that I am trapped here, come to barter with you for your aid but defenseless against you should you turn on me. I assure you I am not. My knowledge of the Paracelsus ways is invaluable to you. I know how to breach their defenses. More importantly, I know what the Arch-Rike secretly fears. I have a weapon against him.”
Kiranrao arched his eyebrows. “Another weapon?”
“This weapon is a person. You know of the Quiet Kishion. You abandoned us to him back in Silvandom.”
