Zeboim was struck dumb. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She glared at Chemosh, convinced he was lying, yet she glanced back uncertainly at the sea that seemed to quiver with her outrage.
“The Tower is not far from here,” Chemosh added, gesturing. “A stone’s throw. Look to the east. Do you recall where the Maelstrom used to be? About one hundred miles from shore. You can see it from where we stand—”
Zeboim looked beneath the water. Now that it had been pointed out to her, the god was right. She could see a tower.
“How dare he?” Zeboim flared.
Thunder shook the castle walls, causing Krell, cowering at the bottom of a well, to quake in his boots. The impetuous goddess prepared to leap headlong from the battlements.
“We’ll see about this!”
“Wait!” Chemosh shouted against the crashing roar of her ire. “What of our bargain?”
“That is true.” Zeboim reflected more calmly. “We have business to finish before I shred my brother’s eyeballs and feed them to the cat. You will free my son.”
“If you free Mina.”
“You will give me Krell.”
“If you give me the monk.”
“And you,” said Zeboim haughtily, “you must put an end to these so-called Beloved.”
“Am I to be denied disciples?” Chemosh demanded, aggrieved. “I might as well ask you to stop soliciting sailors.”
“I do not solicit sailors,” Zeboim flared. “They choose to worship me.”
The two stood eyeing each other, both of them thinking how to gain what he or she wanted.
Mina will at last be in my grasp, Zeboim reflected. I’ll have to turn her over to Chemosh eventually, but for a little while, I can use her to my own advantage.
Should I trust the Sea Witch with Mina? Chemosh asked himself, then thought, reassured, Zeboim does not dare harm her. I will keep her son’s soul hostage until we make the trade.
As for Krell, tormenting him has grown to be a bore, Zeboim realized. My monk is far more valuable to me—not to mention entertaining. I will keep him.
>Majere is a distinct threat, Chemosh was thinking. Zeboim is a minor irritant. If, as she claims, this meddlesome monk has switched his loyalties from the Mantis God to the Sea Witch, then Rhys Mason no longer poses a threat to me. I know how Zeboim treats her faithful. The poor man will be lucky to survive. And having Krell available to me instead of constantly hiding under the bed will be of considerable advantage.
As for this Tower . . . Zeboim moved on to the next irritant. I’m not surprised at anything that moon-faced little brother of mine would do. He’ll pay for his impudence, of course. I’ll shake his Tower to ruins! But why is the Lord of Death interested in a Tower of High Sorcery? Why should Chemosh care one way or the other? There’s something more here than meets the eye. I must find out what.
So Zeboim didn’t know about the Tower. Chemosh considered that interesting. I feared brother and sister were in league. Apparently not. What will she do? What can she do? Nuitari is not someone for even a sister to cross.
The sea rolled, and waves came and went as the two gods viewed this deal from every angle.
Finally, Zeboim said graciously, “I promise Mina will be restored to you. I know how to deal with my brother. Provided, of course, that you free my son’s soul in return.”
Chemosh was likewise gracious. “I could agree to that. I want Krell for myself. In return, I give you the monk.”
Chemosh is up to something. He is giving in too easily, Zeboim thought, eyeing him.
She is giving in too easily. Zeboim is up to something, Chemosh thought, eyeing her.
Still, thought both, I’m getting the best of this bargain.
Zeboim held out her hand.
Chemosh took her hand and they concluded the deal.
“Bring Mina to me and I will start your son’s soul on its journey to its next bloody conquest,” said the Lord of Death.
“I will return with Mina,” said Zeboim, “and I will let you know what I find out about this Tower. I’m sure there must be some mistake. My brother would never deceive me.”
Liar, thought Chemosh.
“I merely told you as a courtesy,” he replied nonchalantly. “What Nuitari does or does not do with his Tower holds no interest for me.”
Liar, thought Zeboim.
“Until we meet again, dear friend,” she gushed.
“Until we meet again,” said Chemosh suavely.
“Ugh, how I hate that wretch!” Zeboim said to herself as she strode across the ocean floor. “I’ll make him pay!”
“Conniving witch,” Chemosh muttered. “I’ll fix her.” He raised his voice. “Krell! You can come out now! Mina will soon be restored to us, and when she is, I want to be ready to act.”
5
Unaware his life had been used as a bargaining chip by his goddess, Rhys remained in Solace, as he had promised Gerard. Several days passed after their conversation, during which time Rhys saw very little of the sheriff. Whenever he did run across him, Gerard would always rush past with a wave of his hand and the muttered words, “Can’t talk now, but soon. Very soon.”
Rhys returned to his work at the inn, where he received a warm welcome from the inn’s proprietor.
“I’m glad you’re back, Brother,” said Laura, wiping her hands on her apron. “We missed you, and not just for cutting up potatoes, either, though no one else around here can cut them into those neat little squares like you do.”
“I am pleased to be back,” Rhys said.
“You have a way about you, Brother,” Laura continued, bustling about the kitchen. She lifted a lid and a gush of spicy steam rolled out of a kettle. She peered into the pot, dipped in a spoon, and shook her head. “Needs more salt. Where was I? Oh, yes. You have a kind of calm that spreads over everyone when you’re around, Brother, and evaporates when you’re not.”
Lifting a ball of bread dough from a crock, she began to deftly knead it, working as she talked.
“The day you left, Cook quarreled with the scullery maid, who was so upset she spilled a pot of ham and beans and nearly scalded herself. Not to mention the two fistfights we had in the yard, and then there was the youngster who took a notion to slide all the way down the banister from tree-level to ground and ended up breaking his arm. When you’re here, Brother, nothing like that ever happens. Everything just seems to go as smooth as my lady’s backside.
“Oh, dear!” Laura clapped her hand to her mouth and flushed bright red. “I beg your pardon, Brother. I didn’t mean to be talking about my lady’s backside.”
Rhys smiled. “I think you overrate my influence, Mistress Laura. Now, since it is close to supper, I should be starting on those potatoes ...”
Rhys sliced potatoes and onions, hauled water, and listened sympathetically to Cook’s complaints about the scullery maid, then he soothed the scullery maid, who didn’t know what she could ever do to please Cook. He enjoyed working in the inn’s kitchen. He liked the hectic times, such as dinner and supper, when he was often doing three things at once, working with his sleeves rolled up past the elbow, rushing about with no time to think of anything except worrying that the potatoes were underdone, or that the haunch of meat roasting on a spit over the open fire was cooking unevenly.
When the crowds departed and the doors of the inn closed for the night, Rhys enjoyed the peace and quiet, though there were mountains of crockery to wash, and kettles and pots to scrub, and the floor to sweep, and water to haul, and bread dough to mix so that it could spend the night rising. The simple, homely tasks reminded him of his life at the monastery. His arms elbow-deep in sudsy water, he would wash out ale mugs and reflect on Majere and wonder what the enigmatic god was doing and why he was doing it.