And of course it didn’t hurt that raising the ir’Wynarns back to the throne could only serve to increase the ir’Marktaros fortunes as well.
It had been easy to sway Zodal over to his point of view, and to get his idealistic younger-by-moments brother as embroiled in the cause as he was-he could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. And Zodal had always looked up to him, envying his easy confidence and his way with words. He always wanted to do everything his older brother did-up to and including drawing the ire of someone who wanted him dead.
Shaking the thoughts loose with a toss of his blonde head, Zoden leaned back into the velvet cushions and closed his eyes. If drink would not banish the demons that dogged him-and, by Olladra’s brimming tankard, he’d certainly tried that tack often enough in the past weeks-then maybe working on a new verse would.
He had been trying to write an elegy for Zodal, but the pain was still too fresh, and every attempt fell quickly into triteness. Perhaps an ode to Diani’s courage instead, though he doubted anything he came up with could compare with Delenn ir’Ovion’s seminal The Waiting Wyvern, a work written in the alliterative style first popularized, ironically, by clergy of the Flame around 900 YK.
Distant cousin of the dragons,
daughter of weak Daslin’s blood
Left by her fainthearted fathers
to flounder in an argent flood
Still the wyvern, ever wary,
waits and watches over all
No less a queen for her quiescence,
her quarrels grimly quiet fall
Amid insouciant Sovereign orphans
who from silver cliffs were spied
Piercing all who would despise her with
the poison of remembered pride
No, his own piddling efforts could not hope to capture his cousin’s splendor any better than that. Perhaps he’d be better off with the liquor, after all.
He was still debating when four people entered the cart, three human men and a shifter woman. Slitting one eye open, Zoden watched as two of the men, in House Orien uniforms, struggled to carry a heavy trunk between them. The other man, who wore silvercloth, gray leathers, and an ornate sword, surveyed the compartment and directed the porters over to a spot on the far wall.
“Sir,” one of the porters was saying, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have your things stored in the cargo cart? I assure you, our security is very tight-”
“No,” the dark-haired man replied. “That armor costs more than your security guards earn in a year. I’m sure you understand if I’d rather keep it here with me.”
“As you wish, sir.” They hauled the trunk over to the far corner and shoved it roughly against the wall. As they exited, the tall man handed them each a sovereign.
“How can you wear all that, when it takes two men to carry it?”
It was the shifter woman, who had taken up a spot on the couch opposite Zoden. Unlike the man, she wore old, stained leathers and a white tunic edged in silver. She kicked off dusty sandals and buried her toes in the thick rug, flexing and kneading her claws like a cat. When she turned to look at the man, her many intricate braids danced around her head like chestnut-colored vines. With everything about her lending itself to nature metaphors, Zoden would bet a golden galifar that she was either a druid or a ranger.
“It is the lightest of my burdens,” the man replied cryptically, taking a seat at the cart’s small dining table and digging out a worn copy of Avaroth’s Treatise on the Flame-the one written by Darmin, and not his shorter-lived grandson, Bec. Zoden had to stifle a laugh when he saw the shifter woman roll her eyes.
“Huh. I think I liked it better when you didn’t talk,” she said before turning to watch the waters of Scions Sound turn to fire under the rays of the setting sun.
As the rail began to move, Zoden closed his eye again and settled deeper into the cushions, letting the wine and the gentle motion of the cart lull him into a fitful slumber.
He awoke sometime later to the sound of two waiters wrestling a food cart into the compartment. The cat and the other two passengers were gone. Zoden assumed they’d gone across the hall to the sleeping quarters, though a quick glance out the window revealed a faint blush of pink that hinted at the approaching sunrise. He was surprised that breakfast was being served at such an early hour, but he supposed they must provide at least one meal during the lengthy trip from Flamekeep to Sigilstar regardless of what time the rail left the station, and judging from the light outside, they were nearing their destination. He’d traveled in the standard passenger cart on his way to Flamekeep and had taken his meals in the dining cart, which was always open to accommodate travelers, so he’d never even considered what the dining arrangements might be for those privileged enough to have their food brought to them, and on silver platters, no less.
Zoden stretched and sat up, reaching for his boots. The thought of food made his parched mouth water, and he wondered if they had anything not seasoned with the ubiquitous, and rather hot, thrakel spice. He preferred to work up to scalding the inside of his mouth over the course of the day, rather than having his taste buds scorched into uselessness with his first meal-an opinion, unfortunately, that most of his countrymen did not share.
As he pulled the left boot on, adjusting the slim dagger he kept hidden in a sheath there so it wouldn’t catch on his stocking, he noticed a few things amiss with the waiters. Their House Orien uniforms seemed too small for their hulking frames, and one had dark stains around the hem that not even the crew of the dining cart would have tolerated, let alone the elite staff assigned to the first-class carts. Come to think of it, those waiters looked a little too well-built to be just waiters. The rippling muscles he saw did not come from hefting trays, no matter how heavily laden they might be. In addition, they’d positioned the cart so that it blocked the door, and were taking an unusually long time with the various lids and covers, as if they were either unfamiliar with the set up, or trying to buy time-or both.
Thieves, he decided, making a show of pulling his other boot on while he considered his options. Were they making their way through the compartments, robbing each in turn, or were they here specifically for him? If the latter, there was some chance he might be able to call for help, but if it were the former … well, there were a lot of places those dark stains could have come from. The rightful owner of the uniform, say, or any of his fellow first-class passengers. Or all of them, though the man would have to be pretty talented to kill a dozen people with so little blood to show for it.
Probably here for him, then, so he might be able to attract some attention. He glanced around the room furtively, and his gaze fell on the trunk in the corner. Of course!
Pretending to struggle with his remaining boot, he muttered a few choice imprecations, then murmured a short phrase and blew, sending it out to the cart’s sleeping quarters.
Your armor is being stolen!
Hopefully the man hadn’t been lying about its worth, and wasn’t an insomniac who’d gone to wander aimlessly through the caravan of carts or to see if the lightning really would spark if he relieved himself on it, but Zoden couldn’t worry about it now. He had run out of time. The two thieves, tired of their charade, drew weapons from within the serving cart and advanced. Zoden pulled the dagger out of his boot and vaulted over the couch, putting the cushioned divan between him and his attackers.