After numerous fruitless encounters, Sevren knocked on yet another door. It was unbarred and swung open with the blow from his fist. Sevren peeked inside, expecting to find an empty room. Instead, he spied a worn-looking woman, bundled in rags, shivering in the dark interior. “Mother, are you all right?” he asked.
“Nothin’ the Dark Path won’t fix.”
“You want for a fire. ’Tis a cold morn. Can I help start one?”
“I want fer a son, but mine’s been took. Can ye get me ’nother?”
“Nay, but.”
“Then fire won’t help. It’s all Tug’s fault. Nuggle’s, too.”
Sevren decided to play the fool. “Did they take your son?”
“Robbed the dead, they did. Stirred up somethin’ best let be.”
“What did they stir up?”
The old woman glanced about fearfully. “Don’t know. If ye see it, ye’re took.”
“See what?”
“Nuggle brought it here. Took my Thom, it did.”
“He brought it from the corpse pit?”
“Aye.”
“Is it still here?”
“Nay. ’Tis gone. They say to town.”
“Is Nuggle here?”
“Dead. So’s my Thom. Ye don’t last long, once ye’re took.”
“Thank you, Mother. I’ll be back.”
“Why? There’s no point.”
Sevren went to pull some wood from an abandoned shack so he could make a fire for the woman. He realized the futility of his effort, but he did it anyway. When he had a small blaze going, with some extra wood to feed it, he thanked the woman again before departing. She said nothing, and seemed no happier
than when he had found her.
Sevren headed back to town, reviewing what he had learned. The sorcerer had come from the corpse pit, so it had to be Othar. He had stayed awhile in the shantytown, seizing spirits, before moving to Taiben. Sevren realized that most would dismiss the old woman’s talk as madness. I still lack proof. He wondered if any was obtainable. The nature of Othar’s power seemed to eliminate eyewitnesses. Sevren briefly imagined his fate if he had encountered the mage inside one of the shacks. The thought made him shiver.
Sevren wondered where Othar had gone. The palace was a possibility, but its gates were always guarded. That would prevent Othar from coming and going without notice. It seemed more likely that the mage was staying outside the royal walls. It occurred to Sevren that the sorcerer wouldn’t seize the spirit of whoever sheltered him, for that would quickly kill his host. That meant Othar was someone’s guest. Sevren speculated on why anyone would shelter the mage. Fear was a likely reason, but Sevren suspected Othar provided inducements as well. With loot from his thieves and the power to eliminate a man’s enemies, he had plenty of those.
Sevren reasoned that Othar was most likely staying with someone rich and powerful. But who? Sevren thought of a man who might provide a clue and headed for the municipal barracks. The chief of the municipal guard was a genial man who knew all the wealthy men who funded the force. He was also a gossip and fond of a morning ale. Sevren sought him out and found him in the guards’ common room.
“Well met, Furtag,” said Sevren. “Just the man I want to see. I have woman trouble. Mayhap you can help me.”
Furtag chuckled. “There’s no cure for that kind o’ trouble short o’ gelding.”
“I hope you know a gentler physic. Let me stand you for a mug as we talk it over.”
Furtag readily agreed and went with Sevren to a nearby tavern. There, Sevren told him that he was seeing a wench with a son she wished to become a servant. “She wants him a master with rising fortunes,” said Sevren. He flashed a bawdy smile. “She says she’ll please me if I please her.”
“Well, Balten’s star is surely rising. He became master o’ the Merchants’ Guild after Maltus jumped from the wall.” Then Furtag lowered his voice. “But tell the lad to keep away.”
“Why?”
“Balten goes through help too quick.”
“They leave because he’s harsh?”
Furtag spoke in a whisper. “They die.” Then he added, “Ye didn’t hear that from me.” Sevren shot him a puzzled look, and Furtag responded with a shrug. “Things happen, but they happen often.” Then he spoke in a normal voice. “Tumbar’s a good master, and I heard he’s looking for some help. He dwells on the Street o’ Woodshapers.”
Sevren grinned. “Thank you, Furtag. I’m sure my wench will be well pleased.”
Furtag returned his grin. “Then I hope she pleases well.”
Zna-yat pleaded to accompany Dar to the palace gates. Initially, she resisted the idea, thinking it would make a better impression if she came without an escort. But after she relented, Dar was glad she did. The idea of the mage lurking somewhere terrified her, and she was certain Zna-yat smelled her fear as they walked the winding streets. Dar kept a sharp eye out for Sevren, but he didn’t show.
The palace gates were shut and guarded when Dar arrived. After Zna-yat left, she spoke to one of the Queen’s Men. “I have a private audience with Queen Girta. Take me to her.”
“I’ve had no word of this,” replied the man.
“That’s because it’s a privy meeting. Your queen will confirm this.”
The man looked dubious, but escorted Dar through the gates and into the palace. There, he spoke to Lokung, who seemed equally surprised. The steward led Dar to a closed doorway and bade her wait while he entered it alone. He returned shortly. “Our Majesty will see you.”
Dar entered a room that featured a large window overlooking the courtyard. She bowed. “Queen Girta, thank you for seeing me. I’m glad for this meeting. We have much in common.”
“We do?”
“Mothers prize peace, while men often favor war.”
“First you became an orc. Are you now a mother also?”
“The urkzimmuthi consider all women mothers,” said Dar.
“A quaint idea.”
“Quaint or not, it’s true. And because mothers bring forth life, they’re loath to take it.”
“That’s very high-sounding, but why are you here?”
“I fear for your safety.”
“I feel safe enough,” said Girta.
“Feeling safe can be safety’s opposite. An unwary victim is easily slain.”
“I know what you’re going to say. You’re here to warn me of General Kol. He told me you would.”
“I know he’s your friend, but if you value peace, why take advice from a general? War’s his profession. And why let him mold your son into the late king’s image?”
Girta’s face reddened. “Leave the prince out of this!”
“I don’t wish to upset you, but when I saw your son, I was struck by his sword and military attire. It also seemed the General was overclose with him.”
“The boy’s lost his father.”
“A bloodthirsty father who taunted me by saying ‘Women lack the stomach for war.’ Does General Kol think differently?”
“He does. The General wants only to protect me and my son.”
“Once, he promised me protection.” “And you betrayed him for an orc.”
Sensing the futility of her argument, Dar chose another tack. “Before Kol arrived, did you have other confidants? Men and women whose judgment you trusted?”
“I did.”
“What happened to them?”
“It’s been a hard winter,” replied Queen Girta. “There have been many tragedies.”
“All random—or so it ^^Tis.”
Girta regarded Dar suspiciously. “What are you trying to say?”
“Don’t all those deaths have one thing in common? Weren’t all who died special friends to you?”
“No,” replied Girta. “General Zam and I weren’t close, and Lord Targ was no friend.”
“Did they oppose Kol?”
“Surely you can’t believe that.”
“I believe there’s a hidden hand at work. I don’t have.” The door opened, halting Dar in midsentence.
Girta smiled. “General Kol, you should listen to this.”