The Speaker and the senator rode on across the square. The people parted, making way for them. Hats were doffed. Wool tams and felt hoods were removed in respect.
Kith-Kanan kept his gaze serenely ahead. What had been a potentially dangerous situation had been reversed by the words of his old friend.
The cool rain felt good on his face. The air smelled sweet. Though nothing had been decided or changed, Kith-Kanan felt a sudden rush of confidence. Whatever forces were at work, he felt sure they were in his favor. Hiddukel’s dire prophecies in the Tower of the Sun seemed like remote threats now.
“A question,” he said as they rode on. “Was that story you told the crowd true?”
Irthenie kicked her heels against her horse’s sides. The gelding broke into a trot.
“Some of it was,” she replied.
Steam hung in the air where the cold rain hit the baked stones of Pax Tharkas. All outside work had ceased, as it was too dangerous to cut stone or move blocks when the ground was wet. The grunt gang was not allowed to lie idle, though. Feldrin Feldspar was anxious about his rate of progress, so he put the convicts to work enlarging the tunnels being sunk into the mountainside beneath the towering citadel.
Ulvian hobbled about on a makeshift crutch. His right leg, the one that had been caught by the runaway granite block, had stiffened to the point where he needed a crutch to get around. He wasn’t excused from work however, so he limped through the dim, limestone tunnels, carrying waterskins to the other grunt gang members.
Near the end of one long gallery, barely wider than his shoulders, he came upon Dru. Ulvian paused a few feet away from the laboring elf. A small lamp burned on the tunnel floor. In its brassy light, Dru’s chalk-covered body appeared ghostly.
“Here, friend,” said the prince. “Drink while the water’s still cool.”
Dru set aside his pick and took the skin. He pointed the spout at his lips and let a stream of cold water flow into his mouth.
“Don’t take it all. There are others who will want a drink.”
Dru let the prince take the nearly drained skin. “You puzzle me,” the Silvanesti said, leaning against the wall. The lamp threw weird highlights from below, making the elf’s lean, angular face look like a mask. “You are a prince, the son of a monarch, and yet you fetch and carry water like any base-born serf.”
“Hold your tongue! You may have saved my life, but I don’t have to endure a lecture from you!” snapped Ulvian, more like his arrogant, proud, former self.
Dru smiled thinly. “That’s better. That’s what I want to hear.” Clasping his pick, the sorcerer stepped over the lamp and stood nose to nose with the son of Kith-Kanan. “If you can behave like a prince and not a serf, we can be gone from this miserable prison. Are you with me?”
“In what?” was Ulvian’s derisive reply. “Shall we run away to the mountains, just so Feldrin’s watchdogs can hunt us down? I’m on my good behavior here. If I sacrifice that, I have no hope of gaining my father’s throne.”
“We have only to cause a little excitement. That will distract the camp long enough for us to get inside Feldrin’s tent and get my amulet.”
So they were back to that. Ulvian folded his arms, disgust evident on his face. “I won’t murder Feldrin. He’s a thickheaded old bore, but he’s honest.”
Dru’s smile was nasty. He turned and went to the low niche he’d already hollowed out in the soft rock. He tossed his pick aside. It rang dully on the dusty floor. Slumping against the wall, Dru said, “When are you going to wake up, Highness?” His tone dripped irony. “I have waited a long time for someone with whom I could ally myself. No one else in the grunt gang has any wit or breeding. But you and I, my friend, can go far together. You spoke of enemies. I can help you defeat them. The throne of your father can be yours, not in ten years or a hundred, but in two months. Perhaps sooner. With your leadership and my magic, we can make Qualinesti the most powerful empire in the world!”
His words held the prince’s attention. Without realizing it, Ulvian let the waterskin drop from his fingers. It sloshed to the ground.
“I’ve dreamed of the day I would see Verhanna and the Ambrodels groveling at my feet,” Ulvian whispered. “And the Crown of the Sun on my head.” The prince’s eyes were distant, beholding future glory. Visions of the empire he would rule, of the grand and opulent palace he would build, filled Ulvian’s mind. Power and glory, comfort and ease, riches beyond dreaming. His word would be law. The people would worship him as they now worshiped his father.
Cutting through Ulvian’s golden dreams, a rough voice from farther back in the tunnel called faintly, “Waterboy! Where’s that waterboy?”
Abruptly Ulvian focused once more on Dru. “If we can accomplish this without bloodshed, count me in,” he said grimly.
Dru bowed his head. “As Your Highness wishes. I shall be very careful.” Then he quickly gave Ulvian a precise list of the things he’d need. It was a short list, but a puzzling one.
“What on Krynn can you do with a pound of white clay, some chips of coal, a span of leather thong, and a copper brazier?” the prince asked, confused. “None of them is rare or guarded. Why don’t you collect them yourself?”
The sorcerer’s gray eyes glittered like diamonds in the half-light. “You may not realize it, my prince, but I am closely watched. No one dares kill me, but I dare not do anything to cause suspicion, or my limbs would be fettered and I would be consigned to a deep, dark hole.” He gestured at the rough limestone walls. “Like this.”
Ulvian left him there. As he wended his way to the main tunnel under the central citadel, he mulled over the possibilities. Dru was dangerous, but a potentially powerful ally. Ulvian smiled in the dark tunnel as he limped along. Let Dru believe he was a vainglorious fool. That was a useful illusion. The time might come when Ulvian would no longer require Dru’s services….
Rough hands seized his shirt front. “Here!” bellowed a harsh voice. “Here he is, lads!”
Ulvian was dragged into a side tunnel and flung to the floor. His bruised leg knifed with pain. Through the gloom, he saw three grunt gangers standing over him. Two he knew well—the Kagonesti Splint, and a human called Brunnar. The third was another Kagonesti he knew only as Thrit.
“We been waiting an awful long time for our water,” snarled Splint. “The damn dust down here is thicker than soup.” He planted a foot on Ulvian’s back. “So where’s the water?”
Painfully the prince dragged the waterskin from beneath him. It was snatched from his grasp by Thrit, who reported that it was empty.
“I think our little waterboy needs a lesson,” Splint growled, and kicked the prince in the ribs. The three tall figures closed in.
Dru swung his pick energetically at the limestone around him. He had no interest in working hard for his captors; the physical activity was simply a reflection of the state of fevered excitement in his mind. His time in this unnatural prison could be measured in days, perhaps only hours. Soon he would be free! Surely his patron god had sent that fool of a prince to be the instrument of his deliverance.
A sound in the passage behind him made him pause. Pick in hand, Dru whirled. The feeble glow of the fat-burning lamp didn’t penetrate beyond the bend in the tunnel some six feet away. He waited. The noise came again, a scraping, dragging sound. Carefully the sorcerer bent down to take up the lamp, his eyes never leaving the black passage.
A hand, pale and slim, came into view on the dusty floor. Dru crept forward until the lamplight fell across the form of Prince Ulvian, sprawled on the ground. Blood matted his unkempt beard, and one eye was swollen shut.
Dru knelt. “Your Highness! What happened?”
“Splint…Brunnar…Thrit…beat me.” Ulvian’s lips were swelling, making speech difficult.
Dru dragged the prince to the far end of the tunnel and propped him against the wall. After making certain no one was around, the sorcerer reached under the waist of his baggy trousers and brought out a small hide drawstring bag. He poured a little of its contents into his hand. A pungent, sweet smell filled the air.