“Marcus,” Kit said, reaching out, “I think you should come. Now. I believe we have a problem.”
“Antea or Inys?” Marcus asked, already walking to the door. Yardem fell in at his left and Cary at his right. He swallowed the impulse to tell her to stay safe in the taproom. She’d traveled with him more than enough to make her own choices about what risks to take.
“Neither,” Kit said darkly as they passed into the cool night air. “I suspect this is much, much worse.”
In the square outside the palace, a dozen men stood in formal array under a banner of parley. At the center, a thin man in a brown robe held out one arm. In his other was a speaker’s horn. A small crowd had begun to form around them and at a little distance, like the audience at a performance.
“Listen to my voice!” the thin man shouted. “I come to deliver the world and the truth! The seat of Antea has fallen to the corruption of a false priesthood, and King Tracian of Carse is now the greatest hope for the true teaching of the goddess! Come out, my king, and we will deliver the world to you!”
“Well,” Marcus said. “God smiled.”
“I believe I know him,” Kit said. “If I am right, his name is Eshau rol Salvet. He came from the same village I did, but went to the temple two years before I was called to it.”
“Enemy of the goddess?”
“That I can’t speak to,” Kit said. “He was devout the last I saw him, but that was decades ago.”
“Listen to my voice, great king! I bring you victory and grace!” the priest called, and the square echoed with his voice.
“Where’s Inys?” Marcus said, walking quickly forward.
“Flying south last I saw him, sir,” Yardem said.
“Find him.”
“Yes, sir. Any thought how to do that?”
“Be creative.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll do that,” Cary said, and turned back, dashing into the night. Marcus looked after her, then at Yardem. The Tralgu shrugged.
“She’ll do that,” Yardem said.
“Fair enough. Can you go get the sword?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I picked a hell of a night not to carry the damned thing.”
“Did, sir,” Yardem said and loped away to the east and the holding company. Kit, at his side, opened his fists and closed them. Marcus put his hand on the hilt of his sword. The simple steel was good enough for most work, but the thin priest had men at his side, and five of them had blades of their own. One even wore boiled leather armor. Marcus wondered how many of them carried the spiders in their blood. At the palace, the high iron gates swung open and someone in a bright ceremonial armor of Tracian’s guard looked out at the crowd.
This wasn’t good.
“Eshau!” Marcus shouted, marching fast toward the group. “Eshau rol Salvet! As I live and breathe. Who ever thought to see you here.”
The priest turned toward him, eyes wide with surprise. Kit, trotting at Marcus’s side, murmured low, “What are you planning?”
“Planning to distract the bastard while I think of a plan,” Marcus said, then grinned and lifted a hand to the dozen grim faces turned toward him. “You must all be Eshau’s friends, yes? I’d say it’s a pleasure to see you all here, but truth is we weren’t expecting anyone.”
“Who are you?” the priest asked, his gaze shifting from Marcus to Kit and back again.
“Marcus Wester. General Marcus Wester, once was. Captain now. I’ve taken up mercenary work these last couple dozen years, but before that I was the one put Lady Tracian on the throne. King’s mother. So perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“No,” the priest said. “We are come from Kaltfel, city at the world’s center and true seat of the goddess. We bring the good word that her truth is at last revealed and to call the righteous men of Northcoast to defend her refounded temple against the false priests and vile pretenders who soil her name with their corrupt tongues. A terrible battle is coming, and we alone stand against the forces of lies and falsehood.”
To the south, something bright and silent happened, like lightning from a clear sky, but without the thunder. Marcus ignored it. Anything that wasn’t raining hell on his shoulders right now could wait.
“Yeah, well that sounds like a powerfully amusing pastime, it’s true. But I think you may find the exercise a bit disappointing. You see, we’re fairly short of righteous men just at the moment, and—”
“Who is this, at your side?” the thin priest said.
“I think you know me, Eshau,” Kit said.
“Kitap rol Keshmet. Apostate.”
A murmur passed through the assembled men. The one in armor drew his sword. It was simple blade. Workmanlike. And the man knew how to hold it.
“Apostate. Yes,” Kit said. “And it seems not alone in this.”
“I am no apostate,” the thin man said, lifting his chin proudly. “I am the one true path to her. I have seen the error the old Basrahip fell into. His pride led him astray, but the goddess is incorruptible.”
Marcus raised his hand. “To clarify? She’s incorruptible because she’s made out of rock. We went and checked, Kit and I. Now, here’s the thing. You need to leave. Now.”
“I will not be turned aside,” the thin priest said. A flash of lavender fire rose up into the air behind him, just the color the Jasuru cunning woman had made. Marcus felt a surge of mad hope.
“All right, listen to my damned voice for once,” he said. “There is nothing you’re going to get out of this city. Not in my lifetime. So you and your little set of religious here just turn around and walk back down the road that brought you.”
“What’s going on here?” a too-familiar voice asked from behind him. “Who calls for the right of parley?”
Marcus closed his eyes. “This would be a very good time to go back the hell inside, Your Majesty.”
“King Tracian,” the thin priest said, falling to his knees and spreading his arms. His eyes were glassy and bright. “I come to bring you word of your destiny. You are fated to bring the world to an everlasting peace, and I am your righteous servant.”
“What do you mean?” King Tracian said, stepping forward. He was in a long robe of red velvet, his expression confused but also intrigued. A dozen guards stood behind him, their swords at the ready.
“I bring no false parley,” the priest said.
“He does,” Kit said. “He brings false parley. Everything he says or believes is false. Not even a lie, but a mistake with roots so deep they could pierce the earth to its center.”
The thin priest’s jaw dropped, his eyes widened. For a long, terrible moment, the thin priest looked shocked, lost, and alone. It struck Marcus how odd it must be for a zealot to hear himself called a liar with the power of the spiders in his blood to know the enemy was speaking truth. Little wonder these priests were crazed. The thin priest’s face went dark with rage.
“You are an abomination! Kitap rol Keshmet, I name you Ensanyana! Black-tongue! Thing of darkness!”
“Thing of darkness?” the king said, taking a step back.
“They knew each other when they were boys,” Marcus said as the dozen men drew together, pulling what knives and swords they claimed. “It’s a very long conversation and stranger than you’d enjoy. Consider going back in your palace, eh? I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“Apostate!” the thin priest screamed, and a column of fire fell from the sky. Marcus shied back, the sudden heat an assault. Even closed, his eyes hurt from the brightness, and for a terrible moment he was in his nightmares again, running through the flame to cradle a wife and child already eaten by the flame. He stumbled back, his skin burning. Someone was screaming. He thought for a moment it might be a woman’s voice. Alys returned from the dead by some hellish trick of the spider priests. And then the darkness rolled back over him and the cool night breeze.