Morticai's Luck (20 page)

“It would be an honor, Prince Luthekar.”

Luthekar came close. Morticai tried his best to stare back defiantly.

“I want you to think very carefully, Arluthian,” Luthekar said. “Tonight, you shall be allowed rest, but starting tomorrow night, you shall wish that you had allowed Cwena to take both your mind and soul. I do not expect you to talk with me tonight. That will be better saved for tomorrow night, or perhaps the day after, once you’ve had a taste of how you shall die. I will allow you a choice, however. If you give me the information I am seeking, I shall make your death as painless as the Ritual allows. If not …”

Morticai spat in Luthekar’s face. Luthekar’s eyes narrowed. With his jaw set, he wiped it away. His muscles flexed in anger as he slowly drew his hand back and repaid Morticai with another backhand, given full force. Morticai’s world filled with blackness.

* * *

The doorkeeper at the Hilltop Tavern greeted Rylan and Geradon with a pleasant smile.

“Good evenin’ mates!” he hailed. “Do ye need a lamp or would ye be joinin’ the evenin’s entertainment?”

He gestured to the side door that led into the tavern; lively singing could be heard from the other side.

Rylan returned the smile. “I am afraid we must take a lamp, my friend,” he said. “We have much to do on the morrow.”

Nodding, the doorkeeper quickly lit a lamp and handed it to the waiting Geradon.

“Ah, well, then I wish ye a good night’s sleep, mates.”

“Thank you,” Rylan replied as they headed upstairs to their room.

“Locguard accent?” Geradon asked when they were beyond the doorkeeper’s hearing.

“Correct, almost,” Rylan replied, pleased.

“Almost!” Geradon exclaimed. “How can it be ‘almost’?”

“There was something else there, as well. Can you tell me what it was?”

They climbed several steps without conversation.

“Are you referring to his usage of ‘mate’?” Geradon finally asked.

“Indeed! Locguardians rarely use the term; however, here in Watchaven it is quite common. So either the man picked it up from living here, or perhaps one of his parents came from here and one from Locguard. Geradon, I do believe that in a year or so you shall be fairly good at distinguishing accents.”

They had reached their door. Geradon held the lamp up as Rylan unlocked it.

“Then,” Rylan whispered, “once you have learned to distinguish human accents I shall teach you how to distinguish corryn accents.”

Geradon grimaced, but Rylan didn’t notice. Turning to Geradon, he placed a finger to his lips, reminding him to be quiet. Geradon nodded and handed the lamp to Rylan, who was now in the lead. Rylan turned the lamp down and cautiously entered the room, heading for the door that led into their bedroom.

“He’s not here,” Geradon suddenly announced.

“What?” Rylan asked, turning the lamp up.

The door to Morticai’s room stood open. The bed still made. A note lay in the middle of Rylan’s worktable.

“What a waste of paper,” Geradon muttered, before reading it aloud. “
‘Have gone out. Should be back by morning. M.’
Good gods, who taught him to write?”

Rylan came and looked over his shoulder.

“Hm. Considering his background, you should be surprised he
can
write. And I would wager that he did not learn how in a Sanctum.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Geradon grudgingly agreed. “But he could have told us more. ‘
Should be back by morning
.’ Now that is a lot of information!”

Rylan scowled. “I agree. The city is far too dangerous now for him to be about at night.”

“And don’t forget,” Geradon said, “King Almgren had no idea who issued the order to have Morticai detained. The king may have rescinded the order, but we have no guarantee that whoever issued it will not issue another.”

“You are correct, of course, Geradon. Do not worry, I shall speak with Morticai about it first thing on the morrow.”

* * *

Morticai awoke with an involuntary moan on his lips. The temple was deserted, and the tall candles stood several inches shorter than he last remembered. His entire body ached, his head pounded, his shoulders occasionally spasmed, and his arms were painfully numb. He was certain that, had the chains not been holding him upright, he would have been too weak to do so alone.

He slowly tilted his head back to look at his wrists, which were stretched above him. They had quit bleeding, and only an occasional throb penetrated the numbness to remind him of the spikes. One thing was certain—he wouldn’t be slipping his hands through those manacles.

He found that by grabbing the chains above the manacles he could relieve a little of the pressure. Then he discovered that he could rotate his arms slightly at the shoulders; at least the chains would allow that much. It seemed to help awaken his arms, so he slowly turned his impaled wrists back and forth, gritting his teeth until his eyes were filled with tears. Finally he was assured that, should they lower his arms for some reason, he would not find them totally useless.

He carefully surveyed the rest of the temple. Everywhere he looked, he saw carved pictures of Droka. It wasn’t until Morticai spotted Glawres’s likeness that he realized the scenes were of Droka fighting the Levani. He scrutinized the scene with Glawres and finally determined that Droka was supposedly drowning Glawres, the patron Levani of water and the sea.
As if!
Morticai thought.

The only doors he could see were the huge golden doors he faced. He knew they had brought him in through a smaller door, somewhere behind him, but he could not turn his head enough to see it; besides, the effort increased the pounding in his head. He was glad that he could not see the large idol of Droka that stood behind him—the bas-relief carvings were depressing enough.

Morticai sighed. There was no way to escape his bonds. Had he been able to slip his wrists through the manacles, he could have reached the small pick sewn
into the hem of his pants—assuming it was still there. No, his only hope of escape would depend on the Droken unchaining his wrists, which seemed unlikely. Perhaps they would let him eat a last meal?

The likelihood of rescue seemed even more doubtful. Morticai cursed himself for not having told Nelerek his plans. At the time it had seemed too much of a bother. Heather would miss him in the morning, and she would certainly tell Nelerek. By now, he had to assume that his note had not reached Rylan. If that was the case, the Inquisitor would also miss him by morning, but he might or might not tell Coryden. There was a chance that Nelerek would remember that he’d mentioned Ellenwood’s estate at their last meeting—a chance. Again and again, Morticai turned the thoughts over in his head. His emotions swung like a pendulum from meager hope to despair and back, over and over.

His arms began to go numb again. Taking a deep breath, Morticai again grabbed the chains and began to twist his arms awake. He felt a small trickle of blood run down his right forearm. He found himself wondering if he could commit suicide by twisting his wrists inside the manacles, and then quickly pushed the thought from his mind. The trickle was small, and he realized that it would be close to impossible to move his wrists enough to catch a vein. He thought about the slaughtered cows that they put on hooks in the market, and then he shoved that thought away, too.

White specks danced before his eyes. He blinked, realizing that they had not come from within his weary mind. He looked to the ceiling, scrutinizing the anchors that held his chains. He twisted the chain again … and was rewarded by a few more specks of dust that drifted past him to the floor.

Morticai twisted harder and, this time, he pulled. His effort, however, was rewarded with a searing agony that shot down from his wrist, eliciting an unwanted cry and plunging him close to unconsciousness. He gasped in ragged breaths as the pain slowly ebbed. Fortunately, his cry seemed not to have been heard by any guards—he assumed that some were posted outside the doors.

He tried twisting again, more gently, but again, pain traveled down his arm, though not as severely as before. Blood flowed more freely now down his arm and he began to fear he might, after all, be able to bleed to death from the small punctures. His arm trembled and, in apparent sympathy, his shoulders spasmed. This time he was able to stay quiet, though the effort sent tears running down his face. He had squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that the headache had returned. For a long time, he just hung onto the chains and tried to relax and reclaim some strength. Finally, he was able to again twist the chains.

He twisted until he was once more claimed by despair. Only a pitifully small amount of mortar had fallen as a reward for his efforts. Exhausted, he eventually fell into a fitful sleep, only to be awakened almost immediately by the agony that claimed his wrists as his weight settled fully within the manacles. He thought about trying to wake-rest, but quickly threw the thought away. Even under perfect
conditions, he’d been unable to master the skill. It would be futile to try and use it now.

And so the pattern continued, and as the candles burned ever lower, he lapsed in and out of sleep in sporadic fits.

Chapter Thirteen

Rylan paced the makeshift study while a maid cleared the remains of breakfast from their table. Geradon impatiently thumped his quill against the edge of the inkpot as he waited for the maid to leave so Rylan could continue his dictation. At last, the maid closed the door and Rylan continued.

“ … if he is not at Northgate,” Rylan said, “then come here
immediately
. Underline ‘immediately,’ Geradon. Sign it and have that sent now. No, better still, I want you to hop a coach to Northgate. I want to make certain this gets to Richard now, and not six hours from now, if he is on duty.”

* * *

Nelerek had just finished his morning chores when the pounding began. He stepped out of his just-cleaned mews and onto the expanse of flat roof he used to weather his hunting birds. Looking over the edge of the roof he could see a coach parked below, but could not see the insistent knocker.

“I shall come down,” he yelled over the edge of the roof. The pounding ceased. He traveled back through the mews, into his upper loft and downstairs. Opening the front door’s spy shutter, he peered outside.

“Heather?” he asked, surprised, and promptly opened the door.

“We have trouble, Nelerek,” she immediately began. “Dyluth was to meet me at dawn this morning—he never arrived.”

* * *

Rylan had just started a list of places to search when he heard a key in the door lock. As the door opened, he realized that he had been holding his breath in expectation. He released it as Geradon entered the room.

“I suppose it was too much to hope that you were Morticai,” Rylan said, “and your expression tells me that he was not at Northgate.”

“You are correct, I am afraid, on both points,” Geradon replied. “I came ahead of the others so I could have a few moments with you alone.”

“The others? Captain Coryden?” Rylan guessed.

“Coryden, Dualas, Berret,” Geradon listed. “We shall be lucky if the whole patrol does not come,” he said cynically.

“Now, Geradon,” Rylan chided, smiling, “you must admit, their camaraderie is commendable.”

“It will at least give us a goodly number for searching—though I fear the worst.”

“I hate to hear you speak so, friend,” Rylan replied.

“I hope to be proved wrong. If you will permit, I shall sequester away in our room for a short while.”

“By all means,” Rylan said.

Geradon was still absent when Richard’s strong knock echoed from the door.

“Come,” bid Rylan.

Richard entered, followed by Captain Coryden, Sergeant Heimrik, Sir Dualas, and someone Rylan did not know.

“Inquisitor,” Richard began, bowing his head in respect, “I believe you know everyone who has come with me except Evadrel.” He gestured to the stranger. “Evadrel is the scout for Morticai’s patrol.”

Rylan nodded politely. Evadrel smiled, and returned the nod.

“Brother Geradon?” Richard asked.

“Is sequestered at the moment, seeking insight. He shall join us shortly,” Rylan explained.

“I have told them about my allegiance,” Richard said by way of apology.

“That is all right, Richard,” Rylan assured him. “I hope you will forgive our small deception,” Rylan said, addressing the unusually silent Coryden. “It was the only protection I could give Morticai while he was at Northgate. Richard is my personal guard.”

Coryden smiled ruefully. “I’m not offended.” He looked up at Richard. “I just wish we could keep him.”

Rylan gestured for them to sit down. “I fear that I became so caught up in our research that I allowed Morticai too much reign. He had been keeping me informed in advance of his activities, but his note caught me entirely off guard.” Rylan handed the sparse note to Coryden. “He was my responsibility and I have failed him, and you.”

Coryden shook his head. “If there’s anything I have learned from my years with Morticai, it is that you cannot tether him in one spot. It just doesn’t work.” He passed the note to Berret.

“Yep,” Berret agreed, looking at the note. “That’s Morticai, all right. Gave you plenty of information.”

“Morticai has always had this habit of coming and going as he pleases,” Coryden explained. “If you thought he was conforming to your wishes, I’m afraid that probably meant your wishes didn’t conflict with what he wanted at the time.”

“To my knowledge, however,” Dualas noted, “I do not believe he has ever missed a patrol.”

“No,” Coryden agreed, “but then, that has always been important to him. No, Inquisitor, you have no reason to feel guilty.”

Rylan smiled. “You are very forgiving. Have you any idea where we should begin searching?”

Berret laughed. “Do you know how many taverns and how many lovely ladies there are in this town?”

Coryden scowled. “I don’t agree, Berret,” he said. “Not this time. If things were different I’d wager you’d be right, but too much is at stake. I’m thinking something may have happened to drive him into hiding—I’ve seen him do it before, y’know, especially if he’s been hurt.”

“As long as the hurt wasn’t given by that damned sword again,” Berret replied softly.

Coryden sighed and nodded his head. An awkward moment of silence ensued. It ended abruptly when the door to the bedroom opened and Geradon emerged. Rylan scrutinized his associate closely.

“He is still alive,” Geradon announced.

Rylan and Richard both sighed with relief. The Northmarchers exchanged confused glances among themselves.

“Geradon has a special gift for divination,” Rylan explained. “Could you discern which direction we should search?” the priest asked his associate.

Geradon’s bright blue eyes clouded. “I could not get a direction.”

Rylan straightened and winced. Richard’s mouth opened as if to say something, but then he shut it again without speaking.

“There’s a significance?” Coryden asked.

“Geradon,” Rylan said, “Captain Coryden has suggested that Morticai might be hiding somewhere, perhaps for his own safety, possibly wounded. Could that be the case?”

Geradon shook his head and sat down with them. “Only if he has found an ensorcelled place to hide.” He searched the eyes of the others in the room. “I am usually either entirely successful, or not at all, when I do this,” he explained. “And in most instances I am able to discern which direction the person is from me—not distance, perhaps, but at least a general direction.”

“And in the other instances?” Coryden asked suspiciously.

Geradon sighed. “Although he is still alive, it must be somewhere that is ensorcelled against divination. In the past, this has usually meant the temple of Droka.”

Silence claimed the room. Finally, Geradon broke the mood.

“Sorcery would have the same effect,” he said, “whether or not a temple of Droka were involved, of course. I know that is not much of a comfort, for in either case, it supports the thought that Morticai is being held somewhere against his will. But he is still alive. I would stake my life on that. We may have time to find him.”

“Geradon,” Rylan said softly, “what of Morticai’s friend, or friends, the ones who sent the bird? Could they have convinced him to go into hiding?”

Geradon shrugged. “Who knows? Only if his friend is a sorcerer—or has enough money to purchase such services.”

“What of the sorcery used to tell the bird where to fly?”

Geradon shook his head. “You are correct that sorcery was used to train the bird. But that was very modest sorcery. Whoever it was —”

“What the Levani …” Coryden paused a moment, embarrassed by his exclamation, “uh, what are you talking about? What ‘bird’?”

Rylan smiled. “Someone sent a bird to Morticai while he was healing at the Sanctorium. I never did find out who it was, but from the one message I intercepted it appeared simply to be a concerned friend. Whomever it was, Morticai was apparently cooperating in the communication.”

“Hmmph!” Berret muttered. “Probably one of his ladies.”

“Well,” Coryden said, “if Morticai was hiding with a friend, he would have found some way to let us know he was safe.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right there,” Berret agreed. “Otherwise, he’d know you’d tear the city apart looking for him.”

“So, gentlemen,” Rylan said, “I am afraid this unfortunately brings us back to the supposition that he has been captured. I believe it is time that the temple of Droka in Watchaven should be exposed. Tell me everything you can about this city.”

* * *

It was dusk by the time Coryden returned to Northgate. Berret had set up their ‘command post’ in Morticai’s room; the entire patrol had been searching since noon.

“Anything?” Coryden asked as he entered the old attic.

“Nothing yet,” Berret replied.

Coryden sank wearily into Morticai’s favorite chair. Without asking, Berret poured him a drink.

“There’s still hope, Coryden,” Berret said. “The Inquisitor came by less than an hour ago and said that Brother Kinsey had repeated his divination—Morticai is still alive, wherever he is.”

Coryden leaned back against the chair and slowly shook his head.

“I’m getting too old for this, Berret,” he said.

“We’ll find him, Coryden—we’ll keep looking until we do.”

“Yeah, I know, one way or another,” Coryden sighed. “Y’know, this happened a few times when Morticai was young. Not with Droken chasing him, of course; but there were times he simply disappeared. That’s when I discovered just how big this city really is. It hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

“But you apparently found him then.”

“Yeah. All of this was, I guess, before you were born. Once he was hurt pretty bad.” Coryden sat up and rubbed his neck. “Well, I can see what I’d be like if I stayed here,” he said.

“You’re not going out again so soon, are you?” Berret asked. “You should at least go downstairs and have something to eat with your team.”

Coryden smiled. “Thanks, Berret. I’ll be all right. And I will eat, whether or not I’m hungry—but it’ll wait ’til later. Let me look at that list.”

Berret handed him their “master list” of areas to search.

“Hmm …” Coryden scrutinized it. “When did you hear from Dualas last?”

“His team checked in a little over an hour ago,” Berret said, picking up another list.

“So, you’re keeping track of check-ins?”

“Yep. And where everyone is searching, too. If a team comes up missing, by Aluntas, I plan to know which area of town they were in!”

“Good idea, Berret—very good.”

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come,” Coryden said.

The door opened, and a Northmarcher, wearing his guard duty insignia, stood in the doorway. “Captain Coryden,” he said, “there is someone downstairs to see you.”

Coryden and Berret exchanged glances.

“I’ll be right down,” Coryden said.

* * *

The corryn waiting at the postern gate of Northgate’s eastern wing studied Coryden as he approached. Likewise, Coryden took in as many details as he could about the stranger who stood beside the guard.

The stranger appeared to be about two hundred and fifty years old, which was early middle age for a corryn. His hair was coal black, the most common corryn hair color, and his eyes were a light, dusty blue—not as common. His clothing was expensive, but conservative. He could have been a minor Dynolvan noble, or a merchant, neither of which were particularly popular in Watchaven at the moment. His serious eyes followed Coryden carefully.

“I am Captain Coryden. You wished to speak with me?”

“Ah, yes,” the corryn said, glancing at the guard.

Coryden inclined his head, and they moved a few steps away from the human guard. The corryn stranger dropped his voice to a whisper before continuing.

“I know that you do not know me,” he said, “but there is much I would discuss with you. You and your patrol are searching the city for your friend, Morticai. I am also a friend of Morticai’s, though to me he is known as Dyluth—which tells you how long I have known him. I have a coach waiting outside, if you would speak with me.”

“I would—were you not so hasty,” Coryden said suspiciously. “You have not even told me your name.”

“I am sorry,” the corryn said, shaking his head. “My name is Perlagus.”