Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity (39 page)

The smith poled alongside, and while the astronomer roped off, he climbed into the wreck with their hooded lantern. There was a little blood on the boards nearest the breach, but no bodies remained. He untied the strangers’ cargo and hefted it into the sailboat. The smith began examining the oarlocks and anchor chain with squinted eyes. “There’s not much left,” said Pinetto a few minutes later. “Room and oars for eight. It looks like they all carried what they could along with the injured. All we have to do is find them, and…”

The smith lunged over to clamp his hand over the astronomer’s mouth. In a graveyard whisper, he said “Hush. They’re the Pretender’s men.” Because following the enemy over slippery rocks under those conditions would have been too risky, they poled ashore a short distance back to the west. On land, they got their bearings. The Imperial highway was only a few paces away, and they quickly found a milestone. From his maps and the low, stone wall along the road, Pinetto decided that the fishing village of Grunyun lay a short distance further east.

The smith explained his plan of attack. “They’re bound to have a sentry. I’ll sneak up on him while you cover my back. Then, I’ll keep watch on the rest of them while you rouse the farmers and fisherman in the town.”

“Great,” agreed the nervous astronomer. “Where’s my weapon?”

The smith faltered a little at this. He had no desire to have his new hammer broken this soon. Instead, he handed Pinetto the same dagger that had killed the snake. “Your goal is
not
to use this, understand? We’ll leave these invaders to a horde of angry villagers. I need you for your feet, not fighting.” Again, Pinetto nodded.

Drawing the re-forged Sword of Miracles, the smith crawled along under cover of the stone wall, with the astronomer hanging behind. When he reached an archway in the wall, he knew the jetty lay to his left. To his right was a long, wooden shed with fishing nets hanging from the eaves. Judging from the chimney and the smell, it was probably a smokehouse. Many of the small, spiky fish available in the shallows weren’t the most palatable, but when dried and mixed with olive oil and the proper seasonings they weren’t bad. Sweating and struggling to quiet his own loud breathing, he poked his eyes above the stonework but could make out no one through the fog.

He almost jumped out of his boots when Pinetto tapped him on the shoulder. The astronomer pointed to the back of the shed and ducked back down. Two things were immediately visible. The first was the glow of a fire at least twenty strides inland. The second was a man with his back to them, urinating against the rear section of the shed. The man wore a pack like the ones they’d found in the wreck, plus a black hood to conceal his face. The smith smiled. It didn’t get any better than this. He could easily club the man on the head, and no one in the camp would be the wiser.

That was the plan.

Unfortunately, as he stood poised with the hilt of the sword, ready to strike, his own lips betrayed him. “I am the Vengeance of Kiateros,” he shouted, quite against his own intentions. He could feel the divine blood in the weapon raging against the enemies who’d robbed him of both his kingdom and place in the heavens. Having an angry god forge a magic weapon had its disadvantages. The shock of the outburst and the target spinning around ruined his aim.

The sword skidded along the sentry’s clavicle and dissected a major artery there instead. The man would die in seconds, but he had just enough consciousness left before swooning to shout “Raid!” Blast the gods and their meddling; now he had to find another invader to capture alive. The camp stirred.

“Run,” the smith squeaked.

Unwilling to use the same road that the invaders would be taking for their escape, Pinetto climbed up the side of the shed using the nets for traction. The smith crept through the fog, swinging far to the right in order to reach the fire without encountering those rushing down the path. Most of the area between was a large garden, fenced to keep the rabbits out. He stopped when he reached an outhouse and peered cautiously around the shelter it provided. Three hooded men stood around the fire, while two wounded ones lay close to the blaze.

One was dressed much more elegantly than the others, in black silks like an aristocrat attending a costumed ball. This man spotted him lurking in the mist long before the others had a clue. Presumably their leader, the man who detected him drew an unmarked sword, shorter than the standard weapon made for knights of the realm. None of their swords had Honors.

“There’s someone on the roof. Archers!” reported one of the scouts by the smokehouse, erring in his haste.

“Rendezvous B, scatter!” ordered their leader. Determining that the man with the injured leg could never outrun a patrol, the aristocrat plunged the tip of his blade through the back of the man helpless at his feet. They couldn’t risk questioning by the Library police and the Wine of Truth.

A second swordsman closed on the smith. His attacker looked confused as several well-struck blows glanced aside for no apparent reason. The smith grinned as he realized that Kiateran steel would be hard-pressed to harm an instrument of Kiateros’s will. The third standing man ran away as fast as possible.

Meanwhile, the aristocrat disposed of the second injured man. After wiping the blade, the head invader watched the combat in progress, looking for a weakness or perhaps memorizing a face.

“Hey smith, they’re leaving. Do you need help?” called the astronomer from his perch. At that moment, their blades connected and the invader’s unmarked blade snapped in two. The impact numbed the fingers of the black-hooded man and he cried out. Swords without Honor were no match for the magic blade either. The smith’s confidence soared.

The astronomer had climbed down from the roof and was calling to locate him. The enemy leader chose to fight another time under more favorable circumstances, and faded into the foggy woods. The final enemy panicked at this display and attempted to run as well.

The smith saw his chance and sliced for the hamstrings, severing the entire right ankle instead. Either the Defender of the Realm was too aggressive or the wielder needed practice—perhaps both. “I’m not going to let you off that easy. You’re going to answer some questions, mister.”

While the smith grabbed a brand from the fire to stop the horrendous bleeding, the injured man pulled an odd, green glass dagger from the sheath of one of the dead men. Weighing the options of capture and possible torture, the man plunged the dagger into his own chest. When the smith tried to extract it, the tip stayed deep in the wound. A sharp, acrid smell filled the air, and the weapon turned clear and hollow. The glass dagger turned out to be a delivery system for a mysterious, green liquid. The man died hard and with a contorted face.

“Poison,” the smith squeaked, tossing the rest of the oozing glass dagger into the flames. Searching for any residue of the toxin, he wiped his hands off in the grass.

The god-forged sword wouldn’t stop one of these deadly glass weapons.

The first thing the astronomer said when reaching the scene was, “Gods. You’ve killed half of them already!” Later, as they examined the weapons and other evidence left behind and compared notes, they deduced that these men were assassins, and that there had been nine instead of the expected eight. “The aristocrat was their contact here. We have to tell the authorities.”

****

By dawn, the two were tied up at the docks of the Great Library. All the evidence was stowed in their craft, covered by an enormous tarp until they could contact the proper authorities. To do so, explained Pinetto, they had to find the right line to stand in. There were more than twelve entrances to the bureaucratic fortress, each with its own gatekeeper, rules, and strata of importance. Once inside the formidable walls, in the courtyard each line would divide into at least four others, also ranked by importance and overseen by another minor functionary. The system was a little slow at times, but Pinetto assured him it was ultimately efficient at what it did, filtering only the most worthy people and data so that the aristocrats in charge of each major function of the government were bothered as little as possible.

They seemed to walk around a third of the city and a long distance up the steep slope of the foothills before the astronomer settled on the proper line. Even at this absurd hour, there were already three people ahead of them. The second person in line offered to let them ahead of him for two silvers. Both companions scoffed at this. While Pinetto stood, the smith nestled into a nearby corner and took advantage of the brief lull to grab a much-needed nap.

When he finally opened his eyes, the midmorning sun had burned away the mist, and he saw the Library for the first time. The original structure had been a quaint and elegant, three-story square halfway up the lush, green hill covered with olive groves and vineyards. The main avenues were lined with fruit trees and the tiny, red flowers used to give the local wine its distinctive flavor. Monks had tended the immaculate grounds, but the knowledge had been free to all.

With the increased scope of data, donations, and students, an ad-hoc school system germinated. Random wings in a hodge-podge of styles branched off in every direction as the information and people housed there grew with the same organic directive as the trees. People from all over the world came to learn in this haven, and governments began to rely on it to train their clerks and statesmen to read, write, add, and plan. Through the efforts of its distinguished and determined hierarchy of faculty, the Library became the most prestigious, non-magical school in the civilized world.

The narrow shoreline and steep hills on either side formed a natural chokepoint for people and goods, which made the Library a natural location for a rest stop and trade town. When the high road to Mandibos was constructed through this valley, it ignited the local economy faster than a torch in a hay barn. Inns and warehouses sprouted all along the crushed-gravel shore. During its brief peak, this city became the most-used port in the south. Technically a free city, it owed taxes only to the emperor and no kings. White-washed villas of the wealthy sprouted up on the neighboring hillsides like weeds.

When the military value became apparent in the uncertain period shortly before the Scattering, the town began to grow tall, thick walls facing the threats from all kingdoms and the Imperial- controlled sea alike. The enormous expense had drained the coffers of the city. Sadly, after the Scattering began, the town received no goods from the water other than refuges. All former large-scale shipping and commerce had ended as starkly and suddenly as the messages from the gods. A few rich families survived with money and lands, but little real purpose. Many of the common people, however, went begging or worse.

Once the current Prefect came to power, he annexed this small city and made it his personal capital. A significant number of troops and a veritable swarm of accountants and researchers descended upon the lush foothills without warning. Although most of the citizens had been of Babliosian birth, the primary reason the Prefect had been welcomed by the people was that he brought a guarantee of economic growth and stability, and crushed crime with an iron heel. He made liberal use of corporal punishment, creative death penalties, and the rehabilitation benefits of the nearby stone quarries. As he widened the ramparts against the threat of the Pretender, cramped apartments and tiny windows were added to the top layer.

Not content to be a military dictator, the Prefect incorporated and involved every layer of the city’s society in his rule, from the former elite to the seedier ones not discussed in polite company. His final addition to the patchwork architecture of the city was to transplant priests and plants from the Church of Bablios to the vineyards around the Library. In addition to increasing the wine produced each year, their presence helped further mitigate the crime problem. With the threat of their truth-extracting abilities and extreme punishments, the local crime lords voluntarily kept illegal activities within socially acceptable parameters. Even graft and bribery evolved formal boundaries. The city was also physically cleaner than it had been in over a generation. Most importantly to some talking in the line, it was once again safe for young students and their dates to walk in the university gardens alone in the evening.

When the smith realized how much time had passed, he located his companion, now second in line, and elbowed his way over. The line had grown, stretching out of sight down the narrow street. A few people grumbled at his advance, but the sight of his sword kept anyone from complaining. “What’s the problem?” he asked his friend.

Pinetto, eyes raccoon-black from lack of sleep, propped himself on the wall and nodded at the man in front of them. “The gentleman in front of us is a professional waiter.” The smith raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was strange, too. But evidently it’s an accepted practice. The gatekeeper even gets a fixed percentage of the take.”

“And what does that have to do with my numb ass?”

Pinetto put his hands out to calm his friend and whispered. “The Minister of Protocol hasn’t come in yet to open the inner gates. Sometimes it takes a few hours if there’s a flap at one of the other gates. Sometimes, if he’s sick, it never happens. In this case, only five people are allowed to be in the tunnel at a time, and they can talk to the next clerk through the portcullis.”

The smith made rapid continuing motions with his hand and tapped his foot.

Pinetto sighed. “The man ahead of us represents ten people, one of whom needs a second-degree, special dispensation. Again, it’s rare, but it happens. A dispensation like that can only be granted from inside the courtyard, as per Codes of Entry regulation number…” The astronomer was pointing to a set of rules etched in slabs of stone on either side of the gate. The writing was small and longer than a man’s arm.

“Can’t we just go ahead of him?” asked the smith.

Several people glared evilly at the companions. The astronomer hushed his friend. “Jumping in line is a major taboo here. And his client paid a special fee to insure that he started at the top of this man’s list. So you see how we’re all stuck here till either the inner gates open, or the client can be contacted with a request for deferral of special consideration with refund. But that’s unlikely because this gentleman has already spent the fee.”