The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1) (16 page)

“I don't think the balls you've got me by
are as small as the balls I've got you by,” Telin said. “Hard to
get your hand all the way around ours.” A smug smile followed.
'Ours' was definitely meant to remind Halimaldie that he wasn't
dealing just with Telin here, but the entire Kingsguard and all it
entailed. Which was, admittedly, twelve near-immortals with godlike
combat skills and a far-reaching respect throughout the entire
kingdom and beyond.

Alright. So.

“Well,” Halimaldie said, “that's why you're
gonna get the heavy end of this bargain.”

Telin nodded. “I'm always up for an
interesting bit o' negotiating. The Kingsguard's not all steel, ya
know, D'Arvenant. Men like you can be very, very important to us.
As could anyone in the kingdom at any given time, I suppose.”

You're in the same
business as I am, Telin. We both steer the kingdom.

“I am hesitant to commit
too much to paper,” said Halimaldie. “Paper makes things too
real.
I
will
become your resource. I will share with you all I know if you will
let me accompany you to the mine on your excursion. I have a bit of
a problem, you see. My reputation is faltering in the light of
these missed deliveries. If I become your resource into my
operation, it will give me an excuse to leave this place for a
bit.”

“You won't be allowed to tell your clients
that you went to the mine with the Kingsguard. How many ideas would
that put into people's heads?”

“No,” Halimaldie agreed. “I will tell them
something that will serve both of our purposes.”

“And what is that?”

“Simply that I have gone to oversee the
retrieval of the gemstones myself. People like it when you take
responsibility. Rise to the challenge, as it were.”

Telin nodded. “You are clever. I understand
your success, at least a little.”

“And I understand yours,” Halimaldie said,
feeling pleased. “I have seen you fight.”

“You have but seen the tip of my sword.”

Let's try to keep it that
way,
Halimaldie thought.

“Y
our hair's getting too long,” Tellurian said.

“And yours is falling out,” Halimaldie
replied.

They embraced, thumping each other on the
back.

“Tell, it's been a hell of a day so far.
Hell of a week, really.” Halimaldie noticed that his brother's
clothing was even plainer than usual: tones of brown everywhere,
plain types of cloth, no decoration. “Come and sit down. I've been
working all day. I need a break and someone I can trust.”

“That's me,” his brother said.

“I know.”

They moved over to a pair of plush leather
chairs. Halimaldie had gotten the furniture from Caltas Bend, a
village known for the most supple leather and the finest
woodworking.

Halimaldie opened a small wooden box and
took out two cigars.

Tellurian held up his hand. “I don't have a
taste for that stuff, Hal. You know that.”

Halimaldie shrugged. “Both for me then, I
suppose.” He lit one and puffed on it into the silence.

“Your fortune got you down again?” Tellurian
asked.

“Don't start in on me with that,” Halimaldie
warned. “Not today. I got assholes and Kingsguardians both
breathing down my neck. I need your insight.”

“About assholes or Kingsguardians?”

“You're an expert on both,” Halimaldie said.
“But it's more about the Kingsguard. You work for the crown, so I
want to know . . . I want to know about trusting them. I never
have, you know.”

“I do. Know, that is.”

“So . . . can I? Trust them?”

Tellurian shrugged. “There are good men and
bad men everywhere, Hal. You know that as well as I do. The bad men
muck it up for the good and the good muck it up for the bad. Just
what in the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

Halimaldie told him everything.

Tellurian stood up at the end of
Halimaldie's tale. “Seven hells, brother,” he said. “You were
attacked by a Foglin and saved by a Kingsguardian? That's like
something out of a story.”

“So do you think I should cooperate with the
crown on this?”

Tellurian shook his head.
“I'm not sure you have a choice. See,
I
would never have this
problem.”

“Oh no,” Halimaldie said, standing up to
join his brother. “I don't want to hear this.”

“But you need to. Give it up, Halimaldie.
Leave it all behind.”

“As you did?”

“As I did. We talk like this every few
months. It's always like this. You think that this time is unique,
and it is, but only by the slightest of degrees. Come see what I
do. Come see how you can escape all of this.”

“You don't have problems? Your work at those
underground hospitals doesn't cause you stress?”

“First of all, the hospitals aren't
underground,” said Tellurian. “Well, some of them are dug
underground for extra room, but I know you're speaking
metaphorically. They're mostly just underused and misunderstood.
And secondly, it does cause me stress, but what you have to
understand is that once I solve a problem it benefits someone else,
not only myself. I work with a team, you work alone.”

“Anyone else spoke to me that way, they'd be
outta here in a few seconds.”

“I've tiptoed for too long, Hal. Look at
yourself. You're fat, unhealthy, your eyes look like you haven't
been sleeping, your posture is awful, and you've always got whiskey
on your breath.”

“It's rum.”

“Whatever it is, father drank the same stuff
at one time or another.”

“Don't bring father into this,” Halimaldie
said, his neck hair bristling. “He taught me everything he
knew.”

“Then you'd be wise to filter that
knowledge! There are better ways, Halimaldie. This world is killing
you! I don't want to come upon you clutching your chest and gasping
for breath. Work poisoned father and it's poisoning you!”

“You don't know the half of it!” Halimaldie
shouted. "Some break this is!" He threw down his cigar and began to
pull the long glove off of his right hand, sliding it down his
forearm with care.

“The hell are you doing?” Tellurian asked.
“You gonna challenge me to a duel?”

Halimaldie held his bare hand up in front of
his brother's face. The skin on his palm was black and festooned
with sores. The malady spread out towards his fingertips and a
little way up his arm.

“Hal,” breathed Tellurian. “What is it?” He
reached out his hand.

“Don't touch it,” Halimaldie said, pulling
back. “You daft idiot, it's some kind of disease. I got it from
touching those tainted gemstones on the ship. Have you ever seen
anything like it?”

“No,” his brother replied. “The look of it
makes me sick.”

“Imagine the
feel
of it. It only
hurts a little, but the damn thing pulsates with the beat of my
heart.”

“You need to come to the hospital,”
Tellurian said.

“Oh wouldn't that be poetic,” Halimaldie
spat. “The hospital system – which you donated your share of the
fortune to – is going to save poor – and I say that sarcastically –
Halimaldie.”

“It might be your only hope
at this point. You know you're considering it or you wouldn't have
showed me this.” Tellurian rolled his eyes. “Look. It's
'
underground
'
enough that it won't cause a stir in the public eye and we've seen
some intense things there. People who've run out of hope or get
told to simply suffer by regular sawbones come there and find
healing.”

“I am a busy man,” Halimaldie said, somewhat
sobered. “I will try to stop by when I can.”

“Hal, you need to go immed-”

“When I can,” he said firmly.

“You know where to find me,” his brother
said. “Fifth district. You don't need an appointment. Come any
time. I'll see what I can do . . .”

“And if I have to go away with the
Kingsguard?”

“Concentrate on now,” Tellurian suggested.
“I don't know what kind of foul magic we're dealing with here, and
I doubt you do either. We have a few Protectors in our
service.”

“Tree witches?”

Tellurian cocked his eyebrow. “I'd prefer if
you didn't refer to them like that when you come. Keep that thing
covered up,” he said, indicating Halimaldie's hand. “I have to
start my research on this right away. There are implications that .
. .” Tellurian shook his head. “Nevermind that. And please, Hal.
Think about what I said. If I mean anything to you, don't disregard
my advice. About your money, I mean. You could live as I do. There
is reward in it.”

Halimaldie sighed, but said nothing more. He
had talked all day it seemed, and so he merely shrugged his
shoulders.

As his brother exited the room, Halimaldie's
clock ticked off even decands.

He listened to it until he felt he would go
mad.

W
ren couldn't be sure how long she had been in here, or even
where 'here' was. A small cellar, that much was for certain. The
glowing symbol on her arm was very dull at the moment, but it gave
her enough light to see a little. Her eyes were bleary from crying
and they burned horribly because of the dry air.

She'd gone to the bathroom in a corner six
times, so that was some way to measure time, however
inaccurate.

Right now she was simply lying on her side
on the hard ground. It was freezing and she was still wearing the
same shirt and pants she had been wearing at the carnival, but now
they were stained and rumpled. She had thrown up on her shirt
twice: once when she had briefly recovered consciousness on the
wagon after the carnival, and once when she had awakened here.

I'm in trouble, God. Where
are you?

The hours went by silently
and she didn't try to cry out for help. The trapdoor above her was
thick and it hadn't moved the slightest bit when she'd butted up
against it. The lock was too strong for her.
Something strong to keep the witch in.

Wren stared at her glowing forearm. She knew
it was magic. God's magic. She'd heard enough rumors from farmhands
through the years to recognize magic when she saw it.

“Just what's happened to me?” she asked the
air in a scratchy voice. She started coughing then and it took a
while to recover from that.

Tears ran down her cheeks, taking with them
some of the dust that covered her face. She hated herself for
wasting her liquid this way, but there was nothing she could do
about it.

More hours passed. Wren faded in and out:
from blackness to redness to blackness again. Sometimes she
couldn't really tell if she was awake or asleep.

She started having nightmares, gasping for
breath when she woke from them.

“Oh,” Wren sobbed finally. “If there's
anyone out there. Anyone at all. God. I need . . . I am . . . in
need.”

She expected her words to be met with
nothing but stillness.

Instead, she heard the tiniest of
rustlings.

S
omething furry brushed against her hands. Wren rolled weakly
onto her stomach and then rolled onto her other side to try and see
what had touched her. But whatever it was, it was gone.

“Who are you?” Wren asked.

Silence.

Maybe I'm going
crazy.

Then she saw movement and heard someone
talking right next to her.

“I would suppose I am your savior," the
voice said. "Although I don't know why I would help you. You nearly
pulled me into pieces about five sun-turns ago. Mistress, I feel
that you have a lot of anger for a human so young.”

Wren tried to understand
what was happening. The truth dangled on the edge of her mind, but
she couldn’t bring herself to believe it.
It's a mouse. I'm talking to a mouse.
She felt its whiskers tickling her hand now.
It's the mouse I tried to kill all those days
ago.

“You can talk,” Wren said.

“I've always been able to talk,” the mouse
said. “The fact is that you could not hear me, mistress. Oh, how I
begged for you to spare me when you were pulling at my head.”

“I'm . . . sorry about that. I stopped,
didn't I?”

“Just in time."

“Do you know what's happening to me?” Wren
asked. “Why I can hear you?”

“A simple mouse such as myself only knows
the root of the wheat. But there are those that may know more, and
I will bring you to them, mistress.”

“You will take me away from here?” Wren
asked, her eyes watering.

“I will do my best. Admittedly I am small,
but everyone has their uses.”

“Do you have a name?”

“A name would not serve my kind well. So
numerous are we that it would be impossible for our minds to
remember everyone's name.”

Wren nodded. She could see the little thing
now, her eyes adjusting. “I will have to give you a name,” she
said. “Are you a boy mouse or a girl mouse?”

“Girl mouse.”

“How about Tessa?”

“It matters little to me. I will likely not
be using it at all, mistress.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?
Mistress?”

“It is the way animals address all humans, I
am told. Master and mistress and the like. I will do your bidding
if you like. You have dominion over me.”

Wren found the strength to sit up. The
little mouse was giving her hope. Her shoulder muscles screamed and
cramped as she pushed up off the ground. She propped herself up,
panting. Tessa climbed up Wren's shirt and sat on her chest,
cleaning her paws. The mouse was just as Wren remembered her: gray,
with an interesting white mark on her head.