The False Martyr (83 page)

“
Hmm, as you had
planned.”

Ipid sipped his brandy,
relishing the sweet, smoky flavor before it ran hot down his
throat. This was his second glass, and he’d had Eia’s share of the
wine with dinner. His thoughts were slow, mind fuzzy, eyes blurred,
body relaxed, joints loose. It was as drunk as he’d allowed himself
to be in months. He took another sip and set the glass down on the
small circular table to his side. “Except that six guards died. A
fire killed all the other prisoners. Lord Stully’s son was shot.”
Ipid’s anger rose as he remembered the debacle.
So stupid, so unnecessary.

“
Do you still think he
will do as you suggested?”

“
Yes,” Ipid growled. “Not
because I told him to, but because it’s what he wants. And it will
be on his terms, not mine. That is the way he is. He’s a planner.
He’ll move, but it will be at his own time, of his making, when he
is ready.”

“
But we agree that
imprisoning him was for the best?”

“
Yes. Of course, but there
was no need for it to happen this way. There was no need for anyone
to die, least of all his son.”

“
Is his son
dead?”

“
We don’t know,” Ipid
barely kept his voice even through his exasperation, “but even if
he’s only injured, Allard will be enraged. And none of it was
necessary. Do you understand that?”

“
I do, but it sounds like
the plan is still in place. I will confirm with Vontel the next
time I see him, but I see no reason for all this. There were some
complications, but it sounds like he will still do his part. Isn’t
that what you wanted? Isn’t that worth the cost?” Eia pulled her
legs up closer to her body and cocked her head, smiling
slightly.

“
Worth it!” Ipid yelled,
rage spiking. “What I wanted!” He gestured wildly, sloshing brandy
onto his hand and jacket. “Hilaal’s balls!” he cursed and searched
for a rag to wipe up the liquor.

Eia supplied it, rising
smoothly from the chair and taking a cloth from the bar cart behind
them. She approached and used it to dab at the damp area along the
lapel of his jacket and sleeve. She did not otherwise touch him or
speak, but her smell overwhelmed him. Ipid felt his every nerve
respond to it even through the haze of alcohol. And she was gone,
refilling her glass with wine nearly as dark as her dress. “You
were saying?” she asked over the top of her glass.

Ipid was rattled, had
completely lost his train of thought. He remembered what he was
going to say. Felt the anger rise at the preventable deaths, the
unnecessary complexity, the waste, at Eia’s dismissal of his
concerns, at her constantly prodding him to destroy his nation and
its people as the only way to save them. He wanted to tell her all
those things, to express all his frustration, but she just stared
at him, head cocked, mouth quirked around the edge of her
glass.

She doesn’t
care
, Ipid realized.
She sees me as a child crying over a toy as he watches his
house burn.
With a great sigh, he gave up.
“What happened with Belab?” he asked instead, draining his glass.
It was a larger amount of the powerful alcohol than he’d planned,
and he nearly choked on it.

“
Are you alright?” Eia
asked, concern thinly veiling her condescension.

“
I’m fine,” Ipid snapped
when he stopped sputtering. He tried glowering at her. She matched
it, increasing his irritation.

“
Liano will not be
returning.” She took another drink of her wine and set it aside.
“He is too distraught over what happened and even more by his near
loss of control. You do not know how close that was to being
something far more than a mere accident.” She scratched absently at
her leg with her free hand, bringing the thin fabric nearly to her
knee.

“
How are we supposed to .
. . ?”

“
Hush. Let me finish.
Another will be sent. The Belab sees that we need someone with more
. . . experience. The man he has chosen will bring an apprentice of
sorts – though we do not think of it that way. It is one of your
people. He is young and would not normally be put in such a
situation, but the Belab thinks the workers might respond better to
one of their own.”

Ipid remembered the young
men and women being tested in the villages – and the testing that
he had authorized the te-am ‘eiruh to continue throughout the
Kingdoms – but had not seriously considered any of them returning,
had not thought about them using their powers against their own
people. So who was it that would be returning? The question spurred
another memory in his addled mind. His jaw went slack. “It’s not .
. . I mean . . . .”

A knock sounded at the
door. “Lord Chancellor,” the butler’s baritone sounded, soft but
steady from the doorway. He had opened the door but not entered or
looked around its surface. “Field Marshal Landon is here. He
insists that he requires your immediate attention. Shall I . . .
.”

Illich Landon shoved his
way into the room before the butler could ask the question. His
face sparkled with sweat in the light of the lamps. Beads dripped
from the stubble that covered his cheeks and chin. The pale blue of
his uniform was dark. Mud was splattered across his arms, face, and
chest. A layer of dust covered his boots rising up over his pants,
jacket, and hair. Only his stark-white teeth seemed to be untouched
by the road, an angry white blur across his face, clenched so hard
that every line on his face was etched into his skin. He carried
his riding gloves in one hand, smacking them against the other
palm, sword bouncing against his leg in time with each of his
powerful strides. He came to stand before Ipid and saluted, hand
pounding his chest. “Lord Chancellor, Dorington had
fallen.”

Ipid stared at the man,
trying to get his eyes to focus. He was clearly agitated. He nearly
shook for the way his body was clenched. For his part, Ipid was
more surprised to see the marshal than to hear his news. “Did you
ride all the way from Aylesford?” he finally asked. He sat back in
his chair and drummed his fingers on the arm. Beyond the marshal,
Eia remained curled in her chair, seemingly amused at being
unnoticed.

“
I did, Lord Chancellor,”
the marshal replied with exaggerated formality. “I could not send a
courier with such dire news. It had to be delivered personally, and
I should hear your response personally so that there is no
confusion.”

Ipid held his gaze then
finally took a deep breath and asked the question the man must be
expecting. “What happened?” He did not realize until after he had
said the words that he probably should imbue them with some
surprise, some anger, something other than resignation. But the
truth was that Vontel had prepared him for this almost from the
beginning. The ambassador did not have much of a network in
Dorington, but it was well known that Dorington’s Governor, Tares
Bairn, would not sit quietly in a cell. His people were fiercely
loyal, and he was, if anything, the opposite of Allard Stully,
impulsive, emotional, unpredictable, yet every bit as
proud.

Field Marshal Landon’s
face darkened at Ipid’s seeming lack of concern. His voice turned
brusque. “The rebels took our men by surprise. They infiltrated the
Directorate Hall dressed as servants and struck in the night.” He
took a deep breath. “I received word just after noon. A lone
survivor made it to Warren, a small town north of Dorington, and
sent word to me. I rode here as quickly as the horses beneath me
could manage.”

Ipid sighed. He was in no
mood to deal with the commander’s histrionics. “I understand. So
beyond the loss of the city, what was the damage?”

“
The entire garrison, Lord
Chancellor!” Marshal Landon bellowed, finally releasing all the
emotion he had been bottling. “Sixty men to start. They hung any
that they didn’t kill in their sleep, including Captain Brixley,
who was in charge of the city. The message said that mobs were
roaming the streets looking for sympathizers. It said they were
being hung out their windows – men, women, and children. Whole
families. Anyone who aided our men in running the city or
collecting the food. There may be hundreds dead by now.” Marshal
Landon’s jaw clench, his hand clamped onto the pommel of his sword
as if he might crush it.

Ipid felt all the air
leave him. He sat back in his chair, stunned. His entire body
seemed to float away as he tried to comprehend the savagery. Though
he had expected a revolt, he had never considered it would be so
bloody, had never thought that so many might die, that even Tares
Bairn was capable of such horrors. His mind swam through the haze
of alcohol to make some sense of it. When Captain Brixley had taken
the city, his men had not killed a single man. They had arrested
Lord Bairn and several others, had imprisoned them when they
refused to accept Ipid’s authority, but they had not spilled blood.
Why would the response then be so disproportionate, so murderous
and cruel?

“
Lord Chancellor,” Marshal
Landon was saying, seemingly far away, “I can have my men in
position in five days. Bairn will have the men from the local
garrison, but I can’t believe he’d remove them from the outposts. I
can supplement my knights with the men already gathering in Denton.
That will give us several thousand. We’ll . . . .”

“
You will leave them be,”
Ipid interrupted, finally regaining enough of his senses to speak.
The words came through clenched teeth, a barely audible
hiss.

“
Lord Chancellor?” Marshal
Landon’s mouth open and closed like a fish. His eyes popped. “We
can’t . . . .”

“
We can,” Ipid pounded his
hand on the arm of his chair and rose. “And we will.” He closed on
the soldier, face stern, eyes locked despite the dizziness that
threatened to return him to his seat.

“
But . . . but, Lord
Chancellor,” Marshal Landon sputtered, clearly unprepared for this
turn. “If you let them . . . if you do not punish this . . .
.”

“
I will punish them,” Ipid
growled. “Trust me, marshal. I will punish them. It will be swift
and sure, and it will wait.” Ipid’s hands were locked in fists. He
wanted nothing more than to have Tares Bairn in front of him at
that moment, to see the man’s neck stretching in its own
noose.

“
Sir . . . you . .
.”

“
Enough!” Ipid shouted.
“You have your orders. You will make no move against Dorington.
Withdraw your men from the area. Increase your grip on the
surrounding cities but leave Dorington be. You and your men will
not discuss it further except to inform me. I do not think they
will dare leave the city, but if any force marches from there, you
will let me know immediately. That is all. Do you understand,
marshal?”

“
Sir . . . .” Field
Marshal Landon licked his thick lips. His eyes shifted. His anger
had turned to shock, his confidence to uncertainty. “Sir . . . may
I ask . . . .”

“
No, you may not!” Ipid
yelled again. “You may carry out your orders. I will speak with you
again after the weekly lessons. Since you are here, you will give
me a briefing on the status of the military and your readiness to
join the Darthur. That is all. The servants will find you a meal
and a room.”

Commander Landon gaped for
several heartbeats before finally saluting. “As you command, Lord
Chancellor.”

“
You are dismissed!” Ipid
pointed to the door. “And do not ever barge in on me before I have
called on you again.”

“
Yes, sir. Goodnight, Lord
Chancellor.” Commander Landon saluted, looking chastened, then
bowed and strode to the door. He opened it and showed himself out
with only a single, wide-eyed look back. Ipid caught it and forced
it to the ground.

When the door was closed,
Ipid stumbled to his desk. He put his hands on its cool surface and
tried to breathe. The entire world seemed to be spinning, and he
did not think it was from the brandy. “Why? By the Order, why?” he
mumbled to himself as he clawed at the desk.

A hand appeared on his
arm. Small and white against the black sleeve of his jacket, it ran
up to his shoulder then onto his face. It was cold despite the
warmth of the evening. Ipid gave into it for a second, moving his
face into the caress. He slammed his hand down onto the desk making
items jump across its surface. He arrested Eia’s hand, clasping her
wrist hard.

“
You did this,” he seethed
through clenched teeth. “You told me not to move against Bairn, to
leave him even though we knew what he would do.” He turned on Eia,
holding her hand out away from him. She winced against the pain of
his grip. Her wrist was so thin in his hand that he simultaneously
wondered how it did not get lost in his palm and how it did not
break.

“
Don’t be a child,” Eia
snapped back. “You knew the risk, and you knew why we had to take
it. Stop crying and lead!”

Despite the grip he
maintained on her wrist, she wormed her way between him and the
desk, standing so that she was pressed against him, back to the
wood. She sneered at him, face cruel, but her dark eyes held
something else. Her head quirked. Her free hand rose to his
face.

Ipid snatched it away.
“What do you want?” he demanded. “By the Order, stop playing with
me!” His words slurred with the intensity of the emotion and
alcohol. “What do you want?” he screamed again when Eia did not
answer.