The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) (4 page)

Ahmed grimaced at this, feeling
sick.
It is not the sea this time, though.
“Such thoughts have consequences.” He paused a
moment, looking at Brutus’s resolute expression, struggling to
find a way to reach him. “When a farmer tends his garden, he
destroys much, even as he preserves. He pulls weeds from the ground,
treads upon insects, shreds spider webs. From the perspective of an
ant, it is a cataclysmic thing. If we leave it to him, our works are
but gossamer shimmering in the wind, to be torn aside in his
passing.”

Brutus heaved a great sigh and
shook his head, unmoved and exasperated. “Ahmed, I have killed
hundreds, and watched many of my brothers fall. Do you not think I
have made peace with this notion long ago? I live and die by
Ilaweh’s will, as do all my men. I am no plant in a garden,
and neither are you.”

“Then what are we?”

“Swords. Weapons in
Ilaweh’s hands, instruments of his will. We may individually
dull and break from the power of his blows, but we are many.”

Ahmed furrowed his brow,
straining to appreciate the thought. “Then who is our enemy?”

“Villains. Liars.
Thieves. Anyone who tries to take more than his fair share, or
strikes at the innocent.”

Ahmed shook his head.
“Nebulous. Anyone could be our enemy, then.”

“Aye, it is so. Any
fool.”

Ahmed sighed, waving the
discussion aside. None of it truly matched reality. Allegories
rarely did. “Will you not at long last hear me? I tell you, I
know this in my heart. Ilaweh wills that we stay. He has work for
us. The prophesy – !”

“I have heard you. You
have not heard me. I do what I think is best, just as you. I accept
the consequences.”

Ahmed bristled at this, and
Brutus stiffened, muscles tensing for a fight, but Ahmed knew now
that this battle could not be won by physical blows. “And the
rest of your men?” he asked, his voice quiet and grim. “Your
decision is for them as well.”

“They are not my men if
they do not feel the same.” Brutus glowered at him, now. “And
you? Do you quiver in fear, perhaps, that Ilaweh’s will might
end your life?”

Ahmed shook his head, thinking
of Yazid again. “No. Only that I might fail him.”
As
I am now.
He closed his eyes,
trying to find some other words, but there were none. For good or
ill, the decision had already been made.

Brutus clapped a hand on the
younger man’s shoulder. “Then let us rest. Ilaweh’s
will be done.”

Ahmed looked back out over the
waves, feeling helpless, as the disc of the sun dipped below the
horizon. “It surely will.”

Ahmed woke to the sound of
crashing timbers and shouting men. There was no doubt in his mind as
to why. The only real question was who would survive.

It was pitch black. There
should have been lanterns burning! He leapt from his hammock and
staggered, almost falling as the deck ambushed him from an
unexpected direction. It was not flat beneath him as it should be.
Ahmed was no seaman, but even he knew this was a bad thing. How
could the ship stay afloat if it tilted and filled with water?

“Ahmed!” Brutus
shouted from his cabin.
There was
an odd edge to his voice, enough to set Ahmed's intuition singing.
This will not be good.

“Here! I'm coming!”
Ahmed felt his way along in the dark, trying to overcome the
disorienting sensation that he was climbing downhill, at last
finding the opening between their cabins. There was no privacy
aboard a ship, so there was no door to battle, only a makeshift
curtain they had hung. As he struggled through the opening, light
flared as Brutus adjusted the wick of a lantern had had somehow
salvaged.

Ahmed almost wished it were
still dark. The ceiling above Brutus’s hammock was splintered,
and a huge spar of wood had fallen on him. Dark water swirled about
his ankles, deepening with each moment. Brutus held the lantern in
an awkward manner, tilted almost to spilling its oil on the floor,
its flickering light casting shadows skittering over a skewed,
slanted world.

Brutus grimaced and beckoned
Ahmed forward. “To me! Quickly, before it is too late!”

Ahmed leapt across the tilted
deck and seized the massive weight pressing Brutus to the floor. He
hauled at it with all his might. Brutus, too, pushed against it, the
cords in his neck popping out from exertion. The spar moved, but
only inches, and Brutus cried out in agony when it did so. The ship
itself seemed to scream with him in empathy, straining wood and
creaking lumber wailing in their own version of pain. The ship, like
her captain, was dying.

Ahmed could see beneath the
spar now. It was more than just a weight. It had not broken cleanly.
A sharp spindle had sunk deep into Brutus's belly, passing right
through him and into the planks below.

Brutus leaned his head back and
looked up at what should be the sky above him, sighing. “It is
no use! Do not behave like a woman!”

Ahmed shook his head, trying to
stay focused. There was much shouting and screaming from elsewhere
on the ship, but it was only here that mattered for now. “We
try again!”

“Even if we get it off, I
am still dead! There is no time!” Brutus's eyes rolled in his
head as he struggled against his wounds. “You must recover my
papers and bring them to the prince! Swear it to me, prelate, in the
name of Ilaweh!”

Ahmed ground his teeth. The
water had grown higher now. It was lapping at his knees.

Brutus grabbed Ahmed's head and
pulled their faces together. The captain’s face was a mask of
pain, but his eyes burned bright with purpose. “Swear it!”

“By Ilaweh, I
swear
.”

“Quickly then. In my
footlocker. There is an oilcloth bag.”

Ahmed opened the locker, and
found the bag at the very top. “This?”

“Yes. It must reach
Prince Philip. Go quickly. If you don’t clear the wreck, it
will drag you down with it!” Brutus gasped with pain and fell
silent, eyes closed. For long moments, Ahmed thought the captain was
dead, but at last he opened his eyes and sighed, “There is but
one thing more. I ask a favor of you, not for duty, but for
friendship.”

Ahmed felt his guts churn,
certain what Brutus would have him do, and sick with the knowledge,
but he accepted the burden nonetheless. “Name it.”

“Do not let me drown,
brother.”

Ahmed clenched his jaw and
nodded.

Brutus waved his hand and
pointed. “My sword. There. It is a fine weapon, Ahmed. It has
slain many. It’s yours now. Use it well.”

Ahmed took the scabbard and
drew the blade from it. The metal sang as it quivered in the air.
Brutus smiled at him. “You were right, brother. Go. Save the
world.”

Ahmed raised the blade. “I
will try, brother. Ilaweh is great.”

“You will
succeed
.
That is not a hope, it is an
order
!”
He chuckled softly, then grew somber. “Ilaweh
is
great,” Brutus sighed. “I am ready.”

Ahmed struck Brutus’s
head from his shoulders with a single, swift blow and silently gave
thanks to Ilaweh for guiding his hand
.
He shook the blood
from the sword, sheathed it, and stood a moment, knowing it was
unwise, but feeling compelled. A comrade had fallen, one Ahmed had
come to call friend. Brutus's passing should be marked. No words
were needed. Brutus was not that sort of man. But a few seconds of
silent respect was appropriate, and worth risking.

Ahmed managed half a minute
before the ship gave another violent lurch. He heard more
splintering, and new screams from outside.
I
know! Hurry up.
He moved to the cabin door, tried the
latch, and felt his belly fill with ice. The door wouldn’t
budge.

Calm
yourself. If it is Ilaweh’s will, you will live.
It
was easy enough to accept in theory, but unlike Brutus, he had no
one to spare him from drowning.

He tried the latch again,
making certain he had actually released it. No good. There was
something heavy blocking the door on the other side. Ahmed took a
deep breath. The water was rising quickly, almost to his hips. He
was running out of time.

He hurled a shoulder against
it, and felt the weight on the other side shift. The door yielded
slightly, perhaps an inch, but no more. He tried again, and a third
time, but it was the same.

Ahmed could feel the panic in
his heart, yowling and searching for an exit like a cat in a shower.
He crushed it down, knowing that it would do him little good. Still,
he felt its claws tearing at him from within. He drew Brutus’s
sword and began hammering at the door. Perhaps the top was clear,
and he could crawl over the obstruction.

The ship lurched again, more
violent this time, with a groan that sent shudders throughout the
frame. The floor again tilted beneath Ahmed’s feet, water
churned, and he lost his footing.

When he surfaced again, it was
to blackness. The lantern was out, and he had no idea where the door
was. The panic in him drew strength from this and surged at the
chains of faith with which he had bound it, a frenzied beast intent
on freedom.

The water was near his chest
now, and freezing cold. He could taste the sea on his lips, or was
it blood? His, Brutus's, who could say? It was quiet now, just the
sloshing of the rising water and the sound of his own labored,
shuddering breath. He struggled to find the door again, to reorient
himself. Surely, if this was the end, it would not be because he had
not tried. But the door was simply
gone
. He pounded his fists
against unyielding wood in frustration.

The ship groaned again, and he
heard creaking nearby. A board, perhaps right next to him, gave way
with a crack like thunder, and he felt more water rush in. Something
hit his chest, something small, but hard and heavy. He reached for
it, but found nothing. Another groan came from overhead, and then a
great splintering, shredding sound. Ahmed simply stood. How could he
know if he were avoiding a blow, or leaping into one he would have
survived? It was in Ilaweh’s hands.

The water was rising faster
now. It was up to his neck. This was his end, then. He shook his
head at the irony, that a man from the desert should suffer such a
death. He felt the fear in his heart subside, replaced with
acceptance. He was ready, as difficult as the path was.
Ilaweh’s
will be done.

As the water closed over his
head, Ahmed Justinius looked up one last time before he closed his
eyes, and saw, in the pitch darkness, a twinkling of light. The door
was over his head, and through the hole he had hacked into it he
could see the moon.

Energy surged into him as he
seized the edge of the wood. He could not strike a blow against it,
not with the water, but he could pull. He did so with all his might.

Ilaweh, if it is your will
that I die, let me die well. And if it is not, then give me
strength!

Ahmed felt as if his arms would
tear themselves from his body. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. His
muscles tightened even more, and his breath burst from him in a cry
of exertion. This would be his last chance. Twenty seconds. Twenty
five.

The door gave way with a
thunderous crack that Ahmed heard even through the water in his
ears. The moon above wavered with the water covering him. He
clambered through the opening and burst to the surface, sucking in
air in great gasps.

He was on the main deck, what
was left above the water at any rate. He saw men leaping from the
railings, and remembered Brutus’s warning to escape the ship
before it went down, or he would be dragged down with it.

Ahmed struggled to climb the
tilted deck, to reach a high point and jump as the others were
doing. He couldn’t help but smile at the irony. He had never
learned to swim. He was, perhaps, jumping from the frying pan and
into the fire.

I
will learn
, he promised himself.
I
will learn right now.

He leapt over the rail and into
the dark, rolling waves. He watched the others, and tried to do as
they did, digging and crawling through the water like sand. In the
distance, he saw lights, and what looked like land, and his heart
sank.

Too
far. Far too far, and I am exhausted and freezing, and out of my
element. Ilaweh, I have failed you
. Yet he swam on.

Ilaweh’s will would be
done.

Aiul had realized fairly
quickly that, while he was in a prison, it was not
the
prison. His cell was far from luxurious, but there was at least
enough room in the small, brick room to stand and pace. The door was
clad in iron. Aiul tested it, and found it locked just as he had
expected.

He
spied a small view port at eye level in the door. His captors had
been either negligent or kind enough to leave it open. His view
through it was restricted, but it allowed him at least some visual
of the area beyond.

Lamps
burned outside of his cell, whereas the pit would have had none. His
cell even included a toilet. There was no privacy around it, but
that seemed largely irrelevant. There also seemed to be no one
about.

It
was the next morning before he saw anyone. The newcomer was dressed
in black mail as a guardsman of Nihlos, though his armor bore no
markings of house or rank, and he wore his helmet with the visor
down.

“You,
there!” Aiul shouted. “What is the meaning of this?
Where am I?”

The
guard ignored Aiul and went about his business. He refilled and
relit lanterns, then turned briefly toward Aiul’s cell, as if
verifying all was in order. “The traitor lives,” he
called out in a loud voice, as if he were informing others.

Then
he turned and disappeared up the stairs.

Shirini stirred at the steaming
pot of soup again. It was sooner than necessary, but she had her
rituals. When troubled by events beyond her control, she gave extra
attention to the details she could actually influence.

She had no real need to even be
here. As a Principal of House Noril's slaves, she had many
underlings she could task. She might have spent her time gossiping,
even napping, though of course she would be held responsible if her
people made a mess of things. That, she supposed, was part of why
she was here, but the greater part was simpler, and something she
would never admit to the others: she loved the work. Cooking was a
joy, an art, a solace. She needed it now.

Parala and Cyndi, both young
trollops who spent far too much time sowing dissent amongst the male
slaves, tittered as they cut and laid out biscuits on a pan. Shirini
scowled at them in disapproval, but said nothing. She had been
young, once, too, and had done her share of gossiping.
But I kept
my skirt down more than the two of them, that's certain.

Cyndi pressed a cup into the
flattened dough and giggled at the farting sound it made. “What
do you reckon he did? The man in the prison?”

“I heard he stole from
the house,” Parala said as she slid a tray of biscuits into
one of the many ovens.

Shirini stirred her soup again
vigorously, scowling, not deigning to look up as she spoke. “You
two cluck like hens, and with about the same result. There's no man
in the prison.”

Cyndi gaped at her. “Yes
there is! Everybody knows it. My boyfriend saw them bring him in.”

Shirini turned to her and gave
her a hard look. “Which one would that be, missy? The liar,
the tale-spinner, or the one too stupid to mind his own business?”

Cyndi, chagrined, stared at the
floor and said nothing. Shirini waved her spoon at the two of them.
“There ain't no man in the prison, you hear me? If you know
what's good for you, that's the tale you'll tell. Don't test me.”

The two girls grew somber, but
Parala brightened quickly. “How about the woman in with Master
Davron?” she asked, a leer on her face. “Can we talk
about her?”

Shirini sighed and turned back
to her pot. “If you keep your voice down. And you better keep
up on them biscuits, too. It wouldn't do for us to lay a poor
serving for her, would it?”

Cyndi snickered at this. “If
we make a good impression, maybe the Master will get himself an
heir.”

Shirini heaved a deep sigh and
slapped her spoon on the counter. She turned to face them with an
air of resignation. “First off, it's not your business to be
meddling in such things.” She allowed herself a wry smile as
she continued, “And how the hell can we hear what they're
saying if you two keep nattering on?” She folded her arms
across her chest, smiling with satisfaction as the girls' eyes
widened, and they nodded in conspiratorial agreement. Cyndi gestured
sewing her lips shut, and the kitchen fell silent save for the
gentle farting sounds and scraping of pans.

Shirini
looked out of the serving window into the dining room where Master
Davron and his visitor sat, talking quietly.
Not quietly enough,
now that these chickens have the idea.

The woman was a real looker,
with long, raven hair, deep green eyes, and full, red lips. She had
noble written all over her, but her build was anything but.
Noblewomen tended to be way too thin in Shirini's opinion, but this
one bucked that trend. She had bosoms to rival Shirini's own
well-cultivated pair, and her red, silk dress was cut to display
them well. More, her hips shone wide and fine in contrast to her
narrow waistline. Shirini winced at her own broadened waist, then
shrugged with good nature. She'd had enough babies, and was enjoying
being done with that part of life. She felt no guilt at enjoying
eating at least as much as cooking, and there was plenty of interest
from the men despite it.
Not so much from the younger ones, but
then I prefer men to boys anyway.

Davron's guest crossed her legs
and leaned in seductively, but her eyes gave lie to the pose. “How
long do you intend to go on with this foolishness? It threatens my
only son, and for what?”

Davron offered her a
patronizing smile. He was a damned fine specimen of a man, Shirini
mused. He dressed well, but without pretense, and had bulges in all
the right places, quite a feat for a man of his age. “It will
go on as long as it amuses me,” he told his guest. “I'll
decide if he lives or dies in my own good time.” The woman
opened her mouth to speak, but Davron help up a hand. “I have
no sons, but I had a nephew, until recently. He was a useless thing,
really, partial to debauchery, but his mother loved him. He was a
regular at Tasinalta's disgusting orgies. For once in his life, the
fool found a use for his balls beyond fucking, and the Southlanders
cut him down like a dog.”

The woman smirked at this, and
jabbed at him. “No sons, you say? Imagine that. Don't care for
girls do you?”

Davron chuckled at this and
nodded in appreciation at the gibe. “I like 'women' not girls.
The problem lies with my wife, if you must know.”

“So set her aside.”

Davron darkened at this.
“Perhaps that's how you handle such things in the lesser
houses,” he sneered. “In house Noril, we value loyalty,
history, duty.”

The woman answered with a
seductive smile and a feigned nod of concession. “That's good
to know.”

Shirini growled to herself, and
clutched her spoon in anger.
Who are you, bitch, to mock him so?

Narelki stared in silence at
her trembling hands, willing them to be still, but the best she
could manage was to quiet their shaking, not eliminate it. Her gut
churned in helpless, blind objection to reality.
Once, that would
have been enough to move worlds.
She felt her eyes burning as tears welled, uncertain if they were
for Aiul or for her own lost self.

I will not do this!
She clamped her eyes closed and gritted her teeth.
There
must be
something
left!
Some tiny shred, at least! People change all of the time, but they
don't simply turn in on themselves and vanish. A snake can't simply
swallow its tail until it pops out of existence!

And
yet that was just what it was like. Whole pieces of her were gone as
if they never were, and now the one piece she had left, her son, was
being torn from her as well.

How
many times had she come lately? Ten, Twenty? She had lost count.
There were no handholds for memory because nothing changed. Aiul
said nothing. He gave no indication that he even knew she was there,
much less that he recognized her. Of course, the damned bandages
made it impossible to read anything in his eyes or his expression.

Someone
behind her politely cleared his throat, and Narelki dashed the tears
from her eyes before she turned to face Rithard. It was far too late
to pretend she was anything but shattered, but she stood straight
and regarded him imperiously nonetheless. He would not be fooled,
but he would at least know she had her dignity, and that she
intended to preserve it as best she could.

Rithard
tried to strike a pose of his own, that of the concerned doctor who
only wanted to ease the pain of others, but it was not his best
skill. He was clearly brilliant, Aiul's equal in intellect, perhaps
even his superior. She had worked that out very shortly after
meeting him. That had prompted her to ask some questions, and the
answers had all painted a picture that matched her personal
assessment almost perfectly.

He
was ruthlessly efficient, as the financial statements showed since
he had taken charge of the hospital. He did not ordinarily see
patients. He worked with the dead, determining causes, and liaised
with the city guard for investigating homicides. Rumor had it that
he was solely responsible for solving several grisly murders.

So
he was to be respected, both for his skills and his willingness to
serve the House outside of his comfort zone. But there was a reason
he chose to work with the dead. Try as he might, he was detached,
analytic, and cool. His smile of sympathy didn't quite reach his icy
eyes.
So like my own. How did I not know he was of Amrath when I
met him?

Aiul
would have had the right words, would have made physical contact, a
hand on the shoulder, some sort of human touch, and not merely for
decorum, but sincerely. Rithard did his best, but for him, this was
process, and one still not fully perfected at that. He hesitated,
uncertain of his place, or if he would cause harm. Perhaps it had as
much to do with her station as his own lack of expertise in such
matters.

“You
may speak,” she told him as she daubed her eyes.

“To
be frank, I was considering what to say,” he admitted, though
he was not at all shy about it. “I know it is not my place,
but it's obvious these visits take their toll.”

“And
what would you have me do?” she shot back. “He is my
son.”

Rithard
frowned as he nodded, clearly less than pleased at her response.
“And he is my charge. That makes you my responsibility as
well, to the degree you will permit it.”

“You
would dispense advice? Then be quick about it.” She
immediately felt guilty at her shortness, and smiled inwardly.
We
are quite alike, I think.
She offered him a sad smile. “It's
not you. I am simply overwhelmed, as you just pointed out.”

“Matriarch,
far be it from me to tell you how to live your life, but I can tell
you the facts, if you will hear.” He paused, and Narelki gave
him a curt nod to proceed. “There has been no change in his
condition. I have not given up hope that he may recover, but I
believe it is time for us to at least consider the fact that this
may be permanent. Surely, whatever happens, it will happen in its
own due time.” Rithard fell silent a moment, as if gauging her
reaction to what he intended to say. “It is my professional
opinion that you are causing yourself unnecessary harm by neglecting
your own well being of late. It is my duty to see to his care, and I
assure you, I do all that I can. But any change that may occur will
be gradual. There will be plenty of time for me to alert you. You
need not be here every day.”

Narelki
regarded him in stony silence. His words were hard, and bordering on
insubordinate, but she had invited them, and more to the point, they
were
true
. She held his gaze a moment longer, searching for
some crack in his facade, some hint that he was shirking rather than
offering honest counsel, but she saw nothing of the sort.

With
a sigh, she lowered her gaze and shook her head in consternation.
“And what is your prescription, doctor?”

Rithard
nodded, more comfortable with her submission. “Why not weekly,
or even bi-weekly visits? I give you my word, Matriarch, I will
inform you personally if he changes.”

Narelki
stared at the marble floor for long moments in silence, grinding her
teeth. “Very well,” she said at last. “I'll expect
regular reports, of course, and immediate notice if his situation
changes, for better or worse.”

“Of
course.”

Narelki
dabbed at her eyes again. “Then, if you will excuse me, I
think I shall be off and gather myself. I have neglected my own
duties of late. See that you keep to yours. You're proving yourself
a most valuable asset to the House, and I will not forget it.”

Rithard
gave her a solemn, deep bow. “It is good to be remembered.”

Alone in his office, Rithard
sat at his desk, his head buried in his hands.
I am a villain, a
monster, a traitor!
Yet, what
choice had he been given?
Oh, let's not strike the martyr
pose. It may have started that way, but you're a co-conspirator now,
lying, betraying family, and for what?

Surely
the greatest benefit he was gaining from this whole fiasco was that
he was not spitted on Davron Noril's sword.
Not yet, at any rate.
Davron had simply shown up at Rithard's office in the wee hours
of the morning after the incident and made an offer Rithard found
difficult to refuse. But Davron had not been present today, nor any
other since. Rithard had become ever more a willing participant,
simply to cover his own guilt as his treacheries mounted.

“I
will be taking charge of your patient,” Davron had told him.
Just that. He had been dressed for battle, in full armor, leaving no
doubt that he had come prepared to fight if need be.