Part 13 (1/2)

”Gundaron,” she said, her heart beating faster. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at his clasped hands. He didn't look up.

”Scholar.” Mar raised a tentative hand to touch him on the shoulder. He shuddered and straightened, showing her a pale face with dark circles under the eyes.

Gundaron blinked, for a moment not recognizing the silhouette, backlit by the branched candlesticks farther down the pa.s.sage. Scholar, Scholar, he thought, shaking his head and blinking again to clear the fog from his brain. This was Mar-eMar. He straightened. Had she asked him a question? he thought, shaking his head and blinking again to clear the fog from his brain. This was Mar-eMar. He straightened. Had she asked him a question?

Mar motioned with her hand and Gundaron s.h.i.+fted over. The window seat was more than wide enough for them to share.

”I said, are you all right? You look very pale.”

”I don't know,” he glanced around. ”I must have dozed off. I . . . I don't remember.”

”Did you hit your head? What's the last thing you do do remember?” remember?”

”Pasillon.” The word popped out of his mouth before he could stop it. ”Oh, Caids, Caids,” he said, as the scene in the Kir's workroom came spilling into his mind. What was he doing sitting here? How did he get here? The light spun, and he clutched at the hand Mar had placed on his arm to steady himself.

”Who is Pasillon?”

Could he tell her? Certainly he had to give her some reason for the fear he saw mirrored in her face.

”Not a who, a what. When I was a boy, in the Library at Valdomar, I used to sneak downstairs, late at night when I was supposed to be asleep, to read the books we weren't old enough to read yet.” He swallowed, and a smile's ghost rested a moment on his lips. ”There was one in particular, the Book of Gabrian, Book of Gabrian, that told of Pasillon.” that told of Pasillon.”

Mar-eMar settled herself, half-turned toward him, her face steady and unsmiling.

”It's a plain,” he said. ”Far to the west of here and south, in the country that's now Lebmuin. The plain has another name now, but when it was Pasillon, there was a great battle there, between two city-states, Tragon and Conchabar. It was Tragon that won.”

”I've never heard of them.”

”Practically no one has, but that's not why people remember Pasillon.” Gundaron twisted to face her. ”There were Mercenary Brothers on both sides-”

”Both sides?” sides?”

”They're like Scholars, the Brotherhood, free of all countries, citizens of the world. And during battle-” All at once Gundaron was back in his midnight Library, s.h.i.+vering in the cold. Mar took his hands in hers and began chafing them. ”During battle they'll kill each other, if they come upon other Mercenaries on the opposing side. They think it's the best way to die, at the hands of one of their own.”

Mar drew down her brows, nodding. ”Yes, that's what they would think.”

Gundaron took a deep breath and released it slowly. He could feel sweat on his upper lip. He freed his hands from hers and rubbed them on the smooth cloth of his hose.

”That day, the day of the battle at Pasillon, the lord of Tragon had been killed, or maybe it was his son-I only read Gabrian Gabrian that one time, so I'm not sure. But, with this special grievance, the Tragoni fought harder and won.” Gundaron looked closely into Mar's face, searching for the glimmer that showed she understood. ”But their loss made it a sour victory. And the taste of it left them angry, so they chose to take no prisoners. The Tragoni killed the Conchabari as they fled, allowing no one to surrender.” that one time, so I'm not sure. But, with this special grievance, the Tragoni fought harder and won.” Gundaron looked closely into Mar's face, searching for the glimmer that showed she understood. ”But their loss made it a sour victory. And the taste of it left them angry, so they chose to take no prisoners. The Tragoni killed the Conchabari as they fled, allowing no one to surrender.”

”Oh, no.” Mar raised her shoulders and drew her sleeves down over her hands.

”But the Brotherhood, the Mercenaries, they had no reason to flee. Their Common Rule says that those who fight on the losing side submit to the victors and are ransomed by their own Brothers. But not that day. Not at Pasillon. Blinded by victory, enraged by its cost, the Tragoni pursued their fleeing enemy and fell upon any who stood in their way. They did not see why a Mercenary badge should buy someone's life.

”They'd forgotten they had Mercenaries on their own side. And those men and women were quick to come to the aid of their Brothers. And then the real battle of Pasillon began.” Gundaron leaned back against the cold stone embrasure, eyes closed, looking back at the boy he had been, reading an exciting and forbidden book by candlelight when he should have been in bed.

”Exhausted, outnumbered,” he went on, ”some injured, forty or fifty Mercenaries stood against more than five hundred. Gabrian Gabrian describes how they stood back-to-back on a rise of ground and cut down wave after wave of enraged Tragoni until finally, long hours later, when the sun had set, three injured Brothers crept off in the darkness, leaving the rest to cover their escape. And finally, finally, the last Mercenary fell. The victors-the few Tragoni who were left, looked about them and shook their heads, thanking their G.o.ds that it was over.” describes how they stood back-to-back on a rise of ground and cut down wave after wave of enraged Tragoni until finally, long hours later, when the sun had set, three injured Brothers crept off in the darkness, leaving the rest to cover their escape. And finally, finally, the last Mercenary fell. The victors-the few Tragoni who were left, looked about them and shook their heads, thanking their G.o.ds that it was over.”

Gundaron blinked, and focused on Mar once more. Her eyes were wide, whites showing all around, and the corners of her mouth were turned down.

”Except it wasn't over.” His voice dropped to a whisper. ”The army of Tragon continued to die after that day. Not everyone, just the men who were there that day. Just the men who had killed Mercenaries. And the officers who did not stop them. And the lords who gave orders to the officers.

”People spoke of bad luck and the Curse of Pasillon, and many went to Healers and Finders and Menders, even Jaldean shrines, since they were soldiers, to see if the Sleeping G.o.d would cleanse them. The Healers saw no illness, the Finders found no poisons, the Menders nothing broken, and the Sleeping G.o.d slept on. But many shrines housed Scholars, and the Scholars saw that this was the work of the Brotherhood.”

”I don't understand.”

”Don't you see? It was the Mercenaries, the Brothers who escaped. They carried the story back to their Houses, and their Schools, and the Brotherhood acted, to teach everyone in the world that mistreated and betrayed Mercenaries would be avenged.” He looked away. ”Will be. Still will be.”

”No, I understood that part. I don't understand what made you think of all this now? Why you're so frightened.”

He looked at her, licked his dry lips. Realizing that he could not tell her. Could not tell her of the look on Dhulyn Wolfshead's face and the word Pasillon on her lips-Gundaron pressed his clasped hands between his knees to steady them.

”It was seeing the Mercenaries,” he said finally. ”Not the tame ones who live here and guard the walls, but the strange ones, your your Mercenaries. They made me think of it and I had a nightmare . . .” Mercenaries. They made me think of it and I had a nightmare . . .”

The girl pressed her lips together, frowning. ”Something else has happened.” else has happened.”

Gundaron looked down at his hands, suddenly clenched into fists without his even realizing it. What else happened? He'd been in the Kir's workroom and Dhulyn Wolfshead had said ”Pasillon,” and then . . . and then. Nothing.

He looked at Mar-eMar. His hands were shaking.

”Nothing,” he said. ”There's nothing there.” He pitched forward as the yawning blackness swallowed him again.

While her cousin Dal-eDal sat in his room and played vera with himself.

Dal didn't even bother to sweep the tiles back into their box when a knock sounded at the door.

”Come,” he said, looking up from the pattern on the table and smiling his inquiry at the man-at-arms who came in.

”I don't know how you knew it, my lord, but you're right. The upper armory's been unlocked and restocked, though nothing's missing from the lower armory, and nothing's been delivered from outside so far as I can find out.”

Dal tapped the tabletop with the tile in his hand, keeping his face impa.s.sive. ”And the other matter?”

”I did as you told me, my lord, and asked in the kitchens. The Scholar and the Kir are are using the big workroom, leastways food and drink have been taken there, and up to the small room in the north tower as well. But there's something else, my lord. Lights and braziers have been taken down to the western subcellar, the wine rooms.” using the big workroom, leastways food and drink have been taken there, and up to the small room in the north tower as well. But there's something else, my lord. Lights and braziers have been taken down to the western subcellar, the wine rooms.”

Dal lifted his eyebrows, but slowly, careful to keep his excitement off his face. Lights to the wine rooms were one thing, but lights and heat heat? He sat back in his chair. Wine rooms indeed. Cells didn't stop being cells because you called them wine rooms. Light and heat down there, that meant new prisoners in the old cells. And new, unaccounted-for weapons in the armory? That gave him an idea of who the prisoners were.

If he was right, if the Mercenaries were still in the House-what, if anything, was he going to do about it?

He knew what his father would have done, if Lok-iKol had left Dal's father alive to do anything. Mil-eMil would have gone straight to the nearest Mercenary House with his tale of kidnapping and forced imprisonment. And not because he wanted to remove an obstacle to his own ambition-he'd had none, though Lok-iKol had never believed it-but to protect the House. And maybe, said the voice of the little boy who still lived inside Dal, maybe just because it was the right thing to do.

What would my father do? he thought. Something more than stand back collecting information, that was certain. And what had happened to make him think of his father just now? he thought. Something more than stand back collecting information, that was certain. And what had happened to make him think of his father just now?

”Thank you, Juslyn, you've done well. Ask the Steward of Walls to be good enough to join me in the upper armory at his earliest convenience. I require his advice for a new sword.”

”Very good, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” The man-at-arms bowed his way out of the room, his crooked teeth showing in his wide grin.