“Then I can’t help you, and you shouldn’t want me to.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now if you want to join the Red Spears, I’m happy to have you. Oh, and that Marakori woman too. She shoots well enough to be Diraxon.”
I cleared my throat and let the comment pass. “I said you may have a point. But I know Relos Var doesn’t believe in the same rules we Joratese do. He’s been using that against us. You think I should leave him alone, but I don’t think he’s going to leave me alone. He’s already recruited someone to his side for no other reason than their animosity to me. I’ve captured his interest.”
His lips thinned. “Regrettable.”
“Thaena thinks he won’t hurt me.”
“Thaena won’t be the one dead or gaeshed if she’s wrong. And while I agree he’d recruit you if he thought your loyalty sincere—”
“Then this could work—”
“Don’t underestimate his ability to discern the truth.7 Lying to him is seldom successful, and once he catches you out, he’d twist you until you’re unrecognizable.”
I swallowed and looked away. “I saw what he did to Tamin.”
“And Tamin didn’t lie to him.”
“Relos Var’s arrogant,” I said, turning back. “Arrogant enough to think he can corrupt me. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.”
“He is smarter than everyone else.”8
“Fine. Even if that’s true, sooner or later, our strengths always become our weaknesses. This can be used against him. I know how dangerous this is, but I refuse to back down just because it’s hard.”
He started to say something and then stopped.
“Please. I need your help.”
“Name some other boon.”9
I stood and began pacing, feeling the despair like a heavy weight around my middle. I had assumed this man would serve Thaena or some other member of the Eight, that he would be cooperative.
He was anything but cooperative.
Still, I had been granted another boon. I would be foolish not to use it.
I turned back to him. “Can you sneak me into the tournament? I would at least wish to warn the duke. Someone has to.”
He made a face. “That won’t work the way you think either.”
“Can you gain me admission or not?” I felt my temper starting to slip.
Mithros sighed. “Oh, I can sneak you in. I’m just a little worried about how you’re going to get yourself out.”
I lifted my chin. “That’s my problem.”
25: THE MARAKORI SLUMS
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since the Crown and Scepter totally failed to protect not one but two Quuros emperors
Ninavis turned to Janel. “Did I sleep with Khored or not?”
Janel held up her hands. “You don’t want me to spoil the surprise, do you?”
“Oh gods,” Ninavis growled. “You are a demon.”
Dorna chortled. “I bet you said that to Khored too.”
Then the old woman ducked as Ninavis swung at her.
Kihrin poured a glass of aris and handed it to Ninavis.
“Thank you,” Nina said. She looked over at Brother Qown and stage-whispered, “Save me.”
Brother Qown smiled as he picked up his journal. Then the smile faded as he looked at it for a moment before closing it again. “I’m going to skip ahead a bit, if you don’t mind. I mean the interesting stuff happens at the tournament.”
“Oh no,” Janel said. “I never did hear about what happened to you while we were training.”
The priest cleared his throat and opened his book again. “Very well.”
Qown’s Turn. Marakori slums, Atrine, Jorat, Quur.
Count Janel, Sir Baramon, and Ninavis spent the next two weeks learning to blend in with the Red Spears and training to pass in the tournaments. Easy enough. Ninavis possessed an undeniable talent for archery, mounted on horseback or otherwise. Sir Baramon, while too old to excel in the tournament itself, proved an excellent coach. Dorna too offered advice to performers. She also managed to unearth every single game of chance to be found anywhere in the camps, walking away with a tidy sum.
But Brother Qown’s services were unneeded.
The priest began visiting the Marakori slums.
Some social mixing occurred between the Joratese and Marakori, but not nearly enough to soften relations between the two groups. The Joratese considered their southern neighbors to be an intruding herd. They also seemed convinced every single Marakori practiced witchcraft in secret, stole babies, summoned demons. The Joratese treated the Marakori accordingly.
Now if the Marakori had banded together for their mutual defense … but the Marakori didn’t even consider themselves Marakori, let alone united.
Most of them lived in hovels built on the bridge, using materials they’d brought with them. Or they purchased materials from whatever enterprising merchant had brought building supplies by the wagonload and traded them for family heirlooms. Most Marakori wouldn’t talk about why they’d left Marakor. When they did, they cursed the Royal Houses and spat to the side.
No one talked about going back home.
“How did you break the arm?” Brother Qown asked a teenage boy as he applied an herb plaster. The boy’s coloring was typical: dark brown skin with dark auburn hair.
The boy didn’t say a thing. He just stared at Brother Qown.
“Damn Agari bastards did it,” his mother spat. “His father’s gone out with my brothers to make it right.”
Brother Qown hesitated. “You mean break their bones too?”
The flat stare she gave the priest suggested he was being naïve. But she just said, “Thank you. We have a hard time finding help these days. Too many people claiming they can cure anything when they’re just peddling grass and river water.”
“Yes, I would imagine that’s a problem.”
“Demons take them. It’s not right. Anyway, I—” She paused, hearing something.
A pot of burning oil crashed through the open window.
The wood caught. The mother started screaming. Brother Qown grabbed the boy by his good arm and started to lead him outside, but as he did, two arrows slammed into the wooden lintel.
They couldn’t go that way.
Fortunately (if it could be called that), the hovel proved less a house than a balanced hill of rubble. The mother (Brother Qown had never learned her name) kicked a hole through the planking, and they all crawled out. Mother and son took off running.
Brother Qown started to follow them.
Started.
He heard a shoe scuff behind him. A sharp pain exploded at the back of his head.
He didn’t remember anything else.
* * *
Brother Qown heard voices, shouting.
He kept his eyes closed and pretended to be unconscious.
Really, just one voice. “Have you lost your little mind? You can’t just kill a priest! Do you have any idea what the duke’s men will do when they find out?”
A second voice. “Oh, quit your complaining. He ain’t dead, just knocked around a bit. Tell him how he can’t be going around cutting into our business, and then we’ll send him on his way.”