The Qualinesti

9 — The Pact

Rain pattered on the dry streets of Qualinost. After three days of continuous sunshine, the rain was a blessing. The city dwellers, who had so fastidiously avoided the crimson downpour, stayed outside, luxuriating in the refreshing, clean liquid. The wide, curving streets were full of people.

Once the rain had abated to a soft shower and cool breezes flowed across his capital, Kith-Kanan rode with Senator Irthenie and Kemian Ambrodel through the busy streets. The Speaker of the Sun was surveying the city to see how much it had suffered in the three days of heat. Qualinost, he was relieved to see, didn’t seem to have been much damaged by the burning sun.

His subjects noticed the Speaker riding among them. They tipped their hats or bowed as he passed. Here and there, Kith-Kanan came upon a gang of gardeners removing some tree or bush that had succumbed to the relentless heat. At the right hand of each of these groups waited a priest of Astra, ready to plant a new tree in place of the old. No, Qualinost had not suffered very much.

The market square was less cheerful. Kith-Kanan rode ahead of his two companions across the almost deserted plaza and saw all the empty stalls and ruined produce lying trodden on the cobblestones. One merchant, a burly human with a leather apron, was sweeping up some spoiled potatoes when Kith-Kanan reined in to speak with him.

“Hello there, my good fellow,” called the Speaker. “How goes it with you?”

The man didn’t look up from his work. “Rotten! All of it rotten! What’s a man supposed to do with five bushels of dried-out, split-open, rotten vegetables?”

Irthenie and Kemian drew alongside Kith-Kanan. “So the sun ruined your crop?” asked the Speaker sympathetically.

“Aye, the sun or the darkness or the lightnin’ or the flood of bloody rain. Makes no never-mind to me which it was. It happened.” The man spat on the damp stones.

An elf woman with a basket of withered flowers under one arm heard their conversation. With a quick curtsy to her sovereign, she asked, “Why do the gods punish us so? What sin have we committed?”

“How do you know the gods are punishing anyone? These strange things might all be signs of some great wonder to come,” Kith-Kanan suggested.

The human, squatting on the ground to gather his ruined potatoes into baskets, grumbled, “They say it’s because Kith-Kanan has put his own son in chains to help build the fortress at Pax Tharkas.” He still didn’t realize to whom he was conversing. At his harsh words, the elf woman blushed, and Kemian Ambrodel cleared his throat loudly. The human lifted his head.

Even though the Speaker didn’t wear the glitter and gold of state robes, the man recognized him. “Mercy, Your Worship, I’m sorry!” the man gasped. “I didn’t know it was you!”

Grimly Kith-Kanan replied, “Have no fear. I would hear everything my people think of me.”

“Is it true, Majesty?” asked the elf woman meekly. “Did you sell your own son into slavery just to finish that big castle?”

Kemian and Irthenie started to remonstrate with the woman for her blunt query. The Speaker held up his hands to silence them. Patiently he explained what Ulvian had done, and why he had sent him to Pax Tharkas. His earlier wish to keep Ulvian’s crime from public gossip seemed hopeless. Now he felt it was more important for his people to know the truth and not entertain wild imaginings.

While he spoke, more people gathered—peddlers, tinkers, farmers, potters. All came to hear Kith-Kanan’s story of the trouble he was having with his son. To his amazement, they all believed that Ulvian’s exile and the twelve days of marvels were related.

“Where did you get these ideas?” Irthenie asked sharply.

The potato man shrugged. “Talk. Just talk…you know.”

“Shadow talk,” said Kith-Kanan, too faintly for most to hear. Kemian heard, and he glanced at the Speaker.

“Is Lord Kemian Ambrodel to be your son now?” shouted a voice from the crowd. The three mounted elves turned their heads to and fro, trying to spot the one who’d spoken.

“Will Lord Ambrodel be the next Speaker of the Sun?” the same voice demanded.

“Who said that?” muttered Irthenie. No one answered, but others in the crowd took up the cry. Keeping a steady hand on his fractious mount’s reins, Kith-Kanan let the shouting grow a while. He wanted to measure the sentiment of his people.

Kemian, however, could not remain calm. “Silence!” the general roared. “Show respect for the Speaker!”

“Silvanesti!” someone shouted back at him, and it was like a curse. The young warrior, in an agony of embarrassment and anger, looked to his sovereign. Kith-Kanan seemed thoughtful.

“Sire,” said Kemian desperately, “I think you’d best assure them I am not to be your successor!” His voice was tight but earnest.

“Say something,” Irthenie urged from the side of her mouth.

At last the Speaker held up a hand. “Good people,” he said. “The crowd instantly fell silent, awaiting his response. “I understand your concern for the throne. Lord Ambrodel is a faithful and valiant servant. He would make an excellent Speaker—”

“No! No!” the crowd erupted. “No Silvanesti! No Silvanesti!” they chanted. In his own shock at the Speaker’s words, Kemian barely heard their insults.

“Have you forgotten that I am of the royal house of Silvanos?” Kith-Kanan said icily. “No one is more Silvanesti than I!”

“You are the Speaker of the Sun! The father of our country!” a male voice answered. “We don’t want some Silvanesti courtier’s boy to rule us. We want a ruler of your blood or none!”

“Your blood or none!” echoed a large segment of the crowd.

Kemian snatched at his reins, ready to charge into the mass of unarmed Qualinesti and put an end to these insults. Kith-Kanan leaned over and laid a hand on the warrior’s arm. Eyes blazing, Kemian stared angrily at the Speaker, but he didn’t try to evade his grasp. Reluctantly he relaxed, and Kith-Kanan let go of his mailed arm.

“Go back to the Speaker’s house, General,” Kith-Kanan said coolly. “I shall return shortly.”

“Sire!” Kemian saluted and wheeled his prancing horse in a tight half-circle. The traders and farmers scattered from his path. The general let out a yell and spurred his mount. With a loud clatter of hooves, horse and rider tore across the market square and vanished down a curving street.

The people cheered his abrupt departure. Disgusted with them, Kith-Kanan was about to follow Kemian’s exit when Irthenie abruptly got down off her horse.

“I’m too old to stay up that high for so long,” she proclaimed loudly, rubbing her backside with exaggerated care. “For seven hundred and ninety-four years, I walked everywhere I needed to go. Now that I’m a senator, I’m not supposed to walk anywhere.” Those nearest the Kagonesti woman chuckled. “One pays a price to sit in the Thalas-Enthia,” she said gruffly. More people laughed.

Kith-Kanan slackened his reins and sat still, waiting to see what the foxy senator was up to. “You people,” she said loud enough to carry to the fringes of the mob, “you stand here and say you don’t want Kemian Ambrodel as the next Speaker of the Sun. I say, who told you he would be? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.” She stepped away from her dapple-gray horse, deeper into the crowd.

“He’s a fine general, that elf, but you’re right about one thing: We don’t want a bunch of Silvanesti nobles ruling us, telling us we’re not as good as they are. That’s one reason we left the old country, to get away from so many lords and masters.”

Irthenie’s Kagonesti garb blended in well with the crowd, her leather and raw linen against their homespun wool and drab cotton. She literally rubbed shoulders with the people in the square. Irthenie was one of them. “When I was younger and better-looking—” laughter rippled across the plaza— “I was taken from the forest by warriors. They were looking for wives, and their idea of catching one was to drag a net through the bushes and see what they flushed out.” The senator stopped walking when she reached the center of the crowd. Every eye was on her. Kith-Kanan experienced a moment of nervousness at the sight of her small figure hemmed in on all sides by the mob. “I didn’t much want to be a warrior’s woman, so I ran away the first chance I got. They caught me, and this time, they broke my leg so I couldn’t run again. Vernax Kollontine was hardly a loving husband. After he beat me for not washing his clothes often enough and not cooking his supper fast enough, I killed him with a bread knife.”

There was a concerted gasp at this revelation. The Speaker of the Sun seemed just as surprised as his subjects, and he listened to the senator’s tale just as intently. Irthenie held up a hand to calm the crowd, insisting, “No, no, it was a fair fight.” Kith-Kanan smiled.

“The point of this long and boring story is that the Speaker of the Stars at that time, Sithel, ordered me sold into slavery as punishment for my crime. I lived as a slave for thirty-eight years. The great war freed me, and I was in the first band of settlers who came with Kith-Kanan to found Qualinost. This city, this country, is like no other in the world. Here every race can live and work, can worship, and can prosper or not as they please. That’s freedom. That you and I enjoy it is mostly due to that fellow on horseback you see over there. It was his wisdom and judgment that got us here. If you’re pleased with that, then you ought not doubt his wisdom regarding either his son or his successor.”

The square remained quiet after she finished speaking. Only the soft patter of rain accompanied Irthenie’s final words.

“Slavery is an evil, ugly thing,” she concluded. “It degrades not only the slave, but the master as well. Like any good father, the Speaker is trying to save his son from a terrible mistake. You should pray for him as I often do.”

Irthenie walked back through the calmed crowd to her horse. Kith-Kanan handed her the reins, and she climbed into the saddle with a grunt. “Damn leg,” she muttered. “It always gets stiff when it rains.”

The Speaker and the senator rode on across the square. The people parted, making way for them. Hats were doffed. Wool tams and felt hoods were removed in respect.

Kith-Kanan kept his gaze serenely ahead. What had been a potentially dangerous situation had been reversed by the words of his old friend.

The cool rain felt good on his face. The air smelled sweet. Though nothing had been decided or changed, Kith-Kanan felt a sudden rush of confidence. Whatever forces were at work, he felt sure they were in his favor. Hiddukel’s dire prophecies in the Tower of the Sun seemed like remote threats now.

“A question,” he said as they rode on. “Was that story you told the crowd true?”

Irthenie kicked her heels against her horse’s sides. The gelding broke into a trot.

“Some of it was,” she replied.

Steam hung in the air where the cold rain hit the baked stones of Pax Tharkas. All outside work had ceased, as it was too dangerous to cut stone or move blocks when the ground was wet. The grunt gang was not allowed to lie idle, though. Feldrin Feldspar was anxious about his rate of progress, so he put the convicts to work enlarging the tunnels being sunk into the mountainside beneath the towering citadel.

Ulvian hobbled about on a makeshift crutch. His right leg, the one that had been caught by the runaway granite block, had stiffened to the point where he needed a crutch to get around. He wasn’t excused from work however, so he limped through the dim, limestone tunnels, carrying waterskins to the other grunt gang members.

Near the end of one long gallery, barely wider than his shoulders, he came upon Dru. Ulvian paused a few feet away from the laboring elf. A small lamp burned on the tunnel floor. In its brassy light, Dru’s chalk-covered body appeared ghostly.

“Here, friend,” said the prince. “Drink while the water’s still cool.”

Dru set aside his pick and took the skin. He pointed the spout at his lips and let a stream of cold water flow into his mouth.

“Don’t take it all. There are others who will want a drink.”

Dru let the prince take the nearly drained skin. “You puzzle me,” the Silvanesti said, leaning against the wall. The lamp threw weird highlights from below, making the elf’s lean, angular face look like a mask. “You are a prince, the son of a monarch, and yet you fetch and carry water like any base-born serf.”

“Hold your tongue! You may have saved my life, but I don’t have to endure a lecture from you!” snapped Ulvian, more like his arrogant, proud, former self.

Dru smiled thinly. “That’s better. That’s what I want to hear.” Clasping his pick, the sorcerer stepped over the lamp and stood nose to nose with the son of Kith-Kanan. “If you can behave like a prince and not a serf, we can be gone from this miserable prison. Are you with me?”

“In what?” was Ulvian’s derisive reply. “Shall we run away to the mountains, just so Feldrin’s watchdogs can hunt us down? I’m on my good behavior here. If I sacrifice that, I have no hope of gaining my father’s throne.”

“We have only to cause a little excitement. That will distract the camp long enough for us to get inside Feldrin’s tent and get my amulet.”

So they were back to that. Ulvian folded his arms, disgust evident on his face. “I won’t murder Feldrin. He’s a thickheaded old bore, but he’s honest.”

Dru’s smile was nasty. He turned and went to the low niche he’d already hollowed out in the soft rock. He tossed his pick aside. It rang dully on the dusty floor. Slumping against the wall, Dru said, “When are you going to wake up, Highness?” His tone dripped irony. “I have waited a long time for someone with whom I could ally myself. No one else in the grunt gang has any wit or breeding. But you and I, my friend, can go far together. You spoke of enemies. I can help you defeat them. The throne of your father can be yours, not in ten years or a hundred, but in two months. Perhaps sooner. With your leadership and my magic, we can make Qualinesti the most powerful empire in the world!”

His words held the prince’s attention. Without realizing it, Ulvian let the waterskin drop from his fingers. It sloshed to the ground.

“I’ve dreamed of the day I would see Verhanna and the Ambrodels groveling at my feet,” Ulvian whispered. “And the Crown of the Sun on my head.” The prince’s eyes were distant, beholding future glory. Visions of the empire he would rule, of the grand and opulent palace he would build, filled Ulvian’s mind. Power and glory, comfort and ease, riches beyond dreaming. His word would be law. The people would worship him as they now worshiped his father.

Cutting through Ulvian’s golden dreams, a rough voice from farther back in the tunnel called faintly, “Waterboy! Where’s that waterboy?”

Abruptly Ulvian focused once more on Dru. “If we can accomplish this without bloodshed, count me in,” he said grimly.

Dru bowed his head. “As Your Highness wishes. I shall be very careful.” Then he quickly gave Ulvian a precise list of the things he’d need. It was a short list, but a puzzling one.

“What on Krynn can you do with a pound of white clay, some chips of coal, a span of leather thong, and a copper brazier?” the prince asked, confused. “None of them is rare or guarded. Why don’t you collect them yourself?”

The sorcerer’s gray eyes glittered like diamonds in the half-light. “You may not realize it, my prince, but I am closely watched. No one dares kill me, but I dare not do anything to cause suspicion, or my limbs would be fettered and I would be consigned to a deep, dark hole.” He gestured at the rough limestone walls. “Like this.”

Ulvian left him there. As he wended his way to the main tunnel under the central citadel, he mulled over the possibilities. Dru was dangerous, but a potentially powerful ally. Ulvian smiled in the dark tunnel as he limped along. Let Dru believe he was a vainglorious fool. That was a useful illusion. The time might come when Ulvian would no longer require Dru’s services….

Rough hands seized his shirt front. “Here!” bellowed a harsh voice. “Here he is, lads!”

Ulvian was dragged into a side tunnel and flung to the floor. His bruised leg knifed with pain. Through the gloom, he saw three grunt gangers standing over him. Two he knew well—the Kagonesti Splint, and a human called Brunnar. The third was another Kagonesti he knew only as Thrit.

“We been waiting an awful long time for our water,” snarled Splint. “The damn dust down here is thicker than soup.” He planted a foot on Ulvian’s back. “So where’s the water?”

Painfully the prince dragged the waterskin from beneath him. It was snatched from his grasp by Thrit, who reported that it was empty.

“I think our little waterboy needs a lesson,” Splint growled, and kicked the prince in the ribs. The three tall figures closed in.

Dru swung his pick energetically at the limestone around him. He had no interest in working hard for his captors; the physical activity was simply a reflection of the state of fevered excitement in his mind. His time in this unnatural prison could be measured in days, perhaps only hours. Soon he would be free! Surely his patron god had sent that fool of a prince to be the instrument of his deliverance.

A sound in the passage behind him made him pause. Pick in hand, Dru whirled. The feeble glow of the fat-burning lamp didn’t penetrate beyond the bend in the tunnel some six feet away. He waited. The noise came again, a scraping, dragging sound. Carefully the sorcerer bent down to take up the lamp, his eyes never leaving the black passage.

A hand, pale and slim, came into view on the dusty floor. Dru crept forward until the lamplight fell across the form of Prince Ulvian, sprawled on the ground. Blood matted his unkempt beard, and one eye was swollen shut.

Dru knelt. “Your Highness! What happened?”

“Splint…Brunnar…Thrit…beat me.” Ulvian’s lips were swelling, making speech difficult.

Dru dragged the prince to the far end of the tunnel and propped him against the wall. After making certain no one was around, the sorcerer reached under the waist of his baggy trousers and brought out a small hide drawstring bag. He poured a little of its contents into his hand. A pungent, sweet smell filled the air.

“Take this,” murmured Dru, putting his hand to Ulvian’s purple lips. “It’s an herbal mixture of my own. It will restore you.”

The prince managed to swallow some of the ground herbs. In a few minutes, the swelling in his eye and lips began to subside. A modicum of strength flowed into his body. Though the pain of his injured leg eased, his ribs still ached from his beating.

Ulvian lifted clouded eyes to the sorcerer’s face and struggled to his feet.

“Rest a bit longer, Highness.”

“No.” Ulvian struggled to his feet. The magic herbs hadn’t healed all his pains, but he felt considerably better. “I want to proceed with our plans as quickly as possible,” he informed Dru. “And I’ve added a condition of my own.”

Dru tucked his herb bag away. “What’s that?”

“Twice Splint has laid hands on me. I want revenge!”

“Easily done, Highness. Just get the items I need.”

Ulvian pushed Dru aside and hobbled off down the tunnel. His voice echoed back to the pleased sorcerer. “I’ll have it all for you tonight!” he declared grimly.