“Oh! I forgot.” The cat’s fur faded into a mottled, dark color.
Bixby picked him up and gave him a quick cuddle.
“Hey!” objected Cantor. “Leave the dragon some dignity.”
Bridger purred and rubbed his head against Bixby’s chin. “I don’t mind.”
Bixby stilled. Holding the cat close, she forced her question out. “Do you think these men had something to do with Totobee-Rodolow’s disappearance?”
In her arms, the Bridger-cat bristled. Cantor’s white smile vanished in the dark. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Cantor watched Jesha follow Bridger down the hill. They crossed the yard among the carriages, horses, and men without raising an alarm. Obviously, two cats on a farm were not noteworthy. As bold as a rooster in his own henhouse, the two pranced up the front steps, strolled along the veranda, leapt in an open window, and vanished from Cantor’s sight.
Bixby wore two diadems now. She’d chosen bulkier crowns since she expected to see no one. These headpieces held greater power with their heavier frames. One would enable her to enter the men’s minds, and the other was to help her remember the names she ferreted out of them. She placed the more sparkly crown inside the darker one.
Cantor took his leave and slinked from bush to bush to get closer to the carriages and men. When he settled between the wheels of one of their conveyances, he gently parted the tall sweetgrass to get a view of the closest group.
Four crouched in a circle with a pair of dice. Three other men stood, watching the play.
“I’m losing all my wages to you, Smitt.” A man stood and offered his place to one standing. “You see if you can break his run of luck, Digger.”
Digger hunkered down and tossed a coin in a hat, then threw the dice. A collective groan said the numbers weren’t good. One of the other men scooped up the hat, dumped change in his hand, and pocketed his winnings.
Smitt laughed. “If the gents argue all night, I’ll have everyone’s pay, and me Sassy and I can go on holiday.”
“Where’d you go?”
“I’d go to the sea and watch the waves and fish for those big ’uns they say run ’long the coast. Sassy’d want clothes, though, and prob’ly a trip to someplace cooler than the beach.”
“I’d like to get away. My gent’s been in a mood. Sometimes I think he’s gonna grab me whip and use it on me. I seen him get after a footman with his cane. Temper’s wild and close to the top.”
“None of them that gets together has a soft word in ’em.”
“But the pay’s good.”
A man laughed. “The pay’s good ’cause they ain’t.”
A nervous laugh from the group answered the man’s jest. “Best watch what we say even among ourselves. There be spies, most likely.”
Cantor snickered softly. One spy was closer than they suspected. He waited until the game caught their attention again and moved to the next group of servants.
These men swapped stories, some funny and many stretched beyond what was believable. After a time, a man began telling of the spooky things he’d witnessed while working for his gent. These could be discounted as told for the drama, but the next man who spoke up told of cruelty and vicious attacks that rang true.
“So why do you work for him, Jost, if the blood and gore make you squeamish?”
“That’s easy enough to answer. If I wasn’t working for the gent, then the gent would be after me. I come from the folks he likes to hound and pummel. ‘Work for the man who’s stronger, and you’re less likely to be battered.’ That’s what my old man said.”
One man lowered his voice and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the farmhouse. “That’s not going to be true for all of them.”
“They’ll kill each other?” A man squeaked his question. Cantor wondered if it was nerves that pinched his vocal cords or if the man always sounded like a rat.
“Sure, Nots,” said the man who predicted a falling out. “Who’s in there arguing is the ones you’d call the strongest. They’s gonna hound and pummel their own. You know, the ones that ain’t here, the ones that ain’t the strongest and are getting in the way of what’s they” — he jerked his thumb at the house again — “want to do.”
“Anyone know anything about the explosion?”
A chorus of abrupt negatives met this question.
“Not me.”
“Don’t want to know.”
“Healthier to be deaf and dumb to that one, buddy.”
“Hauss knew something about it.”
“Where is Hauss?”
“Exactly.”
The voices dropped into the dark night. One man broke the silence with words as solemn as a dirge.
“Where is Hauss?”
KERNFEUDAL
Making a list of those present in the farmhouse proved to be difficult. Bixby discovered that when people think, they don’t supply their own names. So she had notes like, “Subject A thinks Migal Trudge is an imbecile and not a leader and should not be a member of the Kernfeudal.”
She concentrated on picking up the thoughts containing the word Kernfeudal and learned it meant the core of a feudal system. These men considered themselves the elite rulers of the Realm Walkers Guild.
As part of the instruction she and Cantor had received under Dukmee, she had learned the names of the councilmen and where they were from. That helped her identify some of the men whose thick accents she recognized. But the whole process was tedious and confusing. She almost despaired of ever figuring out who was who, until she caught on to the different patterns of thought and the individual tone imbued in each mind. Some thought in complete sentences, some in a kind of staccato, abbreviated string of words. Others mixed streams of thought, carrying on more than one idea at a time.
For the most part, these supposedly educated men used foul language in every sentence. Some of the names they called each other made her blush. She placed a hand on her cheek and felt the warmth. Even her ears tingled.
It didn’t take long for her to grow impatient with them. To her, vulgarities and profanity demonstrated lazy thinking and posturing. She thought of street urchins who didn’t have sufficient vocabulary to use a word that carried weight instead of some crude term. She saw the same youth using tough language to make themselves feel adequate and hoping others would not see through the shame.
She wanted to learn something important. These grown men wasted time with thinking derogatory thoughts about one another, boasting about how great they were, and using worthless language. Bixby wanted to take their dirty minds and scrub them in hot water and lye soap. Or maybe apply some harsh astringent. Or give them a lecture on orderly deductive reasoning.
One person did use his own name. His thoughts centered on himself.
“I am not Errd Tos if I fail to bend these fools to my will.”
“The day we destroy the lesser members will be known as the day Errd Tos came to power.”
“These morons only think they make plans. It is not they, but I, Errd Tos, who guides them into their decisions.”
Bixby longed to see which one of these men was Errd Tos. He sounded absurd but she feared he was a lethal type of crazy. Would he look as pompous as he sounded? Did he look normal? She thought that was likely. If he looked like he thought, people would probably steer clear of him.
He sure loved the sound of his own name. Did he have Errd Tos spelled out on a fancy ring? She froze in her thoughts. The fancy ring blazed with fire and smoke, but still remained clear in her mind’s eye. The ring was real. The wearer of the ring was using his mind to survey the area. She threw up a block and wondered if she’d been quick enough.
The men in the farmhouse talked on and on, but she stopped homing in on the speeches and instead took note of the reactions. Who sounded powerful and in control of their emotions? Who easily produced counterpoints to any argument? Who had the least amount of scruples? Who would be the most dangerous to confront? Errd Tos stood out, and she cringed
at each encounter.
As the night dragged on, Bixby’s head ached with the intensity of her concentration and the long hours. Just as she hoped the meeting would finally end, a new topic emerged. The spoken words hummed in the background as she directed her attention to thoughts. As the tenor of the meeting altered, the voiced comments dominated the thoughts of all the men. Fatigue, confusion, and the nagging sense that someone hovered at the wall of her mind wore at Bixby’s concentration. She remembered the Aray Anona Yara instructor’s word of choice. “Focus, focus, focus.” She focused. The men had settled into a deep chasm of fear.
The Kernfeudal became less boisterous as a few men took over the discussion. So far, her surveillance had left her unimpressed, but now dread replaced her casual eavesdropping. Their thoughts had turned to very dark images. Even a few of these hardened men had qualms about the brutal force the leaders called for. The stronger led the weaker to embrace the evil plans needed to achieve the power they craved.
Generally, Errd Tos stayed on the sidelines, muttering to those who did not wish to be in the center. Most of the time, the men weren’t even aware he had spoken, but his evil words buried themselves in the weaker minds.
And now a man spoke whose powerful influence drew every other man’s thinking to pay exclusive attention to his words. Bixby drew in an alarmed breath. She hadn’t noticed. When had he taken the new position? How did he avoid her surveillance? Errd Tos stood in the center. All listened, and few dared even think thoughts that countered his strong voice.
“We must address the event that will bring down the council as it is now.”
“The less said aloud, the better,” objected a man she’d named Snort. “We’ve agreed to the day and time. Let the minions carry out the actual bombing.” He punctuated his statement with a snort, then sniffed and blew his nose.
“We all agree,” said the man who constantly squirmed. His actions twisted his thoughts as well as his body. It set Bixby’s teeth on edge just to listen to him. “The brutes will have the blood on their hands, and we’ll have only the scent of slaughter.”
An undercurrent of laughter sent shivers up Bixby’s spine.
Deftal was one of the first she’d been able to put a name to. His thoughts dragged as if pulled over a gritty surface. “The stench of death clings, Brother of the Kern.”
“But you can’t use a smell as evidence in a court.”
Impatience fermented in the mind of Errd Tos. Bixby recoiled from the writhing exasperation. She heard his unspoken complaint: “These fools waste my time.”
Aloud his words sounded like blows of a hammer. “We will eliminate those who are weak. The meeting will be called. The weak will assemble. The bombs will shatter the building. Destruction shall cull the unworthy.”
A rumbling of voices reassured Errd Tos that these men would follow through.
“Let us go to our homes. Be not content. The shelter you take for granted shall soon be gilded with power and authority. We shall rise above the others. Each of us shall be as kings. Go.”
Bixby sighed, relaxing as the men dispersed. Errd Tos spoke softly to a few men at his side. She found she could not resist his magnetic pull. And when he mentioned their mentor, the blood in her veins almost stood still.
“Dukmee was an advantageous choice. We can trust him to provide inadequate instruction so these four will be ineffectual in any plan to thwart our aims. The servants at the vilta report that he does not supervise their training closely, and he accepts substandard performance as the four are put through the rounds. We have nothing to worry us there.”
Bixby cried out as an explosion of sharp pains ripped through her head. She dropped her pencil and paper and rolled onto her back, her hands pressed against her temples.
She heard him laugh, an evil, twisted sound. She heard him speak.
“You know the prophecy of Kern?”
“We’re the Kern.”
“Are we? They say the true Kern is of three. Three to cleanse.”
“We’re cleansing, getting rid of the weak.”
A growl resonated deep in the soul of Errd Tos. His desire to kill the man he spoke to had to be leashed, tamped down, controlled. Bixby writhed as she encountered his wrath.
She lost the connection, struggled to erect her barrier. Had Errd Tos seen the breach? Had he seen her?
He knows me. Totobee-Rodolow, I need you. I’m not strong. He wants to know me, know my name. He digs at my mind. The wall. I need the wall. Primen, I am in your heart. You are strong. Protect me.
She groaned and tried to muffle the sound. Was she close enough for the men by the carriages to hear her? She rolled away from the top of the hill, trying to reach the pasture where they had first landed. Nausea stopped her motion. If she rolled again, she’d lose control. She’d retch. They’d hear. She stayed still, eyes clamped shut, trying desperately not to moan.
As the pain eased, the nausea loosened its grip on her stomach. Slowly, she raised her hands to remove the two circlets. Where was that pad of paper? If someone from the enemy camp found it, they would know they’d been spied upon. She must crawl back and retrieve her notes.
Bixby opened her eyes, then squeezed her lids shut as pain again blazed across her forehead. The agony spread behind her eyes and the bridge of her nose.
Where was Cantor? Where was Bridger? Had they learned anything? Was this a useless exercise? Surely nothing she had written down was important. She’d only learned these men were unspeakably depraved. They couldn’t stop them. No one could stop them.
Hide. She should hide until someone came to help her. The wall. Primen’s protection. But Dukmee had tutored in the use of the wall. Dukmee could not be trusted.
Caught. What if Cantor and Bridger were caught?
Would the councilmen catch her?
She needed something.
Something for the pain.
In a hamper.
She couldn’t move.
Evil. She’d been touched by evil.
She must get rid of the touch. A hamper. Which hamper? What did she need?
Hide. She needed to hide.
Totobee-Rodolow was hidden. She needed to hide with Totobee-Rodolow. Totobee-Rodolow had run away. Too much evil. Wise to run. Hide.
Cantor had hidden under one of the coaches. Just after he’d gotten settled, two of the men came and sat down less than a yard from where he’d folded himself behind a long tuft of grass. He could hear their conversation well enough, and what they said was of great interest. But he feared if they stopped gabbing for a minute, they’d be able to hear him breathe.
Another man came by with small loaves of bread, bowls of stew, and a couple of bottles of foul-smelling spirits. The men guzzled the liquor and downed the meal with the manners of barnyard pigs. Luckily, their slurping and belching covered any noise Cantor might have made.
The bottle must have loosened their tongues as well as warmed them. Cantor listened and congratulated himself on picking the right carriage.
“Hey, Bolar. Do you believe that stuff about dungeons under the realm building?”
“Why wouldn’t I believe it?”
“I sometimes think they tell us those things to make us toe the line. That most of it’s not true.”
“They don’t need stories of torture and endless years in dark holes to keep us in line.”
The first man remained silent.
“You’ve never thought about breaking their trust and running away, have you, Kreeg?”
Again the man was quiet.
“That kind of thinking will get you killed. You know that, don’t you?”
The first man’s answer was barely above a whisper. “I’m tired of being afraid all the time.”
“You’re afraid?”
“Yes, I am. And if you want to say you’re not, go ahead. But I won’t believe you.”
Now the second man took a turn at being quiet. Finally he cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m not stupid enough not to be scared. But
there’s nothing for it, Kreeg. We’re stuck.”
“Sometimes I think being in the dark hole would be better than being in the light, working with fear riding on your back.”
“We get paid. We have uniforms and good grub.”
“Listen, Bolar. When was the last time you went someplace just because you wanted to? Like to the market. Or to visit someone.”
“You mean you want to visit Kinni. All this is about Kinni, isn’t it?”
Kreeg didn’t answer.
“We knew when we got chosen — ”
“Taken.”
“All right, taken. We knew when we got taken that everything before was gone. You can’t go seeing Kinni or anyone without making it dangerous for them.”
“I know. They find out I’ve gone to see Kinni, then they think I told her something to tell someone else. Then she’s dead and I’m dead.”
“Right.”
“But I don’t even know anyone to tell something to. And I don’t know what the something is that I’d be telling.”
“That’s good, Kreeg. It’ll keep you alive.”
“You think the dungeons are real?”
“I know they are.”
“How?”
Bolar looked around, then shrugged his shoulders.
Kreeg poked him. “How do you know they’re real?”
“I saw the door.”
Kreeg lifted his head and surveyed the area around them. Cantor slowed his breathing, willing the tiny puffs of air silent. Kreeg bent his head back to his friend. “Tell me.”
“This morning, the main guard brought in a dragon. She was knocked out. Drugged, I think. When they unloaded her, the cart shifted. One of the guards had his foot under the wheel, and it got smashed. They made me take his place.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true.”
“They had a cart with a drugged dragon in it for all to see?” Kreeg shook his head. “Right, Bolar.”
“No, no. I didn’t say that.”
“You did.”
Bolar wiped his hand down his face. “She was covered up with a tarp.”