Time was short. Wyrn had indicated that he had little patience for fools, and he would never—of course—name a foreigner to the title of gyorn. Yet Hrathen’s subsequent meetings with Telrii had not gone well. Though he seemed to be a bit more reasonable than he had been the day he’d tossed Hrathen out, the king still resisted all suggestions of monetary compensation. His lethargy to convert gave mixed signs to the rest of Arelon.
The empty market was a manifestation of the Arelish nobility’s confused state. Suddenly, they weren’t certain if it were better to be a Derethi sympathizer or not—so they simply hid. Balls and parties slowed, and men hesitated to visit the markets, instead waiting to see what their monarch would do. Everything hung on Telrii’s decision.
It will come, Hrathen, he told himself. You still have a month left. You have time to persuade, cajole, and threaten. Telrii will come to understand the foolishness of his request, and he will convert.
Yet, despite self-assurances, Hrathen felt as if he were at a precipice. He played a dangerous game of balance. The Arelish nobility weren’t really his, not yet. Most of them were still more concerned about appearances than substance. If he delivered Arelon to Wyrn, he would deliver a batch of halfhearted converts at best. He hoped it would be enough.
Hrathen paused as he saw a flutter of movement near a tent at his side. The tent was a large blue structure with extravagant embroidery and large winglike pavilions to the sides. The breeze brought hints of spice and smoke: an incense merchant.
Hrathen frowned. He was certain he had seen the distinctive bloodred of a Derethi robe as someone ducked inside the tent. The arteths were supposed to be in solitary meditation at the moment, not idly shopping. Determined to discover which priest had disobeyed his command, Hrathen strode across the path and entered the tent.
It was dark inside, the thick canvas walls blocking out sunlight. A lantern burned at one side of the tent, but the large structure was so piled with boxes, barrels, and bins that Hrathen could see only shadows. He stood for a moment, eyes adjusting. There didn’t seem to be anyone inside the tent, not even a merchant.
He stepped forward, moving through waves of scents both pungent and enticing. Sweetsands, soaps, and oils all perfumed the air, and the mixture of their many odors left the mind confused. Near the back of the tent, he found the solitary lantern sitting beside a box of ashes, the remnants of burned incense. Hrathen pulled off his gauntlet, then reached to rub the soft powder between his fingers.
“The ashes are like the wreckage of your power, are they not, Hrathen?” a voice asked.
Hrathen spun, startled by the sound. A shadowed figure stood in the tent behind him, a familiar form in Derethi robes.
“What are you doing here?” Hrathen asked, turning from Dilaf and brushing off his hand, then replacing his gauntlet.
Dilaf didn’t respond. He stood in the darkness, his unseen face unnerving in its stare.
“Dilaf?” Hrathen repeated, turning. “I asked you a question.”
“You have failed here, Hrathen,” Dilaf whispered. “The fool Telrii is playing with you. You, a gyorn of Shu-Dereth. Men do not make demands of the Fjordell Empire, Hrathen. They should not.”
Hrathen felt his face redden. “What know you of such things?” he snapped. “Leave me be, Arteth.”
Dilaf didn’t move. “You were close, I admit, but your foolishness cost you the victory.”
“Bah!” Hrathen said, brushing past the small man in the darkness, walking toward the exit. “My battle is far from over—I still have time left.”
“Do you?” Dilaf asked. Out of the corner of his eye, Hrathen saw Dilaf approach the ashes, running his fingers through them. “It has all slipped away, hasn’t it, Hrathen? My victory is so sweet in the face of your failure.”
Hrathen paused, then laughed, looking back at Dilaf. “Victory? What victory have you achieved? What …?”
Dilaf smiled. In the wan light of the lantern, his face pocketed with shadow, he smiled. The expression, filled with the passion, the ambition, and the zeal that Hrathen had noted on that first day so long ago, was so disturbing that Hrathen’s question died on his lips. In the flickering light, the arteth seemed not a man at all, but a Svrakiss, sent to torment Hrathen.
Dilaf dropped his handful of ashes, then walked past Hrathen, throwing open the tent flap and striding out into the light.
“Dilaf?” Hrathen asked in a voice far too soft for the arteth to hear. “What victory?”
CHAPTER 52
“Ow!” Raoden complained as Galladon stuck the needle into his cheek.
“Stop whining,” the Dula ordered, pulling the thread tight.
“Karata’s much better at this,” Raoden said. He sat before a mirror in their rooms at Roial’s mansion, his head cocked to the side, watching Galladon sew the sword wound.
“Well, wait until we get back to Elantris, then,” the Dula said grumpily, punctuating the remark by sticking Raoden again.
“No,” Raoden said with a sigh, “I’ve waited too long already—I can feel this one ripping a little bit each time I smile. Why couldn’t she have hit me on the arm?”
“Because we’re Elantrians, sule,” Galladon explained. “If a bad thing can happen to us, it will. You’re lucky to escape with only this. In fact, you’re lucky you were even able to fight at all with that body of yours.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Raoden said, keeping his head still as the Dula worked. “That’s why I had to end it so quickly.”
“Well, you fight better than I expected.”
“I had Eondel teach me,” Raoden said. “Back when I was trying to find ways to prove that my father’s laws were foolish. Eondel chose fencing because he thought it would be most useful to me, as a politician. I never figured I’d end up using it to keep my wife from slicing me to pieces.”
Galladon snorted in amusement as he stabbed Raoden again, and Raoden gritted his teeth against the pain. The doors were all bolted tightly and the drapes closed, for Raoden had needed to drop his illusionary mask to let Galladon sew. The duke had been kind enough to board them—Roial seemed to be the only one of Raoden’s former friends who was intrigued, rather than annoyed, by his Kaloo personality.
“All right, sule,” Galladon said, tugging the final stitch.
Raoden nodded, looking at himself in the mirror. He had almost begun to think that the handsome Duladen face belonged to him. That was dangerous. He had to remember that he was still an Elantrian, with all the weaknesses and pains of his kind, despite the unconcerned personality he had adopted.
Galladon still wore his mask. The Aon illusions were good as long as Raoden left them alone. Whether they were drawn in air or in mud, Aons could be destroyed only by another Elantrian. The books claimed that an Aon inscribed in dust would continue to function even if the pattern was scuffed or erased.
The illusions were attached to their underclothes, allowing them to change outfits each day without needing to redraw the Aon. Galladon’s illusion was that of a nondescript, broad-faced Dula, an image Raoden had found at the back of his book. Raoden’s face had been much harder to choose.
“How’s my personality?” Raoden asked, pulling out the AonDor book to begin re-creating his illusion. “Am I convincing?”
Galladon shrugged, taking a seat on Raoden’s bed. “I wouldn’t have believed you were a Dula, but they seem to. I don’t think you could have made a better choice, anyway. Kolo?”
Raoden nodded as he drew. The Arelish nobility were too well known, and Sarene would have immediately seen through any attempt at pretending to be from Teod. Assuming he wanted to speak Aonic, that left only Duladen. It had been obvious from his failed attempts to imitate Galladon’s accent that he could never make a convincing member of the Duladen underclass; even his pronunciation of a simple word such as “kolo” had sent Galladon into gales of laughter. Fortunately, there were a good number of lesser-known Duladen citizens—men who had been mayors of small towns or members of unimportan
t councils—who spoke flawless Aonic. Raoden had met many such individuals, and mimicking their personality required only a sense of flamboyance and a nonchalant attitude.
Getting the clothing had been a little difficult—requiring Raoden, in another illusion, to go purchase it from the Arelene Market. Since his official arrival, however, he’d been able to get some better-tailored outfits. He thought he played a fairly good Dula, though not everyone was convinced.
“I think Sarene’s suspicious,” Raoden said, finishing the Aon and watching it spin around him and mold to his face.
“She’s a bit more skeptical than most.”
“True,” Raoden said. He intended to tell her who he was as soon as possible, but she had resisted any attempts by “Kaloo” to get her alone; she’d even refused the letter he’d sent, returning it unopened.
Fortunately, things were going better with the rest of the nobility. Since Raoden had left Elantris two days before, entrusting New Elantris to Karata’s care, he had managed to wiggle his way into Arelish high society with an ease that surprised even him. The nobles were too busy worrying about Telrii’s rule to question Kaloo’s background. In fact, they had latched on to him with startling vigor. Apparently, the sense of free-willed silliness he brought to gatherings gave the nobles a chance to laugh and forget the chaos of the last few weeks. So he soon became a necessary guest at any function.
Of course, the true test was going to be getting himself into Roial and Sarene’s secret meetings. If he was ever going to do any good for Arelon, he needed to be admitted into that special group. They were the ones who were working to determine the fate of the country. Galladon was skeptical about Raoden’s chances—of course, Galladon was skeptical about everything. Raoden smiled to himself; he was the one who had actually started the meetings. It seemed ironic that he should now be forced to work to regain admittance.
Kaloo’s face once again masking his own, Raoden pulled on his green gloves—articles that held the illusion that made his arms seem non-Elantrian—then spun and twirled for Galladon. “And the magnificent Kaloo returns.”
“Please, sule, not in private. I come close enough to strangling you in public.”
Raoden chuckled. “Ah, what a life. Loved by all women, envied by every man.”
Galladon snorted. “Loved by all of the women but one, you mean.”
“Well, she did invite me to spar with her any time I wanted,” Raoden said, smiling as he walked over to pull open the drapes.
“Even if it was just to get another chance to impale you,” Galladon said. “You should be glad she hit you on the face, where the illusion covered the wound. If she’d stabbed through your clothing, it would have been very difficult to explain why your cut didn’t bleed. Kolo?”
Raoden slid open the balcony door, walking out to look over Roial’s gardens. He sighed as Galladon joined him. “Tell me this. Why is it that every time I meet her, Sarene is determined to hate me?”
“Must be love,” Galladon said.
Raoden laughed wryly. “Well, at least this time it’s Kaloo she hates, rather than the real me. I suppose I can forgive her for that—I’ve almost gotten to the point where I hate him too.”
A knock came at the door, drawing their attention. Galladon looked at him and he nodded. Their costumes and faces were complete. Galladon, playing the part of a servant, walked over and unlocked the door. Roial stood outside.
“My lord,” Raoden said, approaching with outreached arms and a broad smile. “I trust your day has been as fine as my own!”
“It has, Citizen Kaloo,” Roial said. “May I come in?”
“Certainly, certainly,” Raoden said. “It is, after all, your house. We are so unspeakably indebted to your kindness that I know I shall never manage to repay you.”
“Nonsense, citizen,” Roial said. “Though, speaking of payments, you will be pleased to know that I made a good trade on those lamp mounts you gave me. I deposited your credit in an account at my bank—it should be enough to see that you live comfortably for several years at least.”
“Excellent!” Raoden proclaimed. “We shall immediately seek another place to reside.”
“No, no,” the old duke said, holding up his hands. “Stay here as long as you wish. I get so few visitors in my old age that even this small house often seems too large.”
“Then we shall stay as long as you suffer us!” Raoden declared with characteristically Duladen lack of decorum. It was said that the moment you invited a Dula to stay, you would never get rid of him—or his family.
“Tell me, citizen,” Roial said, strolling to the balcony. “Where did you find a dozen lamp mounts made of solid gold?”
“Family heirlooms,” Raoden said. “I pried them off our mansion walls even as the people burned it down.”
“It must have been horrible,” Roial said, leaning against the balcony rail.
“Worse than horrible,” Raoden said with somberness. Then he smiled. “But those times are over now, my lord. I have a new country and new friends! You shall become my family now.”
Roial nodded absently, then shot wary eyes back at Galladon.
“I see something occupies your mind, Lord Roial,” Raoden said. “Fear not to speak it—good Dendo has been with me since I was born; he is worthy of any man’s trust.”
Roial nodded, turning back to look out over his estate. “I do not mention the harsh times in your homeland indiscriminately, citizen. You said they are over now, but I fear for us the terror is just beginning.”
“Ah, you speak of the problems with the throne,” Raoden said with a click of his tongue.
“Yes, citizen,” Roial said. “Telrii is not a strong leader. I fear Arelon will soon fall to Duladel’s fate. We have Fjordell wolves nipping at us, smelling blood, but our nobility pretends to see nothing more than favored hounds.”
“Oh troubled times,” Raoden said. “Where can I go to find simple peace?”
“Sometimes we must make our own peace, citizen.”
“What do you mean?” Raoden asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.
“Citizen, I hope I do not injure you when I point out that the others see you as rather frivolous.”
Raoden laughed. “I hope they see me that way, my lord. I should hate to think I’ve been playing the fool for nothing.”
Roial smiled. “I sense a wit in you that is not completely masked by your foppishness, citizen. Tell me, how did you manage to escape from Duladen?”
“I am afraid that is one secret which must remain untold, my lord,” Raoden said. “There are those who would suffer dearly if their part in my escape became known.”
Roial nodded. “I understand. The important part is that you survived when your countrymen did not. Do you know how many refugees came up through the border when the Republic fell?”
“I am afraid not, my lord,” Raoden replied. “I was a little busy at the time.”
“None,” Roial said. “Not a single one that I know of—yourself excluded. I hear that the republicans were too shocked to even think of escaping.”
“My people are slow to act, my lord,” Raoden said with upraised hands. “In this case, our lax manner proved our downfall. The revolution rolled over us while we were still discussing what to have for dinner.”
“But you escaped.”
“I escaped,” Raoden agreed.
“You have already been through what we might have to suffer, and that makes your advice valuable—no matter what the others may think.”
“There is a way to escape Duladel’s fate, my lord,” Raoden said cautiously. “Though it could be dangerous. It would involve a … change in leadership.”
Roial’s eyes narrowed knowingly, and he nodded. Something passed between them—an understanding of the duke’s offer and Raoden’s willingness.
“You speak of dangerous things,” Roial warned.
“I have been though a lot, my lord. I would not be averse to a little more danger if it pr
ovided me a means of living the rest of my life in peace.”
“I cannot guarantee that will happen,” Roial said.
“And I cannot guarantee that this balcony won’t suddenly collapse, sending us to our doom. All we can do is count on luck, and our wits, to protect us.”
Roial nodded. “You know the house of the merchant Kiin?”
“Yes.”
“Meet me there tonight at sunset.”
Raoden nodded, and the duke excused himself. As the door shut, Raoden winked at Galladon. “And you thought I couldn’t do it.”
“I’ll never doubt you again,” Galladon said dryly.
“The secret was Roial, my friend,” Raoden said, pulling the balcony door shut as he walked back into the room. “He sees through most façades—but, unlike Sarene, his primary question is not ‘Why is this man trying to fool me?’ but ‘How can I make use of what I know?’ I gave him hints, and he responded.”
Galladon nodded. “Well, you’re in. Now what will you do?”
“Find a way to put Roial on the throne instead of Telrii,” Raoden said, picking up a cloth and a jar of brown makeup. He smeared some of the makeup on the cloth, then tucked the cloth in his pocket.
Galladon raised an eyebrow. “And what is that?” he asked, nodding to the cloth.
“Something I hope I won’t have to use.”
CHAPTER 53
“What is he doing here?” Sarene demanded, standing at the doorway to Kiin’s kitchen. The idiot Kaloo sat inside, dressed in a montage of garish reds and oranges. He spoke animatedly with Kiin and Roial, and apparently hadn’t noticed her arrival.
Lukel closed the door behind her, then glanced toward the Dula with apparent distaste. Her cousin was known as one of the wittiest, most colorful men in Kae. Kaloo’s reputation, however, had quickly eclipsed even Lukel’s, leaving the young merchant a bitter second.