Elantris (13 page)

The man turned around to search the shadows with apprehensive eyes. Fortunately, at that moment, Shaor’s men decided to move, their shadowed forms emerging into the light, their carnal eyes staring at the new man with hunger. It was all the encouragement the newcomer needed.

“What do I do?” the man asked with a quavering voice.

“Run!” Raoden ordered, then took off toward one of the alleys at a dash.

The man didn’t need to be told twice; he bolted so quickly that Raoden was afraid he would go careering down a side alley and get lost. There was a muffled yell of surprise from behind as Galladon realized what Raoden was doing. The large Duladen man obviously wouldn’t have any problems keeping up; even considering his time in Elantris, Galladon was in much better shape than Raoden.

“What in the name of Doloken do you think you are doing, you idiot?” Galladon swore.

“I’ll tell you in a moment,” Raoden said, conserving strength as he ran. Again, he noticed that he didn’t get out of breath, though his body did begin to grow tired. A dull feeling of fatigue began to grow within him, and of the three of them, Raoden was soon proven the slowest runner. However, he was the only one who knew where they were going.

“Right!” he yelled to Galladon and the new man, then took off down a side alley. The two men followed, as did the group of thugs, who were gaining quickly. Fortunately, Raoden’s destination wasn’t far away.

“Rulo,” Galladon cursed, realizing where they were going. It was one of the houses he had shown Raoden the day before, the one with the unstable staircase. Raoden sprinted through the door and up the stairs, nearly falling twice as steps gave out beneath him. Once on the roof, he used the last of his strength to push over a stack of bricks—the remnants of what had once been a planter—toppling the entire pile of crumbling clay into the stairwell just as Galladon and the newcomer reached the top. The weakened steps didn’t even begin to hold the weight, collapsing to the ground with a furious crash.

Galladon walked over and looked through the hole with a critical eye. Shaor’s men gathered around the fallen steps below, their feral intensity dulled a bit by realization.

Galladon raised an eyebrow. “Now what, genius?”

Raoden walked over to the newcomer, who had collapsed after stumbling up the stairs. Raoden carefully removed each of the man’s food offerings and, after tucking a certain one into his belt, he dumped the rest to the houndlike men waiting below. The sounds of battle came from below as they fought over the food.

Raoden stepped back from the hole. “Let’s just hope they realize that they’re not going to get anything more out of us, and decide to leave.”

“And if they don’t?” Galladon asked pointedly.

Raoden shrugged. “We can live forever without food or water, right?”

“Yes, but I’d rather not spend the rest of eternity on the top of this building.” Then, shooting a look at the new man, Galladon pulled Raoden to the side and demanded in a low voice, “Sule, what was the point of that? You could have just thrown them the food back in the courtyard. In fact, why ‘save’ him? For all we know, Shaor’s men might not have even hurt him.”

“We don’t know that. Besides, this way he thinks he owes me his life.”

Galladon snorted. “So now you have another follower—at the cheap price of the hatred of an entire third of Elantris’s criminal element.”

“And this is only the beginning,” Raoden said with a smile. However, despite the brave words, he wasn’t quite so certain of himself. He was still amazed at how much his toe hurt, and he had scraped his hands while pushing the bricks. While not as painful as the toe, the scrapes also continued to hurt, threatening to draw his attention away from his plans.

I have to keep moving, Raoden repeated to himself. Keep working. Don’t let the pain take control
.

“I’m a jeweler,” the man explained. “Mareshe is my name.”

“A jeweler,” Raoden said with dissatisfaction, his arms folded as he regarded Mareshe. “That won’t be of much use. What else can you do?”

Mareshe looked at him indignantly, as if having forgotten that he had, just a few moments ago, been cowering in fear. “Jewelry making is an extremely useful skill, sir.”

“Not in Elantris, sule,” Galladon said, peeking through the hole to see if the thugs had decided to leave. Apparently they hadn’t, for he gave Raoden a withering look.

Pointedly ignoring the Dula, Raoden turned back to Mareshe. “What else can you do?”

“Anything.”

“That’s quite broad, friend,” Raoden said. “Could you be a bit more specific?”

Mareshe brought his hand up beside his head with a dramatic gesture. “I … am a craftsman. An artisan. I can make anything, for Domi himself has granted me the soul of an artist.”

Galladon snorted from his seat beside the stairwell.

“How about shoes?” Raoden asked.

“Shoes?” Mareshe replied with a slightly offended tone.

“Yes, shoes.”

“I suppose I could,” Mareshe said, “though such hardly demands the skill of a man who is a full artisan.”

“And a full id—” Galladon began before Raoden hushed him.

“Artisan Mareshe,” Raoden continued in his most diplomatic of tones. “Elantrians are cast into the city wearing only an Arelish burial shroud. A man who could make shoes would be very valuable indeed.”

“What kind of shoes?” Mareshe asked.

“Leather ones,” Raoden said. “It won’t be an easy calling, Mareshe. You see, Elantrians don’t have the luxury of trial and error—if the first pair of shoes do not fit, then they will cause blisters. Blisters that will never leave.”

“What do you mean, never leave?” Mareshe asked uncomfortably.

“We are Elantrians now, Mareshe,” Raoden explained. “Our wounds no longer heal.”

“No longer heal …?”

“Would you care for an example, artisan?” Galladon asked helpfully. “I can arrange one quite easily. Kolo?”

Mareshe’s face turned pale, and he looked back at Raoden. “He doesn’t seem to like me very much,” he said quietly.

“Nonsense,” Raoden said, putting his arm around Mareshe’s shoulder and turning him away from Galladon’s grinning face. “That’s how he shows affection.”

“If you say so, Master …”

Raoden paused. “Just call me Spirit,” he decided, using the translation of Aon Rao.

“Master Spirit.” Then Mareshe’s eyes narrowed. “You look familiar for some reason.”

“You’ve never seen me before in your life. Now, about those shoes …”

“They have to fit perfectly, without a bit of scraping or rubbing?” Mareshe asked.

“I know it sounds difficult. If it’s beyond your ability …”

“Nothing is beyond
my
ability,” Mareshe said. “I’ll do it, Master Spirit.”

“Excellent.”

“They’re not leaving,” Galladon said from behind them.

Raoden turned to regard the large Dula. “What does it matter? It’s not like we have anything pressing to do. It’s actually quite pleasant up here—you should just sit back and enjoy it.”

An ominous crash came from the clouds above them, and Raoden felt a wet drop splat against his head.

“Fantastic,” Galladon grumbled. “I’m enjoying myself already.”

CHAPTER 8

Sarene decided not to accept her uncle’s offer to stay with him. As tempting as it was to move in with his family, she was afraid of losing her foothold in the palace. The court was a lifeline of information, and the Arelish nobility were a fountain of gossip and intrigue. If she was going to do battle with Hrathen, she would need to stay up to date.

So it was that the day after her meeting with Kiin, Sarene procured herself an easel and paints, and set them up directly in the middle of Iadon’s throne room.

“What in the name of Domi are you doing, girl!” the king exclaimed as he entered the room that morning, a group of apprehensive attendants at his side.

Sarene looked up from her canvas with imitation surprise. “I’m painting, Father,” she said, helpfully holding up her brush—an action that sprayed droplets of red paint across the chancellor of defense’s face.

Iadon sighed. “I can see that you’re painting. I meant why are you doing it here?”

“Oh,” Sarene said innocently. “I’m painting your paintings, Father. I do like them so.”

“You’re painting my …?” Iadon asked with a dumbfounded expression. “But …”

Sarene turned her canvas with a proud smile, showing the king a painting that only remotely resembled a picture of some flowers.

“Oh for Domi’s sake!” Iadon bellowed. “Paint if you must, girl. Just don’t do it in the
middle
of my
throne room
!”

Sarene opened her eyes wide, blinked a few times, then pulled her easel and chair over to the side of the room near one of the pillars, sat down, and continued to paint.

Iadon groaned. “I meant … Bah, Domi curse it! You’re not worth the effort.” With that, the king turned and stalked over to his throne and ordered his secretary to announce the first item of business—a squabble between two minor nobles over some possessions.

Ashe hovered down next to Sarene’s canvas, speaking to her softly. “I thought he was going to expel you for good, my lady.”

Sarene shook her head, a self-congratulatory smile on her lips. “Iadon has a
quick temper, and grows frustrated with ease. The more I convince him of my brainlessness, the fewer orders he’s going to give me. He knows I’ll just misunderstand him, and he’ll just end up aggravated.”

“I am beginning to wonder how one such as he obtained the throne in the first place,” Ashe noted.

“A good point,” Sarene admitted, tapping her cheek in thought. “Though, perhaps we aren’t giving him enough credit. He might not make a very good king, but he was apparently a very good businessman. To him, I’m an expended resource—he has his treaty. I’m just of no further concern.”

“I’m not convinced, my lady,” Ashe noted. “He seems too shortsighted to remain king for long.”

“Which is why he’s probably going to lose his throne,” Sarene said. “I suspect that is why the gyorn is here.”

“A good point, my lady,” Ashe noted in his deep voice. He floated in front of her painting for a moment, studying its irregular blotches and semistraight lines. “You’re getting better, my lady.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“No, really, Your Highness. When you started painting five years ago, I could never tell what it was you were trying to depict.”

“And this is a painting of …”

Ashe paused. “A bowl of fruit?” he asked hopefully.

Sarene sighed in frustration. She was usually good at everything she tried, but the secrets of painting completely eluded her. At first, she had been astounded at her lack of talent, and she had pressed on with a determination to prove herself. Artistic technique, however, had totally refused to bow beneath her royal will. She was a master of politics, an unquestionable leader, and could grasp even Jindoeese mathematics with ease. She was also a horrible painter. Not that she let it stop her—she was also undeniably stubborn.

“One of these days, Ashe, something will click, and I’ll figure out how to make the images in my head appear on canvas.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Sarene smiled. “Until then, let’s just pretend I was trained by someone from some Svordish school of extreme abstractionism.”

“Ah yes. The school of creative misdirection. Very good, my lady.”

Two men entered the throne room to present their case to the king. There was little to distinguish them; both wore fashionable vests over colorful frilled shirts and loose, wide-cuffed trousers. Much more interesting to Sarene was a third man, one who was brought into the room by a palace guard. He was a nondescript, light-haired man of Aonic blood dressed in a simple brown smock. It was obvious that he was horribly underfed, and there was a look of despairing hopelessness in his eyes that Sarene found haunting.

The dispute regarded the peasant. Apparently, he had escaped from one of the noblemen about three years ago, but had been captured by the second. Instead of returning the man, the second noble had kept him and put him to work. The argument wasn’t over the peasant himself, however, but his children. He had married about two years ago, and had fathered two children during his stay with the second noble. Both nobles claimed ownership of the babies.

“I thought slavery was illegal in Arelon,” Sarene said quietly.

“It is, my lady,” Ashe said with a confused voice. “I don’t understand.”

“They speak of figurative ownership, Cousin,” a voice said from in front of her. Sarene peeked around the side of her canvas with surprise. Lukel, Kiin’s oldest son, stood smiling beside her easel.

“Lukel! What are you doing here?”

“I’m one of the most successful merchants in the city, Cousin,” he explained, walking around the canvas to regard the painting with a raised eyebrow. “I have an open invitation to the court. I’m surprised you didn’t see me when you came in.”

“You were there?”

Lukel nodded. “I was near the back, reacquainting myself with some old contacts. I’ve been out of town for some time.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was too interested in what you were doing,” he said with a smile. “I don’t think anyone has ever decided to requisition the middle of Iadon’s throne room to use as an art studio.”