The Sunset Warrior - 01 by Eric Van Lustbader Read Free Book Online

such. They passed many rooms dark and empty. Some were clearly storage areas, others obviously not, and this was puzzling. A door opened on his right and a daggam emerged. Behind him a glimpse in pale, flickering light of a central table with something pinned on top: scored lines. The door closed swiftly and they moved on. Image remaining: heavy shadows, many daggam. And what was on the table?
    ‘In here.’ They went through a doorway into a small cubicle lit by Overheads. ‘Wait here.’ The daggam left him through a large door. Blank grey walls stared back at him dispassionately. Two chairs, bare floor. Dark shapes moving over the table, pointing. He waited, conscious of fatigue and the dull throbbing in his shoulder. He badly wanted to wash, and he was hungry.
    The door opened and a daggam emerged. Eyes the colour of mud regarded him with dull antipathy: Marcsh. Deliberate, Ronin wondered, or is he part of the Saardin’s personal staff? Marcsh cocked his thumb at the door. ‘In,’ he said laconically.
    Ronin said, ‘What else do you do besides stand at doors?’ because he was tired and annoyed.
    Marcsh’s animal eyes squinted as he made a face. ‘Least I got a Saardin.’
    Ronin advanced. ‘To give you orders.’
    ‘’Course. What else?’ His jaw clenched. ‘Orders is what counts, good orders. An’ we got ’em.’ Ronin was very close now. ‘That’s why we—’ Marcsh’s eyes got cunning.
    ‘You what?’
    ‘Nuthin’.’ He went sullen. ‘Just got my orders. Make sure you behave.’
    Is that so. Ronin stepped around him and into the room. The door closed behind him, as Marcsh pulled it shut. It was deep grey with very murky Overheads. No carpet, but two unusual wall hangings in dark, muted colours. An ornate desk cut the cubicle off obliquely. Behind it, in a high-backed chair, sat Freidal. He was dressed as before, in dark grey. Silver chest bands glittered. A large lighted lamp squatted on a low cabinet behind him, so it was difficult to see the features of his face. The Overheads illuminated only the top of his head. He did not look up. Across from him sat the scribe, tablet crooked on arm, quill poised. He seemed oblivious to anything except the spoken word. There was one chair before the desk. Ronin ignored it.
    After a time, Freidal shuffled some sheets, put aside a scroll, and raised his head.
    ‘Sir?’
    The scribe’s left hand moved, a tiny scratching.
    ‘You sent for me,’ Ronin said in an even tone.
    ‘Ah yes, so I did.’ He did not ask Ronin to sit down. The false eye was white and terrible in the reflected bright light. ‘You had better tell me all about it.’
    ‘I do not—’
    ‘You most certainly do,’ snapped the Saardin, ‘know very well.’ The scribe’s hand made patterns on the tablet. ‘Begin, sir.’ Freidal’s hands were perfectly still, clasped together on the desktop, white blobs of colour. Except for the unblinking eye, his face was a shadow, unreadable. Ronin thought furiously.
    ‘An argument—’
    ‘I do not believe you, sir.’
    But at least he had got it right. ‘All right,’ he said resignedly. ‘I had hoped this would be passed over, but—well, remarks were made about the Salamander, about—’
    ‘One finds it difficult to believe you are so thin-skinned.’ A white hand flicked and light caught the polished nails.
    What does he want to hear? A bit of the truth, perhaps. ‘We—did not part on the best of terms, as you no doubt know.’ Sweat had begun to break out on his forehead, and that was good. ‘Many think, therefore, that they may insult him, believing that it will please me. But he was my Sensii and I owe him a great deal.’
    There was a pause and Ronin knew that the Saardin was referring to the report. ‘He made numerous—unhealthy remarks,’ Freidal said.
    ‘Who did?’
    ‘The Scholar.’
    ‘I do not—’
    ‘Other people have given witness.’
    This is such a minor matter. What is he interested in? ‘Under the