Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [23]
“Maybe it was an envoy.”
“Yeah, could be. Rumor has it that Arathane unofficially supports the Cabal’s activities, especially along the border.”
“Probably nothing to do with my situation,” said Demascus. He was impatient to enter the Motherhouse.
Chant shrugged. “Probably not.”
They walked, unchallenged, up to the double doors. The fire curling and snapping around the lintel was bright but heatless. The knocker was the sculpted symbol of a burning spike, the same symbol that decorated the shoulder of his borrowed coat.
Demascus reached for the knocker, but Chant put a hand on his arm.
“What?” he said.
Chant said, “It’s late. I doubt the Motherhouse is in the habit of entertaining visitors in the dead of night. If we’re going to learn something of interest, we’ll have to sneak in.”
Demascus said, “Does this place have any side entrances?”
“Not that I know of, but if we take a moment to look around …”
Demascus laid hold of the knocker, and rapped it against its metal plate, one, two, three times. The sound was surprisingly loud. He said, “I prefer the direct approach.”
The pawnbroker frowned, and Demascus knew a moment of chagrin. It seemed Chant didn’t appreciate impulsiveness. The man said, “If you think the Cabal is responsible for leaving you to die in the wilderness, what makes you think they’ll be happy to see you’ve survived?”
A good point, all in all. He was probably walking straight into—
The door swung open. A genasi wearing a red coat was revealed. The jacket’s cut was different than Demascus’s. She wrinkled her brow in confusion upon seeing them on the stoop. She glanced past them to the drive and said, “Oh, I thought …”
She trailed off, looking at Demascus.
“We’d like to come in,” Demascus said.
She said, “Of course, sir! Sorry, please come in!”
His heart lurched; she recognized him!
The woman stepped back and ushered them down a corridor over which a series of iron portcullises hung, poised to descend in defense of the structure. They emerged into a wide lobby tiled in white and green stone. Light spilled from each corner of the grand chamber, where a sculpture of a statuesque genasi held up a bronze bowl heaped with flame. Several comfortable divans were all empty at that hour. Demascus looked around … but nothing was familiar.
“Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”
“So … you know who I am?”
“I don’t know your name, sir; should I?”
“But you’ve seen me before, right?”
The door warden swallowed nervously. “No, sir, I haven’t. Is this some kind of test?”
He realized the woman was only reacting to the authority invested in his borrowed jacket or a subtlety in the design of the symbol blazoned on it. His excitement at being recognized whispered away.
He said, “No. No …”
Chant stepped forward and said, “My friend’s been out of touch for a while. Anything interesting going on he should know about?”
The genasi door warden said, “Uh, just the usual. More skirmishes along the Chessentan border. Reports of some bad business along the shores of the Akanamere in the south. Oh, and, let’s see …”
Chant said, “Anything local? We saw a black chariot pulling away as we arrived. That seemed interesting.”
The woman frowned at Chant. She said, “And who’re you?”
“I am Chant Morven,” said the pawnbroker. “I have accepted a commission from your organization to help track down special information.”
“Oh. Well …” She looked at Demascus for confirmation. He nodded.
“I guess that’s all right then. But I don’t have any comment about the chariot, on standing orders from the commander. Although … If you’re here to attend Lieutenant Leheren’s meeting, you’re late!” She gestured at one of the exits to the large room, then turned and headed back to the main entrance.
Demascus swallowed his disappointment and glanced at Chant. He said, his voice low, “Lieutenant Leheren?”
“One of the principals of the Cabal. One of the main figures beneath the deputy commander.”
“Let’s go see the lieutenant. Someone so important is certain