Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [53]
Relief put a smile on Ashi’s face. “I know.”
“Good.” Vounn held her hands a moment longer. “I want you to do one thing though. Whenever you can, take Aruget with you. Two swords are better than one, and I know that he can keep a secret, too.”
“I will, Vounn.” Ashi fought to keep her smile from getting wider. She didn’t think her mentor would appreciate knowing that her guard already knew more than she did.
CHAPTER
NINE
21 Sypheros
Moving through Rhukaan Draal with Pradoor on his shoulders gave Makka a feeling like nothing he had felt before. On the one hand, he felt very small and very humbled. The wizened goblin had saved his life. Now he was her beast of burden, guided by her taps, and sometimes her punches, on the side of his head. He strode along streets not knowing when Pradoor would catch some clue—a familiar odor or sound, he still wasn’t sure how the blind woman found her way—that would prompt her to pull on his ear and command him, “Turn!” At times it was almost as if he had a god or some divine spirit on his shoulders directing the order of his existence, a sensation intensified by Pradoor’s spontaneous recitation of stories and lore of the Dark Six.
On the other hand, he felt as large as if he had blundered into the middle of a duur’kala’s tale. At times, he didn’t carry a divine spirit—he was a divine spirit. Everywhere that Pradoor directed him, people stepped aside. That, Makka was used to, but what he wasn’t used to was the respect with which they looked at the pair of them. People nodded to them and lowered their eyes. Dar who wore the muu’kron touched it as they passed. They knew Pradoor by name and while they might not have known Makka, they included him in their greetings not with a casual saa but a formal saa’atcha.
But it wasn’t just goblins and hobgoblins and bugbears who moved out of their way. In the rush of his first day in Rhukaan Draal, Makka hadn’t understood how many different races inhabited the city. Nor had he appreciated the range of those who made prayers to the Six. A stout dwarf merchant dressed in fine silk bent his head to Pradoor. A shifter with feral eyes and matted hair simpered and whined like a dog. A rangy gnoll, as tall as Makka and with a head like a hyena, bowed low and forced the coffle of slaves she led to their knees as well. Even a fey eladrin, wrapped in a silvery cloak that the ilth of the streets did not seem to touch, lowered pearly eyes as they passed.
And there were offerings! From the moment that he and Pradoor had left the alley where he had come close to death, people had thrust gifts upon them. Sometimes they requested blessings—
“A new sword, Pradoor!”
“My children, Pradoor!”
“I fight in the games tomorrow, Pradoor!”
—but often they were given up with only a word of praise for one or all of the Six. Meat, bread, wine, beer, a fine knife, coins of copper and silver, so many offerings that Pradoor directed Makka to take a sack from a shop. The merchant bowed and scraped as if the theft was an honor.
Much of what they were given was handed out again to beggars, but Makka’s belly was full and the sack was never empty. The knife found a place at his belt. When Pradoor was tired, it seemed like all they had to do was turn a corner and they were met with an offer of a place to rest.
“Pradoor,” Makka said as his third day in Rhukaan Draal drew toward dusk, “are there other priests of the Six in Rhukaan Draal?”
Pradoor laughed her shrill cackle. “Ah, it speaks! I wondered if the Keeper had kept hold of your voice when I snatched you back from him.” She tugged on one of Makka’s ears. “Yes, there are other priests. Haruuc spread the faith of the Sovereign Host, but the old faith of the people never went away. Priests of the Six are like mice in Rhukaan Draal—and most hide like mice too! They scurry about in shrines and temples, afraid of Haruuc’s pet cats. They’ll grow bold sometimes, but only Pradoor