Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [75]
Geth almost choked. “You … knew?”
“I’m not stupid, Geth. I grew up in Haruuc’s court. I’ve known politics all my life.” He lowered his hand. “I didn’t know about the kidnapping, but I’ll ask him about it after the coronation.”
“But why let him get close?” Geth asked. “He’s using you.”
“No. I’m using him.” Tariic’s ears, poking out through holes in the helmet, twitched. “A king—a lhesh—needs someone he can trust. My uncle had Munta, then his three shava, and then you. I’d never take Daavn as shava, but as the saying goes in Sharn, you can always trust a greedy man to watch out for himself. It’s handy to have someone like Daavn around.”
“Oh.” Geth’s confidence fell as limp as an empty wineskin.
Tariic knocked his knuckles against the steel of his great gauntlet. “Don’t worry, Geth. I keep an eye on him. I know what he’s doing and I won’t let him get beyond my control. I appreciate that you tried to warn me.” He nodded at the rod. “I appreciate that you took care of that for me, too.”
Geth forced a smile. “It might not have been you that the warlords chose as lhesh.”
Tariic’s ears stiffened and his eyes turned hard. “No,” he said. “It was always going to be me. I was always going to be lhesh.”
The hair on Geth’s arms and on the back of his neck rose. He didn’t have a chance to say anything, though. Tariic’s eyes shifted to look past him and the new lhesh said, “Finally. You’re here.”
“Your guards wouldn’t let us in,” answered a thin, shrill voice that struck Geth as strangely familiar.
“That won’t be a problem again.” Tariic opened the door into the little room and called, “Razu, join us.”
Geth turned around—and stared in shock at the bugbear who filled the corridor and the old, blind goblin woman who sat on his shoulder. The hair on his arms and neck rose even higher. Pradoor still wore the same ragged dress she had when he’d set her free from the dungeons of Khaar Mbar’ost, but now she was wrapped in a fine, dark green mantle as well. Makka wore the bear hide vest Geth remembered from the Marguul camp in the mountains. Apparently he’d survived the mortal wound Ashi had dealt him after all. The thick hair of his chest had recently been gashed in a savage design: a serpent with the outstretched wings of a bat.
Makka looked at him and his black eyes narrowed. His hand moved to the sword—Ashi’s bright Deneith honor blade!—that hung from his belt but Pradoor slapped the back of his head and his hand dropped.
Geth heard the tap of Razu’s staff on the floor, then he heard the mistress of rituals gasp.
“Razu,” said Tariic, “there’s been a change of plan. The priests of the Sovereign Host won’t be participating in the coronation. This is Pradoor. She’ll be taking their place. If everything else is ready, we can proceed.”
Ashi shifted her weight from foot to foot in an almost imperceptible movement. Vounn had tried to teach her the technique as an indispensable skill of courtly manners, a way to make standing through long speeches and parties bearable. At the time, Ashi had been amused—it was the same trick she had learned as a hunter, a way to keep legs and feet from aching as she waited for prey. Now, after months as a part of House Deneith, she knew better. Hunting and attending court weren’t so very different after all.
The throne room of Khaar Mbar’ost was filled and everyone was standing. The carved wood benches that provided seating for the assembly of warlords had been moved out. Dust had been shaken from the clan banners that covered the walls. Braziers had been heaped with incense that gave off the resinous smell of cedar. The tall windows behind the blocky throne showed a blue sky and a city at peace, though Ashi knew that the streets around and the plaza before Khaar Mbar’ost were actually packed with a lively crowd. The common people of Rhukaan Draal didn’t attend the coronation except in the form of a delegation of nine individuals plucked from the street and deposited in a corner of the throne