Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [93]
As if sensing the smile, Tariic turned and met his eyes. His ears went back. “Pradoor, I permit your servant’s presence. I won’t suffer his insolence.”
“He isn’t my servant, Tariic,” said the old goblin. Pradoor perched on top of a spindly little table, her fingers idly tracing the deep carvings of the dark wood. “He serves the Six. Surely his insolence is no greater than yours.”
Tariic bared his teeth, speaking between them. “Have care, Pradoor!”
“Or what?” Pradoor turned white eyes in the direction of Tariic’s voice. “Perhaps you don’t believe you need to humble yourself before the Six, but you need me. My words brought you the people. My words can take them away.” She smiled and her blind gaze softened. “But there is nothing in that for me, lhesh,” she added. “Continue to show favor to the Six as you promised and I will be your most loyal councilor.”
Tariic’s eyes narrowed, but his ears and face relaxed a little. “You use me, Pradoor.”
“As you use me, lhesh,” said Pradoor, inclining her head. “Consider this my best advice: why do you seek the Rod of Kings with such vigor when you possess what you need? The rod you hold has power even I can feel. All accept it as if it were the true rod. Rule with it and find Geth in your own time.”
“The rod was a triumphant gift from my uncle to the nation. It is my duty to recover the true rod. It would be a shame upon him if I didn’t.” A harsher tone crept into his voice. “And as long as I don’t possess the true rod, there is the risk that the false rod will be revealed. I must have the Rod of Kings in my hands as quickly as possible.”
If Makka hadn’t been looking directly at Tariic—and if Tariic hadn’t been looking at Pradoor as he spoke, his reactions attuned more to her blindness than to anything else—he would have missed the momentary tightening of the lhesh’s face and the darting of his eyes to the false rod where it rested alongside the spiked crown of Darguun on a velvet covered sideboard.
The grin on Makka’s face slipped away. Tariic’s glance had the look of greed, of a hunter who had made a good kill, but still wanted more. Makka felt a twinge of unease.
Tariic seemed to regard the fading of his smile as nothing more than proper concern. The hobgoblin’s ears rose and he nodded to Makka. “Yes,” he said, “there’s nothing amusing in that, is there?” He gathered the tiger skin cloak that was still fastened around his shoulders and sat down in a nearby chair. “Until the rod has been retrieved, this matter is a secret. No one outside of this room is to know that Geth is being hunted. Daavn, find another explanation for the death of the guard he murdered on the stairs. The guards who were with you when he jumped—where are they?”
“Out in the streets. Searching for him.”
“Deal with them.”
There was a hard finality in his words. “Mazo,” said Daavn. “But people will start to wonder what’s become of Geth.”
Tariic sat back. “I have a solution ready,” he said, ears twitching. “One that Geth himself made possible and inspired.” He raised his voice. “You can come in now.”
A door opened and Geth stepped into the room.
Makka held back his rage, just as he had when he had faced the shifter before the coronation. To be so close to one of those he had sworn to kill and yet be forced to cooperate with him …
Yet something was different. Geth looked nervous, but not startled or ready to attack as he had before. He looked at them all in turn before his eyes finally settled on Tariic and he gave a little bow. Pradoor slapped Makka’s thigh.
“What’s this?” she demanded. “Who’s there?”
“Geth,” Makka growled. “But not Geth.”
Tariic frowned. “Perceptive.” He looked at Geth. “Well?”
“I only met him once,” Geth muttered. “I don’t have much to go on. It would be best if I stayed away from people who know him well. You think this is easy?”
“It’s easier than dying in a corner of my dungeon,” Tariic said. “Show them.”
Geth wrinkled his nose—then his face flowed and changed, becoming dusky-skinned and softly formed