9.7

The gates of Bharrak opened at dawn. Commerce began to trickle through them shortly afterward. Two long hours passed before there was enough traffic for Ket and Maltharus to slide through without a guard catching Ket's face. He'd given up the druid's robe for a simple artisan's tunic. The guard might not recognize him, but then, why take risks? Nasch needed that healer. Great expedition; greater care.*
*(another druid mantra. Expedition's primary meaning here being 'speed')
  A lad stood at a street corner, shouting the news. There was to be an execution in an hour. Mattur turned to Ket. “You don't suppose...”
 The cryer contined “Elf spy caught!”
Ket sighed. Mattur joined him. “Do all trolls have a magic for pissing people off?”
 “Maybe just this one.”
 The druids took a direct route to the Polis. Ket once had friends there, but no longer. To him it was a den of assassins and thieves. Jinkash, his former superior, was the head of them. A sword hung over Nasch's head, and its thread seemed to be fraying.

 Payte Ashnujhet had no love for guard duty. Being a huskarl to the King had certain benefits. Standing at the gate for hours at a time was not among them. Come evening, he would enjoy them and forget the day. Presently, he tried to count to cobbles on the road before the Polis. The approach of a druid proved a welcome relief. He hailed the traveler.
 “The druid Maltharus of Kael-Monjaro seeks an audience.”
 “With King Crelocthen or with the Arch-Druid? Or shall I summon them both?” 
 “The King, if he would have me.”
 “Follow me.
 So, Maltharus of Kael-Monjaro, what brings you north?”
 It occurred to Mattur that a cover-story would have been very helpful. The guard was sharp enough to understand his silence. He opened the door to the Great Hall, and let it close again. The antechamber was empty, aside from them. Even so, Payte's voice fell to a whisper.
 “And why is it you do not seek Jinkash? No, shh, do not speak yet. I am a friend to Ket. Do I guess you right?”
 Mattur took the guard in. Middle aged, shorter and heavier than average. His head and face were perfectly smooth. Not the normally near-hairlessness of southerners, but shaved, as someone from a northern tribe might do to fit in. Fuspmar was of northern heritage; they'd joined Bharrak relatively recently (five or six generations back). His eyes, a steel-glint gray, did not seem to front a lie. 
 “I am Ashnujhet Payte. Trust me, as I have trusted you.”
 
 Caution first. “How do you know Ket?” If Ket had friends here, he should have said so. 
 “I have never met him. I don't need to. He stood alone against an army for the sake of my clan...”
 Mattur was convinced. “Wizard's Beard! Heroism is not lost on Bharrak.” He hugged the guard, like an old friend. “You're the first good news I've heard in weeks.”
 “Is Ket here?”
 “Yes. But that's not really why I need to see the King. Another of your countrymen, Nasch Kliet, is ill...”
 “Ill? No, he was injured, yesterday. How did you find out about it so far away?”
 “Yesterday?... No, do not mind. But his hurt is most grievous. Ket fears for him.”


  A king is never quite alone, but Crelocthen was as close to alone as he might be when Payte knocked at the door. He was having a fruitless discussion with Creash. Payte saluted, bowed (rather lower than Aytheur did earlier), and announced the druid. Mattur and Crelocthen exchanged a few words, and then made for the door. The King turned to one of the huskarls that had been guarding him. “Would you beat some sense into the lad while I'm gone?”
“Lord?”
“Payte here can escort me. Both of you stay with my son.”

 They met Ket in the street outside. His risks multiplied by being seen with the king, but it was his best chance. Crelocthen began the conversation.
 “So you are the druid who sunk a clan-town. Shall I summon the Arch-druid? You might turn yourself in and we'll have a second execution today.”
 “Lord, it is deaths which bring me here.”
 Crelocthen snorted. “Death seems to go with you, druid. Or do you invite it along? Why should I listen to you?”

 “Lord, I have done what I am accused of. But you can not believe that I acted wrongly, or for my own gain. I might be employed by a villain as surely as a noble clan. The vows of my order would have me ignore all morals. But there is a deeper law than the Order. A firmament which all vows must bow to. It is a law of the land and the spirit. My hands wrought drought and famine in Rix by the will of Eth. I will not see another suffer his 'equality.'

 “You have my ear, druid. What would you have me do?”
 “If it please you, sir, I am a druid no longer,” Ket said. The King nodded. “Kliet Nasch is grievously hurt. He is near death. Ask Tyisch, at whose house he lies. He should be rewarded among the best of your servants, not die in a sickbed unattended.”
 “Kliet Nasch will not be unattended. His heroism in the Battles of Meiness and Fuspmar are well recognized; even by those without vision.”
 “And would you have, for this hero, the best medicine you can?”
 “Of course. Have you risked so much to ask this of me?”
 “Then, lord, why would you throw that medicine out of your cliff-tower?”

 That gave the king pause. “The elf?”
 “He is a troll, and an orc-blood. Elf in name only.”
 “And elf in his arrogance.”
 “Lord, do not punish ignorance as vanity. Perhaps he means well.”
 “Good intentions don't buy bread, stormcaller.” The King's use of the title implied respect. Only a Corsair could grant it officially, so of course Ket had not yet earned it.  
 “I only ask you to consider the good he could do.”
 “Ket, I hear you. The elf's insults are more than enough to mark him for death...
 Mattur cut in, quietly, “being an elf is enough for that.”
 
 The King ended the discussion. “We each do as we must.”