Elantris Read online

  “Exactly,” Raoden said with a smile. “Just make sure you run very quickly, my friend. We wouldn’t want them to catch you.”

  “You’re serious,” Galladon said with growing apprehension.

  “Unfortunately. Now get moving—lead them off to the left, and I’ll do the rest. We’ll meet back where we left Mareshe.”

  Galladon huffed something about “not being worth all the dried meat in the world,” but he let Raoden push him into the courtyard. A moment later a series of startled growls came from the building where Shaor’s men usually hid. The feral men burst out, forgetting the three newcomers in their hatred of the man who had wronged them just a few days earlier.

  Galladon shot one final withering look in Raoden’s direction, then took off at a dash, choosing a street at random and leading Shaor’s men away. Raoden gave him a moment, then ran out into the middle of the courtyard, making a great show of breathing deeply, as if from exhaustion.

  “Which way did he go?” he demanded sharply of the three confused newcomers.

  “Who?” one of them finally ventured.

  “The large Dula! Quickly, man, which way did he go? He has the cure!”

  “The cure?” the man asked with surprise.

  “Of course. It’s very rare, but there should be enough for all of us, if you tell me which way he went. Don’t you want to get out of here?”

  The newcomer raised a wavering hand and pointed at the path Galladon had taken.

  “Come on!” Raoden urged. “Unless we move quickly we’ll lose him forever!” With that, he started running.

  The three newcomers stood for a moment; then, Raoden’s sense of urgency too much for them, they followed. All three of their first steps, therefore, were to the north—the direction that would have made them the property of Shaor’s men. The other two gangs could only watch with frustration as all three dashed away.

  “What can you do?” Raoden asked.

  The woman shrugged. “Maare is my name, my lord. I was a simple housewife. I have no special skills to speak of.”

  Raoden snorted. “If you’re like any other housewife, then you’re probably more skilled than anyone here. Can you weave?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Raoden nodded thoughtfully. “And you?” he asked of the next man.

  “Riil, a workman, my lord. I spent most of my time building on my master’s plantation.”

  “Hauling bricks?”

  “At first, my lord,” the man said. He had the wide hands and ingenuous face of a worker, but his eyes were keen and intelligent. “I spent years learning with the journeymen. I hoped that my master would send me to apprentice.”

  “You’re very old to be an apprentice,” Raoden noted.

  “I know, my lord, but it was a hope. Not many of the peasantry have room for hopes anymore, even ones so simple.”

  Raoden nodded again. The man didn’t speak like a peasant, but few people in Arelon did. Ten years ago, Arelon had been a land of opportunity, and most of its people had been at least slightly educated. Many of the men in his father’s court complained that learning had ruined the peasantry for good work, selectively forgetting that they themselves had been members of the same “peasantry” a decade earlier.

  “All right, how about you?” Raoden asked the next man.

  The third newcomer, a well-muscled man with a nose that appeared to have been broken at least a dozen times, regarded Raoden with hesitant eyes. “Before I answer, I want to know just why I should listen to you.”

  “Because I just saved your life,” Raoden said.

  “I don’t understand. What happened to that other man?”

  “He should show up in a few minutes.”

  “But—”

  “We weren’t really chasing him,” Raoden said. “We were getting you three out of danger. Mareshe, please explain.”

  The artisan jumped at the chance. With wild gestures he explained his narrow escape two days earlier, making it appear that he had been on the verge of death before Raoden appeared and helped him to safety. Raoden smiled; Mareshe had a melodramatic soul. The artist’s voice rose and fell like a well-written symphony. Listening to the man’s narrative, even Raoden nearly believed he had done something incredibly noble.

  Mareshe finished with a proclamation that Raoden was trustworthy, and encouraged them all to listen to him. At the end, even the burly, hook-nosed man was attentive.

  “My name is Saolin, Lord Spirit,” the man said, “and I was a soldier in Count Eondel’s personal legion.”

  “I know Eondel,” Raoden said with a nod. “He’s a good man—a soldier himself before he was granted a title. You were probably trained well.”

  “We are the best soldiers in the country, sir,” Saolin said proudly.

  Raoden smiled. “It isn’t hard to best most of the soldiers in our poor country, Saolin. However, I’d match Eondel’s legion against soldiers from any nation—I always found them to be men of honor, discipline, and skill. Much like their leader. Giving Eondel a title is one of the few intelligent things Iadon has done recently.”

  “As I understand it, my lord, the king didn’t have much choice,” Saolin said with a smile, showing a mouth that was missing a couple of teeth. “Eondel has amassed quite a large fortune by hiring out his personal forces to the Crown.”

  “That’s the truth,” Raoden said with a laugh. “Well, Saolin, I am glad to have you. A professional soldier of your skill will certainly make us all feel a lot safer around here.”

  “Whatever Your Lordship needs,” Saolin said, his face growing serious. “I pledge you my sword. I know little about religion besides saying my prayers, and I don’t really understand what’s going on here, but a man who speaks well of Lord Eondel is a good man in my estimation.”

  Raoden clasped Saolin on the shoulder, ignoring the fact that the grizzled soldier didn’t have a sword to pledge anymore. “I appreciate and accept your protection, friend. But I warn you, this is no easy burden you take upon yourself. I’m quickly amassing enemies in here, and it is going to require a great deal of vigilance to make sure we aren’t surprised by an attack.”

  “I understand, my lord,” Saolin said fervently. “But, by Domi, I won’t let you down!”

  “And what of us, my lord?” asked Riil the builder.

  “I have a grand project in store for you two as well,” Raoden said. “Look up and tell me what you see.”

  Riil raised his eyes to the sky, his eyes confused. “I see nothing, my lord. Should I?”

  Raoden laughed. “Not a thing, Riil. That’s the problem—the roof to this building must have fallen in years ago. Despite that, it’s one of the largest and least-degenerate buildings I’ve found. I don’t suppose your training included some experience in roof building?”

  Riil smiled. “It certainly did, my lord. You have materials?”

  “That’s going to be the tricky part, Riil. All of the wood in Elantris is either broken or rotted.”

  “That is a problem,” Riil acknowledged. “Perhaps if we dried out the wood, then mixed it with clay….”

  “It isn’t an easy task, Riil, Maare,” Raoden said.

  “We’ll give it our best try, my lord,” Maare assured him.

  “Good,” Raoden said with an approving nod. His bearing, coupled with their insecurity, made them quick to listen. It wasn’t loyalty, not yet. Hopefully, time would gain him their trust as well as their words.

  “Now, Mareshe,” Raoden continued, “please explain to our new friends about what it means to be an Elantrian. I don’t want Riil falling off the top of a building before he realizes breaking his neck won’t necessarily mean an end to the pain.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Mareshe said, eyeing the newcomers’ food, which was sitting on a relatively clean section of the floor. The hunger was affecting him already.

  Raoden carefully chose a few items from offerings, then nodded to the rest. “Divide this up amongst yourselves and eat it. Saving it
won’t do any good—the hunger is going to start immediately, and you might as well get this down before it has time to make you greedy.”

  The four nodded, and Mareshe began to explain the limitations of life in Elantris as he divided the food. Raoden watched for a moment, then turned away to think.

  “Sule, my hama would love you. She always complained that I don’t get enough exercise.” Raoden looked up as Galladon strode into the room.

  “Welcome back, my friend,” Raoden said with a smile. “I was beginning to worry.”

  Galladon snorted. “I didn’t see you worrying when you shoved me out into that courtyard. Seen worms on hooks treated more kindly. Kolo?”

  “Ah, but you made such fantastic bait,” Raoden said. “Besides, it worked. We got the newcomers, and you appear remarkably bruise-free.”

  “A state of being that is most likely a source of grand displeasure to Shaor’s dogs.”

  “How did you escape them?” Raoden asked, handing Galladon the loaf of bread he had grabbed for the Dula. Galladon regarded it, then ripped it in half and offered one part to Raoden, who held up his hand forestallingly.

  Galladon shrugged an “okay, starve if it suits you” shrug, and began to gnaw on the loaf. “Ran into a building with a collapsed set of stairs, then went out the back door,” he explained between mouthfuls. “I threw some rocks up onto the roof when Shaor’s men entered. After what you did to them the other day, they just assumed I was up there. They’re probably still sitting there waiting for me.”

  “Smooth,” Raoden said.

  “Somebody didn’t leave me much choice.”

  Galladon continued to eat in quiet, listening to the newcomers discuss their various “important duties.” “You going to tell all of them that?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “What’s that?”

  “The newcomers, sule. You made them all think they are of vital importance, just like Mareshe. Shoes are nice, but not a matter of life and death.”

  Raoden shrugged. “People do a better job when they assume they’re important.”

  Galladon was quiet for another short moment before speaking again. “They’re right.”

  “Who?”

  “The other gangs. You are starting your own gang.”

  Raoden shook his head. “Galladon, that is just a tiny part of it. No one accomplishes anything in Elantris—they’re all either too busy squabbling over food or contemplating their misery. The city needs a sense of purpose.”

  “We’re dead, sule,” Galladon said. “What purpose can we have besides suffering?”

  “That’s exactly the problem. Everyone’s convinced that their lives are over just because their hearts stopped beating.”

  “That’s usually a pretty good indication, sule,” Galladon said dryly.

  “Not in our case, my friend. We need to convince ourselves that we can go on. The Shaod isn’t causing all the pain here—I’ve seen people on the outside lose hope too, and their souls end up just as emaciated as those poor wretches in the square. If we can restore even a tiny bit of hope to these people, then their lives will improve drastically.” He emphasized the word “lives,” looking Galladon right in the eyes.

  “The other gangs aren’t just going to sit around and watch you steal all their offerings, sule,” Galladon said. “They’re going to get tired of you very quickly.”

  “Then I’ll just have to be ready for them.” Raoden nodded toward the large building around them. “This will make a rather good base of operations, wouldn’t you say? It has this open room in the middle, with all of those smaller ones at the back.”

  Galladon squinted upward. “You could have picked a building with a roof.”

  “Yes, I know,” Raoden replied. “But this one suits my purpose. I wonder what it used to be.”

  “A church,” Galladon said. “Korathi.”

  “How do you know?” Raoden asked with surprise.

  “Has the feel, sule.”

  “Why would there be a Korathi church in Elantris?” Raoden argued. “The Elantrians were their own gods.”

  “But they were very lenient gods. There was supposed to be a grand Korathi chapel here in Elantris, the most beautiful of its kind. It was built as an offering of friendship to the people of Teod.”

  “That seems so odd,” Raoden said with a shake of his head. “Gods of one religion building a monument to Domi.”

  “Like I said. The Elantrians were very lax gods. They didn’t really care if the people worshipped them—they were secure in their divinity. Until the Reod came along. Kolo?”

  “You seem to know quite a bit, Galladon,” Raoden noted.

  “And since when has that been a sin?” Galladon said with a huff. “You’ve lived in Kae all your life, sule. Maybe instead of asking why I know these things, you should wonder why you don’t.”

  “Point taken,” Raoden said, glancing to the side. Mareshe was still deeply involved in his explanation of an Elantrian’s danger-fraught life. “He’s not going to be done anytime soon. Come on, there’s something I want to do.”

  “Does it involve running?” Galladon asked in a pained voice.

  “Only if they spot us.”

  Raoden recognized Aanden. It was difficult to see—the Shaod brought profound changes—but Raoden had a knack for faces. The so-called Baron of Elantris was a short man with a sizable paunch and a long drooping mustache that was obviously fake. Aanden did not look noble—of course, few noblemen Raoden knew looked very aristocratic.

  Regardless, Aanden was no baron. The man before Raoden, seated on a throne of gold and presiding over a court of sickly-looking Elantrians, had been called Taan. He had been one of Kae’s finest sculptors before the Shaod took him, but he had not been of noble blood. Of course, Raoden’s own father had been nothing more than a simple trader until chance had made him king. In Elantris, Taan had apparently taken advantage of a similar opportunity.

  The years in Elantris had not been kind to Taan. The man was blubbering incoherently to his court of rejects.

  “He’s mad?” Raoden asked, crouched outside the window they were using to spy on Aanden’s court.

  “We each have our own way of dealing with death, sule,” Galladon whispered. “The rumors say Aanden’s insanity was a conscious decision. They say that after being thrown into Elantris he looked around and said, ‘There’s no way I can face this sane.’ After that, he declared himself Baron Aanden of Elantris and began giving orders.”

  “And people follow him?”

  “Some do,” Galladon whispered with a shrug. “He may be mad, but so is the rest of the world—at least, to the eyes of one who’s been thrown in here. Kolo? Aanden is a source of authority. Besides, maybe he was a baron on the outside.”

  “He wasn’t. He was a sculptor.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I met him once,” Raoden said with a nod. Then he looked back at Galladon with inquisitive eyes. “Where did you hear the rumors about him?”

  “Can we move back first, sule?” Galladon requested. “I’d rather not end up a participant in one of Aanden’s mock trials and executions.”

  “Mock?”

  “Everything’s mock but the axe.”

  “Ah. Good idea—I’ve seen all I needed to.”

  The two men moved back, and as soon as they were a few streets away from the university, Galladon answered Raoden’s question. “I talk to people, sule; that’s where I get my information. Granted, the great majority of the city’s people are Hoed, but there’re enough conscious ones around to talk with. Of course, my mouth is what got me in trouble with you. Maybe if I’d kept it shut I’d still be sitting on those steps enjoying myself, rather than spying on one of the most dangerous men in the city.”

  “Perhaps,” Raoden said. “But you wouldn’t be having half as much fun. You’d be chained to your boredom.”

  “I’m so glad you liberated me, sule.”

  “Anytime.”

  Raoden thought as they
walked, trying to decide on a plan of action should Aanden ever come looking for him. It hadn’t taken Raoden long to adjust to walking on Elantris’s uneven, slime-covered streets; his still painful toe was a wonderful motivator. He was actually beginning to regard the dun-colored walls and grime as normal, which bothered him much more than the city’s dirtiness ever had.

  “Sule,” Galladon eventually asked. “Why did you want to see Aanden? You couldn’t have known you’d recognize him.”

  Raoden shook his head. “If Aanden had been a baron from the outside, I would have known him almost immediately.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Raoden nodded absently.

  Galladon was silent for a few more streets, then spoke with sudden understanding. “Now, sule, I’m not very good with these Aons you Arelenes hold in such esteem, but unless I’m completely wrong, the Aon for ‘spirit’ is Rao.”

  “Yes,” Raoden said hesitantly.

  “And doesn’t the king of Arelon have a son named Raoden?”

  “He did.”

  “And here you are, sule, claiming to know all the barons in Arelon. You’re obviously a man with a good education, and you give commands easily.”

  “You could say that,” Raoden said.

  “Then, to top it all off, you call yourself ‘Spirit.’ Pretty suspicious. Kolo?”

  Raoden sighed. “I should have picked a different name, eh?”

  “By Doloken, boy! You’re telling me you’re the crown prince of Arelon?”

  “I was the crown prince of Arelon, Galladon,” Raoden corrected. “I lost the title when I died.”

  “No wonder you’re so frustrating. I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid royalty, and here I end up with you. Burning Doloken!”

  “Oh quiet down,” Raoden said. “It’s not like I’m really royalty—it’s been in the family for less than a generation.”

  “That’s long enough, sule,” Galladon said sullenly.

  “If it helps, my father didn’t think I was fit to rule. He tried everything to keep me from the throne.”

  Galladon snorted. “I’d be scared to see the man Iadon found fit to rule. Your father’s an idiot—no offense intended.”

  “None taken,” Raoden replied. “And I trust you’ll keep my identity secret.”