The Swordbearer - By Glen Cook Page 0,76

involved."

"You've got some new ghosts, haven't you?"

Hildreth was perceptive. "Too many. Way too many." They reached a portico surrounding the Raftery, that once had been the Palace of Chrismer. Surly men in red tried to keep them from entering. Gathrid rested a hand on the hilt of the Sword. They parted.

That's real power, he thought. But how much longer would Daubendiek tolerate being used only as a threat?

Hildreth muttered, "I'd like to see those boys go through the Brotherhood entry test again. The only power they can handle is muscle power."

Delegates from the five Orders packed the Grand Forum of the Raftery, their robes forming rainbow stripes. Gathrid saw just one empty seat. That was the throne of the Fray Magister.

In days of yore it had been Chrismer's audience throne.

The waterfall roar of voices diminished as people recognized the Swordbearer. Gerdes Mulenex met Gathrid's eye. His face became as red as his robe. He controlled himself, managed a half-mocking bow.

"I don't know what you can do," Hildreth whispered. "But try something. You're the last hope. For the Raftery and the Empire."

Gathrid descended the worn marble steps leading to the main floor. The delegates were seated on benches surrounding that, rising stadium fashion. The handful of men down on the circular floor appeared to be the leaders of factions, negotiating deals.

Gathrid walked across that floor and mounted the small, circular speaker's rostrum. Mulenex sputtered, but did not stop him. He turned slowly, surveyed the silent gathering.

Daubendiek moaned. The audience heard, but appeared more interested in the other blade. It whined as well, at a higher pitch.

Gathrid said, "On the spot where I stand, where the bloodstains remain to remind us of the cost of not questioning the follies we hear, the Winged Tempter perished at the hand of my predecessor." He pointed. "Blood. Blood. Blood. There's no end to the blood when the affairs of nations are managed by fools. There're a hundred tales told about the Great Sword, and the Swordbearer, and their roles in the Brothers' War. Most are but shadows of fact. Listen while I tell the true story of Tureck Aarant."

He closed his eyes and blanked his mind and yielded his mouth to his predecessor. Out poured words and warnings formulated by Tureck Aarant himself. "Then, as today, men were not the masters of their destinies. Only a handful knew the truth. They weren't allowed to tell it. But today I can. The eye of Suchara has wandered for the moment.

"The Immortal Twins, and all the great names of the Brothers' War, weren't fighting for their beliefs or ambitions. They were toys. They were pawns."

Theis Rogala went narrow-eyed and pale. Gathrid knew things he should not. He related details of Aarant's life that only Tureck and his esquire could have known. Somehow, Suchara had erred. Something strange had happened.

The youth paused. He surveyed his audience. He saw puzzled looks, hostile looks, friendly looks. Hardly a face bore the stamp of disbelief. He suspected the Brothers had access to undoctored accounts of the war, where a glimmer of the truth would have shown through.

To a man the delegates were attentive.

"I am the Swordbearer," he thundered, smiting the rostrum with a fist. His audience jumped. "I am the Chosen! I am the Eater of Souls and Discoverer of Secrets. I have one of the latter to share. It belonged to Brother Sagis Gruhala of the Blue, whose true allegiance was Red, and whose doom overtook him in Torun.

"Brother Gruhala was a lucky man. The agents of the Imperium, of the Blue, and of the Red, all sought him. He eluded them all and found himself a place in Torun's underworld. Then chance or a jest of the Great Old Ones caused our paths to cross."

Gathrid studied Mulenex while he related details of the murder of Honsa Eldracher and the betrayal of Katich.

"And that, Brethren, is Truth. Tally these details against the facts you know. Then try to deny it."

The long silence died. The mood became dangerous. Blues charged onto the floor. Mulenex looked round like a trapped rat seeking an avenue of escape. The color fled his gross face.

Here and there, fists flew.

A grim, pale Count Cuneo joined Gathrid. "Well done, lad," he said. "But a count too late. They finished the balloting before we arrived. He was elected."

"They can't reverse themselves?"

"Only by hastening his elevation to a higher plane." The Count wheeled, waved. A trumpeter winded his instrument till order was restored. Hildreth assumed the rostrum.

"Gentlemen, an announcement