An island of rubble showered the ocean and Arn nearly leapt to his feet. For once, blessedly, he could not remember what he had dreamt. He calmed his heartbeat—something that was quite easy for someone who was practically dead inside. He looked across the shack at the unused cot nearby. Gamden wasn’t there; it was same as the ten days prior. Arn had glimpsed him in the yard, glaring at him. Arn had only closed his eyes or looked down.
Today, Arn had something else in mind. Time to stretch his legs. He slunk out of the leather flap in the shack doorway and crossed the yard toward the log-beam house with its strange, slanted roof. Water dribbled off—the morning’s showers—now puddling between the combat yard and the watching eyes of the workers that were unloading a wagon of supplies. Arn knew without looking that he would find Gamden’s accusing gaze among them.
“Arn,” a woman called. “Arn, wait up.”
“No,” Arn said. He glanced at Massema as she quickened her pace to approach his side.
Massema was carrying a clay tablet, and wore a short red shirt that ended shy of her belted skirts. “Nevo said you haven’t trained in a few weeks. They’ll kill you if—”
“I’m doing it! Yes?” Arn snapped. Then, in the language of Razaad—if such a place even existed—he mumbled, “First they want me to rebel against Quenden; now they want me to help him.”
He was doing just that. He waited for one of the subordinate guards to get the all-clear and was then ushered inside the log house. Massema’s farewell was lost in the sound of another catapult round erupting into debris in midair. Arn had watched the bombardment—which occurred irregularly—for days. He was not sure what purpose this mysterious magic had in destroying some of the projectiles prematurely. Rock and wood peppered the city even when they broke apart.
“Move,” Arn said to one of the cleaning slaves. She stumbled and nearly spilled dirty water to get out of Arn’s way. He advanced ahead of the guard to the inset wall panel of Quenden’s office. “I’m ready,” he announced as he pushed it open.
Quenden looked up. “Barge in here that quickly when I have a guest and you’ll be flogged,” he said.
“Yes? Fine,” Arn grunted. “I’m ready. Gamden and the dreamworld can drown in the Deep. I’ll do what you tell me.”
“Anything?” Master Quenden asked. “Without question?”
Arn only shrugged. The guard that had rushed after him relaxed and stepped away from the open doorway.
Quenden stood up, looking Arn in the eye from his level. “Someone important is visiting the siege soon—next month. I want you to get a letter to him, and it can’t look like it came from me,” he said. He didn’t offer further explanation of his plan or his motives.
“And if I fail… you’ll kill me,” Arn groaned, as though irritated by the constant reminders.
“Or the Merchant of Orm River will do it for me,” Quenden said. He sat down to punctuate his laziness on the topic of killing Arn.
“Merchant?” Arn asked. “Isn’t that a… person who trades?”
Quenden gave him a raised eyebrow. “Yes, Arn. I am a merchant.”
“You are?”
“Haven’t you noticed the wagons? My visitors? I’m not exactly a military commander,” Quenden exclaimed.
Arn shrugged again. “I don’t really notice.” He could not care less what Quenden did for a living. “So, letter, important visitor, or death by a money man.”
“The Merchant of Orm River sold his home and the lives of his friends for Tarro’s favour,” Quenden blurted. “He’s caused more deaths than the commander of the siege himself. My scouts will tell you where to go. You drop the letter near him and leave. Are we clear?”
Arn nodded slowly. “You know where to find me,” he said. He glanced around the office quickly before turning to leave. He was hoping for something to do now. He needed to get off his hands and away from Gamden.
“And Arn,” Quenden called. “Start going to the training yard again.”
Arn kept walking. He was likely to hurt someone badly if he went to the yard today. But maybe tomorrow—maybe tomorrow he could pretend to fight. These people and their useless lies, Arn thought. On Razaad, every lie was an intentional step to greater authority or power, not a game to pass the time. Maybe it was passing so much time on that damned raft that had splintered Arn’s mind.