He was right.
The unfortunate newcomer just stared morosely at the gate. Raoden waited for him to take a step, to make the unwitting decision that would determine who got the privilege of robbing him. The man stood where he was, watching the courtyard with nervous eyes, his thin frame pulled up inside his robes like he was trying to hide within them. After a few minutes of waiting, he finally took his first hesitant step—to the right, the same way Raoden had chosen.
"Come on," Raoden declared, striding out of the alleyway. Galladon groaned, mumbling something in Duladen.
"Teoren?" Raoden called, choosing a common Aonic name.
The spindly newcomer looked up with surprise, then glanced over his shoulder with confusion.
"Teoren, it is you!" Raoden said, wrapping his hand around the man's shoulder. Then, in a lower voice, he continued. "Right now you have two choices, friend. Either you do what I tell you. or you let those men in the shadows over there chase you down and beat you senseless."
The man turned around to search the shadows with apprehensive eyes. Fortunately. at that moment, Shaor's men decided to move, their shadowed forms emerging into the light, their carnal eyes staring at the new man with hunger. It was all the encouragement the newcomer needed.
"What do I do?" the man asked with a quavering voice.
"Run!" Raoden ordered, then took off toward one of the alleys at a dash.
The man didn't need to be told twice: he bolted so quickly that Raoden was afraid he would go careering down a side alley and get lost. There was a muffled yell of surprise from behind as Galladon realized what Raoden was doing. The large Duladen man obviously wouldn't have any problems keeping up; even considering his time in Elantris, Galladon was in much better shape than Raoden.
"What in the name of Doloken do you think you are doing, you idiot?" Galladon swore.
"I'll tell you in a moment," Raoden said, conserving strength as he ran. Again, he noticed that he didn't get out of breath, though his body did begin to grow tired. A dull feeling of fatigue began to grow within him, and of the three of them. Raoden was soon proven the slowest runner. However he was the only one who knew where they were going.
"Right!" he yelled to Galladon and the new man, then took off down a side alley. The two men followed, as did the group of thugs, who were gaining quickly. Fortunately, Raoden's destination wasn't far away.
"Rulo." Galladon cursed, realizing where they were going. It was one of the houses he had shown Raoden the day before, the one with the unstable staircase. Raoden sprinted through the door and up the stairs, nearly falling twice as steps gave out beneath him. Once on the roof, he used the last of his strength to push over a stack of bricks—the remnants of what had once been a planter—toppling the entire pile of crumbling clay into the stairwell just as Galladon and the newcomer reached the top. The weakened steps didn't even begin to hold the weight, collapsing to the ground with a furious crash.
Galladon walked over and looked through the hole with a critical eye. Shaor's men gathered around the fallen steps below, their feral intensity dulled a bit by realization.
Galladon raised an eyebrow. "Now what, genius?"
Raoden walked over to the newcomer, who had collapsed after stumbling up the stairs. Raoden carefully removed each of the man's food offerings and, after tucking a certain one into his belt, he dumped the rest to the houndlike men waiting below. The sounds of battle came from below as they fought over the food.
Raoden stepped back from the hole. "Let's just hope they realize that they're not going to get anything more out of us, and decide to leave."
"And if they don't?" Galladon asked pointedly.
Raoden shrugged. "We can live forever without food or water, right?"
"Yes. but I'd rather not spend the rest of eternity on the top of this building."
Then, shooting a look at the new man, Galladon pulled Raoden to the side and demanded in a low voice, "Sule. what was the point of that? You could have just thrown them the food back in the courtyard. In fact, why 'save' him? For all we know, Shaor's men might not have even hurt him."
"We don't know that. Besides, this way he thinks he owes me his life."
Galladon snorted. "So now you have another follower—at the cheap price of the hatred of an entire third of Elantris's criminal element."
"And this is only the beginning," Raoden said with a smile. However, despite the brave words, he wasn't quite so certain of himself. He was still amazed at how much his toe hurt, and he had scraped his hands while pushing the bricks. While not as painful as the toe, the scrapes also continued to hurt, threatening to draw his attention away from his plans.
I have to keep moving, Raoden repeated to himself. Keep working. Don't let the pain take control.
¤ ¤ ¤
"I'M a jeweler," the man explained. "Mareshe is my name."
"A jeweler." Raoden said with dissatisfaction, his arms folded as he regarded Mareshe. "That won't be of much use. What else can you do?"
Mareshe looked at him indignantly, as if having forgotten that he had. just a few moments ago. been cowering in fear. "Jewelry making is an extremely useful skill, sir."
"Not in Elantris, Galladon said, peeking through the hole to see if the thugs had decided to leave. Apparently they hadn't, for he gave Raoden a withering look.
Pointedly ignoring the Dula, Raoden turned back to Mareshe. "What else can you do?"
"Anything."
"That's quite broad, friend," Raoden said. "Could you be a bit more specific?"
Mareshe brought his hand up beside his head with a dramatic gesture. "I am a craftsman. An artisan. I can make anything. for Domi himself has granted me the soul of an artist."
Galladon snorted from his seat beside the stairwell.
"How about shoes?" Raoden asked.
"Shoes?" Mareshe replied with a slightly offended tone.
"Yes, shoes."
"I suppose I could," Mareshe said, "though such hardly demands the skill of a man who is a full artisan."
"And a full id—" Galladon began before Raoden hushed him.
"Artisan Mareshe," Raoden continued in his most diplomatic of tones. "Elantrians are cast into the city wearing only an Arelish burial shroud. A man who could make shoes would be very valuable indeed."
"What kind of shoes?" Mareshe asked.
"Leather ones,' Raoden said. "It won't be an easy calling, Mareshe. You see, Elantrians don't have the luxury of trial and error—if the first pair of shoes do not fit. then they will cause blisters. Blisters that will never leave."
"What do you mean, never leave?" Mareshe asked uncomfortably.
"We are Elantrians now, Mareshe," Raoden explained. "Our wounds no longer heal."
"No longer heal ... ?"
"Would you care for an example, artisan?" Galladon asked helpfully. "I can arrange one quite easily. Kolo?"
Mareshe's face turned pale, and he looked back at Raoden. "He doesn't seem to like me very much," he said quietly.
"Nonsense." Raoden said, putting his arm around Mareshe's shoulder and turning him away from Galladon's grinning face. "That's how he shows affection."
"If you say so, Master .. ."
Raoden paused. "Just call me Spirit," he decided, using the translation of Aon Rao.
"Master Spirit." Then Mareshe's eyes narrowed. "You look familiar for some reason.
"You've never seen me before in your life. Now, about those shoes ...
"They have to fit perfectly, without a bit of scraping or rubbing?" Mareshe asked.
"I know it sounds difficult. If it's beyond your ability . ."
"Nothing is beyond my ability," Mareshe said. "I'll do it, Master Spirit."
"Excellent."
"They're not leaving," Galladon said from behind them.
Raoden turned to regard the large Dula. "What does it matter? It's not like we have anything pressing to do. It's actually quite pleasant up here—you should just sit back and enjoy it."
An ominous crash came from the clouds above them, and Raoden felt a wet drop splat against his head.
"Fantastic," Galladon grumbled. "I'm enjoying myself already."
CHAPTER 8
Sarene decided not to accept her uncle's offer to stay with him. As tempting as it was to move in with his family, she was afraid of losing her foothold in the palace. The court was a lifeline of information. and the Arelish nobility were a fountain of gossip and intrigue. If she was going to do battle with Hrathen, she would need to stay up to date.
So it was that the day after her meeting with Kiin, Sarene procured herself an easel and paints, and set them up directly in the middle of Iadon's throne room.
"What in the name of Domi are you doing, girl!" the king exclaimed as he entered the room that morning, a group of apprehensive attendants at his side.
Sarene looked up from her canvas with imitation surprise. "I'm painting, Father," she said, helpfully holding up her brush—an action that sprayed droplets of red paint across the chancellor of defense's face.
Iadon sighed. "I can see that you're painting. I meant why are you doing it here?"
"Oh." Sarene said innocently. "I'm painting your paintings, Father. I do like them so."
"You're painting my . . . ?" Iadon asked with a dumbfounded expression. "But . . ."
Sarene turned her canvas with a proud smile, showing the king a painting that only remotely resembled a picture of some flowers.
"Oh for Domi's sake!" Iadon bellowed. "Paint if you must, girl. Just don't do it in the middle of my throne room!"
Sarene opened her eyes wide, blinked a few times, then pulled her easel and chair over to the side of the room near one of the pillars, sat down, and continued to paint.
Iadon groaned. "I meant ... Bah, Domi curse it! You're not worth the effort." With that, the king turned and stalked over to his throne and ordered his secretary to announce the first item of' business—a squabble between two minor nobles over some possessions.
Ashe hovered down next to Sarene's canvas, speaking to her softly. "I thought he was going to expel you for good, my lady."
Sarene shook her head, a self-congratulatory smile on her lips. "Iadon has a quick temper, and grows frustrated with ease. The more I convince him of my brainlessness, the fewer orders he's going to give me. He knows I'll just misunderstand him, and he'll just end up aggravated."
"I am beginning to wonder how one such as he obtained the throne in the first place," Ashe noted.
"A good point," Sarene admitted, tapping her cheek in thought. "Though, perhaps we aren't giving him enough credit. He might not make a very good king, but he was apparently a very good businessman. To him. I'm an expended resource—he has his treaty. I'm just of no further concern."
"I'm not convinced, my lady," Ashe noted. "He seems too shortsighted to remain king for long."
"Which is why he's probably going to lose his throne," Sarene said. "I suspect that is why the gyorn is here."