people.”
“So he can tell us who bought the daggers and thus who our enemies are?”
A brusque laugh shook Orik’s chest. “Hardly, but we were able to track the daggers from Kiefna to an armorer in Dalgon, many leagues from here, who sold them to a knurlaf with—”
“A knurlaf?” Eragon asked.
Orik scowled. “A woman. A woman with seven fingers on each hand bought the daggers two months ago.”
“And did you find her? There can’t be very many women with that number of fingers.”
“Actually, the condition is fairly common among our people,” said Orik. “Be that as it may, after quite a bit of difficulty, we managed to locate the woman in Dalgon. My warriors there questioned her most closely. She is of Durgrimst Nagra, but so far as we can determine, she was acting of her own accord, and not under orders from the leaders of her clan. From her, we learned that a dwarf had engaged her to buy the daggers and then to deliver them to a wine merchant who would take them with him from Dalgon. The woman’s employer did not tell her where the daggers were destined, but by asking among the merchants of the city, we discovered that he traveled directly from Dalgon to one of the cities held by Durgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhuin.”
“So it
“That or it could have been someone who wished us to think it was them. We needed more evidence before we could establish Az Sweldn rak Anhuin’s guilt for certain.” A twinkle appeared in Orik’s eyes, and he raised a finger. “So, by means of a very, very clever spell, we retraced the path of the assassins back through the tunnels and caves and up to a deserted area on the twelfth level of Tronjheim, off the subadjunct auxiliary hall of the southern spoke in the western quadrant, along the... ah, well, it does not matter. But someday I will have to teach you how the rooms are arranged in Tronjheim, so that if ever you need to find a place within the city by yourself, you can. In any event, the trail led us to an abandoned storeroom where those three”—he gestured toward the bound dwarves—“had been staying. They were not expecting us, and so we were able to capture them alive, although they tried to kill themselves. It was not easy, but we broke the minds of two of them — leaving the third for the other grimstborithn to interrogate at their pleasure — and we took from them everything they knew about this matter.” Orik pointed at the prisoners again. “It was they who equipped the assassins for the attack, gave them the daggers and their black clothes, and fed and sheltered them last night.”
“Who are they?” asked Eragon.
“Bah!” exclaimed Orik, and spat on the floor. “They are Vargrimstn, warriors who have disgraced themselves and are now clanless. No one deals with such filth unless they are engaged in villainy themselves and do not wish others to know of it. And so it was with those three. They took their orders directly from Grimstborith Vermund of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin.”
“There is no doubt?”
Orik shook his head. “There is no doubt; it is Az Sweldn rak Anhuin who tried to kill you, Eragon. We will probably never know if any other clans joined them in the attempt, but if we expose Az Sweldn rak Anhuin’s treachery, it will force everyone else who might have been involved in the plot to disparage their former confederates; to abandon, or at least delay, further attacks on Durgrimst Ingeitum; and, if this is handled properly, to give me their vote for king.”
An image flashed in Eragon’s mind of the prismatic blade emerging from the back of Kvistor’s neck and of the dwarf’s agonized expression as he had fallen to the floor, dying. “How will we punish Az Sweldn rak Anhuin for this crime? Should we kill Vermund?”
“Ah, leave that to me,” said Orik, and tapped the side of his nose. “I have a plan. But we must tread carefully, for this is a situation of the utmost delicacy. Such a betrayal has not occurred in many long years. As an outsider, you cannot know how abhorrent we find it that one of our own should attack a guest. You being the only free Rider left to oppose Galbatorix only worsens the offense. Further bloodshed may yet be necessary, but at the moment, it would only bring about another clan war.”
“A clan war might be the only way to deal with Az Sweldn rak Anhuin,” Eragon pointed out.
“I think not, but if I am mistaken and war is unavoidable, we must ensure it is a war between the rest of the clans and Az Sweldn rak Anhuin. That would not be so bad. Together, we could crush them inside of a week. A war with the clans split into two or three factions, however, would destroy our country. It is crucial, then, that before we draw our swords, we convince the other clans of what Az Sweldn rak Anhuin has done. Toward that end, will you allow magicians from different clans to examine your memories of the attack so they may see it happened as we shall say it did and that we did not stage it for our own benefit?”
Eragon hesitated, reluctant to open his mind to strangers, then nodded toward the three dwarves stacked on top of one another. “What about them? Won’t their memories be enough to convince the clans of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin’s guilt?”
Orik grimaced. “They ought to be, but in order to be thorough, the clan chiefs will insist upon verifying their memories against yours, and if you refuse, Az Sweldn rak Anhuin will claim we are hiding something from the clanmeet and that our accusations are nothing more than slanderous fiction.”
“Very well,” said Eragon. “If I must, I must. But if any of the magicians stray where they are not supposed to, even if by accident, I will have no choice but to burn what they have seen out of their minds. There are some things I cannot allow to become common knowledge.”
Nodding, Orik said, “Aye, I can think of at least one three-legged piece of information that would cause us some consternation if it were to be trumpeted throughout the land, eh? I am sure the clan chiefs will accept your conditions — for they all have secrets of their own they would not want bandied about — just as I am sure they will order their magicians to proceed, regardless of the danger. This attack has the potential to incite such turmoil among our race, the grimstborithn will feel compelled to determine the truth about it, though it may cost them their most skilled spellcasters.”
Drawing himself upright then, to the full extent of his limited height, Orik ordered the prisoners removed from the ornate entryway and dismissed all of his vassals, save for Eragon and a contingent of twenty-six of his finest warriors. With a graceful flourish, Orik grasped Eragon’s left elbow and conducted him toward the inner rooms of his chambers. “Tonight you must remain here, with me, where Az Sweldn rak Anhuin will not dare to strike.”
“If you intend to sleep,” said Eragon, “I must warn you, I cannot rest, not tonight. My blood still churns from the tumult of the fight, and my thoughts are likewise uneasy.”
Orik replied, “Rest or not as you will; you shall not disturb my slumber, for I shall pull a thick woolen cap low over my eyes. I urge you to try and calm yourself, however — perhaps with some of the techniques the elves taught you — and recover what strength you may. The new day is already upon us, and but a few hours remain until the clanmeet shall be assembled. We should both be as fresh as possible for what is to come. What we do and say today shall determine the ultimate fate of mine people, mine country, and the rest of Alagaesia... Ah, do not look so grim about the mouth! Think of this instead: whether success or failure awaits us, and I surely hope we prevail, our names shall be remembered until the end of time for how we comport ourselves at this clanmeet. That at least is an accomplishment to fill your belly with pride! The gods are fickle, and the only immortality we can count on is that which we win through our deeds. Fame or infamy, either one is preferable to being forgotten when you have passed from this realm.”
Later that night, in the dead hours before morning, Eragon’s thoughts wandered as he sat slumped within the embrace of the padded arms of a dwarf couch, and the frame of his consciousness dissolved into the disordered fantasy of his waking dreams. Yet conscious of the mosaic of colored stones mounted upon the wall opposite him, he also beheld, as if a glowing scrim draped over the mosaic, scenes of his life in Palancar Valley before momentous and bloody fate had intervened in his existence. The scenes diverged from established fact, however, and immersed him in imaginary situations constructed piecemeal from fragments of what had actually been. In the last few moments before he roused himself from his stupor, his vision flickered and the images acquired a sense of heightened reality.
