The Devil's Armour (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  ‘We can talk over there,’ he said to Mirage. ‘It won’t take long.’

  The girl’s magically made face deflated. ‘Oh. Well, what is it then? If it won’t take long you might just as well tell me here.’

  Lukien’s lips twisted in a plea. ‘Mirage . . .’

  She relented and awkwardly went toward the little table, her face reddening. Despite Lukien’s protests, everyone in the library still thought them spatting lovers, and Mirage had really done nothing to dispel the notion. And though he was more than twice her age, Lukien admitted liking the attention, especially from Breck’s younger soldiers. He followed Mirage to the table, ignoring the temporary stares of those around them, and waited for her to seat herself. Instead of taking the place beside her, he sat down on the other side of the table. At first Mirage regarded him coolly, but when she saw his troubled face she touched his hand.

  ‘Lukien? What is it?’

  Lukien reached out and took her hand. It would be the last time he would explain this to her, perhaps the last time he would speak to her tenderly.

  ‘I want you to go,’ he said.

  Mirage hesitated. ‘Go? What do you mean?’

  ‘It isn’t safe here any more. I thought it was but I was wrong. You can’t stay here any more, Mirage.’ Lukien lowered his voice. ‘It’s time for you to leave.’

  A peculiar expression came over the girl’s face, as though she had been preparing for this conversation all along. ‘Lukien, where will I go?’ she asked. ‘There is nowhere for me except here. I belong with you. We came here together.’

  ‘Aye, but we can’t stay together. That was never part of our bargain. I brought you with me because I was heading north and you insisted on coming. I kept you safe, but I can’t keep you safe any longer.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing has happened, not yet! But don’t you see the danger? Mirage, Thorin isn’t coming back. You and I might have thought so, but we were wrong. It was wrong of us to wait so long. He’s in danger, or dead. Maybe captured, I don’t know. But he’s not coming back and that means Jazana Carr is coming.’

  Mirage shook her head. ‘No. I’m not leaving.’

  ‘Listen to me, girl. I’m talking about war. Do you know what happens to women in war? They don’t get the luxury of dying in battle.’

  ‘Stop trying to frighten me, Lukien.’

  ‘God’s above, I’m trying to make you listen. Just once, Meriel, listen to me.’ He let go of her hand and hardened his expression. ‘I do not love you.’

  ‘You do,’ the girl insisted. Tears struggled in her eyes. ‘I see it when you look at me.’

  ‘No, not that way. I care about you, yes, but you want a man to take you to his bed and make you his forever. I will never do that. My heart belongs to another and always shall.’

  Mirage could not bring herself to look around the room, though they both knew others were watching. Her lower lip shuddered.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I do not believe you. You have not even tried to love me. You would rather go on pitying yourself.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘How long will you do that, Lukien? Forever? Until you die? And mark me – that will be a very long time yet, as long as you wear that amulet.’ She sat back. ‘Well, I have time too, and I will not leave here. I have nowhere to go and no one else who cares about me. I would rather die here than leave.’

  ‘Great Fate, you are made of iron,’ lamented Lukien. ‘How can I make you bend? You need to see the truth, and I cannot make you see.’ He looked at her, as closely as he could, but there was not a single flaw in her mask, nothing to reveal the frightened girl beneath her magic veil. He realised sadly that the mask blinded not just others, but her as well. ‘I have not told you everything yet,’ he said softly. ‘If you will not leave and I cannot convince you, then at least you must know what I’ve planned. I am leaving, Meriel, and where I’m going you may not follow.’

  The girl’s face went ashen. ‘Leaving?’ She glanced around to make sure no one overheard. ‘Lukien, how can you? You promised Breck—’

  ‘Wait, you don’t understand. I’m not going back to Grimhold, Meriel.’

  ‘Mirage,’ she insisted. ‘Do not call me that old name!’

  ‘I’ve played your game long enough,’ Lukien snapped. ‘You are Meriel, no matter what you call yourself. These others may not know you but I do, girl. I know what you were before this magic changed you.’

  The girl eased back from the table. ‘Lower your voice,’ she implored. ‘Please, Lukien – you must call me Mirage. It is the bargain I struck with Minikin so that I could remain this way.’

  ‘Yes, so you could lure me into a love trap.’

  ‘So I could be whole,’ Mirage insisted. ‘Where are you going? After Thorin?’

  Lukien nodded. ‘I have to.’

  ‘Oh? And what about your promise to Breck?’

  ‘Breck knows why I came here,’ said Lukien. ‘To find Thorin, to help him if I can. I’m not leaving them. I’m just doing what I came here to do. I’ll fight Jazana any way I can.’

  The girl rolled her pretty eyes. ‘Is that what you’re telling yourself? It’s a lie, Lukien. You’re just running away.’

  ‘I am not running! If I can reach Thorin then maybe I can save everyone here. Even you, you ignorant girl.’

  ‘Lukien, listen to yourself. What makes you think you can save him all by yourself?’

  ‘I have the amulet,’ said Lukien. He was extra careful to moderate his voice, for he had not told anyone about the amulet, though he knew there had been rumours about him and his magical existence. ‘Minikin told me there was a way for me to reach Thorin and defeat the armour. No one here can do it. If I can reach him before it’s too late . . .’ He shrugged, because he knew how hopeless it sounded. ‘I have to try, Meriel. Can you understand that?’

  The girl’s young face softened. ‘I do understand. But what will you tell Breck?’

  ‘The truth. He’ll understand. If I can come back I will. And if I succeed I’ll have spared him a terrible fate. All of you, really.’

  ‘And if you don’t return?’

  Lukien paused. They both knew the answer.

  ‘Then I will be dead,’ he said.

  Meriel. He called her that because he remembered her still as the sad young woman he’d first met, hiding her face from the world in an ugly wool cloak. He had not wanted to anger her by using her name – he had wanted to reach her.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said softly. ‘If I have hurt you . . .’

  Quickly she shook her head. ‘It does not matter. Return to me, Lukien. No matter where you go, make sure of that.’

  He smiled, because her love for him knew no logic at all. He was about to leave her when he noticed her raise her eyes across the room.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked, frowning suddenly.

  Lukien turned toward the entrance, noticing only now that the conversations in the hall had halted. Breck was standing. Like everyone his eyes were on the man on the threshold. Vanlandinghale had entered the mess, his face disturbed and drawn. In his arms he held a metal case, a cubical strongbox riveted with iron and heavy from the look of it. He looked at Breck helplessly, lost for words.

  ‘Van?’ Breck stepped closer to him. ‘What is it, man?’ His eyes went to the box. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A coach brought it,’ said Van, his voice thin. He licked his pale lips. ‘A coach without a driver.’

  ‘What? Make sense, man. What coach?’

  ‘A carriage,’ said Van. ‘I was outside with some of the others, some stableboys. The coach drove up the road and stopped in the courtyard. Without a driver! The horses just . . . I don’t know, they just stopped.’ He held out the iron box. ‘This was inside the cab.’

  Breck looked at Lukien, who went to stand beside him. Mirage went with him, and soon others began circling around, curious about Van’s peculiar story. Everyone stared at the chest in his arms.

  ‘It was On
ikil’s coach,’ he croaked.

  Breck blanched. ‘Count Onikil?’

  Van nodded slowly.

  ‘And there was no one else? No rider, nothing?’

  ‘No,’ Van replied. ‘Nobody.’

  ‘How do you know it’s Onikil’s coach?’ asked Murdon.

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ said Van. ‘I remember seeing it when Baron Glass left.’ He pointed out of the chamber. ‘It’s still in the courtyard. I can show you.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Breck. He gestured to the chest. ‘Put it down.’

  Van did so then stepped back, glad to be away from it. While the onlookers gawked, only Lukien went closer. He hovered over the metal chest, sure there was nothing good inside it. Mirage grasped his arm.

  ‘Thorin,’ he whispered, dreading the thing’s contents. Was Jazana that ruthless? he wondered.

  ‘It’s not locked,’ offered Van.

  ‘How could the horses have brought the coach up here by themselves?’ wondered Captain Aliston.

  The question made Lukien’s jaw drop. He had the answer in an instant. Suddenly he knew it wasn’t Thorin’s head inside the box.

  ‘Magic,’ he declared. He looked dreadfully at Breck. ‘The magic inside the armour.’

  Confused, Breck studied the box. ‘How’s that possible?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Mirage. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘Then what’s in the box?’ asked Aric Glass anxiously. ‘Sir Lukien, if it’s not from my father.’

  ‘You misunderstand me, boy,’ said Lukien. ‘It’s from your father, at least in a way. It was Onikil’s coach that brought it here, but it was your father that sent it.’

  Breck nodded his agreement. He knelt down before the chest and undid the simple latch holding closed its metal lid. When the mechanism sprang he paused before opening it. He looked in the box for only an instant before turning away in disgust.

  Count Onikil’s bloated, unmistakable face glared back at him, eyes bulging, tongue swollen and pulled out of his mouth. Through his tongue was a pointed metal rod, skewering a paper to the dead, red muscle. The women in the room shrieked when they saw it, hiding their children’s eyes and hurrying them out of the room. More than one of Breck’s men retched. Lukien stared at the head, horrified by it.

  ‘Onikil?’ he asked.

  Breck nodded. ‘Yes.’ He reached into the box, pulled the spike from the tongue to release the note, then quickly closed the gory package. He read the note in silence, which only took him a moment. His face grave, he handed it to Lukien. ‘It’s for you,’ he said. ‘And it’s for all of us.’

  With Mirage looking over his shoulder, Lukien read the shocking letter.

  Tongues will wag, and traitors always suffer. Surrender the city or share the traitor’s fate.

  Two bold names ran along the bottom.

  Jazana Carr, Queen of Norvor

  Baron Thorin Glass

  It was Thorin’s handwriting; Lukien recognised it easily. He had even signed Jazana’s name.

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Mirage.

  ‘It means we’re too late,’ said Lukien. ‘It means I’m not going anywhere.’ He stared at Breck, who already seemed to understand everything.

  ‘It means,’ said Breck to his officers, ‘we have a fight on our hands.’

  48

  The Ring

  Gilwyn spent four days in Grimhold with White-Eye before finally leaving for Jador. He had done his best to explain himself to White-Eye, to convince her of the rightness of his plan, but she had remained unmoved throughout their time together and had wept when he’d left. After his promise to be her ‘eyes’, she could not understand why he was leaving for Liiria or why he believed he could reach Thorin, whom she was convinced was too deeply in the clutches of Kahldris for anyone to save. In truth, she had made Gilwyn doubt that he had any chance at all of saving Thorin, but she had not swayed his determination to try. He loved her too much, he explained, to let her fall prey to Kahldris again. If Lukien had failed to save Thorin, then the time had come for him to try.

  Unhappily, Gilwyn left White-Eye, promising to see her again but completely unsure when that would be. Nor had his goodbye to Minikin been any better. Gilwyn could not tell what future she predicted for him, and if she had consulted with the Akari about his fate she did not reveal it. She simply looked sad, as if she doubted he would return.

  Gilwyn rode back to Jador, not rushing as he had on the way to Grimhold. There was much on his mind, and he was not really eager to tell the Jadori the news of White-Eye’s blinding. Though most Jadori had never even met White-Eye, they all worshipped and adored her. She was their kahana, born of the great Kadar. They would not take the news well, he knew, for they were still reeling from the battle with Prince Aztar.

  During his first day back in the city, Gilwyn tended to his usual business. He was relieved to hear that no more Seekers had crossed the desert, but there were shortages of everything still, and life had yet to get back to normal. He told no one of his plans to leave for Liiria, not even his closest Jadori friends, though he could not hide from them what had happened to White-Eye – they were intensely curious from the moment he returned. The sad news travelled quickly, and by nightfall it seemed to Gilwyn that the whole city was in mourning.

  That night, Gilwyn planned his departure. In the palace chamber that had once been Kadar’s, he watched the sun disappear from his balcony. The birdcage that had housed Salina’s doves had remained empty since the defeat of Aztar, and he wondered with melancholy what had become of their unseen benefactor. Lorn had mentioned briefly that she had helped him and his friends across the desert, but he had not spoken of her since he’d come to Jador and in truth seemed to know nothing about her at all. Gilwyn leaned out over the balcony, resting his elbows on the stone rail and his face in his hands. Leaving Jador meant leaving everything behind, he realised sadly. He had already decided to leave Teku behind, fearing for the safety of his furry friend on the long trek ahead. Emerald, too, would have to stay behind. Though the kreel would be invaluable in getting him to Ganjor, he would not be able to bring her north, and leaving her in Ganjor was impossible. He would have to take a horse across the desert or a drowa, neither of which appealed to him since he had barely ever ridden either. With Ruana’s help, he was sure he could manage, but it would not be easy with his lame foot and hand. He hoped his ‘gift’ would lend him greater control of a mount.

  But it would not be like riding Emerald. There would be little bond between him and a drowa, Gilwyn knew, and no sense of kinship, either. It was a long and dangerous road to Liiria, and he would be friendless. As he considered how alone he’d be, he realised that he was leaving everyone he cared about behind, not just White-Eye but all the Jadori he had come to love, and even the Seekers, so many of whom had given their lives defending the city. He began to wonder about the soundness of his plan. The prospects terrified him, but he was determined. Soon, he would leave Jador. And he would have to tell everyone that he was leaving, and endure their pleas to stay.

  ‘I want to stay,’ he sighed. Then he frowned. ‘But I can’t.’

  He was a fool to try; they would all say so. But before he told anyone else, there was one man in particular he needed to see. Gilwyn pulled himself away from the balcony’s pretty view, mustered his courage, and left his palace chambers.

  At the rear of the Jadori palace, overlooking the western mountains, stood a vibrant garden of lush plants and winding stone pathways. Because it was hidden from the rest of the city, the garden had always been remarkably peaceful, and the dead ruler Kahan Kadar had often opened the garden to his Jadori people, so that they might enjoy its green tranquility. Large enough to accommodate a mass of people, the garden remained a favourite place for lovers and playing children, though it was not nearly so crowded these days, when the deaths of so many had thinned Jador’s population. Yet the flowers still bloomed and the fountain still bubbled, and the many mosaics still caught the starlight in magical w
ays, just waiting for someone – anyone – to admire them.

  Lorn admired beauty everywhere he found it. These days, things that cost nothing were all that was left to him, and he surprised himself by not minding at all. Lorn loved the palace garden, and tonight sat under the darkening sky with a pipe in his mouth, happily puffing while Eiriann bounced Poppy on her knee and her father Garthel slept in a nearby chair. He had spent the day at work digging wells – which were always needed in arid Jador – and his back ached from the effort. There was always work to be done, it seemed, but the lack of leisure did not bother Lorn. In Jador, he was no longer a king and did not pretend to be. He was just another Seeker, waiting for a chance to knock on Grimhold’s door.

  He took a deep pull from his pipe then let the smoke dribble slowly from his nostrils. Except for the four of them, the garden seemed empty. The view of the mountains mesmerised Lorn. He knew the mountains hid Grimhold, and that Grimhold hid the hope of Poppy’s salvation, but he was powerless to change what Minikin had told him, and so could only hope that time would soften the mistress’ heart to his daughter’s plight.

  Yet she is fine, thought Lorn as he looked at his daughter. A few yards away, Poppy crawled happily along the grass, feeling her way toward Eiriann. She is happy here.

  Eiriann laughed and tickled the child’s nose, bringing delighted squeals from Poppy. Eiriann looked like a child herself, wholly contented now. She was happy here, too. Lorn watched her and grinned.

  Because she has a child now.

  They loved each other, he and Eiriann. Lorn had confessed it, finally, and Eiriann had received the news with pleasure. He was many years older than she, but the same boundless faith that had brought her to Jador had made her forget his age and see only the good in him. There was very little good in him, Lorn knew, but somehow Eiriann always found it. He was glad they were building a life for themselves in Jador, and that Poppy had a mother again. Eiriann could never really replace Rinka, of course, nor would she try. She had told Lorn that his precious wife should be a happy memory for him, no matter how long she lay dead.