The captain helped him clean it, tapping it three separate times on the heel of his boot.
“Can I ask you a favour?”
“Go ahead.”
“I told you I’ve got a brother, didn’t I?”
Mordraud explained what he had in mind. Adraman listened to his idea, nodding, now and again puffing on his pipe, slowly savouring the smoke.
“If it’s as you say, then I don’t see any problem in it,” he concluded. “You have my backing. When it comes down to it, we’re not talking about a lot of money. Ah, by the way... I meant to ask you the other day... Are you getting on okay with the sword I gave you?”
“Oh yes...” Mordraud replied.
“Wonderfully.”
XVIII
“And so, you’d be the famous Master Saiden.”
Larois sized up the man before letting him in. Black hair cropped short, hazel eyes and a trim physique. He wore a light blue, rather outlandish, tunic. Nonetheless, Saiden immediately made a good overall impression. Stirring an instinctive flow of trust. Sernio was with him and was waiting for Larois to invite them in. Gwern was seated at the kitchen table and was fidgeting nervously on his chair.
“Please, come in...”
Saiden sat down opposite Gwern. Larois set the table with a few slices of bread and cheese, a flask of wine and a platter of pickles. Sernio served himself first. The others were too busy staring at each other to eat. Saiden broke the awkwardness by asking for a glass of water.
“Gwern speaks of you constantly, even if, as he tells me, you’ve never met...”
“It would seem Sernio has spoken very well of me,” he replied, with a nod of thanks towards the old bookseller.
“He’s also told me you’re a... chanter.”
“Let’s say I have a passion for harmony. I was lucky enough to teach its secrets for many years – and with profit – in Calhann.”
“Like his grandfather Saite, Larois...” added Sernio. “An illustrious and well-respected figure in Cambria...”
Larois had been informed in great detail about Saiden’s respectability. Gwern spoke of nothing else, since that day Sernio had sketched out his idea. Studying under a prominent seeker of harmonies. An exceptional opportunity, according to both him and Gwern. She hadn’t been at all convinced – at least not until that moment. It didn’t seem like a good idea. Sending Gwern off alone with a stranger, far from home. But now she had the chance to meet Saiden, she finally had to accept that he did in fact seem an excellent person. A little peculiar perhaps, with that blue tunic and such glossy hair. But maybe it really was a golden opportunity for Gwern. She didn’t know what to decide.
“But what would you teach him?”
“History, natural science,” Saiden responded quietly. “And of course harmony and chanting. Mainly music, I’d say.”
“And what use will he be able to make of these in life? Can music put food on the table?”
Sernio stammered in surprise, Gwern stiffened. Saiden burst out laughing and nodded with a smirk. “You’re not wrong to ask, madam. Those who don’t know the field might see the study of harmony as a waste of time. But you have to believe me when I say there are excellent prospects for a good chanter. They’re very much in demand in the cities.”
“And how long would he be away?”
“Two, maybe three years.”
“And he’ll be able to visit home, I imagine...” she tentatively inquired, but Saiden politely shook his head. “It’s vital during the study period that the commitment remains constant, and that distractions are avoided as much as possible.”
Gwern went to interrupt, but Sernio held him back with a hand on his shoulder. “Larois, we’re talking about a couple of years, it’s a short span of time... The Academy studies in Cambria are much longer and the families from other cities will do anything to enrol their sons... Besides, Eldain in person has endorsed that Gwern should have this opportunity. He’s even written a letter of recommendation in his own hand.”
“Which I have to say was very much appreciated,” Saiden put in.
“I know, but it all seems so peculiar to me... What use is learning to chant? I only know the Empire uses choirs in battle. I’m not very keen on the idea that Gwern might become a soldier.”
“You’re quite right,” retorted Saiden. “I would however like to say that I have never, and I repeat never, trained a chanter so he could become an instrument of war. I didn’t return to settle in Cambria primarily for this reason. In Calhann, where I lived for many years, my boys were employed as advisors to prominent merchants, and some have become government officials. Others earn significant sums performing in theatres. A good chanter will always be spoilt for choice – take my word for it.”
“And then, Larois, Gwern might draw on the studies in other subjects... He could focus on history and become a private tutor, or he could teach at a harmonies school such as the Arcane,” added Sernio. Gwern was, without realising it, silently nodding at every word. Extremely excited, he was bobbing around on the chair as if it were red hot.
“It’s far too expensive.”
Neither of them had anything to say on that point. Gwern reddened, overwhelmed by a niggling sense of guilt. Mordraud had promised he would do all he could to help him. But he was risking his life to do so. Sernio had no money. Nor did Larois. He was selfish, he told himself. An opportunist.
Mordraud would be wild with rage if he heard him say that, he thought.
“I understand that you may be surprised, but considering I will see to his well-being and keep for at least two years...” replied Saiden. “We could arrange for the payment to be made in instalments. But more importantly, madam... Sernio has also mentioned that the boy suffers from a sort of physical disorder, and I might be able to help him. I’m an expert in treatment through harmony.”
Saiden smiled when he saw Larois abruptly change expression. The conversation had shifted to aspects that interested her far more than the study of chanting. Gwern went back to nodding emphatically. Larois stroked his hair and let out a concerned sigh. “This is wonderful news...” she commented, with a ripple of emotion in her voice.
“I’ll be glad to welcome him at my home, should you make the decision that I hope you will,” uttered Saiden.
All caught up in the tension of the moment, nobody noticed how often he stared at Gwern. And how he observed the boy’s chest – precisely the middle of his sternum.
As if admiring the pendant on a necklace.
***
Dunwich was sitting in his favourite armchair in the centre of the large lounge to his villa. He was sipping a dense liqueur made of bitter herbs. White rings of smoke rose from the precious silver-embellished pipe he rhythmically brought to his lips. The night was permeated by a silence perfect for reflecting, broken only by the crackle of the burning embers. No light brightened the room. Dunwich’s mind had been lost for hours in his lengthy deliberation on the war, and the few movements his body still made were entirely automatic. Pouring the liquid, filling the pipe with new tobacco, drawing in, drinking. The conclusions he’d reached took his mood to be one with the shadows shrouding him.
He loved thinking in the dark. It reminded him of the sensation he experienced when he submerged himself within matter. His body began to vibrate in resonance with its surroundings, and melded as if his flesh was made up of earth, air, water and stone. He’d studied for years to reach such a perfect and effective resonance.
That darkness helped him be more objective, less rash. Something was taking shape in his mind, but it was still too vague to have a name and a face. After the sixth or seventh glass of liqueur, the scar on his cheek had stopped throbbing. Asaeld had insisted on sending him home, without listening to his protests.
“It might become infected. We’re not envisaging raids down here in the coming months. Your presence at the front is pointless just now, and could compromise your health.”
That had been his last and final word. Dunw
ich wasn’t very good at resting. The imposed break was nibbling away at his patience, and was driving him to ponder on things a little too often.
Apart from an array of minor skirmishes, the battles that really counted had all been near failures for Cambria. Rare victories, immediately overturned by a stinging defeat. The rest: lost or postponed. Dunwich now found it hard to believe it was all down to the Emperor’s incompetence.
‘There must be someone plotting against Loralon’s schemes. Not coincidental mistakes. Intentional oversights. Planned delays. A person set in the right place to cause incalculable damage,’ he mused, filling his glass again. His pipe was slowing finishing, for the umpteenth time. Some of his colleagues had invited him to a gala evening organised by one of the city’s rich families. There he could have danced, tasted excellent shellfish washed down with a sparkling white, and conversed pleasantly about politics. Maybe hook up with a young lady willing to enjoy a night with a promising Imperial Lance.
“That scar gives you the air of a... real warrior...” The words uttered by a prominent Imperial councillor’s daughter at a reception in the palace halls. Dunwich remembered neither her name nor her face, nor whether he’d answered her.
‘Where are you, Mordraud?’
Since he’d heard those soldiers talking in the infirmary tent, he hadn’t ceased wondering whether his brother had survived the battle. He was ten years younger than him, so he was certainly young – perhaps too much so to fight. His mind occasionally went back to that rebel who’d duelled with – and had come close to killing – him. ‘And if that was you?’ he pondered in angst.
Years had gone by since he’d found out about his father’s awful end, his mother’s death and his brothers’ flight. And most of the rancour that he’d harboured at the time had turned into something more complex. A mound of emotions he liked not in the least.
Murky senses of guilt that attempted to slither out from inside the walls he’d built up with such effort.
Dunwich emptied his pipe with a decisive tap on the edge of the plate, and drained his glass. He looked around: he saw nothing but obscurity. He hummed the start of a soft melody in a wisp of a voice, and his body was sucked into the armchair.
A billow of white feathers fluttered in a cloud from the padded backrest, ripped by the sharp tip of a dagger. A shadow sprouted from the darkness and shifted in front of the now empty armchair. Only a hiss of annoyance broke the silence. The assassin lent on the wall, pressing against it. The feathers danced in the air around the punctured cushion, the embers of the dying pipe glowed on the plate, and obscurity’s chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his breathing.
“Why are you here?”
The shadow flinched and lifted the dagger. Dunwich had vanished into nothing. His voice seemed to come from every corner of the room, distorted into a malignant murmur from a lipless mouth.
“You’re pathetic.”
The killer flattened himself to the wall, and drew his blade in a broad circle before him. The steel sliced thin air. Subdued laughter resounded from the walls and floor, tinkled on the crystal glass and slipped around the curves of the liqueur bottle.
“Didn’t you come here to murder me? What are you waiting for? I’ve been sensing something behind my back for a couple of days now. I was wondering how long you’d take to strike.”
“Where are you?! Come out!”
“But my dear man... I’m already here.”
A voice brushed the assassin’s ear, a warm gust that played in his hair. With the harrowing sound of splintering bones, a sword slowly protruded from his trunk. The shadow’s mouth filled with blood. Dunwich materialised by walking through the wall, shoving forwards the impaled juddering body.
“Who sent you?”
The man remained silent. Dunwich curtly twisted the blade in the gash.
“I can even stop you from dying, and go on breaking your bones until you tell me everything.”
“Filthy, dirty Lance... Bastards...” the dying man stammered. “Screw you... you foul...”
Dunwich’s eyes widened, he squeezed the man’s throat with his arm, and broke his neck with a violent jolt. The lifeless body flopped to the floor, smearing the broad white marble slabs with blood.
“Plotters? Traitors to the Empire?”
Dunwich stayed a good while with his eyes set on the dark pool at his feet, going over every detail of the last few days, in the hope of tracing back to the instigators. If he really was faced with an organised group, one intertwined in the city fabric, that could be the explanation for the many sabotaged strategies, costing thousands of pointless deaths. The would-be killer was a slim middle-aged man with nervy features. He’d noticed him out of the corner of his eye two days ago along the road to his home, after a meeting with the Lances at the palace.
‘Yes, but when was it I began noticing him... Not straight away... no... I saw him after I passed in front of a villa. Whose was it...?’
The Firen family.
‘He probably came out of that house. The head of the family is Firanor, a well-respected merchant and renowned in the city... His son is a patrol lieutenant, and is called... Firacan I think. But there’s also an older brother. With a position in the army... A lot of money... The Empire doesn’t really favour the merchants, except those dealing in arms. And Loralon’s a lot less able than his father. He doesn’t help the corporations much...’
If his memory didn’t deceive him – and Dunwich could usually trust his memory blindly – he now had a prime suspect. Smiling with satisfaction, he plumped the torn cushion and went back to sitting in his armchair, to round off the evening on one last glass.
‘I have to cancel a few appointments tomorrow... and I must remember to speak to the servants, to have them clean the lounge. The gendarmes must be notified of tonight’s attempted burglary, but I won’t do that...’
He had far more important things to see to, he considered, swallowing the first intense and bitter mouthful.
***
The pair of sleepy soldiers shut the large iron gate and lingered in the middle of the courtyard, betting on who’d be first to sneak off to a remote corner of the park for a few hours’ nap. Firanor, the wealthy merchant owning the mansion, had paid them handsomely for a cushy job.
“Now who’d want to come and nose about in his affairs?!” exclaimed a smiling young guard, pulling out the coin that would decide the sleep shifts.
“A thief stealing from a thief, that’s who!” replied the other, chuckling.
The illegal dealings, the high-ranking friendships, the political backers – all well-known yet little-discussed business. When it boiled down to it, who had the courage to go poking around in the affairs of one of the city’s most influential merchants? Those two certainly didn’t have the slightest intention of snooping around.
“So long as he carries on giving us this easy living for doing nothing, may the Gods glory him!”
Firanor was an apparently calm man who was calculating and self-possessed – so different to his sons as to instil doubt as to whether they were his own flesh and blood. The first-born, Firad, assisted him in his affairs. He was a bulky tall arrogant and hot-headed young man who was full of himself on the basis of his father’s riches, and pursued any vice to be found in Cambria. Powdered flowers from Syl in the West, the strongest spirits, hallucinatory concoctions. A great lover of whores. Instead, the younger brother, Firacan, always conveyed the idea of being incapable, with that idiotic and slow-witted gaze of his and his unfailing habit of making blunders. To the extent that his father was often forced to disburse great quantities of gold to defend his prestigious position in society. The merchant’s wife had passed away many years before, through illness, and the huge house was almost always empty. Business meetings were held in the warehouse the family owned in the general market area, and the few people who came to the villa were women dressed as ladies but made up like harlots. Always different, they were called to entertain father and sons.
“For a few days now, all we’ve seen is shifty looking characters or stuck-up Imperial officials who decide to drop in on Firanor in the dead of night... Bah... You try and figure out these money-bags. They’re always bent on scheming... I prefer them when they just think about enjoying themselves.”
“Like we could take part in it too...! Instead we’re out here opening the door to them all.” The gold Scudo came up heads, and the younger soldier whistled in appreciation. “My turn first... Great!”
“Let’s just hope they don’t go back to howling like wild animals – they sounded like a herd of pigs yesterday!”
“Uh, I don’t even want to think about it... Firacan must have done something really daft to get lashed with all those insults!” The young man cupped an ear and asked his companion to be quiet. “Hey, did you hear that?! It sounded like... No, false alarm.”
“They’re behaving tonight... and no sluts by the looks of it...”
“Yeah. Pity – it’ll be a murderously dull night... Hey... hear that?”
“What?! Are they arguing again?”
“I thought I heard... No, it must have been a cat in the courtyard.”
His associate strained his ear to no avail, looking around listlessly. “You take this job too seriously. Who’d want to get in here?”
“Me.”
The guard turned towards his colleague but found only an empty space. Yet he did hear someone reply, he thought. His smile faded on his lips. A knife shot out and smashed his skull. His lifeless body crumpled to the ground next to the corpse of the other soldier, who’d died without uttering a sound.
Dunwich approached the door, knelt before the chunky keyhole and placed a finger on it, humming a bright ditty. The lock released its hold without any trouble. The passageway was lit with expensive wall-hung oil lamps and furnished with fine antique watercolours. Six entrances on each side led to the various rooms of the mansion, while a door at the end gave access to a staircase. Just a few paces away, four guards were busy in a whispered debate. They were interrupted by the light swish of the door opening. Not seeing anybody, one of them went towards the hall, calling to the two soldiers in the courtyard. Dunwich appeared precisely at his feet, sliding out of the floor. A concise slit was enough to severe his throat. The remaining soldiers barely had the time to unsheathe their swords. Dunwich emerged from the wall striking at torsos and heads in swift stabs, melding with it again soon afterwards. It was very wide and could accommodate his whole body. More corpses were soon added to his collection left behind in the yard.
Mordraud, Book One Page 35