‘The private rooms are usually upstairs. There’ll only be the servants’ quarters and reception rooms on this floor,’ he figured, wondering which way to head.
Dunwich placed an ear against the doors and heard nothing. He then went to the stairs and quickly climbed the steps, stopping only to decide on which direction to take. The doors all led inwards – two on the right and two on the left of the staircase.
‘A room each, plus the rich merchant’s study,’ he thought, hesitating over his next move. Dunwich cursed to himself. He would have to try them all to find his man. Unexpectedly, he heard a key turn in a lock: he instinctively flattened against the wall, vanishing within it.
Firanor and his eldest son, Firad, emerged from the study and walked beyond the staircase, towards Firacan’s private room.
“That brainless brother of yours wants us dead,” the old merchant snapped.
“He thought he could hide everything from us... that rotten cheat...” Firad returned, echoing his father’s tone perfectly.
“And with all I’ve done to get him a prestigious position, one with no risks... If it weren’t for me, that fool would still be just a lewd street hawker.”
“Sure. But it wasn’t enough for him, was it!” Firad went on, growing heated. “He had to tread on the toes of a Lance commander! Father, if I’d been able to find out who’s helping him in this folly, I vow I wouldn’t have bothered you with it... He really is a vile coward! He came to me whining that he had a huge problem, even asking me not to tell you. And now who’s going to stop that monster Dunwich!”
“I’ll send someone to smooth him over. It’ll cost me a fortune, damn it! All because of that wretched friend of his...”
“Who, Erain? He’s an even worse chicken than my brother! No, he’s taken the fop home just the once, and to try and make himself look better he even offered up a whore. You should have heard how he screamed, the poor kid!”
“No, not Erain. The other one... When I find him I’ll break his neck with my own hands, if it’s the last thing I do... For love of the Gods, have you any idea what it’ll cost me to keep Dunwich quiet?!”
They both stopped in front of the door to a room. Firanor stretched a hand out to unlock it.
“Don’t bother with the money. I just want Firacan.”
Dunwich appeared behind them, sword in hand. Firad sprang back, swallowing a smothered cry. His father lost none of his composure.
“We can come to an arrangement, Lance... Don’t be rash.”
Only the beads of sweat dotting his forehead betrayed his real state. His son Firad had taken a step away and stood with his back to the door.
“And what do you propose?”
“I have no intention of making myself an enemy of a Lance captain. You’re taking great risks in exposing yourself like this. So we both need an agreement.”
Dunwich smirked, covering his mouth with the palm of his hand. “An agreement... Go on, speak! I have no time to waste with you. I have other people expecting me this evening.”
Firanor didn’t take long to think.
“My son won’t see the morning.”
Firad’s face went from purple to ash.
“That’s not enough. I want to know who his accomplices are.”
“You can speak to him,” said Firanor, “but I’ll be the one to see to him. Nobody must know about it. And I want no dead bodies in my house.”
Dunwich nodded and bowed with elegant unconcern.
“Certainly. I understand. But I’m afraid you might need to review your security. I’d advise you to get some new guards And, may I observe: an excellent father, it must be said! A pact can be made. But I have to see him dead, I cannot trust you on your word. I want his head, two nights from now, from your own hands. And beware: I’m a chanter, as you know. Don’t try tricking me with the wrong corpse, otherwise not even a brick will remain of this house!”
“My word is as good as the gold I possess.”
“Fine. Because if it was worth as much as your sons’ lives, it wouldn’t have much value.”
“But, father...” Firad attempted to interject. His father struck him with a thundering look.
Firad stepped back, as his father opened the door to Dunwich.
The room was lit by an elaborate six-arm candelabra. Flickering flames danced on the weapons hung on the wall and the parade armour standing in a corner. The bed was adorned with a sumptuous fire-red canopy, in the same tone as the large neat and resplendent desk. Firacan was resting his head on the tabletop. He seemed asleep, but the sound of the door opening made him lift his head and stare at Dunwich, with a dull gaze.
“Father? Is that you?” he inquired in a muffled voice. He was of extremely stocky yet slack and flabby build. His cinder-coloured dishevelled hair and watery eyes gave him the air of an overgrown child.
“No, Firacan,” replied Dunwich.
The young man stared at him without recognition, then saw the door close after the stranger. And hidden behind Dunwich, his father, who was looking on in icy indifference. Firacan understood everything, and the deadened bang of the door marked the start of a long cry.
***
The lounge was furnished in a vaguely old-fashioned style. A broad window provided light and a splendid view of the garden well-tended by expert green hands. Dunwich was seated in a broad red velvet armchair, sipping the rounded mature wine the attendant had just poured into his silver goblet. Two elegantly dressed men sat opposite him: the older one puffed on an inlaid pipe, while the younger was engrossed in the landscape. They looked very much alike. Tall and slim, with slightly wavy blond hair, peppered in ash grey for the father, glossy and well-groomed for the son.
“And so, you took part in the Rampart massacre... The accounts that reached the city were horrific.”
“Yes, it was a very bloody battle.”
“Unfortunately my son was seriously ill, and so could not set off with your men. I hope his absence caused no problems, captain.”
“No, I wouldn’t say it did. In any case, he was lucky. We lost a lot of men over there.”
Dunwich drank from his goblet and stared at the young man, who still hadn’t uttered a word. He’d opted for less risky tactics in proceeding in his investigations. His long chat with Firacan had been only partly fruitful. Untangling the words from the tears had been the hardest task. Having him spit out a couple of names had been a true liberation.
‘The trouble is, he had nothing to tell me, that fat lump.’
Firacan had paid a cut-throat upon orders from someone else, who in turn had been contacted by nameless men. He didn’t like what he’d done, so he’d tried not to think on it too much. He’d presented the plan to the killer, who’d then left his home and tried to follow Dunwich. Who had noticed him. The executioner had tried to assassinate him, and had failed. Firacan had to die because of that mistake. A concept as simple as it was consolatory.
Dunwich had decided against further ambushes for that night, so he’d asked to meet with Erain’s family the following morning. He’d heard this second suspect’s name from both the lard barrel and his father. A young man of good ranking. His social position protected him far more than in Firacan’s case: Erid, his father, was a member of the city’s council, as a representative of the people. A prestigious position. Dunwich doubted whether his was such a foolish hand as to risk it by plotting against the Empire. Yet he now had a path to follow, and he’d take it to its end.
“The officers have heard rumours that there’ll soon be another assault.”
The old politician raised his eyebrows and looked, astounded, at Erain, who however remained silent.
“My son told me nothing of this.”
“No, father, I don’t know about it. I don’t think it’s been decided yet.”
The young man’s tone was humble, unassuming and fearful. Even too fearful.
“There’s talk of replacements in the highest ranks, and in some cases things are already in motion...
Have you any news on this, Erain?”
“No, I’ve heard nothing about this either.”
“Why should they change? Things seem to be going rather well at the moment. The present commanders know how to do their job excellently,” the father put in.
‘Could I be wrong?’ wondered Dunwich, perplexed. ‘They seem totally relaxed... With me seated here before them, they should show some signs of unease, and yet...’
Erid went on. “But let’s speak about you, commander. I’ve heard much praise for you and your battle skills... My son follows your conduct with admiration, looking to it as a model.”
Erain lowered his eyes in modesty. “Please, don’t embarrass me in front of our distinguished guest, father.”
Dunwich couldn’t figure out Erain’s behaviour. Shy, and even awkward at his presence. But not because of such a secret. Dunwich already knew he was an idol for the younger Lances. That was nothing new. Up until that moment, the son had made no false move. He exuded innocence in an even irritating way.
“Above all, he admires your ability to command, which, paired with your loyalty, makes you a born leader – a man of the future... He himself uses those words when speaking of you.”
Erain blushed visibly, and avoided Dunwich’s inquiring gaze.
“As your son is undoubtedly aware, loyalty is the first quality in a good soldier... Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, captain. Your words are always wise,” he replied promptly.
Dunwich had seen him on duty only a couple of times – nothing more challenging than a patrol or a night-shift guarding the officers’ tents. He hadn’t struck him as a man suited to combat. He’d come to the conclusion that his father must have forced him into a career in the Lances, but from the way he spoke, the contrary seemed more convincing.
“Why did you choose to become a Lance, Erain?”
His father was about to respond, but the son was quicker. “Because I admired the eminent leaders defending the honour of the capital, captain.”
“Commendable, truly commendable. I’m sorry I’ve had few occasions to have you at my side in battle, out in the open.”
The politician looked at Dunwich uncertainly. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Nothing insinuating. I’d merely like to have been able to appreciate your son’s valour, but there’s not been the occasion...” replied Dunwich.
Erain went red and shifted his gaze to the floor again.
“I’ve always dreamt of fighting at your side, but I have a fragile state of health. I get ill easily, far too easily.”
“Unfortunately that’s how it is. My son has a warrior’s soul, but a child’s body. He’s been frail since he was a boy,” his father confirmed, nodding with a serious expression. “Many a time have I suggested that he follow me into politics, but he’s never wanted to. He prefers the Imperial Lance life, even if he only lives half of it.”
“I’m sorry,” replied a disappointed Dunwich. It was unthinkable that the bland daddy’s boy was concealing something. He and his father had just confessed that they’d had to pay to get him through the physical tests to join the Imperial Lances. “The day will come when I may need your son’s assistance, and I am sure I’ll be able to count on him.”
Dunwich got up and gave his goblet to the servant waiting patiently near the lounge wall.
“One last thing, Erain... I’m looking for a young man by the name of Firacan. A friend recommended him – I thought I’d ask his services for a rather delicate guarding job. I tried at his home, but I didn’t find him in. I think I’ve seen you two chatting together occasionally, so perhaps you might know where I can find him...”
Erain replied in a voice laden with distaste. “I’ve been out with him a few times, in company of others from the barracks, for the odd glass of wine. But I haven’t the faintest idea of where he might have got to.”
“Why all this underlying hatred?”
“Hatred?! No, captain, no hatred! It’s just that after I got to know him a little better, I preferred to avoid seeing him again. A grimy coward with a loose, nasty tongue.”
“Did he say anything he shouldn’t have?”
“Quite a few things. He used to bad-mouth the Lances. He liked to call them Prancers and Tip-Boys. He implied they were corrupt, and that they were working against the Emperor’s war. I argued with him a couple of times, and then, if you’ll forgive the rough language, I told him to bloody well get lost.”
“Forget I asked – I’ll inquire elsewhere. Thanks for the nice little talk.”
“Don’t mention it. The pleasure was all ours,” replied Erid, getting to his feet.
“Captain... it was an honour,” his son echoed.
Dunwich left even more confused than when he came in. Firacan had been primed by someone, but it obviously wasn’t Erain.
‘The boy’s so innocent that he’s out of place among his companions... The fatso must have named him merely to throw me off track. I’m back to where I started. Now it’s Nidanio’s turn.’
The last stop on his short trail. An adept chanter awaiting a position in the Arcane choir – the classic untarnished yet undistinguished man. Not very striking, not particularly well-known and not very successful. Dunwich didn’t even know whether he had a prominent family to back him. But it was the only other name that had come out of Fatty’s mouth.
‘The least well-suited person to orchestrate a plot... but I have little else,’ he thought, weaving among the crowd thronging Cambria’s large central street.
***
Dunwich was sitting at the desk in his private library, intent on reading a strategy essay he’d bought at a small bookshop in the centre that afternoon. The usual handbook for the Military Academy students, and also exceedingly dated. About three centuries old, he reckoned. He smiled at the thought that Cambria had been using the exact same tactics for tens of generations. No wonder Eldain struck people as a strategic genius, he mulled, shaking his head.
After days wasted trying to dig up information on Nidanio, he’d had the good fortune to bump into him in front of the bookshop. Double luck, since a cart piled high with hay bales had trundled by on the road at that precise moment, preventing his prey from spotting him. Dunwich had waited outside, mingling with the passing crowds, and had gone in only once Nidanio had already left.
The shopkeeper, a courteous elderly man, recognised him and showered him with praise, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of a handsome purchase. Through the shop’s sole window, Dunwich had spied Nidanio leafing through a book with a red cover, so he asked the bookseller what it was and if it was for sale. A few gold Florins were of course enough to convince him to part with it.
Without further ado, he returned home, shut himself up in his study and began examining the book’s binding, cover and pages.
‘What was he looking for? He came out carrying no other books, and this is the only one he browsed at length.’
He hadn’t managed to find much out about the last suspect on his list. An honest worker, anonymous to the point of naturally seeming dubious, with no prominent friends, and he didn’t frequent any well-known inns or meeting places. That book was his first contact with Nidanio’s life. And, in keeping with his character, it was a nondescript and worthless volume.
He was now halfway through the book and still hadn’t noticed anything unusual, except for the author’s agile style, which coaxed him to read on.
‘Why should a harmony scholar be interested in military books?! It is certainly well-written, but I can’t see anything that...’ he was thinking as he turned the final page of a detailed dissertation on cavalry use in battle.
Exactly at the start of the new chapter, Dunwich realised he was reading out loud. Something he never did, and hadn’t even done as a boy.
But what was worse was that his words didn’t match with the book. He was shaping a tune without wanting to.
‘A trap!’
Too late. Not even his hands wanted to le
t go of the red book. His words began condensing into a chant. He immediately recognised what it was about. He was seeking out the resonance for fire. And he was doing it very badly. The first mistaken passage and the chanting would turn against him. Gripped by panic, he attempted a last possibility, desperately focusing on his favourite resonance, achieved through years of effort at the Arcane. His body vanished within his own shadow on the floor just as his voice reached the last note. The book abruptly turned black and exploded, with such violence as to annihilate the entire contents of the room. The window overlooking the courtyard shattered into a thousand shards and the walls cracked and crumbled.
When he re-emerged from the floor, Dunwich had to pick his way through the rubble. His villa had been gutted by the explosion. Amazed and shocked, he gazed quickly around, gasping because of the dust and his fear. Nidanio must have altered the text in a sublimely sophisticated way to create such an excellent trap. He’d heard talk of such a technique. Inserting letters and word parts to set a sort of rhythmic reading, especially in the case of chanters or harmony scholars. It was hard to notice in time – a resonances enthusiast’s mind was enticed by their constant pursuit. Dunwich’s eyes had recognised before his brain the precise scheme of the changes Nidanio had made to the text. And he’d performed them as if he were standing before a chanting score. Which would obviously turn against the person uttering the sounds.
A damn effective trick, he reflected, dazed.
As soon as he’d physically recovered, he rushed out the house without even answering the questions from his terrified serving staff. On the street skirting the yard, many passers-by had gathered to stare at the smoke pouring out the windows and rising from the ruins. A few were calling for help, many more simply stood there, entranced by the wreckage and whispering to each other. Dunwich found himself surrounded by those who were fleeing and those summoned by the cries.
Mordraud, Book One Page 36