by Ed Greenwood
Then he bent and took hold of their shoulders. His grip was like iron, grinding at The Masked's bones.
"Come, fools," this fearsome man announced coldly. "Your presence is required by a lord of Telcanor."
Chapter Eight
A Lord of Telcanor
Tantaerra tried not to whimper. She was cold—thanks to being carried dangling and naked through the night, by cold metal gauntlets—and felt bruised all over. Every act of resistance had been rewarded by a hard, metal-shod punch to a joint, until she'd hurt too much to struggle. The Telcanors had stripped them then and there in that unfinished building, taking every last thing from them—except, she'd seen through tears of shame and pain, that The Masked must have somehow managed to get one of his fleshy masks in place, because when she managed to catch glimpses of him, he had a normal-seeming face, with a nose and cheeks and eyebrows instead of a melted ruin.
All else was gone, even the lockpicks and little knives in her hair. Naked before the gods, as some priests said. Bared and weaponless, in this chilly stone city of empty mansions and half-built future mansions ...
They'd been carried—or, in The Masked's case, dragged—a long way through the sleeping streets of Braganza from where they'd been captured, ducking aside hastily from time to time to avoid Watchguard patrols. The patrols carried so many lanterns that Tantaerra was beginning to think that this was perhaps the point: to give large lurking bands of men and women plenty of warning to keep clear, so patrols would face a minimum of fighting and dying.
Whenever Watchswords were within earshot, the cruelly tight grip on her shoulders or neck became a stranglehold around her throat, quelling any shrieks or calls for help she might have been moved to make.
They'd crossed most of Braganza, she thought dazedly, as they turned through a tall, wide doorway at last. Guards stood aside and heavy bronze doors swung ponderously open, the cobbles beneath their striding captors' boots giving way to polished tiles. Huge low lamps—great castles of shaped glass and dangling ornaments, such as graced many high Canorate ceilings, only here their lowest teardrops were about the height of a short man's waist off the floor—blazed ruddily in a room paneled in dark woods and adorned with weapons hung on the walls. Walls that lofted up far beyond the highest spot she could twist around to see.
So this was either a palace, or a soaring city mansion indeed.
They left the lamplight and its countless ruby reflections behind, their captors hastening deeper into the vast building. More tall double doors, and more gleaming-armored guards, then a wide, curving stair of shallow steps that looked like smokeshot white marble, climbing and curving around to the left, a long way up, to a hallway floored in sheets of bright-burnished copper.
The warriors' boots hissed and slid on the polished metal as they strode down a dim and high-ceilinged passage to another set of stairs, this one narrow and steep and straight, with soft wine-red cloth underfoot. Then another hallway ascended to pair of huge high doors, which parted under the hands of formidable plate-armored guards to reveal a grand upper room that at last seemed to lack any additional stairs.
They had reached the top of this mansion, Tantaerra saw. The domed ceiling above had a great oval opening in its center, an intricate many-paned skylight that was all curlicues, brackets, and gilded glass. Rose-hued light flooded down on its edges from four directions, coming from lamps on half-seen roof spires that thrust up into the night sky.
All very impressive, even beautiful, if she'd felt in the least like appreciating it. So they were here, wherever here was, and their armored captors were seating them in huge stone chairs, chaining their throats so tightly to the backs of these seats that they could barely breathe.
The armored men then promptly departed back the way they'd come. All, that is, but the huge armored mountain of a man who commanded them, who strode to one of the row of doors Tantaerra could see along the back wall of the room and smote a metal panel on it with his gauntleted fist, causing a muffled boom.
Almost immediately, another door in the row swung open. Two servants in identical uniforms stepped out, faced each other across the doorway, and bowed low. Between their bent heads swept a burly, red-faced man whose shoulders were broad, whose jaw was large and heavy, and whose face was haughty, lip curled in a sneer. His hair was swept into a flowing peak, no doubt by the dint of much servants' primping and wax, and he wore a flared tunic that looked like a military uniform made by a ladies' gown designer.
"You two," this grandest of men boomed, sweeping up to the helplessly imprisoned Tantaerra and The Masked, "are foul Mereir spies! You shall die, but not before you've yielded up all you know, and every last villainy you'd planned—and you shall yield everything, under the tortures my experts shall inflict upon you, regardless of how sternly you resist me now! Know this, and despair! Yet I am munificent, I am, and can be so generous as to offer wine, and an evening of civil converse—if you speak freely!"
With every sentence he uttered, this large and florid man strutted back and forth in front of his prisoners, his chest bulging and arms gesturing grandly. His voice was almost deafening, and he was practically spitting.
"Let us begin," he said, suddenly stopping and bending to thrust his face almost into Tantaerra's, "with your names!"
"Uh," she stammered, terrified and ashamed of being frightened, her face warmed by his breath and spittle, anger rising in her as his gaze dropped from her face to her bare body. "Ah ..."
"You are unsubtly vicious and ambitious," The Masked interrupted crisply, "which leads me to suspect that of the Telcanors, you must be Krzonstal Telcanor. Excuse me—Lord Krzonstal Telcanor. Am I correct?"
Tantaerra tried to turn her head to look at the man she'd hired. He was bluffing—he must be—drawing on some of the replies he'd had from citizens earlier in the day. And with torture and death promised, why not bluff? What was there to lose?
It hadn't taken much eavesdropping to learn that the Telcanors were a large and cruel clan, and this Krzonstal was one of three brothers or cousins—she hadn't sorted them out, though she suspected The Masked had—who led them. He wasn't the head of the family, though, she did know that much, and—
Lord Telcanor had swung around to glare into The Masked's face, their noses almost touching.
"I am Lord Krzonstal Telcanor, and I'm not in the habit of repeating my questions. Give me your name. Or Zreem here—" He flung out an arm to indicate the huge armored man who'd so effortlessly broken Tantaerra's dagger in his hand, and who was now standing impassively behind the lord. "—shall force it out of you. Painfully. We usually begin by breaking fingers."
"Do you? The General Lords will be intrigued to learn that," The Masked replied flatly, gazing fearlessly right back at the snarling noble.
Lord Telcanor recoiled as if he'd been slapped, mouth falling open. Then it clamped shut, his eyes narrowed, and he leaned in close again. "Oh? And how will the General Lords learn of it? Enlighten me."
"They'll learn it from our reports. And if anything happens to us and our reports cease or seem false, from those sent to find out why."
"Your reports?"
"Our reports. Our names don't matter, as we won't give you our true ones. We are special investigators of Molthune, working personally for the General Lords."
"What? You expect me to believe that?"
"Lord Telcanor," The Masked snapped, "I don't expect you to do anything. After what I've just heard you say, I doubt your loyalty to Molthune, your judgment, and your sanity. It is not my business, as an investigator sworn into service personally by Imperial Governor Teldas himself, to 'expect' things. My duty is to observe, pry to learn what lies behind what I can observe, and report. Without altering what I say with my own opinions, expectations, or embroiderments. Your beliefs are your own business. Nevertheless, I and the halfling you have chained beside me are investigators charged to observe certain matters here in Braganza and promptly report what we've seen to the General Lords, and if you—"<
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Lord Telcanor paled, yet looked about to bluster further. Whatever reply he might have made, however, was lost forever in the almighty crash that followed, as one of the largest panes of the skylight shattered and started to rain down shards all over the gleaming floor.
The giant bodyguard sprang like a tiger to catch Lord Telcanor and sweep him back from the ringing, flying shards, but kept his gaze on something behind Tantaerra's chair that had obviously shattered the skylight—and was now descending into the room.
"Before you rush to strike any of the gongs, Onstal Zreem, you and Lord Telcanor might want to hear what I have to say in private," said a new voice from behind Tantaerra. A loud, calmly commanding voice she recognized.
It was the brown-eyed man from the rooftop in Halidon. He was still hidden from her view behind the chairs where she and The Masked were chained, but glass crunched under unhurried boots as he strode around them.
Lord Telcanor was gaping in earnest now, and Zreem had placed himself protectively in front of his lord, hand on sword hilt and face impassive.
The crunchings stopped. "In the name of Imperial Governor Markwin Teldas, I thank you, Lord Telcanor, for capturing these two dangerous spies. They have long been threats to Molthune, and have eluded some of our best warriors and agents. I've pursued them from Halidon to here. Molthune thanks you, and will soon do so by more than merely my words. So loyal and effective a Molthuni deserves high command, that we may all benefit from such leadership and capability."
Telcanor visibly preened, but managed to ask, almost fawningly, "But ...but who, sir, are you?"
"I am an investigator for Molthune. The High Investigator, as it happens. I am from Canorate, and my name here is Orivin Ahrkholm. I speak with the authority of the Imperial Governor himself."
"And who are these two?" the noble asked, waving a hand at Tantaerra and The Masked. "They would not give me their names."
"Small wonder; I'd not be surprised to learn they never surrender their real names to anyone. Lord Telcanor, you've captured not just two lying imposters but two veteran spies from Nirmathas! Be assured that Canorate will pay for the replacement of your skylight, but I dared not wait a moment longer when I heard them claim to serve the General Lords."
"Nirmathi," the noble breathed, making the word a curse, as he glared at The Masked and then at Tantaerra.
"They are of the enemy, yes," Ahrkholm agreed gravely, turning back into all the glass.
"Where are you going?" Zreem asked sharply.
"I must retrieve the rope," the investigator drawled, "by which I dropped down into the midst of things."
"Leave it," Lord Telcanor commanded, his booming self again. "An idea has occurred to me, and I must confer with my advisor." He nodded to Zreem, who strode to a particular dark gong amid the row of doors.
"You have an advisor, Lord Telcanor?" Ahrkholm asked softly.
The noble looked smug. "A passing fashion among the great houses," he replied, "but mine is the best. A real sage."
"Oh? His name?"
"Tartesper."
The Masked chuckled, causing both Telcanor and Ahrkholm to look at him sharply. "What's so amusing, Nirmathi spy?"
Tantaerra couldn't see The Masked's face, but his voice was gleeful as he replied, "I think you know, Nirmathi spy."
Ahrkholm's laugh was short and scornful. "I'd abandon any clumsy attempts to mislead, if I were you. You're truly caught now; your career is over."
"And how often have you uttered that triumphant little phrase and been wrong, Nirmathi spy?" The Masked asked, his words a sneering challenge.
Tantaerra wished she could see The Masked's face. Did he truly know this Ahrkholm? And other spies, of Molthune and Nirmathas and the gods knew wherever else?
For that matter, was the man of so many masks she'd hired a Nirmathi spy, or a spy for Molthune or someone else? Was Ahrkholm?
And whatever answers she got, from either of them...how could she be certain of the truth?
A door beside Zreem opened, and a black-robed man strode through it. He was short and burly, his jaw fringed with a curling line of ginger beard. He had a pockmarked face, and eyes as hard as two deep brown nails. "Lord Telcanor?"
As he rasped out those two words, Tartesper's gaze swept across everyone in the room—and Tantaerra shivered. This one would kill you as soon as look at you. To him, everyone was a tool to be used. Everyone.
The noble turned quickly. "Ah, Tartesper! I need your wise counsel, to be sure." He lowered his voice to a murmur and drew the sage aside. Zreem shielded them both from Ahrkholm, giving the self-proclaimed High Investigator a stern warning scowl.
Ahrkholm stayed right where he was.
It seemed a very long time before the two men broke off muttering, and Tartesper strode closer to the two chairs and gave their occupants both a long, level look. Tantaerra could read nothing in the cold, dead eyes that locked with hers. No triumph, no contempt, nothing. He did keep his gaze on hers, though, never looking below the chain stretched across her throat.
Then the advisor turned his head to regard Ahrkholm, and it felt like he'd slashed a taut cord binding her to him. Yet even as she slumped in sighing, sweating relief, Tantaerra saw something different had surfaced in the sage's face as he looked at Ahrkholm. These two men knew each other, but were pretending not to. Why? Was it just that Tartesper was a spy for the General Lords, too? Or something more?
Likely something more, because I don't believe Ahrkholm is working for Molthune at all. No Molthuni would have done what he did to those soldiers in Halidon.
Abruptly the advisor spun on his heel and strode back to his door, pausing beside Lord Telcanor to mutter something that made the lord frown and look at Ahrkholm. Zreem held the door open for Tartesper to depart, and firmly closed it again after him, coming forward to flank his lord.
Who smiled broadly, dusted his hands together, and announced to his prisoners, "I have decided to let you live. Freed and unharmed, too! There is, however, a condition."
He fell to pacing back and forth in front of them again, his head lowered between his shoulders as if to shelter from a bitter wind. Cunning was now written across his face—and obvious glee at being able to demonstrate his cunning.
Tantaerra was interested to note that Zreem had moved to face Ahrkholm, and dropped his hands to the hilts of his sword and his dagger. What was going on?
"You two," Telcanor said, "must perform a service for me—something I doubt any true special agents of Molthune would shirk, being as it will benefit our country at the expense of vile Nirmathas."
He turned, smiled broadly, and paced back the other way. "I'm letting you live on the condition that you go to Nirmathas and retrieve something for me."
He spun around and went back to The Masked, thrusting his face forward again. "Well?"
"Speak on," the man chained to the chair replied flatly.
The noble straightened up, simpered, and went to Tantaerra. "Lady halfling, have you ever heard of the Shattered Tomb?"
Tantaerra found her mouth suddenly dry. She licked her lips. "I—I've heard of many," she managed to say. "Which particular shattered tomb do you mean, Lord?"
Telcanor beamed at her. "This one," he said smugly, starting to pace again, hands clasped behind his back, "belongs to a long-dead wizard named Mahalagris. All Nirmathi should have heard of him—but then, you claim to be of Molthune, of course."
Tantaerra had heard of him, but only as a name attached to a passing tale about a mighty spellcaster who'd turned to evil—and there were so many of those.
"I need you to go to his tomb, which I'm told stands at the heart of the ruins of Hurlandrun, in Nirmathas." The noble spun back toward The Masked. "You know where Hurlandrun is, I trust?" The man chained to the chair smiled thinly. "It's a small, abandoned town near the headwaters of the Deepcut River. Abandoned by people, that is, and roamed by beasts. If I can trust the words of a certain veteran agent, back in Canorate, that is. I've never been t
here."
"Neither have I, but what you've said about it is what I've been told, too." The noble started pacing again, passing in front of Tantaerra now. "In that tomb is something I need you to find and bring here to me, surrendering it without demand or price, and not using any of its powers against me or mine."
"Powers?" The Masked asked quietly.
"Powers. It is a famous thing of magic. The Fearsome Gauntlet, once worn by the Molthuni war hero Korlhar Rahoring, before Mahalagris slew him. A metal gauntlet such as Zreem here is wearing—but this one can blast foes with magic."
"Lord Telcanor," Ahrkholm erupted, "I cannot believe what I'm hearing! You have in your power two enemies of Molthune, and you're setting them free? On some wild treasure hunt they'll forget all about the moment they're out of your reach? What's to stop them just disappearing into Nirmathas? And if they find this gauntlet, what's to keep them from turning it over to their masters in Tamran? I forbid you, in the name of the Imperial Governor—"
Lord Telcanor whirled to face the man who'd shattered his skylight, drew himself up to his full height, and bellowed loudly enough to make Tantaerra's ears ring. "Who are you to forbid me anything? I am Krzonstal Telcanor, and you are a stranger—an intruder into my home—who claims to speak for the Imperial Governor. Well, so do these two prisoners, here in my power!"
Tantaerra blinked. Gods! What had that advisor said to Telcanor to change his attitude to Ahrkholm so utterly and abruptly?
Suddenly the noble let his shoulders, swelling chest, and volume all drop, smiled sweetly, and added, "And as for what's to stop them abandoning their task and just fleeing Molthuni justice—you are. You shall accompany them and watch over them ...and when their work for me is done, you can have them, to do with as you will."
Ahrkholm flung out an almost imploring hand. "But—"
"But, sir," Telcanor purred, "I have only your word that you are the Imperial Governor's High Investigator and they are Nirmathi spies. One of them—we all heard him—calls you a Nirmathi spy. Who then am I to believe? A loyal and prudent Molthuni must proceed with care, for we have only the one country to hazard—and possibly, if we are too rash, lose. And I am a loyal and prudent Molthuni. One of you is lying, the other telling the truth. As long as I send both of you, there will be at least one true investigator there to watch over Molthune's interests."