Chapter Twenty-Five
Reginald felt the cold biting into his body despite the haze of magic he had wrapped around himself. The chill wind blowing down from the mountains seemed to slip through his every ward and freeze his blood, mocking him for trying to visit Garstang in summer. Apparently, according to one of the soldiers escorting him, it got even colder in winter. Reginald hadn't wanted to know that. If he managed to get to Garstang and back alive, he swore to himself that he’d remain in warmer climes to the end of his days, even though he knew that it was a promise he was never going to be able to keep. The sight of the mountains up ahead taunted him, yet he could see why Herod was so keen on speed. Very few people had managed to cross the Garstang Mountains and survive the experience. If Eric and Hind were truly in Garstang, they would be trapped.
He felt the enhanced horse moving under him as they cantered onwards, barely stopping for sleep when the darkness came down, for the beasts seemed to have unlimited energy. They’d pay for that in the future – enhanced beasts seemed to have shorter life spans than the unenhanced beasts – but they could have kept galloping on for months, if their riders hadn't been bound by human limitations. It had taken four days to reach Garstang and his body ached, as if he'd been in a fight with someone several times his size. The soldiers seemed to take it in stride, but the sorcerers had complained – and complained – until he’d finally exploded at them and told them to shut up and save their complaints for Herod. He doubted that any of them would dare complain to the necromancer. The assassin, riding alongside Reginald, had said almost nothing to the Master Magician. If Reginald hadn't kept one eye firmly on him, the assassin could have vanished without trace, right in the midst of his force.
“Garstang, My Lord,” Colonel Garyad said. He was one of Herod’s loyalists and, Reginald suspected, was there to keep an eye on him as much as he was to help catch up with Eric and Hind. “The gates are closed against us.”
Reginald scowled. Herod had briefed him thoroughly and he’d warned him, several times, that they were not to start a war with the Lord of Garstang, at least if it could be avoided. Reginald had a hundred soldiers and twenty sorcerers – and the assassin – but the Lord of Garstang had the resources of a fair-sized city and a population that was known for picking fights with outsiders or each other when there was no one else to fight. Garstang wasn’t a very strongly magical country, but Reginald would have been surprised if they hadn't had a few hundred reasonably powerful magicians in the city...and the Lord of Garstang himself would be a magician. Herod was far stronger, even without necromancy, but concentrating his force against Garstang would render him vulnerable elsewhere. The old dilemma of the Emperor was his now.
“We’ll have to be diplomatic,” Reginald said. He pulled on the reins and the horse – he had never bothered to learn the beast’s name – cantered to a stop. The others stopped as well and formed a protective wall around him. “Remain here.”
He nudged the horse forward and cantered up to the gates. They looked stronger than those that had defended the Golden City, although he couldn't feel any wards protecting them from magical attack. He studied them for a long moment and decided, finally, that they were a trap, one designed to force a magician to exhaust his power before challenging the wards directly – and there had to be wards somewhere, even if they were on the inside. A ward-less city was just asking for a magician or two to take the city with ease.
“Ho,” he bellowed. “I am Master Reginald, Representative of Herod, Emperor of Touched and Lord of Azimuth. I seek an audience with his peer, the Lord of Garstang.”
The words echoed in the air, enhanced by the magic he’d used to make his voice boom. The Lord of Garstang wasn't Herod’s equal, but he had to be treated as an equal, or he might refuse to cooperate. He might have been a drunkard, yet that wouldn’t make it any easier. A drunkard was quite likely to believe that he was being slighted at any moment. Reginald waited as long as he dared and repeated the challenge, making it louder this time. They had to be playing games.
A hatch swung back and he found himself confronting an ugly face, wearing livery he didn't recognise. “The Lord of Garstang does not recognise the Emperor of Touched,” he said, in a voice that wasn't quite a sneer. Reginald gave him points for bravery – or stupidity. There was nothing stopping him from turning the speaker into a toad...or a pile of flaming ashes. “He will see the Representative of the Lord of Azimuth.”
Reginald nodded, ignoring the quiet feeling of amusement echoing from the sword on his back. He’d been less aware of the sword’s presence since they’d left the Golden Palace, yet he’d been unable to shake its presence entirely...and, truth be told, he didn't want to shake its presence. Even so, holding the sword showed him, in a way he could not dismiss, the price of serving a necromancer. If Herod had demanded the sword...but no, he hadn't demanded it, or even shown any sign that he knew it existed. Reginald had no idea why that had happened, yet he wasn't going to bring it to his superior’s attention. He knew, somehow, that handing over one of the Great Swords to a necromancer would invite disaster.
“Thank you,” he said. “Please prepare space for my men near the castle.”
The gate slowly grated open, revealing a city that looked bleak and cold, even to Reginald’s eye. An endless line of grey buildings, constructed from grey stone, met his eye, populated by people wearing drab grey outfits. The few women he saw were all covered and scurried away from the soldiers. Reginald allowed the guide to lead him through the streets, realising – despite his lack of military aptitude – that the streets were perfect for an ambush. He readied a number of spells, preparing to fight if necessary, but nothing materialised. The Lord of Garstang, whatever he might say aloud, was clearly unwilling to risk Herod’s wrath.
“Your men will be quartered in the barracks,” the guide said, pointing to another low grey building. “You will accompany me to the castle.”
Garstang Castle was the largest building in Garstang City, a monstrous block of grey stone that seemed to have been hewn from the rocks itself. Reginald could feel the presence of powerful wards crawling over him as the guard led him and the Colonel over the water – he glanced down and saw a creature swimming just below the surface, watching him with hungry eyes – and into the castle itself. He half-expected a demand for a search – the Lord of Garstang’s paranoia seemed to know no bounds – but instead they were merely directed to leave their horses in the courtyard and walk up the stairs to the Main Hall.
If Reginald hadn't known better, he would have wondered if Garstang Castle hadn't been built before Solaris seduced a few hundred innocent maidens and allowed magic loose upon Touched. It was designed to make it almost impregnable to an assault led by fighting men – the stairways, he saw, were designed to make it hard for a man to wield a sword while fighting his way up the stairs – but a magical assault would leave the castle in ruins, once the wards had been broken down. If Herod decided that he’d had enough of Garstang, he could have sent an army of zombies into the city, assimilated the population into his army of the dead and used them to attack the castle. It would have, eventually, fallen even if no other magic was used.
“My Lord of Garstang,” the guide said, throwing himself on the ground and crawling towards the Throne. His abasement was complete...and genuine, much to Reginald’s surprise. Even Herod didn't demand so much grovelling from his subordinates. “My Royal Prince of Garstang, True Heir to the Throne of Touched. I bring before you the Representatives of the Lord of Azimuth.”
Reginald bowed, wondering if he should prostrate himself. “My Lord,” he said, finally, “I bring you a message from the Lord of Azimuth, Duke Herod.”
“We are not interested in messages from so far a land,” Lord Garstang said. Herod had told him that the Lord of Garstang always styled himself after his country, something that was not uncommon among the smaller kingdoms. “We know nothing of such affairs.”
Reginald studied Lord Garstang thoughtfully
. He was a grossly fat man, wearing an outfit that could only be described as gaudy, particularly when compared to the clothes his subjects seemed to wear. He had two piggy eyes that seemed to eye Reginald suspiciously, one hand on the sword he wore at his belt. His unshaven face suggested an unlimited amount of malice and cruelty...and a sense of entitlement greater even than Herod’s. He held a tankard of some foul-smelling brew by his side, as if he intended to drink while leaving his guests waiting. Reginald was silently grateful that Lord Garstang had no access to necromancy. Such a man wouldn't hesitate to slaughter his entire kingdom to raise an army of the dead.
His son, the Royal Prince, was a different story. He was tall and thin, almost inhumanly so, yet there was an odd...sense of malice around him. Reginald looked up, trying to meet his eye, but the Prince’s eyes slid away from his, as if he was unwilling to make eye contact. The brief moment of linkage they’d had showed him the Prince’s character; he was a bully, a coward and a sneak. It was easy to read his future, even though Reginald was no Oracle; Prince Tendric would become Lord and start a reign of terror that would far exceed his father’s reign. The Prince would see threats everywhere and delight in tormenting the commoners...
Of course you know what sort of person he is, the sword seemed to whisper in his mind. He is just like you were, back when you were at the Academy. You say that he is a bully; you were a bully. You say he takes advantage of his birthright; you took advantage of your birthright. You say that he is a coward; you were a coward yourself, when one of your social equals finally challenged your petty cruelties. What is the difference between you and him?
Nothing, Reginald thought. The sword was in his mind. Not even the Grandmaster, the man who had finally brought him up short and dressed him down, had had such an impact. The sword was part of him now, aware of everything about him; his strengths, his weaknesses and everything he would like to keep hidden. The sword could – and did – confront him with a truth no others would dare to ram in front of his face.
“My Lord,” Reginald said, trying to push his shame to the back of his mind. “The former Prince Eric – declared an Outlaw by the new Emperor – and his bride, the Mistress Hind, have been traced to Garstang. The Lord of Azimuth requests your cooperation in tracking down the two fugitives before they can escape. I am authorised to promise that there will be rewards - the Emperor will look kindly upon Garstang’s territorial claims against nearby kingdoms – in return for your full and prompt cooperation.”
He snapped his fingers and created an illusion, showing them images of the two fugitives. He didn't miss how the Prince’s eyes narrowed when he saw Eric – they would be contemporaries, he guessed – and widened when he saw Hind. It was easy to see the lust written within those piggy eyes, even though trying to rape a Master Magician was just asking for death...or a humiliating life spent croaking on a lily pad. The Prince had probably never met a woman who could say no before.
“If they are found, my men have to deal with them,” he said. “We request your permission to start searching for them.”
There was a long moment of silent contemplation from the Lord. “We may not grant you our permission to search,” the Lord said finally. “My son” – he gave his son a fond look that sent chills down Reginald’s spine – “will command the search for the fugitives. You and your men may remain in your quarters until they are found.”
“I must remind you that both of the fugitives are extremely dangerous,” Reginald said. “You must not approach them without heavy magical support.”
“My son will command the search,” the Lord said. He took a long swig from his tankard. “You are dismissed, magician.”
Reginald said nothing until they were escorted back to the barracks and warned to remain within the ugly building. He wasn't blind to the fact that they were being insulted by being placed in such accommodation, but at least it was warm and there was some food to eat. Most of the soldiers had settled down into hard bunks and gone to sleep, catching up on their sleep from the journey, but the sorcerers were complaining about the accommodation and the shortage of women. Reginald quelled the argument by reminding them that walls had ears – literally, with magic involved – and lay down on a bunk to sleep. It felt like bare seconds before someone shook him awake – taking a hellish risk in the process – and only the movement of the sun in the sky told him that it had been hours. The guide was waiting for him at the door and swiftly escorted him back into the castle, where he came face to face with the Prince.
“Master Reginald,” the Prince said. There was an oily tone in his voice that didn't match his eyes, which were as cold and hard as stone. A set of maids – wearing nothing, not even magical jewels in their foreheads – brought in a small repast. Reginald waved his hand over the meal, checking for poison, watching disdainfully as the Prince pawed the helpless women. “We have found much that may be of interest to you.”
Reginald took a bite of meat and found it unpleasantly bland. “That is good to hear,” he said, calmly. He picked up a bowl of sauce and ladled some red sauce onto the meat, taking a second bite. This time, it was surprisingly flavourful. “Might I enquire as to what you have found?”
“Maybe,” Prince Tendric said. “There is still the issue of payment for our cooperation.”
Reginald lifted an eyebrow. “I believe that that was discussed at the first meeting,” he said. “You would be assured of the support of the Emperor in your disputes...”
“I meant me personally, Master Reginald,” Prince Tendric said. “If you wish me to assist you, you must give me something I want in exchange.”
“I see,” Reginald said. He took another bite of meat, trying to identify it. It didn't taste like beef or pork, more like something blander. “What do you want, then?”
The Prince didn't hold back. “I want to be Lord of Garstang,” he said, bluntly. “I want you to kill my father.”
Reginald studied him for a long moment. It crossed his mind that it could be a trap, that the Lord of Garstang had primed his son to test his guests and their motives, but the Prince wasn't subtle enough to pull that off. No, it was real, which meant that he truly wanted his father dead. It wasn’t an emotion Reginald understood – his father had been distant, but loving, whenever he remembered that he had children – but perhaps it was different in the mountains.
“Very well,” he said, thinking of the assassin. “Your father will die. Now tell me; what have you found out about our two fugitives?”
“They came to Garstang five days ago, on a coach from the Golden City, and took a room in the Welcome Inn,” the Prince said. His face was lit by a terrible ambition, the ambition of a son who had waited too long for his father to shuffle off the mortal coil. Reginald found it quiet disgusting. “They shared a room and” – his face twisted into a leer – “spent plenty of time enjoying themselves. She made plenty of noise, according to the innkeeper and his family.”
Reginald covered his face to hide a smile. The detail might amuse the Prince, but it didn't mean anything to him. “I see,” he said. “And where are they now?”
“They left Garstang a day ago, taking the same coach to Pittenweem,” the Prince said. Reginald stared at him. They’d come all the way at breakneck speed – it had been sheer luck that they hadn't lost any of the inexperienced horsemen – and they’d missed their targets by one day. “We can call out the army and go after them, once my father is dead.”
Reginald thought rapidly, summoning a mental map of the area. Pittenweem wasn't far away, but it was hard to reach, if only because of bad roads and even worse weather. His force was capable, yet they hadn't prepared for travelling further into the mountains. They’d need help from the locals to reach the town, which meant that the Lord of Garstang would have to die very soon. The Prince’s father wouldn't want to assault Pittenweem just for Herod.
“Very well,” he said, taking another bite of meat. Todtsteltzer would be pleased at having a chance to put his talents to use...and it
would allow Reginald a chance to see them in action. He’d been wondering if assassins lived up – or down – to their reputations. “Your father will die tonight.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Are you going to be all right?”
Kuralla nodded mutely. She didn’t look all right, not as far as Eleanor could tell, but she had to take the Oracle’s word for it. Kuralla looked as if she were burning up from the inside, weighed down by the weight of the visions and prophecies that she had been unable to share with the world. Eleanor knew that Oracles were supposed to report on their visions – were under a compulsion to share their visions – and keeping them all locked inside her was taking a toll on the young girl. Her eyes might be old, but Kuralla was young, almost the younger sister Eleanor had never had. She was more concerned about the Oracle than she would have willingly admitted.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Eleanor said, and stepped up to the door, opening it in a single smooth motion. She’d opened it several times over the past few days, just to holler requests and demands at passing guards and servants. Some of the requests had even been genuine, but mostly she’d just been testing that she could still open the door without discovering that someone had locked it. Herod, it seemed, appeared content to rely on his wards to keep his prisoners imprisoned; he hadn’t bothered to lock the door, or even station guards outside permanently. It was a curious blind spot that Eleanor knew affected most magicians. The more powerful they became, the harder it was to accept that they could be beaten, or that magic wasn't all-powerful. “Bye.”
The Black Knife Page 24