He stepped into the streets, lowered his head and kept walking. Her memories provided a surprising amount of information…but then, whores had always been good at observing people. The city’s population preferred to believe that the whores didn’t exist, despite which most of the men in the city would have had their first sexual experience with a whore. Todtsteltzer shrugged at the hypocrisy in that attitude, even though it was far from uncommon. The whores, all girls from outside the city, simply weren’t important. No one would have cared enough to investigate even if he’d left her body intact and recognisable.
The building ahead of him was lit up brightly. Normally, he would have strode in the front entrance, but her memories guided him to the rear, where a grim-faced man stared at him before allowing him into the building and up the stairs. A row of whores were heading down the stairs and he tensed; her friends and comrades would be the most likely to sense anything wrong, even if they wouldn’t be able to place exactly what was wrong. The disguise – and the cloaking magic surrounding it, subtly encouraging people not to look too closely – worked perfectly. No one thought to question or stop him from entering the tiny room and lying down on the bed.
He tasted her memories again and smiled to himself. She’d been here so often she’d lost count, servicing soldiers and some of the more important men from the court. He heard the feet clumping up the stairs and braced himself as the door swung open – he hadn’t bothered even to knock – revealing a grim-faced guardsman who leered at him as he closed the door behind him. Ivana recognised him, of course; a guardsman who took his pleasure and left her feeling sore and broken, without even a tip. Todtsteltzer’s darker knowledge agreed with her. The guardsman wasn't a man who would have thought about giving pleasure to a woman. It would have simply been too alien for him.
“Get up,” the guard barked. He was undressing rapidly, dumping his clothes on the floor in his haste to get at the whore. “Come here and…”
Todtsteltzer’s hands caught his and broke them effortlessly. Before the guard could even realise what had happened, he was being drained, strong hands pressing against his cheeks and draining everything that made him what he was into the assassin. Todtsteltzer braced himself as new memories flared through his mind – the guard was called Yathab; his father had forced him into the Guard because he had ambitions of his own – before the guard finally crumbled into dust. Todtsteltzer smiled to himself. The illusion of the whore was gone – the remains of her memories faded away and lost somewhere within his mind – and had been replaced by a different illusion. He sat down on the bed – Yathab’s friends would probably be surprised if he took less than ten minutes with the whore, given how much he’d paid for her – and ran through the memories, assimilating them one by one. He’d struck gold. Yathab was one of the Castle’s Guardsmen, even if he was barely ranked as one of hundreds of footsoldiers. He would, at least, have access to the Castle.
After what he felt was a suitable space of time, he stood up, walked out of the tiny room and headed down towards the bar. No one would question the whore’s absence, let alone connect Yathab with her disappearance. Why would they? She was completely unimportant to anyone who might have had the ability to ask the right questions. He stepped into the bar, walked over to a table packed with drunken footsoldiers and joined the merriment, swigging down beer as if there was no tomorrow. One of the disadvantages of being an assassin was that it was impossible to get drunk, yet that worked in his favour. Drunken fools were less likely to notice anything odd.
It felt like several hours before the small force of guardsmen finally staggered out of the bar, somewhat the worse for wear, and started heading back to the castle. The cold air was sobering, but they were still rather drunk when they finally reached the castle. They spent most of the journey boasting about what they’d done to the various whores – including some perversions that were new, even to a well-travelled assassin – and never gave any thought to the fact that one of their number was dead, replaced by a monster who wore his face and memories like a cloak. Todtsteltzer braced himself as the wards crawled over him, but they were fooled by the stolen memories, allowing the assassin to enter freely without being caught. Todtsteltzer hid a smile as he followed his comrades down into the barracks, where they dumped themselves down onto their bunks and started sleeping it off. He waited until they were all asleep and pulled himself off his bunk, slipping out into the cold air.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” A thunderous voice demanded from behind him. “This is no time to be sneaking around!”
Yathab’s memories identified the voice; Sergeant Wastha, someone who believed that he was officer material and showed it by bullying his soldiers whenever he had an opportunity. He was quite astonishingly fat, yet he had muscles rippling down his arms and legs. He’d once taken a challenger, beaten him soundly and then broken him over his knee.
“I was taking a piss, Sergeant,” Todtsteltzer said. It was one of the very few excuses that the Sergeant would accept. “I drank too much this night.”
“And you’ll be on report in the morning,” the Sergeant informed him. His voice hardened. “And don’t think that I’ll forget either…”
His voice broke off as he came too close and Todtsteltzer grabbed him, draining him rapidly into himself. There was no longer any time to delay. The Sergeant’s memories floated into his mind as he cloaked himself with the Sergeant’s image, leaving his body behind to crumble into dust. He checked that the dust was scattered and then headed off up the stairs, into the main keep. Sergeant Wastha might not have had access into the Lord’s chambers, but as a contemptible social climber, he knew exactly who had the kind of access he sought. Todtsteltzer tasted his memories as he passed two guards, wondering how a man could be such a fool. It was clear that the Sergeant had had no hope of promotion, even before he’d allowed himself to be killed and then used as a cover for an assassin. Of course, he had had no idea what he’d faced, but if he’d remained alive, somehow Todtsteltzer doubted that that would have mattered.
Major Drumstang didn’t look too happy to see the Sergeant when Todtsteltzer entered his office, but it didn’t matter for long. Todtsteltzer took him as well, sifted through his memories for anything interesting and then walked out of the office, leaving another pile of dust behind. The Major had access to the Lord at all times, particularly with dangerous foreign guests in the city – Todtsteltzer had been amused to discover that the Lord had ordered the Major to draw up a plan of attack for taking out Master Reginald and his men, even though he hadn’t decided if the plan was actually going to be used – and the guards didn’t question his right to enter their Lord’s chambers. The Major had been under a fairly powerful loyalty spell, which explained just how much latitude he’d been given, but Todtsteltzer wasn't affected at all. Before the Lord could do more than open his eyes, Todtsteltzer was on him, draining his memory into his mind. This time, though, he didn’t drain the victim completely. He just wanted the Lord to be helpless while Todtsteltzer sifted through his memories for anything interesting.
There was little that was of direct interest, he ruefully acknowledged. The Lord of Garstang had been involved in a handful of plots against his fellows, but he hadn’t had the nerve to plot against the Emperor or Herod himself. He had ordered countless atrocities against his subjects, including killing or driving many magic-users into exile. The shortage of magic-users in Garstang had been caused by a deep-seated fear that one day a more powerful magician would overthrow the Lords of Garstang and bring about a new order. In a more central kingdom, the shortage of loyal magic-users would have encouraged someone to march in and take over, but Garstang’s isolation worked in its favour. Most of the other secrets were puny. The Prince’s mother had been framed and executed for adultery because the Lord had wanted to play with a woman ten years his junior. She hadn’t lasted long either.
He relaxed his grip on the Lord, just slightly, allowing him to whisper. “Who are you?”
He placed the knife under the Lord’s chin and pushed it up into his brain, leaning close to savour the last dying exhalants from his lips. His magic seemed to blur into the Lord, allowing him to sense the Lord’s slow death, the ultimate high. An assassin needed to kill, just so he could feed off his target’s last moments. He relaxed as the last flicker of life went out of the Lord and pushed him back down onto the bed. His dead body wouldn’t be discovered until the morning.
Todtsteltzer straightened up, pulled his power around him and slipped out of the room. No one would think to question the Lord’s most loyal servant, the servant who had no choice, but to be loyal. No one would stop him, or even question him, until it was far too late. He walked out of the castle, slipped into an alleyway to shed the last remains of his disguise, and then started to walk back towards the barracks. And, as no one had seen his going, no one saw his coming either.
He was still smiling when he climbed into his bunk and went to sleep.
***
“There has been a tragic development,” Prince Tendric said, the following morning. Reginald, who was never at his best in the morning, sipped a cup of something warm and unpleasantly sharp and listened to the prattle with half an ear. “My own father, the man who raised me since my mother died, was assassinated in his sleep!”
“Really,” Reginald said, taking another sip. The dark liquid grew on him the more he sipped, although if he’d had to drink it all the time, he would have ended up as bloody-minded as most of the inhabitants of Garstang. Personally, he thought the Prince was over-acting, but his father had had a long reach and some of his former comrades might seek to avenge him, even if it meant killing his son. “It is truly tragic for us all.”
“A loyal servant of the Emperor Herod,” Prince Tendric said, giving him a sharp look. He’d picked up on the irony, all right. “He was a loyal servant murdered by the outlaw Eric, who left his blade in my father’s body to mock us and convince us that no one is safe. He will discover that the reach of Garstang is long and her memories are longer yet! I have summoned the army to my banner and we march on Pittenweem this afternoon!”
Reginald kept his face carefully blank. The knife had been a nice touch, although if the Prince called too much attention to it, someone might wonder if Eric had been framed. The former Emperor hadn’t raised a fool. Even so, he doubted that anyone would dare to dissent publicly and show disloyalty to the new Lord. The Lord was dead; long live the Lord. Garstang wasn't the kind of place where open disloyalty – or even probing questions – could be tolerated.
Even so, he was surprised at Prince Tendric’s willingness to wage war on one of his own towns, but perhaps it was understandable. His father had been well-protected and yet Reginald had somehow reached in and killed him, something that had to concentrate a few minds. If the Prince failed to keep his side of the bargain, he had to wonder if Reginald wouldn’t have him killed as well. No, Reginald reminded himself; he could trust the Prince to remain scared. Like all bullies, he turned into a coward if he was hit hard enough. Bullies were always insecure…yet it hadn’t been until he had touched the Great Sword that he’d realised how insecure he’d been.
“Thank you, My Lord,” Reginald said, gravely. “The Emperor Herod will reward you for your contributions to his cause.”
“I will request much from the Emperor in the days to come,” Prince Tendric said. Reginald wasn't surprised. “I wish to have my domains extended, as we discussed in our last meeting, and I wish to have a marriage arranged that will tie my family into the very heart of the Empire.”
“All of those can be negotiated,” Reginald assured him. Herod had no children – after he’d nearly collapsed, burned up by his own power, Reginald wasn't sure if he could have children – but he had relatives who had children of their own. He felt a touch of sympathy for anyone who ended up married to the odious prince, yet perhaps someone of noble blood would be able to control him. Or, if she were noble enough, keep the coward on a leash at the thought of retaliation from her family. “Once the fugitives have been taken, all can be arranged.”
The Prince stood up. “And now I go to consult with my generals,” he said. His voice tightened noticeably. “The army will march at noon!”
He strode away, leaving Reginald watching his back and contemplating sticking a knife in it. He could trust Prince Tendric – Lord Tendric now, he supposed – about as far as he could throw him…which, with magic, would be quite some distance. He smiled at the thought and turned back to his breakfast. There was a long trip ahead and he had no idea when he'd be able to eat in such surroundings again.
So you killed an evil Lord to put an evil Prince on a throne, the sword mocked. Was it worth it?
Reginald had no answer.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It grew colder as they made their way towards Pittenweem, so cold that Eric found himself wrapped up in furs and using a tiny heating charm to keep himself warm. Hind seemed to take it in stride, but Eric was privately convinced that she was suffering too and was just trying to put a brave face on it. Snow blew off the towering mountains every day now, sending brief blizzards to discomfit them before the skies cleared, revealing snow-covered peaks in the distance, higher than any Eric had seen before. He’d been proud of his plan when he’d realised just where the Oracle had pointed them, but now...now he found himself wondering if it might not have been better to have gone the direct route after all.
He’d gone mountaineering before, during a month-long visit to one of his father’s closest allies, but the Lord hadn't risked his important guest on some of the more challenging mountains. Eric had found out – later – that the mountains he’d been invited to climb were the easiest in the world, even though they rose up so high that some claimed that they led to the Lands of the Gods. The far more treacherous and challenging mountains were dangerous even to those with magic in their blood; indeed, if one were to believe the rumours, magic ran in the mountains. There were strange stories of humanoid beasts hiding in the mountains, or a breed of Dark Elves that shunned the sunlight and remained in their hidden tunnels, waiting to ambush unwary travellers. Eric had seen no monsters back then, but looking at the towering mountains ahead of him, it was easy to believe that all kinds of nasty surprises lurked under the snow, waiting for the unwary traveller.
“That must be where we’re going,” Hind said, pointing with one gloved finger towards a small collection of buildings in a natural valley. Eric nodded, following her gaze. The small town was surprisingly attractive, unlike the other towns and villages he’d seen in the country, with only a handful of large grey stone buildings. They weren't built in the blocky style favoured by the country’s lords, but in a pattern that struck him as oddly angled. It took him several moments to realise that the slanting roofs matched the angles of the closest mountains, suggesting that someone had worked a powerful magic at one point to ensure the town’s protection. “I wonder where you’re taking us next.”
She quirked an eyebrow at him and Eric chuckled inwardly. He’d been reluctant to discuss their next step, which had led to several agreements and one outright fight. They’d made up, of course, but it still rankled at her, even though she had had to admit that he had a point. Herod would have spies and assassins out on their trail and a single word in the right place would bring down an army on their heads.
“Soon,” he promised, as Bran stamped back down towards them. They’d had to step out of the wagons some hours ago – the unenhanced beasts were having problems handling the snow-covered path up to the town – and walk beside their luggage
. The handful of other people in the convoy had been born here and didn't seem to be daunted by the weather, although Branet had been a child when she’d last visited her hometown.
“Here we are,” Bran said, as they finally entered Pittenweem. Up close, it wasn't easy to see any sign of human habitation; it was all buried under the snow. Eric wasn't sure how anyone managed to eke out an existence on the snow-covered mountainsides, unless they brought in food from outside and that seemed unlikely. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll see about getting some warm lodgings.”
He led the way into a long grey building and pushed open the door. There was a dark passageway, illuminated only by glowing lichen on the wall, which he walked down unerringly, motioning for them to keep up with him. Bran pushed against another door at the far end and a wave of heat – blessed heat – struck Eric in the face. He felt snow dripping off his fur coat as Bran led them inside, revealing a long room with a fire burning brightly in the centre. Eric’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. They hadn't seen any smoke as they came up to the building.
“This is called a Long Hall,” Bran said, when he asked. The burly man seemed keen to show off to his saviours, even if he didn't remember being saved. “The building is designed to trap heat and keep us warm; at one time, an entire family would have inhabited this building and shared everything. They would never even go out during the winter months, preferring to remain in the warm while all else froze.”
The Black Knife Page 26