“If I need to repeat myself, I'll remove an ear the next time I see you. If you have only one, perhaps then you will find the necessary focus to listen to what I gods-damned tell you,” Maaz snapped, leaning forward to peer at the offending shade. He let that comment hang in the air for a moment, as if daring the fool Jureus to make any noise at all. Jureus kept his mouth shut, demonstrating good sense for the first time in this conversation. If there was one thing that Maaz's apprentices learned, it was that punishment came swiftly, and often.
Once Maaz was satisfied, he cleared his throat and went on.
“It has become necessary to shift our focus. You will go into the mountains south of Ishamael—I can't remember what they're called right now—”
“The Runemian Mountains, Master,” Jureus offered. Maarkov winced.
What a simpering little turd, he thought. That one will end under Maaz's knives, I'm sure of it.
They all ended under his brother's knives, though, eventually. A handful of them had come and gone during the years, as Maaz used them until their usefulness outlived his patience. Each ended the same way—screaming while Maaz cut small, wriggly bits from their bodies.
Maaz stared daggers at the shade of his apprentice. “Jureus. You are lucky that such a vast distance separates us, because I have a nagging urge to pull your innards out. Utter another word, and I remove your tongue.”
Jureus, finally getting the point, offered only silence in reply.
“Head for the Runemian Mountains,” Maaz continued, “and toward Soirus-Gamerit. We are hunting a red-headed woman, her belongings, and a small child that is traveling with her. I want the two of them alive, and the woman's property intact—and do not harm them beyond what is necessary to subdue them. They're traveling with wizards. Ensure that you kill them. They'll be headed for Ishamael through Soirus-Gamerit, so begin your search in that direction. I don't care how you get it done, but I expect my instructions to be followed to the letter.”
Maaz waved a dismissive hand, and Jureus's shade bowed in reply before vanishing into black smoke.
“You,” Maaz said, turning his gaze on the female shadow. “What have you learned?”
“The location of the ancient temple, Master,” she replied. “It's far in the northern Sevenlands. The locals believe it is cursed, and no one has been inside since the Second Great War.”
“I've read about the curse,” Maaz grumbled. “Have you been inside?”
“I entered the ground level Master, but...”
“But what?” Maaz growled.
“Master, there is something here. I'm camped within sight of the temple now, and I can feel it even at this distance. It's...well, whatever it is, it's old, and powerful,” she replied. “I don't know what it is, but it doesn't like interlopers.”
“A great slaughter happened there,” Maaz said. “The Dannons were responsible, I believe. They rounded up the priests, and a good number of civilians, and had something of an orgy of violence. That was what brought the Conclave into the Second Great War against Alderak. Sometimes, a thing like that leaves its mark on a place.”
“I've marked the location down on a map for you, Master. What am I to do next?” she asked.
“Head back to Jerrantis, and send out bounties by pigeon to anyone in Soirus-Garmerit who will take them. Once you've done that, find Jureus and ensure that he doesn't botch his part of it. The man is a fool. When you find him, take command of the situation and see my instructions carried out. I trust you were listening, and don't need a lesson in proper attention to detail?” Maaz asked.
“No, Master,” she replied.
“Good. You've done well in finding ancient Orm. For once, your inherent stupidity hasn't gotten in the way of the tasks I've set for you. Here is your reward,” he said.
Maaz raised his fist, and the girl's shade bent over in surprised pain. She moaned in agony for a moment before stifling the noise into silence, but Maaz didn't let up the pressure he wielded over her. Maarkov tightened his hands on the arms of his wooden chair.
He felt an instant of white-hot rage at his brother. Maarkov turned his eyes on Maaz, reaching for the hilt of his sword. It would take but a fleeting moment to get to him. He'd have to rise from the chair, draw his blade, and lunge straight for the heart. In the time it took Maaz to realize that Maarkov was coming for him, it would be too late. That story would end with Maarkov's steel decorating the spaces between his brother's ribs.
Of course, such a thing wouldn't kill him. It couldn't, in fact. Maarkov agonized over that on a nightly basis.
“This is a shadow of what will happen should you fail in your new task. Let the pain serve as a reminder. Carry it with you in the coming days,” Maaz smiled. The shadow relaxed, and rose to its hazy feet. Maarkov loosened the hand he'd grasped around his sword, and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
“Thank you, Master,” she croaked.
“Our quarry has a decisive lead on us. Do not dally in the execution of your tasks. You're my strongest apprentice, Inera. Do not betray my trust in your abilities,” Maaz said.
“Thank you, Master. I will,” she replied, and her form melted into black mist.
After the shades had disappeared, Maaz gestured over the bowl, and the two finger-bones rose out of the liquid. He waited for them to drip themselves dry, and then plucked them out of the air, depositing them back into the bag tied around his neck. Once he had squared his clothing, he picked up the bowl, and drank the fluid inside to the bottom.
Maarkov felt a moment of revulsion, as he remembered the whining crewman from which the blood had come. He'd taken the man in the night, while most of the crew had been asleep in their racks. They knew, though—Maarkov was sure of it. His brother reigned over this ship like some sort of demonic tyrant, a shadow that never left the captain's cabin. The only thing that kept the crew from mutiny, and chucking both of them into sea, was terror.
Maaz had seen to that.
“Bring me one of the cabin boys,” Maaz said, breaking Maarkov's reverie.
“One of the cabin boys? Why?” Maarkov asked.
“I need more information, brother mine. My power requires an...extra source of energy. You know this by now, Maarkov,” Maaz said, showing Maarkov his teeth with a wide smile.
“The Lord of Bones requires blood tribute, you mean.”
“Either way, Maarkov, I still need the cabin boy. Go, and hurry, for the gods' sake.”
Maarkov gave his brother a disgusted look, and rose from his chair.
“Get your own gods-damned fodder. I'll turn my sword where you point, but I'm not one of your damned apprentices, brother.”
“The cabin boy will be just as dead, Maarkov. Your constant moralizing is useless,” Maaz replied.
“Fuck yourself, brother.” With that, Maarkov turned to leave the cabin.
His brother's laughter chased him out onto the deck and into the darkened morning. Crewmen shuffled from his path, doing their best to keep their eyes away from him. They feared drawing his attention, and rightfully so. Maarkov ignored them, and went up to the aft of the ship to stare into the coming storm.
The sea was high this time of year, but the galleon was a tougher vessel to sink than Maarkov had realized. He knew nothing of sailing, but he was surprised at how well the ship took the water. The darkening sky, though, would soon test his confidence.
He hoped they would reach the Sevenlands with good time. They had been running through squalls for the entire trip, but the constant wind had provided speed. The sea made Maarkov nervous, though it wasn't as if he could drown. What frightened him was the thought of floating in the middle of the ocean, perpetually alive, being nibbled apart by toothy fish from below.
His brother's foul magic would keep him alive until most of him was gone.
Maarkov shuddered, and regarded the storm clouds with a bit more trepidation. They still had a great distance to travel, but he trusted in the depths of Maaz's obsession to see them sa
fely to their destination. He wouldn't allow anything to stand in his way.
Maarkov just hoped this would be over soon, one way or the other.
***
“So, you're not going to be staying with us, Warlock Harlun?” the Administrator, an older man named Finnelan, asked.
“My compatriot prefers the ale at the Golden Mug,” Dormael said, favoring the man with a pleasant expression from across the table. “We'll be leaving in the morning, in any case. We may as well not trouble you for more than we need.”
“It's no trouble,” Finnelan shrugged. “The Chapterhouse has been quiet all season. Everyone coming through Mistfall is headed back to the Conclave, like horses returning to their stables. It's been me and the staff since the Winter Solstice.”
“Is that odd?” Dormael asked.
“Aye, it's a bit unusual,” Finnelan said. He regarded Dormael with a cautious eye for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “Listen, I'm just a salty old Philosopher who got bored with my studies. Decided to try my hand at management, and I'm not too bad, if I do say so myself.”
“That's...wonderful,” Dormael ventured, unsure where Finnelan was going with this line of questioning.
“There aren't many of us Administrators, you know. Only ten, though they may add an eleventh next year, for a Chapterhouse being built in some town in the arse-end of the Teptian Mountains. We have a little meeting every season, the ten of us, to share news and such. All the Administrators say the same thing—wizards, heading back to Ishamael in droves. Save a few Warlocks—you lot are always going to far-off places. That's nothing new,” Finnelan said.
“Do you know why? We've been in Alderak since before the Solstice,” Dormael said.
“There's been a bit of talk. Lots of resentment for the Mekai. Apparently there are reports that the Galanians are gearing up for war again. I don't know the truth of it, but the rumor is that they're rounding up Sevenlanders within their borders. Looking for our agents, some say,” Finnelan shrugged. “Now, I'm just a salty old Philosopher, you see. I wouldn't know what sort of games you Warlocks play, but I thought you might have some insight.”
Dormael stared at him for a moment. “No. I've been doing something else entirely. I hadn't heard anything like that.”
The gods-damned Imperials again, Dormael thought.
“Well, I suppose that's fair enough. In any case, you should know that there's been a lot of talk about the Mekai, and the lack of response from the Conclave about all the rumors going around. The city will be crawling with wizards by the time you get there,” Finnelan grumbled, obviously under the impression that Dormael was lying to him. “Do you have any news to report?”
“Nothing of great importance,” Dormael shrugged. “The Imperials move around freely in Ferolan now, though everyone moves around freely in Ferolan.”
“True enough,” Finnelan nodded. “Will you be needing anything?”
“I need to requisition some funds,” Dormael said. “Just standard traveling money, nothing lavish.”
“Your sea captain almost cleaned me out,” Finnelan said. “I can part with a pittance, but nothing too great. The staff here doesn't work for free, you know.”
“Thank you,” Dormael nodded. “Anything you can do is appreciated.”
Around an hour later, Dormael pushed through the front gate of the Chapterhouse gardens, and into the streets of Mistfall. The conversation weighed heavily on his mind. He hadn't heard anything about Galanians rounding up his countrymen, but he had been out of touch for a while. If the empire was imprisoning Sevenlanders, the population would be simmering. Dormael hoped that things weren't as bad as Finnelan had described, and tried to banish those thoughts from his mind. He wanted to enjoy the stroll.
Mistfall was a city alive with people. They trotted to and fro on errands, and yelled happy greetings from second, or third-story windows. They screamed advertisements for their wares, or news of recent events, at large street intersections. Mistfall buzzed with the quiet energy to which only large cities can aspire.
The Crescent City was built of red bricks and gray stones. The outer walls were granite, dark and foreboding in the cool midday sun, but free of the scars of siege engines. Mistfall had never been tested in battle, though part of that was due to the Sevenlanders finding the sacking of cities to be distasteful. Ivy climbed the walls in many places, and the people who lived here did little to discourage the creeper vines from growing. Most Sevenlanders were fond of nature, and they preferred to add a little green flavor to the bare stone walls that surrounded the city. The city's leadership, however, regularly cut them down.
Looking out across the faces of the people, he spotted Orrisans, Runemians, Teptians, Farra-Jerrans, and even a few people from the savannas of Tasha-Mal. Mals were ever a nomadic tribe, hanging on harder to their traditions than the rest of their Sevenlander cousins. A strong and robust people, they hunted lions on the veldt, and held some of the most famous—or infamous, depending on your viewpoint—festivals in the entirety of the Sevenlands. Dormael greeted a few as they passed him, and the motley group of hunters raised their spears in return. They looked every bit the tattooed, nomadic people they were.
He strolled down the boulevards headed north from the Temple District, where the Conclave Chapterhouse was located, and meandered past the Conclave's docks. As he came farther north, the cries of merrymakers and merchants reached his ears as he neared the Western Tradefair. The Tradefairs were a long-standing tradition in Mistfall, as Sevenlanders from all over Soirus-Gamerit came to trade goods, stories, and to share in the company of their countrymen. They drew the attention of sharp businessmen from all over the world, who shipped anything and everything to Mistfall in order to ensure its passage under the eyes of so many possible buyers.
Tents and wooden stands carpeted the park that had been set aside for the Tradefair, and people of varied descent and dress moved amongst them. There were ale tents, and Dormael could hear the sounds of mugs clinking with toasts, and even a few drunken voices rising in off-key tunes. It brought a smile to his face to be home again, and hear folk songs that were familiar to him.
As the sun reached its noonday peak, the Golden Mug came into sight along the street. It was a large brick building, and above its open double doors hung a wooden sign with the painting of a frothy, golden mug. It was one of the most famous Inns in Mistfall, and a destination for many traveling musicians and storytellers. Even now, as he came within shouting distance of the door, the sound of clinking silverware and the din of conversation floated to his ears. Above the general racket, the sounds of a guitar lilted from the door like smoke from a pipe, playing something upbeat. Dormael nodded to the man at the door, and pushed his way inside.
He spotted D’Jenn, Shawna, and Bethany as soon as he walked in the door. D’Jenn, as always, had picked a table near the back wall of the common room, where he would be able to see the door. Dormael waved to them as he came in, and D’Jenn's fingers began waggling in the Hunter’s Tongue.
Look who is on stage, D’Jenn signed.
Dormael turned to see whom D'Jenn was talking about, and felt a wide smile come unbidden to his face. A woman balanced on the edge of a stool, cradling a guitar to her chest and plucking out a lively melody on the strings. Her fingers crawled over the surface of the neck like mad spiders, and she barely seemed to notice. She sang in time to the music, a sultry accompaniment to a Runemian folk song.
Her hair was a shining blonde, worn both loose and braided in different places. Odd bells and pieces of jewelry were woven into her hair, after the Runemian fashion, and a multitude of bracelets decorated her delicate wrists. She wore leather pants and a loose fitting shirt of some flowing material, and gilded shoes with golden buckles decorating the sides.
It had been a while since Dormael had seen her, but the seasons had only refined her beauty. They caught eyes, and he saw a smirk form on her face around the words she was singing. His heart beat a little faster as they acknowledg
ed one another, and he shouldered his way to the bar to get a drink. Though it was still early in the afternoon, the Mug was packed with patrons in various states of drunkenness. By the time he had secured a pair of mugs, he realized that the music had stopped.
“You vagabond of a magus,” a sultry voice said from behind him. “Where in the Six Hells have you been the last few seasons?”
“Seylia,” he smiled, turning to offer the woman a drink. “It's good to see you.”
“I'll bet it is,” she winked, stalking forward to take the mug from his hand. She raised her cup in answer to his, and they both took a long drink. Then, without warning, she pulled Dormael's beard until his face was level with hers, and pressed her mouth to his for a brief, passionate moment.
“Just so your woman knows who got to you first,” she said as she pulled away. She winked and drew back from him, favoring him with the full weight of a smile.
She had always been infuriating, and Dormael had never minded.
“She's not my woman, Seylia,” he sighed. “She's a friend.”
“And the child? Did you finally get some poor maiden pregnant?”
“What a cruel fate for a child that would be,” Dormael laughed. “No. She's not mine. Just follow me, I'll introduce you.”
Seylia gave him an odd look, but took his arm and allowed him to lead her back to the table.
She embraced D'Jenn as an old friend, eliciting a rare smile from him. They traded a few idle words as Dormael pulled a chair over for Seylia to use, and she began to go around the table making her introductions. With Bethany, she winked and produced a sweet with a flourish of her hand, tossing it to the girl from across the table. Bethany reached out with surprising agility and snatched the thing from the air, making it disappear into her own cloak in a blur of tiny hands. She beamed at Seylia, who smiled back and nodded at the girl, as if they had just participated in some odd ritual from which everyone else was excluded.
Then, she gave Shawna the traditional Sevenlander bow. “My, you're pretty for an eastern girl, aren't you?”
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 42