The Art of Hunting

by Alan Campbell

  ‘Killed.’

  ‘Assassinated.’

  Maskelyne laughed. ‘I doubt that.’ He glanced at Cobul. ‘I suppose my friend here would like to know how much is in the prize fund. What’s the cost to enter?’

  ‘The Lord’s List is ten thousand sir, so the winner is currently looking at about half a million, but it’ll likely be double that by the time the contest starts. There’s also a fifty-gilder pit game running for the first three days. That’s open to all. The winner of that one gets a ticket to the Lord’s List.’

  ‘Warm-up sport, eh?’

  ‘The best, sir.’

  Cobul looked concerned.‘I don’t have ten thousand gilders,’ he said. He grunted and shrugged his shoulders. ‘To tell the truth, I don’t even have fifty for the grunts’ league.’

  ‘I would lend you the ten thousand if I had it,’ Maskelyne said. ‘Nothing would please me more. Unfortunately I don’t carry that much in cash aboard the Lamp. If we were only in Ethugra . . .’

  ‘I’d never ask you for a loan,’ Cobul replied. ‘I’ll join the pit contest as soon as I can muster the fifty.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll pay the fifty,’ Maskelyne said.

  ‘I cannot accept,’ Cobul said. ‘It is too much.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Maskelyne said. ‘I plan to spend more than that on our lunch.’ He handed the official the amount in coins and collected a contestant’s ticket for the sorcerer. ‘Now, let’s see if any of my favourite restaurants are still standing.’

  As it turned out, none of them was. The Unmer monster had razed them all to the ground. Eventually they found a small place off one of the main shopping thoroughfares, where they ended up crammed into a corner table, drinking rather poor Awl valley wine while they waited on three plates of wild venison and creamed potatoes.

  Cobul was attracting glances from all the other patrons.

  Maskelyne observed this while he munched on breadsticks. ‘I suppose you’re the first sorcerer to come here in, what, two hundred and seventy years,’ he said to Cobul.

  ‘There were sorcerers in the ghetto,’ Cobul replied.

  ‘But they were in the ghetto,’ Maskelyne said. ‘Out of sight.’

  He watched Cobul carefully. ‘I expect Marquetta will pay them into the Lord’s List.’

  ‘Expect he will.’

  ‘The competition doesn’t bother you?’

  Cobul sipped his wine and then leaned back in his chair. He looked at the restaurant patrons and they looked back at him. ‘King Jonas hired me for a reason,’ he said. ‘He hired me despite my . . .’ He made a gesture, indicating his face.

  ‘Your what?’ Maskelyne said.

  ‘My race.’

  ‘Your father was Unmer, though? And a formidable sorcerer too, I imagine.’

  Cobul nodded. ‘You won’t have heard of him, Maskelyne.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Jian Cobul. I’m named after him.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He was an old Galean Brutalist,’ Cobul went on. ‘A veteran of Onlo. You know he washed up on the beach near my village? That’s true. At first he claimed that his captain had thrown him off the ship, but eventually he admitted that he’d simply got drunk and fallen overboard.’ The Bahrethroan sorcerer smiled. ‘He was unorthodox.’

  ‘A man after my own heart. He liked Bahrethroa so much he stayed.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I admit, I’m surprised I didn’t know the name. I thought I knew of all the great Brutalists.’

  Cobul finished his wine and helped himself to another. ‘I’m sure you know about the ones who wished to make their mark on history,’ he said. ‘My father wasn’t like that. He yearned for a quiet life, a family. He despised politics and war. But he loved the art of sorcery.’

  ‘What about you? What do you want?’

  Cobul sighed. ‘A quiet life, a family.’

  Maskelyne raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all,’ Cobul said. ‘But Fiorel will never leave me in peace. When he learns I have escaped, he will try to kill me.’

  ‘You’d better hope he isn’t in Losoto.’

  Cobul shrugged. ‘These gods are not so powerful,’ he said. ‘These entropaths, they try to make us believe that they’re omniscient. They seem . . .’ He shook his head. ‘They are masters of manipulation, people, events. They think, plan, so far ahead. They work out every little eventuality, every possible outcome. And most people never know they’ve been used, moved into place like chess pieces on a board. They think their actions are governed by their own desires. But they are not invincible. Conquillas proved that when he killed Duna.’

  Maskelyne thought about this. ‘You know, Cobul, something just occurred to me. The first thing our young Unmer prince did after he was freed was to challenge Conquillas to a fight in a public tournament. Furthermore, it also occurs to me that Conquillas will be expected to fight all sorts of other contestants before he faces Marquetta. Contestants from all over the world. Contestants of all sizes and shapes.’

  ‘You think this is Fiorel’s plan?’ Cobul said.

  ‘I can see how someone might find it a satisfying way to end the life of a legendary warrior. Argusto Conquillas the dragon lord, gut-stabbed by a nobody in a public arena.’ Maskelyne refilled the other two men’s glasses and then upended the empty bottle over his own, catching the last few drops. ‘Barkeep,’ he called out. ‘More wine.’

  The barkeep brought them another bottle of Awl valley red and set it down on the table. Granger, Mellor and Cobul leaned back in their seats while he poured. ‘You gentlemen here for the coronation?’ the barkeep asked.

  ‘What coronation?’ Maskelyne said.

  ‘Prince Marquetta,’ the barkeep said. ‘Tomorrow they’re going to crown him king of Anea.’

  ‘You don’t say?’

  The barkeep expressed disbelief. ‘It’s all everyone’s been talking about for weeks,’ he said. ‘That and the wedding. And the games to come.’ He beamed. ‘You really haven’t heard?’

  ‘Must have slipped my mind,’ Maskelyne remarked.‘Exciting times indeed.’

  ‘Certainly are.’

  ‘Now go away.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  The barkeep stared at Maskelyne for a moment. Then he put down the bottle, shook his head, and walked away.

  Mellor let out a sigh. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, sir? If you’re going to speak to the staff like that, will you please wait until after we’ve eaten.’

  ‘I can’t deal with cretins right now,’ Maskelyne said. He turned back to Cobul and lowered his voice. ‘Are you sure you still want to enter this tournament?’

  Cobul grinned. ‘More than ever now.’

  Ianthe’s wedding day dawned clear and blue, and she woke to the scent of marzipan and to the sound of birds chirruping outside the open windows. She sniffed the sweet-smelling air and wondered if it was her wedding cake. That was a good omen, she thought.

  The dresses she had chosen waited on wire-frame mannequins that stood in a line along the wall: a stunning glacier-blue frock for the coronation, and three different cream-coloured affairs for the wedding ceremony. She hadn’t yet decided which of these she would wear.

  A sudden fanfare of brass trumpets sounded, causing the birds outside to scatter in fright. Ianthe leaped from her bed and hurried across the room, her heart racing.

  Her balcony looked out across the uppermost districts of Losoto. The air was cool and fresh and the columns of smoke rising from so many chimneys hung in a single white pall above the rooftops. Slates gleamed as if they had been cleaned and polished. The harbour and city fort were hidden behind a plateau in the landscape, but she could see the Mare Lux in the distance – a flat, empty strip of brown. Oddly, its emptiness unnerved her. Had she expected it to be full of ships? Where was everyone?

  Panic gripped Ianthe’s heart. Had she missed the coronation ceremony entirely? Had they forgotten
to wake her in time? What about the wedding?

  The trumpets sounded again – a rousing chorus that seemed to Ianthe to be somewhere between a proclamation and a celebration. She ran across her balcony and leaned out so that she could see the clock tower that stood over the paper market.

  It was just before seven. She still had hours before the coronation.

  She wandered back inside and lay down on the bed, gazing up at the pale domed ceiling. She would be looking up at a different ceiling tonight, she supposed. She felt restless, frightened. She couldn’t back out now if she wanted to. Could she? And why would she want to? Here she was about to marry a king. A man more handsome than anyone she’d ever seen. A man who needed her more than anyone else ever had, whose power and status and freedom depended on her.

  She’d be foolish not to marry a man like that.

  She bathed and was ready for the trio of servant girls, who arrived shortly before nine to help her into the chosen frock. They told her of the crowds which had been massing outside the gates since dawn, and the great number of dignitaries, both Losotan and foreign, who were already waiting in the palace antechambers. They would bring Ianthe down to the throne room a few minutes before Prince Paulus and Duke Cyr of Vale made their appearance at around ten.

  A thought occurred to Ianthe. ‘Will the duke’s wife be there?’ she asked.

  The servants informed her that the Duchess Anaisy would not be present. She had remained in Awl.

  ‘But why did she stay?’ Ianthe asked, while they fastened the buttons on her back.

  ‘Duke Cyr did not call for her,’ one of the servants said.

  ‘He didn’t call for her?’ Ianthe asked. ‘But why?’

  ‘The duke worried that the voyage would tire her overly.’

  Ianthe allowed them to finish dressing her in silence.

  And so, shortly before ten, the servant girls led Ianthe downstairs to the throne room to await her king.

  The throne room was already full of people. Their murmurs died down as Ianthe entered and was shown to a bench at the back of the dais behind a golden throne that had once belonged to Emperor Hu. One of the servants remained with her, and the other two departed. Ianthe let her gaze wander over the assembled audience. Members of the Citizens of Losoto Representative Council stood immediately before and to the left of the dais, all dressed in their official robes of damson and black. Beside them waited a group of at least thirty warlords in savage regalia, each weighted down with gold chains and rings and metal and leather belts and cummerbunds bristling with scimitars and daggers. Paulus’s militia commanders stood next to them in plain military garb, along with the sea captains Raceme Athentro and Erasmus Howlish. Behind these honoured guests waited the refugees from the Ilena Grey: almost one thousand Unmer. They stood in solemn silence, their gaunt faces haunted, and it seemed to Ianthe that their brooding attire alluded both to their past and to a decision they had made about their future. The back of the hall surrendered its space to an equal number of Aneans. These were the wealthiest and most influential people on the peninsula, those whom the emperor had shielded from the Unmer. Now they stood behind a wall of those same Unmer.

  The door opened and Mr Greaves walked in, his shoes polished to a glassy shine, his footsteps echoing. He carried with him a black wooden stick. When he reached the front of the dais, he stopped and rapped the stick against the floor three times.

  ‘Honoured guests,’ he said. ‘I present Prince Paulus Marquetta and Duke Cyr of Vale.’

  Greaves bowed and withdrew. After a moment, a door at the rear of the throne room opened and Paulus entered beside Duke Cyr. There was no fanfare to accompany them. In silence they walked across the dais. Paulus sat on the throne while his uncle waited next to it.

  For a long moment Cyr let his gaze roam over the room. He took in the great arched windows and pillared walls and the high domed ceiling. Finally he regarded the assembled guests. ‘Many hundreds of years before the rise of Golden Domain,’ he said in a sonorous voice, ‘this great hall witnessed the coronation of the Unmer kings of old. Prince Paulus Marquetta will be the twenty-fourth sovereign to be crowned, and the first in this modern age to be crowned under this dome.’ He paused, letting his words resound around that great space while the crowd watched in silence, then he said, ‘The crown of Galea is gone, lost, melted down for its metal. However, the world today is unrecognizable from the one in which that crown was forged. And so it seems to us that its dissolution is fitting.’ Again he paused, perhaps to give his words impetus to travel beyond mere air. ‘Our king will have a new crown, one that speaks of both our past and our future together.’ He nodded to Greaves, who opened the same door through which they had passed.

  Ianthe felt a stab of jealousy when she saw whom they had chosen to bring forth her prince’s crown. In her gown of flowing silver links, Nera looked astonishingly beautiful. Ianthe could see every curve of the other girl’s body through the sheer metal cloth, and it momentarily forced her heart to clench. Nera’s golden hair had been lifted and bound with silver wire and diamonds so that it sparkled like stardust. She walked across the dais, holding the crown in both hands.

  The crown was made of broken glass. Ianthe could see that Nera’s hands were bleeding where she grasped it.

  Nera handed the crown to Cyr. She curtseyed to Paulus and then to the duke, and then faced Ianthe and curtseyed a third time, without making eye contact. The myriad chain links of her dress clinked against the stone floor. She seemed pale and unsteady, as if she were drunk or unwell. Ianthe noticed a drop of blood gather at the end of the girl’s finger and then fall to the floor.

  Duke Cyr lifted the crown in both hands. He turned to the guests and then raised it high above his head. ‘We Unmer often recount an old saying,’ he said. ‘Kordosi peli nagir seen hashent jian awar. In Anean it means: the land is the strength of his bones and the sea is the salt of his blood.’ Now he turned to face Paulus, whose violet eyes remained fixed ahead and inscrutable.

  ‘In this blood I hereby anoint Prince Paulus Marquetta, son of King Jonas the Summoner and Queen Hope Constance Lavern, grandson of King August the Seventh of Galea, great-grandson of King Roman the First of Onlo and so forth back along that noble line to the Blood of the Mage Arundel.’ The echoes of the duke’s words settled. ‘And so I, in lawful credence of the first royal law and right, in this holy durbar do rightfully crown this prince of the people.’ He set the crown upon Paulus’s head and then stepped back and sank to one knee before the throne.‘King Paulus the Tenth of Galea. King Paulus the First of Anea.’

  The Unmer cried out, ‘King Paulus.’

  This call was echoed, with a great deal more uncertainty and mumbling, by a number of the other guests, but finally the coughs and grumbles settled to an appropriate silence.

  Paulus rose from the throne. ‘The king will take a queen.’ He turned and extended a hand towards Ianthe.

  Ianthe’s heart hammered. She had been instructed in this part. She was to walk over and kneel before her king and pledge allegiance to him. And then she would take his hand and rise and stand beside him. And the duke would utter the words of ceremony and Ianthe would be queen of Anea.

  She did nothing.

  She merely stood there.

  She saw the expectation in his eyes turn to sudden concern, perhaps even a flicker of fear. The duke’s expression darkened. His glare was a warning. Do not do this. Still Ianthe stood there, her heart thumping wildly.

  ‘The king will take a queen,’ Paulus said again, more softly.

  Ianthe felt her tears begin to well.

  ‘Ianthe?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t.’

  Paulus and the duke exchanged a glance and it seemed to Ianthe that some unspoken communication passed between them. The newly crowned king of Anea gave his uncle an almost imperceptible nod.

  Unseen by anyone except Ianthe, Duke Cyr reached into the deep pocket of his robe and took something out. It was a small
silver sphere that looked vaguely familiar to Ianthe. Where had she seen something like that before? The sphere made a low chattering sound and Ianthe suddenly remembered. The same sphere had kept her father asleep for eleven days. What had they called it?

  A somnambulum?

  She remembered, just as sleep took her and the world went dark.

  As he strode towards the palace, Granger in his anger had lost count of the number of times he’d replicated himself in the same physical space inside his power armour. Hundreds, at least. The sword was sheathed at his hip, but he kept the pommel gripped in his right hand as he walked. He had been thinking about the wedding ceremony to come, letting his imagination replay events over and over again in his head, when he suddenly became aware of his footsteps shaking the streets. He had attained such a phenomenal mass that each step cracked the cobbles under his boots with a sound like thunder.

  People were staring out of windows at him. His armour emitted a furious buzz.

  Granger eased his grip on the replicating sword. He dispelled scores of copies of himself into oblivion, shedding mass until it returned to a more manageable level. The hum from his armour sounded much less stressed. Now he weighed no more, he presumed, than a small building.

  Nevertheless, he could hardly hope to go unnoticed. His footsteps still made more noise than a battalion of marching soldiers. His armour’s ever-shifting designs reflected light in strange ways, giving him a vaguely nacreous aura. And his brine-damaged face looked more ghoulish than ever.

  Crowds parted ahead of him.

  Even at the palace gates, the hundreds of people who had gathered there in the hope of glimpsing the royal bride and groom were quick to step aside to let Granger through. They reacted to his presence the way a shoal of fish reacts to a shark.

  The palace guards, however, had enough motive to stand firm. Evidently they were under orders to admit no one. They stood behind that garishly painted hedge and levelled their rifles at Granger. From their demeanour he could see that they were young and inexperienced – two of the militia Marquetta had recently employed. You kept your oldest soldiers near you and your freshest ones out watching the camp.