The Art of Hunting

by Alan Campbell

  One of them sneered and said, ‘Get back to whatever sea you crawled out of.’

  Granger lowered the faceplate of his helmet.

  And then his fist tightened on the pommel of the replicating sword. With his free hand he gripped the iron gates and pushed. The massive iron bolts began to bend. The guards opened fire, riddling Granger’s breastplate and helmet with bullets. His entropic armour merely absorbed the energy from each impact and turned it into power.

  Unable to withstand Granger’s sorcerous strength, one of the gate hinges burst from the stone pillars in a puff of dust. Iron bolts sheared, one after the other. Pang, pang, pang. A second hinge went. With a great rending and groaning of metal, the gates buckled and then toppled inwards.

  Granger tossed the wrecked and twisted metal aside and walked up the palace driveway, doing his best to ignore the bullets constantly rattling off his armour.

  Every horse carriage in Losoto must have been present on that driveway. The drivers had a hard time keeping their panicked beasts under control as Granger marched past. He sounded like an earthquake. The heels of his boots struck the bricks underfoot like massive hammer blows. The etchings on his armour continually shifted and re-formed. Behind him, the gate guards had exhausted their ammunition and ran to raise the alarm.

  A bell began to toll frantically.

  Granger kicked open the palace doors and strode inside. He found himself in a grand entranceway filled with vases of flowers. The floral decorations continued along a central corridor – the route, he presumed, that guests would follow. Granger followed it now, the walls shuddering at the noise of his footfalls. Servants fled at the sight of him. More palace guards came running, drawn by the gunfire, but these were no more experienced than those outside. Farmers, fishermen, shopkeepers, Granger thought. They unloaded their rifles into his armour, and when that didn’t stop him they had no plan but simply to do the same again.

  He marched onwards through a hail of bullets. Vases shattered on either side of him. Petals skirled in the air.

  He reached another set of doors and kicked them open.

  The throne room was vast and crowded with people – both Anean and Unmer. As Granger walked in, the crowds backed away, revealing a raised dais at the far end of the room.

  Marquetta was on his knees beside the throne, holding an unconscious Ianthe in his arms.

  Granger lifted his faceplate. ‘What’s happened to her?’ he cried, striding forward. Aneans and Unmer crowded back from him as he approached. ‘What have you done?’

  Marquetta looked up with surprise. But his expression immediately turned hostile. ‘How dare you . . .?’

  But Duke Cyr laid a hand upon the young man’s shoulder. Then he came hurrying forward, his hands raised in a placatory manner. ‘Colonel Granger, your daughter has been poisoned. We must act now to save her.’

  ‘Poisoned?’

  Cyr waved a hand at two pageboys standing nearby. ‘The satchel in my quarters,’ he said. ‘Fetch it now. Hurry.’

  As the pageboys disappeared, Granger stepped up on the dais and strode over to Ianthe. Her face was very pale, but she appeared to be breathing. ‘Back up,’ he said to the prince. Marquetta rose slowly and stepped back. Granger knelt down by his daughter’s side. He couldn’t feel for her pulse with these gauntlets on, so he listened at her lips. There was a faint stir of breath.

  ‘She’s alive,’ the prince said, ‘but not by much.’

  Granger looked up at him. ‘Pulse?’

  ‘Faint.’

  Granger scooped her up in his arms. Compared to his relative mass she weighed nothing. He turned to Duke Cyr.‘Where are her quarters?’ he said. ‘Show me.’

  ‘The servants—’ Cyr began.

  ‘Send someone. Tell them to meet us there.’

  Marquetta and Cyr led Granger through the palace. They hurried along several grand marble corridors and then ascended a private stairwell and came to Ianthe’s quarters moments before the pageboys arrived with Cyr’s satchel. Cyr waved them away. Granger carried Ianthe inside and set her down on a settee.

  Cyr opened the satchel and took out a small sharkskin wallet. The interior was cushioned with velvet and held a dozen pins, each with a different coloured jewel in its head. Cyr selected a dark blue pin and wafted it gently before Ianthe’s open mouth, as though testing the air coming from her lungs. The jewel changed from blue to clear. Cyr frowned. He replaced the pin in its cushion and selected one with a lighter blue jewel. This time, when he waved it in front of Ianthe’s mouth, the colour did not alter.

  Cyr lifted Ianthe’s hand, turned it so her wrist faced him, and slid the pin up under the skin of her palm. Ianthe shivered slightly, but she didn’t open her eyes.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Granger said. ‘Why isn’t she waking?’

  Cyr held her wrist between his finger and thumb. ‘Nothing is wrong,’ he said. ‘I’ve slowed her heartbeat to stop the poison spreading. It’ll give us more time to figure out what it is.’

  ‘Then she’s not safe?’

  The duke shook his head. ‘She won’t die while she’s in stasis. But she won’t recover without the antidote. We need to know which poison Conquillas has used on her.’

  Granger stared at his daughter. ‘Conquillas did this?’

  ‘Who else?’ Cyr said. ‘He said he would kill anybody who stood in his way. With Ianthe out of the way, he is free to enter the tournament without risk of psychic attack.’ He scratched his head. ‘We’ll start making antidotes to the most common substances . . . gravere, inkgrass, fox birch, the ones used in hunting and so on, but I’m not optimistic. Conquillas has a penchant for more exotic toxins.’

  ‘How did he get to her?’ Granger said.

  Cyr shrugged. ‘An agent of his, perhaps . . .’

  Granger couldn’t contain his rage. He seized Marquetta by the front of his tunic. ‘You let this happen to her . . .’

  Marquetta’s face twisted with fury. He grabbed Granger’s arm. His fingertips sparked and slid across the surface of the strange alloy. When he realized he could not decreate the entropic armour, he reached for Granger’s open faceplate.

  Granger slugged him.

  Marquetta crumpled to the floor, then looked up, aghast. ‘I am King of Anea,’ he cried.

  ‘Be thankful I didn’t break your neck.’

  Duke Cyr had raised his hands again. ‘My lords, please,’ he said. ‘This violence serves no purpose. The girl lies on the edge of death. Your fiancée, your daughter . . .’ He glanced between Marquetta and Granger. ‘We must condemn Conquillas’s actions as those of a coward, shame him, force him to reveal what poison he used.’

  Granger glared at the young man on the floor, then turned his attention to the duke. ‘I know where to find Conquillas,’ he said. ‘Or at least I know how to flush him out. He’ll answer for this.’

  Cyr exchanged a glance with his nephew.

  ‘Look after her,’ Granger said.

  Cyr smiled. ‘I will do my utmost to ensure she comes back to us,’ he said.

  The road to the Halls of Anea was packed with spectators and combatants, far more than could be housed at the only inn nearby, but Maskelyne had sent a rider ahead of them to try to secure them rooms at any price. He had no intention of staying at the tent city that had sprung up around the entrance to that fabled ruin.

  They were lounging in the rear of a carriage, clopping along the busy forest track, with their driver shouting obscenities at those on foot and telling them to get out of the way, when an excited rider came past from the city, crying out the news that Argusto Conquillas had poisoned the king’s fiancée.

  Maskelyne called out to the man, and offered him a gilder to elucidate. ‘What sort of poison?’ he asked.

  ‘Nobody knows,’ the rider said. ‘She’s at death’s door.’

  ‘And how was it administered?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘But Conquillas has admitted the deed?’

  ‘No one
has heard from Conquillas,’ the rider said. ‘He’s still in hiding.’

  ‘Then how do we know it was him?’

  ‘The news is from the palace, sir,’ the man replied. ‘From King Paulus himself.’

  ‘So nobody knows anything,’ Maskelyne remarked.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Including you.’

  The man frowned.

  Maskelyne gave him a dismissive wave. ‘Elucidate means expound and clarify,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t mean sit there and waste our time. I’m keeping my gilder. I suggest you leave before my friend here roasts your liver with a look.’

  The rider glanced from Maskelyne to the tattooed sorcerer beside him. He seemed about to say something, then closed his mouth again, evidently changing his mind. He flicked his horse’s reins and disappeared off along the track.

  Cobul said, ‘Roast his liver?’

  ‘You see?’ Maskelyne said. ‘You’re well on the way to repaying me the ticket cost already. I’m finding your presence financially beneficial, Cobul. And that’s before I’ve placed a single bet.’

  ‘It doesn’t strike me as the sort of thing Conquillas would do,’ he said. ‘Poison, I mean. It’s not his style.’

  ‘A coward’s weapon,’ Maskelyne agreed. ‘And the dragon lord is certainly not that.’

  ‘You think the Haurstaf engineered this?’

  Maskelyne rubbed his chin and peered out into the forest, where the afternoon sunlight lit patches of mossy ground between the trees. ‘Not Briana Marks,’ he said. ‘She couldn’t engineer a splash from a puddle in her current state.’Who else then? Some other surviving Guild member? One of the prince’s own psychics? He noted that the rider had not referred to Ianthe as the queen. Had the girl had second thoughts about her marriage?

  He chuckled to himself. ‘I wonder if Marquetta and Cyr still plan to enter the tournament,’ he said. ‘Despite their present vulnerability.’

  ‘I don’t see that they have a choice,’ Cobul muttered.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose they do,’ Maskelyne agreed.

  Granger returned, to find Siselo humming merrily to herself among all the stalactites and golden clutter. She was preparing dinner on a strange device that appeared to consist of a cone of red-hot stone placed in a brass tripod. Steam rose from the iron pot. Whatever she was cooking smelled vaguely fishy, and not particularly pleasant.

  ‘Where is he?’ he said.

  She turned, smiling, but when she saw the expression on his face, her smile vanished. ‘You mean my father?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘What makes you think he’s here yet?’

  ‘I know he’s in Losoto. Where is he?’

  She was silent a moment, then said, ‘I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ she said.‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’

  Granger strode over towards her. ‘Your father poisoned my daughter.’

  ‘No he didn’t!’

  He kept walking. ‘I want to speak with him, now, Siselo.’

  She backed away from the stove. ‘My father wouldn’t poison anyone. It’s a coward’s weapon.’

  A voice behind him said, ‘Colonel Thomas Granger.’

  Granger turned to find the dragon lord,Argusto Conquillas, standing in one of the many doorways into the cavern. He was dressed in beggar’s rags and wore a wrap of some filthy material around his neck, but there could be no mistaking his sharp, angular features or violet eyes. His long grey hair had been woven into a plait that hung down his back. In one hand he held a slender bow fashioned from bone. His fingers clamped a notched arrow to the grip, keeping it taut against the drawstring. He sniffed and said, ‘You have deteriorated somewhat since our last meeting. Please accept my condolences for your recent death.’

  ‘Father!’ Siselo ran over and flung her arms around him.

  Granger’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword. ‘I want the name of the poison, Conquillas,’ he said. ‘The antidote, if you have it available.’

  Conquillas regarded him for a moment longer. Then he crouched beside Siselo. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Ygrid brought us,’ she said. ‘We came to warn you.’

  ‘We?’ He glanced at Granger.

  She was flustered, excited. ‘I knew you’d show up here eventually. I remembered to follow the marks. You’re in terrible danger. Marquetta or Cyr – one of them has summoned Fiorel to fight you at this—’

  ‘Did he harm you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. An entropath is here in Losoto, father. An entropath! He must be disguised—’

  Granger interrupted her. ‘Conquillas,’ he growled, his hand now closing on the hilt of the replicating sword. ‘I want the name of the poison.’ As he spoke, he felt the sword phantoms flutter into existence within him, increasing his mass, forcing the entropic armour to tremble and growl as it strained to augment the sorcery of the sword.

  ‘He thinks you poisoned his daughter,’ Siselo said. ‘You have to tell him you didn’t do it.’

  Conquillas rose to his feet again, his eyes fixed on Granger. ‘I heard news of your daughter’s misfortune,’ he said. ‘However, I can assure you I did not poison the girl.’

  ‘Liar.’

  The dragon lord’s brow furrowed over his piercing stare. ‘I do not lie,’ he said. ‘Nor do I harm innocents. I give you my word, as Argusto Conquillas former lord of Herica and the Sumran Islands and of Peregrello Sentevadro . . . I give you my word as an Unmer noble and as a father. I did not do this.’

  ‘Then who did?’ Granger said.

  ‘No one did, Colonel Granger.’ He absently placed a hand on Siselo’s head and ruffled her hair. ‘I do not believe she’s poisoned at all.’

  Granger took a step towards the dragon lord. He heard the armour whine as it strained under the massive weight of his replicates. Rainbows danced across the surface of the metal. ‘Explain yourself,’ he said.

  ‘The word is that she refused Marquetta’s hand in marriage,’ Conquillas said. ‘Had you arrived at the ceremony earlier you would have witnessed this yourself.’

  ‘She rejected him?’

  The dragon lord nodded. ‘I imagine they have put her to sleep while they try to resolve this problem. There are devices to achieve this, common enough.’

  Granger knew them well enough. He had personal experience of such devices. ‘They can’t force her to marry him,’ he said. ‘And they can’t keep her asleep for ever.’

  ‘No,’ Conquillas admitted. ‘And if they can’t have a queen with her powers, they must settle for someone who appears to be a queen with her powers.’

  ‘The shape-shifter?’

  ‘Fiorel is here to ensure the Unmer’s survival,’ Conquillas said. ‘As a simulacrum of Ianthe, he would not possess her powers, but merely present the illusion that she still lives. And that might be enough to keep their enemies away until an heir is born to take his place.’

  ‘An heir?’

  ‘Your daughter need not be awake to conceive, or to give birth.’

  Granger let out a growl of anger. ‘I’m going to bring her here,’ he said, turning to go.

  ‘Wait,’ Conquillas said. ‘She’s safe where she is for now. Fiorel might assume her identity, but they cannot kill her until she gives Marquetta his heir.’

  Granger hesitated.

  ‘Rescuing her now would only reveal how much you know of their plans.’

  Granger ground his teeth. ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘We kill Fiorel,’ Conquillas said.

  ‘How? How do we kill a god?’

  The archer shrugged. ‘With bow and sword,’ he said.

  The pit battles were set to run for three days before the main tournament. By the time Marquetta’s detachment of militia arrived to open the gates to Segard, a sizeable temporary settlement had already grown around the underground city. Tents spread out through several hundred yards of forest behind the Segard View – a rambling wooden mansion built a hundred
years before to cash in on curious Losotans come to see the fabled Unmer ruin. By the tumbledown look of the place, Maskelyne decided there hadn’t been that many of them. No doubt Hu’s sealing the gates hadn’t helped business.

  The rooms he had secured for Mellor, Cobul and himself on the second floor were probably worth about a hundredth of the price he’d been forced to pay for them, but it was either that or sleep under canvas. So it was with a profound sense of satisfaction that he noted the rainclouds gathering overhead. Maskelyne wiped the grime and condensation off his window and peered out at smoke from a hundred campfires drifting amidst the trees. ‘At the rate they’re going through wood, out there,’ he said, ‘there won’t be any forest left by dawn.’

  ‘Maybe then we’ll get a view of the Segard Gate,’ Mellor retorted. ‘There ought to be a law against innkeepers making false claims.’

  ‘Just innkeepers?’

  ‘Whores, too.’

  ‘That’s one story I do not want to hear, Mr Mellor.’

  The Segard Gate was located a few hundred yards further up the hillside behind the inn. Maskelyne had yet to go out and see it for himself, but he’d heard enough to learn that there wasn’t much to see – a square stone portal four times as tall as a man, set into a muddy slope. The king’s workmen had been clearing earth and rubble from it for weeks and it was only three days ago that they’d finally pushed the massive doors wide and ventured inside.

  The ruins were intact, the arenas preserved.

  That had been the talk over lunch in the Segard View restaurant. The great dark halls inside the mountain were not only still there, but their greatness and their darkness had been perfectly preserved. Royal officials had been bringing in cartloads of gem lanterns to light the arenas, and merchants had been setting up stalls in the surrounding halls and corridors.

  Their new king had yet to officially open the Halls of Anea – as the arena district of Segard had always been known – but Maskelyne felt certain that he would make an appearance soon, if only to show his subjects that Ianthe’s poisoning had not rattled him. The show must go on. But, given that the first round of fights was scheduled to start in less than an hour, he had expected the boy to turn up before now.