Herald of the Storm s-1

by Richard Ford

  ‘Amon Tugha sends his greetings,’ came a silken voice as the shadow turned to regard Massoum. The face was half hidden behind a cloth mask but the eyes were two golden pools, unmistakably Elharim. ‘I was sent here to watch over you, Massoum Am Kalhed Las Fahir Am Jadar Abbasi. To make sure you complete your task in one piece.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Massoum replied. ‘And my thanks to Amon Tugha.’

  ‘My lord and master does not require your thanks, but for the reward he has agreed he does demand your loyalty. An offer to betray him so quickly at the first sign of adversity might be seen as treacherous — might be rewarded with certain death. But luckily for you, my master is merciful.’

  Massoum was about to speak, to protest his innocence, to try to say he would have revealed nothing, even if tortured by the most merciless of King Cael’s inquisitors, but he knew the words would be worthless. This Elharim could see right through him and into his heart, that much was clear, so he merely bowed low, touching his finger to brow then lips.

  When he stood upright once more the Elharim assassin was gone, but Massoum knew he would not be very far away. Without a further glance at the corpses, Massoum made his way down the alley, eager to carry out his task.

  ONE

  Standing on top of the stool, she could see out of her open window, out across the city almost as far as Northgate. The sky was darkening outside, but the coming of night didn’t bring any relief from the unseasonable heat. The air was still and muggy, and enclosed as she was in so heavy and uncomfortable a gown her flesh was getting clammier with every laboured breath.

  ‘You’re fidgeting again,’ said Dore in his heavy Stelmornian accent.

  Janessa breathed in deeply, sucking in her waist just as he had ordered when this current bout of torture began, and went back to standing like a statue. Dore Tegue might well have been the best dressmaker in the Free States but surely she was the one suffering for his art.

  ‘How much longer?’ Janessa asked through gritted teeth.

  Dore stopped ministering to the silk brocade that adorned the front of the gown and took a step back, looking at her with an arrogantly raised eyebrow. ‘These things cannot be rushed. It takes as long as it takes. Would you like to be announced at the Feast in a threadbare gown or would you prefer to be the talk of the evening?’

  ‘Right now I’d settle for something that didn’t cut me in two,’ she muttered under her breath, but it was clear Dore heard. It was with a sharp exhalation through his wide nostrils that he went back to attacking the dress with needle and thread.

  Janessa glanced over to Graye, who was sitting on the sill next to the enormous window that looked out onto the city — a city of wonders, secrets and adventure that she had been forbidden to ever enter. Her lady-in-waiting had a sly smile on her face, maybe deriving some sadistic pleasure from Janessa’s discomfort, but that wouldn’t last long. Janessa was determined that her friend would suffer similar torment in her turn.

  A sudden sharp prick of pain in her thigh made Janessa flinch, squeal and almost fall from the stool.

  ‘Dore, what are you trying to do, fix the dress or cover me in pinholes?’

  ‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ Dore replied, holding up the offending needle innocently. ‘But you keep moving. How am I expected to work under these conditions?’

  He looked as forlorn as an artist forced to paint without easel or brush.

  ‘Oh, I’ve had enough of this for now.’ Janessa gathered up the heavy dress as she stepped from the stool, then wrenched out the band holding her long, red hair in a knot on her head, allowing it to fall about her shoulders in curling rivulets.

  ‘But my lady, I still have to fix the hem, gather in the bodice and finish the shirring on the sleeves.’

  ‘It can wait, Dore. If I have to spend one more second on that stool I’ll explode.’

  Petulantly Dore began to throw his scissors, bobbins, thimbles, yarn and needles into the various compartments of his small wooden tailor’s box. ‘I was treated like a lord in Stelmorn,’ he mumbled. ‘Ladies of refinement used to beat at my door, begging for the benefit of my skills, and here I am, reduced to little more than manservant. Prey to the whims of the ungrateful aristocracy. Whatever was I thinking?’

  With that he slammed his box shut, lifted his nose in the air and stormed towards the door.

  ‘You were most likely thinking about the money in my father’s coffers,’ said Janessa, before he could slam the door behind him.

  Graye began to laugh.

  ‘How many dressmakers does that make now?’ she said, smiling at Janessa who was still struggling within the confines of the huge, maroon-coloured gown.

  ‘Three … this month. Now will you stop grinning and help me out of this thing.’

  Graye giggled as she walked across the chamber and began to unlace the bodice.

  ‘You’re going to have to suffer through a fitting sooner or later,’ she said as she struggled with the lace bows. ‘The Feast is in less than a week.’

  ‘I know. But it’s just so tiresome, and see what I have to wear.’ She wriggled out of the dress and let it fall to the floor. ‘I look like a cake. I should at least be able to choose the colour.’

  ‘And what would you pick? Something blood red or jet black, I’d wager.’

  Janessa smiled. ‘Wouldn’t that be something? Imagine their faces when I walked in.’

  ‘Yes, and imagine your father’s when he found out.’

  Janessa turned to Graye with a frown. ‘Must you pour water on every flame of an idea?’

  ‘One of us has to be sensible. The king has enough to concern him without you causing a stir whenever you get the chance. Sooner or later you’ll have to face up to your responsibilities.’

  Janessa turned towards the window, fighting back a sudden stab of sadness. Graye hadn’t meant any harm, she knew, but reminders of her obligations grew ever more insistent and sometimes she just wanted to forget. It was not a responsibility she had been born to, and certainly not one she desired. She was simply not meant to be queen. Janessa had been last in line to the throne after her brother and sister, before the plague had sent them to an early grave along with her mother. Now she alone bore the burden of succession, and that responsibility weighed all too heavily on her shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Graye, placing a hand on her arm, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘I know,’ Janessa replied, turning to her friend and trying to smile. ‘It just wasn’t supposed to be this way. Drake and Lisbette were the ones brought up to this, the ones who were taught the airs and graces. The ones born to rule.’

  ‘And you were always the wild one. I was there, remember.’

  This brought a smile to Janessa’s lips. Graye had always been there, her constant companion, and could share her pain, for she too had lost her family to the plague. Her parents had fallen victim early and, with the death of Lord and Lady Daldarrion, Graye had come to live at Skyhelm, the palace of King Cael Mastragall. Having her as a close friend had been the only thing that helped Janessa through that terrible time, when the Sweet Canker had claimed almost a quarter of the Free States.

  Sweet Canker. It sounded like a flower or one of the exotic foreign perfumes her mother had liked so much, but it was a name that struck fear into the hearts of every man, woman and child, not caring whom it took from beggar to king. Coming from nowhere, it had descended upon the Free States like a killer in the night. There was nothing ‘sweet’ about it. Once afflicted, death came in a feverish nightmare, with the phantom odour of cinnamon and clove assailing the nostrils. That was where the name came from — someone’s idea of a joke perhaps. No one was laughing.

  ‘Well I’m not wild any more,’ said Janessa, trying to shake herself from her malaise. ‘Now I am a lady at court, heir to the throne, the woman who would be queen.’ She began to prance around the room mocking the graceful gait of the sycophantic courtiers she had so recently been forced to mix with.

 
Graye laughed again. ‘You’ve hardly changed, have you? You’re still more suited to riding like a man and climbing trees than refinement and public engagements. How will your father ever marry you off?’

  Janessa looked pointedly at Graye. Her lady in waiting realised her mistake and the easy smile fell from her face.

  ‘You’ll have to come to terms with it sooner or later,’ Graye said. ‘It’s not going to go away.’

  ‘No,’ Janessa replied, glancing towards the window, a sudden mad plan coming to mind. ‘But maybe we could go away. Perhaps we could run, far from here, far from this prison.’

  ‘And go where? We couldn’t go anywhere in the Free States; we’d be found by the Wardens in no time. Would you rather we crossed the seas to Dravhistan where they treat their women like servants, or perhaps head north to the steppes where the Khurtas would use us as whores.’

  ‘Graye!’

  ‘It’s true. You do say the silliest things sometimes. If your father were here-’

  ‘He’s not here, is he, Graye.’

  ‘No, he’s not. He’s with the army on our northern borders, ready to defend our country from invaders. He’s carrying out his duty to his people. Perhaps it’s time you did the same.’

  ‘Sometimes you can be such a bore,’ Janessa said, but deep down she knew her friend was right. Graye was so often the voice of sanity, but sometimes it was the hardest voice to hear.

  The most northerly of the Free States, Dreldun, had been invaded by a massive warhost of Khurtas; savages from the northern steppes. Dreldun was in ruins; its populace, only recently recovered from the horrors of the Sweet Canker, had been put to the sword and flame. The city of Steelhaven was filling with refugees from Dreldun and other provinces, desperate to escape the invasion. In response to the atrocity, King Cael had taken the massed armies of the Free States north to meet the enemy.

  They called her father the Uniter: he had brought together the disparate kingdoms of the Free States under one banner when they were facing an invasion force of Aeslanti beast-men from the south. That incursion had ended in their victory, but now King Cael faced a greater threat: the tribes of the Khurtas were said to be allied under their own warlord, a warrior from the Riverlands of the far north. Amon Tugha, an immortal Elharim, cast out by his own people, had now come south to claim a kingdom for himself, and Steelhaven would be his ultimate prize. Only the king and his united armies stood in the way.

  And there was the cause of all her problems. Despite King Cael’s power and the loyalty he demanded, the alliance of the Free States was still a fragile one. The king was not a young man, and he always led from the front in battle, contrary to the advice of his generals. If he were killed, the treaties binding the Free States might well collapse, which would be disastrous. Janessa had to be married off as soon as possible, to a noble of one of the major provinces. Their alliance would seal the union of Free States for decades, the legacy perpetuated by their children. It was something that Janessa was only slowly coming to terms with.

  There was a heavy knock at the door. Before Janessa could answer — or even cover her modesty, standing as she was in her white cotton petticoat — the door opened.

  Odaka Du’ur was so tall that to enter he needed to stoop beneath the lintel. His purple robe was patterned with yellow and gold thread depicting stylised birds and intersecting swirls and branches. Astrological symbols surrounded the hem and cuffs and circled the base of the small round hat that adorned his head, adding inches to his already towering frame. But his outlandish attire was not the most striking feature of this man, for his skin was a gleaming black, marking him as native to the continent of Equ’un, far beyond the southern borders of the Free States. It was rare indeed to find any such foreigners in the Teutonian Free States, but this man was known to everyone at the court of King Cael Mastragall, for this was his most trusted counsellor, and in the king’s absence the current regent.

  Odaka bowed his head. ‘My lady,’ he said, his deep voice rumbling like a bass horn. He ignored Graye, as ever choosing not to acknowledge those he considered beneath him.

  ‘To what do I owe this intrusion?’ Janessa responded, not even trying to conceal herself further. If Odaka had the temerity to enter her chamber unannounced she would not grant him the satisfaction of showing that it bothered her.

  ‘I’ve just passed your dressmaker on his way out. He looked quite consternated. Has there been any kind of … problem?’

  ‘No. No problem at all,’ Janessa lied, but she saw Odaka’s eyes flit to the dress left in a pile on the floor. He walked forward, stooping and picking up the garment.

  ‘I see there clearly has.’ He tried vainly to shake the creases from the fabric. ‘How many dressmakers does that make now?’

  ‘Is it three?’ said Graye, as though her answer might win her some sort of prize.

  Janessa stifled a laugh. Odaka ignored her.

  ‘My lady, I do not think I have to remind you of the importance of the coming Feast of Arlor and your presence at it. I cannot stress enough how essential it is that you look your best. It will mean much to your father, not to mention the future of the kingdom.’

  ‘If you’re referring to my being ogled and prodded like a mare in season before being gifted to the prize stallion, then yes, I am well aware of my role, Odaka. I don’t need reminding of the sacrifices I am making for my country.’

  Odaka narrowed his eyes, and Janessa could see a sudden flash of anger there. She had to admit it frightened her, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

  ‘We are all servants of the Crown, my lady, and some of us must make greater sacrifices than others.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ And what have your sacrifices been, Odaka? she thought, trying to disguise her disdain. What have you given up in service to my father, other than the savage plains of the southern continent and the dangers of the wild? You seem to have done pretty well for yourself, all things considered.

  ‘You need not worry, my lady; they say Duke Logar’s heir is a very handsome young man. Broad shouldered and well educated. I am sure he would make a very fine husband.’

  ‘Why don’t you marry him then, Odaka. You’re free to take the dress too.’ She gestured to the maroon monstrosity the regent still held in his big hands.

  Odaka took a deep breath, this time not showing any anger, but rather disappointment. Janessa realised she was being petulant and demanding, behaviour she had seen in other nobles over the years and hated, but she simply couldn’t help the way she felt. Arranged marriages might be fine for the nobility in general, but not for her. Lisbette, her older sister, had always been paraded in front of visiting nobles while Janessa could fade into the background unnoticed. She was the errant younger sister, the flame-haired wolf of the family, allowed to run rampant and play rough. Now all that was changed and she felt flung centre stage like the star turn in a travelling show. It didn’t suit her, and she was determined to tell anyone who would listen how much she hated it.

  ‘I will arrange for another dressmaker to visit you tomorrow,’ Odaka said, laying the dress across his forearm.

  ‘As you wish,’ she replied, feeling defeated by his calmness. Her attempts to provoke him appeared to have failed, and she couldn’t help but admire him a little for that.

  ‘My lady,’ Odaka said with a final bow before leaving the chamber.

  ‘That could have been worse,’ said Graye once the large oak door had shut behind him.

  ‘I’m not afraid of Odaka Du’ur,’ Janessa replied, though she wasn’t sure whether she believed her own words. ‘The only thing I’m looking forward to when I’m queen is ridding Skyhelm of his influence. I have no idea why my father keeps him around. A foreigner as regent? Why did he even consider such a thing?’

  ‘Your father trusts him, and he hasn’t been wrong so far.’

  ‘My father trusts anyone who’s loyal to him, and Odaka certainly makes all the right noises in that department. He saved my father’s life whe
n they fought the Aeslanti, or so Garret says, but there’s still something I don’t like about him.’

  ‘The fact that he’s a foreigner? Or the fact that he has your father’s ear?’

  ‘That has nothing to do with it. My father can have any advisers he wants, but if he thinks they can order me around when he’s not here, he has another think coming.’

  ‘So you won’t be meeting with Duke Logar’s son then?’

  ‘I will do as I please and speak to whom I wish.’

  Despite Janessa’s protestation Graye couldn’t wipe a wicked smile off her face.

  ‘I’m sure you will — but they do say he’s very handsome.’ Graye jutted out her jaw and crossed her eyes, giving her pretty face a ridiculously thuggish appearance. ‘And he’s broad shouldered, remember.’ She began to stride around the chamber like a bowlegged ape, which provoked peals of laughter from Janessa.

  ‘When Duke Logar’s son comes to court I will be the perfect lady,’ said Janessa, finally composing herself. ‘And I’m sure he will be the perfect noble; talking about swords and hunting and war, and I’ll be bored but shan’t show it and then he’ll kiss my hand and that will be that.’

  ‘What will be what?’

  ‘Then I’ll be betrothed.’ As soon as she spoke the words, she realised that despite all their joking, it was the only conclusion there could ever be.

  ‘You’d better let me carry the wedding train,’ said Graye.

  ‘You and Odaka can do it together,’ Janessa replied.

  They both laughed at that.

  But all Janessa could think was that her future had been mapped, the ship set sail, and no matter what she did to steer there was nothing she could ever do to influence its course.

  TWO

  The Temple of Autumn stood on the second highest promontory in Steelhaven, only eclipsed in majesty by the royal palace of Skyhelm and in height by the Tower of Magisters. It rose like a stone monolith from the bare rock, its yellow granite walls as stark and forbidding as any great citadel. On its northern bastion stood the massive statue of Arlor, the Windhammer, the Wild One, Great Protector of all the Teutonian Tribes, on whose shoulders it was said the Free States had been built. Rising from its southern bastion, guarding Arlor’s back and watching for danger from the Midral Sea, was the statue of Vorena. She stood tall and proud, grasping spear and shield, her plumed helm rising towards the blue sky.