Since he was out on the Idryn, he decided to swing by someone, who, if not really a friend, could be described as a compatriot. For while all Heng knew there were five city mages in the Protectress’s employ, what those five knew was that, in truth, there were far more than that. He idled for a time close to the shore of the muddy ochre course that was the Idryn here on its slow way to Cawn and the Bay of Nap. After tracing the flats among the shadows beneath the wharves high overhead, he spotted a hunched shape seated on a rock amid the mud, bare feet caked in the green-grey muck, hair a frighteningly tangled mass. The shape was hardly recognizable as female, but he knew her. She was holding up one of the exceptionally large Idryn crayfish by one claw.
‘Ho! Liss!’ he called.
The old woman peered up, squinting. ‘Who’s there? Is that that slick and smarmy fellow?’
Silk raised his eyes to the wood decking above. ‘Must we, Liss?’
She made a show of addressing the crayfish. ‘Why does he wear that hollow pretty mask?’ She held the creature to her ear. ‘No! Not that monstrous, surely!’
‘Thank you, Liss. I’m sure the crayfish are full of insights.’
‘They are full of Hengan citizens – I’ll tell you that!’
He rubbed his chin. ‘Well . . . I’ll have to give you that one.’
‘Come to drop the mask, Silk?’
Smiling, he shook his head. ‘Just a greeting. On my way to see Ho.’
She shook the crayfish like a warning finger. ‘Watch out for Hothalar, my friend. He is a haunted man.’
Silk bowed in answer to the warning. Liss, he knew, went far back here in Heng. The sluggish current dragged him onward.
‘Have a care,’ she shouted. ‘I see trouble ahead.’
‘What? The Kanese?’
‘No. Send King Chulalorn my way and I’ll squeeze the ambition out of him – along with all his seed! No, something else.’
‘What?’
She called back, ‘Don’t know. Something sly, hidden. I see it in the corner of my eye.’ Silk bowed again in answer to the warning as the figure disappeared among the forest of pilings.
Later that afternoon he found the gated access, magically disguised in the dark under the decking and raised walkways. He drew up his dugout, and, with extreme distaste, squelched his way through the muck to the entrance, and unlatched the iron grating.
Many tunnels and rickety ladders later, he was within the stonewalled catacombs. In the utter dark, he summoned his Warren and a tiny flame flickered to life upon his upturned palm. It gave no heat, of course, just illumination, as Thyr was his Warren. Many, he knew, assumed that he was a mage of Mockra – one specializing in what some named the art of glamour. But in fact his allure came naturally rather than deliberately. Or perhaps he did somehow innately draw upon Mockra. He didn’t know. What he could do, however, through his years of discipline and study, was touch this one Warren of Thyr and even, in moments of his greatest inspiration, catch glimpses of a wellspring of might that lay beyond it.
The tunnel was a narrow semicircle of crudely dressed sandstone blocks. Narrow, but tall. Rats scampered from his light. He stilled, listening. All he heard was his heartbeat and water dripping. He picked a direction and followed it.
Beams of light streamed down here and there, illuminating short stretches of the anonymous stone tunnels. A stream of cascading water flooded one intersection. He stepped carefully through puddles for some time after that. At one point he thought he glimpsed a human figure moving among the shifting shadows and would have dismissed it as just such another but for a faint tapping that seemed to accompany the blurry disturbance.
‘Hello?’
The rippling, shifting darkness that might or might not be an actual person turned at a corner. Silk found the junction and cast his sorcerous light beyond. The tunnel lay completely empty and utterly quiet. He snorted at his overworked imagination and moved on, coming at last to a gate of very thick iron bars. It was locked and there was no way he could open it. However, the bars were quite far apart and he was very slim. He almost tore an ear off, but he made it through. His shirt was now frankly ruined, as were his trousers of fine imported Darujhistani silk. He brushed at his clothes, cursing Ho, then carried on. A few turns later he came to a tunnel faced by a series of iron doors. He studied the flagged floor. The dust was disturbed. Someone walked here regularly. He listened at the nearest door. All was quiet. Eerily so, as he was so far underground. Yet he thought he heard something. Movement.
‘Hello?’ he whispered.
The door struck him in the side of his head as something rammed or punched it from within. He staggered away, holding his head, cursing again. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, ears ringing and head throbbing.
‘Lar!’ came in an animal-like growl. Or some sound resembling that. ‘Lar, Lar, Lar!’
‘Lar? Lar who?’
‘What are you doing here?’ a new voice rumbled from far down the tunnel.
Silk spun, hunching, his Warren readied. A dark shape came shambling up. It filled the tunnel completely from side to side and top to bottom – the giant form of Koroll. Silk straightened, eased the knot of tension in his shoulders and neck. ‘Greetings,’ he offered.
‘It is dangerous here,’ Koroll murmured, his voice low. He waved Silk back up the tunnel. ‘Come.’
Koroll unlocked the barred gate and had Silk shut it behind him. Then the giant led him on through the maze.
Another door, this one a stone slab two hand-lengths thick, opened on to a much wider and taller complex of stone-walled tunnels. Silk found that he could now walk next to Koroll as the Thelomen-kind giant slowly strode along, rather like a rocking shack. ‘What was all that back there?’ he asked.
‘A prison.’
‘Yes. I gathered that. For whom? Or what?’
‘Things dangerous to Heng. Things that over the centuries Shalmanat has been forced to subdue.’
Silk felt the hairs of his arms and neck prickling as he considered this. Ye gods! Centuries! And what things might lie in those cells? Daemons? Creatures of other realms? Perhaps even murderous fellow mages . . . Silk shook himself as the cold subterranean air left him feeling chill and clammy.
Koroll led him into a broad chamber, round and dome-roofed, rather like some sort of ancient tomb. Silk was alarmed to hear chains – the reverberation of very large chains clunking and thumping in the dark. Reflexively, he raised the power of his light, revealing a tall block of stone at the chamber’s centre and his fellow city mage Mister Ho at its side.
Ho crossed his thick arms. His scowl had turned even more wary than usual. ‘What brings you down here, Silk?’
‘The view,’ Silk answered, absently. His gaze rose to where an equally large block of stone hung suspended over the first. It was held there by numerous thick chains all extending off into the dark where stone counterweights waited. A single chain led up into the gloom of the hidden roof, and there Silk thought he caught a faint glimmer of light. ‘What is this?’
‘A work in progress.’
The block was far wider and longer than any man. Silk rose on to his tiptoes to peer over the top. It was hollow, with thick sides. It resembled, to all appearances, an enormous . . . sarcophagus. As the thought came, Silk flinched away. What might it once have held? He shot a glance to Ho – one just as wary as his. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Preparing a prison.’
‘A prison? For whom?’ And the answer came as he asked and Silk’s hand went to his mouth. ‘No . . . it will never work.’
Ho sent a dark glance to Koroll. The look seemed to say Why did you bring this asshole here? Koroll sighed and grasped his staff in both hands, resting his weight there. Ho cleared his throat. ‘What do you want, Silk?’
Silk dropped his hand. ‘Help. I want help tracking someone down.’
Ho grunted his understanding of the request. ‘The assassin you mentioned?’
‘Yes. He’s good. Better than most who�
��ve tried to set up shop here.’
Ho brushed a hand along the glittering granite wall of the sarcophagus. ‘Not my specialty. Nor Mara or Smokey.’ He grunted a dry laugh. ‘Something of a hole in our defences, hey?’
‘I will help,’ Koroll rumbled.
Silk raised a hand in thanks. ‘With all respect, Koroll, you’re not very . . . stealthy.’
‘I will give you my nights,’ Ho said.
Silk was quite surprised. ‘You said it wasn’t your specialty.’
The fellow shrugged his meaty shoulders. ‘I’ll pull something together.’
Silk tilted his head in cautious agreement. ‘Very well. Tomorrow night, then.’
Ho nodded to Koroll. ‘Make sure he gets out.’
The giant murmured a rolling laugh and raised an arm, pointing to the door. Silk was irritated at such a dismissal, but something in the strange mage’s grim manner told him not to object. He bowed instead, mockingly, and followed Koroll. At the entrance, he paused, turning back. ‘By the way . . . I thought I saw someone else down here.’
Ho stood motionless, his thick arms crossed, his gaze steady, almost suspicious. ‘That’s impossible. No one else could ever find their way down here.’
Silk gave a shrug, saluted, and headed out.
All the way back through the tunnels, he wondered whether he had discovered the truth of things. Was Ho simply Shalmanat’s warder-in-chief? And this huge stone sarcophagus. Did they really imagine it could possibly succeed? After all, how could they hope to lure the man-beast down here?
* * *
A voice whispering from across the fire woke her. That and the sense of a presence – at long last. She started up from beneath her blanket, blinking, and wiping at her eyes. The fire was a mere orange blur of embers. The stars through the overhanging branches glowed much brighter. At first she thought no one was there, but then the faintest of ghostly waverings, as of a mirage, betrayed a presence. A very weak and tenebrous breath of one.
She recognized the unwelcome essence. ‘Errant,’ she growled, making no effort to conceal her distaste.
‘Good to see you too,’ came a wavering ghostly response. ‘Sister. Cold night, isn’t it?’
She smiled thinly. ‘What do you want?’
The figure across the embers was of a man, seated cross-legged. Yet the bushes behind showed through quite clearly. ‘Want? Why must I want something? Could this not be purely social?’
‘No it could not.’ Only the eyes, she noted, held any definite presence. They burned with an inner light. And the teeth gleamed where the lips were curled back in that familiar habitual sneer.
‘Very well, sister. I am here for the same reason as you.’
‘No you are not.’
A phantom shrug. ‘Close enough.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Come, come. You sense it just as I have. You, who remain so very much of this mortal realm. And I, whose aspect could not help but take note of any play.’
Though she was resolved not to allow this one to bait her, she roused, annoyed. ‘Play? This is no game, Errant.’
‘Everything is a game, sister.’
‘With you.’
‘Your mulish mundanity bores me.’
‘The oblivious arrogance of those who expect others to entertain them sickens me.’
The flickering ghost-image across the campfire smiled. ‘Good to see you have not lost your edge, sister.’
She did not answer. Crossed her arms.
The Errant let out the faintest of sighs. ‘Very well. I know when a throw is made. A gambit opened. It is my nature, of course. Our . . . cousins . . . have made another play. The enormous dusty wheels of fate are grinding into motion once again. What might this game bring? Who is to say?’
She smiled at his uncertainty. ‘They worry you, don’t they?’
‘Of course they do! They have withdrawn. We no longer know what they intend.’
She made a show of shrugging her insouciance. ‘I am not worried.’
‘If you concerned yourself with the larger picture of things, you would be.’
‘Do not condescend to me, Errant. You are not intelligent enough.’
The eyes glittered hungrily across the orange glow. ‘And do not provoke me, sister. You are vulnerable. A nudge here or there and you could find yourself dead.’
‘Says a pallid ghost with little to no influence.’
The sneering smile twisted into slyness. ‘Oh, I have influence . . . elsewhere.’
A new voice spoke at the dying fire. ‘Making up, are we?’
The shade that was the sending of the Errant flinched and vanished.
She inclined her head in greeting to the hooded figure now warming his hands at the embers. ‘Welcome, K’rul.’
‘Sister. And what did our poor misguided friend have to say?’
‘He has sensed it also. Ripples from the Azath. And the stone was cast here. I fear he will try to interfere.’
‘It is true that he yet remains capable of meddling. Strange how those least fit to hold or wield power lust after it the most.’ K’rul turned his hands in the warmth and she knew it as a gesture purely for her benefit. ‘That is a mystery that remains beyond even me. However, another is in place to keep an eye on the Errant.’
‘And what of our cousins?’ she asked.
A tilt of the head. ‘They, too, remain beyond me. Beyond us all. None have ever succeeded in penetrating their secrets.’
‘Some may have,’ she murmured, her gaze deep in the flickering glow of the fading embers.
‘Possibly. But they have not returned to us, have they? They have disappeared within. The Azath are like black pits that swallow all.’
‘Yet they repeatedly demonstrate this compelling urge to intercede. They have goals. And for that they require agents. Brother, I will try to plumb their intent.’
K’rul sighed, drew his hands back to clasp them across his lap. ‘A perilous path for you, sister. And for me as well, I fear. That aside, is it not the case that only you, who yet remain free among us, could do so? Our brother lies imprisoned within the consequences of his own designs, while I remain enmeshed within mine. Very well, sister. I honour your intent and will do what I can to aid it.’
She bowed her head. ‘Thank you, brother.’
K’rul raised a finger. ‘Have a care. I foresee that this involvement could cost everything.’
‘That is as it should be, else it would not be worthwhile.’
The hand withdrew. ‘Very well. May you choose the wisest of all the many ways, Sister of Cold Nights.’
The hooded shape faded away into the dark and she was alone. Wincing, she stretched out her legs, arched her back, and threw more branches upon the embers. As the fire grew, she shifted to sit cross-legged, set her hands palm up on her knees, closed her eyes, and cast her awareness towards the city to the south.
She was searching. Searching for a flavour. The faintest of brushstrokes. Something . . . inexplicable. And through the darkness there came rumbling about her the creaking and grating of titanic wheels, such as Errant had mentioned. Only now, reverberating among the Warrens and Holds, these vibrations were not the cogs of fate’s machinations but the wheels of a gigantic wagon accompanied by the rattling of chains. And stricken by a chilling dread, she shuddered.
Wheels. Wheels groaning in the dark.
Chapter 4
‘HOW MUCH FOR Pung’s head?’
Rafall, who had been sipping his tea, spat all over the mass of papers on his desk. He dabbed a sleeve to the cheap fibre sheets and glared at the youth slouched in the chair opposite. Hood forefend! He can’t be serious, surely? ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, lad. We have a good thing going here. A fat purse for the old harridan. That grain merchant. Let’s not ruin it.’
The lean youth appeared unmoved. His sharp gaze remained unreadable. ‘It could be done. How much would Urquart pay?’
Ye gods – where to start? He opened his a
rms wide. ‘Listen, lad. We – all of us – we’re allowed to run our quaint little businesses because we keep our heads down and don’t cause too much trouble. Understand? The Protectress and her pet mages, they could shut us all down if they wished.’
‘You, maybe,’ the lad muttered.
Rafall winced and bit his tongue to stop himself from cursing the youth as he would any of his usual lads or lasses. He took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to do you a favour right now, lad. Here it is. With that little snipe there, you just effectively dismissed my life and therefore the livelihood of all those here who depend upon me for food and a roof over their head. Understand? Now, am I supposed to thank you for that? Or maybe I should now decide that you’re a threat to me and arrange to get rid of you. There. See how consequences of words and actions work?’
The youth shifted in his seat. His mouth tightened and turned down in an uncertain frown.
Rafall was pleased. Maybe he’d finally made a dent in that massive arrogance. The problem with this one was he was too good. It had all come too easy. Too much early success. For his part, Rafall couldn’t imagine what it must be like to see no one as a threat. But it couldn’t breed prudence, of that he was sure.
The assassin suddenly lurched to his feet. ‘You’re forgetting who works for whom, Rafall. Get the word out. I want to know how much.’
Rafall pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘You’re not listening. Just . . . listen.’ The lad had crossed to the window. ‘Look around!’ Rafall went on. ‘There’s a war on. Don’t start another. You won’t like it!’ But the youth was gone out of the window into the night. Banging started on the trapdoor to his chambers.
‘You okay, boss?’ one of his guards called. ‘Who’s that you’re talking to?’
Rafall moved to stand on the door. ‘A nightmare,’ he said. He could not take his gaze from the window. ‘Just a nightmare.’
Dorin stopped to rest on a flat rooftop. He was panting and sweaty, but not from his exertions. It’s nothing, he told himself. It means nothing. He’s just searching for a hold on you. Like all the others. Trying to control you. Remember, you can’t count on anyone.
Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Page 9