The Warlord's Domain

by Peter Morwood

  It was Kyrin who first broke the companionable silence with more than the softly-voiced exclamations of pleasure that might occur at any dinner table and so scarcely qualify as conversation. "Aldric," she said, "what plans have you made? Or haven't you made any at all?"

  The wine-glass lifting to his lips paused for a beat and then returned Untasted to the table. He smiled, the sort of pleasant smile that would be adequate response to almost anything; except that it went no further than a mouth which shaped it by a deliberate movement of muscles and left his eyes cold, cold, cold…

  "Hit," he said flatly. "One point to the lady. How long have you known?"

  "Since now." Kyrin shrugged. "It was no more than a guess."

  "Best you know… so you can start to understand."

  Aldric tried another smile and still his facial muscles seemed unwilling to carry the expression. He pushed his plate aside, appetite fading as fast as the smile. "I've been hoping for some wonderful idea. I hoped that maybe coming here, starting to make all the proper moves, playing the part without a script, would produce some flash of brilliance, something foolproof." He shook his head, pressed fingertips to head in imitation of deep thought and grinned, a wry expression that seemed much more at home than anything humorous. "Not a damned thing—except such a bloody case of the shakes I'm surprised you never noticed."

  "Not such a bloody case as you thought. You covered well. You think terrified, but you don't act it. And you tried—you did your best." Kyrin stretched luxuriously; despite the intensity of the murmured words, they were both taking care to maintain the pretense of a young couple with too much money, enjoying it and all that it could bring. There was a deal of released tension in that stretch, but she wasn't about to say so here and now. "Now we can leave."

  "Without the Jewel?"

  "Let the Warlord keep it. Let Gemmel get it back himself. When he put that spell into your head he took away whatever duty you owed him, and when he took it out he gave you back your free will. You don't owe anybody anything anymore." She stopped talking abruptly and took a mouthful of wine, trying to cool the angry heat that was building in her words. "Except maybe… you owe yourself a life. Start living it."

  Aldric sat quite still for a long time, and it seemed to Kyrin that she could see the thoughts swim in his eyes like fish—except that these thoughts were black fins cutting through gray water. Then he blinked and the image was gone. "Tonight,'4 he said, "we'll go to see the play." He got to his feet, drawing Kyrin up with him. "And then tomorrow we'll go home."

  Lacework patterns of frost obscured the windows' leaded panes, and icicles hung from the snow above them in a ragged fringe, like fangs in a gaping white-gummed mouth. Dark clouds drifted across the moon.

  Inside was colder still, and darker. Woydach Voord could feel the blood thickening and freezing in his veins despite the charms of warmth and nourishment and guard that ringed him. The candles had gone out, choked in their own stinking grease, and he hadn't dared leave his protective circle to relight them. Voord had seen what happened to people who were rash enough to make that mistake, and had no desire to experience the same rend-ing at first hand. His own hand hurt him, throbbing alternately hot and cold along the marks of its mutilation. All the other injuries had faded to a background murmur of discomfort, but here in this place the old wound pained him as if newly inflicted. Voord was on his knees at the center of the circle, a weaving of curves and words, of angles and symbols and letters inlaid in black in the white marble floor of his most private, chamber. In the intermittent, frost-muffled moonlight, it lay on the surrounding pavement as stark as ink on paper. Slow coils of spicy incense smoke echoed the shapes that made the circle… then, shifting subtly on unfelt currents in the icy air, made mock of them instead.

  There was a heavy droning that filled all parts of the room, a sound like bees in summer—or flies around a ten-day corpse. It swelled and receded in slow waves of sourceless noise, then faded slowly, slowly, until it was gone. Voord stayed where he was for a long time, making absolutely sure, sweating even as he froze. At long last he stood up—a movement that seemed more like one long shudder—and looked about him. There had been starless void beyond the circle, and Presence. Now he was alone in a circle at the center of the room, hemmed in by shadows and by smoke-skeins that smelt of spice, of incense… and of roses.

  Voord raised his hands with their palms pressed together—or as near together as the talon of his crippled hand allowed—then parted them, stepped across the circle's outermost perimeter and closed his hands again. It was a simple enough charm, to preserve the integrity of the protective patterns—and forgetting it had killed so many sorcerers that Voord was determined not to be the next unless he was quite sure that death was permanent.

  And It had told him death was not… not yet, anyway. If he expended more power, then perhaps… If he gave It more gifts and sacrifices, then perhaps… If and perhaps; that was all he heard, nothing more certain than if and perhaps. Neither was enough for Voord to gamble the little power he still had at his disposal. He husbanded that, spending it as frugally as—Voord thought of his mother, years dead—a widow trying to feed her children. If and perhaps. Too many if's for one uncertain perhaps. Get the equation wrong… and learn what Hell is really like.

  He bowed toward the empty darkness, always mindful of his manners even when nothing was there—or seemed to be there. The courtesies were due, witnessed or not— but once they were completed Voord didn't linger. There was always the risk that until it had completely dissipated the aura of sorcery—and more especially of Summoning—lingering in the small dark chamber might attract things other than it was intended to, like wasps to honey. Now that he was outside the circle, if something like that were to happen he would as soon be out of the room as well. And preferably the city, the province and even the Warlord's Domain itself…

  And once again, Tagen was waiting for him outside the door. Voord closed it, locked it and secured the key on its chain around his neck before he said anything at all. An awful jolt of fright had gone through him at the sight of the bulky silhouette backlit by the lanterns in the corridor outside, for with the smells of incense and roses still in his nostrils it had been only natural to think for just an instant that Something had been attracted… and even recognition didn't take away the fear at once. Tagen was a friend, a companion, a confidante, all those and more; but there was and always had been an air about him which suggested the not-quite-natural, the sensation felt by others that was inadequately defined when men earned the title Terrible. Then Tagen saluted, and smiled, and the image was gone.

  "I thought my orders were that I was not to be disturbed when in my workroom," said Voord. "Wasn't I clear enough?"

  "Sir, I know that. So I didn't disturb you at your work; I waited."

  Voord looked at him, then up and down the corridor. It was icy down here, for except the lanterns there was no other source of heat; and the still more intense cold flowing out of his workroom had left long glittering fans of frozen air around and under the door—one of the reasons why a sorcerer didn't leave his spell-circle until certain it was safe to do so. However, Tagen's comfort was not his foremost concern: it was what the man might have heard. "Did you wait long?"

  "Until you were done and came out, sir. Your orders said under no circumstances, and that means never."

  Voord shrugged, dismissing the matter with the realization that whatever his henchman might have overheard, it would have been done by the Commander and that would make it all right. Tagen was slow rather than simple; but disciplining him for the normal small infractions or too-literal interpretations of commands—which would be done without a second thought to any other soldier—seemed always too much wasted time. As well discipline a dagger when it cut one's finger. "All right. Explanation accepted. Now, why?"

  "Good news, sir. Two guards—they were on the Shadow-gate duty shift between the hours of Hawk and Serpent this afternoon. Hault has them upstairs. In t
he Hall." Tagen shouted the last words, because Voord was already running for the stairs.

  "Yes, soldier, I know about the description sheet, there's no need to describe it," said Voord impatiently. He stared at the two troopers, wanting to grab them by the fronts of their undress tunics and shake what they had to say out of them, rather than waiting while they took turns at making the most of their brief importance. At least their chattering had given him the chance to get his breath back; but now he'd had enough. "I was the one who had it sent out, remember? Get to the point."

  "Yes, sir. A little before the bells struck for Serpent, Karn and me, we went off-duty at Dog; we were going for a drink and then to see the play, but he'd left his smokes behind."

  The soldier Karn held up a pipe and drawstring pouch for proof—then saw the expression in the Woydach's face and gave his companion an elbow-nudge of warning. Voord noticed it and smiled thinly, a smile that was all teeth and cold, cold eyes.

  "You're very right, Guard-trooper Karn. Because if I need to order Guard-trooper Volok to hurry up just one more time, I'll forgo the command and have the infor-mation beaten out of you. Do you both understand? Good. I see you do. Now talk! Sch'dagh-veh hoh'tah!"

  Trooper Volok's face had drained of any color given it by the drinks he and Kara had consumed before going back to the Shadowgate to find Karn's forgotten pipe. He jolted through a rapid full-honors salute and slammed to rigid heels-together eyes-front parade attention before daring to say another word. All the stories told in barracks about Hautheisart Voord had taken on a new edge with the discovery that he was now Grand Warlord, and Volok was very scared indeed.

  "Sir! We admitted two people who might be the state-criminals on the recent warning sheet they are now in the city and have not left it to the best of our knowledge at least not by the same gate they came in by Sir!" he said all in a single breath.

  "Very observant," said Voord, riot troubling to keep the satisfaction off his face. "I'll remember both of you." The troopers managed to maintain eyes-front—just—but there was a hint of a flinch about the way Kara stiffened his back like someone waiting to be flogged. Voord chuckled, feeling in rather better humor. "Favorably, that is. Hault, pay them a bounty of ten florins apiece; it might remind them that it's worthwhile keeping their eyes open—and their mouths shut. Dismissed."

  When Hault and the two troopers had gone out, Voord glanced at Tagen. "State criminals?" he asked.

  "I didn't know what other charge to use, Commander. And they're your enemies and you're the State, so…"

  Voord concealed his groan behind a cough. "Yes, of course. Well done, Tagen. And thank you for the compliment." He stood up, feeling the wounds ache again and not caring just this once. "Turn out the Guard. Clear the gates and seal the city. Start a search from the walls inward… and bring what you find to me…"

  Chapter Eight

  "Tluan the Prince, now. How could you be sure of finding a performance? There must be lots of other plays playing in a city as big as this… ?" Kyrin adjusted her balance against the slight sway of the coach and quirked her brows quizzically at Aldric.

  "It's the size of the city that counts. At this time of year there's bound to be some company somewhere playing Tiluan as well as all the others."

  "Time of year? Surely it's not a religious play? Not with men in towels, dropping them everywhere…"

  "That performance was by me. Just me."

  "Mmmm. I still like the bit with the towel; they should put it in the real play."

  "Ask them and maybe they will."

  "I might. I just might…"

  In a city as large as Drakkesborg, Aldric had known there would be at least one theater performing the seasonal dramas, and the clerk of The Two Towers had directed him to the most well-known and splendid and now the most modern as well, the new Old Playhouse, recently refurbished and made New at great expense to house the Lord Constable's Men. He and Kyrin spent the short journey looking through the sheaf of pamphlets and handbills which all the theaters printed at this time of year to entice customers through their doors. Comical; historical; tragical; and all the subgenres, admixtures and complicated bastard children that resulted from combining them together.

  " 'The Claw Unsheath'd, by Reswen and Lorin,' " read Kyrin, laughing as she made sure to give a good delivery to all the emphases, " 'being a very Pretty Fine new Fantastical Satire, where Cats are shewn large as Men, with Marvelous new Masks and Costumes never before seen! Also Musick, Songs and Dances wrought for this play only!!' " She fluttered the sheet of paper at Aldric and grinned. "This has to be a joke!"

  "No. But it is a sequel…" Aldric unfolded another pamphlet, this one with four pages and colored illustrations, all very splendid—which to a cynical mind might suggest that the play it advertised needed all the support it could get. "Whereas this… !" He seemed unable to decide between wry amusement and genuine anger. " 'Count your country and yourself fortunate. Lord Urick's Revenge, or The Alban Tragedy, by Gaufrid ar Meulan.' "

  "What's wrong?" Kyrin was making a very good attempt at keeping her face straight, but it wasn't really working. "Did you know this Urick person?"

  "Hardly; it's not even an Alban name—though I'll concede it's close, very close. The enticement, I'm afraid, continues at some length. " 'A Play play'd in the True and Actual Costumes of that Land with Swords, Harness and etcetera all recreat'd in the Barbaric Splendour of the People. Together with such Musick, Songs and Dancing as are us'd commonly in that Land, played by Proper skill'd musicians, brought Here with their very Instruments at Much Cost and No Small Peril to the Company.

  " 'There will be in this Drama three strong Castles besieg'd with Real Siege-Engines, to be seen upon the Stage shooting Fire as in Life; a Battle of Two Hosts; a great Sea-Storm, with Thunder-and-Lightning made by Herran d'Win, Thundermaker to the Lord Constable's Men; Lord Urick's Concubines, seen clad in the Flimsy Garments of such Lewd Females and play'd by Real Women; and many other Delights.' "

  "Is that what they really think of you… ?"

  "It's the popular image, which counts for the same thing in the long run." Aldric looked once more at the pamphlet and its gaudy woodcuts, then folded it up and creased the folds down to a razor edge with nails that were far more ready to tear the offensive thing to rags and tatters. "Never mind. We're not going to see that, regardless of the 'Real Women in Flimsy Garments.' At least Osmar uses words instead of—he spat the word like an insult—"spectacle."

  "The Playhouse, sir, milady," said the coachman. "Play's not started yet, so no need to rush."

  Translated as, no need to hurry off without giving me a few coins extra, thought Aldric without malice as he helped Kyrin back into her furred overrobe. And why not?

  "Well driven, man," he said aloud, dropping an extra couple of coins into the coachman's hand. "Now get yourself into a tavern and have some ale to keep out the cold, then collect us here after the play."

  "Sir, yes sir," said the coachman, saluting with the butt-end of his whip but quite unable to take his eyes from the soft golden glint of the two quarter-crowns resting in the palm of his glove. Whoever or whatever his passenger might be, he had just been tipped maybe half the value of the whole carriage for one short ride. The coachman fought a brief and silent battle between avarice and conscience, before conscience—reluctantly— won. "Sir, you've given me—"

  "What I meant to give you. Just don't talk about it, in case the lady's…" Aldric gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Ahem. Never mind that. Go get your drink, and be here later."

  "Yes sir!"

  "Why?" asked Kyrin. She had seen the gold change hands where silver would have sufficed and was understandably curious.

  "Because," he said. "That's all."

  Kyrin smiled. "That's enough—for me at least."

  Aldric glanced sidelong at the departing coach, not smiling. "And for him, I hope. Shall we go in?"

  The good citizens of Drakkesborg had long been used to soldiers on their streets.
The city was not only the capital of the Warlord's Domain but had for a long time been a garrison town in its own right, so that the sounds of drum and trumpet and the business of military routine went almost unnoticed… until the routine changed. As it was changing now.

  Because of the many barracks within the walls and the consequent need for a degree of both security and military discipline, Drakkesborg's gates had always been shut at night from the striking of the hour Fox at ten o'clock to the hour Horse at six the next morning, but those with the proper papers could still enter and leave without restriction through the smaller posterns. Except that this night, the great iron siege-screens were in place and locked before the halfway strike of Dog at seven, sealing the entire city like a corked bottle. Neither papers nor bluster nor bribes were enough to obtain entrance for those outside; and use of the same methods by those trying to get out resulted only in quick, quiet arrest.

  After the rioting earlier in the week, followed only this morning by a vigorous restoration of order, no one was concerned by the presence of the constables or the urban militia, even though both now wore light armor beneath their uniform tunics and carried hardwood truncheons in full view as a deterrent to anyone thinking of resuming such nonsense. If anything they were a comfort to the law-abiding majority, a reminder that their right to walk the city streets without harm was being protected, but the men who joined them as the evening drew on were not a sight that held the least reassurance.

  Some were in the full battle harness, and bore gisarms instead of staves. They had shortswords, still sheathed but with the red tapes of their peace-bindings unsealed, and their armor bore the mailed-fist insignia of the Bodyguard, down from the citadel itself. Elite troops to be sure, but still only soldiers. It was the others who sent people hurrying to clear the streets: those whose rank-robes showed no rank at all, only the jagged black and silver thunderbolts that marked them as Kagh' Ernvakh.