by Duncan Pile
Ferast smiled once more. The conversation was going exactly as he’d hoped. In response to Elijah’s candour, he was going to do something he’d never done before. He was going to tell Elijah everything.
…
“Let’s see if I have this right,” Elijah said, filling his glass for the third time before offering it to Ferast, who declined. “The most powerful magician in Antropel has sent you here to raise an army. You are to lead it to Helioport and pit it against the combined might of the College of Collective Magicks and Helioport’s militia. This master of yours will support the siege with a secondary force of wolf-like monstrosities and an assortment of demons summoned from the lower realms.”
Ferast nodded. “A fair summation.”
“And your master is sure he will win?”
“You have no idea.”
Elijah twisted the stem of his glass between his thumb and forefinger, staring at the glittering facets. “Let’s say you’re right. Why would I help you to destroy one of Antropel’s oldest and most venerable institutions?”
Ferast frowned. He hated the college, and hearing it spoken of in glowing terms was irksome. “What do you think will happen once the battle is over? Do you think Sestin will just pack his bags and go back into exile? I assure you Elijah, the world will never be the same again.”
Elijah looked at him long and hard. “I’m not a stupid man. If you so desired, you could force me to walk into the Hall of Assembly stark naked, or have me jump from this window and fall to my death. I face an impossible choice. If I say no, I can’t imagine you will let me live, knowing as much as I do.”
Ferast waited in silence, neither confirming nor denying Elijah’s assertions.
“As I said, I am not a stupid man,” the councillor said, extending his hand. “You have a deal.”
Ferast rose to his feet and shook Elijah’s hand. “Rest assured, you will be rewarded for your efforts. By the time the army is ready to depart, you will be the undisputed leader of the Eleven.”
Elijah dipped his head in acknowledgement. “How soon do you need the army?”
“How fast can you gather it?”
Elijah paused, counting his resources on his fingers. “I can divert two thousand men from their duties within a month.”
“A month is too long,” Ferast said.
“A month is pushing it! I’ll have to call in favours with the other councillors. Wheels will have to be greased and contingencies made.”
“You have two weeks, and I need ten thousand men.” In reality he would take as many as he could get and make do, but he was going to push Elijah as hard as he could.
“Ten thousand? That’s impossible.”
Ferast raised an eyebrow.
“Would you rather I lie to you?” Elijah said. “There aren’t that many mercenaries in the city.”
“So how many can you gather?” Ferast said.
“Stringfellow has five thousand men in the mines, but he is unlikely to leave his most plentiful source of revenue unmanned.”
“Leave the old man to me,” Ferast said. “You will have your men.”
Elijah looked at Ferast with renewed respect. “What will you do to him?”
Ferast knew exactly how much Elijah longed to see Stringfellow humbled. “You saw how I controlled the bowman today, did you not?”
“Of course,” Elijah responded.
“I’ll do the same to Stringfellow. His mind is brittle and unyielding, which will make it easy to break. By the time I’m finished with him, he will be nothing more than a puppet.”
…
Stringfellow couldn’t shake the anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had retreated to his rooms for succour, but even his chambers – the largest and most well-appointed in Namert, at the peak of the highest tower, with magnificent views over the walls to the ocean beyond – did nothing to comfort him. He sat in his favourite, wingback chair – all soft, time-worn leather and varnished oak – listening to the crackle of the fire in his shadowy inglenook hearth and casting his eye over a lifetime’s collection of rare and cherished artefacts; fine art from around the continent and the best furniture money could buy. Rare, expensive oil burned freely in his lamps, filling the place with a complex, spicy scent. The sights and smells of his apartment had always been a tonic to him, but not that night. For the first time in decades, Stringfellow felt in his bones that he was in danger of losing everything.
Damn Elijah and his sly ways! The signs had been there for months, but Stringfellow, who was confident in his power, hadn’t concerned himself about a few political manoeuvrings. It had never occurred to him that Elijah could gather enough influence to make a play for outright leadership.
The incident with the magician had opened his eyes. A powerful alliance had been up for grabs, and somehow Elijah had snatched it from under his nose. Stringfellow couldn’t prove his suspicions, but he felt certain the outcome hadn’t been a coincidence. After much consideration, Stringfellow was forced to admit that, of all the other council members, the only person whose loyalty he could count on was the Nettle. Damian and Chiello would probably support him if push came to shove, and perhaps Niallon if the right pressure was applied, but that was less than half the council.
Stringfellow uttered a curse. This was his own fault. He had become complacent and allowed Elijah to carry undue influence among the Eleven. Not any more! Stringfellow might have been caught sleeping on the job, but he was alert to his vulnerability now. Starting tomorrow, he was going to consolidate his position with his allies and then reach out to those whose allegiance was less certain. He permitted himself a small smile. It had been a long time since he’d needed to reinforce his primacy, but Elijah would do well not to underestimate him. Already he could feel the old, wolfish instincts firing, ready for the fight.
A knock sounded at the door. Stringfellow frowned. No-one came to his bedchambers this late at night. The Nettle used to, but it had been years since her last visit. Stringfellow smiled to himself once more. Perhaps she wished to renew their acquaintance.
He rose to his feet and moved to the door, imagining the Nettle on the other side, perhaps in one of her floor-length nightgowns. He licked his lips, imagining sliding it from her shoulders, and opened the door. There was nobody there. He peered down the corridor, squinting into the darkness, and felt fear awaken in his breast. Was someone playing a trick on him? “Who’s there?”
“Best to close the door,” a voice drawled from behind him.
He whirled around to find a stranger standing in the middle of his living room. No, not a stranger – the magician, Ferast.
Six
Kenril glanced down the street, his eyes flitting from window to window, looking for the twitch of a curtain or the flicker of a shutter. Nothing. He peered intently at the darkened entrance to a nearby alleyway, but that too seemed to be clear. No-one had followed him. Quickly, he slipped through the door and eased it shut behind him. He moved carefully through the dim interior of the house, making sure all the shutters were closed.
The property was large and well-constructed, but it had been sitting empty for many a year. Situated on the edge of the Thieves’ Quarter, it straddled the divide between the city proper and its criminal underworld. Two boys had grown up in that house, children to unremarkable parents who had passed away in their middle years and left them to their own devices. One of the brothers had made a life for himself among the great and good, and the other was Belash. The boys’ divergent destinies had estranged them until recent times, when Belash had needed a service that his brother was uniquely equipped to provide. His brother was a magician, a well-established member of the College of Collective Magicks, and had access to all kinds of powerful devices that Belash could make use of. Or more specifically, that Kenril could make use of on his behalf.
Belash used to be just one of several warring crime-lords in Helioport, but he had risen to pre-eminence after acquiring Kenril’s services. Having a magician at his b
eck and call had given Belash the edge over his rivals and he had driven them to ground, establishing his dominance in a way that was forever etched on the criminal underworld’s memory.
Having tasted the power magic afforded him, Belash sought to exploit the advantage it brought, and that was where his brother came in. Above all else, Belash wanted to know when people were lying to him. Every day was an endless dance of deception, each of his underlings constantly trying to outmaneuver the others. Belash was always on the alert for dissension in the ranks, knowing that every last one of his usurped rivals would avenge themselves if they got the chance.
Hoping to enhance his station, Kenril had informed Belash of an enchanted device that would serve his purpose – a magician’s ring, enchanted to reveal deception. It was a rare artifact, enabling the wearer to detect an untruth as it was spoken, though it didn’t reveal the details of the lie itself. On learning of the ring, Belash had ordered Kenril to enchant a replica, but Kenril had been forced to admit that such magic was beyond him. He was an able magician but he lacked flair as an enchanter. The ring’s power was neuromantic in nature – by far the most complex form of enchantment – but despite its rarity and power, it lay unused in the college’s collection of redundant magical objects.
Use of such devices had been banned years ago by Hephistole, the Chancellor of the College. Ever the moral enforcer, Hephistole had determined that it was a person’s right to lie. Honesty was, in his opinion, something that should be offered willingly, without magical coercion. The creation of similar devices had been outlawed, and all existing items were locked away in a secure vault beneath the college. The ring Kenril had in mind, however, had been overlooked; he had come across it some years ago when cataloguing Hephistole’s personal hoard of enchanted devices. It had been mis-labelled as a ring of enhanced sight.
Kenril had been banished from the college for years, and no longer had access to its resources, but he’d told Belash about the ring anyway. Belash had become excited – one of the few times Kenril had witnessed a show of emotion from the crime-lord – and had revealed the truth about his familial connections. Kenril had been tasked with contacting Belash’s brother in the college – no meagre task, given that he was not welcome within the city limits – but Kenril had managed it, teasing the unwitting magician away from the college with a beguiling note that led him to this very house; the home he had grown up in. It was there that Belash had revealed himself, and the magician, who had long-thought his brother dead, looked like he’d seen a ghost. That they were brothers was immediately obvious. Both men were plain as could be, with even-set, unremarkable features, mousy, nondescript hair and faces you’d forget as soon as your back was turned. There was a subtle difference in the way they wore their plainness however; the magician’s face was unprepossessing, modest even, whereas Belash wore a cultivated mask of anonymity – blank and flat, devoid of emotion.
Belash had sent Kenril from the room while he spoke with his brother, and it wasn’t long before he heard raised voices, followed by a loud shout and the sound of someone being shoved against the brickwork. Kenril had entered the room and found the magician on his tiptoes, Belash’s arm jammed under his throat.
“Leave them out of it,” the magician begged.
“No, my brother, I can do that,” Belash said. “They are my only hold over you. As long as you do as you’re told, they will not be harmed.”
“But little Kellie is innocent, as is Marie!” the magician pleaded.
“They can carry on with their lives as normal,” Belash had said. “They need never know.”
“And I’m to go home to them each night knowing that an axe hovers over their heads, and never show it?” the magician asked, incredulous.
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do,” Belash said. “I don’t imagine I will have need of your services often. Perhaps this will be the only time.” The magician had slumped in defeat and Belash had released him. “Time to go,” the crime-lord said. “You have one week to get me the Ring of Truth.”
Rubbing his throat, the magician had cast Belash an accusing look. “All this time, and you’ve been right here in Helioport…”
Belash shrugged. “Now you know.”
“I can’t say I am glad,” Antonius Worrick said, and with that, he had crossed the room and exited the house, heading back to the College of Collective Magicks.
Since that time, Belash had summoned his brother on only two occasions – the first time to obtain information and the second to acquire a dagger, enchanted to keep its edge indefinitely. It had been several years since their last meeting, during which time Belash had let his brother get on with his life without interruption. Until today...
…
Professor Worrick cast a bespectacled glance over the various student essays spread before him. Much of it was dross but that didn’t disappoint him, as long as it was enthusiastic dross. There were a few hidden gems in there, such as Lydia’s latest essay, delivered only days after returning from an extended absence. He had learned from Hephistole that she, Gaspi and Emea had been sent on a quest of the highest importance, though privately he wasn’t convinced that anything mattered more than their education.
He’d missed tutoring Lydia while she was gone. The gypsy girl had a love of learning, and her unbridled curiosity, coupled with her obvious intelligence, made their sessions great fun; a fascinating foray through the pages of history, reinterpreted with the freshness of a youthful perspective.
A knock at the door disturbed his musings. “Come in,” he called. The handle turned, creaking as it always did, and the door swung open to reveal Healer Emelda, who was struggling to catch her breath.
“Emelda, my dear, come in, come in!” Professor Worrick had a soft spot for Emelda. She loved her discipline as much as he did his, and he was drawn to scholastic passion wherever it lay. He frowned at the cane in her hand. He couldn’t understand why she had let herself get into such a state over the years. She’d been a handsome woman once, turning even the self-professed bachelor Voltan’s head, but after years of neglecting her health the enticing young woman she’d once been had been swallowed up by the gigantic, wheezing individual before him. The cane was a new addition, which probably meant her health had taken another turn for the worse.
Emelda saw him glance at her cane and flushed. “Sorry Antonius, no time to chat today. I saw this in your pigeon hole and thought I’d drop it in on my way to class,” she said, waving a small, grey envelope.
Professor Worrick felt a thrill of dread. “Thank you, that’s most kind,” he said, trying to sound calm. He rose from the chair and stepped across the room, holding out a reluctant hand. Emelda pressed the envelope into his palm and held on, watching him carefully.
“Are you alright, Antonius? You look a little pale.” She leant forward and pressed the back of a pudgy hand against his forehead.
“I’m fine, Emelda,” he said with a forced smile. “Working too hard, perhaps.”
Emelda gave him a penetrating look. “I have to go, but if things are getting a bit much, come and see me okay?”
“I will, I promise,” Professor Worrick said, and ushered her out of the room as quickly as politeness allowed. He lifted the envelope with a shaking hand and clutched anxiously at his chest. He knew that handwriting – it was the renegade Kenril’s, spidering its way across the familiar grey envelope. He walked unsteadily across the room and dropped into the chair behind his desk. He reached for his desk knife and sliced through the seal, pulling a note from within. In five short words, it confirmed the worst of his fears:
Usual place, fourth watch, tonight.
Professor Worrick raised a trembling hand to his brow. Years had passed since he’d last received such a missive, but he’d always known this day would come. After all this time, his hated brother – Helioport’s most feared crime-lord – was summoning him to perform a service.
He dropped the note onto the desk with shaking hands. He wanted n
othing more than to confess all to Hephistole, but while his family’s lives were at stake he had no choice but to obey Belash’s demands.
Professor Worrick took a steadying breath and rose to his feet. He held the letter over a flickering candle, letting it smoulder and curl before casting the remnants into the fireplace. He returned to his desk and shunted the essays into a tidy pile. Moments later, he sent them fluttering across the room with an angry swipe of his arm.
…
Later that night, Professor Worrick snuck off campus and hurried through the city. He avoided the main thoroughfares, passing instead through narrow, residential streets, dotted with small parks, squares and fountains.
The houses began to look tired as he approached the Thieves’ Quarter, the streets dotted with an increasing proportion of vacant properties. The empty houses were structurally sound, but the city’s criminal underworld had expanded in recent years and many families had moved away. He reached the last of the fine old houses – Belash’s childhood home, which for many years had served as the unofficial boundary of the Thieves’ Quarter.
It had been Professor Worrick’s home too, and the sights, sounds and smells of the surrounding streets were painfully evocative. In his everyday life he avoided this part of the city at all costs, but the moment he entered the environs of the old house a thousand memories were awoken, along with the emotions they stirred. Every street corner and lamppost had an association of sorts, some bad, but many of them good. On that shaded street corner he’d shared his first kiss with pretty, dark-haired Connie, the weaver’s daughter. He had first discovered he was a magician down that dark alley, when defending his friends from a band of urchins. Under different circumstances, Professor Worrick would have smiled at the recollections, but worry consumed him, leaving no room for sentiment.