by Marc Turner
There was a creak as a window opened behind him, then a splash as something was emptied onto the cobbles. Ahead a cart rumbled by, a pack of skeletal dogs trailing in its wake. Luker rubbed his gritty eyes. To his right the North Gate and the battlements of the city walls were just visible through the curtain of rain. A handful of figures huddled in the shadows of the gatehouse. Luker wondered if Gill had assigned any Guardians to watch the exits from the city, and whether they would be foolish enough to stand in his way if he tried to leave. Wish I could. First, though, he needed to find out what this Merin Gray knew about Kanon.
There was no sign of Jenna yet, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t here—he would only see her if she wanted to be seen. No one had entered or left the stables in the time he’d been watching. Two Bratbaks carrying spears stood by the gates, their hooded heads bowed. One of the figures carried a lantern that the other was using to light a blackweed stick.
This meeting with Merin was supposed to have started at the tenth bell, but it was closer to the eleventh now. Late enough, he reckoned.
Let’s get this over with.
Striding from the alley, he approached the soldiers. The smoker saw him first. He tossed his blackweed stick on the ground and nudged his companion. They came to attention, crossing their spears to block Luker’s path. The smoker was the shorter of the two, the top half of his face all but hidden by a mop of hair. The other soldier—a Kerinec tribeswoman wearing the same patchwork cloak as Jenna’s minder, Gol—wore a battered helmet that was missing its feathered crest.
Luker halted in front of them. “I’m here to see Merin Gray.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Guardian, yes? You’re late.”
“And you’re in my way.”
The Kerinec muttered something, then gestured over her shoulder. “Tyrin’s waiting for you in the main building.”
The Bratbaks raised their spears to let Luker pass, and he walked between them. The smoker was already crouching to search for the discarded blackweed stick.
Gravel crunched beneath Luker’s boots as he followed the path to the stables. He came to a semicircular forecourt, in the center of which was a statue of a rearing horse. Beyond was a squat, black-stoned structure. The only light came from the main door, which stood ajar. The Guardian ignored it and walked round the side of the building. He entered a yard with stalls on three sides that stank of manure and wet straw. A balding, one-armed man stood beside one of the stable doors, bathed in the light of a lantern that hung from the eaves. He was feeding a horse from his hand. The animal must have been eighteen hands tall, and its coat was the color of bone.
“Impressive,” Luker said. “A palimar, right?”
One-Arm inclined his head. “You’re the first who’s ever known her.”
“Seen herds of them on the steppes north of the White Mountains. Never been this close to one, though.”
“You wouldn’t be standing here if you had.” He showed Luker the remains of the bloody carcass he was feeding to the horse. “They’re specially fond of human flesh.”
“Best watch your hand, then. She might confuse it for her next meal.”
One-Arm gave no response.
“You the stableman?”
“Yeah. And you’re with Merin Gray.”
Luker blinked. “Word gets round quickly.”
“I was told to expect visitors. He’s inside.”
“Let him wait.”
One-Arm spat on the ground. “The tyrin won’t like that. Keen on his discipline, is Merin Gray.”
“You know him?”
“Served under him at Helin, fifth Kalanese campaign. Many years ago now, before I lost the arm. Tyrin’s a hard man, but fair. Popular with the lads. Has a knack of keeping them that’s serving under him alive. Don’t like to lose.”
One thing, at least, we’ve got in common. “I’ll remember that.”
One-Arm tossed the remains of the carcass to the palimar and crouched to wash his hand in a bucket of water. “You looking for a ride?”
“Aye.”
“Seen anything you like?”
“Was hoping you might be able to help me there.”
“What do you want? Speed or stamina?”
“Both.”
The stableman chuckled. “Figures.”
“And a good temperament too.” The thing will need it to get along with me.
“I’ll see what I can do. You got your own tack?”
Luker spread his hands. “I am as you see me.”
“I’ll get you kitted out.”
“Appreciate it.” The Guardian made to leave, then remembered Jenna. “Oh, and I’ve got a friend coming along for the ride. Think you can sort her out too?”
One-Arm straightened. “Merin Gray didn’t mention nothing to me.”
“That’s because he doesn’t know yet.”
The stableman chuckled again. “I can see you two are gonna get on real well.”
“We’ll get on fine as long as he does what he’s told.”
One-Arm grinned.
Luker retraced his steps to the front of the building and passed through the main doorway. In the entrance hall a uniformed clerk sat hunched over a desk writing in a leather-bound book. Without looking up, he jabbed his quill pen toward a door across from him. Luker heard voices on the other side and entered without knocking. The conversation died away. He found himself in an office. Light came from lanterns set on stands in each corner, and an assortment of battered armchairs surrounded a desk across which a map had been rolled out.
A young man was curled up in one of the armchairs, a wooden staff resting on his lap. He wore black robes, and his chin was covered by a wispy beard.
An older man—in his early fifties, perhaps—sat on the edge of the desk. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbows. His face and forearms were tanned leather, and his short-cropped hair was the color of steel. The top of his left ear was missing. He held Luker’s gaze for a moment, then stepped across to shake hands. His grip was iron. “Luker Essendar, I presume. I’m Merin Gray.” He gestured to the seated figure. “This is Don Chamery Pelk of the Black Tower. Good of you to join us.”
Luker couldn’t decide whether that was meant as a rebuke for his tardiness. “I thought so,” he said, sitting down in the chair closest to the door.
Merin exchanged a glance with Chamery. “We were discussing the siege at Cenan,” he said to Luker. “It seems Chamery and I have met before, though I confess I have no memory of it.”
The Guardian stared at the mage. Cenan was ten years ago, yet the boy looked barely old enough for the beard he was sporting.
Chamery must have guessed his thoughts for he said, “I was only an apprentice at the time.” His voice was a soft lisp. “My master was called Laon Kaltin. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Well, you should have,” the mage snapped. “He was one of the Conclave killed by the Guardians on the night of the Betrayal.”
“That supposed to narrow it down for me?”
Merin cleared his throat. “You were at Cenan too, I hear,” he said to Luker.
Someone’s done their homework. “Not the siege itself. I drew the short straw and ended up hunting down the sacristens who fled the city when it fell.”
“And you found them?”
“Aye, at a watering hole to the north. Three days it would’ve taken them to reach the oasis. Bastards came stumbling out of the desert like younglings to the slaughter. Must’ve thought they’d made it to safety. Instead they found me there waiting for them.”
Merin looked out a window, arms behind his back. “I remember the place. I was a day behind the sacristens, with a troop thrown together from what remained of the Second. When we got there we found nothing but bones, picked clean.”
“You tracked them across the Waste? How?”
“We had an air-mage with us. One of the emperor’s Circle. Tough woman—one of the few to survive.
Even with her, though, we struggled to follow their trail.” He looked at Luker again. “And yet somehow you knew exactly where they’d be.” The tyrin made it sound like an accusation.
“I grew up near Talen,” the Guardian said. “Know the ground. There’s only one oasis near Cenan they had any chance of making. Surprised they even got that far.” He nodded at Merin. “You too. Avallon sent you to your death.”
The tyrin shrugged. “Given time, the sacristens would have stirred up a rebellion. The emperor wanted them dead at any cost.”
Luker grunted. Aye, I saw what price was paid. He had witnessed the aftermath of the siege of Cenan when he’d arrived to deliver the heads of the sacristens. The sandstone walls of the ancient citadel had been stained red with the blood of the dead. The Second was butchered almost to a man; the Fourth suffered crippling losses. The bodies of the dead, friend and foe alike, were stripped and piled outside the city walls for the creatures of the Waste to feast on. For nine days the desert sands boiled with sandclaws and roths, and carrion birds had formed a cloud that could be seen from leagues away. And all so the emperor could stick a pin in a map and pretend the city was his.
There was a knock at the door. At Merin’s call, the shaggy-haired Bratbak from the front gate entered. He crossed to the tyrin and whispered something in his ear before departing.
Frowning, Merin turned to Luker. “There’s a woman outside asking for you. Were you followed?”
“No. I told her to meet me here.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s coming with us.”
Merin eyed him coolly. “I wasn’t told about this.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“That’s not what I meant. You’re here at the emperor’s command. It’s not for you to say who travels with us.”
It seemed the tyrin needed setting straight on a few things. “It is if you want me to come with you on this Shroud-cursed fool’s errand.”
Merin set his fists down on the desk. “Have you told her about the mission?”
There was something in the tyrin’s voice that gave Luker pause. “No,” he lied.
“So why’s she coming?”
“She has her reasons. None of which have anything to do with you, or the Book. Anyhow,” the Guardian added, “she’ll only be with us part of the way.”
Merin stroked his jaw. “Who is she?”
“A friend.”
“Does this friend have a name?”
“Jenna.” Luker watched for the tyrin’s reaction, but there was no flicker of recognition.
“Can she be trusted?”
“Aye.”
The silence stretched out.
Luker’s gaze held steady on Merin’s dark, unblinking eyes. Doubtless the tyrin was used to his subordinates shrinking beneath the weight of his stare, but Luker wasn’t going to back down just because of a bit of eyeballing. Bastard will want me “sirring” him next.
“If she steps out of line,” Merin said finally, “I’ll hold you to account.”
The Guardian’s sense of foreboding returned. That was too easy, but he’d have to worry about what the tyrin was up to later. “Wouldn’t let her come if I thought she’d slow us down.”
Merin was already turning to the map on the desk. He beckoned the others to join him, and Luker stood. Chamery remained slouched in his chair.
The map was the largest Luker had ever seen, showing the lands stretching from Brena in the south to Majack in the distant north. It was also the most detailed, charting the route of the White Road where it passed through the Forest of Sighs north of Arandas, and even the spice routes that snaked across the deadlands of Kal. As the Guardian studied the territories that separated Arkarbour from Arandas, his chest tightened. If Kanon’s silence since his last message spelled trouble, Luker was too far away to help his master.
Merin said, “I’ve been giving some thought to the route we’ll take to Arandas. We’re a couple of months behind Mayot Mencada, meaning we’ve got no time for sightseeing. We’ll follow the Bone Road north to High Fort, then cross the Shield to Point Keep and descend—”
“Aye, just like that,” Luker cut in. “The Kalanese’ll be watching the road down from Cloud Pass.”
Merin ignored him. “From Point Keep, we head east toward the Black Cliffs before turning north again. We’ve no idea how much of the Gollothir Plains are under Kalanese control, but by skirting the Waste we should be able to stay clear of their scouting parties.”
“We’ll also put the desert at our backs. If we hit trouble, we’ll have nowhere to run.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Helin,” Luker said, tapping the map. “Should still be a few ships willing to risk the Wind Straits this time of year.”
“The Kalanese have blockaded the port.”
“A small boat could slip through—”
“I’m not done,” Merin interrupted. A corner of the map had curled up, and he unrolled it again. “Getting to Helin would be the easy part. Scouts report the Kalanese are on the move toward Arandas. Their army would lie between us and the city.”
Chamery spoke from his chair. “Then we go round. Head east from Helin to Point Keep and approach Arandas from the south.”
Merin shook his head. “The Kalanese will expect Avallon to hit back after Malek’s defeat. Most likely place to strike from is Helin. Kalanese will be watching the city like crakehawks. There’s no way we’d get out unseen.”
Luker rolled his shoulders and heard them crack. In truth he didn’t care which route they took. Either way, the Kalanese would be lying in wait. “Have you heard any more from Kanon?” he asked Merin.
The tyrin’s mouth was a thin line. “No. There should be news when we reach Arandas.”
Chamery was rolling his staff along the armrests of his chair. “And if the city has fallen by the time we get there?”
“Won’t happen,” Merin said. “The emperor tried to take Arandas before it joined the Confederacy. Ended up getting his nose bloodied. The place is a nest of vipers. The Kalanese won’t take it without a fight.”
“The city will be under siege, though,” Luker said. “What happens then?”
“Then we make contact with one of the emperor’s agents in the surrounding towns.”
“Did Kanon’s last report say where Mayot was heading?”
The tyrin crossed his arms. “I’ve told you all I can.”
“Why?”
“Because those are my orders.”
And you always do what you’re told. Luker focused his Will on the tyrin, discreetly enough to ensure his target did not sense his questing, but found Merin’s mind as unyielding as his handshake had been. Given time, Luker might be able to wrest some information from him, but not without doing permanent damage. Let’s hope for his sake it doesn’t come to that.
The Guardian looked at Chamery. “Where will Mayot take this book?”
Chamery waved a languid hand. “As far from here as possible.”
“He knows he’ll be tailed, then?”
“Hah! Into the Abyss itself.”
Merin spoke. “Why? What can the Book do?”
Chamery sneered. “In Mayot’s hands? Nothing. He doesn’t have the wit to use it.”
“And if you’re wrong? I need to know what I’m dealing with.”
“No, you don’t. Your job is to find Mayot, that’s all. I’ll deal with him from there.”
The silence that followed was broken by a knock at the door.
Just as things were getting interesting …
Merin frowned at Chamery for a moment before shouting, “Come!”
The shaggy-haired Bratbak was back with another whispered message, pausing to jerk his thumb toward the door through which he had entered. The tyrin listened in silence, his expression masked. When the guard finished speaking, Merin rose. “Gentlemen,” he said, looking from Chamery to Luker. “We’ll have to finish this later. My clerk has booked us rooms at the Gate Inn.
I’ll join you there shortly.”
He strode from the room.
Beyond the door, Luker caught a glimpse of a short, dark-robed figure—a woman, judging by the white gloss on her fingernails. Her skin was olive-colored, and the fifth finger on each hand was missing. A Remnerol. The woman’s face remained hidden by the shadows of her cowl, but Luker could feel her gaze on him nevertheless.
Then Merin closed the door between them.
Luker glanced across at Chamery. The mage had straightened in his chair, a calculating look on his face. Aye, even the boy senses it.
Something was afoot.
CHAPTER 5
EBON’S THOUGHTS were dark as he approached Lamella’s house. The memory of his father’s frailty would not leave him. Isanovir had always hated weakness in others, and he would not spare himself the same disdain. Already he had lapsed into brooding and introspection. The end, when it came, would be a relief to him, Ebon suspected, and that end could not be far off. A matter of weeks, if the Royal Physicians were to be believed, but at least that left time for Ebon to make his peace with the king. No, king no longer. Just a father, perhaps for the first time in Ebon’s life. Had there ever been a time, he wondered, when he had been anything but a prince to Isanovir?
He felt a twist of guilt for his deception at the gathering earlier, for while he had not spoken out to deny Janir’s accusations of spirit-possession, he hadn’t volunteered the truth of what had happened at the forest either. Would he be able to hide the fact the voices had returned? He had to try, that much at least was clear, for if Ebon was forced to abdicate, civil war would likely follow. His brother did not command the respect of the King’s Council any more than Janir did. Of the other domens, Hebral Pallane or Dorala Feriman might stake a claim. The chancellor, too, had made no secret of his ambitions. None of them would bow the knee to the others, even if popular opinion turned against them. For years now, the only thing keeping the disparate factions in line had been Isanovir. Now that responsibility would fall on Ebon.
The jostling for places had already started. Following the showdown in the Royal Quarters, Ebon had attended a series of meetings with various domens, the King’s Companions, the heads of the Guilds—all hastily convened by the queen in order to shore up Ebon’s position, and consequently her own. For more than two bells he had cajoled and coerced, received promises of allegiance and given assurances of friendship in return. After a time, the discussions had begun to blur into a confused murmur, indistinguishable from the whispering of the spirits in his head. When Ebon had finally called a halt to the proceedings, Rosel’s disapproving look had made it clear she knew where he was going.