The Barrow

by Mark Smylie

  “Aye, I suppose this is more mourners than I would have expected, given the nature of his death, but still, a poorly attended funeral when it comes to his own family and the high worthies of this city,” said Gilgwyr, bitterness in his voice. “Not a single one of the University Chairs, not even Magister Arathon. Not a single senior member of the Chancery. Oh, he is ill used in death. Neither his father nor his eldest brothers have returned from the field and the Grand Duke’s sport. Instead they send paid mourners in their place. Everyone is afraid to show their faces . . .”

  “Aye, his father could have made it down here in time,” said Coogan. “We did, with a bit of hard riding. So they should have no excuses.”

  “Instead the Baron’s holed up in his tents, in council with his sons and advisors, trying to figure out the next play,” said Cynyr, and he spat to one side. “Pathetic.”

  “Theirs is a family marred by tragedy,” Stjepan said quietly. “And this death puts a cloud over anyone who has crossed paths with him, most particularly us.” He looked at Coogan and Cynyr with a half-smile. “It’s always good to see you, but you probably shouldn’t have come back to the city. Everyone’s going to have to tread carefully.”

  “Any excuse to see the Lords again,” said Coogan, a twinkle in his eye. “Was Orrigard surprised to discover you were back in the city?”

  “Yes, you could say that,” said Stjepan sourly. “I might actually have to go map the Mire this time.”

  “You heard about the Grand Duke?” Coogan asked. “It’s back into the hills for us this summer, as if the ass-kicking that Porloss handed us all last year wasn’t bad enough. It’s like the idiots never fucking learn to let well enough alone.”

  “Aye, I heard,” said Stjepan. “They won’t figure it out until we’re carting the Grand Duke’s dead body back from the Manon Mole.”

  “He’s a good man, maybe the best of the sorry lot save King Derrek, but better his dead body than ours,” said Cynyr. They all nodded in assent and made warding signs in the air to ward off the Evil Eye.

  Jonas did a double-take. “Islik’s balls. Heads up,” he said, straightening up and unconsciously smoothing his clothes down. They all looked where he had indicated and started to do the same.

  The crowd was parting as a small column of men and women in black approached them, led by no less than two Princes of the Guild. Bad Mowbray, a tall thin Danian man with pockmarked cheeks, thinning gray hair, hawk eyes, and a hooked nose, was dressed in a long fur-lined black damask coat over black silk doublets and breeches, a cloth-of-gold codpiece, and stiff black leather boots. And he had the Gilded Lady on his arm, dressed similarly to her ensemble in the Sleight of Hand the week before but with the addition of a mourning veil pulled down over her face. Like the Gilded Lady, Mowbray wore a chain of office made from a variety of gold coins linked together. Behind him came the members of his crew, each of them escorting one of the Gilded Lady’s veiled ladies-in-waiting. Ah, Harvald, thought Gilgwyr. I hope you are looking down on us now, because you would not believe the honor you are receiving. The Lady did not normally sally forth during the day, as the harsh revealing light of the sun was not always her friend, but she had quite apparently chosen to make an exception.

  The two Princes of the Guild came to a stop before them, and the five men bowed, joined by many others standing nearby, including Erim and the entire Sleight of Hand contingent.

  “Almost all of the remaining Lords of Book and Street, then,” said the Gilded Lady softly in her deep voice. “It is unfortunate that you are reunited under such terrible circumstances.”

  “My Lord. My Lady. Thank you for honoring our compatriot,” said Stjepan.

  “Your days of service may have passed, but we remain ever tied to you and yours by blood and history,” said the Gilded Lady, her eyes twinkling. “We will not forget you, and hope very much that you will not forget us.”

  “Never, my Lady,” the five said, practically in unison and with slight bows.

  “Even you will undoubtedly be of service once again, Black-Heart,” said Mowbray with a smile that seemed genuine. “Do not despair of the blacklist. All things change in time.” Stjepan inclined his head and made a short bow.

  “I understand that we too must offer you the sadness of our hearts,” said Jonas smoothly. “We have heard this morning that the Fat Prince was taken by the hand of Death, poisoned during the night. It is a shock and horror to us all.”

  “Perhaps not all,” said the Gilded Lady with a cunning smile. “For we were told that one amongst you threatened him with death to his very face not more than a week ago.”

  Gilgwyr paled. “My Lady. My Lord. I assure you, the words I spoke to the Fat Prince were made in warning, not as a threat. I shared my Rumor-hoard with him in fair exchange, and told him of the order given to the royal knives. If he failed to act on it, either to settle whatever debt or grievance had earned him the enmity of the King’s Shadow, or to protect himself as best he could, then surely the fault is not mine . . .”

  “No, dear Gilgwyr, I suppose it is not, despite your storied rivalry,” said the Gilded Lady. Her eyes narrowed as her gaze fell on Ariadesma. “Ah, our exotic entertainer from poor Guilford’s wake. Looking none the worse for wear and tear, I see.”

  Ariadesma stepped forward beside Gilgwyr and curtsied. “At’a vos servica, ma donna,” she said with a smile. “Magus Sequintus is a . . . how do you say? . . . a miracle worker? So I am yours to command.”

  “The safety of the entertainers of the Sleight of Hand is always paramount in my concerns,” Gilgwyr said, his hand going to the small of Ariadesma’s back. “She was never in any real danger. Ariadesma brings with her many secrets from Palatia and Lagapoli, and is eager to demonstrate them to us all. We have great plans for her.” He smiled.

  Indeed, never one to let something like the death of a close friend interfere with a bit of potential business, Gilgwyr had met with several masked members of the Inquisition the day before at a safe house, and the meeting had gone splendidly. Even though they’d worn masks, he’d been able to identify them with ease. Heoras Clogoar, the Chief Inquisitor, had the unconscious habit of snorting in the back of his throat on occasion while he breathed; Oswin Urgoar, the High Priest of the Inquisition and one of the patriarchs of the priestly Urgoar family, had broken a finger when he was young and it had not set properly, and he had neglected to conceal the crooked digit; and the Templar Captain Sir Conrad Colewed wore a mask that did not cover his entire face, and so his ridiculous blond moustache was easily detectable. Never send a boy to do a man’s job, he’d thought, shaking his head. But no wonder young Alain is so eager to please them. It’s the Inquisition’s bloody royalty.

  “. . . I believe I have the perfect young woman for your needs,” Gilgwyr had said once they’d gotten past the initial negotiations. “A beautiful face and body, petite but very shapely, very graceful. A dancer from Palatia, with all the skills that entails. I trust the fact that she is a foreigner will not prove too much of a problem?”

  The Inquisitors had all glanced at each other behind their masks. “No, that should be fine. Being foreign might be a plus, as it spares a fine Aurian woman from the ordeal,” had said the Chief Inquisitor. “Indeed our patron has a particular dislike of the Palatians, and so I think it works on many levels.”

  “And all of the records would seem to show that blessed Herrata was in fact black of hair, so she could be considered somewhat accurate in duplicating Herrata’s appearance,” had said their High Priest.

  “But what of Herrata’s rapture?” had said the Templar Captain. “Will she display the proper passion? It would be most unfortunate if her response to the act being performed upon her was not sufficiently . . . ardent.”

  “This particular young woman is not only a consummate performer but she also has an insatiable fire within her. And there are ways to . . . enhance her experience. Leave that to Sequintus,” Gilgwyr had said, indicating the aged enchanter of his house who sat
in the chair next to him.

  The enchanter had perked up, as though recognizing his cue. “Ah. Yes, our potents,” he’d said. “Our house has a great deal of experience with medicinal and magical aids. The lady that Gilgwyr has selected will participate most vigorously, I assure you, and enjoy herself immensely without limits.”

  “Which brings us to a delicate point,” had said Gilgwyr, licking his lips. “The stud in question . . . how can I put this? I am sure you’ve heard the expression you can lead a horse—or in this case bull—to water, but you can’t make it drink.” The Inquisitors had looked at each other. “It could be quite embarrassing for all involved if the star of the show were led in, done up in gold, only to have no interest in the mate presented to it. Wouldn’t you agree?” The Inquisitors had shuffled nervously in their seats but other than a cough gave no response.

  Gilgwyr had smiled. “I hope I do not assume too much when I suppose that no one wants our patron to be spending his time watching a crew of handlers maneuver a recalcitrant stud into a less-than-amorous coupling,” he’d said. “That would hardly seem a suitable reenactment of the glorious conception of our Divine King, and I think that would quite ruin the mood of the celebration, yes? I don’t suppose the stud in question has had any training or experience in this sort of thing?”

  The Inquisitors had looked at each other again. “As far as we are aware, this particular stud has not,” had said the Chief Inquisitor. Gilgwyr had been intrigued by his choice of words. Patience, patience, he’d thought. Don’t ask too many questions yet.

  Gilgwyr had leaned forward in his chair. “As a professional entertainer, this potential problem vexed me, and so I put it to Sequintus here to see if he could think of a potent that could be useful in this sort of thing, and he could not,” Gilgwyr had said, turning toward Sequintus. “Could you, dear Sequintus?”

  “Ah, no,” had said Sequintus, nodding wisely if a bit absently. “No herbal concoction that I am aware of seems applicable. The only thing that occurred to me as a solution was to find a way to summon a Rahabi spirit to possess the stud bull, that could control its actions.”

  Gilgwyr had turned back and looked at the Inquisitors, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. This is the moment, he’d thought. Either this all comes crashing to a halt, or we’ve got them sewn up tight. For what Sequintus had just then proposed was quite, quite forbidden.

  “Summon a spirit,” had said the High Priest in a flat tone. “One of the Rahabi.”

  “Ah, yes, one of the Gamezhiel, I would think,” had said Sequintus matter-of-factly, as though he had been discussing a recipe for baked bread or a turn in the weather. “Should be a simple matter of discovering the name of one of them, summoning it at the appropriate time, striking a bargain and binding it into the stud, and then banishing it once its task is complete. An incubus spirit would do the job rather nicely, they are supposedly always looking for opportunities to fornicate with mortal women, no matter what their outer form.”

  The Inquisitors all looked at each other behind their masks.

  “Would the spirit possession harm the stud in some way?” had asked the Templar Captain.

  “No, it should be fine, as long as it doesn’t come to any physical harm during the coupling,” had said Sequintus. “And that is of course of far greater concern to the young woman involved.”

  The Chief Inquisitor had leaned forward. “And you can do such a thing?” he’d asked.

  Gotcha, had thought Gilgwyr.

  When they’d stepped back out onto the street once the meeting was over, Gilgwyr had adjusted the tricorn hat on his head and then had bounced on his heels merrily, smelling the breeze wafting through the city. No one would’ve been stupid enough to actually admit in front of three members of the Inquisition that they could do such a thing, oh no; but for the right price, inquiries could certainly be made. For the right price, perhaps including a one-time Inquisitional pardon, marked with the seal of the Chief Inquisitor of their Order? Today is not a great day, not a blessed day. And the best day of all is not yet coming, he’d thought. But this ain’t so bad. “Just when I think this city holds no more surprises for me, it proves me wrong,” he’d said, smiling to Sequintus. “I am giddy with shock at the level of corruption that surrounds us.”

  “Oh, please,” said the old enchanter with a jaded sigh. “Just wait until you’re my age, and by then you’ll have seen much, much worse.”

  “It really was the most shocking performance,” said the Gilded Lady, a scandalized leer on her face. “It absolutely would have been the talk of the town, had not poor Harvald met his death in such spectacular fashion on the same night.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it,” Bad Mowbray mused, looking the Palatian over.

  The Gilded Lady clapped her hands as though she’d just had an idea. “I know. A command performance, then!” she cried. “A repeat of the entertainments of that night, but this time at a different wake, that of the Fat Prince. Would you agree to host the Guild, then, and honor our fallen Prince? Can a repeat be arranged?”

  Gilgwyr looked stunned at the offer. A wake for a Guild Prince. At the Sleight of Hand. Oh, wouldn’t Guizo have hated that. A bad week is definitely looking up, he thought. “We will repeat it and top it, my Lady,” Gilgwyr exclaimed, as Ariadesma blushed and looked as though she was about to faint. “You need but name the day!”

  “This coming Priadum is the Festival of the Serpent, marking the last of the star-signs of the Celestial year,” said the Gilded Lady with a knowing smile. “Perhaps that evening, then, on the 19th? Is two days enough time for you to prepare?”

  “We will be ready, my Lady,” Gilgwyr said with a deep bow.

  “Fantastic,” said Bad Mowbray, nodding his head and looking about. “Outstanding. Oh, well done.” He and the Gilded Lady inclined their heads and those nearby bowed in response, and they stepped to the side to greet those amongst the Marked that awaited them, and allow the members of their crews to come forward and express their condolences. As they did, the pair of Princes paused by Erim.

  “Oh, and this is the exquisite young thing I was telling you about,” the Gilded Lady said to Mowbray. “Black-Heart’s new friend.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Bad Mowbray, looking Erim over. “I see what you mean. Delicious.”

  And then they moved on, and it was Erim’s turn to blush again.

  Arduin grew even angrier as the funeral progressed, if such a thing were possible. He had begun the day in a foul mood to begin with, for the week had brought an onslaught of bad tidings, one thing after another. After the celebratory high of Duke Pergwyn’s offer had come the strange events during the night in their household, and the next morning had brought with it word of Harvald’s death and the first hint of the unusual circumstances surrounding it. A fire in the great Library of the University; a maleficent and strange curse that had caused his brother’s body to rot and decay from the inside out; the revelation of a theft and malfeasance at the Library, for which Harvald was seemingly responsible, and the destruction of the University’s property; rumors of occult and forbidden magic. The tidings had grown dark indeed over that first day.

  Then had come word the next day that the city fathers were refusing to relinquish Harvald’s body for its rites, and instead were examining it to determine what kind of magic had been involved. The City Watch, the Magisters of the University, members of the High King’s Court, Templars and Inquisitors from the Inquisition of the Sun Court, had all come to ask exhausting and perplexing questions. Then had come word that his father and brothers would not be returning for the funeral at all, leaving him to make the arrangements and plea for the release of his brother’s body on his own. After several days of such humiliation, the City Watch had finally released Harvald’s body, only to inform him that the Great Temple of the Divine King would not be available for the cremation, and that he would have to use the Public Temple. Someone must have warned Father ahead of time of the slight, Arduin had thought
angrily when he learned of the Court’s decision. And so he leaves it to me, and poor Annwyn. And all week long he had felt the sinking feeling in his stomach, the certainty that this scandal was going to bury their family, and his anger at Harvald and the whole world had grown ever more furious.

  The growing turnout at the funeral only confirmed his worst fears. A small turnout would have been a blessed thing, to allow his family to grieve in private and send Harvald off in peace; or a large turnout with many notables at the Great Temple, as that would have signaled perhaps some embrace of the family in their time of trouble. But this was the worst of all possible worlds. Clearly none of the great players in the Court were going to put in an appearance: no Dukes, no Crown Prince, certainly no High King, and none of his great advisors or officers. Not a single noble of the rank of Baron or higher had yet appeared. Oh, but their wives certainly had, along with minor lords and lordlings of every stripe, merchants and moneylenders, courtiers and clerks. Elisa, Baroness of Karsiris was there, as was the Baroness of Loria, the Baroness of Chesterton, the Lady Sigalla, the Lady Ilona, and the Lady Gallas; the gossip queens of the Court, he thought, all of them there to see this fresh scandal visited upon his family, and cast their venomous, envious gazes upon the beauty of his sister. However Baroness Siglette of Djarfort and her daughter Lady Silga, whom his father had presumably hoped would marry him, were notably absent from that contingent, dashing whatever slim hope he might have clung to that something there was still possible.

  And on top of that Annwyn was clearly, violently ill, and had been all week. She had been bed-ridden with fever, tossing and turning, moaning insensibly, ever since the night of Harvald’s death. Her handmaidens had done their best, but after two days he had finally summoned a physiker to come and consult as to her condition. The physiker had been of no use, and each day Arduin had summoned a different healer, and each day her condition had not changed. He had been grateful for Malia that week; he did not normally like the Danian woman, having preferred that his sister’s handmaidens be of proper Aurian bloodlines, but his sister had always been fond of her, and she had proven herself a capable helpmate that week and the household had run smoothly despite his sister’s illness.