by Tim Stead
“Outside? But there are no candidates outside, and the guardsmen all arrived after the first killing, so it cannot be them.”
“You are mistaken, Sam Hekman,” Borbonil said. “If it is a Faer Karani, then it has only to kill the body that it occupies to move on to another.”
They left the building and walked around the back, the knife never wavering from its direction. Now there was nothing between them and the fence, and at this moment there was clearly no patrol in the indicated direction. The village was to the south, and all that Felice could see on the line of the blade was the trees of the forest which crowded darkly to within fifty paces.
“He is gone,” she said.
“So it seems,” Serhan agreed. “But I wonder why? He cannot have known that we searched in such a way.”
“A headcount,” Hekman said. “We must have a headcount of students and guards, all of them, as soon as possible.”
“Organise it, Sam,” Serhan said. “You have the authority. At least that will tell us something.”
Hekman hurried off, and the three of them remained for a while looking out at the forest beyond the fence.
“It will take a while,” Serhan said. “Sam is good at this sort of thing, but it will be a couple of hours before we know.”
“And what will we know?” Felice asked.
“If anyone is missing, or dead. It will permit us to guess a little better what we are up against. In the meanwhile, Borbonil, will you put a party together? We need a couple of guardsmen, horses for all. While we have the advantage of the knife there is no need to rest here. We will pursue the killer, but I think it will be tomorrow.”
“You see no need for haste?”
“While he is out there he is no threat.”
“At dawn tomorrow, then.” Borbonil walked away in the direction of the gate leaving Felice alone with the Mage Lord.
“Now,” Serhan said. “You will permit me to show you the school. Delf is very proud of it, and would not forgive me if I did not show it off at any opportunity. Your other business will wait until this one is finished with.”
She nodded. Felice was both relieved and disappointed that they had found nothing. She had dreaded another encounter with an angry Faer Karani, but wanted to be done with the whole business, finished with Karnack, and on her way home. Home was all that she wanted now, to go back to those simple times, to keeping the books in her father’s warehouse, to the smell of her mother’s baking, to go back to her life.
Tomorrow would be soon enough.
21. The Assassin
Felice did not sleep well. They had put her in one of the candidates’ rooms in the north block, and although the room and bed were quite comfortable she did not feel safe. There was a guard outside the door, and one at the foot of the stairs, but they were proof only against those things that she did not fear.
She sat for some time trying to remember what she had learned and what she had seen that day. The Mage Lord seemed quite different from her expectation. He was businesslike, but quite likeable, smaller, darker. It was difficult to imaging him killing two thousand people in a single deliberate act. She had sensed a genuine friendship between the general and Serhan, the kind of friendship that had made it through the sternest of tests. Borbonil, too, had shown respect, and had not feared to say words which might offend. She knew the stories, of course, but stories were always woven with a little more silver thread than the truth, only ever told a fraction of the reality. She was wise enough to know this, and in her idle moments had even made up versions of her own story that were bereft of the fear, confusion and pain that she had gone through, elided the poor decisions that she had made.
She tried to imagine him as a younger man. He was young now, but when he had first come to White Rock he had been barely more than a boy, and yet he had done what he had done, impressed the terrifying creature that ruled there, gained enough of its confidence that he had been permitted to rule its domains. How could he have done that? She knew that he had fought in battles before the great victory at Samara Plain, and that he and Grand had never lost, even when outnumbered, even when trapped they had always found a way.
All that time living in the enemy’s house, being at his beck and call, doing his bidding without question. That must have been hard. And now here he was, showing her around a great school that had been built on his orders, proud as a new father, smiling and laughing, telling her how he would teach here, teach magic to those who were chosen. The teaching halls were far too big, he had complained, for the five, just five, that he was prepared to train. Even now there were copyists creating new versions of the old books, and they would be given to each student, and each would have a room in the southern block with locks. Locks would have to be added, he had said, because after all you could not trust that everybody would be honest.
They had sat in the garden at the heart of the school and a man had brought them sweet, chilled wine and sugared fruit. She had talked, too. Serhan was a good listener. He nodded and frowned and smiled in all the right places. He asked questions that encouraged her to talk, and she had told him about her family, their house in East Scar, she had talked about Todric, and his murder, and she had wept again, felt the anger rise. She had tasted the bitterness of her own voice, and that had stopped her talking.
It was the first time that she had wept in an age.
Now in the night she wondered that he should spend so much time with her. She had detected no sign that he liked her as Jem had liked her, as a man likes a woman. He had not touched her hand, or looked into her eyes, or agreed with everything that she had said, but he had been interested. He had wanted to know. Why?
She dozed fitfully.
In the black heart of the night she rose again, feeling uneasy, and struck a match to the candle by her bed. It lit the small room quite well, showing her again the simple furniture, the wooden framed window, the small fireplace, the solid oak door. She looked among her baggage and found that she had some few scraps of food and a bottle of wine that had been placed there by some kind soul at White Rock. It was enough for a small meal, and she felt like eating, but she had nothing with which to draw the cork except Pathfinder, and she did not want to risk its delicate blade on so crude a task, especially after what Serhan had said about breaking the blade and freeing the spirit trapped within.
The guard outside would have something; a more robust blade, perhaps. Maybe even a corkscrew. She went to the door and lifted the latch, opening it just enough to put her head into the corridor.
The guard was there, standing quite still, almost like a statue, staring ahead.
“Guardsman?”
He didn’t move, didn’t turn to look at her, didn’t blink. She stepped out into the corridor thinking how rude he was. She prodded him with a finger.
“Guardsman!” The man remained still and silent, and she pushed him quite hard, waved a hand before his eyes, eventually beat upon his chest with her fist, but he did not respond. For all her efforts it was as though she were assaulting a piece of stone. She was seized by an overwhelming sense of danger, and fought back the beginnings of panic. She breathed deeply, slowly, telling herself that panic would only bring more danger, and after a while she reasserted a degree of self control and was able to examine the corridor with a clear eye.
There was no sign of any trouble. In the light of her candle she could see no blood, no forgotten items, no sign of a struggle or anything unusual. The man frozen, like stone, and someone, some thing was responsible.
Was there still a man on the outer door, she wondered?
She slipped out of the room and began to make her way along the corridor towards the nearest stair, but heard a noise, steps, stealthy steps, coming up towards her. There was a light on the stair, a candle coming up. She blew out her own candle and ran as quickly and as quietly as she could to the next staircase, reaching it just before the other candle lit up the corridor. She watched as the light moved towards her and stopped at he
r door. There was a pause. She risked a clearer look along the corridor and saw a figure, cloaked and hooded, but wearing boots and trousers that looked guard issue, standing quite still before her room. He seemed to be listening, bending his head to the door. Perhaps it was a guard after all, just checking. He moved again, and she saw a glint, a steel blade catching the candle’s light.
She ran down the stairs, knowing that the hooded figure had come for her, that had she stayed a minute longer in her room she would have been killed. Even now she would be dead. As she burst through the door, out into the night, an arm caught her and swung her against the outer wall of the building, knocking the breath out of her. She felt a blade pressed across her neck, and thought that her time had come. There were two of them; two assassins working together. She prepared herself to die, eyes closed, waiting for the pain, the rush of blood, but the blade was taken away, and she fell to her knees, overcome by weakness and fear.
“Felice?”
She looked up and was astonished to see Ennis Sabra, blade in hand, standing there in the starlit pathway.
“Ennis, what are you doing here?”
“He said you were in danger, that I was needed. Are you all right?”
Felice was confused for a moment. There were so many things that she wanted to say, and curiosity won over self preservation.
“Who? Who said I was in danger?”
Ennis nodded, and she turned to see a second figure, dressed in a simple tunic and rough woollen cloak – a servant or a stable hand. By starlight she could make out nothing more. Other things were more important.
“There’s a man, a guardsman, or dressed as one anyway, he was going into my room with a knife. The guard was frozen, like a statue.”
“All the guards from this side of the building are the same,” Ennis said. She sounded grim, and took a step towards the stairway.
“No! We must fetch Serhan.”
“I can deal with one man,” Ennis said.
“And all these guards could not? They’re not even dead, Ennis, they’re turned into statues.”
“What are you saying?”
“Faer Karan,” she hissed. “It’s not a man, Ennis.”
At that moment the hooded figure that she had seen outside her room stepped out of the door and Ennis sprang back, blade held ready. The assassin still held the candle in one hand, and by its guttering flame she saw his face. It was not one that she knew, just a man, but she believed that she knew what was behind the mask of flesh. She glanced across at the servant, or whatever he was, and in the last flickers of the candle she saw his face clearly. It was a face that she had never thought to see again.
“Come then,” the hooded man said. “Let us see how good you are with that blade.” His voice was low and sweet, like dark treacle, and Felice could hear the smile on his lips. He, too, held a blade. It was a short sword, an infantry weapon.
“Ennis, we need to back off. We need to get out of here.”
“Guards never run from a fight,” Ennis replied. She was rocking from side to side, the tip of her blade looking for an opening to attack, but her opponent was quite still.
“It’s not a fight, Ennis. He’s Faer Karan.”
“He’s a man,” she said. “You can see that he’s a man.”
She could see that Ennis was going to attack, and that she was going to die, and she knew that it was unnecessary. A sword was no use against such a creature, but Ennis had not been there for the discussion that afternoon, had not heard that a Faer Karani could take flesh, and be a man. In the moment before Ennis struck, Felice hurled herself at her friend, taking her completely by surprise and knocking her to the ground, striking her as hard as she could. She succeeded. Ennis was unconscious.
The assassin laughed.
“Well, now she will not know the moment of her death, but it is you that I have come to kill.”
“Kalnistine, you have made a mistake” Felice said, picking herself up from the floor.
“Clever,” the Faer Karani said. There was a wariness in his voice, an edge of caution. “How do you know my name?”
“Raganesh gave it to me to save his own skin, in a manner of speaking.”
Now Kalnistine seemed even less certain, but he stepped forwards, raised a hand in threat. “What are you talking about? Tell me what you know of Raganesh and I will make your death painless.”
“I do not know when my death will come,” Felice said. “But it will not be here, and not on this night. You on the other hand, would be advised to flee as best you can.”
“Flee? From you?” The sneering confidence was back, and Felice wondered at the arrogance that must feed it. Kalnistine thought that she was bluffing.
“You have not noticed that I am not the only one here?”
“You surely do not expect this snivelling wretch to help you?” He waved a theatrical hand towards the man who had brought Ennis, and Felice saw that he had indeed collapsed to the ground in an attitude of apparent terror, his face hidden in his hands. It was mere pretence, of course. She pushed the cowering figure with her toe.
“You can get up now,” she said, and the man stopped quaking, lifted his face and looked at her. He seemed peeved, but got slowly to his feet. All trace of terror disappeared from his manner. He stood straight and somehow taller than before. Felice turned to Kalnistine. “Yes.”
She knew what was going to happen as soon as she had seen his face, the same face, unmistakably the same face that had appeared in her comfortable prison on a different world just a few days ago. It was the face that had brought her back to White Rock. Ekloi. Her problem was to keep both herself and Ennis alive, and she knew that the Ekloi would not act to contain Kalnistine until there was no threat of discovery. He would wait until both of them were dead. Now there was no reason for him not to act. Ennis was unconscious and she had recognised him.
Kalnistine, in his turn, recognised something about the man; that he was Ekloi, and his demeanour changed at once, the confidence draining away like wine from a punctured wineskin. The Ekloi stepped forwards.
“Kalnistine of the Faykin, you will come with me,” he said.
The Faer Karani backed away a step. “After four hundred years of freedom? Go back there? I am not the weak thing that I was in that prison, Ekloi. I am more than that now. I have real power.”
“It is the place,” the Ekloi said. He didn’t sound worried, more bored, as though explaining a simple thing to a child. “You have more power, I have more power. The balance is the same.”
Kalnistine struck, flinging one of his arms towards the Ekloi. A burst of energy flared around him, but he seemed unharmed. He gestured with a hand and a flame grew from his fist. It was the same fire that she had seen in Alder’s hand, becoming a blade of moon coloured steel with red and green flames around it. The Ekloi pointed it at Kalnistine.
“Do not resist,” he said, “or you will know the real death.”
Kalnistine backed away another couple of steps and spoke a word. Behind him the night became darker. A door, a black door! The Ekloi realised at the same moment as Felice, and leaped forwards, but as fast as he was, he was not fast enough, and Kalnistine was gone, the door dissipating into the dark air and the Ekloi rolling to his feet again just beyond where it had been. He fixed Felice with a hostile glare.
“You have allowed him to escape,” he said.
“I? I have done nothing other than preserve my life. I am sorry if your fine plan called for my death, but you can hardly expect me to cooperate with that. And why did you bring the lieutenant here?”
“I thought we would get here soon enough, that he would not yet have arrived.” He sighed. “He has escaped. He knows that I am here. It will be much harder now.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. If you recall I was able to find Raganesh easily enough.”
“It is forbidden. You are not enlightened, and cannot be taken into confidence. What Sinalder did was wrong.”
“So why was I not assessed?
Why did you bring me back?”
“It forbidden to speak of it. I cannot tell you.”
There was a sound of men approaching; a great many of them by the sound of it, and Felice moved to Ennis’ side. She knew that she would have to make something up for the guardsmen, but she had no idea what she would tell Serhan. That was going to be difficult. She saw torches, shapes in the dark, heard the crunch of many boots on the gravel paths.
“What happened here? Is everyone all right?”
“Some guardsmen are frozen - magic, I fear,” Felice said as they crowded around. “The killer was here, but fled at the sound of your approach.”
“Which way?” a guard asked.
“You cannot follow,” she said. “He used a black door. He used magic.”
She saw uneasy looks pass between several of the armed men. They knew well enough that swords and bows had no efficacy against magic. They had all served under one or other of the banished Faer Karan lords.
“What are you saying?” an officer demanded.
“I am saying that you should take me to the Mage Lord, Captain, and care for this one.” She was going to have a tough time explaining herself to Ennis, but Serhan would be the harder task.
* * * *
Serhan didn’t look pleased to be roused in the dead of the night, but she could not detect any anger. He just seemed tired, flat, unemotional. He didn’t smile. They had put her in a room with a couple of guardsmen, the captain who had been the first to arrive outside the north block, a long table and many chairs while he was roused. She was surprised when others began to arrive. The general she recognised, and Borbonil, but there was another man who she did not know. He introduced himself at once.
“You must be the almost legendary Felice Caledon,” he said, smiling and taking her hand. He was thin, and quite tall. His face was hidden under a moustache and a short beard, but he looked quite scruffy in such company. “I am Delf Killore,” he said, almost as though it were an admission of guilt.
“The Lawmaster?” She was impressed. Here was the most important resident of Woodside, the man credited with devising the legal system of White Rock. Killore pulled a face.