by Tim Stead
She could see that it was the sensible thing to do, to kill Kalnistine, the expedient thing, but she could not make it feel right.
They had exchanged only a few words on their way back to the school. The killing was like a wall between them, a thick film that prevented their eyes from meeting and allowed only the most banal words to pass. While they ate their evening meal, huddled around a fire against the chill of the night she tried to revive the slender rapport they had developed the previous day.
“It’s colder than it should be,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Are we north of Woodside?”
Shako paused. He was checking, she suspected, against some mental list of restrictions on what he was allowed to reveal. It annoyed her.
“A little,” he said eventually.
“You are a fine cook,” she said, trying a different tack. Perhaps this was something that he would talk about, a secret passion. He paused again.
“Thank you,” he said. It was perfunctory thanks, a polite but uninvolved response.
“Where did you learn?” She persisted. It was a provocative question, she knew. The answer would involve some other world that he was forbidden to speak of.
“At home,” he said. “My father taught me.”
It was a door, opened only a crack, but Felice pushed. “Your father was a cook?”
“Yes, he owned an eating house, a good one.”
“Did he want you to follow him?”
“Of course. Fathers do; in all worlds I suppose.” He smiled at the fire, but it was a sad smile. He would have preferred to be a cook. She could see it on his face, but somehow he had been turned into this, an Ekloi. She understood in a moment of revelation that he had not chosen to be this. He had been a cook, a boy, and plucked from a happy life into some sort of service which was now his life and his duty. He was not a great and mighty mage, but a foot soldier, a prison guard, a servant. It all made sense. This was why Alder seemed dull, and why the other Ekloi were so bound to duty. They were not a brotherhood of great mages, but a body of men recruited and trained by others. They were not thinkers. They were men who obeyed.
What then must his home be like? Somewhere there were others who had trained these men, to whom their power and knowledge was no threat. Creatures who were as far above these as Serhan was above Sabra and Bantassin and Grand. It was a terrifying thought.
“I’m not certain what my father wants,” she said. “My brother was raised to take his place, but my brother is dead. The expectation will pass to my younger brother, I suppose.”
Shako nodded. “You would be a good trader,” he said. “But it would be a waste of your talents. You can do more.”
“I have no special talent,” she replied. “I have been lucky enough to survive what has happened to me these past months, and I know no other trade.”
“I predict that you will learn one,” the Ekloi said. He was smirking now, and she was glad that he was so much at ease, but it annoyed her none the less.
“You know something, or seem to think that you do, but you will not tell me.”
“Indeed, but I am not prevented from telling you what occurs on your own world.”
“Then tell me!”
“The day that you were… elsewhere, Serhan sent a message to White Rock, and it was passed to all his officers and functionaries, including Alder. He ordered them to protect you as they would his own person.”
“Because of the killings? But I was not…”
“Before the first killing.”
“And that is why I was brought back to White Rock,” she said. “That is why there was no assessment, because Serhan pre-empted it, gave you an unequivocal answer. I would have been missed.”
“That I cannot tell you.”
“Do you know why he did this?”
Shako shrugged. “I would not try to guess,” he said.
It was something, though, to have cleared up one mystery. However, the answer only served to reveal yet another puzzle. Why had Serhan issued that order? As she lay on the ground that night, trying to sleep, she thought about it, running all that she had seen and done through her head. There was only one thing that sprang to mind, that Serhan thought that she possessed some magical ability, an aptitude for mage work. It could only have come from the silly mataga episode, when the Pekkan sailors had believed her to be a weather witch.
Well, it seemed that the idea had been of great service to her. In the first instance it had got her a free passage to Samara from Pek, and more respect than she was due. In the second it had brought Pekkan sailors to her aid in that tavern in Samara, without whom she might have lost the warrant, at the very least – possibly even her life. Now it had helped her again, bringing her to the undeserved attention of the Mage Lord, making her untouchable by the Ekloi. Never had a lie done so much good.
He would be disappointed to find her just a trader’s daughter, but it did not worry her. She had never claimed anything for herself, and if other people allowed themselves to be misled by rumours, dubious rumours started by superstitious sailors, then it was not against her.
“I have one question for you, Shako,” she said. “You will not answer, but I must ask it anyway.”
“Then ask.” He looked untroubled. Doubtless he was certain of his dogma.
“Borbonil and Cabersky…”
“They are faykin and not to be trusted,” Shako interrupted. “Do not for a minute think that you can be a friend to them. These creatures are self serving, vicious, without any sort of morality. They will do only what serves them in the moment.”
The interruption annoyed Felice. “Like Kalnistine, who chose a self serving death?”
“He did not believe that I would strike.”
“Is that so? Is it common for the Ekloi to be remiss in their duty?”
“It has never happened.”
Felice stared at him, waiting for him to see the obvious flaw in his chain of unreason, but Shako’s gaze remained firm and untroubled. He believes, and no mere logic can unseat the thing that grips his mind.
“Borbonil and Cabersky,” she began again. “Are they safe from you?”
He hesitated for a moment. “At present, yes. They are too much in the public eye, and they are well controlled. There is no need for us to act.”
It was something she had wanted to know, and it surprised her that Shako was willing to tell her. The answer was what she had hoped for, and it put her mind more at ease. A cause had been removed. She knew that in spite of what Shako said that Serhan was loyal to his Faer Karan servants, and that he would strive to defend them if they were threatened. She put it out of her mind.
Tomorrow they would be back at Woodside, and Shako would disappear again, and she would have justice, and then she would go home.
23. Justice
She awoke to an insistent knocking on the door of her room. She rolled onto an elbow, levered herself half upright and blinked at the blurred world. She rubbed her eyes with finger and thumb, remembering.
“I am awake,” she called.
“Ima Caledon,” the guard’s voice from beyond the door boomed, deadened by the thick wood. “I am to remind you that you should be in the garden after you break your fast.”
“I had not forgotten.”
Footsteps went away down the corridor and she lay back again, closing her eyes for a moment, allowing sleep to beckon for a few seconds longer. The sheets were clean and scented with lavender, and the sun flooded in through a south facing window, but she did not feel in tune with the day. Apprehension mixed equally with expectation, and she wanted it to be tomorrow, to be done with justice and heading home.
She got up, washed as best she could, and dressed.
Last night was a blur. She had travelled all day with Shako, and then, at the edge of the woods he had vanished into the dusk without a word. One moment he had been beside her, and then he was gone. She had not seen him go, and the woods around her were quiet, disturbed onl
y by the sounds of insects and the calls of night birds. She could see the lights around the great school flickering in the twilight no more than two hundred paces away, but Shako’s abrupt disappearance had unsettled her. She walked out of the wood and up to the gate, feeling the weight of her day’s journey in her heavy eyes, sore feet and aching legs.
They recognised her and sent runners, opened the gate. She was taken to see Serhan in his private chambers. He was alert and interested, as usual, but he could see how tired she was. He sat her down in a chair and sat opposite her.
“Is it done?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Kalnistine is dead?”
“Yes.”
“I’d feel better if I’d seen it myself,” he said. “And I’d be easier if I knew how it was done. Others will come back, and I doubt we can rely on the Ekloi to solve all our problems.”
She did not answer. Remembering Kalnistine’s death she could not imagine anybody wanting to be there themselves.
“You are tired,” Serhan said. He wanted to question her more, but he was being considerate. It was a generous gesture. “You need rest. We will speak again in the morning, after you have rested and taken breakfast, come down to the garden.”
He called a guard and had her shown to a room. There was food there, fruit and bread and a few slices of cold meat. She ate a little, and then folded up into the bed, sleeping solidly for eight or nine hours. She did not remember dreaming. Then came the knock on the door, dragging her up from darkness into light.
Her appetite was poor. She ate a light breakfast and picked at her food. There was no hurry. Today everything would wait for her. She found herself oddly reluctant to go down to the garden, to begin the end of this strange journey. As much as she wanted to go home she had grown accustomed to adventure, to thinking quickly and making important decisions, ones that saved lives, or ended them. Nor was she looking forward to disappointing Serhan. Eventually it could be put off no longer. She drained a cup of water and made her way slowly down stairs.
She was surprised to hear the bright ringing of crossed swords as she came out of the building. There were several people in the garden, guardsmen, standing on the edge of one of the perfect lawns by the fountain. They were watching two people fencing, and one of the two was Ennis. She hadn’t had time to speak to her friend before she left the previous day, and was glad to see that she was no worse for the blow she had received two nights ago. The other fencer was also a woman.
They fought for perhaps a quarter of a minute, and then the other woman held up her hand to stop the bout, spoke to Ennis, demonstrated a movement with her arm, and then they took their guard and started again, repeating moves that they had done before. Even Felice could see that the other woman was better than Ennis. They were both fast and sure footed, but Ennis seemed always to be reaching and missing, and the other’s movement was more liquid. Her feet glided, and everything was smooth and precise.
The stranger was a couple of inches taller than Ennis, and not dressed in the same way, so not a guard. She wore good, brown boots, clearly well made, and white trousers. Over that she wore a thick white tunic held with a green sash about her waist. Her long golden hair was tied back in a pony tail, and she wore no armour, just heavy leather gloves, borrowed at a guess.
It was a lesson, she realised. The fair woman was teaching Ennis. She could see the concentration on her friend’s face.
One of the guardsmen saw her watching and spoke a word. The bout was stopped at once, and the stranger turned to Felice with a smile on her face. She was arrestingly beautiful. Like Todric, she thought. This woman had the same perfect face, the same openness, and instantly she warmed to her.
“Ima Caledon,” the stranger said. “I am most pleased to finally meet you.” She pulled off a glove, held out her hand and Felice took it, felt the firm, warm grasp.
“I’m afraid…”
“Forgive me! I did not introduce myself. I am Calaine Tarnell, otherwise Do Regana of Samara. Ella sends her best regards.”
Felice found herself lost for words. This was the crown princess of Samara, the heir to the throne of the greatest city in the world, and she was treating Felice as an equal. She bowed.
“Do Regana, I am honoured,” she managed.
Calaine smiled, but did not acknowledge her words. “You’ve become something of a legend, Felice. May I call you Felice?” The question came after the presumption, but Felice didn’t mind.
“Of course…”
“And you shall call me Calaine,” she said. “I insist.”
“As you wish.” She did not think she could bring herself to call this imposing woman by her first name. She would have to try to avoid calling her anything. “How is Ella?”
“Well. Tarlyn and Corban also.” The father and brother. She had met them both. “Now we must attend to business. Serhan expects me to bring you to him first thing, so we will go.” Even the heir to the throne of Samara was at his beck and call.
They went. Calaine led the way down corridors and up stairs. “I used to get lost here all the time,” she confided. “You should talk to Delf. Once he explains it you can see that the plan of the place is quite simple. It is the symbols on the doors that tell you where you are.”
She looked, and indeed there were discrete symbols placed on each door, close to the latch. She studied them, and saw that they changed at each door and again at each corridor and level.
They came to a final door and Calaine did not bother to knock, but lifted the latch and entered, towing Felice behind her.
Serhan was there, in his customary black and green splendour, and Sam Hekman, the lawmaster from Samara. There was a third man, too, a man sitting in a chair facing the door. She caught her breath, felt a tightness across her chest. Was this Karnack? The man lifted his head briefly as she entered and then let it fall again.
“You have the wrong man,” she said, disappointment welling up in her, feeling almost like relief.
“Look again, Ima, look more closely,” Serhan said.
She did. The man was thin, almost wasted. He looked much older than Karnack, and his eyes did not have that confident, arrogant stare. They shifted, looking for purchase on something that they never seemed to find. She saw his hands, and stared at them. They were scratched raw on the backs, marred with red wheals and dark scabs. She looked at the face again.
“What have you done to him?” She was horrified. This was Karnack, but it was a wreck of the man who had killed Todric, a shadow.
Serhan shrugged. “Nothing,” he said. “He eats little, seems unable to concentrate, and does that to his hands all the time.”
“I don’t understand.” She looked around the room. Sam Hekman looked sad. So did Serhan. The Mage Lord stood abruptly and took her arm, leading her out of the door again.
“Walk with me,” he said. “I will try to tell you the story of Sergeant Peet Karnack, and then we will talk about justice.”
She nodded and followed him. He took her out of the building into the open air where the sun blazed down with the perfect light that comes before the real heat of the day, and they crunched along the white gravel paths between the buildings. It was a while before he spoke again.
“Karnack was a good man,” he said eventually. He glanced at her, expecting a protest, perhaps, but she said nothing. She was too stunned by what she had seen. “He was a good guardsman. You saw evidence of that. The men in Yasu did not believe that it was Karnack who killed your brother. The others in Samara, in the tavern – they felt the same. You see they knew him as a brave man, a man who did the right thing. They fought along side him. They knew him as a brother, a straight and decent man.”
Still she did not speak.
“He decided to seek his fortune in other areas. Some guard forces were increasing in size, but the one in East Scar was not, so he went to Yasu, arranged passage on a boat, and then lost the money for that passage playing cards. He was humiliated. He felt foolish and stupi
d, so he decided to do something even more foolish. He would cheat, and win the money back from the same people he had lost it to. I don’t thing he thought of it as cheating – he was just evening the score, restoring the balance. You know what happened that night.”
“Yes, he killed Todric.”
“He was caught. He was confronted. He reacted. Almost at once I think he knew the terrible thing that he had done. He thought he might have killed you both, and he reacted again, not really thinking, and fled on the ship, travelling with friends. But Karnack was not a killer, and not a man without a conscience. He became obsessed by what he had done, and tormented by a sense of guilt. I think he lost his mind. What is certain is that he stopped eating, and started doing that thing with his hands. If it goes on like this he will be dead in a month or two.”
“Should I grieve for this?”
“Is it justice?”
“Of a kind.”
“I do not entirely agree.” She did not reply, so Serhan went on. “It is irony, perhaps. Tragedy even. But justice is what we decide to do. It is a deliberate act. If we do nothing, make no decision, allow this gruesome suicide to proceed, it is an act of cowardice. Justice is an imposition of our will upon the world, an act of correction, if you like. We must come to some conclusion.”