Bloodmage

by Stephen Aryan

  Several men in front didn’t seem to know what to do with their free hand and in the end they tucked it behind their belts. Katja pretended not to have noticed, tried to act relaxed and pointed out some of the more interesting flowers in the garden as they waited.

  At the door a balding middle-aged servant only casually glanced at the invitation before smiling at Lord Mullbrook and gesturing for them to go inside.

  “Big smile,” said Lord Mullbrook from the corner of his mouth as they crossed the threshold.

  “Lord Mullbrook and Lady Katja Smallwood,” shouted the Marshall, two steps behind Katja and nearly deafening her in one ear. The majority of the richly dressed crowd didn’t bother to turn around, but a dozen or so heads glanced across. Katja saw a few raised eyebrows in her direction but in such surroundings it would go no further than that. They would sidle up to her or Lord Mullbrook later to find out more if they were interested. Lord Mullbrook had carefully chosen the name Smallwood. It belonged to a modest family with minor holdings who never came to the capital, so her identity was secure for one night.

  Even though she didn’t really keep up with minor court politics and which of the nobles were gaining power, Katja recognised many of the faces in the crowd. There were several distinct groups. People of the same social standing huddled together, glaring, ignoring or trying to put a brave face when looking at others depending on their status.

  It was a complex game in itself and she had no patience or time to worry about it. A quick scan of the crowd revealed no sign of Rodann or Teigan among the guests or the many palace servants moving through the room with drinks.

  “You have some time,” said Lord Mullbrook from the side of his mouth as he smiled and waved. “Just get back here when they ring the bell for the banquet.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Lord Mullbrook stepped back and kissed the back of her hand. “Good luck,” he whispered before they separated. He headed one way deeper into the crowd and she went the other, towards the edge of the grand ballroom.

  A constant stream of servants emerged from one door, which she bypassed, but beside it was an archway to an adjoining corridor. Katja ducked into it to get away from the crowd, found she was alone and followed it for a few minutes. She’d memorised the map of the palace layout Roza had given her, but it took her a few minutes to orientate herself. If she were either Rodann or Teigan, they wouldn’t want to be too far away from the banquet, but also needed to be close enough to observe events.

  Circling the corridors and open spaces around the busiest areas revealed nothing unusual except numerous narrow stairwells partially hidden behind screens or worn tapestries. They were the backstairs designed for servants to quickly criss-cross the palace without running into guests. Eventually she chose one at random and descended slowly, listening carefully for approaching footsteps. Halfway down the narrow winding staircase she heard a woman crying up ahead, her voice echoing off the plain stone walls.

  With only a few alcoves to duck into, Katja had the choice of either going back up or pressing on. She conjured up a few excuses just in case a servant proved bold enough to ask her why she was downstairs, then continued. Sat on the bottom step was a young woman barely out of her teens dressed in a white and grey palace uniform. The girl’s hands shook and tears ran down her face as her breath hitched in her throat. She hiccupped a few times before continuing to whimper and cry.

  Katja scuffed her foot on the final few steps to announce herself and the girl shot to her feet.

  “What’s happened?” asked Katja, before the girl could ask a question of her own. She tried to speak a few times but the words just wouldn’t come out. Eventually she just pointed down the corridor. Katja offered her a reassuring smile and followed the girl’s directions.

  At the far end of a long narrow corridor she could see the back of a crowd of servants. There was an accompanying murmur of whispers and muttering, shaking of heads and other signs of distress. Katja moved up behind the crowd and tried to peer past everyone but could see little except a huge room from which a vast array of tempting smells emerged. She could hear the crackle of several fires and smell roasting meat, which meant it had to be the main kitchen.

  “Is someone hurt?” she whispered.

  A broad matronly woman with thick arms spoke without turning around.

  “Worse than that. She’s dead.”

  “When did it happen?” asked Katja.

  “A few minutes ago. She clawed at her throat and started wheezing, then turned purple and collapsed.”

  “Chef said it was poison,” muttered someone.

  “Or maybe she got something stuck in her throat,” said another in the crowd. “My cousin got a fishbone stuck and choked to death.”

  “I bet your cousin didn’t have blue foam coming out their mouth,” said someone at the front.

  “It was poison,” said Katja. The confidence in her voice made a few heads turn in her direction. When they realised she wasn’t another servant a pool of space quickly opened up around her.

  “I’m a doctor, let me through,” she said and was immediately given access.

  A huge table down the centre of the massive room was covered with food in various stages of preparation. Whole hog roasts sizzled over fire pits, dozens of pots bubbled away while being casually attended by an army of servants. Most were more interested in what was happening than in preparing the food but they could stir with one hand and watch.

  Two wide archways led to the next section of the kitchen. More than fifty more people were loitering, all of them staring at the woman’s body on the floor lying in one of the archways. Someone had covered the top half of the body with an apron but Katja knelt down and pulled it aside before anyone could stop her.

  A familiar face stared back at her. It was Marcella, the shrew-faced woman from Rodann’s meeting. The last expression on her face was one of pain and terror. One hand was curled up into a tight claw held against her chest and the other reached out beseechingly for assistance. A pale blue smear, which had dried on her chin, ran from both corners of the woman’s mouth. Her clothes were different to those around her and although people were upset, no one seemed to be grieving.

  “Who is she?” asked Katja, feigning ignorance.

  “Outside help,” said a gaunt man wielding a ladle. “For a banquet of this size, chef brings in people to assist. She and her husband were from Seveldrom. They were supposed to be feeding all of the royal guard and Queen Talandra’s warriors.”

  A cold prickle ran up Katja’s spine. “Where’s the food she brought with her? Has anyone eaten it?” said Katja, rounding on the man.

  “No,” he said, taking a step back. “We think the meat was spoiled. The butcher is taking it away.”

  The prickle of fear turned into something else and Katja stood up sharply. Even before she asked the question the man was pointing through the archway and she followed his arm. The next section of the kitchen was the bakery, where people were slowly getting back to work, and beyond that was an area devoted to desserts. Katja marched as fast as her dress and high shoes would allow, passing through several more sections before eventually reaching an open door.

  A cart had been backed up to the building where a bald and tattooed Seve man was loading chunks of meat onto a wagon. The back of the cart was covered with a grey cloth, but as he threw another side of beef onto the back the blanket slipped and an arm flopped out. He saw her approaching but made no move to stop her from pulling back the cloth. Katja had last seen Borren at Rodann’s meeting with Marcella, his shrew-faced wife. Now his face was also constricted in terror and there was a blue smear around his mouth. She also noticed several fingers on one of his hands had been broken.

  “You’re the Butcher, aren’t you?” said Katja, staring at the thick muscles across the man’s chest and arms. Intricate tattoos ran the length of both arms. “Did Roza send you?”

  “Talandra upset a lot of people during the war,” he said, i
gnoring the question. “Seveldrom won and the people here in the west lost. It doesn’t matter that their rulers were blackmailed or coerced. All they remember is that a lot of Yerskani died at the hands of Seves during the war. Talandra gave the orders, so they blame her.”

  “That’s what Rodann kept saying,” said Katja.

  “People here lost a lot of friends and relatives. They’re scared of Talandra, because of what she did in the past and what she might do in the future. They’re worried about her influence over Queen Morganse, and after being held captive once, they don’t want to be prisoners again.”

  “It’s insane. Can’t they see all the good she’s been doing? She’s been working so hard to maintain the peace. It’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

  At the end of the war there had been a purge in Perizzi, where every Chosen was killed, but also a number of foreign agents disappeared overnight. For a very short period of time the city was open, allowing Talandra to send in more agents like Katja and several others. By the time other nations had sent in replacements she was firmly entrenched and part of the landscape. The more eyes and ears they had, the easier it would be to identify rifts between nations and hopefully stop them before they developed.

  “That’s true,” said the Butcher, “but while all of that was happening, and the war was raging, very little changed for the Families. They’re suspicious and very careful, which meant getting inside their network, and having access to their information, wasn’t something that could happen overnight.”

  “You’re still working for the Queen,” said Katja.

  “My loyalty remained unchanged,” said the Butcher. “King Matthias died while I worked for Talandra. I can do more working here in the shadows to ensure that it never, ever, happens again.”

  Katja was speechless as she tried to grasp what he had sacrificed and what he was willing to do to protect the Queen. The Butcher had a fearsome reputation and like her he had become part of the landscape.

  “None of the royal guards or Seves protecting Talandra ate any of the food,” said the Butcher. “I’ve delivered something safe instead. It was supposed to make the Seves go berserk, so they’d kill Queen Morganse. Now that this part of the plan has failed, what will Rodann’s next move be?” Katja shook her head and glanced at Borren’s body.

  “He didn’t know anything,” said the Butcher.

  “It’s how Rodann operates. He doesn’t trust anyone, so only he knows the whole plan.”

  “Then you need to get back upstairs and find out what he’s planning. I’ll take care of this,” said the Butcher.

  By the time Katja made it back upstairs the last of the guests were just arriving as the front doors closed behind them. She slipped into the crowd and slowly moved through it, looking carefully at all of the guests for a familiar face. Across the room she spotted Lord Mullbrook talking to a woman with long black hair and an hourglass figure. As she turned to pick up a glass of wine from a passing servant Katja saw her face in profile. It was Faith. As ever, her stylish pale blue dress with a daring bare back and silver trim was equal to that of any noble in the room. Her ears, fingers and neck were adorned with gold and jewels but even then she looked underdressed compared to some in the crowd. Katja doubted any of them knew who Faith really was but she also noticed that no one was staring, which suggested her presence at such events wasn’t unusual.

  As Faith slipped away to speak to another noble, Lord Mullbrook spotted Katja across the room and raised a questioning eyebrow. She shook her head and frowned before scanning the crowd again. A part of Rodann’s plan had failed but it would only be one part of the whole. If she were in his position she would have contingencies to ensure the outcome remained the same.

  Katja was starting to feel despondent until she saw another familiar face in the crowd. Lizbeth. She was dressed in palace livery and wouldn’t have stood out if not for her gloves. Every other servant had bare hands. Hers, Katja recalled, were red and chapped from physical work, probably scrubbing floors. They might upset the delicate sensibilities of the guests so had been covered.

  Katja moved across the room, keeping Lizbeth at an angle so she could see her face, but remained at the periphery of the servant’s eyesight. There was no mistaking her. Katja assumed she worked for a noble house and somehow Rodann had arranged for her to serve drinks to the guests in the palace.

  A raucous laugh from an old man beside Katja made a few people glance around. Lizbeth was nervous and her hands shook as she collected up the empty glasses. She jumped slightly at the old man’s laugh and then looked around for the source of the disturbance.

  She and Katja stared at one another across the room for the space of three heartbeats. A second later Lizbeth passed her tray to another servant and hurried out of the room with Katja racing after her.

  CHAPTER 38

  Choss tried to ignore his injuries and push the pain to the back of his mind, but despite his best efforts they were starting to intrude. He led the way into the heart of Don Kal’s territory with Munroe and Fray a few steps behind and Gorrax bringing up the rear.

  So far the streets had been unusually quiet but he wasn’t surprised. Word would have got around and even those who weren’t involved with Family business knew when to stay inside and lock their door.

  What they were attempting felt like a fool’s errand and yet he wouldn’t turn aside. Too stubborn, or perhaps too stupid, he didn’t know, but either way it didn’t matter. Choss had played his part in starting the war between the Families, working for Dońa Jarrow and unknowingly furthering her goals, and now there was a price. She’d told him once that there was a price to pay for the things that mattered. There was also a cost for making a mistake.

  “Are you all right?” asked Munroe behind him. Choss turned around, thinking she’d noticed his limp despite his best efforts, but found she was staring at Fray. He’d gone incredibly pale and was shaking as if freezing cold, his teeth clattering together.

  “Don’t you feel it?” Fray asked Munroe, who shook her head. “The air is full of energy. The Flesh Mage has already begun summoning his magic. We don’t have long.”

  Choss couldn’t feel any magic but he could smell a change in the air. Normally the city smelled of a hundred flavours that were so familiar he barely noticed any more. Woven into them all was a faint tang of the sea, but now the air felt dry in his lungs and it prickled against his skin like the moments before a storm.

  “We’re getting close,” said Choss, gritting his teeth against the pain before setting off again. The swelling around his right eye had reduced a little but his vision on that side was less than perfect. To compensate he swung his head left and right as they crept along deserted streets, the air tingling with expectation. He felt a growing sense of dread and his scalp prickled as if ghostly fingers were being drawn through his hair.

  Somewhere in the city Choss heard an angry roar from a hundred voices mixed together. More joined in, adding their own rage to the din, and shortly after came the echoes of steel against steel. Men and women began to scream in pain and soon it all meshed together into one horrendous din that spoke of violence and bloodshed.

  Perhaps one of the other Families had decided not to wait and had attacked first. Perhaps Don Jarrow had managed to convince the other Families to join with him against the imposter who posed as Don Kal. It really didn’t matter, as long as the fighting stayed away from his group. They needed the distraction to try and slip through unnoticed. Even so Choss didn’t think they would be able to avoid a fight all together. If the Flesh Mage was half as devious as Fray suggested he wouldn’t leave himself open to attack. He would hold back some of his best muscle to avoid interruptions.

  Choss just hoped he was up to the task. For the first time in his life he wasn’t sure how long his stamina would hold out. It galled him to be injured and possibly not up to what lay ahead. He’d fought with injuries before but never this severe.

  They reached a wide crossroads and he gestur
ed for the others to move against the side of the building. They were now inside Don Kal’s territory and normally the streets in the area would be busy with customers enjoying one of the many available vices. Instead an eerie silence gripped the area. Choss moved to the corner and quickly stuck his head around, scanning the streets. They looked empty but Choss thought he heard a faint scuffing not far away.

  “Are you all right?” he heard Munroe whisper. He thought she was talking to Fray again until he felt a tug on his arm.

  Choss didn’t trust himself to speak so instead he just nodded. Her smile warmed him inside but he turned away before he grinned back. He didn’t want to think about her and tried to force away all thoughts about tomorrow that were now possible.

  He was brought back to the present by a patrol of six thugs, probably Wooden jackals, foot soldiers who worked in teams. They were coming this way, scanning doorways and alleys, and would reach Choss and the others in a few minutes. They could run, or try to hide until the patrol passed by, but their options were limited. Gorrax’s ears perked up at the sound of the approaching squad and he tapped one side of his head. Choss held up six fingers and the Vorga just grinned. The odds meant nothing to him.

  “There’s a patrol coming,” Choss whispered to the others. “We could double back, try and get deeper into Don Kal’s territory from somewhere else.”

  “Won’t there be patrols elsewhere?” asked Fray. “He’s right,” said Munroe. “And we don’t have much time. I can feel something in the air. Something sour,” she said with a grimace as if she’d just bitten into a lemon.

  “We fight here,” said Gorrax, weighing in.

  Choss took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders to loosen them and led the way into the street. He drew both punching daggers and heard the ring of steel as Fray drew his sword. Munroe had a dagger in each hand and Gorrax carried no weapons. Choss wasn’t worried as the Vorga didn’t need any. He was a weapon.

  They spread out across the street and waited for the patrol. Choss wasn’t sure what he expected, taunts or threats would’ve been usual, but the empty stares were worse than anything he’d anticipated. Instead of speaking, the patrol just drew their weapons and charged, screaming and snarling like animals.