Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  Hattim and Taws climbed the steps to the raised poop, ignoring the curious stares of courtiers and crew alike, and took up position beside the captain.

  “Listen to me!” Hattim’s voice rang over the deck, commanding attention, drawing all eyes to where he stood.

  At his side Taws threw back the hood of his enveloping cloak and silent curiosity was replaced with a concerted gasp of horrified revulsion, for every man there had listened to stories of the Messenger and recognized the mage for what he was. Several made warding gestures, but even as their fingers shaped the sign so did Taws’s work patterns in the reddening light of the lowering sun, those patterns creating a flickering blue radiance that grew, becoming a steadily enlarging corona of incandescence that crackled and spat like witchfire. Eyes wide with horror locked on that fire, caught by it as the eyes of a rabbit are caught by the hypnotic gaze of a weasel. Not a man moved, either to protest or flee, and the mage shaped his magic like an infernal potter building some blasphemous creation on a hellish wheel. His voice was a sibilation dry as grave dust, the susurration of bleached bone on bone until the final syllable. This he shouted in a timbre that seemed to rock the Vargalla as would a thunderclap bursting low overhead, and as he said it he spread his arms wide, unleashing the blue fire he had built.

  It flashed from his splayed fingers in a myriad darting lances of brilliance, illuminating the barge, licking over the horror-struck features of the courtiers and the crew, filling their eyes with its unholy radiance, leaching them of all expression. Then it was gone and Taws turned to Hattim, the angulation of his mouth approximating a smile.

  “They will remember nothing,” he said, “just as I told you. They will know only that a favorable wind sped them downriver, and that a malaise confined you to your cabin.”

  “And you?” Hattim asked softly, the question whispering over dry lips.

  “I shall join you in Andurel,” the mage intoned. “And give you what I promised. Avoid the Sisters when you land—use your malaise as an excuse to find your quarters quickly and await my coming.”

  Hattim nodded, then started back as the thaumaturgist began to murmur again in that unfathomable tongue. This time there was no blue fire, only a shimmering of the air, a rubescence more akin to flame than sunset, and a sulfurous reek that grew with the glow surrounding the gaunt figure. Then Taws was gone and Hattim gasped as he saw a black-winged bird standing where the mage had stood, the head turning back and forth to fix him with a beady, crimsoned stare. It hopped on predatory talons to the rudder, stretched its wings wide, and beat upward, spiraling above the barge before straightening its course and winging southward toward Andurel.

  Hattim shivered, aware that the hair on the nape of his neck stood upright, coldly prickling. He shook himself, tearing his gaze from the dwindling black speck in the sky to the silent deck of the barge.

  “Lady curse it, the damned anchor’s slipped! Bring it aboard and dip those sweeps. Put your backs into it and we’ll make wharfside ere midnight. Jump to it!”

  The boatmaster’s bellow instilled fresh life in the crew and sent Hattim starting backward. He collected himself, seeing his courtiers stir from their rigid stance and move toward him, concern on their faces.

  “You are recovered, my Lord?”

  He stared at Mejas Celeruna, trying to find in the plump man’s solicitous features some memory of Taws, some recollection of the glamour. There was none and he marveled at the mage’s power, saying, “I am, my friend, and I thank you for your concern.”

  “We were all concerned,” Tarkas Verra said quickly. “Mayhap it was the wind.”

  “Mayhap,” Hattim agreed, essaying a wan smile. “Though that appears to have deserted us.”

  “Better a delayed arrival than you suffer river sickness,” beamed Celeruna unctuously, the sentiment echoed by the others.

  “We should dock by midnight,” announced the boatmaster. “If that be your wish, Lord Hattim.”

  “Aye,” Hattim nodded, “it is my wish. Let us make all haste—and if we dock by midnight there’s a barrel of ale to be quaffed.”

  “Thank you, Lord,” beamed the riverman. Then louder, “You hear that, lads? Lord Hattim pledges a barrel if you stroke fast enough to dock by midnight.”

  A cheer greeted the announcement and the oars went down, carving white water from the sun-crimsoned surface of the Idre as the Vargalla leapt forward and Hattim gathered his courtiers about him, leading the way back to his cabin, where he plied them with his finest wines, accepting their congratulations on his recovery even as he marveled at the efficacy of the cantrip that had robbed them so effectively of troublesome memories.

  How well, he thought. Taws had planned it all, even to their late arrival. At such an hour he would easily avoid the prying Sisters, who might just sense some change in him and alert Darr. At midnight he would easily find privacy and a speedy entry to his quarters; and Taws would meet him there, ready to set in motion the next step. His smile became genuine as he contemplated his ascension: the question of its price did not enter his mind.

  His retinue was grateful for the brief comfort of those luxurious quarters after the disagreeable days spent on deck and happy to quaff liberally of the wines there. He ordered the brazier damped now that Taws was gone, explaining the excessive heat as a palliative to his malaise, though he resisted the temptation of drunkenness himself for he wanted his wits about him when they arrived in Andurel. Pleased to find their lord once more restored to good spirits, and fuddled by the glamour set upon them, the courtiers posed no awkward questions, content to lounge on the cushions scattered about the cabin as they listened to the rhythmic splashing of the oars driving them steadily southward.

  Whether by Taws’s design or some natural coincidence, there was no moon that night, the Idre a nigrescent ribbon on which were reflected the barge’s running lights and the myriad stars that shone from the cloudless sky. The oars spilled phosphorescent waves upon the water as the Vargalla sped toward the city, the horn mounted on the prow belling a warning even though the river was empty of traffic.

  Then the boatmaster’s shout brought them to the deck as Andurel hove in sight. At this hour, and at that distance, the great city appeared as a band of canescence across the river, stretching into the darkness on either side as if it floated above the water, a raft. As they drew closer lights became visible along the waterfront, where taverns plied their trade, and farther back, rising to the heights of the White Palace, in houses and salons catering for a trade more salubrious than the sailors and wharf rats frequenting the lower establishments. Hattim found a place at the prow, clutching for a handhold as the boatmaster bellowed, “Reverse oars! Ship oars!” and put his rudder over to bring the barge gliding smoothly into the quay. Crewmen sprang across the gap to secure the mooring lines and the gangplank was running out before the curious gathered to see who plied the Idre so late.

  Hattim was gratified to see that his unexpected arrival had forestalled any formal welcome, the only officials a trio of harbor bureaucrats who mumbled embarrassed greetings when they recognized the sunburst of Ust-Galich at the masthead and saw that the Lord Hattim stood before them. Hattim dismissed them, calling for Mejas Celeruna to organize litters to bring his party to the palace, and tossed a purse to his boatmaster, who caught it and weighed its value in one expert motion, bowing low in thanks.

  “I desire no formalities,” he informed Celeruna. “I am tired now and would find my bed immediately. See to it. ”

  “A Sister Hospitaler, my Lord?” Celeruna asked solicitously. “A palliative for your malaise?”

  “No!” Hattim snapped, experiencing a flush of unease. “A sound night’s sleep will doubtless restore me. And as the hour is late, I would not disturb the king. I shall pay my respects on the morrow.”

  “As you wish, my Lord.” The portly sycophant bowed elaborately and set to locating palanquins.

  Drowsy porters were found and Hattim climbed into a sedan, drawing the curtai
ns as the bearers lifted the poles and began the ascent of the wide avenue leading from the dockside to the palace. As they progressed up the slope he grew wary, nervous of entry into Darr’s domain, thinking that if some Sister were abroad she might sense the glamour set upon his retinue or the taint he felt sure his agreement with Ashar’s minion must leave on him. He had come too far, he told himself, to turn back now, knowing, too, that he must face Taws’s wrath should he renege, and experienced a greater fear of that anger than thought of discovery could arouse. He steeled himself as the outer walls grew visible through the small porthole in the litter’s forward wall and he saw torchlight burnish the breastplates of the guards there, lending a roseate coloration to the halberds that lowered in formal denial of entrance.

  Then Mejas Celeruna was bustling forward to announce the arrival of Hattim Sethiyan, Lord of Ust-Galich, and the halberds lifted in salute. Hattim sighed, slumping on the cushions as Celeruna continued on to smooth the way past further watchmen into the central court of the White Palace.

  A captain of the royal guard appeared there, armored and—to Hattim’s eyes—menacing, leading a band of stone-faced soldiers who watched impassively as the Galichian party climbed from the palanquins.

  ”My Lord Hattim,” the captain bowed briefly, “you were not expected. The king has found his bed, else he would doubtless have arranged more suitable a welcome.”

  “A favorable wind.” Hattim explained vaguely. “Though one that brought a touch of river sickness. I would not have the king disturbed, but would go immediately to my chambers.”

  “As you wish, my Lord,” the captain agreed, and turned to send a man hastening in search of a steward.

  Hattim glanced round, pleased that no Sisters were present, and waited for the steward to appear.

  He came running, slowing to a more dignified pace as he approached the Galichians, expressing profuse apologies for the absence of suitable formalities, which Hattim waved away, repeating his explanation.

  “My Lord is tired,” Celeruna declared pompously. “His chambers are ready? See that a fire is lit and food and wine set out. He would not be disturbed.”

  The functionary favored the courtier with a murderous glance and bowed in Hattim’s direction.

  “Your chambers are—as ever—ready, my Lord. It will take but moments to kindle a fire, and I shall have victuals brought. If you will follow me?”

  Hattim followed him to the familiar quarters, rousing a bustling horde of servants along the way, and soon found himself alone, a fire blazing in the hearth, wines set to hand, and food laid out on a table in the antechamber. He looked around. The rooms were decorated and furnished in the manner of Ust-Galich, just as others were prepared in the styles of Kesh and Tamur for the use of the lords when in Andurel. Ornate tapestries hid the stone of the walls and luxurious carpets covered the floors, the sunburst emblem was carved in the stone above the hearth and the wardrobes contained his own clothing. Ere long, he thought, all of the White Palace would be ornamented in similar style and he would occupy the chambers on the level above, where Darr now doubtless lay in unsuspecting slumber. He chuckled, filling a goblet with sweet Galichian wine, and raised the cup in toast to himself. In the window that looked on to one of the palace gardens he caught his reflection and set an imaginary crown upon his golden hair. It would sit well, he decided.

  Then he cursed as the doors to the balcony flung open, causing him to spill wine down the front of his green and gold tunic.

  “I startled you?”

  There was mockery in Taws’s voice, but Hattim ignored that as he stared at the mage. He was growing familiar with the thaumaturgist’s powers, but still this shape-shifting unnerved him. and it seemed that Taws was even now in the process of change. Chill night air carried a waft of malodor into the room and Taws’s form seemed to flicker, the shoulders hunched like wings beneath the sable cloak, his neck arched, birdlike, emphasizing the cadaverous gauntness of his triangulate features. Fireglow set a ruddiness on his ashen skin, but the mane of albescent hair that draped his shoulders was still snow-pale, while his eyes glowed red as furnace pits. He shuddered and crossed to the fire, thrusting out hands too long, too taloned, for any man, peering into the flames as though he sought sustenance there.

  “You were not seen?” Hattim refilled his glass, composing himself as he watched Taws’s form solidify.

  The mage turned to fix him with a contemptuous stare and shook his head,

  “You encountered no Sisters?"

  “None," Hattim assured. “But ...”

  “What?” Taws moved a step closer to the fire, surely closer than mortal man would find comfortable,

  “I cannot avoid them indefinitely,” Hattim continued. “And will they not sense the glamour you set on my retinue?”

  Taws chuckled, the sound soft and dry as the scuttling of a spider’s legs through dust. “Magic goes often unnoticed where it is not expected. And the cantrip I wrought is minor enough to escape detection. You did as I bade you?”

  “Aye.” Hattim nodded, confused, “I claimed sufferance of a malaise to find these chambers. I have spoken to no one save the watch captain and a steward.”

  “And Darr?”

  “No doubt sleeps,” Hattim said, glancing automatically at the ceiling. “I came directly here—-just as you bade me.”

  “Good.” Taws’s fleshless lips angled in horrid approximation of a smile. “On the morrow you will again claim a malaise, but this time you will ask that a Sister attend you.”

  Hattim’s confusion grew, his handsome face creasing in a frown.

  “I need one,” Taws informed him. “1 can draw much strength from one of the Lady’s bitches, and it amuses me to use her power against her.”

  “Here?” Hattim gasped, horrified, recalling Ellebriga’s fate. “Do not doubt me!” Taws moved a single step from the fireside. It was sufficient to send Hattim starting back, more w ine spilling from his goblet. “You are committed now. Sethiyan. Do not think to question me—merely obey. When your courtiers come in the morning you will ask for a Sister Hospitaler. Do you understand?”

  Hattim nodded, “Aye.”

  “There will be little danger.” Taws declared in a milder tone. “You will request solitude, and when I am done I shall dispose of the remains in such a manner that none will suspect.”

  Hattim nodded again and topped his cup, though this time he ignored the Galichian wine in favor of evshan.

  “Do not imbibe too much,” warned the mage. “I need your wits about you. And your prospective bride will not welcome a drunkard. ”

  He smiled again as he said it and Hattim found his mind filled with an image of Ashrivelle as Taws had revealed her that night in Nyrwan, lush and suppliant. The promise of that vision—and the promised aftermath—was heady as the liquor and Hattim set down the cup half-drunk.

  “Sleep,” ordered the mage. “I would have you look your best when you meet the princess.”

  It occurred to Hattim that Taws spoke as if he were no more than a puppet to be dressed and manipulated at the mage’s will, and he felt resentment stir. Stronger, though, than hurt pride was the desire for the reward pledged him, and stronger still his fear of Taws: he ducked his head and turned toward the bedroom.

  He doubted that he would sleep, and for a while he lay restlessly, images of Ashrivelle and flames filling his mind, but then a languor possessed him and even as he wondered idly if Taws sent it, he drifted into a dreamless slumber.

  He woke to find winter sunlight streaming through the casement of his chamber and the room heady with the warmth of the banked fire. He rose, drawing on a robe of embroidered silk, and found the ewer of cool water close by the bed. He laved his face and went into the anteroom, where Taws stood beside the hearth. The mage seemed not to have moved during the night, for his stance was exactly as Hattim remembered, so near the flames that human skin must surely have scorched.

  “It is time,” he declared, and Hattim forgot the hunger
that cramped his belly. “Inform your minions that you require a Sister. ”

  “Will they not see you? Surely she must,” Hattim protested.

  “No,” Taws said. “Now delay no longer. Obey me!”

  His tone was such that Hattim sprang instantly to the door, his abrupt appearance startling the servant waiting there.

  “Fetch Count Celeruna,” he barked as the man essayed a sleepy-eyed bow.

  Celeruna came hurriedly, clearly brought from his bed, for his hastily donned robe revealed an artfully embroidered nightshirt and his hair was disarrayed, the usually coiffed ringlets dangling like rats’ tails about a face puffy with sleep and devoid of its customary cosmetics. Tasseled slippers rendered his feet clumsy as he entered Hattim’s chamber, even his bow less decorous than was his wont.

  “My Lord?” he panted.

  Hattim motioned for him to close the door, realizing that Taws was nowhere in sight.

  “I find myself unwell. Have a Sister attend me.

  “Instantly,” Celeruna promised. “And breakfast, my Lord? What of the king?”

  “A Sister,” Hattim repeated. “No one else. You will inform Darr of my indisposition and present my apologies. I require solitude.”

  “Very well, my Lord Hattim.” Celeruna appeared confused, but nonetheless hastened to obey, bustling from the chamber with a flushed face and noisy slippers.