by Mark Robson
‘I never said he was a fool, Brother. I know his mind is sharp, but despite his abilities he’s led the Guild into this crisis. There are several of us who don’t believe he can lead us out again. The Guildmaster cannot retire, so we’ll have to retire him.’
‘Two kills with one arrow,’ he thought, his grin broadening even further. ‘What’s more, it was not I who loosed it.’
‘So who do you hope will be the next Guildmaster? Are you looking to take the position? Or is there someone else you think might make a strong leader for the present circumstances?’
Fox’s change in posture answered his question before she opened her mouth. Shalidar read her pose as easily as he would read words from a slate. She got to her feet, moved across to one of Shalidar’s two bookcases and started running her elegant fingers gently back and forth across the spines.
‘I would stand if it went to a ballot,’ she admitted, ‘but in that event it will be up to the members to decide who can best lead us during these dark times.’
It was clear that she felt she had a good chance. He had to admit she possessed many attributes of a strong leader. She was confident, clever and subtle. She manipulated others with ease, and used her feminine wiles to full advantage. It was not hard to see her winning a considerable number of votes if it were to come to a ballot. The problem facing her, though, was that Guildmasters were rarely selected in such a fashion.
Under normal circumstances a Guildmaster would pre-select his successor. No one, including the Guildmaster’s choice, would know whom he had chosen. His decision would be brought to the members by one of the Guildmaster’s personal servants in a sealed scroll. The servant would bring the scroll to the central chamber, break the seal, and present it to the assassin whose icon was named inside. Only if the chosen assassin refused the position would the leadership go to a vote.
The leadership of the Guild meant nothing to Shalidar. There had been a time not long ago when he would have challenged if the opportunity had arisen, but now he had ultimate power in Shandar teetering tantalisingly towards his grasp. Guild politics seemed almost petty by comparison.
‘Well, I hope you get your opportunity to challenge for the leadership, Brother. I’ll not stand in your way if you seek to brush the old man aside. He and I have never seen eye to eye.’
‘Thank you, Brother Dragon. I appreciate your support.’ Shantella stepped towards the door, allowing her fingertips to run gently down the back of one of the larger silver dragon ornaments on the top of the bookcase as she moved away. Her strutting gait emphasised the irony of her title as a ‘Brother’. There were few women who used the power of their femininity with such confidence. ‘There’s one more Brother whom I trust enough to approach. With his support added, I’ll be ready to move. I’ll speak with you again in a couple of days.’
She disappeared out through the door, leaving just the faintest hint of exotic perfume in her wake. Shalidar massaged his thigh gently around the area of crossbow bolt wound. The surface damage was healing nicely now. Tremarle’s ointment had worked wonders in a very short time, but he was still finding it impossible to walk without a limp.
‘A couple of days – perfect,’ he thought. ‘Long enough to finalise my plans to snatch power, but not long enough to allow the Guildmaster time to interfere. It will take time for a new Guildmaster to find his, or her, feet, and by the time the new leader realises what I’m doing, it’ll be too late.’
Shalidar had seen well-laid plans fall apart before. As such he knew instinctively where the weak points in his latest scheme were. ‘Tremarle may waver when he discovers that Kempten is not dead,’ he mused. ‘I must make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish. The Guildmaster should be distracted – whatever Fox does will not be half-hearted. I’d better get up to the Palace and see that Tremarle keeps his mind set on being Emperor. Perhaps I can convince him that the coronation should be a private affair – just Tremarle, a few senior Lords and the High Cleric. There would be no reason to delay. We could have it done almost immediately. With those formalities complete I can get back to my unfinished business with Femke and Wolf Spider. . .’
‘I thought I’d better drop by and apologise, Rikala. The number of costumes required has substantially reduced. With these complete, we only need –’ Femke paused as she mentally ran through the cast and what clothing she had ready for whom. ‘– three more: the dark cloak for the King and two sets of courtier’s clothes. One in Jabal’s size and another for Devarusso should cover it. What’s the earliest you could have them ready for?’
A small rack of completed garments dominated the tiny living area. The living room clearly doubled as her workroom, as there was an open cabinet with all manner of cloth, boxes of pins, needles, thimbles, buttons and no end of other dressmaking paraphernalia neatly stacked inside. The stout little woman was standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen of her tiny town house. Her hands were on her hips and her face was characteristically stern.
‘That depends on whether you’d like them thrown together, or properly sewn,’ Rikala replied, her brusque tone leaving Femke in no doubts as to her displeasure. ‘By late this afternoon if you’re really desperate, I suppose. So what brought on the sudden change? Am I not working fast enough? Have you taken on someone else?’
‘No, nothing like that, Rikala. You’ve worked miracles. We’re just going to cheat a little, to speed up the launch of the play, that’s all. One of the magicians has agreed to use his skills to take away the need for quite so many costumes.’
‘A magician! Pah! As if they know anything of clothing. Ah, well, that’s your business, I suppose. I’ll be sure to come along and watch the play when you start performing. When’s it due to launch?’
‘Now that we have the last of the costumes guaranteed, then tomorrow looks likely. Would you like me to reserve you a place?’
‘That would be kind, dear. Thank you. I look forward to it. Come in this afternoon at the fifth call and I should have those last items ready for you.’
Femke unhooked the completed costumes from the rack and draped them over her arm. She left through the narrow front door, thanking the stout little seamstress again as she departed. To look at the tiny frontage of her home, it was amazing that Rikala got much trade at all. There was nothing prominent to advertise her presence, but Femke knew that the seamstress had gained her trade through personal referral and reputation. Having built her little business to capacity on that basis, she did not need fancy window displays.
The narrow street was bustling with people about their morning business. Seeing one of the streetwise tattle touts leaned up against a wall and chatting with a particularly shady character was a timely reminder that she needed to catch up on the street gossip. Since her release from the Guild complex, she had been totally focused on the plan. There had been no time for anything else, so it had been a considerable while since she had last done the rounds of the city.
A last glance at the tattle tout settled her mind on the matter. Up-to-date news and gossip would be useful before entering the next phase, to say nothing of starting a few strands of gossip about the production. An effective rumour spread today would pack out the open-air stage seating for the first showing – even if it were staged tomorrow.
Femke hurried through the busy city streets to where Devarusso’s wagon was parked near the open-air stage. When she knocked on his door there was no response. The door was not locked, so she cracked it open and cautiously peered inside. There was no sign of Devarusso. ‘He’s probably at the stage with Calvyn,’ she thought. ‘There’s no point in disturbing their rehearsal.’ Leaving the costumes on the bed, she closed the door behind her and headed back into the city, excited at the thought of getting back to doing what she knew she did best.
‘Ah, Shalidar! It’s good to see you, son.’ Tremarle savoured the word ‘son’. Although most would consider the deal he had struck before adopting Shalidar unsavoury, it brought him great pleasure to k
now that the man he now called ‘son’ had avenged his firstborn. It seemed ever more poetically fitting that the avenger should take the place of the avenged.
Shalidar had a strong presence, and a sense of calm about him that few possessed. He was not Danar, of course, but that was not necessarily all bad. Whilst he had loved Danar, Tremarle had always felt his eldest son to be shallow, and at times had despaired that the boy would ever mature. All he and his idle friends had thought about was their trivial hobbies, and which young lady he planned to seduce next. Shalidar’s focus was on more serious issues.
‘Father,’ Shalidar acknowledged, bowing respectfully. He walked fully into the drawing room, working hard to minimise his limp. ‘Are you having a good day?’
‘I’ve had better . . . but I’ve also had a lot worse. Come. Sit by me. There are some things I wanted to talk with you about.’
Tremarle was sitting in one of four large armchairs arranged in a semi-circle, facing the windows of the drawing room. This was an area of the Palace that Shalidar doubted the previous Emperor had ever even visited. Surabar had stayed closeted in his bleak study on the first floor of the Palace for the majority of the time. It was said that he left it only to sleep and to attend sessions of the Imperial Court.
In contrast to the dark study of Surabar, with its minimal furnishing and feeling of military functionality, this drawing room was opulent in décor, rich with bright gold and glowing purples. It was bright and airy, with tall windows facing south across the manicured gardens of the Palace grounds. The high ceilings displayed ornate coving and a beautiful ceiling rose, from which depended a crystal chandelier laden with candles. Great pictures by master artists graced the walls, whilst ornaments of the highest quality were tastefully placed on the marble mantelpiece, on dahl tables and in purpose-built display cabinets.
A wood fire was burning in the grate. It had burned down to a flicker, but the occasional pop and crackle still punctuated the air as the logs were slowly consumed. The scent of wood smoke hung heavy, though there was no haze to suggest that the flue was restricted in any way.
Shalidar sat down in the chair next to the thickset old Lord. Tremarle shifted in his chair, angling his body more towards his adopted son.
‘There are some interesting rumours circulating the streets at the moment,’ Tremarle began.
‘Rumours? What sort of rumours?’ Shalidar asked, keeping his tone calm and politely interested.
‘Well to start with there’s a rumour that Lord Kempten is not dead, but living out at his country estate with his wife.’
‘I shouldn’t pay credence to such nonsense, my Lord. Lord Kempten was assassinated. Everyone knows that.’
‘Indeed,’ Tremarle agreed, noting Shalidar’s casual dismissal of the story with interest. ‘But the truth and “what everyone knows” are not always the same thing at all. Still, if Kempten were alive, and he did want the Mantle, all he would have to do is come forward and claim it. As Surabar’s chosen successor, that is his right.’
‘But he has not done so,’ Shalidar pointed out.
‘Which means either he is dead, or he does not want the Mantle,’ Tremarle finished.
‘A logical conclusion.’ Shalidar did not like the way this conversation was going. He had thought to tackle the Kempten issue in a slightly different fashion. To his surprise, however, Tremarle suddenly dropped the issue and changed the subject to something completely trivial.
‘Out of interest, have you heard anything about the new play starting on the city stage tonight?’ the old Lord asked, taking him by surprise.
Shalidar paused to consider the question for a moment, trying to see if there was more to this sudden change of direction than met the eye. There was no obvious danger in the subject, so he replied.
‘No, I don’t believe I have. What’s it about?’
‘Apparently the current city troupe have produced a new adaptation of The True King’s Gambit. If the rumours are true, they’re utilising magic to create some of the backdrops. It opens tonight. I was thinking of going along. Would you like to come?’
Shalidar’s mind raced. Having Tremarle go out into such a large mass of public before he had formally accepted the Mantle would be very risky. Any decent assassin could make a successful hit under those conditions, no matter what security precautions were taken. With Wolf Spider and Femke out in the city somewhere, he did not want to lose sight of Tremarle for any more time than was absolutely necessary.
‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea before the coronation, my Lord. There’s a rogue assassin loose in the city at the moment. It would be just his style to utilise such an opportunity in order to increase his profile. The Guild is currently trying to track him down, but he’s clever. So far he’s eluded the extensive network of snares set for him. To make matters worse, he’s joined forces with one of Surabar’s top Imperial spies, which has given him certain advantages. It’s with this in mind that I was going to make a suggestion about your coronation . . .’
‘Yes?’ Tremarle prompted. ‘What sort of suggestion?’
‘You might want to make it a private affair, my Lord – a minimum number of witnesses, the High Cleric and you. That would rob the rogue assassin of his chance to make a strike at a time guaranteed to give him maximum publicity.’
Tremarle looked thoughtful for a moment, and not a little worried. ‘So you believe this man is definitely out to kill me then?’
‘That is my understanding, my Lord, which is why I’ll be spending a lot more time with you until he is apprehended. I believe I know his methods well enough to protect you. Once you’re Emperor, however, I expect he’ll desist. Rogues often continue to play by the Assassins’ Creed even after they’ve broken from the Guild. Adhering to the creed lends a veneer of legitimacy to their business.’
Tremarle’ eyebrows raised. ‘A veneer of legitimacy? That could also be said of the Guild, you know, but I take the point. You know my feelings on the Guild. I believe they’re a necessary part of our society. They’ve played an important role in Shandese culture for centuries. What do you suggest? Is there any other way I can protect myself further?’
‘That’s simple, my Lord – bring forward the coronation ceremony. Have it tomorrow in private. Once you are the Emperor, he’s a lot less likely to touch you.’
Tremarle nodded. ‘That makes sense. And the play? I’d really like to see it. I’ve always enjoyed attending the plays at the open-air stage. Could I not go in disguise or something?’
‘You’ll be Emperor, my Lord. Why not have them come to you? They could give a private performance in the Palace ballroom, or the Great Hall. There’s plenty of space in there.’
‘What an excellent idea, Shalidar! I love it. I’ll send someone to invite the players immediately.’ Tremarle got to his feet, his face beaming with enthusiasm, and walked towards the bell pull.
‘You might want to schedule your coronation before the play, my Lord. Just in case the assassin managed to infiltrate the group,’ Shalidar offered casually, keeping his eyes focused out through the window at the Imperial gardens.
‘A wise precaution – yes, that makes a lot of sense,’ the Lord replied, pausing mid-way across the room. ‘Very well, I’ll send for the High Cleric and some of the senior Lords. We can have a private ceremony in the morning and I’ll ask the company of players to stage their new play here in the evening. I could then invite a select audience to celebrate my change of status without all the normal pomp. I never much enjoyed the big state ceremonies anyway. This will be far more pleasant. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure, my Lord. I look forward to being able to address you as “your Imperial Majesty” tomorrow.’
The rapturous applause was unlike anything Devarusso had ever witnessed before. There was not a single person sitting. The entire crowd was cheering, clapping and whooping with delight at the spectacle they had just witnessed.
‘OK, everyone, this is it. Don’t trip over your feet. Big smiles.
On we go.’
The line of supposed actors was longer than any Devarusso had put on stage before. They filed out to even greater applause. The crowd was literally going wild with delight. When the actors had all reached their positions, they turned and bowed to the audience. They stepped back two paces and prepared to file off the stage, but the applause did not lessen. Devarusso gave the signal and they all stepped forwards again to take a second bow. It took a third bow before the noise began to abate.
Devarusso was beaming as he led the line of his ‘cast’ off to the left of the stage and out of sight.
‘Well, I’d say that went off without a hitch. Do you think anyone at the front noticed that the people on stage at the end were not the people in the play?’
‘Not a chance,’ Calvyn replied without hesitation. ‘They were so caught up in the illusion they’d have believed anything by the end. What I want to know is how did Femke manage to arrange our invitation to the Palace before we’d even had a chance to dazzle our first audience? That’s a sort of magic I don’t understand.’
Femke gave him a quirky grin. ‘Knowledge is power,’ she observed, tapping her temple with her forefinger. ‘It always pays to know the weaknesses of your opponent. Tremarle has been an avid follower of theatre for many years. I saw him at performances many times with my . . . with a group of other Lords.’ Her face darkened for a moment as she mentally cursed the source of her memory. ‘My main worry was that he might be drawn to the performance here, rather than inviting us into the Palace. That would have made a show at the Palace more difficult to arrange, but not impossible. I had a back-up plan for that eventuality.’
‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Calvyn replied, shaking his head. ‘I feel I severely underestimated you when we first met back in Thrandor. I realised you were devious, of course, but if I’d known just how darned clever you were, I’d never have left King Malo to cope with your wiles.’