by Mark Robson
‘With the resources I have to draw on, they could have put a Legion out there and we’d get past them,’ Femke said with a wicked grin. ‘Don’t worry about the guards. We’ll deal with them when the time comes.’
‘Good luck then, Femke. Be careful, won’t you?’
‘You can count on it.’
She crossed the room to where Reynik was chatting with his father. On seeing her approach, Lutalo nudged his son and turned away to concentrate on changing into his uniform. They faced each other awkwardly for a moment and then Reynik stepped forward and drew her into a tight hug. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to be said. After a long moment, Reynik took a half step backwards, still gripping her upper arms loosely with his hands.
‘You know, I quite like you as a redhead,’ he said, his eyes sparkling with cheeky humour as his illusory face twisted into a recognisable parody of his boyish grin. ‘And the green eyes are fantastic. I think I’ll tell Calvyn he’s not to change them back. They suit you.’
‘What’s this?’ she asked with a spark in her tone that most would take as a gentle warning. ‘Am I your doll then, to dress as you see fit?’
‘No, but when this is all over I’d like you to be more than just a friend,’ he said softly, his cheeks colouring at the admission.
Femke put her arms around his waist and pulled him back close again. ‘You’re already more than just a friend,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Make sure you’re still alive when I get back and I’ll prove it to you.’
She kissed him. The kiss was not long, but both felt the significance of it. It was a pivotal gesture. When she stepped away this time, she turned quickly and left the room without looking back. Reynik did not feel slighted. He understood perfectly. Femke needed to focus, and so did he.
The hour passed quickly. Everything was in position. The steward had managed to find screens. Ordinarily they would not have been adequate, but Devarusso was quick to assure the steward that the actors would make do with them. In truth they were not required at all, but the entire plan hinged on perception.
As Calvyn began to create the opening sequence of imagery, Femke gathered her assault party together.
‘Master Jabal, I intend to have our team of gladiators take out the guards. I must admit a certain amount of ignorance as to the scope of your abilities. I’ve not worked with magicians before. If the gladiators kill the guards, there’s likely to be some noise. Is there any way you can contain the noise they make?’
The magician nodded. ‘I can,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But it might be better if I deal with the guards. They’ve done nothing wrong other than to draw an unfortunate duty. There’s no need to harm them. Let me put them to sleep. Trust me – if I put them to sleep, they’ll not wake up for anything other than the counter-spell,’ he said.
Serrius frowned, looking at Femke with clear disapproval. His ‘I told you so’ went unspoken, but Femke could read it in his expression as easily as if he had shouted it.
Femke thought for a moment. ‘How long will it take?’ she asked.
The gladiator’s eyebrows shot up, his questioning expression reflecting his disgust.
‘Give me about two minutes,’ Jabal replied.
‘Let the magician use his skills, Serrius,’ Femke ordered, her voice low, but firm. ‘Your turn will come soon enough.’
Serrius muttered something inaudible under his breath and turned away. Femke ignored his reaction. She knew him well enough to see that his response was born out of a desire for action. The waiting was all but done. He would get over it as soon as they were on the move.
The old magician closed his bright blue eyes and fiddled for a moment with his ponytail of steel-grey hair. His lips began to move as he formed the runes in his mind. With the sequence fully formed, he pictured the runes spinning out through the door and along the corridor in both directions to the unsuspecting guards, who then unwittingly inhaled them like smoke. When Jabal opened his eyes again, there was an air of mischief about his expression. ‘You can send your men out to get them if you like,’ he said. ‘They’re sleeping like babies.’
The look that Serrius gave the old magician before opening the door was sceptical, but when he and the other gladiators re-entered the room less than a minute later carrying the two sleeping guards, his eyes held considerably more respect.
‘Serrius – you’re with me. We’ll lead. Derryn will follow. Bartok – take backward point. Is everyone ready? OK, let’s go.’
They swept through the Palace at a fast pace to the main stairwell down to the cellars. They met no one along the way. The Palace servants were too busy to be abroad in the corridors. Those who were not preparing the food and rooms for the celebrations to follow the play were hanging around the Great Hall trying to get a glimpse of the show.
In silence they descended to the lower levels. When they reached the cellar door, three of the men lit spare torches at Femke’s direction. These were spread through the party and held aloft to give a reasonable level of light with which to aid their silent movement.
The assault team moved into the cellar. Femke immediately had two men bar the door from the inside and listen out for anyone approaching. The rest she bade be silent whilst Jabal searched for the opening. The magician moved to the centre of the room and began muttering in the strange runic language of magic. As he muttered, he turned slowly full circle. The sound of his low, whispered syllables seemed to reverberate unnaturally in the large cellar space, the echoes growing until it sounded as if there were a chorus of magicians muttering spells. He kept turning round and around. Everyone else watched, mesmerised by the strange sight and ghostly whispering.
Suddenly Jabal stopped moving, but his whispering voice did not falter. He was facing diagonally across the room at the wall to the right of the door. He stepped forwards, at first tentatively taking a single pace. Then he took another step and another. Within three strides he was walking forwards with conviction.
The point on the wall that he walked to looked no different from any other. As he reached the wall, Jabal spread his hands and placed them against the surface in front of him as if he intended to push against it. The pattern of his muttered sequence of syllables changed, and his voice grew from a whisper until he was speaking in an everyday volume. His tone became at once more commanding yet lost the echoing quality of just a few seconds earlier.
Femke walked quietly across until she was standing just a few paces behind the magician. If she had not been so close, she would have been unlikely to hear the tiny snick of the lock opening within the wall. A large section of the wall, about double the width of a normal doorway, suddenly began to retreat silently from Jabal’s hands. There was barely the tiniest of scraping sounds as it slid first back, and then to the side to reveal a dark, descending stairwell on the other side.
A gesture to the rest of the group and they were all in motion. Femke let Serrius and Derryn lead the way. If there was to be a physical confrontation, it made sense to have those best suited to dealing with it at the front. Femke and Jabal slotted into the middle of the group. After a dozen steps down, the stairwell turned through ninety degrees to the left. Another dozen steps followed and a further right-angled turn. Down and down they ran, flight after flight, turn after turn, until finally they reached the bottom. Ahead was a long, straight passageway wide enough for two people to pass with ease. They raced along it until they reached a closed door at the end. Serrius took a quick look back to see that everyone was in position and then he turned the handle. The door was locked. Femke signalled to him from her position in the middle of the group and silently moved through to the front, drawing out her lock picks as she went. The men pulled back a few paces to give her more space, while Serrius held a torch to give her light to work with.
It was not a complex lock. Femke made no noise as she opened it. Having done so, she moved back to allow Serrius and Derryn to resume their positions in the lead. Derryn had a knife in each hand and Serrius ha
d drawn the shorter of his two swords. The tension was palpable as she weaved between the fighters and back into her position next to Jabal. The gladiators looked poised, almost eager, while Derryn and Bartok looked decidedly nervous. Jabal was positively white in the flickering orange light of the torches.
‘Are you all right?’ she whispered.
‘I’m beginning to experience the effects that Calvyn told me about. I can counter them, but it will take a lot of concentration and I don’t want to use more magic until I have to,’ he replied. ‘It seems Darkweaver was very protective of his projects. What he has done here must have taken a huge amount of magical energy.’
Femke nodded, but did not respond further because as Jabal finished his explanation, Serrius threw open the door and they were carried forward in the surge out into the corridor. As soon as she entered the corridor, Femke knew instantly where she was. The straight passageway must run underneath the main chamber, she realised, for they were on the level of the Guildmaster’s quarters and this was the corridor that led straight to his door.
A servant emerged from the left-hand side of the corridor about twenty paces ahead of Serrius and Derryn. The man in his brown robes had barely turned into the corridor before Derryn’s knife struck him squarely in the throat. He sank to the ground, clutching at the handle but completely unable to cry out.
Serrius ran forward and plunged his blade through the man’s heart. The unfortunate servant’s legs kicked once, then he was still. The entire encounter had taken just a few seconds and had been blessedly silent. Femke hissed at Serrius to stop for a moment.
‘Serrius, have your men set up a defensive position here and wait. I won’t be long, but I need to pay a quick visit to the Guildmaster’s quarters before we go any further.’
‘Do you want to take some of the men with you?’ Serrius responded in a forced whisper.
‘That won’t be necessary. I’m confident I can handle one old man. Besides, I have a score to settle with the leader of the Guild. Only move if you’re forced to. I should be no more than a couple of minutes.’
Serrius nodded. His eyes were bright with anticipation of the coming conflict. Now that they were underground his earlier reticence had disappeared and he looked more alive than Femke had seen him since he was at the height of his gladiatorial career. He did not waste any time. Even as Femke drew one of her knives and ran lightly down the corridor to the Guildmaster’s door, he was already directing the men into a defensive formation with silent gestures.
She paused at the door, a knife in one hand, her other hand on the handle and her right ear pressed against the wood, listening intently for any sounds inside. She could hear no movement or noise of any kind emanating from within, so she threw the door open and performed a diving roll into the room to minimise her vulnerability to an instant attack.
As she rolled to her feet, she spotted the Guildmaster sitting in an armchair on the far side of the room. He was wearing his black cloak, but the hood was back and his face exposed. He did not flinch at her sudden entrance. Indeed, he was completely motionless. Was he pretending to be asleep? Was this one of his ploys to lull her into a false sense of security? He had fooled her several times before, so she was exceptionally wary as she stalked across the room towards him.
Had his hands not been in plain sight on the arms of the chair, Femke would not have approached him so directly, but she trusted her own reflexes to be faster than her old mentor’s. As it was, she was careful not to tread on the oval-shaped rug in the centre of the room for fear of what might be hidden underneath. Instead she stepped around the outside of it, testing each footstep before putting her full weight down. After his refusal to give in to the other Guild members who wanted her killed, she did not think he would look to kill her now, but she was not about to take unnecessary risks.
‘Lord Ferdand?’ she said softly. No response. ‘Lord Ferdand?’ she said again, a little louder this time. Still no response. She moved closer. His eyelids were fluttering and his lips trembling. This had all the makings of a trap. Femke stopped and looked around the room again. There was nothing obvious that could pose a threat, but the hairs on the back of her neck were prickling. Something did not feel right here.
Keeping her knife back where Ferdand would not be able to snatch it from her easily, she stretched forwards slowly with her fingertips and touched the back of his left hand. With startling abruptness his eyes opened wide and he took a sharp, deep intake of breath, as if in extreme fright. Femke gasped and stumbled backwards with shock at the ghastly, unfocused stare of her former mentor.
‘Femke?’ he mumbled. ‘Femke? Is that you?’
‘Yes, it’s Femke,’ she replied. ‘What’s wrong with you, Ferdand? What are you doing?’
‘Poisoned . . . Brother Fox.’
‘One of your own assassins poisoned you!’ Her mind leaped on the irony of it, and revelled in the thought that his treachery had led ultimately to his downfall. Justice had sought him out after all, she thought with grim satisfaction. For all his manipulating and devious schemes, he had been laid low by one of his own – a poetic end for a traitor. However, as fast as the triumphant thoughts entered her mind, accompanying feelings of guilt and compassion welled within her. ‘What sort of poison? Do you have the antidote?’ she asked tentatively, irritated that she cared.
‘Seritriss . . . taken antidote . . . too late . . . too old.’
Femke could see he was right. The poison had gained too great a hold on his system. There were some antidotes that could be as fatal to the elderly as the poisons they had been devised to combat. Seritriss was a particularly nasty poison that affected the nervous system. The antidote, whilst effective at blocking the nerve agent, had side effects that would strain the systems of a young person’s body. Ferdand had long since left youth and strength behind. It was obvious to her that he was dying. Even had she wanted to help, there was nothing she could do.
With a quick look around to ensure that she was still alone with Ferdand, she sheathed her knife and dropped to one knee in front of his chair. Looking into his tortured eyes, the final edges of her anger and resentment melted away. It was hard to see any person suffering in this way, but particularly someone whom she had once thought of as a father figure.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asked.
‘Listen . . .’ he croaked. ‘Mission . . . for the Emperor . . . old Emperor . . . before Surabar . . . infiltrate the Guild . . .’
‘Infiltrate the Guild? What are you talking about? Reynik infiltrated the Guild.’
‘Me.’ He tapped his chest feebly. ‘Trapped by icon . . . forced . . . stay undercover . . . lived double life.’ He coughed, a wheezing cough, too weak to clear his throat. ‘Over at last,’ he sighed.
Femke’s heart pounded in her chest. Could it be true? Had Ferdand really infiltrated the Guild on a mission only to find himself trapped by the same sort of bond that now threatened Reynik? It was possible. She had always known Ferdand to be an exceptional spy. Had he preceded Reynik in infiltrating the Guild? If so, why was he now their leader?
‘So the Guild trapped you with the icon. How did you remain under cover so long without being discovered?’
‘Long-term mission . . . discovered that without refreshing bond . . . I would die . . . icon would kill me.’
‘So you stayed undercover. But why didn’t you tell me? How long have you been a member of the Guild?’
The revelation brought unbidden tears to her eyes. Part of her did not want to believe him. Inside, she repeated over and over again that he had betrayed her. He was a traitor to the Empire. The problem was that she could hear the truth in his voice. In her heart she knew it was just the sort of impossible mission at which he would have succeeded where everyone else had failed. He had always been the perfect spy. To penetrate the Guild and maintain his cover to the point of becoming Guildmaster was just like him.
‘I might have been able to help,’ she added lamely.
&nb
sp; Ferdand shook his head. He swallowed hard several times and forced more words up. ‘Many years . . . no time left . . . go . . . finish mission . . . done well . . . proud of you.’
‘Oh, Ferdand! Why did it have to be this way? I misjudged you so many times. I still don’t know what to think. I don’t think I’ve ever really known you, but I so wanted to. I loved you as a father. You know that, don’t you?’
The corners of the Guildmaster’s lips twitched upwards slightly and he gave the faintest of nods. Femke got up, leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.
Jerking and twitching against the combined effects of the poison and antidote in his system, Ferdand raised his right hand to the button at the front of his cloak.
‘You want to open it?’
Again, he gave the slightest of nods. Femke reached to the button and undid it. She pulled the two corners of the cloak back and over his shoulders. Underneath, the old Lord was wearing one of the wide cravats that she remembered him wearing often when they had lived together at his residence. With extreme effort and violently trembling fingers, he raised the top layer of the cravat. Femke’s breath caught in her throat. There was a silver clasp underneath: a clasp in the shape of a panther reaching down from a branch. It was his icon. It had to be.
‘Take it,’ he gasped.
‘But . . .’
‘Take it!’ he growled, his body rigid with the effort of enunciating the order. He relaxed again, looking totally spent. Almost as an afterthought he whispered, ‘Please.’
Femke was torn. She had entered Ferdand’s sanctuary with her heart hardened and fully prepared to kill him if she was given the chance. Now he was begging her to take his life and she felt that if she did so, her heart would break. Staring deep into his eyes, she reached out with her right hand and gently unclipped the silver panther. Ferdand nodded and sighed, closing his eyes.
With eye contact broken, Femke looked down at the tie clip. It was a beautifully-crafted piece of silverwork. A closer inspection revealed the same clever touch and styling as the wolf spider pendant that Reynik wore. She wrapped her fingers over the icon, squeezing it in the palm of her hand until the sharper edges began to generate spikes of pain. Leaning forward, she gave him another kiss on the forehead.