The lock opened and Emelia slowly lifted the safe lid. The flickering light revealed a tiny pair of needles in the lock mechanism, the poison glistening on their tips. She slid the darts out with a pair of forceps and flicked them onto the chair. A little surprise for Grach; Hunor would laugh at that trick.
Conscious of time Emelia reached into the safe, scooping out the contents: a bundle of papers, a small bag of gems, a sapphire ring and a glittering necklace. She popped the gems into her pocket then began rifling through the papers until she found the seal she was after. This was the document that their patron wished stolen: some incriminating letter, no doubt. She replaced the remainder of the papers, along with the ring and necklace. They were too traceable if she tried to fence them in Bulia.
Emelia closed the safe and locked it with a twist of her pick and then gently she eased the false floor panel back over it. She rolled the paper, popped it in a scroll case and secured it to her belt.
The door flew open and she froze as the yellow glow of the hallway lit the room up.
“Told you I seen a light, Vrhin,” a burly guard said as he entered the room, sword drawn. Two other guards entered with him, one of them the guard she had snuck past. The shortest carried a smoking lantern in his left hand and shone it at Emelia.
“Now here’s a treat. A wee girl thief and a shapely one at that. Thinks we can have our fun with her when she’s tied up boys,” the short guard said. Emelia placed her lantern on the table and tugged her balaclava down as they strode into the room.
“I’s thinks she likes masks an’ all,” Vrhin said with a snicker.
Emelia side-stepped from behind the desk and raised her hands. Her adrenaline was flowing and she felt the thrill of impending battle. She had to finish this quickly; Hegris Grach had flayed men to shreds for far less than this.
“Wouldn’t want to give you boys any bad dreams,” Emelia said.
The air shimmered around her hands as she muttered words of sorcery. Emelia felt the tension of the magical Web around her in the room; with her mind and then her hands she jerked the invisible strands.
The cabinet adjacent to the door toppled on top of the nearest guard. He screamed as the weight of the hundreds of papers and documents crushed him and splintered his thigh bones. His lantern shattered against the floor, spilling flaming oil into the room.
Vrhin gawped but his companion was less startled and lunged to attack. Emelia was poised and prepared, concentrating as Hunor had drilled into her on those endless days of practice. The motion of the guard seemed to slow as she stared. She observed his boots, the way he twisted his weight, the angle of his upper body and the momentum of his attack.
Emelia’s attack flowed like mercury and was every bit as lethal. The guard swung his long sword in a vicious arc. Emelia span and stepped inwards towards him. His slash hacked into the wood of the table as she drew her sword from its back-scabbard in one movement. It flashed in the glow of the erupting fire and sliced almost effortlessly through the ring mail armour on his shoulder. The blade bit deep into his chest and he spat blood as his lung and heart were spliced.
Emelia continued her spin, the sword emerging from the guard’s decimated chest as she pirouetted and then came to a stop, sword ready for Vrhin. The dead guard crashed into the table and his sword clattered uselessly to the floor.
Vrhin paused then roared and charged, swinging his long sword with two muscular arms. Emelia parried once, twice then a third time as she manoeuvred around the heat of the spreading fire. The guard had a good six inches and five stone on her but his strong attacks were panicked and sloppy. He thrust his sword forward, trying to take advantage of his reach. Emelia, on seeing his lunge, stepped back and parried, diverting the blow towards the escalating fire.
The glare of the fire flashed in Vrhin’s face and he faltered. The nimble thief took her chance, dropping under his guard. Her magnate blade cleaved a gaping furrow in his belly and he gasped in horror, his free hand desperately trying to keep his exposed entrails in check.
Emelia moved as Vrhin dropped, vaulting over the falling guard and through the door. Her mind was racing as she considered her escape options, schemata of the villa playing in her head.
Back the way we came, Emebaka cried in her head, better chance of getting to the orchard.
She sprinted down the corridor, sword dripping blood as she ran. Within five seconds she was by the statue of Engin. Waste of a prayer that was, Emebaka growled.
Emelia began to descend the stairs when she heard the clatter of at least a dozen guards from below. Onor’s breath, she cursed, then turned and began ascending the stairs towards the roof two steps at a time.
The spiral stairs were broad and occupied a sandstone tower on the junction between the west and north wings. Emelia bounded up them like a mountain goat, her eyes scanning ahead for foes. Once more her keen hearing alerted her as two guards came thudding down the stairs from above. She ran low and swung her sword at their ankles as they descended. The forerunner screamed as the sword sliced clear through the bone and he toppled forward over the crouched Emelia, his foot still on the step. The second guard clumsily tried to slash down at her but already she had thrust her left hand out to cast her spell.
A wave of magical force slammed into his chest like a sledgehammer, launching him back against the staircase with a crash. The back of his head cracked with a wet thud on the edge of the tiled stair and he fell limp.
Emelia continued her ascent to the top of the stairs and out through the door onto the roof. Her head was pounding from the magic use; she was unused to casting spells at such a pace. She shook it clear in the night air and surveyed the scene around her.
The villa was shaped like a horseshoe with wings to the north, west and east and the hollow in its centre was occupied by gardens and a courtyard. Each wing had a clutter of levels, with roofs of two, three and four stories all variably tiled or flattened depending on the whim of the builder at that time.
Beyond the villa were a selection of stables, a forge, a barracks and some cottages for the groundsmen. The gardens lay to the south and had been designed once again in the Feldorian style with statues, fountains and endless concentric hedges. The driveway that rambled from the gates in the perimeter wall ran along the western edge of the main garden. On the far side of the garden there was a small pear orchard and then the estate walls.
Emelia re-sheathed her sword in its scabbard and took deep breaths. She had been in worse situations than this in the last year but always with the ingenuity of Hunor or the clarity of Jem’s thoughts at her side.
Well they’re not here now, Emelia, Emebaka grumbled, probably they’re laughing at the situation you’ve landed yourself in. Emelia squashed the irritating voice of doubt from her mind; she would need to stay focused for this escape.
The din of swords and armour was echoing from the stairwell on the other side of the door along with the screams of the one-footed guard she had left in her wake. A dozen guards burst onto the wide flat roof as Emelia ran and jumped. Her feet thudded onto the slick tiles of the sloping roof and she slid down at a frightening rate towards the edge. The roof was some fifty feet above the courtyard below. Its wet surface passed in a blur and then suddenly she was launched into the air, the ground looming below her.
No room for doubt now, she thought. In an instant she had cast her spell. Once again she sensed the tendrils of the Web around her, seeing its glowing fibres crisscrossing the night air out of the corner of her vision. She felt the ripple of energy through her body as she pulled the Web tight around her to slow her fall. She drifted like a feather down the fifty feet to the gravel of the courtyard.
Emelia suppressed the wave of nausea accompanying her migraine and ran. Each step reverberated through her bursting head as she sprinted through the gardens. She stole a look behind her at the villa. The fire in the room had caught and was lighting up the west wing admirably. Atop the roof a dozen guards tossed spears at the grass behind he
r. From across the grounds she could see the glow of torches and hear the baying of hounds. Ingor’s nuts, she swore, she hated dogs.
Emelia weaved through the statues and hedges, her breath burning in her throat. It hadn’t seemed quite so far on the way in. She hadn’t run this fast since the night she had left the Keep, dragged along by the new companions she had met that fateful day. The pace had not slackened until they had found refuge in a farmstead and had allowed a few days rest prior to slipping over the border into the barley fields of Midlund.
She was into the orchard as the hounds closed on her, panting as she ran through the trees. She reckoned there were at least six of the brutes. She focused on the stone wall ahead. She’d hated dogs ever since getting a nip from Captain Ris’s surly hound as a child. She could still recall the sharp pain then the ache of the bite on her thigh. Her legs now ached for a very different reason.
The perimeter wall was good thirty feet tall with a crown of rusted spikes. Generations of rain had worn it as smooth as glass and getting a foothold would be impossible even for a monkey from the Sapphire Isles. The dogs were snapping at her heels as she ran full tilt at the stone.
Emelia had never settled with the sensation of phase shifting despite repeated practice with Jem, who counted himself as an expert in the magic. She felt a wave of tingling energy strike her as she passed through the thick wall. Her momentum carried her stumbling then tumbling down the embankment on the far side of the wall and she grunted in pain as she thudded to a halt on the edge of the muddy road that circled the estate.
Emelia clambered to her feet with a moan, the road around her lit by the blue moonlight. The hounds frustrated baying brought a smile to her face, hidden under her muddy balaclava. Two horses trotted from the shadows of the trees bordering the road.
“Well that has to be the most covert burglary I’ve ever witnessed,” Jem said.
“Give the girl a break, Jem. The important thing is that she did it with panache,” Hunor said. He offered a hand to Emelia who, legs screaming with protest, vaulted onto his horse behind him.
“And the fact I got the papers,” she said as they began to ride along the road.
“Your magic?” Jem asked.
“Got me out of a few scrapes, Jem. You both have my gratitude for all you’ve taught me,” Emelia said, lifting the balaclava off her face. Her eyes shone like twin opals in the moonlight.
“I’m sure we’ll be rewarded when you keep us safe in our dotage, young lady,” Hunor said as the wind built up around the galloping horse. Emelia held tight to his back, pressing against the black leather of his armour.
“Well here’s the start of your retirement fund,” she said and passed Hunor the pouch of gems. She sighed with exhaustion as the three galloped towards the lights of Bulia.
***
Emelia woke from her brief slumber, the clamour of the city drifting in with the spring breeze through her open window. Scattered images of a dream lingered in her mind—she’d been running through a purple city of danger. For an instant she had an urge to return to sleep and seek out one of her favoured dreams: perhaps the one where she wove through the azure waters of her homeland like a dolphin.
She rolled out of her bed, stretched her aching limbs and stumbled over to the bowl in the corner. The water was chill and jolted her to wakefulness; she dried her face on her nightgown.
She wandered to the window, scratching her tangle of blonde hair and gazed out on the bustle of the street below. It was market day and the grocers were pulling their carts of produce along the muddy lanes to the large square three streets away. Small children darted between the creaking wheels playing some imaginary game. A pie man strode by the side of two rotund merchants, the inviting scents of his wares making Emelia’s stomach rumble.
Emelia rested her head against the window frame and smiled to herself. For most of her life her only view had been one of the most stunning panoramas in any of the lands. Yet she would swap a hundred such views for this one: a filthy street in a filthy city on the Isle of Thieves. For this scene was one that could be observed with all the time in the world and with the clarity and colour that freedom had given her. Four years ago she had to dream about living free. Now her life was a dream that had come true.
The griping returned to her belly and heeding its call she crossed the room and opened her cabinet. She donned her undergarments and then slipped on her leather armour: a toughened black leather breastplate, adapted to provide a tight fitting flexibility. Her fingers drifted over the nicks and furrows on the surface reminding her of the times it had saved her from knife thrusts and sword slashes. On top of this she dressed in a black cotton tunic, short black trousers and woollen tights. She gently tucked in her shell pendant under the leather armour. Finally she slipped her black leather boots on and strapped her belt across her waist, checking her pouches and dagger.
Emelia ambled towards the door of her small room then paused in indecision. She returned to her bed and brought out her sword. The light twinkled off the ornate pommel as she secured it with her back scabbard and baldric. She could see the grey clouds that perpetually hung over Azagunta through her window. Emelia pulled a black woollen cloak over her back and tightened it with a silver brooch.
The street was teeming when she descended from her rooms above the Black Lamb Tavern. Each morning she would glance at the sign that swung above the door to the inn and spare a thought for Sandila, the Azaguntan maid whose death had propelled her along this course in life. One day, she vowed, there would be justice for her friend.
Emelia joined the throng that flowed down the filthy street, immersing herself in the vibrancy of the city. She purchased a hot pie from the red-faced vendor on the corner. The middle of the road was an open sewer and so she kept to the periphery of the crowd. She chuckled with the memory of her first encounter with the filthy channels of Azaguntan streets—a contrast to even the poorest areas of Coonor. It had taken days to get the stench from her foot.
She turned right into Park Lane and strolled towards the common that sat adjacent to the wide brown river that traversed Bulia. As a city Bulia could not be more different to Coonor if one had planned it. Emelia often thought that the gods must have taken a city from the skies, crushed it in their mighty hands and then dropped it from a great height. Bulia was a scrap heap of a place. Layer upon confusing layer had been built, ruined, re-built and then allowed to decay. Winding streets seemed to go nowhere, abruptly stopping in some wall or at one of the small streams that snaked out from the stinking waters of the River Dun. The irregular rooftops jutted at impossible angles, crowning a collection of wooden, stone and brick buildings. It was chaos personified, a manifestation of some absinth induced hallucination.
The heart of the city was the Marshtown, a reclaimed area where at least one had the vague impression of the history of the place. Marshtown was built from the pale stones that characterised the architectural preferences of the Azagunta nation fourteen hundred years before. In that era it had been a small outpost on the southern tip of Azagunta. Emelia recalled, from long discussions about history with Jem, that when the Plague of Dust had struck the Azaguntans the exodus from the stricken cities in central Azagunta had overwhelmed the small town.
Emelia shuddered at the thought of the refugee camps that must have accumulated in the boggy lands around the town. They must have covered the flatlands like a sea of human misery, rife with disease and pestilence and famine. Such was the cost of irresponsible use of magic, Jem had said; the civil war amongst the magi that had begun with the fall of Kevor had ended in the dust of Azaguntan decline.
That dust had turned to mud and grime in the streets of this sprawling city. The old Azagunta, a place of magical wonder and beauty ruled by the Cabal of wizards, had degenerated into a nation of desperation and trickery. The rot of corruption pervaded every echelon of society. When they had first arrived here on a merchant ship three years ago Hunor had explained that everyone in Azagunta was on th
e take. It had been the third city she had ever seen and it contrasted sharply with both Coonor and with Kâlastan where they had spent the prior winter.
Bordering the filthy river was the King’s Common, a large stretch of grassland offering some relief from the stink of the city providing the wind was blowing favourably. A collection of townhouses sat on the edge of the common, painted with refreshing bright colours and boasting well maintained shutters and small hedges at their fronts. Emelia cut across the grass of the common, coming to the steps of one of the row’s neatest residences and rapped on the door.
The red wooden door creaked open of its own accord and Emelia entered, wiping her boots with vigour on the mat in the hallway. She called a greeting and then walked through into the main ground floor room.
The room was meticulously neat and organised. An entire wall was dedicated to bookshelves with tome after tome of leather bound books, all ordered very precisely. The stone walls were decorated sparsely with an occasional small tapestry. The furniture was arranged at right angles and placed very specifically within the room; the main oaken table was waxed and covered in small cloths, gleaming white in their cleanliness.
In the room’s centre sat Jem, neatly dressed as usual in a dark green and gold tunic with voluminous sleeves and brown trousers belted at the waist. He was hunched over a small clock, his dexterous fingers inserting a tiny cog. Clocks at various stages of construction were arranged in a neat line on the table. Cogs and springs lay on the white pieces of cloth.
“You’ll give yourself a headache doing that, Jem,” Emelia said.
Jem was silent as he completed inserting the cog and then sat upright. “My father managed to make these all his days without a single headache or eye strain. I’ll admit I’ve been tempted to use magic for some of the finer work but I know in my heart that’s cheating.”
Dreams of Darkness Rising Page 19