Sea Dragon Heir

by Constantine, Storm

  Epilogue

  THE YOUNG MAN, wrapped in a sand-colored cloak that hid all but his eyes, moved silently through the hot dark streets of Akahana. The perfume of musk, of ambergris and of frankincense filled the air. The paving stones of the narrow alleys were still hot, even though it was well past midnight, and from the high windows, lit by flickering orange lamps, threads of music stole out towards the stars. The palace of the imperial governor dominated the square now known as Leonid Place. Flags hung limply in the still air, garlanded only by swift tiny bats that, at sundown, had swarmed out of the tombs in the nearby desert. The young man moved silently up the wide steps towards the columned portico. His feet made no sound upon the stone. He moved like a phantom. The official on duty at the booth in the hallway, opened up the door. The young man came inside. “I am expected,” he said. The official inclined his head curtly. “This way, if you please.” He led the way along a high-ceilinged corridor, which was lit by hanging lamps of dull brass. At the end, a door, standing open. The room beyond contained a variety of Mewtish and Magravandian appointments. Ancient statues stood upon a plush carpet that had come from the court at Magrast. A delicately-wrought coffeepot reposed upon a heavy table of black wood, the feet of which were clawed. Light and darkness, thought the young man, and unwound his cloak from his face, letting his long pale hair fall forward onto his chest. “The agent from Cos, my lord,” said the official and departed. In the middle of the room, a divan stood beneath a lamp of bronze on a long metal pole. Dim, honeyed light fell onto the man who sat there. He had just put down a book and now laced his long-fingered hands before his face. His expression was wry, upon a lean tanned face. He was of middle years, though his alert posture and bright eyes suggested a fit and youthful body and mind. He wore Mewtish attire, a long, softly-pleated robe, belted with gold. “You are late,” he said to his visitor. “I expected you for dinner. Yours was spoiled.” “An unavoidable delay at the port, Lord Maycarpe,” the visitor replied. “I regret any inconvenience.” “The inconvenience is yours. You must be hungry.” The visitor made no comment, but sat down opposite his host. “Thank you for making this journey,” said Lord Maycarpe. “I have looked forward to meeting you. I am quite sure this land will delight you, especially after the rather barbaric climate of Cos. I insist that you stay here for a month or so.” “You are gracious,” said the visitor. “I have often wondered what Mewt is like.” A slight ironic tone in his voice suggested he had no interest in this introductory small talk. He smiled, an expression of inquiry on his face. Tell me why I’m here. Lord Maycarpe straightened up in his chair. “Word has come from Caradore,” he said, lifting a narrow fragile decanter from the table beside him. “It may interest you.” The young man’s left foot moved slightly. That was all. Maycarpe looked up at him from beneath his arched silver-black brows. “Drink?” he enquired, gesturing with the decanter. The young man nodded and held out a hand, into which Maycarpe placed a small ceramic tumbler, no bigger than an egg cup, which he filled with a dark brown liquor. The scent of honey and myrrh filled the room. “Word has come that the Dragon Lord, Valraven Palindrake, has returned to the old domain,” said Maycarpe. “Good,” said the visitor and drained his cup. “What do you want of me?” Maycarpe sighed. “Ah, what a question! How many times you must have asked it. And what a variety of replies you must have received.” The young man’s face remained expressionless. “What do you want of me?” Maycarpe gestured widely. “Your dedicated bitterness,” he said. “What else?” “Then send me to Magravandias. Send me with a crock of poison, with a dart, with a knife. This I will do. You know that. You could have sent word to me in Cos. Why summon me here?” Maycarpe smiled. “Because I wanted to see you. You are a legend, you know. I am curious.” “Now you have seen me. Tell me what you want.” Maycarpe shook his head. “I am not disappointed. You are still beautiful. There are many functions for a man such as yourself in the destiny of the world. People love beauty. They worship it. Can’t you see how useful you could be?” The young man appeared slightly confused by these remarks. He frowned. “My purpose is to kill, to purge the world of the taint of Malagash. There is nothing beyond it. I am nothing but this purpose. And it is the only thing I can give you.” Maycarpe nodded. “Mmm. I can see you’d never opt for public life again, which is a shame.” “You are correct. A man came to me in Cos and told me it is your aim to instate Palindrake as emperor. I was made to swear in blood I would never speak of this to anyone but yourself. This is an ambitious aim. Does it still stand?” Maycarpe pulled a face. “I am not entirely sure. There are so many variables to the situation. I prefer to take the least action possible, for I have found fate itself generally resolves most dilemmas.” “That and the art of Mewtish priests,” said the young man. He held out his tiny cup and Lord Maycarpe refilled it. “Will you send me to Magravandias?” “No. It took me too long to find you, too long to rehabilitate you. I will not squander you now, for that is what would happen. You are too fragile, my friend, to face the fire dragon in its lair.” “You underestimate me.” Maycarpe shook his head. “I assure you I do not. I am aware of your qualities, all of them. I would like to explain how you might help me. The families of Caradore are of the sacred blood. They are a resource. And there are plenty of them, not just Palindrake, though they are of course the ruling faction, or will be. The time will come when I, and my colleagues, will need this resource. We have spent many years studying the multitude of possible futures, through the stars, the demon smoke of alchemical fires and the minds of sleeping men. We have ascertained who will be the most important figures in the coming conflict.” “I cannot see how this relates to me. I am not Caradorean.” “Listen to me. There is one, a man who is known to you. It is essential he is brought into our circle, because he has great knowledge, but also, unfortunately, the potential to be a danger or perhaps just a nuisance. He has no love for the Malagash dynasty, but little for Palindrake either. He will oppose us, whatever strategy we adopt. He has his own plans, formulated mainly through confusion, fear, pain and grief. He must be tamed, educated, seduced.” The young man put down his tumbler on Maycarpe’s table. There was a weary, bitter resignation to his expression. “I know I am not a warrior of the field, but in one skill I excel, for those who took me in taught me well. I have been educated by the most adept Cossic assassins, as well as by your agents. I can move unseen through the night, or the shadows of a shuttered house. I make no sound. I can kill and be away before a single drop of blood seeps from the wound. This is my function now. It is not seduction.” “Of course. I meant no insult, but when I reveal the name of this man to you, I feel sure you will understand.” The young man shrugged. “Well?” “Khaster Leckery,” said Lord Maycarpe, fixing his visitor with a stare. The young man did not react. He merely said, “That is the name of a dead man.” “Yes,” drawled Maycarpe distractedly. “In one sense, he is dead. In a very real sense. In another, he is not.” The young man stood up. “I cannot help you. I am no necromancer.” “Sit down,” said Maycarpe. “I appreciate this news must trouble you, but please do not run away and hide. You have done enough of that.” The young man hesitated, but did not sit down. “I cannot help you, even if I wanted to.” “Not yet, perhaps. Our prey is clever. He is invisible in the world. All I know is his shadow, his presence, hanging like smoke at the boundary of my perception. I can smell him. I sense his determination, which is partly insane, but therefore all the more potent. I, and my colleagues, have searched for him, but all we can divine is a name. Khaster Leckery, a minor scion of a minor Caradorean house. Not at all an important or powerful individual, you might think. The man he was knew nothing of sorcery and little of life. But the name is there upon the tongues of our seers. Why? One day, we will find this man. It is inevitable. The reason I am revealing your future mission to you now is so that, when we do; you will have had time to formulate an efficient strategy to deal with him.” “I will not do it.” Maycarpe frowned quizzically, gazed up at the ceiling. “Ah,” he said,
“you have come so far. You were forged in a fire of suffering, but like a good sword, you had to be pulled from the fire at the right time, otherwise your blade would have become nothing but a formless, molten mass. It was I who pulled you from the flame.” “I did not ask for it.” “No, and I do not expect gratitude, but please accept that by conspiring with me in continuing to live and thrive, you took on a responsibility. You could have cut open your veins, starved yourself. You did not. You wanted to live. I presume you still do so.” “I have worked well for you in Cos. You know I have.” “Indeed, and I am pleased with you for it. Ready yourself for what will come. That is all. You have no choice in the matter.” The young man stared hard at Maycarpe, who stared back. There was no sound in the room, but for the faint sizzle of the lamp. Eventually, the young man said, “You want me to find Khaster Leckery for you? Is that it?” Maycarpe smiled. “How generous of you to offer, but no. You couldn’t do that.” “Does he really still live?” Maycarpe grimaced. “Well, I assume so. Some part of him. Somewhere.” “Cossic agents told me his body was found on the battlefield.” “The evidence was never conclusive.” The young man made a small, agitated gesture with one hand. “The man I knew would want no part of what you’re involved in. He would never have been a danger or a nuisance to someone like you.” “People change,” Maycarpe said. “Look at you.” The young man was again silent for a while. Maycarpe picked up his book once more, leafed through it idly, but really he was looking at his visitor, perhaps perceiving the conflicting thoughts that raged in his mind. Maycarpe did not interrupt the process. He licked a finger, turned a page. After some minutes, the young man made an abrupt movement, hardly more than a shiver. He raked his fingers through his shining hair. “There is something I can give to you,” he said. “It may facilitate your task.” Maycarpe closed the book carefully, laid it on his lap. “You are a great magus,” said the young man. Maycarpe nodded. “People call me that.” “Then this might be of use to you.” The young man held out his hands and took from one of his fingers a ring. Maycarpe took it and examined it. “The Leckery crest,” he said, turning the shining object in his fingers. “Khaster’s?” The young man nodded. “Hmm,” said Maycarpe. “I have had in my possession other personal effects of his. None of them, not even the most intimate, have given me a window onto his whereabouts.” “That is a window onto his pain,” said the young man. “It may be more informative.” Maycarpe examined his visitor for a few moments, and his wary expression suggested he thought he might have misjudged the young man after all. “Thank you,” he said and put the ring into a pocket of his robe. Sounds came from the hallway, those of someone entering the building and walking along the corridor. Footsteps approaching. Lord Maycarpe became alert and spoke urgently yet softly. “When you see the man who is about to enter this room, his appearance may be a shock to you. Please do not react. He is a protégé of mine, for whom I have great hopes, but at this time, I do not wish him to know your identity. Is that clear?” The young man nodded, frowning slightly, and sat down again. Behind him, the door opened. Maycarpe’s face took on a warm expression of greeting. “Merlan!” he cried. “Good to see you back. We have much to speak of, much indeed.”