Shadowgod

by Michael Cobley

  “Have I got a story to tell you,” said Gilly Cordale, making his way through his audience.

  Stepping down from the carriage Keren tried to substitute sternness for relief but failed. “What happened? How did escape that mob, and just how did you get here before us?”

  Gilly shrugged. “Sometime the dice roll for you, sometimes you roll for the dice.” He took a hefty gulp of ale. “Did you see how they dragged Broen off his perch? Aye, well, I quickly took his place, seized the reins and beat that horse into action again. Because the road ahead was blocked by the whites I couldn't drive after you. So, I tried to force a way across the square while punching and kicking any green rogues who attempted to board me.”

  By now he was recounting the tale to Golwyth's men as well as Keren and Medwin, his gestures wide and dramatic. “But I didn't get far. A squad of greens charged at my carriage and tipped it over. The whites came in hard, then sticks cracked heads and a merry old brawl got into full swing all about me as I crawled out from the wrecked carriage. Back on my feet I made a run for a street leading off the square and down towards the docks. I was part way down it when there was a shout and I looked round to see a gang of yellows coming for me, with an ugly intent in their eyes. I ran as the Grey Lord himself as after me, ducked along an alley and onto the waterfront. But my pursuers weren't to be lost so easily, so I kept along the wharf and up a crowded side street full of stalls…” He held out his empty cup and it was swiftly refilled.

  “But, my friends, this street was so busy with townsfolk and hawkers that I couldn't get through. I was filled with panic and fear, then a hand grabbed my arm and pulled me into the dimness of one of the stalls. Naturally, I reached for my sword but then suddenly a small, dwarfish figure dressed in a shroud and sporting a beard swooped down to hang before me. ‘Hold, brave stranger,’ it said in an odd voice. ‘Put up thy blade for we offer you sanctuary’.”

  Everyone present was suddenly engrossed by this strange turn of the story.

  “I was struck with fear at this apparition, but for only as long as it took me to notice the strings holding it up. For you see, I was standing behind the wings of a puppet theatre, and it was the puppet master -,” He winked at the guards, “ - and his beautiful daughter…” There was a chorus of jeers and ribald remarks at this, “...who saved me from a yellow-handed beating. They took me out a back door to a narrow wynd leading back up the main streets of Eastbank. Where, as fortune would have it, I encountered the valiant Captain Redrigh and a couple of his men who brought me here to Golwyth's refuge with all speed.” He drained the last of his ale. “And then my good friends here arrived in time to hear this amazing saga.”

  He bowed as Keren and everyone applauded, including Captain and his men who had emerged from the stables midway through the performance.

  “Well told, ser Cordale,” came a deep voice.

  As the applause subsided, the guards made way for a tall, well-built man wearing a plain doublet and troos in rich grey leather edged with red, and a dark blue cloak fastened at the shoulder with a bronze wheel brooch. Keren guessed this to be Golwyth, the trader appointed by the High Conclave as their representative in Scallow. The man clearly possessed that charismatic air of purpose and experience that she had seen in all great leaders, among whom she incuded Mazaret and Yasgur. Golwyth, however, had something extra in his eyes, a mingling of wisdom and delight which countered the abundant silver in his neatly-clipped hair and beard. Once he and Gilly had shaken hands, Astalen came forward to introduce him to Medwin and Keren. When she met that dark, warm gaze a small, pleasurable shiver went through her.

  Then he stepped back a little to survey all three for a moment.

  “Survival in these bleak times requires strength,” he said. “But to survive and force back the tide of evil demands both strength and a rare courage. I have heard many reliable tales of the great struggle for Besh-Darok, and I am honoured to make you guests under my roof. I am just sorry that thus far you've only seen the worst that this city has to offer.”

  “All cities have their dark byways, honoured Golwyth,” Medwin said. “Yet your gracious welcome gives light to our arrival and makes us glad to be in Scallow.”

  As both men bowed slightly, Keren exchanged an amused look with Gilly, then spoke to the trader.

  “Ser Golwyth - what reason would these bodush factions have for chasing us through the streets? Might there be a sinister motive at the back of it?”

  Golwyth gave her a knowing smile and strode towards the rear of their carriage. “I think I can answer that quite easily, Lady Keren….ah, yes….” He bent down, reached out and straightened with a long strip of white cloth in his hand, much to the puzzlement of Keren and Medwin.

  “I regret to announce that you have been unwitting players in this year's game of bodush,” Golwyth said, holding out the cloth strip. “This is a bo of the White Faction, one of five scattered around the city by the tourney assessors.”

  “But, ser Trader,” said Gilly, who had doffed his jerkin to examine it. “I find no trace of such a flag upon my person.”

  Golwyth smiled. “During this annual stampede misunderstandings are the rule, ser Cordale, not the exception. But hopefully my men shall soon return with your driver, Broen, and then we may learn more. Till then, let me show all three of you to your quarters while the cook prepares the table for us.”

  As the trader led the way with Medwin at his side, Gilly hung back a little and murmured to Keren, “I just hope there's no misunderstanding about how hungry I am!”

  Then he laughed, shrugged on his jerkin and hurried after Golwyth and Medwin, exchanging a word or a handclasp with a few of the dispersing guards. Watching him, Keren smile, then shook her head and followed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Behold with thine unsleeping eyes,

  The blind ambition and petty vengeance,

  Of cutthroats and kings.

  —Calabos, The Black Shrine, ch2, iii

  The next morning, Medwin appeared at Gilly's door to offer advice as to his choice of clothing.

  “Golwyth is taking us up to the High House of Keels to meet senior members of the Council of Moons, “ he said. “Now, bear in mind that it is a place with a long history and thus has rigid views on the propriety of dress.”

  “You mean they're antiquated traditionalists obsessed with absurdities.”

  Medwin winced. “I mean that observing such customs would be a minor concession to the vital business we must conduct here.”

  Gilly was wearing a long shirt and baggy trews as he lay sprawled in his small room's cramped boxbed. He sighed theatrically.

  “And these customs are?”

  “Sober and dignified garments with the minimum of adornments; sturdy and unembellished footwear - ”

  “And I was so looking forward to wearing my jewelled mountain clogs.”

  “ - no cloaks or capacious gowns and no head coverings,” Medwin went on, glaring. “Sigils of the Earthmother or Fathertree are permitted, so long as they are Dalbari depictions. Also, wearing the colour red within the walls of the High House is utterly forbidden. On pain of death.”

  Gilly was wide-eyed. “Red?”

  “About two hundred years ago a pirate armada, supposedly from some legendary western isles across the Eventide Ocean, attacked Scallow, burnt half of it to the ground and slew two thirds of the populace. The pirates flew red flags and wore red clothing, hence the ban.”

  “Interesting,” Gilly said. “Oddly enough, the new Jefren regime's banner is mostly red too, or so my informants back in Besh-Darok claimed.”

  Looking suddenly anxious, Medwin made a hushing gesture with one hand. “Don't speak of that too openly. For the moment it is as well that no-one knows what we know.”

  “But we don't really know very much,” Gilly said, fighting the urge to grin.

  Medwin nodded. “And it's my job to let others think that we do. In the meantime, I'm more interested in what you can find out about
the rebel chiefs and their not-so-secret allies before the first convocal at the High House, or at least by dusk. How soon can you make contact with your, ah, talebearers?”

  Gilly grinned at that. “My snooping taprats? Well, I have the names and addresses of two members of the Southern Cabal here in Scallow, but I've no idea how out of date they might be.”

  “You should pursue them anyway, once this meeting with the councilmen is done.”

  “Is my presence really necessary?” Gilly said. “I'm sure that the High House of Keels is a fascinating place but I think that my time could be better spent.”

  Medwin shook his head. “Officially you and Keren are my personal advisors so they will be expecting all three of us. Once the formal meeting and its dialogue are over, I'll be able to dismiss the two of you on some pretext or other.”

  “Then the real discussion starts, eh?”

  “Quite. Now, Golwyth's cook is laying out our breakfast so - enough lazing about, ser! Time you were up and getting dressed!”

  Gilly gaped at this but before he could frame a suitable retort, the smiling mage was gone and the door was swinging shut. He stared at the door for a moment, wondering if he had brought any clothing of a suitably shrieking red with him, but a brief rummage through his haversack confirmed that he had not.

  A short while later he followed the stone sidestairs down into Golwyth's low-beamed dining hall, earning a hearty welcome from the master trader, a wry smile from Keren and an approving nod from Medwin. Gilly wore a plain, high-necked doublet of light brown kidskin which he had brought with him, and hedge-green twill leggings selected from garments offered by Golwyth. On his head was a close-fitting, dark-blue cap edged with light-blue embroidering, his boots were low and plain, and in one hand he carried his old slate-grey riding gloves.

  Breakfast consisted of exquisite, freshly-baked herb rolls, sharp-flavoured cheese and bowls of sprigs and corn, all washed down with beakers of sweetened spring water. When the meal was done, Golwyth led them out to a waiting two-horse carriage, ordered his guards to open the gates, and they were away.

  The journey from the compound up to the High House of Keels was brief and uneventful. With the dark battlements of Scallow Castle looming ahead, Gilly saw before it a tall peaked roof adorned with massive beams, then a turn in the road revealed the rest of the building. The massive beams resembled ship keels, their prows curving claw-like over the roof's peak while their sterns reached down to plunge into the ground on either side. The walls were high and straight with a pillared gallery along beneath the eaves, and as they drew nearer Gilly could see that the great council building's rear wall actually abutted against the castle's outer bulwark.

  A gravelled drive led past small, patterned gardens to a spacious coach and stable courtyard next to the High House. Leaving the carriage and horses in the care of the ostlers, Golwyth took them down a pathway that ran alongside the building beneath the great keel beams. At the front entrance, a few long steps led up to arched doors that opened into a square lobby. The lobby walls were high and to left and right were frail-looking wood scaffolding that reached up to the ceiling, with artisans at every level working to restore the expanses of stone relief carvings. Heavy sailcloth hid most of the details and light from the artisans' oil-lamps cast their own crouch or squatting forms onto the drapes, providing a strange lanternshow for any watchers below. Yet despite the steady stream of people entering or leaving, Gilly and Keren were the only ones pausing to look up.

  An elderly, balding man in a blue short-sleeved, knee-length surcoat came forward from the well-guarded inner doors, Smiling he extended a hand to Golwyth who accepted the clasp and then introduced him to Medwin as Aftmaster Yeddro. Bows were exchanged and Medwin in turn introduced Gilly and Keren as 'my personal advisors'.

  “Greetings to you all, and welcome,” said Yeddro. “Cordmaster Doreth awaits you in the Chart Chamber. If you'll follow me...”

  Flanked by Medwin and Golwyth, he led them through a side door and up three flights of broad stone steps. The stonework all around was solid and plain yet the corridor they emerged in was noticeably more elaborate. Floortiles bore a repeating anchor motif and black and ochre while spaced along the left wall were bow-curved columns that gave the semblance of a vessel's ribs. Between them hung the wooden name-crests of ships and the coats-of-arms of captains and nobles, many of them looking cracked and weathered.

  The right wall sloped up in a gentle curve, with windows all along it affording a view of the long, busy gathering hall below. Aftmaster Yeddro had just commenced a commentary on the heraldic when Keren stumbled and paused to lean against one of the sloping wooden supports, then sat on a protruding stonework ledge and covered her face with her hands.

  Quickly Gilly was at her side. “What's wrong?”

  “I'm not…” She let her hands fall and shook her head, confusion in her eyes. “I felt dizzy and cold all at once.”

  “Can you go on with us?” asked Medwin.

  Keren breathed in deeply and blinked once slowly. “It's passing now. I can continue.”

  She pushed herself upright and resumed walking. Gilly frowned but resisted the impulse to point out her unwell pallor and the trembling in her hands.

  Then something down in the hall caught his attention as he walked along the gallery. The long hall was really a series of seated chambers divided by head-height stone walls and lit by oil lamps hung overhead. Some were like formal meeting rooms, others less so and serving ale or hot dishes; There were no doors so anyone could pass all the way through from one end to the other. Various groups had gathered in this or that chamber, most looking like townsfolk while others wore garments more suited to shipboard life and rough weather.

  There was one man walking confidently from chamber to chamber, a short, stocky man in a baggy, dark green tunic and breeches. No details of his face were visible from this vantage, but the more Gilly studied him the more he felt a nagging sense of familiarity so, largely ignoring Yeddro's voice, he followed the man's progress.

  When the man reached the doorway to a busy room at the far end he paused for a moment, then sidled into the crowd. Just at the moment Gilly felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled he glanced round to see the aged Yeddro at his side.

  “Ah, ser Cordale, you espy the very crux of our grand predicament,” the Aftmaster said, pointing a bony finger at a group of bearded men sitting in a corner of the chamber. One of them was almost bear-like in stature and had long grey hair in a short but bushy beard. Gilly noticed him almost in passing as he surveyed the crowded, ill-lit chamber but of his quarry there was no sign.

  “Yes, see there,” Yeddro went on. “Flanked by his captains sits the Hevrin, leader of the ship-clans of the Stormbreaker Isles and source of all our strife. Yet without his will, there would be no talks this day…”

  Gilly was only half-listening as he peered down at the busy corner chamber, most of which was blocked by nearside walls, trying to distinguish the backs of heads from each other. Suddenly there was his quarry, slipping between those grim-looking bearded captains and bending to speak in the Hevrin's ear. The great chieftain said something in response and the man laughed, nodded, then straightened, giving Gilly a full of his face for the first time.

  “In the Mother's name,” he said. “It can't be…”

  From memories of Krusivel, back before all this began, Gilly remembered him. It was Ikarno Mazaret's brother, Coireg.

  “Gilly, Cordmaster Doreth is waiting for us,” Medwin said testily from across the corridor.

  “One moment, ser Medwin, I pray,” Gilly said.

  Yeddro murmured something to Golwyth who smiled and shrugged while Keren, looking better, came over to Gilly.

  “What are you doing?” she muttered.

  “You see the bare-armed man, down there?” He pointed. “There, just coming out of the end room...look closely. Recognise him?”

  She stared for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Coireg Mazaret...but didn't Ne
rek say something about him being possessed?”

  “Yes, and this possessing spirit just might know what's been done with Ikarno,” he said in a hard voice. Then he made up his mind. “I'm going to follow him - tell Medwin…”

  Then he was off at a run, ignoring the shouts behind him. His sudden anger gave him vigour and alertness as he reached the stairs and dashed down them two at a time. Rounding the corner of the next landing he just managed to avoid colliding with a servant carrying a small keg on either shoulder. Both did a swift dodging dance of sidesteps, then Gilly was past him and descending the next flight. He stumbled halfway down and had to leap the rest of the steps, landing on both feet with a mighty thud. He laughed shakily at the luck of it then raced down the last flight and rushed through the busy lobby, drawing cries from the door masters and whistles from the workmen on their gantries.

  Once outside in the full light of day, he slowed to a walk, surveying the vicinity of the High House of Keels, the road and its 3-storey residences and the openings of side streets. There were a few passers-by visible, as well as the trickle of arrivals to the High House itself, but of Coireg Mazaret there seemed no sign. Then he saw a small horse trap with a single passenger turning south along one of the side streets, and a quiver of instinct convinced him to follow.

  Several one- and two-seat carriages were lined up at the gates to the High House precincts. Gilly leaped into the nearest, patted the driver's shoulder and pointed at the receding trap.

  “Quickly - after that rig!”

  The driver, a bibulous-looking man in a bulky coat and a decrepit hat, regarded him with suspicion.

  “Is this some Bodush playout? - if it is, I want no part of it, hear?”