“No, my lord, and I am not certain where they are, though I suspect the girl fled when she realized that the imposter was not really her grandfather. She may have gone looking for Master Pendrake again. I only hope no harm has come to her.”
“I hope so, too, Master Brax. Though I have to wonder why the girl didn’t turn to you for your help in all this. At any rate, I spoke with Thorne just now and he admitted to releasing the hogmen from custody and bringing them to the toyshop in the dead of night, along with six Errantry troopers and a young woman from Skald whom you used as a hostage—a hostage—to subdue this imposter. None of which you felt necessary to inform me about yourself.”
“My lord, if word were to get out about a shapeshifter at large in Fable, it would spread fear at a time when we must reassure people and keep order. Captain Thorne was only doing what we thought best for the city.”
“Or what you thought best for Ammon Brax. The fact remains that you have been giving orders and taking command of my men, and now I understand you’re kept the hogmen with you at the toyshop.”
“The Marrowbone brothers are vile brutes, my lord, but they have keen senses that I saw I could make use of in my search,” Brax said. “And for all we know, their presence near Fable might have had something to do with the Loremaster’s disappearance. It made sense to keep them near me until I got to the bottom of all this.”
“I’m told you promised the hogmen they would be set free if they helped you. Is this true?”
“I told them what I thought would ensure their cooperation. Surely one doesn’t have to honour a bargain with creatures like that.”
“At Appleyard we stand by our word,” the Marshal said heatedly. “We don’t make promises we have no intention of keeping. The point is, Master Brax, you’ve apparently decided your authority as head mage of Kyning Rore extends to the Errantry. Let me assure you it does not. Where is the Skalding woman now?”
“I gave her leave to rejoin her people waiting outside the walls, my lord, and I believe that is what she did.”
“We shall see. I’ve sent a man to confirm that she’s with her friends. In the meantime, you do not ‘give leave’ in Fable, sir. You do not remove prisoners from their cells and you do not conscript Errantry troopers for your own purposes.”
“Lord Caliburn, rest assured I would never attempt to undermine your authority.”
“You have undermined it, Master Brax. Quite successfully. It appears that Captain Thorne sees you as Fable’s best hope in the coming conflict, and he’s willing to keep secrets from me as a result. I don’t know how you swayed the captain from his duty so easily, Brax, but the damage has been done. I’ve had to relieve Thorne of his command.” The Marshal’s face darkened. When he spoke again, his voice shook with barely suppressed rage. “I cannot lose good men at such a time and I will not tolerate anyone, not even the archmage of Kyning Rore, breeding mistrust and confusion among our ranks.”
Brax bent his head as if the rebuke had struck home. He took another step closer to the desk, keenly aware that he had little time in which to act.
“Forgive me, my lord,” he said. “It was wrong of me and it will not happen again.”
“No, it will not. You will be allowed to return to the toyshop under Errantry escort to gather your belongings, and then you will leave Fable and you will not return. Do you understand me, sir?”
Brax steeled himself. The time had come. Everything depended on what happened in the next few moments.
“I understand, my lord,” he said in the most chastened voice he could muster. “And I deeply regret having lost your trust. But before I go, there is something you have not heard from the captain, a matter of the gravest concern, and I must speak of it.”
Caliburn glared at the mage.
“Haven’t you been listening, Master Brax? You are to leave this city. Now. Take whatever road will get you home to Kyning Rore safely, but be gone by the evening bell. If you are not, I will have you marched out of here.”
Brax quelled his fury. He had to remain calm and yet be ready to act without hesitation. He was not yet certain of his control over the fire and if he failed now, all he had gained might be put in jeopardy. But first he had to strike a blow with words that would throw the Marshal off his guard.
“So be it, my lord,” he said, “but this is something you must hear. The safety of Fable depends on it.”
It seemed the Marshal was about to erupt in further angry words, but he pursed his lips and nodded.
“Speak, then.”
First Brax moved to the door and slowly, softly closed it. When he turned back, Caliburn was staring at him in disbelief. It was obviously no one’s place but the Marshal’s to decide when that door should be shut. Caliburn, however, chose to ignore the mage’s latest breach.
“Well? I have no time.”
“I hesitate to speak of this, my lord, knowing how deeply he is in your counsel—”
“Who do you mean? Enough games, man. Out with it.”
The mage leaned across the desk. He pressed a hand to the front of his cloak. “While I was looking through the Loremaster’s things, searching for any clue to where he might have been taken, I found something disturbing. Something that casts doubt on everything we think we know about Nicholas Pendrake.”
The Marshal’s eyes blazed. “Choose your next words with care, Master Brax.”
Brax drew a breath that was heavy with the pain of what he had to reveal. “From what I have seen, there can be no doubt that the Loremaster, Nicholas Pendrake, is in league with the enemy. He staged his own abduction and he was behind the return of the imposter.”
Caliburn shook his head slowly. The muscles in his jaw pulsed. “That cannot be. I have known Nicholas Pendrake since—”
“My lord, I have the proof of it here with me.”
“What proof?” the Marshal growled. “What have you found?”
The moment had come. Caliburn was outraged now, his deepest trust shaken. He would not be thinking clearly. Brax slipped a hand into his cloak and withdrew a rolled-up tube of yellowed parchment.
“What is this?” Caliburn asked, scowling. He leaned forward across the desktop and thrust out his hand. His anger and doubt were strong enough now that all other thoughts had fled.
Just as Brax was placing the scroll in the Marshal’s palm, with a lightning-fast movement he dropped the paper and clutched Caliburn’s wrist. The Marshal tried to wrench his hand away, but Brax held fast. The tips of his fingers, digging into the older man’s flesh, glowed from within like ampoules of green glass.
“What are you doing?” Caliburn demanded furiously, and then his eyes went unfocused. He swayed forward, and set his other hand on the desktop to keep from falling. “How dare … you …” he said thickly, labouring to get the words out. He looked to the door and opened his mouth as if to shout for help, but no sound came out.
“Do not struggle, my lord,” Brax said. “It might kill you and neither of us wants that.”
Caliburn’s hand went to his throat. He was gasping now for air.
“Madam Little was correct,” Brax said, watching the Marshal’s eyes. “I was searching for the Loremaster’s secrets, and I found one of them. The only one that matters, as it turns out. It’s the power to remake the way things are. To mould the world and men’s minds. Now please sit, for we have much to discuss and very little time.”
Brax let go of the Marshal’s wrist. The skin was bone white where the mage’s hand had gripped it. Caliburn gazed dully at his own hand, then stepped backward and sat down heavily in his chair. He stared up at the mage, stunned, uncomprehending.
Brax picked the scroll up off the desk where it had fallen and unrolled it. The parchment was blank.
“Sleight of hand,” he murmured. “It still has its uses.”
He set the scroll on the desk, then leaned close to the seated Marshal and lowered his voice to an urgent whisper.
“Are you listening, my lord?” Brax said. �
�It’s very important that you listen to me now. For the sake of Fable and the Errantry.”
The Marshal blinked and struggled to focus on the mage’s face. “What’s happened?” he muttered. “Brax, I can’t seem to remember …”
“You have been poisoned, my lord. I am here to help.”
The Marshal shook his head slowly. His eyes searched the room wildly and then focused again on Brax.
“You,” he growled. “No, it was you.”
“It was the enemy,” Brax said sharply. “You have to listen, or Fable is doomed. The enemy out there has done this to you. The enemy who will destroy everything and everyone you love unless we act now. You must listen. Something was slipped into your food or drink. Do you remember?”
“Remember? No. Who would have …?”
“You don’t have long, my lord. Neither does Fable. You must listen to me or all is lost. Soon the poison will make you weak and feverish. You will be unable to carry out your duties. The Errantry will be leaderless, which cannot happen now with the enemy already here in Fable. If the Loremaster has turned against us, then no one is safe, no one is to be trusted. But we can still save this city, you and I. First you must invoke martial law. Shut the gates, keep everyone at home. No public gatherings. Then assign me my own company of troopers. I must have the freedom and authority I need to root out any other traitors.”
“Give you …” the Marshal muttered, struggling to rise. “No, wait. I must call the duty sergeant.”
“You’re confused, my lord. It’s the poison working in you, clouding your thoughts. You’ve forgotten you summoned me when the enemy first struck. Think. Remember. You called for me. That’s why I’m here. You knew that only I can stave off disaster. I am here to help, but you must concentrate and do as I tell you—or all is lost.”
The mage spread his hand across the map on the Marshal’s desk. Dark blotches began to appear at the edges of the parchment, as if fire was eating at it from underneath, though no flames appeared. The dark blotches grew in size and began to move inward, toward the city drawn in careful ink lines at the centre of the map.
“Our enemies are closing in on us,” Brax said. “They’ve already wormed their way into the city. They’ve corrupted those we’ve held in trust. They’ve even reached you, my lord. We must act now, for the sake of the Errantry. For Fable.”
“For Fable.” The Marshal nodded, gazing in horror at the map. “We must keep the people safe. The enemy is—” He broke off and held up his arm. The band of white flesh around his wrist was fading now but still visible. “No,” he rasped. “No. It was you.”
The Marshal locked eyes with the mage and Brax recoiled at the fury he saw there. The man was resisting the power of the werefire with everything he had. His white-knuckled fists shook and the sweat stood out on his brow. It was a terrible thing to see, and as Brax watched the struggle, he felt an unexpected admiration for the man. Caliburn was stronger than he would ever have imagined. How he fought to hold on to the truth, to all that was slipping away from him.
During his time in Fable, Brax had taken care to learn all he could about the senior commanders of the Errantry. Now he saw he would have to put some of what he’d discovered about the Marshal’s past to use. He leaned close to Caliburn and put a hand gently on his shoulder.
“Don’t forget what happened, my lord,” Brax said softly, “to your son.”
Lord Caliburn’s gaze turned inward. His face crumpled with pain. The words, Brax saw with satisfaction, had dealt the final blow. The Marshal’s son, he’d learned, had died trying to prevent an outlaw named Corr Madoc from stealing Errantry horses.
“You weren’t vigilant enough then,” Brax said, his voice low and almost soothing. “You didn’t see the true danger until it was too late. That must not happen again. The Errantry needs you to be strong, now more than ever. We must make sure that no more young men die needlessly.”
The Marshal passed a hand over his eyes. He looked up again at the mage, but now his gaze was beseeching. “Help me, Brax,” he said. “They’re all depending on me. What … what should I do?”
“First, my lord, before anything else you must sign an order invoking martial law in Fable and throughout the Bourne.”
“The Errantry … has never … ruled by force of arms.”
“The threat to the Bourne demands it. There is no other way. And Thorne must be restored to his command and appointed acting Marshal before the poison incapacitates you any further. Thorne is one of the few we can still trust.”
“Yes. Emric. He must take command when I … when I am no longer able.”
“Sign the orders, my lord, and Thorne and I will see to what must be done. As you know, I am the only one who can detect any imposters that remain among us. I must have the power to apprehend and detain them. The men Captain Thorne hand-picked to guard the toyshop have already proven their loyalty, but I suspect I will need more. Perhaps many more.”
“Yes, that is best,” the Marshal said quickly. “You’ll have the men you require. We must unmask the traitors and root them out. Find them, Master Brax.”
“Sign the orders, my lord, and I will get to work at once. Oh, and there is one other matter. Something has to be done about those who’ve been sowing fear and making false accusations about me. It’s regrettable, but Pendrake’s housekeeper must be locked up and kept under guard to stop her from spreading any more lies. For all we know she may be in league with the false loremaster.”
None of what Brax had just said, which moments ago would have goaded Caliburn to outrage, had roused him to the slightest protest. The mage permitted himself a smile. The Errantry would be his. He would have the time he desperately needed and no one could hinder him. After that the rest of Fable would follow swiftly. Let the Nightbane come. Let the opposing armies batter each other to dust on the field. By then he would be the master of the secret fire. He would remake this city into a stronghold, a fastness, a fortress to withstand anything. The warriors of a thousand banners would bend to his will. In time he would reach out to command armies, nations. Even perhaps to force a truce with the power of the Shadow Realm.
He came out of his thoughts to find the Marshal waiting, like an obedient underling, for him to speak again.
Brax slid the blank scroll across the desk. “Sign the orders, my lord.”
The Marshal nodded. He dipped a quill pen in its inkwell and began to write on the parchment in a slow, laboured hand. “This will … give you the powers you need, Master Brax.”
When he had finished he pressed the silver ring on his finger into the parchment, then rolled it up and handed it back to the mage. Then the Marshal dully, unsteadily climbed to his feet. His face was ashen and he looked haggard and ancient, a very different man from the one who had confronted the mage only moments ago.
“You were right, Master Brax. The poison is doing its work. I ask you, tell no one about this. It would only spread fear. No, we will say I have taken ill, that is all. Thorne will assume command for the time being. You will be his second, with emergency powers to arrest and detain as you judge necessary. I am counting on you to rid Fable of its enemies and keep the people safe.”
“My lord, I am yours to command.”
“Yes. Good. Now …”
Once more the Marshal seemed to be searching for words. He looked again at the mage, his gaze suddenly sharp and penetrating, and for a dreadful moment Brax thought that Caliburn was about to remember what had really happened here. There would no choice this time but to strike a killing blow and deal with the consequences. With this paper in his hand he already had what he needed. Brax readied himself, but then the older man’s eyes clouded over again. He raised a trembling hand and placed it on the mage’s shoulder.
“Thank you, Master Brax. You’re a true friend to Fable.”
The mage smiled warmly and gripped the Marshal’s shoulder in turn. “I am your friend, as well, my lord. Never doubt it. And I beg you, call me Ammon.”
14
ALL THE NIGHTBANE THAT Finn and the doctor came across were already dead, but Alazar would not give up the search.
From the upper parapet, where the skyships had landed, they found their way to the level beneath by way of a wide stone ramp probably meant for the passage of wheeled vehicles as well as foot traffic. The ramp led into a long vaulted hall with passageways branching out in every direction. Deep slits in the roof, lined with some kind of reflective metal, let in shafts of sunlight, but most of the passageways beyond the hall were dark. Finn borrowed a lantern from one of the Stormriders and he and the doctor set out to explore.
With growing awe Finn began to grasp the true size and extent of Adamant. Each circle, as the Ironwise called the descending levels, was fronted by a broad curving platform that formed an outer walkway. Set in from this projecting walkway were the inner chambers, halls, vaults and connecting passageways of that circle. Each level thus extended deep into the rock, so that the city was actually much larger and far wider in circumference than it appeared from the central well.
Adamant had a system of pipes, sluices and troughs to deliver water up and down the levels. Some of the troughs fed into basins that lined the outer walkways. Cold, fresh water still trickled into a few of these basins. The water was in great demand by both Ironwise and Stormriders, as the city was stifling hot and everyone’s throat soon parched in the dry, smoky air.
Realizing how easy it would be to get lost in such a place, Finn and the doctor did not venture far from the hall in the first circle. Each chamber they explored they marked with a piece of chalk to help them keep their bearings and find their way back.
The farther they went, the fewer bodies they found. Finn was startled to discover that not all the dead were mordog or other races of Nightbane. There were a few men among them. “This army isn’t all that different from your brother’s,” the doctor observed as he examined one of these dead men. Finn had been thinking much the same thing.
They moved on and in the adjoining chamber they found a party of Nonn’s delvers clearing rubble from a partially collapsed passageway. The dwarfs warned them away, telling them that Nonn had forbidden anyone to venture farther into the city until they had made sure it was safe.
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