by William King
“There might have been strange things surrounding the killings.”
“You do us too much credit, Guardian. We are simple people in the colonies. Our killings are usually performed by drunks busy murdering their friends and loved ones after drinking too much wyrmspike wine. The murderer is usually found standing with a bloody blade in his hand over the corpse of his victim. He usually blubbers as he confesses.”
“Can you think of any exceptions?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you would do me the kindness of telling me about those.”
“They are normally done by magic. No. Don’t look so interested. There are no shapeshifting sorcerers involved. Usually, someone hires a witch or a wizard to remove a rival or an inconvenient relative. They put a curse on the victim and the victim pines away.”
“Put a curse on the victim?”
“Send them a rune marked in blood or a head of a chicken with black needles through the eyes. You know that sort of thing. Often I think its as much the victims fear as any magic that kills them.”
“And what do you do when such things happen?”
“I send for Frater Ramon and he and the Watch round up some hedge wizards. It’s not hard to find who paid them either. You just need to check among the relatives, acquaintances, and neighbours of the victims.”
“It sounds like you are quite busy investigating these things.”
“It only sounds that way because you are getting all my experiences in ten years of being a Governor compressed into a few minutes. There’s been at most a score of such murders in my whole time here. Now, listening to what I have to say, do you think it likely that any of these people are your culprits?”
“In all honesty, no. But I have to ask. Also, we still need to find the men who sold you the sarcophagus.”
“I will have Ezra instruct the Watch. He knows what they look like. Is there anything else I can tell you or can I go and take a nap now? All of this excitement has done nothing for my hangover.”
“I get the feeling you don’t enjoy my company, Governor.”
“Forgive me if I seem rude. It’s just my life has become much more complicated since your arrival. I do not like being thought complicit in an attempt on the life of my king any more than I enjoy the murder of my former lovers.”
The Governor rose from his chair, bowed to Kormak and withdrew. The Guardian sat by the table and considered his next move.
It was past noon by the time, Frater Ramon arrived. His face looked jaundiced in the sunlight, his hair even greyer, and his eyes were tired. He took a seat in front of Kormak, but he did not reach for the wine. He did not look pleased with being dragged from his sick bed.
“Murder, is it? The messenger told me,” he said. “Lady Khiyana. You’ve held the husband, of course.”
“I don’t think it was him.”
“And what do you base this on?”
“I think there is sorcery involved.”
“People always think there’s sorcery involved here. Cats howling outside their windows are demons sent by their neighbour.”
“I know the difference between a cat howling and a demon,” Kormak said. He allowed the slightest trace of annoyance to show in his voice. The priest’s gaze went to the hilt of Kormak’s sword. It was a normal reaction for a mage.
“Forgive me, Guardian,” said Frater Ramon “It has been a long week. The Masque of Death is always a trying time. There are always accusations of sorcery flying about.”
Kormak looked at the mage. “The Lady Khiyana was murdered last night by supernatural means, by a foe who took my face and shape but did not change its clothing.”
Frater Ramon frowned in concentration. “Not an illusion then and not anything that makes others see what it wants them to see. A true shapechanger most likely.”
“I was thinking the same.”
“Old Ones can change shapes.”
“They rarely bother to copy human forms with such precision. It is beneath them.”
“That does not mean they cannot.”
“I know.”
“What exactly do you want me to do here?”
“Can you perform a divination and try and pick up the thing’s spoor.”
“I can try. There were a lot of people here last night, and there are a lot of elder signs which will interfere with the flow of the magic.”
“But you are capable of such a thing?”
“Perhaps. Take me to the place where the body was found. It will be the best place to look for a trail.”
Kormak led him to the bedchamber. It had been cleaned. Someone had already moved the body, changed the sheets and mopped the floor.
“That’s not so good. Traces of blood and skin always help with this sort of thing.”
“Just do what you can.”
The mage closed his eyes and began to chant.
The amulet on Kormak’s chest grew warmer as the spell took effect. A faint halo of light surrounded the man’s head and hands. He stretched out both his arms and began to turn slowly on the spot. As he did so, his frown deepened.
After he had finished that ritual, he performed another, muttering the words of a spell then taking in deep breaths through his nostrils. After a minute, he said, “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Kormak asked.
“No trace of any magic. Perhaps your sigils and blade are interfering with the spell, but it’s unlikely.”
“You are saying that no magic was used in this chamber.”
Frater Ramon shook his head. “I am saying that no magic was worked that I can detect. I am a competent wizard, but I am not infallible. I tried another spell I know, one that lets me pick up faint traces of scents in the air. Too many people have been in here for too long for me to catch anything.”
Kormak stared at him. “You can detect nothing?”
“Does not mean that there was not anything. Certain spells can mask the use of magic. Certain creatures leave no residue on the place. Some Old Ones can mask their presence, and there are other things that can do it as well.”
“You are thinking of the changelings.”
“Yes.”
Kormak nodded. They could ignore the elder signs as well. They were altered humans not something that would be affected by the sort of wards that would work on one of the Eldrim.
“You have encountered one of them before?” The priest glanced around the room nervously before looking back at the Guardian.
Kormak shook his head. “Not knowingly. But I have seen their handiwork in a number of places.”
“Where?”
“Taurea, the Northlands, Skorpea, a few other places.”
“You are well travelled. I have been in the Far Colonies since I was ordained. I rather envy you that.”
“I envy you getting to stay in one place. Sometimes.”
“You think there is the possibility of a changeling here. That is an alarming thought.”
“The question is why any such supernatural killer has it revealed itself now.”
“It has not exactly revealed itself,” said Frater Ramon. “I have been able to find no trace. And no one will be able to if it is everything it is said to be. How do you propose to find it?”
“By whatever means necessary.”
“If you knew what it wanted you could lay a trap for it. Why did it kill Lady Khiyana?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it was simply to make me a murder suspect.”
“Why draw attention to itself in this way?”
“Perhaps to keep me from my mission.”
“If that’s true perhaps you had best let me investigate this thing and continue with what you were sent to do.”
“I would but I can’t.”
“From what the Governor says you are on a mission for King Aemon.”
“I did not swear my oaths to King Aemon. I swore them on the Altar of Blades on Mount Aethelas.”
“I suspect that is not all there is to it.”
; “I feel responsible.”
“Why? Because some monster killed an innocent woman. If I felt guilty about every victim I was ever sent to investigate the death of, I would have given up years ago.”
Kormak sighed. “It’s not just that. There is something happening here that I don’t understand. It might be important to the mission I am on, and even if it’s not, it gives me some insight into the mind of the creature I am pursuing.”
“Spoken like a true hunter.”
“Is there anything else you could do here?”
Frater Ramon shook his head. “I can start making inquiries among the guests. I have a small gift for sniffing out the truth.”
“Let’s hope it works better than your spell.”
Frater Ramon shrugged. “Let us hope.”
The servant Lorenzo strode into the room. He bowed to Orson and said, “I have found the two men you seek, master. They are getting drunk in Mama’s Tavern.”
“Good,” Orson said.
“About time,” said the changeling. He glanced at the shuttered window and the lit chandelier. Outside the sound of the night’s revelries had begun. Judging by the noise, even at this early hour they were markedly more frenzied than the previous evening.
Lorenzo gave him a less deep bow and said, “I am sorry it took so long, sir, but I am not a magician. It took my men most of the day to comb the taverns and brothels. The watch were also looking. A few bribes in the right quarters slowed that down.” He glanced once more at Orson. “What would you have me do now, sir?”
“Pick them up. Do it discretely. Make sure you are not followed. Bring them back to the house by the underground entrance. We don’t want this traced back to us.”
“As you say, sir.”
“I am going with him,” said the changeling. He was tired of waiting. The geas nagged at him. He was also unsure about exactly where he stood. Since his interview with Lady Khiyana, he had been troubled. She had quite clearly been recruited into a Shadow cult. The sorcerer Balthazar was the head of the Maial cell as far as he could tell. He was unsure how much Orson knew about the Shadow cult, but clearly, the fat man knew something, and equally clearly he was subservient to Balthazar.
Under normal circumstances, the changeling would have done his best to wipe out the whole nest of them, but he could not. The geas placed on him by Lady Marketa back in Trefal drove him to seek the source of Vorkhul’s coffin. He needed their help to find it before the Guardian did.
He turned his thoughts to Kormak. So far all of his direct attacks on the Guardian had failed. He did not like to admit that he feared the man. He had been trained by undying masters in all forms of combat, had learned to dispatch grown men with his bare hands. He was a master of blade and bow and dagger. There was nothing to fear from one ageing swordsman and yet . . .
That ageing swordsman had slain one of the dark gods of battle, an immortal who had strode across the killing fields of the Elder Age. And Vorkhul was not the only Old One Kormak had slain. There had been others, many others.
The changeling had done more than his share of killing, but it had mostly been from the shadows. It was not that he feared using the blade. Stealth was just more efficient. He was definitely not afraid of this Guardian. If he had to, he could kill him one on one with a sword. It was just that he preferred not to.
And yet it might come to that. The man was preternaturally wary. It was as if he had a gift for sensing danger and his reflexes were astonishingly quick. Poison had been tried. Shots had been taken in the midst of battle. None had even come close to killing him. Perhaps the Holy Sun really did protect his chosen ones.
The changeling dismissed the idea. The Holy Sun was a lie, a fabrication created to manipulate gullible humans. The whole religion was a weapon aimed at the true masters of the world by the ghosts of their long-dead rivals. It was an attempt at revenge from beyond the grave by a defeated foe.
And it was a most successful one. The Order of the Dawn had slaughtered hundreds of the Old Ones. The Sunlanders had been more tenacious and persistent foes than any of the mighty Elder Races. His masters did not want to admit that but the changeling had studied enough history and seen enough of the world to know that it was true.
No matter. He would succeed in finding the source of Vorkhul’s coffin. He had to. Vorkhul had been kept out of history for millennia. No one had heard anything of him. And then suddenly, out of this hinterland, he had come.
It should not have been possible. The Old Ones had ruled these lands for thousands of years before the Sunlanders. Surely, Vorkhul would have been found and freed before then. Unless something was concealed out here. That was what his masters wanted him to find out. This was the mystery that needed to be solved. He needed to locate wherever Vorkhul had come from before the Guardian or anyone else. He needed to find out if there were more like the Old One and whether they served the Shadow.
He would kill anyone who got in his way.
Chapter Eight
Kormak rested in his chair in the Governor’s office. A bust of what looked like the Governor’s father sneered down at him. Zamara paced up and down as if he was intent on wearing a hole in the thick carpet. Rhiana lounged in one of the overstuffed armchairs, studying a map of the coastline.
It had been a long day. No clue as to the whereabouts of the adventurers had shown up. Kormak suspected that the Governor was perfectly happy with that. He smiled smugly as Ezra reported the Watch’s findings. Either that or Aurin had drunk a little too much wine. He had been hitting the bottle even harder since the sun went down.
The Governor felt Kormak’s gaze upon him.
“Are you dissatisfied with my cooperation, Sir Kormak,” he asked. “If you are just say so, and I will endeavour to meet your requirements. I would not want the King to think I obstructed you in any way.”
“Be sure I will let His Majesty know how helpful you were,” Kormak said and was rewarded with a sour smile.
Count Shahad entered the room and glared around with red-rimmed eyes. “I want vengeance on the man who killed my wife.”
He had just returned from interring Lady Khiyana in the morgue. It would be days before she could be buried. The Masque of Death was not a time when it was easy to get any ritual or ceremony performed.
“If you will forgive me for saying so, Count,” said the Governor. “You have already taken an awful lot of vengeance for slights to your wife’s honour.”
“I am not sure I like your tone, sir,” said Shahad.
“And I am not sure I like the thought of a man driven to commit acts of violence in a situation as potentially explosive as this one.”
“Are you serious about wanting to help me find the people who killed your wife?” Kormak asked.
Shahad looked at him with empty eyes. “Of course,” he said. For a moment, grief vanished from his voice to be replaced by grinding rage. “I’ll do anything that’s needed. I’ll do whatever it takes to find the bastard who did this.”
“To do that I need information and all the help I can get.”
Shahad nodded.
“She have any friends?” Kormak asked.
“Male or female?”
“Either.”
“Both.”
“Was there anything odd about them?”
“What do you mean odd?”
“Unusual, out of the ordinary; were there people who it seemed she should not have known but did?”
Shahad shook his head. “My wife did not travel much outside of our social circle. But she knew everybody there was to know inside it. Some better than others.”
There was a note of bitterness in the big man’s voice. He glanced around the room as if daring anyone to say anything. Zamara looked away, obviously embarrassed. Rhiana looked up from her map. The Governor inspected his fingernails, then took a gulp of wine.
“Men, you mean?” Kormak said.
“Yes, men.”
“You killed some of those men.”
“And
I would do it again.”
“You are a jealous man.”
“Jealous and not very clever. Not very handsome either. But I had money and position and power. I inherited them, but I had them. I think those were why she married me. I thought . . . I thought that maybe once she saw how much I loved her, she would come to love me. I thought once she did. Now I can see I was wrong. What is it you wish to know? Why I killed those men?”
“That might be a start. Who were they?”
“Other noblemen. Some of them married. All of them were . . . were sleeping with her. Or I had reason to believe so.”
“Who gave you that reason?”
The Governor groaned as if he already knew the answer and did not want to hear it.
“Sometimes I heard people whisper. Sometimes people would tell me about it. They claimed they were being friendly, but I could see they enjoyed telling me. People are like that. Sometimes she would tell me herself. She taunted me. She liked to make me crazy. I thought it showed she still cared in a twisted sort of way, even though she had changed in so many ways…”
“Changed—towards you or just changed in general. Tell me about that.”
“It was about the time we were invited to Count Balthazar’s parties. She loved them. I never did. The people were too clever-clever. They wanted to seem sophisticated and learned. I say leave that sort of thing to priests and scholars.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were always talking about books and history and politics.”
“A lot of people do that.”
“A lot of people I don’t like.”
“What else did they talk about?”
“I did not pay too much attention. It was much more my wife’s sort of thing than mine.”
“Tell me about this Balthazar.”
The Governor slopped more wine into his cup. His face went pale. His eyes glittered. The wine splashed from his cup and spattered onto the top of the desk.
“Rich. From a good old family,” Shahad said. “My father knew him, said he was alright, but he always liked the books a little too much. My old man never cared for much beyond his hounds and his horses and his weapons. He respected Balthazar, though the man had a library.”