by Martin Ash
"And they will intervene only in the most grievous of circumstances. Remember, my lord, I am capable of looking after myself. I was trained by you, after all."
Dusk was descending as the carriage drew up at an intersection of ways just a short walk from where the area known as Overlip began. Issul stepped down and issued an instruction to the driver to wait. Her hand slid beneath her cloak and felt the reassuring bulk of the peen-hilted, bladed bodkin she carried. She passed her eyes quickly around, scanning nearby buildings, trees and streets, and walked away.
From the shadows of a building a figure emerged and took step beside her. Issul glanced aside, seeking the face and seeing that it was no one known to her. But he raised a hand as if to scratch his cheek and she saw the fingers form a sign. He was the Spectre's man.
She found herself glad of his company. She was relieved, too, to see that it was not Fectur who walked beside her. She had half-suspected that the Lord High Invigilate, unbearably curious as well as fearing for her safety, might have taken it upon himself to escort her in person. It would have been unwise. In Overlip, and perhaps particularly the Tavern of the Veiled Light, Fectur would himself have been at great risk, even disguised. He had more enemies there than he could count.
Issul envisaged Lord Fectur now, pacing his chamber in agitation. At moments of high stress red welts appeared upon his face and hands, betraying him. And this would be a time of inordinately high stress: as Master of Security the Queen's welfare, as much as the King's, was his responsibility. He would face almost certain ruin should harm befall her. Issul almost smiled to herself. The image pleased her.
There were numerous folk on the street, any of them might have been Fectur's. He would have placed a team perhaps eight or nine strong, watching her every movement. Others would be standing-by in force, primed for immediate response should the circumstances warrant.
The street, inclining gently downhill, came to an abrupt end at a low stone wall with a narrow gate. Beyond lay emptiness, wide dusky space over the dark ocean of forest far below. This was the lip of Enchantment's Reach, and the quarter that lay beyond it, on the other side of the wall, clinging to the face of the soaring scarp, was Overlip. Here people lived and worked in burrows bored into the rock, or houses hollowed out of it or built against its very face. It was a dangerous place for the unwary, literally the overspill from the city above, literally its underworld. Lack of living-space had forced the dwellers of Overlip back on their resources; a subculture of sorts thrived here, complete with its own unique laws and customs.
Issul passed through the gate to the head of a flight of steep stone stairs which vanished into an opening in the rock. Her companion moved ahead of her. "Give me your hand."
She did so, smiling to herself. How would he have responded had he known it was the Queen whose hand now slipped onto his?
They descended carefully, the steps weakly illumined by oil lamps set upon the rock wall, and came out onto a small stone platform. From this position - the roof of somebody's home, Issul knew - they could look again over the darkening, mist-laden forest. It was a soaring, giddying sensation, to stand there upon the very edge of nothing, witnessing the dimming light, the vanishing of the lands that surrounded them.
The sky was turning to the deepest tones of blue, and a sprinkling of bright stars had appeared, the first of numberless specks of white fire that would soon grace the night. All around them, above and below, tiny lamps glowed in the rock. And far to the south, above the waning horizon about Enchantment's peaks, could be seen the first hazy glow of the weird-lights. Strange and wonderful, shifting, changing colours that were discernible to some degree most nights.
Issul stood for a moment and watched, wondering, as she often did. Many attempts had been made to explain the strange phenomenon. Most popular was the theory that the lights were the glows of immense conflagrations, the effects of unleashed magic of the gods. But no one really knew, for no one had ever been there. Or more precisely - for from time to time dashing heroes or foolhardy adventurers had ridden forth to investigate Enchantment's mysteries - no one had ever returned.
Issul moved on, clinging both to a handrail set into the rock and to her guard's strong arm as she negotiated her way down uneven steps which twisted almost sheer down the cliff-face. She grew warm from the exertion and was grateful for the cool caress of a breeze upon her cheeks. Eventually they passed through a narrow gap hewn out of the rock, deep windows on either side revealing dimly lit interiors and shadowy figures, and emerged onto a narrow, winding, bustling street.
Issul paused to regain her breath, then resumed. An opening led into the cliff. Oil-lamps revealed a network of passages. Bodies pushed past her; peddlers called to her or tugged at her sleeve, trying to interest her in their wares. Issul ignored them as best she could.
Sure of her way she moved off leftwards. Past a stinking butcher's hovel and a dim alcove where an old charm-seller sang and shook sprigs of sweet-smelling herbs and clusters of tiny balls at passers-by. The air was thick, almost foetid with innumerable trapped odours. Issul turned a corner, passed along a narrow way, climbed a flight of steps. She eased through the crowd in a narrow market alley, turned again under a low stone arch, following another twisting path. Some distance further on she turned into a short, dark cul-de-sac. Before her was a door set into the rock beneath the sign of the Veiled Light, the entrance to the tavern mooted to be the meeting-place of the outlawed sect of the True Sept.
As she drew closer she heard muffled sounds of revelry from within.
"You enter first," she instructed her guard. "Once inside make no attempt to communicate with me."
She stood alone, glancing quickly about her, her nervousness growing, then pushed the door and entered.
A good business was being done in the tavern. Through a murk of smoke Issul saw that most of the tables were occupied. The hot air against her face was heavy with the mixed stench of ale and crude wine, food, sweat, cheap perfume and the pungent reek of burning shar, a narcotic leaf enjoyed by many. She pushed between the bodies towards the counter, not bothering to look for her guard. There would be others of the Spectre's agents here, she had no doubt.
A man barred her way, big and loutish and drunk enough to believe himself interesting. He threw an arm about her waist and drew her to him. "Ah, sweet. A kiss, eh? A kiss?"
Issul pulled back, freeing herself, gagging on the stink and coarseness of him. "Leave me, oaf! I have business here, but not with you."
"Oh, now you speak like a thoroughbred, but you're no sweet cherry, I'll wager. Come, give me. . ." He reached for her again, and his cheeks bulged suddenly in pained surprise. A rush of air burst free of his lips and he staggered back, not yet knowing that it was the peen-hilt of Issul's bodkin that had rammed so forcefully into his solar-plexus.
Somebody laughed raucously. Issul moved on, grateful for that. She reached the counter where a pot-bellied landlord wiped slops into a pail.
"Iklar, is he here?"
"Who asks?"
"Someone who seeks light. I have a word for him."
He threw her a sceptical look, hardly pausing in his task, then nodded over his shoulder. "Third cubicle."
Issul moved around. The men and women here were generally well-intoxicated, or at least wholly occupied, and none gave her more than a passing or admiring glance. A row of cubicles occupied one end of the room, hewn into sweating rock, offering privacy of a kind. Each was set with a table and barrel seats or benches. In the third two men were seated, heads close over the table, a clay pitcher and twin tankards of dark ale before them. Both looked up as she moved into their nook. One beamed. "Well, look at this! The evening shows sudden promise!"
Issul ignored him. She spoke to the second man, a dark-haired, bearded individual whose grimy, open shirt displayed a broad chest, matted with hair and sweat. A faint purplish latticework upon the irises of his eyes revealed the presence of outworlder blood in his veins. "Iklar, we must speak of sacred things."
The man called Iklar leaned back, a finger poised before his mouth, scrutinising her. Then he nodded to the other man, who rose without another word, taking his tankard, and left. Issul slipped into his seat.
"Sacred things?" queried Iklar, lazily stroking his beard. "Sacred things have an exalted word, so I am told."
"The word comes from the gods, but will not be spoken here."
"Then maybe I am listening."
Issul leaned towards him. "Listen well, I will not repeat it: Go to your master--"
"I acknowledge no master save the King."
"Go to Grey Venger--"
"I do not consort with outlaws."
"Your play is tiresome, Iklar. Let us say that if you know someone, who might know someone, who might have a contact with another person, say, who is able to pass a word to Grey Venger or someone close to him, then take this word now, for he will want to know it and will not be pleased to learn that the messenger has been slow. Tell him this: the Child is known! Venger must show himself now. It has begun!"
Without waiting for his response Issul pushed herself out from the table, rising, and left the cubicle. Iklar would not follow her. She pushed quickly back through the loud throng towards the door. The oaf she had winded was waiting for her. His eyes burned. There was no way around him.
Move! she pleaded silently. She gripped her weapon beneath her cloak. This time it would be the blade. No choice. Across the face or into the groin - if he gave her the opportunity.
An ugly sneer spread across his face. He lurched forward, sure of her this time.
Someone stood abruptly at a table close by, thrust backwards as if by accident, knocked the big man off-balance. A second fellow came from the other side, taking the oaf's arm and using his own motion to swing him around, bring him low and push him hard into a group seated at another table.
Issul slipped quickly past.
Thank you, Fectur! You have your uses!
She was outside, breathing hard, though the air within the tunnels was hardly more breathable than that of the Veiled Light. Fectur's man materialised at her side.
"Where now?"
"Back. It is done."
Done, yes. But as the perspiration began to dry on her skin she felt only nervous premonition. Venger would have to come now; it was all he could do. And what else? Today the world had slewed out of kilter. An unknown had stirred.
This much was done, but something far greater was only just beginning.
THREE
I
Back at the palace of Orbia Queen Issul made haste, not to her apartments but beyond. Past the First and Second Towers of Dawn, exiting the Royal Wing, her hurry noticeable to those she passed, until she came at length to the entrance to the slender White Eaglet's Tower, situated in the older, Eastern sector of the great marble palace.
She eased open the door at the foot of the tower and mounted the spiralling staircase within, not slowing her pace. Up she climbed, passing doors, alcoves, window-slits, high, high, until she arrived at last, breathless, at the head of the stairway. Torches revealed a studded, arched door of stained dark carmine oak set with black iron straps, facing her across the bare stone of the landing. A black iron ring hung from the jaw of a red ram's head. Issul paused momentarily to regain her breath, grateful for the chill breeze that wafted from below, then grasped the ring and hammered loudly three times. There was a silence, then from somewhere behind the door a muffled voice called: "Enter."
Issul pushed against the door and stepped into a murky space, a short dim corridor, musty and cobwebby, lined with stone columns. It opened into a larger, somewhat lighter room. There a figure was hunched over a wide wooden workbench, an elderly man, slight of build and framed in purplish light. He was half-obscured behind several leaning piles of leather-bound books, rows of flasks and retorts, and strange items and paraphernalia for which Issul had no names. He wore a voluminous dark green robe, patched in places and ragged at the hems, and had long, curling thin grey hair descending from the sides of a near-bald pate. At first he barely glanced Issul's way as she approached, being engrossed in the tome he was studying, but then, as if unsure of something, he looked up directly at her, raising a pair of circular glass disks to his eyes, peered and suddenly straightened.
"Why. . . . Yes. . . in the name of. . . . It is! Majesty! My Queen! I hardly recognised you."
The little man seemed taken aback, flustered, wiping his hands hurriedly on his robe. "I was not told you were coming. Please forgive me. I would not have been. . . . It would have. . . ."
Issul smiled. "Relax, Pader Luminis. You don’t have to stand on ceremony with me, you know that. I’m sorry for intruding like this without warning, but I had to come."
"It has been so long." The little man gazed at her as if in a daze. Prominent ridges of bone beneath his eyes accentuated the high cheekbones, and burnished brown skin exposed his otherborn origins: Pader Luminis was Murinean, a race of nimble, small-boned people who had populated the land around Enchantment's Reach long before humans came.
Issul gazed fondly at him, nodding. "Yes it has. The privileges of my station now deprive me of time I would rather spend in the company of friends, like yourself."
He beamed. "Child. My kind, sweet Issul. My Queen. Please, take a seat. I shall make you special tea." He darted away towards one end of the large chamber, calling back over his shoulder, "Tell me, to what do I owe this immeasurable honour and pleasure?"
Issul located an old chair, upholstered in faded crimson velvet, which stood at one side of the large room close beside the hearth where a few sorry flames sputtered. Pader Luminis pottered about a great stove, gathering mugs and an earthenware pot, then returned quickly to revive the neglected fire, poking and prodding with an iron as he added more wood.
"I wish I could say I had come purely to sit and hear you talk, as when I was younger, or to receive new lessons in mage lore and the endless arcane secrets you hold," said Issul. "But it’s not so. I come seeking the advice and wisdom of a venerated Murinean, a Master Arcanist, who is without peer in his knowledge of the mysteries."
"Issul, my child, it is not so, and you know it. But I am glad that you are here, whatever the reason. So glad. But. . ." he straightened, surveying her with a reproving eye, ". . . I have to say that my joy at beholding you once more, though boundless as the cosmos itself, is tempered just a little, for I perceive that you are troubled, even if you endeavour to hide it. Tell me, if I am not too impertinent, what brings such a cloud to your brow? Why such a careworn cast upon your sweet young face?"
"Grave matters, Pader. But sit, please. I can’t talk while you are fidgeting and dancing in front of the fire."
"Of course, my fair Majesty. But the tea first, yes? Priorities. Priorities." Pader Luminis made off across the chamber with nimble steps, clattered a little in a darkened corner, came back carrying a pair of matching mugs and the lidded pot. He set them down before Issul on a low table, then seated himself cross-legged on a low chair opposite her. "It is hot, as you can see. Would you like to pour, my lady Issul, or shall I? Or do you prefer that I call my boy?"
"I’ll pour," said Issul. "It will be like it used to be, in happier days when I was your eager student, largely ignorant of the turmoil and pain that besets the world."
"Ah, you are truly troubled." Pader Luminis shook his head. "But it isn’t so. Even when you first came to me, though an innocent, it’s true, you were yet a troubled child in many ways. You sensed the pain that permeates our world, without knowing that that was what you felt. It was one of the things that singled you out, one of the reasons I chose you."
"Was it?"
"You were older than your years, dear Issul. As in some ways you are still. You saw, or endeavoured to see, beyond the obscuring veil, the illusory, the transitory and superficial. You wanted to know and to understand all things - a mighty endeavour! But you showed yourself to be diligent and hard-working. I, and the others of the Arcane College active in your selection
, saw then what you might be. So we gave you a little knowledge, and you absorbed it and grew from it, and we saw how you valued it for what it was, and possibly even more importantly we saw that you did not abuse it or deploy it as a means to make others feel subordinate to you. And in the years that have passed since then, you have not disappointed us."
"But I know nothing," said Issul.
Pader Luminis grinned, unwrapped his legs and re-crossed them. "Ah no, nor I. It is a lamentable state, this ignorance, isn’t it? Perhaps we should sit together and grow old talking of all the things that we have no knowledge of."
Issul sat pensively for a moment, then said, "Pader, your boy, is he here?"
"Somewhere. . ." Pader Luminis raised his voice, "the lazy, good-for-nothing, shirking, drag-footed, slackslothing, insolent, wretched little twenty-fingered, logheaded numpty."
Issul suppressed a smile. "I would prefer that we were alone, Pader. The matters I’ve come to talk about should be heard by none but yourself."
Pader Luminis raised himself in his seat, craning his neck forward to peer into dense shadows at the furthest end of the room. "Radius!"
There was a stirring somewhere in the depths of the shadow. Issul, turning her head, perceived a movement on a shelf above a desk. A small figure unfolded itself, shunted to one side and hopped down, to stand sleepily rubbing its eyes before them. "Yes, Master?"
"Abscond."
"To where, Master?"
"Wherever you like. I have no further need of you this evening. Begone, but keep out of trouble and annoy no one, or you will know my wrath."
"When will I be needed again, Master?"
"You may bring my breakfast at the usual hour. Can you manage that?"
"Master. Mistress." Radius, feigning ignorance of Issul's identity, gave a small tilt of the head and scampered away. The door swung shut with a boom.
"Understand," said Pader Luminis confidingly, "as I have told you many times before, that for we who live here, in the Reach, life is always a struggle between extremes. We are on the borders, between worlds. On the one hand is Enchantment, the Unknown and Unknowable; we may taste it, be witness to its strange nature, but we cannot enter. On the other are the Kingdoms of the Mondane, whose folk shun and fear us, perhaps wisely. Some think it would be simpler to live like them, free of our conflict and uncertainty. Yet we are privileged, for though we may be afraid at times and may not understand all that we experience here, we do at least experience it. That is a prize we should never take for granted. Now, child, proceed."