by William King
“Lady Asea, Captain Quinal of the Intelligence Corps asks if you could please accompany me to the Palace,” the rider said. His voice was loud and frightened. “It is most urgent. The governor has been slain.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lord Elakar’s body lay sprawled on the vast four-poster bed. A dagger protruded right up to the hilt from the heart. Blood stained his nightclothes and the sheets. Someone had written Death to the Invaders on the wall using some of it.
“He did not have a very good end to his evening,” said Rik. As soon as she had seen the room, Asea sealed the doors and performed a number of arcane rituals in it. Rik could sense their power, but he had no understanding of what she had done. When they were finished, they went to the chamber where Quinal was holding the servants. It was a bare room with a few wooden chairs. Soldiers in the uniform of the Queen’s Own Cavalry, Lord Elakar’s regiment, guarded the door.
“Who saw him last?” Asea asked as soon as she walked in.
“Answer her Ladyship,” said Captain Quinal. He was a rather sinister looking Terrarch with glints of grey in his hair. According to Asea he was very high up in Intelligence.
“Manfred — his body servant, Milady,” said a tall, thin spare-looking human male, doubtless the chief butler. He gestured to a frightened looking middle-aged man with a well-trimmed goatee beard. Manfred was under no illusions as to where suspicion was likely to fall for this killing.
“I would appreciate it if the rest of you would leave,” Asea said. Manfred looked as if he was going to faint. He obviously had no desire to be left alone in a room with this infamous sorceress, her bodyguards and the terrifying Captain Quinal.
“Please be seated,” she said, indicating to Manfred that he should take one of the chairs.
“I could never do that, your Ladyship. Not while you are standing.”
“I insist, Manfred. This is not a matter of good manners. It is a command.” Manfred gulped and sat down. Asea strode over to him and removed one of her Elder Signs. She held it on a chain, so that it swung in front of the servant’s eyes. As it swung back and forth she murmured the words of a spell. Rik was surprised to feel the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. He sensed the flow of energy within the room, and saw a faint nimbus of magical energy gather around the sign.
Manfred’s eyes locked on the swinging symbol. The veins stood out on his forehead. He swallowed again and again as if his mouth were filling up with saliva. His eyes glazed over. After a minute or so, Asea seemed satisfied. She stopped her chanting.
“Did you kill Lord Elakar?” she asked. Manfred shook his head.
“Please speak aloud when you answer my questions,” she said.
“No, Milady. I did not kill him.”
Her voice was soothing. “I thought as much, but it’s the obvious question to ask. Did you see who killed him?”
“No, Milady. I did not.”
“Did you have anything to do with his murder? Did you help his killers in any way?”
“Certainly not, Milady. Why would I do that? Lord Elakar was the best master a man ever had.”
“When did you last see him alive?” she asked.
“When I bade him good night after helping him disrobe.”
“Did he do anything unusual or abnormal?”
“No, Milady. He had a last glass of wine and went to bed, as he always did.”
“Did he say anything unusual?”
“No.”
“Do you know of anybody who would have wanted him killed?”
“Only those Kharadrean scum as did it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“They hate us, Milady. They don’t want us here. You should hear what some of them say to cook when she's out buying stores.”
“Is that all?”
“There’s the dagger, Milady, and the message on the wall.”
“Anyone can write a message,” said Asea.
“In blood, Milady? What sort of person would do that?” The servant sounded genuinely shocked. Rik was not. He had seen far worse things in his time.
“You will talk of this matter to no one save myself, Captain Quinal, Lord Azaar or our authorised representatives,” said Asea. She muttered a word of command, and Manfred stirred like a man coming suddenly awake.
“You may go, Manfred,” Asea said. The servant departed. Asea slumped down in the chair and gestured at Quinal.
The rest of the servants were called. The inquisition continued.
Asea looked at Quinal as they talked to the last of the guards who had been on duty the previous evening. “Do you have any more questions, Captain?” she asked. “If so, please ask them quickly; using such magic is quite fatiguing.”
“I can’t think of any, Milady.”
“The wards are all in place. Nothing disturbed them,” she said. “It was not a summoning that did this.”
“It is quite baffling,” said Quinal. “No one saw anything. No wards are disturbed. No summonings were performed in the night, and yet General Elakar is dead with a Kharadrean dagger in his breast.”
“You think the dagger is significant, Captain?”
“It bears a dragon rampant, the sign of the Brotherhood of Kharadrean Patriots. Who are exactly the sort of league you would expect from their name.”
“Are they connected with any wizards?”
“You never know with the Brotherhoods, Milady. It’s the usual sort of group with all the trappings. Dressing up in cowled robes. Code names. All of the old secret society marks. You suspect a wizard is involved?”
“The killing was done without disturbing the wards. No one seems to have seen the killer. It all smacks of magic, Captain.”
“With all respect, warding spells have been known to fail, Milady. Sometimes they are even miscast.”
“I am aware of that. These ones seem to be functioning perfectly.”
“As you are no doubt aware, Milady, sometimes wards have flaws which can be exploited.”
Asea nodded. “You are quite correct, Captain, and I am very tired. Is there anything else you wish of me?”
“The servants will not talk?”
“Nor the guards I have spoken to, Captain. They are placed under a deep compulsion. It would take a mage of considerable skill to undo it.”
“Then I thank you for your help, Milady. I will continue with my investigation.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” said Rik, once they were back inside the coach, and clattering over the cobbled streets. He was a little unsettled. Only a few hours ago, Lord Elakar had been alive, sitting in state in his Palace, supervising the ball. Rik had not known him, and had never cared about him one way or another, but it was jarring that he was gone. He had become used to death in his life, but he expected it on the battlefield and in the back alley, not in the palaces of the powerful.
“It’s very bad, Rik,” she said. “And whoever did this knows it. They have killed one of our Generals in his own mansion, and they have left no clues.”
“No clues. Is that possible?”
“You saw me perform the rituals, Rik. I looked for residual auras in the room and on the weapon. There were none. Sorcery was used, of a very powerful type. It would be needed to prevent me from making a connection.”
Glancing out the window, Rik saw that many in the crowd were looking at them with resentment. Their coach bore the marks of foreigners and the mob here was developing a well-honed hatred of foreigners. And it seemed like they were losing their sense of fear.
“It will get worse once word of this gets out. One of our highest has been killed, apparently by one of their Brotherhoods. It will embolden those who resist us and give heart to Kathea’s enemies.”
“You don’t think the Brotherhood did it?” Rik had encountered the secret Brotherhoods, those multiple interlocking conspiracies woven through all the lairs of society, before. One of them had been partially responsible for the terrible events at Deep Achenar.
“They might ha
ve, Rik. And they have picked a good time to strike. Winter is coming. Food is short. Resentment is high. Our own men are feeling displaced. This will not help morale.”
She sounded thoughtful and not a little homesick. It was rare to see Asea look vulnerable but she did so now.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s starting again, Rik, I can feel it.”
“What is?”
“Inexplicable killings. Unexplainable murders. Untraceable assassins. I have seen this before. On Al’Terra and after the old Queen was killed. It sickens me, and this time I am going to put an end to it.” She sounded very determined. He did not doubt that, if it was possible to find a way to do it, she would then the significance of her words sank in. Untraceable killers.
“I did not do it,” he said. “I was in the Palace.”
Asea looked at him carefully as if measuring his trustworthiness. “I believe you,” she said, but he was not entirely sure that she did.
If it was someone like him there might be some connection to his long lost father, to another Shadowblood. Once again it occurred to Rik that she was using him as a kind of bait, but now it seemed she might be seeking bigger and more dangerous fish. She might be looking for someone who could kill the Lord Governor in his own Palace surrounded by his guards.
Who would that person try for next, he wondered? He had a terrible feeling that he was going to find out.
Chapter Fourteen
“Assemble the men, Sergeant,” said Sardec. “It seems we have work to do.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Hef. If he had any curiosity about the reasons for his commander’s urgency he kept them off his face. He had already seen the messenger arrive and had perhaps even talked to him. Hef strode out of the room, shouting orders to Corporal Toby and the men. Sardec could hear the clatter of boots on stairs and the sounds of weapons being taken from racks. Within five minutes the company was assembled in the courtyard. Sardec stood in front of them.
“A mob is gathering in Old King’s Square. They are protesting about the price of bread. At least they were. Agitators have been speaking to them. Word on the street has it that some patriots killed Lord Elakar last night.”
A murmur went through the ranks. Sardec thought he might as well share the knowledge that had been the talk of the officer’s mess this morning. “It is true. Lord Elakar was killed. The Lady Asea herself is investigating the matter. I have no doubt she will get to the bottom of it.”
That quietened them. Asea had been with the company when the descended into the Elder World hell beneath Deep Achenar. The soldiers of the company had a lot of respect for her. They were frightened of her too although they would never admit it.
“That’s neither here nor there at the moment,” said Sardec. “We have to see that the mob does not get out of hand. There will be no looting. There will be no disturbance of the peace. And there will be absolutely no shooting of civilians, unless I give the order. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the soldiers chorused.
“Then let’s move out.”
From up ahead Sardec could hear the mutter of the crowd. It was a soft sound in its way, almost like that of the sea. It rose and fell in answer to something. As the troops marched into the square, Sardec saw what it was.
A man clung to the side of a statue of Old King Orodruine. He held onto the king’s arm with one hand while his feet rested on the king’s knee. At this distance, all that Sardec could make out was that he was a man, garbed in the clothes of some street hawker. As the Foragers entered the square and fanned out into a single line, muskets at the ready, the man pointed at them and shouted; “There they are. There are the killers. There are the ones keeping bread from your children’s mouth. There are the ones whose presence defiles the sacred streets of Halim.”
All eyes in the crowd whipped around to look at them. Sardec felt like he was facing some sullen many-headed beast. The same suppressed fury was visible in the eyes of every man, woman and child. He took a deep breath. The crowd outnumbered his company by at least ten to one. Already one or two of them were stooping to pick up cobblestones. He turned to Sergeant Hef. “Form the men up in two ranks. Tell them to be prepared to fire.”
He turned to the crowd and raised his hook. That got their attention. “That will be enough,” he said. “You will disperse and return to your homes. This is an unlawful assembly.”
The crowd simply looked at him, measuring its will against his own. He forced himself to smile coldly and raked his gaze across the front ranks. Not one of them would meet his eyes. He let his glance linger on a few faces, giving the owner’s time to realise that he would remember them. Several of them turned away and began to slouch off.
“You have families. You have businesses. You have children,” Sardec said. “Why risk them?” That message too seemed to get through. He felt as if something had gone out of the many-headed beast, as if it was starting to get its fury under control. He told himself not to get too confident. He had not tamed it yet.
“Why risk it indeed?” sneered the agitator. “Where is the honour of Kharadrea? Where is your courage? Why behave like men when you can behave like whipped dogs and slink away with your tails between your legs.”
The crowd began to mutter among themselves. Some of them were angered by the agitator’s words but whether at him or at the Foragers Sardec could not tell.
“That will be enough, sir,” said Sardec. His parade ground voice carried over the crowd. The situation here was on a bayonet’s edge. He did not want anything to provoke the crowd and the slightest thing might set it off. On the other hand, he could not afford to let the man stir the crowd up.
“What are you going to do about it, Hookhand? Challenge me to a duel?”
Sardec felt his face flush. So even the people here knew about that? The lower orders were discussing his business. He schooled his features into a mask. He was not going to let himself be provoked. Some of those present laughed but oddly enough more of those present seemed to take Sardec’s part. They shook their heads. Women began to pull their children into doorways. Men began to walk away. Sardec wished that he knew what was going on but he had no idea.
After a few minutes only a few die-hard troublemakers and the agitator himself were left in the square. Still Sardec sensed countless eyes watching him from windows and balconies overlooking it. Sardec continued to stare at those who opposed his will. He gave them one last chance.
“You will disperse and go to your homes,” he said. “Or you will be arrested. This is an unlawful assembly.”
Once again, none of them could meet his gaze. The men, hard-looking unshaven types, street bullies and stevedores no doubt, slunk away, leaving only the agitator, still hanging from the statue. “Corporal Toby, arrest that man,” Sardec said.
“With pleasure, sir.”
Sardec turned to Sergeant Hef. “That went better than I expected,” he said. “Although I have no idea why.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said the monkey-faced little man, “but it was the duel. Most of the folk around here, and particularly the women, know you fought a Terrarch over a human woman. The crowd was humans, sir. The speaking fellow made a mistake reminding them of what you had done. Begging your pardon, they have more time for you than most Terrarchs, sir.”
Sardec did not know what to say, whether to feel proud or embarrassed. It seemed that he was something of a celebrity here. He told himself that the approval of the crowd should not matter to him, but he found that it did.
“Let’s get that buffoon into irons and the lads back to barracks,” he said
“What’s your name,” Sardec asked the agitator.
“What does it matter, Hookhand?” Sardec has to admit the man was brave. Either that or he was mad. Even in the improvised cell in the billet, he showed no fear and no sign of regret.
“It will be on your gravestone.”
“Then put down a Kharadrean patriot.”
“A Kh
aradrean idiot, more like,” said Weasel. He and the Barbarian had been assigned to watch the man until the magistrate got there. The Barbarian laughed.
“Laugh all you like, moron,” said the patriot. “Your time is coming.”
With terrifying swiftness and deceptive casualness, the big man batted him right across the room. Sardec glanced at him. “That will be quite enough, soldier,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” He looked at the patriot and smiled broadly. There was no malice there, which somehow made it all the more frightening. “I may not be the brightest of men, but at least I have more sense than to tell the men who captured me that they are idiots.”
“I called you a moron, moron,” said the patriot from his place on the floor. Blood trickled from his mouth. A tooth had come loose and he spat it on the floor.
The Barbarian strolled across, picked him up one-handed, and dusted off the dirt from the man’s shirtfront. Innocent as the gesture was, it conveyed a world of menace. The patriot flinched. The Barbarian set the prisoner back on his seat, wiped his hands and grinned down at him. His gentleness had frightened the prisoner in a way that his brutality had not. His mouth was shut. At least for a moment.
“You are all going to die,” he said. “It does not matter what you do to me.”
“Every man dies,” said Weasel. “It happens to some of us sooner than others.”
“The Brotherhood will make your death painful,” said the man. Sardec began to understand him: the gaunt face, the unblinking stare, the utter certainty. The man was a fanatic of some sort.
“You know about the Brotherhood, do you?” he said softly.
“I know it’s going to kill you all, starting with your leaders, and not excepting the lowliest private soldier.”
The man was dressed like a member of the lower mercantile classes but he did not speak like one, more like a priest.