Alexander nodded. “All right, then. Seems the lesson here is that we're better off the way we are now. I'd rather see an incompetent baron on one throne than an incompetent king on all of them."
“Perhaps. But there are others who disagree with you, in particular, others with a great deal of influence in the Emperor's court. They make some persuasive arguments. For example, did you know that there have been five minor wars over baronial throne disputes in the post-Kingdom period? During seven hundred years of Kingdom, there were only four. There've been five armed conflicts over trade disagreements, compared to two previously. Or at least, that's what the warhawks here in Hurst claim."
“I don't believe it,” said Alexander.
“But they do,” said Hafflston. “And that's what matters. They believe the Realm was better off as a kingdom, and they want to re-unite the baronies under one banner. Preferably that of Emperor Theodoric. Luckily for us, Theo himself doesn't appear too keen on marching off to war. Still, it's vital that you find the man responsible for these murders. The warhawks must have no excuse to attack Addamantia.”
“If you're right,” said Alexander, “these murders involve a lot more than just the balance of trade."
Hafflston nodded.
“Great. My two best theories so far are that Baron Alfrid is assassinating Hurst officials or someone in the Imperial political system is making Alfrid out to be the culprit. If there's a way for this to get worse, I'm not sure what it is."
Hafflston gave a small smile. “It may turn out to be neither, Alexander. Perhaps it really is just a very odd sort of deviant, some loner with his own agenda to pursue."
“You don't really believe that, do you?"
“No, but one can always hope.” The faint voice of a crier made its way through the shutters, and Hafflston lurched to his feet awkwardly.
“I've kept you awake long enough, my boy,” said the count.
Alexander scrambled upright to help the old man, but Hafflston ignored his outstretched hand. He leaned on his walking stick and smiled at the Huntsman.
“I apologize for hitting you with all this in the middle of the night, but you can see why your presence here is so important. It's vital that the killer be traced to someone of Hurst, and frankly, I don't think the locals are up to the task. Your work here could stave off a war, Huntsman, and if that's the case, two cities will be in your debt."
Alexander opened the door as Hafflston made his way across the room.
“Eduard, if Addamantia were to blame, would you tell me? I don't even have to ask if you'd know about it."
Hafflston stopped, halfway out the door. His expression was one of surprise, replaced quickly by one of dark anger. “You shouldn't have to ask the first question either, Alexander."
Alexander's gaze dropped, as if he were once again a young recruit under the count's tutelage. “You're right,” he said. “It's my turn to apologize."
Hafflston placed a thin, wrinkled hand on Alexander's shoulder. “It's my fault for barging in on you in the dead of night. You're a fine Huntsman, my boy, which is why you're here. Do your best and when you need an old man's advice, come find me. I'm a guest at the keep—that attractive young counselor they've assigned to you will know where I am. I'll help you in any way I can."
“I'll find you in the next few days,” said Alexander. “Hopefully I'll have something to send back to His Excellency by then."
Leaving the door open, Alexander walked the count down the stairs. An Imperial rickshaw waited outside, the driver napping against the wall of the building. He awoke at a prod from Hafflston's stick, and Alexander watched until the old man disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER FIVE
Prince Fenric hurried down a spiral staircase. His long, black cloak was gathered in his hands so as not to tangle his feet. Though the still air in the passage beneath the keep was far from cold, the prince kept the cloak's hood drawn over his head. The entrance to this underground warren was well hidden—well enough that not even the Emperor or Nikkolynda knew about it. Still, a man could be located magically, and Fenric had no desire to reveal this secret to anyone. Thus, he never forsook the black cloak. It was supposed to be proof against seers, even one as powerful as Nikkolynda.
Besides the prince, only Stamovan and the man at the bottom of the stairs knew of these chambers beneath the keep. Stamovan had seen personally to the silence of the dwarves who'd built the hideaway.
The staircase ended in a short passage, which itself terminated at a blank wall of stone. Fenric waited, knowing his presence was enough to alert the warlock. After a short time he heard a deep grating noise, accompanied by a slight tremor in the floor. The wall before him swung on a pivot, bisecting the entrance to a much larger chamber. Fenric stepped inside through the opening on the left. Entering through the right, he knew, guaranteed a quick and grisly demise.
Unlike the square upper rooms of the keep, the warlock's vast workroom was hewn in a circular shape. The walls had been painstakingly rounded and appeared to be carved from one massive rock—if they were built from individual bricks the lines of mortar had been cleverly hidden. The perfect circle was broken in four places by arched doorways, situated equidistant from one another. Fenric guessed they corresponded with the points of the compass, though he'd never asked. He thought of the entrance as the north point, since the warlock's hideaway occupied the space under the southern half of the keep.
The archway directly across from the entrance was barred by a stout oak door. Thick red curtains shrouded the other two. In the dead center of the room stood a round stone table. About six feet in diameter, it was ringed by another table of identical rock. A space between the two allowed the warlock room to work, while a gap in the outer ring permitted entrance and exit.
The wall behind Fenric swung back into place. He removed the black cloak and folded it over his arm, as the room itself was hidden from arcane eyes. The warlock stood between the two tables, back to Fenric. The prince knew better than to interrupt the man uninvited. Instead, he studied the ceiling.
Though less than ten feet above the floor, the ceiling always gave Fenric the feeling he stood in limitless space. Whether the natural color or painted, the stone was so pure black it seemed to suck the light right out of the room. Thousands of white and yellow dots covered the expanse, reproducing the night sky with extreme detail. They varied in size and some in shape. Next to many of the stars were red characters of a language unknown to Fenric.
A white circle adorned the ceiling above the table. More of the strange writing occupied the circle, along with symbols that looked to Fenric like the phases of the moon. Though he knew he'd entered the warlock's lair in the early morning, Fenric couldn't help feeling he'd stepped into a world of eternal night.
“All goes well, Fenric,” said the warlock. He remained motionless, white-robed back to the prince, but his words echoed from the walls of the chamber. His voice was soft yet easily heard. It carried a lilting, almost musical quality. The prince thought of the bard, Rominfeld. The man had been extraordinarily talented, and when he'd spoken, his sentences had given the impression of being sung. The warlock's voice was disquietingly similar.
“For the most part,” said Fenric. He glanced at the ceiling again. “The stars on the ceiling have changed."
“Yes, of course,” snapped the warlock. “Did you risk my privacy just for an astronomy lesson?"
Fenric ignored the harsh tone. The relationship between the prince and the warlock was forged on compatible goals sought by vastly differing sources of power. While the warlock commanded arts greater than even Nikkolynda's, Fenric possessed the sworn loyalty of thousands of men, along with the ability to lead them competently. Their mutual respect and dependence ran deep enough that verbal acknowledgement was unnecessary. Fenric trusted the warlock's loyalty much further than that of his father's bow-and-scrape sycophants, such as Harri Domerrit.
“I thought you'd like to know about Count Hafflston's meetin
g with the Addamantian Huntsman."
The warlock straightened and turned. Fenric's expression didn't change, though anyone else crossing paths with the man before him would run for the nearest guardsman. The warlock's slender body was clad only in a white robe, gathered at the waist by a belt of small gold plates. Leather sandals padded soundlessly as he exited the outer table and walked toward Fenric. The warlock's thin mouth and sharp nose gave his face a raptor-like set. Dark blue eyes seemed to shine with their own internal light, and his blond hair was cropped close to his skull. It was a beautiful face, marred only by the warlock's ears—although the bottoms were as rounded as Fenric's, the tops swept up to sharp points.
Yet, the warlock was no more an elf than he was a man. He was a Weirdling, the product of unthinkable breeding between the two races. If any creature could be despised more in the Western Realm than an elf, the warlock was it.
Fenric smiled. “Hello, Malthus."
“Good morning, Fenric.” The warlock's mouth hardly moved as he spoke. Standing only five feet from the prince, he managed to convey a sensation that they were separated by a vast gulf.
Fenric nodded toward the inner table, upon which the Sandlander grimoire lay open. “Have you deciphered any more of it?"
“Much. There are a few spells even more powerful than summoning of the bayyalis, but they'll take months of study to unlock."
Fenric shrugged. “The wandering souls have done well for us thus far. No need for you to press your luck with the desert magic."
“I have no luck."
The prince paused then let the odd statement pass. “The count met with the Huntsman late last night. Hafflston told him of our desire for war. Apparently, some of the tongues in my father's court wag too freely in the presence of foreigners."
“They came to the obvious conclusion?” asked Malthus.
“Yes, they realize that the attack on the silver mine could be blamed on Addamantia. Hafflston stressed to the Huntsman the importance of finding a responsible party here in Hurst."
“How competent is this man?"
“The Huntsman?"
“Yes.” Malthus allowed just a trace of impatience in his reply.
“By all accounts, he's quite capable. However, he's out of his element here and knows it. If it weren't for the count's visit, I think the man may have packed his bags and been on the road this morning."
“What about the counselor, the one escorting the Huntsman?"
“Adriana Thornwell. She's turning out to be more dangerous than I thought. Postwick's death was a blow for her—his sponsorship accounted for a lot of her power on the Council. Still, she has some influence, and she's smarter than I thought. The two of them together discovered Selmer Ridge."
Malthus closed his eyes. The temperature in the chamber dropped and Fenric shivered. He glanced at the ceiling. It appeared to him that some of the stars had shifted position as he conversed with the warlock. When Malthus's eyes opened again, the air warmed once more.
“Perhaps we should do away with the counselor,” the warlock said.
“Summon another bayyalis?"
“I don't think so. She's too careful; when she's not in the keep she stays visible. If we'd known she was taking the Huntsman to Selmer Ridge we could have done it then."
“You've had her followed?"
Malthus nodded. “Since the day she volunteered to escort the Huntsman."
Fenric pondered the situation for a moment. He tapped on the hilt of his sword as he thought. “I could have Stamovan do it, though it's risky."
“Keep Stamovan in check. Better that I handle this."
“All right, then. The Huntsman, too?"
“No. That would draw more attention from Addamantia. Also, I think we may find a use for him later."
“Good enough. What about the thief?"
Malthus laced his hands together and pursed his lips. He tapped his forefingers against one another absently. “The Sandlander mage tries hard to reach her. I don't think he's been successful, but I can't be sure. She's by far our weakest link."
“I'd prefer to have no weak links. I'll have her picked up before the Sandlanders can get to her."
“I agree."
The warlock stood silently, watching Fenric. When the prince didn't move to don his cloak, Malthus asked, “Is there something else?"
Fenric nodded curtly. “Yes. I want the sortium."
“I've told you before, no.” Malthus turned and made his way to the far side of the table with gliding steps.
“Only the Emperor can command the Prime Wizard in that regard,” said Fenric. “I can't make Nikkolynda give it to me."
“Wizards, magicians, warlocks,” Malthus said. “Never forget the difference, Fenric."
The prince's face flushed. “I know you have the ability to—"
“Wizards are sworn to service of the Emperor,” said Malthus, as if Fenric hadn't spoken. “Magicians are bound by the restrictions of the Guild. But the warlock serves a higher power, and my higher power says that your use of the sortium could jeopardize our plans. You don't need an army of flying warriors, Fenric. The bayyalis will be enough."
“I think that—"
“Let the wizards provide the flyers with light and wings. You'll be Emperor soon enough and can command them yourself.”
“Not necessarily,” said Fenric quickly. “I still think I can convince Father to join us."
“And the wind can bring a mountain to the sea, given enough time. I didn't realize you're willing to wait so long, Fenric."
Fenric scowled but didn't reply. As Malthus returned to the grimoire the wall behind Fenric swung open on its pivot. “I thought not,” said the Weirdling. “Don't let your sense of familial duty weaken your resolve, Fenric. Your avarice is a much more useful trait."
“I'm doing this for the good of the realm, not personal gain."
This time it was Malthus who remained silent.
“All right, then,” said Fenric. He slipped the cloak over his head. “We'll speak of it another time.” He departed the warlock's chamber, careful to stay to the right.
* * * * *
Not too far away, in a room nearly as isolated as Malthus's chambers, the keep's other mystic resident waited impatiently for an answer to the summons he'd sent out an hour earlier. If the need ever arose, Nikkolynda could amass the power to level a small castle. The talents of a dozen lesser wizards were at his disposal. Save the Emperor and his sons, no man or woman of Hurst would cross the Prime Wizard willingly. Still, Nikkolynda abhorred the thought of walking amongst the teeming denizens of the city. He despised the incidental contact with anonymous strangers, the mindless chatter of street merchants and the chaotic, random flow of the crowded streets. The wizard much preferred the isolation of his rooms in the keep. Let someone else wander amongst the unwashed masses.
A barely audible knock at the door heralded the arrival of the particular someone for whom Nikkolynda currently waited. The wizard touched his chest briefly, ensuring that his old-man illusion was in place.
“Enter,” he called, and the bar to the door flew open of its own accord. A small figure stepped inside, shutting the portal behind him immediately. It was a boy of thirteen, short but stocky. He had dark eyes and dark, unkempt hair. Pale freckles dotted his face. He wore plain brown trousers and a light shirt, along with a leather belt and a single pouch. In short, he looked like every urchin on the streets of Hurst.
“How are you, Adam?” asked the wizard.
“Hungry, sir.” The boy's voice was a bit deep for his age. His expression was neither happy nor sad, angry nor inquisitive. He was simply attentive. As usual, Nikkolynda found himself amused by the boy's perfunctory, forthright answers. He waved to a small wooden table, set under the manacles that had held yesterday's prisoner. A plate of fruit, bread and meat sat next to a large goblet. Adam headed for it without hesitation. He glanced at the ledge next to the window, where Nikkolynda's frog squatted with both eyes closed.
/> “Hello, frog,” Adam said. The frog opened one eye briefly and chirruped.
“Feel up to a walk about the city today?” asked Nikkolynda, watching the boy eat.
Adam grinned around a mouthful of sweet roll. “Yes, sir."
“I want to watch a group of Burning Men today. Do you know who I'm talking about?"
“The red-skinned demons, sir."
“Yes. There are a group of them staying somewhere in the city—"
“Sign of the Rabid Scrymger, sir. It's an inn on the north side of the Evening District."
Nikkolynda hid his surprise at the boy's knowledge. Adam, meanwhile, continued to wolf his breakfast at an efficient pace.
“I want you to follow them today, and possibly tonight. It's important to know where they go and find out whom they talk to. They've been asking to see the Emperor, but Domerrit won't let them. I want to know why.” Nikkolynda felt a bit foolish explaining his motivations to a thirteen-year-old boy, but even a wizard felt the compulsion for a confidant at times. Using a boy or a frog to that end helped preserve his prized isolation.
“They sleep late,” said Adam. “Innkeeper says they don't like the cool air in the early morning."
“You've already been watching them?” Nikkolynda asked, growing suspicious.
“Mousey Lannakin paid me three coppers."
Nikkolynda's back straightened abruptly, and the frog opened both eyes. “That fool doesn't mean to rob them, does he?"
Adam shook his head and washed down his breakfast with the entire contents of the goblet. “I don't think so. He's afraid of them."
“Good. If you see Mousey, tell him you saw the Sandlanders turn a man into a rabbit. I want them left alone."
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