Jacobson stiffened as the merchant-lord spoke. Raising his head, he turned towards Azumana and pierced the lord with the glint of his single exposed eye. The lord gasped; ring-bedecked fingers rose to jangle over his mouth, his eyes going wide and devoid of affected haze. “A mask,” he said, his breath catching in his throat several times before he could properly intone. “How strange. Why does he wear it, Kelrob? It’s a terribly disconcerting-looking thing.”
Jacobson answered, yet again, before Kelrob could speak. “I served seven years on the Barrier,” he rumbled, drawing back the edge of the makeshift bandage to reveal his obscured eye. “I’ve see the Aks do plenty of dreadful things, yer lordship, but never as terrible as what they did to me. A few big ones got over the ramparts — they have a tendency to do that, somehow those black talons can stab through sorcery as easily as flesh — and set on me, dragging me off to the cellar while the rest of the post evacuated, fell back. They took me down there, and they took my sword, see? The one I still carry, as it happens. They cackled over it for a bit, waved it around, cut themselves a few times. Then the got the idea. Three of ‘em held me down, laying on either arm and my legs; I tried to scream, by they stuffed my mouth with offal. The fourth one took my sword. He was a big one, as Aks go; I’ve seen ‘em stand over eight feet, and this fella was only about seven, but he was still a giant. He takes my sword, laughs a bit, then kneels on me and real gently starts peeling off the layers of my face. Real fine work, real torturer’s work. They cut on me for over an hour, scraping off layer after layer ‘till my cheek bones started to poke through the meat. But then, just as the pain was pushing my heart to burst, I heard the trumpets of my brethren, and the sound of a magister chanting his blessed magic. And the four Aks atop me gibbered and ran, and I guess they were cut down; I didn’t care about too much at that point besides not having a face. In fact, I started to get right despondent about that fact, lying in the filthy darkness: what kind of life could I have, peeled like a libertine’s grape? But then it came to me, clear as an arrow to an Ak’s soulless eye: why not just wear a mask? Yeah, it’ll confuse folk, and maybe it’ll turn a few heads, but it’s a damn sight better than walking about with a strip of rawhide for features.” Raising his fist, Jacobson wrapped it against the porcelain. “Sorry to unnerve you, m’lord, but that’s the gods’ honest truth. I could show you if you like, though I normally charge something for the privilege. Perhaps if you increased my reward to eleven polgari?”
Lord Azumana listened to the story with a growing look of horror on his finely-stenciled features. Now he wilted, a handkerchief embroidered with golden sunbursts and soaring silver birds materializing in his hand. “Filthy wretch,” he muttered, covering his nose as if Jacobson’s offer had produced a tangible reek. “As I told you, Kelrob, a wretched nithing with nothing but animal greed in his heart.” He feigned disgust for a moment more before lowering the handkerchief and muttering from the corner of his mouth, “Is it true, what he claims?”
Kelrob shrugged. “To the extent of my knowledge his story is true. Like you, I refused his offer.”
A faint rumble sounded through the earth, the ripple of a far-off explosion. Lord Azumana rushed to the arboretum’s edge, handkerchief held taut between his clenched fists. “It looks as if there is some fighting in the square,” he said. “Difficult to see. Perhaps I should send one of the servants down to assess the situation.”
Jacobson cleared his throat noisily. “I’d advise against it, m’lord. Your men are down there killing their own, always a nerve-wracking business. All it would take is one itchy finger, a stray bolt or sword-thrust, and you’d be one less a servant.”
Azumana stiffened. “The House-guard are not common soldiers; certainly they feel no kinship to the city garrison. However, for all your common parlance you have a point. I cannot spare a servant anyhow, whether to death or needless task.” Turning to his remaining herald, the lord snapped his fingers. Immediately Kisha drew her pistol, cocked the hammer, and took a defensive stance at the right hand of her liege.
Lord Azumana smiled at her faintly. “Kisha, you will stay at my side from this moment on. I hope that you are fully willing to fulfill your contract.”
Kisha nodded, raising the muzzle of the weapon until it was level with her pale unblinking eyes. “I have honor, my lord. I will not fail you.”
Azumana nodded his satisfaction, the smile slipping from his lips; Kelrob was certain they were pale beneath the gloss of wax pigment. Turning to the mage, he said, “I must go see to the defense of my household. A servant is waiting without; he will guide you and your man to the usual rooms, where further refreshments have been laid out.”
A warm bath. The desire shot through Kelrob’s beleaguered body like a meteor, a portent of warm steam and lavender-infused soaps. He almost groaned with yearning, but instead bowed to his host. “Thank you, my lord. You are exceedingly gracious.”
“Aye,” Jacobson rumbled, snapping his hand to a sloppy salute. “And don’t fear for your belongings, my liege. All my pockets have holes in ‘em.”
Lord Azumana had never been a patient man; indeed, it was his scathing impatience that had facilitated his family’s rise to the regal position of Living Conglomerate. Therefore Kelrob was astonished when, instead of ordering Kisha to plant a leaden ball between Jacobson’s eyes, the lord merely pinched the bridge of his nose with one unsteady hand. “Kelrob,” he said, quite impersonally, “please keep your man under control. I will have his tongue on a platter if he dares to direct one more unsolicited word at my person. Understood?”
“I will convey the message, my lord.”
“Excellent.” Azumana drew out a small silver compact of snuff, flipped it open, and insufflated a heavy pinch. The resultant sneeze brought tears his kohl-rimed eyes. “Dinner will be held at eight o’clock sharp. Have no fear for your safety; I personally paid out a small fortune last year to ensure the impregnability of the inner shield, along with its artful translucence. Even so, I would normally not insist on a formal meal under these circumstances, but my daughter is very anxious to meet you.”
Kelrob blinked. “Your daughter, my lord?”
“Yes. The lady Nuir. She has been worried at your fate these many days, and is eager to pledge her troth to you in person.”
A black pit opened beneath Kelrob’s feet. The menagerie of plants swam and distorted in his vision, running into a meaningless whirlpool of green. “I don’t understand,” he said, raising a hand to press against his throbbing temples.
Lord Azumana’s eyebrows rose precariously. “Surely Amon told you? We have arranged a fruitful marriage between you and my youngest daughter. You have never met her, of course, but that will change this evening.”
The black pit began to howl. Kelrob looked down, saw the tortured remnants of the consulate tower burning in the void. “I was told nothing of this,” he said in a dry, thin voice. “My father sent me an air-missive informing me that I should stop here along my journey. That was all.”
“Ah.” A flicker of pity twitched over Azumana’s painted face. “That is unfortunate. I am surprised at your father, though he did inform me that you may have initial misgivings over the match. Perhaps he wanted you to arrive before you were told? Regardless, the deal has been struck, and you will honor my daughter with your presence this evening. Rest assured that, as a result of the union, your line will be significantly augmented. I am paying your father a hefty sum, and there are numerous lesser estates entailed to my daughter that will naturally pass into your possession.”
Kelrob could merely nod, the pit expanding, threatening to drown his mind in darkness. I will not pass out again. He watched mutely as Lord Azumana swept from the room in a flurry of perfume and precious fabrics; without a word to Jacobson he followed in the lord’s sandalwood-scented wake. The servant was waiting just outside the arboretum, ready to guide them upstairs as promised.
Father,
how could you do this to me? Father, haven’t I always been a dutiful son?
13: The Plan
Kelrob and Jacobson were guided by the wordless, nervous servant to a set of opulently appointed rooms in the manse’s east wing, where they were left to their own fretting devices. The rooms were familiar to Kelrob, as he always occupied them when visiting, though Lord Azumana’s obsessive acquiring of priceless relics and objet d’art meant that the décor of the chambers varied considerably with each visit. Upon entering, the mage noticed a succession of heavy woolen tapestries blanketing the western wall, their faded threads depicting scenes of commerce and trade. The massive canopied bed was unchanged, though the gauzy hangings had been altered since his last visit to a thick crimson drape. The large graven fireplace crackled merrily, artificial flames coupled with aural stimulation; the light caught on grotesque reliefs hewn into the marble hearth, the bodies of Aks impaled on the swords and staves of bold soldiers clad in fantastical armor. Above, the room vaulted into a miter of stone, marble and rosy-colored granite interwoven by the skillful craft of an Isdori Builder. Strewn over the bedchamber were a claustrophobic array of tables with curled legs and shining marble surfaces, the means by which which Lord Azumana displayed his rotating array of earthly treasure. Kelrob immediately picked out archaic urns from the long-demolished city-state of Kal-Thalak, gold and platinum goblets chased with fire-harboring gemstones, statues of lovers and soldiers and merchants carved from marble or cast from precious ores, and, on one especially large table, an array of enchanted blades held in glass display cases, clearly forged in the secret furnaces of the Taskmasters. Beyond the bed rose an arched window, set with exquisite quarrels of multi-hued glass, though the magnificence of the casement was depleted by the sour light filtering through the panes. Outside the window, Kelrob knew, was a terrace overlooking the grandest garden on the lord’s estate, free-range peacocks accentuating the intoxicant rows of blooming tamarind and date tree and orange blossom, in constant enchanted bloom despite the season. Beside the window sat a massive oak writing desk, riddled with cubbies and quills and bottles of fresh ink, a stack of high-quality parchment sitting to one side and inviting the eager hand. A doorway to the left of the desk led to the further chambers of the apartment, including a small library, a walk-in closet of such immense proportions that it comprised a room unto itself, a dining area encased in a lead-braced bubble of glass, and a bathing chamber replete with a large polished brass tub and an assortment of soaps, unguents, incenses, oils, and perfumes. Jacobson whistled loudly as they entered the bedchamber; Kelrob ignored him, went to the bed, tore aside the blood-red drapes, and pitched face-first into the enveloping depths of the mattress.
The mage lay thus for a long while, saying nothing, willing his headache to abate. He listened to Jacobson explore the room; it wasn’t long before he heard the clink of crystal and the pendulous glug of liquid being poured into a glass. He was grateful for Jacobson’s silence, regretful for his drinking, and digging further into the bed toyed with the possibility of actual sleep. The horrors of the past days crowded close on his mind, all overridden with the latest terrifying revelation of his impending nuptials; for a brief moment Kelrob considered leaping up from the bed in a fit of hysterical laughter and propelling himself through the window. The plummet beyond the patio was considerable, a good three stories; perhaps he’d even manage to quash one of the noisome peacocks in his final plummet. The mage stirred, sat up, the movement requiring the entirety of his willpower. He saw that Jacobson had cracked the window open, and was peering out over the garden with a cup of untouched wine in his hand.
“Very pretty,” Jacobson said, glancing at the mage and taking a generous quaff. “I suppose the silly-looking birds are also inedible?”
Kelrob shook his head. “Peacock is a savored dish. You can make delicious pies out of their tongues.”
Jacobson grimaced. “Only the rich would eschew a good slice of beef for a bird’s most inedible extremities. I suppose the feathers taste good too, eh?” He chuckled to himself and raised the wine glass sharply, forgetting that his lips were cased in porcelain. The rim of the glass jarred against the mask, cracking the crystal; with a curse Jacobson threw the goblet out the window. Kelrob winced at the faint tinkle of shattering glass.
“So,” Jacobson said, drawing the windows shut and sliding the latch firmly in place, “it seems congratulations are in order. You’re to be a married man.”
Kelrob shrunk in on himself, shivering despite the room’s neutral atmosphere. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said stiffly.
“I’d imagine not. Though it’s strange; I thought forcefully arranged marriages were a thing of the past, at least amongst folk of your wealth and standing.”
Kelrob nodded reluctantly. “The practice still has some precedent among the Jeneni. As for the lairds of the Rolling Lands, arranged marriages are...highly uncommon. In fact, it’s considered a grave dishonor. Generally, arranged couplings are reserved for cast-off or useless heirs, eighth sons or temperamental daughters, who are too disgraced to pursue voluntary marriage. In such cases the union is generally used as a bargaining chip, a business arrangement tying the fortunes of two families together.” The mage sighed as he spoke, willing himself to draw the horrible conclusion. “In short, my father has sold me. Doubtless Lord Azumana tempted him with a minor fortune. I’d like to say such an arrangement is unlike him, but my father is a businessman first and foremost...though this is a very reckless act on his part. The unspoken creed of the Rolling Lands is to keep as many external fingers out of the pie as possible. Outside marriage is almost unheard of. He’ll profit in the short term, to be certain, but the local ties of our House will surely suffer.”
“But,” Jacobson said, his voice starkly quizzical, “you’re a fucking magister. Surely you can override your father’s wishes?”
“Blood before acquired station. I am bound by my father’s wishes in this matter.”
“But lad -”
Kelrob fixed Jacobson with a glare. “Azumana has obviously already signed a contract with my father. Ink is every bit as important as blood; in fact, the two often flow together. I am bound to their wishes, in effect I’m their property. I never thought my father would do such a thing, it’s unheard of, disgusting...but he did it. I have little choice but to obey.”
Jacobson said nothing for a while, his head bowed in sympathy. At last he said, in a low voice, “And what of the quest? We need to get Tamrel out of this city, lad. You’ve harnessed him for the moment, but I don’t trust him. Like as not he was only toying with you, making that bargain.”
Kelrob slid his eyes closed. “The quest will continue as planned. I’ll attend dinner with Azumana and Nuir this evening, bend to their wishes, and demand use of the conservatory as part of the wedding arrangement. Failing that, or if Tamrel manages to play every instrument, we’ll flee the city.”
“And how will we manage this feat? Correct me if I’m mistaken, but we’re trapped beneath this obscene bubble.”
“I have a plan.”
“So you said, so you say. I know the fiend hears everything, but I need more to go on, lad. At least tell me something, if not everything.”
Kelrob ran a hand through his hair, grit and powdered cement rubbing off on his palm. “This much I can say: Lord Azumana is rumored to have dealings with smugglers and merchants of ill repute. Often he manages to sneak goods into the city without paying the guild tariff. My father thinks he uses a secret tunnel leading from the family crypt beneath this estate; it isn’t a certainty, but it’s a near certainty. I’ve been down to the sepulchers before, when Azumana’s father was entombed. They run deep, and showed signs of frequent disturbance. There were even a few parcels of saffron clumsily hidden in a canopic jar.”
Jacobson reached up to toy with his stubble, his fingers thwarted by the mask. “Seems risky. For Azumana, I mean. Compromising the secur
ity of a city-state is an executable offense.”
“Did I mention that Lord Azumana is also the head of the security committee, and an active prelate in the Temple of the Coin? His money is the heart of Tannigal. I imagine he can do as he pleases.”
Jacobson nodded sagely. “Of course. Nothing runs deeper than corruption. So you go get betrothed, we noodle on some instruments, and if that fails break into a crypt on a hunch?”
Kelrob blushed slightly. “As I said, not much of a plan. But it’s all I’ve come up with.”
Jacobson absorbed the intricacies, his vast shoulders heaving with a sigh. “It’s been a long day,” he said.
“It’s not over yet.”
“So what about this girl? Do you like her?”
“Which girl?”
Jacobson’s eyes grew wide with incredulity. “Your impending bride, of course. Nuir.”
Kelrob shrugged and looked away, his fingers fluttering about his tunic, vainly seeking for concealed pockets to plumb. His dirtied robe lay in the corner, uncleansed on account of its strange contents; at last he shoved his hands in the pockets of his breeches. “I’ve never met her,” he said, fixing his gaze on the roaring hearth.
Jacobson grunted with surprise. “Never met your arranged bride? Now we’re getting truly barbaric. I suppose you’ll have to bring out the blooded sheets on your wedding night, eh?”
Kelrob blanched at his callous tone. “Lord Azumana is of the Jeneni people. It is imperative that the daughters of Jeneni chieftains remain pure, and they are raised in seclusion, away from the sight of men. For Nuir and I to meet prior to her betrothal, regardless of the bridegroom, would have been considered grossly inappropriate.”
Scott J Couturier - [The Magistricide 01] Page 19