Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  Ondene almost laughed out loud but instead rubbed his chin thoughtfully and breathed in deeply, trying to banish some of the fatigue from his mind.

  “Well, I believe I am equal to a spell of conversation,” he said. “But not much more.”

  A wintry smile cracked the big man’s stony features.

  “Very good, captain. This way.”

  From the entryway, Qothan led him through a low archway to a wider, lamplit corridor running athwart the ship, and thence to another heading forward. They passed other members of the Stormclaw’s crew and every one had the same lanky height, overtopping Ondene by at least a head, as well as a similar dour air. Whenever his gaze chanced to meet one of theirs, however, he saw no contempt or dislike, but a kind of obstinate sternness.

  As they proceeded along the passageway he noticed that there was a large amount of decoration on the dark brown bulkheads, most often on the arched frames of doors but also on panels of paler wood set into the darker grain. Mostly the images were of creatures in flight, birds, insects, or beasts out of legend. The other most common motif was that of a hooded woman in a curled up, sleeping position, sometimes holding a crown in her hand, other times a sprig of leaves. Many of the motifs and reliefs on the door frames looked worn and polished, much like the wooden deck planks which felt smooth and rounded underfoot. It all seemed to suggest that the Stormclaw was an old ship.

  Before long Qothan came to a wide door of some rich red wood, its surface inlaid with silver and mother-of-pearl in an odd device that resembled a circlet of eyes.

  “This is the auracle,” Qothan said. “It is used for meditation and immanation, among other things.”

  He pushed the door open and they entered. The auracle was a circular chamber with twelves single-seat alcoves spaced around its walls. Wooden columns rose between the alcoves to become plain spars sweeping inwards to meet at the centre of a low, curved ceiling. Its twelve sections were each painted with a crowded tableau of figures enacting some mysterious drama. The floor was tiled and likewise divided and at its centre was a raised dais where an impassive, bearded man in long grey and black robes sat in one of four ornate chairs, watching the newcomers as the door closed silently behind them.

  This must be Agasklin, Ondene thought.

  “Greetings, Qothanalorimundas,” the man said, rising as they approached. “I see that your outriding has borne fruit.”

  “Just so, my prince. May I introduce Corlek Ondene, former captain of the Iron Guard and sometime military advisor.”

  “An honour to meet you, captain,” said Agasklin with a brittle smile that Ondene guessed was seldom seen on those lips. “I am Prince Agasklin of the Ushralanti, clade chieftain of this ship, the Stormclaw. I have heard good accounts of your talents, most especially from the Armigerlord of Shieldness almost two years ago.”

  Ondene was surprised, then wary. The fortress at Shieldness in the southern Ogucharns had been the subject of friction then open conflict between its master, Bazak, the brutal Armigerlord, and his neighbour, the no-less brutal Verogin, Duke of Bones. Ondene had been hired by the former to assassinate the latter and had toyed with the idea of doing away with both repulsive tyrants, but in the end kept to his contract. A poison in the middle of the night was all that was needed.

  “I was glad to be some service to the Armigerlord,” he said. “Unfortunately, with his main rival gone he lost his sense of caution and was deposed six months later by his boatmaster, I believe.”

  “Not a fate likely to befall his majesty, Ilgarion, would you say?”

  Ondene stared at Aglaskin, wariness now shading off into uneasiness.

  “You’re surely not suggesting…”

  “In the Sleeper’s name, captain, not at all…ah, you look unwell, ser — please, take a seat here…”

  With legs gone weak and a stomach threatening rebellion he sank gratefully into one of the ornate, almost ceremonial chairs. It was, he discovered, very comfortably padded.

  “No captain,” Aglaskin continued. “Our concern is with the stability of the empire, and safeguarding the crown, and Ilgarion poses no immediate threat to either. However, there is one person in this city whose plots and evil sorcery could bring it all crashing down.”

  He leaned closer and Ondene had force himself to meet the man’s dark and insistent gaze.

  “Ilgarion has returned to Sejeend this night and has called a mandatory audience for all nobles and city fathers. Among them will be the dark agent — his name is Jumil and he will be attending as one of several officials from the Imperial Academy. It may mean little to say that he is of slender build and has fine features — we have a likeness for you to see.”

  “In situations like this,” Ondene said carefully, “it is usual to offer a contract, and before that to state the nature of the undertaking. Do you want this Jumil killed?”

  Aglaskin nodded. “Very much so, captain, but you would not be capable of inflicting harm upon such a man; by now, almost no plain weapon could draw his blood, No, your task will be to attend Ilgarion’s audience at the palace — we will provide the appropriate noble garments, mask and accoutrements — and observe the man, watch who he speaks with, perhaps even contrive to overhear any exchange.”

  “There are risks to undertaking such a venture within the palace grounds,” Ondene pointed out. “What would be my recompense?”

  “500 regals,” Aglaskin said. “A generous amount by any standards. Yet there is another aspect which may provoke your interest, namely that this sorcerer Jumil’s right hand man is a captain of the Iron Guard going by the name Vorik dor-Galyn. It was one of his senior servants who recognised you when you entered the city, and his hirelings who tracked you through the streets. If we can expose the sorcerer, Vorik dor-Galyn and his House will face utter disgrace.”

  Ondene was silent a moment or two as he absorbed this new twist, and savoured the possibilities, all the time realising that he was hearing all this from mysterious, powerful men aboard a strange ship.

  “I am favourably inclined to accept your terms, ser,” he said at last. “However, I would like to know more about your people, the Ushralanti, and their singular talents.”

  Aglaskin raised an eyebrow and shared a look with Qothan.

  “I understand your curiosity, captain,” he said, “and I can offer you a brief account of our history but it will be incomplete as there are things we do not share with outboarders.”

  “That will suffice,” Ondene said and settled back in his chair listen.

  * * *

  “...and listen well, dog! You and the rest will go back to that inn and the surrounding streets and you will search high and low, and keep searching till I say ‘hold’!…”

  The news of Ondene’s escape had driven Vorik into a fury.

  “And I don’t care what you thought you saw — he must still be in the city somewhere so get out there and look with both eyes. And stay away from the alehouses or it will not go well for you. Now, begone!”

  Looking miserably chastened, Vorik’s hireling hurried off amid the dark shadows of the burial grove, passing through the amber glow of the gate lamp before vanishing into the night. Standing in the light of a lantern that sat on the ground by the old soldier’s tomb, Vorik stared after his servant, anger slowly abating.

  Ondene had just disappeared, was the story, backed into the dark corner of a coaching inn courtyard the melted away to nothing. Impossible, of course, unless….unless it had been the work of someone with powers approaching those Jumil possessed, rather than the feeble tricks of those Lesser Power mages.

  Vorik shrugged, deciding that it could wait until Jumil had fully recovered. He turned and bent to pick up the lantern, hand reaching for its wooden handle...then paused and straightened once more. Frowning, he peered at the dense shadows among the tombstones to his left where the pathway lamps could not shed their light.

  “Whoever is there,” he said loudly. “Come forth and show yourself.”

 
After a long, silent moment a figure emerged from the darkness and approached. Behind him another three likewise cam into view and drew near.

  Vorik smiled unpleasantly.

  “So the little hawks come fluttering round,” he sneered. “Sadly, our master is unable to see anyone so you’ll have to go back to your Flocks and await his command.”

  “We’re not complete fools, dor-Galyn,” said one, a slender, aristocrat called Lymbor cul-Mayr. “We felt that great wave of sorcery and immediately felt concern for the master. We must see him.”

  “We must be sure that he is unharmed,” said another, a burly former pit-fighter name Amaj.

  “I’m afraid that is not possible,” Vorik said. “After his exertions, Jumil is recuperating.”

  “How do we know that you’ve not slain him?” said Skotan, a nervous, haggard woman who had once controlled the child slave trade in Sejeend. “He...he might be lying in a pool of his own blood at this very instant!”

  “Ludicrous,” said the fourth, a round-faced man garbe din dun-coloured, monkish robes, known to these as Rugilo. “Literally incredible to suggest that our puissant master could succumb to one such as yourself, Vorik. No — unlike my Kin fellows, I only wish to seek final guidance from our master before he orders to lead our Nightkin Flocks out across the wilds to our mysterious destination…”

  “The answer is still ‘no,’” Vorik said, crossing his arms.

  Skotan pointed a skinny, long-nailed finger at him. “I see only deceit and betrayal in your face — if the master is not dead, I’ll wager that you’re plotting his downfall!”

  “Or he’s plotting against us,” muttered Amaj, clenching big, calloused fists.

  “You see, Vorik?” said Lymbor cul-Mayr. “Not one of us is convinced by your intricate explanations. Why, we should just walk right past you and descend to our master’s chamber —”

  The ringing hiss of Vorik’s sword being swiftly drawn forth brought him to an abrupt halt.

  “Yes, you could try that,” Vorik said, holding his blade out with the point hovering before cul-Mayr’s chest. “Or you could turn around now and flap away back to your perches. My master — who is very much alive — will send for you in due course.” He directed a black stare at all four Flock leaders. “Time you were leaving, and quickly!”

  They glared at him for a moment or two, as if gauging their chances, then cul-Mayr brought up one gloved hand and with his finger pushed the swordpoint aside. Uttering a contemptuous snort he turned and strolled away towards the gates. The others followed suit, with only Amaj pausing to direct a silent snarl at Vorik before he too left.

  He waited for the last of them to leave the burial grove before returning his sword to its scabbard and stretching down to pick up the lantern.

  Weak fools, he thought. All of them. If it had been up to me, I’d have chosen more capable leaders for the Nightkin. At least my own Flock knows who’s in charge.

  Lantern in hand, he turned to face the concealed door behind the tomb — and almost cried out in startlement at the figure of a peasant woman who was standing directly behind him. As he lurched backwards he snatched out his sword and, seized by sudden rage, lashed out at the woman.

  Who vanished as his blade struck her neck.

  In the next moment an identical woman stepped out from the other side of the tomb, a short, dumpy woman he noticed, attired in a patched dress and a knitted shawl. She said nothing, just stood and watched him. Feeling more certain of himself, Vorik raised his sword and casually poked at the woman’s shoulder. And again she disappeared.

  “I don’t know who you are,” he said. “But it’s time you showed yourself.”

  “If you’ve finished wavin’ yer pig-sticker around,” said a woman’s voice.

  Gritting his teeth, he slid his blade back into its sheath.

  “Satisfied?”

  The shadows a few feet to his left shivered and brightened, resolving into the same shawl-draped woman who came over to him, pausing a few feet away.

  “Someone called to me,” she said, staring intensely at him. “And it were like a door opening in my head and a voice as big as a mountain telling me to wake up — ‘This way, here, follow,’ it said…” Her gaze grew hard. “Do you know where it came from, or who spoke to me? Do you?”

  Vorik considered the woman. He had heard tales of the illusions and phantoms conjured up by the mages of old but had never thought to see one as rich as this. Clearly the arrival of this woman was an intended consequence of Jumil’s underground ritual, and Vorik immediately understood how useful an illusionist could be.

  “It was my master who called out to you,” he said, moving to the concealed door and pushing it open. “He is in seclusion for now and unable to receive visitors, but you may enter within and await his will if you wish.”

  The woman gave a sharp nod. “Aye, that’ll do.”

  She kept her gaze on Vorik all the time and as she stepped past him into the gloomy passage he noticed that the irises of her eyes were edged with glittering emerald.

  * * *

  On the wings of a stiff, early morning breeze, three sailing ships rounded the jagged mass of a jutting promontory and turned their prows towards Krail, the notorious brigand port. Krail was a collection of shabby buildings huddled in a great natural hollow at the foot of sheer cliffs, its narrow-shingled cove and small jetty offering practically the only safe berth in this reef-strewn cluster of islets.

  The largest of the three vessels was the Mocker, a two-masted brig that had seen better days. Aboard, Captain Bureng, the Black Dagger of the Seas, was reclining on a wicker settle, smiling as his ship heeled gently to starboard.

  “Rikken!” he sang out. “What do you see?”

  “The lights of Krail, my captain,” said Cursed Rikken from his lookout near the prow.

  “What else?”

  “The sternlamps of four — no, five ships tied up at the jetty.”

  “Are any of them familiar?”

  Rikken narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the dawn gloom. “Not yet, cap’n...wait one of them has a forked prow….”

  “Ah, Flane’s Bitter Biter.”

  Bureng’s voice was suddenly very close, and with a sideways glance Rikken saw that he was now standing just feet away.

  “And the Iron Fist, I see….the Vandal Lord, too….”

  Rikken shivered as his master named the other pirate vessels one by one, even though their outlines were scarcely visible at this distance. Something had changed in Captain Bureng yesterday evening, something which made him look at everything and everyone with a strange and hungry malice. Yet from the moment the captain ordered his crews aboard the Hound, the Snake and the Mocker, Rikken felt a thrill of excitement and a certainty that Destiny was filling their sails.

  With the sky lightening from louring darkness to ashen grey, the three vessels found berths at Krail’s crowded pier, weighed anchors and had their hawsers lashed to mooring stanchions. Gantries banged down onto the age-blackened boards of the pier and Bureng led forth a small band of his followers, Gont and Peshik, the masters of the Hound and the Snake, and a handful of toughs, including Cursed Rikken. Minutes later they were climbing the few steps to the double doors of a decrepit, two-storey tavern called the Lucky Captive. Inside, a few tallow lamps broke the dimness with the brightest hanging over a square table in the middle of the floor. Those sitting there looked up at the newcomers and Rikken saw faces he knew and others he did not, yet all held some kind of hate or deceit.

  Without hesitation, Bureng strode across the table with his men at his heels.

  “The Black Braggart comes a-visiting,” said one of the seated men.

  “My ears is stingin’ a’ready,” said another.

  Rikken saw Bureng smile widely, as if he were contemplating a feast.

  “I hear some squeaking, Flane,” he said to one man garbed in a long black coat that had seen better days. “You going to clear out the vermin or shall I?”

/>   The two men who had offered up the snide greetings turned surly but before they could speak, Flane looked coldly at them and said, “Shift.”

  Muttering, the pair vacated their seats and Bureng sat down with Gont on his left and Peshik standing to the right. The other gathered at their backs.

  “The Bitter Biter looks a bit worn, Flane,” Bureng said. “When did she last have a refit?”

  Flane regarded him with unconcealed distaste. The captain of the Bitter Biter was a tall, severe man with one eye — the other eye socket held a polished red gem.

  “Too long,” was the sour reply.

  “What about you, Logrum?” Bureng, brightly, gleefully, to the hulking, bearded man next to Flane. “Is the Vandal Lord ready for battle?”

  “Hull’s sprung in a dozen places,” Logrum said with a yellow-toothed snarl. “But she could still gut the Mocker!”

  Bureng laughed at that and looked at the other two captains. “And the Iron Fist? — and the Ravager?”

  “I need a new mains’l and rudder for the Fist,” said a plain-looking, unshaven man known as Raleth. “Anyone could tell that just by looking.”

  The captain of the Ravager, Zanuur by name, was a wiry, dusky-skinned man with a black moustache. He crossed his arms, leaned back and swung one booted foot up to rest on the table’s edge.

  “My problems are my own,” he said with a Jefren accent. “I’m more interested in why you want to know.”

  “Quite so,” said Flane, leaning forward to fix Bureng with his one-eyed stare. “Not planning on any surprises for us, were you?”

  Smiling, Bureng shook his head as if oblivious to the distrust and ill-will that was flowing in his direction.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “I only meant to discover your fitness and seaworthiness for a little expedition I have in my mind.”

  “Mayhap we should learn what you propose before we make any judgement,” said Zanuur.

  “What’s it to be, then?” sneered Logrum. “Laying ambush to cupclaw catchers off the Mantinor coast? — or robbing the dangerous kelprakers of Maghar? You can surely manage that with the ships you got.”