Shadowmasque

by Michael Cobley

  The coronation ritual commenced in a strange dead calm, broken by occasional coughs and the rustle of garments. The Earthmother priestess unveiled herself — it was indeed the Abbess — then began a declamatory exchange with the High Keepers, addressing first one then the other, after which they replied in unison, and all in the intricate phrasing and intonation of formal Mantinoran since the Khatrimantine emperors traced the line of succession back to the kings of Mantinor. Ayoni had never witnessed an imperial coronation but knew form historical accounts that this was a drastically truncated interpretation of an ancient ceremony which had often taken two or even three days to complete.

  She had read of massed choirs singing and chanting, the tolling of bells and the sweet voice of drawn kulesti. But when the High Keepers handed the imperial replies to the Abbess it was amid an eerie silence. The priestess looked somewhat stone-faced as she turned and climbed the dais steps to where Ilgarion stood. Halting to stare up at him, she recited further lines on the sacred duty of kingship then offered up the relics. Ilgarion bowed, took them from her then mounted the last couple of steps, took two paces to the throne — now draped in a pale, shimmering material — and sat down. Two figures clad in white robes emerged from behind the throne bearing a sword, a mace and a crown, all wound in filmy gauze. Wearing pale, jewelled masks, the pair represented the Earthmother and the divine Tauric, whose conferral of the instruments of kingship was meant to symbolise the link between the throne and the land and the unseen powers.

  But this performance felt like a hollow shell, empty of dignity or meaning.

  Finally it drew to an end as the symbolic figures between them lowered the crown onto Ilgarion’s head then fastened a clasp across his throat. As they withdrew Ilgarion stood, holding the mace of law in one hand and the sword of state in the other. The shimmer material rose with him, proving to be a long trailing cloak which was sky blue on its outside.

  Someone near the front of the crowd suddenly shouted — “The emperor is dead — long live Emperor Ilgarion!” As growing numbers of nobles began chanting his name, Ayoni found herself filled with contempt for them.

  “Such a stirring moment, is it not?” murmured a voice nearby.

  She turned to see her deliverer from the Archmage, the mysterious man in the flamebird mask. She could only make out his eyes and his mouth which was smiling sardonically.

  “Much about our new emperor is of a singular nature,” she said. “I am Ayoni Feldaru, Countess of Harcas— you have my thanks for rescuing me earlier.”

  The man inclined his head. “Just occasionally, blundering carelessness brings benefits. Ah, yes, and I am Lord Kerlo of Northmarch.”

  Ayoni frowned. “Northmarch — I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.”

  “Oh, ‘tis but a small and relatively unimportant part of the norther border with the Mogaun League. Pelts from the northern Rukangs, my lady, are one of our more lucrative exports…”

  And as she listened she got a vague sense of familiarity from his voice but before she could question him further the crowd’s chanting faded and Ilgarion began to speak.

  “This empire has stood for long centuries against the hate and schemes of evil enemies,” he said. “And it is from the constancy, courage and loyalty of you and your forbears that our mighty empire has drawn its strength. Yet even amongst our closest and most trusted custodians, the seeds of weakness and betrayal may take root and when such banes come to light it is our duty to tear them out!”

  Ayoni felt a weight of dread as Ilgarion’s voice turned venomous and he looked round at the High Minister of Day, Duke Byrceyn.

  “Lord Commander Shumond — the Duke Byrceyn has committed deadly treason against the crown, thus I adjure you to carry out your duty by arresting and confining him.”

  The circle of swordsmen parted as Shumond and two of his officers moved in. As rope was brought out to bind Byrceyn’s hands, his wife let out a cry of anguish, threw aside her mask and tried to reach for her husband.

  “Confine the lady Fyndil as well,” added Ilgarion.

  “No, damn you —” was all that Byrceyn could say before a gauntleted fist cuffed him into silence.

  Watching this, Ayoni felt her outrage reach the point where she had to act, and she moved straight through the gathered nobles, thinking only to stop this vile injustice. A babble of voices rose at this sight but she was unaware of it, focussed only on her friend Lady Fyndil struggling in the hand of the Iron Guard officers.

  She was but a few paces away when she was struck by a wave of dizzyness. The floor and the nearby dais seemed to tilt slightly and she stumbled, slowed and stopped, breathing in deeply to clear her head. But then a terrible debility flowed into her legs and as she sank to the floor amid raised voices, she just heard Tangaroth’s amused voice in her head, — Well done, my lady. You faint most beautifully — before unconsciousness took her.

  * * *

  The moment Countess Ayoni set off across the hall, Corlek knew that he had to distance himself from her and sidled into a more densely occupied part of the floor. He also began to wish that his mask was modelled on something rather less distinctive than the mythological flamebird.

  Then the Countess stumbled in her progress, swayed and crumpled to the floor. There were gasps and voices shouting as he husband, Count Jarryc, barrelled through the crowd. Amid the gaudy press of nobled gathered around the fallen Countess, Corlek recognised the tall, dark-blue figure of Archmage Tangaroth who was pushed aside by the Count.

  Tangaroth was one of the people that Agasklin and Qothan had impressed upon him to take notice of. From where he stood he could also see Ilgarion upon his dais, coolly observing the enforced removal of Duke Byrceyn and his wife while Count Jarryc carried his own spouse from the hall in his arms. Corlek also knew that one of the four officers attending Lord Commander Shumond was Vorik dor-Galyn, but was not sure which of them he was. Then there was the one named Jumil, a dark and deadly sorcerer according to Agasklin.

  “Note who he speaks to,” Agasklin had said. “But avoid attracting his attention and keep a good distance from him.”

  At that moment, Jumil was part of a group of officials and academics situated off to the right of the dais some yards along from a cluster of merchants who were watching Ilgarion closely. Jumil was slightly taller and noticeably thinner than the rest, who were noticeably well-fed. During a brief exchange with one of the academy officials on the way back from the nearby privy, he had learned which one Jumil was after spurious claims of being related to someone on the academy staff.

  Shifting his mask slightly, Corlek was able to glance over at Jumil while appearing to be studying Ilgarion atop the dais. The sorcerer was standing apart from his companions and looked vaguely bored as he regarded the proceedings. At that moment, one of the Iron Guard officers who had escorted Byrceyn and his wife outside entered from a nearby side door, paused and removed his helm. Corlek caught his breath — it was Vorik dor-Galyn, and as he watched he saw dor-Galyn share a quick look and perhaps the faintest of nods with Jumil, then brushed back his hair and donned his helm once more. Corlek gritted his teeth as the object of his enmity strode across to the dais to stand by Lord Commander Shumond, facing out at the anxious, muttering mass of aristocrats.

  Then Ilgarion began to speak again. His voice was calm, his tones measured, almost reasonable, and the things he was saying were broad, generalised praises for the virtues of the Khatrimantine Empire; duty to home, family and crown; honour in all dealings, be it with friend or foe; devotion to the Earthmother; patience and forebearance towards those who would decry the Temple and the Crown; unstinting loyalty towards the Temple and the Crown; and heartfelt valour when called to defend these immemorial virtues and traditions.

  Some of the nobles seemed puzzled at this almost reassuring homily but behind his mask Corlek smiled. He had seen this kind of demagoguery before, a soothing recital of normalcy followed by darkness and menace.

  And sure enough, in the ne
xt breath Ilgarion began to lay out the threats that the Empire faced, from the Carver fanatics to the west and north, from the ambitious generals of Mantinor, and from the savage pirates who range up and down the coasts of Cabringa.

  “And the sad truth which I must reveal to you all now is that any enemy who would cast a hungry eye over our empire would find us ill-prepared to withstand a determined invasion. The great hosts of our armies are under strength and lacking in even the essentials of weapons and armour. Our cavalry battalions make do with inferior steeds while the imperial navy has taken delivery of just two new ships in the last ten years. So as we become gradually weaker, those who wish us ill grow stronger.

  “But I know that this empire is not doomed to be crushed by an onslaught of evil, as has happened once before. No, our destiny is clear, strong and blessed and our most glorious age is yet to come, but we will have to reach for it. We shall drive our will and our purpose out across the lands, confront those who worship at the altars of evil, and embrace a new world where peace and prosperity reign.”

  There was some applause from the noble gathering, a polite, restrained response Corlek noted, but Ilgarion seemed undeterred and continued.

  “Our first step in the renewal of the empire will be the reinvigoration of the nobility…”

  He paused and looked to the left where a pale yellow-gowned attendant ascended the steps, bowed and handed Ilgarion a slender, plain circlet adorned with a single blue stone. At the same time, two other attendants brought one of the soberly attired merchanters to the dais from the right and led him up to Ilgarion. The man went down on hands and knees and pressed his forehead on the dais tiles. There were indignant mutters from some parts of the crowd but they subsided when the Iron Guard officers stared outwards, trying to identify those responsible.

  To Corlek, however, Ilgarion’s aims were very clear. Rebuilding an army or a navy takes a lot of money and Corlek had no doubt that each of those being called one by one to receive the title and circlet of a noble represented a subtantial amount of hard cash. Of course, history was rife with instances where an aristocracy had turned on its liege lord out of fear for its power, and here Ilgarion seemed to be moving to bolster the foundations of his own position, namely the army and the navy.

  But if a scandal involving the Iron Guard and a dark sorcerer comes out into the open, he thought, that would alter the pieces on the board and who knows what might happen to Ilgarion then?

  The atmosphere of the ceremony grew dreary and sullen, and as Corlek watched the slow procession of new-made nobles he noticed Tangaroth looking on, nodding occasionally. Dor-Galyn still stood on one of the dais’ lower steps, staring out at the crowd wihle off to the right the enigmatic Jumil was a motionless figure by the rear wall’s heavy amber drapes.

  The second-last merchant had just felt the touch of the circlet upon his brow when the sounds of a commotion could be heard from outside the northern doors, by which the nobles had first entered. Voices could be heard shouting, muffled at first then becoming clearer, men shouting — ‘Alarum! Fire!’ Then the doors flew open and a court steward rushed in accompanied by half a dozen scribes and attendants.

  “Your imperial majesty,” he said. “I beg forgiveness for hasty and unannounced instrusion upon — “

  “Enough of that!” Ilgarion snapped. “What is this about?”

  “Fire, majesty!” the steward said in a voice full of horror. “The Keep of Day is burning from top to bottom!”

  Ilgarion stared at the man for a long moment, then gave a sharp nod.

  “Very well, steward — wake every able-bodied servant and evacuate all chambers adjoining the Keep. Lord Commander Shumond — turn out the Guard and open every well in the gardens. Duke Mendalse and Archmage Tangaroth — give me your counsel as we hasten to behold this tragedy.”

  Amid a growing uproar, the crowd of nobles was already making for the exits, with a large number heading towards the Sun Corridor. Corlek was almost struck with a panic of indecision as he watched dor-Galyn receive orders from the Lord Commander then dash off through a door on the other side of the dais. Then he turned to look at Jumil — but saw nothing but amber wall drapes swaying beside a half-open door. He paused a moment then darted across to it and through.

  Beyond it, a wide passage curved off in either direction from a furnished vestibule. There, an ornate, bannistered staircase rose from its centre and Corlek just glimpsed Jumil hurrying up to the next floor. But as he made to follow, a voice spoke from along to his left.

  “Here now — you’re not supposed to be in this part of the palace!” said a young spear guard who was hurrying towards him.

  Corlek shrugged and, putting on a slurred voice, said; “’S a big place, eh? Y’ can’t tell one damn corridor from ‘nother….so where’s this fire, then?…”

  “Never mind that, m’lord. You just come along with me, see, and I’ll help find your friends…”

  “No, no, young fellow,” he said, wagging a finger. “I’m qui’ happy here, y’see.” He danced a haphazard jig then stumbled against the young guard. “Oh, ah, sorry, sorry — hey, ain’t that your commander?”

  And as the young guard looked round, Corlek swung at his jaw with his gauntleted left hand. There was a sharp sound and a gasp as the guard spun from the blow and went down.

  “Sorry, laddie,” Corlek murmured as he looted a dagger and short sword from the unconscious form. “But you’ll learn to keep your distance in future, won’t you?”

  Quickly, he hid the spear guard in a curtained alcove shrine then glanced behind and ahead before dashing up the stairs.

  At the next floor a short, unlit passage led forward to join a corridor which was angled towards the northern wall of the palace. The corridor was cold and deserted with only a few lowlit lamps burning, but still Corlek strove to tread softly on the tiled floor. The chambers along here were very likely vacant, he guessed, yet up ahead he notice a yellow glow, fiery glow he realised as he came to a stretch where several windows looked out at the cityward sections of the palace.

  The sight of the burning Keep of Day stopped him in his tracks. He took off his mask and let it fall to the floor. At nine storeys, it overtopped the ceremonial flag and bell tower which sat atop the crown of the Grand Hall. Every storey was provided with tall, arched windows and doors to exterior balconies, as well as other windows round and square, large and small, and every opening was a mass of flame. To a calmer part of his thoughts, it struck him as odd that the conflagration could become so all-encompassing in such a short space of time.

  In the gardens below, chains of people were desperately passing buckets of water forward to try and douse the blaze. But it was clearly hopeless — the fires were too widespread and too fierce.

  Almost as if it had been arranged that way, he thought grimly.

  Then he spotted movement in a darker part of the gardens, close to the inner wall, a tall figure in robes skulking along a pathway hidden from the fire-fighters by thick bushes. Corlek knew that it had to be the sorcerer Jumil, and continued along the corridor, quickly coming to a square-turning stair leading down. Descending, he heard voices from further along the ground floor passageway but swiftly found a small anteroom with an already-ajar door that led out to the gardens.

  Outside, the air was warm and stank of smoke. The keep was burning like a gigantic torch, drenching everything in a harsh, molten glare. But he was drawn onwards by a glimpse of Jumil climbing stone stairs up the inner wall to a buttressed walkway and making for an arched door at the end. And someone else was with him a shorter, hooded figure hurrying along at his side. Corlek gave chase.

  Up on the walkway, planks creaked underfoot as he headed for the archway. The blazing keep was straight ahead and through the rushing roar of the flames he could hear the crash of falling timbers and screams of those trapped inside. Then he heard angry shouts coming from below and saw several figures appear on one of the keep’s balconies. Even from this distance he could see tha
t their garments, and even their hair, seemed charred and smoking. Then two of them manhandled a long object onto the balcony rail, held onto some part of it and let the rest of it fall over the edge, unfurling. It was a banner decorated with a single red device, an ordinary craftsman’s knife, the symbol of the Carver creed.

  Even as the banner caught fire, the shouts from the gardens became a mass of voices bellowing in anger. The figures on the balcony only pointed wordlessly down for a moment or two before running back inside, giving themselves to the flames.

  Corlek was stunned by this, finding himself scarcely able to grasp the implications, yet he forced himself onwards, determined to lay hands on this Jumil, be he sorcerer or no. But he was no more than a few paces from the archway when a dark, stalwart figure emerged to face him and unsheath an efficient-looking broadsword.

  “The disgraced scion of a spent house,” a mocking voice said. “Killing you would be butcher’s work, yet it must be done.”

  Against the raging inferno of the Keep of Day, Vorik dor-Galyn was a dark form with only a few details visible, dull gleams on the iron fastenings of his leather harness, on a belt buckle, on a small ring in one ear, in the unwinking eyes that stared at Corlek.

  “Come now,” Corlek said, tightening his grip on the hilt of his short sword. “Surely butchery would be an upward step for the likes of you.”

  Dor-Galyn just grinned and stepped smartly forward, aiming a slashing cut at Corlek’s neck. Corlek had seen the move coming and lunged with a straight-armed thrust at dor-Galyn’s upper chest. But there was no shock in hand and arm of the swordpoint punching through leather and skin, no resistance, nothing. Suddenly, between one instant and the next, there was no Vorik dor-Galyn. Corlek gasped in surprise, stumbled a few feet past the archway then looked wildly about him.

  And heard someone clapping from beyond the arch. Fear and dread assailed him but he held his blade point forward at waist level and made himself step warily through the opening. Beyond, a few steps led up to a square enclosure open to the sky and surrounded by crenellated battlements. Barrels and heavy wooden chests were stacked at the enclosure’s rear, to either side of another set of steps descending into the interior. This, Corlek realised, was an internal fortification, a strongpoint which would stymie any invader who made it past the gates.