City of Light & Shadow

by Ian Whates

  "It's nothing really. Except that, when I was fighting the Demon, there was a moment when we were tightly linked. I had to reach inside… which doesn't even begin to describe what that was like." He shuddered, remembering that indescribable thinning of his sense of self. "But the point is, I caught a glimpse of its thoughts. They're not evil, you know? The Demons, I mean. They're just trying to survive. In the century or so since the core missed being renewed they've become more independent, more selfaware. I don't know, perhaps the core's corruption had something to do with that as well, but they're not simply avatars anymore. They want to live, and they know that if I succeed they'll be reabsorbed into the core, they'll cease to be, and a whole new generation of Demons will emerge to replace them."

  Kat stopped and grabbed his arm, jerking him around to face her.

  "Hey!"

  "Listen, you," she said. "Stop this right now. Their motives don't matter. Good, bad, divinely blessed or cursed, none of it means a brecking thing. They want to stop you at all costs. They'll kill you without giving it a second thought. They are the enemy, and you can't afford to sympathise with them or see their point of view. If you do, we're all in trouble. We're fighting for our lives here, Tom. It's kill or be killed, with no room for compassion or any of this 'love your enemy' oxshit."

  "I know, I know," he assured her. "Don't worry. I'm not going soft, just can't help wondering how everything got so totally messed up."

  She looked as if she was about to say something more but settled for a simple shake of her head. She let go of his arm and they resumed walking.

  "Do you want to hear the stupidest thing of all?" he said as they hurried to catch up with Jayce, who had stopped a short distance ahead to wait for them.

  "Go on."

  "There are no such things as Demon eggs. I mean, this whole business started with me being sent up to the Heights to fetch one back… and they don't even exist. They're a myth."

  "Seriously?" and she started to laugh.

  "You think that's funny?"

  "Yes," she replied. "As a matter of fact I do."

  He found himself grinning in response. "Yeah, me too." Then the smile slipped away as a question occurred to him, one that he'd always wanted to ask her. "Why did you run away, Kat?"

  "What?"

  "After the fight with Rayul and the street-nicks, when the Blade came to get us, why did you run away? Was it from the Blade… or from me?"

  She looked down quickly as if to hide her expression, but he caught a glimpse of the pain reflected there the instant before she did. "No, nothing like that. It's complicated. There were things I had to take care of, that's all." After a brief hesitation, she added, "Anyway, you were safe, you didn't need me. You had the Blade."

  Of course I needed you, he whispered inside his head, though this time he made sure the thought didn't escape into the world at large where anyone else might hear it.

  Inzierto IV and sleep had become infrequent and unreliable companions of late.

  The king had occupied the throne of the Misted Isles for a full decade and a half now. While this was by no means unprecedented – history claimed that Cenulous the Penniless had ruled for a full decade longer – it was still an achievement he was proud of. In truth, he had never been allowed to sit comfortably on the throne in all that time, but then he doubted many of his predecessors had either. There were five Isles in total – seven if you counted Porquita and Chicol, which he tended not to; the pair of them being little more than rocky outcroppings, home to thriving colonies of screeching seabirds, a flock or two of hardy sheep, and a scattering of stubborn crofters who refused to relocate. The only things the two minor isles were remotely good for were wool and guano.

  The five major isles, of course, were another matter entirely. Each had their own rich history and set of traditions, complete with their own royal family, at least in historical terms. Unfortunately, historical families had a habit of throwing up unlooked-for descendants at the most inopportune moments, no matter how many times you wiped them out to the last babe in arms – thrice in the case of Media's royal line, the second largest of the Misted Isles.

  A surfeit of families with claim to the throne was always likely to cause… complications. Intrigue, scheming, clandestine alliances, plots and counter plots were common. Indeed, it was said that the court positively thrived on them. All well and good if you were some minor noble looking on from the sidelines, but when you were the king seeking to keep hold of your throne it was a different matter entirely.

  None of this explained the king's insomnia. He was used to such pressures. No, it was the imminent campaign that had unsettled him. That and the spate of recent deaths. Oh, he knew that all were perfectly explainable, accidents and illness each and every one. Count Ruben was no longer a young man, and heart attacks struck without pattern or prejudice, while General Hayt would insist on wearing such heavy armour, which was never advisable when overseeing manoeuvres in the harbour that involved the embarkation and disembarkation of so many warriors from troop ships – all too easy to get knocked overboard. The good general sank like a stone, apparently, before anyone could attempt to rescue him. As for Captain Vargas, he and alcohol were notoriously firm friends and there were plenty of witnesses to confirm how deep he'd sunk into his cups that night. It was hardly surprising he should fall off a bridge on his way home and break his neck.

  Yes, all were understandable, all were fully plausible acts of misfortune, but even that was a cause for concern. At the start of such a major military campaign, misfortune was the very last thing he needed. Whispers that the expedition was dogged by bad luck would dispirit the troops almost as much as defeat in battle. Was he doing the right thing? Was this too bold a move?

  The army was ready – assembled at five key points along the western coast of Indryl, the largest contingent immediately outside Indryl city itself. A sea of tents had sprung up beyond the city boundary – a vista of canvas waves as impressive as anything the sea herself could muster – while many of the warehouses adjacent to the docks had been hastily converted into barracks and were now bursting with men. The fleet of ships that would ferry the troops to the mainland were practically all in attendance; awaiting only final confirmation that the time was ripe. Confirmation which he so far had hesitated in issuing. He was loathe to begin the campaign until the Demon gave him the word. Over thirty thousand men, the cream of a generation, stood ready for war. An impressive force, certainly, and yet Inzierto knew this to be little more than a drop in the ocean compared to Thaiburley's millions. If the City of Dreams stood firm and untroubled, his armies could dash themselves against its walls like waves against an implacable rock face, perishing without purpose. Only if Thaiburley were a city already in turmoil, its political infrastructure tottering – or better still collapsed – its civil order overturned and systems inoperative, would his plans have any chance of succeeding. This much the Demons had promised him. With their help he would establish a new order, with mighty Thaiburley a mere vassal state to the Misted Isles. United, they would be formidable indeed; perhaps not ruling the world as such, but they would certainly dominate a good portion of it. And from there, who knew what else would be possible?

  For now though, the army waited, and Inzierto knew the dangers inherent in keeping them inactive for too long. Discipline had largely held firm for now, but it had only been a couple of days. Before long, impatience and boredom would set in. With so many men, primed for action stuck in a confined area with nothing to do but drill, disobedience and violence waited in the shadows to pounce. The Demon had to come through soon.

  Once it did, once Inzierto felt confident enough to unleash his armies, the real headaches would begin. Even with the expansion work carried out at the other departure points, only so many ships could dock at any one time, and there were only so many men each of these ships could carry. They'd been rehearsing for weeks to make the process as slick and fast as possible, but it would still take two days for the e
ntire army to disembark. The general hadn't been the only casualty of those rehearsals. Inzierto had made a point of finding out. Forty-seven men had either drowned or been crushed during the weeks of preparation, twenty-five in a single incident involving the capsizing of one troop ship that had collided with another, larger, vessel.

  His thoughts returned to the three important deaths, the ones that concerned him so much. No, individually none of them was suspicious. Not the general who was to lead operations in the field, the Count who had helped organise and plan it, nor the captain who was to command the home guard in the absence of the army's main strength.

  And yet – and yet – the coincidence of three such prominent figures falling foul of cruel fate in quick succession, especially at this crucial time, made Inzierto distinctly uneasy. It was almost as if somebody conspired against him, but who?

  Not in several generations had the main strength of each isle's military been concentrated so close to the capital. There was a certain logic in one of the four princes launching a coup now when their military strength was so conveniently on hand, but it would take a brave man indeed to make a move with so many still-loyal troops also in attendance. Frankly, Inzierto doubted whether any of his potential rivals had the balls. Besides, why would they strike on the very eve of the campaign, when the governance of Thaiburley had been dangled before them to counter just such a temptation? No, he simply couldn't see it.

  Inzierto sat up in bed, his head woolly from tiredness but alert with concerns that refused to relent. He reached for the small crystal bottle and glass tumbler that stood in attendance on his bedside table. The bottle contained water infused with various herbs and vaguely minty in flavour. This was the creation of his court physicians and designed to encourage sleep. A new glass and bottle were delivered fresh each evening before he retired, the latter sealed to safeguard against tampering – one could never be too careful, and Inzierto was ever conscious of his own mortality.

  He broke the seal, poured out a generous mouthful of the liquid, lifted the tumbler and swallowed. It wasn't unpleasant to the taste, if a little sweet, and he could have done with it being slightly colder. Perhaps he'd demand some ice next time.

  Now wide awake, Inzierto rose from the bed, flexing his toes as they sank into the deep pile of finest Asturian carpet. Hideously expensive to import, but worth every copper at moments like this. He wandered towards the window, intent on gazing out over the rooftops of his city. How had that poet Larken described the scene?

  Those elegant, regal spires, rising beside the sea,

  Not reaching for the stars but content to let them be.

  A simple stanza but one he'd always liked, feeling that it said something noble about both the city and its citizens. Not for the first time he worried that current ambitions flew in the face of the verse's wisdom, that he was indeed reaching for the stars and over-extending himself. It was too late for such regrets, though, he was committed. The whole nation was committed.

  The king rubbed his neck absently. Odd, the water hadn't seemed especially cold but it had left his throat feeling numb, as if he'd swallowed a mouthful of coldest ice; and the effect seemed to intensify with every breath. Not yet alarmed but certainly disquieted, he stopped halfway to the window and turned back towards the bed, intent on examining that bottle.

  "Zyvan berry juice," a voice said quietly from the shadows.

  Inzierto spun around, very much alarmed now. An intruder? Here in his private quarters? Impossible!

  He peered into the room's furthest corner but couldn't penetrate the stygian gloom.

  "Distilled while the berries are still green, just before they ripen," that detestably calm voice continued. "It paralyses the vocal chords even as it numbs and constricts the throat. The nasal passageways stay open for a while, so you'll still be able to breathe for now, but calling out becomes… problematic."

  He could see the man now, though not with any clarity; a darker form moving within the blackness. Moving towards him, Inzierto presumed, since the shape gained definition before his eyes and was now discernibly human.

  Who are you? he wanted to say, but all that emerged was a whistling croak, no louder than a whisper. The king's eyes dropped to the bottle. Surely the seal had been tight and not tampered with. How then had the assassin administered the poison? Assassin: now there was a term guaranteed to stir memories and raise troubled ghosts from the past.

  "You're wondering about the bottle?" the intruder asked, evidently following the king's gaze. "Yes, it was sealed. The tumbler, however, wasn't. A drop of the juice smeared on the bottom of the glass is all that was required. Quite a delicate job, actually. Too much and it would kill you far too quickly, too little and you'd still be able to make some sort of noise audible beyond this room, and that would never do, would it?"

  Inzierto's hand fell casually onto the bedside table, as if he were thinking of examining the glass. In fact his thumb reached beneath the rim of the top and pressed a concealed button: the silent alarm. Within seconds his loyal guards would come swarming into the room. The way this buffoon appeared to like the sound of his own voice, he wouldn't have finished the job before then. The king felt hope rise anew. He might yet survive.

  "Oh, by the way, I've cut the wires leading from that alarm of yours. We wouldn't want anyone interrupting us now would we, my king? No, far better this way: just you and me.

  Inzierto slumped. He could almost see his tormentor now, as the man emerged from the shadows with such a deliberate lack of haste. Was there something familiar about this figure, or was he imagining it? A thought he'd entertained earlier refused to go away: assassin. Suddenly everything fell into place and he knew who this man was, an instant before his features became discernible. Realisation made the king's blood run cold. "King Slayer!" he wheezed.

  "Ah," said Dewar, stepping into the light. He smiled broadly. "So now you remember me."

  Leaving Deliia had proven to be a lot trickier than Dewar anticipated. Most of the ferries and cargo ships and even many of the fishing boats had been commandeered or hired for military use, and it seemed that every captain in the port had some commitment to somebody. Eventually he managed to bribe his way aboard a small cargo vessel bound for Indryl.

  If the king was counting on the element of surprise for his campaign, the assassin feared his Highness was destined to be disappointed. No official announcement had yet been made as to why the army was being mobilised, but the objective was an open secret and it didn't take long for Dewar to hear the rumours. The whole town was buzzing with anticipation. A few drinks bought in an unremarkable tavern in the shadow of the city walls on his first day in Deliia had found the conversation soon turning to the imminent arrival of the Misted Isles army. Advanced elements were already ashore, it seemed. Oh, not in the town itself. They'd built a staging area a few leagues up the coast and had landed there, but every tradesman in Deliia looked set to turn a profit on the venture. An army needed provisions and equipment and weapons and horses and transport. No point in ferrying all of that across from the Isles when most of it could be purchased just as readily on the mainland and stockpiled against your arrival.

  As for the army's purpose, nobody seemed in any doubt about that. There were few places on the continent that justified amassing the sort of numbers that were expected to come ashore near Deliia. Thaiburley, the City of a Hundred Rows. Inzierto could only be marching on the City of Dreams itself. Dewar had evidently arrived just in time. The man had clearly lost his mind.

  It was strangely moving, coming home again. As he stepped off the boat at Indryl, both feet planted on home soil for the first time in far too many years, he took stock. He hadn't expected the experience to affect him so deeply. Now that it had, he gave himself a few moments to absorb that fact, and then moved on.

  It took him a while to track down the people he was interested in and longer still to plan their demise. The king was still the king and Count Ruben was still a count, but Vargas was now a c
aptain and Hayt a general. Fortunately, their promotions were a matter of public record and one thing Dewar had always admired about such things was that they lived up to their name: they were public. Accessing them required no guile whatsoever.

  Vargas, the guard who had been paid to lie about seeing Dewar at the scene of the failed assassination, so confirming his guilt, was always a drunkard. He was also predictable, and the assassin soon identified his regular watering hole. All it took then was a nondescript stranger perched at the bar next to Vargas, a powder surreptitiously dropped into a tankard of ale to enhance the effect of the alcohol, and the rest was child's play.

  As for Hayt, the man had grown even more portly and pompous than Dewar remembered. He wore enough armour to make a war horse stagger. An inadvertent nudge from a distracted sailor who was soon lost in the crowd of horrified troops that rushed to the quayside was enough to send the oaf to a watery grave. It was the least he deserved. This was the man whose overzealous interrogation of Dewar's sister while leading the search for the assassin had killed his last surviving relative.