The Black Shield (The Red Sword Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  “Go on,” Narud said.

  “Omar had three sisters. Two of them went east—probably to serve in Toth’s harem. The third is still in the palace. There’s talk that Izak will take her to wife, and he will be installed as khalif, with Omar’s sister as khalifa to legitimize his rule.”

  “I thought the pashas were military generals. Why would he stay in Aristonia?”

  “An arrow blinded Izak in one eye,” Chantmer said, “and he lost the toes of his left foot last winter in the mountains. Hard to campaign with one eye and hobbling with a cane. It is time for him to retire and take his reward for all of the heads he’s taken in the king’s service.”

  “And you think this girl will marry him? What’s her name?”

  “Sadira, and she might. She is young and beautiful—or so they say—and under normal circumstances, I couldn’t imagine her marrying the fat old pasha. But she might see few other options at the moment. I will approach and offer her one.”

  “You?” Narud looked doubtful. “Perhaps we should send someone more diplomatic.”

  “Don’t worry, I know how to handle this sort. Spoiled princesses respond well to flattery.”

  “If she’s a spoiled princess, how is she going to be of any use?”

  “She’s spoiled, but she seems to be clever enough.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong,” Chantmer admitted. “I don’t understand women or their motivations.”

  “Neither do I. If only Nathaliey were here to advise us.”

  “Nathaliey is not precisely a woman,” Chantmer said. “Not since she left the mundane world to study the arcane arts.”

  One of the archivists snorted, and he looked up to see Karla walking by with a book, one corner of her mouth turned up in a smile. Chantmer didn’t see what had her so amused. Surely he’d said nothing she could object to.

  “I’m not sure I see the distinction,” Narud said, bringing Chantmer’s attention back around. “Anyway, Nathaliey is the closest we’ve got.”

  “She and Markal must be in Eriscoba by now, so that option is out.” Chantmer gave it some more thought. “How about the vizier himself? We pluck him out of the dungeon, explain our plan, and bring him in to talk to the woman. Kandibar tells her what we need from her.”

  “And that is what, precisely?” Narud asked.

  “That when the order comes to move against the enemy, the pair of them—the new khalifa and her grand vizier—raise Syrmarria in revolt and take control of the armies of Aristonia.”

  “The only armies in Aristonia are the ones brought here by the enemy.”

  “Then we’d better find one,” Chantmer said, “or the whole of this country will be destroyed. The first step is to free the vizier. We’ll figure the rest of it out later. How do we get him out of the dungeon?”

  “Are there monkeys in the palace?”

  “They killed Omar’s pet for sport. I don’t know about any others.” Chantmer turned to Jethro. “Archivist?”

  “There are still wild monkeys living on the hill behind the palace,” Jethro said. “They come over the wall and raid the fruit trees.”

  “That’s right,” Chantmer said. “I’d forgotten about that. It shouldn’t be hard to enchant one to carry down a key, like we did with Nathaliey. Except,” he added, as something occurred to him, “Kandibar isn’t only locked up, he’s chained to the wall. We’d have to train the monkey to unfasten the chains as well.”

  “That’s beyond a monkey’s ability to take orders,” Narud said. “And possibly its strength as well, depending on the chains.”

  “Change yourself to a monkey, then,” Chantmer said. “Go down and see what you can manage.”

  Narud looked doubtful. “I’ve only changed myself to a dog before. A monkey is something else entirely—I don’t even know the incantation.”

  “Whatever it is, we’ll find it here in the books. You can study first, and when the time comes, I’ll lend you my strength.”

  “That would take days, maybe longer. If it works at all. Meanwhile, every day that goes by in the dungeon makes the vizier that much weaker.”

  Frustrated, Chantmer rose from the table and gestured at the book and writing implements so that one of the archivists would take them away. “Then we’ll have to make a more direct assault on the dungeons. Are you strong enough, or do you need to rest?”

  “I have all my power. I haven’t drawn any since leaving the gardens—I didn’t want to drag a trail of magic into the city.”

  “And I haven’t cast a spell since my confrontation with the dark acolytes. Only a little here and there to conceal my passage. We’re both nearly at full strength.” Chantmer looked at the food and drink that Narud had carried from the gardens. “You may share out the cheese and honey,” he told the archivists, “but save the wine. It will refresh us on our return.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A web of magic grew as Chantmer and Narud made their way toward the dungeon. The enemy had placed fresh wards and protective spells along the various approaches, and more than once the pair found themselves turning around as if compelled to travel in a different direction. Distracted, Chantmer thought it would be a good idea to listen in on the pasha as he spoke to his viziers, and Narud suggested going to the kitchens to look for food.

  Once they realized what was happening, Narud suggested a concentration spell, but neither had one at hand. That sent them back to the libraries to find one. Jethro brought out two books to present them with different options, and they located a spell simple enough that an hour of study was enough to fix it temporarily in their heads. An incantation was always easier to remember inside the library than out, so they cast it before leaving again.

  Chantmer’s head remained clear as they approached the dungeons a second time, and Narud maintained a dogged focus as well. But a malignant feeling descended on them when they passed through a covered arcade, and it continued to grow as they slipped past a pair of Veyrian guards armed with hooked pikes. They entered a long corridor with a ribbed ceiling of variegated white and salmon stone, and Chantmer had to stop and lean against the wall to catch his breath. Narud doubled over, looking faint.

  It was still afternoon, and the light was strong, but a shadow seemed to hang over everything. Chantmer’s heart thumped furiously, and fear prickled along his spine and the back of his neck.

  “I can’t shake the dread,” he said. “Something is squeezing me from the inside, and it feels like shadows are going to go down my throat.”

  “The shadows are illusion,” Narud said through clenched teeth. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his face flushed as he straightened. “But this confounded heat is going to make me faint.”

  “That’s illusion, too,” Chantmer said. “There’s no heat, not behind all this stone.”

  “I know that, but it doesn’t help me shake it off.”

  Chantmer pushed himself from the wall, determined to press on. “That’s it, right ahead. We round the corner, face two more guards—no doubt idiots—and then take the staircase down. This is exactly where I came before . . . only it wasn’t so hard.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  “Be alert, keep focused on the concentration spell. If Zartosht or the other dark acolyte is down here, you’ll spot him even if he’s concealed himself.”

  “Yes, Chantmer, I know.”

  Narud sounded uncharacteristically peevish. Must be the heat.

  They started forward. The stones beneath their feet seemed to soften with every step, until Chantmer felt like he was wading through thick mud. At the same time, the ceiling grew lower and lower, until the ribbing bent around his head and shoulders. He ducked to get under it, unpleasantly reminded that he was a good deal taller than his companion, and would be crushed first.

  “It isn’t real,” Narud said. “The ceiling isn’t going to fall on your head.”

  Chantmer shook his head to clear the illusion. When that didn’t work, he closed h
is eyes and reached for the wall with his left hand to find his way by touch. It was burning hot, and he withdrew his fingers with a gasp. And his feet . . . they simply could not slog through this mud, which was now mid-calf, and growing deeper with every step.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” Narud said in a sharp whisper.

  He opened his eyes and was startled to see it was true. His right hand was on the wall, he was moving away from the final turn that would take them to the staircase into the dungeons, and the corridor seemed to slope upward behind him at an impossible angle. What’s more, his concentration spell was fading. Already, random thoughts were crowding his mind, begging to be addressed. How long had they been in this corridor? The light coming through the slit windows seemed different.

  Narud came back to him. His teeth were clenched, and sweat ran down his temples. “We need more than a concentration spell. Their wards are too strong.”

  “You’re right,” Chantmer said reluctantly, with a final glance down the corridor. “Those villains—I’ll break them, I swear by the Brothers.”

  They froze at movement ahead of them, and shrank against the wall as a figure appeared. It was only a servant girl carrying figs, grapes, and cheese on a tray—food for guards, obviously, not prisoners. The girl didn’t notice the two intruders as she hurried past, but it reminded Chantmer of their precarious position. They didn’t want to be here when the guard changed, or when the dark acolytes came around to see if any of their wards had been tested.

  Narud seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Let’s go outside.”

  Chantmer reluctantly agreed.

  The instant he’d made the decision to turn around, the need for fresh air and sunlight was almost overwhelming, and even though he knew it was the enemy’s protective spells doing it, he was practically running as he lifted his robes and hurried through the maze of corridors and chambers until he was in the fresh air, with Narud following on his heels. Once outside, the two of them looked at each other with rueful shakes of the head at how easily they’d been defeated.

  “Is that what the enemy faces when they try to find the library?” Chantmer asked. “It must be.”

  “We’ve been building our defenses for decades. What we faced was the work of a few days. It will only get harder for us.”

  Chantmer frowned. “This is supposed to be friendly ground for us, enemy territory for the dark acolytes. They are chipping away at our advantage.”

  “So what now?” Narud asked. “Return to the library and study until we find something to clear away their spells?”

  “No time for that.”

  “We need the master. Or even Markal,” Narud added. “He’d know what to do.”

  “We don’t need Markal,” Chantmer said, irritated. “If all we need is knowledge, there are plenty of archivists at hand. And we have no time to ask the master for help, either. If we’re going to save the vizier, it will have to be soon. Another day or two of torture, and it won’t matter if he’s alive or dead—they’ll have shattered him body and spirit. We either have to find a way through or accept that Kandibar is doomed and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “The servant girl got through easily enough.”

  “Of course she did. The spells are only designed to repel us, not those who work for the Veyrians.”

  “But that’s not how our defensive wards work,” Narud said. “They repel anyone not specifically invited. Remember when Kandibar tried to approach the gardens? He got lost, confused. Only members of the order can come and go. The same holds for the library—no servant could possibly find it, either by design or accident. But the servant was clearly no wizard or acolyte, and neither are the guards whose food she was carrying.”

  “Ah, I see. Then the wards are specifically targeting us, is that what you are suggesting?”

  “I believe so,” Narud said.

  “So all we need is to get our hands on the servant girl and bend her to our will. A little enchantment . . . not so different from what we did to that monkey.”

  Narud bunched his thick eyebrows as if turning this over, then shook his head. “As soon as you enchant her, the wards will attack her, too. Anything carrying our magic—even a monkey—would trigger them. It has to be someone who enters willingly, someone who already has privileges.”

  Chantmer took in his surroundings. They stood on a square terrace open toward the city in front, with private apartments opening from the other three sides. The apartments had once belonged to stewards and other functionaries of Omar’s palace, but since the khalif’s overthrow had been given over to the pasha’s lieutenants, those responsible for military control of the city.

  The open side of the terrace gave a view down toward the city, with the rural countryside beyond. The orange sun burned up the horizon as it dipped toward the hazy edge of the Dragon’s Spine, just visible in the distance. Was it already so late?

  Somehow they’d exhausted the entire day searching for the dungeon, memorizing their concentration spell, and then fighting the enemy’s traps and snares. A simple corridor, turned into a fortress.

  Smoke trailed into the sky from the kitchens, below and to the left, while more smoke rose from the right side of the palace. That was a furnace room, which heated water from the palace spring, forced it through pipes, and sent it into a number of bathing rooms for the viziers, the khalif’s harem, and other higher-level officials. Chantmer had been studying the former khalif’s sister ever since hearing about her proposed marriage to the pasha. She liked to be washed, perfumed, and freshly dressed before she took her supper. Most likely, she would be in a bathing room now.

  “There’s one place that won’t be guarded by enemy magic,” Chantmer said. “The baths.”

  Narud had been staring down toward the city and its bazaars, which had their own haze of smoke rising from a thousand cook fires, and now turned toward him with a quizzical look.

  “Come with me,” Chantmer said. “I have another plan.”

  #

  The concentration spell was gone, but Chantmer had grown adept at moving about the palace undetected, and it was no trouble to deepen the incantations shielding him and his companion from unwanted attention. They passed a stout, dark-skinned eunuch from the sultanates, armed with a spear and a curved, sheathed sword—a holdover from before the palace takeover—and entered the women’s baths.

  Chantmer had never been inside before, although he’d spotted the princess entering and leaving most evenings, and didn’t know precisely where to find her, but guessed Sadira wouldn’t be found in the common baths up front. So he only glanced in at the initial chambers, where ten or twelve women at a time washed in large steaming basins while others dressed or groomed themselves to one side. The next room back was larger, and also shared, but by only four women, these ones attended by servant girls who scrubbed them with soap and pumice stones, or rubbed them down with oils.

  Farther back lay the private chambers, small and intimate, with no outside windows, but lit by oil lamps, and perfumed with burning incense. From these chambers came the murmur of women speaking to servants and the soothing trickle of running water. The water from these initial basins would be reused by the servants in the latter chambers.

  The companions passed all the way to the farthest of these rooms without being detected. Narud distracted a eunuch with a small spell, and they entered the final chamber unchallenged. A nude young woman was stretched out on a small table above a stone basin of steaming water. Two fresh-faced slaves, one a boy and the other a girl, dribbled olive oil onto her back, buttocks, thighs, and calves and rubbed vigorously at her muscles.

  “Are we safe?” Narud asked. Neither Sadira nor her servants looked up at his voice.

  “I feel nothing except the magic we’ve brought with us,” Chantmer said. “Do you?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Still, we might have been followed.”

  “I can put up a ward,” Narud said. “It will warn us if on
e of the dark acolytes approaches.”

  Narud returned to the doorway to work, and Chantmer approached the princess, still undetected. He would let the spell fall in a moment, but first wanted to study Sadira and her slaves to better understand what he was dealing with. The pair attending her seemed to have been chosen for aesthetic purposes. The girl was dark skinned, of a complexion found only in the southernmost of the sultanates beyond the desert, and the boy had flaxen hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. A barbarian. Both were beautiful in appearance, as was the princess herself. Chantmer recognized this in a distant, objective way, as if he were observing the skill of a craftsman carving a chair or a sculptor working his stone.

  Had he ever experienced such animal desires as another man might feel looking upon the naked princess Sadira and her two beautiful young slaves? He couldn’t remember, but if so, those impulses had long faded.

  Sadira’s long black hair was already wet, so she must have bathed already, but she would likely enter and leave the water several times before she was finished. The servants would bathe her, massage her with oils, then bathe her again, before finally rubbing ointments and perfumes into her skin. The whole process could take two hours, based on Chantmer’s observations of her coming and going. A pampered, spoiled child.

  And she was hardly alone in her appetites. The ruling families of the east were a decadent lot, spoiled by generations of wealth and privilege. None of these ruling families had seen personal hardship, and their wars had largely taken place in foreign lands: clashes with the barbarians, expeditions against Kratian nomads, or skirmishes with sultanate troops on the Spice Road. It was no wonder that a few punishing years of drought had crippled the khalifates and allowed King Toth to sweep them into his growing empire.

  Chantmer unfastened the clasp at his throat, which opened his robe slightly, and thus unveiled him to the three people in front of him. The slaves massaging the princess drew back with startled exclamations. Neither was armed, and neither shouted for the eunuch at the door, who wouldn’t have been able to hear the warning against Narud’s spell anyway.