by Tom Lloyd
Emin shook his head. ‘No, nothing certain. The servants tell of voices in the night, laughter echoing through the walls and shadows in empty rooms. There is little sense to be made of it, yet it is reminiscent of Azaer’s deeds in Narkang.’ Emin bit his lip thoughtfully. ‘All we know for sure is that every single member of his staff swears that Cetess locked up the house as usual and retired to bed. When they awakened, the house was still locked, but he was gone. He hadn’t slept in his bed. There was no sign of violence, no body, no keys.’
‘So what do we do now?’
Emin raised an eyebrow. ‘I think I should hear about your evening.’ He sat at the small desk protruding out into the centre of the room and fixed his piercing blue eyes on Doranei, who eased his pack off his shoulders as gently as his injured arm would allow and let it fall to the floor with a metallic thud. He did likewise with his leather tunic, eager to be rid of its steel-strengthened weight, and dropped into the other chair in the room.
He cradled his left wrist. ‘My night at the theatre,’ he muttered with a rueful smile, ‘came about because of the good aim of a Farlan agent.’
‘Now you’re just teasing me,’ the king said.
Doranei held up his hands. ‘We’re not the only ones interested in Scree, not by a long way. Here’s what happened . . .’
King Emin and Doranei spent more than an hour, going over the faces in the crowd, the actors -and the vampire Zhia Vukotic. Doranei hadn’t been able to concentrate much on the play itself -a tragedy of mistaken identity centred around three princes all falsely claiming to be the Saviour -as his pain grew throughout the evening, but he tried to recall every detail. He watched a grim resolve fall over Emin’s face as he suggested, a little nervously, that one of the masked actors could have been Ilumene.
‘But you could not swear to it?’
‘No, his role was small.’ Doranei grimaced as he tried to clarify his suspicions. ‘There was something about the man’s poise. He overshadowed the lead actors without having to speak a word.’
The king didn’t reply. His chair creaked alarmingly as he leaned back, scowling into the distance. Doranei began to wonder what state Cetess’ wine cellar was in. All he could think about was spending what was left of the night in the loving embrace of a bottle.
‘Come,’ the king said at last, and made for the door. ‘We should speak to Endine and Cetarn. I think they will have to provide our first lead.’ He opened the door and stopped, his hand wrapped around the brass handle.
For a moment Doranei saw his king as a weary old man, embittered and burdened. The brilliant blue of Emin’s eyes looked dampened by age, and his hair in the weak light looked momentarily grey.
‘Don’t let me make this about revenge,’ Emin whispered. Doranei almost reeled in shock at the sudden show of weakness, but the king was lost in his thoughts and did not even notice. ‘Promise me that when it comes to it, you’ll stay my hand.’
‘I—you don’t mean to kill Ilumene?’ Doranei asked in confusion.
‘That’s not what I meant. Ilumene is now a valuable servant for Azaer, there can be no doubt about that, but that was not the only reason he was turned. It was one betrayal I could not stand, the one that would cloud my judgment. When the time comes you might have to remind me that our true goal is not revenge. Azaer grows stronger now - the twilight reign may soon be upon us, especially given that we believe the prophecy mentions this city, and then there will be no time for petty vengeance.’
Doranei’s eyes widened. ‘And Coran? He’ll kill me if I get between him and Ilumene.’
‘Let me worry about Coran; our bond is strong enough to restrain him. We must find Ilumene and the minstrel, and work out what they are doing. Revenge will have to wait.’
‘In that case, I will be there to remind you.’
‘Thank you.’ The king straightened his back and stepped through the doorway. ‘But first, we have to find them.’
The two mages they had smuggled over the wall into Scree while Doranei led most of the guards away were an unusual pair. No doubt there had been a good few jokes about getting Shile Cetarn’s bulk over the wall, though they all knew it was Tomal Endine who would cause the most problems -Mage Endine looked like a sickly child, with thin arms and pale, squinting eyes. He barely reached his colleague’s chest, but though he looked continually wary of being crushed by Cetarn’s bulk, he could usually be found in the larger man’s lee. If he had to run more than twenty yards, he would probably expire in a wheezing fit.
As weakness produced a constant nervousness in Endine, so Cetarn was infuriatingly cheerful, and as was often the case with close colleagues, the pair bickered and squabbled like an old married couple. Despite his physical frailties, Endine was also a fair battle-mage, and both had a grasp of the subtleties of magic that made them invaluable.
Doranei and the king found the pair at last in the attic, a dusty corridor running the length of the peaked roof and piled with discarded furniture, where they stood glaring at each other over a sheet-draped table that had been placed in the middle.
‘Gentlemen,’ the king said, a note of warning in his voice, ‘we will not be having an argument at this time of night. Our presence here is supposed to be secret. There will be no repeat of last year’s incident at the queen’s birthday celebration.’
Cetarn’s head snapped up. ‘If you think I’m going to let him get away with—’
‘You fat lying oaf,’ squeaked Endine furiously, pounding his fist on the table.
‘I said enough!’ the king barked, cutting both men off. ‘We have more important things to do than dwell on past squabbles. I asked you to discover what magic has been used in this house; have you discovered anything?’
The pair eyed each other warily until, with a shrug, Cetarn stepped away from the table.
‘If there was magic done here, it was not recent enough to detect. Considering the time period you mentioned, and the subtlety I would expect from the spell, that is hardly surprising. ’
‘But what we can tell you,’ Endine joined in, ‘is that there is a great deal of magic in this city; enough that my ears were fair ringing before we’d even got over the wall. Scree has no College of Magic, so either there just happens to be a lot of mages conducting research here, or something else is going on. There are a number of quite distinct flavours in the air.’
‘Can you tell them apart, identify their nature?’
‘Certainly, given time,’ Endine said with a nod. ‘Tonight we will prepare this place and make it secure. I shall give Tremal a list of our needs and the Brotherhood can secure them tomorrow for us.’ Endine gave a nervy grin; he was a compulsive thief himself, and he was much attached to Harlo Tremal, a man who could steal almost anything. ‘Then half a day of rituals will ward this house in the normal way, and another half-day will suffice to consult our daemon-guides and begin the process of unravelling the weaves in this city.’
‘Good. You should know before you start that process that Doranei here spent the evening with Zhia Vukotic.’
Endine blanched.
‘I do not believe she poses a threat to us,’ the king continued, ‘but I hope I don’t have to remind you that all vampires tend to be touchy, and Zhia possesses a Crystal Skull. Steer clear of her.’
‘Yes, your Majesty,’ Cetarn replied, nudging Endine, who, looking like he was about to be sick, nodded. Suddenly, Cetarn looked thoughtful. ‘That would explain some things. Are you likely to see her again?’
Doranei felt a prickle run down his neck as they all turned to him with expectant expressions. ‘I—ah, well, perhaps I could.’
‘Excellent. Try to find out how much she is using it.’
‘How do you propose I do that?’ Doranei asked, aghast.
‘I don’t care how.’ Cetarn’s plump lips widened in a smile. ‘However you can -my point is that the sheer scale of magic being used in the city could be largely explained by her use of the Skull, though I would be disappointed by her i
nelegance.’ He paused, lost in his thoughts, and frowned at the floor. ‘But the situation may have demanded it, I suppose.’
‘And you should know, your Majesty,’ Endine continued as his colleague trailed off into silence, ‘that there is a necromancer in the city.’
Emin glanced at Doranei. ‘Could that be Zhia?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Endine, as Doranei said ‘no’. The King’s Man hadn’t intended to speak and felt a flush of embarrassment as soon as the word escaped his lips. Emin gave him an inscrutable look that lasted longer than Doranei would have liked, but eventually decided not to comment.
‘I would expect an immortal vampire to be more than proficient in necromancy. That is logical. Whether she would bother with it is less certain -the discipline may be beneath a mage of her skill.’ Endine’s tone was one of professional admiration. It reminded Doranei of how the king had spoken of his first meeting with Zhia on the streets of Narkang. ‘I would not expect her to lower her skills to that level often, and the activity we have felt is on a much larger scale, done by someone with great skill and strength, who does not fear detection.
‘Of course,’ Endine continued with a preening expression, ‘we would not expect much of Scree’s mages, or those left within the White Circle. I doubt they are as accomplished as Cetarn or I, so it might just be that the necromancer has a healthy contempt for the city’s mages.’
‘Let us hope so,’ said Emin. ‘Well, Doranei, it looks like we will have to find you something more suitable to wear to the theatre next time. Gentlemen, finding this necromancer is your first priority. I suspect there will be few coincidences over the coming weeks, perhaps even this damned heat is part of it all. Azaer’s games are complicated, usually obscure, but never lacking in purpose. That there is a powerful necromancer in the city will be part of that game; I want him or her found. The more of this puzzle we uncover, the better our chances of stopping whatever Azaer intends for Scree. I suspect this will be the shadow’s boldest venture yet and I intend to spoil it.’
CHAPTER 17
The evening lay thick and heavy on the city’s streets. Twilight had brought only a slight respite from the fierce warmth and the cobbles radiated heat like cooling hearthstones. Without even a desultory breeze drifting past, Mayel sat slumped against the brick wall of the tavern and swigged warm ale that did little to allay his thirst. Beside him, Shandek was scrutinising every passer-by, occasionally running a hand through his long greasy hair as though he could brush the heat away.
Brohm was not with them. Shandek had sent the large man off with Shyn, one of his other thugs, on some errand that Mayel was not party to. Mayel hadn’t pressed the issue: Shandek was keeping that to himself to make the point that Mayel wasn’t yet in his inner circle, and wouldn’t be until Shandek saw some of the profit he’d been promised. You played it carefully with Shandek, whether he was your blood or not. He could see Shandek’s patience thinning.
Scree had settled into a piecemeal kind of existence now that summer had a firm grip on the city. The sun’s reign had forced the inhabitants into a twilight lifestyle. They attempted to sleep at night and through the hottest part of the day, leaving dawn and dusk for business. The air was syrupy, draining, sticky on the skin, and Mayel found it an effort even to raise his cup. The last few weeks had seen a cycle of terrific thunderstorms hammering the city, each clearing away only to begin building for another onslaught. The next was now well overdue.
Mayel was finding it an exhausting existence. The strange half-days were wearing at everyone. The stall owners ringing the theatre no longer called in constant banter to each other, instead staring disconsolately out at the near-empty streets. The previous day one had taken a filleting knife to her neighbour, for no reason that Mayel could discover. The only sound now was the rustle of a poorly affixed poster that proclaimed the name of the theatre’s previous play. Though the billing had changed today to a comedy called The King’s Mule, one poster for the dour tragedy A Lament of Feathers still remained.
‘What I don’t understand,’ Mayel croaked, ‘is how those damn flowers stay alive.’
‘Flow’rs?’ said Shandek, his voice slurred by torpor as much as alcohol. His head lolled as he fixed Mayel with a glassy look, for all the world like some ghastly animated corpse.
Mayel raised a finger and waved it indistinctly at the theatre. The surrounding walls were covered in long hanging bunches of henbane; its dark-toothed leaves glistened malevolently in the light of the torches that dotted the wall. Within a few days of the henbane being hung, buds had appeared and soon developed into bell-shaped yellow flowers. Despite the heat and the lack of either water or soil, the plants were thriving. During the day they were smothered in a constant hum of bees.
‘Those stinking great things. The crops in the fields are withering, so how do those stay alive?’
‘What do you know about flow’rs?’
‘Not much,’ Mayel admitted.
‘Shut up then. Look, the acrobats are comin’ out.’ Shandek pointed to the theatre gates as they opened for six figures dressed in bright clothes. Three were the albinos Shandek and Mayel had already encountered, still barefoot, but now wearing coats covered in long strips of coloured cloth. Two of the others were men; one was slim and wiry, with diamond-patterned tattoos covering his arms and a bloody teardrop on his face, a mockery of a Harlequin’s costume (though he was dressed in black, which no Harlequin would ever wear). The other was a sallow-faced individual who looked more a beggar than an actor, His hair was matted and filthy, his features drawn, his skin unhealthy, as though he had been sleeping rough for months now. That one was certainly no acrobat, but in his hands was a long wooden flute that provided a tune for the tumbling.
The sixth in their group was one of the reasons Mayel and Shandek were there. The woman with long rusty-red hair was a good few inches taller than her male companions, and the centre of the little troupe. Each step was sinuous and elegant; she was too graceful to be humanly natural, Mayel thought. When the woman danced, her hands and feet were so quick he could hardly follow the steps, but it was her precision and deftness that made his breath catch.
‘Our friend is back,’ Shandek commented with a nod towards the theatre. On the second-storey roof of the theatre, almost hidden against the thick blanket of cloud, Mayel could just make out a figure. A cigar end glowed bright for a moment.
‘Is it the same one?’
‘Aye, I’d put money on it. Ilumene, he called hisself, won’t forget him in a hurry. I’ve seen bully-boys of all sizes on these streets, and that’s not one I’d mess with.’ Shandek gestured up to the roof and grimaced. ‘Even if he didn’t have a crossbow on him.’
‘Why do you think he’s there?’
‘They’re expectin’ trouble,’ Shandek said. ‘You’ve only to walk down the street to see how tight-strung people are. I don’t know what’s goin’ on here, but there’s somethin’ in the air and it’s more than just a storm.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you been to temple recently?’
‘Hardly,’ Mayel scoffed. ‘It’s enough that the abbot makes me perform the devotionals every time I’m at the house without wasting more of the day at the temples.’
‘If you did, you’d notice you’re not alone in thinkin’ that. This time of year Belarannar’s temple should be near-full, not ’most empty.’ He went to pour himself another drink and found the jug empty. He squinted hopefully into its open mouth before slumping back against the wall with a sigh.
‘These last few weeks have been strange,’ he continued. ‘I’ve heard nothin’ from Spider, though I know his boys have been busy, what with fights breakin’ out all over the city and the city guard and Siala’s troops circlin’ each other. They don’t even bother with madmen preachin’ doom and destruction. I’ve had word the Devoted are sniffin’ past our borders in the east and it won’t be long before the Farlan make theirselves known.’
‘What do you think�
��s going to happen?’ Mayel asked anxiously.
Shandek belched, eyes fixed on the female dancer who was beginning to weave her hypnotic dance as the rat-like beggar played a slow, mournful tune.
‘I think the Farlan have left it too late; heard this Mistress Ostia has got the mercenaries too well-drilled to break at first sight of the Ghosts ridin’ up. Doubt they’ll find it easy to take the city. We all know the Farlan have no stomach for a long war.’ He tried to spit on the floor, but his mouth was too dry and all he managed was a sticky gobbet that flopped out onto his chin.
Mayel’s snort of laughter was quickly cut off by a sharp cuff to his head. He rubbed the sore patch and frowned at his cousin, but changed the subject. ‘So what’s this new play they’ve announced then?’
‘Called The King’s Mule,’ Shandek muttered, his voice thick with drink. ‘It’s rumoured they’re goin’ to execute a real criminal in the final act - that’s why all these people are here.’ He gestured around and Mayel gave a start as he realised they were surrounded by a crowd, all chatting and whispering fervently.
So much for death being entertainment for the mob, Mayel thought, with a bitter smile. The rich seem to have just as much of a taste for it. ‘They’re all here,’ he whispered, ‘noblemen, mages -even priests.’ He pointed at a man in the unmistakable white-streaked robes of Vasle, God of Rivers, who was haranguing three women, two of them in the robes of the White Circle. ‘They’ve all come to see; maybe we’ll find a buyer tonight.’
‘That priest hasn’t come to enjoy death. Vasle’s a gentle God; he’s here to object, I’ll wager. And he’s a brave one; that’s Mistress Ostia he’s tearin’ strips off.’
Mayel peered through the crowd of people. ‘How can you tell? Her face is covered by a shawl.’
‘See the one next to her, wearin’ a sword with her dress?’
‘I’ve seen a dozen different women from the Circle wear swords like that,’ Mayel objected, still unable to make out the faces.