by Tom Lloyd
‘Azaer?’ said Koezh, a little taken aback. ‘The false daemon-cult? ’
‘Azaer exists,’ Doranei confirmed. ‘It may not be a true daemon, but it’s certainly some sort of immortal, albeit an unusual one - Azaer has no form or physical power, unlike normal daemons, but it does have guile. It exists as a shadow only, teasing out the cruelty and arrogance in men for its own purposes. I doubt you’ll have come into contact with it, or its followers; the shadow is too weak to risk going near either of you.’ He hesitated. ‘Well, so King Emin believes, and he’s come into conflict with Azaer’s followers more than once. Azaer prefers to steal its followers, to use words and magic to turn them against what they once believed in.’
‘Which brings us back to this minstrel of yours,’ Zhia said. ‘I doubt you would have been able to see the wings but he was there tonight, watching the crowd.’ She felt Doranei’s body tense as she spoke, but pressure on his arm stopped the man from turning around to look at the building. She knew they would be watching her closely now.
‘My late arrival has left me without all the facts,’ Koezh interrupted, ‘and if I’m to play, I need to know everything. We have an immortal that is neither God nor daemon, and you tell me the criminal executed on stage tonight was no wrongdoer but a priest?’
‘Exactly so,’ Zhia said, remembering with distaste the final scene of the play they had just watched. It was surely no simple mistake that the theatre troupe had taken the wrong prisoner from the gaol for that night’s performance. ‘The entire play was a bitter mockery of the Gods, and then instead of using a condemned man as they were supposed to, they killed a priest, one I had put in gaol to cool his temper,’ she said bitterly. ‘Fate’s eyes, the priest had been complaining about the execution of men on stage!’
‘And the crowd laughed,’ Koezh finished, dismissing the irony with a shake of his black hair. ‘Azaer wants to turn the people of the city against the Gods? You said the temples have been all but abandoned in recent weeks, and you’ve had to post guards to stop people throwing things at the priests—’
He was interrupted by a terrific crash from somewhere up ahead, followed by the sound of splintering timber and crumpling walls. Screams and shouts were interspersed with cheers and laughter. The orange flicker in the night sky fell away as the burning building collapsed in on itself, but Zhia could hear a low growl swell menacingly, and she knew the light would soon return.
Footsteps echoed from the dark side streets: men skulking in the shadows, looking for easy prey. They must have decided Zhia’s party was not for them, thanks to her guards, and because she was wearing her white shawl, marking her as a woman of the White Circle. They weren’t all mages -only a few had any real ability -but rumour was a powerful tool, and many believed all who wore the shawl had magical powers.
‘But what is the goal here?’ she wondered aloud. ‘There is a very patient mind at work behind all this.’
‘It’s pretty obvious the actors are no simple band of travelling players,’ Koezh said. ‘Those albino siblings look like gentry to me, and if they’re here, in a city, they must have been stolen away from the woods they belonged to -and that, to me, is more remarkable than the presence of mages or Raylin.’
The clump of boots made them turn; two columns of soldiers trotted towards them. Seeing Zhia’s shawl, the man leading the troops barked an order in their jagged language and the men clattered to a halt. Some were injured and their scaled armour and fat shields looked rather battered.
Zhia recognised the leader’s facial tattoos marking him as an officer bonded by a Fysthrall woman. There were gaps in the ranks, so they must have seen some fighting already tonight. Zhia was intrigued and worried: a mob would have to be in a frenzy to take on real soldiers, especially troops as uncompromisingly efficient as the Fysthrall.
‘Calling Falcon,’ Zhia called, reading his name from his cheek. She was always a little disappointed that the Fysthrall’s methods of subduing a man’s spirit were so effective - when a soldier was bonded, he was given an animal’s name, for he was no longer a man, but a woman’s property, and his new name, his owner’s and his army unit were then tattooed onto his face. Crude, Zhia thought to herself, that it worked only confirmed their opinion of their menfolk.
The man bobbed his head in acknowledgement and hurried to her, kneeling immediately. ‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘You have lost men already tonight?’
‘Yes, Mistress; two died in an ambush. We killed many before they were driven off.’ His command of the local dialect was excellent, but his accent was thick. He kept his eyes on her feet; this one had been well trained, Zhia realised. He looked about fifty summers - forty parades, in Fysthrall, from the annual ceremony all males performed from the age of ten. She didn’t recognise his face or the owner’s name so she guessed the woman was either dead or of very low family status.
‘Are they attacking anyone, or just soldiers enforcing the curfew?’
‘Anyone, Mistress -several of your Sisters have already disappeared this night, I have heard.’
‘Well then, you will escort us home,’ Zhia said.
‘Mistress, I have orders—’
‘No longer.’ She pointed. ‘It’s that way.’
CHAPTER 21
Fordan Lesarl, Chief Steward of the Farlan, had spent his entire life in the service of his lord. He had been educated from birth to take his father’s place, taught how to use men like disposable tools. His foresight had led to the creation of a network within each city-state that was unrivalled throughout the Land. It was run by Whisper, one of Lesarl’s coterie of unofficial ministers, and based on a web of local agents well-used to dark-eyed men and women looming out of the shadows with a list of requirements.
The Farlan agent in Scree was a corpulent merchant, Shuel Kenn, who had done well to hide his surprise when Lord Isak himself had appeared and demanded a base for his operations. Despite the glitter in his eyes that suggested Kenn was already calculating the profit he might make from playing the dutiful host, he had spared no expense to fulfil his employer’s wishes. The house he provided for Isak was not his principal residence, but it was large and luxurious, and well situated in a quiet street a short distance from the homes of the truly wealthy, so they could enjoy the city guard’s protection whilst maintaining their privacy. A walled courtyard surrounded three sides of the house, and a large old chestnut tree in the middle obscured the view should anyone consider watching the rear, while the street-door was fortified against anything less than a full-on battering ram.
Tila and Vesna sat on a covered balcony at the rear of the house, facing the morning sun and drinking warm tea flavoured with lime and honey. After the horror of the two previous evenings, Scree was peculiarly silent.
‘All night, whenever I closed my eyes, I saw that stage covered in blood,’ Tila whispered, clutching her cup. The shadows around her eyes betrayed her disturbed sleep, and Vesna was worried that what few hours’ rest she had managed had left her even more troubled.
‘I know,’ he told her. ‘I’ve seen prisoners executed in public before, and never found anything in it to entertain me. To execute prisoners on stage, as part of a play -that’s abominable, but to murder a priest, before the whole city? It beggars belief. I haven’t the words.’ Vesna pinched the bridge of his nose against the tired ache building behind his eyes. He was a seasoned campaigner, and his own uneasy rest had taken him by surprise. ‘There was a time when death didn’t move me,’ he said, reflectively. ‘I wonder what happened?’
‘You grew up,’ Tila said, squeezing his hand affectionately. ‘I’ve decided that to survive as a soldier, you have to live like a child -to see everything through the eyes of an adult would be too much to bear.’
Vesna looked down at her fondly. ‘Perhaps you’re right. In Tor Milist, a sergeant told me I was thinking too much. Doing that’ll get you killed, but all I could think about was you. What a pathetic place to die; furthering the cause of a man I’d happi
ly kill. All those who died there . . . for the first time I felt guilty. I’d dragged them somewhere they had no need to be.’ He paused, his voice dropping low. ‘What a pathetic way it would have been to lose you.’
‘Don’t think like that,’ Tila said. ‘Duty took you there. I might not agree with Lord Isak, but he believes it was in the best interests of the tribe, and that decision is now his to make. We must obey our lord.’
Despite his despondency, Vesna smiled at Tila’s sudden vehemence. He frequently forgot the twenty summers between them, until some tiny detail brought him up short, and when that happened, the years sat heavier on his shoulders, even as Tila’s bright smile lifted him up.
‘Aye, we’ll follow his will, though he’s little more than a lad and you’re not much better! Gods, to be that young again.’ He pointed at the chestnut tree that dominated the courtyard. ‘That reminds me of when I was a lad; we had one at Narole Hall and I’d climb it every time I did something wrong.’ Vesna laughed suddenly. ‘It happened so often my father threatened to cut the damned thing down.’
‘And did he?’
‘No, it was an empty threat -he did exactly the same when he was a boy.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve started missing that house recently, though I’ve not lived there in years.’
‘What happened?’ Tila asked. ‘It’s your family home, isn’t it?’
Vesna gave a weary shrug. ‘I inherited my father’s debts. He was a good father, but a poor manager of estates, and I ran up a few more myself after he died. Don’t think I appreciated the place when I was young; parts of Anvee are beautiful, which is why a lot of old soldiers go there to find a peaceful retirement. Of course, they still need to eat, so they train boys like me, whose parents want them to last beyond their first battle. It’s only now I realise those old veterans found something genuine there. When I was a lad, all I could think about was getting to the city and joining the army.’
‘So you had to sell your home?’
‘Almost. The local magistrate was an old friend of my father’s and he found a merchant who liked the idea of living in an ancestral home. The merchant was a good man: he gave me a fair price, and agreed that if ever I could repay that money, with remarkably modest interest, I’d get my house back.’
‘But you haven’t?’
Her question provoked a flush of embarrassment. ‘Somehow I never managed to save the money - first of all I had a lot of debts to pay off, but since I had inherited an Elven blade from my father, and I was my swordmaster’s finest student, I decided paying debts wouldn’t get my home back, so I commissioned my armour from the College of Magic and decided to win honours on the battlefield instead. I knew nothing of trade, so where else was the money to come from?’
‘And the money you’ve made on the field has gone to servicing the remaining debts?’ Tila finished his sentence. This was a common story; those who held a debt could sell it or pass it on. It was a cruel system, for one missed payment, maybe because of illness, or an emergency, was often enough to start the descent into bankruptcy. Once they were caught in this trap, few found a way to escape.
‘Mostly,’ Vesna admitted. ‘When I was knighted I was given land, of course, but it’s not worth enough to pay more than a third of the debt. Perhaps I should give trade a go, now I feel too old for battle.’
‘Nonsense,’ Tila said. ‘There’s no one in the tribe Lord Isak trusts more than you; the sensible money’s on him appointing you as General Elierl’s replacement in Lomin. There’s no duke there, so the eastern border needs an experienced commander more than ever.’
‘But what if that’s not what I want?’ Vesna asked sadly. ‘What if my nerve’s gone, and all I’ve left is an unsavoury reputation, and not even a child to pass my weapons on to?’
‘But that’s not true,’ Tila insisted fiercely. ‘Your nerve isn’t gone or you wouldn’t have made it here; you’d have died outside Tor Milist. Doubting yourself is only human, but I know you’d not even pause to think before stepping between danger and your lord -and while we’re on the subject, do you think Lord Isak has never doubted himself? He’s only a little older than I am and he grew up on a wagon-train, yet we now expect him to make decisions that affect nations! Suzerains, dukes and high priests defer to him on theology and prophecy; Isak must be horrified at the life he’s found himself living.’ Her voice softened. ‘He’ll need you to understand a sane man’s doubts, otherwise you’ll not be there when he no longer knows which way to turn.’
They heard footsteps ascending the stairs from the unused study below and turned to see Major Jachen’s face bobbing up into view. Isak’s Commander of Guards always looked sheepish when he was forced to disturb them. Clearly he’d come straight from his bed and hadn’t passed a mirror on the way, for his hair was plastered down over his scalp on one side and sticking up on the other. He wore a loose linen shirt and, bizarrely, despite the hot weather, a Chetse warrior’s kilt.
It was the first time Vesna had ever seen a Farlan in Chetse dress. It had clearly been made for Jachen, for he was taller than most Chetse and the kilt still reached his scarred knees -yet another sign of how far Jachen had gone to evade his past?
Vesna smiled inwardly and breathed in the faint aroma of Tila’s skin. He had been forgiven his own reputation once he joined Isak’s inner circle; perhaps redemption was also within Jachen’s reach.
‘Count Vesna, Lady Tila; Lord Isak requests your presence.’ Jachen sounded awkward, as though the formality of his position still did not come easily to him. ‘We have a visitor,’ he added, ‘a woman, apparently one of the Chief Steward’s agents.’
Vesna hauled himself to his feet and offered a hand to Tila.
‘Major, have you managed much sleep recently?’ he asked suddenly. Jachen’s reddened eyes and sickly complexion made him look like he’d spent the last two days drinking. ‘For a man who’s just woken up, you don’t look very well rested.’
‘I find it hard to sleep in this heat, and my head’s been aching ever since we arrived here,’ he admitted.
‘Surely you’re used to the heat?’ Vesna pointed at the kilt; the Chetse lived far to the south and much of their territory was little more than desert. Jachen must have served there to get into the habit of wearing a warrior’s kilt.
‘This heat’s not natural,’ Jachen said, ‘but you’re right, it shouldn’t be enough to stop me sleeping. Feels like there’s something in the air, like a song just out of hearing. I’ll be glad to see the back of this city.’
‘How about your dreams?’
A hunted look flashed over Jachen’s face. ‘What about them?’
‘You don’t look like you’ve been having normal dreams recently.’
The commander lowered his eyes and said quietly, ‘Recently? Not for years now.’ He coughed and turned to leave. ‘Lord Isak is waiting downstairs.’
‘We’re coming, but . . . Commander?’ Jachen stopped and Vesna caught up with him and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. ‘Get properly dressed first. You’re not a mercenary any longer.’
There was a sparkle of defiance in Jachen’s eye, quickly checked. He nodded, and excused himself.
The open reception room that served as the heart of the house was ringed by enough pillars for a temple to Nartis. There was a mezzanine balcony, and above, it was open to the sky. Lord Isak circled a young woman, who was sitting comfortably on a cushion, watching her lord. Gone were the trappings of state and title; instead, Lord Isak, clad in a loose sleeveless shirt and cropped breeches, looked more like the suspicious, bare-footed youth he had been a year ago. Only the sheathed sword that he kept switching from one hand to the other and the whitened skin of his left arm that bore the kiss of a hundred searing lightning bolts marked him as someone different.
Two of Isak’s guards stood at the main door, armed with the short-handled glaives favoured by the Ghosts of Tirah. On the balcony Sir Kelet prowled, his beautiful silver-inlaid bow at the ready. Perched on the edge of the bal
cony, her bare toes hanging over the empty space below, was Shinir, Lesarl’s sour-faced agent. She was balancing her sickle-like khopesh, a brutal single-edged weapon, on her finger, and her long chain-link flail was draped around her shoulders. She never bothered hiding her dislike of Vesna, but he ignored her as he passed. Shinir could be a useful asset, but she was unstable, too close to being a Raylin for his liking. He knew that if he did get into an argument with her, he’d have to be ready to end it.
In contrast to Lord Isak, who fidgeted like a boy before his first battle, the young woman sitting cross-legged in the centre of the room was still and calm. Her hair was tinted red, like one of the White Circle, but she was undoubtedly a pure-blood Farlan.
Vesna felt a jolt as he realised he’d met her before . . . it took him a moment to place that beautiful face, then he had it: she’d been at a meeting in Lord Bahl’s tent, after the battle of the Chir Plains. She’d been standing silently at the side and he had dismissed her as an assassin. It looked like she was rather more than that.
‘Vesna, Tila, this is Legana,’ Lord Isak announced. ‘She is here to infiltrate the White Circle. Lesarl’s orders.’ He gave a sour laugh. ‘And although we’ve discovered their plans the hard way, she’s unearthed even darker secrets.’
‘My Lord?’ Vesna stopped. There was obviously more to Isak’s agitated state than just the sweltering nights and the magic unleashed throughout the city the previous night.
‘The death of Lord Bahl, or so she claims.’ Isak finally settled, leaning back against the pillar in front of Legana.
‘My Lord, I thought you would want to hear that part of my report first,’ Legana said.
Vesna thought he detected a slight northern drawl. ‘First the context,’ he said. ‘I want to know how you have heard such things; how such secrets were brought into the open.’
Legana bobbed her head, a wisp of rusty hair falling across her face. ‘Mistress Siala assigned me as an aide to Mistress Ostia -the name assumed here by the vampire Zhia Vukotic, as you know; Siala remains ignorant of her true identity. The night before last, Mistress Ostia -Zhia -captured the necromancer’s associates during the assault on his house. One was his assistant, who told us that his master was Menin by birth, and had been trained in his arts by Lord Salen himself. He was sent west to stir up trouble in these parts, and became acquainted with Cordein Malich, later becoming his apprentice.’ ‘Malich?’ Vesna gasped. ‘The Menin have been planning their invasion for that long?’ ‘But how did this necromancer’s apprentice bring about Lord Bahl’s death?’ Isak interjected.