by Martin Ash
He and Gully hauled Picadus out. He was too drunk or dazed to walk without support. They half-carried him to a nearby square where they laid him semi-conscious outside another taverna, then seated themselves on a bench and ordered mint tea.
Gully gazed up at the sky, where the sun had shed something of its fierce white haze and was sinking towards the roofs. For some time they remained lost in their thoughts, neither summoning the effort to speak. Eventually Gully said, ‘We should return to the palace to greet Prince Enlos, and who knows, perhaps even gain an audience with the Queen.’
Sildemund, his thoughts a welter of troubles, gave a doleful nod. He wondered again whether to mention the stone. He felt he owed it to Gully to do so, and would have welcomed his views.
‘Gully…’ he began.
‘Aye?’
Sildemund was reminded again of his father’s last words to him. He shook his head. ‘Nothing. You’re right. We should leave.’
Gully rose and stretched. He took the pot that had contained their tea and emptied the slops onto the ground, then strolled to a small fountain in the middle of the square. He swilled the jug and filled it with cold water.
Returning, he poured the contents over Picadus’s head.
Picadus came too with splutters and curses.
‘Come, lout. We’re leaving,’ Gully growled.
Exiting the square, Sildemund said, ‘Gully, if I’m not mistaken, we’re just a stone’s throw from the home of Kemorlin. I’ll try one more time.’
He led them down a side alley and in short order found himself to his satisfaction outside the orange-shaded villa. The hairless dog had returned to its sleep before the iron gate. Sildemund rang the bell, but there was no answer. He tried again, and again, with no response. Eventually he gave up.
A few minutes later, as they made their way out of the souk in the direction of the royal palace, they found themselves by sheer chance passing the crooked steps where Zakobar’s shop was located. Sildemund quickly darted up the steps, thinking to enquire after the old man’s health.
The shop was closed. Sildemund swallowed. The door and windows had been festooned with the heads of dried sunflowers – a sign of mourning in Darch. Death had visited the home of old Zakobar.
X
In the early evening Prince Enlos received them again in his chambers. Picadus, once more, did not attend. Upon returning to their palace chambers, mumbling and moaning, barely able to walk, he had collapsed on the bed and fallen into a deep sleep from which they made no attempt to rouse him.
‘You really ought to have him looked at by my physician, Doctor Artolo,’ said the Prince. ‘Your friend’s gloom seems profound, and Artolo is accustomed to treating the spiritually stricken as much as those smitten by bodily disease or injury.’
Sildemund was ashamed. He wondered whether Prince Enlos knew anything of the brawl that afternoon. Upon reflection it seemed unlikely, and he saw no advantage in raising the subject. But if Doctor Artolo were to visit Picadus he could not help but notice the cuts and bruises, and would surmise something of their cause. Within Sildemund there was conflict, concern that his – albeit unwitting – activities might cause embarrassment to his royal host. ‘You’ve done so much already, sire. Picadus is simply under a mild fever, I’m sure, and will quickly recover. You have been more than generous, and I am greatly in your debt, but I would not wish to impose upon you further. I thank you sincerely for everything. Tomorrow we will remove ourselves from the palace and take up lodging in the city for the duration of our stay.’
Prince Enlos dismissed the sentiment with a gesture of the hand. ‘Nonsense. I will hear nothing of it. You are my guests, and every convenience of my house is yours. And, with your permission, Artolo will visit your friend this evening.’
Sildemund could not refuse. He bowed his head. ‘Thank you, sire.’
Enlos spoke in an undertone to a servant, then gestured towards the dining table. ‘Now, come, eat, and tell me of your day.’
Another fine meal had been set on the table, though tonight the wine was far less in evidence. ‘You shall attend a brief audience with my mother,’ Prince Enlos revealed, as though in explanation. ‘Her Presence will be announced in due course, when we have dined. She is anxious to meet you – though I have not revealed to her your precise identities.’
Sildemund gawped at him. She, the Silent Queen, was anxious to meet them? It was politeness, of course. Yet the fact that Enlos had even bothered to say it, let alone actually arrange the audience, was a gesture of highest courteousness.
They ate, and Enlos enquired again as to the events of their day and progress of Sildemund’s business. Sildemund was reluctant to complain, yet his spirits were not high after the day’s disappointments and he had no appetite for dissimulation. ‘Alas, I’m not making the progress I had hoped, sire. The persons I had wished to see here in Dharsoul are elusive, to say the least. One seems never to be at home, and his staff lacks any facility for arranging an appointment; another will not see me for a month, by which time I shall be long gone; and a third was taken ill and died as I was about to speak with him.’
Prince Enlos arched an eyebrow. ‘That is unfortunate, and how disheartening.’ He chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of spiced capon. ‘Perhaps I might be of assistance. I am the Crown Prince, after all. My influence is not inconsiderable. Who are these persons you seek?’
Sildemund gave him the three names.
‘In the latter case, of course, even I can do little,’ said Enlos. ‘My powers do not extend to raising the dead, and I assume you have no desire to discourse with a corpse. Most tragic, though. And unhappy timing as far as your concerns are affected. But these other two scoundrels, Kemorlin and Ractoban… they are known to me.’
He raised his hands and clapped twice. A steward stepped forward. Prince Enlos spoke briefly into his ear and the man withdrew.
‘They will be with us before our meal is done,’ said the Prince.
Sildemund stammered his thanks.
They talked on, about this and that, though the tone was more subdued than the previous evening. Sildemund’s and Gully’s thoughts were on their imminent audience with Queen Lermeone, and Prince Enlos seemed a touch preoccupied and less given to spontaneity.
In due course a footman entered and spoke in an undertone to the Prince.
‘Show him in immediately!’ commanded Enlos. ‘And when the other miscreant arrives, show him in too.’
A bald, dumpy man, about fifty years of age, entered, glancing hesitantly from side to side. He wore a russet-coloured surplice, richly embroidered in gold and green, over baggy green pantaloons. A wide red cincture bound his ample middle. His face was plump and round, with flaccid rubicund cheeks, small eyes beneath pale brows, and a small, thin mouth. His eyes darted quickly over the occupants of the room before coming to rest upon Prince Enlos. He took three short steps forward and dropped to one knee.
‘My Prince! I am humble before you.’
‘And scornful behind!’ said Enlos. ‘Up, Professor Ractoban, and be done with your fulsome scraping.’
The man rose. ‘Sire, I have been summoned into your revered presence without prior notice. In order that I might be of service to you, I flew here as swiftly as was possible within the bounds of human endeavour. But I do not know the reason why I am called. I trust I have not displeased you in any way?’
‘You flew? I was not aware that you had mastered the magical art, Professor!’
‘No, sire, I meant – ‘
‘Yes, I know what you meant. And as for my displeasure, who knows what you’ve been up to, Ractoban? No doubt much would displease me were all your dealings divulged. But beware, for while there are certain things I may not know, there are many that I do. And you cannot be sure which are which. My loyal agents penetrate every den, every lair, every seething centre of “learning”. Be assured that they bring to my ears notice of all those who might preach subversion or unrest.’
‘Subve
rsion? Unrest?’ spluttered Ractoban. ‘My Prince, if you have received reports linking myself with any such activities, I can assure you that they are false. Most manifestly and utterly false! I am your most loyal servant, sire, as you must surely know. And the devoted servant of you revered and beneficent mother, also.’
He licked his lips with a quick pink tongue, and his eyes flickered uneasily over Sildemund and Gully, plainly wondering who they might be.
‘You are an educator, Ractoban. That is a position of great responsibility. ‘Remember that. Be sure at all times of the manner by which you ‘educate’.’ Enlos stood with his hands on his hips, his feet firmly apart. His expression was grave, though his blue eyes held a glimmer of sardonic humour.
‘Be assured that I do, sire, and I am. At all times the weight of my responsibility rests uppermost in my thoughts.’
‘Good. Now, I have called you here for assistance.’
Ractoban brightened, linking his fingers over his portly belly. ‘It is always a pleasure and a privilege to serve you, sire. I am yours to command. How might I be of service now?’
‘My good friends here tell me that they applied to you today at that nest of perfidy that you have the gall to term a university, and were informed that an audience with you could not be granted for another month.’
Ractoban threw open his hands. ‘Sire, I know nothing of this! I am a busy man, as you will appreciate, but if your honoured friends had mentioned that they came at your behest my clerks would have interrupted me upon the instant.’ He turned to Sildemund and Gully. ‘Good sirs, did you mention Prince Enlos’s names to my assistants?’
Sildemund shook his head. ‘I did not.’
‘Then my sincere apologies, but we could not have known.’
‘Ah well, no matter. You are here now – as are they,’ said Enlos. ‘The coincidence is apposite. They seek your advice.’
Ractoban made to address Gully, taking his age as indication of his senior station despite Silemund having responded to his previous question. But before he could speak the door opened to admit another attendant.
‘Master Kemorlin, sire.’
Kemorlin strode in, an imposing figure in his late-middle years, somewhat taller than average, solidly built, with long grey hair held back from his face by a pair of jewelled clasps, one on either side of the skull. He wore an ankle-length robe of deep umber pigment, and sandals. A variety of fabulous rings adorned his fingers, and around his wrists were bracelets of precious metals fashioned with glittering gems. He entered frowning, with an air of distraction, tugging at a flowing grey beard which fell to his sternum.
Kemorlin halted three paces before the Prince and bowed. ‘Sire!’
‘Ah, Master Kemorlin, you arrive at a convenient moment,’ said Prince Enlos. His voice was flat and almost brittle.
‘I came as soon as I was summoned, my lord. How might I be of service?’
‘My two friends here have spent the day endeavouring to meet with you, but found you unavailable. They seek your advice.’
Kemorlin turned to Sildemund and Gully. ‘In what capacity, good sirs?’
‘I- I am not entirely sure, as I’m not informed precisely as to the nature of your professional skills,’ said Sildemund, slightly intimidated by Kemorlin’s commanding air and gaze. ‘My father, Master Atturio Frano of Volm, was advised to seek you out – and Professor Ractoban, too – in the hope that you might be able to provide information that has so far eluded us in regard to an unusual item that has come into his – my father’s – possession.’
Prince Enlos gave a cold chuckle. ‘The nature of Kemorlin’s professional skills..? We know his many “skills” full well, do we not, Kemorlin? Kemorlin styles himself a master alchemist, a mystic, savant, mage, Dream-walker and a host of other titles too numerous to recall. He extorts a high price for his services, which by all accounts are not always given to success, so that some are moved to call him a charlatan and hoaxer.’
‘My lord,’ protested Kemorlin crisply, ‘the esoteric arts in which I have immersed myself and to which I have dedicated my entire life are unpredictable, without known limits, and beyond the ken or utility of ordinary folk. My clients are made aware, before ever they engage my services, that success cannot be guaranteed. You know this.’
‘Unlike your fees which, succeed or fail, are always guaranteed. In advance, as well. Is that not so?’
‘The materials of my trade are rare and expensive. They are consumed in the endeavour, regardless of its outcome. My training has been long and hard, and many of the tasks I undertake involve no little risk to myself. I charge what I consider suitable and fair. My profit margin, I assure you, is virtually negligible.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said Enlos. ‘Still, negligible though it may be, it has made you wealthy beyond the grasp of most men.’
Kemorlin stood proud. ‘I believe I am unique in my talents, sire. At least within Darch. Folk from far and wide apply to me for my services. It takes a grand toll. I’ve little time for myself.’
‘You’re not alone in that,’ responded Enlos archly. ‘And yes, your devotion is legendary. More than a few wives and daughters of wealthy citizens have attested to that. I’ve heard tell that there are those who have turned to you seeking an end to the woes and afflictions that burden their lives, only to discover that your methods can take “unusual” turns.’
Kemorlin regarded the Prince sidelong. ‘I know not what you refer to, sire. I apply my wisdom wherever and howsoever I can to its best effect.’
‘Hmph!’ Enlos eyed him tensely. ‘Well, be so kind as to apply it here this evening. Young Master Sildemund is in need of your expertise. His gratitude, genuine and heartfelt, will be sufficient payment on this occasion, will it not?’
Kemorlin stiffened. ‘If that is your wish, my lord.’
‘It is.’
Kemorlin faced Sildemund. ‘May I see the item to which you refer.’
‘I’ll fetch it at once. If you will excuse me for a moment, it’s in my chamber.’
He went quickly back to the apartment, a feeling of unease in his gut. He had hoped to avoid this moment: revealing the stone in the presence of Gully and Prince Enlos. Why should he feel this reservation? He trusted Gully implicitly, and the Prince could have no possible self-interest beyond mere curiosity. Indeed, he had already demonstrated only generosity and a willingness to help.
Still, Sildemund felt a sense of foreboding. He tried to dismiss it as irrational, but it had something to do with the stone. Deep within him was the fear, as yet vague and no more than a suggestion, that the moment now impending was to be the trigger for dire and catastrophic consequences.
He entered the apartment and grabbed his satchel from beside his bed. He looked quickly in on Picadus, who slept soundly, his snores breaking through the silence of the room, then returned to Prince Enlos’s chambers.
A heated discussion was in progress. As he entered, Sildemund heard the words “Garsh” and “Claine”. Both Kemorlin and Professor Ractoban had their voices raised. Prince Enlos stood before Kemorlin with a challenging glare, and the blood had risen to Kemorlin’s swarthy cheeks. Gully stood to one side, making no contribution to the conversation.
Prince Enlos used Sildemund’s reappearance to cut short the discussion. ‘Ah, you have the item now. Good. Let’s see this curiosity.’
He cleared a space on the dining table. As the others gathered round, Sildemund took his bundle from the satchel, placed it upon the table and began to unbind it. Was it his imagination or had a discomfiting silence descended? He felt tension, a stiffening between his shoulder blades. As the red stone was revealed he glanced up guiltily at Gully.
Gully stared at the stone, his features gaunt, before raising his eyes to Sildemund. Sildemund could not meet his gaze. He felt he had betrayed his friend by not revealing earlier what it was that he carried.
But did it really matter? Why did he place such importance on this act? It was just a stone, a strange stone
. Gully would not have expected to have been informed of the precise nature of Sildemund’s – that is, Master Atturio’s – business. There was no reason, therefore, why Gully should feel in any way aggrieved.
And yet… Sildemund still had no idea why his father had advised him against revealing the stone to Gully or Picadus.
Into Sildemund’s thoughts came the memory of Edric, his strange behaviour upon the initial discovery of the red stone, and his mysterious death in the cave. He had an image, suddenly, of old Zakobar, who had died this very afternoon directly upon setting eyes on the stone. A chill gripped Sildemund’s innards. He wondered again about Picadus, who seemed caught in a mounting inner rage, who now slept like a man drugged. His behaviour… it was so unlike him. Were all these things connected to the stone? It was hard, now, to doubt it.
Sildemund raised his eyes to Gully’s, and saw only mild surprise in his gaze, no trace of accusation. Emboldened, he observed the others.
Master Kemorlin had bent towards the stone, a fierce light in his eyes. His thick eyebrows were drawn together in a puzzled frown. Professor Ractoban’s chubby features were likewise moulded into an expression of dubious enquiry. Prince Enlos’s face seemed bloodless, all bar the cruciform scar on his cheek, which had taken on an unnatural lividity.
Then Enlos produced a stiff smile. ‘Quite obviously, this is no ordinary gem. Your faces show that it has captured the imaginations of you both. Well then, scoundrels, do not keep us in suspense. What have you to say?’
Kemorlin straightened quickly, as though stung. Ractoban likewise jerked out of his entranced state and a troubled look entered his eye. He moved around the stone, not quite touching it.
‘Where did you get this?’
Sildemund repeated the story he had given Zakobar that afternoon, nervously, for he felt he was on fragile ground. He glanced again at Gully, but Gully’s eyes were on the stone.
‘And you wish to know… what?’
‘Where it came from. What precisely it is. Whether it has value.’