A Kingdom Besieged

by Raymond E. Feist

  The entire wall around the city appeared seamless, as if crafted from a single stone of mountainous size. Gates to the north and south and smaller portals to the east and west appeared to have organically grown within the wall as it was formed, and the Warlock thought this might not have been far from the truth. Even the gates themselves were of stone, though how they were engineered to swing freely upon unseen hinges was beyond his ability to even guess at. Even the background tingle of magic he felt when Pug or Magnus used their powers was missing. There was a far more subtle sense of the otherworldly to this place, something he had experienced in a much more disturbing fashion when dealing with certain demons. That alone would have fascinated him, but it was merely one of a million details that strove to capture his thoughts.

  Everywhere there was colour, subtle but vivid. Columns of pale sand and rose edged in white or silver rose to support graceful arches above streets. Even the streets were paved with alternating squares of bright ochre and grey, with light purple grouting in between. Window shades were of the finest silk, many-layered to block unwelcome gazes yet allow light to enter. And the gold! Everywhere gold glistened in the sunlight, decorating the poles from which flew bright banners and pennons. Gold adorned doors and windows and ran as trim along rooflines. It was astonishing.

  ‘I’m gawking, aren’t I?’ he asked his host.

  Gulamendis, Demon Master of the taredhel, smiled. ‘More than one visitor to E’bar looks as you do now. You’ll get accustomed to it.’ Glancing around to see if he was being overheard, he added, ‘Truth to tell, we are a vain people. And I suspect my people look much that way when they visit Elvandar.’

  ‘Do many of you journey to pay homage to the Queen?’

  ‘More than the Lord Regent likes.’ He paused, awkward. ‘Come, let us refresh ourselves. You will pay a courtesy call on the Lord Regent later today, but before that we must speak of many things.’

  The elf’s tone was almost conversational but Amirantha had spent enough time with Gulamendis to know that his host was troubled and that many things were best not discussed in the open. Amirantha had arrived at the eastern portal and had not been allowed to step into E’bar until Gulamendis arrived to escort him. The Warlock had the distinct feeling that had his host not put in an appearance, he might have found it difficult to depart in peace. The two Sentinels looked like seasoned, hardened fighters, not the sort of city watch or constable one tended to find on the gates of a human city.

  In the distance a baby’s crying could be heard briefly until it was calmed by its mother. ‘I understand babies are a rarity among your kind,’ Amirantha said.

  Gulamendis looked at him with one raised eyebrow. ‘Really. Who told you that?’

  ‘Perhaps I misunderstood.’

  ‘If you are thinking of the other races of the edhel, perhaps. But the taredhel are a fecund race. I know little of our distant kin, but we enjoy our children.’

  Amirantha had the sense that he had stumbled across something significant but couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. He decided to wait until such a time as he could speak with Pug, who knew as much about the elves as any human living.

  They reached Gulamendis’s quarters and the elf beckoned for his guest to enter.

  As quarters went, the Warlock had lived in far worse, but somehow he had expected a little more, given the opulence and splendour he had seen elsewhere in this city. The walls were bare, with no decoration of any sort, and the only furniture was simple: a bed, table, chair which Gulamendis offered his guest while he sat on the bed, and a pair of chests. The one other thing that caught his eye was a small case of scrolls and books. Otherwise, it looked more a monk’s quarters than a scholar’s.

  ‘Where do you eat?’ asked Amirantha.

  ‘We have a large kitchen in the square. We all take turns helping, cooking, cleaning. Should I choose a mate, larger quarters will be found for me, and once children arrive, larger still.’ He smiled. ‘There’s little chance of that, I suspect.’

  ‘Really?’ The Warlock knew very little about the Star Elves, but he had a vague sense that the elf with whom he spoke was not well regarded.

  ‘I will say, though, these are better quarters than the last the Lord Regent allotted me.’

  Amirantha frowned. ‘I was housed for weeks in an iron cage in the Lord Regent’s compound while my brother was exploring this world, as a hostage against his good behaviour.’

  ‘Sounds uncomfortable.’

  With a small, bitter laugh, the Demon Master said, ‘It was. So, we invited you years ago, and now you appear. Why?’

  ‘To the point,’ agreed Amirantha. ‘Pug and I have been chasing every tale of demon or summoner since we witnessed—’ he paused as Gulamendis held up his hand, palm outward, cautioning him against specifics, ‘—what we witnessed. So far we have found little that is useful: empty huts, abandoned homes, deserted caves. Or we find signs of conflict and destruction. Not one demon summoner we had working for our . . .’ he glanced around, ‘. . . friends, has survived.’

  At the choice of words, Gulamendis queried, ‘Survived?’

  ‘Someone, it appears, is hunting down Demon Masters and summoners,’ said Amirantha quietly. ‘And it appears a fair number of demons have come into the world and broken wards and killed their summoners.’

  ‘They’d be powerful,’ said Gulamendis thoughtfully.

  ‘But where are they?’

  Gulamendis was silent for more than a minute as he pondered the question. Finally he said, ‘How many do you estimate?’

  ‘More than a dozen.’

  ‘Ah.’ He smiled as he looked at his human friend. ‘Now I see the reason for the visit. Does Pug know?’

  ‘He knows there are more than a dozen demons loose in this realm. He doesn’t know the significance of that fact.’

  ‘Demons hiding.’ Gulamendis appeared amused by the revelation. ‘It hardly bears contemplation, does it?’

  The Warlock was forced to agree. ‘Nothing like this has occurred before.’

  ‘That we are aware of, you mean.’

  Amirantha, Warlock of the Satumbria, let out a long sigh. ‘Because if this is true, one must ask, how many others are there we know nothing of, and—’

  ‘Why are they here?’ finished the elf.

  * * *

  Child studied the terrain below. It had been a week since she had devoured her mother and she had fed only three times since. Most of the energy consumed had gone to replenish her already-depleted strength, but she had gained a little size and power. She didn’t question how she knew what she knew: what she had inherited from those she ate, and what was from her own experience. She didn’t care. She had to survive. That was all she needed to know; everything else was academic.

  A group of three small creatures huddled below an overhanging rock, much as she and her mother had a week before, waiting for dark apparently in the hope that they could find better shelter. She wondered why they weren’t concerned by night predators. She knew the night predators to be even more dangerous than those who hunted in the day.

  This piece of knowledge wasn’t something she had inherited; this was from experience. There had been a bitter fight the night after she had consumed her mother. The night hunter had been upon her before she had even known she was under attack. Only a slight misjudgment on his part had saved her, for rather than snap her neck the hunter had bitten deep into her shoulder. She used the scant instant she had gained to reach up with her left hand and use her claws to good effect. She had forced him to release his bite, then spun while yanking his head back until it had been her fangs ripping out his throat.

  She had gained a great deal of knowledge on how to hunt in these mountains from him. And her night vision was now ex ceptional. She had used her new abilities to good advantage, but even so, the amount of prey was scant. Now she looked down upon a possible feast.

  It depended on how able these three were likely to be at protecting themselves. She had
learned almost at forfeit of her life that there was a gulf between knowledge and experience. By consuming the Archivist’s knowledge, she knew a great deal more than any her age among the People should know, but as far as experience was concerned she still was a child. The Child, as she thought of herself.

  But although she lacked experience, she possessed cunning. She was sure she could master all three of these pitiful fugitives if she planned . . . Planned? she thought. Until that moment her existence had been mostly in the moment, with some part of her consciousness knowing she needed to move east, to get away from the advancing darkness. She wished she could trap a flyer, for if she could consume one, she might gain the blessing of flight; her essence was still forming, and with flight she would be able to hunt better, move faster, and reconnoitre more efficiently. Unfortunately, flyers had been rare and when she had seen them they had been far too high to attract their attention. Besides, she had considered at last, any flyer bold enough to attack her directly would probably be both experienced and powerful.

  Glancing around, she saw the shadows deepen, dark maroon and purple shades slipping into black, while the brilliance of the red, yellow, and orange rocks faded to grey before her eyes. There was something tickling at the edge of her mind, a pleasant feeling at witnessing this otherwise prosaic event. After a moment she connected it to a concept; it was nice to look at; it was . . . pretty? Yes, that was the concept. It made her feel better to look at something pretty.

  She waited, and when the sun was low in the west the three fugitives came out from their hiding place. She instantly recognized the robes of the last to emerge: another Archivist. She smiled. Scampering above them for a dozen yards, she leapt upon the first in line, breaking his neck before he could react, then wheeled and ripped out the throat of the second.

  The Archivist crouched, seeing the futility of running from a more powerful opponent, and backed away. What was he doing? she wondered. Then she laughed. ‘You think that if hunger has driven me to a frenzy, I may devour these two while you make your escape?’

  The Archivist said, ‘Yes, that would be logical.’

  She tapped the side of her head. ‘I know things, too. I have devoured one of your class.’

  The Archivist stood, drawing himself up to his full height. He was about the size she had been days before; now she towered over him by two heads. ‘Why do you not attack?’

  She moved towards him purposefully. ‘Tell me about the difference between knowledge and experience.’

  ‘Knowledge is abstracted,’ he answered, ‘learned from any number of sources. Experience is that which we encounter in our own right, as life brings it, and from which we process knowledge that can be gained no other way.’

  ‘Which is better?’

  ‘Knowledge,’ said the Archivist without hesitation. ‘Experience is limited, while knowledge can be gained from many other beings’ experiences.’

  ‘But knowledge without experience . . .’ she began.

  He finished, ‘. . . limits how well that knowledge can be applied.’

  ‘What is missing?’

  ‘You need a teacher.’

  She smiled. ‘Yes. If you teach me, I will let you live; more, I will hunt for you.’

  Seeing the powerful young female before him, the Archivist knew there was only one answer that would enable him to live beyond the few seconds. ‘I will teach you. I am Belog.’

  ‘I am Child. Come, eat with me.’

  Seeing nothing odd in it, the Archivist joined his new student in feasting on the two servants who had moments before been his companions. He considered that while he had not devoured a companion since his youth it was, after all, the way of the People.

  No matter how civilized their King Dahun might have tried to make them, they were at heart the same as the Savage Ones or the Mad Ones. At their core they were all demons.

  Chapter Five Court

  THE HERALDS BLEW THEIR TRUMPETS.

  The entire court turned and bowed as the King of Roldem entered, escorting his wife to their twin thrones at the far end of the great hall of the palace.

  The hall was bedecked in the royal colours, large banners of powder blue with golden trim, featuring the dolphin crest of the royal house. The King’s personal guard likewise wore tabards of the same colours, but the rest of the evening’s finery was a riot of different hues.

  In years past the fashion of the court had gone through a phase Jim Dasher thought of as ‘drab’. Muted grey and black attire for the men and deep, dark colours for the women’s gowns, but this season those who decided such things had decreed that bright festive colours would be the choice. Jim felt a little odd in a brilliant green tunic and yellow leggings. He prayed that trousers would return to fashion soon; he disliked tights.

  His black boots were ankle-high and the most valued item he wore; despite their fashionable appearance they were durable and versatile, just as useful for clambering over rooftops without slipping as for slogging through the sewers, since they could be cleaned with a simple wipe of a cloth.

  Jim hadn’t clambered over a rooftop or slogged through a sewer for a few years, but some habits were hard to break. He glanced around the room.

  Young Lord Henry stood next to Ty Hawkins, while Talwin Hawkins was in conversation with a minor Keshian noble. Jim made a note to ask Tal what the Keshian had wanted to speak of. He knew that war was almost certainly coming and he knew that every agent of Kesh in the Kingdom Sea region would be gathering every scrap of information out there, as were his own agents, some fifteen of which were currently on this island.

  Jim kept his frustration buried: to the casual onlooker he would be another minor Kingdom noble come to the court of Roldem for personal or political gain, but one hardly worth more than a cursory examination despite his famous grandfather. At this point in his career, Jim knew he was known to his enemies, who were many, and appeared transparent to those who weren’t. This was as he wished it, for as long as the pretence was kept up, no harm would come to him when he appeared openly at court. It was when he vanished from sight and emerged among the shadows that murder would begin.

  Jim moved among the crowd making his way slowly towards the throne. He could expect to be presented to the King in about an hour, some time just before the Champion of the Masters’ Court was presented.

  He studied young Ty Hawkins, involved in an animated conversation with Henry conDoin. The King of the Isles’ distant cousin listened with a smile as his opponent of the previous day told a tale.

  It was on young men such as these that the fate of the Kingdom of the Isles, and perhaps all of Triagia, would turn, Jim knew. Capable young men who were free of the corruption of politics and greed.

  Ty was problematic, because his father was a Kingdom noble in name only. That fiction had been created by the Conclave to employ Tal as a weapon for the Conclave’s service, and it gave him entrance to certain venues in the Kingdom of the Isles, just as his rank as past Champion of the Masters’ Court gave it to him here in Roldem, but Talwin Hawkins was a grudging servant of the Conclave at best and no servant at all at worst. Still, keeping him at least as an ally would serve, if the son could be captured, thought Jim. And if the need arose, Jim had the power to make that false patent of nobility a real one. Not that Tal needed it, as he was becoming rich beyond the dreams of the mountain boy he had once been, but it might prove useful to turn his son into a Kingdom noble some day. In Roldem they would both have status as Champions of the Masters’ Court, but neither would achieve rank. And as Jim knew rank, as well as privilege, had its uses.

  Now it was Henry’s turn to tell a tale. Jim had no doubt both stories were being inflated to bolster the young men’s standing; they stood like two young roosters with their chests puffed out, seeing who could crow loudest at daybreak. One day they’d be bitter rivals or like brothers, and only fate would determine which it would be.

  Jim looked away from the throne and felt his heart sink. Making a beeline for him
was the Kingdom of the Isles’ ambassador to Roldem, his excellency Lord John Ravenscar; and on his arm was none other than the Lady Franciezka Sorboz.

  ‘My lord,’ said the ambassador, fixing Jim with a sceptical look. ‘I was unaware you were in Roldem,’ he said. It was customary for Kingdom nobles to make themselves known to the ambassador upon arriving on the island.

  ‘Apologies, your excellency,’ said Jim. ‘The press of business caused me to be remiss in my duty.’

  ‘You know the Lady Franciezka, I believe,’ said the ambassador. The sight of the portly bureaucrat, resplendent in a maroon silk surcoat, white ruffled suit, and white leggings made Jim wish even more fervently for the return of men’s trousers to this court, for he looked like nothing more than a fat-bellied, spindly-legged turkey in those hose.

  Franciezka, on the other hand, looked magnificent in whatever she wore, Jim knew from experience. She also looked magnificent wearing nothing at all, which Jim also knew from experience. They had been lovers on several occasions, and she had tried to kill him twice, for purely professional reasons. She was one of the King of Roldem’s deadliest agents and ran the equivalent of Jim’s intelligence service, the Secret Police of Roldem.

  She had the face of a girl ten years younger, a fact that had enabled her to disguise herself as a child when needed; she could look the part of a girl of fifteen or less or a crone of eighty years. She had a slender body bordering on the boyish, except for a round backside which Jim had always had a weakness for, but he knew her body to be as strong as a rapier’s blade, deadly despite being slight.

  Pale blonde hair which was almost white in the day’s sunlight framed delicate features. Large blue eyes turned upon him as she said, ‘Why, Lord James, I’m almost as aggrieved as the ambassador at your not letting me know you were in the city.’

  She wore a brilliant yellow gown with green silk trim set with pearls of white and black, and a series of gold-threaded tassels hung at the hem, sweeping the floor as she moved. Like the other ladies’ gowns this evening, her décolletage was cut low, the bodice was lifted, and the waist cinched. Jim wondered how women breathed in these outfits. The skirt flared out slightly to the sides and behind, with a daring slit up the front to knee height.