In the end, it had the opposite effect, fostering resentment in them both until they had no choice but to cut off contact altogether. She saw that same resentment in him now.
‘What do you need?’ he said coldly. The sullen anger in his voice wounded her afresh, but she’d suffer the scars if it brought them the Ember Blade.
‘Introduce me to the Master of Keys,’ she said, nodding towards her quarry. ‘Tell him I am fascinated by his work and wish to hear all about it. I am Lady Harforth, a dear friend of yours from Harrow.’
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Whatever plan you have in mind, I am already damned by inviting you.’
He walked away without waiting for reply, brusque enough to be insulting. She followed him. In the weeks and years to come – if she lived to see them – she’d pore over this meeting and relive the chill agony of his anger like hollow icicles in her guts. But there was more at stake than her feelings, so she built her walls, bricking up the hurt inside. By the time they reached the Master of Keys, she was composed and ready to play the game.
‘Your pardon,’ said Danric as he reached the group.
‘Malliard!’ said the youngest of the men. He was an acquaintance of Danric’s, and obviously quite impressed and excited by the fact. ‘This is Danric Malliard,’ he told the others, ‘inventor of the Malliard Limb. A fine fellow, be assured.’
Greetings were exchanged, friendly smiles and handshakes. When the men were done with their welcomes, Danric gestured to Mara, whom no one had acknowledged till now.
‘May I introduce Lady Harforth of Harrow? She is a dear friend of mine, and she is so full of questions about the Master of Keys that I thought you two should meet.’
‘Oho!’ cried the master, preening. ‘Questions, is it? I shall be glad to answer! Jarrit Bann, Master of Keys at Hammerholt, at your service.’
‘So kind of you to take the time to indulge my curiosity,’ said Mara, affecting a Harrish accent. ‘Tell me, is it true you have the Ember Blade here in Hammerholt?’
The other men chuckled and exchanged indulgent glances. Mara seethed inwardly but she kept her tongue still. She knew the role she must play if she wanted to keep him busy. Intelligence was disconcerting. Assertiveness meant she was uppity. Pleasant deference was all that was remained.
‘It is indeed true,’ said the master, his thick-fingered hands folded over the large gold medallion that rested on his belly. ‘The Ember Blade is secured in a vault in the heights of this very fortress, waiting to be delivered to Prince Ottico on his wedding day.’
‘Ossia’s most prized relic,’ she said. ‘It is a great responsibility you carry! What if some thief should pick the lock?’
‘My lady, I welcome them to try!’ He guffawed. ‘They would have a hard time finding a lock to pick!’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Mara, with a confused smile.
‘The vault door is quite unbreakable and there is no keyhole in it. The mechanism that secures it is a wonder of Krodan craftsmanship, installed to replace the inferior Ossian version after Hammerholt was taken. But to say more would be indiscreet, and I am nothing if not discreet!’
The men laughed at this; some shared joke she was excluded from. Before the conversation could turn away from her, she asked him another question about his duties in Hammerholt. The Master of Keys was flattered by her interest and happy to describe his day at length. Soon his companions lost interest and began to talk among themselves. Danric excused himself with a last warning glance at Mara. She ignored him, though her heart felt him go.
Now that she had the master to herself, she feigned fascination in order to learn more. He talked readily about things of little importance but became cagey if she pressed him for details. It was good to have confirmation that the Ember Blade was in Hammerholt and being kept exactly where they thought, but his cryptic hints about the vault door bothered her. If there was no key, then how was the door to be opened? She needed to find out, but she dared not press too hard for fear of arousing his suspicions. Time and again she was forced to dance away from the subject, and time danced away from her.
They were interrupted by a servant ringing a bell, asking those guests who were dining to take their places.
‘Madam,’ said the master. ‘It has been a pleasure, but I really must retire.’
‘Oh, you are not dining?’ Mara asked.
‘I am not,’ he said. He patted his stomach and gave her a rueful smile. ‘My doctor advises I stay away from feasts and strong drink, and I fear my will is weak. I will take a small meal in my study, with my books for company.’
‘Ah.’ She gave a regretful sigh. ‘I am no lover of raucous feasts, either. Would that we could continue our conversation in some quiet spot instead.’
It was a desperate ploy, and she was ashamed of it, but she’d never had the art of light conversation. The Master of Keys looked a little embarrassed on her behalf. Krodans thought it unseemly for a woman to go off alone with a man at a party, unless she was a certain sort.
‘I would like nothing more,’ he lied, ‘but I’m sure a lady of such grace would be missed at the dining table.’
He was attempting to get away with as much elegance as he could muster. Mara felt a flutter of panic. She couldn’t let him go. This was her task, and she was failing it, and she wasn’t used to failing anything. She snatched for an idea and blurted it out.
‘Do you think a woman could ever be the Master of Keys?’
Her question stopped him, and several of his cohorts turned back in the act of leaving. Suddenly everyone was interested in their conversation. Mara saw one man hiding a smirk behind his hand.
‘I … well … Whatever do you mean?’ the master floundered.
‘You must forgive my pestering you with questions, but they were all for a purpose,’ Mara improvised frantically. ‘It has been something of a foolish desire of mine to one day call myself Mistress of Keys in some wondrous old castle.’
One of the men snorted down a laugh and was quietly struck by his companion, who was also trying to keep his composure. It was so absurd a wish that Mara blushed.
‘And why not?’ she asked them defiantly. ‘Why should it not be so?’
‘Well … There are many good reasons, I’m sure …’ said the master.
‘Name some,’ one of his companions urged, enjoying the master’s discomfort. The other man snorted again.
The master shot him a venomous look. ‘It’s just … Well, the post of the Master of Keys requires an immense capacity for organisation, you see. I am in charge of the security and care of many precious objects. I see to the safety of a large number of important individuals. With so many considerations to account for, it requires a level of logical and tactical thinking that, I’m sorry to say, is beyond the capacity of a woman. A lady’s mind is more inclined towards nurture and care, the conversational arts and certain crafts at which they exceed.’
Mara smiled sweetly to conceal the fact that her blood was boiling. ‘Logical and tactical thinking, you say? Such as might be employed in a game of castles?’
‘Exactly so!’ said the master triumphantly. He threw his arms wide, appealing to his fellows. ‘I have played castles since I was at my father’s knee. Hundreds of games, against all manner of opponents! And never once, not once have I been beaten by a woman!’
Mara raised an eyebrow.
91
Klyssen hurried through the corridors of Hammerholt, Harte limping at his heels. By his side was a young underwatchman called Oslet, freshly blooded, lean and eager. Oslet might have been guiding them but Klyssen set the pace, keeping it brisk enough to make Harte struggle. Tormenting his subordinate had begun as a necessity but ended up as a habit.
‘The prisoner is just down here, Overwatchman,’ said Oslet.
They passed doorways that rang with the sound of cutlery and conversation, pulsing waves of sweaty heat out into the cool corridors. The formal dining rooms were on the floor above; this floor was for the
guests’ retinues: their footmen, servants and guards. Their feasts had all the noisy ruckus of a beer-hall.
Worry put speed in his step. The royal wedding was a prime target for every dissident in Ossia and the Iron Hand was on high alert, but despite the danger they had strict orders to conduct their business out of sight. Whatever happened behind the scenes, the prince wasn’t to be troubled.
Yet Klyssen heard that he had been troubled, by a Sard lutist with a seditious song.
A Sard lutist. It cannot be a coincidence.
At least Oslet had come to him with the news, and not the Commander. Klyssen had already been chewed out by that senile old fool once today. It wasn’t enough to capture the most wanted man in Ossia, apparently. He should have brought in the whole Morgenholme network with him. Commander Gossen had demanded to know why he’d let Aren go, why they hadn’t re-arrested Keel when they had the chance and tortured him to make him talk. When Garric hanged at dawn, the Iron Hand would lose their only link to the Morgenholme rebels. So why had he done it?
Because I know my job, you withered old bastard. Because neither Keel nor Aren would have talked in time if I’d tried to make them sell out the whole group. Because I made a deal, and I honour my deals, for I represent an Empire which is fair and just. Without their Dawnwarden, they’re a headless rabble not worth the effort of hunting, and the most they’ll manage from now on is some mildly offensive graffiti. Also, it’s hardly my fault if the higher-ups would rather hang Garric for show than give us the time to interrogate him.
But there was a worm of doubt in his mind. He’d misread the boy, he had to admit that. He’d waited in a dark, cold house in the ghetto with his men, but Aren had never come. The humiliation of ordering his men home wasn’t one he’d soon forget. He wouldn’t make the mistake of being merciful a second time.
When Garric swung from a rope tomorrow at dawn, Klyssen would be there to collect the glory. The Chancellor could hardly refuse him the position of Commander then. Gossen would go back to Kroda to live out his twilight years in the motherland, and his lickspittle Bettren would be out in the cold.
Unless the Commander was right. Unless Garric’s companions managed to make trouble without him.
Oslet led them to a small, disused room on the edge of a vacant wing of the fortress. Captain Dressle was there, with another grim-faced guardsman and a watchman second class, of equivalent rank to Harte. The prisoner, who’d been seated in a chair, sprang to his feet as Klyssen entered.
‘I didn’t know!’ he cried. ‘By the Primus, you must believe me! The Sard bitch was sent to ruin me!’
Dressle moved to intercept him, but Klyssen held up a hand. The prisoner was an angry dandy and Klyssen despised him on sight; but he was desperate to talk, and Klyssen was of a mind to let him.
‘I am Edgen, leader of the finest musical troupe in Morgenholme,’ he gushed, relieved that someone was finally listening. ‘Yesterday our lutist fell ill, likely to a poison administered by my rival, and that very day I met a Sard with the skills to fill her place. I should have known then, but alas! I was too eager to perform for the prince to see the trap. I had no idea she would play such a scandalous song for his Highness! I tried to arrest her myself, but I was stopped so I reported her to the Iron Hand. I had nothing to do with—’
‘Stopped?’ Klyssen interrupted him. ‘By whom?’
‘A Harrish, a noble sort. Tall. His hair was cut in that ridiculous style they favour, as if a dome had been placed upon his head and a blade passed around it—’
Klyssen felt his guts tighten. A Sard lutist and a Harrish noble. The same couple that had been at the Reavers’ Rest. There was no question, then.
‘Captain Dressle, take some men and go to the dungeons at once. Secure the prisoner. No one sees him until I tell you otherwise.’
‘Yes, Overwatchman. Hail to the Emperor.’ He saluted and left, taking the other guard with him.
Klyssen looked at the watchman standing by the door. ‘You did well to bring this to my attention. Keep this man here, out of the way. I’ll deal with him later.’
‘But I—’ Edgen began. A sharp look from Klyssen persuaded him of the advisability of silence. He sank fretfully back into his chair.
‘Watchman Harte, find the Sard and the man called Harod. Use whoever you need, on my authority, but for the Primus’s sake, be discreet about it.’
‘What will you do?’ Harte asked.
‘There are two here we know of,’ said Klyssen. ‘There may be others.’
He pulled open the door and headed up the corridor, fear nipping at his heels.
They’re a rabble, he reassured himself firmly. Tie two Ossians to a cart and they’ll pull in different directions. They’re harmless without their leader.
But he was going to find the Master of Keys, just in case.
92
The sewers beneath Hammerholt were a maze of tunnels, where narrow stone paths ran alongside reeking waterways criss-crossed by crumbling bridges. The water was restless and high, lapping over the path in places. Grub’s boots splashed in the puddles as he lumbered along, lantern brandished before him to fend off the dark.
The others were heading for the dungeon and Garric, but Grub’s mission took him elsewhere. He had a map with him, sketched out and kept in a sealed, watertight tube, but he hadn’t needed it yet, preferring to navigate by instinct and memory. He went with haste, spurred on by the desire to keep ahead of the rising water and the terror that followed him in his mind.
He couldn’t forget what had happened in that cave. The feeling of his strength draining away, that final sigh before the water closed over his head and he went slipping into the dark. As his senses faded and his thoughts went still, he’d reached the borders of death and glimpsed what waited for him there.
Nothing. Emptiness. No Bone God to welcome or damn him. He wouldn’t even be afforded that grace. Not for him the ice fields of Quttak, where heroes hunted mighty shabboths and battled giants in the snow. He wouldn’t see the halls of Vanatuk, where there was feasting and merriment and hearths that burned eternally. His fate was the Forgetting, where the Unremembered went when they died. He’d seen it as he sank into the black abyss, and it struck fear into him such as he’d never known.
But Mudslug had saved him. Dumbface told him so. Mudslug went after him and pulled him out of the water. Mudslug had spared him the Forgetting, given him a second chance. A chance he meant to seize with both hands.
Only the Ember Blade could keep him from that bleak hell. Only the Ember Blade could buy him forgiveness from the Bone God. He had to have it.
The water was lapping around his ankles by the time he found the stairway. Mudslug said the sewers would keep flooding until the water level fell in the cave, and it was impossible to push the door shut against the force of the water gushing through it. The cave would drain out again in time, but it didn’t much matter as their boat would likely have sunk by then. Untying it from its moorings had allowed them to survive, but it might also have shut off their best route out. Without some kind of boat, they couldn’t escape back to the lake. They’d resolved to keep their original rendezvous for now, banking on the slim chance that the boat had managed to stay afloat, but if the alarm was raised, they’d have to take the alternative option. They’d head for the excavation site on the far side of Hammerholt, and the unknown depths beneath.
Grub grunted to himself. He’d take some urd ruins over going back in that water. Skarls didn’t fear the deep earth; they lived half their lives underground and could keep their bearings without sun or sky to guide them. Besides, there was more chance for adventure there.
He came to a sturdy door at the top of the stairs and found it locked. Listening at the keyhole, he heard nothing, so he drew his lockpicks from a soggy pouch. He was cold and his fingers were numb, but no Skarl paid much mind to such small discomforts. In short order, he heard the lock click.
‘Grub is the greatest,’ he muttered to himself. In absence
of anyone else to boast to, it made him feel better.
He pushed the creaking door open into an unlit corridor, chilly and austere. Faint moonlight made its way through the windows. Grub grinned in satisfaction. Deserted, as he’d hoped. This part of Hammerholt was being rebuilt in the Krodan style, having long fallen into disrepair. It wasn’t trafficked by anyone but workmen, who’d all been sent home till the wedding was over.
He blew out his lantern and slid into the corridor. The chambers of the Master of Keys were several levels above him, according to the map, but he’d never get to them by passing through the busy area that surrounded it. His was a more direct route, straight up the wall outside.
He drew out his map and frowned over it for a short time. Once he had the route set in his mind, he headed off again, down lonely ways where tattered strands of spiderweb waved in the breeze and the dry bodies of mice lay in corners among the dust and pebbles.
As he went, his mind turned to Mudslug, and he felt a pang of guilt sharp enough to surprise him. Guilt wasn’t an emotion he was used to, at least not where foreigners were concerned. He knew Dumbface would curse his name when he stole the Ember Blade, and Painted Lady would spit and Freckles and the others would all hate him; but it was the thought of Mudslug’s disappointment that stung. Mudslug had been on his side when no one else was. Mudslug had saved him from the Forgetting. Stealing the blade felt like a poor way to repay him.
He’d had loyalty once, and honour of a sort. Back in Karaqqa, he was part of an orphan gang. They’d all looked after each other, comforted one another when they were beaten, mourned when one of them got hanged. The camaraderie of thieves made them strong. Even when you didn’t like someone, you backed them up because they were one of yours. The old man taught them that. He was a poor father figure, but he was what they had.
Maybe he’d always been trying to get back to those days, the warmest he remembered in a cold, hard life. Maybe that was why he’d stolen another man’s skin. But his own motivations were murky to him; he’d always been driven by forces he didn’t understand. His instinct now was to save himself.
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