by Tim Stead
Her home, however, had become a small town. There were so many ambassadors, delegates, and envoys, their servants, and inevitably the people who sold them things. There were even two taverns – one for the wealthy and one for their hired men, or so she understood – and an assortment of shops catering to the needs of such people: tailors, grocers, butchers, bakers, farriers – the list went on.
Then there were the Duranders.
The mages of the westernmost kingdom in Terras had moved here in numbers, and she had permitted them to stay. She had no need of them, but their skills were better channelled in her service than against her interests so she treated them kindly enough and gave them errands to run, and they in their turn saw themselves as the chosen servants of the god mage. It was irritating at times, but many of them were genuinely anxious to please.
Belfair coughed behind her. She turned.
“Are you ready to receive them, Eran?” he asked.
“I am.”
Belfair went down the stair again and a minute later emerged with five robed and hooded figures behind him. He stopped by the stair and they came forward, removing their hoods as they came.
Three of the five were women, two quite old, and one young. The men were of middle age. She knew them all. One of the older women was Herlionesse, a mage of the path of Abadon and the usual leader of the Duranders at Col Boran. In the past she might have contended for the occult throne of Durandar, but many thought service to Pascha to be a higher calling, it seemed.
“Eran Pascha, as always it is an honour to be received,” Herlionesse said.
“It is always a pleasure to meet with my loyal mages,” Pascha said. “Please sit with me and tell me what is on your mind.”
There was an awkward shuffling as the mages sought out chairs that they thought appropriate to their station. Pascha noted that the younger woman sat at her leader’s right hand, which meant that she was important. It was strange that Pascha didn’t know her at all. Perhaps she was new at Col Boran.
“It is a matter of some delicacy, Eran,” Herlionesse said.
“I am here to hear your words, Areshi,” Pascha said, now somewhat intrigued by the old mage’s cause. “Tell me.”
“There is a plot against you.”
For a moment Pascha was lost for words. A plot? Against her? It was the most ridiculous idea. To begin with there were none who could harm her, or Narak, and any assault on any of her Farheim would be promptly dealt with – probably by Narak. Beyond that she was at a loss to see a cause. She did not interfere in the affairs of the six kingdoms. She strove to maintain cordial terms with their ambassadors, and she was unaware of any groups that had cause for complaint or could do anything about it if they did.
“A plot? Tell me more,” she said.
“It is a subtle thing, Eran. There are whispers in taverns, tales told on the road at campsites, casual remarks passed at table. They say different things, but the thrust is always the same.”
“And that is?”
“They speak against you, Eran,” Herlionesse said. “In Durandar they say that you are not the true heir so long awaited. In Avilian they say that you are no friend of the kingdom, and even that you have turned the Wolf against them. In Afael they say similar things, and that you seek to destroy them because of Alaran. Always it is the same, and there are whispers in Berash and Telas, but they are not heard so much.”
“Whispers? This is a plot?”
Herlionesse glanced across at the younger woman, and there was something in that glance that spoke to Pascha. She must learn all she could about this new face, and quickly. There was power there. But even so she found the tales incredible. Almost.
There had been some resentment in Durandar that she had arisen as a god mage from among the Benetheon. They had favoured Narak, she knew, because she had denied her Benetheon powers and duties for so long. Yet her elevation was undeniable, as was her power. Avilian and Afael were in turmoil, especially the latter, but she had taken no hand in either.
“There is one thing in common, Eran,” the old mage said. “One thing that all the tales share. They say that there will be another god mage, one that will do all the things that you will not.”
And that was the crux of the matter. Pascha knew at once.
“Wishful thinking,” she said. “They want to have the power of a god mage at their beck, but I will not oblige. If another does arise they will find him like me or they will learn very quickly the reason that I stay apart, and they will regret their wishing.”
“It may be more,” Herlionesse insisted. “We have seen that the same words and phrases have been used, as though all the tales began in the same place.”
It would be more significant if someone was deliberately spreading such tales. It suggested one thing, that there could indeed be another god mage somewhere in the kingdoms, and that they were preparing their own path to power.
“I thank you for bringing this to me, Areshi,” Pascha said. “I will look into the matter myself, but I would be grateful for your continued vigilance. Be my ears and let me know if the tales gather about one particular place or person.”
“We will be most pleased to serve you, Eran,” Herlionesse said.
Pascha stood, and the mages stood. Pascha looked directly at the young woman who appeared to have the old mage’s ear.
“We have not met, Areshi,” she said. “Might I know your name?”
The young woman flushed a little to be so singled out. She bowed. “I am Anilla Rekanil, Eran,” she said. “I am a Halith.”
Pascha already knew that she was a piper, of course. The colour of the robe told her as much. She would have to ask Sheyani if she knew the girl. She knew that the Duranders, or some of them at least, looked to Sheyani as their natural leader because she was the daughter of a king, a peerless Halith and one of Pascha’s own. If anyone knew about Rekanil it would be Sheyani.
She watched the Duranders file out, going back to their own part of Col Boran with a new purpose, a new commission, but the meeting had left her with a feeling of unease.
*
In the room below Pascha’s terrace Mordo sat back and smiled. He had discovered long ago that there was a spot in this unused chamber that allowed one to hear every word that was spoken on the terrace, and he had followed Belfair and the Duranders up the stair and hurried in here so that he could hear everything that passed.
He was pleased. It was perfect. He could not have scripted the exchange any better.
15 A New Approach
It was as quiet as anyone could expect it to be. Midnight was an hour gone, and the street was empty, the adjacent streets as well according to the signals. Now there were only the two guards to deal with. Francis had been surprised that there were only two, but that was good.
He understood that the guards were a delicate problem. They could be neither bribed nor killed, and yet they must be disabled to the extent that they could not raise the alarm. That would bring more soldiers.
Fortunately he had friends who were good at bad things. It was simple, really. The state, the king, the dukes, and anyone in authority treated Francis and his allies as criminals, and so perforce they inhabited the same dark and narrow streets as real criminals, as thieves and murderers, as assassins. Francis had coerced several of the more talented of these men into doing small jobs for him, and his instrument of coercion had been Keron, for the most part.
Assassins, of course, were skilled in more than killing. A good practitioner of the craft could choke a man into silence or strike him in such a way that even the strongest and bravest man would fall unconscious in a moment.
Two guards were not a difficult proposition.
It had taken several iterations to convince his tame assassins that the men were not to be permanently hurt. The man they guarded would not look kindly on that, and they urgently needed to avoid antagonising him.
The man who owned the house was none other than General Buran Delarsi. The general was the last man in Afae
l to hold his exalted rank, and though not technically the commander of the three city regiments he still wielded serious influence. A word from him at the right time would sway a thousand men to their cause, and that was exactly what they needed.
Francis watched the assassins do their work. It was not entirely what he had expected. One man, the bigger and burlier of the two, staggered up the street like a drunk, bouncing off the walls and almost tripping in the gutter, but somehow managing to stay on his feet right up to the general’s gate. It was a virtuoso performance. Francis had spoken to the man five minutes earlier, and he was stone cold sober.
The assassin banged on the gate.
What the men inside didn’t know was that his colleague, a smaller and more subtle fellow, had already opened the gate and passed inside without their seeing it.
Rough words were spoken from within.
“Wanna drink to the general,” the assassin shouted. “Great man. Served in Coltari. No finer commander.”
“You’re drunk soldier,” the guard said.
“Damned if I am,” the assassin said.
The sound of a scuffle came to Francis’s ears, then nothing. The gate opened and the bigger assassin stepped into the gateway. Francis waited for the signal. It came in less than a minute, and he and Keron emerged from the shadows, quickly crossed the street and entered the general’s house.
The two guards were thoroughly trussed up and gagged.
“They’re ok,” the larger assassin assured him, no trace of drink in his voice now that the job was done. “Maybe a headache in the morning.”
Francis walked past into the courtyard. It was a modest space. To the right was a small door – servants’ quarters he guessed – and directly across from the gate a more impressive portal suggested the main house. He and Keron crossed the yard and tried the door. It was unlocked and yielded silently, opening up into a dark hallway.
He stepped inside. There would be no servants in the main house at this hour, and Francis knew that the general was a widower, all his children either dead or elsewhere. He would be alone in the house.
They went up the stairs carefully, but the place seemed to be built exceptionally well. There were no creaks and cracks as they ascended, even under Keron’s considerable weight.
Upstairs there was a long corridor, and the faint light from the windows showed him four doors. They all looked about the same. Francis listened at the first, but heard nothing. He opened the door on an unused bedchamber and quickly closed it again. If the old man wasn’t in the first room, he’d be in the last.
Francis led the way down to the end room and put his ear to the door once more. He heard snoring. Well, that was proof enough, he thought.
He eased open the door as quietly as he could and stepped into the bedchamber. It was dark. The curtains were drawn and all he could make out was a dim patch that he assumed must be the bed, by the noise coming from it. He lit the lamp he had brought with him, half surprised that the general did not wake at once, and placed it on a table. The room emerged from the darkness. It was neat, not a thread of clothing out of place, the only sign of humanity a candle and a book beside the rumpled bed.
“General Delarsi,” Francis said. The snoring continued. He reached forward and shook the man’s shoulder. “General?”
The general sat up suddenly, wide awake.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my bedchamber?” he demanded. The general was a thick-set man, his balding head framed by unruly grey hair and an untrimmed moustache. Yet despite his age he moved quickly and appeared vigorous.
“No cause for alarm,” Francis said. “I’m not here to harm you.”
“Me?” The general pulled a wicked looking short sword of Berashi design from under his blankets. “I was never in danger,” he said. “Now what do you want?”
“To talk, General. That’s all.”
“And you couldn’t come to me during the day?” He eyed Francis in the lamp light. “I suppose not,” he said. “You’re a wanted man.”
“After a fashion, though my crimes are more being shot at than shooting.”
“And you’re unarmed,” the general said. “But that man outside the door isn’t. You’re overconfident, but talk and I’ll listen. You seem to have gone to a lot of trouble.”
“The dukes are going to kill the king,” Francis said.
“It’s possible,” the general said. “But you came here to tell me that it wouldn’t be you.”
“Yes.”
“Well, someone has to do it. The man’s losing his grip on Afael city, never mind the kingdom, and his heir’s nothing but a spoiled boy. He couldn’t control a spirited horse, never mind a kingdom.”
“I want to talk about what happens afterwards,” Francis said. He was impressed. The old man seemed to have a complete grasp of what was going on.
“You plan to oppose the dukes?”
“Not both at once,” Francis said. He smiled. “Somebody has to do it.”
That earned him a wintry smile.
“So you plan to let them fight it out and then take on the winner? Are you strong enough?”
Francis shrugged. “We need help. If either of them takes over there will be a bloodbath.”
“Whatever happens there will be a bloodbath,” the general said.
“But the city is the key. If we hold the city we hold the kingdom.”
The general shook his head. “You’re a city boy, ain’t you? You think Afael is the city – they share the name, but it’s not so.”
Francis had to admit, if only to himself, that this was exactly what he thought. The countryside was big and fairly empty.
“So?”
“Each of the dukes, and don’t forget there’s three of ‘em, can match the city regiments. Even if you got all three you’ll probably find yourself up against two dukes, because the third will wait like you’re planning to and join with the winner, so chances are you’ll be outnumbered two to one. And Falini’s closer to the city. He might try to take it before he faces the others, and the regiments won’t face him.”
“So you don’t give us much chance,” Francis said. He had to agree that the general was making good points.
“Depends on you” the general said. He swung his legs out the side of his bed and poured himself a glass of water from a jug. “What kind of man are you? Will men follow you?”
“Our leaders are chosen…”
“Rubbish,” the general cut him off. “You can’t elect a war leader unless you want to lose.”
It wasn’t true. Cain Arbak had been elected general a century ago and had held the wall at Fal Verdan with inexperienced troops against superior numbers, but Francis saw through the general’s words.
“You think we need to appoint an experienced commander?” he asked.
“A competent one. Better than some untried fellow who’s never seen the inside of a battle before.”
Francis glanced at the door where he knew Keron was hearing every word, but this was up to him. Even though he was only elected leader of Dock Ward he had spoken with the other leaders and had the measure of them. They were afraid. They would follow where he led.
“What are your terms?” he asked.
The general smiled down into his cup of water. He put it to one side and leaned back against his bed head.
“Well, now, it’s an interesting offer,” he said. “I’ll have to think about it.”
The old man was playing games. He’d been angling for the offer ever since Francis had come into his room, and Francis noted that he had never enquired about the health of his gate guards.
“How long do you need?” he asked. “Shall I come back tomorrow?”
The general looked at him, perhaps hearing the slight note of scorn that had crept into his voice, and perhaps he even recognised that Francis was not deceived by his prevarication.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Francis didn’t hesitate. “I go by the letter ‘J’,
” he said.
“How mysterious,” the general said, letting him hear the scorn in his own voice, but Francis was vulnerable, and the general was not. He would be a fool of a different order if he trusted the man with his real identity.
“Tomorrow night, then,” he said. “I’ll make sure the guards are instructed to let you through.”
Francis left. He moved swiftly through the house with Keron in tow and in less that a minute he was back on the street and in the shadows once more.
“J?” Keron asked.
“The leader of Dock Ward will always be J,” Francis said.
16 The Candidates
The news spread quickly through Col Boran. Two more people had come to be tested by the god mage. Callista heard it directly from Sithmaree over dinner one evening.
“Fools,” Sithmaree said. But it was a scorn tinged with regret.
Callista was still living in the Snake’s house, and she found that things had become a little easier between her and her host. She supposed that Sithmaree was getting used to her, and she herself was growing more discerning of the subtle moods that lay beneath the Snake’s customary scorn.
She was getting used to Jidian, too. The Eagle joined Sithmaree for most meals when he was not about some duty for Pascha, and Pascha used him a great deal more than the others because he was adept at seeing things without being seen and at doing what he was told.
“We must hope for their success,” Jidian said. That was always the way. The Snake scorned and the Eagle countered with hope and optimism. She would have snapped at anyone else, but Jidian’s words were greeted by a look, a smile, an indulgent nod.
“I suppose we must.”
There had been a ruckus a few days ago when Cain had come back from Golt without Narak. Obedience was not, apparently, one of the Wolf’s strengths and Pascha had been annoyed. Callista had all this on hearsay, not having seen the god mage since their roof garden discussion. Sithmaree had smiled at the news.
The news of fresh candidates fascinated her, however, and she determined that she would try to meet them. She wanted to see what kind of people these were who would risk everything to become god mages.
