by William King
“I did not think that there was enough power in this world to weave a gate, but if you had access to thanatomancy or rituals derived from it, you could conceivably make the seed and after that it would simply be a matter of shaping it. The trick is to create the fault into the Deep and link it to the Angel’s Roads.”
“You said that with access to a Gate, spells as potent as those on Al’Terra became possible.”
“Yes— power bleeds from the Deep through a Gate, like water flowing up from a spring. One who knows the correct rituals could tap it. For decades now the level of ambient magical energy has been rising. That’s when I had my initial suspicions. I ignored them at first because the level always fluctuates naturally. And I did not want to admit to the alternative. Foolishly, as it turns out.”
“You are saying that with access to such power a sorcerer could create this plague and animate the dead.”
“Yes.”
“And they could open a way through to Al’Terra and let the Princes of Shadow come here.”
“Yes.”
“It could already have happened.”
“I don’t think so. I would be able to sense the presence of a fully open Gate, so would you. So would anyone with a reasonably strong gift for sorcery. It would be as noticeable as the sun is in the sky to a man with eyes. I don’t think the Princes of Shadow are here yet, but I have been known to be wrong.”
“Let us hope you are. What now?”
“We wait for the Inquisitor to summon you and for the Queen to decide whether we march East.”
“How long will that take?”
“Messengers have already been dispatched. We await only her reply. I am guessing a week at the most. If the decision has not already been made.”
The invitation to visit Joran was waiting for Rik when they returned to their apartments. It was delivered by one of the High Inquisitor’s henchmen, verbally. It requested that he pay his respects to Joran at the seventh bell, an hour after sunset. The time seemed ominous, and it gave him some hours to brood before the meeting, which as Asea pointed out, was just what the Inquisitor intended.
In his mind, he ran through all the questions that might arise, ranging from the missing books back in Redtower, to the death of Queen Kathea, to his own Shadowblood heritage. He thought about what he would tell them.
It was best to stick as close to the truth as possible. He had shot Malkior with a truesilver bullet. He knew it was Malkior because he had met the Terrarch in Harven at a reception given by the Council there. By the time he arrived on the scene the Queen and most of her guard were already dead. He and the survivors had managed to take the Terrarch sorcerer down. It was not quite the truth but it was close enough.
He tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong. The Inquisitor might see the mark of the thanatomancer upon him, or already know about his dark deeds. You could never tell quite how much any Terrarch knew and the Inquisition had a legendary array of sources. Perhaps even as he sat here trying to read a book, Weasel and the Barbarian were screaming under the hot irons in the cells below.
He told himself not to be stupid but he could not keep such thoughts from his mind, and they upset the voices and made them whisper and that too made him uneasy. He rose from the chair and started pacing up and down the chamber. Asea looked at him sardonically then went back to her own reading. She could maintain her poise through the end of the world. He feared that he could not.
He wondered whether he should make a run for it, leave the Palace and disappear, try and bury himself in the slums until he could leave the city and make his way back to Sorrow.
If they knew anything about him though, the Inquisition would expect him to do that. He could not head for Harven, the traditional refuge of the runaway human. He knew exactly what sort of reception he would get there, after Asea’s daring escape from the Talorean Embassy.
It was a big world. He ought to be able to lose himself in it. He had some money. He had his weapons. He had the sorcery Asea had taught him. Might it not be better to take his chances? But running would simply confirm their suspicions and give them reason to come looking for him, and it was not certain that they knew anything yet.
Perhaps it would be better to talk with the Inquisitor, find out what he knew and then make a decision. Yes, he thought, and perhaps it might be fatal for him and his friends.
Perhaps it was Asea’s potion, perhaps it was his own moral weakness. He could not make up his mind. He had grown accustomed to the Palace, to Asea’s company, to being someone, and he found himself loath to simply abandon that for the life of a freelance thief and beggar.
He still had not come to a decision when the seventh bell sounded, and there was an ominous knock on the door.
Chapter Six
Two tall white-robed Terrarchs, faces gold-masked, led Rik through the Palace corridors. Four burly black-robed humans accompanied them, and their scarred and pock-marked faces were not masked. Rik could see that their tongues had been torn out. They were mutes of the sort that most conservative Terrarchs still favoured as servants. He doubted they would be able to read or write, but no doubt they could slit a throat or pin down a screaming prisoner with the best of them.
The Terrarchs did not speak to Rik nor did he attempt to start a conversation with them. Soldiers and Palace servants looked away as he passed. Most put their heads down and moved on swiftly, as if he were carrying some contagious disease and they did not want any exposure to it. He could not blame them for that, but it made him feel suddenly alone, in the middle of a Palace filled with people. He forced a smile on to his face. He was simply going to have to rely on his own wits and inner resources and put his faith in the long arm of Asea’s influence.
They made their way into the part of the building that Joran had taken for his people, and began to head down stairs. Rik’s heart sank as they descended, and then rose again just as quickly when he saw they were merely going down a couple of floors and not heading for the cellars. He needed to get a better grip on his emotions, but it was difficult when all control over his circumstances appeared to have slipped from his grasp.
He recalled some of Asea’s words. A sorcerer must be able to control his own mind and his feelings. Often they are the only things that he will have control over, and mastery of the external world flows from mastery of the inner one. He tried to take them to heart as they approached the door of the Inquisitor’s chambers and one of his escorts gave a discrete coded knock.
“Enter,” said the Inquisitor within.
Joran wore no mask. He was dressed in the sort of tunic that the upper echelons of Terrarch society used for less formal meetings. It was white and trimmed with green, the traditional colour of Al’Terra. Discrete golden studs, cast in the shape of an eye, held the collar in place. A golden sash was wound round his waist.
The chamber was luxuriously furnished, and a number of books lined the shelves. A small table stood between two high backed chairs. On it were two glasses and a bottle of wine.
“Be seated,” said Joran pleasantly. Rik was immediately on guard. The High Inquisitor waved his henchmen away, leaving them alone in the room. Rik glanced around, wondering about hidden listeners, and guards. He did not doubt that there would be some. He sat down and once he had done so, the Inquisitor did the same.
Rik studied Joran. The Inquisitor was handsome in the lean, narrow-jawed manner of the Terrarchs. His eyes were very dark, his ears lobeless and finely pointed. His silver hair was cropped short in a manner that was not fashionable. His features were very pale, which Rik assumed came from constantly wearing his mask.
“I have heard a lot about you,” said Joran. His voice was pleasant, his manner agreeable. At this moment, it was hard to imagine someone who sounded less like an Inquisitor, which made Rik even more tense. Joran noticed.
“Relax. We are not ogres. I am not going to put you to the Test of Iron and Fire.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Rik,
not wanting to say anything, but finding that there was something about the Inquisitor’s manner that made him want to babble. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. This too did not go unnoticed.
“Your patron is very powerful, and she has petitioned the Queen to have you adopted into her House. I am here to ascertain whether you are worthy of such an honour.”
Rik very seriously doubted that this was the only reason why Joran was talking to him, but it hardly seemed diplomatic to point this out.
“I appreciate you coming all this way,” he said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Joran chose to ignore it.
“It is very unusual for a half-breed to be adopted into the ranks of one of our oldest clans. In fact, I cannot think of a single example of it. The adoption laws were meant for full-blooded Terrarchs. The Lady Asea must think very highly of you.”
“I’m afraid you will have to ask her about that.” There was something lulling about the Inquisitor’s gentle tones. Rik found himself echoing his manner. Was there some sorcery at work here, or some narcotic incense in the air? If there was he could not identify it, and this did not seem like the time for cleansing ritual sorcery.
“I have and she does.”
“I am grateful for her kind words.”
“As is only proper. Her attention is a great honour. She is one of the First, and one of the greatest of all Terrarchs. I have long been an admirer of hers.”
I’ll bet you have, thought Rik. Sincere as Joran sounded, Rik did not believe him for a second. He could not help but see the Inquisitor as an enemy, and that made him doubt anything Joran said.
“Have you any idea of your parentage?” Joran asked.
“None,” said Rik. “I was brought up in Temple Orphanage in Sorrow.”
“From which you vanished aged about eight or nine years old.”
So he knew about that. Rik felt the jaws of the trap beginning to close. “I left.”
“You left?” There was a certain amount of amusement in Joran’s voice. “You simply walked out.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was not happy there.”
“What made you unhappy?”
Rik shrugged. “Discipline. I did not like being made to learn to read and write. I did not like the masters, or the work they made us do.” It was hard to keep the bitterness from his voice even now.
“A great many people would have been grateful for such an education. You were being taught an uncommon skill, one that would have fitted you for gainful employment.”
“Alas I did not appreciate that at the time. And by the time I had found out how hard life was on the streets, I could not go back. I knew they would not take me.”
Joran appeared sympathetic. “How then did you survive?”
“Begging, and scavenging.”
“Until you went for a soldier.”
“Yes.”
“You joined the Seventh when you were fifteen. That means you must have spent a considerable time on the streets.”
“Yes.”
“Many would not have survived that.”
“I was lucky.”
“You certainly seem to be, to have made your way from the streets of Sorrow, to the corridors of this Palace. I don’t think anyone could deny you are very lucky.”
“I am aware of it.”
“Your military record was not so distinguished, at least to begin with. I notice you were flogged, at the order of Lieutenant Sardec.”
“You have obviously read my record. I’m afraid it shows I was never good at taking discipline.”
“Yes, it does. At the same time, I can see that you were commended for bravery on a number of occasions, and were selected for the Foragers from the line company. That shows your commanders must have thought you a superior soldier.”
What it really showed was that Weasel and the Quartermaster considered him a superior thief, and had a use for his talents. They had seen to it he was transferred. If the Inquisitor did not know that, Rik was not going to tell him. “Again, you would have to ask them.”
“I already have. They agree. And you have since distinguished yourself in a number of ways.”
“I have done my best to serve the Queen.”
“Tell me about Achenar.”
Rik told him about the buried city of the ancients, and the Spider-Demons that inhabited it. He found himself shivering as he recollected the dank depths and the sinister things that scuttled there. He told him about the summoning of Uran Ultar and the way Sardec lost his hand, and how he himself had shot the Prophet Zarahel. Joran was a good listener. He concentrated on Rik’s words most flatteringly, and when he finished said, “So far your every word accords with what others have told me.” There was a slight note of insinuation in his voice.
Before he could stop himself Rik said, “And why not? It’s the truth.”
“I never said differently. I find the whole thing fascinating. So it was your deeds in Achenar that brought you to the Lady Asea’s attention.”
“I believe so. I had never met her before then.”
“Indeed. And she certainly chose to place great trust in you. I mean she selected you to infiltrate the Serpent Tower and rescue Queen Kathea.”
“I volunteered,” said Rik, a little too quickly for his own liking. It was a lie too. Asea had given him no choice in the matter.
“Why did she do that?” There was a cat-like quality to the Inquisitor’s manner now, as if he were coming to the part that really interested him, and where he expected Rik to trip himself up.
“Someone had to do it.”
“And she chose you. To sneak into one of the best protected fortresses in the world, wrapped round with charms woven by an ancient race, and bound to the service of one of the greatest Terrarch wizards. That was quite a feat.”
“She provided me with counter-magic.”
“And we both know that Lady Asea is the greatest of all Terrarch sorcerers.” There was a note of sardonic mockery in Joran’s voice now, as if he knew something that Rik did not, and was simply waiting for the contradictions to emerge.
He knows nothing, Rik told himself. He’s simply insinuating things and hoping you’ll make a mistake.
“I am in no position to judge that.”
“She has been teaching you magic. She told me that.” Rik shrugged, not wanting to say anything incriminating. He was really starting to dislike this one-sided game, where all the cards were stacked in Joran’s favour. Joran made a deprecating gesture with his right hand and said, “If you are a Terrarch that would not be a crime.”
“And we are here to decide whether I am a Terrarch, are we not?”
“Amongst other things. How did you get into the Serpent Tower?”
“In a cart, hidden among supplies.”
“And that was before the Tower vanished.”
“You know it was.”
“And yet even after the Tower vanished, you managed to escape along with the Queen. That is quite a feat.”
“We used an ancient escape device.” Joran raised an eyebrow. Rik understood now why the Inquisitor was not wearing a mask. His features were very expressive, and at this moment they expressed mocking disbelief.
“It was fortunate you knew how to do that?”
“I was told how to use it.”
“By Asea?”
“No, by a Serpent Man whom Ilmarec had enslaved.”
“Why did he do that?”
“He hated Ilmarec and wanted revenge.”
“How did Ilmarec make the Tower vanish?”
“You would have to ask him.”
“I would love to. Sadly he is not available for questioning. Witnesses claim the entire tower rose into the sky.”
“That it did.”
“Asea was attacked by a Nerghul while you were in Morven.”
“Yes, she was.”
“Do you know who sent it?”
“Why should I?”
“Perhaps
she mentioned her suspicions to you. It is the product of the darkest sort of necromancy.”
“I am willing to believe that.”
“Very kind of you to say so.” For the first time a hint of annoyance appeared in Joran’s voice, and with it a measure of threat. Rik wondered if he was going to call for his henchmen and order him dragged off to the cellars.
If that were the case, Joran himself would be dead in a very few heartbeats. As soon as he made the decision, Rik relaxed. He was committed to a course of action now. He was not powerless; whatever happened here he would share his suffering with this arrogant fop who had under-estimated him.
Joran’s head tilted to one side as if he had noticed the change come over Rik. Perhaps he had. The Inquisitor probably had several centuries of experience interrogating humans. He pushed his chair back a little, as if he was the one who felt threatened. He took a deep breath and steepled his fingers, the very picture of a Terrarch in control of himself and the situation. Rik wondered what magic Joran knew and whether it could protect him. He could not help but feel that the Inquisitor had made a mistake by agreeing to talk to him alone. Perhaps Joran had begun to realise it too.
“Yes,” said Joran, after a long pause. “The darkest sort of necromancy, a sort they are most familiar with in Sardea.”
“I have never been there.”
“And yet you know the Lady Tamara.” Shock surged through Rik. How did the Inquisitor know about that? He kept silent, staring at Joran, waiting for some cue. Joran’s smile widened a fraction. He gazed at a point somewhere over Rik’s shoulder. It was all Rik could do to keep from turning his head to see if someone was sneaking up behind him. He did not want to take his eyes of the Inquisitor though.
“You talked to her in secret at the House of Sardontine.” Rik felt almost like laughing in spite of the trap opening at his feet. He had feared the Inquisitor would accuse him of many things, but being a Sardean spy was not one of them.
“Who told you that?”
“The Inquisition has eyes and ears everywhere. You were seen to disappear into Lady Sardontine’s chambers. Most people assume you were having a tryst with the Lady herself. I have reason to think that you were consorting with one of the Dark Empire’s most effective agents.”
