by Ari Marmell
CERRIS SLIPPED FROM THE HIDDEN chamber several hours before dusk. Despite the mask of confidence he’d worn to reassure his allies, he knew damn well his plan was fraught with hazards. It was not these that caused him to chew nervously at his lips and cheeks, however, or to wipe a constant sheen of sweat from his palms. No, instead it was the thought of the magics he must invoke …
An intricate, ancient spell whose prior use had cost him everything he treasured, and delivered precious little of what it promised.
Streets and alleys, homes and storefronts, citizens and soldiers passed by all unnoticed, for Cerris’s attentions were turned inward. He’d long since committed the incantations and tendon-contorting gestures to memory. He hadn’t dared keep the original writings on his person, for this was the last surviving spell of the Archmage Selakrian, a page torn from his ancient tome before the spellbook perished in flame. To keep such a terrible prize was to invite the attention, if not the enmity, of Imphallion’s small but potent community of sorcerers.
But even with his iron will and a mind as sharp as the Kholben Shiar, he had difficulty retaining such arcane formulae, for this was a complex spell indeed, well beyond Cerris’s normal proficiency. He had cast the invocation several times before—most recently a few years back, on a particularly stubborn Rahariem merchant—and he recited it over and over on his walk, lips moving and twisting until they were numb, but still he remained only half convinced that he’d properly recalled it.
Evening’s advance scouts were peering over the horizon, perhaps hoping to see where the sun would hide himself tonight. A cool breeze wrestled with the lingering heat of the day when Cerris neared his destination, many blocks from the western gates. Swiftly he ducked into a nearby alley, changing into the Cephiran hauberk and tabard he’d kept from his escape. By now his combination of military walk and sporadic illusions came naturally, and nobody offered him a second glance—in most cases, not even a first one—as he strode boldly toward the nearest cluster of Cephiran defenses.
For many minutes he wandered, head high and shoulders straight, as if he knew precisely where he was going, but constantly watching, cataloging, timing. It took only a short while to track the movements of various servants and low-ranking soldiers who brought missives and water to those who manned the gates, those who patrolled atop the walls …
And those who crewed the Cephiran siege engines.
It took an even shorter while for Cerris to corner one of the servants alone and to take his place, disposing of the body down a nearby cistern.
Lugging a sloshing bucket, Cerris climbed the narrow stone steps toward the nearest of half a dozen platforms the Cephirans had erected along the ramparts. Drawn upward as if hooked by some divine fisherman, his gaze rose, taking in the awesome power of the wooden monstrosity above. Dozens of feet high, equipped with a counterweight heavier than many houses, it seemed to exude a living malevolence. Cerris had seen more than one trebuchet in action, and held nearly as much awe for their power as he did for the magics of the Kholben Shiar, but he hadn’t the slightest notion of how to operate it.
That was all right, though. Operating the infernal machine wasn’t his job.
Over the following hour, Cerris acquired the tiniest piece of each member of the trebuchet’s crew. From the first, a rag with which he’d blotted the worst of the evening’s sweat from his face; from the second, a dollop of spittle collected after he hawked something up onto the floor; a few strands of hair from the third, when Cerris brushed a nonexistent wasp from his shoulder; and so forth.
And then he was gone, back down the stairs and out into the streets, as casually and unobtrusively as he had come.
Privacy was actually harder to come by than anything else he’d required, but he finally found a home, broken and abandoned during the Cephiran siege and never reoccupied. He scrambled over piles of rubble, cringing from walls that rained dust and seemed to be waiting only for the right time to crumble inward and squash him into a delectable pâté, but he found two of the inner chambers standing, and that was one more than he needed.
Pushing aside bits of broken brick, he cleared a spot to sit that was, if not comfortable, at least not actively painful, and lowered himself to the floor. First he laid Sunder beside him, in easy reach. Next he carefully spread out the various bits and dollops and goo before him, placing each just so, this far from the others, that far from him. And for the next several hours, his voice steady but low, mouthing impossible syllables until his tongue felt like taffy and his throat as though he’d been gargling eggshells, Cerris struggled to invoke what just might have been the most potent spell in Imphallion.
Chapter Seven
A SIZABLE PROPORTION of the nation’s citizenry firmly believed that Duke Meddiras, the middle-aged governor of Denathere, was paranoid. The so-called Jewel of Imphallion, Denathere was second in importance only to Mecepheum itself. Yes, it was geographically and conceptually the heart of Imphallion, where the major highways that were the veins carrying Imphallion’s lifeblood converged. And yes, more than half the Guilds kept their greatest halls and highest offices within its borders.
But surely Meddiras—or “Mad-diras,” as some called him—went rather to extremes. Since he’d assumed the title of duke almost six years ago, he’d tripled the size of the city’s standing militias. From the old city walls, new layers of stone had been layered upward and outward, until most of Denathere was surrounded by a rampart larger than that of Mecepheum, or of border cities under far greater risk of siege. What few stretches of the outer wall had not yet been sufficiently reinforced were bandaged in great wooden scaffolds, swarming with both paid laborers and petty criminals sentenced to indentured servitude. Meddiras had even attempted to institute more thorough entry requirements, demanding that the guards search every visitor and every wagon from top to bottom. He’d relented only when the merchants had threatened everything shy of open revolt. Men and women in hauberks or breastplates marched atop the walls in groups of five or more, and various engines—from small ballistae to great catapults as large as Cephira’s trebuchets—lurked every few hundred feet, eager to hurl death upon any foe who might dare approach.
Yes, nearly everyone thought Duke Meddiras paranoid—but nearly everyone, even those most inconvenienced by Denathere’s slow transformation into a military city—also had to admit that the man had his reasons.
Twenty-three years ago, the city had fallen to the armies of the Terror of the East, at the end of his fearsome campaign. And here, almost seven years ago, Denathere had fallen once more to the forces of Audriss the Serpent, at the start of his own.
Meddiras, who inherited the dukedom when his aunt perished at the hands of the Serpent’s soldiers, would sooner have ripped out his own fingernails with his teeth than allow history to record him as the third duke in a row to see Denathere conquered.
And that paranoia had saved his life once already. For Duke Meddiras, and several of Denathere’s Guildmasters, had some weeks ago been invited to Mecepheum, to participate in a meeting of great import, a dialogue between the nobility and the Guilds to discuss some means of reconciliation.
Or so the message had stated. Meddiras and Denathere’s Guildmasters, in a show of unprecedented unity, had refused to leave their city while the murderous dawn of war threatened from beyond the eastern horizon. They had dispatched emissaries in their stead—emissaries who, like everyone else present in that meeting chamber, were now purported dead at the hands of Corvis Rebaine.
That rumor, unconfirmed though it might be, sent Meddiras and his court into a frenzy, and his captains and military advisers ran themselves ragged following his assorted orders. The gates to Denathere were now so choked with guards that it was challenging even to drive a cart through them, and those gates shut firmly more than an hour before dusk no matter how many travelers sought admittance. Every noble manor and keep, every governmental office and Guild hall, was surrounded by vassal soldiers and hired mercenaries, and the stree
t patrols were redoubled yet again. It looked very much as though Denathere had been flooded by a pounding rain of swords and armor.
In the end—for the Guildmasters and for Meddiras himself, if not for his city—it was, every last bit of it, a wasted effort.
In an inner room of a large stone house, a faint breeze kicked up where no breeze could possibly blow. The dust and dead beetles accumulated over years of neglect danced across the carpet, fetching up against the walls, and the flimsy wooden door whistled in its uneven frame. Had anyone been present within the room, and had he possessed a remarkably acute nose, he might have noted the faintest humid odor, rather akin to mildewed parchment.
The impossible wind ceased as swiftly as it appeared, and then there was someone in the room, standing at the heart of the miniature storm. One hand clutching the bridge of his nose, the other outstretched to prop himself against the nearest wall, the wizard Nenavar took deep, deliberate breaths, trying to allay the quivering of his muscles.
Teleportation was so much easier when I was younger …
It would pass quickly enough; it always did. While he waited, he placed his back against the wall and allowed himself to slide. There he sat on his haunches, the overly large sleeves of his fine tunic dragging in the dust. He found himself, for lack of anything better to do, staring at the floor.
“I really must remember,” he muttered to himself, “to hire someone to tidy up while I’m away.”
After a few moments, Nenavar felt his strength (such as it was) returning, and he rose. Night had fallen outside, and no lamps burned within the house, but the old man had little trouble finding his way. This was but one of several abodes he owned throughout Imphallion’s major cities, and all had been built to his specifications, identical to one another in every particular. Such intimate familiarity with one’s destination made teleportation easier—not to mention rather less prone to catastrophic accident—and exhausting as it was, Nenavar far preferred it to weeks on horseback.
He felt a few startled glances from neighborhood folk who knew the house to be empty, but otherwise attracted little attention as he shut the door behind him and stepped into Denathere’s streets. The throng bustled around him, jostling and deafening even at this hour, and he felt himself cringing, his skin threatening to unwrap itself from his body and go hide in a corner. Gods, he hated being touched!
Or spoken to. Or looked at. It was one of the reasons he’d taken up his studies in the first place: lots and lots of blessedly peaceful solitude.
Nenavar gritted his teeth into a cage to imprison the various snarls, imprecations, and occasional pestilential spells that sought to hurl themselves from his throat at anyone who drew too near, and continued on his way.
There was, at least, no danger of becoming lost. He’d made certain he could always find the man he now sought before he first let him out of his sight.
The unseen path led him, after twenty minutes that weren’t doing his elderly knees any good, to a house not much larger—though certainly far nicer—than that in which he’d appeared. Two stories overlooked a modest property, complete with flower garden and a stable large enough for only a single horse. Despite his confidence in his magics, Nenavar couldn’t help but wonder if he’d come to the right place. He’d expected—well, more.
Then he spotted a quartet of burly figures loitering in the street nearby, laughable in their efforts to remain inconspicuous, and he recognized the sentries for what they were. This was, indeed, the right place.
Nenavar mumbled into his beard as he approached, tongue and cracked lips forming sounds that scarcely qualified as words. He walked right past the guards and up the path toward the house, and none made so much as a move in his direction. He wasn’t invisible, precisely; the spell simply rendered him unworthy of attention. One of the men even nodded politely in his direction before dismissing him as a random passerby and forgetting his presence entirely.
The wizard swallowed a delighted cackle, shaking his head at the feebleness of the average mind, and pushed through the entryway.
And practically toppled backward, overpowered by the scent that had lurked in ambush behind that door. Heavy smoke in the air stung his eyes, and he gagged on the metallic miasma of blood and other humors. He gulped twice, fighting the urge to spit and clear what felt like a clinging film on his tongue and throat.
The interior of the house had been transformed into the fever dream of a demented cannibal. Corpses and bits of corpses formed a layer of carpeting. Mail rings lay scattered across the floor, and several bodiless hands still clutched weapons. So widely strewn were the remains, Nenavar couldn’t guess how many guards had actually stood post within the house.
Grimacing, he picked his way carefully through the carnage, his steps mincing as he focused on keeping the worst of the sludge from his shoes. The room’s far door revealed a dining nook, and here the scene was even worse. What had once been a woman—a serving girl, to judge by what remained of her clothes—lay facedown in the fireplace; fluids leaking through blackened skin had smothered the last burning embers. Beside her, an old cook hung from the wall, held by a torch sconce protruding all the way through muscle and bone. Around the table—some slumped forward in their chairs, others sprawled on the floor—were half a dozen more, their bodies in various stages of mangling or incineration.
And sitting in one of those chairs—atop a fallen corpse, the weight of his armor slowly crushing the body beneath him—was Kaleb. He had removed the skull helm that completed his disguise, and kicked his feet up on the table. He waved Nenavar over with one hand, the other clutching a chicken leg from which he was taking great, tearing mouthfuls.
“How in the gods’ names can you eat?” the wizard choked as he entered.
Kaleb shrugged. “It’s good. You want some?”
“I’ll pass.”
“So will the chicken, once you’ve eaten it.”
For some time, Nenavar just glared. Then, “Was all this truly necessary, Kaleb?”
“You wanted it, Master. You wanted horror, and fear, and panic. Well, here are the seeds. Now we just let them grow.”
The wizard sighed, but nodded. “The guards outside?”
“Didn’t hear a thing. They’ll be my witnesses. I’m planning to make a suitably dramatic exit, make sure they all see ‘Rebaine,’ maybe even kill a few before I disappear.” Kaleb grinned. “I already got Duke Meddiras and his people in the keep. This was my second stop. Three Guildmasters and their families. They were here because one of their assistants was throwing a dinner to celebrate his daughter’s coming out next week.” He gestured with the greasy drumstick at the headless corpse of a teenage girl.
Nenavar swallowed the vomit rising in his gullet.
“Don’t go soft on me now,” Kaleb said. “You knew what you were getting us into, and you know what’s at stake.”
“I … Yes, I know. Don’t think you have to lecture me!”
“I don’t have to. I just like to.”
“I want you to do Braetlyn next. Say, five nights from now.”
Kaleb tossed the remains of the chicken leg to the floor, where they landed with a wet squelch, and rose, stretching. “That’s a bit fruitless, isn’t it? We sort of know Jassion’s not there.”
“I know. But I want to keep driving him, keep him too furious to think of anything else. Do his staff and servants. It’ll take a bit of time for the news to catch up to you, but sooner or later he’ll hear rumors of it in some town or other.”
“I think you’re wasting my time. He’s already committed.”
“Perhaps. But never forget, Kaleb, that your time is mine to waste.”
Nenavar spun on his heel, heading once more for the door, again muttering the incantation to keep the guards from noticing him. He didn’t particularly care to be present to witness Kaleb’s “dramatic exit.”
THE TUMULT THAT SHOOK the council chambers of Mecepheum’s grand Hall of Meeting probably wasn’t as deafening as an earthqu
ake’s birthing pains, but it wouldn’t have been a safe bet. Eddies of hot breath whirled, flinging angry words hither and yon, threatening to fill the room until surely either the walls, or the people within, must burst.
Above them, disapproving eyes stared down from the many carvings, paintings, and reliefs that adorned almost every inch of ceiling—an array of symbols to be found not only here, but also in the lesser meeting halls throughout the city, duplicated over and over as a sign of Guild unity. Heroes of legend and mighty archangels made up the bulk, but some boasted the symbols, or even the stylized faces, of the divine: Ulan the Judge, Daltheos the Maker, and so many others. Only in one shadowed corner was the stone rough and pitted, vacant of embellishment. Once the terrible visages of Maukra and Mimgol, the Children of Apocalypse, had loomed within, but after the events of six years prior, those images had been chiseled away.
From the great horseshoe-shaped table at the head of the room, Salia Mavere, priestess of Verelian and current Speaker for the Blacksmiths’ Guild, could only roll her own eyes upward toward those remaining stony countenances, and wish she possessed their patience.
One of her neighbors at the table, a spindly scarecrow representing the Tanners’ Guild, leaned toward her—the acrid scent of his trade washing over her, making her tear up a bit—and shouted in her ear to be heard over the tumult. “Are you going to do something about this?”
Salia, saving her breath, just shrugged. Still gazing at the images above, she remembered similar meetings during the Serpent’s War, recalled how the sorceress Rheah Vhoune had easily silenced the screaming factions. She wished now that her own priestly studies included the practice of magic, rather than merely its philosophies and histories.
For minutes the shouting and arguments continued, until Salia had to acknowledge that her companion had a point. She reached behind, striking a small hammer on the hanging gong, calling the chamber to order. And then again, harder. But if any of the shrieking nobles, Guildmasters, priests, and other leading citizens heard, they didn’t seem inclined to obey.
