by C. L. Werner
‘You think he may have been sent here to kill me?’ asked Mandalari guardedly.
‘It seems rather a coincidence, does it not?’ replied the spy with a smugness in his words. ‘An assassin-for-hire leaves Miragliano and arrives in Remas, conveniently managing to gain entry to the very house in which the guiding force behind a plan to overthrow the ruler of Miragliano is dwelling. I think it would be very dangerous to assume that Prince Borgio has either forgotten you, or would underestimate your desire to avenge your defeat.’
‘He’ll not see another sunrise!’ roared the general, clumsily lifting himself to his feet. ‘I’ll send the head of this bastard back to Borgio in a box!’
‘Do not worry, general,’ soothed the spy. ‘I shall deal with the bounty hunter. I would never allow any harm to threaten you. Leave it in my hands.’
The spy turned to depart, then faced the general once again, shifting his gaze from the wooden-legged soldier to the masked inquisitor. ‘If you feel you should kill Captain Zelten, do so. He may be working with the bounty hunter. But forget this scheme to coerce the princess. It will only hurt our plans in the long run.’
VI
Brunner had to admit that when Prince Gambini held a feast, he held a feast, and spared no expense. He could not even name half of the delicacies offered to Gambini’s guests. Of those that he did recognise, there were Arabyan dates and figs, Estalian duck basted in the hot chilli peppers favoured in that land. A massive marlin, easily nine feet long from tail fin to the point of its sword-like nose, formed the centrepiece of the table. Brunner was surprised at the variety of wines presented to the prince’s guests, even including the fabulously expensive yellow-white wine of Lustria among the selections from the prince’s cellar.
Despite his usually cautious nature, Brunner was tempted to let himself relax and enjoy himself. Manfred Zelten certainly showed no qualms about doing so, delving into his food with a boisterous gusto which the courtiers seated around him found alternately offensive and amusing. But any inclination to let his guard down was pushed aside when a hulking man in black armour entered the dining hall. His face was hard and craggy, nose and mouth conspiring to form a perpetual scowl. He might not be wearing his golden mask, but Brunner knew he was the warrior who had led the ambush in the streets the previous day. A hush spread amongst the diners as the inquisitor strode past them, making his way to the head of the table and sitting down beside an intense old officer with one leg who Brunner had learned was General Mandalari, commander of Prince Gambini’s soldiers and mercenaries.
The murmur of conversation began once more, this time focusing on the inquisitor, whose name was Bocca. It appeared that the Solkanite had been invited by Mandalari, as a way of including the temple of Solkan in Gambini’s celebration. It was a political move, but one, it was generally felt, which was in poor taste.
To invite a priest of Solkan might have been understandable, to invite one of the grim inquisitors was not. They were a cheerless, stern and unrelenting sort, suspicious of anyone who did not devote themselves to the temple, seeing heretics and followers of the Ruinous Powers in every face. The inquisitors, the guests whispered, never removed their armour, or their swords, save perhaps within the Temple of Solkan itself. It was a constant reminder to everyone seated at the table that the inquisitor suspected the presence of corruption even at a dinner such as this, and that he was ready to confront it.
Prince Gambini sat at the head of the enormous table, his bride on his left, his uncle, the elderly Remaro, on his right. Beside Remaro was the old man’s son, Alfredo Gambini, a rakish youth with a calculating glint in his eye. Seated beside the two Gambinis were the merchant Emiliano Tacca and a black-robed priest of Morr named Scurio.
Scurio was the personal priest of the Gambinis, attending to daily services devoted to honouring the ancestors of the house, as well as performing last rites whenever tragedy might rear its head in the palazzo. On the opposite side of the table, General Mandalari and Inquisitor Bocca took the places to the left of Princess Juliana. It seemed that even the high and mighty were disconcerted by the presence of the inquisitor, even Mandalari, who had apparently invited the man.
The only exception to this trend appeared to be Alfredo Gambini. Bocca took only small portions of the most plebeian of the dishes set before him, causing those around him to rather self-consciously limit the amount of food they placed before themselves. Alfredo Gambini, however, attacked the dishes with gusto, heaping his plate high, openly relishing every bite, sometimes directing a haughty sneer at the grim Solkanite.
Two incidents intruded upon this quietly tense situation, both of which drew Brunner’s rapt attention. The first followed close on the performance of Prince Gambini’s fool, Corvino. The fool had just recited a particularly ribald bit of prose for the enjoyment of the diners, bringing colour to the faces of the ladies present, laughter from the men and a look of condemnation from Bocca. As Corvino rose from bowing before his audience, he noticed a servant hurrying past him. With a deft manoeuvre, the fool caught the servant’s tray with the end of his staff, knocking it from the man’s arms.
The servant bit back a curse, bending to retrieve the platter. Corvino, however, pinned it in place with his staff, then began to slide it about the floor, moving it just as the man would bend down to retrieve it, forcing him to chase the platter about the dining room. The fool’s antics brought fresh laughter from the diners. Prince Gambini’s laugh trailed off in a fit of coughing and the aristocrat fumbled for his wineglass.
‘Careful, my prince,’ Mandalari laughed. ‘You don’t want your young lady thinking that you are some sickly, bedridden wretch!’
‘I am quite certain of my betrothed’s vigour,’ Juliana replied, smiling at the prince.
‘He gave us some scares when he was born,’ the general retorted. ‘His mother died bringing him into this world,’ he explained, seeing Juliana’s questioning look. Prince Gambini grew somewhat sombre as Mandalari recounted the tragedy. ‘It looked certain that he would follow her, but his father was not about to lose his entire family. He stayed with the infant all night, keeping him warm with his own hands, telling him over and over again that he would not die, that he would live and be strong.’
‘Yes,’ muttered Remaro from across the table. The old man’s hand was shaky as he spilled some wine onto his lips. ‘I stayed with him that night, all through that long night. It was by your father’s will alone that you survived.’ The old man shook his head, sagging into his seat. ‘Would that my own son had been so fortunate.’ Remaro began to weep.
Prince Gambini smiled awkwardly at his bride. ‘My eldest cousin, Giovanni, was born two months before me. He died shortly after I was born.’
‘My son,’ Remaro sobbed. Alfredo reached toward him to calm the old man while the others looked away, embarrassed by the dotard’s drunken melancholy. As Alfredo touched the old man’s arm, Remaro drew away from him, staring at his son as though he were some sort of verminous reptile. Alfredo shook his head with disgust and returned to his meal.
‘My son, my son,’ Remaro continued to cry. Prince Gambini looked over at Corvino, indicating that the fool should take his uncle back to the old man’s room. Even as he was led from the room, the old man’s sobbing calls for his infant son echoed across the dining hall. It took several minutes before anything resembling the previous murmur of conversation was restored.
The second incident began when Princess Juliana asked a question of the inquisitor. The cult of Solkan was all but unknown in Pavona, the city’s experience with the cult limited to a few wandering witch hunters in that grim god’s service, and she was naturally curious about this strange religion that held such power in her new home.
‘Tell me, inquisitor, do you burn all of the heretics you uncover?’ she asked.
Bocca turned his face towards her, his craggy features displaying the first trace of pleasure since he had seated himself at the table. ‘When we are able, lady,’ he replied, his vo
ice a deep rumble. ‘Sometimes the heretics are so steeped in their wickedness that they will not submit to the righteous judgement of Solkan. When that happens,’ the inquisitor spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, ‘we must force them to see reason, with whatever means we may muster.’
‘Is that true?’ Alfredo interrupted from across the table, sucking a shred of marlin from between his teeth. ‘I had thought that even the most degenerate follower of the unnamed powers would just shrivel up and die as soon as you mentioned the name of your god.’ Alfredo laughed at the remark, though those around him did not seem to find the flippant comment particularly humorous.
‘You would do well not to mention such powers aloud,’ warned Bocca. ‘They are more real and dreadful than you imagine. Than any here imagine, else they should discard these trappings of power and wealth and take up the mantle of the temple. For it is the strength of Solkan that keeps the Dark Gods from devouring us all, body and soul.’
‘Are you an expert on the Dark Gods, inquisitor?’ Alfredo sneered. ‘I would have thought such knowledge would be heresy.’ Alfredo’s voice dropped into a grave tone. ‘You aren’t a heretic, are you, inquisitor?’
Bocca’s eyes were like daggers, stabbing the baiting nobleman across the table, his hands balled into fists where they lay upon the table. ‘I know their signs, how to find their vile followers. That is all the lore of the Ruinous Powers which it is safe for a man to know, and even that little must be given only to those strong enough of mind and spirit to remain steadfast before such foul forces.’
‘Men such as you, inquisitor?’ Alfredo asked. ‘Tell me, would you not be better able to recognise the followers of these powers you call ruinous if you had first been one of them? Like setting a half-wolf cur to sniff out the lair of a wolf pack?’
‘Those that ally themselves with the Dark are forever tainted,’ Bocca stated, a tone of threat within his voice. ‘Be they great or small, long in the service of the Dark or newly converted to blasphemy and wickedness, they are likewise unclean. Only the fire can redeem them, only flame can purge their evil from the land.’
‘No!’ interrupted the priest seated beside Tacca. ‘That is not so, inquisitor.’ Bocca turned his gaze to the dour cleric, some of the hostility he had been directing at Alfredo passing from his eyes. ‘With all due respect to your temple, and your position, inquisitor, I believe that the Ruinous Powers are more insidious than you give them credit for. There are entire nations that bow before them in the north, beyond the Sea of Claws and the Troll Country. In every dark place in the Empire, and even here in the valleys of Tilea, twisted, malformed things cry out to them from their filthy lairs. Why then, with so many, do these Powers relentlessly try to seduce men from civilised lands to their vile worship?’
Scurio paused, letting his question linger. ‘It is because we know what evil is,’ he stated. ‘What does a Norse reaver know of evil? He has been born into the profane worship of the Dark Gods, taught from the cradle to honour and respect them, to pray to them and serve them. It is all that he knows, he has never known any other way. But a man from Luccini, or Tobaro, or Pavona, such a man knows what good is, and has been taught to recognise evil. Because he must be brought into the service of the Dark Gods from without, he sees them for what they are, he has a greater understanding of what they represent. He knows what good is, what decency and humanity are, and he rejects them in exchange for the dark promises of the Ruinous Powers. And because he has made this choice, because he has polluted his soul with his own hands, he has greater value to them.’
Alfredo shook his head, laughing slightly as he returned to his meal. Prince Gambini and the other courtiers nearby continued to regard the priest, considering his words. Bocca turned away, rising to his feet.
‘Whatever has put the taint upon them,’ he told Scurio, ‘their fate is still the same. Heretics burn.’ Bocca strode from the dining hall, his black cloak billowing about him.
He hurried his way along the corridors, the skin writhing on his back, as though it were trying to rip itself from his bones. It had been agony to remain at the feast, to sit quiet and polite, nodding his head at the inane prattle of the prince and his guests. The nature of good and evil indeed! There was only one thing that mattered, and that was the cessation of pain! Anything that could accomplish that was the greatest good in all the world, nothing was higher and mightier than that which would provide relief from his suffering.
The man tried to control himself, pausing beside a column as a pair of servants hurried past, hands knotted into fists at his sides. He wanted to scream, to cry out, but he knew that if he opened his mouth, he would never stop screaming. Because they would call him mad and throw chains about him and toss him into some pit where the pain would devour him like a hungry beast until not even his bones would remain. He watched as more servants passed him, their arms laden down by the soiled plates and bowls from the prince’s table. It would be an easy thing to fall upon someone who was encumbered in such a manner. The easiest thing in all the world. Before they would even be able to react, it would be too late for them.
The man clenched his eyes shut, his breathing growing rapid and heavy, like a hound that has just run a hare to ground. He fought to steady his breath, fought to keep the desperate, reckless thoughts from gaining a foothold in his mind. He would be found out, he kept telling himself. He had to wait, had to wait until it was safe.
‘Feeling well?’ a voice asked. The man opened his eyes, almost sobbing with relief as he saw the man who spoke to him.
‘Help me,’ he gasped. The man he addressed smiled, uttering a disapproving chuckle.
‘So soon after the last one?’ the jovial voice spoke. ‘You should try and get some control of yourself. After all, one can’t indulge the flesh all of the time, or so the priests say.’ He laughed again, a withering, punishing sound.
The tortured man fell to his knees, reaching up with pleading hands. His pained mouth moaned a single word. ‘Please.’
The laughter stopped and a soft hand reached down, patting the man’s head. ‘Just wait a little longer. I’ll bring you something very soon.’ The speaker detached himself from the pleading man’s embrace, ignoring the muttered thanks that trailed after him as he continued on his way down the gleaming marble hall.
There was a single sharp rap on the door of Manfred Zelten’s room, then the portal began to swing inward. Quickly, a figure dressed in black and red checks slipped inside, closing the door behind him. Corvino leaned on his staff, staring at the man seated on the bed that dominated the small room.
‘The prince is occupied with Emiliano Tacca,’ the fool told Zelten. ‘He will be quite some time going over the details of Tacca’s audience with Prince Borgio’s chamberlain. If you insist on seeing her ladyship this evening, you must do so now.’
‘He didn’t insist, jester,’ a cold voice spoke from the corner of the room, just to the right of the door. Brunner stepped into the light cast by the lantern beside Zelten’s bed. Corvino recoiled before the sudden appearance of the grim, armoured killer. ‘I did,’ Brunner stated.
‘Brunner has learned of the matter between Princess Juliana and myself,’ confessed Zelten, his voice heavy with guilt. Corvino fixed the mercenary with an outraged, accusing glare. ‘He has agreed not to speak to Prince Gambini, but only if he is allowed an audience with the princess.’
Corvino stood for a moment, eyes hooded in a glower of suspicion. At last he nodded his head. ‘If such is the agreement you have reached,’ his voice was sullen, and there was a tone of menace in it, a quality of barely restrained anger, ‘then I must conduct you to her ladyship.’ The fool turned to open the door once more. But before reaching outward for the handle, he stabbed the end of his staff against the floor, causing the bells attached to the brass head to jingle madly. ‘But if any treachery is plotted by either of you towards the princess…’ Corvino left the threat lingering in the room as he opened the door and stalked out into the corridor.
Once more, Brunner entered the crowded streets of the Reman waterfront, guided by a grumbling Horst Brendle. His interrogation of Princess Juliana had been a tense, but necessary affair. Having spent days upon the road with the entourage, she was easily able to recall who had made the journey from Pavona to Remas, though she did not, of course, know the names of each soldier and servant. She did recall that the captain of the soldiers was a man named Giordano, and that he had ten men under his command. There had also been Alfredo Gambini, representing the interests of his cousin, the prince, and the dour priest of Morr, Scurio, as well as three servants to attend Alfredo’s needs.
Brunner decided to start with the soldiers, as both Scurio and Alfredo, given their positions within the Gambini household, would prove more troublesome if one of them turned out to be the man he was after. The bounty hunter preferred to start his search with much more easily eliminated possibilities. The captain, Giordano, would be a good start. Even if he was not the man he was after, Giordano would know the names of the other soldiers.
It took only a few words of inquiry on Zelten’s part to discover that his fellow mercenary captain was not in the palazzo, but had rather boisterously stated his intention to spend a two-day leave at a bordello called the Pink Rose. Zelten detailed Horst to show the bounty hunter the way. Intent on sleeping off the imported Stirland beer Zelten’s men had been given as recompense for not being invited to share in the feast, the bearded warrior was as surly as the animal he resembled. Brunner was not entirely off-set by Horst’s bear-like mood. Should any of those zealots of Solkan get in their way this night, they would be leaving with more damage than broken noses and bruised bones. The presence of the inquisitor at the feast had removed any doubts in the bounty hunter’s mind as to whether the attack on himself and Zelten upon their arrival had been coincidence or a planned ambush.
