“Good,” the Mekai said. “I want a full report as soon as it’s available. Fall to purpose.”
Victus gave them all a tight smile, bowed to the Mekai, and strode away down the path to the opening in the wall. Dormael watched him go, unsure of what he had just witnessed. Shawna, too, was giving him an odd look, but Dormael ignored it for the moment. Lacelle was watching the scene with just as much interest, and he didn’t want to give anything away. She already assumed they were sleeping together.
“Lacelle, do me the kindness of gathering the research we have been collecting, and bringing it to my chambers. I’ll ask all of you to dine with me tonight—in the Mekai’s personal rooms, understood? We have much to discuss, and very little time.”
“Time, Honored One?” Lacelle asked, giving him a strange look. Dormael felt his own hackles rise, as well. Expressions like ‘very little time’ rarely came packaged with anything pleasant.
In response, the Mekai turned a serious eye in her direction.
“Don’t forget the scrolls in Old Vendon, Deacon Lacelle,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “And hurry. As I said—very little time.”
“Of course, Honored One,” Lacelle said, bowing at the waist. She shared a confused look with Dormael as she turned to leave—the first human emotion the woman had ever shown him—and glided from the room. Dormael and Shawna watched her go, then shared a confused look between them.
“Dormael,” the Mekai said, turning toward him, “when you come tonight, make sure to bring everyone. D’Jenn, your brother, little Bethany here, and, you, of course, Baroness Llewan. I regret that my hospitality needs to to be so rushed, but the gods give us a strange world in which to live, do they not?”
“They do,” Shawna said, giving him a confused smile. “I will be honored to receive your hospitality, Honored Mekai, in any case.”
“Very good, very good, indeed,” the Mekai said. He took a few steps toward the exit, then turned back to them as if he had forgotten something. “One more thing, Dormael. Don’t forget to wear a clean shirt—that one is ripped, and there’s quite a bit of blood on it. What happened to you, dear boy?”
His hands, though, were spinning in the Hunter’s Tongue, his back to the two deacons who had yet to reach the exit.
Pack for a long journey, you all leave tonight. Say nothing.
It took Dormael a stunned moment to separate the messages in his mind, but he stammered out a reply.
“Ah—of course, Honored Mekai. Apologies, I’ll fill you in at dinner.”
“Very good, Warlock Harlun. Very good,” the Mekai said. “Also, don’t forget to take the armlet with you when you leave this room. I’ve completed my study of the thing. We shall speak about it over dinner.” He offered them a smile that never touched his eyes, gave Bethany another conspiratorial wink, and then strode off in the wake of his deacons. Dormael watched him go, feeling numb and confused.
“Did you catch that?” Shawna whispered. “Did you see what he said?”
“Aye,” Dormael replied. “I saw.”
“Me too,” Bethany said.
Dormael reached down and hugged her tight against his side. He had been so afraid that they would find her body in the tunnels, or never find her at all. He clutched to her like a lucky charm, and she pulled just as tightly against him. Shawna strode over and grabbed the box with her mother’s armlet, and then the three of them made their way back into the Rat Holes.
Bethany didn’t let go of Dormael’s hand the entire way, and he didn’t ask her to do so.
Unsanctioned Operatives
The Mekai’s private residence was its own separate building on the Green. Wizards long ago had built spells into the place that warded it from scrying, intrusion, or magical tampering. More power was sunk into the very stones of this building than any other in the Conclave, save the center of the Crux. Given the number of defensive spells, it was the most secure place in the entire city of Ishamael.
Dormael ate without gusto, his stomach unable to accept much more than dread for its fuel. His thoughts were racing, trying to piece together everything that had happened in the past day. Inera, Bethany, Victus—it was as if his whole world was unraveling. He tried to feel something, anything else about it, but his emotions had all fallen into a single, yawning pit made of dread.
The hairs on the back of Dormael’s neck itched through the entire meal.
He tried to keep his eyes on the decorations of the dining hall while the roast was served, taking in the expensive paintings and the rosewood paneling. The roast was delicious for two full bites before it was whisked away. During the second course, he tried to take stock of the various infused items he could count in the room—a decanter here, an ancient stylus there—but the activity failed to distract him. Try as he might, Dormael couldn’t keep his mind from the issue that sat just behind the pleasant conversation being made during the meal.
Everyone’s eyes reflected his concern.
Lacelle peered into her food as if some great secret were contained in the depths of her soup bowl. Shawna considered everyone at the table in turn, her eyes narrowed in thought. The Mekai made small talk with Bethany, though Dormael could feel the old man’s Kai moving through the room, rooting in every empty corner in anxious spasms. D’Jenn scowled at everything, and Allen pretended not to notice the pregnant silence in the room.
Dormael felt like screaming.
By the time everyone passed around a bowl of the Shaman’s Leaf, Bethany had fallen asleep on one of the benches at the edge of the room. It was late in the evening, and Dormael was beginning to feel tired himself. Though the tension kept him alert, his body had been through all Six Hells today. It begged him for a respite.
“I’m quite sorry I kept everyone waiting,” the Mekai said as the pipe went around the room. “It was important that they think we were up late into the night, long after anyone would do much but sleep.”
“They?” Lacelle asked, raising a single cold eyebrow.
“Your esteemed colleague,” the Mekai replied. “Victus Tiranan, Deacon of Warlocks.”
Silence filled the room in the wake of his words, like a startled intake of breath.
“So what D’Jenn said is true,” Dormael said, looking to his cousin. “Victus is a traitor.” The words sounded so odd coming out, as if he was saying his own father was a traitor. He wanted to grab them out of the air even as they passed his lips.
“Let us all lay what we know on the table,” the Mekai said. “First—what happened tonight, in the tunnels. Tell me, boys, has Bethany ever seen Kendall Induriam? Has she ever spoken with the man?”
“Not that I know of,” Dormael said, shrugging his shoulders. “I thought Kendall was out of the Conclave. Haven’t seen him since last year.”
“You saw him earlier today,” the Mekai said, “burnt to death in the Rat Holes. Bethany showed me his face in her memories, and there was no doubt in my mind. His eyes, you know.”
“One brown, one blue,” D’Jenn nodded. “We used to call him Evil Eye Induriam. He hated it.”
“Doesn’t hate anything anymore,” Dormael said. He couldn’t believe the man was dead. He had been friends with Kendall, after a fashion. “Why would Kendall try and take Bethany? She said the man attacked her. She said he tried to take her.”
“I can’t be sure,” the Mekai shrugged. “It’s possible Victus wanted to speak to her, to gain her trust. It’s possible he meant to kidnap her. It’s possible he wanted to plant a suggestion in her mind, perhaps—there are any number of possibilities.”
“Bethany is linked to the armlet,” D’Jenn said. “It speaks with her. If he can control her, then maybe he can control the armlet through her. He said something about how powerful she was, and how she should become a Warlock like the rest of her family. He’s trying to gather up his loyal followers, counting his eggs.”
“Doubtless he wants the two of you on his side,” Lacelle said, narrowing her eyes at them.
�
��He must be planning on making a move soon,” D’Jenn said. “Perhaps I can provide some context. I spent some time looking into a thing that kept bugging me. I discovered that Victus has been sending Warlocks on missions as political favors. He had Kitamin Jurillic rescued from the Golden Waste, and Jurillic suspected that he has something to do with the murder of Berrul’s brother.”
“Berrul?” Shawna asked.
“Nilliam Berrul,” Dormael clarified. “He’s the Kansil of Soirus-Gamerit.”
“So Victus has been dispatching his agents as his personal mercenaries?” Lacelle asked, her voice gone quiet. It was a damning thing to suggest. A personal army of Warlocks would be a terrible thing.
D’Jenn nodded. “He had Kitamin Jurillic rescued—that I know for a fact. I met with Nyra Jurillic. She assumed I was working for Victus. She said that she could sense his hand at work in the Council meetings of late, and that she suspected he would try to have her killed. He has at least two Warlocks doing his dirty work, but there must be more.”
“Why?” Dormael asked. The notion that so many of his friends were complicit in all of this offended him.
“Because you’re all loyal to him, that’s why,” Lacelle said. “Say what you will about Victus Tiranan, but his Warlocks love him, one and all.”
Dormael wanted to argue, but he knew she was right.
“There have been a number of deaths recently,” the Mekai said. “I hadn’t thought they were much more than accidents, the natural result of the dangerous work you all do, but now I wonder if there was some sort of purge happening right under my nose. I’ve always allowed Deacon Victus a free hand with his people. Now I wonder at the wisdom of such a thing.”
“Deaths?” Dormael asked. “You can’t mean…he wouldn’t. Not that.”
“Ragnam and Sierra,” D’Jenn said. “Killed by raiders in the southern seas, apparently. Yista and Illiriam, disappeared on the Dannon Steppe. Vera, Taglion, Kirael and Jastom—all drowned on the Sea of Storms. I asked around about that, too.” D’Jenn’s eyes blazed brighter with each name, and Dormael felt a ball of ice starting to form in his stomach.
“You think he killed them? All of them?” Dormael asked, the question hollowing his chest.
“I’m sorry, boys,” the Mekai said. “I blame myself for this.”
“I blame Victus,” D’Jenn said, a darkness entering his tone that Dormael recognized. He felt the same way. If there really had been a purge, if Victus had commanded such a thing, then nothing would satisfy him other than the man’s head. Those had been his friends, his family. He’d grown up with most of them, and looked up to some of them.
Still, part of him rebelled against the idea that Victus would do such a thing.
“Are we sure about this?” Dormael asked.
“I can see the way he’s moving,” D’Jenn said. “He’s influenced the Council to set aside a large sum of money, and sewed rumors about death camps overseas. He’s purged anyone who might have the power to stand against him, and bought up influence where it’s needed. Those who have served their purposes are pulled down by those below them—at which point he’ll have them killed, severing any ties for good. If he plans to depose you, Honored One, he’s gone about it in a methodical way.”
“It appears so,” the Mekai nodded. “He’s challenged me publicly on a number of issues, and engendered support within the Conclave. I should have seen this coming.”
“What he didn’t count on was Bethany,” D’Jenn said. “He could have used her in order to secure our loyalty, or draw us out in order to assassinate us if he felt we would turn against him. She defeated the ambush, though, and now everything is up in the air.”
“Indeed,” the Mekai said. “His hand has been revealed, and he’ll have to move soon if he wants his plan to succeed, whatever his goals are. We don’t have much time.”
“We are ready to do our duty,” D’Jenn said, rising to his feet. Dormael nodded, but still felt overwhelmed. He could see the logic behind it all, and he trusted his cousin. Part of him, though, balked at the idea of Victus having done all this.
Garner support, maybe—but kill our friends? Not that. Would he?
A cold, logical voice inside told him that it was true, though. Victus had trained him, and Dormael knew the lengths to which the man would go if he deemed it necessary. If he had decided to go down the path to power, he wouldn’t stop at anything to achieve his goal. Dormael caught eyes with D’Jenn, and saw the certainty in his cousin’s face.
Nodding to D’Jenn, Dormael stood with him.
“If Victus is responsible for the deaths of all our friends, then we need to move now,” Dormael said.
“Victus has to die,” D’Jenn nodded. “We kill him tonight. If we give him a chance to make the first move, we will fail. I know the way his mind works, the way he plans an operation. We have to do it now, or we risk yielding the initiative.”
“Do you think we can take him?” Dormael asked. “What if the others are near him, guarding him? Do you think they’ll fight us?”
“They’ve killed eight of us already,” D’Jenn said. “What makes you think they’ll hesitate for you and I? If we don’t do this tonight, Honored One, I fear we will lose our chance. I urge you to grant us his Death Coin.”
As he heard the words come out of D’Jenn’s mouth, Dormael gave an involuntary shudder. Death Coins were issued only against rogue wizards—dangerous Blessed who had used their powers for subjugation, or harm. Once a Warlock took up a Death Coin, they couldn’t return to Ishamael without having made good on its promise. Dormael once again hesitated, but looked to the intensity in D’Jenn’s eyes.
It’s Vera, he realized. D’Jenn had been in love with her since they were youths.
“I cannot,” the Mekai said.
The room sat for a moment in stunned silence. Even Lacelle looked at the Mekai as if he had lost his mind. It took Dormael a moment to gather his thoughts back into a coherent stream.
“Honored One, if we don’t act soon, Victus will put his plans into motion. We’ll be blindsided, and ultimately defeated. I must insist that we end him tonight,” D’Jenn said.
“I cannot—and not because I fear to act,” the Mekai said. “There are greater forces at work, here.”
“Greater forces than the integrity of the Conclave?” Dormael asked before he could stop himself. “What could be more important that that?”
“Do not forget to whom you speak,” the Mekai said, his tone going flat. The room went silent, and Dormael felt his cheeks color. He’d let his anger get the best of him.
“Apologies, Honored One,” Dormael said.
“No need for all of that—and yes, greater forces than the integrity of the Conclave. Lacelle, did you bring that research I asked of you?” the Mekai said.
“I did,” Lacelle said. She rose from the table and walked to the edge of the room, where a leather scroll case had been left on a bookshelf. She snatched it and brought it over to the table, popped the end, and pulled a sheaf of documents out of the cylinder. The Mekai reached over and leafed through them, finally settling on a copy of something in Old Vendon.
“You see, we’ve been looking through old records since you boys brought back the Baroness Llewan’s armlet. We believe we have discovered what it is.”
***
Maarkov gnawed on a piece of dried beef as he stared off into the darkness. They’d come down the mountain into Runeme, and as soon as Maaz had instructed his strega to set up camp, Maarkov had taken his bedroll as far from the stinking things as possible. He sat under the sheltering boughs of an evergreen, listening to the water drip from the leaves in the wake of the day’s storm. Ishamael sat in the distance, a scattering of lights along the river’s path.
Maarkov felt uneasy being this close to it. Growing up, he had heard horror stories of Ishamael. It had been said that their altars reached hundreds of links to the sky, and every day infants were tossed from the edge to splatter on the stones below, offerings t
o Eindor, the Father of Magic. Now, of course, he knew such things were ridiculous.
His brother, after all, was the real horror.
The Conclave of Wizards was down in the city. It had been the great monster of Maaz and Maarkov’s life. Even in the early days, when Maaz had been little more than a lanky, awkward youth, they’d had to hide from the wizards. Now, here they stood, half a day’s walk from the Conclave itself.
Maarkov wondered how they would kill his brother. What did they do to necromancers, anyway? What did they do to someone who had killed so many, and with such disturbing efficiency? He could almost hear his brother’s voice.
It’s artistry.
Maarkov wondered for the thousandth time what his brother’s plan might be. Were they to sit here until sunrise? Were they to skip through the gates of the city?
Don’t mind us, just a traveling band of rotting corpses and dead-eyed killers.
Maarkov finished his dinner and packed a pipe bowl, leaning back against the tree to relax for a spell. His fingernails did not grow, nor did his hair, most wounds couldn’t kill him, and he didn’t need to breathe—but he still felt a release of pleasure from tobacco. The gods truly built man as a mystery.
A bird dropped from the night sky, fluttering its wings as it came in for a landing not two hands from his foot. It was a crow, or maybe a raven—Maarkov had never given two shits about the difference. He almost raised his leg to kick the damned thing. He didn’t want it pecking at his flesh when he went to sleep.
In the instants while he was still trying to decide, the bird rippled and changed, sliding into the form of a diminutive young woman. She rose from the crouch and brushed her tattered dress straight, then blinked her eyes at him.
“Where is your brother?” she asked.
“And a mighty fine evening to you too, Inera,” Maarkov said. “He’s by the fire. Where do you think?”
Inera looked in the direction of the orange light, dread painting her features. In the low echo of the firelight, her face was outlined by the shadow. She looked as if she was staring at her own death.
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 77
