The walls of the Conclave Proper rose like a monolith into the sky, only a short run from the Bruising Stretch. D’Jenn quested out with his own magical senses, trying to pierce the cloud of magic around him to spy anyone who might be moving around. The bracer on his arm sang its discord into his mind, but D’Jenn was able to see around it. The grounds were deserted.
He turned his eyes on the tower.
The Conclave Proper rose many stories above the ground. The tower—of course—had been constructed with magical means, as well as physical ones. There were platforms on the side of the tower that were attached by impossibly thin branches of stone and steel. In another place, a steel frame flourished from the side of the tower to support a room that was shaped like a bubble of stone. It was hundreds of links high.
The deacon’s study was at one of the topmost rooms that branched off the tower, held up by one of those flowing steel cages. D’Jenn wished—and not for the first time—that he had Dormael’s affinity for flying. A quick slip of the skin and a short flight would be preferable to a long, arduous climb, magic or not.
The gods like to laugh at our misery.
Going into the tower would be folly. The Mekai’s spell was an effective one, but even that wouldn’t have caught everyone. There would still be people moving around, still be someone in the hallways that would see him. If another Warlock saw him, he was finished.
If one wasn’t watching him at this very moment, of course.
D’Jenn moved the axe around to the small of his back, and walked down the path toward the Conclave Proper. His back itched for the entire walk, but he knew that appearing normal was more important than rolling through the shadows like an amateur. If someone was looking, he was just an ordinary wizard out walking the pathways through the grounds.
D’Jenn saw no one, even when he got close to the Conclave Proper.
As he reached the base of the tower, he moved along the edge of the wall, walking around to the southern face. He could get a great distance up the side of the wall before he needed to scoot his way around, but there was no changing the winding path he would have to take in order to reach Victus’s study. Oddly, it was Victus’s voice that his memories conjured.
Nobody ever said being a Warlock was easy.
D’Jenn’s hands itched to be around the man’s throat.
He whispered a spell onto his hands and feet, then started to climb. The wind was cold, and the stone under his hands still damp from the day’s rain. His fingers grew numb, but he split his consciousness and channeled bit of heat to keep them warm. Numb hands were unresponsive hands, and that was the last thing D’Jenn wanted.
He pulled himself up the side of the tower, using his feet to help support his weight. The higher he went, the stronger the wind blew, whipping his mesavai around his thighs. He climbed a few more links until the tugging garment pulled at the haft of the axe, and D’Jenn had to reach back on reflex to catch it. He almost fell from the tower, but his magic kept his other hand stuck to the wall.
D’Jenn paused for a moment, his heart pounding against his ribcage, then continued upward.
Victus had betrayed them all. D’Jenn replayed the words of Vera’s letter again in his mind, ruminating on them until they were burned into his skull. They spun around his head like a miniature whirlwind.
I will always love you, she had said. He killed some of us already, I’m sure of it.
Vera, Taglion, Kirael and Jastom—all his friends. They had all trained under Victus, had all grown under his tutelage. They had been family to him. D’Jenn had eaten with them, and slept alongside them. Dormael had given Jastom the nickname Three-Fingers on the first day of their training, due to the fact that a dog had bitten two of the offending digits from his right hand. Kirael had been in love with Taglion all throughout their training, and even after. Taglion, though, had been a complete rake, and never acknowledged her. Everyone used to cringe every time Kirael looked longingly across the room at Taglion, and at the way she had been green with jealousy when Taglion had been partnered with Vera. D’Jenn almost smiled as he remembered the way Jastom would mime her, fluttering his eyebrows in mockery of her undying love.
They were all dead now.
Vera was dead now.
The one thing that D’Jenn had to know above all else was the truth about their deaths. He needed to hear it from Victus himself, listen to the man explain his reasons. Nothing could salve the pain at having lost them—at having lost Vera—but he had to know. The need smoldered in his chest.
The wind whipped his hair across his face, and D’Jenn spat a bit of it from his mouth as he continued upward. He could hear it whining as it lashed him against the side of the tower, and whipped his clothing about. D’Jenn thought about using Dormael’s floating spell, but after a moment’s consideration, decided against it. If he weighed less, then the wind would probably take him right off the side, and flutter him out over the river like a dead leaf. The last thing he wanted to do was take a swim in the river Ishamael.
It took him an eternity to make the climb. The tower that rose from the Conclave Proper was high, and each stylish platform, or hanging room, or gigantic window was a hazard for anyone wishing to remain unseen. After crawling a meandering path up the side of the tower, D’Jenn finally found himself clinging to the stone at the base of the steel beams which cradled Victus’s study.
His arms were shaking from the climb, his legs from anxiety.
Closing his eyes, he listened with his Kai. The bracer continued its discordant warble, and the tower hummed with the Mekai’s spell. The steel just above him was cold, though, and lacked any sort of magical ward. D’Jenn reached a tentative hand up to touch the cold metal, hoping to the gods that he could trust his senses. If a hidden ward gave him an unexpected shock, it wouldn’t be good.
A fall from this dizzying height would splatter him like a bug.
His hand rested on the steel, and no hidden magical spells sprang into action. D’Jenn breathed a sigh of relief, then readied himself for what was to come. There could be no room for error—this was the Deacon of the Warlocks he was dealing with, the very man who had trained D’Jenn in the first place. D’Jenn would be surprised if there was nothing nasty lying in wait for any potential assassins.
Still—would he have expected anyone to make this climb, and in the heart of his power? D’Jenn couldn’t be sure, but he was hoping that it would prove a blind spot in Victus’s planning. Doing the unexpected was always the best way to see an assassination through, but Victus would know that. Would he try and anticipate the unanticipated, or would he dismiss the idea as impractical?
I’m too close to worry about it now, he thought. Nowhere to go but forward.
D’Jenn clung to the curving steel bars, and began to shimmy into the complicated web of metal. His spell didn’t work quite as well as it did against the flat surface of the stone, and D’Jenn had a terrifying moment when one hand slipped on the damp steel, and he clambered to hold onto it. He worked one foot into the web, then the second, and he was suspended from the side of the tower. The flat bottom of the stone room was some distance above him, supported by a network of flowing steel bars. D’Jenn clutched the metal, trying not to think about how he was going to scramble around the bottom corner of the room, and up the side. The wind howled, tugging at his clothing again.
Are the gods trying to taunt me now?
D’Jenn reached back to check the axe that Allen had given him, then started a slow, arduous crawl through the web of curving steel. He could see the Bruising Stretch from where he was, just a white square smaller than his palm. Moonlight sparkled on the surface of the river. The distance to the ground yawned beneath him, but it was his anger that was making his legs shake.
He kept telling himself that.
D’Jenn worked his way to the top of the cage, crawling to where the thing fell away into open air. It supported the huge stone room with delicate swirls of metal, as if the block was being carried upon
a gust of wind made into steel. D’Jenn had to hold on to those curving, slippery metal rails, and pull himself out to the edge of the study. There was nowhere to rest his feet, so he had to hook his legs over the rails and hug them as tightly as he could, while stretching outward to get a hand flat on the stone.
For one dizzying second, he hung over the open air below, muscles spasming with tension.
Then, his hand stuck to the stone, and he crawled around the bottom edge of the study like a spider. He let out a huge breath in relief as he was once again vertical instead of horizontal. He clutched to the side of the room, letting his face rest against the cold, damp stone. He gave his legs a few moments to calm themselves.
There was a single square window that opened into the study. It was large enough for two people to stand upright, and looked out over the river. In the morning, the shadow of the tower stretched over the river and through the valley. The view from Victus’s window was one of the best in the Conclave. From his desk, he could see the river in the morning, and the city splayed out beneath him. For now, though, the window was shuttered against the cold night air.
Candlelight shone from the edges of the shutters, orange peeking through shadow in straight, orderly lines. D’Jenn stared at the window for a long moment, unsure of what to do next. If Victus was in the study, then this would be D’Jenn’s moment.
It would be Victus’s last moments.
D’Jenn delved the room with his Kai, and found the man inside, bent over a scroll. There was a ward around the edge of the room, but only a general ward against magical intrusion. D’Jenn listened to the Mekai’s spell slipping off the edge of Victus’s ward, its effects nullified. The man was wide awake, and probably didn’t even realize that there was magic at work just outside the door. Victus always had a penchant for working late into the night, and it appeared that this night was no exception.
D’Jenn sidled across the stone, working his way toward the window. He could sense Victus on the other side, face bent over the scroll on his desk. The man wasn’t even using his magic. D’Jenn gathered his power, and took a quiet second to center his thoughts.
Summoning his anger, he slammed his Kai into the window.
Glass shattered inward, blasting the wooden shutters into the room. Victus made a startled noise and cringed away from the flying debris, yelling a loud curse. D’Jenn felt his magic come awake with a snap, and he knew he had to act.
He punched once again into the room, sending a wave of pure force rushing across the floor. The spell took Victus from his feet, and slid all his furniture to the wall with a clamor of wood. D’Jenn slid in through the shattered window, and looked to where his former mentor lay on the ground.
Victus brushed the broken glass from the folds of his robe, and regarded D’Jenn with a stare that could have melted steel. His hair was as wild as ever, eyes alight with rage. D’Jenn’s skin crawled as Victus’s magic thrashed about in indignation—his body’s reaction to the deacon’s song. Victus planted a meaty hand on the floor, and pushed himself to his feet.
He paused when D’Jenn whipped the axe from his belt.
“You climbed all the way up the tower?” Victus asked.
“I did,” D’Jenn nodded.
“That’s a bastard of a climb, D’Jenn.”
“I was motivated.”
“Obviously.”
“I need to know a few things, Deacon. I came to have a talk.”
Victus’s face deepened into a scowl.
“You could have walked to my gods-damned door and knocked, you bloody fool.”
“We both know it’s not that kind of talk.”
D’Jenn could feel the wood of the axe beneath his grip, and realized how hard he was squeezing the haft. The blade twitched eagerly in the air, drawing Victus’s eyes. D’Jenn clenched his jaw, trying to rein in the storm of rage that was kindling to life in his chest.
“You need to put that bloody axe down, boy,” Victus snarled. “You don’t know what you’re doing, here. You’re confused.”
“I am confused,” D’Jenn agreed. “You’re right. I’m confused about a lot of things, Deacon.”
“Just put the weapon down, and let’s get this furniture put to rights. We’ll smoke a bit of the Leaf, and I’ll answer whatever questions you wish,” Victus said. He sighed as if D’Jenn were an errant child making some endearing mistake. “I can’t believe you actually climbed the bloody tower. Might be the first time that’s been done. Here, give me a hand with—”
“We’re not going to touch the gods-damned furniture!”
D’Jenn surprised himself with the vehemence that came out of his mouth. Victus froze, eyes regarding D’Jenn like a wild animal. The head of the axe twitched with his anger.
“D’Jenn, do you forget to whom you’re talking, boy?” Victus asked. “I’m still the deacon of this discipline, and—”
“Would you stop with the facade, Deacon?” D’Jenn said. “We both know I didn’t climb the side of the tower to come have a friendly chat. I want answers.”
“I said we’ll talk about whatever—”
“Kitamin Jurillic,” D’Jenn said. “You had him rescued.”
Victus’s expression went blank as the mask dropped away.
“How do you know about that?”
“I had a chat with his mother,” D’Jenn said. “She was under the strong impression that you had sent me there to kill her.”
“The woman is a fool,” Victus said. “I don’t need to kill her, boy. She will be deposed by her clan leaders, and she’s already served her purpose. Frankly, I could care less about the woman, or her hand-less shell of a son.”
“So you did have him rescued.”
“Of course I bloody did,” Victus growled. “You’re not an idiot, D’Jenn—I didn’t train you that way.”
“Why was instituting that tax so important?”
Victus sighed and gave D’Jenn a withering look.
“D’Jenn, I want you to loosen your gods-damned grip on that axe, and think for a moment. Use your mind, boy! Think about what you know about the world, about the threats out there. Think about the damned Galanians, the Dannon, the Rashardians, and now this vilth—war is coming to our shores, boy. Whether we want it or not, something bad is going to happen soon. The money is a precaution against that eventuality—a coffer for the Sevenlands to use when the war gets here.”
“I didn’t realize you’d gotten into soothsaying.” D’Jenn tightened his grip on the axe.
Victus’s scowl darkened.
“Do you know how many children were ripped from their homes, and taken into the desert last year?”
“What does that have to do with—”
“One hundred and six,” Victus went on, “though that number is a loose estimate. The Mals don’t care much about the yearly census. Their kids are taken all the time, marched across the desert and sold into slavery. The ones that survive, anyway. I’m sure there are mountains of little Sevenlander bones under the sand of the Golden Waste.”
“What’s your bloody point?”
“The Galanian Empire now occupies a strip of some of the most fertile land in Alderak,” Victus continued, ignoring D’Jenn’s scowl. “Before long, they’ll grow fat on the tax revenue from the the trade now forced to travel through their lands. With more money will come more troops, and with more troops, more conquest. The march of war brings strife, starvation, rape, and the general upending of life for everyone in its path. The last report I received spoke of the success of the Empire’s winter campaign against Thardin. If the emperor conquers the Thardish, no one in Alderak will be able to stand against him.”
“Are you drawing to the end of this little tale?”
“This is the tale of the ages, boy—use that mind of yours!”
“Tale of the ages,” D’Jenn scoffed. “My curiosity is wearing thin.”
“A failing,” Victus said, “of your mentor.”
Victus held up his hands for peace, then step
ped to where D’Jenn had tossed his desk—a heavy, dark thing that looked older than the stone. He picked up a pipe and lit it with an errant flick of his magic, then rested his backside on the flat.
“Do you think that allowing the Empire to grow unchecked is a good idea?” Victus asked.
“Deacon, I didn’t fucking come here to talk about—”
“Answer the bloody question, boy!” Victus snarled. “If you came here to kill me, then you can repay all that I’ve done for you by humoring me first.”
D’Jenn’s eyes narrowed.
“I don’t think it’s up to us what the bloody Galanian Empire does,” D’Jenn said.
“Shouldn’t it be?” Victus asked, taking a long pull from his pipe. “Just think about what they’ve done in the last season, think about the thing they sought from your friend—that pretty baroness.”
“That’s different,” D’Jenn said. “That’s magic—that is our business.”
“And why shouldn’t we work to prevent the rest of the evils they have committed? Why is it not upon us to prevent the raiders from attacking the Mals, or the families on the southern coast of Soirus-Gamerit? Why is it not our responsibility to protect those children? Because their enemies weren’t dangerous enough?”
“Because that’s what armies are for, what soldiers are for—we’re not soldiers!”
“Well maybe we should be!” Victus growled. “Maybe we should be.”
“What do you mean?”
“For the gods’ sakes, D’Jenn—you know what I mean,” Victus gave him an all-suffering glance, and shook his head. “If you walked down into the East Market tonight and saw a woman being raped, a child being killed, or a man being beaten—you’d intervene, would you not?”
“Of course I would.”
“Of course you would—so why in all the Six bloody Hells does that change when you simply add more children into the mix? Why would you save one, but whine about principles when many are dying every day?” Victus shook his head, and blew another mouthful of smoke into the room. The tobacco smelled expensive, as if it had been treated with something sweet.
“I don’t decide who lives and who dies,” D’Jenn said. “I’m not the gods, or fate, or whatever the bloody fuck you want to call it. Don’t try to pile their deaths at my feet.”
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 83
