Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  Motionless as a graven image, the Smiling Lord sat enthroned on a basalt pedestal at the far end of the chamber. The sickly jade light glinted on his steel mask, his plate armor, and the darksteel head of the halberd in his right hand. A number of his ministers—Montrose's fellow courtiers and, in most cases, his bitter rivals—stood before the dais. Chiarmonte, the nondescript little Venetian spy master, almost lost in his voluminous robes, the top half of his face covered by a leather domino. And gaunt, loose-limbed Demetrius, the relative newcomer, his head concealed by a carved sardonyx helm.

  Montrose started down the long, black marble aisle. His leg irons, invested with a magic that prevented him from using his Harbinger powers in an escape attempt, clinked. Reinhardt marched at his side, and two guards, their assault rifles an anomaly in this ancient place, brought up the rear.

  Montrose halted before the throne, bowed deeply, and unmasked. No one else followed suit. In the labyrinthine world of the Onyx Tower, a complex etiquette determined who uncovered his face in any given situation. Generally speaking, in a tribunal such as this one, only the accused was required to do so.

  Montrose realized that his mask had left his auburn lovelocks in disarray. He gave his head a slight toss, trying to settle them into place. Then Demetrius intoned, "James Graham, Marquess of Montrose, my lord Anacreon, you stand before our august master the Smiling Lord accused of treason." Evidently the Greek had been selected, or, likely, had volunteered to prosecute the case. "How do you plead?"

  "Not guilty," Montrose replied, gazing steadily up at his master. Shadowed by the rings of steel surrounding them, the Smiling Lord's gray eyes were unreadable. On occasion, the accused man had suspected that this aloof and enigmatic presence regarded him as a friend of sorts, but if so, there was no sign of it now.

  Demetrius turned to a table. Two slim volumes lay there, one bound in white leather, the other in red. He picked up the red one. "This was discovered among your possessions. A journal in which you declare your intention to renounce your loyalty to the Hierarchy and conquer a kingdom for yourself in the Shadowlands of Earth."

  "I didn't write it," Montrose said.

  Demetrius looked at Chiarmonte. The gray-haired Venetian, an expert graphologist, said, "It's unquestionably in Lord Montrose's hand." His tone was matter- of-fact.

  Montrose took a deep breath. Throughout the journey from Natchez back to the Isle of Sorrows, he'd wracked his brains, trying to devise an escape plan, or, barring that, a lie that would serve him better than the discreditable truth. He hadn't succeeded at either. "I imagine it looks like my writing because my Shadow penned it to ruin me," he admitted, "during a brief period when it was in control of my body."

  Given the heartless character of Stygian justice, it was a poor defense. A high- ranking Legionnaire who'd been possessed by the malignant forces festering in the depths of every wraith's personality was likely to be regarded as a security risk. If he could succumb once, why not again? Wouldn't it be safer to dispatch him to Oblivion, and avoid the possibility?

  Chiarmonte cocked his head. "I've known you for a long time," he said to Montrose. "I don't recall you ever having such an episode."

  Demetrius looked coldly at the Venetian, as if he resented his usurping a more active role in the proceedings, but made no verbal protest.

  "It was a freak occurrence," Montrose said. He looked up at the Smiling Lord again. "Dread Lord, you sent me to the Shadowlands to lead a campaign against the Heretics. One of their leaders turned out to be Louise, the exiled Bohemian princess I once told you about. She whom I loved in life, and who betrayed me. Who sent my army to defeat and me to the gallows.

  "When I encountered her in the midst of battle, and captured her, it filled me with rage, and my savagery gave my Shadow strength. But now that I've punished her as she deserved, you can rest assured that my psyche is in firm control again."

  The Smiling Lord stared impassively down at him.

  "So your dark twin was dominant when you wrote the journal," Demetrius said. "A novel defense. Perhaps it would even be considered a valid one, if it were true."

  "It is," Montrose said.

  The Oracle picked up the white book. "This too was discovered in your possession. A religious tract. Evidence of Heretical sentiments."

  "Don't be absurd," Montrose said. "I'd been persecuting Heretics all along the lower Mississippi as per my orders. Killing and enslaving them and confiscating their possessions."

  "But I believe this is the Prayer Book of the old Scottish Kirk," Demetrius said. "Your devotion to the faith it embodies shaped your whole mortal career. And considering your failure to consign this one particular item to the purifying flames, perhaps the creed still has meaning for you today."

  Montrose sneered. "I kept it simply as a trophy. A memento." Actually, he wasn't quite sure of his motives, but he supposed he was speaking the truth. Certainly he'd renounced both his Christianity and the lofty ideals which had ruined his life a long time ago.

  "You can hardly condemn an inquisitor for coming into possession of Heretical materials," said Chiarmonte to Demetrius, "nor, I would assume, do you claim to be able to read the fellow's mind. Considering that Montrose isn't charged with Heresy anyway, perhaps we should move on to matters of greater substance."

  "As you wish," Demetrius replied. "Lord Montrose, you claim that your traitorous ambitions were a transient aberration. But the evidence indicates you were plotting to seize your own independent dominion before you ever left Stygia, and that many of your subsequent actions were meant to further that aim."

  "Nonsense," Montrose said. "I didn't even want to go." And that at least was the plain, unvarnished truth. He'd winced at the notion of abandoning the luxuries of the court for the spartan conditions of the Shadowlands, and he'd been reluctant to give his rivals the opportunity to defame him to the Smiling Lord in his absence.

  "You sailed with a detachment of Legionnaires," Demetrius said. "According to your report, Soul Pirates attacked your ships deep in the Tempest. Only you escaped."

  "That's right," Montrose said. His Harbinger skills afforded him the ability to move with relative freedom through the chaotic dimensions which separated the Isle of Sorrows from the mortal realm, and thus he'd managed to flee the convoy when it had become clear that the battle was lost.

  "I submit that you deliberately led your men into an ambush," Demetrius said, "because loyal Legionnaires, soldiers who'd turn on you if they divined your true intent, were a hindrance to your plans."

  "You're wrong," Montrose said. "I let Captain Pizarro choose our route through the storm. Why not? He was a far better sailor than I am. Traversing the Sea of Shadows is always dangerous, and what happened to us was bad luck, pure and simple."

  "I question that," Demetrius said. "Because when you reached your destination, you raised a new army comprised of the most despicable cutthroats in the region. Precisely the sort of scum who would back you in your treason."

  "I needed troops to complete my mission," Montrose said, "and the governors of the province refused to lend me any of theirs. I had to make do with the resources at hand."

  "That's not the way Gayoso, Shellabarger, and Mrs. Duquesne tell it," Demetrius said. "They claim they were more than willing to assist you. But you were intent on having your own personal force, and on undermining their authority with the populace."

  Montrose shifted his weight. His ankle chain rattled against the marble. "What would you expect them to say?" he replied. "That they refused to honor the wishes of a Deathlord when they imagined they could get away with it? They're locked in a petty little power struggle with one another." In the half century since Charon's demise, during which Stygia's control of its Shadowlands territories had become increasingly attenuated, such intrigues had become more the rule than the exception. "None of them would give me any troops for fear of leaving himself vulnerable to the others. And I daresay they were worried that I'd want to stay in Natchez and take control, but that wa
s simply their paranoia.

  "Tell me this, Lord Demetrius. If I truly am a traitor, what treasonous act did I commit? What did I actually do in the Shadowlands, except carry out my commission to the best of my ability?"

  "You weren't yet ready for overt rebellion," the swarthy Greek replied. "You wanted to recruit more desperadoes first." His voice took on a smug, mocking note. "If you recall, you laid out your strategy in detail in your diary."

  Montrose turned back to the Smiling Lord. "Master, you know me. I've fought and labored in your behalf for three and a half centuries. Surely you don't believe I'm a traitor."

  The Smiling Lord simply stared.

  Montrose felt a surge of despair, and struggled to quash the emotion. "During my sojourn in the Shadowlands," he continued, "I discovered that there is some sort of sinister plan afoot, though it hasn't got anything to do with me." At last the Smiling Lord shifted on his seat, ever so slightly. The Scot felt an indefinable change in the quality of his master's regard. "There's an ugly mood in Natchez and elsewhere, a feeling of hatred in the air. Wraiths are killing one another over trivialities. By chance, I discovered that many of the veteran local Pardoners have vanished, and new ones are appearing to take their places. But the newcomers practice a corrupt version of the craft. Instead of quelling a wraith's Shadow, they strengthen it, without the victim understanding what's actually going on. That's the source of the unrest."

  Chiarmonte frowned. "Who's behind it?" he asked. "Spectres? Heretics?"

  "I don't know," Montrose said. "Lord Reinhardt called for me before I had a chance to find out. But I have a hunch that somehow, the disappearance of legitimate Pardoners along the Mississippi has something to do with a series of murders of priests and ministers taking place in the Skinlands of the same region. And if some of our enemies have concocted a scheme large enough to involve hostilities against both the living and the dead, we'd be well advised to uncover it post haste."

  He decided not to add that Katrina, the Ferryman who'd helped him escape the Tempest after the loss of his ships, had warned him that a dire threat was looming on the horizon, a menace it was his destiny to confront. The mysterious fellowship of psychopomps to which she belonged had broken with Charon two thousand years ago, when he'd first proclaimed himself Emperor. In consequence, the Deathlords didn't trust them, any more than they trusted any other ghost who refused to accept the authority of the Onyx Tower. Besides, were Montrose to mention the incident, he'd also have to explain that he hadn't taken the warning seriously, and in retrospect, his blindness made him feel like a fool.

  "And only you were cunning enough to uncover this diabolical conspiracy," said Demetrius ironically. "Surely, then, only you could get to the bottom of it. So we'd better forget all about these silly charges, hadn't we, and send you back to America to investigate."

  "Essentially," said Montrose, "that is what I'm proposing." He gazed up at the Smiling Lord. "Let me return to the Shadowlands, my liege. Under close guard, if you think it necessary. But let me prove my loyalty by ferreting out this threat."

  For a moment he had the feeling that the Deathlord was seriously considering it. That the Master of War and Murder might actually spare him. Then the man in the steel mask turned to Demetrius. "Do you think there's any chance at all that there's anything to this?"

  The Greek shook his head. "Absolutely not, Dread Lord. Otherwise Gayoso would already have discovered the plot. After all, he knows his domain far better than Montrose. He's resided there for hundreds of years. It's just a lie, a ploy to divert us from our purpose."

  "I suppose," said the Smiling Lord. Montrose blinked in surprise. For a moment, there was a faintly querulous, almost human note in his master's tone that he'd never heard there before.

  The Smiling Lord gazed down at the defendant. "Here is my judgment," he said, his voice cold iron once again. "I find you guilty of treason. Others condemned for the same crime have gone to the torturers, to suffer terrible agonies until Oblivion claimed them. But in recognition of your past services, and because I believe your Shadow may actually be responsible for your transgressions, I choose to grant you mercy. I'm sending you to the Artificers, to have your body smelted into metal."

  "Master," said Montrose, "I swear on my honor, you're making a mistake."

  "Take him away," said the Smiling Lord. One of the guards grabbed Montrose's shoulder and yanked him backward.

  Potter was certain that he and Demetrius were alone. Surely none of his countless servants would dare to spy on the Smiling Lord, and even had they wished to do so, in the small, sparsely furnished scrying chamber, there was no hiding place to spy from.

  Still, he hesitated, peering about, before drawing off his steel gauntlets, laying them beside the clay figurine, a fleshy nude woman with two faces, on the small, round table, and then, at last, pulling off his visor.

  As usual, the crime brought an untidy jumble of conflicting emotions. One was guilt. Charon, whom he'd worshipped, feared, and occasionally hated, had forbidden his Deathlords to reveal their faces or their mortal identities to anyone, even their peers. But along with the shame and anxiety came a defiant joy. It was good to escape the prison of his loneliness. To have a true friend and confidant at last.

  "Today was difficult," he said somberly. "I liked Montrose. Are we absolutely certain we've done the right thing?"

  "Yes," said Demetrius. Following the tribunal, he'd wasted no time exchanging his formal robes and boots for his customary toga and sandals. "I used my Arcanos to investigate the state of his spirit and his recent activities. The results were consistent with the other evidence against him, even if they weren't admissible in court."

  "But was it truly necessary to send him to the Soulforges?" Potter asked. "I could have exiled him."

  "Leaving him free to proceed with his conquest of the Shadowlands?"

  "No," Potter sighed, "I suppose not. But perhaps we should put him to the question after all. If we don't, how can we be sure that his treachery isn't related to all the other things that have been happening to me?"

  Relations among the seven Deathlords had been deteriorating since Charon's passing. Each was striving to amass as much power as possible, either to satisfy his ambition or simply to guarantee his survival. At first the oligarchs of the Restless had confined their rivalry to political maneuvering, at least as far as Potter was aware. But more recently, scrying with the aid of the magical two-faced statue Demetrius had given him, he'd received intimations that one or more of his peers intended to kill him, and then an assassin had actually made an attempt. And though Stygia had a plethora of external enemies, no outsider should have been able to sneak into the labyrinthine complex of palaces and fortifications loosely known as the Onyx Tower. Thus, Potter had no doubt that one of colleagues was to blame.

  "I don't think there's a connection," Demetrius said. "One situation involves the petty affairs of the provinces, the other the Isle of Sorrows itself. Besides, if Montrose had been Collaborating with your enemies here, he would have mentioned the fact in his journal as freely as he delineated the other aspects of his treachery. Still, you're well rid of him."

  "I guess you're right," Potter said. "Are you ready to try another divination?"

  "Of course," said Demetrius, waving a hand at the table and the two straight- backed chairs. "Whatever the Dread Lord commands. If you will please be seated?"

  Adjusting the folds of his voluminous, ankle-length mantle, Potter sat down. The two faces of the figurine gave him their cryptic smiles. He rested his forearms on the tabletop and his vambraces clinked.

  Demetrius sat down opposite him. "I've continued my research, and discovered another ancient Oracular technique."

  "Good," Potter said, trying to Sound—and feel—optimistic. The trouble with both his visiotis and his lieutenant's psychic explorations was that they kept yielding incomplete information. They'd never definitively revealed which of his fellow Deathlords were plotting to kill him. At one point Demetrius h
ad hypothesized that his ignorance of Potter's true identity, and of the pattern of his deathmarks, those facial stigmata: only Oracles could see, were hampering his efforts. That was why Potter had chosen to unmask for him.

  But although the transgression had paid off by creating a true bond of camaraderie between them, and enabling his advisor to Pardon him more effectively, it hadn't solved the problem. Thus, Demetrius had decided to delve into the half-forgotten arcana of the Oracles' guild, dissolved by Charon centuries ago, seeking alternative, and, he hoped, more potent methods of prophecy.

  The Greek seemed to catch a despondent note in his master's voice. "I will break through for you," he said. "I guarantee it."

  Potter smiled wanly. "I know you will. What's the plan this time?"

  Demetrius nodded at the statuette. "With the Dread Lord's permission, I'm going to destroy this ugly piece of bric-a-brac."

  Potter cocked his head. "Why?"

  "Why not?" said the saturnine Greek, his wide mouth quirking into a momentary smile. "It never tells us everything we need to know, does it, and as long as we use it as igently as its maker intended, I suspect it never will. But if I release all its power at once, perhaps I can finally supply the answers you need."

  As a Deathlord, Potter was sufficiently versed in the basics of the Arcanoi of all the guilds to comprehend that what Demetrius was proposing was both theoretically possible and at least a little dangerous. "Very well," he said, "but be careful."

  "I always am," Demetrius said. "Please put your hand on the statue."

  Potter touched the figure's base and its bate, dainty feet. The baked clay felt cool and dry. Demetrius rested his fingertips on the talisman's misshapen head, closed his eyes, and began to murmur in a language the Deathlord didn't recognize. He suspected that even if he were wearing his mask, an almost sentient artifact possessed of its own memory, a repository of knowledge on which the wearer could draw at need, he might not have understood the words.