Perhaps the man felt Silk’s gaze upon him, for he rose and crossed to their table. He sat opposite and regarded Silk, his gaze lazy. Cal-Brinn waved a hand in introduction. ‘Oberl of Purge . . . Silk of Heng.’
Silk offered a nod. ‘I have heard much of you, of course.’
The man’s answering nod seemed to say Of course you have. He leaned forward over the table and said, his voice soft, ‘I’ve heard that the Sword of Hood is in Heng. Do you know of this?’
Silk nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve met the man. Young. Seemed . . . competent.’
A drawing down of the man’s lips expressed what he thought of Silk’s evaluation of any fighter’s competence. But he did nod in thanks for the intelligence, and pushed away from the table. ‘I would break into your damned city just to test the fellow’s claim . . . but I am sworn to my duke.’
Silk resisted commenting and nodded instead, in farewell. ‘Perhaps sometime . . .’ he offered, to be diplomatic.
The man gave a tight hungry grin and walked away.
Silk found Cal-Brinn eyeing him and raised an eyebrow in question. The older mage cleared his throat. ‘You’ve met him? Is he really— that is, what do you think of his claim?’
Silk gnawed on the rib of roasted pig that had been set down before him and considered that dawn visit. In truth, he thought the claim wildly unrealistic. Mortal swords of the gods were few and far between. Those of Fener and Togg and such – the beast gods and war gods – were the most common. But for the hoary Elder hoarder of souls to grant such a dispensation . . . well, that was another thing entirely.
And yet. That morning, within that old neglected mausoleum, he’d felt something. They hadn’t been alone. He was no priest, but he’d heard talk that the Elder Realms such as those of the Andii and others were no more than older versions of the Warrens, and that even Hood’s own path was one such. It was quite esoteric research. Yet he’d felt something.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I consider it unlikely but not impossible.’
Cal-Brinn nodded at that. ‘Fair enough.’ He turned his attention to his meal.
Silk sipped his watered wine and tried to relax as the evening lengthened. His exhaustion and the lingering ache in his arm pulled at him. He understood now that the older mage was here beside him less as his minder than for companionship. For the broad tent was crammed with martial figures – among them some of the most storied in the lands – and Cal-Brinn was very much the odd man out. Yet the Guard possessed a cadre of mages second to none. He knew of Gwyn of Lammath, Petal and Red just to name a few. Even – and he searched the tent to find that skinny spotty youth – Fingers, Auralas had called him. The lad was sitting at a table laughing and joking, surrounded by armoured mercenaries yet wearing no more than a leather jerkin and buff trousers.
The Guard welcomed mages, he knew. And he felt the pull of it; of belonging, of the respect of one’s companions. But, somehow, he couldn’t imagine himself joining for the pursuit of money, or fame, or honour. No, it would take something more than that to win him over. Something larger. He couldn’t quite put a name to it, but it was there. In this company he felt it pulling at him.
He shook his head again, blinking, and set down his wine. He felt a hand on his shoulder – Cal-Brinn.
‘You should sleep,’ the mage was saying, and Silk nodded. Yes, it has been quite the eventful journey.
In the morning the Guard was good to its word. They supplied drivers and an escort of twenty cavalry. Cal-Brinn sat with Silk in the lead wagon, while a surviving Hengan muleteer handled the team. The elder mage was quiet, clearly willing to allow Silk all the time he needed to think.
As the wagon rocked and bucked along a track that was nothing more than twin overgrown depressions across the rolling hillsides and shallow valleys, Silk considered the mercenary company’s interest in the ongoing siege. They were here for the beast, of course, but clearly their formidable mage cadre was also aware of the strange happenings within the walls. Were they angling for some sort of advantage?
In time, he cleared his throat and shot a sidelong glance to the man beside him who sat at ease, a hand resting on the thick iron pommel of one of his swords. ‘You intervened because you think there is something going on in Heng, and you are curious.’
The mage turned to regard him. His age was hard to tell. Older, yes, but by how much was impossible to know. The scars and roughened features told of a long hard life. And he was, after all, an adept of Rashan, and had perhaps followed – or been allowed to follow – one of the rituals of High Denul that rejuvenated the body and forestalled its ageing. ‘You may avoid the subject with Courian,’ he said, ‘but you cannot hide the truth from me. Four Guard mages are here, and we all felt the shudder in our Warrens. It was as plain as an earthquake. Yes?’
Silk nodded, uncomfortably. ‘Yes.’
‘I am most interested in the thoughts of Hothalar on the matter. What is his opinion?’
Silk was quite surprised. ‘Ho? You know of him? Why would you care what he thinks?’
Now Cal-Brinn’s brows rose in surprise. ‘Hothalar is one of the foremost scholars of thaumaturgy and the manipulation of the Warrens. His experimentation is unequalled.’
Silk’s astonishment must have shown on his face, for the mage of Rashan went on, ‘But I see that that is not your area of interest.’
Silk looked away, his face heating. Damn Ho for leaving him in the dark! He must look like an utter fool. ‘No,’ he managed, holding his voice flat, ‘it is not.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Indeed, I am no scholar of the arts. I am more practical.’
‘From what was reported of the engagement, indeed so,’ Cal-Brinn said, and Silk chose to take that as an offering of peace.
They rode in silence for a time. Silk was now thinking of the other issue Courian raised, the matter of Ryllandaras; here was something he could address. The beast had done its job. The north was clear and winter was now with them. Any further Kanese incursion was unlikely. Surely Shalmanat had no further need for the vicious creature.
He turned to the wagon driver and motioned for the reins. ‘I’ll take over – get some rest.’ The man nodded and clambered over to the rear. Cal-Brinn cocked an eyebrow in silent question. Lowering his voice, Silk began, ‘As to Ryllandaras . . . if there were a way to trap him, how might I reach you?’
Cal-Brinn nodded long and slowly in consideration. At last: ‘If that were found to be so . . . I could leave myself open to contact from the Warren of Thyr . . .’
* * *
On the wall of a choked-off, dust-filled subterranean chamber ice crystals came into being in a latticework of diamond glimmer. They met, coalesced into a solid layer that crackled and hissed, sending wisps of mist into the dusty air. Sister Night emerged from the wall of latticed ice. Frost limned her short dark hair. Her flat features held her usual severe frown, and she wore her customary old worn travelling leathers. She raised a hand and a glowing ball of illumination materialized to float in the air.
She turned about, examining the chamber. It was squat; a mass of fallen earth choked off its one exit. From this heap, close to its leading edge, a pale hand could just be seen, reaching, nails broken where it had clutched desperately at the stone flags. Fat brick pillars cluttered the room; evidently these restrained the arched roof from total collapse.
She turned to the nearest wall and her breath caught. She approached, one hand outstretched, reaching out to crude sketches that cluttered the dressed stone walls. As her hand brushed close to one drawing she yanked it away, her breath hissing. She brought the globe of cold white light nearer.
It was a landscape done in charcoal, flat and desolate, bearing one central figure: the crudely traced outline of a structure, a brooding squat thing, almost a tomb, perhaps built of stone monoliths.
The woman flinched back as if struck. Amazement suffused her harsh features. ‘By the Elder Powers,’ she breathed. ‘How . . . how did he . . .’
Her dark gaze
narrowed now on the tomb-like structure and she brought a finger to her lips. ‘Greetings, cousins,’ she murmured aloud. ‘After all this time. What have you been up to?’
Chapter 13
DORIN ALMOST DRAGGED himself to Ullara’s garret to rest and recover. But Rheena’s warning against bringing any more attention to the girl came to mind and so he did not head that way. He stole a cloak and threw it over his shoulders and made his way to his last rented room, where he fell on to the straw pallet and slept.
He awoke to noon sunlight shining in from the one small window high in the wall. Groaning against the intrusion, he draped an arm across his eyes and lay considering his rather bleak-looking future. It now seemed quite clear to him that he did not have the proper qualities for rising within any organization.
Attempting to murder the boss was not a recommendation for promotion.
Freelance, then. But he’d tried that from here to Tali with nothing to show for it. In his line of work one did not simply hang out a shingle and wait for the clients to walk in. Lines of communication were needed. Contacts. Words to the right people and coins crossing the right palms. The unspoken trust that comes from years of deals and exchanges. As a newcomer, he had none of that established history. Nor, it seemed, was anyone willing to take him seriously enough to start.
What he needed, he decided, as he lay wincing from the stings and aches of all the cuts and bruises across his body, was some sort of impressive, undeniable, extraordinary achievement that would bring everyone round. What he needed, he realized, was a reputation.
But how could he take credit without letting anyone know it was him? He pressed his hands to his face, covering his eyes, and felt a crust of dried blood and the sticky accumulation of old sweat and grime. It was a godsdamned puzzle worthy of Oponn, that’s what it was.
There came a knock at his door.
He froze. No one should know he was here; he’d been damned careful about that. Was he behind in payment? Maybe it was that drunk who worked as the concierge. He rose from the pallet as silently as he could, reached under, and withdrew the military crossbow he kept there, set its blunt nose against the floor and straightened, cocking it.
The cheap room was so small that a mere two steps brought him to the door off the hallway. He raised the crossbow to chest height. ‘Yes?’
‘Lunch!’ came the answer. ‘I have satay of rat wrapped in boiled cabbage leaves. Delightful.’
Dorin let the weapon fall, unlatched the door. ‘What in the Abyss do you want?’
Wu came bustling into the narrow room, shut the door behind him. He offered one leaf-wrapped package to Dorin, who declined. The Dal Hon mage took a bite of his rat on a stick. He held out the other once more: ‘You’re sure?’
Dorin limped to the pallet, sat. ‘I’m not hungry.’
Wu leaned back against the shut door. He nibbled on the rat while he studied his host. ‘You look awful.’
‘Thanks.’ With a heavy sigh Dorin rose to stand before the tiny table that supported a chipped ceramic basin and a jug of water.
He poured water into the basin and washed his face while Wu spoke. ‘It’s the talk of the town. Pung the child-stealer’s compound collapsing. Pung himself nearly killed. Of course I had the lads spread word that he’d turned on his mage, who, enraged, had blasted the very ground beneath him.’
Dorin slammed his hands to the tabletop and Wu jumped, nearly dropping his rat. He blinked. ‘Did I say something?’
Dorin, his head hanging, forced through clenched teeth, ‘Nothing.’
The Dal Hon shrugged. ‘Well, I didn’t mean quite that large an effect. The lads and lasses a wee bit too eager in their undermining there. At least we didn’t lose the main house.’
Dorin sat. He pulled his torn and bloodstained shirt over his head and used it to daub dry his face. He frowned at his baffling visitor. ‘How did you find me?’
‘I sought your shadow.’
‘Very funny. Look . . . what do you want? Whatever your name is.’
The mage looked surprised. His greying brows rose on his wrinkled forehead. Dorin had to remind himself that he was in fact no older than he. ‘Why – we should strike now. While they are disorganized and undermanned.’
‘Strike? Strike who?’ He started unlacing the stripped bone and boiled leather vest he wore beneath his outer garments.
‘Who? Why, the child-stealer himself, of course!’ Wu pointed the rat. ‘Now is the time for us to make our move.’
Dorin stared, then laughed. He laughed so hard it hurt the cut at his neck. Make our move? What was this fool going on about? He hardly knew where to start. He gingerly peeled the vest from his sweaty torso, started daubing at the dried blood. ‘There’s no move to make. And anyway, we have no men – unless you mean those kids.’
Wu waved a negative. ‘No, no. I mean our property. The box Pung stole from us.’ He made walking motions with his fingers. ‘Quick in and out. None the wiser. Quiet as mice.’
Dorin stared afresh. He thought of the odd way this mage always managed to disappear. He leaned back against the wall. ‘You could get us in and out of Pung’s quarters?’
‘Absolutely. I can get us anywhere. Even the palace.’
‘Prove it.’
The mage led him on a roundabout route to an apparently abandoned tenement, siege damaged, its roof fallen in. He appeared to be trying for a jaunty walk, with his stick once more tapping the cobbles, but to Dorin the fellow’s posture was more reminiscent of the cramped crab-like scuttle of someone who surely must be up to no good.
Dorin also noted Pung’s former lads and lasses themselves, keeping watch from rooftops and alleyways. Within the tenement they descended to a basement and here seemed to be the main base of operations for these runaways, with kitchens and rooms floored with blankets and strewn with bundles. However, the youths here were all the older boys and girls, some even approaching his age. Of the many younger ones there was no sign.
‘Where’s the rest of your crew?’ Dorin asked, even as a sudden new suspicion struck him and he froze in the dirt hallway. ‘Not the . . .’
The mage waved his little stick. ‘No, no. I sent most of them off to dig at the escarpment.’ Continuing on, he asked over his shoulder, ‘You have heard of the gem fields?’
Dorin nodded. They lay to the west. A free-for-all of pits and caves along the base of the escarpment. Youths were preferred because the tunnels could be smaller. ‘Who will they be working for? Surely not—’
‘No, no. Of course not.’
They entered a large cellar and Dorin had to duck beneath its low roof of dusty timber joists. Perched snug on one support was the nacht. It bared its fangs at Dorin, who waved it off.
Sighing his relief, Wu sat on the bare beaten-earth floor before a small banked fire of glowing embers. A hole in the roof above allowed the thin tendrils of smoke to escape. He motioned an invitation to sit, but Dorin frowned down at the preparations. ‘What’s this? Smoke and mesmerism? Going to tell my future?’
The mage was unconcerned: he poked the stick at the embers. He waved the remaining lads, armed with crossbows, from the room. They shut the flimsy door behind them.
Wu waved again. ‘Sit, sit. Please. You are no doubt tired and stiff from your fight.’
Dorin remained standing. ‘That was yesterday.’
The mage eyed him critically. ‘Then you are fighting fit? Armed?’
Now Dorin’s gaze narrowed, and he crouched down across the fire, opposite his host. ‘Of course. Why?’
Wu fanned the embers to glowing life. ‘Oh, just that there’s a chance something might be . . . summoned.’
Dorin rested his knees on the dirt, then snorted a laugh and shook his head. ‘You almost had me going there. Your beastie! Ha. More illusion and suggestion.’
The mage was pressing the stick into the ground so that it stood upright. ‘Oh, it’s not illusion. It’s real. Well . . . half real. Half of this world.’
Dorin cu
t a hand through the tendrils of white smoke. ‘Save it for the gullible ones. I saw the door to your cell. It was hacked by blades.’
Wu’s grey brows wrinkled in a wince. ‘Ah, I see. Well, the, ah, thing was there. It just didn’t leave by the door.’
‘Anyway.’ Dorin rested his hands at his belt, feeling quite disappointed – and rather cross with himself for the feeling. ‘I think we’re done here.’
The Dal Hon mage raised a finger. ‘One last minute, please.’ He motioned to the dirt wall where the shadow of the stick stood tall and narrow in the umber ruddiness of the embers. ‘See the shadow?’
Dorin grunted his agreement.
‘Imagine, if you would, that that thin shadow was in fact a slit. A narrow opening on to another place . . .’
Dorin grunted again, this time dubious. ‘Hunh. Shadow play and finger-waving. Don’t try your tricks on me.’
‘But it is open now,’ the mage said, his voice now hoarse and clipped. ‘Look within.’ Dorin glanced to him, saw his fists white on his lap, his dark face clenched, and sweat dripping down his furrowed brow. Whatever the mage was doing, it was costing him an immense degree of strain.
He turned to the wall, and started, rather alarmed: the shadow had widened, or appeared to have widened. It was textured now, shifting and rippling. He edged closer, yet remained poised on his toes, ready to flee. Something seemed to be moving within the murk, and, closer now, he could make out the flat, gently undulating lines of a barren landscape. It resembled a near desert bathed in moonlit monochrome. He heard the distant moaning of a weak wind, heard the sands hissing as they shifted. Heated dry air brushed his face – blowing from . . . where?
Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 Page 28
