by Ashley Capes
“Good idea.” Flir put her cup down and stood. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
But once she was in her room, door locked, she found she couldn’t fall asleep despite the soft bed. When she dozed, the creature stalked her dreams and once – waking in the deep of night, the tavern below quiet – she could have sworn one of the thing’s harder-than-steel legs was right beside her. But it was only the wall; she’d tossed her blankets aside and rolled up against the cold wood.
She sat up to collect her blankets before slumping back down. “Gods grant me rest.”
But when they finally did it was all too soon that Pevin was knocking on her door. “We don’t want to be late, dilar,” he said.
“Late?” Pale light streamed through the window. She groaned at it.
“The Conclave, Flir,” he said. “King Oseto’s offer.”
“Give me a moment.”
She stumbled to the porcelain basin, splashed the chilly water on her face and gathered her things before meeting Pevin in the hall. “Let’s go.”
They found Kanis below; he was finishing a drink, which he pushed back as they approached.
“Thirsty?” Flir asked as she pushed the door open.
“Just wanted a little something to take the edge off what we discovered yesterday,” Kanis said, catching up.
“Good,” she said. “Turn up drunk to our meeting with the Conclave.” Her breath steamed in the cold air. The streets and architecture of Enar were not so different from Whiteport ‒ everything was bigger and it was noisier, but it was still dark stone, icicles and fire markets, people in furs and heavy beards and women carrying swords and hand axes. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet how many knew of the danger less than half a day from the walls?
Kanis chuckled. “Do we even have an audience with them yet? I didn’t see a response to the request we sent. If they don’t even know we’ve arrived—”
“Worry not,” Pevin replied. “A messenger from the palace has already allotted us an audience for this morning. He arrived while you were relieving yourself.”
“Right.”
The main thoroughfare led up toward the palace – or the old palace. It was, as Pevin told her, now known as the Citadel. It loomed before them now, subtly different to when she’d last seen it. The great wall was gone but a deep moat of ice still surrounded it, the water long-since frozen black. The docks were concealed by the row of merchant-buildings for now. Statues and engravings of Royal Stags had been replaced by a curved circle made of granite and carven words of a simple creed The Circle Serves All. Very egalitarian but what did it really mean? Had life changed for people in Renovar? In the city, even? There had still been beggars on the way in, and passing one of the city’s jails yesterday had seen it open for business.
Twin sets of guards, all carrying crossbows and axes, barred their way at the moat. Pevin explained who they were, revealing a wooden token marked with circles, which earned them a grunt and a wave into the palace – citadel.
At the entrance, they were met by a servant who led them down a long, dull hall. Dull, since it now lacked any of the magnificent tapestries it had once held; spun with silver and gold, they had created sparkling rivers and lakes and shining armour on the heroes of old. Here, Tandavir should have been seen charging his horse to slay the World-Eater.
Now it was bare walls and the occasional lamp.
“The Conclave will see you right away,” the man said when they stopped at the large double doors of what used to be the throne room. Flir hesitated before pushing on the door; the last time she’d been inside a lot of people had died. Needlessly, for many of them, as it turned out.
Inside, the throne room had been changed; it now seemed to house smaller rooms within the large throne room. Braziers burned bright and warm, flanking the Conclave itself. Aside from the servant, who was even now closing the doors, it was only the six members, both men and women seated at the circular table.
“Welcome,” one man said, a white-haired fellow who bore some familiar features. Had he been part of the original Conclave that she and Kanis had helped into power?
Those who had started out with their backs to the entry were already rising to shift their tables around, enabling them to see their visitors.
“Forgive our lack of preparedness,” the white-haired fellow continued, quickly introducing himself as ‘Circle-Member Wodka’, then including the others, though few names registered. “We are very pleased to have you here as speakers for Anaskar. We have been debating your king’s offers since he contacted us and are most pleased that he understands certain individual elements were responsible, and responsible alone, for the ill-fated attack on your city. We would love to resume regular trade as soon as possible.” He smiled. “We miss Anaskari fire-lemon among other items.”
Flir did not glance at Kanis, who hopefully had the presence of mind to keep calm. If the Conclave didn’t recognise him – or she herself – then all the better. Especially Kanis, since he was one of the ‘certain individual elements’ Wodka had mentioned. “That is heartening to hear,” Flir said. “I know King Oseto seeks a lasting peace between Anaskar and Renovar. He is quite firm in his desire to avoid something like the Ecsoli manipulation and invasion in the future.”
Wodka inclined his head. “A graceful transition. You do, of course, refer to the proposed search for bones of ancient Sea Beasts, the source of the Anaskari Greatmasks?”
“I do, Circle-Member Wodka. Does the Conclave see cause for concern?”
He spread his hands. “Perhaps not concern.”
A thin woman leant forward, her hands folded before her, nails lacquered red. “Please understand, we are not concerned about cooperation in principal. It is the specifics we have yet to wrangle. If such a repository of powerful bone does exist here in Renovar we could not simply hand it all over to Anaskar – to any nation, for that matter.”
Flir nodded. “I believe King Oseto offered some manner of compensation – masks of your own.”
Wodka continued. “Certainly. A number to be determined at a future date, to be allotted by the only nation with the knowledge to craft such items.”
“True,” Flir said. “And only if more bones exist.”
The thin woman replied. “Which we must be prepared for.”
“The king would not stop at the crafting and bestowing; he would offer training from the Mascare too,” Pevin added. “I do not believe he would offer such powerful defence and then not help his ally use it to protect their own people. Who knows from where another attack might come?”
Wodka paused to confer with the man seated directly beside him, who whispered back, and it seemed Wodka and the thin woman were the only two who were going to speak. “Let us further discuss this new facet to the original offer. While we do so, please enjoy your time as guests. Perhaps a meal in the Citadel’s famous food hall?”
“Sounds good to me,” Kanis said before Flir could accept the offer.
“Very well, please allow Dinnav to guide you there. We will send for you,” Wodka said as the Conclave started rearranging their tables to once more form the circle.
Outside, Dinnav led them through the empty corridors to the food hall, which was a huge, open area filled with tables and chairs. Merchant stalls ringed the room, each boasting a different cuisine: from home, Anaskar, Medah and Wiraced and even so far away as Holvard. It created quite a riot of scents, though not all were complimentary.
“The Conclave certainly loves its circles,” Flir said.
“They believe it is the ultimate symbol of unity,” Pevin replied, his gaze lingering on the stall boasting the ‘best lamb and olive this side of the desert’.
“Who cares so long as this lot can cook? I’ll find you,” Kanis said as he strode toward one of the Anaskar stalls.
Flir found a table that appeared quiet enough and sat with a sigh. So much was still the same... yet so much had changed. Even the odd arrangement for eating was, if not unpleasant, certainly pe
rturbing.
“You look gloomy,” Pevin said when he returned with a steaming plate of lamb, potato and green olives.
“I think what I miss about home is going to be the things that are already gone.” She shrugged. “It’ll pass.”
Before Pevin could respond, a shout rang across the room. Flir turned in her chair.
Kanis held a struggling man with one hand, bowl of fish and rice in the other and a wide grin on his face. The fellow kicking and struggling – all useless – was dressed in a nondescript cloak but once his hood fell back, Flir raised an eyebrow – caught somewhere between surprise and a feeling of inevitability.
Grav, the cultist.
29. Notch
Prince Ren was younger than Notch had expected – perhaps close to Sofia’s age, or even a little younger. The man still carried himself with the assurance of one long accustomed to rule, and he was near-to smothered in silver and blue silks. He wore no weapons, though his belt carried a thin, empty scabbard – doubtless for a rapier or some other duelling blade.
While his scabbard was empty, his standing as a royal seemed to permit him to bring forbidden objects into the meeting room – for he wore an odd mask.
Similar to the face wrappings used in the desert, it covered his mouth and nose only, leaving his eyes exposed. But unlike the wrappings used by the Medah, this mask was made of bone and it replicated the lower half of a human face, jaw, and teeth. A little grotesque but less so once Notch understood its purpose.
“It will conceal the words I speak, should my snivelling siblings be listening in,” Prince Ren said after introducing himself. He spoke in a rather pleasant, calm voice, and slowly enough for Notch to follow, but he clenched and unclenched his hands in his lap as he did so.
Notch looked to Alosus, who wore a slight frown. “We can hear you quite clearly, Your Highness.”
He nodded. “It will only obstruct those listening with bone.”
“I see. A prudent precaution.”
The prince looked to Notch. “And you are from the New Land? Tell me, is it so very different to here?”
“Ah, some things are the same.” Notch took a moment to consider his words. He needed it – not only to translate them into Old Anaskari but to switch focus. Questions about Marinus were hardly high up on the lad’s priority. “My skill with the old tongue is poor. Can I speak to Alosus in Anaskari and have him translate?”
Prince Ren nodded and for the next hour, Notch described Anaskar from daily life to military, political and artistic endeavours, geography and climate – but slowly, through Alosus. Speaking, then waiting for Alosus to translate and in turn translate Ren’s question, if it had been delivered too quickly or if the words were unfamiliar, then answering again, was more tiring than he’d have expected.
Finally, the prince seemed sated and he leant forward. “I have a boon to ask of you both.”
“A boon, Your Highness?” Alosus asked.
“Yes, though I would reward you with whatever you ask, if it is within my power.” He stood. “I will leave you to think upon it, upon how it might be achieved, and I will seek your answer on the morrow.”
“We will give it most serious consideration,” Alosus answered.
“Good. Then here it is, plainly said. When you leave, I wish for you to take me to the New World, to Anaskar.”
Alosus was already bowing. “We will indeed think upon it, Prince Ren.”
Notch fumbled through his own bow – the prince had turned to leave before Notch finished straightening. Once the door closed, Notch looked to Alosus. “Kind of him to give us tonight to think it over and come up with a way to smuggle him out of here.”
Alosus sighed. “Truly.”
“What does this mean? Where does this lad and his request fit in here?”
“I cannot say. Vinezi rarely mentioned his nephews. My feeling is that few would miss him, somehow. Tonight, we will learn more – the ball will offer a wealth of information.”
Notch shook his head. “I’m not one for dancing.”
Alosus grinned. “Nor I, but I suspect that I at least will be fending off more conversations than dance requests.”
“Thanks.”
The big man’s smile faded. “Everyone will be asking to dine with you, to speak with you at a later date, in private. Accept every offer; you don’t want to offend any of their fragile sensibilities. And some conversations will be fine opportunities.”
“I will. But you know we’re not here to win brides or trade partners.”
“I do. But until we can arrange to visit the Library of Souls it’s best to keep all paths open.”
“A visit the Mare family must approve?”
“Yes.”
“Which means we have to tell Prince Ren we will spirit him away or go to another family member.”
“Perhaps both.”
Notch scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. “Then I’m going to need a razor.”
“Don’t worry,” Alosus said. “I’m sure someone has already set the servants in motion.”
“That sounds ominous.”
And it was. As if summoned by Alosus’ prediction, Notch had barely slumped into one of the regular-sized chairs before the room was swarming with servants, all dressed in black livery. One bore hot water, soap and razors, others carried great armfuls of clothing and soft shoes. A young man bore a tray of perfumes, but the fellow only approached when the grey-haired woman, who appeared to be the leader, deemed Notch presentable.
Which meant his regular, worn clothing – all except the bracers, which no-one remarked upon – was whisked away for cleaning and he was left in dark pants and a red tunic. Thankfully, it was not of silk but cotton and a solid belt offered at least the semblance of dressing for utility. Even his hair, which had grown nearly to his shoulders, had been pulled back and tied into a knot at the back of his head. His reflection in the standing mirror the small army had brought along was respectable enough that he might have been mistaken for a minor – if battered – nobleman, rather than a one-time captain and mercenary.
“Do I actually have to wear any of this?” Notch asked Alosus. Alosus wore a similar outfit, though his vest rested much closer to orange. It showed off the fire-like markings on his shoulders.
“Best to follow custom.”
“Let me see, then,” Notch said. He took the first bottle, tinted green, and removed the lid. Citrus, lime probably. He replaced it, going through several scents – each becoming increasingly floral, until he found one of cedarwood and nodded. The lad seemed to suppress a smirk, as if he’d been expecting such a choice, but offered the vial without comment.
“Dinner will be served in the Hall of Graces,” the head servant explained. “You will be escorted.” And with that, she rounded up her helpers and left; leaving behind only one woman.
“Please, follow me, sirs.” She seemed none too pleased at her task, giving Notch a look of suspicion and openly sneering at Alosus.
They wound through the marble halls once again. Darkness poured in through the windows between lamps that held the strange crystals used outside the palace. He’d have to ask Alosus about them when he didn’t have to focus on the somewhat daunting prospect of being made to dance.
The sound of lively music drew them deeper into the palace and finally to a grand hall where dancers spun across a floor of golden wood.
The Hall of Graces was lined on one side by long tables, then came the dancers swirling in an array of pinks, yellows, blues and greens and next, beneath a wall of more subdued banners, a small table where two women and one man sat watching the dancers. They were dressed in purple robes, much like the Inquisitor at the docks. While they bore no particular bone-crafted device, they seemed to be marking down their observations.
Before he could ask Alosus about them, a figure appeared before him – Lady Casselli.
“I have a seat for you, Captain. I would be honoured if you sat beside me.”
Her dark hair now fell
around her shoulders and she wore a lighter dress cut higher, revealing more of her legs. Bathed in the warm light, the noblewoman was even more alluring than before – yet he had not dismissed her smile from earlier.
“That would be more than pleasant,” he said. “Assuming Alosus can join me? My use of the Old Tongue is not sophisticated.”
“Of course,” Lady Casselli said, and led them around the dancers and to the nearest table, which was surprisingly small. It held only four chairs, two of which were occupied by servants. It was quite modest compared to some of the other tables, which were much longer and stuffed with men in similar, if richer attire to Notch, their colours often softer. Most drank and spoke amongst themselves, ignoring the dancing.
Lady Casselli sat and gestured to the chair beside her, then motioned to one of the servants, who stood and rushed off. “Sit, Captain Medoro.” To Alosus she said, “My servant will arrange for a suitable chair.”
“Thank you, Lady,” Alosus said, and stood beside Notch, appearing at ease even though he towered over the table. Yet he did not seem to be drawing much attention. As Notch looked around, he found more eyes drawn to him. Many men and women, and some children, were glancing surreptitiously over wine glasses, while some stared quite openly. Some offered faint smiles, as if to a distant, uncouth cousin. More than a few did not appear to like what they saw at all. One man wore a breastplate of steel where he sat, his head shaven and scarred. Notch nodded to the man, who blinked, then returned the gesture.
“They’re burning with curiosity,” Lady Casselli said. “Even the Ocean.”
“The Ocean?” he asked.
She lifted a silver fork and waved it toward the largest table – the royal table, judging by the silver, grey, and blue clothing. Not to mention the two figures wearing Greatmasks. Their power was palpable even from across the hall. They flanked an elderly man who wore a silver circlet; he was being fed soup by a servant, who bore the man’s fussing and snarling with stoic patience.
Notch looked for Prince Ren but could not find the young man, though there were plenty of other royals at hand. Like the other tables, they tended to speak amongst themselves, ignoring the battle at the head of their table and taking no callers. Few seats were empty; the womenfolk of the Mare family did not seem inclined to dance. Many bore a similar set of features, dark eyes and sharp noses, and while they tended to be more subtle about their curiosity, he still caught them watching.
