“Tossed out of a tavern?” Shawna said, turning a smile in D'Jenn's direction. “I thought you were better than this one.” A wink at Dormael let him know exactly who ‘this one’ was, but softened the blow of her comments.
“I was, but that was awhile back. I doubt they even remember me,” he replied, returning their gazes with an unflappable expression.
“Oh, I'll wager the gods' own purse change that they do remember,” Dormael said.
“It wasn't that serious,” D'Jenn said, shaking his head.
“Well, now I'm interested,” Shawna said.
“It's a story for another time,” D'Jenn sighed.
“I'd say it's rather appropriate for now,” Dormael smiled. D'Jenn shot him a dangerous look, but Dormael went on anyway. “A few years ago, our wonderful friend of the brooding face decided to drown himself in the Mug's ale for the afternoon. The hero of the story, however, took issue with the taste and potency of the ale in question. He was a Warlock, you see, a representative of the Conclave itself! He couldn't be disrespected with such thin, tasteless horse-piss—the sort of thing that one would feed to the legion of beggars in the streets.”
“I wonder if your face would look better with a bruise over your right eye?” D'Jenn muttered.
Shawna laid a mollifying hand on D'Jenn's shoulder.
“No, go on, please.” She shot D'Jenn a wicked smile, which he returned with a flat stare.
“The proprietor of the Golden Mug took issue with the issue which had been taken by our brooding hero, and an argument between the two ensued. Harsh words were used, you understand, and our hero was tossed bodily into the street—a dishonor that he simply could not tolerate. To demonstrate the robustness of his argument, our noble hero summoned up his power and filled the proprietor's ale barrels with fish.”
“Fish?” Shawna asked. “How does that work, exactly?”
A smirk appeared on D'Jenn's face. “The bastard had the fish already. It was the catch of the day. When Dormael tells the story, I put half the bay into the man's ale barrels. Really, it was just the fish in his kitchen.”
“So you did do it,” Shawna smiled.
“Oh, aye. The smug bastard deserved it, too. It didn't go exactly as Dormael said it did,” D'Jenn said.
“Oh, I'm sure that's the truth,” Shawna said. “You can tell me about it on the way. Goodbye, Dormael. Try not to get mugged on the way to the tavern. Come along, Bethany.” Shawna gave him a smile, then moved to help with the unloading of their horses. Dormael smiled at Bethany, who had walked up during the conversation, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She looked at him and blinked, but that was all she offered before she moved away to follow Shawna.
“Do you think we should send ahead at all?” D'Jenn asked. “It might not be prudent to put anything about what's happened in writing.”
“Do you really believe we need to be so cautious here at home?” Dormael asked. “Something this serious...I just feel like Victus will skin us alive if we show up with the armlet in Ishamael without having warned him, given that we could have.” Victus Tiranan was the Deacon of the Warlocks, the head of their Order, and the old wolf didn’t like to be blindsided.
“Maybe you're right,” D'Jenn shrugged, turning away. “Consider, though, what it means that we were fighting Imperials. Maybe that bit should be kept quiet until we make it home. Just a thought, Dormael. Be careful. I'll see you at the Mug.”
With that, D'Jenn walked away.
Dormael turned that thought over in his mind. He hadn't thought of it that way, but perhaps his cousin was right. Such a thing—Conclave wizards fighting with Galanian Imperial soldiers—would be tantamount to an act of war. Blithely talking about what had happened could cause a general uproar.
Dormael forced a smile onto his face, and turned to speak to the Administrator.
**
Maarkov worked the blade of his dagger over a whetstone, gently grinding out a sharp edge. He had a mild obsession with keeping his steel sharp. So many people who considered themselves warriors treated their steel with shocking disregard. Maarkov had known for a long time that success began with the small pieces, and that wars were won by a series of small victories. Maarkov kept his blades sharp at all times, and that discipline bled into the rest of his life.
Life—such was not a good description of his experience with reality. He thought about it, but he couldn't find another word that could properly explain his existence. He was not dead, not really, but he was certainly far from alive. His hair hadn't grown in enough years to kill most men, and he could feel a strange waning to his body, as if it was a wet rag drying in the sun. His muscles creaked ever so slightly when he moved, and his bones ground against the pallid meat of his insides. His body felt more like a temporary piece of clothing than something that was a part of him.
“Would you stop that infernal noise?” Maaz spat, shooting a glare at him from the desk the man had appropriated from the captain of the ship.
Maarkov paused in his sharpening, and regarded his brother. He sat huddled over a bowl of dark fluid, swaddled like an overgrown infant in a voluminous black robe. His eyes burned from within the hood, but Maarkov had long ago numbed to his brother's hatred. He had long ago returned it in equal measure.
“Stop what?” Maarkov asked, keeping his face as flat as he could.
Maaz narrowed his eyes. “It's quite difficult to use magic to communicate this way over a churning body of water, Maarkov.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Maarkov asked, savoring the rage that passed behind his brother's gaze, and disappeared back into the depths of his expression.
“You're supposed to be gods-damned silent,” Maaz hissed. “I can still take out your tongue.”
Maarkov winked at his brother, and went back to sharpening his dagger. He kept his gaze on his brother's face, and drew the steel across the stone in a slow, mocking rhythm. Maaz gestured angrily to the side, and both stone and dagger were ripped from Maarkov's hands to tumble across the floor of the cabin.
Maarkov snorted in disgust, and let his hands go to his lap. Tweaking his brother's nose was only a mild entertainment, anyway. It was important, after all, that Maaz knew just how deeply Maarkov loved him.
“One day I'm going to kill you, brother,” Maarkov said, “or stand by and watch you die. I can't decide which would be more gratifying.”
Maaz turned his gaze back into the depths of the bowl on the desk, declining to shoot anything back. Maarkov gave an obnoxious sigh before settling into silence. The only noises were the shifting of implements as the room rocked back and forth, and the sound of the sea whispering over the hull of the ship.
Maaz reached to a thong tied around his neck, and fished a small leather bag from the depths of his hood. He pulled it gingerly open, and plucked two tiny bones from inside. He whispered something over them, and dropped them into the dark fluid in the bowl. Maarkov might have shuddered at the sight, knowing them to be the finger bones of his brother's apprentices. Perhaps he should have shuddered, but he felt nothing.
He and his brother were steeped in blood, swimming in it. What were a pair of tiny finger bones against a mountain of corpses? Maarkov felt nothing but deep hatred for his brother, and mild disgust for everything else. He had long ago lost the ability to rustle a single care about the sight of it all.
A single covered lantern hung in the cabin, and wild shadows were tossed back and forth over the walls. Maarkov watched as his brother stared over the bowl, undoubtedly reaching out with his magic, though Maarkov couldn't feel it. A pair of shadows stood up from the corners of the room, as if they had been there all along, and approached the desk. As they came closer, their forms deepened into something more like an actual person, though they were indistinct.
“Master,” said the shorter of the two in a female voice.
“Master,” intoned the second one, a male.
“Attend, apprentices, for your Master speeds in your direction,” Maaz said. Th
e two shadows stood up straighter, perhaps, but Maarkov could have imagined that. “With any luck from the gods, the two of you have managed to keep breathing from day to day. What have you learned?”
“The city is growing increasingly polarized,” said the male, an eagerness in his tone that belied his desire to please. Maarkov sneered in disgust. “There are whispers of discontent, mistrust in the strength of the leadership. Talk of the Conclave is rampant in the streets.”
“And have you succeeded in your mission?” Maaz asked. Maarkov heard the light tone in his brother's raspy voice, but he knew the question to be concealing a barb.
“I...haven't been able to see the library. The wizards only approve so many requests, Master, and—”
Maaz made a sharp gesture, and the shadow doubled over, writhing as it screamed in agony. Maarkov cringed away from the sound, but his brother released his apprentice before it went on for long. Maaz said nothing in the wake of his apprentice's punishment, he simply allowed the shadow to rise to its full height once more. The female shadow did not react to the suffering of her male counterpart.
“Failure is not something that is done in my service, Jureus. Luckily for your pathetic, sniveling form, the gods have seen fit to throw rocks in our path. Abandon your place in Ishamael, and head south,” Maaz said.
“South, Master?” Jureus's shadow asked.
“If I need to repeat myself, I'll remove an ear the next time I see you. If you have only one, perhaps then you will find the necessary focus to listen to what I gods-damned tell you,” Maaz snapped, leaning forward to peer at the offending shade. He let that comment hang in the air for a moment, as if daring the fool Jureus to make any noise at all. Jureus kept his mouth shut, demonstrating good sense for the first time in this conversation. If there was one thing that Maaz's apprentices learned, it was that punishment came swiftly, and often.
Once Maaz was satisfied, he cleared his throat and went on.
“It has become necessary to shift our focus. You will go into the mountains south of Ishamael—I can't remember what they're called right now—”
“The Runemian Mountains, Master,” Jureus offered. Maarkov winced.
What a simpering little turd, he thought. That one will end under Maaz's knives, I'm sure of it.
They all ended under his brother's knives, though, eventually. A handful of them had come and gone during the years, as Maaz used them until their usefulness outlived his patience. Each ended the same way—screaming while Maaz cut small, wriggly bits from their bodies.
Maaz stared daggers at the shade of his apprentice. “Jureus. You are lucky that such a vast distance separates us, because I have a nagging urge to pull your innards out. Utter another word, and I remove your tongue.”
Jureus, finally getting the point, offered only silence in reply.
“Head for the Runemian Mountains,” Maaz continued, “and toward Soirus-Gamerit. We are hunting a red-headed woman, her belongings, and a small child that is traveling with her. I want the two of them alive, and the woman's property intact—and do not harm them beyond what is necessary to subdue them. They're traveling with wizards. Ensure that you kill them. They'll be headed for Ishamael through Soirus-Gamerit, so begin your search in that direction. I don't care how you get it done, but I expect my instructions to be followed to the letter.”
Maaz waved a dismissive hand, and Jureus's shade bowed in reply before vanishing into black smoke.
“You,” Maaz said, turning his gaze on the female shadow. “What have you learned?”
“The location of the ancient temple, Master,” she replied. “It's far in the northern Sevenlands. The locals believe it is cursed, and no one has been inside since the Second Great War.”
“I've read about the curse,” Maaz grumbled. “Have you been inside?”
“I entered the ground level Master, but...”
“But what?” Maaz growled.
“Master, there is something here. I'm camped within sight of the temple now, and I can feel it even at this distance. It's...well, whatever it is, it's old, and powerful,” she replied. “I don't know what it is, but it doesn't like interlopers.”
“A great slaughter happened there,” Maaz said. “The Dannons were responsible, I believe. They rounded up the priests, and a good number of civilians, and had something of an orgy of violence. That was what brought the Conclave into the Second Great War against Alderak. Sometimes, a thing like that leaves its mark on a place.”
“I've marked the location down on a map for you, Master. What am I to do next?” she asked.
“Head back to Jerrantis, and send out bounties by pigeon to anyone in Soirus-Garmerit who will take them. Once you've done that, find Jureus and ensure that he doesn't botch his part of it. The man is a fool. When you find him, take command of the situation and see my instructions carried out. I trust you were listening, and don't need a lesson in proper attention to detail?” Maaz asked.
“No, Master,” she replied.
“Good. You've done well in finding ancient Orm. For once, your inherent stupidity hasn't gotten in the way of the tasks I've set for you. Here is your reward,” he said.
Maaz raised his fist, and the girl's shade bent over in surprised pain. She moaned in agony for a moment before stifling the noise into silence, but Maaz didn't let up the pressure he wielded over her. Maarkov tightened his hands on the arms of his wooden chair.
He felt an instant of white-hot rage at his brother. Maarkov turned his eyes on Maaz, reaching for the hilt of his sword. It would take but a fleeting moment to get to him. He'd have to rise from the chair, draw his blade, and lunge straight for the heart. In the time it took Maaz to realize that Maarkov was coming for him, it would be too late. That story would end with Maarkov's steel decorating the spaces between his brother's ribs.
Of course, such a thing wouldn't kill him. It couldn't, in fact. Maarkov agonized over that on a nightly basis.
“This is a shadow of what will happen should you fail in your new task. Let the pain serve as a reminder. Carry it with you in the coming days,” Maaz smiled. The shadow relaxed, and rose to its hazy feet. Maarkov loosened the hand he'd grasped around his sword, and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
“Thank you, Master,” she croaked.
“Our quarry has a decisive lead on us. Do not dally in the execution of your tasks. You're my strongest apprentice, Inera. Do not betray my trust in your abilities,” Maaz said.
“Thank you, Master. I will,” she replied, and her form melted into black mist.
After the shades had disappeared, Maaz gestured over the bowl, and the two finger-bones rose out of the liquid. He waited for them to drip themselves dry, and then plucked them out of the air, depositing them back into the bag tied around his neck. Once he had squared his clothing, he picked up the bowl, and drank the fluid inside to the bottom.
Maarkov felt a moment of revulsion, as he remembered the whining crewman from which the blood had come. He'd taken the man in the night, while most of the crew had been asleep in their racks. They knew, though—Maarkov was sure of it. His brother reigned over this ship like some sort of demonic tyrant, a shadow that never left the captain's cabin. The only thing that kept the crew from mutiny, and chucking both of them into sea, was terror.
Maaz had seen to that.
“Bring me one of the cabin boys,” Maaz said, breaking Maarkov's reverie.
“One of the cabin boys? Why?” Maarkov asked.
“I need more information, brother mine. My power requires an...extra source of energy. You know this by now, Maarkov,” Maaz said, showing Maarkov his teeth with a wide smile.
“The Lord of Bones requires blood tribute, you mean.”
“Either way, Maarkov, I still need the cabin boy. Go, and hurry, for the gods' sake.”
Maarkov gave his brother a disgusted look, and rose from his chair.
“Get your own gods-damned fodder. I'll turn my sword where you point, but I'm not one of yo
ur damned apprentices, brother.”
“The cabin boy will be just as dead, Maarkov. Your constant moralizing is useless,” Maaz replied.
“Fuck yourself, brother.” With that, Maarkov turned to leave the cabin.
His brother's laughter chased him out onto the deck and into the darkened morning. Crewmen shuffled from his path, doing their best to keep their eyes away from him. They feared drawing his attention, and rightfully so. Maarkov ignored them, and went up to the aft of the ship to stare into the coming storm.
The sea was high this time of year, but the galleon was a tougher vessel to sink than Maarkov had realized. He knew nothing of sailing, but he was surprised at how well the ship took the water. The darkening sky, though, would soon test his confidence.
He hoped they would reach the Sevenlands with good time. They had been running through squalls for the entire trip, but the constant wind had provided speed. The sea made Maarkov nervous, though it wasn't as if he could drown. What frightened him was the thought of floating in the middle of the ocean, perpetually alive, being nibbled apart by toothy fish from below.
His brother's foul magic would keep him alive until most of him was gone.
Maarkov shuddered, and regarded the storm clouds with a bit more trepidation. They still had a great distance to travel, but he trusted in the depths of Maaz's obsession to see them safely to their destination. He wouldn't allow anything to stand in his way.
Maarkov just hoped this would be over soon, one way or the other.
**
“So, you're not going to be staying with us, Warlock Harlun?” the Administrator, an older man named Finnelan, asked.
“My compatriot prefers the ale at the Golden Mug,” Dormael said, favoring the man with a pleasant expression from across the table. “We'll be leaving in the morning, in any case. We may as well not trouble you for more than we need.”
“It's no trouble,” Finnelan shrugged. “The Chapterhouse has been quiet all season. Everyone coming through Mistfall is headed back to the Conclave, like horses returning to their stables. It's been me and the staff since the Winter Solstice.”
The Knife in the Dark Page 2
