Rhovann frowned, wondering which of Valdarsel’s followers Larisse was. She might have been one of the assassins who died in the attack, of course. He’d been almost certain that Valdarsel was behind the attack at Lasparhall, although he’d also suspected House Veruna and the Crimson Chains of involvement in the clumsy debacle. It seemed that Geran Hulmaster had uncovered Valdarsel’s hand behind the attack too. If it had been anybody else, Rhovann might have savored the sheer justice of Valdarsel dying at the hand of an adversary he’d underestimated; after all, he’d been foiled by Geran Hulmaster before, and there was a grim satisfaction in measuring himself by the quality of his enemies. “Did Geran tell you anything about his plans when you met him here?” he asked the corpse.
The corpse groaned again. “No. He only spoke of vengeance. Now let me rest.”
“Very well.” The mage straightened and brushed the soot from his robe. With a gesture he ended the ritual, severing the tenuous thread that imbued the corpse with its animating force. It fell still at once, nothing more than a dead body again. Rhovann absently rubbed at his right wrist, thinking about what he’d learned.
Edelmark looked down on the corpse, frowning in distaste. He cleared his throat and asked, “Are you finished with the high prelate’s remains, Lord Rhovann?”
“Hmm? Oh yes, I have no further use for poor Valdarsel here … no, wait. I may very well need to speak with him again. Inform the surviving clerics that we will see to the high prelate’s burial, and have the remains sent back to the castle.”
“Yes, m’lord.” The mercenary motioned to one of the Council Guards hovering nearby, and glanced around at the wet, smoking ashes and rubble. “It seems that Geran Hulmaster has much to answer for. I can’t believe that he would be so foolhardy as to defy the harmach’s edict and wantonly murder his councilors.”
“I can,” Rhovann muttered. He knew all too well that Geran was a man with more determination than sense at times, and Valdarsel had certainly provoked him. “I must speak with the harmach about my findings here. Have word sent to the other members of the Harmach’s Council; there is to be an emergency session at three bells this afternoon. We must weigh our response to this attack.”
Edelmark bowed, then marched off, calling for his messengers and guards. Rhovann gestured for Bastion to follow him, and made his way back out to the street. He climbed into his carriage while the golem took its place at the running board across the back like a gigantic footman, its weight testing the wooden springs. “Back to Griffonwatch,” Rhovann instructed the driver; the carriage set out with a small jerk, rocking side to side as it clattered through the mud, slush, and uneven cobblestones toward the castle.
As it so happened, the occasion of an emergency council gathering was convenient. For many tendays now, Rhovann had been working to create a Maroth Marstel that could look after himself without constant guidance. The old Hulburgan lord was failing swiftly, his body worn by age and heavy drinking, his mind broken by months of control under Rhovann’s enchantments. Rhovann kept the harmach of Hulburg safely locked away in his own chambers, too ill to see to his duties … but that was about to change. In a vat in his laboratory an alchemical copy of Maroth Marstel was almost ready for its debut, and the council’s meeting would make for an excellent test. As soon as the coach halted in Griffonwatch’s courtyard, Rhovann returned to his laboratory to see to scores of the final details involved with his rituals and alchemical processes.
A little before three hours after noon, he left his laboratory—sealing and warding it behind him, as he always did—and descended from his working space to the castle’s great hall, which served as the meeting place of the Harmach’s Council. He was pleased to note that his fellow councilors were already assembled, waiting for him. Their conversations faltered and they turned astonished looks up at the stair leading down into the room from the castle’s upper floors.
Rhovann smiled and gave a slight bow as he stepped to one side. “My lords and ladies, may I present Harmach Maroth Marstel?”
His simulacrum of Marstel limped forward, raising his hand in greeting. The thing was a perfect copy of Marstel—or, to be more precise, Marstel as he might have appeared had he been enjoying his first days of good health after a long and debilitating illness. To lend credence to the idea that the harmach had simply been indisposed for a time, Rhovann had carefully added a hint of dark circles under the eyes, a little looseness to the flesh to suggest a loss of weight, and a slight shuffle to the footsteps. But the false Marstel’s eyes were clear, and his smile was genuine enough.
“Ah, my good friends!” the false Marstel said in something close to the booming voice of the old lord. “It’s been far too long, it has. But I’m glad to report that I am finally feeling myself again.”
Rhovann made a show of offering his hand, which the old lord’s duplicate refused. He made his way down the stairs, leaning a little on the balustrade as the wizard followed, ready to aid him if he faltered. The waiting councilors stood and applauded as the harmach took his seat at the head of the table. The moon elf moved around the table to his own place, where the master mage customarily sat. The false Marstel inclined his snowy head, accepting the applause of the assembled councilors and guards. “Most kind, most kind,” he said. “Good Rhovann informs me that I’m still recovering and shouldn’t weary myself too much yet, so let’s get to our business.”
He waited as the council members took their seats again, and looked over to Rhovann. “You’d best let the council hear what you had to tell me about the murder of Valdarsel, Rhovann.”
“Of course, my lord harmach,” Rhovann replied. He made a mental note to instruct the simulacrum to act with more bluster and bluntness; he was perhaps just a little too reasonable and mild-spoken for Maroth Marstel. He turned to face the rest of the council. “I investigated the remains of the Temple of the Wronged Prince at length. My divinations and questionings are quite conclusive: High Prelate Valdarsel was killed by none other than Geran Hulmaster, with the aid of the sorcerer Sarth Khul Riizar. I have carefully reviewed the reports of those of my guardians who were involved in the pursuit as they fled the scene. Unfortunately, the murderers vanished somewhere near the waterfront, and I cannot conclusively determine if they have fled Hulburg or not. They may still be here, sheltered by Hulmaster loyalists.” He paused to study the reactions of the merchant leaders around the table before adding, “I will, of course, begin a new course of divinations immediately. If Geran and Sarth are still here, we’ll unearth them quickly enough.”
“There is also the question of those who helped Geran Hulmaster to enter the city, or sheltered him before his attack on Valdarsel,” Captain Edelmark said. “Any such actions amount to high treason against the rightful harmach. If we fail to catch Hulmaster and his half-devil accomplice, we can make sure that those who aided them are suitably punished.”
“Indeed,” Marstel said. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward with a determined frown on his face. “To that very point, I’m instructing the Council Guard to begin an immediate crackdown on all Hulmaster loyalists or sympathizers, known or suspected. This brutal assassination, this fiendish arson, have forced my hand! All persons of suspect allegiance are to be closely questioned regarding their activities over the last two tendays; I want to know where they’ve been, who they’ve associated with, and what they’ve been saying to each other. All arms and armor are to be confiscated. Personal wealth or property that can’t be adequately accounted for are to be confiscated as well; we’ll smother this little rebellion before it spreads any further.”
Old Wulreth Keltor, the keeper of keys, looked stricken. He was the only member who’d also served on Harmach Grigor’s council, and his duties pertained to the Tower’s treasury and administration. “Forgive me, my lord harmach,” he said, “but such an action simply isn’t countenanced in Hulburg’s body of law.”
The false Marstel waved aside Wulreth’s objections. “And well I know it. I’ll issue a decree to set
it all down in black and white. But to put it simply, old friend, these are extraordinary times and they demand extraordinary measures. No effort can be spared to secure Hulburg from lawlessness and anarchy!”
“I’m afraid I share Master Keltor’s concerns,” Nimessa Sokol said. “How many people of suspect allegiance do you intend to move against, my lord? As a member of the Merchant Council, I am frankly worried about the effect a widespread confiscation of property would have on our interests. House Sokol’s business in Hulburg will be sorely damaged if our customers and suppliers are impoverished or run out of town arbitrarily.”
“Speak for yourself,” Captain Miskar Bann retorted. He was the ranking member of Mulmaster’s House Veruna present in Hulburg, a big, round-faced mercenary who had a mouthful of gold teeth and wore an iron brace on one knee. The Verunas had been evicted from Hulburg after their role in Sergen Hulmaster’s attempted coup, and they’d eagerly provided mercenaries to help Marstel and the Cinderfists seize control of Hulburg during the Black Moon troubles a few months later. Of course, they’d profited greatly by scavenging property confiscated from old Hulburg and awarded to Cinderfists. No doubt Captain Bann was already salivating at the new possibilities in Marstel’s plan. “I’m a member of the Merchant Council too. Everyone knows you’ve got a soft spot for the Hulmasters, Lady Sokol. I think the harmach’s men ought to begin by searching your compound.”
Nimessa flushed. “The laws of concession prohibit any such intrusion.”
“Do you have something to hide?” Bann taunted.
“Do you?” she retorted. “If Sokol opens its gates to the Council Guard, I’ll insist that every coster in Hulburg does the same. I doubt that Geran Hulmaster is hiding in the Veruna compound, but I wonder whether you’ve got any stolen goods or slaves stashed away in your mistress’s storehouses, Miskar. Trading in slaves is still against the harmach’s law, is it not?”
Rhovann studied the half-elf thoughtfully. As Miskar Bann observed, it was certainly possible that Geran and his sorcerer friend had been aided by one of the other merchant costers. Clearly House Sokol was not without sympathies for the Hulmaster cause, but it was also possible that a neutral company such as the Double Moon Coster might have aided the Hulmasters in order to weaken the Cinderfists. Unfortunately Rhovann had to exercise care in making any such accusations against one of the great Houses, lest he drive the merchant costers into closing ranks and defending their precious laws of concession. On the other hand, he had means to quietly spy out the Sokol compound without any public accusation necessary.
Miskar Bann bristled, but Captain Edelmark cleared his throat and spoke before the merchant lord. “The Council Guard will, of course, implement the lord harmach’s instructions immediately,” he said. “Disloyalty and sedition cannot be tolerated. But I fear that we are dealing with a symptom, not the disease. The ultimate source of this incipient rebellion is the Hulmaster enclave in Thentia. As long as the Hulmasters have a safe haven in Thentia to rebuild their army and foment trouble, we are threatened. If we want to put down this rebellion not just for this month but forever, we must deprive the Hulmasters of their refuge outside our borders!”
“What do you suggest, Captain?” the false Marstel asked.
“My lord, I propose that we muster the strongest army we can gather and march on Lasparhall. We can destroy the Hulmasters’ army before it organizes, seize their supplies and arms, and raze their barracks and the old manor for good measure. The Hulmaster cause could never recover from such a blow.”
Subtlety is not Edelmark’s strong suit, Rhovann reflected. He caught Marstel’s eye and gave an imperceptible shake of the head. Marstel frowned, weighing the captain’s words, as Rhovann leaned forward to answer for him. “A bold plan, Captain,” the elf said to Edelmark, “but I can’t see a way to do what you suggest without making an enemy of High Lord Vasil and Thentia. Perhaps a show of strength would convince the high lord to stop coddling our enemies—but it might instead drive him to throw in with the Hulmasters entirely. For now Thentia is staying out of our quarrel, and that favors us far more than a Thentian intervention. Each day the Hulmasters remain in Thentia, their position grows weaker and ours grows stronger. We should be in no hurry to change that.”
Marstel nodded. “Well said, Rhovann,” he rumbled. “But, Edelmark, you are right to bring the threat of the Hulmaster army to our attention. We must be ready to strike and strike hard the moment they sally out from behind Thentia’s skirts! I want you to make all necessary preparations to meet an attack from Thentia, no matter how improbable it may seem. And see if our agents can’t spread a little gold around in Thentia’s taverns to find out what the Hulmaster’s soldiers think they’re up to, as long as we’re waiting.”
Edelmark bowed. “As you wish, my lord harmach. I will review our defenses immediately, and redouble our efforts to hire more sellswords abroad.” He smiled cruelly. “After all, we may have an unexpected windfall in the form of confiscations from those who are disloyal to the throne. I see no reason why they shouldn’t contribute to the common defense.”
Rhovann looked over to the simulacrum, and decided that it would not be wise to test it too aggressively in its debut. “My lord harmach, we should be mindful of your need for rest,” he said. “You are still recovering, after all.”
The false Marstel nodded. “Of course, of course,” he said. “I confess that I am tiring already. I trust the council to work out all the necessary details of the decisions we’ve made today.” He pushed himself to his feet, and the councilors around the table quickly stood as well, bowing as the old lord made his way to the stairs.
“The Harmach’s Council is adjourned,” Rhovann said. “Captain Edelmark, I’ll speak with you soon.” Then he hurried over to join his simulacrum and made a show of helping the harmach climb the stairs back toward the private quarters of the castle. Behind them, chairs scraped and voices murmured as the councilors and their various clerks and seconds began to leave or huddled together, discussing the harmach’s decrees.
All in all, a very satisfactory debut, the mage reflected. The simulacrum had performed flawlessly with only the most minimal preparation and prompting. The real advantage of the creature was that it could incorporate his direction into its own reason and judgment, masquerading as Marstel while working toward the goals he specified without the constant enchantments and contest of will he’d had to endure in keeping the original Marstel under control.
“You are a much more tractable Marstel,” he remarked as they came to the upper court. “Go about your business; I’ll be in my quarters if you have need of me.”
The false Marstel nodded once and set out for the library, which served as the harmach’s office. Rhovann watched it leave, and glanced up across the castle’s upper courtyard to the Harmach’s Tower. Given the unqualified success of his simulacrum, a feeble old madman locked up in his chambers there had just become nothing more than a tedious liability. As long as Maroth Marstel remained alive, there was always a slight chance that someone might somehow stumble across the inconvenient fact that there were now two Harmach Marstels.
He allowed himself a small smile; after all, he’d been looking forward to this moment for months. “And now for a little bit of tidying up,” he said to himself.
TEN
24 Hammer, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
A winter fog hung heavily over Hulburg as Geran dressed himself for the journey to Thentia. A Sokol caravan was setting out along the Coastal Way in half an hour, and he intended to slip out of the town by playing the part of one of the caravan guards. Nimessa had provided him with a surcoat in Sokol’s colors of blue and black, and the cold weather gave him the perfect excuse to cover most of his face with a scarf and hood. She’d quietly arranged with her arms-captain for him to join the caravan’s mounted escort; the fellow didn’t know who he was smuggling out of Hulburg, and Geran intended to keep it that way as long as possible. He checked his appearance one last tim
e in the standing mirror in Nimessa’s room, and decided that it was good enough for all but the closest inspection. Of course, that depended on whether they met any of Rhovann’s constructs on the way out of town, and whether the helmed guardians had some means of seeing through common disguises or not.
In that case, I’ll break ranks and make a gallop for it, he told himself. He adjusted his sword belt one last time, slung a pair of saddlebags with a typical sellsword’s traveling kit stuffed inside over his shoulder, and trotted downstairs. Nimessa waited for him in the foyer, wearing a dress of green velvet with high boots—always a good idea in Hulburg’s streets at this time of year—and a heavy fur mantle against the weather.
“It seems you’re ready,” she said. She glanced out the window toward the compound’s courtyard, where the mule teams were being hitched to their wagons, and looked back to him. “Are you certain you want to leave today? You can stay longer if you feel you need to.”
He sensed the unspoken invitation in her offer, and hesitated. He liked Nimessa very much, and it was certainly true that the last two days of hiding in her home had been very pleasant indeed … but strangely enough the time he’d spent with her had finally dispelled the mystery and confusion he’d wrestled with in his heart for months now. Nimessa Sokol wasn’t the one he loved, no matter how desirable he found her, and he thought that her heart wasn’t entirely given to him either. To stay longer and draw out their temporary entanglement would only make that more clear without changing the essential nature of his heart, or hers. Framing his answer in the simplest and most comfortable terms he could find, he said, “I’d better go while I can. You might not have another caravan setting out for a couple of tendays or more. And I don’t want to endanger you any more than I already have. You’ve risked too much on my behalf already.”
Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III Page 12
