by Ian Irvine
Anjo put his hands up, still smiling. “You asked what was going on at the college and I reported it… as an impartial chronicler should. I’ve no doubt that your tale deserves to be the twenty-third Great Tale… despite how it came about.”
Always the sting in the tail. Llian sat down again.
“What are you talking about?” said Karan.
“What Llian was banned for,” said Anjo. “There are those who say – and again, I’m not one of them – that he didn’t meddle in the Histories just because he’s a reckless fool, but…”
“What are they saying?” she said with quiet menace.
Anjo’s head snapped back, as if he’d only now realised where the real threat lay, then the smug smile returned. “That Llian shaped the Histories to his will, to improve his tale.”
Pain sheared through Llian’s chest. A teller could be accused of no greater crime. It would destroy him so utterly that there could be no coming back. He reached out blindly for the wine bottle, which was empty save for a few teaspoons of purple, gritty dregs. He drank them anyway.
“Llian the Liar, they’re starting to whisper in the halls,” said Anjo.
“Why?” said Karan. The glint in her green eyes would have melted iron.
“Why what?”
“Why are the masters trying to destroy Llian’s good name? How can he possibly be a threat to them when he’s still under a ban?”
“I should have thought that was obvious,” sneered Anjo. “The common people love the Tale of the Mirror. They ask for it to be told more than all the other Great Tales put together, and that amounts to a kind of power – a valuable currency in these troubled times.”
“To lead an uprising?” Karan let out a hollow laugh. “Llian has many fine qualities, but he couldn’t lead a hungry goat to a blackcurrant bush.”
“Thanks,” Llian muttered, trying to swallow the dregs stuck in his throat.
“In the past,” said Anjo, “great tellers have twice become Master of the College through the weight of public acclamation. They’re making sure it doesn’t happen a third time – especially not a foul, treacherous and deceitful Zain, as they view you. So I can’t possibly intercede with Wistan on your behalf. It wouldn’t be wise.”
Anjo rose, stretched, yawned. “Thank you for your hospitality, and I bid you goodnight. I’ve a long ride tomorrow and I must leave at dawn.”
“I’ll make breakfast and see you on your way,” said Karan.
“No need to trouble yourself. I’ll get a pie from the baker at Tolryme.” Anjo bowed and left.
Llian looked up. Karan was gazing at him, the firelight shining on her red hair. She had never looked more beautiful, and he had never felt less worthy of her.
“That’s it then,” he said.
She launched herself at him and held him close, squeezing so hard that she was compressing his lungs.
“No, it’s not. Come to bed. We’ll talk about what to do after he’s gone.”
Llian rose late the following morning with a throbbing head and the feeling that things were going to get worse. Karan and Sulien were out somewhere. In the manager’s office Rachis had his head bent over a ledger, his watering eyes just a few inches from the page.
Llian took his gruel to the library, put it down on the table and reached out to draw the Tale of the Mirror to him. It wasn’t there. He looked across to the special place on the bookshelf where it was kept. It wasn’t there either. Ice formed in his belly as he looked around frantically and saw, on the other side of the table, a small piece of notepaper with three battered copper grints resting on it.
I always pay full price.
Asinine Anjo
17
HE’S NEAR HIS END NOW
At a villa eleven miles east of Muncyte, Cumulus Snoat sat in his ermine-lined dressing gown on the marble terrace, sipping the day’s first cup of nim tea, the finest in the world. It was shipped all the way from the rain-saturated forests of tropical Gendrigore for his delectation, and his alone. A brazier beside him burned laths of pink, subtly scented rosewood.
He reached for Goudry’s Blood Poems, written twelve hundred years ago and forgotten by all save those of the most exquisite sensibilities. Only nine copies were in existence and his was by far the best, yet it irked him that rival collectors held the other eight books. He shrugged off the irritation and had just begun to read when a skeet came howling in.
“Can this be it?” he said. “No, expectation is the enemy of happiness.”
Shortly a kimono-clad young woman hurried in, carrying a rectangular package. Her cheeks were overly pink, which marred her otherwise flawless beauty. Snoat sighed. His self-control was almost perfect and he expected no less from those around him. A mild rebuke was necessary, though he was determined not to allow it to spoil the day.
“Your face is flushed, Ifoli. Have I not told you, nothing is so urgent that it can be allowed to spoil your perfection?”
“I’m sorry, Cumulus,” she said, for he preferred to be addressed by his first name. Even her voice was beautiful – high and lilting. “Knowing you were waiting for this, I became over-excited.”
He had taught her such self-control that the pink tinge faded and she was perfect again. He extended his hand. The package had been wrapped in magenta silk and tied with sapphire-blue silken cords, precisely to his requirements. Ifoli knew what he wanted and took pains to deliver it, in every respect.
Snoat unwrapped the package deliberately, taking pleasure in every moment. If life wasn’t for pleasure, what meaning could it possibly have?
“Is it necessary to crush and humiliate the people you rob?” Ifoli said softly.
Snoat set down the package while he considered the question. It was an emotive one, and it vexed him that she had asked it, but again he wasn’t going to let it spoil this perfect day.
“I was the poorest of children, the son of a labourer and a maidservant on a vast estate. Though I was polite and hard-working, I was constantly put down because of my humble origins. As a boy, I resolved to gain power over the greatest people in the land, then rob them of their treasures and show them what it felt like to be poor and powerless.” He met Ifoli’s eyes. “And so I do.”
He drew the wrappings away and it stood revealed, one of the most precious books in the world and the only one of its kind that he, or indeed any collector, had been able to lay hands on. It was Llian’s original illuminated manuscript of the twenty-third Great Tale, the Tale of the Mirror, and it was even more beautiful than his letter had said. Not just beautiful and infinitely precious, but a document of vast importance and significance to every living person on Santhenar.
And now it was his.
“And even more precious if the despicable Zain who created it should die,” he said aloud.
“Pardon, Cumulus?”
“Never mind. Anjo Duril has done well. See that he is paid the market price.”
“The full market price?”
“To pay less would be to diminish the book.”
“Yes, Cumulus.” She bowed, hesitated, then turned back to him. “When Anjo obtained the manuscript, he noticed an object that may be of interest.”
“What kind of object?”
“The braided silver chain given by Shuthdar to the crippled girl Fiachra before he died. It was made by his own hands, and is said to contain an enchantment he put on it to protect her.”
“Interesting,” said Snoat.
“Only a handful of objects made by Shuthdar survive, though it may be the least of them. Not worthy of one of your collections, perhaps.” She turned to go.
“Any object made by Shuthdar would be worth a place in my collections,” said Snoat, “since I have nothing by him. Tell me about this protection.”
“Anjo knows nothing about it, save that it exists.”
“A charm put there by Shuthdar thousands of years ago,” Snoat mused. “An enchantment so well crafted that it may linger to this day.”
“Yo
u’re thinking it might be possible to read the original spell,” said Ifoli.
“The great folly of the Secret Art is that few adepts ever share their secrets. Rather, they do everything possible to conceal them with arcane codes, tricks and traps and deliberate deceptions.”
“Mancery is a hazardous occupation. More of its secrets are lost than passed on.”
“And thus the Secret Art dwindles. Few mancers of the modern age can equal the masters of ancient times, and no one has ever approached the spells that Shuthdar bound into his astonishing magical devices.”
“Then this charm, if it could be read…”
“I’ll consider it another day. Send Ragred to me.”
Ifoli bowed and went out.
Snoat dismissed further thoughts of the chain. He would allow nothing to distract him from the manuscript. He turned the pages, marvelling at the calligraphy, the illuminations and the quality of the writing.
Any collectable manuscript must have one of those three qualities, and sometimes two, but never had he seen one where the calligraphy, the illuminations and the writing were all of the highest order. Yes, he saw little flaws here and there, imperfections that would have marred any printed or hand-copied book. But original manuscripts were judged differently – flaws and imperfections were the author’s signature, unique and endearing.
He realised that Ragred, a vast wart- and wen-covered monstrosity, was standing to one side, awaiting his attention. Snoat put the manuscript down and studied him, revelling in Ragred’s hideousness. He was as ugly as Ifoli was beautiful, and Snoat appreciated the one as much as the other.
“What news of Tallia bel Soon?” he asked.
“Scouts lost her in Faidon Forest,” said Ragred in a boar’s grunt.
“How about Hingis and Esea?”
“Scorbic Vyl lost them, and most of his men. And his arm.”
“Would you be so kind as to visit my displeasure on Vyl?”
“Er… he has something for you.”
Ragred would not have mentioned it unless it was vital. “Proceed,” said Snoat.
“Tallia gave Hingis the code to the council’s spell vault, and Scorbic extracted it from him.”
Oh, perfect day!
“Do you wish to go there now?” said Ifoli, who had come in silently.
“Tomorrow!” said Snoat. “And then, depending what we find there, make ready to decamp to my villa near Chanthed.”
He handed Ragred the copy of Goudry’s Blood Poems. “Put this on the brazier.”
Ragred hesitated in case he had misheard. Snoat appreciated that in a servant, for mistakes did happen. He also appreciated obedience.
“Onto the brazier,” said Ragred and placed it carefully in the middle, where the fire was hottest.
Snoat watched the book burn with only a fleeting regret. It was marred in his eyes now. Everything was, before the prospect of the most perfect collection of all.
“Empty out my library,” said Snoat. “Pile all the books up down there –” he indicated the manicured meadow below the terrace “ – and burn them.”
“Burn them,” Ragred echoed, and this time he did not move until Snoat nodded. “Will that be all, Cumulus?”
Snoat laid a hand on Llian’s manuscript. “This is the twenty-third Great Tale. Find out where the original manuscripts of the other twenty-two are – if they’re still in existence.”
“Library of the College of the Histories, Chanthed,” said Ragred.
Excellent servant! Not just collectably gruesome, but vastly knowledgeable.
“However…” said Ragred.
“A problem?”
“May be difficult to… obtain.”
“Why so?”
“Protected by a spell, bound to the Master of the College. While he lives, it’s unbreakable.”
“Master Wistan is in poor health, is he not?”
“Near his end.”
“And when he dies, the protection will fade… until it’s renewed by the new master.”
“Yes, Cumulus.”
“I have a tame master there, don’t I?”
“Basible Norp,” grunted Ragred. “Oily but effective.”
“Contact him. We need to make plans. Then send for Gurgito Unick.”
“Er… really?”
This time Snoat sighed. And yet he’d given three extraordinary orders in ten minutes. A good servant had to be sure.
“He’s a vicious, untrustworthy drunk and lecher, very possibly the foulest man I’ve ever met. But he’s also an intuitive genius and the best maker of magical devices in Meldorin… if not the world.”
“Fetching Unick.” Ragred bowed his wen-encrusted head and went out.
Cumulus Snoat turned back to the Tale of the Mirror. He was in such fine humour that not even the stench of burning leather from the brazier could mar his delicate sensibilities.
Could he put together the rarest, most beautiful and most important collection in all the world? If he could, his life would be as perfect as his collection.
One down, twenty-two to go.
18
NINEFINGERS
“There it is.” Esea pointed down the crowded street.
The sign on the front of the tavern said NINEFINGERS. It was a three-storey building of soot-stained yellow brick, like all the other buildings in the street. The decorative arches around the front door and the windows were dark blue brickwork, save for the keystones, which were red-black haematite and carved with fiends’ faces – pinched, sharp-nosed and pointy-chinned. Cunning-eyed, Hingis thought.
Esea had not mentioned his betrayal again, but it was not over. His reaction to her maimed foot had shattered her and he did not think anything would ever make up for it.
He despised himself. His disfigurement did not matter to her; indeed, it had brought them closer. So why did her small imperfection matter so much to him? He could not say; it just did. What a shabby person he was.
“You sure this is the place?” he said, clinging to the saddle horn with both hands. They had ridden non-stop for the past sixteen hours and every twisted bone ached, every muscle.
“Sith isn’t so big a city that there are likely to be two Ninefingers.”
She dismounted with a thump, staggered a couple of steps and turned to him.
“Go and make sure,” he said, laying his head on his horse’s neck. “Once I’m down, I’ll never get up again.”
She looped the horses’ reins over the rail and limped up three slate-topped steps, across a wide porch whose well-scrubbed brown boards creaked, and inside. Hingis’s horse dipped its head to drink from the mossy water trough. He clung on, capable of only three thoughts: hot bath, warm bed, endless sleep.
After some minutes Esea came out, followed by an immensely tall and strongly built woman in her early twenties whose skin was as black as anthracite. Without a word, she plucked Hingis out of the saddle.
“I can walk!” he cried, mortified.
Cradling him in one arm as though he weighed no more than a child, she unfastened his saddlebags and carried everything inside.
The bar was almost empty, it being mid-morning. A couple of old women sat in a corner, playing a game with dice and a circular board. A huge man stood behind the bar, stacking mugs on a shelf. He was middle-aged, his hair greying, a strong body thickening in the middle. It was clear that he was the young woman’s father.
He jerked his head at her. “Put him down, girl. That’s no way to treat a gentleman.”
She flushed and set Hingis on his feet. He staggered. She steadied him. Hingis looked up into her eyes, expecting to see the usual revulsion, or at best pity. He saw only kindly concern.
“Thank you,” he said, studying her more closely. She had a strong, handsome face and soft eyes – hazel, striking in her dark face – that seemed to be hiding something. She went out.
The huge man came out from behind the bar, wincing as he walked. “I’m Osseion.” His voice was deep, rumbling, cheerful.
“Hingis,” said Hingis. “And my twin, Esea.”
“We’ve already introduced ourselves.”
Osseion held out a four-fingered hand and Hingis shook it. Osseion’s finger joints were swollen.
“Arthritis,” he said. “I’ll never wield a sword again. Could be awkward… considering.”
“You were Mendark’s personal bodyguard,” said Hingis. “You’re in the Histories.”
“Doesn’t bring customers through the door.” Osseion surveyed the almost empty room. “Come out the back.”
They followed him down a narrow hall, around a corner and into a small square room where coal smouldered in a tiny iron grate. The room was pleasantly warm, though stuffy, and had the tang of coal smoke and sulphur. The single window was curtained. A pine table by the window was surrounded by four chairs, their worn seat covers embroidered by a child’s hand.
Osseion helped Hingis into a chair and went out. He sighed as the weight came off his feet and his warped bones shifted and settled. Esea stood with her back to the fire, rocking on her right foot. Her left foot rested lightly on the floor. It must be very painful. He shuddered, leaned back and closed his eyes. The daughter came in carrying a laden tray.
“I’m Hingis,” he said, holding out his bony hand.
She smiled and shook his hand rather timidly. Her hand was much bigger than his, and callused across the palm and fingers.
“Ussarine,” she said quietly, pronouncing it Oos-sar-een.
“And this is my twin sister, Esea.”
Esea nodded stiffly but did not extend her hand. What was the matter?
Ussarine set the table, put bowls of soup in front of Hingis and Esea and a platter of bread, butter and cheese in the middle. Hingis salivated.
“You practise with a sword,” he said to Ussarine.
“Every day since I was two,” said Ussarine. “And other weapons too. How did you know?”
“From your calluses,” said Osseion as he came through the door with four mugs of black beer. He put them on the table and sat down.
Ussarine stood there for a moment, awkwardly, then turned to go.
“Sit down, girl,” said Osseion.
