by Ian Irvine
“You will bathe and dress. This way.”
He followed her down a tiled path, her lantern casting moving fans of light to either side. The grass was so neatly clipped it might have been done with scissors. He looked back and Thandiwe was still standing by the coach. She looked anxious, lost and not a little afraid. Llian felt not a trace of pity.
The young woman led him in through the back door of a villa, a large rectangular building of three storeys with two-storey wings running off either end. Inside, all was in darkness save for her lantern beams, which did not reveal anything above waist height. She went up two flights of stairs, along a corridor, opened a door and ushered him into a large bathing room, beautifully tiled in green, banded serpentinite. She lit the lamps and turned on taps in a large tub. Hot and cold water gushed out.
“Put your clothes in the basket for burning,” she said. “Your boots as well.” She studied him in a measuring way. “I will fetch clean garments directly, and ointment for your bites.” She went out.
What kind of a man was Llian’s patron? Well, for the luxury of a hot bath, clean clothes and easy access to the archives, he could be any kind of a man he damn well pleased. Llian dumped his ruined clothes and battered boots but kept his belt, for Rulke’s little key was hidden in it.
After Llian had bathed she led him into a room the size of a ballroom, though its only occupant was an elegantly dressed, bronze-haired man sitting at a leopardwood desk at the far end. His forehead was high, his nose regal, his chin cleft and his Cupid’s bow lips full and sensual. A large armchair near the window had its back to him.
She escorted Llian over to the desk, which was bare save for a bound book the man was reading. After several minutes he looked up into Llian’s eyes.
“Thank you for agreeing to come,” he said in a rich, slow voice in which each word was perfectly enunciated. He rose, came around the desk and extended his hand. Llian shook it. “You know my subordinate, I believe.”
The armchair rotated to reveal Basible Norp. Cold crept over Llian. Subordinate?
“Yes,” said Llian, “though I don’t know your name.”
“A scandalous oversight on Ifoli’s part,” said the bronze-haired man. “I am Cumulus Snoat.”
The scales fell from Llian’s eyes. Snoat, who had tried to kill Tallia and nearly succeeded, who was now making ruthless war on Iagador and trying to take control of the college. Llian had been manipulated – no, conned.
He stared at the book on the table. It was inside a protective cover, which was why he had not recognised it before. It was his Tale of the Mirror, and there was nothing he could do to get it back. He felt a mad urge to drive his head into Snoat’s belly, grab the book and dive through the window.
How disastrously he had blundered by writing to Snoat in the first place. And how catastrophically he had compounded that error by voting for Norp instead of Thandiwe.
Wistan must be turning in his grave, and one of Snoat’s cutthroats had probably sent him to it. But Llian’s final blunder was by far the worst. Why, after all Thandiwe’s threats, had he come here with her? Because he’d had absolutely no choice.
With heart-stopping horror, something even worse occurred to him. If Snoat got Wistan’s dirt book he could identify and attack the allies, and it would undermine any defence they tried to make against the Merdrun. Why hadn’t he hidden it when he’d had the chance – or failing that, burned it as soon as he’d been framed for murder?
“I’ve been thinking about your proposal,” said Llian. “I’m afraid it’s not for me, but thank you for the offer.”
Snoat raised a hand and a squat, muscle-bound man appeared in the doorway to the left, wearing only a groin strap. His head was as round as a melon and his entire body had been shaved about a week ago. All over his body stubs of hair stood out like bristles on an old, coarse boar.
“Yorgee,” said Snoat. “Would you be so kind as to convince the Zain to stay?”
By the time Llian appreciated what Snoat was saying, Yorgee was only a yard away. He was half a head shorter than Llian but must have been twice his weight. Yorgee caught Llian by the shoulder in a grip that ground the bones together, then punched him in the belly so hard that it drove the wind out of him.
“Cumulus wishes you to stay until the job is done,” said Yorgee.
“I’ll stay,” gasped Llian.
“Cumulus thanks you,” said Yorgee.
He thumped Llian again to reinforce the point. Llian flew backwards and his impact with the floor jarred a small book from his pocket. The beautiful woman picked it up and, after a small hesitation, handed it to Snoat.
“Ahh!” he said.
Wistan’s dirt book, and all its secrets, was now in the hands of the enemy. Llian’s quest was in tatters; there was no hope of finding out about the summon stone now. He would be lucky to get out of here with his life.
40
YOU EXCEED YOUR LICENCE
“You will tell me everything Mendark ever told you about the Secret Art,” said Snoat, “and everything you read about mancery in his personal papers.”
“Why?” said Llian.
“Yorgee, answer Llian’s question.”
“Never mind,” Llian said hastily.
The loincloth-clad brute thumped Llian in the belly, lifting him off his feet. He got up, breathless and aching, staggered to the podium prepared for him, searched his perfect memory and began to recite. He could recall hundreds of conversations on the topic and many pages of documents, though, having no talent for mancery, they meant nothing to him. What was Snoat looking for?
Everything Llian said was written down by a pair of secretaries, then compiled into a master copy by Snoat’s beautiful assistant Ifoli. Snoat sat quietly in the background, eyes closed and one silk-slippered foot tapping. Occasionally he raised a hand. Ifoli stopped Llian, checked with the secretaries and, without notes, gave Snoat a perfect summary of what Llian had remembered.
On the second morning, before he began, Snoat said, “Is Unick here yet?”
Ifoli looked uneasy. “He arrived an hour ago.”
“Call him in.”
Gurgito Unick was a red-faced bull of a man, well over six feet tall and powerfully built. He had the scarred face and knuckles of a barroom brawler and bloodshot eyes that seemed too small for their sockets. The smell of stale drink preceded him into the salon.
He caught Llian’s eye and sneered. “Stinking teller!” He spat on the floor and dropped into a chair.
A servant ran across and cleaned the spittle up.
“Continue, Llian,” said Snoat.
Llian wondered why Unick was there, since he did nothing save slump in his chair, breathing noisily through a badly broken nose. His clothes were shabby and none too clean, his nails were chewed to the quick and the sole was coming off his left boot.
Llian’s recital continued until he had told Snoat everything he knew about Mendark’s use of the Secret Art. Unick disappeared.
The following day Llian was allowed to read, or write in the journal he carried everywhere with him, but nothing more was asked of him. Snoat spent hours conferring with Ifoli regarding one detail or another and making pencil sketches.
Her duties were assigned to another young woman of almost equally perfect beauty, a tall grey-eyed redhead. Ifoli began to turn Snoat’s sketches into working drawings done with a draughtsman’s precision and lettered in an elegant hand. Llian had no idea what they were about.
Later that day Unick was brought back. He was sober this time and his raw eyes darted around the room as if he suspected everyone of conspiring against him. As he lumbered to Ifoli’s table she rose abruptly, leaning away from him as if her skin was crawling.
Snoat shot Ifoli a sharp glance. She calmed herself and began to describe the first of her drawings in a low voice. Unick snatched it out of her hand, studied it for a few seconds and tossed it down. He did the same with all her other drawings.
“Well?” said Snoat.
<
br /> “Worthless rubbish,” said Unick.
“What about this?” said Snoat, opening a black ironwood box and showing Unick the contents, which Llian assumed to be a device of some kind.
Unick reached for it greedily. Snoat moved it out of reach.
“Where did it come from?” said Unick in a thick voice.
“The Council’s secret spell vault.”
“It looks like Mendark’s work.”
“Yes.”
Unick took another look, then grinned. “I know how to do it.”
“Really?” cried Snoat.
“Yes.”
“How many devices will be required to use the secret of mancery?”
“Three.”
“Only three?”
“Origin. Identity. Command.”
“What do they do?”
“Origin allows one to find and study sources, previously unknown, of great natural power, and it can also find enchanted objects. Identity identifies people who are using mancery, allowing one to spy on them. Command allows one to control and use the sources of power, and also control other mancers. A mancer who has all three devices will be more powerful than all other mancers put together – assuming he has the strength to wield such mighty and ruinous artefacts.”
Llian was staggered. Such power, vastly greater than anything the world had ever known, would change Santhenar for ever.
“And if he doesn’t?” said Snoat.
“The Command device will splatter his remains across a hundred acres.” Unick grinned at the thought.
Snoat’s breath hissed between his perfect teeth. “All right. Show me your drawings when they’re done.”
“No drawings. All I need is head and hand and eye.”
Unick slumped in Ifoli’s chair and stared hungrily at a glass-fronted case. It held ten cut crystal bottles, all different. Snoat had said that they contained the rarest liqueurs in the world. Unick licked his scarred lips.
Snoat looked out the paired windows for a minute or two, then called Ifoli. “What do you think?” he said quietly.
“Mendark may not have known what he was doing. He may have been mistaken, or—”
“Unlikely – he was both brilliant and careful. And over his many lifetimes he analysed the work of dozens of other great masters.”
“Yet he sought –” Ifoli lowered her voice but Llian could read lips “ – that which no other master ever found.”
“Continue.”
“Alternatively, Mendark may have been led astray to protect the secret.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“Mancers are notoriously jealous of their art. Some would sooner it died with them than hand it on, even to a valued protégé.”
“I feel the same way about my collection,” said Snoat. “Why should some unworthy person benefit from my hard work after I die? It would diminish everything I’ve done. I’d sooner burn this place to the ground, and everything in my collection, than allow anyone else to possess the least part of it.”
Ifoli stiffened. She was part of Snoat’s collection, and so was Llian. He shivered. Their lives were in the hands of a perfect narcissist.
It was warm in the salon but Ifoli’s arms had goose pimples. After a minute of silence she said, “There’s another possibility, Cumulus. A disturbing one.”
“Go on.”
“Mendark may have been used. His work on this secret project may even have been directed.”
“He worked on it for hundreds of years, and outlived dozens of great mancers. How could any of them have used him?”
“It could have been these Merdrun we keep hearing about.”
“They’re a fantasy designed to rally support against me.” Snoat walked back to Ifoli’s table.
“Cumulus?” she said urgently.
“Yes?” he said without turning around.
“I must warn you that this is a very dangerous project.”
“You exceed your licence.” He gestured to Unick. “Begin on the Origin device.”
Unick was still staring at the bottles, his throat moving as if he were swilling grog. He left without a word. Snoat left as well. Ifoli gathered her sketches and locked them in a drawer, then removed the chair Unick had used and washed her hands. A servant carried the chair out and brought her another one. Ifoli sat at her desk, staring into space. Every so often a shudder racked her.
Llian wondered how Mendark’s meteoric rise to power had come about. The Histories were silent on the matter, though he was aware of the rumours, all unsubstantiated, that as a young man he had “done a deal with a demon”.
There were no such things as demons, but could the rumours be true in another way? He knew from personal experience how ruthless Mendark had been.
And, remembering the corruption only revealed at the very end of his life, could Ifoli’s stab in the dark be true? Could Mendark have been used all that time by the Merdrun?
Three devices to find, take and master. Origin. Identity. Command.
They were the real reason Snoat had brought him here. And if he got them, how could he ever be defeated?
41
OR YOUR MOTHER DIES
The name Ragred meant nothing to Karan. She struggled furiously but he was strong enough to hold her down with one hand, so she went still. She had been in a lot of fights in her time and had won more than she should have, given her small size. She pretended to be beaten and waited for her chance.
“Where’s Sulien? What have you done with her?”
Ragred’s smile revealed a mouthful of white, well shaped teeth. In so hideous a man this little quality made him seem even more frightening. He shifted his weight and Karan drove a knee into his groin. His grip relaxed for an instant; she headbutted him in the nose and rolled aside while he was still dazed.
Pain rang up and down her thigh. She hopped away to a safe distance. “Where’s my daughter?”
His squashed nose gushed blood down his face and all over his perfect little teeth. “If you come here, I’ll tell you.”
Karan should have run but she didn’t. Had he found Sulien? She had not been out of sight for long, but one blow from his fist or foot or elbow or knee would be enough to take her from this world.
Ragred took a step towards her. “Where is it?”
She checked behind her; there were no obstacles to fall over. She took a step backwards, and another step. “Where’s what?”
“The chain.”
“What chain?” said Karan, though he could only mean the one that had belonged to Fiachra. It was the only valuable thing she possessed. She had given it to Sulien.
The bloody teeth snapped together. He extended his warty right hand.
She retreated another step. “What do you want it for?”
Ragred stepped forwards gingerly, evidently still in some pain. Karan backed towards a patch of rough ground where the angled shale broke the surface.
As she turned, he sprang further than she would have thought possible. She tried to get out of his way but he flung out an arm, caught her by the hair and jerked her towards him so hard that she thought her scalp was going to tear off. Her feet left the ground, she landed on her back and before she could recover he was on her.
He shoved a hand down her shirt and groped around. She struck at him furiously but she might as well have been whacking a piece of teak. He caught both her wrists in one hand and thrust his repulsive visage at hers.
“Where… is… the… chain?”
Ragred wrenched at her right pocket, tearing it. Then Sulien appeared behind him, creeping up with a fist-sized piece of rock, and Karan had never seen such fury on a child’s face.
She tried to signal Sulien with her eyes – Run away – but she took no notice. Karan dared not call out to her; one bound and Ragred could have them both.
He was groping with his free hand when Sulien brought the rock down on his skull with all her strength. He sprayed bloody saliva all over Karan, then slumped on top of he
r.
But he was not quite unconscious, and his hand held her wrists in a grip she could not break. She tried to push him off but he was too heavy. Sulien was to Karan’s left, bouncing from one foot to the other.
“Stay – back,” gasped Karan, unable to draw a full breath.
Sulien bit her lip, then bent for the rock again. Ragred’s long arm swung out and back.
“Look out!” cried Karan.
Sulien sprang aside. His fingers grazed her left shin but could not grip.
“Run!” yelled Karan.
Ragred sat up and put a knee on her chest. “Come here, girl, or your mother dies.”
Sulien stood frozen, looking from Karan to Ragred.
“If he gets you too, he’ll kill us both,” said Karan. “Run!”
Sulien ran.
Ragred hauled Karan to her feet, held her by the shirt and backhanded her twice across the face, a pair of heavy blows that rocked her head from side to side. She could feel her cheeks swelling.
“She’ll be back,” said Ragred. “Nowhere to go, has she?”
He licked his little white teeth clean. Karan watched in fascinated repulsion.
“I’m not by nature a violent man,” he said softly, “but I can’t go back without the chain. The quicker you give it to me the less damage I’ll do to you.”
Karan felt sure he was going to kill her and nothing she could say would make any difference. He headed after Sulien, dragging Karan by the wrists. Several minutes later she saw something dart through the trees behind them. Something strong but awkward, with arms and legs moving in jerky arcs. She lost it but saw another, thirty yards away. Should she tell him? He might react badly. She must.
“They’re after you,” said Karan.
His head jerked round. He must have sensed something wrong, for his eyes were wide and darting.
“Who?”
“Whelm.”
He stiffened; he was afraid of them. He stopped for a second, searching for tracks, but the ground was hard here and there were none. He went on, then stopped again, looking around wildly.
They were stalking him, appearing and disappearing between the trees, and for the first time she saw real fear on Ragred’s face. Whelm were slow and awkward but tireless, and they never gave in.
