Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  Sometimes he felt the need to exercise his dragon-touched body, to make it do the extraordinary things of which it was capable. It helped him think. Now he broke into a run, climbing a staircase five steps at a stride. He stepped through a window and dropped ten feet onto a roof, sprinted lightly along the tiled ridge and jumped again, catching the sill of a window with both hands, rolling through it.

  As he entered the room – his own private chamber – he became aware that it wasn’t empty. He sensed a presence, smelled a scent. He landed silently. It was odd, he reflected as he crouched down, that when he wanted to be silent, he was. There seemed no extra effort involved.

  He drew his blade, and again it was silent. Not even a whisper of steel as it came free. He stepped forwards. There was a man sitting in a chair with his back to the window, and by the time Narak had closed the distance he recognised him – by scent as much as anything else. It was Aran Telio, the assassin he’d caught in Golt Forest.

  He tapped Telio’s shoulder with his blade.

  The man jumped out of his seat, spinning to face Narak, a knife in his hand, but relaxed as soon as he saw who it was.

  “You scared me, Brash,” he said, putting away his blade.

  “What are you doing here?” Narak demanded.

  “There is news. The streets are awash with gold. Any man may claim it if they kill the king.”

  Narak sheathed his own blade. This was bad news.

  “Alwain?”

  “Aye.”

  “How much is he offering?”

  “A thousand gold guineas.”

  It was a lot, a fortune. But Narak knew that there were relatively few Golt assassins that were not affiliated to noble houses. Telio was one of a small number of freelancers and Narak had killed most of the others. There were perhaps half a dozen left.

  “You know most of your fellow travellers,” Narak said. Telio nodded. “You will tell them that anyone who succeeds in this commission will be dead within three days. Tell them that I swear it. I will tear Avilian apart to find them.”

  “They may ignore the threat,” Telio said. “A thousand guineas breeds a lot of courage.”

  “Nevertheless, you will make the point forcefully.”

  “I will.”

  “And if anyone seems unconvinced you will tell me.”

  Telio hesitated, but nodded. It was hard for him, Narak knew. These others were what had passed for friends. Assassins have no true friends. Narak had spent time among such people an age ago, and he knew their ways. He pulled a ring from his pocket and tossed it to the assassin.

  “You are mine now, Telio. This ring says it. You will be rewarded for honest service, and you will be protected. Now you walk with the Wolf.” It was a gesture as old as the Benetheon itself. Telio smiled. He understood.

  “I will do as you say,” he said. He stood and went over to the window. He shrugged. “I didn’t come by the door,” he said. “So with your permission, Deus…?”

  Narak nodded his assent and the assassin threw a leg over the window sill, paused, and dropped out of sight. There was wine in a jug by the bed, so Narak poured a cup and sat down in the chair.

  It hadn’t always been like this in Golt, but in the last twenty years assassinations had become commonplace. There had even been a couple of full-blown vendettas between houses, dozens killed, one family had been exterminated. Some noble houses were more inclined to kill than others, but even the most reserved of noble houses might be tempted by such a fortune, especially if it came attached to Alwain’s favour. In the absence of the king that would mean elevation and further wealth.

  It was time to do something, and doing something was Narak’s preferred option. Sword in hand and faced with an enemy he was peerless. He was a superb judge of character and a more than competent general, but everything else bred frustration.

  Given his head Narak would simply have sought out Alwain and killed him. That would solve everything. But he had promised Pascha that he would not wade into Avilian’s affairs. Even protecting Degoran was stretching his word almost to breaking point, and he would go no further. He understood her reasons. She was a god mage, and everything would change if she got involved. Her word, for good or evil, would be law. Unlike Narak, who needed an enemy within arm’s reach, Pascha could reach out and devastate whole kingdoms at will. History told them where that led, and the kingdoms had barely recovered from the mage wars of two millennia past.

  He went to the window and looked out over the city. It glowed prosperously beyond the castle walls, a deceptive sea of lights, flags and towers. He had no choice now. He would have to clean house.

  6 The Great Hall of Col Boran

  Pascha had grown bored. Narak was away, playing his games in Avilian, immune to her disapproval, and Callista had taken herself off to Afael to assess the trouble there. Even Sithmaree and Jidian had implied that they would go, but they required time to prepare, to pack, to plan. Callista had simply gone there in the blink of an eye. She was discovering the advantages of being a god-mage.

  The one bright spark in all this abandonment was Rodric Helm. Pascha had taken Callista’s advice and appointed him as her new under-steward for protocol. It was an important position, but somewhat tainted by its previous holder. They still had not found the murderer Mordo Tregaris, and the search had been all but abandoned. Jidian thought he was dead, but Pascha doubted it. Mordo had always been a planner, a clever man.

  Rodric was a man of a different stamp. Narak had approved of him, and that gave Pascha confidence in the boy’s character. He still wore a thick cloak of melancholy from the death of his sister, but now there were moments of brightness and enthusiasm that Pascha trusted were his true character.

  He had become something of a project to distract her from her ennui, and today she had asked him to meet her in the draughty great hall. The vast, empty space had begun to irritate her. She had created it on a whim, and had no real use for it.

  He was already waiting when she came down the steps from her terrace, standing beneath the coloured glass windows looking up, his hands clasped behind his back. She watched him for a moment, but Rodric didn’t move. He seemed quite intent on his examination of the window.

  “Rodric.”

  He turned at once, executed a polite bow. “Eran, you sent for me.”

  “You were admiring the window.”

  Rodric pressed his lips together. It was the smallest movement, but Pascha had come to recognise it as a sign that he disagreed with something she had said.

  “You don’t like it,” she said.

  “I’m sure it is very beautiful,” Rodric said.

  “But?”

  He shrugged. “I am not fond of abstract patterns. I prefer pictures of things, men and women, battles. I suppose I am traditional.”

  Pascha flexed a tiny portion of her power and the window changed, colours swirling until it became a startlingly accurate representation of Rodric, hands clasped behind his back, lips pressed together disapprovingly.

  “Better?”

  He looked up and sucked in a breath. “Gods, no! I see him enough in a mirror.”

  Pascha smiled. But perhaps he had a point. Perhaps there should be images of people here, of deeds done and great sacrifice. After all, they all owed so much to so many. It would be a way of honouring them. A thought occurred to her, and on impulse she gestured again and the window swirled once more, rearranging itself in the image of Rodric’s sister, Laya, as Pascha had last seen her. The image wore a look of determination, clear eyed, bold.

  Rodric gasped.

  “If it offends, I can make it go away,” Pascha said.

  “No. Leave it there. Please. I feared that I would forget her face, the sound of her voice.” He turned to face Pascha. “Can it stay?”

  “For as long as I live,” Pascha replied. The problem of the windows was solved. She would make each of them an image of a candidate who had died in the test. It was a small thing, but it would remind her of the
ir deaths, and keep the pain fresh. She would see them every time she walked through this hall.

  “Thank you, Eran.” Rodric turned again and looked up at his immortalised sister. Laya had not been pretty by the common yardstick, but she was striking in her glass portrait: wild, dark hair, proud eyes, a firm chin. Pascha had liked the girl.

  She turned her back on Rodric. For a moment she had lost control, her guilt and grief at so many young deaths had moistened her eyes, thickened her throat, and it was not right that Rodric should see her like that. She forced her emotion to recede.

  “So. What shall we do with the rest of this cavern?”

  An hour later the great hall was transformed. Pascha had allowed Rodric to change nearly everything but the stone shell itself. Now it was carpeted, a vast fireplace dominated the west wall, opposite the windows. An equally vast fire burned there. To the north a dais had appeared at the foot of the stairs from Pascha’s terrace. Rodric had suggested a throne, but she had demurred on the grounds that she was not a monarch.

  “You could be,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I could rule the world. Why don’t I?”

  Rodric shrugged. “You don’t want to?”

  Pascha raised an eyebrow.

  “Stupid answer,” Rodric conceded. “It’s a burden, isn’t it?” he asked. “If you pick it up you can never put it down.”

  “There is that,” Pascha agreed. “But immortals see things differently from the common folk. Things that matter to them, to you, don’t seem important to us, and the other way around.”

  “They could do a lot worse,” Rodric said.

  “Bad kings, wicked dukes, they come and go. Wait long enough and you’ll get a good one again.”

  Rodric stared at her. “How many kings have you seen?” he asked.

  “Many. Perhaps hundreds over the various kingdoms, but I haven’t counted them, probably couldn’t remember half of their names. You see? Different perspective.”

  “But you would bring peace, stability…”

  “Stagnation. Frustration. It’s the chaos of history that makes men great. Nobody changes the world forever, but mankind creeps forwards in ripples. The last golden age was torn apart by the mage wars, and that is something I strive not to repeat.”

  “Mage wars?”

  “There’s a book in the library that was gifted to Narak by Sarah Henn. Ask the librarian to find it for you. Read it.”

  “I will, Eran.”

  When she watched the boy leave, she remembered words that Narak had spoken to her. He was always complaining that he was never remembered, that nothing seemed to be passed down among men and women so that each time he went forth into the world he had to make his reputation anew. People remembered his name, it was true, but if the deeds of their own heroes grew in the telling with the passage of years, then Narak’s seemed to diminish. Even now, she knew, men would have forgotten Afael, Finchbeak Road, Fal Verdan and all the other battles he had fought. They would recall him as a hero of questionable character, his part in each engagement diminished, but now he was more deadly than he had ever been as a Benetheon god, and he would have to teach them that. He would be reluctant to do so.

  Pascha forgot nothing. She had lied to Rodric. She remembered every king, every duke, every prince. She remembered Narak on the dock in Afael after the battle. He had been painted red with the blood of the men he had slain, hundreds of men. His rage at his friend Remard’s death all burned away. She remembered dukes and princes kneeling at his feet, offering him their crowns. Those men had been in awe of his prowess with a blade, but Narak had refused them.

  She and Narak had lived history, but it seemed unfortunate to Pascha that those who most needed to remember it were the first to forget.

  Light from the opening door brought Pascha back from her reverie. Sithmaree and Jidian stepped through and closed the door behind them.

  Jidian was grinning as he looked about the remodelled great hall.

  “Magnificent!” he said. “I like it. And it’s warm.”

  Sithmaree was less impressed, it seemed. She barely glanced at the fireplace, ignored the new windows. “Will you send us to Afael?” she asked.

  It was a pointed question. Pascha could say no, and then they would have to travel hundreds of miles on horseback. It would take weeks. She didn’t want them to go. It went against her rule of non-interference with the kingdoms. Besides that, the Snake and the Eagle were both vulnerable. Narak and Pascha had gone beyond that. Either of them could walk through the most ferocious battle and be unharmed, but one blood silver dagger could kill either of these, and so many of the Benetheon were already dead.

  “I will,” Pascha said. “But there is a condition.”

  “Name it,” Jidian said. Sithmaree frowned.

  “Simply this. Be careful. You said you wanted to see what was going on, to observe. Do just that. Don’t get involved in the fighting. Don’t take sides.”

  “Of course,” Jidian smiled. Sithmaree continued to frown. The Snake didn’t like being told what to do. She had lived her long life free of governance, free of responsibility, and now she had both.

  “I accept the condition. It’s what we were going to do anyway,” she said.

  “Then where is it that you want to go?”

  “Callista has gone to the city, so we will go to Duke Kenton and see the war from his side,” Sithmaree said. It was a fair comment, and Kenton was a careful man by repute, but Pascha knew that Sithmaree had a weakness for luxury that tended to bias her in favour of those that could provide it. Pascha had been the same when she was younger. That thought made her smile. Younger was a relative term for gods.

  “You must not trust him,” Pascha said. “He will use you if he can.”

  “We’re not children,” Sithmaree protested. But in a way they were. Neither of them had spent the time south of the Gods’ Walk that Pascha had, and neither had Narak’s knack with people. But despite her misgivings she would let them go. She could not, in conscience, stop them.

  “Where do you want to go?” Pascha asked.

  “Kenton’s Fortress at Malderaji,” Sithmaree said. “He is still there, apparently.”

  It was true. Although Kenton’s army had marched towards the city of Afael he had yet to join them. Pascha had checked. Besides, if they arrived in a manner that clearly indicated she had sent them perhaps they would be safer.

  “Very well,” she said. “I will send you to the Duke’s ante-chamber. That should make an impression.”

  Sithmaree smiled at last. The Snake liked to make an entrance, the more flamboyant the better.

  “That will do very well,” she said.

  “Are you ready?”

  Sithmaree was dressed for riding, a far more modest style than her customary attire. But she nodded. “We have bags.” She gestured at the door.

  “Fetch them, then. I will send you now.”

  Jidian went to the door and brought back two bags, one modest, the other quite large. The smaller bag, Pascha was certain, belonged to the man. Sithmaree was fond of clothes. Jidian was as unadorned as a man could get. As long as he had his bow, he was happy.

  “We are ready, Pascha,” he said.

  She placed her right hand over her right eye, blocking out all light and cast her sight out over the plains towards Afael. This was a trick that Pelion had taught her early in her education. It was confusing at first, seeing different things with each eye. It made Pascha feel sea-sick. But otherwise it was simple enough. Her will directed her eye to Malderaji, and she swooped quickly down and entered the fortress. It was surprisingly bleak for a Duke’s residence, but Pascha had visited in this manner before, and quickly came to the Duke’s ante-room. There were a couple of armed men by the Duke’s door, but she could detect no blood silver.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “We are ready,” Sithmaree replied.

  This was the trick. She simply moved the two of them, bags and all, from one eye
to the other, and there they stood, much to the consternation of the soldiers, a few feet from the Duke’s door. Pascha stayed in both places for a brief while, watching the two men spring forwards, then realise who their visitors were. The soldiers bowed.

  “Deus, we are honoured by your visit,” one soldier said. “We will inform the Duke at once.”

  Satisfied that due respect was being shown, Pascha closed her right eye and took her hand away. When she opened it again, she was completely back in the great hall at Col Boran.

  Now they had all left her. Now she was truly alone.

  7 Toranda

  Toranda was not a large town, but it dominated a bleak region of the Avilian north-west, bounded to the north by the Gods’ Walk and to the west by the Berashi border. To the east it faded into rough hill country, sparsely populated by shepherds and their hamlets. Toranda itself was dominated by the Earl’s tower, a round structure of grey stone that aped the castles of the south while lacking much of their defensibility. The main door opened onto Toranda’s main street.

  Colonel Sandaray paused before the doorway. It was open, the double oak doors pinned back against the stone and the two guards watched him examine the structure. There was really nothing to be done. Aside from knocking down half the town, building an outer bailey and digging a moat, the tower would never be more than a symbol.

  “Going in, Colonel?”

  “Summoned,” he told them. Sandaray knew that he was unorthodox. He favoured a casual relationship with his men, never objected to an offered opinion, and often conversed with the lowliest of his soldiers, but they all understood that the rules changed when bows were strung and swords drawn. After that his word was law.

  “We off to war?” the guard asked.

  Sandaray shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  He walked through the gate, down a short tunnel, and into a central circular room bounded by two sets of stairs that climbed up two stories in twin spirals. The architecture of the tower was said to be inspired by Wolfguard, but above ground instead of below. Sandaray had never been to Wolfguard, nor had anyone he knew, so he couldn’t guess at the truth of it.