by Tim Stead
The fence was made from the trunks of trees, driven into the ground and tied together with reeds. The gaps between the stripped trunks was no more than six inches, and even cutting away the reeds would not allow anything bigger than a cat to enter. The gates were made in a similar way, but swung on three huge cast iron hinges. The real strength, though, was in the guards who patrolled, who watched every approach, and who watched them now.
There were seven men at the gate. Three stood on the outside, prepared to challenge and inspect any who approached, and two more stood within, ready to open the gate or bar it again should any danger arise. Two further guards stood on low platforms either side of the opening, bows in their hands.
One of the three, a sergeant, stepped forwards as they approached.
“Is this the one, my lord?” he asked.
“Yes, Taf,” Hekman replied. He used the man’s given name, a familiarity that she had not seen among the guard, but the sergeant seemed easy with it. There was trust here, and Hekman had been in Woodside for a couple of days at best. That was impressive.
“Do we need to search her?”
“No. She carries a knife, but that is known, and it is required.”
“Very well, my lord.” The man signalled those behind the gate and it was swung slowly open. They passed through and it was closed again. They walked on.
“Have there been other killings since the fence was built?” Felice asked.
“None, but it has been completed for only a day. If the pattern is followed there will be another death tonight.”
“There is a pattern?”
“Usually there is a pattern. When a man kills many others he learns from each death, and he develops a method. It allows us to predict what they will do to a small extent. We can also learn much about the killer by the way in which he kills, the weapon that is used, the way the body is left. Many things can give us information.”
“So what do you know about this killer?”
“Nothing is certain, of course, but we guess that it is a man, right handed, perhaps a little taller than average. He does not know his victims. He kills in an efficient way, without passion, and walks away as soon as the deed is done. Some killers linger, but not this man. He kills almost like an assassin, for a purpose.”
“He is killing those who would become mages.”
“That was the Mage Lord’s first thought, and with only two dead it still seems most likely. The two had little in common, other than they showed promise.”
A Faer Karan would fit such a picture, especially if one had taken flesh.
Now they approached the first of the buildings, and for the first time she could see clearly what had been built here. There were four outer buildings, each curved so that between them they formed a huge broken circle around the central tower. Each was over a hundred paces in length and two rooms high, the inside, facing the centre, was pierced at regular intervals by doorways, and the whole was a mass of small windows that looked inwards and outwards. Rooms, she guessed, and this would be where the candidates were being kept. She noted a guard at each doorway. Karnack was in one of those rooms.
The space between the outer buildings and the inner was a lattice of gravel pathways that cut across a well kept lawn, decorated here and there with fruit trees. It seemed that every doorway was connected directly to the nearest archway in the central building, and as they approached that, she could see that it was a hollow circle, and the garden that she had glimpsed before was a full eighty paces across, with fountains, seats, flowers, a pool in which slow fish swam. It was akin to a huge version of Jem’s garden in Pek. At any other time she would have wanted to linger here, to enjoy the colours and the sounds, but now she was focussed on what she would say, and how she could avoid betraying the secrets that she had sworn to keep. She wondered if there would be a Shan present. She had never seen one, but if Alder was true and the Shan already knew about the Ekloi, then she had nothing to fear.
There were four great doors that led from the garden into the building itself. Each was guarded, but when Hekman approached one of them the guard simply nodded to him, and they passed through. He was still walking quickly, still in silence, and she walked at his heels, obedient like a dog. It was a wry thought. Hekman ignored a corridor that seemed to circle the building just within the doorway, and they walked down a whitewashed passageway towards the outside of the structure. After a few paced they passed another circular corridor, and glancing down it she could see that there were many doors on one side, towards the outer skin. At the end of the corridor they climbed stairs, a broad sweeping flight that led them to a huge pair of double doors and another circular passage, this time ringing the outside of the building. She could see windows, and glimpses of the outer structures and the fence. They carried on up.
This building was vast. She could get lost within it. It must be hundreds of paces around, and full of doorways.
Eventually they came to a simple, single door. It was painted grey, like many of the other doors, and it was unguarded. Here Hekman stopped and knocked quietly. A voice within bid them enter.
There were two men inside the room, and the Faer Karani, Borbonil. They sat around a table upon which lay the remains of a simple but adequate breakfast. Borbonil stood, as seemed to be his custom, and the two men sat. One of them slouched in his chair with his long legs stretched out under the table. He had close cropped sandy hair with perhaps the slightest hint of grey, and he was tall and thin. The other man was shorter, and more elaborately dressed in green and black. He rested one foot on the table, clad in a highly polished black boot.
All eyes were turned on her when they entered the room.
“My Lord,” Hekman said. “May I present the trader Felice Caledon san Marcos of East Scar.”
The well dressed man put his boot back on the floor and sat upright.
“I am Serhan,” he said. No title, she noted. “This is General Grand, and you’ve met Borbonil I believe.”
She bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
“I am pleased to meet you at last, Felice,” he said. “You have had some considerable excitement since you left Yasu, I understand?”
“I could have done without it,” she replied. She saw the general raise an eyebrow at her choice not to use the honorific, but Serhan smiled and leaned back in his chair again.
“So you think you can help our hunter find his quarry?” He certainly took a straight line to where he wanted to be.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“With a knife? May I see it?”
She drew pathfinder out of her pocket and laid it carefully on the table with the blade pointed towards herself. She had a moment of doubt as she put it down, but she quickly put doubt aside. The Mage Lord would not take her magical blade from her. As she studied him she felt certain that he was fair and honest. She could see that he was confident, sure of himself, and why not? He was the Mage Lord. Those that did not love him for what he had done respected him, even feared him, if they had good cause, for the power that he wielded. What impressed her most was that those around him did not seem afraid. They relaxed in his company. It was a good sign that they did not fear a man with so much power.
He looked closely at the knife before picking it up, tracing the etching on the blade with a finger. It was almost impossible not to do this. The quality of the work insisted that you believe it with your hands as much as your eyes.
“A fine piece. It certainly looks old enough.” He showed the blade to Grand, but Felice saw him look up to Borbonil. The Faer Karani nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“It’s incredible,” the general said, touching the blade himself. “Nobody alive today could do this work.”
Serhan took the knife back and held it between both his hands. He closed his eyes and became very still, and the room became still. It was almost as though the others did not dare breathe, and Felice realised that she was seeing magic, and yet seeing nothing at all. Serhan frowned slightly, as though wi
th concentration, and then he smiled. He spoke, but not to anyone in the room, and so quietly that she could not make out a word. It went on for some time, and nobody dared to interrupt. Just for a moment Felice thought that she could hear a second voice, faint and higher pitched, filling in the gaps between Serhan’s words.
When he stopped it seemed as though everyone drew a breath again. He put the knife back down on the table and pushed it back towards Felice.
“You were talking to her,” Felice said, realising as she spoke that she was speaking out of turn, but it didn’t seem to bother Serhan.
“Yes,” he said.
“Her?” General Grand seemed puzzled.
“Yes, Darius, it’s one of Corderan’s tricks. This piece was made by him. Borbonil recognised it when he first saw it. It was a trick of the old mage to imprison a portion of a person’s essence within an artefact. This was an early attempt, and he has caught almost the entire person – a terrible thing, really. A child, her name was Emina, has been imprisoned within for nearly five hundred years, but it is a most gentle prison.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, she was a sickly child, a mute, born with a weakness that made her unable to walk more than a few steps without great pain. Most of all she wanted to see her world, and she was bought maps, by her parents perhaps. She studied these and imagined the places, and it was her dearest wish to see them. She was brought to Corderan that he might heal her. She was dying by then, but the mage chose instead to grant her wish. He made her into an Aethelan, an invisible, insubstantial, winged creature, and tied her to the knife so that she might fly and see the whole world, for as long as the knife was unbroken. And so she has done for all these years.”
“So how did you speak with her if she is mute?” Felice asked. “I heard her.”
“You heard her?” The Mage Lord seemed surprised.
“I thought so, my lord,” she said, suddenly defensive again. “I heard a noise that sounded like a voice, but it was very faint. It could have been anything.”
Serhan was unconvinced. “You heard,” he said. “I gave her a voice.”
Felice was embarrassed, but she could not say why. The general studied her as though she was some knot that he wished to unpick, his eyes not leaving her face as though he would find something there that would reveal an answer to his unspoken question. Was she a threat? None at all, she wanted to say. How could I be?
“You have other business here, I am told.” Serhan’s words snapped her back to the problem at hand.
“Yes. Yes, My Lord. I have come half way across the world to see justice done. My brother’s killer is here. I have a warrant.” She produced it again. It looked somewhat tattered and browned with use by now, especially in such fine company.
“Hekman?”
“The crime is the murder of trader Todric Caledon of East Scar, which took place in the town of Yasu. The warrant is properly sworn out. The accused is former sergeant, now candidate, Peet Karnack.”
Serhan closed his eyes for a moment. “I remember him. Do you remember him, Darius?”
“I think so. He was the one with the hands, yes?”
She wondered what he meant by that. She had seen nothing remarkable about his hands.
“Yes.” Serhan turned back to Felice. “Once you have assisted Sam we will see about justice for your brother, Felice. Karnack will not be leaving here before then, you may rest assured of that.”
Now there remained the problem of her suspicions. She had volunteered to help Hekman, and knew that Pathfinder could find the killer, but what use would that be if it was a Faer Karani? She would simply be sacrificing herself and Hekman. She did not expect such a powerful creature to simply surrender and allow itself to be led away in chains. She had to be creative, to put together a chain of reasoning that would be credible. She had heard something in street talk, idle words among the gossips of East Scar and Yasu, and again when people had talked about the calling, and she used it now, thinking on her feet.
“My Lord, I fear that the one we seek may not easily be captured.”
“Indeed? I will send enough guards with you to capture any ten men.” The Mage Lord sounded a little indulgent, a shade condescending, and that gave her strength.
“May the killer not be Faer Karan, My Lord?”
“Faer Karan?” The Mage Lord did not laugh. He did not scorn her suggestion, but instead looked into her eyes. He seemed satisfied with what he found there and turned to Borbonil.
“Do you sense anything?” he asked.
“Nothing that would suggest it is the case,” the creature replied.
“But may it not contrive a way to hide from you, sir?” She did not know, but surely he would have sensed Raganesh around White Rock if he could sense one of his kind in such a state.
Borbonil did not answer at once, but looked at her as though her words had paralysed him. Serhan waited patiently for the reply, but General Grand turned in his chair as though troubled by the pause, and stared at the Faer Karani.
“It may,” Borbonil said slowly. “It may indeed, but it is a thing so long out of use on this world that I did not bring it to mind. A Faer Karani may take flesh, and it may be done in many ways. If a living man is taken, then I would not sense it as I would a free kindred.”
“So it is possible,” Serhan said. “But what makes you believe that it might be so?”
“I would not say that it is, my lord, or even that it is especially probable, but the motive would seem to be applicable if the intent is to prevent the creation of many new mages, each with the knowledge to oppose their return, and it is widely spoken that you yourself expect the Faer Karan to return at some point.”
“I do believe that it will happen,” Serhan confirmed, “but I did not think it was so widely discussed. But so soon?” He looked worried.
“There was always a likelihood that some would be in worlds where such a transfer was possible,” Borbonil said. “Given the random nature of their dispersal.”
“I was in a hurry,” Serhan said. He was not particularly defensive, and Felice guessed that this was some sort of standing joke. But the general shook his head, unable to find the humour in the moment.
“If she is right we must move carefully. How can we protect the candidates?”
“It is not a problem, Darius. If a Faer Karani is here I will face it and banish it again. The pity is that I have no more permanent solution. Whoever has done this has killed in cold blood and their life is forfeit, man or whatever.”
He stood, and stepping to the back of the room he picked up a scabbard and belt and fixed them around his waist. The hilt of the sword was plain, a dull and worn grey, a thing made not at all for show. This, she realised with a growing sense of awe, must be the magical sword that he had named Soul Eater, the very weapon that had been used to rid the world of the Faer Karan. This was the weapon now famous in song and story, the blade of Corderan that could cut through steel and stone as easily as it cut through air. Serhan wore it as though it were a plain steel blade.
“Let us go hunting,” he said. “Felice, please make use of your blade and show us the way.” It was almost precipitous, Felice thought. There was no preparation, no planning. The decision was made and the action begun in the same moment. The general seemed a little put out by the swiftness of it.
“Shall I come with you?” he asked.
“No, Darius, by no means. You should carry on as normal. We must try not to alarm our quarry. He knows that he is hunted, no doubt, but not that we can find him. You were going to meet with the guard captains?”
“Yes, you want me to do that?”
The Mage Lord turned to the general and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Your company, old friend, would be much enjoyed, but I fear to risk you if the young woman is correct. I am safe from it, as is Borbonil, and the lady is necessary because of the knife. I would not risk another guardsman, let alone the General of Samara.”
Grand
seemed slightly mollified. He nodded. “I will do as you wish,” he said.
Borbonil had not moved. He was still standing in the corner of the room, and Felice could not read his face at all. The white eyes were disturbing. They made him look blind, though she knew well that he was not. Serhan turned to him and they seemed to regard each other for a moment.
“You do not have to be part of this,” the Mage Lord said.
The Faer Karani tilted his head in a curiously human gesture. “It is very strange,” he said. “I expected to be offended by the idea of hunting my own kin at the behest of a man, and the enforced loyalty of the bond between us apart, I find that I have different loyalties. Many of these young people are from the city of Pek.”
“You are willing, then?”
“More so because you ask, my lord.”
“Then let us be about the business.”
They left the room, and made their way down corridors and stairs until they stood once again in the garden with the fountain and the pond, bathed in bright sunlight. Felice drew forth her blade and placed it carefully on the palm of her hand. She framed the question in her head. Point to the one who has killed two people close by in the last few days. Point now.
The blade spun gently and pointed. It settled in a westerly direction.
“He is in the west block,” Hekman said.
They walked out through the arch, and towards the building. The knife guided them through a doorway, still pointing west. Hekman hurried ahead, and stood at the foot of a stairway, waiting impatiently when Felice caught up with him.
“Is it up or on this level?” he asked.
Felice looked at the knife. It was still pointing west, directly at the wall.
“Neither,” she said. “It still points west.”
