by Mark Robson
It took some time, but she gradually filled in the gaps in her memory. Eventually Femke organised her thoughts into a chronological chain of events that led up to the last moment she remembered before waking here. Then the realisation dawned on her – someone had clubbed her out cold.
She tried to move again. Her limbs would not respond. Panic gripped her gut with icy fingers. Was she paralysed? Had she lost the use of her arms and legs? With grim determination she forced her eyes back into focus and discovered one of the sources of her discomfort. Her wrists were tied to the arms of the chair in which she was sitting. It was fair to assume that her ankles were similarly tied. Whoever had tied the bonds had not shown much concern for her circulation. Her hands and feet felt swollen with trapped blood. It was no wonder they were throbbing with pain.
Dizziness and a wave of nausea swept over her. The room began to spin and tumble. Femke knew she was sitting motionless in a chair, but reality and perception had become detached. It took every ounce of her will to re-establish her sense of balance and avoid ejecting the contents of her stomach. The effort left her breathless, but she succeeded.
‘She’s coming around. Go and tell the Guildmaster,’ she heard a voice say.
Quiet footsteps set off at a quick pace out of view. The voice was that of a woman, low and sultry. Her reference to the Guildmaster confirmed Femke’s worst fear – she was back in the Guild headquarters. The woman was behind her and to her right. Had she been there all along? It seemed likely. But who was she? The voice had a lilt to it that sounded vaguely familiar. Maybe hearing a little more of the woman’s speech would spark her memory.
‘Hello? Who are you?’ Femke asked. ‘Why have you brought me here?’
‘Come now, Femke. You know perfectly well why you’ve been brought here. You cannot meddle in the affairs of the Guild without consequence. As for who I am – that is something I’m forbidden to reveal even to a condemned prisoner.’
The voice was tantalising. It was both familiar, and yet not so. When the woman had first spoken, Femke had felt positive that the speaker was someone she had met before. Now she was not so sure. Maybe the voice reminded her of someone – but whom? As she tried to sift through memories her head pounded all the more. It was no use. The pain was too intense for her to retain any sort of coherence in her thinking. A name would come to her in time – if she had time enough. Formulating a plan of escape was far more important right now.
‘What’s the matter, Femke? Feeling fragile, are we?’
The woman’s voice almost purred with pleasure, her taunting barbed with poisonous sarcasm. Femke had heard enough to brand the voice into her mind so she felt no need to respond to provocation. ‘With luck,’ she thought, ‘I’ll get the last laugh here.’ The thought fired her with a feeling of positive energy that spread through her body. Gradually the pounding in her head reduced, and by wriggling her fingers and toes, she found that the pressure in her hands and feet eased.
The sound of approaching footsteps sharpened her focus further.
‘Thank you, Brother Fox, you may leave us.’
It was Ferdand, but which role would he play this time? Ferdand the mentor? Ferdand the master spy? Ferdand the Guildmaster? Or would he accept himself for what he was: Ferdand the traitor.
‘Very well, Guildmaster,’ the woman purred. ‘Call me if you have need. I’ll not go far.’
Femke’s mouth felt suddenly dry as a mixture of fear and fury caused her tongue to stick to the roof of her mouth. Anger gave her limbs renewed strength. She strained silently against her bonds with every ounce of force she could muster. Her efforts did not go without notice.
‘Don’t be foolish, Femke. I taught you better than that. In situations like these you need to apply your brain rather than brawn.’
‘Is that what you did when you sold your soul to the Guild?’ she spat in reply.
Lord Ferdand walked around until he was standing in front of her. Drawing his hood back he regarded her face to face. His expression held a degree of resignation and hurt at Femke’s accusation.
‘My reasons for joining the Guild are not important today,’ he said, keeping his voice flat and emotionless. Then he lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper. ‘Right now I have a bigger problem than explaining my history to you. Answer me this – how on earth am I to extricate you from this mess without having to order your execution?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Reynik passed the reins of his horse to the stable boy and stomped across the courtyard. His face mirrored the shade of the clouds that raced across the sky above. Rain sheeted down around him in torrents, but his anger had carried him beyond caring. That his path, arrow straight, took him through deep puddles of water went without notice.
‘Where’s Femke?’ Lord Kempten asked anxiously. ‘I thought you were planning to come back together.’ He was waiting in the doorway, his silver-grey eyebrows drawn together with concern and his eyes betraying his confusion.
‘Captured,’ Reynik spat, his eyes flashing with barely-contained fury. ‘The whole trip was a disaster from start to finish.’
From the moment he had been forced to accept that Femke was not going to meet him at their pre-determined rendezvous point, his temper had deteriorated into the foulest mood he could remember. It seemed everything had conspired against him. His placid, accepting nature had finally reached a limit and something inside him had snapped. His temper was now beyond the point of reason. He was almost enjoying being angry. It felt good to have a focus for his outburst.
Lord Kempten was not impressed. The look he gave Reynik left him in no doubt that he would not tolerate such behaviour.
‘Failure is no excuse for an ill manner, young man. Now, let’s have that again in a civil fashion, with a few more details, please.’
Reynik sighed heavily and tipped his face up skyward for a moment, closing his eyes. The rain pounded his face, washing across his cheeks and down his neck. Lord Kempten’s rebuke struck deep. The discipline of his childhood began to reassert reason and control. Suddenly the rain felt good again. It hid his tears and saved him the embarrassment of exposing his weakness. His anger drained away with the raindrops.
‘Apologies, my Lord, but I bring bad news,’ he said, his tone heavy with weariness. ‘It appears the enemy has captured Femke. Please, my Lord, forgive my temper. It has not been a good few days. Before I elaborate, though, I would prefer it if we could retire to your study.’
‘Apology accepted, Reynik. Please, don’t stand on the doorstep any longer. Come in. You’ll need to dry out and warm up after your long ride. It would be remiss of me to have you fall ill through my lack of hospitality.’ He led the way into the back hall and took Reynik’s dripping cloak from him.
‘Thank you, my Lord. The journey from Shandrim was miserable. Dry clothes and some food will doubtless improve my temper.’
‘Do you have any dry clothes in your pack?’ Kempten asked. ‘If not I’m sure we’ll be able to find you something warm and dry to wear.’
‘I’m not sure, my Lord. It would not surprise me to find my pack full of water. The rain has not stopped since I left the city.’
‘Then we’ll make that the first priority.’
Lord Kempten called for a servant and issued him with a list of instructions. Reynik was shown to the room in which he had stayed during his previous short stay. On opening his pack he found everything to be wet, or at best, damp. The servant attending him was quick to bring suitable replacement garments.
As soon as he had changed, Reynik went to the drawing room where he and Femke had last met with the Kemptens. Lord and Lady Kempten were already there. On entering, Reynik felt a strange sense that he had lived through this scene before. Perhaps it was because the Kemptens were sitting in exactly the same places as they had done on his previous visit. It was hard to say. Lady Kempten was busy stirring a large pot of freshly-brewed dahl. She looked up and smiled as Reynik entered. Lord Kempten got up and closed the
door behind Reynik, locking it in an effort to prevent interruptions.
It was Lady Kempten who spoke first.
‘Welcome, Reynik. Hot food should arrive shortly. The cook is busy preparing something quick as we’re between meals. My husband told me the essence of your bad news. Please do tell us more. I understand the situation is bleak.’
‘A good summation, my Lady,’ he replied, taking a seat. ‘Femke’s capture by the Guild has severely weakened our position.’ He felt the black mood threatening again, but he clamped down on his emotions. Now that he was dry and had calmed down, he felt thoroughly rotten about his earlier behaviour. He silently vowed not to add Lady Kempten to his list of social blunders.
‘Reynik, please fill us in on the details of your trip,’ Lord Kempten urged. ‘With Femke taken, is all lost?’
‘No, my Lord, I don’t believe it is.’
Reynik gave a brief run down of his experiences in Shandrim. In particular he recounted Cougar’s words as close to verbatim as he could remember. His throat felt tight as he told how he had gone to the rendezvous point in the hope that Cougar had been lying, but how his hopes had been dashed when Femke had not appeared. He had not wanted to return without her, but her last instructions were very specific. He spoke of his temptation to try a rescue mission, and his anticipation that the Guild would be expecting him. He found it hard to justify why he had not followed through with his plan to retrieve her.
‘It was not the danger, you understand,’ he explained. ‘If I’d failed, you would have been left with nothing, my Lord: no information and no operatives. I could not in all conscience risk that outcome. However, I don’t think we should give up on her yet.’ His voice was passionate as he set out his reasoning. ‘The Guildmaster clearly wanted to question her. Ferdand wouldn’t kill her if he felt she had valuable information to give. Femke was his protégé. I’m hoping that this history with her will make him reluctant to kill her out of hand. It should buy us extra time. Also, Femke would not release information quickly. It stands to reason that she could remain alive for some time.’
Lord Kempten shook his head. ‘Don’t get your hopes up too high, Reynik,’ he said. ‘If the Guild of Assassins wants information from Femke, then she’ll have little choice but to give it. They will break her quickly, or kill her. I doubt they’ll linger over her interrogation.’
Reynik looked to Lady Kempten for support, but her face was grave. He would get no help from her, he realised. Reynik was not ready to back down yet, though. Femke was too special to be cast aside so easily. ‘Then we should aim to rescue her sooner, rather than later, my Lord,’ he insisted.
‘I don’t think a rescue attempt would be a good idea, Reynik,’ Lord Kempten replied. ‘If Femke is to escape the Guild, then she’ll have to do it on her own.’
‘But that’s impossible! As far as we know, there’s no way out unless you have an icon.’ Without thinking, Reynik’s hand reached into the top of his borrowed tunic and touched the silver wolf spider hidden there. As soon as he realised what he was doing, he pulled his hand away as if burned. ‘Please my Lord, I beg you – don’t abandon her. Femke has demonstrated unswerving loyalty to the Empire in the face of numerous dangers. She has always put duty first. Will you now just abandon her because the situation looks dire?’
‘Do you think I have no feelings, Reynik?’ Kempten replied fiercely. ‘Femke saved my life once. I’ll never forget what she did for me that day. I owe her a great debt, but my duty is to the Empire first. Femke more than anyone would understand this. If I gamble everything she’s worked for in a high-risk effort to save her, do you think she’ll thank me? Of course she won’t! Don’t make the mistake of thinking me heartless, Reynik. When it comes to protecting those I care about, I take my obligations very seriously. However, I must also temper my personal decisions with my position as Emperor Designate.’
With the suddenness of a volcanic explosion, white-hot fury erupted inside Reynik. The rage made his earlier temper feel insignificant by comparison. He shot to his feet as if catapulted.
‘Does that mean you’re going to step forward and take the Mantle, my Lord?’ he growled, his eyes flashing with the heat of his anger. ‘Femke told me you had doubts – something to do with putting the safety of your family before your duty as Emperor. Is this how it’s going to be? A rule for one and a different rule for the other? If I’m out of order here, then fine – throw me out. But if you’re going to spend your time as Emperor displaying such hypocrisy, then I can promise you now that you won’t enjoy much support from your subjects.’
The look on Lord Kempten’s face at the outburst lent justification to his vehemence. His words had struck a nerve.
Reynik knew he would feel remorse later, but right now he did not care. What was there left to lose? All he had ever wanted was to become a Legionnaire and climb the ranks like his father. He had worked hard and achieved the first part of his dream, but for what? At the Emperor’s bidding he had stained his soul with blood and made an enemy of the Guild of Assassins. He could no longer return to his Legion for fear of the Guild tracking him down. Assassins had also taken the lives of his uncle and his father. Femke was his one remaining love. He was not about to stand by and let the enemy take her without a fight.
‘Now listen here, Reynik! Don’t you—’ Lord Kempten began.
A knock at the door coincided with a plea from Lady Kempten. ‘Gentlemen, please!’ Her voice was firm, cutting off her husband’s angry retort. ‘That’s quite enough. We all need time to calm down and think things over. Nothing productive is likely to come of a discussion where passions are so fiercely defended. Let’s save judgement on what should be done until we’ve slept on it. Reynik’s food is here. He needs to eat. The poor man looks famished. Let’s not forget that we’re all on the same side here.’
‘But—’ Lord Kempten began.
‘Not another word on the subject. Think on it, gentlemen.’ She opened the door and a servant entered with a tray of steaming food. ‘Thinking time will benefit us all. The dawn will bring a fresh perspective and new ideas.’
Lord Borchman looked out at the gathered noblemen of the Imperial Court and considered his chances of success. Under his cool, collected exterior, his nerves jangled. For the gamblers, he suspected he would attract pretty good odds. He was not the front-runner – Marnillus had enjoyed a small margin for some time, but he knew he would pull more of the vote than several of the other candidates. The test would come when the less likely candidates fell away. To whom would the free voters then migrate? Would they see through the bluster of Marnillus?
He and the other six candidates for the Mantle were standing in a line at the front of the courtroom for all to see. Each had spoken in turn, giving a simple statement of their intent to become the next Emperor. Two late entrants into the running had complicated the dynamics of the race.
The surprise entrant, and the one giving him most cause for worry, was Lord Tremarle. Aside from Marnillus, Tremarle was likely to become his main opponent. Those in the Court looking for a traditionalist Emperor would likely be split between them, as their views were broadly similar. Given that Marnillus was the front-runner, Borchman would not be surprised if the braggart met with an unfortunate accident in the imminent future. He had no intention of employing assassins, but had little doubt that others would be doing so. If Marnillus were to fall, then it was not hard to see who would emerge from the chasing pack.
Had Tremarle not entered the race, Borchman would have expected the gruff old Lord to vote for him. Why had he entered? He had never shown any open interest in becoming the next Emperor before Surabar’s death. There was something different about him since the Emperor’s assassination. He seemed more alive than he had for some time. By chance, Borchman had noticed the look in the old man’s eyes as Surabar’s body was laid to rest. It had bordered on triumph – hardly a fitting emotion in the midst of the public mourning and the pomp and ceremony of such a solemn occasion. It had
almost seemed as if, until that moment, Tremarle had expected Surabar to be faking the whole scene, and at any instant he might appear at the head of a column of troops to complete some incredibly clever military ruse. Well, Borchman knew without doubt that this could not happen. As was traditional, the body had been arranged for all to see and carried with all due respect to its place of rest. He had seen it up close. It was definitely Surabar, and he was most certainly dead. However, a hunch told him there was more to Tremarle’s entry into the race for the Mantle than met the eye.
If Borchman had been surprised to see triumph in Tremarle’s eyes at Surabar’s funeral, the opposite was true of seeing it in the eyes of Marnillus when they had read the contents of Surabar’s will to the Court. That a legal successor was named had been a bit of a surprise; that Surabar had not got around to changing his will after Kempten’s recent demise was not. With the way open to take the Mantle, Marnillus looked to push his advantage by asking for an immediate commencement to the selection process. There had been protests, but Marnillus had managed to quash them. Each candidate in turn would now have the chance to speak to the Court in an effort to win votes to their cause.
Selecting an Emperor had never been a quick process in Shandar. History had shown time and again that it had taken days, and sometimes weeks, for a clear winner to emerge. Now began the dangerous time. It would not be long before the killing began. The question was not whether there would be assassinations, but who would be the first to die?
‘You expect me to believe you?’ Femke asked, bitterness flowing from every syllable. ‘After all the lies you fed me! Do you really expect me to believe anything you say, ever again?’
Femke was not touched by the hurt in Ferdand’s eyes. He had always been a good actor. For all she knew, this was just one more little scene in his grand play.
