by Mark Robson
Cautiously, with the dagger clutched tightly in her right hand, she swung her feet out of bed and took her first step across the floor towards the door. A distant grumble of thunder brought her to a stop. The flicker had been lightning! Relief spread through her stomach, bringing a flush of warmth and making her feel foolish. There had been an unusually large number of storms this spring. Why should another be any surprise?
She lowered her dagger and chuckled quietly at her melodramatic reaction as she turned back to the bed. The room was dark, but not completely so, and her eyes had long since adapted to the low light. She could see that the covers on the large four-poster were rucked and twisted from her tossing and turning. It would be as well to straighten them before getting back in, she thought. Getting comfortable was proving impossible enough without starting out tangled in a mess of blankets and sheets.
Placing the dagger on the bedside table, Isobel methodically stripped back the blankets and sheets, re-making the bed layer by layer until all the bedding was flat and tightly tucked under the mattress. She sighed and pulled back the corner in preparation to climb in. Again lightning flickered at the window, the blue-white light dancing through the curtains with the seductive allure of fairy-like magic. As a little girl, Isobel had always found the sight of distant lightning against the night sky enchanting. It was a beautiful phenomenon. Despite the late hour she felt little inclination towards sleep, and the chance to recapture something of her childhood innocence was appealing.
Moving to the curtains, she drew them apart. By chance, as the curtains moved, so the thunder rolled. However, the distant rumble was augmented by a sudden flurry of sound that caused Isobel such a fright she leaped back in shock. A pair of pigeons roosting on the deep windowsill had startled into flight, disturbed by the sudden movement of the curtains behind them. Once again she found her heart pounding and her face flushing, as she experienced feelings of foolishness for being so on edge.
‘For Shand’s sake!’ she muttered. ‘What is wrong with you tonight, Izzie?’
It took a few moments for her nerves to settle, but when they did she moved forwards and looked out from the window at the dark, silhouetted countryside. The treetops were unmoving in the breathless stillness. Lady Isobel opened the window to better appreciate the beauty of the crisp, calm night air. The distant flash drew her eyes instantly as lightning once again forked down from the heavens. The jagged fingers of incandescent energy were beautiful. At this distance it was hard to imagine that something so pretty could wreak damage and destruction. It seemed almost like a momentary glowing spider web, connecting heaven and earth.
A movement down on the lawn by the pond drew her eye. It was hard to see much after the brightness of the lightning. Her night vision had gone, but there was definitely something out there moving stealthily through the cover of darkness. She narrowed her eyes, trying her utmost to see through the after-image of the forked web of light. Then she caught a glimpse of it again – a dark shape, creeping silently towards the house. What was it? It was hard to get any sort of perspective of size in this light.
The roll of thunder this time lasted a little longer than the previous ones, though it was no louder. As it died away a barn owl flew from the roof of the manor house down across the lawn towards the willow tree by the pond. Isobel watched its ghostly passage, and was most pleased that she did not start when it let out its high-pitched hunting screech. Another flash of lightning lit the sky, casting shadows and momentarily exposing the nightly hunters to their prey. The shape on the lawn was recognisable in an instant. It was a fox, doubtless looking to see if it could break into the chicken coop. It was unlikely to succeed. The coop and shed were sturdy structures and the servants maintained them well.
Isobel drew in a deep breath, enjoying the evening air. As she did so, a hand suddenly clamped across her mouth and nose from behind, pulling her away from the window. She felt the prick of a dagger at her throat and instinctively tried to scream. It was useless. Her assailant’s hand was clamped too firmly for anything but a muffled squeak to escape.
‘Silence!’ whispered a voice in her ear. ‘If you cry out, or try to attract attention in any way, I’ll cut your throat. Understand?’
For a moment she thought about trying to get free. The dagger on the bedside table gave her brief hope. If she could just break his grip and get her weapon, she might stand a chance. After a few seconds, she realised the futility of her thinking. The man holding her was strong. His body felt hard against her back. He had made no sound as he approached her. Given the circumstances it was quite likely that he was a trained assassin, or at the least a professional spy. The point of the dagger under her chin pressed slightly harder.
‘Understand?’ he repeated.
She gave the slightest of nods, careful not to press any harder against the dagger for fear of it breaking her skin.
‘Good. Now I’m going to take my hand from your mouth and you’re going to answer my questions. Just look straight ahead at the window. So long as you do as I say, you won’t be hurt.’ He gradually loosened his hand from her mouth and nose, replacing it over her forehead to better tilt back her head and expose her throat. ‘Where is Lord Kempten?’ he asked. The man’s voice was hard as granite, with a rough texture to match.
‘He knows,’ she thought frantically. ‘What can I tell him that will satisfy him?’
‘He’s dead and buried. What more do you want from him?’ she answered with a sniff.
‘Don’t try to be clever, my Lady. I know the assassination was a fake. Kempten’s alive. Where is he?’
Isobel paused for a moment. There was nothing she could do. Given that the man already knew her husband was alive, any information she gave about his whereabouts would do little damage.
‘He’s gone to Shandrim, to claim what is rightfully his.’
‘So he’s going to take the Mantle then?’
‘Of course! What else could he do? Surabar made him his heir. The Mantle of an Emperor is not something to be thrown aside lightly.’
The man fell silent. She could feel him breathing as the seconds dragged from one to the next, but the pressure of the knifepoint at her throat did not waver.
‘Whereabouts in Shandrim is he staying?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. He didn’t tell me that.’
‘And do you know what he intends for the Guild?’
‘The Guild? Which Guild?’
‘Don’t play the fool, my Lady. It doesn’t become you. You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
Isobel’s thoughts raced. ‘Whatever I say now will land me in trouble. What do I say? What do I say?’ When in doubt, a lie was more likely to be obvious. She decided that the safest course was still the truth.
‘That very much depends,’ she answered carefully.
‘Don’t tease me, my Lady. I don’t take well to that. Come on – spit it out. It depends on what?’
Isobel paused for effect.
‘It depends on whether he can find a sure-fire way of destroying the Guild once and for all.’
The man grunted. To her relief, he appeared to accept her answer. The pressure of the knifepoint eased a fraction. Once again the silence grew and her mind played through the possibilities of what would happen next. ‘If he’s a Guild member, the man’s unlikely to kill me. Without a contract it’s against the man’s creed to kill . . . unless someone has taken out a contract. But who? Who would want me dead? What if he isn’t a member of the Guild, but one of their hired hands? Would he still be bound by the creed?’
‘Very well, my Lady. Thank you for your cooperation. Now, much as I’d like to leave you here and pursue your husband, I’m afraid I have specific orders that I’m bound to comply with.’
‘He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die,’ she thought frantically.
‘Please, don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be. I’m going to lead you out of the house. Make a noise, or try to attract attention in an
y way, and I’ll kill you without hesitation. If you do draw the attention of others, you’ll be killing them as surely as if you ran them through with a sword. There’s no one in this house capable of stopping me, so unless you’d like me to stain your lovely carpets with copious amounts of blood, I suggest you concentrate on doing exactly as I say. Now, I’m going to guide you forwards. Walk as silently as you can. Let’s go.’
‘Well, I’d never have believed it unless I’d seen it with my own two eyes! Shand, but that’s the dog’s danglies! And you can provide a backdrop like this to every scene?’
Devarusso was sitting on the audience steps about a third of the way up the tiered seating and looking on as Jabal created the illusion that converted the stage into a forest. The troupe leader’s jaw had dropped in amazement as the transformation occurred. He got to his feet, his eyes still wide. Huge trees had sprung from nowhere, and anyone not knowing that it was a stage would swear blind that the forest went on for as far as the eye could see between the enormous tree trunks.
Was that birdsong he could hear? And the other background woodland noises . . . this was beyond anything he had imagined possible.
‘To be honest, I’d rather not have to unless it’s totally necessary,’ Jabal answered. ‘It takes a lot of energy and I’ll need to have considerable reserves if I’m to face the Guild’s master stone after the show.’
‘I could do it, Master,’ Calvyn offered, his quiet voice sounding confident. ‘I know you don’t approve of sorcery as an alternative to magic, but in this instance it makes sense to play to the strengths of the available disciplines. I was trained by some of the most powerful sorcerers in Shandar. To create something like this would be simple. May I demonstrate?’
Jabal frowned, and his acolyte wondered for a moment if he had misread his master. Calvyn would not have suggested such a demonstration to any other Grand Magician. To do so would have been to invite a string of unpleasant penances. No magician liked to admit there were things that the other arcane disciplines made easier, but Jabal was more of a liberal than most. After a considerable pause, Jabal nodded his permission.
‘Please, take a seat, Master. This will only take a moment,’ Calvyn said. ‘Before I begin, I feel I should explain what I’m doing, Devarusso. What you’ve just seen was a magically-created illusion. A magician draws energy from the elements around him and harnesses that energy through the binding power of the runic language. In this way he can disrupt the natural order of things. What you’ll see next is not quite the same, though I’d be surprised if you could see the difference. Sorcery works very differently from magic. It relies on the strength of the sorcerer’s mind. The clarity with which he can picture images and the strength with which he can project them into the minds of others is the critical factor to being a powerful practitioner.’
True to his word, within moments he had recreated the forest scene in every detail. He walked across the stage amongst the huge trees and turned to face his master and Devarusso.
‘There is another advantage to my producing the illusions,’ he said without so much as a hint of superiority in his tone. ‘I can add texture and substance to them. Look.’ Devarusso and Jabal both found their eyes widening with amazement as Calvyn leaned up against one of the trees. ‘I discovered during my time with Vallaine that my magical training gave my illusions something that none of the other sorcerers appeared able to create – a sense of reality that was a step on from the visual. To do this takes a little more concentration, but is not really any more draining than producing a ghost image. I didn’t let on to the other sorcerers that I could do this, as it would likely have been viewed with as much horror by them, as my use of sorcery was by the masters in the Magicians’ Academy.’
Jabal was speechless, but Devarusso was quick to jump in with a question.
‘So you can take any backdrop I describe to you and convert the stage into something approaching the reality?’ he asked excitedly.
‘Actually it’s better than that, Calvyn replied. ‘You only have to picture the scene you require and I can take that scene from your mind and recreate it exactly as you picture it. Go ahead. Think of a setting.’
Calvyn reached into Devarusso’s mind with his own and smiled as he saw the scene the actor was picturing. The actor was clearly attempting to picture something impossible to recreate on stage. The image was the deck of a ship in the midst of a storm. Men were staggering across the heaving deck as waves crashed over the railing, sending plumes of water into the air and washing knee-deep across the decking.
An instant later and the stage was the deck. Beyond the deck all the two viewers could see was the raging sea. Sailors ran, slid and climbed, fighting with the rigging as they struggled to control the ship amid the monstrous waves. Shouted orders could barely be heard above the howl of the wind. Two barrels broke loose from their stowage point and were swept on a wave towards the rail. One of the barrels crashed through the railing, taking a sailor over the side with it.
Through the drama, Calvyn stood in the centre of the heaving deck, unmoving amidst the chaos and seemingly unaffected by the pitching movement of the ship around him.
‘Wait a minute!’ Devarusso exclaimed. ‘You can create characters as well?’
‘Of course,’ Calvyn replied.
Devarusso began to laugh. To begin with it was a chuckle, but the chuckle developed quickly into a full-blown belly laugh. Calvyn dissolved the illusion and exchanged puzzled glances with Jabal. His master shrugged.
‘You . . . can . . . create . . . characters . . . ha, ha, ha!’ Devarusso was beyond communication for some time. He sat holding his sides, doubled up to the point that his head was almost on his lap and his dark curtain of wavy hair prevented any sight of his face. When he sat up and brushed his hair back with his fingers there were tears still rolling down his cheeks. He shook his head, lost in mirth and repeated the same words over and over again whilst waggling a finger in Calvyn’s direction. When he finally recovered enough composure to speak, the two magicians were keen to share in what was so funny about the revelation.
‘Don’t you see?’ Devarusso asked. ‘If you can create characters, then there’s no need for lengthy rehearsals. All I have to do is to sit and read the manuscript. Calvyn can take the images from my mind as I picture them from the script and produce them on stage. One or two practices will probably do it. All our “actors” will have to do is practise their curtain call bow, and Calvyn could probably recreate that, too, if he wanted to. No one will ever realise that they were never on stage at all. Shand’s teeth, Calvyn! You could put me out of business overnight if you had a mind to, or make me rich in very quick time if you joined me. Why would anyone ever want to watch live actors again when they could view something as spectacular as this?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Jabal replied. ‘There’s a certain charm about watching live theatre. I shouldn’t worry too much. I don’t think you’ll find many sorcerers wanting to take away your trade.’
‘I’m glad to hear it!’ Devarusso said with feeling. ‘Now, come on. We might as well go and give Femke and Kempten the good news. Femke’s plan to spill the final fight scene off the stage and out into the corridors of the Palace was a good one, but fraught with many dangers. If the Imperial guards were quick and well organised, they might cut off the attack party before they ever reached the cellars. Also, because by its very nature, the plan would have scattered the party out through multiple doors, there was always the chance that individuals might not have managed to rejoin the main strike force.’
Jabal and Calvyn still looked on, bemused by Devarusso’s extravagant enthusiasm.
‘Don’t you see?’ the troupe leader continued. ‘Femke’s original plan has just become obsolete. If we utilise Calvyn’s ability to the full, then Femke can lead her team on a secret strike from the dressing rooms, whilst the vast majority of the Palace is distracted by the play.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘There are others
who think as I do, Brother Dragon,’ Fox purred. ‘The Guildmaster is no longer fit to lead us. We must act now if the Guild is to survive. Kempten lives. If we’re to keep our identity in Shandar, then he cannot be allowed to gain the Mantle. The Guildmaster would have us blackmail him into renouncing his position. Since when has the Guild resorted to such base tactics? Kempten should be removed from the picture cleanly and permanently. That’s what we’re here for. That’s what we do.’
Shalidar’s satisfied smile beneath the shadow of his deep hood was almost a reflection of the toothy grin of the dragon image woven into the tapestry on the opposite wall. Fox was doing his dirty work for him, without so much as the subtlest of prompting. It was almost too good to be true.
He shifted his weight in his chair and extended his right leg fully before crossing it over his left. The wound in his thigh bothered him more if he did not stretch the muscles regularly. Fox lounged suggestively in the only other chair in his living chamber. A split in the lower part of her robes fell open, revealing the flesh of her leg to just above the knee. Shalidar pointedly turned his focus away. He knew Fox’s reputation. No matter how attractive she might be under those robes, Shalidar knew better than to be tempted. Fox had the heart of a cold-blooded killer. Despite his instinct for survival and talent at dealing death to others, he was under no illusion. To share more than a platonic relationship with such a woman would be to invite trouble.
‘So what do you suggest, Brother Fox? Are we to kill the Guildmaster as well? That’s a drastic measure. We’re already down on numbers. He’s a most accomplished assassin. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating him because of his age. His reactions might not be what they were, but he’s no fool.’
