by Mark Robson
Femke’s grin widened. ‘The important thing is that we’re going to get in. The buzz from tonight’s show should ensure that there’s little danger of a cancellation tomorrow. I watched from the side. It looked very impressive. Traditional plays will never be the same again.’
Devarusso’s elation visibly deflated. ‘That’s something that really worries me,’ he admitted with a grimace. ‘The sort of effects that Calvyn can produce are so spectacular, one has to wonder how I’ll ever be able to hold an audience with my regular cast again. Everything will pale into insignificance when compared with this. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to join my company, Calvyn? Together we could become very rich, you and I.’
Calvyn smiled. ‘No, Devarusso, I’m afraid not. My duty is to my King. I’ve enjoyed working with you these past few days, but my destiny is not here. I must gain my robes as a magician and return to Thrandor. I’m sorry.’
‘Ah, well, it was to be expected, I suppose. You don’t happen to know anyone else with your skills who might like some work, do you?’ he asked hopefully.
‘The only other sorcerers I’ve met would not be the sort of people you would want to do business with. I shouldn’t worry about any rival companies being able to recreate what we’re doing here. I find it highly unlikely that there are any other sorcerers around who would do something like this.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Femke noticed Lord Kempten lurking in a corner nearby. He had not gone out on stage with the others, as it was deemed an unnecessary risk. One of the regular troupe had taken his place for the final bows. Sliding away from the group, she stepped discreetly across to speak with him.
‘I gather from the applause that all went well,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Yes, my Lord – very well. We have our invitation to the Palace for tomorrow and everyone knows the plan. Serrius wasn’t happy to see Commander Lutalo and his men, but when I explained that they were to be your bodyguard whilst he and the other gladiators led the assault, he calmed down.’
‘Good. So everything is set. Tell me honestly, Femke, do you think the plan will work?’
Femke looked him in the eye and took a deep breath. ‘It will have to, my Lord.’
‘Have to? You don’t sound very sure of something. What’s wrong?’
‘There’s been an unexpected development. I got some bad news from one of my agents this morning. I’ve been wondering how to tell you this all day. There’s no easy way to say it.’
Kempten’s face drained of colour. ‘What is it, Femke? Tell me. Does the Guild know what we plan? Have we got a traitor in our midst?’
‘No, it’s not that. I’m afraid it’s worse. The Guild has taken Lady Kempten hostage, my Lord. I can only assume that she’s being held, as I was, somewhere in the Guild complex.’
‘Oh Shand, no!’ he breathed. ‘I should have listened to you and had her move from the country house. This is exactly the sort of thing I was worried about from the beginning. Have they issued any demands in return for her release?’
Femke nodded.
‘Well? What are they?’
Femke pulled out a small piece of folded parchment from an inside pocket. Without a word she handed it to him. He snatched it and opened it with trembling fingers. His eyes raced back and forth across the page, his lips tightening with each line read. When he reached the end, he closed his eyes, drawing the parchment close to his chest.
‘I realise this places you in a difficult position, my Lord,’ Femke said softly. ‘I did think about concealing this until after we had carried out the raid, but I realised that I could not in all conscience bring myself to do it. We’re your servants in this, my Lord. I’ve spoken with Reynik. He feels, as I do, that we pushed you down the road this far. We’re ready to face the consequences of our actions if you so desire. We couldn’t ask you to choose in our favour.’ Kempten looked down at the parchment again and read it a second time:
Lord Kempten,
We have your wife. If you want to see her alive again, you must:
1 – Renounce your claim to the Imperial Mantle.
2 – Hand over the Imperial spy, Femke.
3 – Hand over the man who faked your assassination.
To trade, first go to the Imperial Palace and renounce your claim to the Mantle. Then take a room at the Silver Chalice. You will be contacted there by one of our people. You have until the third day of Channis.
‘The third day of Channis – that’s tomorrow, but it doesn’t give a time. Does it mean I have until midnight tomorrow? Or sundown? Or until the end of today? The sun has already set. Am I too late? When did you get this, Femke? How long have you known and not told me?’
Although he kept his voice low, there was no mistaking the anger in Lord Kempten’s tone. Femke was not surprised. On the contrary – but she was impressed at how calm he was staying, given the circumstances.
‘The interpretation of the letter is debatable, my Lord. I would read it as until midnight tomorrow, but that may be wishful thinking. I got the message this morning, but there’s no indication of how old it is. My agent got it from one of the better-known tattle touts in town. He claimed he had not had the message for more than a day. They cannot have been holding Lady Kempten long. I took a trip to see Toomas as soon as I got this. Higher priorities had prevented my doing so until now.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He was most talkative once I had a blade to his throat. Assuming he told the truth, he didn’t sell information about you to the Guild until five days ago, so even if Ferdand moved the instant he heard you were still alive, there’s no way he could have got someone to your estate and back more than three days ago. Two is more likely.’
Kempten pursed his lips into a tight line and screwed the parchment into a tight ball. ‘That’s still two days too many,’ he said bitterly. ‘Shand, but I should never have agreed to all this! My one concern from the beginning was my family. Now look what I’ve done.’
‘My Lord Kempten, you’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘My actions have placed Izzie in danger. If she’s been hurt . . . I . . . I don’t know what I’ll do.’
‘What would you have us do, my Lord?’ Femke asked.
‘I don’t know. Give me some time to think. Damn it, Femke! You should have brought this to me as soon as you received it. If Izzie is already dead, I doubt I’ll ever forgive you.’
Femke bowed and turned away. She felt terrible. They were so close to making her plan a reality, yet one word from Lord Kempten and everything she and Reynik had gone through over the past weeks would be rendered a wasted effort. Femke had always known the possibility that her service to the Empire might require her to give up her life. Reynik, as a member of the Legions, was similarly braced for the possibility. It was the manner of that ultimate sacrifice that promised to be galling. To give up her life knowing that they had lost – that the Empire was to fall under the control of the Guild of Assassins – was what hurt most. All she could hope was that Lord Kempten would be brave and bold. In her gut, though, she knew this was unlikely. She knew his heart. He would do anything to save his wife.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The decision had been agonising. As Kempten stepped up to the Palace gates with Femke on one side and Reynik on the other, his sense of guilt peaked once more. Had he made the right choice? Would this be a day that he would forever look back on with remorse and guilt?
Femke sensed his growing tension and glanced across at him. The glamour image that Calvyn had given Kempten this time was almost too good. It was reacting to his emotions. The Lord’s skin looked almost as grey as his hair. There was little Femke could do to help him with his conscience. Everything she could say to help him had been said.
The Palace gates opened wide to admit them and the guards waved them through without question. A small contingent of guards was waiting inside the wall. The soldiers formed up in loose files on either side of them to escort them into the main building. Given
all the recent troubles in Shandrim, it seemed strange to gain such easy access to the Palace, even if the guard force was watching them closely.
They followed the road through the gardens and up to the main Palace entrance, the guards shadowing them silently on either side. The last time Femke had entered through these doors was for Surabar’s coronation. It was amazing to think that only a few short months had passed since that day, yet so much had happened since. Was this to be the end? Femke had never been one for morbid thoughts, but she could not shake the air of impending doom that had settled on her heart. Reynik looked as calm and intent as ever. Was that because he had no fear, or because he was better at hiding it?
They climbed the grand steps up to the main entrance to the Palace and entered through the huge double doors. Inside the doors a steward awaited them.
‘Are you Devarusso?’
‘I am,’ Devarusso responded from the front of the line.
Femke turned to Lord Kempten and whispered softly in his ear, ‘You’ve done the right thing, my Lord. Don’t worry, we won’t let you down.’
Lord Kempten nodded, but he did not try to answer aloud. Femke wished with all her heart that her feelings would match the confidence of her words, but right now she was sick to the core with nerves.
‘Come this way and I’ll show you where His Imperial Majesty would like you to set up your show.’
‘His Imperial Majesty? Has the coronation already taken place, then?’ Devarusso’s question mirrored the thoughts of many in the party.
‘The coronation was a small private ceremony this morning. News of it will be released to the public tomorrow. Your show is to be the highlight of the Emperor’s private celebrations. It was commissioned at the request of his son, Lord Shalidar.’
Devarusso gave an elaborate bow. ‘We’re honoured,’ he said.
Femke looked first at Reynik, and then at Kempten. They met her eyes with the same silent questions evident in their features. Does he know it’s us? Are we walking into the jaws of another of the Dragon’s traps? If he knew, then the game was up. If he didn’t . . . the irony of that thought caused Femke’s lips to twitch in amusement.
‘One way or the other, it’ll be the highlight – no doubt about that,’ Femke heard Kempten mutter softly.
That much was certainly true, Femke reflected. Morose thoughts surfaced. People were going to die today. The only questions remaining were: who, and how many?
Lord Kempten had made a very brave choice by electing to continue with the plan. It had surprised her, but also had filled her with an added sense of accountability. It was her plan. If it went wrong, all fingers would point at her. What if Lady Kempten were to die? What if the assassins proved better fighters than Serrius and his fellow gladiators? The weight of responsibility pressed down hard on her shoulders. There were nineteen in the party, leaving herself aside. In the past she had only ever had to worry about her own skin, and occasionally that of one or two agents. Today was very different.
She looked back and forth along the line. All were heavily laden with ‘costumes’ and props, most of which were totally unnecessary for the play, but served to conceal the very real nature of the weapons and armoured clothing they would use for the assault on the Guild. In all, there were six gladiators, six soldiers and two knife-throwers, plus Reynik, Kempten, Jabal, Calvyn and Devarusso. Feeling responsible for so many people made her wonder for a moment what it must be like to be a military commander, or worse still, Emperor. She did not envy Lord Kempten his future, no matter what the outcome.
Not least of her worries was Reynik’s role. She stepped behind Kempten and up alongside the young soldier.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle Shalidar?’ she asked discreetly.
‘Yes, Femke. For the last time, I’m sure,’ he whispered back. ‘I don’t want anyone else interfering. He’s mine. I have more than one score to settle with him. Don’t worry, I won’t let him get away this time.’
‘Don’t forget that I know how good he is, Reynik. No offence, but he is a master swordsman. Your desire for vengeance won’t neutralise his abilities. I don’t want you doing anything stupid, like letting him kill you.’
He flashed her an amused grin. ‘What’s the matter? Worried I won’t be around to rescue you next time you get into trouble?’
‘Something like that,’ she said, deliberately looking away so as not to meet his eye. ‘Is this just an extreme case of nerves?’ she wondered. ‘Or am I experiencing fore-warnings? Oh, Shand! I hope it’s nerves.’
‘Don’t worry, Femke. I’ll have Calvyn, my father and six highly-trained Legionnaires to help me if I need them. I’ve crossed blades with him before. I’ll be careful. What are you going to do if Jabal can’t find the entrance?’ he said, turning the tables.
‘He appears confident that it won’t be a problem,’ Femke replied. ‘I’ll give him his chance. But don’t worry, if it’s there, then we’ll find it one way or another – and I’m sure it’s there. I take your point, though. Sorry, but old habits are hard to kill. I’ll concentrate on my problems and leave you to handle yours.’
They filed through to the Great Hall. Femke fell silent. She knew better than to whisper in here. The acoustics were such that the echo of a whisper in some parts of the hall would magnify their volume by several factors. It was not a good place for loose talk.
For the majority of the party, this was their first time in the Palace. They looked around in wonder at the immense scale of the architecture. The Great Hall had been designed and built to inspire awe. Its great vaulted ceiling and towering pillars evoked a sense of reverence and majesty not unlike the great temples many cultures built in honour of the gods. The architect had been briefed to build suitably intimidating surroundings in which to host visiting royalty. The hall had achieved that aim for nearly six centuries.
The only people in the party seemingly unaffected by the hall were the six gladiators. If anything they seemed more at home in the hall than they had in the corridors. Femke put that down to their experience in the arena. Standing in that huge, sandy bowl, surrounded on all sides by a high wall and tier after tier of shouting, screaming people would likely be more intimidating than a silent hall, no matter how big. Both structures had been designed to make the person in the centre self-conscious. It was only the context that differed.
‘The Emperor thought you might like to use the dais at the far end of the Great Hall as your stage. I assume it is large enough for your needs,’ the steward said, sounding pleased with his effort at sly humour.
‘I should think it will do. What do you think, chaps?’ Devarusso asked, turning to the rest of them with a twinkle of excited amusement in his eyes.
‘We can slum it for one night, I suppose,’ Reynik quipped. A smattering of chuckles echoed with a disconcerting hollow ring.
‘Is there somewhere that we can use as a dressing room? There are quite a lot of us, so we might need more than one. Ideally we’d also like access to the stage from the side. At our open-air stage we have screens to allow the players to get on and off without the audience seeing their approach. Have you anything we might be able to set up for this purpose?’
The steward scratched at the back of his head as he thought for a moment. ‘I’m sure we’ll have something to suit your purposes,’ he said. ‘This way.’
The party was led forwards to the dais and then over to a side door to the left of the raised platform. Through the door was a corridor running parallel to the side of the Great Hall. An Imperial guard was positioned on the other side of the door. Lover of the theatre or not, Tremarle was clearly not prepared to let the troupe of players have the run of the Palace. Once through the door, the steward turned right along the corridor. He did not take them far. There were two doors on the left. Both were open.
‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and see what we can do about setting up screens. Do you need them on both sides of the dais, or will just the one side do?’
‘Ideally, both,’ Devarusso said without hesitation, ‘but we can manage with one if that’s not possible to arrange in time.’
‘Very well. I’ll see what I can do. These two rooms should suffice for your dressing area. If you need anything further, ask one of the guards. The Imperial party will begin to assemble at the seventh call. You should be ready to begin shortly after that time. Good luck.’
‘Thank you.’ Devarusso turned to the rest of the party. ‘All right, everyone. Bring all the gear in here,’ he said loudly, indicating the left door of the two. ‘Group one should then gather all their things and go next door to prepare. We have about an hour, maybe a little more, so we need to be slick, people.’
The steward, seeing that the company was now in the right place and being chivvied into motion by Devarusso, set off at a brisk walk to find suitable screens with which to form the wings of the stage. Femke took her bundle of costumes into the room and then returned to Devarusso, who was clearly pleased to find his orders followed so swiftly and precisely.
‘You know, it makes a change to see a group react to commands so swiftly,’ he said with a bemused smile. ‘I normally have to talk myself hoarse trying to get the troupe organised in time for a performance. I think perhaps I ought to look out for a few ex-military people who fancy a spell on the stage. They might whip the others into some sense of order. Look, the gladiators are just as efficient. Tell them to do something and they get on with it. I could get used to this.’
Femke patted him affectionately on the shoulder. He was to stay with Lord Kempten, Reynik, Calvyn and the six Legionnaires whilst Femke led Serrius, his fellow gladiators, the knife-men and Jabal in the assault on the Guild.
‘Are you content with your part of the plan?’ she asked the troupe leader.
‘Absolutely. If Calvyn can recreate the atmosphere he did last night, then I guarantee the audience will be spellbound. You’ll not have any problems on that score. What about those guards in the corridor? Are they going to prove a problem?’
