by Tom Lloyd
Cetarn’s head snapped up. ‘If you think I’m going to let him get away with-‘
‘You fat lying oaf,’ squeaked Endine furiously, pounding his fist on the table.
‘I said enough! the king barked, cutting both men off. ‘We have more important things to do than dwell on past squabbles. I asked you to discover what magic has been used in this house; have you discovered anything?’
The pair eyed each other warily until, with a shrug, Cetarn stepped away from the table.
‘If there was magic done here, it was not recent enough to detect. Considering the time period you mentioned, and the subtlety I would expect from the spell, that is hardly surprising.’
‘But what we can tell you,’ Endine joined in, ‘is that there is a great deal of magic in this city; enough that my ears were fair ringing before we’d even got over the wall. Scree has no College of Magic, so either there just happens to be a lot of mages conducting research here, or something else is going on. There are a number of quite distinct flavours in the air.’
‘Can you tell them apart, identify their nature?’
‘Certainly, given time,’ Endine said with a nod. ‘Tonight we will prepare this place and make it secure. I shall give Tremal a list of our needs and the Brotherhood can secure them tomorrow for us.’ Endine gave a nervy grin; he was a compulsive thief himself, and he was much attached to Harlo Tremal, a man who could steal almost anything. ‘Then half a day of rituals will ward this house in the normal way, and another half’day will suffice to consult our daemon-guides and begin the process of unravelling the weaves in this city.’
‘Good. You should know before you start that process that Doranei here spent the evening with Zhia Vukotic.’
Endine blanched.
‘I do not believe she poses a threat to us,’ the king continued, ‘but I hope I don’t have to remind you that all vampires tend to be touchy, and Zhia possesses a Crystal Skull. Steer clear of her.’
‘Yes, your Majesty,’ Cetarn replied, nudging Endine, who, looking like he was about to be sick, nodded. Suddenly, Cetarn looked thoughtful. ‘That would explain some things. Are you likely to see her again?’
Doranei felt a prickle run down his neck as they all turned to him with expectant expressions. ‘I-ah, well, perhaps I could.’
‘Excellent. Try to find out how much she is using it.’
‘How do you propose I do that?’ Doranei asked, aghast.
‘I don’t care how.’ Cetarn’s plump lips widened in a smile. ‘However you can - my point is that the sheer scale of magic being used in the city could be largely explained by her use of the Skull, though I would be disappointed by her inelegance.’ He paused, lost in his thoughts, and frowned at the floor. ‘But the situation may have demanded it, I suppose.’
‘And you should know, your Majesty,’ Endine continued as his colleague trailed off into silence, ‘that there is a necromancer in the city.’
Emin glanced at Doranei. ‘Could that be Zhia?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Endine, as Doranei said ‘no’. The King’s Man hadn’t intended to speak and felt a flush of embarrassment as soon as the word escaped his lips. Emin gave him an inscrutable look that lasted longer than Doranei would have liked, but eventually decided not to comment.
‘I would expect an immortal vampire to be more than proficient in necromancy. That is logical. Whether she would bother with it is less certain - the discipline may be beneath a mage of her skill.’ Endine’s tone was one of professional admiration. It reminded Doranei of how the king had spoken of his first meeting with Zhia on the streets of Narkang. ‘I would not expect her to lower her skills to that level often, and the activity we have felt is on a much larger scale, done by someone with great skill and strength, who does not fear detection.
‘Of course,’ Endine continued with a preening expression, ‘we would not expect much of Scree’s mages, or those left within the White Circle. I doubt they are as accomplished as Cetarn or I, so it might just be that the necromancer has a healthy contempt for the city’s mages.’
‘Let us hope so,’ said Emin. ‘Well, Doranei, it looks like we will have to find you something more suitable to wear to the theatre next time. Gentlemen, finding this necromancer is your first priority. I suspect there will be few coincidences over the coming weeks, perhaps even this damned heat is part of it all. Azaer’s games are complicated, usually obscure, but never lacking in purpose. That there is a powerful necromancer in the city will be part of that game; I want him or her found. The more of this puzzle we uncover, the better our chances of stopping whatever Azaer intends for Scree. I suspect this will be the shadow’s boldest venture yet and I intend to spoil it.’
CHAPTER 17
The evening lay thick and heavy on the city’s streets. Twilight had brought only a slight respite from the fierce warmth and the cobbles radiated heat like cooling hearthstones. Without even a desultory breeze drifting past, Mayel sat slumped against the brick wall of the tavern and swigged warm ale that did little to allay his thirst. Beside him, Shandek was scrutinising every passer-by, occasionally running a hand through his long greasy hair as though he could brush the heat away.
Brohm was not with them. Shandek had sent the large man off with Shyn, one of his other thugs, on some errand that Mayel was not party to. Mayel hadn’t pressed the issue: Shandek was keeping that to himself to make the point that Mayel wasn’t yet in his inner circle, and wouldn’t be until Shandek saw some of the profit he’d been promised. You played it carefully with Shandek, whether he was your blood or not. He could see Shandek’s patience thinning.
Scree had settled into a piecemeal kind of existence now that summer had a firm grip on the city. The sun’s reign had forced the inhabitants into a twilight lifestyle. They attempted to sleep at night and through the hottest part of the day, leaving dawn and dusk for business. The air was syrupy, draining, sticky on the skin, and Mayel found it an effort even to raise his cup. The last few weeks had seen a cycle of terrific thunderstorms hammering the city, each clearing away only to begin building for another onslaught. The next was now well overdue.
Mayel was finding it an exhausting existence. The strange half-days were wearing at everyone. The stall owners ringing the theatre no longer called in constant banter to each other, instead staring disconsolately out at the near-empty streets. The previous day one had taken a filleting knife to her neighbour, for no reason that Mayel could discover. The only sound now was the rustle of a poorly affixed poster that proclaimed the name of the theatre’s previous play. Though the billing had changed today to a comedy called The King’s Mule, one poster for the dour tragedy A Lament of Feathers still remained.
‘What I don’t understand,’ Mayel croaked, ‘is how those damn flowers stay alive.’
‘Flow’rs?’ said Shandek, his voice slurred by torpor as much as alcohol. His head lolled as he fixed Mayel with a glassy look, for all the world like some ghastly animated corpse.
Mayel raised a finger and waved it indistinctly at the theatre. The surrounding walls were covered in long hanging bunches of henbane, its dark-toothed leaves glistened malevolently in the light of the torches that dotted the wall. Within a few days of the henbane being hung, buds had appeared and soon developed into bell-shaped yellow flowers. Despite the heat and the lack of either water or soil, the plants were thriving. During the day they were smothered in a constant hum of bees.
‘Those stinking great things. The crops in the fields are withering, so how do those stay alive?’
‘What do you know about flow’rs?’
‘Not much,’ Mayel admitted.
‘Shut up then. Look, the acrobats are comin’ out.’ Shandek pointed to the theatre gates as they opened for six figures dressed in bright clothes. Three were the albinos Shandek and Mayel had already encountered, still barefoot, but now wearing coats covered in long strips of coloured cloth. Two of the others were men; one was slim and wiry, with diamond-patterned tattoos covering his arms
and a bloody teardrop on his face, a mockery of a Harlequin’s costume (though he was dressed in black, which no Harlequin would ever wear). The other was a sallow-faced individual who looked more a beggar than an actor, his hair was matted and filthy, his features drawn, his skin unhealthy, as though he had been sleeping rough for months now. That one was certainly no acrobat, but in his hands was a long wooden flute that provided a tune for the tumbling.
The sixth in their group was one of the reasons Mayel and Shandek were there. The woman with long rusty-red hair was a good few inches taller than her male companions, and the centre of the little troupe. Each step was sinuous and elegant; she was too graceful to be humanly natural, Mayel thought. When the woman danced, her hands and feet were so quick he could hardly follow the steps, but it was her precision and deftness that made his breath catch.
‘Our friend is back,’ Shandek commented with a nod towards the theatre. On the second-storey roof of the theatre, almost hidden against the thick blanket of cloud, Mayel could just make out a figure. A cigar end glowed bright for a moment.
‘Is it the same one?’
‘Aye, I’d put money on it. Ilumene, he called hisself, won’t forget him in a hurry. I’ve seen bully-boys of all sizes on these streets, and that’s not one I’d mess with.’ Shandek gestured up to the roof and grimaced. ‘Even if he didn’t have a crossbow on him.’
‘Why do you think he’s there?’
‘They’re expectin’ trouble,’ Shandek said. ‘You’ve only to walk down the street to see how tight-strung people are. I don’t know what’s goin’ on here, but there’s somethin’ in the air and it’s more than just a storm.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you been to temple recently?’
‘Hardly,’ Mayel scoffed. ‘It’s enough that the abbot makes me perform the devotionals every time I’m at the house without wasting more of the day at the temples.’
‘If you did, you’d notice you’re not alone in thinkin’ that. This time of year Belarannar’s temple should be near-full, not ‘most empty.’ He went to pour himself another drink and found the jug empty. He squinted hopefully into its open mouth before slumping back against the wall with a sigh.
‘These last few weeks have been strange,’ he continued. ‘I’ve heard nothin’ from Spider, though I know his boys have been busy, what with fights breakin’ out all over the city and the city guard and Siala’s troops circlin’ each other. They don’t even bother with madmen preachin’ doom and destruction. I’ve had word the Devoted are sniffin’ past our borders in the east and it won’t be long before the Farlan make theirselves known.’
‘What do you think’s going to happen?’ Mayel asked anxiously.
Shandek belched, eyes fixed on the female dancer who was beginning to weave her hypnotic dance as the rat-like beggar played a slow, mournful tune.
‘I think the Farlan have left it too late; heard this Mistress Ostia has got the mercenaries too well-drilled to break at first sight of the Ghosts ridin’ up. Doubt they’ll find it easy to take the city. We all know the Farlan have no stomach for a long war.’ He tried to spit on the floor, but his mouth was too dry and all he managed was a sticky gobbet that flopped out onto his chin.
Mayel’s snort of laughter was quickly cut off by a sharp cuff to his head. He rubbed the sore patch and frowned at his cousin, but changed the subject. ‘So what’s this new play they’ve announced then?’
‘Called The King’s Mule,’ Shandek muttered, his voice thick with drink. ‘It’s rumoured they’re goin’ to execute a real criminal in the final act - that’s why all these people are here.’ He gestured around and Mayel gave a start as he realised they were surrounded by a crowd, all chatting and whispering fervently.
So much for death being entertainment for the mob, Mayel thought, with a bitter smile. The rich seem to have just as much of a taste for it. ‘They’re all here,’ he whispered, ‘noblemen, mages - even priests.’ He pointed at a man in the unmistakable white-streaked robes of Vasle, God of Rivers, who was haranguing three women, two of them in the robes of the White Circle. ‘They’ve all come to see; maybe we’ll find a buyer tonight.’
‘That priest hasn’t come to enjoy death. Vasle’s a gentle God; he’s here to object, I’ll wager. And he’s a brave one; that’s Mistress Ostia he’s tearin’ strips off.’
Mayel peered through the crowd of people. ‘How can you tell? Her face is covered by a shawl.’
‘See the one next to her, wear in’ a sword with her dress?’
‘I’ve seen a dozen different women from the Circle wear swords like that,’ Mayel objected, still unable to make out the faces.
‘Aye, but you catch that one’s face, you won’t forget her in a hurry. You’ll be dreamin’ about kissin’ her for a month!’ Shandek grinned. ‘They say she don’t like men much, but I don’t believe that. Reckon I could put a smile on those sour lips.’
‘What about that Ostia then? Folk say she’s a mage, and getting ready to depose Siala. How about her for a buyer?’
Shandek nodded thoughtfully. ‘Ostia could be the one; I’ve heard that too, but for the moment it’s Siala givin’ all the orders. First I’ll watch’em a bit. You need to find out what your abbot’s playin’ around with now - no more waitin’. Tellin’ me you think it’s some ancient magical artefact ain’t enough - can’t negotiate if we don’t know what we’ve got to sell!’
‘It’s difficult,’ Mayel insisted. ‘If he gets suspicious, he’ll leave, and take his chances somewhere else.’
‘You’re runnin’ out of time, cousin,’ Shandek growled. ‘Be bolder, like our friend the priest there.’
Mayel turned back to see the priest becoming increasingly animated, shaking his fist at the women, his voice loud enough to make the whole street stop and stare.
‘If that’s being bold, I think I’ll pass on it,’ he said. ‘The man’s going to get himself thrown into a cell if he carries on that way. If he touches any of them, he’ll be in trouble-Oh, there he goes!’
A mutter ran through the crowd as a scuffle broke out. Two guards had stepped in, one receiving a flailing elbow in the face for his troubles. The other grabbed the priest by the scruff of the neck, not even seeing the fist of a young nobleman as it arced towards his face. After that, there were only thrashing limbs and angry shouts for half a minute before the rasp of steel being unsheathed stopped everything dead.
‘These nobles,’ Shandek said under his breath and he began to lever himself upright. ‘None of the bastards ‘ave a sense of humour. Time for another jug.’
Zhia stared down at the figure on the floor in distaste. The priest was a large man, but Legana had laid him out with one crisp punch. He was spread-eagled on his back, legs splayed out, one hand groggily reaching for his bruised cheek. Legana stood over him, sword drawn and leveled, holding off the men who had joined in the brawl.
‘My dear, my respect for you just continues to grow,’ Zhia said out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes fixed on Mistress Siala as the ruler of Scree stormed over. The woman was flanked by rusty-skinned Fysthrall soldiers. In the flickering light their glistening armour shone weirdly, as though crude lamp-oil had been spilt on it. Zhia sighed inwardly. No doubt Siala would see it a slight that the priest had chosen Zhia to voice his complaints to. Siala was beginning to realise that Zhia rivaled her for power in the city, and she was taking every opportunity for confrontation. That the vampire gracefully backed down every time seemed only to goad her further.
‘Mistress Ostia, what is the meaning of this disturbance?’ The ruler of Scree looked drawn and weary. The constant politicking amongst Scree’s nobles was clearly taking its toll. Zhia knew Siala was working night and day to maintain her support in the city and keep the opposition from uniting behind anyone else.
‘A complaining priest, Mistress Siala, nothing of great consequence,’ she said soothingly.
‘And his complaint?’
‘The granting of permission t
o execute criminals on stage.’ She kept her tone conciliatory, her eyes low.
‘And what do you propose to do about it?’
Zhia shrugged. ‘He was raving, and you yourself gave the minstrel permission. I have decided to assume he had been drinking, though that cannot excuse laying a hand upon a Sister of the Circle. I’m sure we can find a nice quiet cell for his temper to cool off.’
Siala gave a brusque nod. ‘See to it. I doubt he’ll try it again. Legana, whilst I commend your swift action, do remember that as a Sister of the Circle you should try to conduct yourself with a little more grace. We keep dogs for a reason.’ She waved a dismissive hand at the guards beside her and Legana bowed in acknowledgement, sheathing her sword.
And now, Legana, you will accompany me to the play. I’ve hardly seen you since Mistress Ostia took you under her wing, and I think it is time we caught up.’
She caught Zhia’s eye and the vampire gave a miniscule nod. It was to be expected that Siala would interrogate Legana, so her story was ready prepared. With the briefest of bows to her companions, Legana followed as instructed.
As soon as Siala had moved on, Zhia beckoned Haipar over. ‘Have him put in a cell, give him a day or so alone to calm down.’
‘Yes, Mistress,’ Haipar said with mock solemnity. Zhia guessed Haipar was resenting being forced into respectable clothes to visit the theatre. Once the two battered guardsmen had hoisted the priest up and taken him away, the onlookers, realising this stage of the entertainment was over, began to drift inside. Zhia felt the pull herself, some force gently urging her in.
She stopped and turned to Haipar to see whether the Deneli had noticed the same, but Haipar seemed oblivious. She couldn’t be sure the broad-faced woman from the Waste was even registering that people were walking past her. Haipar stared towards the gate, lost in thought, her face blank and empty.
