by Marc Secchia
Their arcane protections did not, however, preclude her tail-sense from awakening again to the presence of so many lives in a relatively small space. Azarinthe controlled a larger volume of territory than Arbor, Whisper understood from her maps, and its sphere of influence included three other cities not much smaller than Arbor itself. Whisper stroked her whiskers fitfully. Was there a Human power of closeness, perhaps a magical power behind the concept of community Humans seemed to love so dearly? A question for a Mage. She was not aware of any similar yearning between Whispers, but she had been very quick to adopt Arbor as her new home.
She searched until her tail ached, but discovered no further revelations about her tail-senses.
Ahead, the paved road, sixteen feet wide, curved innocently toward a tall set of doors carved into a sheer rock face. Beyond that, her quick ears detected the slight clinking of armour and no doubt, weapons and defences primed for the furry spy – better not enter that way. Early evening drew in, and the dazzle of sunstrike upon the crystal face lower down the mighty cliff was as delightful as it was blinding. Could she fly in? Leap, glide and hope for a clever and safe landing? Or – that lip. Her eyes rose. A long length of vine, a running start … doubtless, there would be protection atop. But what creature in their right mind would try to penetrate the Azar defences from above?
A Dragon?
Or, a mad Whisper. Until she was clever enough to know how to avoid magical city defences, the front door was no option at all. She might have an overeager Element Enchanter encase her person in solid rock, or see her ears rearranged upon the wrong side of a decorative hole blasted in her skull.
Inelegant.
So, she climbed.
Midnight found Whisper sneaking along the lip above the city, being careful not to disturb the trip wires and traps above and around her. Due to the location’s exposure to sunstrike, no soldiers patrolled the heights. They were difficult enough to scale as it was; it had taken her six hours to climb this far. The factor she had failed to ascertain was the lack of vines, or any growth at all, up above the city – just a huge, bald cap above the wonderfully craggy crystal cliff face.
Rhyme had visited this city as a young teen and found a fast friend in Prince Xan. Could he now be King?
The night was wind-still. Should the Azarinthine soldiers be watching for Dragons, she would present a ready target. Could she camouflage herself again, and whisper in on the breeze?
She had to try.
Drawing a deep breath, Whisper dropped off the edge. She flared her flexible skin, prompting that now familiar stretching sensation between her outspread arms and legs. Whisper swung and swished toward the lights twinkling below; their gleam slipped charily between the azarite crystals, creating a unique and beautiful prismatic effect. Aesthetic, Whisper approved. Might a King have a room commanding a panoramic view of the canyon, rather than dwelling in one of the homes higher up? Taking her very best guess, she glided toward the twinkling lights, thinking, Be small. Blend. Be one with the night.
No bells clanged. No cymbals clashed, nor did a spray of sharp metal implements rush out to greet her quailing flesh. Only the sounds of deepest night surrounded her flying body, a strange crystalline song produced by cooling surfaces and crystals rubbing slightly against each other in places. Cool air buoyed her short flight as Whisper coasted beneath the downturned dwellings, aiming for a place sensed rather than known, a hint perhaps of Rhyme’s old memories coming to her aid. How was that even possible? Had she read the Princess’ desire?
Another aspect of tail-sense about which her knowledge remained conspicuously silent.
A balcony! Two, three balconies flashed by. Whisper missed the first row completely, sank toward a second, and realised she had misjudged her trajectory badly. She flared, trying to correct, and tumbled down toward a crystal spar – oh no! A magical charge! Making herself tiny, Whisper darted into a space too small for any Human. Crack! Blue light flared behind her speeding body. Crack-crack! Tumbling now, coughing as the stench of her own singed fur carried through with her, Whisper nosedived onto a broad desk stacked high with exactingly placed piles of wafer-thin metal sheets. Her backside fetched up against a crystal decanter of fine blue murzi-wine, and toppled it neatly into the lap of a man studying one of the sheets assiduously.
He gasped. Whisper gasped. Grey eyes regarded the creature sprawled upon his desk over a tapering, aristocratic nose furnished with a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that threatened to topple from their perch at the scholarly man’s flinch of surprise.
“What the …”
“Prince Xanho-das-Azarin?” she guessed.
“King Xan,” he said automatically, and then, with a sharp cry, leaped away. Correction – tried to leap away. Tangling with his very fine chair, he toppled backward and fetched his skull a sharp blow on the polished azarite floor of his chamber.
“Oh no, are you hurt?” asked Whisper.
“Guards,” he groaned. “Guards!”
Whisper scrambled to her paws. “O King Xan, I bring an urgent –”
He yelled, “Back, assassin! I’m armed – guards!”
“You are not armed,” she pointed out. Unless his soft, fancy grey bed-robe hid unseen weapons? “Besides, I mean you no harm.”
“Acid-blasted canyons, how did you penetrate my chambers? Fiend! Begone!”
Rhyme would have swatted her out a window by now, having performed a swift amputation with one of her axes. Xan was not exactly cut of the same cloth, she thought disparagingly. Quivering hands. Spluttering, disjointed protests. Had she been an assassin, she could have killed him sixteen different ways before sundown.
Maybe Whispering was the wrong choice of profession, she mused?
“My Lord King!” The inner door crashed open. Soldiers boiled through, shouting that there had been an alarm triggered and an attacker had been destroyed; the King protested, with quivering finger, that the beast had assaulted his finest vintage and there the barbaric invader stood, in all her brazen glory, upon his very desk!
Five soldiers hurled themselves at the startled Whisper.
How bravely they sacrificed their bodies for their monarch! Whisper regarded them in startled admiration. Perhaps Xan was an inspirational leader in ways she could not, just now, imagine?
They had a fair distance to cover across the room, but the quintet held absolutely nothing back as they charged the desk backed by the striking, untouched blue-grey azarite crystals forming the outer wall of the King’s chamber. Three of the heavily armoured fellows piled atop the fallen monarch, clearly trying to throw the attacker off the aim she had absolutely no intention of even starting to take. Xan, who had just about found his knees, went down with a winded gasp. Incoming! Whisper leaped upward. Blam! Clatter! The King’s work scattered everywhere as the remaining pair of soldiers slammed into the heavy wooden desk, clutching haplessly at the air where she had stood a second before. Their boots immediately began to slip and scrabble on the thin plates, while Whisper landed upon one upturned soldier’s back, stepped off daintily, and decided that a strategic retreat was in order whilst the men busied themselves with thrashing about and kicking one another in the jaw.
Actually, dealing with Humans was highly amusing. Now, how might she break through all the shouting, cursing and general mayhem?
Delight in her mischief-making ambushed Whisper, perhaps exacerbated by her miraculous escape from a fine frazzling and coupled with the fact that she had landed in the King’s very lap … well, almost. Ha! Which furry-pawed buccaneer ruled the canyons, then?
Fishing about inside her small carryall, as the soldiers cried out in horror at what must surely be a kingdom-shaking secret weapon, Whisper whipped out the ring of mistorialite. Two soldiers still held the King down bodily, rendering him unable to escape her perfidious plan. Several others were drawing their swords or threatening various forms of unsociable damage, so she sidestepped an enterprising blow, and then bent and skidded the stone across the floor t
oward the King.
Brightly, she yelled, “Fond greetings from Princess Rhyme of Arbor!”
Fond? Bite your tongue, Whisper!
“Curse you, assassin!” howled a soldier, throwing himself right over the ring and missing by a comical margin. He winded himself with an awkward landing. “Funga – ooh!”
Chortling, she backpedalled for the hangings along one of the inner walls of the King’s chamber. The ring bopped the monarch perfectly on the nose. His eyes crossed, trying to make out what trinket she had apparently attacked him with. Meantime, the floor was a riot of armour and flailing boots as the metal plates continued their insidious work. Whisper had half a second to consider how she had survived defences that had left only the magically petrified bones of people lower down the trail, when three daggers came spinning in her direction. She dodged two but the third nicked her left thigh. Instantly, cool numbness spread from the wound. Poison! A paralytic … she wobbled on the suddenly lame limb and tripped over an ornamental vase. Crash!
Wriggling away over the shards, she rolled beneath an ornamental tapestry depicting a stylised battle between Azarinthine warriors and Dragons, and climbed the back of the heavy material using her fore-talons and one hind paw. Unholy champing draconids, that poison worked fast. Three or four soldiers had just piled against the tapestry, shaking it in their desperate search for the foul would-be assassin, when the King cried, “Hold!”
“But I saw the beast go behind –”
“Your Majesty, you must get to safety –”
“Hold, I said! You – creature – come out where we can see you,” ordered King Xan. “Slowly. Hands outspread. No tricks.”
“No friendly arrows and salutary daggers?” Whisper called back, alarmed to discover how much she was enjoying this exchange. Was she truly such a rascal?
“Out! In the open, you wicked beast, or I shall order my men to skewer you instantly.”
“Alright, I’m coming,” she called. Ha. As if they could manage that much. “I bear a message for you – well, actually for your father, King Xaryiza-das-Azarin – from –”
“Silence!” bellowed the monarch.
In a moment, Whisper perched like a dragonet atop the fifteen-foot height of the tapestry, on its top pole, clearly exasperating the soldiers below. Three of them bellowed at her to come down without delay or face an infeasible variety of nasty and terminal punishments, while another lined up her torso with one of those vicious pipe-crossbow affairs.
Shaking the mistorialite ring in his upraised fist, Xan howled, “By the scraggly beards of my ancestors, where did you get this, you wretched, pintsize thief? What ransom do you demand?”
Cheerfully, Whisper called back, “Only your ears, o King!”
* * * *
In the realms of recent misjudgements, demanding the King’s ears was perhaps her most ridiculous blunder yet – in retrospect, once the commotion subsided and everyone came to understand that she had only burgled the King’s work-chamber in order to deliver a message, and intended nothing more sinister than to whisper into said ears … well!
By the time this troublesome concept was clarified, the precipitate arrival of ten ministers of government, four Senior Mages, two Warlocks, one animal-tamer, three Commanders of various branches of the Azarinthine military and an untold number of aides, messengers, servants and functionaries, had turned the King’s chamber into a Human menagerie. The Mages and Warlocks immediately engaged in a puce-faced, fist-waving shouting match in the corner, blaming each other for the breach of the King’s defences. The Commanders stood stiffly to attention, awaiting orders. The functionaries and servants were trying to clear the mess, which was an undertaking in itself, given as half of Azar’s governance appeared to be scattered all over the priceless azarite floor and King Xan had very exacting ideas about what he wanted placed where, almost none of which were clear to the functionaries.
Whisper decided she might as well make herself at home, since she was the only civilised creature in the room in possession of all her senses and dignity.
She observed the pandemonium with glee. Humans. How juvenile were they?
After a moment, however, Whisper sensed a chill against her mind, and spied a tall, severe-looking young woman standing in the doorway, casting non-verbal daggers about the room at this diverting spectacle. Was she Xan’s sister, or twin?
The woman cried, “Saahu’tak nuun’ka!”
Silence pooled from her words, compelled by the strange twist or inflection she had infused into her speech. Piercing grey eyes lit upon the King. “What is this ridiculous rumpus, brother?”
“Queen Xola, a message from the Princess of Arbor!” cried the clearly overwrought monarch. Exempt from the magic? Perhaps she did not dare cast spells upon her kin. “A message! From Arbor!”
“From Arbor? From the little blue Princess – what was her name?” inquired the woman, frostily.
“Rhyme! The message is from Rhyme,” enthused Xan.
Whisper brightened at his frankly smitten tone. Yes! Rhyme would be delighted – and of course, the repetition game must be played. Humans were so predictable.
“Hence your fatuous expression. You always were such a fool for that crass little axe-wielder. Do try to behave like a King,” suggested his sister, brusquely.
Whisper grinned. Better and better! Rhyme’s hopes had indeed found fertile soil, save for the frosty ambulatory icicle. Could her interference be handled? But her cheer faded the moment the woman’s eyes lit upon her, sitting upon her perch. Her hands rose. Power, even the lamplight of the room itself, seemed to gather itself around that elegant, spare form as if draining into an unsuspected sinkhole.
“Noo-hoor i’t nanhuoki? Tabra’xis!” snapped Xola.
Whisper heard herself reply, over the commanding words, “Na’xutix Whisper-loor yt, magor’ta!”
What? The lights flickered; the strange power seemed to dissipate before it reached the Whisper; the Queen’s throat worked, but no sound would emerge. The woman gestured furiously, turning a grey-purple shade of fury as it became clear to everyone present that she was held bound and helpless by words that not even Whisper understood.
Xan growled, “Release my sister at once – you’re a Whisper?”
The rushing of adrenaline faded. Dancing canyons, she could … oh no! She had no idea how to release the woman. The peril-sense tingled her whiskers. Xan’s sister was no person to be ridiculed, she sensed.
Bowing her head briefly, she said, “At your service, o King. I will alight. Don’t be alarmed. I am – well, I’m not actually unarmed. Here you go.”
She tossed down her daggers; a servant caught them gingerly but deftly, clearly expecting poison on the blades, or some other treachery. Whisper slipped down behind the tapestry. No point in shredding a precious artwork for the sake of a grand entrance. Besides, she suspected she had fomented just about enough trouble for one evening.
Time for diplomacy.
I am diplomatic! Occasionally, she corrected herself.
Intriguing. Several of Mage Shivura’s texts had been rather less than complimentary about a Whisper’s claim to having a personality. She knew exactly what Sanfuri would think – that the sole of his boot was far more valuable and scholarly than the Whisper he had, for all intents and purposes, chosen to wipe it upon. Now, her personality seemed to be sprouting in all sorts of interesting directions. Fascinating.
Emerging from behind the tapestry to the spitting-mad glares of every soldier present, she bowed again, first to King Xan, then to Queen Xola. “My Queen, I don’t know what I’ve done to you – but I apologise. I’d release you if I knew how.”
She gestured again. A sign-language! Whisper watched avidly as brother and sister communicated briefly. The King said, “My sister, one member of our triarchy of rulership in Azarinthe, is an exceptionally powerful Element Enchantress. She would have you deliver your message, Whisper, that she may be released.” Scratching his trim beard, he added excitedly, �
�I’ve never seen Xola silenced before! This is truly amazing, an event in ten thousand … uh, right, sister. Proceed with your message, o Whisper.”
Nobody was less impressed than the Queen. Glancing about as quickly as a dragonet shelling nuts for food, Whisper detected not a few half-smiles quickly concealed. Evidently, the Enchantress was not the most popular figure in Azarinthe.
Well, she did live to serve, after all.
Whisper returned her focus to the King. “As I said, I bear a message from Arbor. Listen closely.”
O gracious and noble King Xaryiza-das-Azarin, it accords me great pleasure to greet you in the name of the Royal House of Arbor. I am the Princess Rhyathala-Shimmira – she almost giggled as Xan sighed a tiny gust of ardour – and since my father was poisoned three months ago and now lies comatose but alive, I must perforce speak for my kingdom. My chosen messenger, who stands before you, is called Whisper, a creature most rare and magical, who recently arrived in our fair city of Arbor bearing news of an unfortunate nature.
“You even speak like Rhyme,” Xan interjected.
“It is my sworn duty,” replied Whisper. The King gestured for her to continue. Drawing a deep breath, she recited:
I ask you to receive Whisper with all honour. She has already suffered much for Arbor. She came to us bearing news of the impending conquest of Arbor by the Warlock Sanfuri, whom you know all too well. Now, the silence deepened into a terrible weight. Even Xola paled, her skin now a grey cast unrelieved by any pink whatsoever. She seemed on the verge of being sick. I will be brief, as you know is the way of Arborites. King Xaryiza, I must beg for your aid. Please, for the sake of our old alliance, I entreat you upon my knees, as it were, to send forth your armies in support of Arbor, lest we perish under the lash of this foul Warlock and his army of Dragons. We fear that alone, we cannot withstand his strength. We shall surely be destroyed.
