“If it were only that simple,” Ryshad growled. “We need proof, Temar, something absolute, undeniable to tie a Name to all this. Something to lead us to the man who got away would be a start.”
“We have his fellow in the gatehouse,” cried Temar. “He can answer to the Sieur in the morning all well and good, but can we not at least get him to talk tonight?”
Ryshad looked at him for a long moment. “What do you suggest? Beating him? The Sieur will have Naer’s hide if he presents a prisoner with the shit kicked out of him. We don’t do that, not in this House.”
“Avila’s not the only one who can work Artifice,” Temar said, exasperated. “You know that. I could work the binding you were all treating so lightly before your courts for one thing. Then we will know if the man speaks the truth or lies to us.”
The unguarded distaste flickering across Ryshad’s face set Temar’s smouldering anger ablaze. “You’re going to have to come to terms with Artifice, Ryshad! Why not now? You cannot always just reject it out of hand because you were caught up in enchantment with me. Forget all this Toremal mistrust of mages—this is me, Ryshad, not Planir, not Casuel.” He burned with sudden determination to prove to Ryshad that some good could be wrought with Artifice. “Even with the few incantations I know, I may just learn something from this scum, his name at very least. That could be enough to find some trail before the scent goes entirely cold. What would that be worth?”
He bit off his words abruptly but wouldn’t drop his gaze. Ryshad looked away first. “All right, let’s see what you can do.”
Temar was taut with nervousness by the time they reached the gatehouse, neck stiff and tension pounding in his head. He realised he was rubbing his hands over and over each other and thrust them through the belt of his borrowed jerkin.
“Naer.” Ryshad nodded as they went into the watch room opening off the wide arch of the gate. “The Esquire wants to see the prisoner.”
Naer rubbed a thoughtful hand over his heavily shaded chin. “Don’t leave any marks on his face.” He tossed Ryshad a heavy ring of keys.
“This way.” Ryshad opened a far door on to an age-darkened stone spiral. Temar followed him down steps chipped and worn at the edges. “Watch your feet,” the chosen man advised him.
The stair opened on to a room divided with rough wooden partitions between the barrel vaults held up by thick pillars. A single lamp hung by the entrance, striking dull light from the chains holding the captured thief.
“Fair Festival to you,” said Ryshad pleasantly. “This shouldn’t hurt, not too much anyway.”
The man stiffened, chains chinking, defiance in his eyes. His lips narrowed, chin jutting forward as he braced himself.
Ryshad smiled again and folded his arms with slow deliberation. “Esquire?”
Temar did his best to equal Ryshad’s air of amiable threat. “Aer tes saltir, sa forl agraine.”
The prisoner’s confusion was plain to see. “What’s he say?”
“Never you mind,” said Ryshad with a satisfaction that only mystified the man further.
“His name is Drosel,” said Temar, trying to blend an offhand tone with an air of utter confidence.
“You don’t know me,” the thief said before he could stop himself. “You don’t know that. Who told you? Who gave me up?”
“No one gave you up, pal. Esquire D’Alsennin here, he can pick things like that right out of your thoughts. You’ve heard about the Esquire, I suppose,” Ryshad enquired casually. “He’s from Kellarin, you’ve heard of that? Nemith the Last’s lost colony, all the people sleeping away the generations under enchantment? Of course you have. Well, you’re going to learn a bit more than most people about ancient enchantments, pal. The Esquire here’s going to go looking for answers between your ears.”
Temar froze and hoped the shock didn’t show on his face. He couldn’t do that. Surely Ryshad wasn’t expecting him to work Artifice that complicated? He cleared his throat.
Ryshad raised a hand. “I know you want to, Esquire, but the Sieur’s a just man. We’ll give this filth one last chance to save his sanity before you turn his head inside out. You see, the problem is he can pick your wits apart but he can’t put all the pieces back together again.” He bent close to the rough bars and stared at the man, face grim with utter sincerity. “Believe me, you want to cooperate. You don’t want him inside your head, digging through every wretched memory you treasure. I saw this done to a girl once. She said she’d rather half a barracks had raped her and slit her ears and nose for good measure.”
Temar tasted blood inside his mouth as he bit his lip realising for the first time the depth of Ryshad’s antipathy towards Artifice. The chosen man turned away from the prisoner, the lamplight harsh on his drawn face, mercilessly highlighting unfeigned fear and pain in his eyes. Then Ryshad winked, taking Temar utterly by surprise.
“So Drosel, we’ll give you one last chance. The Esquire here will work a lesser enchantment, one that tells us if you’re telling the truth. I’ll ask a few questions, and if you tell us what we need to know we won’t have to put a leash and muzzle on you when we take you before the Sieur tomorrow.”
Noise turned Temar’s head and he saw Naer and a few of the sworn men on the stairs, peering round the stone curve with reluctant curiosity.
“Esquire?” Ryshad invited with a gesture towards the thief, who was edging back as far as his fetters allowed.
Temar cupped his face in his cold hands, eyes shut to concentrate all the better on the arcane words. He’d worked Artifice as complex as this once before and that was enough. He’d seen this done before his grandsire’s seat. His own father had been accustomed to administer truth bindings for the House, after all. If Avila said she could do it, Temar most assuredly could. It had to work, or Ryshad would never trust him again.
“Raeponin prae petir tal aradare. Monaerel als rebrique na dis apprimen vaertennan als tal. Nai thrinadir, vertannnan prae rarad. Nai menadis, tal gerae askat. Tal adamasir Raeponin na Poldrion.”
He spoke the words with slow determination, every fibre of his being concentrating on the cowering thief. Ryshad took a bare instant to realise Temar had no more to say and slammed a hand into the wooden partition.
“Right, Drosel, who put you up to this? Don’t lie to me, the Esquire will know if you do. Nothing to say? Sorry, if you play dumb, he’ll just rip your mind apart and we’ll get our answers that way.”
There was a strangled noise on the stairs and someone hurried away. Temar kept all his attention on the thief. The man opened his mouth, coughed and pawed at his throat with manacled hands.
“See?” Ryshad said coldly. “You can’t lie to us, can you?” He stared down at the man, face unyielding. “And now you’ve tried, I’ll tell you something else. Unless you tell us some truth, just a little one, you won’t ever be able to speak again.”
The thief’s jaw dropped and he looked at Ryshad with utter horror.
“Tell us,” Ryshad roared. “Who sent you?”
“Master Knife, that’s all he said,” the thief blurted out in panic. “At the Valiant Flag, the tavern on the Habbitrot. He sent us just for that one box, just for whatever was in it.” He hid his head in his arms, hunched over his knees.
Ryshad turned and raised questioning brows.
“That will suffice for the present,” Temar managed an even disdain in his tone. “We can always come back.”
The thief huddled into a tight ball of misery and terror. Ryshad jerked his head towards the stairs. Temar went ahead and found himself the focus of wary gazes from all sides of the watch room. Ryshad closed the door tight behind him and tossed the keys back to Naer. “See, we didn’t even have to unchain him.”
“What in the name of all that’s holy did you do?” Naer asked.
“Have you really scrambled his wits?” whispered a white-faced sworn man.
“You didn’t really believe all that, Verd?” Ryshad was incredulous. “I’d have thought Naer would
have taught you better than that.”
“Watch your mouth, Rysh,” said Naer with a fair approximation of a laugh.
“Verd, that pile of shit had few enough brains to begin with,” Ryshad said reassuringly. “Throw enough of a scare into his sort and any sense he’s got left goes dribbling out of his arse.”
“Sounded cursed convincing to me,” the sworn muttered.
“Of course it did,” Ryshad agreed. “I’ve got a brother who argues before the Imperial courts, and another who’s a stonemason—you should hear him convincing some poor sailor to build a house three times bigger than the one he had planned.” That got a laugh all around the room.
“How did he know his name though?” a sworn man by the door hissed.
Temar spoke up at the same moment. “Does anyone know this tavern, the Valiant Flag? What about this man who calls himself Knife?”
Someone laughed, abruptly silenced by a glare from Ryshad. “Master Knife’s a character in half the tales the puppetry men put on,” he explained. “You’ll find three down every alley at Festival.”
“But we can turn the Valiant Flag over and shake it till something falls out,” said Naer with relish. “Verd, drum up the sworn and put the fear of the lash into the recognised. They’ll be on watch for the rest of the night.”
“I’ll need my sword,” Ryshad told him.
“When do we leave?” Temar felt growing excitement.
“You’re not coming!” Naer told him. “I’m not taking you down to the cloth yards, the Sieur would have my hide. Nor you, Rysh. All the proven are out being entertained, Stoll’s down at the sword school even supposing he’s still upright. You’re senior man on the watch tonight, my friend, and that means you get the gate.”
“Naer!” Ryshad protested.
“He got in on my Watch, Rysh.” Naer’s face turned ugly. “I’ll go and slap his pal in chains, not you. You lot, get yourself in hand!”
Temar watched Naer round up his troops, driving them through the gate with a mixture of harsh curses and warm encouragement.
“I’m too tired for this,” Ryshad said absently. He sighed. “So we get the gate, well, I do. Go to bed, Temar; one of us might as well get some sleep.”
“I’ll wait with you,” Temar insisted. “I must tell Avila what’s occurred as soon as she returns.”
“And I can tell Messire and Camarl,” said Ryshad without enthusiasm. He pulled up a stool by the watch room fire as a handful of eager young men in livery appeared. “You, go and get the makings for some tisanes from the kitchens, will you? Plenty of white amella. And do any of you know your way around the North Bay well enough to take a letter?”
Temar watched as Ryshad rummaged in the sergeant’s desk for paper and ink. “I’ll have that pen after you,” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Preface to the Chronicle of D’Olbriot,
Under the Seal of Sieur Glythen, Winter Solstice
in the 13th Year of Decabral the Virtuous
The Convocation of Princes was a fraught affair this year, and even allowing for the defences of wax and honour I wonder quite what I should record within these leaves. But I have my own duty to discharge, to leave an accurate record for those that take up the guardianship of our House after me. Raeponin be my witness and let the truth shame any hostile eyes that read this.
The proximate cause of the uproar among the Princes was an intemperate declaration sent to the Adjurist from the city of Col in the erstwhile province of Einar Sai Emmin. It has long been a treasured hope among the sons of Decabral that Col might be the first lost outpost reclaimed from the ashes of the Chaos and thus a foundation on which to build a new Empire among those ragged lordlings of the west. I would say any such expectation is now irretrievably dashed by the hostility provoked by Decabral“s highhanded actions over this last year. This parchment over the seal of the Elected firstly confirms that the leading citizens of Col have revived their bygone forms of governance, and secondly vigorously refutes our Emperor’s assertion that any such rule based on Old Imperial practice must acknowledge his suzerainty. The snub implicit in addressing this document to the Adjurist Den Perinal was unmistakable and served only to rouse Decabral”s ire still further.
The Sieurs Tor Kanselin and Den Sauzet roundly rebuked the Emperor’s behaviour in making such a declaration, particularly given all the Convocation’s advice to the contrary last winter. Den Perinal agreed, saying hasty actions in times of uncertainty seldom prosper, making reference in the same breath to the confusion among the Princes after the unexpected death of the Emperor’s late brother the Nervous. I dared hope such an attack might provoke Decabral into some folly but he restrained himself, choosing to argue in angry defence that securing Col is crucial to restraining the aspirations of the self-declared Dukes of Lescar and resurgent ambition in the Caladhrian Parliament. The Sieur Tor Arrial agreed that Tormalin strength in arms to east and west might well give both provinces pause for thought. This prompted widespread astonishment before Tor Arrial turned his speech to scathing condemnation of Decabral’s fantasies. He speculated whether such nonsense was the result of overindulgence in strong liquors, aromatic smokes or apothecaries’ nostrums, to wide amusement.
I had thought Tor Arrial might call for a formal censure but he sees as well as the rest of us that those Sieurs he has so hastily ennobled over the past ten years still slavishly support Decabral. Since these lapdogs know full well their place by the fireside depends solely on their master throwing them his half-gnawed bones, they will certainly defend him. We had thought Den Ferrand and D’Estabel were wavering over the summer but the Emperor bought their loyalty afresh with grants of monopoly rights to tax salt and lead production.
My sole consolation is that such typically shortsighted behaviour has only served to alienate the differing factions within Tor Decabral still further. The Empress’s supposedly temporary departure for the Solland estates is now widely seen as a permanent move and her house there is taking on the air of a court in exile. Now that her eldest son is of age, he is of increasing interest to those scions of the Name who have been content to suffer Decabral the Virtuous’s tactlessness for the sake of keeping the Imperial throne within the family. The Emperor’s elder brother, Messire Manaire, has held himself aloof, and his own estates in Moretayne have long been a sanctuary for those hostile to the present regime. He was present in Toremal for Festival for the first time in some handful of years and made no secret of the extensive Solstice gifts he had sent his sister by marriage. Messire Manaire is past the age where he could reasonably expect elevation to Imperial honours, but his own sons would be well placed to succeed any son of the Empress who could succeed his father in short order. More significantly his trusted advisors have been hinting Manaire has finally forgiven his sister Maitresse Balene for her oppositon to his own ambitions on the death of their father, the Patient. Her marriage into Den Leoril could prove highly significant as her covey of daughers is now so widely married into so many influential families.
While many of us would prefer to see a complete change of dynasty, we might settle for a change of Imperial incumbent, since that would at least enable those newly ennobled Houses so dependent on Tor Decabral patronage to cover their treachery with a modest veil of continued loyalty to the Name. The year that opens with the dawn so rapidly approaching promises to be an interesting one.
The D’Olbriot Residence Gatehouse,
Summer Solstice Festival, Fourth Day, Morning
Shapeless horrors crushed me, faceless and formless, weaving a nightmare of inexorable, suffocating foulness out of my inarticulate terror.
“Chosen Tathel?” The soft but insistent knock at the door was repeated. “Ryshad?”
I woke with a start, and for one choking moment it seemed the torment had come too, breaking out of my dreams to smother me. Then I realised someone had come in during the night and drawn the bed curtains closed around me, doubtless meaning to be kind. My heart slowed from its che
st-bursting race.
“Yes?” I wished a silent pox on the uninvited curtain puller and for whoever was waking me up.
“There’s a note.” The door muffled the voice.
Ripping back the curtains, I went to untie the latchstring. One of Stolley’s newer lads held out a neatly sealed letter addressed in sloping Lescari script. He hovered hopefully, waiting for me to open the subtly fragrant folds.
“That’ll be all, thanks.” I took the note with a grin and shut the door on his disappointed face. Leaning against it, I closed my eyes. Just at that moment, all I really wanted was one morning when I could sleep myself out, when I didn’t have to get up for anything, not fire, flood or Poldrion’s demons raising havoc round the residence.
Snapping the wax seal, I read the few terse lines from Charoleia. She’d be taking the air on the old ramparts between the second and third chimes of the day, would she? I’d better get up there. I threw the window open, welcoming fresh air in to drive out the last remnants of nightmare and made myself presentable, hampered by a hand stiffened to near immobility. Unstrapping it showed me puffy knuckles dark with deep bruises. The cursed thing had kept me awake even after all my exertions, even after that highly uncomfortable interview with the Sieur well past midnight. I’d finally given in and taken a cup of tahn tea from Naer and I was paying for that now with a foul mouth and woolly wits, not to mention the horrors that had got through my sleeping guard.
This was no time for me to be less than fighting fit, I concluded reluctantly, rebandaging it as best I could one handed and resisting the temptation to scratch the stitches that were itching as the cursed things always do. I’d have to ask Demoiselle Avila for some healing. Temar was right, loath as I was to admit it. I couldn’t turn down help I needed just because it came from Artifice. I only hoped the lady would be in a better mood this morning. She and the Sieur had arrived at nearly the same moment the night before, and the last I’d seen of Temar, Avila had been scolding him back to the residence, her consternation at the loss of the artefacts blistering his ears.
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