by Martin Ash
Not ten paces away a man was crouched on one knee, his fingers touching the rain-soaked earth. He was of middle stature, from what Issul could see, and lean and sinewy. His skin was leathery brown, the mouth a thin, cruel gash beneath a long curved nose and narrow, deeply set eyes. High, prominent cheekbones, together with the skin, suggested possible Murinean blood. He wore a dark leather doublet and deep green pantaloons. About his head, confining long, thick, unruly black hair was a broad green fillet, knotted at the back of the skull, with two long ribbons hanging between his shoulderblades. At his belt were several knives, a sword and, stuffed into his pantaloons, the stock of a whip. He appeared to be examining the ground.
Looking for tracks?
Her tracks?
The man lifted his gaze and peered into the forest shade. He seemed puzzled. A sudden thought struck Issul: if her horse should make a sound . . . Silently she drew an arrow from her quiver and notched it to her bowstring.
The man rose slowly to his feet, poised, almost like a dancer. His eyes were still penetrating the forest around him, head slightly cocked. His head swivelled gradually in her direction.
Challenge him, or stay hidden? The chances weighed against his being alone. But was it her he was looking for? With benign or wicked intent? His expression suggested that goodness was not one of his dominant traits.
A movement in the undergrowth to her left, about thirty paces away, caught Issul's attention. A second man came into view. This one was taller, more massively built, with a low black fringe and a black beard covering much of his face. He wore studded leather, with a peaked steel cap of good quality upon his head. He looked questioningly at the first man, who turned towards him and shook his head. The newcomer cast his eyes quickly about the woods then jerked his thumb across his chest, turned and disappeared back beneath the trees. The first man followed, watching the forest as he went.
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Issul leaned her shoulder against the fallen trunk and breathed again, her thoughts shifting rapidly. Who were these two? What were they seeking? Were they in company?
She knew she could not leave without finding out more about them. If they were looking for her and she set off alone for the Farplace Opening, they might surprise her along the way. Perhaps worse, they might let her lead them directly to it.
No, she could not risk that. But could she conceivably turn the tables on them?
Issul glanced back to the grove. The blue casket was well-concealed, but . . . the horse. She ran back down the slope and quickly stripped the horse of saddle and equipment. These she hid in the undergrowth, away from the chest. Then she led the horse from the bushes, removed its bridle, pointed its head to the southwest - the opposite direction to that in which the two strangers had gone - and slapped it hard on the rump. The mount trotted away, its injured leg troubling it less now that it was unburdened.
Issul hid the bridle then set off in pursuit of the two men.
She moved with great caution, darting from tree to boulder to tree. She listened, slipped forward another twenty paces, listened. At last she was rewarded: the snap of a twig, the faintest clink of something metallic. The men were almost directly ahead of her, and close.
She moved forward a few paces, listened again, utterly still. Now she heard the murmur of voices, too low to make out what was being said. And it seemed the men were stationary.
A low limestone bluff rose a short distance away to Issul's right, its crest perhaps thirty feet above her head. She slipped away and crept warily up the tree-strewn slope that would take her to the lip of the bluff. Approaching the summit she dropped to the ground and wriggled on her belly to the lip. From here she was able to look down to where five men were grouped in a sheltered glade at the foot of the bluff. One of them was the larger of the two she had followed. His companion was not in sight. Three others were of similar, rough and somewhat sinister appearance. The last, who was seated on a low boulder with his knees wide apart and facing away from Issul's position, wore a long dark blue cloak over hardened leather, and impressed her as being the leader.
Horses were tethered nearby. The five men were in hushed conversation, and though she strained her ears Issul could not hear what they said. The man in the blue cloak rose and took a few steps to the side. Something about him disturbed Issul. His face was obscured, yet there was something in the way he moved - she felt that she had seen him before somewhere.
At that moment another man ran into the glade. He spoke quickly to the others, gesturing. The leader issued a curt command and the men dispersed hurriedly in various directions.
Issul ducked back quickly from the lip. She was struck by the men’s manner. Though they had the look of cutthroats their actions showed them to be trained and disciplined. She sensed that she should hide herself, and began to move away. Rising, she found herself confronting two men. One was the tracker with the green headband, who she had followed here. He stood with his whip in one hand, a knife in the other. Beside him was a younger man with a bow drawn and aimed at her.
Others came swiftly and silently up the slope. Wordlessly they surrounded her, stripped her of weapons, bound her wrists behind her back and led her down to the glade beneath the bluff.
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The men were unsure of what to do with her, that much Issul worked out within minutes. Did they know who she was? They had made nothing plain, and she was unwilling to reveal her identity until she knew more of what they were about. She wore no crown of office; from her clothing and light mail they might judge her to be a noble woman and warrior. An unusual combination, but it did not in itself give her away.
But if they did not know who she was, why had they been tracking her?
Or had they been looking for someone or something else?
Issul was seated upon the ground, her back against the bole of a young oak. Her ankles had been bound now, as well as her wrists. She fumed silently: that they should dare to treat her so! That she had been stupid enough to allow herself to be captured - she had virtually done their job for them!
She still did not know who they were, but she was convinced that they were not mere common criminals.
And they seemed ill-at-ease with her, almost embarrassed, if it was possible for such men to know such an emotion. Were they unhappy at having taken her prisoner?
Four of her captors sat a short distance away, conferring in occasional whispers and casting her dark glances. The others, she assumed, had taken up lookout positions. Their commander, the man in the blue cloak, was not present.
So far she had been asked few questions. The burly, bearded fellow who had been in the forest with the tracker earlier, had asked her why she had been watching them.
'Did you expect me to just walk up and introduce myself?' she replied scornfully.
His next question chilled her, and provided more than a clue as to their goal. 'What has happened to the chest?'
'What chest?'
'Don't be obstinate. The chest that you carried on your horse.'
'I don't know what you are talking about.'
For a moment she had thought he might strike her. Instead he turned, scowling, and rejoined his cronies.
Minutes passed, another of the gang arrived, spoke briefly with the rest, out of Issul's hearing, then left again. Issul continued to rail at herself. Such a fool to have followed them. She should have taken off immediately with Orbelon. What had she been thinking of?
She considered: if they wanted the chest then they surely knew something of what it contained. Under such circumstances her status was perhaps not even relevant. It was Orbelon they wanted - and what would they not do to her to force her to reveal his whereabouts?
Issul thought of Galry and Jace. She thought of Leth. She gritted her teeth, and vowed to herself. No horrors that animals like these might inflict could make her give up Orbelon's world.
But Orbelon's world was lost anyway, the casket concealed in a thicket deep within the forest. If these men took her far from th
is lonely place, she would have no hope of ever finding it again.
FIVE
i
Lord Fectur padded the western corridors of the Palace of Orbia, his head low, his brooding gaze inward and intent.
Too many mysteries, all at once! His brain could barely contend with them all. And a newly-instated, delicately-tuned apparatus of government plainly established to keep him as much as possible in the dark. An infestation of curses upon the meddling magician, Pader Luminis! He dared play games with the Lord High Invigilate? Well, it was not with impunity. These were dangerous games the bespectacled little picaroon played. Master Arcanist or not, he would learn that simple fact quickly enough.
For now, though, Fectur did his best to put the new Lord-Protector out of his thoughts. Matters of even greater immediacy occupied his mind.
He continued on his way, discouraging by his very stride and bearing anyone who might have an inclination to speak with him. He entered the royal residence, passed along its many gilded passageways until he arrived at the apartments occupied by the recently deceased Duke of Giswel, his living but mentally stricken young widow Mawnie, Duchess Demawndella, sister of the Queen, and their infant daughter, Lir.
Without a glance at the guard at the entrance, who snapped erect at his approach, Fectur strode through the various ante-rooms, ignoring the various members of Demawndella's staff and coterie, and marched without announcement into the Duchess's bedchamber.
Mawnie lay pale and inert in her bed. Upon a table beside her pillow a china bowl was filled with steaming aromatic herbs. Sprigs and sprays hung from bedposts and around the window. A compress had been laid upon the Duchess's forehead. On a chair beside her sat a plump, red-headed nurse, and standing close by, the spare, stiff figure of Doctor Melropius examined a thick green paste in a mortar.
Fectur sniffed, vaguely offended by the vapours that imbued the air in the bedchamber. 'How is the Duchess today, Doctor?'
Melropius, visibly disconcerted by the arrival of the Lord High Invigilate, answered in a vexed near-whisper, 'I- there is an improvement. Sh-she is calmer than before and has sh- has shown extended periods of lucidity.'
'Good. Well, that is welcome news,' said Fectur silkily, his grey carp eyes on Mawnie's still features. 'I need to speak to her.'
'My lord, I do not think that would be advisable.'
Fectur fixed him with his most implacable stare. 'It is important, Doctor.'
Melropius balked. 'Ah, well, er, yes, of course. But please take care not to over-excite her. She is in a most fragile condition still. And remember, my lord, the Duchess knows nothing of recent events.'
'Very good.' Fectur grew still. A moment passed. 'Well?'
'My lord?'
'You may leave us, Doctor. I do not need you here.'
'My lord, I- I think--'
'Thank you, Melropius.'
Melropius swallowed. He hovered for a moment in indecision, then set down his mortar, bowed, and withdrew. As he reached the door Fectur spoke to him over his shoulder. 'Melropius?'
The doctor halted nervously. 'My lord?'
'I just wanted to thank you for your support in that terrible business with the King. Witnessing his decline and realizing the inevitability of his removal from office must have been most painful for you, as it was for us all. Rest assured, your actions will not be forgotten. Not by myself or anyone else.'
Doctor Melropius flushed and his eyes grew suddenly moist. A small sob issued involuntarily from deep in his chest, and he backed from the chamber. Fectur turned a glacial stare to the nurse, who hastily relinquished her station and scurried from the room.
Lord Fectur took the seat the nurse had vacated at Demawndella's head. He watched Mawnie awhile, thinking. Then he leaned forward and peeled the compress from her forehead, its medicinal odours not to his liking, and tossed it onto the floor on the other side of the bed.
'Mawnie.'
Mawnie's eyelids flickered.
'Mawnie.'
Fectur lightly smacked her cheek with the back of his hand. Mawnie blinked and opened her eyes. Fectur took her hand, which lay limp upon the coverlet. 'Hello, Mawnie.'
Mawnie's head turned and she focused her eyes blearily upon him. Her brow knitted. 'You? What do you want?'
'I have come to talk to you, Mawnie. I was so sorry to hear of your illness.'
Clearly, the discovery of the Master of Security for Enchantment's Reach seated at her bedside had cast the young Duchess into a state of some confusion. Fectur had anticipated this; in fact it was quite desirable, as long as her mind was not too far gone. She of course had no knowledge of his recent clashes with members of her family, nor his current descent from grace, and that too was in accord with his wishes. 'I wanted to ask you about your sister.'
'Iss?'
'No, not Issul, Mawnie. Ressa.'
'Ressa?' The tiny muscles around Mawnie's eyes contracted.
Fectur nodded. He had received firsthand reports of Demawndella's illness, her dementia and the wild outpourings that issued from her mouth. His curiosity was aroused. There had always been an element of mystery surrounding the incident on Sentinel Peak in which Mawnie's twin-sister, Ressa, had incurred the terrible injuries that led to her death. Fectur had himself been instrumental in ensuring that news of the tragedy was kept to the barest details.
A bear attack, that had been the story. But Fectur knew otherwise. He had ridden out to the promontory himself, with a platoon of his men, to hunt down the creature that had attacked the two sisters and raped Ressa. But he had found nothing. After Ressa's death Mawnie had fallen into a deep depression. She appeared too to have effectively blocked the incident from her mind; certainly she could never be drawn to speak of it. She had subsequently been courted by, and married, the King's cousin, Duke Hugo of Giswel, though everyone but Mawnie, it seemed, was aware that Hugo had merely transferred his attentions from the maiden he had loved and who was now gone from the world, to one he did not but who was her mirror-image.
The incident and its consequences had intrigued Fectur. That Mawnie should have begun ranting deliriously about it now, after keeping it buried for so long, struck him as possibly being significant. He was acting somewhat on a hunch. Was there more to be known? Perhaps, perhaps not. But he would probe delicately, just in case. He would see what he would see.
He had no great liking for Mawnie. She had been light-headed even as a child. These days he considered her little more than a souse and a trollop. Still, in her most inebriate moments she had given Fectur potentially useful information about her lovers and Hugo's, and the intrigues that passed between them. More than one had since been recruited into the ranks of Ministry of Security's informants, the threat of scandal and subsequent reprisals being a far greater inducement than any thought of payment.
Fectur saw now that the very mention of Ressa's name caused Mawnie upset. She turned her head away. 'No.'
Fectur squeezed her hand and adopted his most avuncular tone. 'Mawnie, it is important that we bring this into the open. For your own well-being, and perhaps even for the good of the kingdom.'
Mawnie's brow furrowed again. 'What do you mean?'
'There is something, isn't there? Something with poor Ressa? Something you haven't told us.'
'No. There is nothing.' She pulled her hand from his. 'Go away!'
'Mawnie, I only want to help you.'
Mawnie had begun twining strands of her fine, long hair around her finger. She shook her head. 'There is nothing.'
'But you have said, Mawnie. In your sleep, you have said things.'
'What things?' Her agitation was mounting. She started to sit up, would not meet his eye.
'Here, let me help you.' Fectur stacked the pillows behind her back.
'What things?' she repeated.
'Nothing too specific,' replied Fectur, feeling his way carefully. 'But several times you have made reference to that awful incident in which you and Ressa suffered so. We wonder whether there might
be something, some detail, that you have never spoken of. The King has asked me to question you about it.'
'Leth?'
Fectur nodded. 'He is very concerned about you.'
A spasm of a pained smile flickered on Mawnie's lips.
Fectur continued: 'You have said that it was you. In the woods, it was you that he wanted. And just nights ago you suddenly called out . . . .'
'What? I called out what?' She tugged vigorously at the ends of her hair.
Fectur leaned nearer, convinced he was close to something. 'It was not easy to make out, but I was driven to infer that something might have happened, something on the promontory, or linked to that unspeakable incident. Something that, either through your own inability to remember or unwillingness to compromise those closest to you, you have never disclosed.'
Was there anything? Mawnie was shaking her head adamantly. 'No. I told you everything. There's nothing more.'
Lord Fectur sat back. He could see the distress in her eyes, and did not want to push her too far. It was quite possible that she was genuinely unable to remember. Or was there nothing there after all? The creature had never been sighted again. Yet it was not a fabrication, for Issul had seen it too.
'Nothing more. Nothing more.'
Mawnie was on the edge of raving. Frustrated, Fectur resolved to come back and try again at another time. If there was something to be known, and Mawnie held it, he would draw it from her. If it meant ransacking her brain and leaving her without a single lucid thought in her head, he would draw it from her.
He stood, smiling, and reached into his tunic. 'Well, give it some thought, Mawnie dear. Something might come back to you. We will talk again soon. In the meantime, here is something for you; to aid you in your recovery. But ssh! Not a word to the good doctor, mind. He would not approve. Put it beneath your pillow. It's a little secret, just between you and I.'
