‘Not all of us had that luxury.’
The Qalochian and Quinn Disgleirio, apostle of the Fellowship of the Righteous Blade, held each other’s gaze.
‘Don’t mind Reeth,’ Karr advised, ‘he’s in a fractious mood.’
‘When isn’t he?’
‘You’ve missed nothing, Quinn,’ Karr hastened to add. ‘Our guest hasn’t arrived yet.’
‘Yes he has. He’s on his way up now.’
The patrician’s manner was instantly businesslike. ‘All right. Weapons in plain view, as agreed.’ Disgleirio, Serrah and Caldason, with some reluctance, unsheathed their various blades and laid them on the table. ‘Kutch, put those blinkers of yours out of sight.’ The globe above the doors started to flash. ‘All of you; keep in mind that our visitor’s both smart and unprincipled. But remember that he needs us as much as we need him.’
The doors were thrown wide, crashing against the walls.
A small entourage entered. There were four bodyguards, dressed alike in black leather jerkins, trews and boots, with leather wrist and headbands. One was a woman, flame-haired, green-eyed, and no less hale than her masculine cohorts. All were extravagantly armed. They were clustered around their employer, and for a moment it looked as though they were carrying him shoulder high. As they fanned out it became obvious that he was held aloft not by muscle power, but sorcery. He sat on a large, padded disk, with a backrest similar to a chair’s. His legs dangled over the edge, and a thick safety belt girdled his waist.
Those who had never seen Zahgadiah Darrok before, but knew his reputation, might have expected an individual wracked by sloth and debauchery. They didn’t anticipate someone looking as fit as an athlete. Nor did they count on him being handsome; the possessor of a finely chiselled face, adorned with a neat blond goatee and dominated by quick, china-blue eyes.
The only jarring note came when he spoke. A brisk order to his escort, to give up their arms, revealed a gravel voice that seemed out of keeping with his appearance. It had an inflection more often associated with an habitual pipe smoker or drinker of coarse liquor.
As Darrok’s bodyguards laid down their weapons, Karr made introductions. Then the attendants withdrew, but stayed watchful from a distance. Darrok guided his floating dish to the table and descended to hover at sitting height.
‘Can we offer you refreshments?’ Karr asked, indicating stone-bottled wine and sweetmeat platters.
‘I don’t believe in tainting business with frivolity,’ Darrok grated.
‘As you please.’
‘I suggest we get straight to the matter of the final payment.’
‘That’s what we’re here for.’
‘You can get the money?’
‘Of course.’
‘In gold?’
‘In gold, yes.’
‘And you can deliver it, as I specified?’
‘We can meet all your requirements. But naturally we need to be sure you can satisfy ours.’
Darrok showed a flash of annoyance. ‘You had my word.’
‘We’re not trying to offend you. But it’s vital you understand the necessity of making the handover as smooth and as secret as possible.’
‘I could ask why you feel the need to be so clandestine if your aims are lawful.’
‘I’m sure we all have private matters we’d prefer to keep that way,’ Karr said. ‘In fact, I should remind you that a slice of the not inconsiderable price we’re paying is supposed to ensure confidentiality.’
‘And you’ll get it. My guarantee.’
‘I’d like your bond on another matter, too.’
‘Oh?’
‘As you know, some of our people will be arriving on the island soon as pathfinders. We have to be able to count on you co-operating with them.’
‘We’ve agreed all this, Karr.’
‘It’s as well to underline its importance.’
‘Yes, yes, we’ll do as you ask. Now about the gold –’
‘It would save us a lot of trouble,’ Disgleirio suggested, ‘if payment could be made here on the mainland.’
‘Now who doesn’t understand the agreement? The deal was that the balance of the money went to the island for onward movement.’
‘So we take the risks and you reap the benefit.’
Darrok shrugged. ‘It’s a sellers’ market.’
‘We’ll keep our end of the bargain,’ Karr promised. ‘You keep yours and we can have the shipment there in a matter of weeks.’
‘You’d do well to send it with as much protection as you can muster.’
‘Naturally we’ll take precautions.’
‘You might need a little more in the way of precautions than you’re contemplating.’
Disgleirio regarded him suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘There’s a certain amount of … unrest in my home waters.’
‘What kind of unrest?’
‘We have a few problems with privateers.’
‘You mean pirates?’ Kutch blurted out.
‘I’m not in the habit of answering questions from a child.’
‘Then try answering a man,’ Caldason told him, his manner threatening.
Darrok adopted a dismissive tone. ‘I’m not accustomed to explaining myself to the hired help either.’
The Qalochian rose, toppling his chair. Then Serrah was on her feet. Darrok’s bodyguards began to move in.
‘Enough!’ Karr thundered. ‘We’re here to talk, not to fight. Now calm down. All of you.’
There was a frozen moment, each side eyeing the other, fists balled, muscles tensed.
Karr nodded at his people. ‘Sit.’
Darrok waved away his bodyguards.
Caldason righted his chair and Serrah sank back into hers. Both moved reluctantly, and kept their gazes on the escort.
‘So, you have trouble with pirates,’ Karr recapped.
‘I think they prefer to be called merchant adventurers,’ Darrok corrected.
‘To hell with what they call themselves; why didn’t you tell us before?’
‘I’m telling you now.’
‘How big a problem is it?’ Disgleirio wanted to know.
‘Until recently it was manageable; no more than a minor irritation. But that’s changed.’
‘Why?’
‘Traditionally, the privateers were disorganised. As ready to fight amongst themselves as to plunder travellers that came their way. Now they’ve got together and formed an alliance.’
‘That wouldn’t have happened without a leader of some sort,’ Caldason reasoned. ‘Who rallied them?’
‘You’re more perceptive than you look. Have you heard of a man called Kingdom Vance?’
Serrah mouthed, ‘Oh, shit.’
‘I take it you have,’ Darrok said.
Karr scowled at him. ‘Who hasn’t? Given that he’s the most infamous, cold-blooded freebooter ever to cut a throat. And you’re telling us he’s organised this alliance?’
Darrok nodded.
‘He must have held out a prize tempting enough to bring them together,’ Caldason decided. ‘A prospect bigger than their differences.’
‘That he did. He offered them something they’ve wanted for a long time.’ Darrok paused and scanned his hosts’ faces. He saw that one or two had already guessed. ‘A land base. A country they can call their own.’
‘They want the island,’ Disgleirio whispered, realisation dawning. ‘You bastard, Darrok! This borders on treachery. What are you after? More money? Is that it?’ He was on his feet.
‘There’s no deceit on my part.’ Darrok gestured at his restive bodyguards, checking them. ‘All I’m asking for is the final payment.’
‘After dropping this on us? Forget it.’
‘I think you’ll find the pact we have stipulates no full payment, no deal. And I get to keep what’s already been paid.’
Disgleirio swung to Karr, red with anger. ‘You agreed to this?’
Before the patrician could speak
, Darrok answered. ‘There isn’t exactly an abundance of islands for sale. Like I said, it’s a sellers’ market. Take it or leave it.’
‘Karr?’ Disgleirio pressed.
‘He’s right. We’re not in a position to dictate terms.’
It was Serrah who broke the ensuing silence, and in contrast to Disgleirio’s outrage, she seemed almost amused. ‘Well, you could cut the tension in this room with a knife,’ she said. Glancing at the surrendered weapons, she added, ‘Anybody like to try?’
Karr stood, signalling for calm. ‘All right. Everybody. Let’s keep things civil. We can sort this out.’
‘Always the conciliator, eh. Patrician?’ Serrah gave him a smile that fleetingly looked half demented.
‘He’s right,’ Darrok intervened. ‘You might have rivals for the island. So what? They’re small in number compared to you, judging by the set-up you have here. You can deal with it.’
‘You make it sound trivial,’ Disgleirio remarked, still seething.
‘No, I make it sound like it isn’t my problem. My only concern’s spending the money you’ll be giving me.’
‘So you can buy more toys like that?’ He jabbed a thumb at the hovering dish.
Darrok made it rise, lifting him to the height of a man standing. ‘This is more in the way of a necessity than a luxury.’ He rapped his knuckle against one of his legs, then the other. The hollow ring attested to their being artificial. ‘Kingdom Vance,’ he explained starkly. ‘That’s why it’s not my problem.’
When that had soaked in, Karr told him, ‘We have to think on this.’
‘I’ll be in Valdarr a few more days. You know how to reach me.’
Zahgadiah Darrok motioned to his retinue. The bodyguards came forward to collect their weapons, then gathered about their paymaster and followed as he glided to the exit.
The doors slammed resolutely behind them.
Karr turned to face the others. ‘We’re not going to let this get in our way.’
‘Really?’ Caldason said, making no effort to hide his cynicism.
‘Yes. Too many people are relying on us. We owe it to them.’
‘I can’t believe you struck such a deal with that man,’ Disgleirio complained. ‘Isn’t the task we’ve set ourselves hard enough as it is?’
‘It’s done, Quinn. And Darrok was right about it being a sellers’ market. We’re over a barrel.’
‘So what do you propose we do about it?’
‘For a start, the band Reeth’s leading with the consignment of gold needs to be beefed up.’
‘Just a minute,’ Caldason cut in. ‘Asking me to deliver the gold’s one thing. Expecting me to take on a pirate alliance is a different proposition.’
‘Surely you can see –’
‘What I see is that I’m no nearer reaching the Clepsydra, despite your promises. Now you’re enlisting me for a war that’s none of my making.’
‘But the plan –’
‘Is your problem, Karr. Find yourself another dupe.’
He headed for the door, snatching up his blades as he passed.
‘Reeth!’ Kutch yelled.
‘Let him be,’ Karr advised as the doors slammed one more time. ‘He’ll come round. And if he doesn’t …’
‘Don’t look at me,’ Serrah said. ‘I can’t be trusted enough to go, remember?’
Kutch slumped, despondent. Disgleirio was buckling on his sword, still incensed.
Karr expelled a weary breath, shoulders sagging. He stared for a moment at the radiant map spread across the wall. Then he snapped his fingers. The map instantly compressed, became pearl-sized again and dropped to the floor. It bounced, just once but high, and arced his way, dropping into his outstretched palm.
He took the hope of the world and stuck it back in his ear.
7
There was only silence. A downy white haze enveloped him. He was cold, and felt weightless.
Slowly, he gained a sense of self. But there was no awareness of who he might be. Or where. Then he became conscious of rushing air. It prickled his skin and tousled his hair; it stung his eyes and made them water. A tingling rippled the pit of his stomach. Blood pounded in his ears.
He was falling.
The clinging whiteness disappeared. As he tumbled, he saw that it had been a cloud, high above him now. Then a glimpse, higher still, of blue velvet powdered with stars. Spinning, twisting, he caught sight of the earth, so far below he could make out its curvature. He plunged headlong, serenaded by the whistling wind.
He had no control over his descent, yet it seemed he began to move with purpose. No longer did he simply fall. He flew.
The land beneath him grew, its features becoming more distinct. Snow-dusted mountain peaks, silvery rivers and verdant pastures. Sweeping plains, lush valleys, the emerald froth of mighty forests. Diving ever lower, he saw, here and there, the hand of Man. Land ploughed and cleaved into meadows; granite farmhouses, wooden lodges, the scars of roads. A giddy swoop took him down to one such track. Flying higher than the tallest trees, he followed it.
A large group of riders came into view. Armed men, galloping hell for leather. He shadowed them, negotiating the road’s bends and turns with no effort on his part. In this way he kept pace for many miles. Then it dawned on him that they weren’t the only ones travelling in that direction. Something else moved in the riders’ wake; something that flew as he did, but at a greater altitude and to his rear. It wasn’t chasing the horsemen. It accompanied and drove them.
Whatever it was that traversed the troubled sky could be sensed but not seen. Perversely, it was both a pack and a single intellect. He knew this, without knowing how he knew. As sure as he felt the malignant force it radiated. A wave of menace that beat at him and kindled the purest dread.
His fear acted as a spur. A swift acceleration took him forwards, outstripping the riders and the horror trailing them. He moved with jarring speed, the landscape beneath passing in a blur, a daze of green smudged with brown. Lakes like mirrors, patchwork fields, copses that drank the light. Until he came at last to a remote region where the land was untamed, and he slowed.
He hung above a clearing in a wood. It was occupied by four or five straw-coloured bubbles. A moment went by before he realised they were roundhouses, thatched and built of timber. A handful of people tended the camp. Somebody was hauling a bucket from the well, while another cut logs. Most stood guard. Some livestock was corralled, and several horses were hitched to a post. There was a nagging familiarity about the place. And when he started to sink down towards it, helpless to resist, his unease increased.
His coming to ground was gentle and noiseless. He expected to be challenged. But there was no turning of heads, no rushing guards. He could see, but not be seen.
The first thing he saw was that these people were of his kind.
A scream rang out. It came from a smaller hut, set apart from the others. No one in the camp looked that way. Instead, they snatched up their weapons and nervously scanned the surrounding woods. The scream came again, high-pitched, more drawn out. He made for its source; unseen, as though a ghost.
The interior of the hut was in semi-darkness, lit only by the soft radiance of hooded lanterns. As his eyes adjusted he could make out a small group, huddled together around something on the earthen floor. Two were matriarchs, wise women, with a novice serving them. The remaining person was an old man of indeterminate race. He, too, seemed strangely familiar.
He went further into the hut, and saw that they ministered to a woman of his ilk, stretched on rude sacking. Her woollen shift was gathered at the waist, revealing the ripe swell of her belly. Strands of lustrous black hair plastered her sweat-sheened forehead. Her pearl-white teeth were exposed, clenched in exertion. Even contorted by pain, even in the half-light, he thought she was beautiful.
He watched mesmerised as they tended her. But almost immediately it became obvious something was wrong. The woman’s writhing grew more intense, her screams more prolo
nged. Her attendants exchanged anxious glances. Their efforts became increasingly frantic. Powerless, a disembodied observer, he could only look on as all their midwifery skills were applied.
Once delivered of her boy child, the woman fell back and was silent. A silence more ominous by far than her cries had been. The babe itself was no less quiet; a small, seemingly broken thing, it took no breath of air. As the women worked to stem the mother’s copious flow of blood, the old man lifted the baby. Swiftly, he cut the cord with a silver sickle, as tradition dictated. Then he hoisted up the blue-tinged youngster, dangling it by an ankle, and slapped its hindquarters. He did it twice more before the child gulped air and started to wail.
There was no rekindling of life for the mother. She lay inert, already beginning to pale with the chalky whiteness of death. Her mouth was slack, her eyes glazed. The despair of her helpers was palpable, and it gripped him, too. A clamp fastened on his heart. His veins coursed with ice. Feeling a sense of loss far greater than the sorrow of a mere onlooker, he moved nearer.
He was stopped by a chorus of shouts from outside. The old man clutched the new-born tighter to his chest. With fearful expressions the midwives turned their heads to the door. The shouting was louder. He stared at the occupants for a second before leaving the hut.
Outside was all commotion. Men running, yelling. Some throwing saddles onto horses; others already mounted and wheeling, churning mud. Through the trees he glimpsed the riders he’d seen on the road. A multitude, closing at speed. The men of the camp, hopelessly outnumbered, scrambled to face them.
A few gazed at the sky. It was filling with a presence, a brooding. But only he could truly see the malevolent horde of black wraiths gathering overhead.
The old man came out of the roundhouse. He held the child, wrapped in a bloodied blanket. Pausing for an instant, he surveyed the scene, and looked ruefully to the ominous skies. Then, hugging the bundle, he sped with surprising agility into the woods, away from the attackers.
Suffused with a blistering radiance, the shadow beings loomed overhead. They were malleable, assuming an infinite variety of grotesque forms. As they dived, blinding currents flowed ahead; terrible energies that rent the air itself. Bolts of fire sloughed from them, and lethal radiances pulsed. They fell as a living rain of death.
Quicksilver Zenith Page 7
