by Luke Scull
Marshal Halendorf went even paler. ‘They… ah, that is to say…’
‘Yes, Marshal?’
‘My lord… It’s been said by some that the White Lady doesn’t intend to destroy the city. Rather, she wants to, ah, liberate it.’
‘Liberate it.’ The Magelord repeated the words slowly, as if every syllable was a thousand-ton hammer beating down on the men in the chamber.
Eremul could feel his heart thumping in his chest. He wished he were anywhere but here at this table. Even down in the dungeons, strapped to a cold slab. At least the men who had cut off his legs were, loosely speaking, human. They had probably felt something while mutilating him, even if it was only a sick pleasure. Salazar would snuff out his life as if he were an insect and not give it a second’s thought.
‘You will have any man who fails to show sufficient enthusiasm whipped,’ said the Magelord. ‘Any man who voices discontent about defending his own city will lose his tongue. Am I understood?’
Halendorf swallowed and nodded.
‘We have lost the mine at the Wailing Rift. The ships we sent to the Swell have not returned.’ Salazar’s eyes narrowed in anger. His oiled moustache twitched. Everyone seated at the table drew back a fraction. ‘I will tolerate no dissidence in this city. I want mindhawks on every corner. Anyone plotting against me will be put to death. Men and women, the young and the old. I care not.’
‘It will be done, my lord,’ said Timerus. The Grand Magistrate cleared his throat nervously. ‘I must confess that we found no signs of the Thelassan ship which attacked us last week.’
Eremul tried to feign a bemused expression. He had already learned of the confrontation between a group of Augmentor-led Watchmen and a lone vessel from the City of Towers.
‘Brianna,’ said the Magelord, uttering the name like a curse. ‘She now suckles at the White Lady’s teats.’
According to the report the Halfmage had received, a group of soldiers had chased a small band of rebels from the village of Farrowgate down to Deadman’s Channel. A brief and bloody massacre would have followed but for the timely arrival of a caravel flying the colours of the White Lady. Aboard the vessel was none other than Brianna, formerly one of Dorminia’s most powerful wizards and a survivor of the Culling. She had chased off the pursuing soldiers with a magical assault that had devastated a small stretch of the coastline. Two Highlanders had been involved – as had, Eremul did not doubt, a certain insipid manservant.
The sudden appearance of a Thelassan ship to save the day struck him as fortuitous to say the least, but the exact details of what had transpired were no clearer to him than anyone else. He was trapped in the city and had no way of contacting those aboard the mysterious vessel.
‘My lord,’ said the Supreme Augmentor hesitantly. ‘We did not count on Thelassa sending wizards. It was my understanding the White Lady has no tolerance for them.’
‘She does not,’ the Magelord replied. ‘Brianna was… difficult to part with. Powerful, and yet demure. Loyal. Perhaps the White Lady has learned the value of pragmatism.’
‘I fear even your Augmentors will be hard pressed if she brings her magic to bear against them, my lord. My men are peerless on the field of battle, but against the arcane they are as vulnerable as any other soldier.’
The Tyrant of Dorminia was quiet for a time. ‘The White Lady herself will not come, that is certain,’ he said eventually. ‘However, her servants most assuredly will. The task of nullifying their threat falls to you and your men. I will deal with any magical assault, with the assistance of our friend the Halfmage.’
Eremul’s blood froze as Salazar turned to him with a faintly mocking smile. Even in his current weakened state, the Magelord could shred his mental defences and strip his mind raw of secrets with the ease of a man crushing a maggot between his fingers. ‘I will do anything to serve,’ he wheedled as convincingly as he could manage.
‘I know you will,’ replied Salazar. ‘Now then, Marshal Halendorf. Update me on the progress of the city’s fortifications.’
Eremul sat in silence as the magistrates discussed the upcoming invasion. The men at the table barely looked at him unless he was called upon to answer a specific question, and that suited him perfectly. He tried to make himself inconspicuous.
An abused dog. Salazar’s little plaything. He wondered what had happened to the White Lady’s agents who were supposed to be contacting him.
Perhaps they, too, had decided he was beneath notice.
By the time a Watchman was assigned to wheel him back to the depository, Eremul’s head felt as if it was about to explode from the tension. He was therefore less than pleased to find an unpleasant-looking fellow with a slightly panicked look in his eyes loitering before his door. He waved the soldier away and frowned at his unexpected visitor.
The man’s mouth dropped open slightly. ‘What happened to your legs?’ he asked.
Eremul sighed. ‘Why, I appear to have temporarily misplaced them. Who are you and what business do you have here?’
‘My name’s Lashan,’ said the man irritably. ‘I’m looking for a fella named Isaac. He owes me money.’
Lashan. Where have I heard that name before? ‘Does he indeed. And who told you he could be found here?’
‘Don’t you worry about that. I need the money before nightfall. The full one hundred gold spires.’
‘I know you,’ Eremul said. ‘You’re the assistant harbourmaster.’ He blinked as the man’s words sank in. ‘One hundred spires? Isaac’s a manservant, not a bloody magistrate.’
As it happened, Isaac was paid a gold spire each month, which was a reasonable sum for a servant. A hundred was more than he had earned in his entire time at the depository.
‘A manservant?’ Lashan’s brow wrinkled in confusion. ‘That don’t make no sense. This Isaac fella – or whatever he’s calling himself now – he’s got connections. There ain’t a month goes by when he doesn’t receive visitors from any place you could name. At least I assume they’re here to see him.’
Eremul’s eyes narrowed. This conversation was making him uneasy. ‘Why does he owe you so much money?’
It was the assistant harbourmaster’s turn to narrow his eyes. ‘I don’t see how that’s any of your business.’
‘Fine. Isaac isn’t here. I know where he might be found – but alas, I wouldn’t want to meddle in business that’s none of my concern.’
Lashan looked angry. ‘Don’t mess me around, cripple. You’re in no position to take the piss. If you won’t tell me where he is, I’ll just have to beat it out of you.’ He cracked his knuckles menacingly.
Eremul gave the glowering little man an ugly smile. ‘Why waste your energy on a legless fop like me? There’ll soon be plenty of Sumnians for your mighty fists to beat into submission. Unless, of course, the vastly important office you hold prohibits you from risking yourself in defence of our fair city. I expect it might, particularly if a sizeable amount of coin greases the right palms.’
Lashan snorted. ‘You’re a smart bastard, I’ll give you that. So I want to secure myself a position away from the fighting. Who wouldn’t, given the choice?’ He spat a glob of thick phlegm, which landed perilously close to Eremul’s chair. ‘I have a wife and three sons. Concerns a real man could understand.’
‘As opposed to a half-man,’ Eremul said quietly.
‘You got it. Now tell me where he is or things will get ugly.’ He took a step towards the Halfmage.
‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that.’ He finished his evocation, felt the magic spiral out from his fingertips and wrap unseen around Lashan’s limbs. The assistant harbourmaster yelped and then toppled over like an upset glass. He struggled to rise and got as far as raising his hips off the ground before collapsing back down. He tried again, to all outward appearances a man determined to get intimate with a particularly attractive pothole in the street.
‘What’s happening to me? I can’t move my arms or legs,’ he moaned. Eremul wheeled his
chair forwards until he was looming over the struggling man. He peered down at him.
‘Now, now, Lashan,’ he said, his voice full of mock sympathy. ‘I’m sure a small thing like the temporary loss of your extremities won’t discourage you. I was quite looking forward to a good beating.’
‘You… you did this to me.’
‘Ah. Perceptive as well as brave. You should be more careful about whom you threaten.’ His voice became grave. ‘I would sit here all day and watch you squirm like a worm, but to tell the truth my arse aches and I quite fancy a lie down. Answer my questions and I’ll let you crawl back to your hole.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
Eremul sighed. ‘As if I had an alternative.’ He lined up his chair and ran the wheels over the man’s outstretched fingers, which were scrabbling at the dirt. Lashan howled in pain.
‘Keep it down,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t want everyone to witness you being humiliated by a legless cripple, would you?’ He reversed the chair back over Lashan’s other hand. This time he felt the crack of tiny bones beneath the wheel. The cries of pain intensified.
‘That sounded like it hurt,’ he said conversationally. ‘And you have at least eight more fingers to go. Then we can work on the toes. After that, well, things get interesting. I have a vivid imagination.’
‘Argh! Stop, I’ll talk!’ The words came out in a rush. Tears tumbled from Lashan’s eyes, joining a damp patch on the ground beneath his chin where drool had gathered.
‘Good.’ Eremul glanced around. People were beginning to take notice. He wanted this over with quickly before too much interest was aroused. ‘What do you know about Isaac?’
‘Nothing,’ Lashan replied hurriedly. ‘I’ve never even met him. All I know is he pays me to turn a blind eye to vessels entering and leaving the harbour. I don’t know who they carry on board and I don’t care.’
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘I don’t… Three, maybe four years.’
Three or four years. How is this possible? He felt his jaw clench in anger. ‘Who told you to look for Isaac here?’
‘His middleman,’ Lashan replied. ‘Calls himself the Crow. Apparently they had a falling out.’
‘Where might I find this Crow?’
‘You won’t,’ Lashan replied. ‘He told me where to find Isaac and then said he was leaving the city. He was packing his things when I found him.’
‘He can’t leave. The city is under lockdown and the army is encamped outside the walls.’
‘The Crow does what he pleases. That’s all I know, I swear.’
Eremul released the magic binding Lashan’s limbs. ‘Isaac isn’t here. Whoever it is you’re trying to bribe, he won’t be signing your exemption papers. And one more thing,’ he added as the balding fellow rubbed the life back into his arms and legs. ‘Say nothing of this. Very few know I’m a mage. I’d like to keep it that way. Understand?’
Lashan nodded. He hovered uncertainly for a moment. The Halfmage sighed again. ‘Taking bribes is practically a job requirement for those with any authority in this city. I have no interest in reporting you. Get out of my sight.’ He watched the portly figure scamper away.
He felt as if he had been kicked in the balls. He had trusted Isaac. Could his manservant have been spying for Salazar? No, that was impossible. Isaac had known for months now that he was working against the Magelord. There was no conceivable way Salazar would have permitted the destruction of the mine at the Wailing Rift, so vital to the city’s magic supplies.
His head throbbed. Why had he involved Isaac in his schemes in the first place? The man was clearly more adept than any servant had a right to be.
Why did I send Isaac to the Rift? The question bothered him like a scratch he couldn’t quite itch. The more he thought about it, the more his head hurt. He was about to go back inside the depository and bundle the useless sack of flesh that was his body into bed for a much-needed rest when he saw the urchin approach.
‘Are you normal?’ the boy asked uncertainly.
Eremul stared at the lad, with his requisite grubby face and tattered clothes. ‘On balance,’ he said carefully, ‘I would have to say no.’
‘Oh.’ The urchin looked momentarily crestfallen. ‘What happened to your legs?’
‘My legs? You mean to say they’re not there?’ He looked down in mock astonishment. ‘Why, I do believe they’ve walked away of their own accord. Perhaps out of frustration at having to listen to the same question every single day.’
The boy looked confused. Eremul couldn’t help but feel a shred of pity for him. ‘I’m Eremul,’ he said. ‘Is that who you’re looking for?’
The young waif scratched his head and repeated his name a few times before nodding. ‘That’s it! Eremul. I was told to give you this.’ He reached down inside a filthy pocket and withdrew a rolled note. ‘The lady who asked me to deliver it gave me six coppers.’
He took the note. ‘Was this lady strangely pale and distinctly unmemorable?’
The boy nodded. ‘She scared me. But Bran delivered the note last time and he returned with a whole silver! He bought us sugar cakes and so much cider we were both sick everywhere. It was real funny.’ There was a hint of sadness in the urchin’s voice. Eremul felt something cold worm its way inside his chest.
‘How is Bran?’
‘He’s dead, mister. The coughing sickness killed him just last week.’
Eremul sat in silence for a time. Then he reached inside his robes and withdrew two silver sceptres. ‘One of these coins is for you,’ he said. ‘The other is to bury your friend. You know the whereabouts of Bran’s body?’
‘Yes. I hid him under some leaves in an alley near the Warrens.’
‘Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.’ He wheeled himself inside the depository. A quick incantation later and the magically concealed words on the note were floating in the air before him. He read them once, gasped softly, and then read them again just to be sure.
He burned the note and fetched his quill and ink to pen his own brief note to the Collectors, instructing them to bring a young boy’s body to the cemetery near Crook Street for burial.
Survivors
Sasha wanted to scream.
It had been a week since they’d fled Farrowgate and taken refuge aboard The Caress. She had spent almost every waking hour of the last seven days alternating between seasickness and an insatiable, terrifying craving for more of that blessed silvery powder to shove up her nose. She would have killed anyone on board the small caravel for even a single line of the stuff. In fact, she would have killed at least one of them just for being so unaware of how close he was to pushing her over the edge.
Right on cue, Cole swaggered up to her. He had a big grin on his face. ‘We’ve just received a message from the White Lady,’ he said. ‘This is it, Sash. No more waiting. The army is on its way.’
Sasha sighed with relief. First they had needed to await a response from Thelassa after Brianna had sent a message indicating Magebane had been recovered. Then another message had been sent to a contact in Dorminia and they had needed to wait for his response. Finally, they had required confirmation that the army was on the move. At last, it seemed, things were in place – and not before time. She felt as though she was going crazy.
‘Friends and allies,’ said Brianna loudly, drawing the attention of everyone aboard the vessel. ‘The time has come to push ahead with our plans.’
The two Highlanders rose from where they had been lounging against the central mast. Jerek shot Sasha an angry look. She scowled back. The man hated her, she knew, and the feeling was mutual. The dark-skinned Shamaathan joined them from where he had been talking with the equally strange pale-skinned woman at the helm. The two of them made an extreme contrast.
Still, neither unsettled her quite as much as the scabrous, leering face of Cole’s new friend. She had caught the convict looking at her more than once. The hunger in his glittering stare had reminded her of things
long buried in the past. The girl in her wanted to run away from him.
She wouldn’t run. Men like Three-Finger and Jerek the Wolf thrived on signs of weakness. It had come as no surprise that the two seemed to get on well. What was more disappointing was that Brodar Kayne also shared in the apparent camaraderie the three had struck up. Despite herself, she was growing fond of the battered old warrior and his kindly blue eyes.
Brianna squinted at the assembled group. The noon sun was hot and growing hotter by the day. Spring had finally given way to summer. ‘We will wait until night falls,’ said the White Lady’s adviser. ‘Then we shall sail west along Deadman’s Channel under the cover of darkness. If necessary, I will blanket the ship in magic to disguise our passing. Davarus Cole will disembark near Dorminia. The rest of us will continue on and join up with our forces at the specified point.’
Brodar Kayne scratched at his jaw. He had finally got around to shaving, and he looked a good deal better for it. ‘Who’s in charge of this army, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Brianna frowned. She was a plain-looking woman, tall and thin and dressed in unremarkable blue robes. Still, Sasha had seen what she could do when she had chased off the Watchmen on the other side of the channel. No one had died in the spectacular magical assault – and she suspected that had been Brianna’s intent. It had been a display of restraint that was a complete contrast to the brutal Tyrant of Dorminia. As the days passed, Sasha had found herself starting to admire the woman.
‘Each of the three mercenary companies is led by its own general,’ replied Brianna, in response to the old barbarian’s question. ‘However, General Zahn has overall command of the army. He is a peerless warrior and a fine tactician.’
The dark-skinned assassin spoke. ‘General Zahn can be volatile,’ he warned in his soft, sibilant voice. Apparently he had somehow escaped the noose back in his homeland. The near-death experience had clearly left an indelible mark on the man.
Some scars never heal, she thought. We can cover them up and tell ourselves we’re fine, but the wounds are there for the world to see. She needed some more moon dust. She needed it so badly she could feel her palms sweating.
