The Queen's assassin tc-3

by William King

  “We shall talk about this later, Rik. Now we had better leave this place.”

  Malkior entered the observation post in the flat across the street from the embassy. Soon it would be time to mount his attack. The spy he had set to watch the Taloreans looked up at him, and smiled. The power from those souls he had just devoured roiled within him. He felt strong and powerful enough to overcome even the likes of Asea. As was always the case after he had performed a ritual, the voices in his head whispered to him like old friends, reminding him he was alive and powerful, while they were mere dregs inside of his brain.

  “Things have been quiet since the beggar went inside, sir.”

  “What beggar?”

  “Same one as left early this morning unless I miss my guess. The one you told us to keep an eye open for.”

  “The half-breed, Rik? Asea’s lover?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “I saw it with my own eyes.” Malkior cursed. He should have come here earlier, but he wanted to give his prey time to go to sleep, and to build up his magical strength through thanatomantic rituals. Tonight of all nights, he needed to be strong.

  “Are you absolutely certain?” Even as Malkior asked the question, the door opened and an Intercessor entered the room. It was the man, Alaryn, a being who Malkior trusted as far as he could throw him, if that. There was no need to ask how the Quan’s lackey had found him. Very little went on in the city that the Council and the Sea Devils did not know about.

  “You have some answers to give, Lord Malkior?” he said.

  “Are you sure they can’t wait?” asked Malkior pleasantly. “I am about to be very busy.”

  “The Quan are not happy with you.”

  Malkior turned and stared. The voices babbled in a chorus of anger and confusion. “What?”

  “One of their Exarchs has been killed. They think you have something to do with it.” Malkior squelched the impulse to slay the fool on the spot.

  “What nonsense is this?”

  “The Exarch was killed on the prison hulk.”

  “That’s not possible. He was alive when I saw him not two hours ago.”

  “He is dead now.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. But there was no mark upon him, and the Quan Overlords think his soul was drained.” Alaryn looked at him suspiciously. Malkior wondered if the signs of his recent ritual feeding were visible to the Intercessor’s eye. The wrong impression made here might prove fatal.

  “Well what did the men on the hulk tell you?”

  “Nothing. They were all dead.”

  A chill passed up Malkior’s spine. A crescendo of fear rose among the voices. Was it possible that his supposed son had done this? Had the little bastard been that much more capable than Malkior gave him credit for being? Had he sat there and laughed at Malkior then casually murdered a Quan Exarch and his Intercessor-recruited bodyguard before making his escape and returning to the embassy? Malkior laughed, caught between the impossibility of the idea and the apparent fact of it being true.

  “I can assure you this is no laughing matter, Lord Malkior. You told us the boy would be an easy target. You asked for a Quan Exarch to interrogate him yourself. Now he is gone and all witnesses to the way the boy escaped are dead — other than yourself. The Quan are quite keen to ask you some questions.”

  “I’ll bet they are.”

  “No need to worry about Lady Asea,” said Alaryn. “The Council is sending a company of soldiers to request her presence too.”

  Malkior felt his whole plan slipping beyond his control. If he remained here, the Sea Devils might catch him and he could imagine the form their interrogation would take. He had no desire to find out whether he was capable of overcoming multiple Exarchs in sorcerous conflict or of surviving the sort of sorcerous interrogation they would perform. He had no desire to be stuck here with the Quan turned against him either. Fortunately, as always, he had prepared a bolthole and was ready to use it, and at least Asea was trapped here at the mercy of the Quan, and he doubted they would be gentle with her.

  Rik stepped out into the courtyard in the centre of the embassy. His mind reeled from the night’s events. What he saw stumped him completely. The bodyguard was assembled there and Asea’s dress baskets were set up in the middle of the courtyard.

  “If you would be so kind as to open the baskets and take out their contents,” she said to Sergeant Hef. “Please be very careful.”

  Slowly, realisation of what was happening filled Rik. As he watched the men opened the wicker baskets. There was cloth within, but it was not made in the form of dresses. It was made in the form of Benjario’s huge balloon. As Asea gave calm careful orders the huge gasbags were laid flat and attached to eyeholes in the side of baskets with cables of spidersilk. There were three of them, and space enough in them for all ten Foragers, Sardec and Asea. Suddenly, a lot of things made sense.

  Asea looked inside each of the baskets and produced a small rune-covered flask. They were much smaller than the ones she had used to summon elementals from in the past, but if he guessed correctly containing creatures more than strong enough for her purposes.

  “Can you control all of them at once?” he asked her.

  “They are much less powerful than War Elementals, and much less strong-willed. It will be a strain but I can manage it.”

  “What about the wards in the city walls? Will they not destroy them?”

  “I doubt it, but if they do it will be of no matter.”

  “It will be to us, if your creatures fail and we plummet to our doom.”

  “That will not happen, Rik. Trust me.”

  “I guess I am just going to have to.”

  Without further ado, she opened the first of the flasks. A small salamander, a tiny fire-elemental, spun out, its flickering light mirrored in the flask’s polished interior.

  At Asea’s command men opened the mouth of the gasbag. The elemental moved closer and hot air began to fill it. One by one, more salamanders exited the flask. One by one, the gasbags rose. Asea ordered the men to hold them down.

  Sardec turned to Weasel and the Barbarian. “It’s a pity about Ambassador Valefor’s accident,” he said.

  “Accident, sir?” said Weasel.

  “The way he fell from the balloons when we were trying to escape.”

  “Right you are, sir,” said Weasel. “I shall go and fetch him.”

  “Don’t kill him,” Asea said. “He may be innocent, and even if he is not, we don’t have the time. Get aboard. If need be, I will deal with Valefor later.”

  Her tone told them that a quick clean death might be better for him if he had betrayed them. Asea’s vengeance would not be pretty.

  Vengeance is good, the voices in Rik’s head whispered.

  The balloon lurched skyward. The courtyard of the embassy receded below them. Soon they were drifting above the cities red-tiled roofs, getting higher with every heartbeat. Sardec clutched the wickerwork of the basket with his hook and stared down. It looked like they had taken off none too soon.

  Coming up the street towards the embassy he could see a large body of men. By the light of their glowstone lanterns he could see that they numbered in the hundreds and were armed with muskets. A quick calculation told Sardec that they were most likely out of range now, which was good, because he shuddered to think what would happen if a musket ball penetrated the silk gasbag overhead.

  The wind pushed them away from the sea. Sardec was glad because from this height he could see something strange was happening out there. The waters around the edge of the harbour boiled. Something massive and luminescent blocked the harbour mouth. It looked like a squid but was big as an island and its tentacles seemed so long that they might be able to reach up and pull the balloons from the sky. He shivered and pulled his coat tighter. It was cold up here but that was not what had caused the chill to run down his spine.

  They drifted above temple spir
es. The waters of countless streams glinted silver below them. Once or twice he heard shouts and screams. Perhaps someone had looked up and seen the balloons drifting across the moon.

  Rik still made Sardec uneasy. He had the feral inhuman look to him that Sardec had noticed earlier, and there was something strange and pained about his movements. If Sardec had not known better he would have thought the half-man possessed.

  What had gone on between the Sardean and the half-breed, Sardec wondered? Why did Rik look so battered? What exactly was the nature of their conversation? And why was one of the highest lords of the Dark Empire talking to Rik anyway. Had there been some sort of secret negotiations going on between him and Asea, using the half-breed as a go between? If so, why had Rik claimed to have escaped and killed a Sea Devil in the process?

  The city walls came ever closer, and with them the moment Sardec dreaded. There were potent warding spells woven into those walls. Amongst other things the wards were intended to keep war elementals out. What would happen when the salamanders feeding hot air into those balloons encountered the wards? Perhaps they would simply be snuffed out. That was not a reassuring thought so far above the ground.

  Lord Malkior stepped back into the shadows at the back of the room. The drumbeat march of the Council’s soldiers had stopped outside the embassy, and they were demanding the doors be opened. They were going to be deeply disappointed when they got inside.

  Alaryn watched him like a hawk. Malkior shook his head. “I am not so foolish as to think I can escape from the city when the Quan wish otherwise. Please allow me to collect a few adjuncts from my dwelling and I will join the Council soon.”

  “I am afraid I cannot allow that,” said Alaryn.

  Malkior feigned anger as he stepped closer. “Cannot or will not? You do not like Terrarchs do you, human?”

  “It is nothing personal,” said Alaryn, and collapsed as Malkior’s blow caught him on the side of the head. Malkior caught the wizard as he fell, and let him slide gently to the ground. He wished that he could punish the man for his insolence, but any use of his personal brand of magic would let the Council know what Malkior really was, and there was no need to make things worse there than they already were.

  “Intercessor Alaryn appears to have taken ill,” Malkior told the spy at the window. “See to it that he is looked after while I collect my gear.”

  Before the man had time to reply, Malkior swept passed him, out the backdoor and into the night and shadows. He was annoyed at the failure of his carefully woven plans here, and knew that he was going to have some way to make Asea and her pet pay. For now though, it was time to flee the city.

  After that he would need to accelerate his plans to kill Kathea, and make sure the Taloreans had cause to regret their invasion of Kharadrea. The voices in his head roared agreement. He called on the power within him, stepped into the shadows and vanished from mortal sight.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “How did you know the wind would drive us south?” Sardec asked as they approached the wall.

  “Nine times out of ten it blows off the sea at this time of year,” Asea said.

  “So you could still have been wrong about it?”

  “Yes. I expected to make my departure at the time of my choosing, but the odds were still with us. And if they had not been, I have a contingency plan.”

  Before Sardec could ask what it was they passed over the walls. Sardec flinched but nothing happened.

  “We’re through the wards,” he said, not quite believing it.

  “Of course, they are designed to keep things out, not in,” Asea shouted. “Even if the elementals had been dismissed, we are perfectly safe.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “The gasbags are already filled with hot air. It would take some time for it to cool, and for us to sink gently earthward. Before that happened I would release more salamanders and we could continue our journey. It would not do to land in the swamp by night.”

  “No, it would not.” Sardec smiled in relief. It seemed they might live through this after all.

  Dawn saw them leave the swamp behind them. Rik was glad. The smell of rot and marsh gas and other things rising from the land below them had brought back memories, not all of them his own. He had spent all night in fitful dreams, waking in the cold that the heat of the salamanders only partially protected them from, with the recollections of dead men, and other things bubbling to the surface of his mind.

  There had been times in the coldest, darkest hours of the night when he had almost wished the Quan had killed him. At least then he would not have had to undergo this torture. It might have gone worse, he tried to tell himself. Part of him might still be alive, drowning in the memories of the Sea Devil forever, part of his soul preserved in it, as its soul was now preserved in him.

  He felt horrible, worse than he had ever done when he was sick or hung-over and he knew the feeling could not be cured by healing spells because it was something that was directly within his brain. Whatever happened, he decided, he would not rest until he had paid Malkior back for putting him through this.

  Yes, yes, vengeance, said the voices at the back of his mind.

  He looked down on the snow-covered land below them. Occasionally, when they drifted over a fortified manor, or a farmhouse, tiny people looked up at them as if they were some passing god or demon.

  “You are awake,” said Asea. “Good — you are just in time to witness the second part of this experiment.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Watch and learn,” she said. She had a second flask in her hand now, and muttering a spell, she opened it. The air grew colder as a small translucent humanoid figure emerged, it swirled around them as much cloud as person, ghost-like. As Asea spoke it swirled off into the mid-distance. The wind picked up driving them on southward, faster than they had gone previously. She repeated the process again and again, and with each of the creatures released their speed increased. At this height with no reference points nearby to judge against, Rik could not say exactly how fast. He guessed that their speed was at least as great as a galloping horse. And even if they were followed by a troop of hussars, they would still have to follow the roads and the curve of the hills; they could not fly directly over things as the balloons could.

  “I would rather we were not overtaken by pursuit from Harven,” she said.

  “I can understand why. How long can you keep this up?”

  She looked a bit stunned already. Gazing closely at her, he could see her pupils were dilated, and suspected that she had once again resorted to her potions for energy and wakefulness.

  “As long as I need to,” she replied.

  “I pray that it is the case.”

  For days they passed over a landscape that seemed a dead white desert. Sometimes they saw foraging troops. Mostly they saw the smoke and lights of small towns. It was cold, and they had nothing to eat, and it was quite a strain to relieve yourself over the edge of a basket with nothing but thousands of feet of air below you.

  There were times, particularly when they passed through clouds, when Sardec could almost believe that they had died and were floating through some nether realm of damned souls. It seemed that he was not the only one who felt that way. Amid the clouds, the men shouted and sang, making noise just to reassure themselves that there were other people out there, that they were not lost in some heavenly limbo, that there was a chance that they might someday return to the surface of the world.

  Sardec prayed that was the case. He worried about many things, about the structural integrity of the baskets and the strength of the ropes. It would only take one slight mishap and a basketful of them could be sent tumbling to the earth far below.

  He found himself thinking about many things. He contemplated the military use of the balloons. Perhaps they could be used for spotting but they would be vulnerable to dragons in summer and elementals in winter unless provided with their own protection. He reckoned they mu
st have been fortunate indeed that the Council in Harven had been so taken by surprise that they had not summoned any elementals themselves. When he pointed this out to Asea she said; “There was only a little good luck involved. It takes time to unleash elementals, and even more time to bind them unless you have some prepared. Without any warning of what was happening, it was a fair bet that we could get away unchallenged. And there are no dragons in Harven. The Quan do not like them and they do not like the Quan.”

  Her words were slurred and her manner troubled Sardec. Her eyes looked huge and she seemed even more pale and gaunt than the Lady of the Ghouls he had encountered back in Halim. It was obvious that she was burning through a great deal of her personal power, and she was going to have to pay a dreadful price for that some time soon. He looked at the half-breed who just shrugged as if to say there was nothing he could do, which was most likely the truth.

  Sardec hated this. He hated the feeling that there was nothing he could do, that he had no control over his own destiny. Matters were out of his hands, and would be until they returned to earth. He thought about Rena a lot, praying that he would get a chance to see her again, thinking long and hard about what he had seen in the great sea port of the way that Terrarch and human lived together there, wondering if such might not be the case everywhere some day.

  There had been a time not so long ago when that would have seemed anathema to him. It would still seem so to many of his comrades, but he was starting to think that matters might not be so bad. He had once argued the exact opposite with Asea, and thoughts of that argument returned to him now. He wanted to say that he found himself far more in sympathy with her Scarlet ideas now than he once had been, but he did not want to disturb her concentration. Instead, seeking companionship and some conversation, he turned to Rik who huddled miserable and sick-looking in the corner of the basket, glaring at everyone with insane hatred in his eyes. Like all of them he was unshaven, and the stubble on his jaw gave him a wild feral look.