“Wine,” he rasped.
Kelrob rushed to the sideboard. He poured the wine, a strong crimson vintage from the southerly vineyards of the Rolling Lands, decided against watering it, and returned to Jacobson’s side just as a faint, insistent knock sounded at the chamber door.
Jacobson accepted the goblet and drained its contents in a single long draught. “Answer it,” he croaked, wiping at the mask’s lips with the arm of his tunic. “I’ll do my best to be presentable.”
Kelrob ran a quick, distracted hand through his hair, which had dried into a mass of snarled curls, and crossed to the door, wishing unhappily that he was at least dressed in a semi-respectable manner. Turning the latch, he cracked the door open open a few inches to reveal a liveried member of Lord Azumana’s household swaying dreamily beneath the lintel. “Yes?” the mage asked, far too sharply, opening the door a few more degrees. Jacobson struggled to his feet in the background, forcing his body to sloppy attention.
The servant was a woman in her mid-thirties, her well-muscled body concealed beneath a fall of crimson skirts that were artfully slit to allow free movement in combat. Her proud nose and pale blue eyes identified her as a member of the Thalit family, Lord Azumana’s trusted and lavished lineage, though Kelrob could not recall her first name. A curved sword hung at her side, and Kelrob saw that she too bore a pistol in the black sash binding her waist, one thumb poised on the hammer. Her eyes, however, were wide and luminous; turning slowly to Kelrob, she said, in a small voice, “I heard music, just now. The most beautiful music.”
Kelrob grimaced behind the twitching curve of his lips. “You liked it?” he asked stupidly, glancing back into the chamber at Jacobson. “That was just my friend...practicing.”
Jacobson nodded and stepped forward. The servant twitched as she saw the mask, one hand straying to her pistol despite her transported air. “Glad you liked it, m’lady. It’s a little ditty of my own design, called The Whore of Mungus-Town. Perhaps you’d care to hear the words?”
The servant frowned, her enraptured expression dimming. “Thank you, but no,” she said, her voice betraying more confusion than distaste. “But it was lovely, the loveliest thing I’ve ever heard. What instrument do you play?”
Jacobson bowed at her praise, only a slight stumble betraying his disorientation. “Trade secret,” he said. “I only play from behind closed doors, or at least an obscuring sheet. A man can never be too careful with his livelihood.”
The servant’s face tightened. She seemed about to inquire further, and Kelrob hastened to cut her off. “Was there something you wanted?” he asked, opening the door wider and suppressing a blush as the woman took in the fluffy white robe cocooning his body.
The servant blinked, then drew her heels together and bowed, hand straying from her pistol. “My apologies, my lord. I was...momentarily overcome. Lord Azumana sent me to make certain that your accommodations were acceptable, and to bring you these.” She took a stack of freshly-laundered clothing from a table in the hall and held it out to Kelrob. He recognized his familiar tunics and breeches, alongside several garish pieces of clothing that clearly constituted a gift from his impending father-in-law. Kelrob accepted the garments with a faint nod, said “Thank you,” and made to close the door. The servant cleared her throat, halting the operation.
“The lord also bid me tell you that the uprising in the outer city has been successfully quelled. We received the report an hour ago. Apparently the perpetrators were men of the city guard,” her lips curved downwards scornfully as she spoke, “mingled with some lower-class dreck, who took it into their heads to strip off all their clothing and steal a magazine’s worth of powder. Right now their madness is being laid at the feet of poisoned ale. All the garrison involved were on leave last night in the taverns.” Her hands curled as she spoke, and Kelrob could swear he saw a tear manifest in one hardened eye. Noting his scrutiny, she brushed the moisture away and said, “Forgive me, lord magister. My brother is a lieutenant of the gate. I’ve had no word of him yet.”
The long-suppressed blush raced into Kelrob’s cheeks. He returned the woman’s bow, an act that clearly startled her. “My apologies,” he said in a muted voice. “This has been a very tragic day for many.”
The servant nodded, drawing herself up. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, eyes now dry and clear. “I have one more message to convey. Lord Azumana has received news of the route with good cheer, and wishes to inform you that the betrothal dinner will commence at eight o’clock sharp, as scheduled.” Her voice grew hard as she spoke, and Kelrob wondered how the servant truly felt about her liege-lord celebrating a feast on such a black day. He almost asked her, but instead thanked her for her messages and the stack of clothing, and tried again to shut the door. The woman, however, was still faintly caught in the thread of Tamrel’s song, and clearing her throat said to Jacobson, “Sir, your skill is beyond that of most men. Truly I have never heard music like yours.”
Jacobson shrugged modestly. “It’s a gift,” he said. “Sometimes it seems like my fingers play all by themselves.”
She smiled sadly, seemed about to say more, then bowed and withdrew. Kelrob closed the door gratefully and leaned against it, his new revelations muted by the reminder that soon, very soon, he would sit down to dine with his as-yet unseen bride.
Jacobson gave Kelrob a moment to collect himself, flexing his fingers and the muscles of his legs, which persisted in tingling as if asleep. He had seen the glow of understanding on Kelrob’s face, though the song Tamrel had played to elicit it had reached the big man only as a muddied, distant strain. In that moment Jacobson had given up the cause as lost, and resigned himself to an eternity of imprisonment in his own rotting brain. Surely the lad couldn’t resist whatever metaphysical morsel the bard had conjured. But following close on the expression of awe and childlike surrender came a hardening of Kelrob’s features, until it seemed that he too was wearing a mask. Everything had changed in that moment, though Jacobson couldn’t fathom how. He’d watched Kelrob spring up from bed and walk towards Tamrel, the fire in his black eyes bright with triumph. I have a soul, he’d said, then stomped the demon’s offer flat. Whatever the mage had seen, whatever Tamrel had shown him, Kelrob had turned and driven it into the heart of his foe, a deed that Jacobson sore admired. He waited until Kelrob had gathered his composure, then said, in a kindly voice, “I suppose we should get you dressed, eh? Can’t go to your betrothal dinner looking like a dissolute noble in a bathhouse.”
Kelrob glanced down at the robe, then to the stack of clothing the servant had brought. “I don’t really have anything appropriate for the occasion,” he said bitterly.
“Come now, lad. What about this?” Going to the bundle, Jacobson drew out a tunic of pale azure linen, the cuffs and waist embroidered with green thread the color of sea-foam. “Surely fit for a banquet, if nothing else.”
Kelrob shook his head, detaching himself from the door. Jacobson wanted to ask the magister what he had seen, but at the same time hoped Kelrob would keep his secret secret, if only for the fact that it may give him some indefinable weapon against Tamrel. Instead of asking questions he held the tunic up against his bulbous midsection, and modeled it for the mage.
“It’s the wrong color for this season,” Kelrob said. “Those are summer vestments. I need something more earth-toned.”
Jacobson bundled up the tunic and tossed it on the bed. “Nobles,” he grumbled. Reaching into the stack, he drew out a brownish-gold tunic and accompanying jerkin, the sleeves of the latter sewn with swirls of multi-hued leaves. He personally thought the arrangement garish, but held it up nonetheless, his eyebrows raising behind the mask. “This seems appropriately festive. All you need to do is stick a pumpkin on your head to complete the ensemble.”
Kelrob smiled faintly. “It’s more a dancing garment, which is why I never wear it. I suppose it will have to do.” He sighed, and looked away f
rom Jacobson, his eyes boring into a point somewhere near the foot of the bed. “I’ve failed you again. Though failure is relative. At least we’ve ruled out three possibilities.”
“The fiend miscalculated,” Jacobson said, expertly running his fingers along the seams of the jerkin, testing for loose threads. “I don’t know what he showed you, and I don’t want to know. Right now the only pressing issue is getting you into some appropriate duds before they cart you to the auction block.” Satisfied with the stitching, he held the up jerkin against his comparatively huge body. “A dancing outfit, you say? I wish they’d given us such wonderful camouflage on my last forest campaign. Certainly would have made the business of being a bandit easier, in autumn at least.” With an unseen grin he tossed the tunic and jerkin to Kelrob, who fumbled with them before clutching them to his chest. “I suppose you’ll want a little privacy. Get dressed, and then we’ll tend to that raven’s thatching you call hair. I can polish your boots in the meantime.”
Kelrob nodded his thanks. Clutching the garments to his chest, he rooted about for the accompanying trousers (also embroidered in twining, particolored vegetation) and made for the adjoining rooms. Halting in the doorway, he turned and said, “I think I’ll change in the library. Less chance of drowning.”
Jacobson nodded his approval. “Very good. Just mind you don’t get a paper cut and bleed to death.”
The mage managed a faint smile, his dark eyes flashing. Then he was through the door and gone.
Poor lad, Jacobson thought, a little too tenderly for his own comfort. As he set to spit-polishing Kelrob’s dirt-and-loam encrusted boots, he reflected that, for all the mage’s apparent fragility, he was far from an oh-so-delicate blossom. In truth (a truth the silly lad kept from himself), he had considerable grit and determination, not to mention an actual sense of honor, something that Jacobson had found in few men. As he hauked and spat and burnished he made a note to mentally re-categorize Kelrob, deciding to think of the mage as a tried-and-tested man rather than a stripling. Though of course he would still call the lad lad, a habit that had burst into spontaneous being and which Kelrob seemed to show no objection to. He’s used to thinking of himself as a child, Jacobson mused, fishing in his pocket for a cleaner handkerchief. He spat again, and it caught on the mask’s lips, trickling down to saturate the stubble he could no longer trim. Absently Jacobson wondered what would happen when his beard began to grow, and entertained the notion of his facial hair expanding until it pried the mask free with a loud ridiculous pop! Damn you, Tamrel. He directed the curse inwards, where he felt it absorbed and assimilated. The mask’s lips bent in a smile. Looking down, Jacobson caught sight of the grin in the shining toe of Kelrob’s boot.
The boy is a fool, the bard whispered, his unspoken words accompanied by a cacophony of mocking laughter. You are all fools.
17: Countdown
Kelrob shed the robe gratefully, making certain that the curtains of the study were firmly drawn before peeling off the fluffy skin and standing in nakedness amid the welcome reek of old parchment. He inhaled deeply, spread his arms and fingers, and stood for a moment in savoring silence. He felt strong, stronger than he had in recent memory; his mind hummed with thought unimpeded by weariness or uncertainty or guilt or fear.
The sun was well into its westering, sending lurid light seeping between the curtains. Kelrob crossed to them, parted the heavy muslin folds just enough to stare out at the fat disc as it burned down into the fume-laden skyline of Tannigal. A thrill of resolve raced along his nerves, and he let the curtains fall shut, his mind swaying with a remembrance of the euphonious particles he had seen and heard and joined in dance. Turning to the event-inappropriate tunic and jerkin and trousers stacked on the reading table, he felt a customary blush brewing in his cheeks, and stymied the response. It was all he had, damn it. If Azumana chose to take offense, perhaps he would delay the feast. In fact, Kelrob realized, he might benefit from a few calculated faux pas over the evening, and immediately began hatching a plot to use his pudding-knife to cut his steak. With renewed spirits he put on his underthings, slid into the trousers, donned the tunic, and eased the decorative jerkin over his slim shoulders. The fit was a bit tight, as the outfit had been tailored two autumns’ past; apparently he was still growing. Kelrob straightened the sleeves, tugged the collar up to a tolerable angle, and stood wriggling his bare toes against the warm wood of the floor. He was ready, he was set. With a final steeling inhalation of musky air, he left the study and headed back to the bedroom, where Jacobson was just putting the finishing touches on his boots.
The big man looked up at his entrance, and Kelrob felt no shock at the sight of the mask. Stepping fully into the room, he turned slowly in place, his arms held out steady at his sides. “How do I look?” he asked half-jokingly.
Jacobson rose from his seat at the edge of the bed and held up Kelrob’s travel boots, cleansed of dust and offal. “Like a gaudy god of the wood. And I’ve got your hooves all ready.” He motioned Kelrob over, and offered to slide the boots onto his feet. The mage blushed and snatched them from Jacobson’s hands, drawing up a chair and performing the operation himself. His feet were swollen from days of travel, and protested achingly as he slid on his stockings. The boots elicited a deeper, more intense agony, and as the mage did up the laces he couldn’t suppress a wince. He then sat and endured Jacobson working at his hair with a chalcedony-inlaid comb, the big man giving up after a few minutes and fetching a glass of water from the washroom. This he used to wet Kelrob’s hair, after which the disentangling proceeded more smoothly. Kelrob fetched some fragrant oils from a pocket of his robes dedicated to toiletries, and combed them in, parting his hair on the left side and slicking it backwards in a reasonable imitation of current Great City fashion. Unfortunately the style emphasized the huge alabaster expanse of his forehead, but Kelrob contented himself by remembering that he need only make a modest impression. The marriage was arranged, after all. As an afterthought he handed Jacobson a mirror, smoothed down his thick raven eyebrows, laid a thin sheen of wax on his lips, and sprinkled his body with a sandalwood perfume that he found personally pleasing. Jacobson watched these final preparations in open amusement, and when Kelrob laid on the finishing touches (a blushing powder applied to his pale cheeks), the big man laughed, the mirror shaking in his hand.
“You look like a right tart, lad. Do the men of your class really perfume and powder themselves so?”
Kelrob finished rubbing the blush into his cheeks, his skin remaining wan and unflushed by embarrassment. “This is nothing. If I were to take the proper measures I’d need far more time and plenty of unguents. Some of my acquaintances at the Rookery even wear powdered wigs and stick fake moles on their skin, but I find the whole practice repellant. A little makeup can go a long way.” Turning his head from side to side, the mage examined his reflection, then sighed and motioned for Jacobson to set the mirror aside. A quick glance at the waterclock dripping away in its illumined alcove showed that it was seven-thirty in the evening, almost time for his grand performance.
Kelrob gulped. An acidic burning was growing in his stomach, an all-too-familiar sensation; now that the time was almost nigh he felt a return of the mad impulse to leap out the window and plummet to a grand and splattery demise. The urge was ridiculous, and he recognized it as such, regulating his breathing and staving off the threat of panic. Instead he turned to Jacobson, and said as calmly as he could manage, “I’ll use tonight to gather what information I can. If the revolt really has been put down, we should have some breathing room. At the feast I’ll ask Lord Azumana for the use of his conservatory as a small boon in celebration of my marriage. Not that it will matter, since Tamrel has pretty clearly demonstrated his abilities, but we have to try. And after that...” the mage shrugged.
Jacobson nodded. “We’ll play it by ear. And what about Nuir? Have you thought of what you’ll say to her?”
Kelrob nodded
stiffly. “All the proper formalities.”
“Aye, I suppose that’s for the best. But remember, lad, this hapless female probably doesn’t want you any more than you want her. Be kind if you can.” As Jacobson spoke he rooted in a pocket of his vest, withdrawing a curve-stemmed wooden pipe and a fragrant leather satchel. Holding them up, he said, in a hesitant tone, “Don’t suppose you want a pinch of smokeweed before the big event? It can do wonders for the nerves.”
Kelrob pursed his lips in distaste, remembering his first frantic sampling of hashish in the House of the Setting Sun. “Thank you, but I’m perfectly at ease,” he said, hands curling into tight fists in his lap.
Jacobson snorted. “I’ve seen Aks that were more relaxed.” Opening the leather satchel, he withdrew a few pinches of pungent herb and tamped them into the bowl. “Come now, lad, have a quick light with me. We can crack the window if you want to hide your indulgence.”
Kelrob closed his eyes, drew in a heavy breath, and nodded his assent. “The window won’t be necessary,” he said as Jacobson handed him the pipe and a taper lit from the hearthfire. “The house’s filtration system should take care of the smell. Lord Azumana is quite particular about the air he breathes.”
“Of course,” Jacobson said. He watched in silence as Kelrob touched the taper to the material in the bowl; the mage sucked the smoke into his lungs, and immediately burst into a hail of coughing. Stars burst in his vision, and he passed the still-smoldering pipe to Jacobson, the hot rasp in his lungs displacing the pain in his stomach. Jacobson took the pipe with a bow of his head, set the stem to his concealed lips with some difficulty, and putting taper to leaf drew in a long, steady pull. The smoke eventually gushed from the nostril-slits of the mask, and he passed the pipe back to Kelrob, who was still recovering from his first toke. The mage accepted, steeled himself, and took a second, longer pull, this time forcing the smoke to remain in his lungs. After a few moments the burning sensation eased, and when he exhaled a cool bluish puff of smoke emerged, curling into the ether. Kelrob giggled slightly, and passed the pipe, which Jacobson indulged in several more times before tapping out the bowl and returning the implement to his vest. “You’ve had enough,” he said to the mage, “at least for present. How do you feel?”
Scott J Couturier - [The Magistricide 01] Page 24
