Scott J Couturier - [The Magistricide 01]

by The Mask of Tamrel (epub)

  “My lord!” Kelrob gasped, shocked beyond apprehension by Azumana’s servile posture.

  The lord glanced up, the serpent-smile still wriggling on his lips. “It is a very old custom amongst my people that the father wash the feet of his sons on the day of their betrothal. It is a symbol of passage, a claim made on each generation by the other. You need only receive my blessing, and in doing so grant me your own.”

  Kelrob gulped, said nothing else as this lord of lords tugged his boots free from his swollen feet, peeled away his stockings, frowned briefly at the bruises mottling his calves, and, taking up the bowl of rose-scented water and a soft linen cloth, set to the cleansing. “You seem to have traveled quite far,” the lord said, the only hint of displeasure he expressed at the undesirability of his task. Kelrob winced as Azumana gently scrubbed at his heels, his toes, his soles, the spent water gathering about his feet in a rose-scented puddle. At last the task was done, and the lord set bowl and cloth aside and toweled off the excess water. He then pulled on Kelrob’s stockings, laced up his aching flesh in the accursed boots, and rose to tower above the mage, his smile degenerating into a loathsome smirk. “Now you are mine,” he said. “You are mine until I die; only then will you own yourself. It is said by some that I am a harsh man, by others that I am a wicked man, but this is not so. I am only a businessman, a true servant of the Coin. And that is what you must be, Kelrob Kael-Pellin: a true servant. You will serve the Coin through my wishes, and to great reward.”

  Kelrob looked up into the glittering eyes of his father-in-law, a chill coming into his heart. “I serve only the Isdori and the will of the Gyre Itself,” he said. “They are the only masters I am allowed.”

  The lord laughed merrily. “Of course I do not mean for you to abandon your allegiances! But you are forgetting you third duty, to the wishes of your father, which I soon will be. Fear not: bowing to my will is as simple as receiving a gift. I will make certain that you have sufficient holdings to support you indefinitely, a penthouse in the Rhue district of the Seven Cities, a floating palace on the Lake of Blinding Waters. You may move about your estates freely, though of course my own accountants will continue to manage them. Beyond that your only responsibilities will be social and procreative. You see, my dear boy, you are quite invaluable to me, but not for your nature or temperament. No, this is a business arrangement, no point in pretending otherwise, but that certainly doesn’t mean it can’t be pleasurable.”

  The chill in Kelrob’s heart deepened. “And what has my father promised you?” he demanded. “It must be substantial, since I am clearly not the prize.”

  Azumana swept his long arms upward, then down, a grotesque bird flapping its wings. “That is between Amon Kael-Pellin and myself. Really, Kelrob, you should know better than to prize into a sacred dealing. Needless to say, with the help of your father, the fortunes of both our families will be magnified. That is all you need know or care about, save, of course, the keeping of my daughter.”

  A brazen gong sounded from within the feasting hall, the sound shivering through the rosewood doors. “It is time,” Azumana said, and sweeping his arm around Kelrob (the mage noted he took care not to smear his fineries with oil) guided the mage forward towards the great doors, which swung open on silent hinges. A few more steps, and Kelrob found himself in the familiar hall, now blazing with candelabrum and hovering globes of luminescent crystal, the walls hung with sumptuous tapestries, bow-legged braziers spewing up clouds of opiate smoke that pooled against the vaulted ceiling. A long table stretched from the far end of the hall, where a blazing hearth fed on actual cedar logs, to the opposing end, where the servant’s entry was humbly situated. There were no windows, the hall being submerged beneath innumerable layers of galleries, passages, gardens, and morticed stone, but the hovering crystals shed an illumination not unlike sunlight. Kelrob blinked in the unexpected glare.

  “My goodness, how inappropriate,” Lord Azumana said. At a clap of his hands the hovering lights dimmed to the warm, muted glow of evening. He then guided Kelrob to the table, seating him at a high-backed chair carved to resemble the twine and flowering of living plants. Kelrob settled into the seat gratefully, glad that the veneer of ceremony was finally fading. An empty plate sat before him, made of hammered gold; to either side were a bewildering array of eating utensils, designed to strike madness into the uncultured mind. Kelrob’s stomach rumbled despite the oppressive weight of the occasion, and he realized he hadn’t eaten a bite since before that morning, when the consulate had gone up in a fuming pyre before his eyes.

  Lord Azumana settled across from him, his chair fully a foot taller than Kelrob’s, and stared at the mage across the narrow width of the table. “I use this chamber only sparingly,” he said, “when a momentous occasion demands it. This is the fifth betrothal dinner I have hosted, and the last, for you are plucking the final blossom of my loins. Nuir will join us presently; her handmaids have gone to retrieve her. Perhaps you would care for a refreshment while we wait?” Without waiting for an answer the lord clapped his hands. It was no different than the clap he had employed to dim the lights, but there must have been some subtle difference beyond Kelrob’s ken, for the lights maintained their mellow glow as a flood of servants entered the chamber from the far door, their arms laden with victuals. There were silver plates stacked high with dates, pears, quinces, pomegranates, and skinned grapes, tureens sloshing with thin-brothed soups, platters of airy baked confections, ceramic porringers bearing artful arrays of honeyed dormice, pickled lark’s tongue and gaping steamed mussels, all accompanied by several mobile sideboards containing a staggering variety of wines and liquors that put the utensils to shame. Kelrob saw the female servant who had become entranced by Tamrel’s music straining beneath a tray of mussels, her House livery changed to that of a ceremonial server, though the pistol still hung at her side. The tide of delicacy-bearing humanity swept over the table, depositing their burdens; four crystal goblets were placed at Kelrob’s left hand, filled with wines of drastically differing yet artfully complimentary disposition. Soon the table was groaning beneath its burden, and the servants retreated back to the kitchens save four attendants, young boys all, who stood at constant ready should the lord or his guest require further drink or access to a dish out of their reach.

  Kelrob goggled at the feast. It was by no means the grandest regale he had ever seen, but as this was only the overture course he could only wonder at the delicacies to come. “I don’t know where to start,” he said, his stomach rumbling in hot, if bemused, hunger. Reaching over, he took a sip of the nearest glass of wine, found it excellent and barely ulcer-agitating.

  Lord Azumana laughed, then motioned for a servant to bring him a plate of lark’s tongue. “You almost spoiled my plans,” he said, spearing several of the rubbery globs, “or rather, the provisions I had set aside for the feast. I was expecting you days ago, you know, and some things spoil faster than others. I would have sent my majordomo to acquire fresh fruits, but the city, as you know, is in a furor, and all the markets closed. So if you taste a hint of the sour or the overripe, I hope you can forgive my faltering hospitality.”

  Kelrob nodded an irritated apology. “As you know,” he said, tentatively reaching out and grabbing a pear, “my delay was hardly deliberate.”

  “Indeed. You related some of your adventures, but clearly not all. Perhaps after dinner you would repair with me and tell everything, from beginning to end?”

  Kelrob sliced into the pear with the appropriate knife, his spirits sagging at the proposition. “I am very weary,” he said, fetching the proper fork and raising the fruit to his lips. “Perhaps tomorrow, after my mind has cleared? I wouldn’t want to doze off and forget an important detail.”

  Lord Azumana, renowned for his love of salacious, incriminating, and outrageous gossip, raised his glass to the magister and drank. “So be it. You certainly look battered, dear child. You may stay in my house and rest
as long as you wish, though I suppose you have little choice with this accursed siege-dome burning overhead.”

  And what about those smuggling tunnels? Kelrob wanted desperately to ask. Instead he nibbled at his pear, looked up, and said, “What do you know of the situation down in the city? Your servant related it in brief, of course, but I’d like to know more.”

  The lord’s ruby-red lips curved downward in displeasure. “Hardly proper talk for a betrothal dinner, but under the circumstances your query is understandable. It seems that there was an outbreak of poisoned ale — brewed with hemlock or nightshade, I shouldn’t wonder — and that the men and women who drank of it, chief amongst them some simpletons of the city garrison, went frothing mad. They stole some barrels of powder — ghastly stuff, I can smell the stink of it in my chambers — and set about destroying many noted seats of power, chief amongst them the consulate and the Temple of the Coin. The whole thing is a disgrace, both to the city of Tannigal and her revered patrons, myself particularly; the occasional Ak incursion is understandable, as is the occasional mercantile rivalry, but this madness is simply untenable. I am considering moving away from this wretched frontier to someplace northerly, perhaps on the Lake of Blinding Waters, or even a bastion by the Eastern Sea.”

  Kelrob fetched a few dates as the lord talked, resolving to consume only the food he could personally reach. “Has the revolt been put down?” he asked, prying for information. “Your servant said something to that effect, but I know nothing for certain.”

  Lord Azumana snapped sharply, summoning a loaf of honey-drenched bread to his side. “The latest reports have been most reassuring,” he said as he dismissed the servant-boy with a flick of beringed fingers. “Most of the madmen have been slain, thanks in large part to the amalgamated efforts of our own House-guard. It’s at moments like these I thank the Coin for pistols, even though they are so dreadfully expensive. The last I’ve heard is that the bombings have ended, bless my aching brain, and the remaining perpetrators hounded into the slums on Cheapside, where I’m certain they will be appropriately butchered. All that remains to be dealt with is that awful dome, which is bad enough for business when it’s keeping war at bay rather than sealing it in. I don’t wonder that half my suppliers have been blown to bits, along with their wares; you’d think the city would reek of burning spices instead of that infernal powder. Thankfully the production itself takes placed outside the city, so the loss is only a minor setback, though I shouldn’t wonder if Tannigal’s status as a city-state is challenged in the near future. Then the vultures will swoop down in earnest, but they won’t have the pleasure of picking at my bones.”

  Kelrob listened intently, only just remembering to chew. He finished off the dates, drank of a different variety of wine, and said, “I must say you are handling the situation quite calmly, my lord.”

  Azumana took several dainty bites of bread, a sip of wine, and a quick snort of snuff before replying. “As I said before, I am a businessman, a calling which demands a certain degree of practicality. Centering my operations here was always done out of necessity rather than preference; in the last five years I have been working on establishing a new, less hazardous supply line, one that could be managed from the comforts of true civilization. I hadn’t planned to shift my operations for another two years, but the groundwork is laid, and can be put into motion at only a slight loss.”

  “And what of the loss of life? Surely that concerns you, beyond all wheeling and dealing.”

  The lord snorted. “And what is life but another resource, to be properly managed and exploited? My dear Kelrob, I have always thought you a naive creature, but certainly you’ve read the works of Haedan, Polinchor, Ramset? Really, I thought their philosophy was required reading at the Rookery.”

  “I have read them,” Kelrob said steadily, failing to elucidate on his boredom and personal dissatisfaction with said texts, “and I agree with you, life is a resource. However, I don’t think the great philosophers meant to trivialize the value of human existence by reducing it to resource management. One must have compassion as well as good business sense.”

  Azumana’s eyebrows slid upwards. “Ah, you do think for yourself, don’t you? Compassion is, at least in my experience, a weakness, though sometimes a necessary one. I regularly donate to charities, have even founded several. My coin saturates this city, gives it breath and life, and how do the wretches repay me? By setting fire to my warehouses and killing my clients. I fear, dear Kelrob, that the human creature is quite base, a distinctly non-exotic commodity. If I spent my time weeping and gnashing my teeth over the death and destruction visited on this city, I would be expending my energy for naught. It is regrettable, of course it is regrettable; in fact, it is precisely because it is regrettable that one must maintain a cool, focused mind. In this way further misfortune can be avoided, and the chain of disaster broken. All that I can do is secure my holdings, plan for further contingencies, and not think ill of the dead, which I certainly don’t.” The lord steepled his fingers as he spoke, the hovering lights glittering on the gemstones studding his knuckles. “Now, I think we’ve had enough of this discussion, yes? I haven’t the stomach for debating philosophy at this late hour; remember that I, too, am weary. Besides, my daughter should be drawing near. This course needs to be disposed of.” Snapping his fingers Lord Azumana summoned anew the stream of servants. They emerged from the far door with military precision and whisked away the barely-touched feast, their eyes downcast and their movements fluid. Within moments the table was empty, the room vacant except for Kelrob and the grinning lord. Disconcerted, Kelrob sipped at his wine, wishing he’d managed to down more than a few bites of fruit. The airy vintage was thankfully gentle on his stomach; he planned to pester one of the servants for a glass of water when next their liege-lord deigned them to appear.

  A gong rang out from the hall’s smoke-wreathed height. Azumana made a pleased sound, and motioned for Kelrob to rise. “My daughter approaches,” he said. “When you greet her she will offer you her hand, and you will kiss it; she will then go to her knees and kiss your feet. After that, she will join us at the table, and the two of you can get to know each other. Beneath my scrutiny, of course. You will not be left alone together until after the marriage ceremony, which I have prepared for tomorrow evening.” At Kelrob’s excessively alarmed look, the lord merely smiled. “Your unavoidable delay has stalled several business ventures of great value to me. Expedience is key. Had you arrived on time you would have had several days to prepare, but alas, the best laid plans and all of that.”

  Kelrob rose slowly from his chair, his heart as cold as stone. He had little doubt that his father had entered into some shady arrangement with Azumana; otherwise, none of this made any sense. The mention of business deals stalled by his delay meant that there were significant resources tied up in the union, the boundaries of which Kelrob could only speculate. Surely his father hadn’t endangered the Kael-Pellin estate, yet the extremely secretive nature of the bargain set the mage’s oil-embalmed hair to prickling. Lord Tensi Azumana was reputed for his ruthlessness, Lord Amon Kael-Pellin for his dedication to swelling the familial coffers. Between them, it was impossible to guess what had occurred, be it trickery on Azumana’s part or baldfaced betrayal on Amon’s, or an admixture of both. Kelrob desperately hoped for the former, though nothing would ever compel him to truly trust his father again. The realization burned like gall in his stomach, and he winced with pain as the great rosewood doors swung inwards, revealing his future bride.

  She stood proudly in the doorway, flanked by the censor-wreathed handmaids. Even as Kelrob watched these women bowed and vanished from sight, leaving the short, slim, heavily-veiled woman to enter the hall alone. Kelrob rose and gulped as she approached him, noting the surprising indelicacy of her steps, the way her shoulders swung and swaggered like those of a man. She was dressed much like the handmaids, a long diaphanous veil hanging down to cover her lower fac
e and the upper portion of her body. She was barefoot, her ankles drenched in golden circlets; Kelrob wondered if this accounted, at least in part, for the heaviness of her step. The only revealed portion of her body were her eyes, glistening brown and close-set, staring out from the exposed fraction of her dusky face. Her hair was tied into a thick braid which hung over her left shoulder, black and glistening and interwoven with small polished gemstones and threads of shining metal. As she approached Kelrob she made no move towards obeisance, entering the hall proudly, the anklets jangling about her feet. The mage saw they were not actually bare, but clad in small tight-fitting slippers of embroidered leather. Behind her the doors swung silently shut, touched by no earthly hand.

  19: Nuir

  Lord Azumana rose from his chair and spread is arms wide at her approach, the slit of a smile marking his crimson lips. “My dear daughter Nuir, welcome! You see before you the man you are to marry, magister Kelrob Kael-Pellin of the Rolling Lands. Come forward and pay your respects.”

  Nuir’s eyes lanced to her father, and Kelrob was surprised by the unconcealed anger in her glare. Ignoring the lord she approached Kelrob and eyed him up and down; Kelrob found himself compelled to stand straighter, and did so, returning scrutiny for scrutiny. After several wordless moments, in which Azumana cleared his throat loudly, the mage said in a wavery voice, “I think I’m supposed to kiss your hand.”

  Nuir’s eyes jumped up to his, met them. “Yes,” she said, “and then I kiss your boots. A first taste of the servitude of marriage. A lovely ritual, except that I’ve no desire to taste leather for the rest of the evening.” Thrusting out a thin, dark-skinned arm, she offered Kelrob her hand, which he took clumsily and shook three times.

  Lord Azumana slammed his fist down on the table. “Nuir,” he said warningly, “you disgrace our customs, our people. You will do what you must do. Present your hand.”