Kelrob rose from his chair, stepped around a patch of oil, and began to pace beside the table, hands laced tightly behind his back. So. His father had made the deal, made it utterly and completely; he had not only betrayed his son, he had betrayed the unwritten law of the Rolling Lands. The last time a laird had sold his holdings to an outsider had been four hundred years ago, and the estate had fallen into decrepitude shortly thereafter, claimed by weeds and devouring insects. What had driven Amon to such a desperate, forbidden, and uncharacteristic act was beyond Kelrob, and the mage cursed the hovering siege-dome which prevented the sending and receiving of air missives. He increased his pacing, broken glass crunching and oil squelching beneath his boots. Nuir watched him, her dark eyes shining with a feverish light. At last she reached out a hand and caught him by the elbow, staying his increasingly frenetic back-and-forth motion.
“There is no escape,” she said, rising and standing beside him, holding him fast. “The law of my people is strict. If I refuse my father’s chosen match he can lawfully put me to death, or worse lock me away in some attic. Your binding is less severe, to my understanding; you could refuse, but you would be disinherited, cast from your family in disgrace. It would also endanger your position in the Order, for a man without a surname cannot bear the title of magister.”
Kelrob looked down dimly at her grip, his mind churning and gasping, reaching for reason. “I know all this,” he said.
“Do you? Then why do you pace?”
Kelrob smiled at her grimly. “The behavior of a caged animal. I imagine I’ll grow accustomed to captivity in short order. Please let go of my arm.”
Nuir complied, her hand falling limply to her side. “You are a strange man,” she said bemusedly. “All the other suitors were bawdy and eager to get their hands beneath my skirt. I convinced one of them that I had a set of teeth between my legs; the others I slapped away until their fingers were red and swollen. But you make no motion, no manly overture.”
Kelrob sighed. “I’ve had a very long day,” he said.
Nuir nodded, glancing around at the shattered lanterns. “Do you know what this means?”
Kelrob looked around himself, at the tide of oil creeping gummily across the floor. His mind, strangely, was serene above the hurricane of inescapable events; somewhere in the deeps of his brain he heard Tamrel’s soft, mocking laughter, the only true note of discord. “The sustaining matrix of the Entitled Lands has been compromised,” he said, running a hand through the glistening locks of his hair. “You felt that rumbling? It was probably an explosion, one of the shield-nodes either sabotaged or snapping beneath some strain. We won’t know until your father returns.”
Nuir’s eyes flashed. “My father,” she spat, and turned away, her body trembling with fury. “He cares for nothing, not even the gold he enslaves himself to. The whole city is in ruins, our city, and he thinks nothing of it beyond the disruption of trade!” Reaching down, she picked up a long, thin shard of glass and held it aloft like a knife. “I’d love to drive this into his black heart,” she said in a voice thick with venom, “but I know it would do no good. That heart stopped beating long before I was born. It is nothing more than a stone sunk in a pool of flesh.” So saying she threw the shard. It shattered against the wall, and Nuir bent over, her body twisted with weeping.
Kelrob flushed, uncertain of what to do. He swayed from foot to foot, then stepped forward, daring to place a hand on her quaking shoulder. Nuir recoiled from his touch, wrenched herself away, but the sobbing eased to a quavering sniffle. Tears stained the purple fall of her veil; raising her hands, she cleansed her eyes and said, “I do not like being touched, least of all by the man I am required to bed. When the time comes I will allow you to know my body, though my heart will never be yours. It is not a stone, to be dredged up, polished, and set; and I meant what I said about children. I have no desire to grow swollen with any man’s seed, and certainly no intention of writhing helpless on a birthing bed. Do you understand?”
Kelrob raised his hands, palms outward. “My brother is married,” he said, “and the estates are — were - entitled to him. So long as the bloodline endures my father will be content, though I find I care very little for his wishes at the moment.”
A second shudder ran through the house, plaster sifting down from the smoke-veiled ceiling. There was a static crackle in the air, a hint of burnt ozone; Kelrob sniffed and frowned. “This isn’t good,” he said.
Nuir joined him in sniffing at the air, her face wrinkling behind the veil. “It stinks. What does it mean?”
“It means the shield is breaking down. I think that was an explosion, another node gone. They must have renewed the attack.” A sharp, half-mad thought occurred to him; glancing aside to Nuir, he leaned forward and said, “I can’t be sure what’s happening out there, but I know why it’s happening. It wasn’t poisoned ale that drove the garrison to madness, my lady.”
Nuir looked at him strangely. “What are you talking about?”
“First a question. I don’t have time to mince words or niceties: I know about the smuggling tunnels running from the crypts. Is there a way to access them? Does your father have the only key?”
For the first time he had truly surprised Nuir. She looked at Kelrob with narrowed eyes, her thin body tensing. “You are a magister,” she muttered, and reaching into the folds of her dress withdrew a small silver key glowing with a multiplicity of colors. “My father gave this to me earlier today in a rare moment of concern, though I suppose he was just protecting his investment. I was to escape with you through the crypts if the shield failed.”
Kelrob stared at the key, barely restraining a tremendous sigh of relief. “Excellent. Now if we could only get to the conservatory...does that key open all doors?”
Nuir drew back from him. “The conservatory? You make less and less sense with each passing moment. If it was not poisoned ale that drove the garrison mad, then what was it? You know something, Kelrob, and I demand to be told.”
A third explosion shook the hall, its noisome rumble dying away until Kelrob could only sense it in the soles of his feet. The mage almost laughed; he felt free, strangely free, in his conversation with this girl whose rebellion so keenly matched his own. This woman, he amended silently. “I have a story to tell you,” he said aloud. “It’s going to sound like an audacious fable, and you’re not going to believe me, but I give you my word as a magister of the Isdori Order that it’s true.”
Nuir shifted her weight from one foot to the other, golden anklets chiming. “Go on,” she said in a cautious voice.
Kelrob left out little of the tale, the words coming thick and fast. He spoke with vivid detail of the events in the House of the Setting Sun, spoke of his journey to Tannigal, of the manifestation of the mask and Tamrel’s possession of Jacobson’s body. When he revealed that Tamrel was the cause of the death and destruction in Tannigal, Nuir recoiled as if stung, her khol-rimed eyes flaring. She listened in agitated silence as he concluded the tale, speaking last of his dark dream and near-drowning in the bathing tub. As he finished another tremor shook the manse, this one deeper, vibrating up from the lowest-sunk vaults.
A wary silence fell, the tremor dying away. Nuir stared at Kelrob from behind her veil. “You lie,” she said coldly.
Kelrob’s heart twisted. “I know it sounds absurd,” he said, raising his hands palm-outwards, “but I swear to you, on my order and class and station, that it’s all true.”
“And what is an oath but more words, especially in the mouth of a liar? You are no magister, Kelrob; you do not even bear a ring. ‘Destroyed’ indeed, as if chromox were as breakable as bone-china! Certainly no-one trained in the Gyre’s sacred arts of reason would tell such a ridiculous story, let alone expect others to believe it.”
The mage closed his eyes for a moment, stymieing a furious retort. “Why would I tell such a lie?” he asked when he was sure of
his voice’s evenness.
“Men lie for many reasons. I have yet to discern yours, but if it was to cause me to hate you utterly you couldn’t have spun a more effective yarn. My city burns, and you sit here babbling faery-tales about a singing mask! You are a cruel man, Kelrob Kael-Pellin; I see I can expect much suffering from our union.”
Kelrob bowed his head, stared down at the gaudy pattern of his tunic, dry leaves blown in the wind. He felt old, unutterably old, as he said to her, “My lady, I fully understand your disgust. It is a horrible tale, offensive in every way, most of all in being true. I am a magister of the 16th circle, despite what you choose to believe; it is true that all my teaching tells me this scenario is impossible, yet I have clearly and completely experienced it. Tamrel is in this house, and I need your help to defeat him.”
“What, by finding an instrument he cannot play? How puerile.”
“At least talk to Jacobson! I brought him down with me; he’s outside with Rakisha.”
Nuir threw up her hands and laughed precariously. “And now you wish me to debase myself by talking to a nithing? Very well, fine, bring him in. It seems I am to be spared no dishonor this evening.”
Kelrob grit his teeth. Turning from her in anger, he strode to the great doors and pushed them open, no ward impeding him. He found Jacobson, Rakisha, and one of Rakisha’s older brothers standing in the alcove where Lord Azumana had bathed his feet, the guards rigidly flanking the big man, who seemed to be lost in a game of cat’s cradle. He looked up at Kelrob’s exit, the string dancing between his fingers, and said, “Hoy, m’lord. We’ve some trouble outside, though my stoic hosts refuse to acknowledge it.”
Rakisha and his brother looked at Kelrob in alarm, bowing even as they drew their swords. “My lord,” Rakisha said in a strained voice, “please return to the hall until the attack subsides.”
“Subsides! It’s not going to subside, you ninnies. Those are shield-nodes going up.” Jacobson disentangled his fingers and tucked the string away, his eyes shining a steely blue behind the mask. “We don’t have much time, lad. I can smell it.”
Kelrob nodded, looked to Rakisha. “I’ll go back in the feasting hall,” he said, “but I want Jacobson with me.”
Rakisha’s eyes flickered at his imperious tone. “My lord, I cannot allow a nithing into the lady Nuir’s presence without an escort. I must stay here, so he must stay here.”
Kelrob looked at the pair of drawn swords, craving more than ever the absent power of his chromox. One word and he could have put both guards to sleep, turned their weapons to molten slag, or simply frightened them into abeyance with a burst of azure light. Instead he would have to resort to the cruder tools of arrogance and entitlement. “Jacobson is my bodyguard,” he said sharply, resisting the urge to raise his ringless hand. “It is my will to have him at my side.”
“Kelrob, it is impossible. If the good lord found out that -”
“Let him in. It is my wish.” Nuir stood framed on the threshold, light from the braziers infusing the gossamer material of her dress. Her eyes glittered like two hollow jewels as she raised a hand and beckoned Jacobson forward.
Jacobson pushed past the brothers with a grin. “Sorry boys - the lady of the house has spoken. I’ve enjoyed our little visit, though. Stay on your toes; things are going to get ugly around here before long.”
The brothers looked at each other. It was Rakisha’s sibling who spoke first. “I am certain whatever is happening outside will soon be resolved,” he said with supreme confidence.
Jacobson snorted. “Aye, quickly and bloodily. I hope you two know how to use those pig-stickers.” Brushing past Kelrob, he pushed the mage’s sage-green robes into his arms, the travel-and-conflagration worn garment heavy with its many secrets. “Get dressed, lad. Looks like it’s the frying-pan and the fire both.”
Kelrob slid into his robes and went back through the doorway, casting Rakisha a final apologetic look. The House-guard glared back at him suspiciously, his thick brows knotting together as the doors swung shut.
“All right,” Jacobson said, swaggering over to the table and pulling out a chair, “I assume there’s some explaining to be done. Lad, what have you told her?”
“Everything,” Kelrob said, with a sidelong glance at Nuir. The shalqi woman had returned to her seat, was staring at Jacobson with a look of disgust so open that her veil did little to conceal it.
“Daring. I suppose she thinks it all a huge steaming pile of horseshit, too.” Jacobson looked to Nuir and dipped his head. “My name is Jacobson, m’lady. It’s very pleasant and wonderful and lovely to make your acquaintance.”
Nuir snorted at his mock pleasantries.“Kelrob has told me a rambling, unbelievable tale, which I think specifically engineered to cause me torment. He claims you can validate him, and I urge you to do so. You have one minute.”
Jacobson sighed and grabbed a pear off the table, tossing it from hand to hand. “Well then, perhaps Tamrel should do the talking for me.” He bit into the pear, swallowed, and bowed his head. When he straightened his eyes were flecked with blue light; rising, he bowed obsequiously to Nuir, said in an alien voice, “Good evening, my lady.”
Nuir stared up at him, her eyes widening for the first time in fear. Tossing the black coil of her hair over her right shoulder, she said, “This is no mummer’s trick. What are you?”
The bard bowed again. “I am Tamrel,” he said by way of explanation.
“And you are a mask?”
“I am many things. Tell me, my lady, do you truly intend to wed Kelrob? Your engagement has thrown a delightful little twist into our narrative, and I should love to see it fulfilled.”
Nuir’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me, mannequin, are you the destroyer of my city?” Her voice trembled as she spoke, but the words were clear and cold.
Tamrel stroked a hand along his porcelain chin. “I have destroyed nothing,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “Only sang.”
“I am a shalqi woman of the Jeneni. When I ask a question I expect a prompt and truthful answer. Is this your doing?”
The mask’s lips twitched downwards. “The fate that has befallen this cyst of humanity is merely the lancing of a long-festering wound. The men and women gathered outside your gates, the pyre-lighters and powder-wielders, are merely destroying the physical aspect of their prison; I have already torn away the cages smothering their minds and souls. It fascinates me to observe the means by which humans imprison themselves, and my delight to sunder those self-created bonds. As such, it could be said that I have brought ruin to your city, but it would be more accurate to say that your city has brought cleansing in the guise of ruin upon itself. I am merely a player, a minstrel, a minor singer of truths; what follows in my wake is the mere result of the freedom I impart.”
Nuir sat forward in her chair, breath hissing between bared teeth. “You sang songs to the people of Tannigal to drive them mad!”
Tamrel shrugged, a hideously human gesture. “Madness is relative to the standards of reason,” he said.
“More philosphistical riddles. Enough. If you are truly the cause of this black day, know that I despise you.” Nuir pulled aside her veil and spat in the bard’s face. “Filthy falqi,” she snarled. “I will see you dead, even at the cost of my own life.”
Her spittle clung to Tamrel’s cheek. The minstrel raised a finger and touched the expectorate, rubbing it contemplatively between thumb and forefinger. “The plot thickens,” he said with a grin of unliving lips. “Enemy or friend, you are now bound to the quest by your own ignorant vow. I have already written a song for you, my lady Nuir, composed even as you spoke your brave, petulant words; perhaps you would like me to sing it?”
Nuir rose and stormed around the table, coming to glare up into Tamrel’s inanimate face. “I demand to know the nature of my enemy,” she said. “What are you, Tamrel? What do you want of us?”
&
nbsp; Jacobson’s irises glittered cerulean behind the mask’s almond eye-slits. “I want only your freedom. As for my nature, that I cannot speak of. To know more you must listen to my music, and heed.”
“Become your plaything, you mean.”
The mask’s smile widened. “If that is how you choose to perceive it, then yes.”
With a snarl Nuir reached into the folds of her dress and drew out a small-bladed dagger, the tip glistening with poison. She drove it deep into Tamrel’s breast, drew it out and stabbed again, her voice raised in a keening wordless cry. Tamrel gasped and doubled over, blood flowing out to stain Jacobson’s vest and tunic. He fell to the floor, and Nuir set on him in a stabbing rage, delivering ten more blows before she finally staggered back and dropped the knife.
“It is done!” she cried, then laughed hysterically, looking down at her blood-soaked hands. “It is done, it is done.”
She began to tremble violently, but Kelrob paid her no mind. He ran and knelt beside Jacobson’s body, turning the large man on his back. Blood poured from the profusion of wounds, trickling over the marble floor and mingling with oil; Jacobson’s mouth was lax beneath the mask, his eyes glassy. “Jacobson!” Kelrob cried, shaking the body’s massive shoulders. A faint smell of almonds came to his nose, barely discernible through the reek of blood; poison, arsenic derivative. Jacobson’s skin was turning green.
Kelrob let the body fall back on the floor, curled in on himself, and screamed into his knees, every nerve distended and thought overthrown. He screamed, and screamed, and Nuir screamed with him, the room’s muffling enchantments thankfully containing the din. Kelrob only stopped when his throat grew raw, his eyes gummy with tears. Reaching out to Jacobson’s body, he clasped the big man’s hand. To his great surprise, the hand tightened in answer.
Jacobson groaned as he sat up, his body effervescing with a faint blue light. The wounds healed over, the stench of almonds dissolved, and he leaned over and vomited through the mask-slit. The retching lasted for several moments, then he turned to Kelrob, spat, and said, “I can’t go, lad. The beast won’t let me go.”
Scott J Couturier - [The Magistricide 01] Page 28
