Scott J Couturier - [The Magistricide 01]

by The Mask of Tamrel (epub)

  To his own great surprise Kelrob threw his arms around Jacobson and hugged him, sick rubbing off on his robes. Jacobson endured the embrace, then leaned back, a deep sigh shuddering in his chest. “Good to see you too, lad. Even if it stinks like a vomitorium in here now.” Rising unsteadily, he looked to Nuir, who was watching the tableaux unfold in haunted-eyed silence, her blood-caked hands crooked at her sides. Approaching her, Jacobson bent and retrieved the dagger, pushed it into her right hand.

  “That was well and truly struck,” he said, bowing to her. “Believe me, my lady, it would give me no greater pleasure than to die and drag this parasite down with me. But Tamrel is growing in power, feeding off of my essence, and no mere mortal blow can end him. The only way, ridiculous as it sounds, is this harebrained quest.”

  Nuir trembled as he spoke, staring down at the knife in her hand. “There was enough poison on that blade to kill an elephant,” she said. “Men do not rise from the dead.”

  “And cities don’t turn themselves into charnel-houses overnight. Wake up, lass! The proof is in the pudding and the crow is in the corn. We need to get Tamrel out of this city, out deep into the countryside, then figure out what to do.”

  “We need to try the conservatory first,” Kelrob said in a voice that was wavering but firm. He came to stand beside Jacobson, staring at Nuir’s gore-coated hands. “We still have a little time.”

  “Damn the conservatory, lad! You smell that wonderful fragrance? That’s ozone.”

  “I know what it is.”

  “Then you know what it means.”

  Kelrob nodded. “I know. But we might not have this chance again. Nuir has a key to the catacombs below; they do lead outside the city, so we’ve got a dependable avenue of escape. I’d give the shield another hour at least, enough time for us to get to the conservatory and test Tamrel in earnest before we flee.”

  Jacobson goggled at him. “But lad, there’re guards on every door! How are we supposed to sneak through a house, however cavernous, on full combat alert?”

  Nuir raised her face as Jacobson spoke, hands twitching as droplets of blood fell from her fingers. “There is a way,” she said softly.

  Kelrob and Jacobson turned their attention to her. “Speak, lass,” Jacobson said, hand trailing up to touch the raised white weals where her knife had bitten.

  Nuir closed her eyes. “Wait. You say that killing this creature is futile, that it is bound by some ludicrous bargain. What are the exact terms of the deal?”

  Kelrob looked uneasily at Jacobson before speaking. “If I can find an instrument Tamrel can’t play, he will quit Jacobson’s body and surrender himself to the Isdori. If I can’t find such an instrument in a month’s time...I will yield to Tamrel’s music. He says that I have hidden power, claims to know songs that will set that power free.”

  Nuir opened her horror-haunted eyes to stare at him. “Dire stakes. Though it seems that failing in this so-called quest would benefit you more than success. If you win, you save the life of a bondsman, and pass your monumental discovery on to others. If you lose, you receive the great and elusive gift of power. I assume the offer is false, and that what this Tamrel promises is a lie?”

  Kelrob ran his tongue along his dry lips, thinking desperately of how to respond. “There are many factors that compel me to reject Tamrel’s offer,” he said at last, “not the least of which is the destruction of Tannigal. What he conveys is truth, but he himself is a lie; all that he reveals is thus tainted, pure light shining through a cracked lens. But beyond everything else, I owe Jacobson. He saved my life, saved it multiple times, and was only chosen as Tamrel’s vessel due to his extraordinary nature.”

  Nuir looked Jacobson up and down, raised her bloody hands and clenched them. “He will burn other cities,” she said.

  “Yes, if we can’t find a way to stop him. That’s why killing Jacobson is pointless; even if you could manage it, Tamrel doesn’t die with the body of his host.” An image of Jacobson’s dead, greening flesh passed through Kelrob’s mind; he bit down bile, fought to keep speaking. “If Jacobson’s body dies, if Jacobson dies, Tamrel will simply find another host and continue his work. In a way the only vulnerability he has is his localizing bond to Jacobson, which at least keeps him contained, and the statutes of the quest, which restrain his actions. Insane as it sounds, we are all caught up in a grand mythology; but mythology, I now know, is far more the echo of truth than any of the official dogma.”

  Nuir’s eyes widened at this claim. “That is direct heresy to the Gyre Itself.”

  “You are not mistaken. I don’t know what is true and what is false, but I do know that we’re not being told everything about our world. If Tamrel is defeated I hope to dedicate myself to the task of separating the truth and the falsehood, then taking my proof before the Isdori Council and demanding to know why so many things have been allowed to become forgotten.” Kelrob’s voice grew heated as he spoke; the charred strip of flesh on his right index finger burned furiously. He knew that his plan was foolish, but could think of no other. If it meant coming before the Gyre Itself to present his findings, and having his life taken as a result, then so be it. His thirst for truth outstripped his thirst for life.

  Nuir contemplated Kelrob for a long moment, her face inscrutable behind the veil. “Those are stupidly bold words,” she said at last. “I would not expect them from any man, let alone a pale stick such as yourself.”

  Another explosion sounded. Jacobson looked up as a trickle of plaster fell from the ceiling, held out his hand to catch at it. “Not to interrupt all this exposition,” he said warily, “but one way or another we need to make time. Do you know how many nodes are maintaining this shield, m’lady?”

  Nuir nodded shakily. “Twenty-five, including the backups.”

  “All right. That’s five gone so far. How do we get to this fool conservatory without being caught and impaled?”

  “There is a way,” Nuir repeated slowly, “that not even the servants know. I have explored this house more thoroughly than any of my brothers or sisters, determined to make the most of my gilded cage. There is a secret door, there,” she said, nodding to an apparently seamless wall to the left of the table, partly overhung by a thick tapestry, “which leads to a series of passages that can take us anywhere in the house. We will be able to move about undetected, though the House-guards will notice our absence before long.”

  Jacobson’s lips curved in an obscured smile. “Are you sure you aren’t planning on slipping away without saying anything? Leave us to die here, breaking the engagement and foiling your father simultaneously? You can’t tell me you aren’t tempted.”

  Nuir actually laughed at this. “You are not as stupid as you seem,” she said. “I will admit the thought had crossed my mind, but no. I am now sworn to vengeance, one of the most sacred pledges amongst my people. Like the sun-hawk I will taste the blood of my prey or perish in the attempt.”

  Kelrob raised his eyes to stare up into the smoke-haunted vault, the tapestries fluttering limply against the walls as the atmosphere-cycling sorcery began to fail. “I am sorry, my lady, for bringing this doom upon your city and House. However accidentally.” Reaching for the closest glass of wine, he downed the entire contents, the alcohol tingling as it slid down his throat.

  Nuir said nothing. Going to a font of floral-scented water, she cleansed her hands, then tore a strip from her dress and went to the laden table, tying up a parcel of food. “For the road,” she said, handing Kelrob the makeshift pack. She then went to the servant’s entrance and sealed it shut by touching the passkey to the wood. She did the same for the great rosewood doors, then crossed to the seamless wall. Here she disdained the key, reaching out and running her fingers over the stonework. Kelrob tried to see where the mechanism was hidden, but to no avail; Nuir did little more than caress a few veined blocks, and the wall swung wide with a faint grinding sound. Beyond was
darkness. Straggles of cobweb gusted around the edges of the aperture like the beckoning fingers of spirits.

  Nuir nodded her satisfaction, then turned to Kelrob and Jacobson. “One final thing,” she said in a voice heavy with cold imperiousness. “If this is all a lie, a fabrication, some sick joke or ploy encouraged by my father, I will kill you, Kelrob Kael-Pellin.”

  Kelrob answered her with a quick nod. “Noted.” Approaching the opening, he peered uneasily into the shadows, steeling himself for entering the close, dust-choked passage. “Out of professional curiosity,” he said, partly to take his mind off the narrowing slant of the walls, “what poison would you employ for my death? A compound, a direct extract, a powder or paste or handily dissolved tablet?”

  Nuir smiled faintly. “Nyathoil. Pure distillate. I grow a plot in my father’s garden, far from the walking paths.”

  “Nyathoil? Impressive. Not the easiest plant to cultivate, though you have prime conditions here. Also highly hazardous to work with, though the death it provides is swift and completely painless. A very romantic poison.”

  Nuir chuckled unevenly. “I tested it on some of those accursed peacocks. Death comes in moments.”

  Kelrob nodded, gulped. Jacobson took note of his hesitation; stepping towards the passage, the big man said, “I was under the impression that haste was of the essence. Why do you wait, lad?”

  “I hate cramped, dark spaces.”

  Nuir rolled her eyes. Going to a bronze candelabrum by the head of the table, she unscrewed the clutch of candles from their base and pressed them into Kelrob’s hand. “I never knew magisters were such pathetic creatures without their rings,” she said. “Now follow me closely, and tread only where I tread. Keep the candles low — I know the way by touch alone.” Turning, she entered the shadowed doorway, Kelrob following uneasily, Jacobson at his back.

  The candles revealed an uneven stone floor trailing off into darkness, the sides of the passage narrowing as they rose to an unfinished granite ceiling. Rusted sconces were set into the wall, vacant or occupied with rotting tongues of wood that had once been torches. There was a scurrying overhead, and Kelrob looked up to see fat spiders scaling their webs, creeping away from the light. He suppressed a shiver, and did as commanded, holding the candles at the height of his narrow waist.

  Nuir didn’t hesitate. Clearly she had prepared for this eventuality; a full pack of provisions lay just inside the passage. She hefted the pack, eyed them both sternly, and set off, brushing aside the hymen of cobwebs and plunging down the passage with such haste that Kelrob had some difficulty keeping up with her. The door ground slowly shut behind them, sealing them into narrow, dust-choked darkness; just before it shut completely Kelrob thought he could hear someone pounding on the sealed rosewood doors, Rakisha’s voice raised in alarmed shouting.

  21: The Conservatory

  The passage was winding, with many turn-offs and unexpected cul-du-sacs. Intermittent rooms recessed to either side contained crumbling cedar chests and bronze vases filled to overflowing with dusty jewels; Kelrob realized that Nuir spoke the absolute truth, that aside from her these passages had lain untrodden for centuries, forgotten after the death of whatever ancient lord had sequestered his treasures here. At intervals they passed small alcoves cut into the slanting walls, each housing a grinning skull, obviously the deathless watchmen of this ancient horde. Kelrob moved uneasily past their fleshless scrunity, thinking that the guardians had done their work well. He felt no temptation to pocket the jewels, was glad Jacobson seemed similarly disinclined.

  A few more twists and turns and they ascended upwards, towards Kelrob’s apartments; Jacobson had pointed out that they needed their packs. Kelrob breathed a sigh of relief as they passed out of a narrow, pitted staircase into the familiar passage outside his rooms, a secret door in the paneling sliding open and shut at a few discreet caresses from Nuir’s right hand.

  They crossed to a window, looked out. Night had fallen completely, though the siege-dome still burned overhead, turning the stars into sickly yellow motes. Kelrob sucked in his breath as he picked out soldiers on the distant wall firing down into an unseen enemy. Very low, but discernible, came the frantic beat of drums, the wail of inarticulate singing. Fresh plumes of smoke were rising from the north end of the wall, delineating the destroyed nodes.

  Nuir shook her head in bewilderment. “Why are they doing this?” she asked in a small voice.

  Kelrob turned from the window. “Because it’s what they truly wished to do all along. Come on.”

  They went down the hall a short way to Kelrob’s chambers. Kelrob drew out his key and unlocked the door; he and Jacobson entered and quickly set to gathering their things. The big man shouldered his pack, then crossed to the display of enchanted swords. With a grunt he began inspecting the weapons in turn, hefting and brandishing each, much to Nuir’s perturbation.

  “Take your hands off of those!” she cried, interposing herself between Jacobson and the swords. “Those are a gift from the Taskmaster smithies, lethally enchanted. Only a trained warrior can wield them without going mad.”

  “Lovely thing to use as a decorative centerpiece, aye?” Laughing at his own jest, Jacobson reached around Nuir and grabbed a thick broadsword from its case, the blade housed in a beryl-studded leather sheath. “Have no fear, my lady. I AM trained. Seven years on the Ilarks, and before that another five fighting in the petty wars of your father’s ilk. I’ve handled enchanted weapons before.”

  Nuir’s hands twitched, dried blood shining dully beneath her fingernails. “That is no excuse for blatant theft,” she said coldly.

  “Oh? And what if I stole it with subtlety and underhanded bribes? No, lass, I’m no merchant-lord.” Jacobson drew the sword and sighted along its blade, the cutting-edge glittering with imbued magic. “At any rate, it’s theft with good intention. Things are getting pretty squirrely out there, and I thought it best to up my armament. A broken sword is useful to a broken man, but I see I don’t have the luxury of that distinction.” He swept the sword through the air, then bent to examine a scrawl of runes on the lower blade, near the tang. “Can’t read this gobbledegook. What’s it say, lad?”

  Kelrob slung his hastily-stuffed pack over his shoulder and came over to peer at the letters, which were written in the language of magic. “Andrych, the Pulse-Stealer,” he translated with distaste.

  “Perfect.” Jacobson sheathed the humming blade and strapped it at his waist, alongside his old sword. The prosaic weapon looked paltry beside its new companion, a plucked turkey outshone by a sleek bird of prey.

  Nuir frowned. “Are you certain you can handle that sword? It was certainly not meant for the hands of a nithing.”

  “Aye, nothing is.” Jacobson grinned, wrapping his hand around Andrych’s leather-bound hilt. “What can I say? It’s a first rate sword; the only enchanted blades I’ve handled were crude imitations of this. Certainly fit for a lord intent on cutting up some helpless flesh.”

  “Very well. If I allow you to claim it, do you swear to use it in our defense?”

  Jacobson nodded, unfazed. “And in my own, if it pleases you.”

  “Fine. I gift it to you in my father’s accursed name. It does seem incapable of devouring your spirit.”

  Jacobson chuckled darkly. “Aye. Tamrel hates competition. You still set on this conservatory scheme, lad?”

  Kelrob nodded. “Yes. We can’t afford to waste the chance.”

  “Fine. It’s your quest. But we need to move.”

  Nuir made for the door, motioned for them to follow. “Come,” she said as she vanished over the threshold. Kelrob hurried after her, Jacobson’s heavy footfalls thudding on the carpet behind.

  They reached the entrance to the passage. As Nuir set to work unlocking the secret mechanism, Kelrob swayed and braced himself against the wall. Tiny black dots were swarming at the corners of his vision, harbin
gers of unconsciousness that he worked to ignore. Somewhere in his robes was a rejuvinatory potion, a high-end distillation of the cocoa plant, and he dug around for it as Nuir made her final oblique gesture. The door swung wide, and Kelrob’s fingers fastened on the bottle, stored in one of the lower left-hand pockets where he kept things in need of sorting. Drawing it out, he waited until they were safely in the fastness of the passage, the door grinding shut behind them, before offering a sip to Jacobson and Nuir.

  Total darkness fell as he spoke. Kelrob realized with a stab of fear that he had left the candelabrum behind, but within moments the darkness was pushed back by the azure glow of Jacobson’s unsheathed sword.

  “Handy thing, this,” the big man said, wobbling Andrych over his head, cobwebs searing away at the touch of the sword’s nimbus. “Now what have we here, lad? A booster?”

  “I’ve never taken it before,” Kelrob said dubiously, “but some of the students at the Rookery use this compound when the need for study eclipses the need for sleep. I, at least, will have a sip. I don’t know how much longer I can stay on my feet without some aid.”

  Jacobson grinned. “If that’s what I think it is, it’ll keep you on your feet and more. Aye, I’ll have a draught, and recommend it for the lady as well. It’ll ease some of her jitters.”

  Nuir’s eyes fixated steadily on the bottle of sloshing white liquid. “I am no stranger to artificial stimulants,” she said. “I will have a drink, if only to stop my limbs from shivering.”

  Kelrob nodded. Unstoppering the bottle, he took a sharp swig of its milky contents, then passed it to Nuir. Immediately the mage felt a difference in his perception; the black dots swarmed madly for a moment, then withdrew, leaving his vision painfully clear in the blue-tinged darkness. His heart began thudding painfully, and his lungs dragged in great gales of dusty air. The weariness in his limbs, akin to leaden weights worn at his wrists and ankles, disappeared, and he released a sigh of energized relief as Nuir downed her portion and passed the bottle to Jacobson.