Scott J Couturier - [The Magistricide 01]

by The Mask of Tamrel (epub)

  Newly steeled, almost vibrating with borrowed energy, the trio descended the spiral stairwell, re-emerging into the rambling labyrinth that lay behind the walls of Lord Azumana’s manse. Jacobson had made no comment on the moldering stashes of wealth, though he did make a sign of aversion every time they passed one of the eternally watching skulls. Nuir moved with renewed haste, her feet stepping with certainty in the half-dark. The way she led took them downwards on a gradual slope, the stone floor rough and unhewn, the treasure-stores becoming less frequent, though the macabre sentries increased in number. The air between the walls was dry and silent; clouds of dust stirred up at their passage, clogging Kelrob’s nose. It was a welcome distraction from the shivers of panic he was forced to continually suppress as the passage grew narrower and narrower.

  They rounded a turn and started down a steep, cobweb-choked stairway. Nuir moved farther ahead, anklets jangling, her fleet footprints showing in the dust. Leaning forward, Jacobson whispered in Kelrob’s ear, his voice rasping from behind the mask.

  “So, how was dinner?”

  Kelrob was breathing heavily, oppressed by the dizzying slant of the stair and struggling to keep up with Nuir despite the potion’s restorative effect. “If I must be married, it might as well be to her,” he said through a wheeze. “She he has reason and willpower, and she seems to know a great deal about organic poisons.”

  “Ah. Always what I look for in a woman.”

  “I like her, though she despises me. I think we could be friends if we weren’t being forced to be lovers.”

  Jacobson nodded, looking ahead at Nuir’s shadowy outline. “She does seem to have her wits about her. A bit risky to tell her everything, but obviously your judgment was sound. Unless, of course, she’s leading us into a trap.”

  “I don’t think she is.”

  “Neither do I, but we need to keep our wits about us as well. If something should go awry I want you to keep well behind me, and run for it if you can.”

  Kelrob felt a prickle of indignation. “I’ll keep behind you,” he hissed, a little too loudly, “but I refuse to run.”

  Jacobson smiled at him. “Don’t get me wrong, lad. You’re damn useful in a pinch, but you’ve only so many tricks up your sleeve. Best hold them until a moment of utmost need, and let me do the fighting.”

  Kelrob ground his teeth together, stepping over a crack in the floor. “If I had my ring...” he muttered, his right hand clenching until his burned skin cracked and began to bleed.

  “Aye, but you don’t. That’s why I want you to have this.” Jacobson produced a long dagger, practically a shortsword, from his left breech-leg. The weapon was unenchanted, but clearly priceless, ornate silver scrollwork coiling along the pommel and up the blade in fashionable tendrils. “Filched this earlier, before we went down to dinner. Here, take it, slide it into your belt. I suppose you’ve handled a sword before?”

  Kelrob awkwardly slid the dagger onto his left hip, the action interrupting his stride and nearly causing him to veer into a wall. “I was taught as a child,” he said, “but only for a short time. My aptitudes always lay elsewhere.”

  “Well, here’s a quick lesson. The sword is essentially a sharp, pointy object. The edges are honed, and you can hack with them, but a shortsword isn’t much good for that, so I’d recommend stabbing motions for you. The tip is pointed, as I’m sure you’ve taken note of: stick that part into your opponent. The other end is for holding on to, and also for clubbing those that you don’t want dead. Understood?”

  Kelrob nodded. “I think I’ve got the gist of it.”

  “Good. Half of having you at my back is that I need it defended. Ho, I think we might have arrived.”

  Nuir had halted before a high wall of crudely chiseled granite. Raising her hands, she brushed her fingertips against several uncouth distensions in the stone. The stifling air wobbled with the vibration of hidden mechanisms, and the wall swung wide on darkness. “This is not a trap,” Nuir said, casting Kelrob and Jacobson a cool glance. “If it was, I would guide you directly to the bondman’s quarters, or worse lead you into one of my father’s charming oubliettes. As for the use of a sword, if Kelrob feels ill at ease I will wield it gladly. I have had some training.” Her eyes flared wickedly as Kelrob blushed and Jacobson grumbled under his breath. “Sound carries easily down here. Remember that before you two decide on having any more secret palavers.” Turning away imperiously, she slipped through the doorway.

  “Nice girl,” Jacobson muttered. “Quite a catch, though I don’t think you’ve a big enough hook, lad.” He bowed and motioned Kelrob onwards with all the extravagant poise of a courtier; Kelrob rolled his eyes, and together they stepped through the doorway, emerging from the closeness of the passage into a cavernous unlit room. The air stank of wood and polishing resin, though it was mercifully clean of dust. Kelrob drew in a few great raking breaths, the cocoa extract beating in his blood and pushing hot sweat from his temples.

  Nuir raised her hands, clapped them once, and spoke a single sharp word. The room flooded with light, revealing a windowless oval chamber paneled with cedar planking, the ceiling a vaulted dome of ingenious and acoustic-enhancing design. Gradually ascending tiers of white-carpeted stone rose around a central oval of polished chalcedony, where sat three opulent red-velvet chairs, inviting the indolent listener. The carpeted rings were cluttered with pedestals of fluted ivory, the ostentatious daises upon which Lord Azumana displayed his collection: bagpipes and urilean sound-bladders, gitterns hewn of light-absorbing teakwood, curled metallic horns with ribs and knobs and jewel-crusted mouthpieces, hollowed gourds strung with platinum wire, massive harps of phantasmagoric design that could, in toppling, crush a man flat, large gold-and-silver harpsichords with bright ivory keys, drums crafted of every substance from clay to hollowed gemstones of supernal size, licator pipes hewn of animal bone by the primitive dwellers of Thevin shortly after the coming of the Gyre Itself, lutes and lyres and whistles and heavy-bodied bassana, flutes and flageolets of ethereal make, puzzling nagets with perversely intricate webworks of string, and dozens of oddities and novelties beside that defied any attempt at classification. The conservatory had the feel of a seldom-visited museum, the air free of remembered music as well as dust. Kelrob blinked in the light, the darkness of the passage lingering somehow at the corners of his vision. Surely, surely there was some obscure instrument that Tamrel could not master with a laugh and a wink. If such a thing existed, it would be found here.

  The company circled the upper gallery of the conservatory, pausing by the broad cedar-panel door that allowed conventional access to the room. Nuir sealed the door with her key, then pressed it against the portal’s central panel. There was a sizzling sound, and the sweet smell of burning cedar filled Kelrob’s nostrils. When Nuir withdrew her hand he saw that the key remained embedded in the lacquer, glowing hotly. “That should keep things private,” she said.

  Kelrob stared warily at the sealing. “We do need that key,” he said.

  “I am not a fool. It can be retrieved easily, though the binding enchantment will fade once it is removed. We will have about ten seconds to get back into the tunnels.”

  Kelrob nodded. He turned to Jacobson, who was peering nervously around the room, his hand clenched over the pommel of his newfound sword. “I need to speak with Tamrel,” the mage said apologetically.

  Jacobson’s head jerked towards Kelrob, a faint smile stretching the mask’s inanimate lips. “Is it time for another testing of my skills?” came the familiar, light-fluttering voice, now infused with an air of mockery.

  Nuir started at the sound of the voice. Kelrob shot her a warning glance before continuing. “Yes,” the mage said. “As long as Jacobson wills it.”

  The smile collapsed into lifelessness for a moment. Jacobson laughed, and it was his own voice, his own shoulders shaking. “Thank you for the courtesy, lad,” he said, “but I’m s
uffering under no delusions of autonomy. Put the fiend to the task and let’s be done with it.”

  The mask’s twisted expression returned in an instant. “There. The man has voiced his desire. Understand that I am not usually so considerate towards my vessels.”

  Kelrob glared at the bard. “His name is Jacobson. He’s not made out of clay.”

  “All men are made of clay.” Tamrel chuckled, ran Jacobson’s finger along the pale ceramic cheek of the mask. “One of the few things we have in common, though it was not so with my original body.” The bard motioned laconically to the vast array of instruments, gleaming and pristine on their fluted pedestals. “A fine, fine collection. Where would you like me to begin?”

  Kelrob shrugged, looking to Nuir, who tossed her heavy black braid over her left shoulder.

  She had wiped the tear-streaked khol from her face, though black smudges still marred her upper cheeks like war paint. Returning Kelrob’s imploring glance, she said, “What? Do you expect me to give this...thing a guided tour? If what you say is true, instruments are weapons to it. Are we not handing it the means to drive us mad?”

  Tamrel shook his head, the warm lights of the conservatory glowing in his filthy golden hair. “A quest is a sacred business, my lady. I shall play only simple songs, simple melodies, but I urge you, shalqi woman of the Jeneni, to listen with an open heart. It is inevitable that some glimpse of revelation will escape even my most senseless noodlings.”

  Nuir snorted. “Fine. Let’s get this nonsense over with.” With a final smoldering glare at Tamrel she turned and descended the wide, shallow staircase leading to the chalcedony oval and the expectant chairs. Kelrob followed, and Tamrel came last, taking the steps three at a time, Jacobson’s thick-set legs stretching and distorting to allow the unnatural stride.

  The first instrument Kelrob selected was a small alboka, a reed-pipe set in detailed mahogany, the bell made of polished bull’s horn inlaid with verdant opals. It was an easy choice, the mage knew as he lifted it from the pedestal, but his desire was to gauge Tamrel’s base aptitude. “Play for no longer than thirty seconds,” he said as Tamrel accepted the horn and ran Jacobson’s fingers over it with loving familiarity.

  Tamrel’s inanimate lips pursed. “There is no clause in our agreement that gives you the right to make such dictations. But, seeing as I am in a somewhat sporting mood, I shall limit myself at your behest. Look here, at this lovely thing you’ve handed me! A splendid aerophone, a hornpipe with an idioglot reed. You surely favor me with this selection, for I played such a pipe in the days before the waning of magic, high on the hills of Delcecutoir. It is rare that I remember ought of that far-gone life, before chaining my essence to this form, but I find it is always instruments that stir the memories most efficiently.” With a little laugh Tamrel raised the pipe to Jacobson’s lips; Kelrob saw with some dismay that the porcelain parted to admit the instrument’s stem.

  The bard began to play, a slow aching note rebounding warmly from the paneled walls of the conservatory. The note fell, wallowed, collapsed beneath itself, replaced by a higher, more strident strain, equal in passion but greater in desperation. Kelrob felt tears gathering in his eyes. Looking to Nuir, he saw that she was similarly moved, though the song ended without either of them shedding a tear.

  Tamrel lowered the horn from his lips, sighing as another explosion sounded in the distance. “Such memories,” he said. “Quite personal, impossible to properly project into reluctant minds. At least in thirty seconds. Still, I think I have proven my skill.” With a sweeping bow the bard handed the alboka back to Kelrob, who mutely replaced it on its pedestal. “What is next? Make haste, I beseech you, for my longing is great.”

  Nuir seized a double-necked barbat from its ivory perch and tossed it to Tamrel. The bard caught it deftly, pressed it to his chest. The primitive lute was hewn from a solid block of walnut, the necks forking from a bulbous body, twin sets of strings glowing against the polished frame. “Play me a song,” Nuir demanded, raising her arms to encompass the entire room and the city without. “Play me a song about the death of Tannigal.”

  Tamrel bowed his head. “If that is what you wish, my lady.” He struck one set of strings, then the other, creating a resonant drone that inundated the still air. Then, quicker than the eye could perceive, he began alternating between the twin necks, creating a throbbing harmony that devoured and gave birth to itself in turn. Opening his stolen mouth, Tamrel began to sing the first intelligible lyrics Kelrob had ever heard pass his lips:

  In pestilence bred, the cities of Men

  Turn all the earth to a stinking fen.

  The people who dwell behind cold walls

  Who gorge themselves in marble halls

  And cast all reverence to the wind

  Shall feel the wrath of the slaughtered hind.

  Here, in Tannigal the blighted tomb

  Shall death be wrought into a womb

  To receive Man’s desperate dying seed—

  Among the ashes one final glede.

  Tamrel concluded his verses, then struck up a furious strumming, crying out with a passion that nearly caused Kelrob’s knees to buckle. Nuir, however, was unmoved, and as the song died into silence said only, “You rejoice at death. Never have I heard a fouler song.”

  Tamrel bowed at her curse. “Each ear hears the same strains differently. You resist me most efficiently, my lady; had you truly listened to that song you would understand much more about me, my essence and my designs. Know that I cannot sing falsely even if I choose. Thus I made myself, when I transferred my essence to this mask. If commanded to sing a lie I will find the truth even in that.”

  Nuir wrenched the lute from Tamrel’s hands and hurled it to the ground. Raising one slipper-shod foot, she stomped downwards, again and again, until the barbat was reduced to splinters. Tamrel watched her in mute dismay; when she had delivered the final stomp he said in a faint voice, “What a terrible waste. You wound me, my lady.”

  Nuir picked up one of the necks, now dangling from the broken body by a mass of twisted strings, and brought it down on the alboka, shattering the horn and sending fragments of mahogany flying. “The first wound of many. What’s next?”

  Kelrob scaled the carpeted tiers, weaving amongst pedestals in search of a sufficiently devious instrument. He contemplated the aglehorn, a double-belled instrument requiring a massive amount of lung strength to play, but discounted it, uncertain if Tamrel required breath to make his music. Similarly he decided against the Fouvian harp, the thousand-stringed monstrosity offering too little challenge. As he searched he kept his ears focused on the bard; Tamrel seemed in a very candid mood, speaking of his mortal past and disclosing some of the secrets of his making. The carelessness of his speech betrayed a growing arrogance, and he was certainly at ease in Jacobson’s body, which the mage noted was beginning to take on a faint, uncharacteristic litheness. As he finally decided on a tiny lute whose strings bristled with small metal thorns, Kelrob wondered if Jacobson would be consumed before the quest’s end, if upon defeating Tamrel he would be left with little more than a gaping, soulless carcass.

  Tamrel reacted with some surprise at the lute’s peculiar strings. “What contrivance is this? Speak, one of you, for I must know the purpose of these barbs!”

  “That is a bloodlute,” Nuir said, her wry tone betraying her satisfaction at Kelrob’s choice. “Played by a rare breed of minstrels from the mountains south of Ixthis, where the cold pierces to the marrow and freezes men’s fingers to the hardness of stone.”

  Tamrel nodded sagely. “Ah. A test of endurance. I must observe that Jacobson will suffer for this choice far more than I.” Bowing to Nuir, he plucked delicately at the barbed strings and asked, “Does my lady have any more requests?” Blood ran from the tips of his fingers for a brief moment before the wounds sealed, staining the strings with thick red droplets.

  Nuir’s black eyes burned. “
You said you wrote a song about me,” she said. “Let’s hear it.”

  “As you wish.”

  Tamrel began to play a furious chord progression like the clattering of a bird against a cage. Kelrob’s heart, already agitated by the drug, began to beat faster, struggling to throb in time with the music. Blood began to spurt from Jacobson’s fingertips, and Tamrel raised his voice in song, the piping notes clear and undiminished by pain. The words spoke of a veiled woman walking through a world of dust and ashes, her feet leaving no mark on the silt-coated earth. She walked through canyons of smoke and over mountains of frozen cinder, following always a beacon of light that shone from the ever-distant horizon. Her back was strong, her step was sure; but Tamrel ended the song before she reached her goal, leaving the veiled woman struggling up a steep incline where live coals still simmered amid the dross. The lute was rank with blood, rivulets dripping into the body and sliding down the bloodgroove of the short neck. Tamrel tossed Jacobson’s hair, laughed, and offered the gore-stained instrument to Nuir, who stood in shivering silence.

  “What, my lady? I thought you meant to wound me.” Tamrel held up Jacobson’s right hand, the skin stripped down to glistening bone. Kelrob nearly retched, remembering the poor minstrel Tasy in the House of the Setting Sun.

  Nuir bowed her head. “You sang of me truly,” she said.

  “But of course I did. The song was written for you. Do you feel the coals stinging your hands, my lady? Do you taste new freshness on the ash-ridden air?”

  As he spoke a fresh tremor ran through the ground. The cedar panels rattled, the room’s artificial lights flickered for a moment, plunging the companions into darkness. When they came up, Nuir cried wordlessly and ripped the lute from Tamrel’s offering hands. She smashed it against the chalcedony dais, blood staining her fingers; then, with a defiant laugh, she trampled the instrument into reddened fragments. “I taste nothing,” she said, with a final crushing stomp. “I am nothing. Not ashes, not dust. You have taken the burning ember from my grasp, and smothered it into lifelessness. Sing, Tamrel, sing as many songs as you like, but sing no more of me. Your truth is nothing but a mask, just as you are nothing but a mask.”