Azumana looked her up and down, then drew back his hand and delivered a second, harsher blow, knocking his daughter to the floor. “Conniving whore,” he spat, then turned his attention to Kisha, who had leveled the muzzle of her pistol directly over Jacobson’s heart. “Do it,” he commanded, and the herald pulled the trigger. There was an explosion, a stench of powder, and Jacobson wheezed and pitched forward, blood bursting from the lips of the mask. Kelrob screamed and lunged towards the big man, but Bergir grasped him and thrust him to his knees. The mage sobbed as he watched Jacobson die a second time, the big man’s body twitching as he drew in a last bubbling breath.
Lord Azumana spit on his corpse, then turned his attention to Nuir, who was groggily pushing herself up from the floor. “The northern shield has fallen,” he said, all affected drawl erased from his voice. “The Entitled Lands stand open to the horde, who even now clamor at the gates of this house. We could have fled to the catacombs and beyond half an hour ago, my darling child, except that you sealed yourself in the dining hall and then vanished like a rat into the walls.” The lord drew his thin-bladed sword as he spoke, subtle violet energies flowing along the blade. “At first I assumed you had found a way to the catacombs yourself, but I found the seal unbroken, the doors standing firm.” Azumana looked at the slaughtered bodies of his men, his right boot toeing a fragment of Dalti Thalit’s brain. “I suspected you had fled somewhere in the house, to some purpose, though I knew not what. I dispatched whatever men could be spared to find you, dramatically weakening our defense. It was then that a soldier from the lower gate told me a rumor about a masked man who had come into the city last night. He sang strange songs which caused the blood of men to boil, and was to blame for the destruction of Tannigal. I would have scoffed at such claims, had I not taken in a masked man earlier today. It was then that I thought of the conservatory. I sent Dalti ahead with his sons, thinking they could deal with whatever they found. Apparently I was mistaken.”
Nuir struggled to rise, one hand clutching at her stinging cheek. “Father, please listen to me. You don’t understand -”
“I understand enough. My only uncertainties concern the depth of your complicity in these crimes, my daughter. The truth of that will need to be extracted after we escape.” Lord Azumana turned his attention to Kelrob, who still knelt weeping before Jacobson’s slumped corpse. “As for you, Kelrob Kael-Pellin, you brought a great danger under my roof, and told me nothing. I can only assume this man was a rogue sorcerer, a blasphemy before the Gyre Itself. By the code of your own Order you have done me more than sufficient wrong to lay claim to your life. Even the Isdori Council would sanction my right.” As he spoke he extended his violet-wreathed blade and prodded the tip against Kelrob’s throat. “Have you any words in your defense before I gut you, spawn of Amon? I regret the blow to my fortunes your death will cause, but the loss is negligible against the satisfaction of your blood.”
“Father!” Nuir cried. Her voice broke off in a strangled gasp as Kisha re-cocked her pistol and aimed it at Nuir’s left eyesocket.
The lord’s plucked eyebrows rose in consternation. “One more word, my feckless daughter, and you will join the dead in this arena. Remember that I keep you alive only out of a deference to shared blood.” His eyes burned as he pressed Kelrob’s chin upwards with the hungry tip of his sword. “They are burning and looting everything. The groves have gone up in flame. This house still stands, her sorceries are self-sufficient, but even these are beginning to break down. Tannigal will be nothing more than a cinder come the dawn, burnt to the ground by petty guardsmen and monger merchants, whores and milliners and tanners. It is the ultimate disgrace. And you, magister of the 16th Circle, are to blame.” The blade pressed deeply into Kelrob’s throat, and the mage gasped, scooting backwards until Azumana had him pinned against the rise of a tier. He gripped frantically at an ivory pedestal, toppling a silver lyre that struck the floor with a discordant groan. The black spots consumed his vision; the cold burning prick of steel against his flesh was a distant, almost welcome sensation. Kelrob grinned, suppressed a laugh, and said, “I am tired. So very very tired.”
“That is all you have to say? Very well, my traitorous son. Let me give you rest.” With a snarl Azumana drew back his sword and stabbed forward, the tip driving for the bulge of Kelrob’s throat. The mage sighed and closed his eyes, for the first moment in his young life ready and willing to accept death.
A soft, crooning song filled the powder-choked air of the conservatory, rising to vibrate and resound from the room’s ingenious dome. Lord Azumana stopped himself mid-thrust, his fury-filled eyes glazing over as he turned and sought for the source of the beautiful sound. Jacobson’s body was pushing itself up from the ground, the song emerging pure and clean from behind the mask’s blood-gobbed lips. The heralds trained their weapons on him, but the pistols were trembling in their impeccably conditioned hands; Kelrob watched in horror as Tamrel seized control of Jacobson’s corpse, the big man’s eyes swelling with azure light as his body struggled erect. The crooning, wordless song continued, a furious and hellish lament - Kelrob clapped his hands over his ears and struggled away from Lord Azumana, who stood staring at the hideous spectacle with glazed eyes and gaping mouth, the violet-burning sword dangling like a child’s wooden imitation from his nerveless right hand. Nuir dragged herself after the mage, her eyes cast down as her hands and knees sought frantic purchase against the polished floor.
The gaping wound below Jacobson’s right knee sealed shut with a sharp, searing hiss. Tamrel’s song rose in brief jubilation, and the hole over Jacobson’s heart spat a mist of blood as a steel pellet was expelled to clatter against the chalcedony floor. “I am whole,” he said, interrupting his song. Stepping towards Lord Azumana, who stood now in limp befuddlement, the minstrel reached out one of Jacobson’s thick-fingered hands and delicately caressed the lord’s painted brow. “You poor creature,” Tamrel said, with a small sigh that caused both of the heralds to drop their wavering weapons. “To have a heart so vast and black and empty, to be the willful cause of so much despair. Your freeing will mean nothing more than self-destruction, for your energy is too corrupt. Still, I must sing my songs to those who will listen.” Kneeling, the bard retrieved the silver harp Kelrob had toppled and ran Jacobson’s fingers over the strings, creating a lush welling of sound. “This is a song for the dwindling House of Azumana. It shall be played only once, for some songs cannot endure beyond their moment, not even as an echo.”
Striking a slow, dolorous chain of chords, Tamrel began to sing. It was a continuation of the hypnotic lament, but more violent and twisted, with sharp snarls and wailing cries that mimicked the plaint of starving children. Lord Azumana listened to the song, and the sword finally tumbled from his hand, clattering to the floor with a dying flicker of amethyst flame. Bowing his head he wept with abandon, tearing off the steel breastplate and clawing through the padded tunic beneath until his chest was bare and welted by the scrabbling of his nails.
Tamrel modified his song, and the lord stiffened, his clawing hands going limp as a look of vast, unendurable sorrow spread over his regal face. As the lament wound down into a grumbling, spitting drone, he turned to his heralds, who stood blank-faced and staring, and said, “You will conduct me to the Great Hall. There we will open the door to our assailants, and accept the death they offer with glad humbleness.” Azumana’s voice emerged as a whisper, but gained in strength as he spoke. Looking down at his bare chest, he tore away the remainder of the padding, leaving his entire torso exposed. “I will be the first to taste their gift. It is all I can do to atone for what I have been.” Turning sad, hollow eyes on Nuir, who lay cradling an ear clipped by his rings, he said, “I am sorry, my daughter. There are no words to express my transgressions against you, but understand that, whatever the sin, I go now to die in penance.” His lips twitched upward, and for the briefest of moments Lord Azumana was himself, a sparkle of mischief flaring in
his black eyes. “Know that I have a cache of gold buried at a remote oasis in the Jeneni Wastes. None of your siblings know about it. The locals call the place Jou-Li, the Belly of Water; seek it by that name, and dig between the two inward-leaning stone plinths to claim your birthright. You could still marry the mage, if you wished, but now that I see him revealed I would advise against it. Whatever path he chooses to walk, doom is his destination.” At this the lord’s lips twisted downwards, his eyes becoming newly clouded. “And now, I must go to my own doom. Sing no songs of my passing, do not mourn in your hearts, for my only wish is be forgotten quickly.” Motioning to his heralds, Lord Azumana swept from the room without another word, ignoring the agonized cries of Nuir, who reached out graspingly and begged him not to go. The three passed through the broken doorway, the lord’s head held high, none sparing a backward glance. Within moments they had vanished, bound on their grim errand. Tamrel struck a few loose notes on the silver harp, then turned his smiling face to Kelrob.
“Shall we go?” he said, motioning to the secret exit.
Even as the bard spoke Jacobson’s body began to crumple. With a cry Kelrob rushed forward, finding himself burdened beneath the big man’s bloody and insensate weight.
“Jacobson,” the mage rasped as the body bore him to the floor, “tell me you live, please tell me you live!”
The body coughed, and a blob of coagulated blood slithered from behind the mask’s lips. Jacobson’s bright blue eyes rolled in their sockets, and with a groan he pushed himself off of Kelrob, who had been borne practically to the floor. Reaching to where the bullet had penetrated his chest, Jacobson fingered the wound, a sealed lump of white flesh glistening through the latest bloodied rent in his tunic. “I do live,” he said in a thin voice, “though I’d swear I was dead and gone.” Reaching down, he prodded at his knee, then almost toppled as Kelrob embraced him for the second time that day. Tears burned in the mage’s eyes as he clung to his friend, driving away the vulturous swarm of black dots.
Nuir lay on the ground, her eyes downcast, veil dangling from one corner of her rounded face. Her soft features had hardened, and no light glimmered in the pits of her eyes as she turned to see Kelrob disentangle himself from Jacobson. “We must leave,” she said hollowly, and dragged herself upright, resisting Jacobson’s offer of aid. She kept her gaze turned from the mask, from Kelrob, from the path her doomed father had taken; striding with salvaged pride, she scaled the first tier, then the second, trusting (or perhaps not caring) that they would follow.
Jacobson, clearly dazed, took to the task with less agility and poise, his body swaying as he clambered upwards. Kelrob followed him, the silky carpeting soft under his gripping hands and feet, musical instruments clustering close on their tapered ivory pedestals. His relief at seeing Jacobson alive beat in his veins, alongside the stimulating effect of the cocaine; the cuts to his face from Lord Azumana’s rings burned faintly, the bruises mottling his body ached and screamed for rest. It all culminated into a truly peculiar sensation, pain and relief and love and heartache and weariness and desperate dread, all swirling like a muddied fume over the seldom-seen landscape of hope. Kelrob thought this image truly poetic, and allowed himself to dwell in the comforting realm of the abstract as he scaled the last tier. Ahead, Nuir was already running her hands over the featureless curve of the wall, the cedar panels shuddering faintly as the hidden door swung wide. Jacobson stood at her side, pack retrieved, Andrych drawn and keening in his hand. The silver lute, Kelrob noted, was strung securely over his back.
23: The Cleansing
They hurried into the tunnel, Kelrob drawing out the bottle and offering his companions more of the stimulating drug. They both partook, and Kelrob nursed the botlle for a long moment before returning it to the secret pocket in his robes. His heart increased its thudding, black spots whirling against the blue lambency of Jacobson’s sword. Thus energized, their eyes glassy with feverish strength, the companions took to the tunnels, Nuir racing ahead into a darkness known to her by the subtleties of touch alone.
Their way took them, surprisingly, upward. Nuir offered no explanation for this anomaly, and Kelrob remembered she had said the tunnels did not intersect directly with the crypt. The way was narrow, the air chokingly stale; Kelrob felt that he was breathing cobwebs, but forced himself onwards. They climbed several flights of ill-cut stairs, rounded a corner, and suddenly found themselves in a small, parlour-sized room, bricked in on all sides by flaking blocks of granite. Evidently whatever ancient lord had sequestered his wealth here had also sought to hide a crime, for a mummified body lay propped against the far wall, its hands clasped behind its back, though the rope had long since rotted from its rat-gnawed wrists. Kelrob gulped at the sight, but Nuir brushed past it without a glance, going to the wall opposite the body and touching a few choice bumps on the stone. A door swung open on an actual parlour, replete with silken divans, brocaded wall-hangings, and a monstrous hooka pipe sitting in ominous disuse.
Nuir smiled grimly. Glancing to the body, she said, “I do not know his story, but he was a fool. Had he carefully felt along the walls instead of panicking like a beast he would have found his freedom.”
As she spoke the air echoed with a sharp crashing sound. A flood of feral voices echoed distantly through the manse’s many chambers; Nuir’s head whipped towards the noise, her lips drawing into a thin, untrembling line. “My father has opened the doors,” she whispered. “He is dead.”
Jacobson stepped ahead of them, sword bared, and glanced into the empty parlour. After a moment he nodded and motioned them through. “How much farther?” he asked of Nuir as she turned and sealed the door. An acrid odor reached the big man’s nose; sniffing, he said, “They’ve already set fire to the place.”
Nuir looked up at him, then darted towards the parlour’s far exit. “No more talking,” she said, motioning them along with a jerk of her bracelet-draped arm.
They crept through several adjoining apartments, Nuir opening each successive door with her key. The rooms were obviously dedicated to advanced dissolution: wide beds dominated several, their sumptuous sheets stained with blood and the fluids of love-making. One room sported a strange, ominous device of cold metal and oiled leather straps - Kelrob averted his eyes and stumbled into a profanely carved endtable, knocking a large granite phallus to the floor. It landed with a smash, causing Nuir to wince and put a shushing finger to her lips. The smell of burning was growing stronger, the voices of the still-distant reavers echoing crazily from chamber to chamber.
At last they reached the final room in the chain of apartments, a small discordantly-angled gallery of sybaritic paintings. Kelrob blushed furiously, the redirection of blood to both his cheeks and genitals nearly causing him to faint. He stood in shivering torment as Nuir pushed aside the image of a merchant-lord sodomizing a gagged child to touch a secret mechanism in the wall. The door opened easily, soundlessly, and again they were lost in the gloom of narrow corridors, bathed in Andrych’s flickering light. The door sealed shut behind them, but it did not deaden the growing rumble of butchery and destruction rising from the main house. The walls, seemingly, acted as a magnifier to these sounds, and as they rushed downward into the bowels of the manse Kelrob heard the screams of the dying commingle with the triumphant cries of the reavers as they laid waste to Tannigal’s most venerated and ancient abode.
The three companions fled down lightless staircases, coughing as smoke gathered between the walls in a suffocating haze. The air was growing increasingly hot, and Kelrob ran bowed over, hacking and wheezing as he followed the beacon of Andrych down a spiral of shallow granite steps. He could only hope that Jacobson still followed Nuir, with every step anticipating a plunge into some nameless oubliette.
Suddenly, a rumble of machinery, a door cracking open on flickering light. Kelrob skidded to a halt and collided with Jacobson, who grabbed and steadied the mage with his free hand. “Nuir’s opening a
nother door,” he said. “She says it’s the last one. I go through first.”
The door swung wide. Kelrob saw Nuir revealed in the light of the chamber beyond, her small breasts heaving with exertion, sweat streaming unchecked down her brow to saturate her diaphanous garments. Her face was expressionless as she turned to him and said, “You should know this place, Kelrob. You were here for my grandfather’s burial.”
Jacobson bared his sword and walked cautiously through the doorway, his eyes flicking about, seeking any hint of threat. Kelrob peered from behind the big man, discerning a long sepulchral gallery lit by low-burning braziers. Cold statues of marble and granite lined the hallway, marking the noble dead of ages; gemstones of incalculable value were fused into the more recently installed effigies of the Azumana line. Kelrob shivered and nodded.
“The Hall of Effigy. I had nightmares about it for a week.”
Nuir chuckled faintly and turned to him. “If that is so, I lament the terrors that will plague your dreams henceforth. I know my own shall be troubled eternally.” She laughed, then grew solemn, the fire dulling in her dark eyes. “Come to think of it, my dreams have all come true. Our union is terminated and my father is dead. I feel greatly relieved over the former.” The shalqi woman blinked and looked away, checking the moment of her vulnerability. When she spoke again it was in a clear, cold voice, devoid of inflection. “Come. Your man beckons. Unless it is that foul creature donning his flesh.”
They entered the curved gallery, the door sealing itself into a seamless rock wall behind them. Jacobson stood at attention, his sword bared as his eyes scanned the long, hideously lifelike procession of statues. “I take it we’re near some very important dead people,” he said.
Scott J Couturier - [The Magistricide 01] Page 33
