by Ian Whates
Ruben was a man of fastidious habit. His routine hadn't varied since Dewar's exile. Poisoning his mid-afternoon beverage had been the simplest job of the three. A fitting if overdue end for the man who had orchestrated the public outcry that saved the First's reputation and ensured that the chosen scapegoat – Dewar – became the Isles' most hated fugitive.
Three down, two to go, of which the king was of course the most prominent but by no means the most important, not in Dewar's eyes. He reserved that accolade for the man who had ordered the king's assassination and then denied all knowledge, robbing Dewar of legal recourse and hanging him out to dry: Brent, the First among the Twelve.
Since returning to Indryl, Dewar had searched in vain for some sign of his former commander. Oh, he knew that man had become a close advisor to the king and was doubtless at the heart of palace intrigue, but nobody seemed to have seen him in a good while. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the world at around the same time the Misted Isles started gearing up for war. Coincidence? Dewar didn't believe in coincidence, not where Brent was concerned.
He'd find him, wherever he was, but first he must deal with the matter at hand. Dewar watched on dispassionately as the king felt around his throat, as if that might somehow free the passageways and vocal chords. It wouldn't. Such an elegant poison, zyvan berry juice, so economical.
"Of course, none of this is necessary. It's not you I want to see dead at all," he lied. "After all, I did try to kill you, even though that act was fully authorised within the terms of the political system underpinning our society. No, I can't blame you for wanting me dead or exiled after that. You're not the one who turned a legal act into an illegal one by denying sanction."
Without warning, Dewar closed on the startled king, grasping him by the front of his nightshirt – nice material, silk by the feel – and glowering into his face. "Where is he, Inzierto? Where's the First?"
The man gaped like a floundering fish, trying to suck in air, trying to speak.
"If I walk away now, you'll die," Dewar told him. "A slow, horrible, painful death, and no one but you will even hear the screams. If you tell me what I want to know, I'll administer the antidote. All you have to do is tell me where the First is. Where is he, hmm? Where's Brent?"
Wheezing and straining, the king managed to frame a single word, more breathed than spoken.
Dewar stared at him, hearing the wheezed syllables and seeing the shape of the lips but not quite able to believe either. "Thaiburley? You sent him to Thaiburley?" The assassin stifled the urge to laugh. The city that had become his adopted home, which had also been the second state to exile him. The irony was delicious. All the years Dewar had spent living in that city, trying to secure a future when he should have been claiming his revenge, and when he finally returned home it was to discover that the chief object of his revenge had gone to where he'd just been.
"You sent him there as a spy, as an agent provocateur, didn't you…" Who better?
Inzierto was gesturing, pointing towards his throat. "Oh, of course," Dewar said. "Forgive the distraction, my king. I promised you the antidote, didn't I?" He stepped in closer and drove his right arm forward in one fluid motion. The spring-loaded knife leapt into his hand and he buried it in the king's torso, deftly slipping the blade between two royal ribs until it pierced the heart. He clutched the older man to him and whispered, "Farewell, my liege, consider the antidote delivered and all debts cancelled."
He held the twitching body of Inzierto IV close until all life had fled. Only then did he ease his lifeless form onto the bed, making sure to place the king at the very centre, so that he was lying on his back, head cushioned by a single pillow. He then brought the hands up to cross at the chest, and closed the wide, staring eyes. Dewar treated the body with an uncharacteristic degree of tenderness, respect even. After all, this man had been his king.
Satisfied, he stood back, staring at the peaceful-looking body. He'd expected to feel something more significant at this moment, but in truth little had changed. There was no real sense of triumph, while the hurt at the core of his being didn't seem lessened; perhaps because the First still breathed.
Thaiburley. Dewar sighed. No matter what detours he took or the distractions that arose along the way, it seemed his path was always destined to lead back to the City of a Hundred Rows. With the faintest of bows in the direction of the dead monarch – little more than a shallow nod of the head – he turned and stepped back into the shadows.
FOURTEEN
"What's that?" Whitmore was looking towards the great dark maw of the second chamber, that stygian hinterland of the Stain which they'd all doubtless been hoping to avoid.
Something moved in the depths, a pale agitation that coalesced into a great loping shape.
"Demon hound," somebody muttered – one of the Tattooed Men – yet in many ways this was unlike the beasts that had attacked them earlier. Canine in form, certainly, but this creature was lean to the point of being scrawny and its hide as pale as fresh-churned milk. It looked almost to be made of bone, as if any flesh that might once have covered that emaciated frame had dropped away years ago.
For long seconds the beast stood there, just within the furthest chamber, its head swaying from side to side as if questing for them, trying to catch their scent. Then, without uttering a sound, it turned and slunk away into the darkness, its alabaster shape vanishing by rapid degrees.
Tylus stared after the thing, unable to shake the irrational feeling that they had just encountered some guardian of this entrance to the further cavern.
"So, we're to go in there, are we?" M'gruth said.
"Indeed." Tylus tried to keep his voice steady, determined not to betray any of the disquiet he actually felt, particularly as M'gruth had spoken in a tone that suggested acceptance of the inevitable rather than any genuine trepidation.
"Great," the Tattooed Man said. "I suppose we'd better get some torches organised then."
They stood in a world of deep twilight, the rays of the nearest sun globe barely reaching this far and making no impression at all on the darkness that faced them.
"No need," Tylus replied.
He reached to his belt and unclipped the compact, battery-powered torch that was a part of every Kite Guard's equipment. A click of the single button and a beam of silver luminance stabbed forth. A pair of identical beams joined it as the other two Kite Guards followed suit.
"Impressive," M'gruth allowed. "But unless those things last forever, shouldn't we perhaps turn a couple of them off? I'd hate to get stuck in there with no light whatsoever."
Tylus bit back a testy response, resenting the way the older man had so casually seized the initiative. This was his expedition now, not M'gruth's. Even so, he couldn't fault the man's logic. The beams would in fact last for hours and each officer had a spare set of batteries in their belt, but there was no telling how long this was likely to take and no point in taking any chances. Not that he intended to comply entirely with the Tattooed Man's advice.
"We're too big a party to rely on just one torch," he declared. "We'll keep two on at any one time and rotate between the three to extend battery life for as long as possible."
M'gruth nodded. "Makes sense."
So, with his status as commander duly reinforced, Tylus led the way forward. Within a few short steps they were crossing into the second chamber and leaving the comfort of the sun globes' luminance and the world they knew behind. Issie and her quartet of guardian Blade were at his shoulder, followed by the two Kite Guard officers – one active torch between them – with M'gruth and the Tattooed Men bringing up the rear.
Tylus' first impression was of cold; not in the sense of a chill breeze striking his face but more as an absence of warmth which seemed intent on sucking the heat from the air, leaching sustenance from the front chamber, the City Below. This impression was soon brushed aside by the sheer wonder of the landscape around them. They might almost have been entering an alien world, or so it seem
ed to Tylus, so different were these surroundings from any he'd encountered before.
In the beam of his torch he saw great teardrops of rock descending from the ceiling, held in place by solid strands as if something gelatinous had oozed downward only to become frozen or calcified, while great tapering turrets rose from the ground to meet them in apparent greeting. Not just turrets, Tylus realised as he played the beam to either side. In places the grounded part of these odd pairings were squat and bloated, like the melted wax of a poorly made candle, and elsewhere they resembled nothing so much as wonky phalluses. He moved the torch away quickly, a little embarrassed by his own observation, especially given the presence of Issie close behind him.
"Great Demons," someone muttered in a distinctly up-City accent. "Where in the world have we come to?"
"Welcome to the depths, laddie," M'gruth growled in response. "Please leave your flying cape at the door."
Judging by the chuckles the comment elicited, the Tattooed Men were enjoying themselves at least. Tylus only wished he could say the same. This place didn't just look strange, it felt strange too; colder and damper than the City Below he was used to, and then of course there was the sound. A great bass rumble that seemed to emanate from the very air itself, like the overlapping beat of a million drums all of which were keeping different time. Water, he realised; a mighty cascade of water, pummelling rock and stone to roar out a challenge that boomed forth across the cavern.
"We need to head to the right," Issie said. It was difficult to be certain with the way sound here seemed to fill the whole cavern, but he thought that would take them towards the source of the roar.
They stayed close to the cavern wall and their way led downwards, steeply enough that Tylus was forced to stop admiring the bizarre scenery and concentrate the torch's beam on where he was treading. There was no clear pathway and the order of their company, which he had so carefully arranged as they entered the dark chamber, soon disintegrated, though the Blade still managed to stay close to Issie. In places, the rock of the wall gave the impression of being in motion, albeit slowly; of flowing down towards the ground in a multitude of small runs, like over-wet paint from a child's watercolour held upright before it had dried, or perhaps a cauldron heated too vigorously and bubbling over.
There was a fair bit of banter, particularly among the Tattooed Men, perhaps designed to keep their spirits up. "It'd be nice to know where that ghostly demon hound went to," somebody said.
"I wouldn't worry," another voice replied. "It was probably frightened off by your smell."
"Thaiss!" somebody exclaimed suddenly.
"What?" Tylus stopped, so abruptly that he nearly lost his footing. He swung the torch beam around, anxious to see what new menace confronted them.
Ox's broad face was caught wide-eyed in its glare.
"Nothing," the big man mumbled sheepishly. "Just stubbed my toe."
Sniggers surrounded him and one of the other Tattooed Men shoved him good-naturedly.
"Try to tread more carefully," Tylus snapped before turning forward once more. He instantly regretted the words. It wasn't as if Ox had meant to stub his toe.
"It's all right for you, you've got the torch," a voice muttered.
The Kite Guard ignored the comment, but he tried to keep the beam trained closer to his own feet and not so far ahead from then on.
They'd said all there was to be said, those who remained of Thaiburley's council, having discussed every conceivable matter ad nauseum. In the end it didn't matter; none of it mattered. Everything rested on an innocuous-looking street-nick with power beyond his understanding. If Tom should fail, then the city was lost and all their contingencies and future plans amounted to nothing. They might as well all have saved their breath and spent what time remained with their loved ones. An uncharacteristically fatalistic thought but, under the circumstances, he felt he could forgive himself for that. The meeting did have one thing in its favour. It had provided those present with welcome distraction and enabled them to forget, or at least ignore for a while, the way in which the city they'd all served and overseen for so long was falling apart around them. The surviving council members were all quartered nearby, within the "safe" sector maintained by the Blade, and eventually they had left, one by one; even Ty-gen, who was staying in the Heights for the duration of the crisis.
The Prime Master wilted into his chair as the door closed behind the last of them, glad to be left to his own devices. It meant that he could relax and not bother with the charade that there was nothing wrong with his health. Jeanette knew, or at least suspected. They skirted around the subject, not mentioning it by mutual consent. Thankfully, there was plenty to occupy the minds of his fellow councillors, and he benefited from the myth of his own durability – people assumed that he would go on forever and were blind to any indication that he might not.
With a sigh, he stood up and shuffled from the makeshift meeting room into his home proper. The pain was becoming increasingly hard to manage, and he'd all but lost the use of his left hand, while the right was growing progressively arthritic. He dropped into his favourite chair – the comfortable leather one behind his desk – and pulled his left glove off, to stare at the hard, scaly skin beneath. Soon, perhaps within a few hours, any semblance of a living, breathing epidermis would flake away to leave the hard white bone of his self-grown tomb. The speed with which bone flu progressed varied from victim to victim, but the Prime Master felt increasingly certain that he wouldn't last the night, which meant he couldn't afford to fall asleep. At least, not in any natural sense.
Slowly and very precisely, having only his right hand to call upon, he removed the stopper from the decanter on his desk and poured himself a glass of red wine. Next he took out a small bottle of clear liquid from a drawer, placing it beside the glass. He stared at the two vessels for a second, appreciating the asymmetry of their size and shape which still somehow managed to complement each other. With a snort, he decided, not yet.
He would savour one final glass of good untainted wine before he attempted the fatal dose. This was simply delaying the inevitable, perhaps, but he was only human and he kept hoping that Tom would yet win through and save the day. It was a slim hope, he knew that, but it was what he'd been reduced to. His talent was failing him. Abilities he'd taken for granted since he was a young child were gone.
Long sight was now beyond him, and when he'd lost contact with the last of the Blade sent to guard the boy his frustration was complete, his confidence shattered; but he hadn't despaired. As time passed, though, and nothing changed, his lingering hopes grew increasingly forlorn. The point was fast approaching where it would be too late for him in any case, even if Tom did succeed in cleansing and replenishing the core. At least if he went now he could do so believing there was still a chance that his beloved city might be saved.
He was frustrated by the clumsiness of his stiff fingers – his own body betraying him – but persevered with the attempt to pick up the glass, until he was able to take a sip, savouring the deep full flavour and the liquorice overtones. If this was truly to be his final drink, he could have chosen a lot worse.
The small bottle on the desktop monopolised his gaze. He set the glass down beside it once more and started to compose himself in preparation. Despite the city's predicament, at a personal level there was much for him to feel content about. He had done a great deal in his life and seen so many things. More than most men, certainly. And here and there he'd been able to make a difference; a positive one, he liked to think. That thought provided a crumb of comfort to carry with him into the darkness. His greatest regret was that he hadn't found the right words to say goodbye to the one person he most wanted to. He hoped she'd understand, and that she could forgive him. For leaving her again.
FIFTEEN
They passed through an area where the walls and ceiling were blackened by the fierce passage of now-dead fires and the flooring became bubbled and uneven underfoot, as if it had melted and flowed in t
he raging heat before resetting in newly irregular patterns upon cooling. The walls remained sound, however, and while a number of the ceiling lights were dead, enough still functioned for them to see where they were going; until, that is, they came to the section where the lighting had failed entirely.
The three of them stood side by side, staring uneasily into the gathering gloom ahead.
"If ever there was ever a place that offered the perfect site for an ambush, this is it," Kat observed.
No one chose to argue.
"I take it there's no way around, we have to go through this section?" she added.
Tom nodded. "Afraid so." They hadn't passed any intersecting corridors in a while and the pressure of the core's proximity wouldn't be denied. It had become a growing ache in his head, driving him on.
"Okay then, I'll go first." Somewhere along the line Kat seemed to have taken charge, but then she'd been doing much the same for pretty much all her life and if her leadership was good enough for the Tattooed Men it was certainly good enough for him.
