‘It was peace!’
K’rul shook a negative once more. ‘It was but an interregnum.’
Arms crossed, she scowled down at him. ‘This is a catastrophe for all kind. A return to the ancient conflicts.’ She jabbed a finger. ‘Do not fool yourself! The K’Chain and the Forkrul are sure to take note of this!’
‘Such is the hope. Now none dare remain indifferent. Change is difficult and a risk – but it is the only way forward. Yes?’
‘There will be blood.’
‘Yes. It is necessary. All fates are in question now – mine included.’
Sister of Cold Nights lifted a sceptical brow. ‘Even you, brother? I find that difficult to believe.’
‘Look to yourself, sister.’
She dropped her arms with a sigh, returned to pacing. ‘I committed myself to this ages ago, brother.’
After a long silence, empty but for the crackle of flames, K’rul spoke, his voice soft. ‘Your path will be hard.’
‘I am ready.’
‘Then we are done.’
A curt nod from her. ‘Indeed. And there is much to do.’
‘Fare thee well, sister.’
‘And you, brother.’ She gestured and disappeared in a swirl of dust.
K’rul began to fade away as well. As he did so, he murmured, ‘May it be worth it … for you, and me.’
It was another day and night before any of the valley ascetics dared edge into the cave. Finding it empty, the four original occupants eyed one another in wonder, then fell to their knees in prayer.
* * *
Silk was at the crenellations of Heng’s west wall; not on duty, merely taking the air, thinking, as was his habit of late. By order of the Protectress all travel restrictions and curfews had been lifted, and so now traffic was thick beneath him on the Great Trader Road westward to Quon and Tali, as was the river traffic as well. Normally, he would be lingering in the Inner Round, at one of the trendy eateries or courtyards, mingling with the daughters – and mothers – of the richer merchant houses and what passed for local Hengan aristocracy, such as it was.
But his thoughts kept returning to Shalmanat. And lately his usual amusements and dalliances had lost their fascination. Become rote. Even dreary.
While she remained cloistered, refusing all company. Even his. He let out a long breath and brushed dust from the sleeve of his white silk shirt. What was one to do?
‘Greetings, mage!’ came a great bellow from behind, and Silk turned to peer down to the street below. There stood two of his mage compatriots, the great shaggy giant Koroll, and the mage of Telas, Smokey.
‘What is it?’ he sighed. ‘Magical pilfering from the market stalls again?’
The giant rumbled a laugh. ‘Nay. I am come to give you my farewells.’
Silk started from the wall. ‘What? A moment.’ He hurried to the nearest stairs.
He found them waiting at the bottom and peered up at Koroll, confused. ‘You are given an errand?’
‘No, no.’ The huge fellow was wearing his usual shapeless hanging rags and tatters, his tall stave in hand. ‘No errand. Travel. I am called away to the north. To my people.’
Now Silk was even more confused. He’d never considered Koroll’s people. Who would they be? The Thelomen? ‘Your people are in the north?’ The north? A thought struck him. ‘Wait! You are of the Fenn?’
Koroll waved a great paw. ‘Just an ancient word for giant. Or monster. Not ours, by the way. One of yours. Humans’.’
‘Ah.’ Silk was relieved – all sorts of dire and dark rumours and legends surrounded that name. ‘You have spoken with Shalmanat?’
The giant’s wide expressive mouth drew down and he nodded sombrely. ‘Yes. I have taken my leave. It is unfortunate, but unavoidable. I must go.’
‘Now? You are going now?’
‘Yes. Ho and I have spoken at length and Mara and I have said our farewells. And now I shall pass on my thoughts to you two,’ and he nodded to Smokey. ‘I am no reader of the Deck of Dragons, or any such, but I have been troubled of late. This is another reason why I hearken to this call. And so I warn you as I have Ho, Mara and Shalmanat – something is coming. I do not know what, but it troubles me greatly.’
Silk was reminded of Liss’s words months ago. ‘You sound just like Liss,’ he said, half jokingly.
‘Then listen to her too, my friend.’
‘And you have no idea?’ Smokey asked, stroking his goatee. ‘If it is a danger, then stay and help.’
The alien, fading tattoos that crossed the giant’s face writhed as he grimaced. ‘I am sorry. It is just a new smell in the wind; a strange new bite to the cold air. Ancient, but somehow familiar.’ He shook his wild mane of dirty hair, and bits of chaff and straw came dusting down. Then he chuckled, his old self, and cuffed huge hands to Silk and Smokey’s shoulders. ‘So! Keep a weather eye out, my friends! And good luck to you!’ He turned and shambled off up the main way, parting the heavy traffic of carts and wagons like a lumbering man-o’-war.
Silk and Smokey stood silent, watching the giant go, then the mage of Telas let out a long breath and pulled on his goatee once more. ‘Excellent. Some sort of trouble might be on the way and now we’re shorthanded.’
‘We’ll have to recruit.’
Smokey snorted. ‘Can’t imagine anyone good enough. I, after all, am the famous mage of Telas, while you …’ he paused to look Silk up and down, ‘I never could figure out what it was you did.’
Silk offered a smile. ‘I make us look good.’
‘Hunh. That’s what I do just by showing up.’
Silk extended an arm. ‘I suggest a drink while we hash that out.’ He pointed to Smokey’s leather shoes. ‘I mean, really? Tradesmen’s footwear.’
‘Better than those silk slippers.’
Silk raised a foot. It was indeed in a silk slipper. He wiggled it back and forth, sighing. ‘It’s all the fashion these days, my friend. You should stay informed.’
‘How can you even walk in those?’
‘That’s the whole point. They declare that their wearer is above such pedestrian concerns.’
Smokey shook his head, but he quirked a rueful smile. ‘Why you hang around sponging off those rich arseholes is beyond me.’
Silk shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well … there’s little to be gained from sponging off the poor.’
Chapter 16
In Dariyal, Cartheron watched while events unfurled as Surly predicted, or perhaps enforced: Tarel ceded power to the Napan Council of Elders and Nobles and retired to the family’s private island, while the Council – suitably chastened – heeded most suggestions from Surly herself, who remained hidden from pretty much everyone else.
Since generations of bloody rivalry could not simply be brushed aside, the navies were not officially merged, remaining independent and separated into two task forces.
For the marines, however, Cartheron deliberately pushed for no distinctions whatsoever. Despite this, or because of it, recruitment and training was proceeding with remarkable success. Privately, Cartheron was under no illusions, as everyone was eager to serve the man who had no formal rank, but was known simply as the Sword.
This evening Cartheron sat in the Anvil, a waterfront inn – though, in truth, almost all taverns and drinking houses in Dariyal were waterfront. It had become something of an unofficial rendezvous for the officer corps – if it could be called such.
His brother was with him, back from raiding. In fact, almost all vessels were in harbour as pickings were particularly thin this season. Fighting almost everywhere on the continent had merchants going to ground.
He sipped his watered beer and reflected that this raised the salient point so plaguing the conferences with Surly: what next?
Also at the table this evening were Dujek and his second in command, Jack, like Urko back from raiding, and the cadre mage Hairlock, who, though not pleasant company, apparently loved to talk and drink and so showed up uninvited all the time.
Urko nudged his brother, gestured round the table and observed, ‘We’re the only Napans left.’
Cartheron grunted his agreement. ‘We’re getting thin on the ground these days.’
‘Where is Tocaras, anyway?’
‘Mainland. He proposed some kind of mission to Surly and went.’
Urko nodded. ‘Hunh. Never was comfortable at sea. Born on the mainland, right?’
‘Yeah. His family’s related – but we’re all related here, hey? Damned small island. Anyway, a trade delegation, I believe. He’s half Napan.’
Urko peered down at his tankard. ‘That’s the Old Crew, then. An’ Choss is in Malaz.’
His brother, he knew, could sometimes slip into melancholy, and so to change the subject Cartheron looked to Hairlock. ‘What of our glorious leader?’
The mage stroked his wide jowls and nodded solemnly. He peered right and left then leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. ‘Been poking round. All indications are he’s still alive. Don’t know just where he is, though.’ The squat and sun-darkened mage raised a blunt finger. ‘But, here’s the kicker.’ He paused to glance about again and Cartheron realized that here was a fellow who loved to be ‘in the know’, dispensing juicy bits of gossip; he’d have to warn Surly and Tayschrenn about that. ‘Jadeen had a whole organization in south Itko Kan, right? Found out it’s now in complete disarray. Word is, she’s dead.’
Despite his disapproval of Hairlock’s smugness and gossiping, Cartheron was impressed. The Witch Jadeen, dead? Could the little runt really have … He shook his head.
‘I didn’t think he had it in him,’ Urko announced, and thumped the table. Cartheron winced.
‘Perhaps it was Dancer,’ Jack murmured, keeping his voice low.
Urko jabbed a blunt finger to the young officer. ‘That I’d believe.’
‘That’s enough about that,’ Cartheron warned, and he sipped his beer.
Hairlock just grinned and tapped a finger to the side of his nose.
Dujek cleared his throat and leaned to Cartheron. ‘Got a request, if you don’t mind.’
‘What is it?’
Dujek gestured to Jack. ‘The lad here has a far better head than most for runnin’ things, so has pretty much been doin’ all the work without the rank. So, I request he formally has command.’
Cartheron studied the young officer, who in fact was no younger than many of them – he just had kept his youthful looks for longer. He was even trying to grow a beard, perhaps to compensate. He nodded. ‘I’ll draw the papers up tomorrow. Congratulations, Jack. You’re now command rank.’
‘Drinks!’ Urko called out.
A young servitor came to the table and Cartheron asked, ‘What would you like to celebrate, Jack?’
‘Whisky.’
Cartheron raised a brow. ‘Well, well. Whisky, Jack?’ Then he slapped a hand to the table. ‘That’s it. Whiskyjack – the cunning bird. There you go.’
Urko’s forehead furrowed. ‘What?’
Cartheron pointed to the thin ropy fellow. ‘His name. Whiskyjack.’
The lad actually looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t know about this …’
But Dujek was nodding. ‘I like it. It has – whadyacallit – panache.’
Cartheron ordered the round, then spotted a slim dark figure slipping into the tavern and frowned. One of Surly’s dark birds, her Claws. This one, a young woman, approached the table and bowed, murmuring, ‘Your presence is requested.’ She looked to Hairlock as well. ‘And you, mage.’
Hairlock appeared surprised. ‘We’re ready?’
The young woman slipped away without answering. When the round arrived Cartheron drank his swiftly, saluted the lad in his new command – and name – then rose. Hairlock accompanied him.
They crossed the waterfront to the ancient pile of stone that was the harbour garrison, armoury, and informal palace of Dariyal.
‘You’ll like this,’ Hairlock chuckled. ‘If it’s what I think it is.’
They passed through numerous guarded entryways and doors, and were directed towards a small side room, a private meeting chamber. Two of Surly’s Claws guarded this door, and when they opened it Cartheron saw Surly at a table flanked by two more Claw bodyguards, the boyish-looking cadre mage Calot, and their ‘High Mage’ Tayschrenn.
The table held some sort of glowing object, not unlike a lantern, except that the pale light was constant, not flickering.
‘Hairlock,’ Tayschrenn called, ‘if you would please …’
Grunting, the burly mage went to the table and raised his hands to the globe.
‘Been working on this for a while,’ the High Mage explained to Cartheron. ‘This is our first trial.’ He raised a questioning brow to Surly, who nodded her assent.
‘Ap-Athlan,’ Tayschrenn called to the table. ‘I would speak with you.’
Everyone waited in silence. Cartheron couldn’t help cocking a sceptical eye to Surly; her attention, however, was steady upon the single bluish light in the darkened room.
Something flickered in the glow, a blurry shape, and a voice whispered faintly, wavering in and out, ‘Who would speak?’
‘I am Tayschrenn. I speak for the ruler of Malaz and the Napan Isles.’
A long silence followed this, until the weak voice answered, ‘Very well. Speak.’
‘I wish to propose an agreement to our mutual benefit.’
Silence again, until a whispered, ‘I see … I shall take your request to my mistress.’
‘Agreed. We shall speak again – one day hence.’
‘Agreed.’
A collective gasp of relief burst from the mages as the glow snapped out, plunging the room into darkness. Light blossomed from a lantern Surly now held, its sliding panel raised. Cartheron saw other shielded lanterns and opened them as well. The light revealed the three mages clinging to the table like shipwreck survivors. Their faces gleamed with sweat and they were gasping for breath.
‘One day?’ Calot complained to Tayschrenn, when he could speak. ‘You’re optimistic.’
* * *
Orjin cleaned his nicked and gouged two-handed blade as best he could, then eased himself down on a rock to rest. He was exhausted, famished to his core, and hadn’t had a proper drink since a mouthful of muddy rainwater someone had kept too long in a goatskin gerber.
At least the numerous bruises and cuts up and down his body weren’t serious enough to slow him down – yet. He was lucky in that. Many were down one good arm, or had leg wounds that meant they were barely able to keep up when the troop was on the move.
He gathered up a handful of dirt and rubbed his hands together to scrape off the dried blood.
Soon. It would have to be soon now. The decision he’d been putting off.
If it wasn’t already too late.
One by one the other principals of the troop came limping up to sit with him at his fire in the traditional dusk gathering. Not that there was anything to discuss these days. They were surrounded, and the ground was disappearing beneath their feet. At some point ahead – not so far off at all – things would settle into an informal siege, with Renquill starving them out.
At least, that’s what he’d do.
He nodded to Orhan, Terath, Yune and Prevost Jeral as they either sat or squatted down, inviting any ideas. This night the Wickan Arkady was with them too, back in camp between his contacts with the hill tribes.
Orjin looked from one haggard and drawn face to another, Terath and Jeral with eyes downcast as if unable, or unwilling, to meet his gaze, and decided then that now would be the time. He drew breath to speak, just as Prevost Jeral raised her hand. He lifted a brow. ‘Yes?’
She extended a sealed scroll. ‘Another message from Renquill.’
Orjin took it, commenting, ‘Downright chatty, our pursuer.’ This raised a few half-smiles.
He broke the seals and read the message, then tossed the vellum roll into the fire. ‘As expected – my head for the lives of the troop
.’
‘As I said before,’ Terath cut in, ‘he may mean it, but we cannot trust Quon and Tali. They want everyone’s head.’
Orjin pulled a hand down his face, as if he could draw the exhaustion from his spirit and flesh; how hard it was to concentrate when just standing was an effort! ‘An exchange could be arranged,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps right at the Seti border. You could all make a run for it there.’
‘No more talk of that,’ Jeral growled.
‘But that pretty much is my proposal,’ Orjin explained. ‘We break out to the north, then east along the Purge border – that may slow Renquill down – then part into small companies and spread out. Some of us will make it.’ He didn’t say that if it came to it he would offer himself as a diversion to allow as many as possible to get away.
Orhan and Terath were shaking their heads. ‘Not good enough,’ Terath answered. ‘It’s all or none.’
‘There’s nothing else.’ Orjin eyed everyone in turn. ‘Unless anyone else has a better idea?’
Heads turned as the group looked at one another; but no one spoke.
Orjin nodded. ‘Very well then. Tomorrow at dawn. We strike north, then dash east.’
Terath threw a handful of gravel into the fire, saying, exasperated, ‘But Renquill will be expecting just such a move.’
He held out his arms in an open shrug. ‘What choice do we have?’
At this point Yune raised a skeleton-thin hand. It shook with a terrible palsy, and Orjin knew the ancient had been driving himself harder than any of them, keeping tabs on as many of their pursuers as he could. He nodded for him to speak. ‘Yes?’
The elder cleared his throat. ‘We may have nothing to say, but there is one present who is very eager to speak indeed. And has been for some time, though he has held himself back as he is afraid of how he will be received.’
Everyone was puzzled. ‘Who, and why?’ Terath demanded.
Kellanved's Reach Page 27
