“Majesty, by what name will you reign?”
The chamberlain was shocked by Tol’s direct question, but Amaltar showed no anger. In fact, the prince’s former shrewd self briefly emerged from the prematurely aged man before them as he replied, “I shall be Ackal IV.”
The news set the court humming. The last emperor by that name, Ackal III, had reigned one hundred sixty years earlier. A cruel tyrant, he had desecrated the temples of Daltigoth and massacred many guiltless priests he believed were plotting against him. For this he had been deposed by his cousin Mordirin and later was found mysteriously murdered inside a sealed room. Since then it had been considered bad luck to take the tainted name of Ackal.
Amaltar seemed unconcerned by the stir he’d created. He descended from the dais, walking stiffly to a side door. All in the hall went to their knees out of respect, except his privy council. They followed the emperor in a rustle of silk and soft clatter of armor. By the time Tol stood again, the imperial consorts had departed as well.
In a brief span of time, he’d beheld the changed man who was to be emperor, seen the faithless traitor Mandes exalted at his side, and made an enemy of the haughty Pelladrom Tumult, yet none of that remained long in Tol’s mind. He could think only of how breathtakingly lovely was Valaran, the woman he loved.
Chapter 10
Rendezvous in White
Tol had hoped for an invitation to stay in the imperial palace, but none came. When he complained, Kiya told him sternly, “Given so many mysterious attempts on your life, I’d think you’d welcome a little distance between yourself and the palace.”
After seeing Mandes again, Tol more than ever believed that the wizard was behind the strange incidents that had threatened him, but as usual, the Dom-shu woman was right. They spent a day searching for accommodations.
The inns were already brimming with the thousands of visitors who’d come for the funeral and coronation. Even if they hadn’t been, Tol required more than a simple roof over his head. Whether he liked it or not, he needed a place worthy of Lord Tolandruth. Unfortunately, few homes remained available for rent.
In the end, it was Miya, the champion haggler, who found a suitable place. She took a turn through the marketplace and acquired new suede boots, a cask of Ropunt lager for half the usual price, and a tip on a house for rent.
“There’s an empty villa in the Quarry district,” she announced. “Cost you nine gold pieces a day.”
The price was good for an entire villa, but the Quarry district was not exactly prestigious. Located just east of the Inner City, it was a vast bowl-shaped hollow left after the stone for the imperial palace was mined out. Over the years, it had filled with houses built tall and narrow to fit in the pit. Most of its residents were artisans, and though some were quite wealthy, the Quarry district did not compare to the Inner or Old cities as locations of distinction.
Tol made his displeasure plain. Since leaving the palace they’d tramped the busy streets of Daltigoth, all their possessions borne on the shoulders of hired porters. The endless circling through the streets, together with the crowds that collected wherever Tol went, had frayed his nerves. Living in the wilds for so long, he’d forgotten how claustrophobic life in the city could feel.
“Listen to you!” Miya chided. “Worried about an unseemly address, are you? Pretty high and mighty for a lad from Juramona!”
“Farm boy,” added Kiya, eyeing him narrowly.
He glared at them for the space of two heartbeats, then a sheepish smile broke over his sweaty face. They were right. The Quarry district certainly was better than wandering the streets like a homeless acting troupe.
When they arrived, they found the district to be relatively quiet. Winding their way through the narrow, steep lanes to the address Miya had been given, the only sounds they heard were the tap of tinsmiths’ hammers, the creak of baskets being woven, and the hum of potters’ wheels. The peacefulness appealed to Tol, as did their proximity to the palace. He apologized for his earlier churlishness and commended Miya on her choice.
“All I sought was a bargain,” she replied.
The white wall of the Inner City rose nearby, putting most of the Quarry district in shadow though it was only early afternoon. Miya’s find was located in the easternmost section of the former stone pit, the side farthest from the looming wall, and it was perched on the highest part of that area, a place fittingly called Noonday Ridge. The villa was in fact a mansion, the largest house in the Quarry district. Its rambling ground floor was surmounted by a much smaller second story, which was surrounded by elevated gardens. The whole house was encircled by a stout stone wall topped with a row of iron spikes.
The small caravan entered a courtyard. Miya pulled up the “To Let” sign and tossed it into waist-high weeds. No one had lived here in quite a while.
They were admitted by an elderly woman caretaker. Inside, the doorways were curiously low, just barely tall enough to allow the Dom-shu sisters to pass through without stooping. The old woman explained the villa had been built by a wealthy dwarf merchant named Rumbold. He had gone on an expedition to the east to buy iron four years ago and never returned.
The porters deposited Tol’s chest of pirate treasure in the hall. Miya paid off the men and the caretaker, and they departed. Tol sat down on a low settee, leaned back, and exhaled gustily.
Kiya took hold of his chin and squinted into his eyes. “You’re exhausted. You should go to bed,” she announced.
He did feel drained of strength. The long campaign, the journey from Tarsis, the fight with Xanka, the tragic loss of Felryn and Frez, all of it hung around his neck like shackles. Seeing Mandes again had stirred up a mighty anger, but that wasn’t an antidote to all the travails of the trail. Worse, the deep wound in his heart left by Valaran’s long, unexplained rejection had opened anew. She had barely acknowledged his longing gaze. He didn’t know how to stanch his emotions.
Miya set the cask of Ropunt lager down at his feet. Her agreement with her sister’s prescription was plain. Grateful once more for the women’s support, Tol took Miya’s hand. With her other, she reached over and tousled his hair.
“Rest, husband,” she said roughly. “You look like you’ve walked all the way from Tarsis!”
Although it was only four marks past midday, Noonday Ridge was submerging in the shadow of the Inner City wall. Tol hunted through the dim, dusty corridors of his new home until he found the master bedchamber. Rumbold’s bed was generously sized for a dwarf’s but barely accommodated Tol’s modest height. He drank only a single cup of lager before succumbing to sleep.
The brass mug, bearing the arms of the lost dwarf’s line, fell from Tol’s slack fingers. It landed with a dull thump on the rug and rolled to a stop against the wall.
Half a league away, at a far more stylish address, the master of the house was in his private sanctum. Heaps of curling scrolls spilled off tables onto the floor, mingling with trays of half-eaten food. Everywhere the eye fell there were goblets stained with the dregs of many days’ wine. No one was allowed in this room to clean it, and the occupant of the high-backed chair was too lost in thought to care about such mundane matters.
Mandes pressed the tips of both forefingers to his temples. Before him was a shallow silver pan filled with gently steaming liquid. He sprinkled various colored salts in the pan, noting how the swirling patterns changed with every addition. His lips barely moved as he whispered the words of power.
At last, he commanded, “Show me.”
The lines of color resolved themselves into a scene-a kitchen or dining hall. The object of his surveillance was seated at a rough table, sawing at a roasted boar’s leg with a long knife.
“Come, voice,” Mandes breathed.
“-and make a fool of himself,” said a female, someone not in view. “He could lose everything!”
The woman Mandes watched put down her carving knife, the boar’s leg forgotten. “He wouldn’t do that,” she said. “Our husband may b
e lovesick, but he’s not stupid.”
The unseen speaker snorted loudly. “This is no ordinary woman, sister! She’s the emperor’s wife!”
Mandes leaned forward, intrigued. Lord Tolandruth was still in love with Princess Valaran? That was a most interesting revelation.
A discreet knock on the door did not rouse him at first. Only after it was repeated several times did he realize the sound came from his own environs.
“What is it?” he barked, looking up from the pan.
The tall door opened a crack. A servant stood in the wedge of light created by the open door.
“You have a visitor, master.”
“What is my first rule, Valgo? Never disturb me when I am in this room!”
Valgo bowed hastily, but said, “The visitor is high born, master, and most persistent-”
“They’re all high born!” Mandes sighed wearily. His breath disrupted the image in the pan and the liquid turned muddy brown.
Irritated, he rose from his chair, determined to give his impertinent caller a case of boils. When he drew near the partly open door, he realized Valgo sported a rapidly swelling black eye.
“What happened to you?” Mandes demanded.
The servant’s gaze flickered quickly back over his shoulder, a final attempt to warn his master, but it was too late. The door was shoved hard and flew open, just missing Mandes’s nose. A lean, red-haired man dressed in blood-colored leather stood at Valgo’s shoulder.
The sorcerer hastily erased his outraged expression and bowed. “Your Highness! Welcome to my unworthy house.”
“Did you really think you could keep me out?”
“Of course not. You’re always welcome, Highness.”
Prince Nazramin, half-brother of Amaltar, swaggered in, shoving the cowering Valgo aside. Looking over the clutter of manuscripts and magical paraphernalia, the prince sniffed.
“I thought you had a woman in here, and that was why you didn’t want any visitors.”
“So I did, gracious prince.” Mandes gave his best, oiliest smile. “Two women, in fact.”
“Conjuring up company, eh? Saves paying them, I’ll wager.”
Nazramin took Mandes’s own chair. With a single stroke of his quirt, he swept the table before him clear of its clutter. The scrying pan and several scrolls hit the floor. Liquid from the pan splashed the priceless scrolls before they rolled under the furniture.
“Attend me,” said the prince loftily. “We have much to discuss.”
Lips locked in a rictus of forced hospitality, Mandes dispatched Valgo for refreshment. He shut the door and slid the bolt into place.
Nazramin was seven years younger than Amaltar and a far different sort of man. While Amaltar had been groomed from birth to serve the empire, Nazramin had never served anyone but himself. He had made himself the living embodiment of all the cruelty and arrogance of the Ackal dynasty-which to Nazramin meant all the power and glory. Vigorous, ambitious, hated and admired in equal measure, Nazramin stood at the head of a sizable faction of Ergothian warlords dissatisfied with Amaltar’s cold, scholarly ways.
Mandes stood before the prince, hands folded and eyes lowered. Nazramin stared up at him, chewing on his thick auburn mustache.
“So the pig farmer has returned,” Nazramin said at last. Mandes gave a slight nod. “Your vaunted magic did not stop him.”
“My efforts took their toll, Highness. The country priest from Juramona perished in the mountains, and one of Tolandruth’s favorite retainers died before Thoragoth.”
“You killed a pair of cubs and spared the lion.”
The sorcerer’s bland smile hardened. “Lord Tolandruth spared himself, great prince. He is not an easy man to defeat.”
Nazramin lashed out with his quirt. An Ackal family heirloom, the quirt was made from the hide of a bakali chief slain in personal combat by Ackal II Dermount. The braided lizard-leather whip split Mandes’s cheek like a rotted peach; with a cry of pain, he fell to the floor.
“Never call that peasant filth ‘lord’ in my presence!” Nazramin roared. “Do it again and I’ll have you flayed alive!”
Mandes looked up at him through eyes half-blind with tears. Blood ran down his neck. With shaking hands, he pulled a fine linen handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at the burning wound. He said nothing. Explanations and apologies would merely make the volatile prince even angrier.
The sight of the cringing man pleased Nazramin, and he mastered his wrath, leaning back in the chair again. “You should know better than to say that to me, sorcerer,” he said evenly. “Get up.”
Mandes clutched the table and pulled himself to his feet. He was still shaking, as much from shock as from the pain. No one had dared to raise his voice to him in years, much less strike him. Rich and influential beyond his fondest dreams, he suddenly realized how ephemeral his status was before a prince of the realm.
Placing one booted foot on the empty table, Nazramin said, “You assured me your spells were infallible. How did the peasant escape?”
“At critical points, the conjurations weakened or failed completely. I cannot explain it.” Mandes spoke haltingly, cradling his bleeding face. He cleared his throat and went on. “I thought the priest Felryn was protecting him with counter-spells, but Felryn died and the protection continued. Tolandruth must have other protection-probably an amulet or talisman. If this artifact could be removed-”
“Talisman, eh? What would it look like?”
The sorcerer explained the protection could take many forms. Commonly amulets were disks of metal inscribed with magical symbols, but they could just as easily be rings, jewels, or even a sword or enchanted dagger.
“My eyes at court tell me the pig farmer is carrying an unusual sword,” Nazramin mused. “It’s made of some sort of special metal, said to be harder than forged iron.”
“If you procure it, Your Highness, I could try my magic against him once more.”
A knock sounded at the door and Valgo begged permission to enter. Mandes unbolted the door, and the servant brought in a tray of amber nectar and sweetmeats. Nazramin took a tall, thin goblet of nectar and ignored the food.
Mandes looked longingly at a glazed walnut but chose a piece of soft, sugared cake. He took small bites and chewed carefully, mindful of his stiffening jaw.
“Our common foe has another weakness, Highness,” he said. “Princess Valaran.”
Nazramin laughed harshly. He used two very vulgar words to describe his brother’s wife. Mandes colored.
“We know that already. After the lies we have fed her, she might kill the peasant for us,” the prince said. He picked up the second goblet, Mandes’s serving, and drank it down as well. “I should love to see that!”
“There might be a better approach, Highness. Tolandruth will certainly seek her out under furtive circumstances. If caught together, both their lives would be forfeit, and only the emperor would bear the blame for their deaths.”
Nazramin blotted droplets of nectar from his mustache. “You’re a devious wretch, aren’t you, sorcerer? How can you insure they meet? I already have the princess watched at all times, but why would Tolandruth risk it after all this time? Surely he has other women.” He leaned forward, becoming caught up in the plot. “You could make a potion, an aphrodisiac. I’ll see it’s put in Valaran’s food-”
“That won’t be necessary, my prince. Just bring them together. Their natural passion will accomplish the rest.”
“After all this time, she detests the peasant bastard!”
Mandes had little experience of love, but he understood human nature far better than his noble patron. Valaran hated Tolandruth because she believed he had betrayed her by having a child with the forester woman Miya. Nazramin had forged that lie in a letter from Tolandruth to her ten years ago, and had reinforced it with more forged letters. Valaran had cut off all communication, and Mandes had taken pains to intercept Tolandruth’s letters to her, which dwindled over the years.
Now
, if the couple was brought together and the truth revealed, their passion would rekindle tenfold, fanned by the misunderstanding and their long separation.
Nazramin was content to leave the details in Mandes’s hands. The prince said Valaran would provide a potent diversion while his agents got their hands on Tol’s saber, in case it was the talisman Mandes suspected was shielding him from his spells.
The prince was not yet ready to depart. He demanded to see the progress of their other ongoing project. When Mandes hesitated, Nazramin tapped the quirt weightily against the palm of his hand. Bloody handkerchief still pressed to his face, the sorcerer acquiesced with a bow.
On the room’s rear wall was a shelf piled high with pots of dried herbs, mineral powders, and trays of rough crystals. Mandes faced this wall and traced a sigil in the air with his left hand. A vertical line of light appeared, widening steadily as the hidden door opened in the seemingly solid stone wall.
Beyond was a niche lit by a smoky oil lamp. Within the niche was a black-draped table on which rested a statuette two handspans tall. Made of dully glinting gray metal, the image bore the unmistakable features of Nazramin’s elder brother. Affixed to the statuette were two screw clamps, one compressing the figure’s head, the other its chest. Every day Mandes tightened the screws a half turn. Every day, Amaltar grew a little more ill.
“Splendid,” the prince said, and smiled.
“A crude method, but effective,” agreed the wizard. “Almost no one uses image magic any more. Too easily countered if discovered.”
The prince approached the statuette. “Oropash and his people can do nothing. My brother has lost all confidence in their abilities.” He rubbed a finger over each of the clamps, his touch as delicate as a woman’s. Resting his finger on the statuette’s middle, he looked back at the sorcerer, eyes aglitter. “Add a third one. On the belly.”
“As you wish, great prince.” Mandes bowed, but warned, “If too many clamps are used, the emperor will sicken too quickly, and people will suspect his weakness is not natural.”
The Wizard_s Fate e-2 Page 19
