by Tom Lloyd
Lost in his thoughts, Jackdaw almost missed Rojak’s question, until Ilumene turned slowly to face him, his dagger hanging loose from his fingers as always. The edge was razor-sharp, but somehow Ilumene never nicked himself, even as he spun the blade through his fingers. The cuts and scars covering his hands were all intentionally inflicted; the only time Ilumene seemed to notice the knife in his hands was when he was slicing a new pattern into his own skin.
Quickly Jackdaw muttered something congratulatory, desperate to get Ilumene’s eyes off him. Rojak smiled at his words and affected a preening of his clothes. If the man had not filled Jackdaw with such creeping dread, it might have looked comical. The minstrel’s clothes were worn and tatty, and he gave off a stench of putrid flesh, for his body was rotting from the inside out. Soon he would be dead, but until then his awful prescience and unnatural powers burgeoned with every passing day. Jackdaw had no desire to know what disease Rojak had contracted, but it would not be coincidental. Their master was too cruel and calculating for that.
‘And what is a vital ingredient of all comedic works?’
Jackdaw frowned, trying to find the right answer, but even the words of the script refused to be pinned down.
‘A mistaken identity, of course,’ trilled Rojak, for all the world as if they were having a sparkling conversation, ‘with the inevitable humorous results.’
Humorous? I doubt anyone but Ilumene would find them funny, Jackdaw thought, but he said nothing. The opium Rojak smoked didn’t ever cloud his mind; he was always listening, ever ready to pounce on a hesitation or a misjudged word. Jackdaw had made that mistake once, and the thought of doing so again sent shivers down his spine. The shadow watched constantly.
Rojak peered over the edge of the rooftop they were stood on, looking intently down at the empty street below. ‘And as it happens, we know someone who is desperately seeking a face in the crowd, don’t we, Ilumene?’
‘We do, and it would be rude to disappoint the man,’ Ilumene purred in agreement. ‘Especially when he was like a father to me for so many years.’
Whenever Ilumene spoke, it unnerved Jackdaw. The man was powerfully built, and he had hard callused palms that felt like wood when he slapped Jackdaw’s face. He looked like a professional soldier, but his accent was cultured, suggesting intelligence behind that brutal façade. He was strangely hypnotic, and he could, when he chose, be as charismatic as a white-eye. At those times, Ilumene frightened Jackdaw even more than usual.
‘Surely he’ll kill you?’ Jackdaw croaked.
‘I doubt it,’ Rojak said. ‘Ilumene’s former comrades would never dare, for the king will want to deal with this personally. I find their keenness to find us positively heart-warming.’
‘You want to run the risk of them tracking you down as well?’
Rojak raised an admonishing finger. ‘But then there would be no mistaken identity, thus no humorous unmasking once it’s too late.’
Jackdaw struggled on. ‘You want me to make someone appear to be you, or Ilumene?’
‘Only a few weeks in the theatre and already you are learning its forms!’ Rojak beamed. ‘They’re here to find Ilumene, so let them see what they want to see.’
‘But who? Who is it you want them to kill?’
‘Come now, that would hardly be fair on our poor actor. He is a man who has done nothing wrong, so he shall not be harmed.’ Rojak waved Jackdaw away dismissively. ‘Go and begin preparations for the spell. It must be ready by midday.’
‘Where shall I meet you?’
‘Oh, not me, I have other business to attend to. Ilumene, was there a member of the Brotherhood you held in higher regard than the others?’
The big man frowned. ‘Beyn,’ he said after a moment’s thought. He balanced the dagger on the back of his fingers. ‘Ignas Beyn is one of the few who is not blind to the king’s faults. He’s loyal to his master, but he’s no fool.’
‘Then Ignas Beyn shall be our second party, but whether he walks through flame or darkness, he shall see it through untouched. ’ Rojak spoke slowly, as if intoning a spell. The minstrel was not a mage in the classical sense, but he wielded great power, an understanding of magic’s nature so profound it contained its own force. Jackdaw, a fair mage in his own right, suspected this was closer to how a witch worked, harnessing the brutal potential of the Land itself. This was an unforgiving talent, and laden with consequences; Jackdaw preferred using magic he could channel, rather than standing between mountains and hoping not to be crushed as he directed them to move.
And both bit players to survive, Jackdaw thought grimly. Both to witness Azaer’s strength; a strength born in weakness. Who could have guessed that embracing what makes it feeble would give the shadow such power? It stands between darkness and light and so directs both. When a man’s own strength is turned against him, what defence can he possibly muster -and what are the Gods but power incarnate?
‘I assume you will need Ilumene to accompany you for the spell?’ Rojak said, his attention returning to Jackdaw. ‘Well then, you both must be at the tavern called The Lost Spur at midday, where you will observe a stranger, a Menin.’
‘Do you know his name?’ Jackdaw asked. ‘There are quite a few who could pass for Menin in the city. How will I know which is the right one?’
‘He is also looking for someone,’ Rojak replied, his eyes distant, fingers running softly across the strings of his lyre. ‘His name is Mikiss, Koden Mikiss.’
From the darkness below, Jackdaw heard a sharp hiss cut through the night.
The others heard it too. Ilumene’s free hand moved surreptitiously to his sword and Jackdaw saw a cold smile creep onto Rojak’s lips. The sound had come from the alley, too soft to be heard in anything but the dead of night. Jackdaw recognised it immediately: one of the four Hounds, the forest-spirits called gentry, enslaved by Rojak. Now the spirits stood guard, and that noise meant they had seen someone watching their new master.
‘Oh Princess,’ said Rojak, almost apologetically, ‘we did warn you to keep your nose out of our affairs.’
Jackdaw glanced at Ilumene, who looked as confused as he was. Before either could speak a snarl broke the silence in the shadowy alley below. It was swiftly followed by the rasp of swords being drawn. As Jackdaw craned to see, he was rewarded by a sudden flash of movement, a glimpse of metal and a bone-white mask.
The spy slashed behind him as he ran, catching nothing but not waiting to look back as he jumped up onto a wall and crouched to leap again. Before he could move, a pale limb flashed out and pushed him backwards off the wall. The spy rolled as he hit the ground, cutting up again with twin swords. One caught in a wooden ladder and stuck fast; he didn’t wait to try to pull it out but immediately abandoned the weapon and darted away, heading for the mouth of the alley. From the shadows one of the Hounds appeared, kicked away the spy’s legs and disappeared back into darkness again. The man crashed down, hitting the floor hard and taking a moment to recover before he scrambled to his feet. He’d lost his other sword now and was in the process of drawing a long dagger from his belt when a muscular hand reached out from beyond Jackdaw’s sight and dragged the spy away.
The man shrieked, and Jackdaw flinched. The snarling that followed told its own story and he could not help but picture the long, sharp teeth tearing the spy apart -but somehow the spy managed to pull free, and it was the Hound that staggered back, blood running from a long gash across its chest, ripping open both leather coat and flesh. Jackdaw could see blood on the Hound’s muzzle, but it was the spy who darted forward to press the advantage, a curved dagger raised high and threatening.
He didn’t get more than two steps before a blurring shape hit him in the shoulder and bore him to the ground. Jackdaw saw him turn and try to stab his new attacker, but a third Hound fell upon him at that moment and clamped its jaws around his forearm. The man howled in pain as one slashed down with its claws and lunged forward to snap at his throat. The screams stopped, though the spy fought on
for a few more seconds, beating at the Hounds with his free hand, kicking wildly, like a panicked deer.
And then it was over. The Hounds bent low over their kill, rending the spy’s flesh from his bones, and Jackdaw could bear to watch no longer.
As he turned away, he realised Rojak hadn’t noticed - normally the minstrel took inordinate delight in death, but for some reason he was still looking out over the empty rooftops, a satisfied smile on his face.
‘Perhaps you will heed the warning a little better next time, Princess,’ he said to the night.
Without warning, a great flurry of movement appeared beside Jackdaw, fat trails of shadow suddenly rippling away like leaves caught in a whirlwind. Jackdaw and Ilumene both jumped back, the latter drawing his sword in the same movement. Rojak stayed still, betraying no surprise at the darkness coming to life a foot or two from where Jackdaw had been standing.
‘That was a poor lesson, then,’ snarled Zhia Vukotic as the movement coalesced to reveal the vampire, clad in a white fur-trimmed evening gown that accentuated the rusty stained skin of her neck and shoulders. She stepped forward, sparing a withering look for Ilumene, who had been advancing to meet her until Rojak raised a hand to stop the man.
‘I sent the man to gather information and information is what I have gained,’ she told the minstrel. ‘Anything else is no great consideration.’
For a moment it looked as if she would storm past the three men towards the stair that led to the ground, then something stopped her.
She leaned close to Rojak, her delicate nose screwed up in disgust at the smell, and spoke softly, calmly. ‘You think to issue me with warnings? Perhaps you don’t quite understand the balance of power in this city. Your theatre may have official sanction from Siala and protection from the Spider, but if you are determined to see unfortunate accidents happen to all your players, I will grant that wish. No patron, however powerful they may consider themselves, can protect you from me.’
‘Of course, Princess,’ Rojak replied in his usual tone, quite unfazed by the immortal vampire standing close enough to pluck his heart out. Jackdaw shivered at the man’s lack of fear, his absence of any real emotions. If Zhia did pluck his heart out right now, what would she find in her hand? A healthy organ, still beating, or a rotten piece of carrion? Was there anything Rojak had left to fear?
Rojak gave a small sigh. ‘But in the service of my art, what sacrifice would be too great?’
‘There’s your tavern, sir.’ Major Amber pointed. ‘Almost there now.’
Mikiss followed the soldier’s outstretched finger and tried to summon up a smile, but in the blistering sunshine, labouring under the weight of his pack, he couldn’t find the strength for anything more than a grunt. He began to tramp towards the tavern. The crumbling bricks of these buildings seemed to have been burnt red by the unholy summer sun. Everything he’d seen in Scree told of a careless neglect; even the larger buildings looked dirty and battered when they closed on them.
‘What a shithole of a city,’ muttered one of the men behind them. The two soldiers acting as bodyguards were brothers, Keneg and Shart. They didn’t look particularly similar, Shart being a few inches taller than his older, broader brother, yet their voices were almost identical. Mikiss could never be sure who was speaking -although Shart was always the more talkative -unless he was looking at them.
‘That’s saying something,’ Major Amber replied. He smiled back at the two behind, the strange eyes that gave him his nickname glinting in the light. ‘Don’t you two come from Dorin? I was there in the summer, after the snows had gone; never seen such a festering rat-pit in all my life.’
‘We can’t all be brought up in the lap of luxury, Major.’
Amber gave a snort. It was an old joke, repeated interminably during the journey. Mikiss had come to the conclusion that all soldiers sniped and teased each other, however absurd the reason. Whenever the mood fell sombre, there was always a piece of foolishness to fall back on, a welcome distraction to Death’s hand forever resting on their shoulders.
Amber had been born into minor nobility and was thus accused of being pampered and indulged, while Shart spoke too much and Keneg not enough. It was as simple as that, but none of them ever tired of the same old jokes. When they had been hiding from a group of soldiers one night, Mikiss had found himself glad of their idiotic levity.
Now the major stopped his small party, stepped into the shadow of a building and let his pack fall to the dusty ground. The others followed him, and Mikiss gave a heartfelt groan as he dropped his pack, already thankful for the ease of his torment, however brief.
‘Now boys,’ Amber said, looking warily at the passers-by, ‘just because the end’s in sight, doesn’t mean we’re going to relax. Sir, you’ll be staying here with Shart and the packs. Keneg and I will go and give some names to the barkeep. I’ve no reason to think there’s going to be a problem, but we don’t take risks and I’m buggered if I’m running from the City Watch carrying that pack if I don’t have to.’ He had decided at the start that the timid army messenger would be a clerk to anyone they met, rather than the leader of their group. That left him in charge, at least in public, and mostly Mikiss preferred it that way.
Major Amber took a moment to pull his scimitars from his pack and slide the holster straps over his shoulders. He unwrapped the bleached leather from around the hilts and settled them into their sheaths, giving each a tug to ensure he could draw them without restriction. He straightened his shirt, rubbing a hand distractedly over his belly. He was a professional soldier and disliked being without his armour, but this heat made it impossible to wear even the lightest of mail. All three found themselves unconsciously checking for armour that was no longer there.
Keneg slapped the scabbard of his broadsword, a thick weapon Mikiss thought of as an unholy cross between sword and axe. He nodded at his brother and stepped up beside Major Amber.
‘If there’s no reception to speak of, I’ll send Keneg out and have the beer waiting for you.’
Shart whispered urgently, ‘See if there’s anything better than that piss we got in the last place. Bloody westerners and their poor excuse for beer; that stuff was halfway to water!’
‘You’ll get what you’re given,’ Amber growled goodnaturedly, ‘but if it’ll shut you up for half a minute I’ll see what I can do.’
The pair strode off, Keneg half a pace behind the major, continually scanning the street as befitted his role of bodyguard -though any local thug would have to be brave to the point of madness to tangle with Major Amber. There was nothing noble or gentle about the tall Menin officer. His weathered face bore a number of scars, one of which was obviously a sword cut, and his shaved head added to the brutal façade. That Amber was dressed in fine clothes was a minor point, and of no importance once one had taken in the size of his scimitars and the brutal lines of his face.
Mikiss watched them walk away, then realised he didn’t have to be on his feet any longer. He sat down heavily on his pack and gave a sigh. For a few minutes he just watched his feet, unrecognisable to him without the elegant cavalry boots he normally wore. Eventually his attention wandered to the building sheltering them. The brick looked old. It was crumbling at the edges, and dark streaks showed years of run-off from the neighbouring building. Five yards on, the ground dropped away a little, though Mikiss could see no reason for it; whatever function the drop had served was long-forgotten. Now all it contained was the shrunken corpse of a small dog, little more than a bag of bones and scrappy fur, curled awkwardly in the corner. It was attended by half a dozen lacklustre flies. Mikiss frowned. Something about the corpse looked odd.
He leaned forward to look a little closer. It was the dog’s legs -it wasn’t the angle of its body that was strange, but the length of the rear legs, which were too short. With a start Mikiss understood and turned away, revolted: the little dog’s hind feet had been cut off. ‘Gods,’ he muttered, ‘is that what they do for sport in this city?’
He pulled off a sandal and rubbed the dry, blistered skin on the ball of his foot. The sandal was Chetse Army-issue, with three straps winding around the ankle to hold it secure. He was glad not to be wearing the heavy fur-lined boots reaching halfway up his thigh favoured by the Menin cavalry, but the grit of Scree’s baked roads had worked its way between every toe and under every nail.
‘Good soldier’s foot you’ve got there,’ Shart commented, leaning over to look at the underside.
‘Filthy, you mean?’
The soldier chuckled, knelt down and grabbed the foot, much to Mikiss’ alarm. He twisted it slightly and pointed down at the rough surface underneath. Once Mikiss was paying attention, Shart gave the foot a firm slap with his massively strong sword-arm. Mikiss gave a yelp of surprise and snatched his foot back.
‘That’s what I meant,’ Shart said with a knowing glint. ‘They may be ugly and filthy, but you don’t get much tougher than a soldier’s foot. Trust me; if I’d done that before we set out, you’d be crying like a girl.’ He stood up with a satisfied smile, and stuck his thumb into the thick leather belt that held his daggers and the long-handled axe he was so proficient with.
Mikiss stared at his foot, then back at Shart. ‘I think you meant to say “crying like a girl, sir”, didn’t you?’
‘That I did, sir. Apologies for the slip, but I hope you’ll let me blame it on the weather.’ Shart grinned. The army messenger was not one to take his rank seriously.
‘That I will,’ Mikiss replied, wiping an already-sodden sleeve over his face. ‘Gods, I didn’t expect it to be so hot here.’
