It was an overt display of trust.
Trust in her.
‘Our new allies found her wandering in the woods,’ Paulus said. ‘Quite distressed.’
‘But why bring her here?’
‘It is the most comfortable cell in the palace, bar one other, and I could not bring myself to keep her in there.’ A pained look flitted across his face, but then his expression hardened, as of one determined not to show weakness or grief, and Ianthe could see thoughts racing behind his eyes. After a moment he shook his head dismissively. ‘But then you never knew Carella.’
Ianthe could not tell him that she’d watched the Unmer princess die in confined quarters much like these. Nor could she tell him that she’d peered out through his eyes and read the letters he’d written to her. He’d been forced to write in Anean, so that his Haurstaf captors could vet his words before passing them on to the princess. The thought of it now merely compounded her guilt.
‘There was no reason to keep us apart,’ Paulus said, ‘none but that we should suffer all the more.’ For a moment he seemed sad and distant again, but then his resolve returned. He straightened and looked squarely at Ianthe. ‘We Unmer believe that compassion is the primary measure of worth,’ he said. ‘Mercy is the second. Please.’ He beckoned her to follow him.
They walked over to the glass slabs. Duke Cyr, however, chose to linger by the door.
The room beneath the window had not changed since Paulus had been imprisoned here. But now in his place there was a Haurstaf girl. Ianthe’s breath caught in her throat. The girl was a few years older than her and seemed all elbows and knees and great dark hollows for eyes – a sapling of a girl with skin as white as a winter birch, but mottled by bruises. Even her hair was thin and pallid, almost translucent. She looked familiar. Ianthe was sure she’d seen her around, but they had never spoken. She had been sitting on the edge of a red plush settee, fidgeting with her hands, but stood up when Ianthe and Paulus came to stand at the edge of the glass ceiling. She regarded Ianthe with absolute fear.
Paulus looked down at her. ‘I’m told you are a combat psychic.’
Her gaze moved between him and Ianthe. She moistened her lips.
‘Your name?’
‘I don’t want to harm anyone,’ she said.
‘Please,’ the prince said. ‘We merely require your name.’
‘Genevieve Greene.’
He regarded her calmly. ‘You were lucky to survive the uprising, Genevieve.’
Uprising. That struck Ianthe as an odd choice of words. There had been no uprising as such, merely liberation as an unintended result of her psychic attack. They’d hurt her and she’d hurt them back a hundredfold. And now the Unmer were free as a result. She could, however, see why Paulus might utilize that particular term for political gain.
Genevieve’s gaze was fixed on Ianthe. ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she said.
Ianthe felt her face redden with shame.
‘We’re not here to hurt you,’ Paulus said. ‘We’re here to offer you a job.’
Genevieve’s eyes snapped to him, now smouldering with distrust.
‘You are wondering why you should trust me,’ he said. ‘Why, after all your kind has done to mine, should I grant you your freedom? Why would any Unmer risk having an enemy psychic around? It is, after all, within your power to cripple me here and now. You might, with one thought, inflict unbearable pain on me or reduce me to a . . . gibbering wreck. The fact that you refrain suggests that you are smart enough to know that such actions would not be in your best interests.’ He glanced at Ianthe, a half-smile on his lips. ‘However, this impasse – albeit tenuous – nevertheless provides me with an invaluable opportunity.’ Now he paused, perhaps to give weight to the words that followed. ‘The simple truth is,’ he said, ‘I need the Haurstaf.’
She frowned.
‘Our last conflict cost my people dearly,’ Paulus said. ‘We had no defence against your mental weaponry, and no appeal. My father Jonas begged the goddess Duna, daughter of Fiorel, for assistance, but Argusto Conquillas put an end to that desperate ploy. And all was lost. We could not engineer a way to shield ourselves. Conquillas raised his dragons against us. His lover, Aria, raised her Haurstaf to war against us. Faced with genocide, my father turned to Fiorel for help. They conceived of one last way to save us.
‘If we couldn’t protect ourselves from you, we would make ourselves invaluable to you.’ Paulus looked again at Ianthe. ‘Fiorel taught my father’s best sorcerers how to create ichusae. He sent them as far from Haurstaf interference as possible. They worked in secret, in remote camps in the mountains, producing them.’
‘The grave pits,’ Ianthe said. ‘My dream.’
He smiled suddenly. ‘Dear Ianthe, it was not your dream.’ He turned back to Genevieve.‘Your kind always liked to promote the idea that we poisoned the oceans out of spite. But the truth is that we did it to ensure our own survival. We really had no other option. We seeded the oceans with ichusae to give you a reason to keep us around.’
‘To counter the magic you unleashed?’ Ianthe said.
‘Only we knew the location of every last ichusae,’ Paulus said. ‘The Haurstaf would need us to delay the end of the world. They could not destroy us without dooming themselves.’ He shrugged. ‘The problem was: as the seas rose, less land became available. Which meant more conflict. And the more conflict there was, the more money and power came to the Haurstaf. We made them rich beyond imagining. It turned out that ever-rising seas suited the Haurstaf just fine.’
‘But now you’re free . . .’ Ianthe began.
‘Now it’s too late,’ Paulus replied. ‘There are not enough of my people left to accomplish the task ahead. We have no empire, no ships, no resources of any kind, and no time left to establish them. The Haurstaf have allowed the world to reach the brink of death. And if we’re going to pull it back, we need friends, Ianthe. Even among those who have tortured and enslaved us.’
Ianthe’s heart filled with love for him. And such admiration. And hope. If Paulus could show such forgiveness and compassion to those who had tortured and murdered his own family, then was it inconceivable that the Haurstaf might one day forgive her for what she’d done to them? She would have thrown her arms around him had it not been so inappropriate.
‘Will you help me, Genevieve?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Thank you.’
Paulus smiled.
Just then a door at the far end of the chamber opened, and a party entered. Three former palace guards, now in Unmer employ, escorted two more Haurstaf prisoners across the chamber. The telepaths were both young, of an age with Ianthe. Both wore the white cowled robes of recruits. One was snow-blonde and slender, the other dusky and rotund. Ianthe vaguely recognized them, but – again – had no knowledge of their names. The palace guard commander halted a few steps in front of Paulus and clasped his own shoulder in salute. ‘There are four more in the north hall,’ he said. ‘Commander Artenso is due to . . .’
‘Tell Artenso to hold off until I’ve had a chance to speak with him,’ Paulus said. ‘In the meantime I’d like to meet the girls myself.’ He turned to indicate the sunken quarters beneath the glass floor slabs. ‘You may rescue this young lady from the clutches of extreme luxury and add her to your party. See that they are settled quickly.’ He turned to the two recruits and gave them an amiable smile. ‘You are both invited to tonight’s ball.’
The dumpy girl curtseyed, ‘Thank you, Your Highness.’
Her slender blonde companion glowered at this for a moment, before she turned to Paulus and addressed him in a voice twisted to sarcasm, ‘Thank you, Your Highness.’
Paulus observed her a moment. ‘Have I offended you?’
She snorted and raised her chin. ‘Of course not, Your Highness.’
Paulus’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer, before turning away. He had, it seemed, no desire to provoke a confrontation. But then he stopped suddenly and wi
nced. He shook his head again, this time in apparent response to some minor pain. And suddenly he reached up and clamped his hands against his temples. His eyes snapped shut and he staggered forward.
Ianthe caught him. ‘Paulus?’
The young prince gasped and collapsed to his knees, pulling Ianthe down with him.
From the other side of the room came a sudden cry. Duke Cyr pointed wildly at the Haurstaf girls. ‘The blonde girl,’ he yelled. ‘She’s doing this. She’s attacking.’
The dumpy girl who had curtseyed mere moments ago now backed away, her hands raised defensively, her horror-struck eyes fixed on the prince’s agonized writhing. Her fair companion remained rooted to the spot. The malice had disappeared from her expression, replaced by what appeared to be genuine shock.
‘An assassin,’ the duke cried. ‘An assassin.’
The palace guard wheeled and struck the slender girl across the face with the back of his gauntlet. She crumpled like a pile of sticks, her body splayed across the floor, her hair a lick of yellow flame. She moaned and raised her head and gaped back in terror at her assailant.
Paulus cried out in agony.
‘Stop her,’ Cyr cried. ‘She’s killing the prince.’
Even as the palace guard raised his boot to strike the girl, Ianthe reacted instinctively.
She closed her eyes and let her consciousness slip from her own body until she was floating in that dark and endless reservoir of perceptions she had begun to think of as the Sea of Ghosts. She could still perceive the chamber she physically occupied, but now through the eyes and ears of everyone present. It was like being in the room, but removed from it at the same time.
At the focus of each person’s vision, the young blonde Haurstaf assassin lay upon the stone between the feet of the palace guards, her perceived surroundings shining like a beacon before Ianthe’s own discorporate soul. The chamber seemed to flicker and swell around Ianthe as the Haurstaf girl cast her gaze around. Was she even now looking for escape?
There would be no escape.
Ianthe’s own consciousness flitted through the dark like a phantom. She fell upon that young Haurstaf mind and curled her anger and desperation around it. Through the ears of those others around her she heard screaming, but she could not tell from whose throat it came. She heard a sudden sharp intake of breath. Paulus? And then she felt a stab of agony at the base of her spine. Her spine? She wanted to cry out, but she had no lungs, no body. No spine. She was nothing but a ghost. A male voice roared, ‘Kill her!’
Ianthe snuffed out the Haurstaf mind like a candle.
She opened her eyes again to find Paulus staring at her intently, but her thoughts scrambled through dizziness and nausea. Someone had tried to attack her. The prince was holding her shoulders, keeping her drunken limbs upright. ‘Ianthe?’
‘My love.’
‘Hush, you’re confused.’
Her sense coalesced. And suddenly she heard sobbing. She glanced at the floor. The Haurstaf girl lay there, unmoving, one hand pressed against a wound at the base of her spine from which blood was pouring. One of the palace guards crouched over her, a bloody knife in his hand. The girl lay in an awkward attitude, her torso twisted strangely, her robes scattered about her naked legs. Her mouth was open but still. Her dead eyes stared at nothing.
The other girl sat on the floor nearby, weeping uncontrollably into her sleeve.
Ianthe failed to stifle a wail.
‘You saved me,’ Paulus said, holding her more tightly. ‘Do you hear me? You saved my life.’
‘I killed her,’ Ianthe said. ‘Before the knife. She was dead before her blood even started to flow.’
‘She was trying to kill me. Another heartbeat and it would have been too late.’
Ianthe rested her head against his chest and began to sob.
Maskelyne’s smile stuttered momentarily when the door opened and his servant Garstone admitted the Haurstaf witch out onto the terrace. The face beneath that white Haurstaf cowl was not that of Briana Marks at all, but rather the face of a beautiful young woman he had never seen before. It took the meta-physicist a moment before he realized what was going on.
‘My dear Briana,’ he said to the stranger. ‘You’re here by proxy.’
The young woman extended her hand. ‘Thena Althorpe,’ she said. ‘I will telepathically relay the conversation between Sister Marks and yourself.’
‘I’m envious of your talent, Miss Althorpe,’ Maskelyne said with a smile. ‘But not the task before you.’ He offered her a seat at a table by the edge of the sea cliffs. They were on a little-used terrace on the eastern side of his fortress, high above the darkly plunging waters of the Sea of Lights. Waves boomed and fizzed against the rocks far below, sharpening the air with vapours that had long ago corrupted the ironwork of the patio furniture and the railings, giving them a furred bromide texture. In the waning light the Mare Lux glowered heavily.
Over their heads Maskelyne’s fortress of pink and purple quartz stood atop the island’s spine like a monstrous lantern or even a great crystal skull. Its translucent façades and buttresses and inner spaces hoarded and amplified the last rays of sunlight so that the whole building glowed fiercely against the darkening skies.
‘May I say,’ Maskelyne said, ‘what a pleasure it is to see you again, Briana. You’re looking especially radiant.’
Thena blushed. ‘Sister Marks asks that you . . . uh . . . refrain from patronizing her, sir. And she requests that you address her as Miss Marks.’
‘She asks and requests?’ Maskelyne grinned. ‘That hardly sounds like her at all.’
The telepath opened her mouth to speak, but stopped.
‘Yes?’ Maskelyne said.
‘I will relay her words exactly.’
‘Harder than it sounds, I imagine.’
‘Sir, I am a trained . . .’ She fell silent again, then recomposed herself. ‘Stop baiting the girl,’ she said in a voice clearly intended to mimic Briana’s own. There was even a harshness to the tone. ‘I need to speak with you urgently, Ethan.’
‘My dear Briana,’ Maskelyne said. ‘This pretty voice can’t mask your anguish.’ He took the young telepath’s hand in his own, resting his finger on her pulse. ‘Tell me where you are and how I may be of assistance.’
The telepath barely flinched at Maskelyne’s touch. Her eyes remained focused inwards. ‘I’m at sea,’ she said. ‘My exact location is irrelevant and secret. You need only know that I’m far from Awl and far from you.’
Maskelyne released the telepath’s hand. ‘Some wine? Is this woman able to convey the taste and smell of a rare Losotan vintage across the leagues to you?’
‘Of course not,’ the young woman said. ‘Don’t waste wine on her.’
‘Of course,’ Maskelyne said. ‘We wouldn’t want her slurring your words. Still, I hope you don’t mind if I have some.’ He signalled to Garstone, who was waiting beside the door. Garstone disappeared inside.
Maskelyne leaned back in his chair. A cool breeze blew off the sea and ruffled his hair. He could see that the telepath seated opposite him was trying to distance herself from the conversation, removing her own will in order to act as a conduit between himself and Briana Marks. Of course she could not accomplish that completely. The blankness she’d adopted in her expression was merely an affectation. This girl might be trained, but was certainly not in the same league as Ianthe. ‘Why send such a pretty one?’ he said.
‘She happened to be available,’ the young woman said.
‘The only one available?’
The telepath hesitated. ‘If she pleases you, you may . . .’ She paused again, swallowed, then resumed her conversation in a rather bitter tone. ‘You may have her after our business is concluded.’
‘Have her?’ Maskelyne said. ‘You mean fuck her?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ the telepath said in a voice now edged with anger.
Maskelyne couldn’t help but smile. ‘Thank you, Briana,’ he said.
‘That’s most kind.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
At that moment Garstone arrived with a tray bearing a decanter of red wine and two goblets cut from the same quartz as Maskelyne’s fortress. The glassware burned with a pinkish light. He set them down on the rusty table and was about to pour the wine, when Maskelyne dismissed him.
‘What do you want from me, Briana?’ he said to the telepath.
The telepath waited until the servant had gone. ‘Simply what’s in our mutual best interest, Ethan,’ she said. ‘Neither of us can risk letting the Unmer regain their power.’
Maskelyne watched her over the lip of his glass.
‘An alliance makes sense,’ she went on. ‘As soon as the Unmer have gained a foothold in Awl, they’ll look towards the empire. Hu has no way to stand against them, but he’ll rally the warlords anyway. He’ll summon you, Ethan. With your knowledge of Unmer artefacts and an army of prisoners at your disposal. You won’t be able to refuse him without Haurstaf help.’
‘How many of you actually survived?’ Maskelyne said.
The telepath took a deep breath. ‘Enough of us to make a difference. Enough of us to be useful in a war against the Unmer.’
‘Assuming Granger’s little girl allows it,’ Maskelyne said. ‘Ianthe destroyed your Guild without raising a finger. And from what I understand about her abilities, she could very well be listening to this conversation right now.’
‘No,’ the woman replied. ‘Ianthe’s abilities don’t stretch to telepathy. If she’s watching me now, then she’s watching a woman gazing out at the sea. She can’t hear my thoughts. And she doesn’t know about this proxy. I’ve never met the woman you’re speaking to. Why should Ianthe choose to spy on her?’
It was a reasonable safeguard, Maskelyne conceded. If Ianthe was spying on Briana Marks, as seemed probable, then the use of a proxy meant that the girl wouldn’t necessarily be aware of this conversation. ‘You can be quite cunning when you want to be,’ he said. ‘But you forget that Ianthe could be spying on me.’
Art of Hunting Page 9
