Gaithorn’s eyes narrowed. “Spoken by one who helps determine the laws, that stinks of hypocrisy.”
Wormlight shrugged. “Who says I vote for them? It’s no secret that I believe in liberty. But not many on the Fence council share my views.”
“The individual liberties you tout brought the ice islands to their knees,” Ciano said. “When all do as they please, there is no unity.” It was an old argument between them.
“This is irrelevant,” Mayden said. “The point is, the Warlord did not know of this letter.”
Wormlight arched her brows. “Have you asked her?”
“We have not had time,” Ciano answered.
“The answer may enlighten you. She knew of the letter. I told her plainly before I took ship in the Uprooting that I did not support her.”
“Then why did she make you a Fence lord?” Mayden asked.
Wormlight was silent a moment. “I asked her the same thing. She said she needed a Fence lord who could unite the Stone Hearth sorcerers and the Hollow Eye monks. She said I was the only one qualified for the position.” Wormlight shrugged. “I always thought it was a foolish decision. It was not the last of her decisions I’ve disagreed with.”
“You admit your disloyalty, then.” Ciano’s tones were cold, and her eyes had turned a flinty shade of grey.
“The Warlord has never asked for my loyalty. My job is to coordinate the magical life of Wyverna. I do not bow to the Warlord.”
Ciano drew her sword. It hissed out of the scabbard, the blade glowing faintly. “Are you sure you want to stand by that?”
Wormlight did not move. “Are you sure you want to threaten me?”
“You leave us little choice,” Mayden said, stepping forward to stand with Ciano. He carried no weapon, but there was menace in his tone. His eyes gleamed with excitement.
Wormlight glanced from one to the other. Behind them, Gaithorn stood rigid, and Heizhen only watched silently, eyes dark. Wormlight spoke calmly. “Stand down, Fence lords. I am not challenging you.”
Ciano stepped forward, blade high. “Then sit down and wait for the Warlord. We have summoned her. This will wait on her judgment.”
“I am pleased to wait for her. Put away your sword.”
Mayden shook his head. “You yield first, Wormlight.” He stepped forward, hand outstretched as though to seize Wormlight’s arm.
Wormlight raised one hand, fingers flickering in an elaborate pattern. Mayden froze to the floor, his lean body outlined in glittering ice. His hands were still up, mouth slightly parted, caught in an instant of time. The ice glimmered over his dark curls and fine clothes. Only his eyes still moved, boring into Wormlight with impotent anger. Just behind him, Ciano stood encased in an identical jeweled prison. “Now you may cool your tempers,” Wormlight said, her voice edged.
“Wormlight!” Gaithorn barked, her hands fisted at her sides. “Release them at once!”
“Not until they cool off.”
“Don’t force me to fight you.”
Wormlight met Gaithorn’s eyes. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“I don’t, but you force my hand. I can’t stand here and watch this. You know that.”
“Very well. Take your shot.”
Gaithorn’s breath huffed out. “Devourer take you!” Her hands snapped open, flinging some force that glittered in the air, streams of energy catching rainbow gleams off the oil lamps.
Wormlight twisted her right hand, gathering up the energy, letting it funnel in and coil about her hand, and then she flung it back as a swift bright arrow. Gaithorn attempted to block it, but it sizzled through her hands and struck her chest. Gaithorn wheezed, her color gone grey. A rainbow net settled around her, shimmering in her hair, festooning her dull brown smock. She was caught fast, her hands pinned motionless, even her voice trapped in her throat.
Wormlight glanced at the last occupant of the room. “And what of you, Heizhen?”
Heizhen shrugged. “I’m a historian. I’m only here to observe.” Despite her words, her tone came brittle.
Wormlight nodded. “Very wise.” She crossed to the table and poured herself some brandy. “Then let’s wait for the Warlord together.”
Some minutes passed in silence. Then footsteps sounded in the hall, and Jonlan appeared at the door with the monk M’Chay, a small stout man with skin as yellow as parchment. M’Chay was bald, and barefoot as well, and wore only a long brown smock with yellow stitching. His skin was smooth and unwrinkled, though he was past sixty. His brown eyes were bright. M’Chay took in the tableau, Ciano and Mayden frozen in ice, Gaithorn caught in her own net. He tsked and shook his head. “This does not help matters, child.”
Wormlight rose at his entrance. “They grew heated and unwilling to wait.”
“Still no excuse for flaunting your powers. Release them.”
“If I do, they shall attempt to kill me.”
“Without putting it to a vote first? Nonsense. As we are all here now, we may decide matters properly.”
Wormlight smiled for the first time that evening. “As you wish.” She flicked her fingers, and all the spells loosed at once, the ice vanishing in streams of white smoke, the shining net sparkling into nothingness. Gaithorn drew a deep breath, compressed her lips, and said nothing. Ciano lowered her sword, her brows drawn down over eyes turned nearly to black.
Mayden turned to M’Chay. “Do we need any more proof?”
M’Chay padded into the center of the room, ringed by the other four Fence lords. He looked like a child surrounded by the tall young men and women. “A nice cup of tea would refresh us all, I think.” The monk pulled a flask from a pocket of his robe. “Glasses, please.”
Ciano blew out her breath and Jonlan rolled his eyes. Mayden scooped his glass off a nearby table and bolted the last of his brandy. He held out the empty tumbler with a sardonic smile. A slight bustle ensued as the others located goblets. In moments they stood in a circle. M’Chay unstoppered his flask. Curls of steam rose from it. “I call this variety Dragon’s Breath.”
The monk splashed a little of the golden-brown liquid into Jonlan’s goblet. “Campaign Master,” M’Chay greeted him formally. Jonlan was head of foreign affairs, the orchestrator of Wyverna’s campaigns and its external politics.
Tea spilled into Ciano’s glass. “Treasury Master.” She was in charge of the financial affairs of Wyverna, the disposition of plunder and the regulation of the markets.
The monk moved to Mayden. “District Master.” It was Mayden’s official title, though everyone called him the Implementer. He handled all domestic affairs, including agriculture, business, and construction, but most importantly dealing with the District Lords, the heads of the families.
“Sorcery Master.” M’Chay poured for Wormlight. It was her official designation, but she was almost always addressed by her colloquial title, the Head of the Ancients. She supervised all the major magical powers of the city, especially the sorcerers of Stone Hearth, and acted as liaison with the monks of the Hollow Eye order, sheltered high above the city in their mountain monastery.
The monk extracted a tiny teacup of delicate china from another pocket. He filled it and raised it high. “And Tea Master.” M’Chay had insisted on this title for himself when he was appointed, though it had little to do with his duties. He handled all the judicial matters of the city, crime, punishment, and clemency. “Let us drink.” Smiling and closing his eyes, M’Chay sipped his tea.
The others followed suit. Ciano waited to see if Wormlight would drink before she tasted her own. The sorceress tipped back her glass without hesitation. Ciano shrugged and quaffed hers down. Gaithorn and Heizhen watched the ritual silently from the outskirts, exchanging glances.
“Very good.” M’Chay’s tone turned brisk. “Now, to the business. These documents and allegations all date from before the formation of Wyverna, as I understand it.”
“That’s correct, M’Chay,” Heizhen said. She had examined the whole chest by no
w.
“Then they are irrelevant to Wyverna.” M’Chay turned to Wormlight. “Have you provided any support to Morbid since the founding of Wyverna?”
“I have not.”
“Have you promised her any aid, support, or allegiance?”
“I have not.”
“Do you intend to give Morbid your allegiance?”
Wormlight shook her head. “I do not, M’Chay.”
M’Chay turned back to the others. “I am satisfied.”
“I am not,” Mayden said. His smile showed teeth. “But this matter will be for the Warlord to decide.”
Ciano frowned, gazing at the tea dregs in the bottom of her goblet. “Wormlight’s word is enough for me. I have never known her to lie.”
“Jonlan?” M’Chay prompted the other when no declaration was forthcoming.
The Campaign Master smiled and spread his hands wide. “I await the Warlord’s pleasure in this matter.”
M’Chay smiled beatifically. “Very good. Then we can sit down and enjoy more civilized discourse.” The little monk took the lead, seating himself by Heizhen and patting her hand. “How are you tonight, my dear?”
Heizhen laughed. “Torn between amusement and despair, I think. I’m glad you’re here.”
The other Fence lords took seats more warily, Mayden and Wormlight still eyeing each other. They did not have long to wait before Cadi appeared in the doorway to announce, “The Warlord.”
A small man strode into the room. He was shorter even than M’Chay, barely five feet high, but thick with muscle. He wore a simple grey smock and trousers, his feet bare. His skin was hairless, and as grey and smooth as the mountain’s flank. His eyes were solid black orbs that held in their depths small white lights like stars.
Mayden growled. “The Hands of the Warlord, you mean. We want the real thing.”
The Hands stopped still, regarding Mayden coldly. No one knew what he was, but he was certainly not human. Some said he was a golem or a homunculus, others that he was the Warlord’s shadow given form. In the city they believed that the Warlord could see and hear through his eyes and ears, and addressed him always as “Warlord.” In Mort Glave no one gave credence to this idea, but they treated him with caution and respect. The Hands addressed Mayden in his usual hard, uninflected tones. “I speak with the Warlord’s voice. Have you a quarrel with that?”
“Perhaps I do.” Mayden’s dark glittering eyes challenged the grey dwarf. “We await a ruling on a matter of importance.”
“What is the situation?” The Hands listened expressionlessly as Heizhen filled him in on the night’s happenings. When she had finished, the Hands did not even glance at the chest. “The Warlord has no interest in these antique documents. Send them back to Tiolt.” He looked up at the Fence members looming above him. “The Warlord reaffirms her confidence in all members of her Fence. Now return to your duties.” The Hands spun on his heel and stalked from the room without another word.
Mayden made a sound between a laugh and a growl. “Lovely fellow. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy his conversations.”
Jonlan shrugged. “We’ll get no better satisfaction than that, it appears. The Hands is like a dash of cold water to the spine, isn’t he? Well, anyone for billiards?” Jonlan looked around hopefully. Ciano inclined her head, and the two exited together, Jonlan nabbing the remains of the red wine on his way out.
Wormlight brushed back her silvery hair and sighed. “I will never understand the Warlord.” She looked tired, suddenly, no longer formidable.
“Would you join me for tea, my dear?” M’Chay offered his arm. They left together, M’Chay bustling along beside her elegant height like a small hedgehog towing an icicle.
Mayden, Heizhen, and Gaithorn remained alone in the lounge in a thickening silence. It was Gaithorn who broke it. “I do think you attract trouble wherever you go, Mayden. You couldn’t just have a pleasant evening of drinks and daggers, could you? You had to liven it up with secrets and sorceries?”
Heizhen joined in. “Were you just feeling nostalgic for the old days? Missing those duels, those dangerous nights? I mean, picking a fight with Wormlight? Really?”
Mayden laughed. “I had nothing to do with all this. And I wasn’t the only one foolish enough to brace Wormlight, I noted. But no matter, it did add a certain memorable dazzle to the evening.” He threw an arm around each of their shoulders, steering them back into the lounge. “And now we can get back to the business of fun. Where’s that brandy?”
10: Trials
Gorgo stood alone on a deserted street, staring intently into an empty alley between two low buildings. The lane was three feet wide, floored with dirty rock, held one pile of garbage, and appeared to open out into another street some thirty feet down. The alley was in every respect unremarkable, and yet Gorgo hesitated. This side of the alley was Ilkour, the other, the Fence.
He stood in one of the quietest parts of Ilkour. Though the night was still relatively young, few people were abroad. Back here so close to the mountains, the buildings were mostly private residences, probably inhabited by those who worked in the Fence. Gorgo had seen no sign of the golem on his way here. Cockatrice had likely already entered. He needed to hurry, but caution still held him back.
He had never been in the Fence District. From the outside it looked like any other, butted up against the flank of Yahsta’s Claws, bounded by Ilkour on one side and the Catsclaw District on the other. But as its name implied, it was warded off from the rest of the city. Only five streets led into it, and each was barred by a gate, an imposing iron structure guarded by Margays. The physical barrier was the least of a gate’s defenses; powerful spells also strengthened each portal against sorcerous attack. Nonetheless the five gates were the weak points of the Fence boundary, the easiest way in. Regular business passed through them, a steady flow of people during the day, less at night. Everyone who walked through a gate must wear the Fence stamp. For the higher Fence members, it was a permanent sigil tattooed into their flesh; for others, a temporary mark permitting passage. Without it, the Margays would not grant entrance. Still, Gorgo reflected, if you had a superior force and a few sorcerers at your disposal, the best way into the Fence would be to storm a gate.
For those who wanted to enter by stealth it was a different matter. Aside from the gates, there was no way to get in, although the boundary was invisible. You could not walk through an alley into the Fence District, though the way appeared clear. Nor could you climb over a rooftop or slip through a building. The magical wards around the place prevented it. Those who tried such routes soon found themselves back where they had started, exiting the alley or dropping from the rooftop back into the street they had left, with no notion of when they had turned themselves around. This misdirection was the first layer of the Fence wards, the simplest and most benign. More layers lay beyond it, the rumors said; those deeper layers were incorporeal places created by sorcerers, each more dangerous than the last. Gorgo had heard tales of people dying in the attempt to cross them.
But even that was not the real reason he held back. To enter the Fence meant something indefinable, a choice that might be hard to undo. It was harder to leave the Fence than to enter it, the whispers said. For all his life Gorgo had avoided contact with the government, shunning even the jacks that patrolled the city. He did not want to plunge himself into their affairs. He feared the consequences. So he stood rooted to the street while the seconds ticked by.
Cockatrice must be in there already. He had seen her kill, seen the things she could do. The Warlord’s death was approaching with the dawn, and nothing could save her. Gorgo bit his lip. He had lost the word he had fought Wakár so hard to gain. Still, he knew the phrase that would make the Warlord invisible to the golem. It was something. He had not failed yet. He could still stop this, he told himself, if he could get through the wards.
He had even left a message for Six & Seven. Before they left Storm Point this morning, they had arranged to meet at sunris
e tomorrow at a tavern in Blue Light. Gorgo had taken time on the way here to leave a brief note with the tavern’s owner. It read: “Rooster hunting in Fence. Don’t follow.” Someone at least would know where Gorgo had gone, if he did not return.
Enough, Gorgo told himself. Enough doubts and delays. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He had come too far to turn back. Too much depended on him. If the Warlord died, the city would fall into chaos. Only the Warlord could hold the families together, prevent factions and infighting. He could not let the assassin kill her.
He marshaled in his mind the instructions he had overheard from Morbid. It was easy to defeat the misdirection of this first Fence layer, she had said. The Fence of Shadows, it was called, and she had told Cockatrice exactly how to cross it.
Gorgo broke from his paralysis. He found his feet moving before his mind fully registered his choice. It was time to roll the dice. A surge of exhilaration heartened him. He took only a few steps into the alley. Then, per Morbid’s instructions, he closed his eyes, turned, and began running back the way he had come. He concentrated on the thought that he wanted to leave the Fence, he desperately wanted to leave. This was the gambit that Morbid claimed would defeat the wards of misdirection. Gorgo doubted it. It seemed like a child’s trick. After a few seconds he stopped running and opened his eyes, uncertain what to expect.
The alley was gone. He stood in pitch blackness, a darkness unmarred by moonlight or starlight, untouched by a breath of air or the smell of the sea. It was a place he had never been before, a place created by the spells of sorcerers. He had passed through the Fence of Shadows. Gorgo’s breath came faster. He was committed, deep inside the Fence wards now. The option of turning back had vanished like the light.
He recalled Morbid's words to the golem: “The second layer is the Fence of Darkness. Everything here is illusion. No matter what you hear, feel, or smell, ignore it. Continue on. The key is not to believe it, and above all not to feel afraid.” Easy enough advice for Cockatrice. She was an artifice without feeling of any sort. This layer must have been child’s play to her, but Gorgo didn’t like the sound of it.
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