“Did you see Morbid?” Ciano asked.
“I saw the end of the fight at the gates. By the time I arrived, her golem had already opened the gate for her, and Morbid was marching in with her rabble. Her beast carries the Warlord’s head in one hand.”
“So the rumors were true,” Jonlan breathed low. “The Assassin of the Kahlrites.”
“How did she break through our defenses?” Mayden asked.
Wormlight shrugged. “The power of the assassin. The golem turned our Margays to stone. The Hands tried to stop her, I think, but by the time I saw him he was locked in combat with a many-headed serpent, though he looked to be winning. The crowd was occupied chasing flaming snakes. No one could stand against Morbid’s mob. I chose to stay unseen, and come here to make my stand. I had to walk through the stone to beat them here.” Wormlight was the only sorceress with the power to alter her body to pass through solid stone, and it was risky even for her. When she had first emerged from the rock, her body would have been as luminous as a beam of energy. A faint shine still radiated from her skin, fading now as her form regained solidity.
“We still lack M’Chay,” Ciano said. “He should have been here long since.”
The tramp of many feet sounded in the corridor. As one they moved to the sunken amphitheater and descended into the single row of seats. They chose not to sit but instead stood tall, ranked facing the doorway through which Morbid would come. The four of them looked like a line of sentinels, almost of a height.
Out of the thick shadows under the low-ceilinged perimeter of the room, a vast form surged, gigantic enough to seem at home in the vaulted chamber, the sparkling chandelier lights making prismatic rivers run down her armor. It was Cockatrice, like a golden beetle in her metal carapace, holding high in one hand the dark head of the Warlord, of a size with her own. She strode in silence up to the edge of the amphitheater and thrust the head up so the light shone clear upon it. The Warlord’s face stared out at them without expression, slack and empty. Morbid had left her eyes open, and they lay like two black marbles in the dead face, opaque and terrible.
Behind Cockatrice young warriors milled into the room, swords in hand, and formed a rough corridor. Most of them were Kharvays, though a few hailed from other families. They looked tense but exultant as they faced the Fence lords, their swords shining with new oil and unstained, their eyes bright. Down the uneven corridor they formed, a woman strode, slim and severe as a sword blade in her black jacket and trousers, her rapier sheathed, her head high. A satisfied smile twisted her mouth.
“Greetings, Assassinator.” Wormlight’s voice rang cool and clear in the vaulted room. “You come very promptly to trial.”
Morbid laughed. Even as she did so, the muffled thud of pounding feet reverberated through the chamber, and through other doors ranks of Margays poured in silent and deadly formation to surround Morbid’s little group. They looked grim and stolid and professional next to Morbid’s eager warriors. Morbid broke off in mid-laugh to spit at them, “Hold your places! Or I’ll have the assassin deal with you as she did your comrades outside.”
The Margays had already halted, awaiting the command of the Fence without emotion. Mayden confirmed, “Hold for now.”
Morbid laughed again. “Very wise, Mayden, very wise. Do you also think I’ve come to stand trial?”
“What have you come for?” Mayden’s tone was a purr, placating.
Morbid stepped up close behind the motionless golem. From its shadows her voice rang brassy. “What do you think, Lords of the Fence? The Oribul usurper has fallen. What do you think?”
Wormlight answered. “We have sent for the Catlord, Morbid. She will be here soon to be confirmed as Warlord.”
“And may you have much joy of her! I hope you shall all enjoy taking orders from her. No doubt she will much improve the efficiency of the Fence, not to mention its battle readiness. Wait until she imposes the daily drills.”
“She may be more soldier than diplomat, but she’s not stupid.” Wormlight’s tone could have frosted iron. “She is now the legal government of Wyverna. You are the usurper here, Morbid Kharvay. Are you prepared to stand trial for rebellion and murder?”
“Who will try me? Who will execute me?” Morbid stepped out from Cockatrice’s shadow. Golden lights played across the proud bones of her face. Her eyes were dark wells of shadow, dark as the eyes of the murdered Warlord who swung slowly above Morbid’s head, silent witness to the council. “Don’t take such an attitude with me, Wormlight; reassess your position. We meet here on equal terms.” Morbid assessed the unbending faces of the Fence and a cold smile curled her mouth. “Cockatrice—deal with those Margays.” Cockatrice glanced right and left, and her eyes flashed gold. As her glowing gaze skimmed the ranks of guards, their breathing stilled and their flesh turned grey. It was as though a leaden blizzard swept over their ranks, leaving in its wake only the cold stone statues of warriors once living. Morbid watched the faces of the Fence with satisfaction. “Now let us discuss this more reasonably.”
“What is your proposal?” Ciano asked coolly.
“Are you prepared to hear it?”
“Never mind, Ciano; I can tell you what it is.” Wormlight spoke with icy scorn. “She wishes us to accept her as Warlord.”
“An outdated title, now, but essentially correct.” Morbid waited a long moment. The vaulted chamber was silent, only the magical lights moving and sending sparks flying, frivolous as fairies, across the set faces. “What is your answer, Fence lords?”
“Send your monster out of the room, Morbid; then we will answer,” Jonlan said.
“The golem will be my witness of your answer. No. Answer now for all time. What is your decision?” If Morbid experienced any doubt at that moment, she gave no sign. No weakness showed on her face. It stayed as proudly unbending as the faces of the stone warriors about her. She waited as a leopard waits for its prey, without impatience.
Jonlan laughed shortly. “I move we put it to the vote. Seconds?”
“I second,” Ciano said.
“Then we vote,” Mayden said; as neither the Warlord nor M’Chay were present, by default he took charge. “Jonlan, how do you vote?”
Jonlan answered thoughtfully. “We of Wyverna have always believed in the right of conquest. The natural superior rules. So the race becomes stronger. Morbid has won her place. I vote to accept her.”
Morbid did not interrupt with the slightest of sounds or movements. Only the twitch of a smile showed at the corner of her mouth.
“Ciano?” Mayden asked.
“I vote no.” Ciano offered no more, staring straight ahead. Morbid and the golem might as well not have been in the room for all the attention she paid them.
Morbid, for her part, exercised perfect discipline over herself at this blow, her haughty expression never slipping.
“May I ask why, Ciano?” Jonlan arched one eyebrow at her.
“I will support no government ruled by Morbid.”
Mayden shrugged. “Wormlight?”
“No. I will not accept Morbid.” Wormlight tossed her head, silvery hair rippling. She did not look at Ciano or Mayden, who had questioned her loyalty only last night.
Mayden smiled a little. “We won’t ask reasons. My vote, then, is yes. I agree with Jonlan completely. Hail, Warlord.” He bowed to Morbid, who stood straight as a lance on the edge of the amphitheater above them, like something carved out of gold light and shadow. She might have stepped out of the ice islands of their past.
Wormlight turned to stare at Mayden through narrowed eyes. He ignored her.
“The vote is tied.” Morbid spoke softly, deadly. “Where is the Tea Master?”
“He should have been here long ago,” Ciano said.
Utter silence fell over the chamber then, even Morbid’s young warriors hard-eyed and quiet. Morbid might have ordered the Fence lords to send for M’Chay again, but she did not. She only searched their faces while the silence lengthened. The standoff was compl
ete.
The Warlord gave Gorgo and M’Chay rapid instructions. Six hallways led into the circular Council Chamber, the hub of Mort Glave. They would split up and take different routes into the room. The Warlord departed; they would not see her again until this was over. M’Chay led Gorgo through a Margay barracks, where squadrons who had been off duty were strapping on weapons. Gorgo felt pleasantly anonymous in his borrowed police uniform; none of the guards paid him any mind. M’Chay stopped to give orders to the guards, then led Gorgo through side halls, circling around the Council Chamber.
Soon they were in a narrow hallway lined with doors. Wide-eyed pages cracked open the portals and peered out at them. All of them were younger than Gorgo, some by many years. It occurred to Gorgo that he had seen no slaves in Mort Glave. All the menial work seemed to be done instead by these adolescent pages. M’Chay smiled at the youngsters, and put his finger to his lips. Turning to Gorgo, he gestured down the hall. Gorgo could already hear Morbid’s voice echoing from around the corner. Gorgo nodded his understanding, and M’Chay turned and padded away in the other direction.
Gorgo ghosted down the hall and up to the open doorway of the Council Chamber. Ranks of stone warriors confronted him. The Margays had entered this way too. Beyond the field of statues, he saw the golden form of Cockatrice towering, facing away from him into the room. Gorgo stayed still. He must wait for M’Chay to enter the room, and the monk had a winding path to take. Gorgo heard Wormlight and Mayden cast their votes. Then silence fell, and stretched into minutes. Gorgo’s belly knotted. What was taking M’Chay so long? Gorgo set Honeylegs on his shoulder, and loosened the police officer’s sword in its scabbard.
At last, loud in the thick silence, the pad of bare feet sounded from another hall. The little figure of M’Chay bustled through a side door. “Sorry to keep everyone waiting. I was unavoidably delayed.”
Now Gorgo began moving, slipping through the ranks of statues. He would stay out of sight of Morbid’s troops as long as possible. Their attention was focused on what was happening in the amphitheater below, with none of them watching the doors. The rabble were as green and untrained as could be, Gorgo noted with relief. Another step or two, sidling along the wall, and he could clearly see the tableau. Morbid stood rigid as stone, her eyes fiery, caught between the golden light and the well of shadow at her back. In that shadow her young warriors milled like black ants. All about them, stretching into the darkness, crowded the grey ranks of stone warriors. In the amphitheater beneath Morbid, the Fence stood like a row of judges. Above it all swayed the severed head of the Warlord, uncaring and unaware.
M’Chay padded down the steps into the amphitheater to take his place among the Fence, looking like a child among the tall expressionless men and women. “What have I missed, youngsters?”
Jonlan barked a laugh. “We were just voting on accepting Morbid as Warlord, M’Chay. We were only waiting on your vote.”
“Morbid as Warlord? But you must know there is another appointed for that position, in the case of the Warlord’s death.”
Mayden shook his head. “The Catlord shall remain head of the Catsclaw, a position she is better suited for.”
“No. Not the Catlord.” In the silence that followed, every eye in the room bored into M’Chay. Gorgo had no idea what the monk was up to, although he supposed it was a diversion. Gorgo hesitated. Cockatrice was only about twenty feet away from him now, but a number of Morbid’s warriors stood between him and the golem. Morbid at least was on the other side of the creature, and unlikely to look around and see him.
Gorgo weighed his approach, and pointed out the nearest of Morbid’s crowd to Honeylegs. The spider pounced, landing on the man’s back. She scurried up to his neck, burying her tiny fangs behind his ear. Gorgo stepped forward, caught the man, and eased him to the ground. Gorgo was only fifteen feet from the golem now, but three of Morbid’s lot still stood in his way. Gorgo could not take another step without being in eyesight of the rebels to either side. They would turn and fight him, or call out. Gorgo could not afford to raise a commotion. The golem had only to look around, and he would be turned to stone, and his chance would be gone. So he stayed still, waiting his moment.
M’Chay continued unhurriedly. “In the event of her death, the Warlord had named a successor. She entrusted me with the name.” M’Chay stood placidly while the tension in the room stretched tighter. Morbid looked on the point of ordering Cockatrice to silence M’Chay, but it seemed she did not dare.
“Let us hear the name,” Wormlight said. Mayden, Jonlan, and Ciano made signs of assent. Morbid visibly swallowed rage and waited. She hardly seemed to be breathing.
M’Chay measured the Fence and then turned to Morbid. “Do you also wish to hear the name, Morbid Kharvay?”
Morbid’s voice came as loud as the clang of a brass gong, thick with scorn. “No doubt she named her son to succeed her. You will be a pretty sight ruled by a six-year-old. Yes—give the name.”
“She named Wormlight as her successor.”
The hush was like the silence after a thunderclap. All the players were shocked still, assumptions and plans tumbled. Wormlight stood as frozen as the rest of them, the moving lights shimmering across her silver hair like a waterfall of ice. Then she drew a breath, quick and exultant as the pounce of a hawk who sees its prey. “Am I confirmed?” she asked the Fence.
“Yes,” they answered as one.
Wormlight locked eyes with Morbid. “I accept the title.” She ignored the look of mottled fury that contorted Morbid’s face, ignored the looming presence of the assassin, ignored it all, single-minded as any warrior. Only the knotting of her left hand where she gathered spells betrayed how ready she was for the fight. “Morbid Kharvay, I charge you with treason, and place you under arrest.” Her left hand rose, heavy with power, and her fingers flung spells like spiderweb. Morbid ducked behind Cockatrice’s huge form in a whip of movement, and the lacework of power shattered into ice shards against Cockatrice’s golden body.
“Cockatrice, destroy the sorceress!” Morbid’s voice cracked like thunder, cold with fury.
Cockatrice swept Wormlight with her glittering gaze, but the sorceress raised her hand in a warding gesture, and the space between her and the golem grew fiery, as though a hole burned through the air. Cockatrice’ eyes darkened, and the fire sizzled to nothing. Before it had even vanished, the golem hurled something at the sorceress, something that turned to writhing serpents in the air, flames licking down their backs. Wormlight flicked her fingers, and the asps fell to the floor at her feet, entombed in glittering ice.
Gorgo saw his chance; Cockatrice was distracted now. Gorgo drew his borrowed sword, stepped forward, and bashed the nearest rebel across the back of the head with the pommel. The man collapsed. Honeylegs sprang from Gorgo’s shoulder to take out the female rebel beyond. As the woman looked around to see the source of the ruckus, Honeylegs landed on her face and bit her cheek. The woman flung up a hand to swipe the spider aside, but Honeylegs scurried away, and the hand fell nervelessly, the rebel already tumbling. Shouts of startlement rang through Morbid’s rabble. The last man between Gorgo and the golem had his sword out. Gorgo charged him, using his best attack. He was almost surprised when it worked, when his blow twisted the man’s sword aside and disarmed him. At last, an opponent he could beat in a swordfight. He grabbed the rebel before the man could recover, spun him around, and pushed the fellow into the nearest three warriors now closing on him. The rebels stumbled, and one fell. Honeylegs scampered across the floor toward the nearest of them. Gorgo swung back around. Five feet from Cockatrice now, and no one between him and the golem except for Morbid, her back to him, peering around the golem’s flank at Wormlight. None of the Fence lords were attending to his fight; all their attention was on Cockatrice and Wormlight.
Cockatrice dropped the head she carried, drew her sword and advanced on the sorceress in long strides, descending into the amphitheater. Gorgo cursed inwardly and loped after the golem,
passing within two feet of Morbid where she remained rooted at the top of the steps, fists clenched. Wormlight’s fingers danced, and a glittering shield appeared before the sorceress, a barrier of rippling energy. Drops of sweat gleamed on Wormlight’s pale forehead. Cockatrice tested the barrier with the tips of her gauntlets, and energy buzzed and crackled around her fingers. The other Fence lords seemed frozen, awaiting the outcome of the fight. Maybe that was prudent; Morbid still held the advantage of numbers on them, even with her golem engaged. Then Gorgo noticed Mayden measuring the distance between himself and Morbid with a glitter in his eyes.
Wormlight drew breath and swept her hands together, gathering up power. Her eyes narrowed in concentration and her whole body stiffened. She was preparing for a mighty attack, Gorgo realized, but she would have to risk all and drop her shield to launch it. Cockatrice studied the sorceress, readying her sword for the swing. The two combatants stood balanced on a knife’s-edge.
“B’yakay,” Gorgo breathed, right at the golem’s back.
Cockatrice lowered her sword. Her free hand went to her throat, where an egg swelled out of her magicked flesh. The egg fell into her hand and she brought it to her mouth and swallowed it. White tendrils curled up from her body, growing and thickening like mold over her gleaming armor. In moments a fuzzy cloud of membrane surrounded her. As the covering thickened, her body shrank like a popped jellyfish, dwindling down to the size of a token. Her shell solidified as it dwindled, turning translucent and hard as glass. Seconds later, all that remained of the golem was a small cloudy globe resting on the floor.
In the shocked silence, the Warlord’s deep voice came loud. “Your revolution is over, Morbid.” Her words seemed to hang in the air, reverberating like a communication from beyond the door of death. She stood in the doorway beyond the amphitheater, lounging against the doorframe at ease.
While all eyes turned toward her, Gorgo pounced on Cockatrice’s egg and stowed it into a pocket. Relief swept through him in waves of weakness. His single-minded focus snapped. He became conscious of the sweat that drenched him, the pounding of his heart, and the weird distortion of reality the Dragon Fire caused. His head ached. He could not quite register that he had done it. His mission had succeeded. Maybe later he would feel like celebrating. Now he only felt tired, and suddenly uncomfortably exposed in this room full of Wyverna’s most powerful leaders.
The Copper Assassin Page 21
