CHAPTER 12
Major Amber looked up
from his meal when a horn sounded in the distance: a single note
that carried from the edge of the camp. It was all he needed to
hear. With the help of crutches he got to his feet and made his way
to the window.
‘What’s that about?’
Horsemistress Kirl asked through a mouthful of mutton. Food in the
Fist was far better than what was being served to the troops
outside.
‘Nothing to concern
you,’ Amber said distantly.
After another week of
daily ministrations from the mages of Larat and the Priest of
Shotir, his injuries had healed enough for him to get up and move
about without help, if not without pain. His entire body still
hurt, and he’d not be fighting any time soon, but it was a blessing
to be out of his bed again nonetheless.
Kirl shrugged and
went back to her food. In the darkness outside there was little to
see, but Amber remained looking out of the window. He could just
about make out the shapes of soldiers moving on the ground below
and after a minute he caught sight of the one he was looking
for.
The road to the Fist
was marked with torches, clear lines in the evening gloom that
stood out amidst the campfires. A pair of horsemen approached
through the bustle of an army yet to settle down to sleep. Amber
couldn’t make out any detail, but guessed the smaller of the two
would be Gaur’s man, Chade. Lord Larim had told them to expect the
Poisonblade at nightfall. When the riders were a hundred paces from
the main gate Amber turned and headed for the door, grabbing a
large sheathed sword as he did so and swinging the baldric over his
shoulder.
Kirl watched him
struggle to open the door without letting either crutch or sword
fall, but she did nothing, just helped herself to the food he’d
left. Amber glanced back just before he closed the door as she
scraped the last of his rice into her bowl. The horsemistress had
surprised him by showing a greater piety than he’d expected from
her. From his sick bed it had been hard to miss her quietly saying
the morning devotionals, or the prayer to Grepel of the Hearths
when she lit the fire. Though she’d never given the impression of
being a great supporter of dogma, or the priesthood in general,
Amber was keen to avoid her discovering anything about the meeting
he was heading off to. She caught him looking and flashed a brief
smile; the major felt himself colour and retreated.
He made his way to
the apartments General Gaur had made his own. Gaur’s huntsmen stood
guard rather than Menin soldiers, but they allowed him through with
nothing more than a suspicious glance. They were an ugly lot,
criminal-looking, but under the tattoos, ritual scarring and bone
piercings, there were some educated minds as sharp as the long
knives they carried.
Inside he was greeted
by General Gaur, who relieved Amber of the sword and directed him
to an armchair. Unusually, the beastman was out of uniform, dressed
instead in a formal robe of red, edged in white fur and detailed
with black insignias of the Menin and Chetse legions under his
command. Amber looked at his own uniform and felt a flush of
embarrassment when he realised how in need of cleaning it was.
Convalescence and renown were making him forget the officers’
code.
‘How are you, major?’
Gaur asked abruptly.
‘Well enough, sir,’
Amber confirmed. ‘No strength for much more than walking from room
to room yet, but at least I can do that. I’ve recovered some of my
senses since I stopped taking the pain medicine.’
Gaur gave an
approving nod. ‘Good. Lord Styrax wants you in Byora as soon as
possible — we’re going to lift the restrictions on travel
throughout the Circle City so you need to be in place
there.’
‘Lifting restrictions
so soon?’
‘Trade is the Circle
City’s lifeblood; if that isn’t allowed to continue the resentment
will only grow, and that’s no way to build an empire.’
Gaur settled himself
into another armchair and turned to face Amber. He rested the sword
in the crook of his arm. ‘Ismess has been shattered; that is
nothing more than a minor problem. We occupy Akell to keep the
Devoted on a short leash, and Fortinn is mainly at war with itself.
Meanwhile, Byora’s ruler is caught up in something altogether more
complicated; I know Lord Styrax has told you this, that we believe
her to be under Azaer’s control. Azaer’s disciples will keep down
any insurrection, so as long as normal life is allowed to continue,
the entire Circle City will quickly come to accept its new
circumstances.’
‘What resources will
I have to monitor Duchess Escral and Byora?’ Amber
asked.
‘Just a few troops,
and some of my huntsmen — but there will be a standing garrison in
Byora, of course, so that might as well be the Cheme Third until we
march again. For the time being they will be kept close to the
armoury and leave policing the city to the duchess’ troops - she’s
not so foolish as to try anything, and a bit of normality will do
the quarter good. You should set up operations away from your
legion, remain on injury leave and relax a little. Have your men
observe these “children” gathering outside the Ruby Tower in
particular, but . . . Well, it is possible you will gather the best
intelligence yourself. As yet we don’t know Azaer’s intention, and
before we assume its plan is hostile to our own, we should allow
its people the opportunity to approach us.’
‘And Zhia
Vukotic?’
Gaur nodded. ‘Yes
indeed. Lord Styrax believes she will want to clarify her position
as far as we are concerned, so you should expect her
too.’
The discussion was
cut off by a sharp rap on the door and before waiting for
invitation Chade had entered, ushering in a companion and closing
the door swiftly behind them both before he’d even bowed to his
lord. The other was tall enough that he had to duck his head a
little as he entered, but having done so he then stood motionless
while Chade bustled around him.
The newcomer was
almost entirely hidden under a long cloak; what part of his face
not shadowed by the hood was covered by a dull green scarf. Over
one shoulder was a thin, rectangular weapons-bag that reached
almost to the ground. To Amber’s eyes he was oddly slim — most men
of that height were white-eyes, and bulky with heavy muscle.
Despite having the advantage of several inches’ height over Amber,
the newcomer looked like he weighed several stone
less.
After a long moment
the newcomer pulled his scarf away from his face with deliberate
slowness, then slipped back his hood. Amber blinked in surprise;
there was nothing unusual about his face at all. It was
unremarkably in every way; it was the face of a typical
Menin.
‘Your true face
please,’ Gaur growled.
The man’s mouth
curled into a slight smile. He peeled his gloves off to reveal
long, delicate fingers and unfastened his cloak. Underneath he wore
a black tunic patterned with sinuous green dragons, overlaid by
crossed baldrics. A bronze gorget at his neck was engraved with
what looked like writing and studded with small gems.
He unhooked it, and
Amber gave a start that sent a fresh twinge of pain around his
ribcage.
The man’s face seemed
to fall away from his head and vanish for a fraction of a second.
As Amber’s eyes refocused he saw no man’s face at all: a sharper,
curved jaw line, a thinner skull and more prominent cheekbones.
Though Amber had been expecting it, he could not quite stop a
moment of shock.
As beautiful as a
woman, with an unknowable air and a cruel glitter in his eyes, the
true Elf slipped back his hood and gave a mocking half-bow. By some
freak of birth he had been untouched by the curse and was one of
only a handful of true Elves born to each generation. In that
instant their eyes met, Amber realised Arlal Poisonblade knew
exactly how rare he was.
‘Drink?’ Gaur asked,
indicating a tall silver jug to Arlal’s left.
‘No,’ he said, his
voice little more than a whisper. With fastidious care the Elf
tucked his gloves into his belt and slipped the weapons-bag from
his shoulder. The only adornment he wore other than the gorget was
a silver belt-buckle in the shape of a dragon’s head. Everything
else was as plain and practical as one might expect of an assassin
in the land of his ancient enemies.
‘Will you
sit?’
‘No.’
‘To business then.’
If Gaur took offence at the Elf’s demeanour he gave no sign of it.
He patted the sheathed sword meaningfully. ‘We have another job for
you. More difficult this time.’
‘Who?’
‘A Farlan general. By
now we assume he will have returned to Tirah.’
‘A general more
difficult than the Krann of the Chetse?’ Arlal said contemptuously.
His Menin was imperfect, as though he was reluctant to sully his
mouth with a human dialect, but it was understandable.
Amber was careful not
to react. He’d known a Raylin mercenary had wounded Krann Charr
with a magical arrow, but he hadn’t been part of Lord Styrax’s
inner circle before the invasion and the name of the assassin had
remained a secret. Even with the heretical direction their plans
were now going in it was a shock to hear a true Elf had struck the
first blow of their conquest — the arrow had allowed Charr to be
possessed by a daemon, which had then usurped Lord Chalat’s
position.
Without Arlal’s first
blow the Menin advance force would never have been able to defeat
the Chetse in one sudden strike, and Amber himself would never have
had the opportunity to meet the Chosen of Tsatach in battle barely
a month past, let alone kill him; more likely he’d have died
assaulting Thotel.
‘He is no longer just
a general; he is also the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn,’ the general
said.
The Elf laughed.
‘Your Gods are so weak now they need mortals?’
Gaur didn’t respond.
No good could come from discussing the Gods with an Elf, one cursed
or not.
‘The spirits are
stirred up. I hear their whispers in the dark,’ Arlal continued, a
sudden intensity crossing his face. ‘They tell me the Farlan thief
is dead.’ The Elf’s eyes glittered with avarice and Amber realised
the thievery he meant was Lord Isak’s possession of Siulents and
Eolis — the greatest of Elven weapons.
‘That is true,’ Gaur
confirmed. ‘He was foolish enough to face Lord Styrax in
battle.’
‘Then my price is
what is rightfully mine,’ the Elf spat.
Gaur cocked his head
and Amber realised he had been expecting that. ‘His gifts? We do
not have them to offer; all but his helm were sent to the Dark
Place with him.’
As Arlal hesitated,
Amber understood: they knew almost nothing of the Elven race, or
its prophecies, with the exception of the prophet, Shalstik, who
foretold Aryn Bwr’s rebirth, but Eolis and Siulents would be more
than just weapons to them. They were symbols of their greatest king
— it might be that possession of them alone would be enough to
confer the authority to rule, even without using them to claim he
was Aryn Bwr reborn.
‘What do you offer?’
Arlal said at last.
‘This sword,’ Gaur
said, holding out the weapon Amber had won. ‘Taken from Lord
Chalat’s dead fingers, it is Elven-made — I believe in your tongue
it is named Golaeth.’
Amber could see
Arlal’s shoulders stiffen, but the Elf made no effort to reach for
the weapon.
‘It is perhaps a
relic of my people, but it is a poor thing compared to Eolis. It is
not enough to kill a God.’
‘He is no God, only
one touched by the divine,’ Gaur pointed out. ‘It will be no
different to killing one of the Chosen.’
‘I need
more.’
Gaur looked over at
Amber briefly, who had nothing to contribute beyond meeting Gaur’s
look and looking stern, and hoping his slight nod would add to the
impression of compromise. ‘What do you need?’ the beastman
asked.
‘Arrows to kill him,
Golaeth if they fail to. The helm and its weight in rubies as final
payment.’
‘Rubies?’
The Elf gave a curt
nod, but no explanation, and Amber realised suddenly he did have a
contribution to the conversation.
‘For making bloodrose
amulets,’ the major said, his eyes on Arlal. ‘It’s said they’re
composed of rubies.’ One of the mages healing him had mentioned it
— Lord Chalat had been thought to wear such an amulet, though
nothing had been found on his body. They were created by the Elven
warrior orders and used instead of physical armour. Clearly some
such orders remained.
‘Our friend here has
plans of his own back home,’ Amber went on, watching as Arlal’s
eyes narrowed enough to prove him right. ‘With Golaeth, enough
rubies to make several bloodrose amulets and Aryn Bwr’s helm, he
may find power and supporters enough for a coup.’
‘That, human,’ Arlal
spat, ‘is not your concern.’
‘It is not,’ Gaur
agreed, ‘but the price is acceptable. Inform Lord Larim of your
requirements and he shall ensure the arrows are made.’
He held the sword out
and this time Arlal took it and slipped the ancient copper-bladed
weapon from the sheath to inspect it. Like many magical weapons it
was oversized, too big to be of any real use without its imbued
power. It would have looked comical in the hands of the slender
Arlal but for the ease with which he moved it through the air. It
was a straight, double-edged blade coming to a short point, and as
Arlal ran reverential fingers down the flat Amber saw four complex
swirling runes briefly glow orange.
‘Agreed,’ Arlal said
finally, sheathing it again. He flicked the clasp of his cloak so
that it fell from his right shoulder and he could attach the
scabbard to his baldric; in a few moments the sword had
disappeared, the cloak returned to position, and gorget and scarf
restored. ‘You require method or time?’ he asked.
‘As long as it
happens before the end of summer, dead will do.’
Arlal murmured
agreement and left with Chade hard on his heels.
When the sound of
footsteps had receded, Amber turned to the general. ‘How heavy is
the helm then?’
‘Not
heavy.’
‘Light as a bloody
feather, I’d guess,’ the major said, his amber eyes flashing with
laughter.
‘Close,’ Gaur
admitted with a twitch of a furred cheek that could have been a
smile, although with tusks protruding up to his nose it was hard to
tell. ‘He may get one small amulet from them.’
‘Pretty and stupid,’
Amber commented as he eased himself upright again, ‘just how I like
’em.’
‘Thank you, Major,’
the beastman replied gravely. ‘Time for you to get back to your
duties, I think.’
Daken reached out and
grabbed the nearest King’s Man by the scruff of the neck. ‘What
d’ya mean, they lifted the restrictions on entry? I’ve just spent a
fucking hour in that there damned barrel! And with Telasin
bloody-Daemon-Touch with me!’ he added, pointing at the man now
clambering out of the same smuggler’s barrel. ‘When he farts, it
smells like the bastard Dark Place — and I had to put up with that
for nuthin?’
‘Could’ve been
worse,’ Coran called, clambering out of his own and gesturing to
the woman behind him, ‘Sparks kept comin’ off Ebarn the whole
bloody journey.’
Daken released the
man and turned to watch Ebarn, the Brotherhood’s dark-haired
battle-mage, who was clambering her way out with a scowl on her
face. She was a few winters older than Doranei, and a veteran of
King Emin’s war against Azaer.
‘You learn to keep
your fucking hands to yourself,’ she growled, ‘and that’ll stop
happening.’ Once she was standing upright again Ebarn groaned and
flexed her muscles before running her finger through her cropped
hair.
Coran didn’t smile
with the rest of the Brotherhood, the more unusual of whom were
still being helped out of the barrels used to smuggle them into
Byora.
They were being
unpacked in the storeroom of Lell Derager, the Farlan’s agent and
pet wine merchant. The cheerful middle-aged merchant and his two
most trusted men were releasing them one by one from the half-dozen
fake barrels they had escorted into the city.
Once she’d stretched,
Ebarn noticed that Coran was still staring at her, and she turned
away with a slight sneer on her face. The white-eye had never been
popular with women, not even the whores on whom he spent most of
his money. He’d never acquired the skill of treating one as a
colleague.
Coran rubbed his
hands together as though warming them up. ‘My fingers have gone
numb with all those sparks — didn’t know what I was
touching.’
‘We’ve heard you say
that before,’ called Ebarn, ‘and not even the goat-herder believed
you then!’
While the rest of the
Brotherhood smirked, Doranei’s face remained set and stony. Coran
ignored the taunting and made his way over to Doranei. He gripped
his shoulder and looked him straight in the eye, his expression
grave. They all knew Sebe and Doranei had been as close as
birth-brothers, and his loss wasn’t just that of a comrade. Doranei
gave a glum nod of thanks and thumped Coran on the back in reply
before pushing past him.
‘You must be Daken,’
he said to the other white-eye, who was eying him
appraisingly.
The mercenary nodded
as he tugged his enormous axe from the barrel and swung it up onto
his shoulder.
‘The answer to your
question is this: you didn’t put up with Telasin for nothing. While
the restrictions have been lifted, there’ll have been half-a-dozen
folk watching the gate and taking note of anyone unusual coming
in.’
‘Well, we’re in now,’
said the mercenary battle-mage, Wentersorn, as he emerged from his
own barrel and immediately sidestepped away from Daken. The
white-eye hadn’t had the opportunity yet to live up to his
reputation, but the Mad Axe still clouted Wentersorn around the
head every time he came within reach. ‘I take that as a good sign,
so how’s about we find us some whores to celebrate my
homecoming?’
‘Fucking
mercenaries,’ Doranei sighed. ‘Does keeping a low profile mean
nothing to you?’
Wentersorn scowled
and pointed at Daken. ‘He’s my commander, not you.’ He gave Daken a
hopeful look, not a kindred spirit, but at least a common interest.
The white-eye’s appetite for women was said to surpass even
Coran’s.
‘Much as I’d love to
agree with the ugly little shit and go get me some,’ Daken said,
‘we don’t need the trouble.’
He lifted his shirt
to reveal a mass of blue tattoos and pointed to the largest, a
woman’s head and upper torso in profile. Her mouth was twisted into
a cruel smile and her fingers ended in sharp claws. As Doranei
watched the smile widened a shade and her fingers briefly stroked
the line of Daken’s pectoral muscle.
‘Litania does love to
join in,’ Daken said. He pointed to a series of scars just below
his navel, adding, ‘And she’s a biter.’
Doranei coughed to
cover his surprise and forced himself to tear his gaze from the
Aspect of Larat inhabiting a man’s skin. ‘Well, if that’s settled,
have your men find bunks in there.’ He pointed to a wide door on
his left. ‘That storeroom’s been cleared; it’s cramped, but it’ll
serve for tonight. Food and beer will be provided. Daken, do you
have a second-in-command?’
The white-eye jabbed
a thumb towards a bald man with bronze earrings and a pair of
scimitars. ‘Brother Penitence there.’
‘Brother Penitence?’
Doranei and Derager gasped in unison, both sounding
dismayed.
‘Aye, he’s a cleric —
Mystic o’ Karkarn to be exact!’ Daken gave a laugh at their
expressions. ‘Hah, look at the pair of ya; we ain’t completely
dumb, I just wanted to see your faces at his name.’
‘I realise the name
would be unwise in these troubled times,’ the Mystic of Karkarn
said in a surprisingly cultured voice. Many of their number were
former soldiers, and most barely educated. ‘Considering the way so
many cults have abused the office of the Penitency in recent months
I am willing to give it up for the time being. My birth name was
Hambalay Osh; that is what you may use instead.’
‘What’s a mystic’s
involvement here?’ Doranei demanded. ‘I can’t believe you’re being
paid like a mercenary.’
Osh dipped his head
to acknowledge the point. ‘I am an old acquaintance of the king’s;
one who owes him a considerable favour and whose skills are the
only way of addressing the balance.’
Doranei grunted. This
was neither the time nor place to pursue the matter. ‘Follow me,’
he said, and led them up to a staircase. Coran, Daken and Osh
followed him two floors up to an attic room that had two small beds
and a table at the window. One of the beds was neatly made up, a
man’s possessions arranged with military precision on top. As Coran
passed it he kissed the knuckles of his right hand and touched them
to the maker’s mark on the guard of the dagger that lay there. The
little-known but much admired weaponsmith provided most of what the
Brotherhood carried.
Doranei headed for a
seat at the window and took a moment to gaze out at the view across
Breakale district to Eight Towers.
‘What’s the latest
then?’ Coran asked after a minute or two, interrupting Doranei’s
reverie.
‘Apart from the
lifting of restrictions?’ he said. ‘Only Lord Styrax killing a
dragon.’
The white-eye
whistled. ‘Must’ve taken some doing.’
‘Smacks of showin’
off if you ask me,’ Daken commented, perching carefully on one of
the beds until he was sure it could take the weight of a
white-eye.
‘Maybe,’ Doranei
said. ‘Whatever the truth, it sounds like he’s won over more than a
few by it. Folk here have never had such a powerful ruler and
they’re beginning to think it’s better to be inside his empire
reaping the benefits than outside trying to fight it.’
‘Might have a point
there,’ Daken said with a grin. ‘So we’re goin’ to be the ones
fightin’ it - folk call me mad; what’s your excuse?’
‘It’s not our concern
at the moment; we’ve only got one target in Byora.’
‘Why? If not this
season, then one comin’ soon, Lord Styrax is goin’ to want to add
Narkang to his empire. Why not throw a few sails in the
pond?’
Seeing both Doranei
and Coran looking puzzled by the expression Daken explained,
‘Sail-raptors? No? Ah well, type o’ lizard; swims, eats ducks,
scares the shit out of ’em. Anyways, why not try slow him up a
bit?’
‘You don’t get to
question the king’s decisions,’ Doranei replied, ‘and we don’t have
the time or resources to set up something that’ll catch a
big-enough duck to make our lives worthwhile. The Menin can’t move
much further, they must be badly stretched as it is. If they don’t
stop to consolidate they’ll lose the city-states they’ve taken and
while they’re doing that, we’ll be invoking our agreements with the
Farlan. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s return to the reason why
we’re here.’
‘Killing Ilumene,’
Coran said, savouring the words.
‘Not only,’ Doranei
corrected sharply. ‘As you’ll see tomorrow — well, not you two, I
guess, just Osh and me — there’s more than just Ilumene in
Byora.’
‘Such
as?’
‘A child, Ruhen, and
the rest of Duchess Escral’s inner circle, a man called Luerce,
even Aracnan, if he’s still alive after Sebe winged him with a
poisoned bolt.’
‘Who’s this
Luerce?’
Doranei scratched the
stubble on his cheek. ‘I don’t know if I’ve quite worked out his
place in things yet. This is what I’ve got so far: there’s a crowd
of beggars camped right outside the gates to the Ruby Tower,
writing prayers and fixing them to the wall and gates, asking Ruhen
to intercede with the Gods on their behalf. Ruhen is — well, we’ll
come to him. The beggars are being organised by Luerce and his
followers — they’re calling themselves something like Ruhen’s
Children, though I’ve heard a few other names
mentioned.’
‘So what’s the
game?’
‘I don’t know yet,’
Doranei admitted. ‘The duchess has been turned against the cults;
Hale district is still almost entirely shut off. The goal appears
to be cutting the population off from the Gods, removing the
priesthood from daily life. By having them call to Ruhen they’re
weakening the Gods, but to what end I can’t say. This would have to
go on for decades — and spread throughout most of the Land — before
the Gods were weak enough for Azaer to be any sort of
rival.’
‘Could someone else
be a rival instead?’
Doranei sighed.
‘Perhaps — certainly someone with a Skull could kill a God, and the
weaker they got, the easier it would be.’
‘Remember that trip
you got sent on after Scree?’ Coran asked pointedly, ‘to the
monastery on the lake? You’re looking for mad and strong enough to
kill Gods — there’s your answer.’
Doranei considered
Coran’s point. While King Emin had left the ruins of Scree with the
Skull of Ruling, Azaer’s disciples had been intent on getting
something else the island-monastery’s abbot had in his possession.
The journal of Prince Vorizh Vukotic had been Azaer’s prize, and
its contents remained a worrying mystery.
‘You could be right,’
Doranei mused, ‘but it doesn’t explain why — unless it’s revenge for something that
happened in the Age of Myths, there’s not a good enough reason.
Just to cause chaos and misery can’t be all there is to it: there
has to be a plan, and that’s what we’re missing.’
‘What if this is a
game of the heavens?’ Osh asked unexpectedly. ‘I don’t pretend to
understand much of what is going on, but I suspect my theology is
better than any of you. There is clear precedent of insurrection
there — Lliot, the God of All Waters, rebelled against the rule of
Death and His queen. That failed, so perhaps another God has chosen
a different line of attack and found a daemon cunning enough to lay
the way for it. If successful, the rewards would be
commensurate.’
‘The king doesn’t
believe so,’ Doranei said. ‘It’s the best explanation we have, but
investigations say it ain’t right. No God of any significance has
been spared the effects of the backlash, and the king’s mages have
consulted a host of daemons — there would be some sort of a whisper
about it if such a thing were happening. Anyway, Azaer’s no true
daemon — ’
‘And too fucking
arrogant to be a hired hand,’ Coran broke in.
Doranei nodded. ‘Even
with the collusion of a God it doesn’t fit with what we know of the
shadow. If it sparks a war within the Pantheon it will be solely
for its own purposes.’ He raised a hand to stop any further
conversation. ‘We can discuss this later, but right now we have an
assault to plan. Surviving that is my only concern at this
time.’
‘So what’s the bet?’
Coran asked automatically.
Doranei glowered and
glanced at Sebe’s belongings on the bed. ‘You kill Ilumene or
Ruhen, or you finish off Aracnan, you can name your fucking price.
I’ll pay it gladly.’
The next day was one
of unexpected sunshine, long shafts of light cutting through clumps
of drifting cloud to shine down upon Byora’s streets. It felt to
Doranei like the entire population had been ushered outside,
flocking to the recently replenished markets or just making the
most of the weather after the months of grim, lingering cold. He
had left the wine merchant’s not long after dawn, taking with him
the Mystic of Karkarn, Hambalay Osh, and Veil, one of the
Brotherhood.
The trio took a long,
winding route through the quarter. They were in no hurry to get to
the Ruby Tower; it was the perfect day to get a feel for the city
again — they’d be more inconspicuous than usual with so many people
out and about. The streets of Wheel and Burn were hives of activity
now the Menin had reinstated free passage and carts of all sizes
had clogged the streets in their eagerness to deliver the raw
materials Byora so desperately needed. The few Menin patrols they
saw were carefully keeping out of the way of everyday life; many
were sitting outside taverns and eateries, behaving themselves like
soldiers under orders.
Heading into
Breakale, the central district where more than half of Byora’s
citizens lived, they found the streets no less busy. Doranei led
them past the Three Inns crossroad, where their Brother Sebe had
died, to an eatery that faced east, towards Blackfang. The
wedge-shaped building had been built to divert the floodwaters that
occasionally swept off the mountain slopes, and from the tip of the
wedge on the upper floor they had a good view of the surrounding
area. Since it was well before midday, they had it to
themselves.
They sat in silence,
sharing a jug of weak wine and watching gangs of labourers work
through the rubble of the buildings that had once stood to the
right of them; the place where Sebe had been holed up with his
poison-tipped arrows, from where he shot Aracnan. And it was there
he had died, when the immortal mercenary had indiscriminately
unleashed the power of his Crystal Skull, killing hundreds in a
storm of raging magic.
‘Here’s to you,
Sebe,’ Veil said at last, raising his goblet in salute, ‘you
monkey-faced little bugger. We’ll miss you.’
Doranei kept quiet,
he’d said his goodbyes already, but he downed the rest of his wine
with the other two. When a girl brought them a plate of bread and
white crumbly cheese he ignored it and picked up the wine jug, his
eyes still on the workmen below.
‘Something I thought
I’d never see,’ he said eventually, more to himself than the
others. ‘You see those men with white scarves tied round their
necks?’
Veil looked up from
his food a moment. ‘Look like they’re in charge of the work. Some
sort of labourers’ guild? I saw a few on the way here like
that.’
Veil was a wiry man a
few winters younger than Doranei. He wore his dark hair long, tied
back with twine. Unlike Doranei he’d been late coming into the care
of the Brotherhood; he’d been twelve winters when his parents died
of the white plague. He’d been marked as someone worth watching
from his very first night, when he’d blackened Ilumene’s eye before
the older boy had managed to land a blow, a very rare
occurrence.
‘I’ve been asking
about that building. The owner was killed when it collapsed, but
someone bought the plot and is rebuilding. Word is that it’s going
to be some sort of sanctuary.’
‘And?’
‘And that sanctuary
will be for anyone in need, run by followers of the child Ruhen —
that’s what the white scarves signify. They’re the ones camped
outside the Ruby Tower.’
Veil took a closer
look at the men Doranei was talking about. One wore a tattered
leather jerkin that looked like padding to go underneath mail; the
rest looked in even worse condition. ‘It’s no sense of civic duty.
The fucker’s pissing on Sebe’s grave.’
‘The ones you saw in
the other districts have been preaching a bit too, mainly anti-cult
talk. There’s no one in Byora going to defend any of the cults
nowadays, not since the clerics’ rebellion when they tried to
assassinate the duchess. Sebe and I started listening when we
realised there’s a whole bunch of them spreading the word. Those
who’re receptive to the message are taken aside and told about a
prophecy, a prophecy of the Saviour that’s known to only the
Harlequins.’
‘Let me guess,’ Osh
said grimly, ‘this prophecy sees no need for the cults at
all?’
‘They’re keeping it
close to their chests at the moment, only telling those willing to
believe anything: the desperate, the poor, those with a grudge
against the Gods or the cults. There have been stories running
through the city for weeks now about Ruhen performing miracles —
breaking a curse, protecting the duchess from the clerics trying to
kill her — that’s what the crowd outside the compound are there
for. They’re praying to this child to intercede on their behalf
with the Gods.’
‘So those who know
the secret put two and two together and get a new God for their
pains.’
Veil grimaced,
imagining what sort of God Azaer would make.
Osh paused mid-bite.
‘There’s a crowd of beggars outside the Ruby Tower gates? How
big?’
‘Few hundred at
least,’ Doranei said.
‘Are we talking
fanatics here?’
‘Not for the most
part, mostly folk broken by the Land they’re living in and
desperate for something better.’
‘Thank the Gods,’ Osh
said with relief. ‘We already know we’re going to have to deal with
guards and distract any Menin soldiers — I don’t much fancy cutting
my way through a crowd of men and women willing to die to protect
the child.’
‘Speaking of which,’
Doranei said, ‘what tricks do we have on that front? The crowd
should be easy enough to frighten out of the way, but that’s the
easy part. We need a diversion to give us a chance, and I guess
we’ll need every mage we’ve got inside the compound.’
‘The king has
assembled a box of tricks for you to play with,’ Veil said with a
half-smile. ‘For fighters we got the Brotherhood. We’ve got four
thieves from Tio He who’re bloody covered in charms of Cerdin, and
we’ve got Osh here. Plus two high mages in the forms of our
favourite bickering old women — Masters Shile Cetarn and Tomal
Endine — plus two battle-mages. And then we’ve the more unusual
members of our team: Camba Firnin is an illusionist by trade, but
she’s from the College of Magic and her bag of powders and
chemicals’ll do more than just make you think you’re dead. Telasin
Daemon-Touch you must’a heard of, and Shim the Bastard is a
mage-killer, probably our best chance to deal with Aracnan. Daken
plans on tying him to a stick and keeping him out
front.’
Doranei sighed. ‘And
then there’s Daken, the Mad Axe,’ he added.
‘Aye, and her that
comes with him,’ Veil said darkly.
‘Daken and I have
been speaking about that,’ Osh interjected. ‘Litania is a fickle
bitch, to use Daken’s term. She comes out to play when she feels
like it, and she causes havoc whenever she does. We cannot have her
with us in the Ruby Tower; it’s just as likely she’ll be the death
of us as she will any sort of help.’
‘So your suggestion
is?’ Doranei asked, knowing he wasn’t going to like the
answer.
‘Daken asks her to
provide the diversion.’ Osh raised a hand, seeing Doranei open his
mouth to argue. ‘We keep one of the king’s mages back in case all
she does is swamp the district in butterflies or something of the
like — you’ll want one in reserve anyway, to cover your
retreat.’
‘But to willingly let
the Trickster loose in a city?’ Veil asked, aghast. ‘You’ve no idea
what destruction she could wreak!’
‘Do we have a
choice?’
Neither of the
Brothers replied. Doranei looked towards the upper levels of the
Ruby Tower, visible above the rooflines. Veil continued to stare at
Osh, trying to think of an argument against the proposal. He closed
his mouth again when Doranei gave him a slap on the arm and pointed
at the street opposite.
‘Look, what’s that
all about?’
The cobbled street
had a smoother patch just as it reached the crossroads, where
Aracnan’s magic had somehow fused the cobbles together. It led from
Eight Towers district, the widest and quickest route from the Ruby
Tower through the city, and walking down it now was a group of a
dozen men and women, some wearing white, some dressed entirely in
white. Many carried long walking staffs, and all bore some sort of
pack on their back.
‘They’re dressed for
travel,’ Veil pointed out, peering forward.
‘Missionaries,’ Osh
concluded with a grave face. ‘The word’s being spread beyond
Byora.’
‘Piss and daemons,’
Doranei growled, pushing his wine aside and shoving a hunk of bread
in his pocket. ‘As soon as they pass we go to look at the ground
around the Ruby Tower. If they’re starting the next phase of their
plan we need to stop it, and soon. I want Ilumene and the child
dead by Prayerday.’