Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North Page 3

  The strange prisoner was led into the hold of a ship a little apart from the others, and Eremul remembered to breathe again. He felt suddenly embarrassed. Getting spooked by a blind old jailbird was a troubling reminder of just how badly Isaac’s betrayal had shaken him.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said the merchant next to him.

  Eremul had forgotten the blustering idiot was even there. ‘It’s nothing,’ he replied irritably. ‘Did you see the prisoner in the black coat? There was something odd about that man.’

  ‘Huh.’ The merchant scratched his head. ‘Just another criminal who deserves whatever he has coming to him.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Eremul was already pushing his chair past the portly fellow. ‘Let’s hope we all get what’s coming to us,’ he muttered.

  The Halfmage wheeled himself through the maze of narrow streets that coiled out from the harbour, deliberately avoiding the broader avenues. His newly found fame ensured that he was no longer the subject of casual mockery. Instead, despite all evidence to the contrary, the people of Dorminia now insisted on treating him as the resident friendly wizard.

  Why let the evidence of one’s own eyes get in the way of a good narrative?

  The stream of folk arriving at the depository seeking some magical boon had almost driven him mad. He had threatened to curse the next idiot that came knocking with the cock-rot. Petty stuff coming from a man now celebrated for having slain a Magelord in a wizardly duel, he had to admit, but it seemed to have done the trick.

  The sheer absurdity of it all still tickled him. The tyrant Salazar – arguably the most powerful wizard ever to have lived – defeated by him, the Halfmage?

  He sniggered and immediately regretted it as the stench of old shit filled his nostrils. The brief conflict with Thelassa had plunged Dorminia’s infrastructure into a miserable state. Piles of decaying rubbish blocked a drain in this particular street. Thick black flies and teeming maggots crawled all over the resulting tower of filth. The Halfmage held his breath and cursed silently as he accidentally rode over a stray turd with a squelch.

  He was dripping with sweat by the time he reached the depository, a nondescript building that housed the city’s largest collection of books outside the Obelisk’s great library, which had thankfully escaped unscathed from the recent damage to the tower. Eremul found pleasure in very little. Books were amongst the few things he still held close to his withered heart – as was the scruffy little creature that wagged his tail happily at him as he pushed open the door.

  ‘You’ve been waiting for me,’ Eremul exclaimed, lifting the brown-haired mongrel onto his lap. Tyro proceeded to lick delightedly at his face. The animal had made a miraculous recovery from his near drowning the night Salazar had obliterated Shadowport, taking to his new master like a duck to water.

  Though that is perhaps an unfortunate analogy in the circumstances.

  He smiled, enjoying the dog’s simple affections. It felt good to smile – a brief respite from the ceaseless barrage of misfortune he had endured over the years.

  Horribly maimed by the city’s former Magelord. Forced to become an informant, ratting for the Crimson Watch. How quickly things can change.

  His eyes settled on the broom leaning in the corner of the room, beside a stack of books. His smile twisted into a frown.

  Betrayed by my own manservant. Who were you, Isaac? What were you?

  Those particular questions were the subject of his latest obsession. He needed something to fill the void Salazar’s death had left. The desire for vengeance had kept him going during his lowest moments; he felt strangely empty without it.

  The great poets are full of bullshit. Love has nothing on hatred’s capacity to give a man purpose.

  He had been offered a new manservant, a perk befitting his status as a member of the new Grand Council. After giving it some thought, he had declined. He was bereft of the dual crutches of his hatred and the thing that had been Isaac, and yet to his own surprise, he found himself managing reasonably well. He doubted his optimism would last – but for now, he would attempt to stand on his own two feet. Metaphorically, at least.

  Eremul lowered Tyro gently to the floor. The dog yelped twice and darted off to wriggle under a table. The Halfmage wheeled himself through the archives towards his wash chamber, eager to scrub away the stench of the city. He paused when he noticed something askew with the book on his desk. It was an ancient text that detailed the major races of the northern lands during the Age of Legends. When he’d left earlier that morning he had been reading about the elder race known as the Fade. Somehow the book now lay open on a page depicting a brutish green-skinned humanoid.

  He summoned his magic and probed the invisible wards guarding the building against intruders. They ought to have alerted him if anyone had attempted to break into the depository. He found the wards undisturbed.

  He inspected the room, finding no sign of any interloper. Tyro poked his head out of his hiding place and yawned. Eremul raised an eyebrow. ‘It would appear you’ve developed a taste for ancient history. My thanks for not covering the book in drool.’

  Tyro watched him stupidly. Then he bolted out from under the desk and attempted to crawl up onto Eremul’s lap again, eyes bright with excitement, head bobbing up and down, desperate to have his ears rubbed.

  ‘I trust you won’t defecate on anything valuable while I’m at the Obelisk,’ the Halfmage said. He tried to sound disapproving – but he was smiling as he spoke.

  The Grand Council Chamber was uncomfortably warm despite the late hour. Between the stifling heat, the waffle spilling from the mouths of the magistrates to either side of him, and the incessant banging of the hammers from far above, Eremul’s head was beginning to ache. To add to his annoyance, the city’s Grand Regent had decided to keep them all waiting.

  He frowned down the length of the great darkwood table that dominated the chamber, running his gaze over the robed figures seated there. Chancellor Ardling was one of the few magistrates to have survived the previous regime; the grey steward of the city’s finances met his eyes briefly and then glanced away. To his left, Remy argued with a magistrate whose purpose Eremul struggled to recall. Whatever dark deed the new Master of Information had performed to earn his place on the Council, it evidently gnawed at him. He could smell the drink on Remy’s breath. It wasn’t the first time the ratty spymaster had attended a council meeting half-drunk.

  Of all the qualities for a city magistrate to possess, a conscience is perhaps the least desirable. It will undo a man faster than any nefarious plot from a rival.

  Eremul was well aware of the farcical nature of his own elevation to the Council. Someone had to take the credit for Salazar’s death following the mysterious disappearance of his true killer. It fell on Eremul’s shoulders to play the part of the hero – a role it was tacitly understood he must accept, if he too didn’t want to vanish without explanation or else be found floating face down in the harbour. As Master of Magic he had no real say in the running of the city. But then, in truth, neither did anyone else around the table.

  We’re all actors in a mummer’s farce. Puppets dancing to the strings of the White Lady of Thelassa.

  There was a bustle of activity near the great iron doors and Dorminia’s new Grand Regent finally sauntered into the chamber. At his side was one of the White Lady’s handmaidens – the Magelord’s eyes and ears in the city. Like the rest of her kind, she was pale of skin, onyx-dark pupils at the centre of otherwise colourless eyes. She drifted along in her spotless white robes, casting no shadow in the light of lurid orange flames that lit the room.

  The Grand Regent’s shadow on the other hand was as conspicuous as the insufferable look on his thin face. The man who had until recently served as Salazar’s right hand had swapped his black robes for those of a flashy golden hue. Much to Eremul’s disgust, he had also donned a circlet of silver in the manner of the Ishari princes of his homeland to the east. It looked ridiculous perched atop h
is balding head.

  Grand Regent Timerus paused briefly beside the obsidian throne at the head of the table, favouring the assembled with a regal smile. Then he lowered himself slowly into the chair with the assurance of one whose bony arse was born to fill its cushioned seat. Eremul felt a flash of annoyance; it was one thing to endure the whims of a Magelord capable of drowning an entire city, quite another to be treated with utter contempt by this treacherous lizard of a man.

  ‘I trust you are all comfortable,’ Timerus began, knowing full well the magistrates he had kept waiting were sweating like pigs in their thick ceremonial robes. He steepled his fingers in front of his face in that infuriating manner of his. ‘I understand the Thelassan vessels departed harbour without incident.’

  ‘Almost without incident,’ corrected Marshal Bracka. The newly promoted commander of the Crimson Watch, such as it was, glanced nervously at the White Lady’s handmaiden. An outsider might have found the notion that the big Marshal was intimidated by a woman half his size ridiculous, but all present had heard the stories of the massacre that had occurred at the western gate during the taking of the city. The handmaidens had scaled sheer walls and snapped the necks of the city’s defenders like dry twigs. Bracka himself was still nursing a broken arm from that encounter.

  ‘Do continue,’ Timerus drawled. He smiled, no doubt relishing the other man’s discomfort.

  ‘Rioters set fire to a warehouse in Kraken Street. They were chanting for the leader of the rebels, the woman calling herself Melissan. I had the Watch execute a few and arrest the others.’

  Timerus arched an eyebrow. ‘I trust you will discover this Melissan’s whereabouts soon.’

  Bracka frowned and rubbed at his bushy red beard. ‘Ain’t easy in a city this size. Especially not with all these new arrivals.’

  Chancellor Ardling cleared his throat. Eremul found him to be among the less odious of those present, partly because he was at least competent in his role as Master of Coin, and partly because he simply lacked the imagination for genuine cruelty.

  Before Ardling could speak, there was a loud crash from above followed by a piercing scream that grew louder and was then abruptly cut off. ‘One of the construction workers,’ said Remy with a small hiccup. ‘Maybe working them through the night wasn’t the wisest idea.’

  Timerus smiled that humourless smile of his. ‘This isn’t a tyranny, gentlemen. They agreed to the terms. These are difficult times for us all.’

  Eremul frowned. You smug bastard, he wanted to say. You wouldn’t know hardship if it buggered you up the arse with a rusty spear. How much of the city’s wealth have you already embezzled?

  Ardling cleared his throat again in order to get their attention. ‘Speaking of difficult times, I am sorry to say our finances are in a precarious state. The damage wrought by the siege weapons was quite extensive.’

  There was a chorus of nods around the table. Eremul had spent much of his adult life near the harbour and was therefore used to less-than-sparkling streets. For the other magistrates, the sight of rancid sewage and fallen masonry near their homes in the wealthier parts of the city was a new and wholly unwelcome experience.

  Lorganna raised a hand. Timerus had made her Civic Relations Minister following the fatal poisoning of half the Council months past. Timerus himself had been one of the participants in that particular plot, an act of treason that had only come to light after Salazar’s assassination. The elevation of a woman to the Council had provoked a few disgruntled voices of dissent. As far as Eremul was concerned she was unlikely to prove any worse than the men, and in any case he had always considered himself an equal-opportunities misanthrope.

  ‘The city’s liberation cost the lives of many conscripts from the farming towns,’ Lorganna said. The new Lord Justice stifled a yawn, and Bracka raised his eyes towards the heavens as she continued. ‘The hinterland settlements are at risk of starvation. The villagers flock here, yet with rising food shortages our own poor can barely afford to eat.’

  Timerus shrugged a narrow shoulder. ‘They have been offered the Pioneer’s Deal, have they not? Those who volunteer to explore the Isles will be fed and provided clothes and other amenities. Their husbands and wives will be paid a silver sceptre each week in their absence.’

  ‘A silver hardly stretches to a loaf of bread, my lord. Prices are rising day by day.’

  The Grand Regent sighed. ‘The poor shall have to abide. The White Lady has invested much in Dorminia already.’

  The simmering resentment that had been festering inside Eremul for weeks suddenly bubbled over. ‘To hell with her investment! What of the sacrifices we’ve already made? Thousands dead. Hundreds more packed off to the Celestial Isles. This Council will soon rule over a dying city. And famine is not the worst of it,’ he added, immediately regretting those last words.

  Timerus sat back in his throne. He had an angry glint in his eyes, but his interest was piqued. ‘To what do you refer?’

  Eremul took a deep breath. He had been waiting for the right moment to broach this subject. Now was decidedly not the right moment. Still, he would gain nothing by delaying this any longer. ‘I believe we are in great danger,’ he said carefully. ‘The night of Salazar’s assassination I returned home to find my servant waiting for me. At least, I had thought him my servant. He spoke of judgement. Of returning to his homeland to prepare for a crusade. I assure you, this man, Isaac – he was not human.’ He glanced around the great table. Polite interest warred with incredulity on the faces of the magistrates. ‘I have spent the last month studying every text in the city that even fleetingly refers to the race we now call the Fade. It is my belief they will shortly return to these lands, sailing east across the Endless Ocean.’

  Timerus raised an eyebrow again. ‘For what purpose?’

  Eremul leaned forward and fixed the Grand Regent with his most foreboding stare. ‘They intend to destroy us all.’

  Silence greeted his pronouncement. He had expected laughter or at least a snigger or two. Timerus shook his head. ‘I do not believe you a stupid man,’ he said slowly.

  That took Eremul by surprise. ‘I appreciate your generous assessment of my intellect.’

  ‘No… you are not stupid. You are broken. Delusional.’

  ‘Hang on a gods-damned minute—’

  ‘It all makes sense,’ Timerus cut in smoothly. ‘You have lived in fear for so long that you are simply unable to accept your sudden change in fortunes. You cling to your paranoia like a babe to its mother’s teats.’

  Timerus’s words poked something raw inside him. Something raw and ugly. ‘Don’t you patronize me, you son of a bitch.’

  The White Lady’s handmaiden twitched. ‘Watch your tongue,’ she said in a voice as passionless as stone. ‘Or be forever silenced.’

  He knew discretion was the better part of valour, but at that moment he couldn’t help himself. ‘I’ve heard similar before,’ he sneered. ‘You should take care when threatening a wizard. Even a mad fuck like me.’

  ‘Enough,’ ordered Timerus. The hint of concern in that arrogant voice was strangely satisfying.

  So he fears I am not bluffing. If I take nothing else from this disaster of an evening, I shall forever treasure that at least.

  ‘You are hereby stripped of your position on the Council,’ the Grand Regent proclaimed. He pointed one slender finger towards the double doors. ‘Get out.’

  Eremul looked around. The assembled magistrates refused to meet his gaze, save for Lorganna who gave him a tiny nod.

  ‘Good evening, my lady,’ he said. Then he wheeled himself from the chamber.

  Night of Fire

  Her hands shook. She stared at the man strapped to the chair in the middle of the room. He slumped there, head covered by an old sack pulled tight around his neck. The blood crusting the top of the sack was a dark stain against the filthy canvas. The man’s breathing was slow and laboured, every inhalation a painful struggle for air. She glanced at the knife in her hand an
d swallowed hard. Ambryl would be back soon. She was running out of time.

  She walked over to the prisoner. The sheer stench of the man almost stopped her in her tracks. He had been here for over a month and had soiled his breeches countless times. The whole building stank, a foul odour of piss, shit and death.

  The room seemed to rock around her, the early evening bustle from outside growing louder. A woman’s laugh mocked her. A beggar’s cry carried an edge of concealed menace. A dog barked, once, twice, and then a third time, wilder every yowl, and suddenly her heart was beating fast and the knife felt slippery in her sweating palms.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and blocked out the sounds, taking a few deep breaths to calm herself. She gripped the sack that covered the man’s head and dragged it upwards. The dried blood and filth caused it to stick against the side of his face. She pulled harder, feeling the coarse material scrape his cheek raw. Ignoring his grunts of pain, she yanked the sack free and tossed it aside in disgust.

  ‘You’re an ugly bastard,’ Sasha said after a moment. Three-Finger’s head wound had healed to form a scabby mess. Beneath a brutish brow, piggish eyes blinked away crust accumulated over days spent in perpetual darkness. He had a month’s worth of beard on his face, but it was erratic, growing only in the spots where the disease that ravaged his skin failed to reach. Tufts of coarse, greying hair sprouted out between patches of purple flesh layered in dirt.

  Three-Finger tried to utter something but succeeded only in spraying saliva over his chin. She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘What did you say?’

  This time he managed to spit the words out. ‘Go fuck yourself, whore.’ The look he gave her set her heart to hammering again.

  Sasha raised the knife and held it in front of his face. ‘Remember when you told me I had a dirty mouth? You won’t hurt anyone ever again.’