Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (13 page)

 
          
The
larger of the two spoke, his voice carefully neutral. Calandryll's hands
bunched into frustrated fists.

 
          
"What?"

           
"The Domm has ordered that you
remain in your chambers. We are instructed to guard your door."

 
          
Humiliation
blanched his cheeks and he ground his teeth, wincing as pain lanced his jaw.
"I am not allowed to leave?" he demanded, his voice husky.

 
          
"The
Domm has ordered that you remain in your chambers," the guard repeated
doggedly; at least he had the grace to look shamefaced as he said it. "We
are ordered to see that you do."

 
          
Calandryll
slammed the door: it was all that he could think of doing.

 
          
Like
a child,
he thought.
My father confines me to my quarters like a child.
He was close to tears, might well have cried had anger not proven the stronger
emotion, strengthening his determination to rebel. He crossed to the windows
and threw them open, going out onto the balcony. It was a short enough drop to
the garden, and from there he could find a way out of the palace. Where he
would go, he had no idea: he was too angry, too humiliated, to think beyond
that single act of rebellion. He set his hands on the cool stone of the
balustrade, preparing to straddle the low wall, then halted as low-voiced
conversation drifted on the night air and moonlight glinted on metal, seeing
two more guards lounging in the shadows. He peered at them, scarcely able to
believe that he was imprisoned, though that was what it amounted to, the
realization bringing a curse to his lips, the expletive attracting the
attention of the men below. They looked up, faces pale beneath the shadowing
beaks of their helms. Did one smile? Calandryll could not tell: he spun round,
going back into his chamber, the window crashing shut behind him with
sufficient force the thick glass rattled in its frame.

 
          
Helplessly,
he slumped in a chair, picking at the food. He must be the laughingstock of the
palace. Of all Secca when servants and guardsmen spread the word of his
confinement. He pushed the plates away, the wine ignored, and sought solace in
his books. There he might find some information that would help him in his
plight.

 
          
He
was determined, more than ever now, to evade the destiny his father set for
him, but if he fled Secca he would likely, as he had told Bracht, find himself
hunted by the Chaipaku: he turned to Medith's dissertation on the brotherhood.

           
Of the Chaipaku, or the Brotherhood
of Assassins, the historian had written, 'few facts are surely known, the sect
guarding jealously its rituals and privacy, while about its activities there
grows a plethora of legend.

           
That they are assassins of awful
repute is common knowledge, though their crimes are seldom prosecuted and their
ways mysterious.

           
The sect originates in Kandahar, that
land itself a haunt of corsairs and brigands with little in common with the
civilized domain of Lysse, though even the folk of Kandahar go in fear of the
order. They were initially priests dedicated to the worship of the Ocean God,
Burash, whose bloody rituals earned the displeasure of their fellow Kands,
persuading the tyrant Desmus to proclaim such practices beyond the pale of law.
In consequence the sect, or brotherhood (no female may become Chaipaku), became
outlaw, continuing its practices in secret.

           
What, however, is certain is that
the Chaipaku became assassins of dreadful repute. Their services are available
to any able to meet their price and able to gain audience with one of the sect.
This, so some claim, may be accomplished through the offices of the priests of
Burash, though such relationship is denied.

           
They are versed in all known forms
of combat and the poisoner's art, and believed equipped of superhuman
abilities. Certainly, it seems that they are able to conceal themselves with
remarkable talent, to come and go undetected, and largely able to escape the
consequences of their abominable deeds.

           
Their awesome reputation rests to
large extent on the grim fact that not one has ever been taken alive, death
being the preferred option to capture.

           
Calandryll paused, wondering if
Tobias knew how to contact the Brotherhood. Then started as fingers scraped
against the glass at his back.

 
          
He
dropped the book, its antique pages crumpling as he rose from the chair with
hair prickling on his neck, turning with widened eyes to the window.

 
          
A
man stood there, dressed in black, a shadow against the darkness of the sky.
Thoughts of the Chaipaku dried Calandryll's throat as he opened his mouth to
shout for the guards, and the figure raised both hands, palms toward its face.
Light glowed briefly, emanating, it seemed, from the flesh itself, and the
gaping youth saw Varent den Tarl's features illuminated.

 
          
His
shout died stillborn as he recognized the ambassador of Aldarin and Varent
smiled, gesturing for him to open the tall window. For long moments he stood in
shocked silence, unable to do more than stare. Varent gestured again and the
light died; Calandryll moved, almost unwilling, to the window, his hand rising
seemingly of its own accord to the latch. The smell of almonds hung briefly on
the night air as he swung the frame open.

 
          
"Thank
you." Varent stepped into the room, affable as though he paid no more than
a courteous visit to an acquaintance, as though his appearance, impossible as
it was, was perfectly normal. "I do not think it a good idea to attract
the attention of your ... guardians."

 
          
He
beamed, going to the table, where he lifted the decanter and savored the
bouquet.

 
          
"Excellent,"
he murmured, filling a goblet, "your father at least maintains a fine
cellar."

 
          
Calandryll
gaped, struggling to speak. Varent sipped wine, nodding appreciatively, his
handsome features radiating amusement.

 
          
"Are
you," Calandryll swallowed hard, "Chaipaku? Have you come to kill
me?"

 
          
Varent
laughed softly and shook his head. "Chaipaku? No, my friend, rest easy on
that score. And as for killing you—quite the opposite: I come to aid you."

 
          
"Aid
me?" Calandryll took a step backward, glancing nervously at the door.

 
          
“There's
no need to summon the guardsmen," Varent said amiably. "I intend you
no harm."

 
          
"How
..." Calandryll shook his head in amazement. "... how did you reach
the balcony unseen?"

 
          
Varent
shrugged, dropping the black cloak he wore to a chair. Beneath, his clothes,
too, were black, a dull shade that blended well with the night.

 
          
"Magic,"
he said negligently. "Simple magic."

 
          
"Magic?"
Calandryll felt foolish: he could do no more than echo the ambassador's words.
"Simple magic?"

 
          
"Insofar
as any magic is simple," Varent nodded. "My powers are no great thing."

 
          
"But,"
Calandryll gasped, "... the guards ... the balcony."

 
          
"I
would have come directly into your chambers, but I really need to see a place
before I can materialize there," Varent returned. "Luckily, I was
able to catch sight of your balcony from my own chambers. So there I came, and
here I am. The guards heard nothing, and these clothes ... well." He
indicated his subfusc garments with a careless hand. "Hardly fashionable,
but most effective when concealment is required. Why don't you sit down? You
look as though you might faint."

 
          
Calandryll
sat, more a collapse than a deliberate movement, and Varent drew a chair up,
facing him.

 
          
"Some
wine? It really is a delicious vintage."

 
          
Calandryll
shook his head helplessly and the ambassador smiled, helping himself to a
second glass.

 
          
"I
imagine you have little taste after last night, eh? Your father waxed most
wrathful on the subject, and your face tells me you suffered for your
escapade."

 
          
"Escapade,"
echoed Calandryll.

 
          
"I
gathered from your father's ... forgive me, but
ranting
seems the only
appropriate word ... that the announcement of your brother's betrothal to the
lovely Nadama prompted you to seek solace in the poorer quarters of
Secca." Varent sipped more wine, smacked his lips. "I understand you
were set upon by some band of irate tavern hounds and rescued by a mercenary.
Really, Calandryll, you should choose your company more carefully. Though you
certainly enliven an otherwise dull visit."

 
          
"Dull
visit," he heard himself say.

 
          
"Oh,
I have made the necessary treaties, and that was one reason for my presence. I
really am Aldarin's ambassador, by the way. In case you doubt my
credentials." Varent waved a dismissive hand, chuckling. "But there
was another reason, and in that you may help me. In return I think I can help
you."

 
          
"Help
me," Calandryll mumbled.

 
          
"Indeed."
Varent reached out to pat his knee. "Are you sure you will not venture a
glass? You appear most disconcerted."

 
          
"Magic,"
he mouthed.

 
          
"Ah!"
Varent tapped his aquiline nose. "Am I to understand you are not
particularly familiar with the wizardly arts?"

 
          
Calandryll
shook his head.

 
          
"I
am hardly a wizard," murmured Varent modestly, "what small talent I
have was largely learned from another but, though I say it myself, I do have a
certain skill."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded mute agreement.

 
          
"It
serves a purpose," Varent beamed. "This clandestine visit, for
example. No doubt you already know your father confines you to your chambers.
Did you know you are forbidden visitors? Or that the servants are forbidden to
speak to you? Bylath really is a somewhat disagreeable man. Forgive such
criticism, but I feel his reaction overstated, and I really did want to speak
with you."

 
          
"Why?"
Calandryll managed to ask.

 
          
Varent
reached for the decanter before responding, his dark eyes twinkling as he
returned his gaze to Calan- dryll's gaping face.

 
          
"Because
you appear to be the only scholar of any character here. Oh, there are your
tutors, I know, but they are terrified of the Domm and had I inquired of them,
word would doubtless have gotten back to your father. No, I need your help—you
are positively the only one."

 
          
He
lounged back in his chair, black-clad legs extended, ankles crossed. Calandryll
continued to stare at him, intrigued and still more than a little frightened.

 
          
"I
formed that opinion last night," Varent went on. "You struck me as a
young man of considerable learning, and your comments on Medith and Samium
impressed me. More—you are familiar with the palace archives."

 
          
"The
archives?"

 
          
"Indeed.
The archives. They contain a map I should dearly like to study."

 
          
"A
map?" said Calandryll.

 
          
"A
map," nodded Varent. "No doubt ignored in some dusty corner that
perhaps only you have explored."