Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) (33 page)

‘What a day, old boy,’ Farden whispered, with a shake of his head. The rat stared up at him with his expressionless black eyes and twitched his whiskers.

What a night too
, he sighed. What revelations. Farden’s head swam through a sea of emotions he couldn’t begin to fathom. Excitement, fear, worry, elation. They mattered little. All that mattered was the piercing, crystal determination that had once more settled over him, the clarity as sharp as a diamond. For once, Farden knew exactly what he was doing. He could taste the end, whatever that was.

Whiskers ran his paws across his face and chattered to himself. Lerel shuffled around in her sleep, moaning something. Both the mage and the rat turned to look at her.

Farden frowned. ‘She’s taken up my whole bed,’ he muttered, then smiled. He reached out and tucked the blanket over her. She was still fully dressed. He wondered how long she had waited for him.

He placed the rat on the foot of bed. Whiskers curled up there, and didn’t move, watching Lerel carefully. There was something about her that the rat was wary of. Farden didn’t blame him. He probably sensed the feline in her. The mage ruffled his tiny black ears, tinged with silvery grey. He slid off one of his vambraces, and wedged it under a pillow so Whiskers could crawl inside it.

With a sigh that was as shallow, yet as deep as any sea, Farden got to his feet. He dabbled with the idea of crawling into bed with Lerel, but he shook his head. Something about her reminded him of a time with Cheska.

Cheska
. His sweetest enemy. He couldn’t wait to forget her. Besides, Lerel was fast asleep, and his clarity couldn’t afford to be clouded. Farden stretched out on the smooth floor instead. He was dead to the world before his head even hit the wood.

She felt no cold.

She felt nothing of the jealous pine needles stinging her ghostly feet.

She felt nothing of the wind, tugging at her misted curls.

She felt nothing.

No confusion, as she tread the sticky loam of the dark, foreign forest. No fear, as the wolves skipped around her, gnashing jaws, as the ravens cawed and scattered in the pines. No regret, no anger, no fear, just a simple sense of
purpose
. To walk. To keep moving. But to where she did not know.

She could only watch as her body moved inexorably forward, bare feet glowing softly as they flowed effortlessly across the dirt and ice and rock.

She could only gaze down as the peaks of the mountains flew by beneath her, as her limbs trailed green and blue alongside the flowing magick, silent and soaring in the wake of the moon. Always moving. Ever north, with the stars shining down on her. Always crisp night. Never warm day. If a ghost can feel anything, anything at all, it is the dull ache of longing for a shred of warmth.

Elessi felt it. She felt it with every mile. But she could also feel it waning. The further north she travelled, the more the ache died away, until she had almost forgotten its bitter touch.
The touch of what?

With every mile north, she was waning too.

“There is no other way to describe the inner workings of the magick council than to say it is an eternal and vicious game of chess. And woe betide anybody who tries to take the king, the Marble Copse itself.”

Ripped from the diary of Council Fustigan

‘T
hese Arka girls can’t dance to save their lives,’ Jeasin snorted, listening to the shuffle and clomp of the banquet hall around her.

‘These women,
whore
,’ Malvus muttered sternly, ‘are your betters. The cream of Krauslung society. Wives, sisters, daughters, and mistresses of the new ruling class of this fine city. You’d do well to mind your tongue around such company.’

‘Fine.’ Jeasin shrugged. ‘But they still can’t bloody dance.’

Malvus allowed himself a small smile, and turned to watch the evening’s revelry.

Well, perhaps
revelry
wasn’t quite the best word to describe it. The mood in the grand banquet hall was one of smug sedateness. He watched the men and woman calmly wheel around, treading traditional steps to the slow whining of the ljots and keening of the flutes. Everybody was dressed head to toe in the finest clothes the Arka markets had to offer. The new lords and ladies of Krauslung and beyond. Malvus could see it in their pinched smiles and twinkling eyes. He could see it in the grinning whispers as the men passed each other, or lingered at the tables. This was their city now, and they knew it.

And he ruled them all.

Malvus turned to the woman by his side. He looked her up and down, at her borrowed finery, her curled hair, her new, glittering jewellery circling her neck and wrists. She stood there, hip tilted to one side and arms crossed, staring sightlessly at the fine crowds around her. What a proud creature she was. What a hard woman. Malvus liked that. He had noticed the stares of the other women, of the councils’ wives and daughters. They wouldn’t meet his eyes, but he had seen them glancing at Jeasin. Albion trash, in their eyes. A whore. She didn’t belong in these circles. Malvus had initially agreed, confining her company to the nights and to his sheets, but now an idea had begun to form in his mind. An inkling. He smiled again as he considered it.
Every king needed a queen
.

‘And what would an Albion courtesan know of dancing?’

Jeasin laughed then. Brash and bold. ‘Dancin’ ain’t about music and banquets. It’s about bodies, and how you use it. It don’t end on the floor, Malvus. It don’t stop when the music does. I know more about dancin’ than these sisters and wives ever could.’ She winked then. Malvus rolled his eyes.
Confident creature.
He reached for her hand and she let him raise it. He half-expected her to snatch it away, but she was too clever for that. He kissed it, an inch past formally, and then led her to the dance floor.

The crowd parted to let them through, every head bowing politely and reverently. Malvus relished every minute of it, every footfall and step. He held Jeasin on his arm like a prize.

As it turned out, the Arka women didn’t know how to dance, and if the glances had been scathing before, now they were positively boiling. Malvus led Jeasin around the floor, letting her spin and swivel, while he watched his newly appointed lords smirk while their mistresses and spouses stared on. A few of the younger women even tried to imitate the Albion woman, raising the eyebrows of the men even further.

Something about Jeasin’s dancing seemed to raise the pace of the evening. The skalds in the corner kicked something lively into their tune, and soon the sedate air began to crumble, leading to something altogether informal.

‘More wine!’ called Malvus, snapping his fingers at a pair of nearby servants. They rushed to do his bidding. Decanters of purple and yellow wine were soon flying about on trays, glugging into half-empty glasses and being swigged by laughing mouths. How quickly it was, that the veneer of refinement flaked away, to reveal the debauchery beneath that only power, money, and an excuse can buy.

Malvus led Jeasin back to the window. Toskig was there, with Jarvins. The latter was slouching against the wall in his new armour, idly watching his wife swan about the room. He had a half-empty bottle of ale dangling from his hand. Toskig clicked his heels as Malvus approached. Jarvins slid a little way up the wall, and saluted with his bottle. Malvus ignored him.

‘General Toskig. How are you enjoying the banquet?’

Toskig looked a little uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to such company. What he wouldn’t have given for a good old tavern, or a mess, with a flagon of foaming ale and a good old brawl. ‘Very good, my lord,’ he said, stiffly.

‘And have you met the good lady Jeasin?’ Malvus gestured to the woman at his side, managing to ignore the snort Jeasin made at the mention of
lady
.

Toskig bowed as low as his armour would allow. ‘My lady.’

‘Pleasure,’ Jeasin said. She could play her role at least, when needed. ‘You a mage?’

Toskig shook his head quickly. ‘No, my lady. Though I taught mages, at the School. In Manesmark.’

‘And a fine job of it he did too.’ Jarvins gargled his beer.

‘Knew a mage once. A Written,’ Jeasin began, causing Malvus to raise an eyebrow. ‘Farden, you know ‘im?’

There was an awkward silence between them, broken only by Jarvins swaggering off with a sigh, off to drag his wife back from the edge of embarrassment, and to find himself some more of that fine, strong ale. Toskig cleared his throat. ‘I knew him, yes. Fought with him in Efjar, when I was naught but a recruit. Good man. Even better mage.’

‘Yes, well,’ Malvus hissed. ‘A traitor to our cause, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Toskig muttered, looking at the floor.

‘Course,’ Jeasin. She knew better than to say anything more.

‘My lord!’ a shout rang out over the music and the sounds of the hall. Malvus turned to find a skinny boy weaving his way through the crowd, dressed in the livery of a messenger. The boy skidded to a halt, bowed once, twice, even three times before handing the scrap of parchment over, with shaking hands.

‘What is this?’

‘Message for you m’lord. From a Nelska hawk. Marked urgent, said my master.’

Malvus snatched the parchment from the boy’s hands. ‘Away with you.’

‘Yes, m’lord!’ The boy scuttled off.

‘Word from the dragons?’ Toskig asked.

Malvus flashed him a look. ‘In a fashion, General. Nothing you need concern yourself with.’ He folded the parchment and slid it deep into his silk pocket. He kept his hand on it. ‘I’m afraid I must leave you in the good company of the General, Jeasin. He’ll escort you back to your rooms.’

‘You mean your rooms?’

Malvus narrowed his eyes. It irked him that she couldn’t see his expression. She might have held her tongue. ‘Any room will do, as long it isn’t this room.’

‘An’ what if I want to dance some more?’

Malvus smiled a greasy smile at Toskig and then leant close to whisper in the woman’s ear. ‘Then you can do it in the darkness of a prison cell,’ he breathed. ‘Or, if you prefer, at the end of a rope.’ Jeasin simply turned away, saying nothing. ‘I’ll leave her in your hands then, Toskig.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the general, and with that Malvus strode towards the door, urgent and hurried. Toskig watched him go, wondering what in Emaneska to say to such a woman. He’d heard the stories from Jarvins. Everybody had.

‘So,’ he coughed.

‘You ‘ungry?’ she asked, abruptly.

Toskig shook his head. ‘Erm. I ate…’

‘I’m bloody starvin’,’ she muttered, as she felt her way towards the smell of food, wafting on the breeze from the back of the hall. She strode forward confidently, making others get out of her way. She was enjoying this, despite Malvus’ parting words. Enjoying the feel of eyes upon her, of the furtive whispers they thought she couldn’t hear, of all of it.

Toskig was not enjoying anything. He walked behind her, dodging in between the dancers, trying not to get in anybody’s way. A hundred colours of silk and shades of jewellery spun before his eyes. His armour gleamed a little too harshly in the light. The wine had gone to his head.

‘Do you need a hand?’ he called to Jeasin.

‘No,’ she flatly replied. And she didn’t. She walked right up to the tables, stopping just before them, and began to feel around for what had been left over from the evening’s feasting. Toskig watched as she pawed about, collecting things on a dirty plate, like a thief rooting through a box of treasures. A hunk of bread. A slice of cheese. A titbit of ham. Some oiled fish. Only once did she falter, dipping her finger in a bowl of soup. She cursed and kept going. More bread. More cheese. She must have been starving indeed.

‘Finished?’ Toskig said, rubbing his stubbled chin.

‘Just about,’ Jeasin muttered, as she added something greasy and roasted. ‘There.’

‘Shall I escort you to your room?’

‘If you have to.’

‘It seems I must.’

‘Lead the way then.’

Toskig did as he was told, leading the woman from the banquet hall by the corner of his arm. She clutched the plate in her other hand. The general tried not to wonder where she was going to put it all.

Soon enough, they had escaped the hall, and were walking through the quiet corridors of the Arkathedral, boots and shoes clicking softly on the marble. Glancing through the windows on their right, Toskig noticed night had only just fallen, and the torches of the city were only beginning to glimmer. Toskig stared at his city, at the smoke leaking from chimneys and at the tiny figures below in the orange veins of cobblestone streets. The word
responsibility
, came to mind then. They were his now, in a way. He had swapped two-dozen grubby recruits for the safety of the whole city. No wonder he felt so bewildered, so nervous. A sergeant, in a general’s boots.

‘Here we are,’ muttered Jeasin, pulling him to the right.

Toskig shook his head and pulled her back. ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken, my lady. Malvus’… your rooms are higher up. That’s the way to the prisons.’

‘That it is,’ she said, pulling again, but Toskig stood his ground.