Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North (30 page)

‘That is a succubus,’ the woman replied. ‘A creature of legend. It was said to tempt men with promises of carnal pleasure, only to later steal their souls.’

A smile played around Ambryl’s mouth. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said.

Glittering stars crowded the night sky above Palace Avenue, as if they too were drawn to the spectacle playing out below. The streets heaved with men and women, the men wearing smart trousers and jackets, or at least expensive shirts, the women sporting gowns of all shapes and colours. Everyone wore a mask, even if only over the top half of his or her face. All who attended the Seeding Festival had to conceal their identities or else face scorn from the other revellers.

Sasha adjusted her fox mask and nodded at Ambryl and they began working their way through the crowd towards the palace. At some point during the evening the White Lady herself would greet her subjects. They wanted to be as close as possible to the palace gates to boost their chances of getting an audience with the Magelord when she eventually emerged.

Music played from somewhere in the city. A violinist plucked out a tune that started slowly but gathered momentum, drawing folk together to dance. The strange Thelassan docility slowly disappeared as other instruments joined the violin, creating an orchestra that seemed to echo all around them.

Sasha dodged around a couple locked in each other’s arms. He wore a mask in the shape of a dog, she a hunting bird of some kind. A bear-faced gentleman approached Ambryl for a dance, but her sister pointedly turned her head away and shouldered right past him.

The smell of perfume tickled Sasha’s nose, not now numbed from moon dust as so often before, and a small group of Whitecloaks appeared and began handing out glasses of wine. Sasha took one. It tasted good, as fine a wine as any Garrett had acquired during his many business expeditions.

‘There are too many people!’ Ambryl grumbled. Her sister had a point; there must have been thousands of Thelassans lining the great avenue leading to the palace. Curiously, there were no children, and hardly any women who looked to be beyond their child-bearing years. Sasha recalled the wistful look on the face of the grandmother back at the market.

‘Let’s get closer,’ she shouted in order to be heard above the swelling music. She had no idea where it was coming from. There wasn’t an instrument in the world that could create music loud enough to travel the length of the avenue. It was as though the music sprang from the marble beneath their very feet.

Another Whitecloak approached, a handsome fellow clutching a silver tray in his hands. The White Lady’s soldiers did not wear masks: theirs were the only faces not concealed. The guard smiled at the sisters and offered them another drink from the tray. Sasha reached out a hand but Ambryl slapped her arm away. Her sister’s hazel eyes narrowed behind the succubus mask. ‘Keep your wits about you! What wits that aren’t addled, at any rate.’

Sasha repositioned her mask and poked her tongue out at Ambryl in irritation. A couple strolled past her, a tall man and a long-legged woman wearing a scandalously short dress revealing her calves. Sasha turned to stare at the pair as they sauntered by. Someone laughed to her right, and she glimpsed another couple kissing. The woman gasped softly as her partner ran his hands down her sides, and ever lower—

Sasha quickly looked away, only to discover that Ambryl had disappeared.

Shit
.

The music was growing louder and more intense. The crowd seemed to be drawing closer together. A woman bumped into her, apparently by intent, and she felt something pushed into her hands. She looked down and her breath caught in her throat.

It was a thimble. Filled with moon dust. Filled with
hashka
.

Her hands started to tremble. She glanced wildly around, saw others were furtively and not-so-furtively raising their hands to their noses, snorting the silver powder being passed around. She hesitated, the thimble halfway to her own nose.

She’d promised Ambryl she would give up the drugs. But it was one thing to stay clean when you had no money and no way to feed your habit. It was quite another to have temptation handed to you literally on a plate.

Sasha brought the thimble up to her nostril and snorted it all, taking the entire hit in one go.

And it felt good. So damned
good
.

Something brushed against her ass. She twisted around and slapped the man’s groping hands away, then gave him a shove that sent him stumbling back into a small group of revellers who were now in various states of undress. She felt warm breath on her ear and then a woman’s fingers brushed through her long brown hair, another hand running down her thigh—

‘Get off me!’ she shouted. Heart racing, she barged her way through the naked and half-naked bodies that were intertwining on the marble streets beneath her. Sighs and gasps of pleasure and that relentless music filled her ears. She focused on the palace just ahead, her breathing coming in short, sharp gasps.

‘Sister!’ It was Ambryl. Her sister was hastening towards her. She had that look in her eye, the one Sasha had come to fear. Her succubus mask was slightly askew and there was fresh blood under her fingernails. She stepped over a couple who were rutting on the ground like a pair of dogs in heat.

‘What’s going on?’ Sasha whispered. Ambryl shook her head and aimed a kick at the man at her feet. It caught him in the face just as he was getting into a rhythm, much to his partner’s disappointment.

Sasha looked around in shock. The streets were a forest of naked bodies locked in various carnal acts. All but a few revellers seemed lost in a state of utter abandonment.

All of a sudden the music died. Sasha felt Ambryl grab her arm, and her sister pointed towards the palace.

The White Lady was among them.

She was exquisite, a creature of unearthly beauty. She wore a gown of near transparent white silk that revealed a perfect figure beneath. Her platinum hair seemed to sparkle in the starlight overhead, falling around a face the perfection of which words could not adequately describe. Most remarkable of all were the Magelord’s eyes: a brilliant violet that made Sasha’s breath catch in her throat. Cole had described his audience with the White Lady with all his usual dramatic flair, and as usual Sasha had taken it with a large pinch of salt. She saw now that even Cole’s description had not done the Magelord justice. This was a goddess made flesh.

Behind the White Lady drifted her handmaidens, flawless compared to most but plain and vacant beside their divine mistress. They followed her as she glided down the avenue, the Magelord’s lambent gaze drinking in the vast orgy that throbbed on the marble streets with approval. Finally her eyes settled on the sisters, and Sasha found herself struggling to breathe.

‘You two,’ she said in a singsong voice. ‘The Seeding calls and yet you refuse its lure. Who are you?’

Sasha tried to speak but couldn’t force out a single word. She stood there stupidly, but Ambryl was not so overcome. Her sister took a bold step towards the White Lady. ‘I am Cyreena. This is Sasha, my sister. We bring you warning from Dorminia. From a certain Eremul the Halfmage.’

The White Lady’s purple eyes did not blink. ‘I know of him.’

‘He has found evidence that suggests an ancient race known as the Fade are returning to these lands. Already they are sowing discord on the streets of Dorminia through human proxies. I present this evidence to you on his behalf.’

Sasha watched numbly as Ambryl approached the Magelord. Her sister reached into the small bag hanging from her shoulder and withdrew the jar with the tattooed flesh preserved in salt. She broke the seal and held the container out to the White Lady. ‘The fanatics all bear this same tattoo. The Halfmage believes it is written in the language of the Fade. He hoped you may be able to translate it.’

The White Lady took the jar and reached a delicate hand inside, seemingly unconcerned by the gruesome nature of its contents. She withdrew the preserved scrap of flesh, examining it with her violet eyes. The slight curiosity on her face was quickly replaced by irritation and Sasha felt her chest tighten in sudden terror.

‘I see no tattoo. This is nothing but a scrap of decomposing flesh. You dare come to my city to present me with
this
?’

‘What?’ Ambryl’s eyes narrowed in confusion. ‘But there
was
script there! I saw it myself. It was written in black ink.’

The White Lady raised the grisly evidence. ‘Nothing.’ She tossed the scrap away and then waved a finger in the air. Suddenly, Ambryl’s bag was torn from her grasp. It floated across to the Magelord, who began to casually inspect the contents. She paused for a moment – and then from the bag she withdrew a gleaming dagger.

Sasha’s heart threatened to burst from her chest.

‘Was this meant for me?’ the Magelord asked softly. ‘Do not lie to me, child. I can read the truth in your eyes.’

Somehow, Ambryl’s face remained a mask. ‘You killed my master
.
He gave me everything, and you had him murdered.’

‘Who was this master you speak of?’

‘Salazar.’

‘I see.’ The White Lady’s gaze turned to Sasha. ‘Your sister does not share your sentiments. The two of you were close once – yet now you are as different as ice and fire. What happened to create such a rift between sisters?’

‘Men,’ Ambryl hissed. ‘Rebels opposed to Salazar. They murdered our parents. They…
broke
us.’

The White Lady’s purple eyes locked on Ambryl’s. ‘Men cannot break us, child. We are stronger than they. I would tell you many things if you would join me inside the palace.’

Ambryl hesitated. There was no fear in her eyes, only curiosity. Finally she nodded and turned to Sasha. ‘I’ll see you later, sister.’

Sasha slipped through the Siren’s door, trying not to make any noise. She need not have worried. Lyressa was still awake and was sitting at a table with her husband Willard.

‘Hello, dear,’ the proprietress said. ‘We couldn’t sleep. The baby is kicking.’ She smiled at her husband. Willard returned the smile, his kindly face filled with adoration. ‘Did you enjoy the festival?’ Lyressa asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ Sasha blinked uncomfortably. The light from the brazier by the door seemed too bright and was hurting her eyes. ‘I’m sorry to be rude, but I really must get some sleep. Goodnight to you both.’

She hurried up the stairs to the room she shared with Ambryl. She opened the door, pulled it shut behind her and then flung herself on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She was still buzzing from the
hashka
hit. The events of the past few hours swirled around in her head, a whirlwind of confusing thoughts, feelings and emotions. She was worried about Ambryl, but she knew her sister could take care of herself. Besides, the White Lady didn’t appear to bear her any ill will.

She thought of all those people coming together, the relentless music driving them into each other’s arms. All those naked forms writhing together, the intoxicating perfume making her feel lightheaded. It had been frightening but, she had to admit, exciting too.

She was restless and bothered. Her body was still tingling with excitement and nervous energy and the
hashka
kick that hadn’t quite faded. Slowly her hands inched downwards, brushing over her stomach and her thighs. Finally she touched herself, gasping at how wet she was. She felt so very lonely. Her hand began to move, gaining momentum, just like the music at the palace. Seeking release, seeking something—

There was a sudden scream from downstairs, followed by the crash of furniture breaking.

Sasha jumped up from the bed, racing out of the room and down the stairs.

Willard was on the floor, blood running down his face. The table he had been sitting at was overturned and one of the chairs was broken.

There was no sign of his wife.

‘They came for her,’ he sobbed. The anguish in his eyes stopped Sasha in her tracks. ‘They came for Lyressa and our baby.’

‘Start by rounding up a few foundlings. They’re no use to me, but they’ll serve.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Yllandris, though deep down she knew.

‘Been a while since the Herald last killed. It needs to feed.’

Krazka’s words crawled round and round her skull as she wandered through the streets of Heartstone. The panic had begun to die down now; the townsfolk were beginning to come to terms with the fact that King Magnar had been overthrown by the chieftain of the Lake Reaching. Perhaps they assumed the Shaman would soon return, and everything would go back to the way it was.

For Yllandris, nothing could ever go back to the way it had been. Not after she’d seen what that butcher had done to Magnar. Not after he had given her the order she was on her way to carry out. She could have refused him, but she was a coward. Not a brilliant schemer and a prodigy as she had believed herself to be.

A coward.

She felt the shakes starting in her legs and quickened her pace, trying to walk them off. Then she remembered her objective and slowed to a shuffle. She considered collapsing right there on the soggy earth, surrendering to the fit that threatened to take hold. The temperature was plummeting with the onset of evening, and a night under the stars might well find her body cold and lifeless come the morning. But if she failed to carry out Krazka’s orders, Magnar would pay the price.

And besides. She was a coward.

The old abandoned mill was just ahead. The building had long ago fallen into ruin. The roof was rotting and filled with holes, but it provided rough cover for the town’s foundlings when there was nowhere else available. Yllandris herself had spent several nights between the sagging walls of the mill as a child. But for the arrival of her magic after her first moon’s blood she might have ended up like so many other orphans: dead from starvation or disease or the elements, or forced to become someone’s concubine or wife. Those without family did what they had to in order to survive. The High Fangs were a harsh country.