Imperial Traitor (18 page)

Placing her right hand on the door handle, she turned it as slowly as she could. Despite her best effort at silence, she was still turning it with infinite care when the handle was wrenched from
her grasp and the point of a blade lunged towards her chest. It stopped just short of making contact, but was close enough to make her heart leap in fear. The bitter taste of bile rose to the back
of her mouth.

‘What d’you want?’ the servant demanded. He was holding the sword as if he knew how to use it, which made what she had in mind far more dangerous. At least he was alone, she
noted. If there had been more than one guarding the door, she would have given up there and then. The man’s brown robe looked to be made of quite heavy material: another factor that did not
help her cause.

‘A d . . . drink, please, and some f . . . food if you have any,’ she replied, her shaking voice only half feigned.

‘There’s water in the corner over there,’ he said, pointing with his sword briefly before returning the tip to her chest. ‘You’ll have to wait for food like the
rest of us. What’s wrong with your arm?’

‘Pins and needles: the pressure helps take away the discomfort and stops me scratching.’

Femke allowed her shoulders to slump and she began to turn to her right, back towards her prison. Out of the corner of her eye she noted the servant relaxing as she turned. He started to lower
his guard with the sword just a fraction and reach for the door handle. Femke did not hesitate. She spun back to the left, brushing the sword blade aside with her wrapped left arm and driving the
ball of her right foot up in a vicious kick at the man’s groin. Her foot drove home with satisfying force. The man doubled over and lost his grip on the sword, which fell with a ringing
clatter to the floor. Femke followed up her kick with a double-fisted strike to the back of the man’s neck that sent him to the floor.

The pain she was left with in the sides of her hands bore testimony to how hard she had hit him. It was not surprising, therefore, that when he hit the floor the servant did not so much as
groan. He was completely out cold.

Femke’s breath hissed out through clenched teeth as she shook her hands in an effort to dispel the pain. She unwrapped her left arm and picked up the sword. Carrying such a weapon would be
dangerous. She had no pretences of being a master swordswoman. If she were to face an assassin with a blade in her hand, it would guarantee her death.

She looked around for somewhere to put it out of the way. The best place she could think of was under her mattress. It had the advantage of being inside her prison, though it was a painfully
obvious hiding place. All she could hope was that her captors would expect her to conceal acquired weapons with care. There was a slight chance that they would not check the obvious. She was under
no illusions of her chances of escaping the Guild complex, but escape was not the only reason to break out from her single room. As every spy knew, information was often the key to controlling
situations. Any intelligence she could gather by scouting the complex might prove crucial in the long run.

Having stowed the sword, Femke checked the servant for signs of consciousness. When she lifted his right eyelid, the iris did not contract at all. She pinched hard on one of his earlobes but he
did not flinch. Given the lack of response she guessed he would remain unconscious for some time. His pulse was strong, so she had no worries about having inadvertently killed him.

She grabbed his arms and dragged him through into the room in which she had been held. As a finishing touch, she rolled him onto the mattress. Would they think to look under the mattress if he
were found lying on it? Hopefully not.

Creeping out and across the living room, Femke paused by the outer door to listen. If there had been a further guard, surely he would have come running immediately at the sound of the falling
sword, she thought. She opened the door. The corridor was empty: so far, so good.

Despite stretching, her muscles still felt stiff from her extended period of being tied in the chair, but Femke was so practised at moving silently that her body automatically compensated for
any inflexibility. At first, she thought the noise she could hear was the faint guttering of the flames from the wall-mounted torches. She paused for a moment to listen. It was not the torches, she
realised. The faint muttering was the distant sound of voices in discussion. Eagerly, but with even more caution, she moved forward to see if she could get close enough to hear what was being
said.

As she approached the door at the end of the short corridor, it became clear that the voices were originating from the chamber beyond the door. It seemed likely that the door would open into a
cubicle in the central chamber of the Guild. With painstaking care, Femke turned the handle and pushed the door open just a crack.

‘So that leaves us with Marnillus, Borchman, Tremarle and Reavis.’ It was Ferdand’s voice. Femke leaned closer to the door. She smiled as she listened, silently thanking the
designer of the central chamber. The acoustics in there made eavesdropping easy.

‘Marnillus is an arrogant, self-centred fool who should have been drowned at birth,’ offered an unknown voice.

‘Self-centred and arrogant I would agree with,’ the Guildmaster replied. ‘But a fool? I’m not so sure he’s a fool. He currently holds the support of the majority of
the Court. He would not hesitate to call on our services if he felt he needed them. Two of the other candidates have offered contracts on him. One has offered a significant sum.’

‘Take the contract.’

‘He would make a terrible Emperor.’

They did not know about Kempten. Excitement welled within Femke. The Guild sought to control the succession in their favour, but they had no idea that the race for the Mantle was an
irrelevance.

‘Very well,’ she heard Ferdand say. ‘Those who believe the Guild should accept the contract on Marnillus say “aye”.’

A resounding chorus of ‘aye’ echoed in the chamber.

‘Noted. What of Lord Reavis? It would be his contract that we would be fulfilling.’

‘Reavis is a buffoon,’ answered a different voice. ‘Assassination would be his answer to every difficult question. He would bring plenty of trade for us, but would run the
Empire to ruin in no time.’

‘There’s a contract on him, too. Should we take it?’ asked Ferdand.

‘No. By killing him as well, we would be too obviously controlling the outcome of the succession.’ The voice was that of the woman who had been in Femke’s chamber earlier.
‘He’s not likely to win enough votes from the Court. Leave him be.’

‘I tend to agree.’ Ferdand replied. ‘Although the fees offered on some of these contracts are attractive, by showing restraint, we stand to gain in the longer term. What of the
rest of you? Who thinks we should take the contract on Reavis?’

Femke judged that only two voices answered in the affirmative. It appeared that Lord Reavis had just won a reprieve.

‘What of the last two? Brother Dragon, you have had dealings with Lord Tremarle. What do you make of him?’

‘I have to confess a bias, Guildmaster.’ Femke’s blood ran cold as she identified the voice of Shalidar. ‘As you well know, Lord Tremarle has used me as his assassin of
choice for over a decade. My support for him as a candidate of choice should be taken with little weight, as his gaining the Mantle would place me in the enviable position of being the preferred
assassin of the Emperor. Tremarle has not placed many contracts over the years, but those he has placed have been carefully considered. He is intelligent, conservative and he had no love for
Surabar, which will win him much support amongst the “old school”.’

‘I’ll bet you wouldn’t remain his “assassin of choice” for long if he knew you killed his son,’ Femke thought with a grimace. Mentally she noted it as an item
for her agenda if she managed to get out of here.

‘Thank you for your honesty, Brother Dragon. From what I’ve seen, much the same description could be said to apply to Lord Borchman.’

‘Except that he never uses assassins,’ another voice pointed out.

‘What’s that, Brother Viper?’ Ferdand asked.

‘It’s true that Borchman had no love of Surabar,’ Viper confirmed. ‘But he also has no love of assassins. He has always dealt with his problems personally. To my
knowledge he has killed three people in duels and severely scarred several others. I don’t believe he would maintain the
anaethus drax
order, but I doubt you’d see many
contracts coming from the Palace if Borchman wore the Mantle.’

‘Interesting! That’s something I’d not noticed about him. I’d assumed as he was “old school” that he would—’

With heart-stopping unexpectedness, something smashed into Femke from behind, catapulting her through the door and into the cubicle beyond. The door crashed against the wooden chair inside the
cubicle and rebounded into the two sprawled bodies. The figure in his brown robes was up and raining punches down on Femke in a flash. He struck again and again in a barrage of blows. The assault
was so sudden that she had no time to formulate a counterattack. All she could do was curl up in a ball and protect her face as best she could with her hands.

‘STOP! Stand up and stand still. What’s going on in there?’ The Guildmaster’s voice, normally gentle and kindly of tone, rang with anger and the full authority of his
position.

The punches stopped, for which Femke was grateful, and the servant got to his feet. As he did so, he deliberately stood on the back of her left leg, causing her to cry out with the pain. She
pulled her leg free from under his foot and squirmed on the floor. Gasping for breath and tears rolling down her cheeks, her mind worked frantically to find a way out.

‘I’m sorry for the interruption, Guildmaster,’ the servant apologised. ‘I erred and the prisoner surprised me. I didn’t want to repeat my mistake. The situation is
under control now. I’ll take her back to the cell. She’ll not disturb you again.’

‘How long ago did she escape her room?’ There was no mistaking the anger in Ferdand’s question.

‘I’m sorry, Guildmaster, but it’s hard to judge. Not long, but long enough to listen in on part of your meeting.’

‘She’s dangerous, Guildmaster. I’ve warned about her before. Holding her here is a mistake. We should kill her now,’ Shalidar urged.

Femke groaned softly. ‘Go to hell, Shalidar,’ she muttered as she heard his plea. It was a comfort to know that Ferdand was unlikely to be persuaded by him. To her chagrin, a second
voice added her support. It was the woman Ferdand had called the Fox.

‘It’s not often that Brother Dragon and I agree,’ she said, ‘but in this I have to concur, Guildmaster. She is a liability. The spy should die.’

‘The glamour will hold until I dispel it.’ Jabal’s voice was at once confident and authoritative as he inspected the magical disguise he had woven around Lord
Kempten. ‘There are unlikely to be any in Shandrim with the power to penetrate the illusion. Now then, my friend, I suggest you stay at your town house while the rest of us are about our
business in the city. We’ll keep you informed of our progress and we’ll fetch you when the time comes for you to claim the Mantle.’

‘But my servants there won’t recognise me,’ Lord Kempten said, looking around in wonder at the group of strangers that he knew to be his travelling companions. They all looked
totally unrecognisable. ‘Why would they let me stay there?’

‘Write a letter from Lord Kempten extending you an invitation,’ Jabal suggested. ‘Your handwriting and signature should be recognisable to them.’

‘But my servants there think I’m dead.’

‘So date the letter before you died,’ the magician responded immediately. ‘You’re going to arrive travel-stained and weary. Who’s to say you have not been on the
road for weeks? It’s up to you, my friend. You don’t have to, but it will save you staying in an inn. I’m sure you would be more comfortable at home. Even staying in your own
guest room should be better than waiting at some backstreet tavern.’

Jabal seemed to have all the answers. Kempten considered for a moment and nodded thoughtfully. He looked around again at his companions, still not quite able to bring his mind to accept what he
was seeing.

Jabal’s features and apparel had changed totally. His illusory face was broader and sterner than his real one. His hair appeared fully grey now, and thinning. It looked backcombed with
grease to make it stay in place. His clothes were as sombre as his stare, grey and forbidding. Calvyn and Reynik could pass for brothers – very ugly brothers. The illusions that masked their
features made them both look like tavern brawlers: big, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with flattened noses, scruffy hair and a variety of scars. Their clothing looked as rough and battle-worn as
they did. With their new personas there was little chance of any sober man picking a fight with them. They would appear in their element walking the backstreets of Shandrim.

Kempten’s own appearance had changed to that of a slightly younger man. His clothing marked him as a scholar and his short, neatly-trimmed, black beard and waxed moustache added an edge of
the eccentric to the image. Of course, none of it was real. He wondered what would happen if someone were to touch his face. Would they feel the beard? When he touched his face with his own fingers
he could only feel his normal features. It was unlikely that he would find out. Who was likely to touch his face other than Izzie? And she was not with them.