Imperial Traitor (23 page)

Borchman was shaking his hand vigorously and the other remaining candidates were patting his back and shoulders in congratulation. The Imperial Court was alive with noise, but Tremarle could
hear none of it. He was alone with his thoughts. Imperial politics had never been simple. He knew that he had not won through popularity alone. There had been a lot of dark undercurrents in this
competition, not least of which had been the death of Marnillus. As he had not ordered the Lord’s death, his victory felt wholesome and untainted by dark deeds. In his heart, however, he
could not help but ponder what others had done in his name.

Shalidar, as his son and heir, had a place in the front row of the Court room today. For a moment, Tremarle met the man’s dark eyes and his chest constricted with the cold breath of fear.
Shalidar was smiling, but the expression did little to light up his face. For a moment it was as if someone had removed a veil from his sight and Tremarle glimpsed beyond the public façade.
Beneath it a dark cloud of machination boiled and seethed, filled with dark motives, cunning and unscrupulous acts. The vision left a sour, oily taste in his mouth. All thoughts of a pure victory
through fair competition vanished in that instant. The truth was there, glittering in Shalidar’s eyes. The throne and the Mantle were his, but who had actually won the victory, and how, was a
mystery that Tremarle did not think he would ever dare to unravel.

He was ushered forwards to give a speech. He had one prepared, of course, but for a moment the words escaped him and he just looked back and forth across the crowd of smiling, enthusiastic
faces. He felt a fraud, but he knew he had come too far to back down. By fair means or foul, he had won this responsibility. It was what he did with it that people would remember him by.

Tremarle had never been an instinctive speaker. Despite his misgivings and inner desire to speak out about his sudden insight into the corruption within the election process, he began to recite
the carefully-crafted words graciously accepting the role that the Court had placed upon him. All the excitement and applause died away to allow him his chance to speak. The speech was not long,
but he had worked hard on it. After the initial thanks and acceptance he moved on to a more pointed theme.

‘From the outset, I want it understood that my time as Emperor will be spent upholding the traditions and values that have been handed down to us by our forebears. Shandar has a rich
history. It is this history that has shaped not just the Empire, but also the way in which all those who abide within it live their lives. All my life I have striven to honour the traditions and
values of Shandar. If it is within my power, then the recent erosion of those traditions and values will stop. I shall be looking to you all for help during this time of restoration.’

He paused and there was much nodding and a mixture of gentle and enthusiastic clapping.

‘As a first step towards restoration of order and tradition, I wish to state my intent to end the strife between the Imperial House and the Guild of Assassins. For centuries the Guild has
been an accepted, if feared, part of the Shandese society. The recent feud instigated by my predecessor resulted in lamentable bloodshed. Many innocent people have lost their lives. It is time for
the killing to stop. Although not within my powers as Emperor Designate, I want it known that my first action as Emperor will be to revoke the
anaethus drax
order on the Guild . .
.’

Tremarle instinctively looked down at Shalidar. He did not let his eyes linger. The satisfaction he saw in the assassin’s face was chilling. He wondered how long his adopted son would wait
before he looked to take the Mantle for his own. It was an obvious step. He should have seen it from the beginning, but knowing that this was an inevitable end game gave Tremarle a slight edge.
Conceding to Shalidar’s wishes was likely to prolong the period before confrontation. This would give the old Lord a chance to marshal his resources. If Shalidar thought Tremarle was a puppet
who would just step aside when he was ready to assume power, then it was the assassin who was poised for a shock.

Even as the old Lord finished off his speech to a thundering roll of applause, he felt himself harden inside. It felt as if he had made a deal with a prince of demons. The sourness of that act
tainted his soul, but he knew the situation was not yet beyond redemption. This newfound power was his to wield, not Shalidar’s. There was still a chance he could bring genuine honour to his
family name.

Toomas rubbed his hands together and regarded the pile of gold on the table with greedy eyes. The figure in black stepped back and sneered at the tattle tout from beneath his
hood. ‘It’s all yours if your information is as critical to the Guild’s future as your message indicated.’

‘Oh, it is! It is!’ Toomas said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve heard rumour that your Guildmaster has been controlling the outcome of the contest for the Mantle.’

‘And if he has?’

‘If he has, then he’s been wasting the Guild’s money,’ Toomas replied with a sly chuckle. ‘None of the candidates could hold the Mantle for long.’

‘Really? And why, pray, is that?’

‘Because Lord Kempten is not dead,’ Toomas said, his eyes dancing as he savoured the words he had held back for so long.

‘What! You’re sure of this? Where is he?’

‘I cannot vouch for where Lord Kempten is at any particular moment in time, but he has been in hiding with his family out in his country home. His assassination was a hoax designed to set
you all looking for the killer. Surabar sought to infiltrate the Guild with his own man, though from what my eyes and ears tell me, you’ve already discovered the traitor. Tell me, have you
caught him yet?’

The figure in black was silent for a moment as he considered the sly question.

‘Do you have news of his whereabouts too?’ the assassin asked gruffly.

Toomas grinned at the response. He had been right all along. What was more, his deductions had just gained him his next project. ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘not yet, but you can be
sure that you’ll be quick to hear if I do.’

‘The Guild would be most generous if you were to lead us to him.’

‘I felt sure it would.’

The man in black left silently. Toomas did not rise to see him out. The man was no threat at the moment. He wanted more information. Whilst that held true, Toomas knew he was safe.

The deal was done. He had waited and waited for the young woman to return, but she had not come back. The Lords vying for the Mantle had been jumping through the political hoops for a week or
more. The final vote was today. If he had waited longer, he might have lost the market for his information. As it was, he had been forced to be creative with his sale, which had not been without
considerable risk.

To Toomas’s anguish, the richest Lord, Marnillus, had been removed early in the competition. Had he sold to Marnillus just before he was killed, the tattle tout knew he could have
commanded an equally high price when he sold the information a second time. The loss of such a large potential income hurt him like a physical wound. Gold was his life. He cared about nothing else
except his own skin.

It was the value he placed on his own life that had made him think twice about dealing with the Guild. However, his eyes and ears around Shandrim had brought him hints that the Guild was
interfering with the race for the Mantle. That they had a vested interest in the outcome was not in question. What was debatable was how far they would go in order to get the Emperor of their
choice on the throne.

The Guild had always been known for its neutrality in matters of state. They killed for all sides within the bounds of their creed. An Imperial succession with no clear qualification by blood
had not occurred for many generations. The Guild would not be pleased to discover their attempts at controlling the outcome were in vain. As long as Lord Kempten was alive, he was the legal
Emperor. Even in death it appeared Surabar was determined to have the last laugh at the Guild’s expense.

‘At the Guild’s expense . . .’ thought Toomas, carefully stacking the gold sen into piles on the table in front of him. ‘I like that phrase. The Guild is dangerous, but
it has deep pockets. With this sort of money up for grabs, the Imperial spy who infiltrated their number had better be good at running, because I’m going to put so many watchers out looking
for him that he’ll not be able to stick the tip of his nose above ground without my knowing it.’

Ferdand was furious. ‘Firedrake dead, Wolf Spider escaped with the prisoner, and now this! How in Shand’s name did the fact that Lord Kempten has surfaced alive and
well at his country home escape the notice of our intelligence network?’

‘I don’t know, Guildmaster,’ Viper replied. ‘This tattle tout, Toomas, had a watcher within Kempten’s staff. With Lord Kempten apparently dead, it appears that when
Lady Kempten moved out to the country, the network no longer deemed it necessary to watch her household.’

‘Let’s be thankful that someone “deemed it necessary”, shall we? It was expensive information, but timely, Brother Viper. Thank you.’

‘I think you should also be aware that the tout knew about Wolf Spider being an infiltrator as well. He asked whether we’d caught him yet.’

‘Good grief! Are the Guild’s private affairs now open knowledge?’ the Guildmaster spluttered. ‘I trust you have told him we’ll buy any information that will lead to
Wolf Spider’s capture?’

Viper nodded.

‘Good! Let’s hope he proves more efficient than our network. In the meantime I have a task for you. Go to the Kempten country house. The creed says nothing about Emperor Designates.
Kill him. If Kempten is not there, find his wife and bring her here – alive. She will be my lever on him if all else fails. I hardly need tell you there would be a big difference to the Guild
between putting the Mantle on Tremarle’s shoulders and having Kempten come back and take it.’

‘Consider it done, Guildmaster,’ Viper replied. ‘But before I go there is another message that I’ve been asked to relay. One of our agents contacted me today. He said to
tell you that Lord Tremarle has recently adopted a son in order to maintain his family line. His new heir is a man named Shalidar. He seemed to hold some significance to the information.’

The Guildmaster did not answer. He was too stunned. After a few moments he nodded and waved the assassin’s dismissal, glad that Viper could not see his face. He waited until the assassin
had exited his alcove before he began his muttered string of expletives. When he had finished swearing he fell silent for a moment as he reorganised his thoughts.

‘Shalidar! I wish I’d killed him when I had the chance. He set this whole scenario up right under my nose!’ he growled softly. ‘I should have killed him. He’s been
a danger to the Guild from the start, but this . . . this . . .’ Ferdand could not finish the sentence.

He turned and crossed the chamber to the steps leading down to his quarters. His eyes were drawn to the dragon emblem as he walked. The dragon on the shield smirked at him, its golden eyes
seemingly amused by his dilemma. Ferdand ground his teeth with anger. How he hated that icon.

It was tempting to go and confront Shalidar straight away, but he was wise enough to hold back. He would need to think carefully before taking that step. There had never been any taboos on
one’s position or trade outside of the Guild, but Shalidar was knowingly creating a set of circumstances never encountered before within the Guild’s history. He was on the verge of
setting up a paradox within the creed.

If Shalidar were to become the Emperor, or arguably even sole heir to the Mantle, then he would be protected by the creed. Once a dynasty was established, the accepted interpretation of the
creed had always been that the Emperor’s immediate descendents were also sacrosanct. The fact that he was not a blood son but an adopted son was unlikely to change that interpretation. This
in turn meant he could break any one of the other tenets with impunity. The only punishment specified by the creed was death, but the Guild could not kill the Emperor or his immediate descendents.
Shalidar had always been a maverick. How could the Guild ever hope to keep him in line once he enjoyed such immunity?

‘As if I didn’t have enough problems,’ Ferdand muttered, frowning at the dragon icon from under his hood. ‘Trust
you
to bring me more.’

‘I think the Guildmaster is losing control,’ Shantella said softly.

Bear’s eyes narrowed as he looked across his quarters at the hooded figure of the woman. He had a lot of respect for her as a killer. The Fox was a canny assassin, but there were times
when he felt her to be too clever for her own good.

‘And if he is?’ he asked. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything . . . yet,’ Shantella replied, keeping a matter-of-fact tone and a casual stance. ‘It’s merely an observation. Listen. We’ve lost
a quarter of our number during the last few months. The only new Brother we’ve recruited to fill those places was an infiltrator – the first successful one in many decades. We’ve
resorted to holding a prisoner within the Guild headquarters, something else that has not been done in living memory. This was also a disaster, as she was rescued from the very heart of our complex
despite the urging of some Brothers that she be terminated. I’d say the Guildmaster’s grasp of our organisation is tenuous at best. I think we might have to start considering the
possibility that his tenure as our leader could be drawing to a close, that’s all.’

‘Treachery, Fox? You sneak into my quarters to talk treachery! What if the Guildmaster were to come in now and find you here? Whatever else you may say about him, he’s no fool. He
would see straight through you.’

Shantella laughed. ‘I doubt that. The Guildmaster would believe I had come here for a more base purpose. He perceives me as an insatiable seductress who enjoys taking risks. It’s an
appearance I’ve worked hard to cultivate in his presence. If I were found in the quarters of any of the other assassins, it’s unlikely he would do more than give me a mild
reprimand.’