Kingdoms of the Night (The Far Kingdoms) (19 page)

“It’s just that I feel so damned alone sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes I can
feel
these rules Janos was trying to set down, those rules your sister Rali was trying to reach for. And I can
feel
them shaping into one great picture and then it slips from my mind’s fingers like mercury.

“I wish there really
were
some smart ones. Maybe that’s what I hope we find when we reach our goal.”

“When?” I said. “You sound quite certain.”

“Oh, we will, we will,” she said. “But I’m afraid when we get there it will be like Janos feared as he studied the spells of the Old Ones — they’ll be working by rote rather than reason just as they are here in Irayas.”

To soothe her, I said, “Janos thought it was possible that not all of the Old Ones were going in circles. That some of them were following the same trail he was on.”

“So what happened to them?” Janela said. “Where’s our gods-blessed Golden Age covering the earth, sky and heavens?”

“Maybe that’s what we’re going to find out,” I said.

Janela looked back at me and her anger and insecurity broke as quickly as a summer squall and she laughed that shining laugh I’d grown to love.

“Amalric, I see again why you’ve been so successful as an adventurer. For you, darkness is only the time between two lights. Dusk and Dawn.”

I laughed and toasted her. She drained her glass and shook her head when I indicated the decanter. She stood, yawning, anger replaced by fatigue. I got up as well. She put her arms around me and her head against my chest.

We stood like that for a long moment, then she gave me a quick squeeze and stepped away.

“You’re right. It will all come clear. In the real Far Kingdoms.”

* * * *

I had darker task to perform that required Quatervals to smooth my path. He growled it was more important to protect me but I reminded him I was always armed and further had detailed Otavi, J’an’s grandson with the butcher’s ax, to watch my back. Otavi might not have had the training or the innate caution my ex-Frontiers’ Scout but his mere presence would be enough to make most assailants hesitate.

Quatervals finally reported complete failure, which told me as much as if he’d been successful. I’d asked him to find any servants of Hebrus, to be rewarded for serving their master so long and well. I’d also advertised openly. There’d been no response to my broadsides, and Quatervals had also now been luckless.

“Not one,” he muttered. “Not a scullery, not a castelan, not a maid, not a boatman.”

I nodded, not surprised. “They’ve either been well rewarded to stay away, sent elsewhere by force or...” I didn’t finish the sentence, nor need to. “Quatervals, tonight, midnight, you, Chons and myself will go out.”

The three of us, plus Janela, did just that in one of the small ship’s boats I’d had lowered and tied up just behind the stairs that led up from our mooring dock. I’d had Janela put a slight spell over my quarters. I’d suggested a fog, or confusion but she’d gone one better. She took a blotter from the desk, touched it against the walls and chairs, then sprinkled herbs — rosemary, queen of the meadow, rock poppy, belladonna among others on the blotter. She then drenched the blotter with a liquid.

I asked what it was and she said, “Elixir of life. I could burn the blotter and herbs, but the elixir will free the substance and join the air more slowly and the spell will last longer. It won’t stand up to a
real
sorcerer’s suspicions longer than one good penetration spell. But I don’t think we’re under that kind of suspicion. I hope not, anyway.

She whispered a spell and fumes rose from the blotter as effectively as if she had, indeed, used a brazier, charcoal and fire. We went out silently, making sure we didn’t disturb Lienor or any of the other servants. If anyone had seen us it would’ve been simple to say we were merely getting something from one of our ships tied up at the dock. But there was no one about.

The night was still, calm and clear. The waters of the lake reflected the shimmering lights of Irayas that burned all night long and the crescent moon above. I could still hear touches of music from several places — Irayas was not a city that slept.

Chons and Quatervals rowed us across the lake and down the winding canals. Our destination was the Trader’s Port where Hebrus had his mansion. My memory, even after the years and the twists of Irayas’ canals, held good — I used the lights from Gayyath’s palace as my navigational point, my “north,” and within an hour we arrived.

Hebrus’ mansion wasn’t large by the standards of Irayas, which meant it would be enormous in Orissa. He’d only lived in a quarter of it, being a man who abhorred ostentation and only accepted the palace because he felt the House of Antero required some splendor. It sat at one corner of the large island that was now the Trader’s Port and was built of ornately worked stone.

We’d been about to row directly to it when Quatervals saw a boat. We feathered our oars and crouched, level with our boat’s gunwales, hoping for invisibility. The other craft crossed the moonpath on the water no more than fifty yards away and I could see it was one of the Wardens’ patrol vessels. There were only three heads visible above the rail, two lookouts and a helmsman. Even the Wardens slacked off in boredom when assigned to an area where nothing much ever happened and their only duty was to keep traders in and natives out.

After the boat went out of sight we rowed hurriedly to Hebrus’ dock and hurried down the pier toward the mansion. Again, as when we entered Senac’s estate, Janela, with all of her sorcerous senses a-tingle went first, Quatervals behind, then myself and Chons. None of us had weapons drawn — if discovered we planned to try to talk our way out.

I could see Janela’s form outlined against the stone of the house. Every few steps she’d pause, “listen,” and her head would shake. Nothing. No sorcerous wards. Neither Quatervals or I saw anything and Chons was also silent. We went up on the stone terrace and to one of the doors, which appeared to be made of solid glass, cunningly grooved with carvings and the grooves stained with myriad colors. It was evident Hebrus had no worries about anyone breaking in — we saw no signs of bars or heavy locks. Hardly the habit of a man who prefers goons as bed partners.

Quatervals beckoned to Chons and the two huddled over the door. There came a click and Quatervals pushed the door open. Chons was beaming proudly. Again, I wondered just how my gardener had spent his time away from my estate — he certainly was showing some non-horticultural talents.

Inside we stepped away from the door and Janela whispered words over firebeads. I led the way through the house to the part Hebrus had used. The rooms we passed through were almost bare, given only enough furniture to avoid looking abandoned.

I found Hebrus’ rooms without difficulty. Janela increased the potency of the firebeads and we looked about. I had expected what I saw — most of those treasures and curiosities Hebrus had collected over the years, the items that make a house truly a home, were gone. Janela opened her bag and took out a wand that she’d previously touched to a book I had that Hebrus once prepared for Antero traders on the customs of Vacaan — sadly, the only memento I had of one of my most loyal servants.

She let the wand take charge and it turned her, the wand stretching out like a seeking snake’s tongue, looking, but never finding.

After some moments she lowered the wand. Nothing. We searched others rooms, including Hebrus’ bedroom. Still nothing.

We left the mansion as silently as we came and returned to our own quarters undiscovered. I dismissed Chons and asked Quatervals and Janela to come to my rooms. She dissipated the still-lingering fumes from the blotter and allowed her senses to reach out. There’d been no “inquiries,” no “eyes” looking here. As far as she could tell, she said, the deception had worked.

I explained to Quatervals what we’d been looking for and what we’d not found — someone had not only taken all important physical remnants of Hebrus from the mansion but, as Janela’s magic had revealed, had removed even the ethereal presence a person exudes that cling to all he touches, the stronger the more he’s around them.

It was as if an invisible broom had swept any memory of presence of Hebrus.

“Why?” Quatervals wondered. “Did Hebrus know anything important? Anything that’d bear on our quest?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Of course I hadn’t time to write him, nor would I have mentioned anything, since all correspondence is read by the King’s officials. As far as I know he’d made no investigations to the lands east.”

“Then,” Quatervals said, “he must’ve made an enemy, one that feared you’d begin a blood feud when you arrived.”

There spoke a true frontiersman.

“A more plausible explanation,” Janela said, “might be that he’s been witness to the way Vacaan’s changed since you were here last... and somebody didn’t want Amalric Antero getting
any
information about
anything.”

That was the only conclusion I could reach, vague though it was. I could take it one small step further — the prime instigator was Lord Modin, since the false story of Hebrus’ death had been carried by his Wardens. But why?

I did not know... but I did know I had an enemy in the King’s advisor. Why then had he so readily approved our request?

I had questions, but no answers and so it was time for bed.

* * * *

Otavi, Quatervals and I were picking up some items that Janela needed for the coming ceremony. The shop in question was up a narrow canal and we left our boat and went down a twisting narrow street, following the instructions Janela had given us.

We found the shop, received a small package from a very old man dressed like one of the desert nomads of my youth and gave him the somewhat amazing amount of gold he’d wanted.

We started back for the boat and the mob caught us, shouting out of alleys, screaming in rage. But after we’d instinctively put our backs against a solid wall and started to draw our swords I realized they weren’t attacking us. This was an explosion of the purest rage, as I saw a man run out of his own small grocery, look about wildly, shout and pick up cobblestones to hurl without aim at anything, everything.

The rabble grew as sidewalk displays were overturned, the silks used for shade ripped down and windows smashed. We might not be the targets but soon the raw violence could well suck us in. I looked for a shop to hide in but at that moment the throng’s shouts changed from rage to fear and a solid wall of red exploded at them.

It was a phalanx of Wardens, the front rank armed with truncheons nearly three feet long, the ranks behind carrying reversed spears used for prods. Without giving any orders to disperse the soldiers waded into the people, clubs swinging like metronomes.

I thought I saw steel flash once or twice and saw a dagger in one Warden’s hand.

There was nowhere for the mob to run to, then they found exits, just as boiling wine will burst a sealed jar and the men and women flowed away and the street was suddenly empty.

One of the Wardens noticed us, frowned, then nodded approval, as if he’d just consulted a sheaf of orders and found that these outlanders were not to be bothered.

Two barked orders and the soldiers formed up and were gone.

I counted ten bodies sprawled in the streets, their blood pooling on the turquoise paving as bright for a moment as the uniforms of the men who’d slain them.

* * * *

That night too many of our questions were answered. I’d retired early to stock up on sleep before our voyage. Instead, I found myself tossing, endlessly wondering what would happen, if there was any chance of our survival, what was going on back in Orissa and on and on and on.

I finally drifted off and dreamt dreams I care not to remember. I was brought out of that fitful slumber by a tapping at my door. I slid out of bed and found my sword, feeling in the back of my mind a touch of pride that my old wanderer’s habits and cautions were returning.

I went to the door noiselessly, then jerked it open. Standing there outlined in the dying tapers of the corridors was Janela. Her shoulders were hunched, as if it were winter instead of near-summer. I took her arm and pulled her inside, knowing from her stance and what little I could see of her expression, something was wrong.

She stood in the middle of the floor, motionless and I uncovered the nightlight and blew it into life, then touched it to two of the oil lanterns in the chamber before I realized I was quite naked. Janela didn’t seem to notice as I dropped my sword on the table and quickly pulled a towel around my waist.

“What’s wrong?”

She licked her lips, looking for the words.

I remembered my manners, found her a seat and the last of the brandy in the decanter. She but touched it to her lips.

“I know,” she said, without preamble, “or at any rate can hazard an educated guess why Hebrus was murdered.”

I buried an oath, found a cupboard and a fresh bottle of brandy and broke its wax seal and poured for both of us, not worrying about the decanter’s niceties.

“Why... or,” I said, “... who, first?”

“Modin. Or one of his Wardens or hirelings.”

“Why?”

“Because Modin wanted nothing, absolutely nothing, about what has happened in Vacaan in the last ten years to be told you when you arrived, as I’d theorized.”