Master Of The Planes (Book 3) (36 page)

They came together, always together.  Marvenna frowned.  “I am pleased that you have been so prompt in your attendance on me, Lieutenant Elyas,” she said carefully.  “But there was no need to trouble your friends to leave the feast as well.”

Caranthas and Michil glowered at her with ill-concealed distrust.  Elyas’s expression was less scrutable, and the more worrying for it. 

“We are keeping a close eye on our colleague,” Michil insisted.

“To misplace a captain is a misfortune,” Caranthas added with a humourless grin.  “To lose a lieutenant as well might be considered carelessness.”

Marvenna’s eyebrows rose at their impudent implication.  “Lieutenant Elyas is no danger of getting lost,” she said.  “There can be no safer place for an elf than the heart of the Silverwood.”

“Forgive them, Lady Marvenna,” Elyas said lightly.  “They do worry so.  We who have fought so hard and lost so much, it can leave a scar, a certain insecurity.  They do not like to be apart from me.”

The steward scowled unhappily.  “I had hoped to be able to have words with you alone, Lieutenant Elyas.  It is a matter of a little delicacy.”

Elyas wrinkled his brow, staring over Marvenna’s shoulder in a moment of reflection. “I can think of no matter for discussion where the presence of my two compatriots would cause me shame or discomfort.” He pursed his lips for a moment and then nodded curtly at the conclusion of some internal debate.  “However, if a more private conference would help you in raising this … this delicate matter then by all means let us walk a while together.  My colleagues can wait for my return I am sure.”

Caranthas and Michil exchanged a look while Marvenna ground out a grateful acquiescence.  She let Elyas take her arm as she had seen Kychelle do when the elf lady had meant to cow a dissenter through a silken bludgeon of discussion. However, she had not the advantages of Kychelle’s age and her reliance on a stick.   Marvenna was aware that they looked more like a couple out courting than two leaders embroiled in matters of state.

“This delicate matter,” Elyas reminded her when they had left his two associates a hundred yards behind.

“It is delicate,” Marvenna agreed and silence fell for another score of paces.

“Too delicate to be spoken of at all?”

“You have a fine singing voice,” Marvenna blurted out.

Elyas gave a self-deprecating dip of his head.  “Lady Illana and Lord Feyril were kind enough to think the same.  Often was the time I sang for them beneath the bows of Hershwood.  Sometimes the Lady Illana would join me in a duet, sometimes it was Captain Tordil who accompanied me.”

“The songs you sing…”

He interrupted her carefully composed thought.  “They are old songs, Lady Marvenna, though I have strung some new words upon old melodies.”

“Indeed, songs of war and strife.”

“Songs of struggle and sacrifice,” he corrected her.  “Songs too of triumph in the end.  Of Maelgrum’s first fall and of the flower of Hershwood standing against the foe once more, side by side with King Gregor.”

Marvenna sucked in a breath.  “It is not meet that you should sing of such things.”

“My people like to hear them.”

“They are my people now, Lieutenant Elyas.”

“They still like to hear them, there are even some not of Hershwood who come now to our feasts to share our mead and hear our songs be they of triumph or disaster.”

She gripped his arm a little more firmly, emitting a tight lipped “yes” as she searched for the next words.  “These songs, these evenings, they are a source of discord.  The tales you tell, they disturb the gentle harmony of my realm.”

He stopped at that, unthreading his arm from hers and turning to face her across the narrow forest path.  “You mean to censor me, Lady Marvenna?”  His voice was flat, unafraid of any answer to his question.  “Which of the axioms of Lord Andril would you be following then?”

She shook her head dismissively, tut-tutting her dismay that he should think so ill of her.  “I have perhaps misjudged you, Lieutenant.” It was an admission as much to herself as to him.

He arched an eyebrow; she had at last surprised him.

“I have underestimated the nature of your struggle beyond the Silverwood and your concern for your missing captain.”

“It is a large world beyond these forest boundaries, Lady Marvenna.  There is much that the silver elves could learn of, and from.”

She grimaced trying to navigate the discussion to an outcome of her choosing.  “And in that world I am sure you will find your captain.  He must be there, since he is not here, and I was remiss in saying you could not leave in search of him.”

“You mean to let me go?”

“Indeed your comrades too.  If the world is as perilous a place as your songs make out, then you would have need of their support.”

“What of the rest of Feyril’s people, could they come too?”

She clenched her eyes shut and drew a deep breath.  “It should not need that many to search for one captain.  As I have said, they are silver elves now.  But if it would aid your search then I am sure I could spare …” she scanned the trees, searching for a number.  “I could spare as many as six.”

Elyas eyed her levelly.  “A dozen,” he said.

Marvenna waved her agreement.  “As you wish, find the dozen whose hearts most yearn for the world beyond the Silverwood and take them.  You may leave tomorrow in search of your missing captain.”

The elf lieutenant nodded slowly, sucking in a thoughtful breath. “You are kind, Lady Marvenna.  Generous even.”

She dismissed his gratitude with a flick of her wrist.  “Think nothing of it, please.  Let us return to Caranthas and Michil, and reassure them that they have not lost a lieutenant and instead may set out to retrieve a captain.”

“I am sorry, Lady Marvenna, but I cannot.”

“What?” She turned back irritation creasing her features.  “What can you not do, Lieutenant?”

“I cannot leave, I must stay.”

“What? Why?”  She stalked towards him.  “You have been desperate to leave to continue your search since you first got here.  Yet now you wish to stay.   What contrariness there is in Feyril’s people.”

He smiled.  “It was always Caranthas and Michil who were most anxious to leave.”  He raised a hand at a momentary enlightenment. “They could go, just them.”

“If you will not go, there seems little point in sending those two away.”  She had said too much, exposed the fragile hand she was trying to bluff him with, but if he had seen it he still played through the charade.

“Why not?”

“It is you that Captain Tordil left in command,” she hurried to fit a retrospective justification to her words.  “He valued your skills and judgement.  If you doubt you could succeed then what hope have they.”

“It is not doubt that bids me stay, Lady Marvenna,” he looked affronted by the stab she had made at his motivations.  “I fancy I knew Captain Tordil well, well enough to know what he would do were our positions reversed.  I often find myself asking what Tordil would do.”

“And what answer do you give yourself, Lieutenant Elyas?” Marvenna ground out the question.

“He would stay here, with those elves who were once of the Hershwood.  They were his duty and, in his absence they are mine.”

Marvenna glowered at him.  “You mean to stay.”

“Aye Lady Marvenna, to stay, all three of us.  We mean not just to be part of the Silverwood, but to contribute to its greater glory.”

“In your songs?”

He gave a broad white teethed smile.  “I will moderate my lyrics a little, Lady Marvenna.  If I sing less often of the world beyond your borders, then I may cause less disquiet amongst your people.”

The steward ran a hand through her long hair.  That at least was some small concession.  She dipped her chin in a quick nod of gratitude.  “I would appreciate that, Lieutenant.”

He bowed.  “I take it that concludes the discussion of your delicate matter.”

“It does indeed,” she admitted.  “You can find your own way back I am sure, there are other matters I must attend to.”

“Of course,” Elyas said with a winning smile.  “A steward’s work is never complete.”

She watched him stride back along the forest path, that walking cancer at the heart of her realm.  He had his touchstone, what would the blasted Captain Tordil do.  Where was hers?  What would Andril have done?  What would Kychelle have done?  There were no answers to those questions.  Neither lord nor lady had ever known an elf whose loyalty and allegiance lay anywhere other than the Silverwood.  Save one alone, their own daughter Liessa when she had been in the grip of her madness.

Marvenna leant against an oak.  What could she do? Would Elyas be persuaded to take ship to the Blessed Realm? She sniffed a dismissal of the desperate idea, but how else could she stifle the whispering disquiet radiating from the silken tongued elf?

Odestus felt the chill as he crossed the little courtyard of the keep and stopped with a frown. The small square of cobbled stone was in perpetual shadow from the high wall between keep and bailey; it would be cool at any time other than the height of summer.  But this was different.  Hairs stood up on the backs of the little wizard’s hands.  He wetted his finger and raised it in the still air.  There was an icy touch on the side facing the castellan’s tower.

He hurried through the feast hall seeking the diverse stairways and corridors whereby he could come at the castellan’s quarters.  The passageways were designed for ease of defence against intruders, not the convenience of an old wizard’s aching knees.  A twisted route took him up three stairways and down one and along four passageways including a set of battlements. He was puffing breathlessly by the time he came to the stone landing outside the castellan’s chamber.  The cold was fiercer here.  Despite the sunny warmth of the late spring day, it was fierce enough to make a frosty moustache of the sweat on his upper lip.

He paused a moment panting to gather his thoughts, breath and courage in equal measure. Then he stepped up and rapped firmly on the locked door.  There was no answer at first.  He struck a second time, louder and was about to make a third attempt when the door slipped open a crack and the half-elf’s sly henchman slid out.  “Oh, it’s you,” Haselrig said, pulling the door quickly shut behind him.

“He’s here isn’t he,” Odestus declared.  “He’s in there.”

The ex-antiquary met the little wizard’s desperate gaze with a level stare of his own.  His lips parted, his head turned a fraction, poised to launch a dismissive denial, but then he must have thought better of the transparent lie.  “It is no concern of yours, Governor Odestus,” Haselrig said.

“Why has Maelgrum come?” Odestus demanded his voice a little shrill.  “What does he want with her?”

“It is no concern of yours,” Haselrig insisted through gritted teeth.

Odestus lunged forward, reaching to hammer anew on the door.  “Maelgrum,” he cried.  “I know you’re there.”

Haselrig caught him by the shoulders, pushing him back.  “Fool, be quiet,” the ex-antiquary hissed. “Do not trifle with the master when he is in such a mood.  You must have forgotten what he does to servants who disappoint him.”

“I don’t care, he’ll not have Dema for a zombie.”

Haselrig clamped a hand across the wizard’s mouth.  “Be silent, or he will kill you.”

Odestus shook off the fleshy gag. “What do you care?”

“Let’s just say I’ve seen enough unnecessary death, unnecessary and unnecessarily painful.”

“He’ll not have her,” Odestus insisted, but quieter now.  “I’ll see her burn first.”

Haselrig clapped the wizard on the shoulder.  “That is not his intention, Governor.  On my word of honour he will not disturb her body.”

Odestus glared at the ex-priest.  He saw for the first time the grey lines which had been etched in the man’s face.  It had been five years since the wizard had been sent away on his lone mission to Undersalve.  Time had not served the slippery rascal kindly.  The fact that he came to Listcairn as Quintala’s lackey rather than the master’s lieutenant bore testament to how far his star had fallen.  Yet here he was, privy to whatever was going on in the castellan’s chamber and Odestus was locked on the outside.  However low Haselrig might stand, it seemed that the little wizard stood lower in their master’s trust.

Another heavy pat as the ex-antiquary repeated, “on my word of honour, Governor, the master is insistent that the body continue to be preserved. I am confident she will remain undisturbed at his express command.”

Odestus looked him up and down. “You have no honour Haselrig, you have betrayed everything and everyone in your grubby little life.  Your words are worthless.”

Haselrig sighed.  “They are the only currency left to me.”

“Then you are bankrupt.”

“I have no need, no reason, to lie to you, Governor.  I speak the truth.”  He frowned, eyes hooded with regret at the little wizard’s wounding words.  “We have both taken dark paths, Governor, done ill deeds.  We are not so different.”

The ex-antiquary reached out to rest a companionable hand on the little wizard’s shoulder, but Odestus shook him off with a sneer.  “My path was thrust upon me, Haselrig.  You chose yours.  I stood firm by my friends, you betrayed yours.  I am nothing like you.”

Haselrig nodded, glumly accepting the rebuke.  “Nonetheless, Governor, I speak true when I say there is nothing here for you, nothing to alarm and nothing to achieve.  Now go about your business.”

Odestus swept his cloak around him.   “I go in search of fresher air, Haselrig.”

His feet carried his preoccupied mind back to the courtyard.  As he rounded a corner he almost crashed into the burly form of Willem walking with a be-jewelled nomad warlord. “Have you seen the necromancer?” the outlander demanded.

Odestus blinked owlishly at Dema’s captain.  Even the outlander had scant regard for the little wizard’s position or status.  He glowered down impatient for an answer.  “Well, have you?”

“Why would I now where Galen was? Why would anyone want to know?”  Odestus replied sourly.

The nomad spoke, a rich harsh voice, caressing the words of the common tongue like a malt whisky. “A half-dozen zombies escaped their pens last night,” he said.  “They killed one of my men before we sliced them to pieces.” He leant in smiling a broad white toothed smile.  “Many tiny pieces.”

“Vezer Dev and I want to have some words with the dandified beggar,” Willem said.  “He needs to be told to keep his defrosting charges under better control.”

Odestus blinked.  Time was when the nomads would have come to him and answered to him.  He had been the acceptable face of the master who had drawn them in by stages to an unnatural alliance with orcs and ogres. But Dev was one of a new breed of young Vezers fantatically determined to bury themselves still deeper in their evil alliance than Odestus would have thought possible.  “I count myself fortunate not to have clapped eyes on Galen in days, Willem,” he told the ill-matched pair.

The nomad nodded.  “Well, if you do, send him my way.”

“I think you’ll find he doesn’t answer to you, Dev,” Odestus snapped, irked by the nomad’s tone of command.  “And nor for that matter do I.”

Willem leaned in to growl in Odestus’s face.  “You just don’t get it do you, little wizard.  The snake lady is dead, the half-elf is in charge now.  I answer to her and Dev here answers to me, and, in case you haven’t noticed no-one answers to you anymore, no-one save that long streak of piss you call a secretary?”

Odestus’s fingers twitched.  He could have cast a spell, made the outlander pull out a dagger and slash his own throat with it, or Dev’s throat for that matter.  It was a useful enchantment, sometimes it was necessary to brutally murder one ally in order to encourage the others. He let his hand fall, suddenly he just couldn’t be bothered.  He had lived too long, there was only one thing left for him to do.

Willem nodded, grimly satisfied at the little wizard’s air of defeat.  “Thought as much,” he muttered before turning to Dev.  “Come on, let’s find somebody who matters.”

Odestus trod his way into the lower level of the northern tower which held his workshop.  He should say goodbye to Vesten, he owed the man that much.  He had some gold hidden away which might buy the secretary a little safety if he used it wisely.  Odestus waved his hands to disengage the enchantment which sealed the door and pushed his way into the crowded space.

He lifted the lid on the pot in the corner and smiled at the phosphorescence of its luminous but shrunken orange contents. He seized a glass vial from the shelf and carefully decanted the glowing contents into the container.  The timing was perfect; it was just and exactly ready.  He slipped the stoppered bottle into a pocket within his robes and then opened the crate.

The chameleon blinked at him, flicking out a long hopeful tongue.  Odestus leant in to pick up the bulky reptile.  “Come on, Bob.” He coo-ed reassuring noises.  “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

With the lizard cradled in his arms, Odestus edged round the table to the cloak hanging in the corner and jerked at it with the fingers of the hand that wasn’t trapped beneath the lizard’s backside.  The fallen cloth revealed the oval window still open on the dusty land of Grithsank.

The little wizard stepped through the opening.  “I’m coming, Persapha,” he muttered.  “It’s ready.”