Master Of The Planes (Book 3) (43 page)

Niarmit was sweating with exertion.  A long night’s prayer and then the effort of warping the fabric of space made for an exhausting experience.  She could not comprehend how Maelgrum and Quintala could create such openings on a whim, and she now understood just how much she had demanded of Sorenson when he created the portal between Laviserve and Karlbad.

However, her efforts had been rewarded, a shimmering oval window hung before her neatly contained within the cavity of her cupboard.  She glanced across at the door for the umpteenth time, checking it was still locked.   The Helm sat on a side table, playing its dumb part in her subterfuge.  She had claimed a need to commune with the Helm, to invoke its powers in deciphering the inconsequential riddle of the fragment of book which Hepdida had given her. 

She frowned.  They might expect her to share some insight when she emerged from convocation, but she could worry about that later.  Either she would make something up, or she would give a sad smile and insist the Helm’s magic prevented her from speaking of it.  She alighted on the second option with a nod; there were times when she had a right to enjoy the selective muteness which the Helm conferred.

A brief flutter in her stomach, a dampened echo of a greater nausea, reminded her of the more pressing matter.  She hoped the Goddess would forgive her presumption.  Requesting the grace to open a gate within the planes merely to visit the father of the child she carried, might be considered by some a trivial trespass on divine generosity. But she could see no other way. 

Her thoughts had been a tumbling confusion for nearly twenty-four hours.  She had been distracted in council and talked some utter nonsense she could not even remember to poor Deaconess Rhodra.  She had no idea what to do and the only person she could think to speak to about it was Kimbolt.  She could not guess at his reaction, but that conversation at least would impose some structure and direction on the void of fearful panic which filled her belly.  There was no-one else she would turn to, not with this … this fucking accident.

She checked her appearance in the looking glass.  Travel stained clothes of a simple cut and cloth, a hooded cloak, her hair tied back - its rich red subdued to a mouse brown by some ugents stolen from Hepdida’s store.  She did not look like herself.  Kaylan would have been proud.  The thief had taught her well in the simple arts of achieving anonymity in a crowd. 

No-one could know of her journey.  At best they might perceive the strength of feeling for her seneschal which she had tried so hard to conceal from everyone, including Kimbolt himself.  At worst they could guess at the condition she had found herself in and that was knowledge Niarmit had no intention of sharing one second before she was completely and utterly ready to do so.  

Niarmit had visited Oostport just once as a child.  General Matteus had promised to take her to the Eastern Lands to revisit the haunts of his youthful military service.  She had been eager to see at first hand the places which featured in his many stories of martial glory and cultural adventure.  But just as they took lodgings at an Inn in the centre of town, news had come of the death of the Prince of Undersalve without any legitimate issue to succeed him.

That had been the beginning of the end of innocence.  Their journey stalled for weeks while Matteus considered his remote linkage to the house of the great provincial nobility. And then suddenly, the planned excursion abroad was postponed until this great matter of Undersalve should be settled.  Matteus had promised they would go, that they would still go but later once this big grown up matter had become a little clearer. 

But the Court of Werckib had conferred the provincial princedom on Matteus and there had never been time for the general turned prince to make good on his promise. So it was the memory of that five year old child which Niarmit drew on to site her gate and open a passage to Oostsalve.  

The spot she had chosen was at the centre of The Great Maze of Oosport Cathedral.  As those long ago days of delay had stretched into weeks, the redheaded child had explored every aspect of Oostport’s main claim to cultural fame.  The twists and turns of its hedged pathways had amply entertained a child and her governess, both abandoned by a father suddenly given to tedious meetings and the writing and reading of long letters.  In those days there had been many fellow travellers along the shrub lined central trail. However, a later Bishop of Oostport, dismayed at the indecorous hilarity of the maze goers had ordered the attraction closed on all but high days and holidays, and then only under strictest supervision.

The sight through the gate was of a slightly unkempt hedgerow awaiting a trim before its next public opening at midsummer.  Niarmit smiled her satisfaction at a location that was both central and discrete.  She stepped towards the shimmering oval window, pulling the cupboard door closed behind her.  There was that familiar sliding sensation as she pressed against the magical membrane and slipped into that other place.  The air was warmer here, the morning sun a half-hour higher in the sky than in more westerly Laviserve.  It would be hard to justify raising the hood of the cloak as part of her disguise.  But then again, there were few enough in this town as had ever set eyes on her and, with her blaze of hair subdued, there should be little risk of being identified by any save him she had come to talk with.

The maze was as she remembered, not so much a challenge as an excuse for a long but twisting walk.  The side turnings were short deadended distractions that couples had been known to use in ways which infuriated the bishop.  It was hard to get lost and a quarter of an hour’s untroubled stroll down leafy passages brought Niarmit to the locked gate at the maze’s entrance. 

It was a lock of some consequence, but it still provided little obstruction to one armed with Kaylan’s training and a set of picks that the master thief had himself devised. A moment’s scratching within the bowels of the ironmongery and Niarmit slipped free.  

The maze was the pre-eminent feature in Focal Park, the great open space which surrounded Oostport Cathedral.  The founding bishop had wanted his place of worship to stand tall, unshadowed by any surrounding buildings and for his congregation to have lush green spaces to savour the peace of the Goddess and enjoy their time of rest within sight of her splendid house.  However, it was not a goddess day. All the good people of Oostport were at work or school, and the park was sparsely populated.  Here and there apprentice boys strode its intersecting paths, taking short cuts on errands for their masters.  An elderly lady and her companion took a constititutional stroll around the ornamental lake at the centre of the park.  But all in all it was a quiet day in Focal Park.

Niarmit looked for and spotted a familiar board as she emerged from the park gates.  A glaring eye beneath the inscription “Focus Inn” denoted a hostelry she had sometimes been taken to after a day in the maze or the park.  There was an implicit prosperity in the fresh bright paint and in the aroma and noise of lunch being prepared in advance of the customer’s arrival.  Much could be discussed quietly over a pot of stew in its dining rooms, confidentiality assured by the hubbub and chatter of other people’s disinterest.

Niarmit hurried on to the main square, ducking past wagons and mules as they were driven along the dusty street.  Here was a town as yet untouched by war.   She choked back the thought of what had become of the smiling bakers and smiths of Morwencairn and how that same fate could befall smug happy Oostport if she failed.  Today was not a day for thoughts of Maelgrum and his machinations.  It was an altogether more personal mission.

The provincial palace towered over the eastern side of the main square.  Its double doors were bound in polished brass which dazzled in the morning sun.  Niarmit hurried towards her goal so absorbed she barely noticed the pike carrying guardsmen until one hailed her.   “Oi, where are you going lad?  Sorry miss?”  The correction was dragged from his mouth by Niarmit’s best withering stare.  She hadn’t realised that her disguise was that good.

“I have a message to deliver.”  She reached inside her jerkin for the folded piece of paper.  She had anticipated a challenge, that she could not get to see Kimbolt personally without disclosing her identity, and in any case she had no desire to talk with him in the overheard confines of the palace.   However, she had hoped to penetrate a little deeper than the doorman before being brought up short.  “I need to make sure it is received.  My master will be displeased if I do not.”

The guard eyed her up and down, his gaze lingering too long below the level of her eyes.   “There’s not many as would send a woman on an important errand,” he said at last.

Niarmit resisted the urge to clench her fists.  She thought herself back into those incursions into occupied Woldtag.  Subtle raids when being unobtrusive was the goal no matter how much anyone might merit a punch in the face.  “I have silver to see it safely delivered,” she said.

“Silver you say!” the man cried with a smack of his lips.  “And there’s me not free to leave my post until noon.”

“Silver for him as delivers the message and silver for him that finds me the messenger,” she said through gritted teeth.

The pikeman rapped on the door behind him.  A small hatch opened at eye level and a pink face peered out.  “What is it?” the face demanded.

“Lady here has a message needs delivering, Greebo.  Apparently there’s silver in it for you and for me.”

Niarmit held out the folded paper.  “It’s to go to Seneschal Kimbolt, into his hands in person.”

“That’s a special delivery,” the guard clucked. “Might be more’n a silver piece eh Greebo?”

“He’s a hard man to get close to, right enough,” Greebo’s disembodied face concurred.

Niarmit reached for her purse and pulled out two silver pieces and a gold.  The guard got the silver, the gold she held out with the missive for Greebo to see. “It is an urgent message, master Greebo, for immediate delivery.  For this much of a fee, I will expect you to broke no delay or barrier in ensuring it he has it before I have time to cross the square.”

Greebo grinned, holding his hand to the window to take both items. “For this much money, miss, I would visit the seneschal in the gardrobe and press the note into his hands while he was taking a shit.”

Niarmit coloured and the guard and Greebo both laughed at her embarrassment.  “Fear not miss, I’ll be discrete, but I can’t say as to what he will answer. Not lest I know what this says?”

He turned the slim folded paper over, noting the plain wax seal on its back.   Niarmit had not dared to use the royal signet ring, discretion was the key.  But there was wax enough there to keep the foul Greebo honest and her words secret. “It’s for his eyes alone,” she said.

“And if he don’t answer?”

“I will know if he doesn’t get this note, master Greebo, and if that should come to pass then my anger…” she hastily corrected herself.   “My master’s anger will know no bounds and he is a man of both substance and influence.”  She grinned.  “Besides, the note bids him pay the bearer for delivery, on my master’s account.”

“Double pay for delivering a poxy note,” the guardsman growled.   “Almost worth abandoning my post.”

Greebo gave a gaptoothed smile.  “I’ll see you right,” he told the guard.  “Might stand you a drink this evening.”  Then with a dip of his head in Niarmit’s direction the little hatch slammed shut on her gold and her letter. 

It was a single rap at the door, just one loud confident knock, though the silence which followed it spoke of nervousness. Haselrig covered the swords and looked towards the door curious as to who would visit him before midday.  Quintala was likely still abed and few others bothered to bother the ex-antiquary.

The door creaked open and the frowning figure of Odestus shuffled into the room.

“Governor?” Haselrig gave a smiling nod of greeting.  “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Odestus set a brown flagon on the table.  If he noticed the swords, or their unusual covering, he said nothing.  “I brought your bottle back.”

Haselrig picked the object up and held it to the light. “It’s empty.”

Odestus shrugged, “I didn’t say anything about the contents.”

Haselrig drew in a deep breath through his nose, trying to disguise the attempt to detect alcohol on his visitor.  Odestus gave him a bleak look.  “I am quite sober Haselrig, can you say the same?”

“I try to be, Governor. At my age and circumstance it seems safest to keep control of what few faculties are left to me.”

Odestus paced the room, inspecting the shelves where Haselrig had gathered the best of the meagre selection of books in Listcairn’s library.  He plucked one volume free and leafed idly through its pages.  “When last we spoke, Haselrig, you said you thought we might be able to help each other.”

The ex-antiquary grimaced.  “And you thought otherwise, Governor, quite clearly and emphatically so as I recall.”

Odestus flashed a smile that turned on and off without leaving any mark upon his expression.   “Let us say I may not have been in control of my faculties.”

Haselrig arched an eyebrow. “Oh, so now you think we may have something to offer each other.”

Odestus replaced the book and settled into a chair on the other side of Haselrig’s desk.  “We have both survived long enough in Maelgrum’s service to know the power of information.  I don’t like surprises, they can be so… so fatal.”

Haselrig gave his slickest ingratiating smile.  “I am sure my father would have said the same, if it hadn’t been for that ill-timed runaway cart.”

Odestus held his gaze a moment, searching for a sign of jest.  Haselrig kept a rigidly straight face until the little wizard mused, “we all have little tragedies in our lives.  So many of them avoidable.”

“And what tragedy do you seek my help in avoiding, Governor?”

A flicker of annoyance crossed the little wizard’s face.  He pursed his lips and took a couple of breaths before beginning.  “I understand the master has new allies, not orcs or undead?”

“The master has many allies.”  Haselrig kept his face inscrutable. “Most peoples find it is the only sensible alternative to a long and unpleasant death.”

“These are different though.  I wonder what use he might find for something or someone new.”  Odestus hunched his shoulders in a brief shrug.  “Is there perhaps, something precious that needs guarding?”

Haselrig’s hand paused mid-scratch behind his ear.  There was a tantalising hint that the little wizard held a card he would like to see more of, that Odestus had secrets worth extracting.  Maybe it was time to show his own hand a little.  “I know that the master spent some time elsewhere seeking to recruit new soldiers. That was why the Lady Quintala was left in command in the taming of the seven counties.”

Odestus gave a snort of derision.  For a moment he seemed inclined to explore more fully the topic of Quintala’s failure, but then with a visible effort he refocused his curiosity.  “Where did the master go?”

It was Haselrig’s turn to shrug.  “What would he have that could need guarding?”

Odestus gave him a long stare, a blank refusal to be drawn, until in desperation Haselrig confessed.  “I don’t know where he went, or who he recruited.  Only that they were and are so ferocious he could not let anyone else, not even Quintala, make the attempt to bring them within his rule.”

“Would they make good guards?”

“That depends on what needed guarding.  What do you think needs guarding?”

Odestus got to his feet, stumbling slightly against the table.  “I’ve said enough.”

“You’ve said nothing.”

“I’ll tell you then, but later, in the castellan’s chamber.”

“You are forbidden to go in there.”

“That should not be a problem to a man of your ingenuity, Haselrig.  Even in your pomp, your talents were small but your achievements were great.  Now that your abilities have shrunk to nothing, you should find yourself capable of anything.  Certainly getting a small wizard into a locked room should be well within your compass.”

“It would be the death of me.”

Odestus smiled.  “We are all dying, Haselrig, just some of us faster than others.”   He leaned over the table and suddenly snatched the cloth free of the swords it covered, the gleaming Father and The Son.  “Still searching for answers in steel, Haselrig?”

The ex-antiquary lunged for the precious cloth.  “Give that back.”

Odestus swung out of his reach with surprising agility.

“Give it to me, it’s mine, I need it.”

Odestus held him at bay with a raised hand, fingers curled in an initiation of spell casting.  “Not so fast, Haselrig.  I will give you this ghoulish rag when we stand together in the castellan’s chamber not a second before.”

Haselrig bit his lip.  A wizard was a wizard and he was not.  He knew an unwinnable argument when he saw one.  “And if I do, then will you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me what you think it is that the master might want guarded.”

Odestus leaned in close, fingers still at the ready, the stolen cloth balled in his other hand.  “I will tell you everything you need to know, Haselrig.”

The ex-antiquary gulped.  “When?” He surprised himself by saying.

“This evening, when Quintala has ridden out to tour the orc encampments.  Meet me on the battlements then.”