Shadowgod (20 page)

“Good. Now go forth and do my bidding.”

The figures in the mirror reverted to a true reflection and although pangs of longing crossed the cheiftains' faces, that glittering desire was still there. As they bowed and left it was with a purposeful swagger utterly different to how they were earlier, subdued and sullen, like whipped dogs.

Byrnak smiled as they receded along the corridor. This was a subtle sorcery using the mirror to bind them not to himself but to the half-illusions of their greatest desires. From now on,every time despair or doubt crept into their minds this enchantment would blot out such frailties with those shining visions of themselves. The need to attain them would seal their loyalty.

They will still betray you, fool.

Your concern is so touching,
he thought mockingly.
Such a pity that you didn't see fit to warn us about Ystregul.

Crush their wills, I say, chain them to us, grasp every one of their lives in your hand like a leash…

Byrnak laughed out loud, despite the harsh voice ranting away within his head. At times like this in the past he had feared that this inescapable torment would eventually drag him down into insanity, but he had found one solution - drowning out the hated, grating tones with a louder sound.

So it was that he caused the mouth of every carven face, mask, horse and creatures on the walls and pillars to utter a wordless, full-throated song. The dark interweaving chorus of hundreds of voices filled the air, shook paintings and mirrors on their nails and echoed down the side passages. Most important of all, it became the only thing that Byrnak could hear as he walked the length of that beautiful black corridor.

Then to the King's Masks he said:
The meagre justice you niggardly portion out is but a
loosening of the strings that tie us to your unjust hands.
If ever true justice awoke in this nightbound kingdom,
I would tear off your masks!’

—Momas Gobryn,
The Trial of Aetheon
, pt 4.

Under a grey afternoon sky eight days after departing Besh-Darok, the three delegates and their escort arrived in Scallow aboard a two-masted barkan. A cold breeze clawed at their hair and cloaks, and as they descended the icy gantry the first thing Keren noticed was the frantic activity on the dockside. Every available foot of quay and pier was occupied and a small forest of masts and furled sails swayed to and fro all the way along the low wooden wharf.

Winter had come to Dalbar but this far south the snow had yet to fall heavily enough to settle, with only a few grey patches and streaks seen at the edges of the loading area. As Keren set foot on the worn planks of the quay she caught a whiff of rotting fish that made her eyes water. With a hand raised to her nose she looked around for the source.

“Ah, the delightful aroma of Scallow docks,” said Gilly as he followed her onto solid ground. “Once savoured, never forgotten.”

“Mother's name,” she muttered. “It was bad enough spending over a day on that stinking tub…” She paused as she noticed seabirds dropping down behind a wall of crates stacked across the quay by the next berth where a shabby-looking netting ketch with a triangular sail was tied up.The crates failed to completely hide a large wet mound of fish heads and innards being added to by a swiftly gutting team of fishermen. Keren held a fold of her cloak to her mouth and nose and stepped away, trying to get out of the fish-tainted wind.

The wharf backed onto a long strip of muddy, rutted ground utterly lacking any kind of storehouses or godowns. Instead, dozens of carts and wagons were being loaded with goods from the docked vessels then hauled off by horse, though a few small ones were drawn by gaunt-looking men. Packs of hooded urchins did most of the lifting and carrying apart from the adult gangers who bore the truly heavy loads. Beyond the busy loading ground was a long ditch and beyond that were a mixture of timber yards and mean, single-storey houses. It was a bleak sight.

Leaving Gilly by the ship, Keren found a spot by a fencepost away from the odour of fish and leaned there for a moment. Beneath her cowled cloak, belted to her waist, was her old straight-edged sword, just about the last of the weapons she had carried away from Byrnak's camp months ago. By touch she could feel its leather-wound hilt and the tear she had always meant to have stitched, the solid curved tangs of the crosspiece and the triangular pommel with its inlaid faces. A comforting blade, one that had seen her through several fights, although in the past she had preferred the lighter cavalry sword which let her employ swifter, more precise methods. But that one lay twisted and melted in a tunnel beneath the Oshang Dakhal, along with the certainties of another life.

Also beneath her cloak, tucked into a small leather satchel slung under one arm and pressing into her side, was the parchment copy of the Raegal sagasong from the Codex book, which seemed to hint at a ritual by which a gateway to the realm of the Daemonkind might be opened. She had accepted the merchant's gift in gratitude and passed the book into Alael's keeping before leaving Besh-Darok. At the time she had been full of certainty that the song about Raegal, once translated, would provide the evidence and clues she needed but now she was less sure. The ambush by the banks east of Vannyon's Ford and the astonishing appearance of a witchhorse suggested a possible alternative in her search for allies. However, such a course of action would present a similar set of problems: from what the witchhorse said, he and others had found a sorcerous hiding place between the realms from which he had been dragged by an ancient Skyhorse incantation, but where would she find someone with the arcane knowledge of a defunct creed? She sighed, putting these enigmas aside for the moment as she gazed out at the wider view of this southern cityport.

Scallow lay at the bottleneck between a long inlet and Sarlekwater, a curved inland sea. The Sarlekwater's distant northern shore fed into the Bay of Horns via a river canal down which Keren and the others had sailed after buying passage on a cramped and smelly barkan. The wharf where they had docked was on the western side of the bottleneck and during the approach to Scallow Keren had noticed on the eastern shore a series of larger, more elaborate quays made from heavy piles and massive masonry. Many of the buildings over there were built on or around several small hills, the highest of which was occupied by a squat castle, whereas the eastern shore was fairly flat.

This was her first visit to Scallow and she knew little of the city beyond its talents at shipbuilding and sea warfare. Gilly had mentioned a place called Wracktown, supposedly the surviving vessels of a defeated Anghatan fleet that had been lashed and nailed together between a cluster of small islands, their decks and cabins turned into homes, taverns and workshop. But all Keren had seen as they arrived were some densely overbuilt bridges spanning the rocky islands in the strait.

She was watching a long, oar-driven Honjiran galley approach from the north when Gilly came over to join her. Instantly, the fishy odour returned.

“Fine fellows, those fishermen,” he said. “Very welcoming and gossipy.”

“How welcoming?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Well, shook hands once or twice…” Frowning, he paused and sniffed his fingers, then shrugged. “At least I found out a few things…”

Before Keren could make an acerbic observation, Medwin came stalking over with a face like thunder.

“What a lying, swindling reptile,” he said between gritted teeth, clearly straining to keep his voice down.

“Ah, our noble captain,” said Gilly.

“What is wrong?” Keren said.

“He refuses to allow the horses off,” Medwin said. “He claims that two of them were not hobbled properly, and that they panicked and kicked out their stall doors. He wants to take me down and show me, but I had to come over here and let you know what is transpiring.” He breathed deeply. “And to calm myself….ah, there he is. I shall return as soon as I find out just what the truth is…”

With that he strode off back to the dockside where the captain, a tall, lanky man, waited with some of his crew. Gilly snorted in amusement.

“I'm afraid that the only truth Medwin will discover is that all barkan captains are insidious rogues,” he said.

The mage and the captain went back on board and descended into the hold, reappearing a few minutes later accompanied by Redrigh, their escort captain who stayed on deck while Medwin returned to Gilly and Keren.

“So - how much extra did he want?” Gilly said.

“One and a half regals,” Medwin said. “When he showed me the so-called damage I almost laughed in his face. Certainly the doors were lying in pieces, yet even I could tell that they could be easily reassembled and hung again.”

“No doubt as easily as they were disassembled,” Keren said.

“Just so.” His anger now fading, Medwin shook his head. “There was a moment when I was tempted to use the Lesser Power, even with his crew nearby, but I decided against it and paid the money instead.”

“Very wise,” Gilly said. “News of such an incident would travel fast, and the rebel septs would seize upon it with glee.”

“I know,” said the mage, glancing round as Captain Redrigh joined them, his face dark and angry.

“Ser Medwin, I fear it may take another half an hour for these oafs to move the mounts ashore,” he said. “Will you wait or find a wagon to take you across to the east shore?”

“Such a pity we couldn't bring the wagon with us, eh?” said Gilly.

Medwin arched an eyebrow and Keren coughed.

“Before we boarded the good captain's manure boat,” the mage said acidly. “I despatched a message bird to the crown representative here, informing them of our progress. But we were delayed on the way, so they may have been here earlier and departed…”

Keren looked past him to the bridge district, a jumble of houses and angular roofs that extended over the water and further down the western embankments where they merged with the shorebound houses and yards. A pair of two-wheeled, horse-drawn traps had emerged from a wooden archway and were following a stilt road round to where it met solid ground. One of the trap drivers waved as he approached, and Keren pointed him out to Medwin. Looking relieved, Medwin turned to murmur to Captain Redrigh who nodded and hurried off towards the ship once more.

Some moments later the small carriages, each with a tattered, caneframe leather canopy, rolled to a halt in the mud before them. The leading driver, a pale young man wearing a long hooded coat of some coarse green and brown weave, climbed down and bowed.

“Ser Medwin, Ser Cordale, Lady Asherol, greetings,” he began. “My name is Astalen and my fellow driver is Broen. I am honoured to be Trader Golwyth's secretary and it pleases me greatly to see that you have arrived safely. Normally I would take time to enquire about your journey and your well-being but I fear that we must proceed to Eastbank with all speed.”

“Is there some kind of emergency, Astalen?” Medwin said as the young secretary guided them to the horse carriages. “Are we in danger?”

“I would give a qualified yes to both your questions, ser mage,” Astalen said. “You see, every year at winter - ”

“Ah, the bodush,” Gilly said suddenly. “Is it the bodush tourney? I know it can get a bit rough at times…”

Astalen was shaking his head. “When did you last visit Scallow, ser Cordale?”

“A little over ten years ago,” he admitted.

“I'm afraid the game's character, shall we say, has changed for the worst since then.” So saying he ushered them into the carriages, Keren and Medwin riding with Astalen and Gilly by himself in the second. Astalen flicked the reins, the carriage jolted into movement and he steered it round and back along the muddy road. Keren noticed a number of sullen glances turned their way, openly resentful faces watching them leave. She felt a quiver of relief as the wharf slipped out of sight.

Once the low docks were behind them, they passed by a succession of warehouses and timber yards bearing merchant sigils and guarded by nervous-looking swordsmen and spearmen. At a fork further on Astelen turned left towards the bridges district and as the carriages passed onto the wooden stilt road the wheels began to rumble loudly. Then it was up a curved incline and along a level stretch before dipping down and round a curve with black water lapping only feet away. Wooden buildings rose to either side, connected by a maze of walkways and gantries, each one a strange amalgam of styles and shapes with some balconies and floors appearing have to have been added as afterthoughts. A few looked to be tilting dangerously and had been shored up with heavy supporting beams, some of which had themselves been strengthened with iron strapping. There was also a low, incessant chorus of creaks as if the entire timber town shifted with wind and tide.

The stilted road sloped up and became a narrow bridge across a small area of open water between the crammed, shadowy buildings. To the right a row of four evenly-spaced poles jutted up from the waters. Wide cartwheels had been lashed to the tops as platforms and on the first three Keren could make out fleshless, sun-bleached bones. On the fourth was a body being torn at by a full-grown crownhawk while a few small birds circled overhead.

“A Mogaun of the Stoneheart tribe, which is apparently in control of Choraya,” Astalen said, slowing the carriage. “They sent a raiding party across the Bay of Horns and our mounted
altasti
only caught up with them after they'd pillaged and raped their way through several northern villages.”

“I'm surprised not to have seen more like that one,” Keren said, remembering some of the towns they had passed through on their journey, especially the ones that had suffered badly under the Mogaun. Their retribution had been openly savage.

Astalen glanced over his shoulder. “That is because those we took prisoner were drowned, my lady.” He looked forward once more. “Ceremonially, of course.”

Of course,
Keren thought wryly.
But who is this meant to warn - Scallow's enemies or its citizens?

There were some people out on foot, but they were staying away from the main streets and mostly using the narrow dogwalks that clung to upper storeys or curved across from eave to eave. Keren noticed that there was more activity down on the water channels which passed beneath them, coming into view now and then. She saw laden canalboats being poled along by hard-eyed boatmen or being unloaded at tiny landing stages jutting from the barnacled waterlines of great buildings which creaked on their submersed supports.