Shadowmasque (11 page)

As he did so, the nausea and imbalance lessened, then he felt someone lift him bodily and carry him along the beach.

“Prepare yourself,” said Qothan’s voice from beyond a veil of whispers and watery purling….

He kept his eyes tightly shut through it all but that did not prevent strangeness from intruding upon him. Abstract visions played across the inside of his eyelids, rainbow threads and diamond flickers which coalesced into curious eyelike shapes then drifted apart, momentarily seeming to depict a great array of weapons, arrow, shields, spears, daggers, and amongst them a vaguely familiar man’s face...then a crack split the vision in two, bisecting the face and widening into a fissure down which he fell —

He was shocked into awareness by a sudden cold which enveloped him from the chest down, cold and a heavy dragging sensation in his legs as he tried to move. In the next instant sight and sound rushed in upon him with a suddenness that made him gasp and almost lose his footing. But another’s supporting arm kept him from pitching face-first into the waters.

“Calm yourself, captain. We have returned from the pit of Time.”

They seemed hemmed in by darkness and the surging slosh of waves. Feeling sand and shingle slip beneath his feet, Ondene looked up and could just make out a horizontal edge to the blackness, illumined by yellow torchlight. He laughed hoarsely, realising that they were wading about near the foot of one of the lesser quays on the south coast of the bay.

“How did….you know where to go?” he said, following Qothan through the choppy waters towards the sheer side of the quay.

“Observation,” the big man said. “Of unchanging landmarks.”

Ondene frowned. Surely this entire section of coastline was utterly changed from those earlier times, the banks having been completely reshaped and the coastal seabed dredge to allow the berthing of larger vessels. But he said nothing for the raw chill of the sea was seeping into his body and a shivering was taking hold. They were now deep in shadows so perfect he could barely discern Qothan’s shape. Then his hands were grabbed and led forward a few yards to touch something cold, wet and metallic.

“Climb, captain. We are not far from deliverance.”

It was an iron ladder, corroded and flaking. He could feel the crumbling rust and the slippery tendrils of seaweed as he climbed the rungs. The exertion was warming his body yet also putting a strain on his dwindling stamina so that the last few rungs demanded the greatest effort. At the top he slumped forward and crawled a few feet onto the rough, wide planks of the wharf then just lay there, gasping. A moment later Qothan was at his side, hauling him to his feet.

“Just a little further along, captain, to one of the deepwater berths.”

“A...ship?” Ondene said groggily.

“Yes, the Stormclaw,” Qothan said, supporting him with one arm. “Aboard is my chieftain, who may have answers for you.”

Heading along the dockside they made an odd sight, two bedraggled men of mismatched heights, both soaked through and streaked with rust. Qothan explained to passers-by that his companion was drunk as a lord and Ondene felt no inclination to contradict him. His thoughts were returning to the matter of the usurping dor-Galyn family and his yearning for retribution, and in retrospect he conceded that he could have chosen a stealthier, more certain means of exacting revenge. If he had been carrying out such an assassination for someone else he would have been a shadow within the shadows, the cold, unseen blade of death. But now, becalmed in weariness, he could see that his careless pursuit was really just an urge to self-destruction which had shut out all caution and guile.

My mother and brother are dead, he thought. I must grieve for them, I must find a way to say last words to them, offer up prayers for them and bid them farewell. After that, vengeance.

Out of the smells of brine-soaked wood and rope, and the flickering glow of pole-torches, Ondene grew aware that they were passing before the jutting prows of berthed ships. Even at such a late hour there were longshoremen at work, offloading a huge cargo barge, their backs curved beneath sacks, canister, bolts of cloth and a hundred other items of trade. Elsewhere he saw sentries up on the vessels themselves, and port watchmen patrolling in pairs, stavelamps slanted over their shoulders.

“Ah — at last,” said Qothan.

By now Ondene was just capable of standing on his feet unaided and so followed the tall man up a gantry to a lit opening in the flank of a massive, dark shape. Climbing the gantry, however, sapped the last dregs of his vitality and when he stumbled at the top only the helping hand of a waiting crewman kept him upright. Then a rough woollen blanket was wrapped about his shoulder as Qothan stepped into the entry passage.

“Prince Agasklin awaits you in the auracle, Outrider,” said the crewman, another tall, gaunt man.

Qothan only nodded then turned to Ondene.

“I can see that you are weary, captain, but my chieftain wishes to speak to you now, if you are able.”

Ondene almost laughed out loud but instead rubbed his chin thoughtfully and breathed in deeply, trying to banish some of the fatigue from his mind.

“Well, I believe I am equal to a spell of conversation,” he said. “But not much more.”

A wintry smile cracked the big man’s stony features.

“Very good, captain. This way.”

From the entryway, Qothan led him through a low archway to a wider, lamplit corridor running athwart the ship, and thence to another heading forward. They passed other members of the Stormclaw’s crew and every one had the same lanky height, overtopping Ondene by at least a head, as well as a similar dour air. Whenever his gaze chanced to meet one of theirs, however, he saw no contempt or dislike, but a kind of obstinate sternness.

As they proceeded along the passageway he noticed that there was a large amount of decoration on the dark brown bulkheads, most often on the arched frames of doors but also on panels of paler wood set into the darker grain. Mostly the images were of creatures in flight, birds, insects, or beasts out of legend. The other most common motif was that of a hooded woman in a curled up, sleeping position, sometimes holding a crown in her hand, other times a sprig of leaves. Many of the motifs and reliefs on the door frames looked worn and polished, much like the wooden deck planks which felt smooth and rounded underfoot. It all seemed to suggest that the Stormclaw was an old ship.

Before long Qothan came to a wide door of some rich red wood, its surface inlaid with silver and mother-of-pearl in an odd device that resembled a circlet of eyes.

“This is the auracle,” Qothan said. “It is used for meditation and immanation, among other things.”

He pushed the door open and they entered. The auracle was a circular chamber with twelves single-seat alcoves spaced around its walls. Wooden columns rose between the alcoves to become plain spars sweeping inwards to meet at the centre of a low, curved ceiling. Its twelve sections were each painted with a crowded tableau of figures enacting some mysterious drama. The floor was tiled and likewise divided and at its centre was a raised dais where an impassive, bearded man in long grey and black robes sat in one of four ornate chairs, watching the newcomers as the door closed silently behind them.

This must be Agasklin,
Ondene thought.

“Greetings, Qothanalorimundas,” the man said, rising as they approached. “I see that your outriding has borne fruit.”

“Just so, my prince. May I introduce Corlek Ondene, former captain of the Iron Guard and sometime military advisor.”

“An honour to meet you, captain,” said Agasklin with a brittle smile that Ondene guessed was seldom seen on those lips. “I am Prince Agasklin of the Ushralanti, clade chieftain of this ship, the Stormclaw. I have heard good accounts of your talents, most especially from the Armigerlord of Shieldness almost two years ago.”

Ondene was surprised, then wary. The fortress at Shieldness in the southern Ogucharns had been the subject of friction then open conflict between its master, Bazak, the brutal Armigerlord, and his neighbour, the no-less brutal Verogin, Duke of Bones. Ondene had been hired by the former to assassinate the latter and had toyed with the idea of doing away with both repulsive tyrants, but in the end kept to his contract. A poison in the middle of the night was all that was needed.

“I was glad to be some service to the Armigerlord,” he said. “Unfortunately, with his main rival gone he lost his sense of caution and was deposed six months later by his boatmaster, I believe.”

“Not a fate likely to befall his majesty, Ilgarion, would you say?”

Ondene stared at Aglaskin, wariness now shading off into uneasiness.

“You’re surely not suggesting…”

“In the Sleeper’s name, captain, not at all…ah, you look unwell, ser — please, take a seat here…”

With legs gone weak and a stomach threatening rebellion he sank gratefully into one of the ornate, almost ceremonial chairs. It was, he discovered, very comfortably padded.

“No captain,” Aglaskin continued. “Our concern is with the stability of the empire, and safeguarding the crown, and Ilgarion poses no immediate threat to either. However, there is one person in this city whose plots and evil sorcery could bring it all crashing down.”

He leaned closer and Ondene had force himself to meet the man’s dark and insistent gaze.

“Ilgarion has returned to Sejeend this night and has called a mandatory audience for all nobles and city fathers. Among them will be the dark agent — his name is Jumil and he will be attending as one of several officials from the Imperial Academy. It may mean little to say that he is of slender build and has fine features — we have a likeness for you to see.”

“In situations like this,” Ondene said carefully, “it is usual to offer a contract, and before that to state the nature of the undertaking. Do you want this Jumil killed?”

Aglaskin nodded. “Very much so, captain, but you would not be capable of inflicting harm upon such a man; by now, almost no plain weapon could draw his blood, No, your task will be to attend Ilgarion’s audience at the palace — we will provide the appropriate noble garments, mask and accoutrements — and observe the man, watch who he speaks with, perhaps even contrive to overhear any exchange.”

“There are risks to undertaking such a venture within the palace grounds,” Ondene pointed out. “What would be my recompense?”

“500 regals,” Aglaskin said. “A generous amount by any standards. Yet there is another aspect which may provoke your interest, namely that this sorcerer Jumil’s right hand man is a captain of the Iron Guard going by the name Vorik dor-Galyn. It was one of his senior servants who recognised you when you entered the city, and his hirelings who tracked you through the streets. If we can expose the sorcerer, Vorik dor-Galyn and his House will face utter disgrace.”

Ondene was silent a moment or two as he absorbed this new twist, and savoured the possibilities, all the time realising that he was hearing all this from mysterious, powerful men aboard a strange ship.

“I am favourably inclined to accept your terms, ser,” he said at last. “However, I would like to know more about your people, the Ushralanti, and their singular talents.”

Aglaskin raised an eyebrow and shared a look with Qothan.

“I understand your curiosity, captain,” he said, “and I can offer you a brief account of our history but it will be incomplete as there are things we do not share with outboarders.”

“That will suffice,” Ondene said and settled back in his chair listen.

* * *

“...and listen well, dog! You and the rest
will
go back to that inn and the surrounding streets and you
will
search high and low, and keep searching till I say ‘hold’!…”

The news of Ondene’s escape had driven Vorik into a fury.

“And I don’t care what you
thought
you saw — he must still be in the city somewhere so get out there and look with both eyes. And stay away from the alehouses or it will not go well for you. Now, begone!”

Looking miserably chastened, Vorik’s hireling hurried off amid the dark shadows of the burial grove, passing through the amber glow of the gate lamp before vanishing into the night. Standing in the light of a lantern that sat on the ground by the old soldier’s tomb, Vorik stared after his servant, anger slowly abating.

Ondene had just disappeared, was the story, backed into the dark corner of a coaching inn courtyard the melted away to nothing. Impossible, of course, unless….unless it had been the work of someone with powers approaching those Jumil possessed, rather than the feeble tricks of those Lesser Power mages.

Vorik shrugged, deciding that it could wait until Jumil had fully recovered. He turned and bent to pick up the lantern, hand reaching for its wooden handle...then paused and straightened once more. Frowning, he peered at the dense shadows among the tombstones to his left where the pathway lamps could not shed their light.

“Whoever is there,” he said loudly. “Come forth and show yourself.”

After a long, silent moment a figure emerged from the darkness and approached. Behind him another three likewise cam into view and drew near.

Vorik smiled unpleasantly.

“So the little hawks come fluttering round,” he sneered. “Sadly, our master is unable to see anyone so you’ll have to go back to your Flocks and await his command.”

“We’re not complete fools, dor-Galyn,” said one, a slender, aristocrat called Lymbor cul-Mayr. “We felt that great wave of sorcery and immediately felt concern for the master. We
must
see him.”

“We must be sure that he is unharmed,” said another, a burly former pit-fighter name Amaj.

“I’m afraid that is not possible,” Vorik said. “After his exertions, Jumil is recuperating.”

“How do we know that you’ve not slain him?” said Skotan, a nervous, haggard woman who had once controlled the child slave trade in Sejeend. “He...he might be lying in a pool of his own blood at this very instant!”

“Ludicrous,” said the fourth, a round-faced man garbe din dun-coloured, monkish robes, known to these as Rugilo. “Literally incredible to suggest that our puissant master could succumb to one such as yourself, Vorik. No — unlike my Kin fellows, I only wish to seek final guidance from our master before he orders to lead our Nightkin Flocks out across the wilds to our mysterious destination…”