Shadowmasque (12 page)

“The answer is still ‘no,’” Vorik said, crossing his arms.

Skotan pointed a skinny, long-nailed finger at him. “I see only deceit and betrayal in your face — if the master is not dead, I’ll wager that you’re plotting his downfall!”

“Or he’s plotting against us,” muttered Amaj, clenching big, calloused fists.

“You see, Vorik?” said Lymbor cul-Mayr. “Not one of us is convinced by your intricate explanations. Why, we should just walk right past you and descend to our master’s chamber —”

The ringing hiss of Vorik’s sword being swiftly drawn forth brought him to an abrupt halt.

“Yes, you could try that,” Vorik said, holding his blade out with the point hovering before cul-Mayr’s chest. “Or you could turn around now and flap away back to your perches. My master — who is very much alive — will send for you in due course.” He directed a black stare at all four Flock leaders. “Time you were leaving, and quickly!”

They glared at him for a moment or two, as if gauging their chances, then cul-Mayr brought up one gloved hand and with his finger pushed the swordpoint aside. Uttering a contemptuous snort he turned and strolled away towards the gates. The others followed suit, with only Amaj pausing to direct a silent snarl at Vorik before he too left.

He waited for the last of them to leave the burial grove before returning his sword to its scabbard and stretching down to pick up the lantern.

Weak fools, he thought. All of them. If it had been up to me, I’d have chosen more capable leaders for the Nightkin. At least my own Flock knows who’s in charge.

Lantern in hand, he turned to face the concealed door behind the tomb — and almost cried out in startlement at the figure of a peasant woman who was standing directly behind him. As he lurched backwards he snatched out his sword and, seized by sudden rage, lashed out at the woman.

Who vanished as his blade struck her neck.

In the next moment an identical woman stepped out from the other side of the tomb, a short, dumpy woman he noticed, attired in a patched dress and a knitted shawl. She said nothing, just stood and watched him. Feeling more certain of himself, Vorik raised his sword and casually poked at the woman’s shoulder. And again she disappeared.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said. “But it’s time you showed yourself.”

“If you’ve finished wavin’ yer pig-sticker around,” said a woman’s voice.

Gritting his teeth, he slid his blade back into its sheath.

“Satisfied?”

The shadows a few feet to his left shivered and brightened, resolving into the same shawl-draped woman who came over to him, pausing a few feet away.

“Someone called to me,” she said, staring intensely at him. “And it were like a door opening in my head and a voice as big as a mountain telling me to wake up — ‘This way, here, follow,’ it said…” Her gaze grew hard. “Do you know where it came from, or who spoke to me? Do you?”

Vorik considered the woman. He had heard tales of the illusions and phantoms conjured up by the mages of old but had never thought to see one as rich as this. Clearly the arrival of this woman was an intended consequence of Jumil’s underground ritual, and Vorik immediately understood how useful an illusionist could be.

“It was my master who called out to you,” he said, moving to the concealed door and pushing it open. “He is in seclusion for now and unable to receive visitors, but you may enter within and await his will if you wish.”

The woman gave a sharp nod. “Aye, that’ll do.”

She kept her gaze on Vorik all the time and as she stepped past him into the gloomy passage he noticed that the irises of her eyes were edged with glittering emerald.

* * *

On the wings of a stiff, early morning breeze, three sailing ships rounded the jagged mass of a jutting promontory and turned their prows towards Krail, the notorious brigand port. Krail was a collection of shabby buildings huddled in a great natural hollow at the foot of sheer cliffs, its narrow-shingled cove and small jetty offering practically the only safe berth in this reef-strewn cluster of islets.

The largest of the three vessels was the
Mocker
, a two-masted brig that had seen better days. Aboard, Captain Bureng, the Black Dagger of the Seas, was reclining on a wicker settle, smiling as his ship heeled gently to starboard.

“Rikken!” he sang out. “What do you see?”

“The lights of Krail, my captain,” said Cursed Rikken from his lookout near the prow.

“What else?”

“The sternlamps of four — no, five ships tied up at the jetty.”

“Are any of them familiar?”

Rikken narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the dawn gloom. “Not yet, cap’n...wait one of them has a forked prow….”

“Ah, Flane’s
Bitter Biter
.”

Bureng’s voice was suddenly very close, and with a sideways glance Rikken saw that he was now standing just feet away.

“And the
Iron Fist
, I see….the
Vandal Lord
, too….”

Rikken shivered as his master named the other pirate vessels one by one, even though their outlines were scarcely visible at this distance. Something had changed in Captain Bureng yesterday evening, something which made him look at everything and everyone with a strange and hungry malice. Yet from the moment the captain ordered his crews aboard the
Hound
, the
Snake
and the
Mocker
, Rikken felt a thrill of excitement and a certainty that Destiny was filling their sails.

With the sky lightening from louring darkness to ashen grey, the three vessels found berths at Krail’s crowded pier, weighed anchors and had their hawsers lashed to mooring stanchions. Gantries banged down onto the age-blackened boards of the pier and Bureng led forth a small band of his followers, Gont and Peshik, the masters of the Hound and the Snake, and a handful of toughs, including Cursed Rikken. Minutes later they were climbing the few steps to the double doors of a decrepit, two-storey tavern called the Lucky Captive. Inside, a few tallow lamps broke the dimness with the brightest hanging over a square table in the middle of the floor. Those sitting there looked up at the newcomers and Rikken saw faces he knew and others he did not, yet all held some kind of hate or deceit.

Without hesitation, Bureng strode across the table with his men at his heels.

“The Black Braggart comes a-visiting,” said one of the seated men.

“My ears is stingin’ a’ready,” said another.

Rikken saw Bureng smile widely, as if he were contemplating a feast.

“I hear some squeaking, Flane,” he said to one man garbed in a long black coat that had seen better days. “You going to clear out the vermin or shall I?”

The two men who had offered up the snide greetings turned surly but before they could speak, Flane looked coldly at them and said, “Shift.”

Muttering, the pair vacated their seats and Bureng sat down with Gont on his left and Peshik standing to the right. The other gathered at their backs.

“The
Bitter Biter
looks a bit worn, Flane,” Bureng said. “When did she last have a refit?”

Flane regarded him with unconcealed distaste. The captain of the Bitter Biter was a tall, severe man with one eye — the other eye socket held a polished red gem.

“Too long,” was the sour reply.

“What about you, Logrum?” Bureng, brightly, gleefully, to the hulking, bearded man next to Flane. “Is the
Vandal Lord
ready for battle?”

“Hull’s sprung in a dozen places,” Logrum said with a yellow-toothed snarl. “But she could still gut the
Mocker!
”

Bureng laughed at that and looked at the other two captains. “And the
Iron Fist?
— and the
Ravager?
”

“I need a new mains’l and rudder for the
Fist
,” said a plain-looking, unshaven man known as Raleth. “Anyone could tell that just by looking.”

The captain of the
Ravager
, Zanuur by name, was a wiry, dusky-skinned man with a black moustache. He crossed his arms, leaned back and swung one booted foot up to rest on the table’s edge.

“My problems are my own,” he said with a Jefren accent. “I’m more interested in why you want to know.”

“Quite so,” said Flane, leaning forward to fix Bureng with his one-eyed stare. “Not planning on any surprises for us, were you?”

Smiling, Bureng shook his head as if oblivious to the distrust and ill-will that was flowing in his direction.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I only meant to discover your fitness and seaworthiness for a little expedition I have in my mind.”

“Mayhap we should learn what you propose before we make any judgement,” said Zanuur.

“What’s it to be, then?” sneered Logrum. “Laying ambush to cupclaw catchers off the Mantinor coast? — or robbing the dangerous kelprakers of Maghar? You can surely manage that with the ships you got.”

Bureng joined in the laughter but a hard look came into his eyes. “For what I’m planning, I need more than three ships, in fact more than seven, much more.”

Flane snorted. “Why so many? What prize would need such force for the taking…” Then he paused, his single eye widening, “….surely it’s not….”

“Sejeend,” Bureng said. “The jewel of the empire.”

Logrum erupted in guffaws of laughter. “Aah, so you’ve finally gone mad, eh? Attack the capital? — we’d be as well to try and sail across the fields of Khatris to lay siege to Trevada, or scuttle our ships for a raid on the Godkings of the seabed, and neither o’ them makes sense an’ all!”

“Nevertheless,” Bureng said. “Sejeend is the prize I mean to have.”

“How?” Zanuur said, eyes narrowing. “Where will you find the ships and men for such an undertaking?”

“Not far from here,” said Bureng. “Sickle Bay.”

“I lost a fine carrack in a storm there a few years ago,” muttered Flane. “Reefs tore out her hull.”

“It’s an ill place,” said Raleth. “It’s been a graveyard for ships since olden times.”

Logrum grunted. “Hanavok’s Last Battle.”

“Just so,” Bureng said. “Tell me, have any of you heard the name Crevalcor?”

Brows furrowed and heads shook.

“He was a powerful sorcerer who lived in the Ageof Legends.” Bureng’s voice grew thoughtful. “During the great war of the Shadowkings, his essence was resurrected and put to work on their behalf. During his brief second life, before the defeat of his masters, he assembled a codex of rites, rubrics and comments…..and I have that book!”

Listening to this, Rikken swallowed hard as an uneasy silence settled across the taproom.

“What’s in the book?” Zanuur said warily.

Bureng laid his hands flat on the table. “Sorcery,” he said. “The black sorcery of the dead — with it, I shall raise an armada from the bottom of Sickle Bay and hurl it against the defenses of Sejeend. After that, uncountable riches will be mine — and yours if you join me.”

“When are you setting out for Sickle Bay?” Logrum said.

“This very moment,” was the reply. “Do not ponder — decide now.”

“Very well,” the big man said. “Count me in.”

When the other stared in surprise, he shrugged. “At least, if this turns out a fool’s fancy, I’ll have the pleasure of dealing with him personally.”

There was laughter at this and Zanuur slapped his hand on the table. “Aye, then I’m in too.”

“And me,” said Raleth.

Eyes looked at Flane who was studying Bureng with dispassion. “You don’t strike me as one burdened with fancy, captain. I’ll take you up on your invitation.”

“Then it’s settled,” Bureng said. “And the time for leavetaking is upon us.”

As the company rose and moved towards the door, Raleth said, “What about Buskal, masterof the
Skewer
? He’s upstairs, sleeping off a skinful but if you need another ship I can always —”

Bureng cut him off with a gesture. “We don’t need him — the five of us will do. Five is perfect.”

Cursed Rikken nodded happily at this, not understanding yet filled with purpose and wild daring as his captain led them all outside and down to the ships.

With the hooks of Fear and Desire,
The gods do fish for men.

—Gundal,
The Doom of Gleoras
, ch. 1, iv

“Are you sure that you’re well enough, master?” Tashil said. “Such burdens would tax even a younger man.”

“You mistake a moment’s unpreparedness for signs of infirmity,” Calabos said with a little smile. “I’ll not be ready for my dotage for at least another 15 years.”

Countess Ayoni glanced at Dardan. “Have you tried talking sense into him?”

“Tried to,” Dardan said. “Once, about ten year ago.”

Calabos smiled inwardly, remembering the very predicament and the very day...yet still the two women regarded him with anxiety, and he sighed.

I doubt that either of you would be receptive to the notion that my true age is more than three centuries rather than three score. Or that I’m far more physically strong than my appearance would suggest. No, I have to be plausible in this.

The four of them were gathered at a table next to the wide bay windows of the lodge’s summer room. Outside, a brief but heavy shower was just slacking off and bright shafts of sunshine made the rain-drenched garden below glitter.

Calabos spread his hands.

“My friends, your concern for my well-being truly touches my heart,” he said, looking at each in turn. “But you must realise that we are living through testing times that will inevitably tax our strength and our purpose, my own as much as any of the Watchers. That said, be assured that I shall not needlessly exert myself or take any pointless risks.”

Dardan looked skeptical but said nothing.

“You are our linch-pin, Beltran,” Countess Ayoni said. “Without your leadership, the Watchers would lose purpose.”

“There will be little point in the Watchers at all if darkness triumphs.” Calabos straightened in his chair and gave a roguish smile. “Besides, I’m not exactly defenceless, you know.”

Ayoni and Tashil gave nods of acknowledgement while Dardan just shrugged.

“Anyway, to other matters,” he said. “Earlier this morning I spoke with Sounek and Inryk, instructing them to find out more about the Carverists in Sejeend; Sounek is going to attempt to join one of the more zealous Carver congregations while Inryk will employ his enviable stealth to investigate the background of certain senior Carver priests.”