Shadowmasque (17 page)

So Sounek and several others had listened to Lemker recite a parable of the Carver while munching on bread and soup, in common with a few groups at other table. At the same time, Sounek had maintained a farspeech thread with Inryk who was then creeping across the ledges and watercourses of the Retreat’s stepped roof.

Now, as Sounek shifted on his lumpy pallet, he was conducting an exchange with his fellow-Watcher, who had just withdrawn from one of the monks’ chambers, after a careful search.

[...and found nothing of interest] Inryk was saying. [A few parchments with copied-out catechisms and the like, but no pens or even so much as a charstick.]

— There must be a scripter room somewhere,
Sounek said in farspeech.
But yes — that one sounds like an Iterant —

[A what?]

— Iterant, a low-ranking monk. What you need to find is a chamber with plenty of books and scrolls, that’ll be the one used by the Litanist. But try not to disturb him —

[You don’t say. Well, I’ve checked all the casements on this side so it must be on the other...hmmph, liable to fall and break my neck.]

— Please don’t. Cleaning up the mess would be a chore —

[Mmm, funny. And if I find nothing incriminating in this Litanist’s den?]

— Then we’ll have to carry out the same tactic at one of the other Carver retreats —

[’S goin’ to be a long night.]

Then the farspeech thread fell silent within Sounek’s head, leaving him to his uneven bedding on the cold, cobbled floor. From where he lay, propped up on one elbow, he had a wide view of the big hall, seen from beneath one of the long tables. It was quiet, or as quiet as such an improvised dormitory could be — a sussurus of slumberous breathing, with a snore here and there, someone muttering briefly in their sleep, a cough, a whimpered conversation. Over by the fire, one of the female manualers was comforting a weeping child, all of which set off a coil of thought in his mind, the observation that these Carver followers seemed more interested in providing unconditional help and solace to the worst off than indulging in zealous browbeating.

Sounek, however, knew that these kind, altruistic monks did not represent the entirety of the Carver creed and its believers. Almost no great movement, or belief, or city or nation was a homogenous whole, evenly consistent and identical in all its members. There were always differing strains and tendencies, semi-autonomous groups and unorthodox individuals, something that was certainly true of the House of the Earthmother. A number of offshoots with significantly different teachings and emphasis had emerged in the more distant corners of the Empire, but Sounek knew of only one whose creed matched the warlike doctrines of mainstream Carverist belief. It was a militant sect calling themselves the Daughters of the Fathertree and consisting mostly of women whose refuge was a stronghold hidden somewhere in the northern Rukang mountains. Yet they were the exception rather than the rule, for in all the centuries of its establishment as the empire’s traditional faith, the House of the Earthmother had urged others to fight on its behalf while keeping its own hands clean.

But such observations were irrelevant to the likes of Archmage Tangaroth and Ilgarion — they had already decided who the enemy was and now it was the Watchers’ task to provide the proof, that much was clear.

He was lying back, considering the curious matter of Corlek Ondene, when farspeech words stirred in his mind like another’s thoughts….

[’M at the other side of the roof] said Inryk. [There’s three windows so shouldn’t take long…]

— Is there light in any of them? —

[Not a glimmer...but there’s some kind of glow coming from back in the centre of town. Thought I saw something earlier but its brighter now — must be a big fire, but I can’t see past the cliffs and the tree.]

— If its important,
Sounek said,
we’ll know soon enough —

[Huh...right, now for the first.]

The farspeech thread dissolved, leaving Sounek to the quiet, dark hall and the flickering fireside shadows. After a while, resting there in the dimness, he thought he could hear a faint rushing sound from outside, as if strong winds were blowing around the building. As it grew louder he realised that it was coming from the street outside the front of the warehouse. Pushing himself up on his elbows he noticed other raised heads just as Inryk’s voice bloomed in his mind.

[This don’t look so good, Sounek.]

— What is it? —

[Big angry crowd gathering across the road] he said. [A lot of torches and spears...they seem to waiting for something though…]

Sounek heard footsteps approaching and looked round to see a worried Lemker quickly waking all nearby sleepers. Elsewhere, other manualers were rousing the rest.

“Only some noisy drunks out in the street,” Lemker said to them. “But just for safety’s sake, we’d like you to move to the repose chambers upstairs…”

[Ah, they’ve been waiting for a ram…]

Moments later, something struck the outside of the doors with a heavy thud that reverberated around the hall. There were cries of alarm and the calm procession towards the stairs at the rear turned into a rush. There was another thud, louder than the first, and a simultaneous crack. Struggling free of the panicking crush, Sounek had just staggered against the rough stone wall at the side of the great hearth when there was a third impact which broke the wooden locking bars and sent the great doors crashing open. With a bellicose roar, the mob surged into the hall.

[They’ve just broke down the doors] said Inryk. [Where are you?]

— Nowhere safe,
Sounek said, suddenly wishing he let himself be carried along with the stampede. Out in the middle of the hall a handful of guards and manualers armed with battle staves had managed to slow the intruders but they were only moments from being overwhelmed. Sounek dashed across to the righthand set of stairs just as it began to swing upwards, lifted by heavy hawsers lashed to stanchions jutting from the bottom step. He leaped for the rising edge, caught it and dragged himself over. As helping hands pulled him up onto a landing, he could hear the attackers furiously arguing among themselves while some shouted the word ‘Murderers!’ over and over.

[Where are you, Sounek?….damn you, answer…]

Gasping with the physical effort, Sounek followed other fearful-looking guests of the Retreat up another flight of stairs, while struggling to get a coherent thought out to Inryk.

— I’m...out of danger for the moment —

[Good — I’m on the third floor, so find your way up and we can get out the way I came in.]

— Very well —

At the head of the stairs dozens of frightened people were arguing with some of the monks who were trying to usher them along a narrow passageway. Sounek tried to squeeze past them as they slowly moved into a chamber off one side of the passage; the other side had a series of wooden framed openings which looked down into the hall. Gazing at one point, he saw that the mob were starting to climb the supports to get at the protruding framework of the upper floor. There was also a worrying, regular thud from directly below.

There were others hurrying along from the far end, where more stairs led up, and as Sounek reached them he heard a clattering bang from just behind him. Glancing round, he saw the black iron claws of a grappling hook embedded in one of the window frames. There was another bang as a second grapple flew through the next window and slid back to dig its claws into the wood. At first Sounek thought they were going to try and climb up to get at the monks, but then there was a deep, wooden cracking sound and he felt the floor jerk and trembled underfoot.

Mother’s name!
he thought.
They’re trying to bring down this floor!

He leaped towards the next set of steps and was half way up when something finally gave way with a long creaking groan. Beams twisted and snapped in gouts of splinters and Sounek watched in horror as the passageway tore away from the building’s main wall, then dropped suddenly from Sounek’s end and crashed onto the floor of the main hall. People fell screaming down the tilting slope or over its jagged edge while other held on to jutting joists laid bare by the manmade destruction.

[Sounek — what’s happening?]

— Madness —
he tried to find words
— They’ve destroyed half the first floor —

[Get up here, now.]

But before Sounek could answer, hands grabbed him from behind and hurled him up the last few steps to sprawl on the half-landing. A wild-haired figure drew near and bent over him.

“I was called….and he told me that you have to die, you and the other one….”

The man was red-eyed and staring and his face was coverd in scratches while blood oozed from battered ears. His clothing was in tatters and to Sounek’s undersenses he bore the stench of a malign power. Sounek had the thought-canto Brace ready to shield himself from attack but before the man could reach for him someone else descended from the next flight of stairs behind Sounek, crying out;

“Brigand scum — you defile our retreat!”

Sounek looked up to see a robed form charge down at the scratched man, spearpoint leading. The spear caught him square in the chest, ran him through and slammed him against the stairway wall, pinning him there, such was the force of the charge. The scratched man let out an agonised bellow and struck at the jutting spear shaft with one hand. With the other he lunged at the robed monk, grabbed him by the shoulder and with a brute strength hauled him in close.

The terrified monk was striking at his captor with his fists but to no aval. The scratched man glanced once at Sounek, grinned, the pulled the monk closer still and bit out his neck. The monk’s scream dissolved into a ghastly, wet crunching sound as Sounek scrambled to his feet and ran for the steps.

On the second floor was a T-junction with a short doorless corridor, and from round either corner he could hear the sobs of children and the raised voices of panicking adults. But the stairs to the third floor began directly ahead so without pause he hurried up them two at a time and was relieved to see Inryk emerge from the shadows near the top.

“Finally,” he muttered. “Why the delay?”

“An unexpected guest,” said Sounek, panting. “He has some quite forceful opinions…”

Shouts from below interrupted him, followed by a tormented scream.

“Ah, that should be him now.”

Together they gazed down to see a nightmarish figure lurch into view at the foot of the stairs. Blood covered the man’s face and drenched the front of his ragged clothes, while only the ragged stump of the spear now protruded from his chest. He stared up at them and smiled horribly.

“You both have to die,” he said. “He told me…”

With an agile swiftness that took Sounek and Inryk by surprise, he bounded up the stairs. Sounek jerked backwards in reflex but Inryk held his ground and despatched three fireballs in quick succession. But as they struck the impaled man they broke apart one after another, casting sprays and cascades of flamelets across nearby woodwork and down onto the stairs. Seeing this, Sounek stepped forward and cast the thought-canto Ram, sending a swift fist of air straight at their adversary. The invisible force struck him high in the chest, knocking him off his feet. As he toppled and careened down the steps, roaring in fury, Sounek looked at Inryk.

“To the roof, I think,” he said.

“This way,” Inryk said, hurrying along to an open door to the right of the stairwell. The room within was dark and smelled of incense. A window’s shutters stood agape, framing a square of night sky strewn with rags of cloud, dusted with stars. Inryk hauled himself through with the ease of long practise, and Sounek had just swung one leg over the windowsill when he heard the heavy thud of running feet. When he glanced at the door the meagre light beyond was suddenly blotted out by a dark figure which barely paused before charging across the room.

Uttering an incoherent cry he threw himself out onto the narrow slate ledge between the window and the building’s low coping stones. The impaled man lunged out after him, making a grab for his legs. For a moment Sounek felt fingers closing on the heel of his boot but Inryk was already dragging him away and pulling him upright. Their pursuer gave a low, rasping snarl and cumbersomely climbed out onto the roof as well.

“Persistent, is he not,” muttered Inryk.

Sounek nodded. “It’s not a trait I care for in hired servants. Gets them into trouble.”

They sidled along the ledge as quickly as they could with the Retreat’s sloping, slate roof on one side and a 60-foot drop on the other. The impaled man almost lost his balance once and thereafter crouched with one hand leaning on the roof as he came after them. Soon they reached the corner of the roof where Inryk halted.

“The knotted rope is here,” he said. “We’ll never get to the bottom before he reaches the ropelash.” He indicated where the heavy rope was tied to an iron lug.

“We’ll have to stop him. “Or go round and round this damned roof until we fall off!”

Inryk nodded and together they unleashed a barrage of thought-canto spells — arrowfire, burning clouds and jagged webs of lightning. They slowed him down, and Sounek could smell the sharp odour of burnt hair, but still he edged closer and closer. Smoke was rising from the man’s disintegrating clothing and the charred spear stump jutting from his chest.

“There is a way,” Inryk said bluntly. “I’ll charge at him and knock him over the edge. He’ll probably take me with him, but at least -”

“No, wait, Inryk,” said Sounek with a grim smile, indicating the broken-off spear. “We’ve missed the obvious. Listen..”

* * *

Tashil and her brother were a street away from the Watchers lodge when he suffered another brief mind-absence, the third since leaving her shop. As before, Atemor’s gait slowed, his feet dragging, and he became confused, looking groggily about him and muttering to himself. Luckily, the roads in this district were usually deserted at this time of night so she steered him over towards a low wall. He tried to resist but his efforts were weak and uncoordinated and she was able to get him to sit down on the wall.