The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (92 page)

‘Now,’ Rojak announced from his right. Jackdaw flinched, constantly taut with dread whenever he was in the minstrel’s presence. It was some three hours till dawn, and the city was almost silent in its miserable discomfort. Jackdaw had to stifle a yawn. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, not properly. He wouldn’t tonight either, not with the sight of blood filling his mind.

‘We are entertaining Scree with a fine barbed comedy, do you not think?’

Jackdaw said nothing. The play was mildly amusing, in a gross, simplistic way, but the initial humour was soured by the murder at the very end. Though Jackdaw - like the whole city, it appeared - had known it was coming, the sight of so much blood had sickened him. He’d turned his head away as the criminal plucked from the city gaol had howled and flopped around on the stage, interrupting the play by his refusal to die quickly. Ilumene, eyes glinting with fierce delight, had pointed out the anonymous figure of King Emin as the audience shuffled out in a cowed silence. The king’s face had been as dark as thunder. The man from Narkang had not said why he hated his king so deeply, and Jackdaw was afraid to ask. Ilumene constantly hovered on the brink of savagery; the man’s handsome features invariably twisted into a cruel scowl at the very mention of this king.

Thinking about Ilumene’s hatred brought Jackdaw full circle back to the hateful play. Already the stallholders surrounding the theatre were lost to the spell carved into the timbers of the theatre’s wall as it was being constructed. A few continued to work, scarcely even aware of their motions but driven by long-ingrained habit, but the rest had taken to roaming the streets muttering about ghosts, already lost to the madness. They were feeling the bitterness and gloom that echoed from the play’s every line and washed out over the city by the minstrel’s magic. Just the previous morning he’d listened to a fruit-seller, muttering to himself, hands clasped together, head twitching nervously, staring down at the feet of those passing by. He was terribly afraid that the man had been quoting a line of prophecy, from ‘The Twilight Reign’: Six temples, empty and crumbling - darkness heralded by song and flame.

Lost in his thoughts, Jackdaw almost missed Rojak’s question, until Ilumene turned slowly to face him, his dagger hanging loose from his fingers as always. The edge was razor-sharp, but somehow Ilumene never nicked himself, even as he spun the blade through his fingers. The cuts and scars covering his hands were all intentionally inflicted; the only time Ilumene seemed to notice the knife in his hands was when he was slicing a new pattern into his own skin.

Quickly Jackdaw muttered something congratulatory, desperate to get Ilumene’s eyes off him. Rojak smiled at his words and affected a preening of his clothes. If the man had not filled Jackdaw with such creeping dread, it might have looked comical. The minstrel’s clothes were worn and tatty, and he gave off a stench of putrid flesh, for his body was rotting from the inside out. Soon he would be dead, but until then his awful prescience and unnatural powers burgeoned with every passing day. Jackdaw had no desire to know what disease Rojak had contracted, but it would not be coincidental. Their master was too cruel and calculating for that.

‘And what is a vital ingredient of all comedic works?’

Jackdaw frowned, trying to find the right answer, but even the words of the script refused to be pinned down.

‘A mistaken identity, of course,’ trilled Rojak, for all the world as if they were having a sparkling conversation, ‘with the inevitable humorous results.’

Humorous? I doubt anyone but Humene would find them funny, Jackdaw thought, but he said nothing. The opium Rojak smoked didn’t ever cloud his mind; he was always listening, ever ready to pounce on a hesitation or a misjudged word. Jackdaw had made that mistake once, and the thought of doing so again sent shivers down his spine. The shadow watched constantly.

Rojak peered over the edge of the rooftop they were stood on, looking intently down at the empty street below. And as it happens, we know someone who is desperately seeking a face in the crowd, don’t we, Ilumene?’

‘We do, and it would be rude to disappoint the man,’ Ilumene purred in agreement. ‘Especially when he was like a father to me for so many years.’

Whenever Ilumene spoke, it unnerved Jackdaw. The man was powerfully built, and he had hard callused palms that felt like wood when he slapped Jackdaw’s face. He looked like a professional soldier, but his accent was cultured, suggesting intelligence behind that brutal facade. He was strangely hypnotic, and he could, when he chose, be as charismatic as a white-eye. At those times, Ilumene frightened Jackdaw even more than usual.

‘Surely he’ll kill you?’ Jackdaw croaked.

‘I doubt it,’ Rojak said. ‘Ilumene’s former comrades would never dare, for the king will want to deal with this personally. I find their keenness to find us positively heart-warming.’

‘You want to run the risk of them tracking you down as well?’

Rojak raised an admonishing finger. ‘But then there would be no mistaken identity, thus no humorous unmasking once it’s too late.’

Jackdaw struggled on. ‘You want me to make someone appear to be you, or Ilumene?’

‘Only a few weeks in the theatre and already you are learning its forms!’ Rojak beamed. ‘They’re here to find Ilumene, so let them see what they want to see.’

‘But who? Who is it you want them to kill?’

‘Come now, that would hardly be fair on our poor actor. He is a man who has done nothing wrong, so he shall not be harmed.’ Rojak waved Jackdaw away dismissively. ‘Go and begin preparations for the spell. It must be ready by midday.’

‘Where shall I meet you?’

‘Oh, not me, I have other business to attend to. Ilumene, was there a member of the Brotherhood you held in higher regard than the others?’

The big man frowned. ‘Beyn,’ he said after a moment’s thought. He balanced the dagger on the back of his fingers. ‘Ignas Beyn is one of the few who is not blind to the king’s faults. He’s loyal to his master, but he’s no fool.’

‘Then Ignas Beyn shall be our second party, but whether he walks through flame or darkness, he shall see it through untouched.’ Rojak spoke slowly, as if intoning a spell. The minstrel was not a mage in the classical sense, but he wielded great power, an understanding of magic’s nature so profound it contained its own force. Jackdaw, a fair mage in his own right, suspected this was closer to how a witch worked, harnessing the brutal potential of the Land itself. This was an unforgiving talent, and laden with consequences; Jackdaw preferred using magic he could channel, rather than standing between mountains and hoping not to be crushed as he directed them to move.

And both bit players to survive, Jackdaw thought grimly. Both to witness Azaer’s strength; a strength born in weakness. Who could have guessed that embracing what makes it feeble would give the shadow such power? It stands between darkness and light and so directs both. When a man’s own strength is turned against him, what defence can he possibly muster - and what are the Gods but power incarnate?

‘I assume you will need Ilumene to accompany you for the spell?’ Rojak said, his attention returning to Jackdaw. ‘Well then, you both must be at the tavern called The Lost Spur at midday, where you will observe a stranger, a Menin.’

‘Do you know his name?’ Jackdaw asked. ‘There are quite a few who could pass for Menin in the city. How will I know which is the right one?’

‘He is also looking for someone,’ Rojak replied, his eyes distant, fingers running softly across the strings of his lyre. ‘His name is Mikiss, Koden Mikiss.’

From the darkness below, Jackdaw heard a sharp hiss cut through the night.

The others heard it too. Ilumene’s free hand moved surreptitiously to his sword and Jackdaw saw a cold smile creep onto Rojak’s lips. The sound had come from the alley, too soft to be heard in anything but the dead of night. Jackdaw recognised it immediately: one of the four Hounds, the forest-spirits called gentry, enslaved by Rojak. Now the spirits stood guard, and that noise meant they had seen someone watching their new master.

‘Oh Princess,’ said Rojak, almost apologetically, ‘we did warn you to keep your nose out of our affairs.’

Jackdaw glanced at Ilumene, who looked as confused as he was. Before either could speak a snarl broke the silence in the shadowy alley below. It was swiftly followed by the rasp of swords being drawn. As Jackdaw craned to see, he was rewarded by a sudden flash of movement, a glimpse of metal and a bone-white mask.

The spy slashed behind him as he ran, catching nothing but not waiting to look back as he jumped up onto a wall and crouched to leap again. Before he could move, a pale limb flashed out and pushed him backwards off the wall. The spy rolled as he hit the ground, cutting up again with twin swords. One caught in a wooden ladder and stuck last; he didn’t wait to try to pull it out but immediately abandoned the weapon and darted away, heading for the mouth of the alley. From the shadows one of the Hounds appeared, kicked away the spy’s legs and disappeared back into darkness again. The man crashed down, hitting the floor hard and taking a moment to recover before he scrambled to his feet. He’d lost his other sword now and was in the process of drawing a long dagger from his belt when a muscular hand reached out from beyond Jackdaw’s sight and dragged the spy away.

The man shrieked, and Jackdaw flinched. The snarling that followed told its own story and he could not help hut picture the long, sharp teeth tearing the spy apart - but somehow the spy managed to pull free, and it was the Hound that staggered back, blood running from a long gash across its chest, ripping open both leather coat and flesh. Jackdaw could see blood on the Hound’s muzzle, but it was the spy who darted forward to press the advantage, a curved dagger raised high and threatening.

He didn’t get more than two steps before a blurring shape hit him in the shoulder and bore him to the ground. Jackdaw saw him turn and try to stab his new attacker, but a third Hound fell upon him at that moment and clamped its jaws around his forearm. The man howled in pain as one slashed down with its claws and lunged forward to snap at his throat. The screams stopped, though the spy fought on for a few more seconds, beating at the Hounds with his free hand, kicking wildly, like a panicked deer.

And then it was over. The Hounds bent low over their kill, rending the spy’s flesh from his bones, and Jackdaw could bear to watch no longer.

As he turned away, he realised Rojak hadn’t noticed - normally the minstrel took inordinate delight in death, but for some reason he was still looking out over the empty rooftops, a satisfied smile on his face.

‘Perhaps you will heed the warning a little better next time, Princess,’ he said to the night.

Without warning, a great flurry of movement appeared beside Jackdaw, fat trails of shadow suddenly rippling away like leaves caught in a whirlwind. Jackdaw and Ilumene both jumped back, the latter drawing his sword in the same movement. Rojak stayed still, betraying no surprise at the darkness coming to life a foot or two from where Jackdaw had been standing.

‘That was a poor lesson, then,’ snarled Zhia Vukotic as the movement coalesced to reveal the vampire, clad in a white fur-trimmed evening gown that accentuated the rusty stained skin of her neck and shoulders. She stepped forward, sparing a withering look for Ilumene, who had been advancing to meet her until Rojak raised a hand to stop the man.

‘I sent the man to gather information and information is what I have gained,’ she told the minstrel. ‘Anything else is no great consideration.’

For a moment it looked as if she would storm past the three men towards the stair that led to the ground, then something stopped her.

She leaned close to Rojak, her delicate nose screwed up in disgust at the smell, and spoke softly, calmly. ‘You think to issue me with warnings? Perhaps you don’t quite understand the balance of power in this city. Your theatre may have official sanction from Siala and protection from the Spider, but if you are determined to see unfortunate accidents happen to all your players, I will grant that wish. No patron, however powerful they may consider themselves, can protect you from me.’

‘Of course, Princess,’ Rojak replied in his usual tone, quite unfazed by the immortal vampire standing close enough to pluck his heart out. Jackdaw shivered at the man’s lack of fear, his absence of any real emotions. If Zhia did pluck his heart out right now, what would she find in her hand? A healthy organ, still beating, or a rotten piece of carrion? Was there anything Rojak had left to fear?

Rojak gave a small sigh. ‘But in the service of my art, what sacrifice would be too great?’

‘There’s your tavern, sir.’ Major Amber pointed. ‘Almost there now.’

Mikiss followed the soldier’s outstretched finger and tried to summon up a smile, but in the blistering sunshine, labouring under the weight of his pack, he couldn’t find the strength for anything more than a grunt. He began to tramp towards the tavern. The crumbling bricks of these buildings seemed to have been burnt red by the unholy summer sun. Everything he’d seen in Scree told of a careless neglect; even the larger buildings looked dirty and battered when they closed on them.

‘What a shithole of a city,’ muttered one of the men behind them. The two soldiers acting as bodyguards were brothers, Keneg and Shart. They didn’t look particularly similar, Shart being a few inches taller than his older, broader, brother, yet their voices were almost identical. Mikiss could never be sure who was speaking - although Sharl was always the more talkative - unless he was looking at them.

‘That’s saying something,’ Major Amber replied. He smiled back at the two behind, the strange eyes that gave him his nickname glinting in the light. ‘Don’t you two come from Dorin? I was there in the summer, after the snows had gone; never seen such a festering rat-pit in all my life.’

‘We can’t all be brought up in the lap of luxury, Major.’

Amber gave a snort. It was an old joke, repeated interminably during the journey. Mikiss had come to the conclusion that all soldiers sniped and teased each other, however absurd the reason. Whenever the mood fell sombre, there was always a piece of foolishness to fall back on, a welcome distraction to Death’s hand forever resting on their shoulders.