The Written (13 page)

‘No you prefer it out there in
the wilderness with fire and a sword, where it’s up to you and
nobody else,’ chuckled the Undermage.

Farden patted the sword resting
against his shoulder-blade. ‘Politics can run a city, or define a
nation, but men and magick are still what counts. You can’t hammer
in a nail with words.’

‘No but you can start a war
with them, that’s why we still have to be careful with the Sirens,’
said Vice, and he slowly came to halt. He looked at his friend.
‘Can you handle this…Farden?’

The mage stopped in his tracks
and crossed his arms. He frowned. ‘Straight to the point. What
happened to the democracy?’

‘I have to ask Farden, this is
bigger than anything you’ve ever undertaken. You’d be the first
Arka, nevermind a Written, to set foot in Nelska in fifteen years.
I only suggested it be you because, well who else is there?’

Farden tried to conceal his
pride. He shrugged. ‘It has to be done, and then, if I’m the one to
do it then, well that’s that, I go to Nelska.’

Vice slowly shook his head,
hiding a smile. ‘I always knew you were going to be difficult, the
first day I met you. Just be careful, you’re no use to the Arka
dead.’

The two men continued to walk.
‘Please, I get enough of that from Durnus,’ said Farden.

‘Ah, and how is that dusty old
vampyre of yours?’ It was Vice’s turn to the frown.

‘He’s fine.’ Farden tried to
skip that particular subject; the Undermage had never been fond of
Farden’s placement in Albion, nor Durnus. ‘Just get me on that ship
with the tearbook, and I’ll handle the rest,’ he said.

‘Alright, you heard Åddren,
tomorrow, at the west pier. But you guard that thing with your
life, and don’t let it out of your sight while you’re on the ship,
or in Nelska for that matter.’ Vice wagged a finger at Farden.
‘Don’t show them the Book either, as in...’ he waved his hand
towards his back. The mage understood.

‘I know. They can’t be trusted
any more than anyone else.’ Farden listened to the sound of their
footsteps for a while. ‘What happened at Arfell? I mean, what
really happened?’

They turned a corner, and Vice
looked around conspiratorially. He lowered his voice even further.
‘Three of the old men were so charred and burnt, they didn’t even
recognise them. The other two were found dead on the floor, slashed
wide open with a blade. In the morning the others smelled something
burning and saw the blood seeping out from under the door.’ He shot
Farden a serious look. ‘It was an assassination, pure and simple,
and a good one at that.’

‘Fuck,’ said Farden. He
couldn’t think of anything else to say. They came to a small spiral
staircase leading downwards into the citadel and Vice stopped. ‘I
think its best if you stay somewhere other than the Arkathedral
tonight, after what was just happened. There’s an inn nearby, on
Freidja street, called the
Bearded Goat
,
or something like that. I hear its surprisingly nice by Krauslung
standards.’

‘You sound like an old widow,’
sniggered Farden.

‘And remember, dawn at the west
pier.’

‘I’m never late.’

‘That’s very funny.’ The
Undermage shook his head. ‘I won’t see you tomorrow, I have to make
sure that Arfell is protected. I’ll see that the tearbook is sent
to Åddren tonight. Helyard has business to deal with in Albion
later, and I wouldn’t trust him with it anyway. He’d probably burn
it,’ he said with a scowl.

‘Albion?’ Farden looked at him
questioningly.

‘Something with one of the
Dukes near Kiltyrin, or Dunyra, I forget. Official business,’ he
shrugged, and his robe rustled. Farden nodded, wondering what the
Arkmage could possibly be doing in Albion. The mage stuck out a
hand, and Vice shook it warmly with both of his. ‘Thank you, again,
for this opportunity. And for how you supported my argument in
front of the Arkmages. I don’t think they would have listened to me
otherwise,’ said Farden.

‘I think you’re doing the right
thing friend, and I’m glad the Arka has somebody like you on our
side.’ Vice clapped the mage on the arm. ‘Now be careful in Nelska,
and remember what I said about words. Diplomacy is sometimes
necessary.’

‘I’ll see you soon Vice,’
Farden spun around and disappeared into the stairwell, taking the
steps two at a time.

‘May the gods be with you,’ the
Undermage shouted after him, and then he left with a sigh.

Night fell quietly, and
darkness slipped unnoticed into the streets and roads of the city.
Torches sparkled, and the noises of the evening began to fill the
cold air. Two figures walked silently through an alleyway, cloaked
and hooded, near to where the main wall met the mountain rock. As
they wandered further and further away from prying eyes, hands
reached out to torches and they hissed and died one by one. The
shadows were as thick as black velvet, and the two strangers knew
it.

Farden pulled his hood back and
held Cheska tightly by her hands. He could imagine her smiling at
him through the darkness. ‘I told you I’d find you,’ she said.

‘I’m glad you did,’ he replied,
barely finishing his words before he felt her lips catch his. Her
hands curled around his back, and they leaned against a nearby
wall. They kissed, hungrily, and held onto each other for what
seemed like an age.

Cheska finally pulled away,
almost breathless. ‘How long are you staying for?’

Farden hesitated. ‘They’re
sending me away again, tomorrow,’ he said with a sigh. Even in the
darkness he could see her disappointed face. Her voice was small.
‘When will you be back?’ Farden didn’t even need to answer; she
felt him shrug and shake his head.

‘I suppose being Arka’s finest
has its drawbacks,’ she said, and rested her head against his
shoulder. She was usually excited by his missions. Farden stroked
her hair. ‘I’ll be back, don’t worry.’

Cheska nodded. ‘I don’t doubt
you will, you always do, but I just want to spend more than two
hours with you before you disappear again,’ she said, and kissed
his neck. ‘I know its dangerous for us,’ she said, as if answering
for him. ‘And now that there’s the Ritual... It’ll be against the
law.’

‘I know.’ Farden scowled at the
shadows. ‘But I don’t care, I want you.’

‘So do I,’ she said, but before
she could go on there was a loud shout from nearby, and the orange
light of a torch started to creep up the alleyway. Someone was
singing.

‘Why’s it so daaaaark?’ sang
the offkey voice. Farden growled, and moved forward to stand in
front of Cheska. They put their hoods up, and let the shadows cover
their face. Soon enough a man appeared around the corner, holding a
candle and tottering from side to side across the cobblestones. He
was drunk, and being particularly loud. Farden felt anger rising in
his chest. He took a step forward, and the bleary-eyed man suddenly
noticed them.

‘Whoaaa! Hidin’ in the shadows
are we?’ slurred the man as he tried to keep walking up the
alleyway. He gave the hooded pair a wide stumbling berth and leered
at Cheska.

‘Quiet yourself, fool, before I
do it for you,’ snarled Farden.

‘Who’s your pretty friend mate?
She can come home with me if ye like?’ he laughed again, and the
mage took another step forward. Cheska put a hand on his arm and
held him back. ‘Don’t Farden,’ she whispered, and he nodded
grudgingly. Durnus’s words echoed in his ears.

‘Keep moving,’ said Farden, and
the man did, hollering and hooting with every step. The light
receded with the disappearing candle, and Farden moved back into
the shadows and wrapped his arms around Cheska. She toyed with his
hair. ‘You’ve always been so quick to anger, Farden,’

‘I don’t like people,’ he
scowled, watching the darkness.

‘But you like me.’

‘You’re different,’ he said,
giving her another kiss. ‘You’re not like the others. Somehow you
can keep me calm. Well, up until now.’

He heard her take a sharp
intake of breath. ‘Gods, Farden, you have to stop worrying about
this Ritual. I’m ready for this.’

‘And what does your father
think of all this?’

‘My father and his precious
advisors gave up on arguing with me a long time ago now. He knows
it’s what I want and grudgingly he leaves me to it. As should you.
Please stop worrying.’

‘Do you blame me?’ he
asked.

Cheska shook her head. ‘No, but
we can deal with this when you get back. Not now.’

‘Fine,’ said Farden.

‘I think it’s time I left,’ she
whispered in his ear. She kissed his cheek. ‘Please be safe,
wherever you’re going.’

Farden held her wrist. ‘I’d
tell you if I could.’

‘I know,’ said Cheska, and then
she kissed him once more, lingering on his lips. She ran a hand
over his weathered face, and then left, melting into the darkness.
Farden stayed a while, waiting until it was safe, and then walked
off in a different direction.

An hour later Farden was
sitting in the
Bearded Goat
quietly
sipping his drink and minding his own business. Vice had been
right, the inn was loud and full of drunken fools, but the quality
of the place and beverages and the food was good, and Farden had
found a quiet corner by the fireplace in the dim recesses of the
room. A
skald
was regaling the rumbustious
crowd with stories about the faerie incident. He stood on a table
near the door playing his stringed
ljot
,
kicking tankards of beer with his muddy feet, and belting out the
words at the top of his voice. A few women in thin frilly dresses
lounged about the place, grinning at any man who came close and
beckoning them closer with crooked fingers, nails painted with
gaudy yellows and reds. The men cheered and clanged their tankards
together, singing along, swinging some of the more sober women
around in drunken jigs. The mage watched them impassively. Alcohol
worked in mysterious ways.

Farden looked back into the
crackling flames and swirled his sweet red wine around in the
wooden cup, thinking about his day, and trying not to think about
Cheska. The fire was warming his cold toes even through his thick
travelling boots, and the warmth and the wine were starting to make
him sleepy. He crossed his legs and shuffled slightly closer to the
fireplace, and pulled his hood lower, down over his brow, blocking
out the loud men and women nearer to the bar. Someone coughed and
spluttered nearby, and Farden glanced in the direction of the
noise.

Next to him, nearer to the wall
in a shadowy corner, was an old beggar smoking a long dirty pipe.
Farden had seen him earlier, snoring away to himself near the
warmth of the fire, but now he was awake and peering about the
place with his beady rat-eyes. The grey man was ugly, unshaven, and
unkempt, with greasy hair and dirty patchwork clothes made from a
thousand different garments. Sprouting from his narrow chin was a
straggly beard coiled in little dirty strands and plaits, with bits
of dried stew clinging to it. He busied himself by chewing on the
mouthpiece of his curved pipe. Gnarled fingers drummed annoyingly
on the arm of the wooden chair he was curled up in. The mage looked
him up and down, and then back to his wine. The smell of his acrid
tobacco tickled his nose.

Farden took another sip of his
wine and tried to let his concentration melt into the warm fire,
but now he could feel someone looking at him. Casually he turned to
face the beggar and met his gaze. His little rodent eyes narrowed
and sparkled with a cheeky glint.

‘What do you want?’ said Farden
calmly.

The beggar chuckled, making his
whole body shake with the effort. His tobacco-smoke breath rattled
in his throat noisily. ‘Oh nothin’, thought I’d look at yer, seein’
as he’s lookin’ at me,’ said the man. He waggled his pipe in
Farden’s general direction. ‘Yew look like a strong fellow though,
don’t yer, all quiet and sad on yer own,’ he croaked, leering at
him with a mischievous smile.

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Oh nothin’ at all friend, jus’
makin’ conversation s’all,’ the beggar shrugged and sucked on his
pipe. It rattled against his dirty yellow teeth.

‘Well I’d appreciate the peace
and quiet if its all the same to you,’ Farden looked away, but out
of the corner of his eye he saw the man lean in closer. Smoke
escaped from his mouth like thick grey liquid and coiled towards
the ceiling.

‘Yew that mage? The one I ‘eard
about?’ asked the man.

Farden didn’t move. ‘There are
a lot of mages in Krauslung old man, I’m not one of them.’

‘Heehee, fair enough,’ he
cackled hoarsely, wheezing and slapping his knee, obviously finding
great humour in the answer. ‘But I seen yew around mage, runnin’
here, runnin’ there, yer important they say, one of the older ones.
I ‘eard about yew an those minotaurs sev’ral years back? Said yew
almost took ‘em all single ‘anded. Saw yer at the Arkathedral too,
an’ I can spot those pretty vambraces a mile away,’ the tramp
winked, nodding to the gold poking from under Farden’s sleeve. The
mage crossed his arms and eyed the man suspiciously. He blithely
wondered if he had seen this old wreck before.

‘Hah, yew ‘ave nothin’ t’ fear
from me, big strong lad like yerself...’ he paused, taking a drag
on his foul-smelling pipe. Farden wrinkled his nose. The man sucked
his blackened teeth and held it towards him. ‘Fancy a bit?’ he
asked.

Farden looked at the mouldy
pipe and shook his head with a grimace. ‘I don’t smoke,’ he
said.

The old man shrugged and looked
around furtively with his rat-eyes. His voice dropped to a hoarse
whisper. ‘How about that then, and yer look like the manner o’ man
who does. Maybe you prefer to chew it.’ His eager eyes scanned the
mage’s face and there was an awkward pause.