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‘What do you think that’s about?’ asked Bethany. Brendan glanced her way and said, ‘I have no idea.’ Bethany started back to where her father and the Duke were finishing their private chat. As the youngest son watched her go, he saw her turn again to stare at Martin. With a sigh, he said to himself, ‘Then again, maybe I do.’
The evening meal was a mixture of light banter interspersed with moments of quiet as everyone seemed caught up in their own thoughts. Martin and Bethany appeared to make a point of ignoring one another and Brendan was troubled by it.
The four of them had been raised together for as long as Brendan could remember. It was always assumed that some day Bethany would wed Hal, but Brendan now realized that was only an assumption, one that his father or mother had never spoken of; and right now he knew one thing, though he wasn’t sure he fully understood it. Something had changed between Bethany and Martin on her last visit. Without words, their feelings for each other had shifted. Martin had said nothing to his brother; not that he would, for Martin most among the family always kept his own counsel. But Bethany was also distant, chatting with his mother and managing somehow to avoid all the male members of the household as well as her own father.
He was currently lost in conversation with Brendan’s father, who had as yet to tell his sons why Earl Robert had appeared unexpectedly. Brendan balanced his youthful impatience with the knowledge that his father would tell him what he needed to know when he saw fit. Realizing there was no further reason to remain at the table, he said, ‘Father?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s been a long day. If you permit I’d like to turn in early.’
A little surprised by his usually rambunctious youngest’s request, the Duke waved permission and Brendan nodded to the others at the table and departed. A sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that no matter what else, little good could come out of what was passing between Martin and Bethany. With a fatigued sigh, he pushed open the door to his quarters and threw himself down on his simple bed. Rolling over, he stared at the stones of the ceiling and thought: perhaps the war will distract the two of them.
After the guests had retired Duchess Caralin turned to her husband. ‘Bed?’
Duke Henry sat on a divan, a recent addition to the old castle’s private quarters. The room had been used since the castle’s construction as an informal meeting room and the Duke had also decided it was ideal place for his family to spend time together; Henry found it far more convivial than the draughty great hall. He looked up from his musing and smiled. ‘No, a while longer I think. I have much to think about.’
Caralin tilted her head to regard her husband. They had spent nearly thirty years together and at times she knew him better than she knew herself, yet at moments like this she didn’t have a clue as to what he was thinking. ‘Robert’s news must have been very troubling.’
Henry’s eyes widened and he sat up a bit straighter. ‘Oh, that. No, that’s not it at all.’ He motioned for her to return to the divan and as she sat down he said, ‘I’m sorry. I should have mentioned that to you and the boys. Robert wanted to share some information about our neighbours to the east, the elves in E’bar.’
‘Oh,’ she said, her brow furrowing a little. ‘I thought it had to do with the coming war.’
‘It may, truth to tell,’ said her husband. ‘I hope not. I asked Robert to send a messenger to their Lord Regent informing him of the possibilities of conflict in the area. I had Robert stress that it likely would be nothing of import, just a precautionary warning.
‘The messenger rode for three days to the gates of their city and was stopped. According to Robert, whatever passes for a sentry officer with these elves refused to let him into the city, took the message, and turned the rider away.’
‘Well, he got the message then, didn’t he, this Lord Regent?’
‘Yes, but that’s not the point, dear. Nor is the poor treatment of the messenger. Elven manners are not our own. We have always been on good terms with the Elf Queen and her court to the north, but these newcomers are a different stripe of cat, I’m afraid. No, it’s what the officer said to the messenger.’
‘What was that?’
‘Any human who trespasses on the land of the taredhel – as they call themselves – would be “dealt with”.’
‘That sounds unfriendly.
‘Yes,’ he agreed with a slowly released breath, sounding fatigued. ‘If the Keshians come and these elves remain neutral, that’s one thing. If they close their borders entirely—’
‘Anyone fleeing eastward will be trespassing on their territory.’
As always, you grasp the heart of the matter.’
Softly, as if not to be overheard, she said, ‘Do you think ... we may have to flee?’
‘No, no,’ he said, hugging her for reassurance. ‘I’m just trying
to anticipate every possibility, my love.’ He kissed her cheek, then smiled as he looked into her eyes. ‘The Keshians moving against the Far Coast? Why would they do that?’ He stood and put out his hand, and she took it, and rose. ‘There’s nothing here they could possibly desire. Forests? Farms? They have ample forests and farms in the Empire of Great Kesh. No, they’ll almost certainly move against the Vale of Dreams again. And the Prince of Krondor will order Lord Sutherland and the Knight-Marshal of the West to drive them back, and when the dust settles, the old lines will be drawn again, with a jot of difference here, a smidgen of change there.’
Gripping his arm and walking closely at his side, Caralin said, ‘I hope you’re right.’
Silently he nodded, knowing he probably was, but prepared for being utterly wrong. As many married couples do, they conspired to walk together silently, not needing to say another word.
Pug sat behind his desk, as he had for countless days since coming to the island. But unlike most days, his mind refused to grapple with the problems before him. Instead it kept returning to Brandos’s question about rebuilding the villa.
He had no good reason for considering it. He found himself unable even to imagine beginning the work. He knew that with a small group of skilled craftsmen from the mainland, and some magic provided by Magnus and himself, the villa could be resurrected in months, rather than the years it had probably taken the original inhabitants of this island.
Yet something in him became angry at the very thought of rebuilding his home. It was as if even to think about it was to diminish the loss he still felt.
After Miranda had died his otherwise steely resolve had wavered. He had revisited that last moment of her life countless times, seeing it over and over again in his mind. If I had been a moment quicker, he thought to himself, or if I had seen the demon move an instant earlier … He knew the futility of this sort of thinking. He was over a hundred years old and had watched many people die unfortunate deaths – far more than had passed on in the fullness of their years – yet this death haunted him.
Yes, she had been his wife, and he had loved her …
Pug sat back and sighed. He reached for the pot of tea that had been sitting on his desk all morning and found it empty. He could ring a bell and someone would bring him a new pot. He looked at the mess his desk had become and realized he could ring that same bell and someone would sort out all the clutter. He then found himself laughing slightly, realizing he would spend more time searching for where one of his earnest young pupils had put things than he would just cleaning up the clutter himself.
First, tea.
Pug made his way down the long circular stairs from his office, in the tower atop the one opposite Amirantha’s. He wondered how the Warlock was getting on with his visit to E’bar and was certain he and Gulamendis were furiously comparing notes. He hoped the visit would produce something more tangible than the numerous dead ends they’d encountered.
After the bloody mess that had been the Gates of Darkness down in the Valley of Lost Men in northern Kesh, Pug had asked every contact he had around the globe – and there were many – to spread the word that there was wealth, safety, or both for any demon-summoner who wished it; all the Conclave wanted was more information.
Reaching the bottom of the tower, Pug was forced to admit the results had been less than spectacular. Those few magic-users who had made their way to Sorcerer’s Isle had proven to be charlatans, of limited knowledge and skill, ignorant of anything larger than their own narrow experience. A few had added one or two facts to Pug’s knowledge, but only to corroborate what he had suspected to be the case before they arrived: there were upheavals on an unimagined scale in progress in the demon realm.
Amirantha had also been trying to make sense of the ancient volume of demon lore they had retrieved from the island of Queg. He had done a fair job of divining what was nonsense, what was a metaphorical approximation of reality, and what could be called ‘facts’. Though Pug was beginning to think the demon realm’s very nature made ‘facts’ somewhat mutable.
As he entered the great room, Pug caught sight of his son. ‘Magnus.’
Magnus turned and regarded him. After a brief second he said, ‘Something’s up. What?’
‘Let’s rebuild the villa.’
The younger magician hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘I think that’s a good idea.’ Looking at the empty teapot in his father’s hand he said, ‘May I join you?’
‘Always.’
The kitchen was empty but the fire still burned in the metal stove constructed within the roasting hearth. Pug filled the pot with water from a large bucket, then rinsed it out, and refilled it. He put it down in front of the fire on the hot metal plate, and waited for it to boil.
‘What caused you to change your mind?’ asked Magnus.
‘It’s time.’ So much of what he fought against was a dark despair that arose from a bargain struck with Lims-Kragma, the Death Goddess, when he had been given three choices: to end his life at the hands of the demon Jakan, to take up the burden of becoming an avatar of the God of Magic, hastening his return to Midkemia, or to come back and finish the struggle, but at a price. The price was to watch everyone he loved die before him. So far that had included a son, adopted daughter, then another son and his wife. Of his bloodline, only Magnus remained. There were the three foster-grandsons, Jommy, Tad, and Zane … Pug was forced to admit he had let his fear of the curse allow him to become estranged from his great-grandsons, Jimmy and Dash Jamison. While not blood relatives (they were his adopted daughter’s children) they still were dear to him. And there was Jim Dasher, Jimmy Jamison’s grandson. Pug sighed; he liked the complex, dangerous man, mostly because there were moments when he glimpsed his many-great-grandfather, Jimmy the Hand, in him, but if there was any spark of affection it had not been fanned into a flame. He liked Jim, but he hardly loved him.
Over the years Pug had become adept at steeling himself against feelings that might cause him to betray his higher calling, to protect this world and everyone else on it. Yet those feelings were there – hidden, buried even – but there nevertheless.
As they waited for the kettle to boil, Magnus said, ‘Who should oversee the rebuilding?’
‘I will, I think,’ said his father. ‘I know every beam and stone of that place as well or better than anyone else.’ He smiled. ‘I lived there longer than anyone else.’
Magnus returned the smile. ‘It’s good to see you … this way, Father.’
‘Losing your mother and brother was hard on you, too, Magnus. I lost sight of that in my own grief, I’m sorry to say.’
Magnus was silent for a moment. His face reminded Pug of Miranda’s. It was longer than his father’s, with higher cheekbones; but his eyes were from some mysterious ancestor unknown to Pug. They were as blue as frozen ice, and could gaze right through a person. He said softly, ‘I have never been a man to measure my sorrows against another’s sorrows, Father. I thought you were not as well.’
‘I just mean that becoming lost in my own misery, I perhaps didn’t give as much attention to your pain; that is all.’ Pug lowered his eyes. ‘It’s a poor father who turns his back on his son’s hurt, no matter how grown the son.’
Magnus nodded. ‘We are both the sort to retreat into ourselves at times like that. There is no fault in this; it’s a matter of our nature.’ With a slight smile he said, ‘Besides, I’m too big for you to pick up so I can cry on your shoulder.’
Pug was forced to laugh. ‘It’s been a few years since I did that, hasn’t it?’
The water reached a simmer and Magnus fetched the pot. He put it down on the table and said, ‘What now?’
Pug looked at his son and picked up the pot. ‘Now, I’ve got a mess of an office to deal with; tomorrow we begin rebuilding.’
Magnus impulsively reached out and hugged his father, then said, ‘Good.’
Pug left the kitchen while his son sat back down at the table. After a moment Magnus let out a long sigh and allowed himself a short time to reflect. As tears welled up in his eyes he wiped them away and stood up. There was a great deal of work to be done and it would not wait because some wounds would not heal. And perhaps the work would help the healing. Still, deep within was a sense that even after all the years since his mother’s and brother’s deaths, there was no hope of those wounds healing, but perhaps time might deaden them.
The lookout aloft shouted ‘Sails in sight!’ and the captain called for men aloft. As much as he hated being barefoot in the cold, Jim Dasher, freebooting merchant sailor out of Hansulé, endured it. Jim knew enough of the barmen, whores, and dockworkers to convince anyone he was Jaman Rufiki. His dark hair but fair skin made him look like a Sea of Kingdoms man, which fitted with his false life story: born in Pointer’s Head, whence he had first shipped out, then spent years along the Great Sea, from Ithra down to Brijané.
He had used his transportation orb to arrive in Queral unseen, where he was met by his agents. No one south of that city had reported in the last three months and he suspected his safe houses in the south of the Empire might have been compromised. He didn’t wish to risk appearing in a room full of murderers in Hansulé, so he arrived at the nearest city where he knew he’d be safe, purchased as fast a horse as he could and rode it nearly to death getting to Hansulé.
There he had found what Franciezka’s agents had reported to her; a massive fleet at anchor, nearly two hundred ships. He wondered if another hundred had departed since her agents had last reported or if their report had been inaccurate. One night in the local taverns had given him his answer: the initial three hundred had departed southward, as reported, and another hundred had left just the week before, also heading south.
Jim had been left to ponder what madness had gripped the Imperial Keshian Court. Peace had benefited both nations since the ill-fated attempt by Kesh to lay siege to Krondor after the Serpent War. The West from the Far Coast to Krondor had been in shambles after the Emerald Queen’s invasion had driven the Armies of the West back to Nightmare Ridge where at last they had been thrown back.
Pug had forced an armistice down the throats of both sides, effectively severing all ties with the Kingdom, but saving it nevertheless. Now after years of rebuilding, the Kingdom was as strong in the West as they had been before the Emerald Queen’s invasion of the Bitter Sea. War now made no sense whatsoever.
There must be something I’m not seeing, Jim thought as he climbed the rigging. As much as he hated sailors’ work, he was good enough at it that he aroused no suspicion. Getting this berth had been more difficult than anticipated, since the Imperial Keshian Army was involved. They had guards standing at every recruitment position at the docks, and Jim had no doubt agents of the Imperial Intelligence Corps were as well. His current opposite number was the young and very talented Kaseem abu Hazara-Khan, the latest in a line of very wily desert men from the Jal-Pur entrusted with the safety of the Empire.
Jim had liked his father a great deal, but he had come to an untimely demise, one Jim was certain was not natural. All Jim knew was he had had no hand in it, a fact he had made sure to impress on Kaseem. Even to this day, two years later, Jim had no inkling of who had managed to kill the cleverest man he had ever opposed. Even if he had wanted him dead – which he had on more than one occasion – he was uncertain how he might manage it. And without vanity, Jim knew if he couldn’t think of a way, no one else should be able to, either.
Jim didn’t know Kaseem well; he was difficult to read and he had never seen him face-to-face, as he had his father. In Jim’s line of work, one learned of one’s opponents by how they operated their networks, conducted the spy trade, and how many bodies littered the way. The Hazara-Khans, going back to the founder of the Imperial Keshian Intelligence Corps, Abdur Rachman Memo Hazara-Khan, had been adept at keeping bloodshed to a minimum while confounding the Kingdom as often as they could. Jim was merely the latest head of the King’s spy network to curse the day the Hazara-Khans first drew breath.
Jim knew one thing: all intelligence went through Kaseem abu Hazara-Khan, and if he could have an hour with him, Jim might learn why the greatest empire in the world’s history had decided to attack the second and third most powerful nations together. For to attack the Isles was to attack Roldem: they were too closely allied for the Kingdom of Roldem to back away graciously from the conflict and play the part of neutral party or honest broker.
Jim reefed sails along with the other seamen, his feet planted firmly on the ropes below the yard. He looked up and saw the ship was slowly being brought into a harbourage on the north side of a massive island. The Island of Snakes, he thought. Why would we be stopping here?
As he secured the sails he did a rough calculation. About thirty or more ships were at anchor, a few warships, but mostly merchant vessels, the majority being coast-huggers like the one he served on. Jim knew as soon as he signed on the Suja that he was not heading around the world. There had been no deepwater ships in the flotilla in Hansulé when he had arrived. He just didn’t know if they would be heading north or south. As soon as they weighed anchor, he had known they’d be following the two fleets that had departed before them.
Gossip had it that the first fleet had consisted mostly of warships with a few support vessels. He assumed they would enter the Bitter Sea and sweep away any Quegan galleys foolish enough to come south or any privateers sailing out of Durbin. Their target had to be the Kingdom’s fleet at Port Vykor. If they came in and hit them fast, they could set up defences in that captured city and keep the Armies of the West from moving to support the Kingdom town of Landreth on the north shore of the Sea of Dreams. If they could hold it for a month, the Vale of Dreams would effectively be Kesh’s for years to come.
But why stop at a deserted island? They were sufficiently provisioned for the journey up to Elarial, which was a large city with deepwater facilities for refitting and outfitting ships. It was the logical place to replenish supplies. So why were they here?
Jim finished his work as the anchor was dropped and word was passed for the day watch to go below to the mess. He headed down the companionway and fell in line to get his meal. He ate without thinking about what was in the bowl and drank the weak, watery ale that was his portion for the day.
Above his head he could hear activity on deck and wondered who was working if the day watch and night watch were both below. Unlike deepwater ships on long voyages, there was no middle watch. Once sails were set along the coast and the business of keeping the ship in good order was in hand, there were ample moments for rest on either watch.
When the meal was over, most men fell into bunks, as was their habit, but Jim went up on deck to see if he could make any sense of what was taking place. He reached the top of the companionway and ducked down as he came out, just in case the captain or first officer was concerned about such a trespass.
No one was watching the exit from below. The Suja was a two-master, both lateen-rigged, and was well suited to work the coasts. Her company was small, no more than thirty men, so Jim had little trouble staying out of view.
In the distance he could see boats ferrying cargo from the island to the ships anchored closer to the shore. The captain glanced down from the poop deck and noticed Jim, but said nothing, turning his attention back to the land. Jim took that to mean there was no prohibition about being on deck.
Whoever had been unloading on deck had made quick work of it. A bundle of what looked to be small crates was lashed down near the forecastle, under a canvas cover. Jim moved to the railing and looked down to see the longboat that had brought the cargo pulling away. Those on deck must have gone over the side just moments before Jim had come up on deck.
In the longboat were four sailors rowing easily, since the large craft was empty. In the stern was a hooded figure with his hand on the tiller and when Jim noticed the hand, his heart almost leapt into his throat.
Sticking out of the sleeve of a deep red robe was a green-scaled hand ending in black talons. There was only one race on this world it could belong to.
Pantathians!
• CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_fdb939ae-d93d-517c-9d53-f437a15d4f39) •
Traveller (#ulink_fdb939ae-d93d-517c-9d53-f437a15d4f39)
CHILD SCREAMED.
The flyer had come out of the noonday sun, and struck hard enough to stun her for a moment. Only by ducking her chin and twisting to the left did she manage to avoid having her throat ripped out from behind, though she took a deep gash to her shoulder. She swung her elbow viciously, catching the flyer on the side of the head.
It was all she needed.
Before the flyer regained his senses she had her fangs in his throat and had bitten down hard and deep enough to end his life. Thoughts and images came flooding into her, as was always the case with a kill, and she felt herself grow again. She was now physically the match of any but the most powerful demon lords: the flyer only survived for as long as it did because of surprise and her momentary disorientation. She realized this might continue to be a problem, for she did not appear to be as powerful as she was. It was her magic and knowledge that had given her an advantage over the vast majority of individual demons she encountered, and she was wise enough to avoid groups too powerful to destroy.
She had grown in size and was as physically mature as she was likely to get through natural means. She was, by the standards of their race, a particularly striking female. Gender was often a matter of choice among demonkind, and some like Belog were male in only the most superficial sense of the term.
For striking she was, tall and lithe, with curving hips and long legs. She had a flat stomach despite her ravenous appetite, and had developed a round, if small, bosom. Her neck was long but what was most striking were her features; she had kept her small fangs, but otherwise her face was almost human in her features, as if she was inclined to become a succubus of the First Realm. Belog wondered if perhaps in her previous existence she had been such, for she had shown only passing interest in them, yet had seemed almost single-minded in her curiosity about the demon realm.
She paused as she drank in the essence of the flyer and realised she had to exert her will. She felt a strong desire to transform herself into a flyer. She didn’t hesitate. Flying would have given her speed and the ability to hunt, but she would lose strength, and as she sensed her power growing, she decided it was better to guard her strength rather than waste it by transforming herself into a creature of lesser might.
She knew that should she choose, she could direct her future growth to choosing wings. But to be a flyer of her size would require mastery of magic, a topic she returned to frequently, so it was a possibility, just not now.
She motioned to Belog to come out from behind the rocks where he hid, waiting to see the outcome of the attack, knowing that had the flyer been victorious, Belog would have attempted to steal away while the flyer feasted upon her.
They were in the middle of a vast plateau riven with gullies, valleys with dead ends; deep crevasses which forced them to double back and pick their way across the baked red landscape. It was torturous travel, but they kept moving.
The air hung heavy with dust and the smell of sulphur, metallic hints of copper and iron, and the stench of decay. Plumes of hot gases erupted around them, foul, yellowish geysers and fumaroles. Hellish was the only word to describe it, a fact she found oddly amusing, but she wasn’t entirely sure why.
She beckoned for him to consume what she had left. As he ate, she asked, ‘Why are the flyers so slight?’
‘Creatures that fly have hollow bones, though the bone wall is sturdy. They must be light so their wings can lift them. The muscles that drive the wings are powerful, though.’ He stopped to bite deep into the dead flyer’s haunch. There was still enough energy left within the flesh to sustain him for a few more days. She was being generous in how much she provided. Or calculating; it was the nature of demons that the first sacrifice to hunger was intelligence, yet her desire for knowledge was equal to her hunger for flesh. She was not only keeping him alive, she was keeping him useful.
He swallowed, then said, ‘Some flyers can lift their own weight, but they tend to be smaller than this. It is a limited choice.’
‘I came to that conclusion just now. Why give up power?’
‘Speed and vision, each is a different sort of power. You can see threats coming from farther away; you can outrun pursuit. You can soar high above the struggle.’ He shrugged as if to indicate he was offering reasons, not making a judgment. ‘But you have to sacrifice strength.’
‘I have seen …’ She stopped. ‘No, I have another’s memories of massive flyers, carrying weapons and wearing armour.’
