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‘Sounds uncomfortable.’
With a small, bitter laugh, the Demon Master said, ‘It was. So, we invited you years ago, and now you appear. Why?’
‘To the point,’ agreed Amirantha. ‘Pug and I have been chasing every tale of demon or summoner since we witnessed—’ he paused as Gulamendis held up his hand, palm outward, cautioning him against specifics, ‘—what we witnessed. So far we have found little that is useful: empty huts, abandoned homes, deserted caves. Or we find signs of conflict and destruction. Not one demon summoner we had working for our …’ he glanced around, ‘… friends, has survived.’
At the choice of words, Gulamendis queried, ‘Survived?’
‘Someone, it appears, is hunting down Demon Masters and summoners,’ said Amirantha quietly. ‘And it appears a fair number of demons have come into the world and broken wards and killed their summoners.’
‘They’d be powerful,’ said Gulamendis thoughtfully.
‘But where are they?’
Gulamendis was silent for more than a minute as he pondered the question. Finally he said, ‘How many do you estimate?’
‘More than a dozen.’
‘Ah.’ He smiled as he looked at his human friend. ‘Now I see the reason for the visit. Does Pug know?’
‘He knows there are more than a dozen demons loose in this realm. He doesn’t know the significance of that fact.’
‘Demons hiding.’ Gulamendis appeared amused by the revelation. ‘It hardly bears contemplation, does it?’
The Warlock was forced to agree. ‘Nothing like this has occurred before.’
‘That we are aware of, you mean.’
Amirantha, Warlock of the Satumbria, let out a long sigh. ‘Because if this is true, one must ask, how many others are there we know nothing of, and—’
‘Why are they here?’ finished the elf.
Child studied the terrain below. It had been a week since she had devoured her mother and she had fed only three times since. Most of the energy consumed had gone to replenish her already-depleted strength, but she had gained a little size and power. She didn’t question how she knew what she knew: what she had inherited from those she ate, and what was from her own experience. She didn’t care. She had to survive. That was all she needed to know; everything else was academic.
A group of three small creatures huddled below an overhanging rock, much as she and her mother had a week before, waiting for dark apparently in the hope that they could find better shelter. She wondered why they weren’t concerned by night predators. She knew the night predators to be even more dangerous than those who hunted in the day.
This piece of knowledge wasn’t something she had inherited; this was from experience. There had been a bitter fight the night after she had consumed her mother. The night hunter had been upon her before she had even known she was under attack. Only a slight misjudgment on his part had saved her, for rather than snap her neck the hunter had bitten deep into her shoulder. She used the scant instant she had gained to reach up with her left hand and use her claws to good effect. She had forced him to release his bite, then spun while yanking his head back until it had been her fangs ripping out his throat.
She had gained a great deal of knowledge on how to hunt in these mountains from him. And her night vision was now exceptional. She had used her new abilities to good advantage, but even so, the amount of prey was scant. Now she looked down upon a possible feast.
It depended on how able these three were likely to be at protecting themselves. She had learned almost at forfeit of her life that there was a gulf between knowledge and experience. By consuming the Archivist’s knowledge, she knew a great deal more than any her age among the People should know, but as far as experience was concerned she still was a child. The Child, as she thought of herself.
But although she lacked experience, she possessed cunning. She was sure she could master all three of these pitiful fugitives if she planned … Planned? she thought. Until that moment her existence had been mostly in the moment, with some part of her consciousness knowing she needed to move east, to get away from the advancing darkness. She wished she could trap a flyer, for if she could consume one, she might gain the blessing of flight; her essence was still forming, and with flight she would be able to hunt better, move faster, and reconnoitre more efficiently. Unfortunately, flyers had been rare and when she had seen them they had been far too high to attract their attention. Besides, she had considered at last, any flyer bold enough to attack her directly would probably be both experienced and powerful.
Glancing around, she saw the shadows deepen, dark maroon and purple shades slipping into black, while the brilliance of the red, yellow, and orange rocks faded to grey before her eyes. There was something tickling at the edge of her mind, a pleasant feeling at witnessing this otherwise prosaic event. After a moment she connected it to a concept; it was nice to look at; it was … pretty? Yes, that was the concept. It made her feel better to look at something pretty.
She waited, and when the sun was low in the west the three fugitives came out from their hiding place. She instantly recognized the robes of the last to emerge: another Archivist. She smiled. Scampering above them for a dozen yards, she leapt upon the first in line, breaking his neck before he could react, then wheeled and ripped out the throat of the second.
The Archivist crouched, seeing the futility of running from a more powerful opponent, and backed away. What was he doing? she wondered. Then she laughed. ‘You think that if hunger has driven me to a frenzy, I may devour these two while you make your escape?’
The Archivist said, ‘Yes, that would be logical.’
She tapped the side of her head. ‘I know things, too. I have devoured one of your class.’
The Archivist stood, drawing himself up to his full height. He was about the size she had been days before; now she towered over him by two heads. ‘Why do you not attack?’
She moved towards him purposefully. ‘Tell me about the difference between knowledge and experience.’
‘Knowledge is abstracted,’ he answered, ‘learned from any number of sources. Experience is that which we encounter in our own right, as life brings it, and from which we process knowledge that can be gained no other way.’
‘Which is better?’
‘Knowledge,’ said the Archivist without hesitation. ‘Experience is limited, while knowledge can be gained from many other beings’ experiences.’
‘But knowledge without experience …’ she began.
He finished, ‘… limits how well that knowledge can be applied.’
‘What is missing?’
‘You need a teacher.’
She smiled. ‘Yes. If you teach me, I will let you live; more, I will hunt for you.’
Seeing the powerful young female before him, the Archivist knew there was only one answer that would enable him to live beyond the few seconds. ‘I will teach you. I am Belog.’
‘I am Child. Come, eat with me.’
Seeing nothing odd in it, the Archivist joined his new student in feasting on the two servants who had moments before been his companions. He considered that while he had not devoured a companion since his youth it was, after all, the way of the People.
No matter how civilized their King Dahun might have tried to make them, they were at heart the same as the Savage Ones or the Mad Ones. At their core they were all demons.
• CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_b8184647-5fcb-5f79-bddc-9d610f89b917) •
Court (#ulink_b8184647-5fcb-5f79-bddc-9d610f89b917)
THE HERALDS BLEW THEIR TRUMPETS.
The entire court turned and bowed as the King of Roldem entered, escorting his wife to their twin thrones at the far end of the great hall of the palace.
The hall was bedecked in the royal colours, large banners of powder blue with golden trim, featuring the dolphin crest of the royal house. The King’s personal guard likewise wore tabards of the same colours, but the rest of the evening’s finery was a riot of different hues.
In years past the fashion of the court had gone through a phase Jim Dasher thought of as ‘drab’. Muted grey and black attire for the men and deep, dark colours for the women’s gowns, but this season those who decided such things had decreed that bright festive colours would be the choice. Jim felt a little odd in a brilliant green tunic and yellow leggings. He prayed that trousers would return to fashion soon; he disliked tights.
His black boots were ankle-high and the most valued item he wore; despite their fashionable appearance they were durable and versatile, just as useful for clambering over rooftops without slipping as for slogging through the sewers, since they could be cleaned with a simple wipe of a cloth.
Jim hadn’t clambered over a rooftop or slogged through a sewer for a few years, but some habits were hard to break. He glanced around the room.
Young Lord Henry stood next to Ty Hawkins, while Talwin Hawkins was in conversation with a minor Keshian noble. Jim made a note to ask Tal what the Keshian had wanted to speak of. He knew that war was almost certainly coming and he knew that every agent of Kesh in the Kingdom Sea region would be gathering every scrap of information out there, as were his own agents, some fifteen of which were currently on this island.
Jim kept his frustration buried: to the casual onlooker he would be another minor Kingdom noble come to the court of Roldem for personal or political gain, but one hardly worth more than a cursory examination despite his famous grandfather. At this point in his career, Jim knew he was known to his enemies, who were many, and appeared transparent to those who weren’t. This was as he wished it, for as long as the pretence was kept up, no harm would come to him when he appeared openly at court. It was when he vanished from sight and emerged among the shadows that murder would begin.
Jim moved among the crowd making his way slowly towards the throne. He could expect to be presented to the King in about an hour, some time just before the Champion of the Masters’ Court was presented.
He studied young Ty Hawkins, involved in an animated conversation with Henry conDoin. The King of the Isles’ distant cousin listened with a smile as his opponent of the previous day told a tale.
It was on young men such as these that the fate of the Kingdom of the Isles, and perhaps all of Triagia, would turn, Jim knew. Capable young men who were free of the corruption of politics and greed.
Ty was problematic, because his father was a Kingdom noble in name only. That fiction had been created by the Conclave to employ Tal as a weapon for the Conclave’s service, and it gave him entrance to certain venues in the Kingdom of the Isles, just as his rank as past Champion of the Masters’ Court gave it to him here in Roldem, but Talwin Hawkins was a grudging servant of the Conclave at best and no servant at all at worst. Still, keeping him at least as an ally would serve, if the son could be captured, thought Jim. And if the need arose, Jim had the power to make that false patent of nobility a real one. Not that Tal needed it, as he was becoming rich beyond the dreams of the mountain boy he had once been, but it might prove useful to turn his son into a Kingdom noble some day. In Roldem they would both have status as Champions of the Masters’ Court, but neither would achieve rank. And as Jim knew rank, as well as privilege, had its uses.
Now it was Henry’s turn to tell a tale. Jim had no doubt both stories were being inflated to bolster the young men’s standing; they stood like two young roosters with their chests puffed out, seeing who could crow loudest at daybreak. One day they’d be bitter rivals or like brothers, and only fate would determine which it would be.
Jim looked away from the throne and felt his heart sink. Making a beeline for him was the Kingdom of the Isles’ ambassador to Roldem, his excellency Lord John Ravenscar; and on his arm was none other than the Lady Franciezka Sorboz.
‘My lord,’ said the ambassador, fixing Jim with a sceptical look. ‘I was unaware you were in Roldem,’ he said. It was customary for Kingdom nobles to make themselves known to the ambassador upon arriving on the island.
‘Apologies, your excellency,’ said Jim. ‘The press of business caused me to be remiss in my duty.’
‘You know the Lady Franciezka, I believe,’ said the ambassador. The sight of the portly bureaucrat, resplendent in a maroon silk surcoat, white ruffled suit, and white leggings made Jim wish even more fervently for the return of men’s trousers to this court, for he looked like nothing more than a fat-bellied, spindly-legged turkey in those hose.
Franciezka, on the other hand, looked magnificent in whatever she wore, Jim knew from experience. She also looked magnificent wearing nothing at all, which Jim also knew from experience. They had been lovers on several occasions, and she had tried to kill him twice, for purely professional reasons. She was one of the King of Roldem’s deadliest agents and ran the equivalent of Jim’s intelligence service, the Secret Police of Roldem.
She had the face of a girl ten years younger, a fact that had enabled her to disguise herself as a child when needed; she could look the part of a girl of fifteen or less or a crone of eighty years. She had a slender body bordering on the boyish, except for a round backside which Jim had always had a weakness for, but he knew her body to be as strong as a rapier’s blade, deadly despite being slight.
Pale blonde hair which was almost white in the day’s sunlight framed delicate features. Large blue eyes turned upon him as she said, ‘Why, Lord James, I’m almost as aggrieved as the ambassador at your not letting me know you were in the city.’
She wore a brilliant yellow gown with green silk trim set with pearls of white and black, and a series of gold-threaded tassels hung at the hem, sweeping the floor as she moved. Like the other ladies’ gowns this evening, her décolletage was cut low, the bodice was lifted, and the waist cinched. Jim wondered how women breathed in these outfits. The skirt flared out slightly to the sides and behind, with a daring slit up the front to knee height.
Jim felt some pleasure in noting that the colour of their clothing was complementary.
With a smile, Jim said, ‘I find that surprising, my lady. I would have assumed someone you knew might have mentioned I was in town.’
‘Oh, you underestimate how hard you can be to find, at times, my lord,’ she said, batting her long fair lashes in an almost theatrical way that seemed to captivate Lord Ravenscar and annoy Jim in equal measure.
Jim found himself wondering what Franciezka was after. She was not one given to idle banter or social small talk unless it was part of a ploy. She was an important figure at the royal court of Roldem, but few knew her real role. She was a minor lady-in-waiting to the Princess Stephané, a tutor-cum-surrogate elder sister. Certainly, Queen Gertrude couldn’t have found a better instructor to show the younger woman how to spot men of bad intent from across the room. But this was the sort of event Franciezka was usually more than content to avoid.
That gave Jim pause for a moment to glance towards the thrones. Three sons and a daughter and all ripe for state marriage. The two older princes, Constantine and Albér, were in attendance, both wearing the uniforms of the Roldem navy, Constantine an admiral and his younger brother a captain. Grandprey wore the dress uniform of an army general, and it was considered by most that he was the most able commander among the three. Some day his brother would be king and Grandy, as he was known, would be his Lord Marshall, while Albér would command the fleet as Grand Admiral.
Constantine was the prize, for his wife would some day be queen, but after him came Stephané. As the King’s youngest and only daughter, she commanded a special place in her father’s heart, and he would wed her carefully as much for her happiness as his kingdom’s security. No lesser prince of Kesh or an Eastern Kingdom minor noble would take her leagues away from her parents. She would probably end up married to a noble of Roldem, possibly a Kingdom noble, but one who would live here, close to the palace, for that was the King’s pleasure.
‘Those two boys don’t have a clue, do they?’ asked Franciezka.
‘My lady?’ asked Lord Ravenscar.
Jim smiled, knowing exactly what she meant. ‘No, but it’s their night – particularly Ty’s, though Henry having been forced to withdraw due to injury makes it his night as well. Let them dream of a beautiful princess for one night.’
And Jim was forced to admit the Princess had become a true beauty, which surprised many. Her mother had been judged a handsome woman in her youth, but never a head-turner. She had been the Grand Duchess of Maladon to the north. The Duchy of Maladon and Semrick had strong ties to the Isles, but her father had wished for strong ties to Roldem. So the marriage had been arranged. The King and Queen had come to care deeply for one another, and were temperamentally well suited as a couple.
Roldem’s position in the Sea of Kingdoms made it a unique power. Its navy wasn’t as large as Kesh’s or that of the Kingdom of the Isles, but it was the best, ship for ship. The royal court of Roldem had seen to that, employing the finest and most innovative shipwrights and ship-fitters in the world. Like the navy, the army of Roldem was a crack outfit, man for man the equal of any, though far smaller than either of its more powerful neighbours.
Roldem’s power derived from its history: it was the first of the truly great courts on the continent of Triagia, exporting a great deal of its culture to the Kingdom of the Isles and the Eastern Kingdoms. Even Great Kesh, while an older nation, didn’t reach the heights of art and science that Roldem had for years after consolidating its far-flung empire.
And Roldem’s position had been enhanced when it moved in a combined assault on the Duchy of Olasko to thwart the evil plans of the mad necromancer, Leso Varen, resulting in the overthrow of Kaspar, Duke of Olasko. The installation of Duke Varen Rodoski, a cousin of Roldem’s king, brought Olasko into Roldem as its biggest duchy. While the Kingdom of the Isles muttered about this, Jim knew it was the only outcome that could have kept peace in the region. Besides, it made Roldem a better ally for the Isles in the fight that was surely coming.
Franciezka laughed. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in dreaming, is there, my lord?’
Lord Ravenscar looked completely lost as to exactly what they were talking about. ‘I … ah, of course,’ he agreed.
‘Come, Excellency,’ said Franciezka, ‘let us have a cup of wine and you can tell me the court gossip from Rillanon.’
Obviously glad to have her to himself, Lord Ravenscar bowed slightly to Lord James, than began to lead the lovely woman away. Franciezka let a green silken handkerchief slip out of her hand. It fluttered to the ground at Jim’s feet. At a carefully-judged moment, she turned and said, ‘Oh, dear. A moment, your excellency.’ She turned back before the ambassador could see what was happening to retrieve the handkerchief which Jim had just picked up. Smiling, she said softly, ‘My townhouse. Midnight. Come alone and don’t be seen.’
Jim handed over the dropped kerchief without a word. As he watched her retreat from him, he wondered whether this would be a social or a political call. Either way, he conceded, it would prove interesting.
Jim reached the thrones just as the two combatants were bowing and backing away. He had misjudged his status and had been presented after the two finalists in the Masters’ Court, not before them, and arrived just as the herald was announcing, ‘Earl Murroy, Envoy Plenipotentiary without portfolio from His Majesty, the King of the Isles, Lord James Jamison, Baron of the Prince’s Court.’
The last title was the reason Ravenscar and others who served as resident ambassadors disliked Jim so much; he had the King’s authority – really, his grandfather, the Duke of Rillanon’s – to do pretty much as he saw fit when it came to any political situation on the Sea of Kingdoms. It tended to eclipse their sun just a bit.
Jim moved forward, bowed before the entire royal family and muttered his wishes for their good health and long life. He nodded with a smile as the King muttered something pleasant in return, then departed.
As he did so, he noticed some familiar figures also approaching: four young men, two escorting young women. The two who escorted the women were as unalike as two men could be. One was slender, with dark hair and eyes and the quick moves of an athletic fencer. The other was red-headed, broad of shoulder and looked like a brawler. He grinned widely at the sight of Jim Dasher. ‘Jim! We didn’t know you were here.’
Jim made his greetings, first to the ladies who returned his genuine smile. Of all the people in Roldem he genuinely enjoyed spending time with, he now was in the presence of the majority. ‘A moment,’ said the red-headed man. ‘Matters of court protocol.’
The herald announced, ‘Your majesties, the Earl Servan and the Countess Lauretta.’ The dark-haired man bowed. ‘Uncle, Aunt, to your good health.’
The King smiled. ‘It is good to have you in court, as always, Nephew.’
As they moved away, the herald sang out, ‘Sir Jonathan Killaroo and the Lady Adella.’ They were greeted and moved on. The two single men were introduced as ‘Sir Tad’, and ‘Sir Zane’, and after they had made their obeisances the group continued with Jim in tow to a large buffet where food was being portioned out to the guests.
Sir Jonathan spoke softly in his wife’s ear, then kissed her cheek and moved off to speak to Jim in relative privacy. ‘Any word?’ asked Jim.
‘Nothing,’ said Jommy, which was the name by which the one-time street tough from the distant continent of Novindus was known to his friends. ‘The Conclave’s agents are just as silent as your own.’
The relationship between Jim Dasher and the Conclave of Shadows had been a long but strained one, and often it was the bond of friendship these two men shared which kept it from fraying any further. The four young men had served with Jim in a struggle against a demon cult known as the Black Caps, and the shedding of blood together had left them close.
Glancing around, Jim noticed Servan’s gaze had wandered to where the two of them spoke. ‘How are you getting along with Servan these days?’
Jommy laughed. ‘He’s got a good heart, and in another life we’d be brothers, but I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me for marrying his sister.’
‘She seems happy enough.’
‘She should. She’s expecting our third.’
Jim clapped Jommy on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations!’
Servan heard the word and saw the two men smiling and turned away with a rueful smile of his own, shaking his head as if asking silently by what cruel fate the gods had decided his sister should fall in love with such a lout.
Jommy said, ‘We need to get those two married off.’ He indicated with a nod Tad and Zane.
