He let his mind drift on to other matters. Horn had promised him, on Madigan’s behalf, a great deal of money if he would agree to work with the terrorist on a project of mutual interest. Ritenour was always interested in large amounts of money. People had no idea how expensive sorcerous research was these days, particularly when your subjects insisted on dying. But it had to be said that Madigan was not the sort of person Ritenour would have chosen to work with. The man was an idealist, and fanatically devoted to his Cause: the overthrowing and destruction of Outremer. He was very intelligent, inhumanly devious and determined, and had raised violence and murder to a fine art. Ritenour frowned slightly. Whatever Madigan wanted him for, it was bound to be unpleasant and not a little dangerous. In the event he decided to go through with this project, he’d better be careful to get most of his money up front. Just in case he had to disappear in a hurry.
Horn stopped suddenly before a pleasantly anonymous little tavern tucked away in a side court. Ritenour looked automatically for a sign, to see what the place was called, but there didn’t seem to be one. Which implied the tavern was both expensive and exclusive (you either knew about it already or you didn’t matter), and therefore very security conscious. Just the sort of place he’d expect to find Madigan. The best place to lie low was out in the open, hidden behind a cloud of money and privilege.
Horn held open the door for him, and then followed him into the dimly lit tavern. People sat around tables in small, intimate groups, talking animatedly in lowered voices. No one looked up as Horn led the way through the tables to a hidden stairway at the back of the room. The stairs led up to a narrow hallway, and Horn stopped before the second door. It had no number on it, but there was an inconspicuous peephole. Horn knocked three times, paused, and then knocked twice. Ritenour smiled. Secret knocks, no less. Terrorists did so love their little rituals. He wondered hopefully if there’d be a secret password as well, but the door swung open almost immediately, suggesting someone had already studied Horn through the peephole. Ritenour assumed a carefully amiable expression and followed Horn in. The door shut firmly behind him, and he heard four separate bolts sliding into place. He didn’t look back, and instead put on his best open smile and looked casually about him.
The room was surprisingly large for tavern lodgings, and very comfortably furnished. Apparently, Madigan was one of those people who believed the mind works best when the body is well cared for. Ritenour was glad they had something in common. Most of the fanatics he’d had dealings with in the past had firmly believed in the virtues of poverty and making do with the barest essentials. Luxuries were only for the rich and the decadent. They also believed in compulsory hair shirts and cold baths, and had shown no trace whatsoever of a sense of humor. Ritenour wouldn’t have dealt with such killjoys at all if his experiments hadn’t required so many human subjects. His main problem had always been obtaining them discreetly. After all, he couldn’t just go out into the streets and drag passersby into his laboratory. People would talk.
A young man and attractive woman, seated at a table at the far end of the room, were keeping a watchful eye on him. Ritenour gave them his best charming smile. Another man was standing guard by the door, arms folded across his massive chest. He had to be the largest man Ritenour had ever seen, and he was watching Ritenour closely. The sorcerer nodded to him politely, uncomfortably aware that Horn hadn’t moved from his side since they’d entered the room. Ritenour didn’t need to be told what would happen if Madigan decided he couldn’t use him after all. Or, to be more exact, what might happen. Ritenour might be unarmed, but he was never helpless. He always kept a few nasty surprises up his metaphorical sleeves, just in case of situations like this. You met all sorts, as a working sorcerer.
One man was standing on his own before the open fireplace, his face cold and calm, and Ritenour knew at once that this had to be Daniel Madigan. Even standing still and silent, he radiated power and authority, as though there was nothing he couldn’t do if he but put his mind to it. He stepped forward suddenly, and Ritenour’s heart jumped painfully. Although Madigan wore no sword, Ritenour knew the man was dangerous, that violence and murder were as natural to him as breathing. The threat of sudden death hung about him like a bloodied shroud. Ritenour felt an almost overwhelming urge to back away, but somehow made himself hold his ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other terrorists looking at Madigan with respect, and something that might have been awe or fear. Or both. Madigan held out a hand for Ritenour to shake, and the sorcerer did so, finding a small satisfaction in the knowledge that his hand wasn’t shaking. Madigan’s hand was cold and hard, like a store mannequin’s. There was no warmth or emotion in the handshake, and Ritenour let go as soon as he politely could. Madigan gestured at the two chairs before the open fire.
“Good of you to come and see me, sir sorcerer. Please; take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. And then we can have a little talk, you and I.”
“Of course,” said Ritenour, bowing formally. His mind was racing. When in doubt, take the initiative away from your opponent. “I wonder if I could prevail on you for a bite of something, and perhaps a glass of wine? Prison fare tends to be infrequent, and bordering on inedible.”
There was a moment of silence as Madigan stared at him impassively, and Ritenour wondered if he’d pushed it too far, too early. Everyone else in the room seemed to have gone very still. And then Madigan bowed slightly, and everyone relaxed a little. He nodded to the young man sitting at the table, and he rose quickly to his feet and left the room, fumbling at the door’s bolts in his haste. Ritenour followed Madigan to the two chairs by the fire, and was careful to let Madigan sit down first. Horn moved in to stand beside Madigan’s chair.
“Allow me to introduce my associates in this glorious venture,” said Madigan mildly. “You’ve already met Horn, though I doubt he’s told you much about himself. He is the warrior of our little group, a most excellent fighter and an experienced killer. His family were deported from Outremer some generations ago, stripped of title and land and property. Horn has vowed to avenge that ancient insult.
“The young lady watching you so intently from that table is Eleanour Todd, my second-in-command. When I am not available, she is my voice and my authority. Her parents died in an Outremer cell. She fought as a mercenary for the Low Kingdoms for several years, but now they have betrayed her by seeking peace with Outremer she has joined me to exact a more personal revenge.
“The large gentleman at the door is Bailey. If he has another name, I’ve been unable to discover it. Bailey is a longtime mercenary and a seasoned campaigner. And yet despite his many years of loyal service to both Outremer and the Low Kingdoms, he has nothing to show for it, while those he served have grown fat and rich at his expense. I have promised him a chance to make them pay in blood and terror.”
Someone outside the door gave the secret knock. Bailey looked through the peephole, and then pulled back the bolts and opened the door. The young man who’d left only a few moments before bustled in carrying a tray of cold meats and a glass of wine. He set down the tray before Ritenour, who smiled and nodded his thanks. The young man grinned cheerfully, and bobbed his head like a puppy that’s just got a trick right, then looked quickly at Madigan to check he’d done the right thing.
“And this young gentleman is Ellis Glen,” said Madigan dryly. “One of the most savage and vicious killers it has ever been my good fortune to encounter. You must let him show you his necklace of human teeth some time. It’s really quite impressive. I have given his life shape and meaning, and he has vowed to obey me in everything. I expect great things of Ellis.”
He tilted his head slightly, dismissing Glen, and the young man scurried over to sit at the table, blushing like a girl who’d been complimented on her beauty. Madigan settled back in his chair and waved for Ritenour to begin his meal. The sorcerer did so, carefully not hurrying. More and more it seemed to him he couldn’t afford to seem weak in front of these people. Madigan watched him patiently, his face calm and serene. Ritenour could feel the pressure of the others’ watching eyes. and took the opportunity his meal provided to study them unobtrusively.
Horn looked to be standard hired muscle, big as an ox and nearly as smart. You could find a dozen like him in most taverns in the Northside, ready for any kind of trouble as long as it paid well. He had a square, meaty face that had taken a few too many knocks in its time. He wore a constant scowl, aimed for the moment at Ritenour, but its unvarying depth suggested it was probably his usual expression anyway. And yet there was something about the man that disturbed the sorcerer on some deep, basic level. He had the strong feeling that Horn was the kind of warrior who would just keep coming towards you, no matter how badly you injured him, until either you were dead or he was.
Ritenour suppressed a shudder and switched his gaze to Eleanour Todd. She was altogether easier on the eye, and Ritenour flashed her his most winning smile. She looked coldly back, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him as he ate. Judging by the length of her splendid legs, she would be easily his height when standing, and her large frame was lithely muscular. She wore a standard mercenary’s outfit, hard-wearing and braced with leather in strategic places for protection, but cut tightly here and there to emphasize her femininity. With her thick mane of long black hair and calm dark eyes, she reminded Ritenour of nothing so much as a trained fighting cat, awaiting only her master’s instruction to leap upon her prey and rend it with slow, malicious glee. She held his gaze for a moment, and then smiled slowly. Ritenour’s stomach muscles tightened. Her front teeth had been filed to sharp points. Ritenour nodded politely and looked away, making a firm mental note never to turn his back on her.
The huge warrior, Bailey, could well be a problem. He had to be in his late forties, maybe even early fifties, but he was still in magnificent shape, with a broad muscular chest and shoulders so wide he probably had to turn sideways when he walked through a doorway. Even standing still on the other side of the room, he seemed to be looming over everyone else. He made Horn look almost petite. And yet his face was painfully gaunt, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, as though he’d been having trouble sleeping. Ritenour shrugged inwardly. Any mercenary Bailey’s age was bound to have more than a few ghosts haunting his memories. Ritenour studied the man’s face thoughtfully, searching for clues. Bailey’s hair was iron-grey, cropped short in a military cut. His eyes were icy blue, and his mouth was a thin line like a knife-cut. Ritenour could see control in the face, and strength, but his cold mask hid everything else. Ritenour decided he wouldn’t turn his back on this one either.
Despite Madigan’s unsettling praises of the young man, Ritenour didn’t see Ellis Glen as much of a problem. He was barely out of his teens, tall and gangling and not yet into his full growth. His face was bright and open, and he was so full of energy it was all he could do to sit still at his table while Ritenour ate. He was probably only there to run errands and take care of the scutwork no one else wanted to be bothered with. Useful battle fodder too; someone expendable Madigan could send into dangerous situations to check for traps and ambushes.
And finally, of course, there was Daniel Madigan himself. You only had to look at him for a moment to know he was the leader. He was darkly handsome and effortlessly charismatic, and even sitting still and silent, he radiated strength and authority and presence. He was the first person everyone’s eyes went to on entering a room, drawing attention in much the same way a wolf would, or any other predator. Looked at coolly, he wasn’t physically all that outstanding. He was slightly less than average height, and certainly not muscular, but still he was the most dangerous man in the room, and everyone knew it. Ritenour felt increasingly unsettled by Madigan’s gaze, but forced himself to continue his meal and his appraisal of the terrorist leader.
The more he studied Madigan, the clearer it became that violence of thought and deed was always simmering just below a calm surface. And yet there was nothing special you could put your finger on about his face or bearing. Ritenour had heard it said that Madigan, when he felt like it, could turn off his personality in a moment, and become just another anonymous face in the crowd. It was an attribute that had enabled him to escape from many traps and tight corners in his time. Ritenour studied the man’s features carefully. Just now, Madigan was showing him a cool, unemotional politician’s face, half hidden behind a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were dark and unwavering, and his occasional smile came and went so quickly you couldn’t be sure whether you’d seen it or not. He looked to be in his early thirties, but had to be at least ten years older, unless he’d started his career of death and terror as a child. Not that Ritenour would put that past him. If ever a man had been born to violence and intrigue and sudden death, it was Daniel Madigan. No one knew how many people he’d killed down the years, how many towns and villages he’d destroyed in blood and fire, how many outrages he’d committed in the name of his Cause.
He had vowed to overthrow and destroy Outremer. No one knew why. There were many stories, mostly concerning the fate of his unknown family, but they were only stories. The Low Kingdoms had long since disowned him and his actions. He was too extreme, too ruthless ... too dangerous to be associated with, even at a distance. Madigan didn’t care. He went his own way, following his own Cause, ready to kill or destroy anyone or anything that got in his way.