‘The youth of today, they live only for the moment.’ Zhia gave a schoolmistressy click of the tongue. ‘That was not the only curse bestowed that night -foresight I could not have expected from a God, yet one of them did realise that to be such a monster would drive a person mad, so to ensure every drop of horror was wrung from this punishment, the Gods decreed that we would
not
decline into madness, but that our sense would remain, and our wits would be untouched by either the passing of years or guilt over our deeds.’ She could feel her fingers tighten as she thought of that gnawing guilt; it had been her constant companion down through the uncountable years.
She looked away from Doranei, not wanting to see the horror in his eyes as she continued, ‘They wanted to make sure we would always understand the fear in a man’s eyes as we drain his life, and that we would always be sickened with compassion for others. We will never become inured to this. Our people were punished for following us out of blind loyalty. In turn, we now feel the suffering of innocents, more strongly than you could ever imagine.’
‘And my presence may only worsen the situation,’ Koezh surmised.
‘Exactly,’ Zhia said wearily. ‘Which is why I want you to leave.’
‘Leave?’
‘You and your Legion can do nothing to prevent this city descending into chaos. Anything you do will only fuel the fire.’
‘So you would have me hang back and do nothing? Let the White Circle and the Knights of the Temples determine the course of the next Age?’
‘Our time will come, but not yet.’ Zhia rubbed her arm, where the tight-fitting silk clung uncomfortably in the heat. ‘The best thing you could do is march south.’
Koezh cocked his head at her. ‘You think Lord Styrax is that much of a threat, even with such a great distance between him and the Menin homelands?’
‘I do,’ Zhia said with certainty. ‘In the thousands of years since the Great War, has there ever been a warrior to match you? I doubt it myself, yet Kastan Styrax cut you down and took your armour as his prize. If there is any man in the entire Land who can conquer the Chetse and win the hearts of their warrior orders, I think it is Kastan Styrax.’
‘And then he will not need fresh troops from the Ring of Fire,’ Doranei finished. ‘If he wins the loyalty of the Chetse, who knows how far his empire might stretch?’
‘There might be no limits. If the city-states of the West descend into chaos, as they are threatening to do, they will be unprepared for the Chosen of the War God.’
‘Narkang is ready, and the Farlan are even more powerful than the Chetse,’ Doranei objected.
Koezh turned to the young man with an amused expression. ‘Narkang is ready? Narkang was saved only by a stroke of fortune, so I hear. If the White Circle had taken the king and his city, your precious Three Cities would have quickly followed. As for the Farlan, years of unrest have weakened them, and now their greatest leader in a thousand years is dead. In Lord Bahl’s place they have a young man said to have the fury of a storm running through his veins, bearing gifts so laden with power and the weight of history that even his own generals must be nervous.’ Koezh leaned over Doranei and gave the younger man a cold smile. ‘I would say your readiness could be improved a shade. At the very least, your king should conclude affairs in these parts and see to his own borders. Complacency is a foolish thing to die for.’
Zhia smiled as her brother gave Doranei a condescending pat on the shoulder and gestured towards the stage beyond. ‘Now be quiet and watch the play. A little culture will do you good.’
With the briefest of touches on her gloved fingertips, Koezh left soundlessly. That was their way. Experience had taught them that their encounters should be brief and tender, else arguments break out, with dramatic consequences. Zhia was actually ahead in those stakes, having murdered her brother three times now, but they had long ago agreed that the novelty of killing each other had worn off and it was too much of an irritation to do so merely out of pique.
He would do as she asked; Scree was her affair now and he wouldn’t interfere. As the Land edged closer to the brink of ruin and change flickered across the skies, they both knew this might be their best chance.
Zhia smiled.
CHAPTER 18
A wall of cloud surrounded the city, obscuring the moons and stars. Jackdaw could sense it enveloping the city, drawn by one man’s call. The streets simmered in an unnatural humidity, as if the city were festering in its own sour humours. Wherever there was a flat roof he could see bedding laid out, and restless bodies shifting and squirming in the oppressive heat. The citizens of Scree were desperate to escape the stinking closeness of their houses but, in truth, outside was little better.
How long since I felt the breeze?
he wondered.
It must be just a few days, yet the memory feels more like a dream.
From their high station, looking down on the dark bulk of the theatre, he could feel the heaviness in the air, a building storm that had refused to break, but instead lingered with sullen obstinacy, prickling the hairs on his neck. The sudden downpours of early summer had stopped, leaving the population panting like dogs and staring up at the sky with pleading eyes.
The taste of blood persisted in his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue in surprise when that bully from Narkang had crept up on him earlier. Ilumene’s mocking grin had shone out from the shadows when he had least expected it. He probed the cut, wincing at the sting, but persisting, because in some strange way it reminded him he was still alive. Was it pain to drive away the numb aching in his heart, or just a reminder that he was human, with a human’s foibles? But every time he felt the cut, he saw the blood, the man’s life spilled out onto the stage, the final bitter act of their latest play.
‘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 Ilumene 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 façade. 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.