Vergence (50 page)

On the far side of the assembly Muro stood staring, an empty glass in one hand, the other pulling at the end of his moustache. He could have been standing in a room in which only he and Sashael existed, for all the awareness he seemed to have of the gathering.

His face displayed a kind of feral hunger, yet Palona realised Sashael hadn't even glanced at him once since she'd started dancing.

Palona worked her way round the room until she stood next to him.

“She's such a pretty thing,” Palona said. “Wherever did you find her?”

“A friend introduced us,” Muro said gruffly.

Palona concealed a half smile behind a raised glass. She'd clearly touched on a sensitive point.

“We haven't seen her before. Where's she from?”

“Senesella,” Muro said shortly.

Having only the vaguest idea of Senesella, she made a mental note to investigate the fabrics from that land directly after the dance.

“Oh, Senesellan? How generous you are extending her your protection, and taking the trouble to introduce her to our society.”

“What?”

She waved a hand in the general direction of the dance floor. “A chance to form connections with all these eligible men, and their fortunes.”

“What do you mean?” Muro said, his face turning an ugly shade of red. “She's here with me.”

“Oh, forgive me. How foolish I am,” Palona said, making a show of embarrassment. “I had no idea she was more than a friend … all the young lords are forming a line to dance with her—”

“It's just dancing.”

She rested her hand on his arm briefly, a consoling gesture. “Don't worry. I'm sure nobody here will think any the less of you, when they're all enjoying her so much.”

Palona walked away, smiling to herself.

Fire

O
RIM HELD THE ASSASSIN'S
dart, point outwards, between two fingers, feeling the connection it held with its home. He'd started to follow it back, through the between, but there'd been the suggestion of something else wrapped into the connection, a subtle infiltration, like the flavour of seasoning sparsely applied to a meal. This hint had taken him not to the place of the dart's creation, but to a place associated with it in the mind of its creator.

He stood in a long dimly lit hallway, somewhere in a keep on the side of a mountain in Cassadia. Ranged along the wall on his left were over two dozen deep alcoves and, within each, a tableaux of unmoving figures depicting a scene.

Orim moved with the greatest care, casting a far-sense in all directions. An idea or sentiment of great importance was attached to this place by the assassin, and he expected there might be wards or traps left behind to guard it.

The floor and walls had been lined with expensive wood and finished with heavy fabrics, but apart from the tableaux, it was completely empty. It reminded Orim of the decorations which might be lavished on the temple of some luxury loving religion.

Each of the nearest displays showed the scene of a killing, completed in extraordinarily lifelike detail. In one, a single man knelt on the floor clutching at his throat with bright blood bubbling between his fingers, the front of his clothing and the floor around him drenched scarlet. Behind the man a slim darkly dressed faceless figure stood, as if caught in the midst of a movement, holding a long thin blade. Around them the furniture suggested some private reading room.

Every minute detail demonstrated an impeccable attempt to make the whole as real as possible — crumbs of bread on a plate resting on a nearby cabinet, a book fallen open on the floor, and a napkin draped across the arm of a chair.

In the next alcove a man lay sprawled backwards on a stone floor with an arrow through his forehead. The third alcove had three men scattered around a table, open mouthed, and gasping at the air like so many grounded fish. The fourth figure in this scene, again dark and faceless, sat in the remaining seat with his head slightly bowed, fingering the stem of a wine glass with his left hand.

Standing near the alcoves, Orim felt the presence of a permeating galdwimer. Whether a glamour which formed part of each construction, or some subtle ward, he could not be certain, but he took care not to intrude on any of the strange dioramas.

He walked up the hallway, examining each small tableaux in turn. Each portrayed a killing, and in nearly all he found the same slim dark faceless figure. Doubtless they were of the same Cassadian assassin he'd faced in H'nChae.

At sixteen years he'd sailed from under the shadows of the Lindarfelarn mountains with his first long-ship crew, raiding villages along the shores of the Ussian islands and coastline. Ten ships set out from his settlement, driving hard south and east, ahead of dark winter storms.

On the mainland, under the eaves of the forest, they'd attacked the fortified settlement of the warlord Brodiginar. Here he fought against Ussian shamans whose craft made men lose their purpose, summoned deadly ice mists, and transformed warriors into savage beast-men. A full quarter of those they'd brought with them died in the first assault, or later, after Orim breached the palisades and smashed the main gate.

The Ussian shamans were head-hunters, collectors of trophies from fallen enemies, and criminals. The heads, somehow kept alive, shrieked and cried out as they were burnt in fire. There he'd found not only the heads of men but creatures too — massive baerdogs, wurg, and vyseloryn. They captured a shaman, and fed him to the fire too, after the beast heads, but a piece at a time, to discover his secrets.

What Orim recalled clearly most was the shamans reaction to the destruction of his grisly trophies. He'd started to scream and beg before the fire touched him, screeching as if each of the heads shrivelling in front of him were somehow connected to parts of his body. Burning the trophies had hurt the shaman nearly as much as the flame.

Orim felt for the sulphur in the pouch which hung from his neck, using it to find a correspondence, a connection. He opened his arms wide, and muttered the invocation to make the casting true.

A dry rattling wind sprang up behind him. Where it touched the tapestries they smouldered and blackened, the wood panelling scorched, and hissed. The figures in the displays softened before collapsing on themselves.

A piece of thin fabric ignited. Like a living thing, the flame divided and leapt, and caught in a hanging. Within moments, the wind transformed into a boiling vortex of fire. He walked up the corridor, and the inferno followed him like a ghostly cloak of translucent flame. Each tableaux on his left erupted as he passed, the floor and walls igniting directly on his heels. The displays emitted a thin keening sound as they succumbed.

For the first time in years he allowed his power to flow unrestrained, and it felt intoxicating. The heat intensified, howling as it sucked in and consumed the surrounding air, feeding on itself as it doubled in ferocity, and doubled again. Fabric disintegrated instantly, and each of the alcoves exploded as he passed by, the figures reduced to vapour in moments.

Over the tumult Orim heard the distant clamour of a bell. He turned right at the corner and two dark-clad figures ran towards him — acolyte assassins. He felt lines of power converging on each. One tried to summon a ward, the other propelled a sliver-thin blade towards him.

A gout of flame brushed aside the blade. Orim reached out and intercepted the ward as it formed, inverting it and allowing it to tangle around the men facing him. His opponent lacked skill, feeling nothing as the nature of the ward shifted from protection to trap. Too late they realised what had happened as a second gout of flame sprayed over them. The trap ward collapsed and died as they fell.

Orim strode past the smoking bodies, moving faster ahead of the fracturing floor. He turned right again at another corner, proceeding back along the third side of an open quadrangle. In the centre was a sheer drop, each section of the corridor built into the side of a horseshoe shaped section of cliff. Great expanding clouds of fire and smoke poured from the windows opposite.

Half-way along the third side he found the first empty alcove. Some sketchy work had started here. A recessed basin in the floor, with the headless shape of a thin man lying in a long white smock, supported on struts, as if floating in water not yet added. Resting on a workbench on the near side were five heads. Three were exquisitely modelled to look like elderly men, the fourth a strong featured dark-haired man in his middle years, the last a careworn woman with long dark hair, and a stern expression.

He stopped. The second looked like a perfect replica of Spetimane.

Orim strode down the passage, feeling for connections to other places, similarities. The flame behind him lost power and slowed, abating as he moved away. He walked out of Cassadia, stepping into a similar hallway in another place, taking the five heads with him, and by the time the fire reached the end of the corridor it was empty.

Muro

E
ACH BREATH CAME
as an agonising hiss, drawn through cracked lips into a chest which felt as if full of broken glass. Fla walked on legs that might have been fractured. With every other step his left leg faltered, forcing him to heave his body along using his staff. Behind him he dragged overly long, ill-fitting robes, through dirt and mud, and the waste of the day that lay in the darker corners of the night streets.

Deeper, there was a different kind of pain, unfamiliar and harder to bear. The pain that twisted his body wrapped around it like a layer of skin, almost a comfort in its familiarity.

Sashael and Muro walked ahead, sauntering in the pooling light of the broad boulevards, still in the wealthier part of the city. Fla followed behind in the shadows. Bitter longing curdled into despair, constricting his throat as he struggled in their wake.

He'd followed them all evening, managing to find a hidden place from which to watch the ball, and as he had watched Sashael dancing, his pain had been extinguished for a brief time by a kind of rare suspended bliss.

Fla stood close enough in the still air to hear some of their conversation. He'd have followed closer but Sashael had already looked back in his direction a few times. Even wrapped in a cloak of darkness she had seemed to sense something, and he wouldn't risk discovery.

She chatted happily to her companion about dancing and the city, and he answered briefly, seemingly intent on saying no more than he had to. Something had changed over the course of the evening. When they'd arrived at the ball Muro had carried himself with a jaunty pride, and shown her every courtesy. Afterwards he had a rigid set to his shoulders, and pulled constantly on the ends of his moustache.

When they encountered a large open square with an area of garden and a fountain in the centre, Muro guided her towards it. Large shrubs and low hedges around the perimeter of the small park allowed Fla to creep closer until he stood concealed no more than a dozen paces from where they stood.

They'd stopped to look at something in a pool on one side of the fountain. Muro placed his hand in the small of her back as if to guide her attention, but as Fla watched his hand slid further down, gliding over her hip.

Fla felt a cold hard lump rising in the centre of his chest. He would have given his hand, his arm, even half the span of his life-time for a chance to touch her as this man had done with such casual certainty. He felt like vomiting, dizzy, with prickling skin. Inside the darkest corner of his being something else, something unutterably dark, started to uncoil.

Muro's hand might have moved lower, but Sashael quickly stepped away, smiling, but with a wary look in her eyes. “It’s late. We should be going home.”

Muro moved closer to her, and his voice had a tight, hard edged quality. “You know what I want. I know you want it too — the way you danced—”

She laughed. “Don’t be silly. I only came to dance. Nothing more.”

Fla could see a muscle clenching in the man’s jaw.

“Dancing? Is that what you call it? I watched you, I know what you Senesellans are like.”