Dark Magic (37 page)

“Tell me,” she commanded.

He clutched her wrists, the tendons in his own bulging as he fought to break her hold. He could not, and struck at her face; she caught his fist and squeezed, a hand silencing his scream as the bones in his fingers broke. He began to choke, tears in his eyes. When she took her hand from his mouth he asked, “What are you?” in a voice that creaked with fear.

“I am Cennaire,” she said, “and if you fail to tell me what you know of them I shall kill you, slowly.”

Acceptance of that promise shone in his eyes, in the suddenly sharper reek that came. She thought he might faint then and slapped him, once, rocking his head to the side. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, where cheek and teeth had met.

“Tell me,” she repeated. “Everything.”

Darth told her, holding nothing back, racking his fear-fuddled mind for every memory, speaking fast, the words a defense against the implacable pressure he knew could squeeze out his life.

When he was finished Cennaire released her grip and he made a terrible mistake: his last. He lunged from the bed, oblivious of the pain as his broken hand struck the floor, and snatched at his sword. Before the blade cleared the scabbard, Cennaire fell on him and broke his neck.

She rose then, no longer interested in the corpse, delicately straightening rumpled clothes, arranging tousled hair, and concentrated her mind on her own
room. That was in a lodging house on the far side of Aldarin, in a more salubrious quarter, where visiting gentlefolk might find comfortable accommodation, and she had memorized every detail.

She mouthed the words Anomius had taught her and smelled the scent of almonds on the air. For an instant there was a sense of unbeing, of a void about her, terrifying, for it seemed a place in which she might be lost, condemned to exist there forever, heartless and consequently denied the release of death, save her master destroy her heart . . .

For an instant only . . . and then she stood in familiar surroundings, smiling again as confidence returned.

The sun as yet stood high in the sky and she luxuriated in a bath, for appearance sake ate dinner, biding her time until the hour came to report. Then, secure behind a locked door, she fetched a mirror from her baggage and placed it carefully on the dressing table, settling before the glass. For a while she admired her reflection, then spoke the second gramarye taught her. Once more the pungency of almonds wafted and her image wavered, the glass darkening, swirling misty, the darkness there becoming a whirlpool of colors that resolved into Anomius’s sallow features.

“What have you learned?”

His voice was faint, a whisper almost, but urgent: Cennaire leaned closer, her answer barely louder: “I found a man who knew them . . .”

“Knew them? Where are they?” She saw his watery blue eyes narrow, perspective distorting as he bent closer, his bulbous nose occupying the larger part of the glass.

“Gone from Aldarin.”

“What? Gone where?”

“North, I think.”

“You think? Do you not know?”

“Let me explain . . .”

“Aye, you’d best. I’m but a thought from Nhur-jabal, and your heart lies there.”

The threat implicit in his words was needless—did she not serve him loyally?—and Cennaire resented it. Even so, she thought, it told her things that might, someday, prove useful. He was at Kesham-vaj, the box in Nhur-jabal: his magic, certainly, could bring him there on the instant. But without the Tyrant’s sorcerers’ knowledge? She thought not; nor that the black-robed wizards, or the Tyrant himself, would agree to his departure. Courtesan she had been, but that did not mean her mind was slow; rather, the opposite, no less that she looked to the future, to her own safety.

The crossing to Lysse had afforded her time to consider her situation and already it had occurred to her that once her task was dispensed, Anomius might find no further use for her. And she knew his necromancy was frowned on by his fellow mages. Did he secure his grimoire—rather, did she secure it for him—would he, or they, permit her to exist still? A further thought:
Once Anomius had delivered the Fayne Lord to Xenomenus, might the Tyrant’s sorcerers not destroy Anomius himself? Or try, at least.
They resented him, she knew, and did they succeed, then surely her existence would be ended with his. Her only sure guarantee of safety, she had decided, lay in securing for herself the box that held her heart.

These rebellious thoughts flashed swift through her mind, finding no expression in eyes or gesture: for now Anomius was, truly, her master. She smiled an apology and said, “Varent den Tarl is dead.”

“What?” The wizard’s response was a whiplash.

Cennaire flinched and said swiftly, “They came here and found his body; they asked questions. They appeared interested in a man called Daven Tyras.”

In the mirror, Anomius’s image frowned; a finger, ragged-nailed, rubbed at his nose. Then he showed yellow teeth in an expression more snarl than smile and said, “Go on.”

“Daven Tyras is a trader in horses out of Gannshold, a half-blood Kern. He spent some time with Varent den Tarl—the last to see him alive—and
is gone now. I questioned one of Varent’s household, but he could not say where this Daven Tyras went, only that once the three had that knowledge they left.”

“Varent dead, eh?” Anomius nodded thoughtfully. “And our quarry asking questions about a horse trader? I think Varent must shift his shape. Aye! For reasons I’ve yet to comprehend, he takes the body of Daven Tyras.”

“I’ve his description,” Cennaire said.

Anomius ducked his head. “Good. And the grimoire?”

“None I’ve spoken with know anything of that. Only that Calandryll and Bracht were employed by Varent to find some book.”

“That much I knew—it was the grimoire. But why should Varent shift his shape? Why take the body of this Daven Tyras?”

Cennaire shrugged.

“There’s more to this than I first thought,” Anomius murmured. “Our quarry league with Vanu folk; Varent takes another’s form; and it would seem now they must go north, to Gannshold. Why?”

Having no answer, Cennaire said nothing, only waited.

After a while Anomius said, “You’ve done well enough. Now go to Gannshold—find Daven Tyras. Find the grimoire.”

“And the three?” asked Cennaire.

“Find the one and you’ll find them,” Anomius told her. “But the grimoire first! Secure that and then slay them.”

Dutifully, Cennaire nodded. The image in the mirror faded, and then the glass was no more than that: a glass such as ladies use, innocent. She used it to tidy her hair and then went to inquire where and how she might arrange sea passage to Gannshold.

O
F
all the cities of Lysse, Gannshold was acknowledged the oldest, and that venerability was chronicled clear in the lines of the ancient walls, like the rings that chart the age of trees. First built when Lysse and Cuan na’For both were young, and quarrelsome in the way of youthful rivalry, the city’s core was the great citadel that sprawled across the egress of the pass through the western edge of the Gann Peaks, its ramparts climbing the stone to either side, machicolated and teethed with bartizans that still, in these more peaceful times, bore mangonels and heavy arbalests in memory of the days when the horse clans ventured bellicose to the south. Below that grim reminder lay the buildings of the earliest settlement, themselves protected by a vaulting, betowered wall, and beyond that another, lower, more houses between the two. The approach to this final outer wall was itself defended naturally by the terrain, the road running up straight across a wide, bare slope flanked to either side by craggy outthrusts of the mountains, ending on a glacis overlooked by twin watchtowers. Gannshold was said to be inpregnable and, indeed, the city had never been conquered, standing
now, by custom and common consent, aloof from the internecine struggles that sometimes racked the land it warded.

Viewed from the open space of the glacis, it presented a solemn face to the three riders as they drew nearer the gates.

The sun was a little way past its zenith, on a day clear-skied and warm, bathing the sprawling city in light that softened the harsh outlines of the fortifications, spilling over walls and rooftops to brighten the hard, blue-tinted granite and the darker slate, etching stark the outlines of the siege engines and the high columns of the towers and bartizans. The gates themselves stood open, massive structures banded with age-blackened metal that granted ingress down a short tunnel to a plaza from which but one avenue gave exit, that and the opening of the passage guarded by soldiery in the blue and black of the hold. They were efficient in their examination of the newcomers, and briskly courteous, demanding their names and the nature of their business, which Bracht—elected spokesman—explained was personal, a return to Cuan na’For after time spent wandering Lysse. The captain of the watch accepted this readily, accustomed to the peregrinations of Kern mercenaries, and waved them on to the inner city with no more than a casual reminder that they yet remained on Lyssian soil and were, consequently, subject to Lyssian laws.

Bracht voiced acknowledgment and led the way from the plaza, along the avenue to a network of wider, bisecting streets set out, Calandryll realized as they progressed deeper into Gannshold, on a grid pattern occasioned by the embrace of the mountains. What he knew of this vast guardian city came solely from books and he stared about as the Kern, familiar with the place, steered them onward. The buildings, denied lateral expansion, grew upward, rising far higher than the structures of Secca or Aldarin, climbing five, even six, stories, so that it seemed they rode down canyons, overshadowed, those not lit by the sun
pooled with darkness even this close to noon. Balconies jutted above, adding their own weight to the sense of enclosure, and what open spaces there were, were jammed with stalls and thronging crowds, as many dark-haired Kerns visible as there were the fairer folk of Lysse. There seemed to be no parks or gardens and before long he experienced a mild claustrophobia, realizing how attuned he had grown to the open spaces they had traveled. It dampened his natural curiosity, and he wondered how long they should remain here.

Long enough, he supposed, to ascertain whether Daven Tyras yet lingered, or—the more likely, it seemed—their quarry had departed. Had he gone, then they must learn what they might of his going—whether he traveled with companions, and in which direction if he had spoken of a destination; some clue to guide them across the prairies beyond the mountains. If he remained—Calandryll was not sure; a confrontation, he supposed, though how that might end he could not guess, despite Dera’s assurance that he contained within himself the means to defeat the warlock. That promise was a mystery, for while it seemed he did possess the ability to summon the Younger Gods—for all he knew not how—their words were enigmatic, leaving him unenlightened. Perhaps, he thought, that revelation would come at need, as magic he understood no better than the godly promises had aided him before. He could only hope, and press on, holding as firm he could to that faith.

He was brought from his reverie by the shadow of the inner wall, falling on his face as he approached so that he looked out again, seeing the rampart stretch out across their path to meet a narrowing of the surrounding cliffs: the true mouth of the pass into Cuan na’For.

Like its predecessor, this barrier was crenellated and surmounted with bartizans, but unmanned and constructed of older stone, the hard granite enlivened by ivy that clambered in great masses over the blocks.
Once it had been faced with an open area, a killing ground for the defenders, but now, between the wall and the closest buildings, that space was filled with impermanent structures, rickety constructions of wood and jumbled stone erected against the solidity of the wall. It smelled of unwashed bodies and waste, as if the detritus of Gannshold, both human and organic, were deposited here.

“The Beggars Gate,” Bracht said, lifting the pace a little as ragged folk pressed in with outthrust hands and pleas for coin. “Well find lodgings beyond.”

“Beyond,” Calandryll saw, meant the inner city, for between two ramshackle hutments stood an open gate and another short tunnel gave access to a wide avenue flanked by older houses, overlooked by the massive bulk of the citadel. That loomed, like an ancient but still watchful sentinel, over all the surrounding buildings, austere despite the sunlight that bathed its ramparts, glittering on the helms and pikestaffs of the soldiery patrolling its towering walls. For all that ominous presence, this part of Gannshold was brighter, more airy, than the outer sections. The streets were wider, the buildings lower, as if the original inhabitants had enjoyed more room, or been fewer in number, than those come later, crowding their dwelling places into what space was left. Soldiers manned the end of the tunnel, but idly, offering Calandryll and his companions no interruption: they were there, he guessed, to deny the beggars entrance.

Certainly, they entered a more salubrious section, some houses even boasting tiny gardens, though Bracht brought them swiftly past these to a quarter filled with taverns and lodging houses, where Kerns outnumbered Lyssians and the smell of horses was strong. He eased his stallion to the side of a square occupied entirely by drinking houses, clear of the traffic, and reined in.