The Art of Hunting (47 page)

Conquillas rose to his feet again, his eyes fixed on Granger. ‘I heard news of your daughter’s misfortune,’ he said. ‘However, I can assure you I did not poison the
girl.’

‘Liar.’

The dragon lord’s brow furrowed over his piercing stare. ‘I do not lie,’ he said. ‘Nor do I harm innocents. I give you my word, as Argusto Conquillas former lord of
Herica and the Sumran Islands and of Peregrello Sentevadro . . . I give you my word as an Unmer noble and as a
father
. I did not do this.’

‘Then who did?’ Granger said.

‘No one did, Colonel Granger.’ He absently placed a hand on Siselo’s head and ruffled her hair. ‘I do not believe she’s poisoned at all.’

Granger took a step towards the dragon lord. He heard the armour whine as it strained under the massive weight of his replicates. Rainbows danced across the surface of the metal. ‘Explain
yourself,’ he said.

‘The word is that she refused Marquetta’s hand in marriage,’ Conquillas said. ‘Had you arrived at the ceremony earlier you would have witnessed this yourself.’

‘She rejected him?’

The dragon lord nodded. ‘I imagine they have put her to sleep while they try to resolve this problem. There are devices to achieve this, common enough.’

Granger knew them well enough. He had personal experience of such devices. ‘They can’t force her to marry him,’ he said. ‘And they can’t keep her asleep for
ever.’

‘No,’ Conquillas admitted. ‘And if they can’t have a queen with her powers, they must settle for someone who appears to be a queen with her powers.’

‘The shape-shifter?’

‘Fiorel is here to ensure the Unmer’s survival,’ Conquillas said. ‘As a simulacrum of Ianthe, he would not possess her powers, but merely present the illusion that she
still lives. And that might be enough to keep their enemies away until an heir is born to take his place.’

‘An heir?’

‘Your daughter need not be awake to conceive, or to give birth.’

Granger let out a growl of anger. ‘I’m going to bring her here,’ he said, turning to go.

‘Wait,’ Conquillas said. ‘She’s safe where she is for now. Fiorel might assume her identity, but they cannot kill her until she gives Marquetta his heir.’

Granger hesitated.

‘Rescuing her now would only reveal how much you know of their plans.’

Granger ground his teeth. ‘So what do you suggest?’

‘We kill Fiorel,’ Conquillas said.

‘How? How do we kill a god?’

The archer shrugged. ‘With bow and sword,’ he said.

The pit battles were set to run for three days before the main tournament. By the time Marquetta’s detachment of militia arrived to open the gates to Segard, a sizeable
temporary settlement had already grown around the underground city. Tents spread out through several hundred yards of forest behind the Segard View – a rambling wooden mansion built a hundred
years before to cash in on curious Losotans come to see the fabled Unmer ruin. By the tumbledown look of the place, Maskelyne decided there hadn’t been that many of them. No doubt Hu’s
sealing the gates hadn’t helped business.

The rooms he had secured for Mellor, Cobul and himself on the second floor were probably worth about a hundredth of the price he’d been forced to pay for them, but it was either that or
sleep under canvas. So it was with a profound sense of satisfaction that he noted the rainclouds gathering overhead. Maskelyne wiped the grime and condensation off his window and peered out at
smoke from a hundred campfires drifting amidst the trees. ‘At the rate they’re going through wood, out there,’ he said, ‘there won’t be any forest left by
dawn.’

‘Maybe then we’ll get a view of the Segard Gate,’ Mellor retorted. ‘There ought to be a law against innkeepers making false claims.’

‘Just innkeepers?’

‘Whores, too.’

‘That’s one story I do not want to hear, Mr Mellor.’

The Segard Gate was located a few hundred yards further up the hillside behind the inn. Maskelyne had yet to go out and see it for himself, but he’d heard enough to learn that there
wasn’t much to see – a square stone portal four times as tall as a man, set into a muddy slope. The king’s workmen had been clearing earth and rubble from it for weeks and it was
only three days ago that they’d finally pushed the massive doors wide and ventured inside.

The ruins were intact, the arenas preserved.

That had been the talk over lunch in the Segard View restaurant. The great dark halls inside the mountain were not only still there, but their greatness and their darkness had been perfectly
preserved. Royal officials had been bringing in cartloads of gem lanterns to light the arenas, and merchants had been setting up stalls in the surrounding halls and corridors.

Their new king had yet to officially open the Halls of Anea – as the arena district of Segard had always been known – but Maskelyne felt certain that he would make an appearance
soon, if only to show his subjects that Ianthe’s poisoning had not rattled him. The show must go on. But, given that the first round of fights was scheduled to start in less than an hour, he
had expected the boy to turn up before now.

And then he heard trumpets outside.

Maskelyne wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and he went off with Mellor to find Cobul, wondering at the vagaries of thought and fate and coincidence.

The Bahrethroan was asleep in the bar, his head resting on the table, a battered metal tankard still clutched in his hand. The other punters had gone outside, leaving Cobul alone.

‘Cobul,’ Maskelyne said. ‘You’re on.’

The sorcerer jerked awake and rubbed his head groggily. ‘What time is it?’

‘Have you been here all night?’

Cobul glanced at the tankard in his hand and then downed its contents and said, ‘Apparently so.’

‘Our king is about to declare the games open,’ Maskelyne said. ‘Well, the warm-up scrap at any rate.’

Cobul stretched his arms and yawned. ‘You often see the best fights at these pit contests,’ he said. ‘Contestants are less worried about honour and . . . what’s the
word?’

‘Hygiene?’

‘Reputation.’

‘An ignoble conceit,’ Maskelyne said. ‘Shall we proceed to the slaughter?’

‘When am I on?’

‘The first round was supposed to begin at noon.’The meta-physicist checked his pocket watch. ‘Forty minutes ago. But the king’s here now to make his speeches.’

Cobul yawned. ‘Then there’s time for lunch.’

It was more than half an hour before the three of them reached the gate that led into Segard and the Halls of Anea. A constant stream of people poured into the Unmer city; from the look of them
they were mainly spectators, but a few were armed and thus probably contestants. Scores more lingered outside, their boots and wagon wheels deep in mud, hawking everything from roasted insects to
cabbages.

As they walked through that massive stone portal and into an unremarkable square tunnel, Maskelyne became aware of a queer sensation – at first he thought it was in his gut, but then he
wasn’t sure. He had the distinct notion that some change had occurred. Something that didn’t quite chime with his sense of orientation? A vague sensation of dizziness? He couldn’t
say precisely what it was, but it rankled him. He glanced over to find Cobul grinning.

‘Geometry,’ the sorcerer said.

Maskelyne frowned at him.

‘Did you just walk uphill, or down?’

‘Uphill,’ Maskelyne said. ‘And then we came in and . . .’ That’s what was so odd. The passageway beyond the gates appeared to lead straight into the mountain on a
level plain. But as soon as he’d come through the gate, he’d felt like they were on a gentle downward slope. He looked behind him. They
were
on a gentle downward slope.
‘Good grief,’ he said. ‘This is . . . Not
where
it seems to be.’

‘I’m impressed,’ Cobul said.

‘Where are we?’

The sorcerer shrugged. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘All I know is that we are
not
under a mountain in Anea.’

‘How big is Segard?’

‘Big enough to hold a city, certainly. Maybe bigger than the world we just left. Who knows? The Unmer’s descendants spent thousands of years digging out halls. They might still be in
here, for all I know.’

Maskelyne stopped in his tracks, causing the people behind to grumble and steer around him. He seized Cobul’s arm. ‘What contains it?’

‘Explain.’

‘What contains the portal through which we’ve just walked? We’re in a rift, aren’t we? A
vast
rift.’

Cobul smiled. ‘A rift inside a house-sized cube of stone buried in the rock face.’

‘But, don’t you see?’ Maskelyne said. He looked around at the hundreds of people pushing past, oblivious to the idea he’d just had. ‘The portal has no relation to
the mass of this place – it’s just a door. Which means that if we can move it, reposition it underwater, we can use it to drain this world of brine.’

‘Moving it is more of a problem than you imagine,’ Cobul said. ‘Anyway, what if there were still civilizations lost in here? Would you save one world by poisoning
another?’

‘Of course. Wouldn’t you?’

The sorcerer’s smile faltered. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘The pits are up ahead.’

The tunnel opened into a hall so vast that Maskelyne thought this one room might just be large enough to contain the entire imperial palace. The ceiling had to be two hundred yards above him,
and he could barely make out the far walls. It was illuminated by tens of thousands of gem lanterns, more than he had ever seen gathered in one place, all strung out on lines of cable held aloft by
a random assortment of poles, tripods and scaffolds.

Crowds packed the area ahead of them, their raucous shouts filling the air. They had clustered around several huge circular pits in the stone floor. As Maskelyne approached, he saw that the pits
were stepped to form descending tiers of seating. Additional braziers and torches burned within these depressions, illuminating the stone floors where the combatants would fight. In the pervading
gloom, the arenas glowed like the mouths of furnaces.

To one side of the pits lay a great shambling corral of rope, canvas and rotten timber panels and doors that appeared to have been salvaged from half a hundred old buildings. Signs proclaimed
this to be the combatants’ area, and King Paulus’s militia were busy here, taking tickets and registering names, which they chalked upon slate boards, while bookies surveyed each
contestant and spoke with them before hollering out their offered odds on the fights to come. From what Maskelyne could hear, none of the odds was particularly fair.

They registered Cobul, who – unsurprisingly – turned out to be the only sorcerer in the entire pit contest. Since amplifiers were prohibited, neither bookies nor contestants rated
his chances very highly, for spells took time and concentration to weave. Even the greatest Unmer sorcerers had used amplification artefacts, or else maintained a safe distance between themselves
and their enemies.

‘How much should we bet on you?’ Maskelyne asked him.

‘As much as you can spare,’ Cobul said. ‘The odds will go down after I win the first fight.’

Maskelyne eventually found a bookie to take a thousand gilders, returning one for two should the sorcerer win – atrocious odds, but the best available. He made the bet and then he and
Mellor went over to find seats at the correct arena while a referee led Cobul off into the combatants’ area to prepare.

An hour later, the sorcerer had his first fight.

His opponent was a local Losotan – a big man named Renton who worked in the dragon-canning factory. He wore a leather waistcoat and shorts and carried a wickedly sharp skinning lance, a
weapon with which he was said to have some skill. As the iron-barred door came up, and the big Losotan walked out to a cheering crowd, Maskelyne felt a twinge of anxiety. Renton looked like a
formidable opponent.

On the other side of the arena, the second door shot up with a rattle of chain. Cobul walked out to jeers and howls of abuse. Regardless of his physical appearance, the sorcerer’s tattooed
skin was enough to mark him as Unmer in the eyes of the crowd.

A tournament officiator beckoned the two men forward, until they stood ten yards apart. Renton took a moment to display his talents, whirling his lance above his head with consummate skill.
Cobul just stood there.

Mellor exchanged a nervous glance with Maskelyne. ‘That butcher looks fast,’ he said.

‘Remember where we found Cobul,’ Maskelyne replied. He glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of their new king, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Apparently, His Majesty was
not overly concerned with the pit fights.

The officiator had finished speaking to the two combatants. He withdrew to the edge of the arena and raised his arms and called out, ‘Let the fight begin!’

It lasted less than two seconds.

The Losotan did exactly the right thing. Knowing that speed was his best hope of success against a sorcerer, he came rushing at Cobul with his lance gripped over one shoulder like a spear.

The crowd roared.

Cobul was whispering something. He clasped his hands together suddenly, and then quickly raised one above the other, palm out, and made a small pushing motion.

His opponent burst into a thousand red embers . . .

. . . which skirled around Cobul like a swarm of fireflies, darkening rapidly, and then fell softly like grey snow. Where moments ago there had been a man, there was nothing but a thin layer of
ash upon the ground.

The crowd fell silent.

All except Maskelyne, who stood up and applauded eagerly. ‘Bravo!’ he called out. ‘Bravo.’

Duke Cyr found the king breaking his fast on one of the high palace terraces overlooking the city. The editor of the
Losotan Herald
had given him a sheaf of notes
outlining all of the city’s news for his approval and selection, but one item in particular had caused him to hurry all the way up here. ‘Your Highness,’ he said.‘Conquillas
registered for the tournament this morning.’

King Paulus paused, a slice of grapefruit halfway to his lips. ‘Where did he sign up?’