Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (29 page)

           
The functionary favored the courtier
with a murderous glance and bowed in Hattim’s direction.

           
“Your chambers are—as ever—ready, my
Lord. It will take but moments to kindle a fire, and I shall have victuals
brought. If you will follow me?”

           
Hattim followed him to the familiar
quarters, rousing a bustling horde of servants along the way, and soon found
himself alone, a fire blazing in the hearth, wines set to hand, and food laid
out on a table in the antechamber. He looked around. The rooms were decorated
and furnished in the manner of Ust-Galich, just as others were prepared in the
styles of Kesh and Tamur for the use of the lords when in Andurel. Ornate
tapestries hid the stone of the walls and luxurious carpets covered the floors,
the sunburst emblem was carved in the stone above the hearth and the wardrobes
contained his own clothing. Ere long, he thought, all of the
White
Palace
would be ornamented in similar style and he
would occupy the chambers on the level above, where Darr now doubtless lay in
unsuspecting slumber. He chuckled, filling a goblet with sweet Galichian wine,
and raised the cup in toast to himself. In the window that looked on to one of
the palace gardens he caught his reflection and set an imaginary crown upon his
golden hair. It would sit well, he decided.

           
Then he cursed as the doors to the
balcony flung open, causing him to spill wine down the front of his green and
gold tunic.

           
“I startled you?”

           
There was mockery in Taws’s voice,
but Hattim ignored that as he stared at the mage. He was growing familiar with
the thaumaturgist’s powers, but still this shape-shifting unnerved him. and it
seemed that Taws was even now in the process of change. Chill night air carried
a waft of malodor into the room and Taws’s form seemed to flicker, the
shoulders hunched like wings beneath the sable cloak, his neck arched,
birdlike, emphasizing the cadaverous gauntness of his triangulate features.
Fireglow set a ruddiness on his ashen skin, but the mane of albescent hair that
draped his shoulders was still snow-pale, while his eyes glowed red as furnace
pits. He shuddered and crossed to the fire, thrusting out hands too long, too
taloned, for any man, peering into the flames as though he sought sustenance
there.

           
“You were not seen?” Hattim refilled
his glass, composing himself as he watched Taws’s form solidify.

           
The mage turned to fix him with a
contemptuous stare and shook his head,

           
“You encountered no Sisters?"

           
“None," Hattim assured. “But
...”

           
“What?” Taws moved a step closer to
the fire, surely closer than mortal man would find comfortable,

           
“I cannot avoid them indefinitely,”
Hattim continued. “And will they not sense the glamour you set on my retinue?”

           
Taws chuckled, the sound soft and
dry as the scuttling of a spider’s legs through dust. “Magic goes often
unnoticed where it is not expected. And the cantrip I wrought is minor enough
to escape detection. You did as I bade you?”

           
“Aye.” Hattim nodded, confused, “I
claimed sufferance of a malaise to find these chambers. I have spoken to no one
save the watch captain and a steward.”

           
“And Darr?”

           
“No doubt sleeps,” Hattim said,
glancing automatically at the ceiling. “I came directly here—-just as you bade
me.”

           
“Good.” Taws’s fleshless lips angled
in horrid approximation of a smile. “On the morrow you will again claim a
malaise, but this time you will ask that a Sister attend you.”

           
Hattim’s confusion grew, his
handsome face creasing in a frown.

           
“I need one,” Taws informed him. “1
can draw much strength from one of the Lady’s bitches, and it amuses me to use
her power against her.”

           
“Here?” Hattim gasped, horrified,
recalling Ellebriga’s fate. “Do not doubt me!” Taws moved a single step from
the fireside. It was sufficient to send Hattim starting back, more w ine
spilling from his goblet. “You are committed now. Sethiyan. Do not think to
question me—merely obey. When your courtiers come in the morning you will ask
for a Sister Hospitaler. Do you understand?”

           
Hattim nodded, “Aye.”

           
“There will be little danger.” Taws
declared in a milder tone. “You will request solitude, and when I am done I
shall dispose of the remains in such a manner that none will suspect.”

           
Hattim nodded again and topped his
cup, though this time he ignored the Galichian wine in favor of evshan.

           
“Do not imbibe too much,” warned the
mage. “I need your wits about you. And your prospective bride will not welcome
a drunkard. ”

           
He smiled again as he said it and
Hattim found his mind filled with an image of Ashrivelle as Taws had revealed
her that night in Nyrwan, lush and suppliant. The promise of that vision—and
the promised aftermath—was heady as the liquor and Hattim set down the cup
half-drunk.

           
“Sleep,” ordered the mage. “I would
have you look your best when you meet the princess.”

           
It occurred to Hattim that Taws
spoke as if he were no more than a puppet to be dressed and manipulated at the
mage’s will, and he felt resentment stir. Stronger, though, than hurt pride was
the desire for the reward pledged him, and stronger still his fear of Taws: he
ducked his head and turned toward the bedroom.

           
He doubted that he would sleep, and
for a while he lay restlessly, images of Ashrivelle and flames filling his
mind, but then a languor possessed him and even as he wondered idly if Taws
sent it, he drifted into a dreamless slumber.

           
He woke to find winter sunlight
streaming through the casement of his chamber and the room heady with the
warmth of the banked fire. He rose, drawing on a robe of embroidered silk, and
found the ewer of cool water close by the bed. He laved his face and went into
the anteroom, where Taws stood beside the hearth. The mage seemed not to have
moved during the night, for his stance was exactly as Hattim remembered, so
near the flames that human skin must surely have scorched.

           
“It is time,” he declared, and
Hattim forgot the hunger that cramped his belly. “Inform your minions that you
require a Sister. ”

           
“Will they not see you? Surely she
must,” Hattim protested.

           
“No,” Taws said. “Now delay no
longer. Obey me!”

           
His tone was such that Hattim sprang
instantly to the door, his abrupt appearance startling the servant waiting
there.

           
“Fetch Count Celeruna,” he barked as
the man essayed a sleepy-eyed bow.

           
Celeruna came hurriedly, clearly
brought from his bed, for his hastily donned robe revealed an artfully
embroidered nightshirt and his hair was disarrayed, the usually coiffed
ringlets dangling like rats’ tails about a face puffy with sleep and devoid of
its customary cosmetics. Tasseled slippers rendered his feet clumsy as he
entered Hattim’s chamber, even his bow less decorous than was his wont.

           
“My Lord?” he panted.

           
Hattim motioned for him to close the
door, realizing that Taws was nowhere in sight.

           
“I find myself unwell. Have a Sister
attend me.

           
“Instantly,” Celeruna promised. “And
breakfast, my Lord? What of the king?”

           
“A Sister,” Hattim repeated. “No one
else. You will inform Darr of my indisposition and present my apologies. I
require solitude.”

           
“Very well, my Lord Hattim.”
Celeruna appeared confused, but nonetheless hastened to obey, bustling from the
chamber with a flushed face and noisy slippers.

           
Hattim turned about the instant the
door closed, but still there was no sign of Taws, neither in the antechamber
nor the bedroom, nor on the balcony, and the Lord of Ust-Galich felt his confidence
return, though not so much as to preclude his draining of the glass of evshan
remaining from the previous night.

           
He felt the fire of the alcohol seep
into his belly and wondered if he should return to his bed. Somehow he felt
unwilling to lie between the sheets while Taws wrought his will on the Sister
and so he dressed hurriedly, forsaking his customary toilette with a grimace of
distaste. He combed his long hair and adjusted the earring dangling from his
left lobe. Habit set bracelets on his wrists and a modest selection of rings
upon his fingers. He had time to fill a fresh cup with evshan and drain it
before the Sister Hospitaler arrived.

           
Sister Thera was surprised by the
appearance of the Lord Hattim. The pumpkin-faced courtier who had summoned her
had led her to believe his master was close to death, and while she bore no
affection for Hattim, considering him an upstart popinjay, she had responded
swiftly in accordance with her calling. She had doubted the malaise was quite
so dramatic as Celeruna suggested, thinking that—from her knowledge of the
Galichian lord—he was most probably suffering the aftereffects of river
sickness exacerbated by excessive consumption of wine, but still she had
anticipated a sick man. Instead she found him dressed, albeit in more
disheveled state than was his fastidious custom, and drinking evshan. She
studied his face, thinking that he did, indeed, look feverish, his eyes burning
bright, and that his manner was extremely nervous.

           
She dropped an almost indiscernible curtsy
as she inquired, “You are unwell, my Lord Hattim?”

           
“I . . .” Hattim glanced around the
room. “I . . Yes! I am . . . unwell.”

           
Sister Thera wondered why he
appeared so nervous. Why his eyes moved everywhere save to her face, almost as
though he were afraid to meet her gaze; as if he expected some third party to be
present even though his sycophant had made clear his wish to be alone.

           
“The symptoms?” She set down her
satchel as she spoke, unclasping the bag with an eye to some simple nostrum,
suspecting that he wasted her time.

           
Hattim stared at her, turning his
head before she could meet his eyes. He did not recognize her, seeing only a
young woman in the blue robe of the Sorority, her hair a pale brown, plaited
about a vaguely pretty face that now exhibited signs of impatience.

           
“My symptoms?”

           
“Aye, my Lord, your symptoms. I
cannot prescribe a cure until I know the symptoms.”

           
“The symptoms,” Hattim muttered,
anxiety flushing his features.

           
“My Lord Hattim, I was summoned from
my prayers to tend a man described as sick by that ...” Sister Thera bit back
the insulting description she was about to voice. “By Count Celeruna. I have
ample tasks awaiting my attention and the sooner I am able to prescribe for
you, the sooner I may attend them. What exactly do you feel? Nausea? Does your
head ache? Do you sweat?”

           
Hattim heard the impatience in her
voice and licked his lips nervously, wondering where Taws was; wondering if he
should allow the Sister to examine him, or fake symptoms. Surely either course
must lead to discovery of his blasphemous alliance. This woman was a
Hospitaler, and so versed in the healing arts rather than the metaphysical, but
even so she would, he felt certain, sense some aura about him, know that he
lied.

           
Indeed, Sister Thera was beginning
to doubt the truth of Celeruna’s description and the nature of Hattim’s
discomfort. Her talent, as Hattim surmised, was for healing and she had little
experience of the magical arts, but Estrevan had trained her to read the signs
implicit in a man’s body, in the way he moved, in his voice, in his mannerisms.
Hattim Sethiyan, she thought, might well be feverish; sweat beaded his upper
lip and forehead, and his skin—pale in the fashion of the Galichian
nobility—was flushed, but it appeared to her from nerves, rather than river
sickness or alcohol. He seemed afraid to meet her eyes. In fact, it seemed he
was loath to look at her at all, his gaze roaming the chamber as though he
anticipated the momentary arrival of another. She turned from her satchel and
took a step toward him. Hattim took a step back, but not before the Sister felt
a presence that she could not understand.