Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) (16 page)

It was then that a strange thought came wandering through her mind. It was simple, treacherous in its timing.
What was she doing?
Why was she even helping this old Arkmage? Some relative of Farden’s, a strange old man she didn’t know, whose room she had wandered into the night before, on some notion of company? A lonely impulse to share a space with the only person within a hundred miles she had something in common with: blindness. Now she was spying for him, potentially risking her life, all for a simple promise. Jeasin couldn’t remember the last time she helped somebody without some smidgeon of payment. It wasn’t in her blood to do so. Not in her habit.

Malvus had even said it.
She
had even said it, for gods’ sakes, ruse or no. Something was about to envelop this Arkathedral, and the side she had stumbled onto had already been marked as the losers. Durnus had called it a coup. She didn’t know what that meant, but it had the smell of bloodshed about it. It sounded like something a Duke would do.

Ruse or not, Jeasin’s night with Council Barkhart had just bought herself a rather shiny ticket to safety. She felt the weight of the papers in her hand and pulled a face. They might as well have been a fire to throw that ticket into.
What was she doing?!

She didn’t owe these people her safety. That was it. The treacherous thought had swallowed her mind in its full gelatinous glory. Jeasin gripped the doorhandle as if her fingers were fused to it. She half-turned back to the desk, and bit her lip.

‘Fuck it,’ she hissed. She didn’t owe them anything, so why couldn’t she shake the sudden feeling of guilt?

They were polite enough to knock, at least.

When the guards came for him, Durnus was standing in the very centre of his room. His hands were folded behind his back. His face was calm. He had his best robe on. He had smelled them coming for him. All eagerness and sweat and shiny silver coin in their pockets.

Part of him wanted to send them all flying from the windows, trailing fire and screams. That would show Barkhart the true power of an Arkmage, he thought, the true reason they held the thrones. But such an act would also seal his own political fate. The Arka had tasted dictatorship before, under Vice, and they would not suffer it again. Malvus would have all the proof and cause he needed to legitimately dethrone him and Tyrfing. Dead guards on city streets tend to do that. Going calmly at least came with a sliver of something he might have called a chance.

They marched into the room in pairs. Malvus had sent a dozen for him. Their short spears were low and levelled and their armour polished to perfection. Some looked worried, while others looked victorious, even contemptuous. They surrounded the Arkmage with a circle of spears, and then a man stepped forward to take his hands.

‘Arkmage Durnus,’ he announced, in a loud voice. ‘Your presence is required in the great hall.’

Durnus raised an eyebrow as he felt a hand grab his arms. He heard the clink of metal. He could smell the familiar scents of a certain brand of pipe tobacco, conjoined with lashings of a dubious perfume. Up until now, they had been the scents of a loyal and faithful man. Stressed, over-worked, but faithful. Or so Durnus had thought. Stress, it seemed, could bend the strongest of steel with time and pressure. ‘Colonel Jarvins,’ Durnus said, with a sour look, wondering what his price had been. Rumour had it Jarvins had an ambitious wife, with dreams far above that of a guard’s status. ‘And am I refusing to attend?’ he asked, meaning the irons.

Jarvins shook his head. ‘It’s for your safety. And for ours, your Mage.’

Durnus felt a cold loop of iron encircle each of his wrists. Too cold to be natural. There was magick in the metal. ‘So be it,’ he said, and with that, the Arkmage Durnus was marched from his rooms.

Step after confident step, they marched him across the marble floors. Durnus could hear the occasional gasp of a servant. The grim nod of others. The smiling teeth of council members standing by. Durnus grit his teeth and held tightly to his calm. With every step and passer-by the urge to resist became greater and greater. The guards must have felt the fire in him; he could tell from their steps that they gave him a pace or two of extra room. The iron around his wrist became colder.

Soon enough he was brought to a halt. They were still a few corridors from the great hall, standing at what Durnus guessed to be Modren and Elessi’s door. He made a wry face. They must have been brave indeed. No surprise then that he now heard the breathing of another dozen guards, maybe a score. No chances were to be taken with a grieving Undermage.

‘Ready?’ asked Jarvins. Durnus wondered if he were talking to him, but a grunt from the other guards told him different. He stared straight ahead and waited for the chaos to unfold. He knew Modren would not go as quietly as he. Politics were last on his list of what he cared for at the moment.

Durnus did not have to wait very long at all.

As the guards formed up in pairs before the door, shields at the ready, somebody reached for the doorknob. His fingers had barely graced it before it exploded outwards, with all the ferocity of a sling-stone. It slammed into the chest of the nearest guard and floored him with a clang and a surprised ‘Oof!’

The heavy door came next, bursting from its hinges in a flash of light and black smoke. Still in one entire piece, it flew from the doorway and introduced itself to the first rank of guards, smashing them against the opposite wall. Modren stood in the door’s charred wake. Ice spun around his left hand. His right had become the colour and texture of the marble itself.

‘Treacherous bastards,’ he spat. He saw Durnus standing nearby, and saw the spears that had suddenly leapt up to tickle his pale throat.

The guards had already picked themselves up and formed a wall of shields around the doorway. This was the Evernia guard after all, highly-trained and clad head to toe in powerful anti-magick armour, armour Tyrfing had helped to perfect. Unfortunately, they were the finest guards within a thousand miles. Sadly, they weren’t the most loyal.

‘Kill the spells, mage,’ ordered Jarvins. He had splinters in his hair.

Modren bared his teeth like a dog. There was a dangerous moment, but at last he did as he was told.

The order came. ‘Clap him in irons.’

‘The hell you will, Jarvins, you snake…’ spat the Undermage. Fire ran along his arms as a threat. But it was no use. Half a dozen spears were held to Durnus’ neck again. He growled, and put out his flames.

Jarvins gestured to his men, who wrestled Modren’s arms behind his back. ‘Council Barkhart’s orders, I think you’ll find,’ said the colonel, almost conversationally.

‘I don’t take orders from worms.’

Jarvins smiled. ‘You do now.’

Side by side, Modren and Durnus were marched through the golden doors of the great hall and pushed to their knees. A huge crowd of council members were waiting for them. Every single one of them was wearing a smile that Modren longed to burn from their faces. He struggled and writhed like a criminal facing the gibbet.

Malvus was standing at the foot of Evernia’s statue, calm, collected, and as happy as could be. He was wearing a long coat of red and grey, complimented by a white shirt and black trousers with creases so sharp they could have drawn blood. His thin black shoes were polished to glorious mirrors. He drummed his nails on Evernia’s marble dais while he savoured every inch of the scene in front of him. For some reason, there was a battered old warhammer leaning next to him, but for the moment it was ignored. Malvus brushed a lock of waxy hair from his eyes and raised his hands. The crowd behind him murmured excitedly. ‘Shall we?’ he asked with a smile.

There was a loud chorus of, ‘AYE!’ from the crowd. It made the mages’ blood boil, but only Modren let it show.

Malvus swept a long length of sand-coloured parchment from the statue’s base. It was so long that he walked ten paces toward the mages and most of it still lingered between Evernia’s feet. With a supercilious smile, he held it up for everyone in the hall to see. Edge to edge, it was covered in the scribblings of a thousand different hands, in lines of names and ink-stained X’s. Malvus held it up like a trophy, like the head of some defeated general.

‘I shall keep this brief,’ he intoned. He tossed the parchment to the floor in front of Durnus and Modren. The Undermage stared at it as though it were a diseased rat. Modren mouthed some of the names to himself.

‘What is it?’ asked Durnus.

‘A list of traitors,’ muttered Modren.

‘This,’ interrupted Malvus, ‘is a petition signed by the city, by high-ranking mages, sergeants, lieutenants, and colonels, by School instructors, appointed magick council members, renowned merchants, property owners, and of course, the people themselves. Why? Well, according to the founding writings of this council, we, as the majority, have the right, nay, the
privilege
to call for the abdication of Arkmages should they be judged unfit to rule.’ Malvus gestured to the parchment snaking along the floor. ‘It appears that the people and their appointed have spoken, dear sirs. It appears you are most unfit indeed.’

Durnus kept his chin high. ‘And they are the richer for it, I am sure.’

‘How much does it cost, exactly, to buy that many scrawls, Malvus?’ hissed Modren.

A rustle of chuckling ran through the crowd and the guards at the door. They knew the truth, they simply didn’t care. Every single soul in that great hall knew they simply had to recite the lines and play the part. The city would be none the wiser, like an audience to a play. There would be no peeking behind the scenery. It was a farce. A comedy of traitors. The Copse was having its day.

Malvus wisely avoided getting too close to the red-faced Modren. He whispered in Durnus’ ear instead. ‘Less than you might imagine, let me tell you that,’ he grinned, then stood and turned in a swift movement, managing to flick Durnus in the face with his coattails as he turned.

‘And so,’ he announced to the hall, ‘It gives me the great honour to announce to this city, this country, and its armies, that Arkmages Durnus and Tyrfing no longer have the right to their thrones or to their titles. The title and position of Arkmage is hereby suspended from this day until this council, acting on behalf of the people, finds a suitable replacement or alternative. This council has spoken!’ There was a deafening cheer as Malvus finished speaking. He swaggered back and forth past the statue. Those near enough clapped him on the back, laughing and grinning. He smiled through wily lips.

With a flourish of his coattails and the squeak of boots upon the marble, he raised his hands to his crowd. ‘And who shall steer this council true until such times as a worthy replacement can be found?’

‘Malvus!’

‘Malvus!’

‘Malvus!’ came the shouts, the sickeningly eager shouts. Modren glared fire and brimstone into every eye he could meet. Durnus stared sightlessly at the floor while he waited for the noise to die away.

When it did, Malvus was there, standing over both of them, hands on hips. ‘Fortunately for you, the city has decided that execution would be a step too far. At least for now,’ he chuckled, and then gestured to the guards. ‘Take these failures to the prison. Toss them somewhere dark and cold, where they can reflect on their crimes of neglect and greed. And take that maid of theirs too. The sick one. She can share her husband’s fate,’ he ordered.

It was fortunate that Malvus called for the guards the moment he did, for his mention of Elessi sent Modren into a flaming rage. A literal flaming rage. He thrashed and he lunged and he kicked and he spat, and all the while his clothes and skin sputtered into deep orange flame. His eyes were mad, his threats and shouts just guttural barks, like a wolf set ablaze.

Malvus was startled to the say the least. His calm composure cracking for just a moment, he stumbled backwards and almost tripped over his own shoes. He smoothed his coat with his hands as Modren was hauled away by half a dozen guards, fire charring the marble beneath him. ‘As if we needed more proof!’ he yelled. More cheers came from the council.

Only Durnus remained calm and still. He was pulled to his feet by his shackles. The guards gave him a moment to speak before they hauled him away. Malvus strutted around him. ‘Any last words, Durnus?’

‘Many. But only a few shall suffice,’ he said, in a voice as brittle as an autumn leaf, yet as cold as the winter it dreaded. As Malvus came to a sneering halt in front of him, Durnus somehow managed to fix him with a glassy stare that raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. Durnus continued, speaking only to him. ‘I pity you, Barkhart. Your glory will be as fleeting as the morning frost. There will always be a schemer like you, you see. They could be behind you, in your faithful crowd. They may be in the city below. They may even be a thousand miles from here, so far blissfully unaware, but they will come, one day, and challenge you. They will flock to usurp you. Undermine you with tongues and coinpurses, like you have done to Tyrfing and I. They will see a stone that needs kicking from the mountaintop. A bare neck ready for the blade. Trust me, they will come, and when they do, you will know your errors. Good luck, I say.’ Durnus chuckled then; a single, condemning snort that rattled Malvus more than any laugh or a threat ever could. Only the future that the seer showed him, spoken over tea-leaves that morning in the cobbled street, allowed him to cling to his confidence. Malvus quickly waved the guards away and Durnus was hauled away by his elbows, heels sliding across the marble. He kept his misty eyes on Malvus until the golden doors were shut in his face.