Flight of the Nighthawks (27 page)

Diigai smiled and waved his hand. “It is done. Is that you, Kaspar?” he whispered. “We haven't seen you in, what? Twenty years!”

“Yes, Majesty,” said the former duke.

“Do you still play?”

Kaspar smiled, for while the Emperor was old, his memory seemed intact. They had played a chess match when he had been a boy and Kaspar had managed five good moves before being soundly defeated. “Yes, Majesty, I do.”

“Good, then have Turgan Bey bring you to my apartments after the evening meal. We shall play a game. Just the two of us.”

“It would be my honor, Majesty,” said Kaspar, bowing as he backed away from the throne. When he had reached the appropriate distance, he turned and walked toward the main entrance, where Pasko waited patiently.

“After the evening meal, I'm to play chess with the Emperor,” Kaspar said as Pasko fell in beside him.

“A personal invitation to visit the Emperor in his quarters tonight?” the old servant asked, with eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” said Kaspar with an annoyed expression.

“You do not seem pleased, m'lord.”

“I'm not,” said Kaspar, keeping his voice down. “The old gentleman is a nonfactor as long as he lives. It's only his death that is important.” They rounded the corner and headed back to the apartment they had been given in the guest quarters. “And if anything is likely to get me marked for death, this visit would be it.”

“Why?”

As his boot heels rang out on the marble floor, Kaspar whispered, “Because in Kesh, everyone belongs to a faction, and if I have the Emperor's ear but am not a member of your faction…?” He shrugged.

“You must then be a member of the opposition.”

“Exactly. Expect at least two social calls this afternoon, and have my finest garments cleaned and ready for tonight.”

“You're already wearing your finest, m'lord.”

“You know, Pasko, there were times when ruling your own nation had its advantages, and a prodigious wardrobe was one of them. See if you can find a tailor in the city who can fashion me trousers, a shirt, and a jacket in the Olaskan fashion by sundown. And find me a bootmaker, too. I can't have new boots made in one afternoon, but I can have these repaired and polished. And a hat, I suppose. You know what to do.”

Pasko bowed and said, “I know what to do, m'lord,” and he departed.

Kaspar hoped Pasko did, because at the moment, he hadn't the remotest idea what to do. He trusted that something would come to him by that evening to guide him.

 

The prisoner slumped down on the chair. “Revive him,” said Tal.

Amafi came to stand before him and said, “Magnificence, I have been applying my arts for two days now. This man is conditioned to die rather than betray his clan.” He glanced over his shoulder at the unconscious man. “I am a killer by trade, Magnificence. There are those who enjoy this sort of undertaking, but I do not. However, I find that torture, like everything else in life, can be done
well or poorly, so while I do not enjoy this, I still take pride in my skills.

“He should be ready to speak if we let him rest for a while. We must find a cell in which to isolate him and let him awaken with no one around, to let him recover and restore himself a little. Uncertainty is our ally at this point.”

“We don't have time,” said Tal. “Revive him now.”

“Magnificence, I shall do as you bid, but he will only tell us what he thinks we wish to hear, without regard for the truth.”

Tal was frustrated. He had no doubt that Varen's forces were on the offensive after the ambush that had killed half of Caleb's men, and the attempt to take Tal prisoner. He agreed with Kaspar's assessment that if Varen's goal was to plunge Kesh into chaos, a major coup d'état attempt at the Festival of Banapis would present the perfect opportunity.

Tal considered what Amafi had said, then nodded. “Do what you can, but if Leso Varen is in this city, I want to know where he is. I won't ask Pug or Magnus to come here unless I know for a fact that the sorcerer is in Kesh.”

“Magnificence,” said Amafi with a bow. He motioned for two of the guards who had been there since the warehouse had been secured, and said, “We must move him.”

Tal knew there was risk in taking the Nighthawk prisoner to another location, but if Amafi was correct, any hope of gaining information from him was now dependent upon withholding torture as much as it was on applying it.

Damn,
thought Tal. He turned his back on the proceedings and headed for the door. He would make his way to another inn, where another barman would take another message and see that it somehow got to Sorcerer's Isle the next day.

 

Nakor hurried into the study.

Miranda and Pug sat at a small table speaking of the morning while enjoying their midday meal. “I have news,” announced the wiry little gambler.

“From Caleb?”

“No. From Talwin Hawkins. He suspects that Varen is in the city of Kesh.” Nakor looked at the message that had arrived in a special cylinder created to transport such missives quickly, and handed it to Pug. “Caleb is well, if a little damaged from springing a trap.”

Miranda looked concerned. “Damaged?”

“He got himself wounded, again,” said Nakor with a serious expression. He shook his head. “He's amassing a fine collection of scars. Still, he is well and I will tell Marie only that, and leave out the part about the scars.”

“That would be wise,” said Pug as he scanned the report. “Kaspar has made contact with Turgan Bey as we expected, and Caleb thought he had found the Nighthawks, but apparently, they had found him instead.”

“Should we go down there?” said Miranda. “If Varen is in the city, those three have no protection against him.”

Pug shook his head. “That's not entirely true. I have sent some people down there to keep an eye on our three agents, and we can be there in minutes if we must.”

“Well, why not just go now?” she asked, always the protective mother.

“Because if I appeared in Kesh and Varen got wind of it, he might eschew subtlety and try to blow up the city just to kill me. He also knows you, Nakor, and Magnus by reputation so it is just as dangerous for you to show.”

“What's keeping him from doing that now, then?” asked Miranda.

Nakor shrugged. “If he wanted to plunge the Empire into chaos, that would work, but the effects would be short-lived; an external threat would bring them together and make them put aside their differences. If one side gains preeminence in the Gallery of Lords and Masters, especially if there's bloodshed, then that is another thing entirely, and would cause years of turmoil in Kesh.

“If there's enough bloodshed in the capital, the frontiers could become unstable. The governor of Durbin might feel confident enough to declare himself the ruler of a free city, or the tribes of the Jal-Pur
might be encouraged to rise in rebellion. And it's almost guaranteed that some of the client states in the Confederacy would rebel.

“Varen wants evil to linger, not a quickly resolved conflict.”

Pug said, “Our mandate is to ensure that Varen doesn't get what he wants.”

Miranda said, “I want him dead.”

“It's keeping him dead that seems to be the problem,” said Nakor.

“What about that death rift in Opardum? Does that hold some answers?”

“I think so,” said Nakor. “The problem with the way our universe works is that all the necromancers are working for the other side. If we could find one who would work on behalf of good—” He shrugged.

Pug said, “The rapidity with which Varen has managed to jump from body to body leads me to believe that he must be using a vessel of some sort to house his soul.”

“I thought soul jars were only a myth,” said Miranda.

Pug shrugged, looking annoyed. “I have seen too much in my life to assume anything a myth. It is usually just something I haven't seen yet.”

Miranda looked at her husband and frowned. “I meant the ones in the stories.”

“Were based on fact, apparently,” said Nakor. “There are many ways to possess another—your mother, for example, became very good at it. But she was vulnerable; if the body that she inhabited died, then she would die too.”

Nakor had never told Miranda that he had been the one to destroy the spirit of the woman who had been his wife and her mother. Miranda believed Jorma—also known as Lady Clovis—had died when the demon Jakar had taken over the Emerald Queen's army.

“But Varen survives the death of his host and is able to find another body. This must mean that his spirit, soul, mind, whatever you wish to call it, must rest somewhere else, and that part of it is tethered to something—perhaps a soul vessel, or another object. It could be
a paperweight on his desk as easily as a true urn.” Nakor shrugged. “It's somehow related to that death rift he was fashioning. That is why I think it's important that we keep trying to trace it back from that rift thing we discovered west of Maladon.”

“Our son?” asked Miranda impatiently.

“I will send Magnus,” said Pug. “He's due to return from Kelewan shortly, and as soon as he does, I'll send him down to Kesh to confer directly with Caleb. Tal's report is certainly not comprehensive enough.”

Miranda looked only slightly mollified. “I'd rather go myself.”

Pug laughed. “First, Kesh is a culture where women of any rank whatsoever do not venture out after dark alone, and secondly, Magnus has a much more even temper than you, my love.”

She glared at him but said nothing.

“I'll go down with you if the time comes to do serious harm to Varen,” Pug added.

Miranda seemed satisfied with that. “Very well, but I want to know as soon as we hear from Caleb.”

“Yes, dear,” said Pug as he looked at Nakor. The little gambler grinned.

 

Kaspar waited, surrounded by Imperial Household Guards.

Each man was physically impressive—not one of them was shorter than six feet, and many were closer to seven. All were dark-skinned, suggesting their lineage, if not Trueblood, came from the closely allied tribes around the Overn. They wore the Trueblood linen kilt, and belts of bronze-studded leather. Their sandals, Kaspar noticed, were closed-toed, and he suspected they were designed for combat, not comfort. Each carried a long, curved blade at his hip and they all wore battle torques of silver-decorated iron.

Servants led Kaspar and his escort through gallery after gallery, many adorned with fountains or exotic birds, until he found himself in a gigantic room, dominated by an enormous bed. The bed easily measured twelve square feet, and it sat on top of a dais in the center of the room.

The room, however, looked more like a pavilion, hung with many curtains that could be moved as privacy dictated. Currently, they were all thrown back, affording the Emperor a stunning view of the palace below and the city beyond, in every direction.

Diigai sat on a carved chair a few feet in front of the bed. Upon a table before him rested the most splendid chess set Kaspar had ever beheld. The Emperor waved him closer and said, “Sit, boy. Let us play.”

Kaspar sat and looked around. All around the chamber stood young women of stunning beauty, dressed in the scant Trueblood fashion. Not a man given to being swayed by a pretty face or ample bosom, even Kaspar was impressed by their exquisiteness and sheer number.

The Emperor waved his hand and said, “I wish as much privacy as possible, my loves. Go away.”

The girls left with whispers and giggles, and servants drew gauzy curtains so that only one view of the city was left open.

“This is as much privacy as I'm allowed, Kaspar,” said the Emperor, dropping the formality of speech used in public. “I'll give you white.”

Kaspar nodded and picked up a pawn.

The board appeared to be carved from rosewood and had been crafted with eye-catching precision. The squares appeared to be ebony and ivory and were framed with tiny bands of gold set so perfectly that the surface was completely smooth. The pieces were not only made from the finest black onyx and white chalcedony, the carvings were also works of art. Kaspar picked up the white queen and beheld a face of regal beauty. Each crown was made of gold, and as he inspected the other pieces more closely, he could see the tiny gems set into the priest's scepter and that the horseman's sword was fashioned from platinum.

“Move, boy,” urged the Emperor, and Kasper pushed his king's pawn forward. He smiled. It had been many years since anyone had called him “boy.”

The Emperor leaned forward and said, “I wager you're wondering about all those pretty girls.”

Kaspar laughed. “I must confess, Majesty, I was nearly overwhelmed by their beauty.”

The Emperor grinned, and Kaspar was struck by how strong and white his teeth appeared against his aged, dusky skin. “What is the saying? ‘I'm old, but I'm not dead yet'?” He chuckled. “They are only here to spy on me. I think each of them works for some different minister, general, nobleman, or guild in the city. They're all presents, you know?”

“Slaves?”

“Hardly. No slave would be permitted within a hundred paces of the imperial personage. And Truebloods can never be slaves. If you break the laws enough to deserve slavery, we toss you to the crocodiles instead.” He moved his own pawn. Then, lowering his voice even more, he said, “One of the benefits of rank. I bed one now and again, and even if…nothing significant occurs, I do hear things.”

Diigai motioned for Kaspar to lean closer and whispered, “They think I'm senile.” He chuckled, and Kaspar saw a light in his eyes for the first time since he had been a boy. “And I let them think so.”

Kaspar said nothing, wondering why he, a renegade outlander was being admitted…no, not admitted—dragooned—into the Emperor's inner circle. Kaspar moved again.