Shadowgod (19 page)

“Sers, be gentle to my ears,” he said, bringing his hands together. “Clearly our advice needs to satisfy both caution and boldness, hard things to reconcile, I know. I have listened to your arguments, and what I propose is this - that the High Conclave sends two or three companies of infantry out to the ruined fort on the old smugglers ridge, accompanied by carpenters and stonemasons and wagons of building materials. Once there, they would set about shoring up and repairing the defences and erecting a mast from which the commander will fly a truce flag.”

“You don't seriously believe that the enemy will accept the offer of a truce,” Cruadin said abruptly.

“I don't know what they'll do,” Bardow said. “But they might consider their own position so strong that toying with us in a truce would afford them some amusement. And if we use such a face-to-face encounter with wise cunning, we could buy ourselves more time.”

A slow smile spread across Amral's scarred face. “Aah, I see - ‘Are they merely insanely rash or do they harbour some unknown power?’”

“Exactly,” Bardow said.

There was a chorus of approval from the rest, except for Trandil Cruadin who folded his arms and glowered. He was about to speak when a rapid string of oddly harmonised musical notes sounded above the babble. Bardow noticed that Blind Rina was the only one smiling at this interruption, then glanced over to where Nerek had twisted in her seat to look behind her. A few tiers back a gaunt, red-haired figure sat with his feet on the chairback in front while balancing upon his chest a curved silvery instrument consisting of a row of bulbous chambers sprouting slender musical pipes. Bardow almost laugh out loud - Osper Trawm was the last person he had expected to see here.

“Ser Trawm,” he said. “How surprising. What brings you to Besh-Darok and indeed to this meeting?”

“Greetings, Archmage. I confess that while my natural instincts, as ever, are those of the observer, I could not refuse the plea of an old friend.” He stood, a tall and lanky man dressed like an artisan, and climbed down over the seating, pausing to wink at a haughty Nerek before striding over to Blind Rina where he raised one of her hands to his lips. She shook his head and smiled before turning her sightless eyes to the Archmage.

“You see, Bardow, I was having little success in tracking down the man who tried to kill Nerek and decided that I needed help. I remembered Osper and he came at my request.”

Bardow regarded the red-headed man with a fixed smile. Osper Trawm had been a highly talented yet feckless student of the Rootpower up to the invasion. Although he was one of the few to survive its destruction, he fled the conflict and slipped into the life of an itinerant bard wandering the isles and backwaters from Ogucharn to Dalbar. Seven years ago, purely by chance, Bardow encountered him briefly on the dockside of Port Caeleg on the island of Sulros, since when he seemed to have scarcely changed. The gleaming musical instrument that hung from his neck was new, however.

“It pleases me to have you join our common effort,” Bardow said guardedly. “How soon can you begin working with Blind Rina?”

An edgy eagerness shone from Trawm's eyes. “I have already begun, Archmage,” he said, fingering the instrument's pipes. “And I have tracked down the would-be assassin's movements, some of them at least.”

“We found no trail,” said Luri. “No trail at all.”

“We searched very carefully,” said her twin, Rilu. “There was no trace of the sorcery he used anywhere. How could you suceed where we did not?”

Trawm grinned widely. “By breathing the air, fair ladies. By employing this, my ventyle.”

Heads craned forward, eyes narrowed to peer at the musical instrument hanging about his neck, Bardow included.

“It looks like a glorified syrena,” said the Nightrook.

“That's what I modelled it on,” said Trawm. He pointed at the row of bulbous chambers. “In any or all of these I can instigate the thought-canto Zephyr which then produces sweet notes according to whichever keys and pipes I use. Or I can use Cadence as well to add a voice-like quality.”

“What then is the purpose of that mouth tube?” Amral said.

“A little fakery,” Trawm said. “Making it seem that my own lungs are doing the work.”

“And how does this aid our search for Nerek's attacker?” Bardow said.

“By subtly changing the Zephyr canto, I can turn my ventyle into a retort for distilling odours from the air! Blind Rina took me to those places where Nerek and her foe clashed and despite the lapse of time I have been able to sift out the man's very personal redolence.”

“How unpleasant,” murmured the Nightrook.

“Yet effective,” Trawm countered. “With Rina's help I have found faint traces of his spoor in several locations, including the vicinity of the Imperial palace.”

There was an uneasy silence at this news, and Bardow immediately sensed a change in the tone of the gathering.

Why would he come here,
he thought,
if not to make another attempt on Nerek's life? Or could he have contacted someone within the walls? By the Void, this could have us flinching at our own shadows! But how undo this…

“Can you tell how long ago this was?” Bardow said evenly.

“Roughly two days ago,” Trawm said. “There are no more recent hints of him so he may have gone to ground.”

Bardow nodded sagely, keeping his features composed while his thoughts raced.
I'll have to nip this in the bud or everyone in this palace will be watching each other…

He gave Trawm a condescending smile. “Well, it certainly sounds like an interesting exercise,” he said, “and those pipes are quite ingenious - ”

“You don't believe him,” Blind Rina said suddenly. “You think that all our searching has been a waste of time.”

“That's not what I said,” Bardow replied. “I just need some genuinely convincing proof before bringing such conclusions to the attention of the High Conclave. Perhaps Osper should spend another day or two tracking down these odours, then see what the outcome is.”

Blind Rina shook her head. “How can you be so short-sighted,
you
of all people?”

“We are short of everything we need, Rina, including time,” Bardow said testily. “You will both have to do more to persuade me - ”

Suddenly Trawm broke away from the gathering and hurried towards the door. Blind Rina faced Bardow with wordless reproach then followed the bard out, almost colliding with Alael as she arrived with a bleary-eyed scribe.

Gods
, Bardow thought dismally.
What will it take to smooth those ruffled feathers? If only she and Osper had come to me privately, then I wouldn't have had to put them through such public humiliation. But we can't afford mass internal suspicion right now…

“Archmage, it occurs to me that no-one has mentioned the Dalbar crisis,” said Zanser. “Or the Jefren involvement.”

“That, my friend, is because the High Conclave has already taken the necessary measures.”

“Necessary measure?” Zanser retorted. “Despatching three negotiators, not one of whom is from the aristocracy, and a mere troop of riders? Why, that makes it look as if we've already written off Dalbar as a lost cause.”

Bardow gave him a sharp smile. “Yes, I expect it would. Perhaps our enemies will come to the same conclusion, eh?”

Zanser stared back at him with vacant puzzlement for a moment until the light of comprehension dawned in his eyes.

Bardow turned to Alael and the scribe she had brought with her, a shaven-headed young man in a plain brown tabard, carrying a resting board under his arm and his writing materials in an oval leather case strapped around his waist.

“Jarl, isn't it?” Bardow said to him.

“Yes, m'lord”

“Good. Firstly, there are these - “ He patted the twins' finely-drawn maps. “I want you to start transcribing these in your blackest ink, two copies of each as well. You can undertake this here, for we shall have another document for you to commit within the hour. Understood?”

Wide-eyed, the young scribe nodded.

“Excellent.” Bardow surveyed the expectant faces at the table. “Now sers, let us apply our minds to the wording of this proposal - there are several persons to be swayed, including the Emperor himself, so let our phrasing be clear and direct.”

And later,
he thought,
I shall have to be coaxing and manipulative in order to persuade Rina and Trawm to continue their search for our skulker, and to do it in secret.

And after that… I just might find time for sleep.

* * *

Byrnak led the two Mogaun chieftains along the ornate gallery at a leisurely pace, pointing out this detail and that as they progressed. Small glass oil lamps hung high shed a low, yellow light but much of the stonework here was black marble or polished granite so the effect was one of a gleaming dimness, with soft glitters reflecting from a multitude of carved intricacies. A common motif of this corridor was that of horses, in spirals around pillars, in narrow relief panels running the length of a wall, or as pairs of life-size statues set on plinths flanking a few archways and doors, rearing in frozen wildness. He paused before one of them, indicating its expression to his guests.

“Regard those eyes, my friends, the way they gaze down with an unassailable disdain. In fact, both of these statues are looking down at us, not at each other, as if trying to intimidate anyone looking up.” He glanced at the two chieftains. “Why do you think that is?”

The taller of the two, Welgarak, shook his head slowly.

“I don't know, great lord.”

“Of couse, you wouldn't know,” Byrnak said. “The story goes that the chief architect of this, Rauthaz Fortress, was an initiate of a secret Skyhorse cult. Unfortunately, his employer, King Tynhor, was High Priest at the temple of the Nightbear, the official creed of Yularia at the time. When Tynhor discovered that his pet architect was a devotee of the despised Skyhorse, he had the man slain in his home before his family. Then he turned the adornment of the remaining chambers and passageways over to an architect who was an avowed Nightbear follower. But it transpired that he was an inferior craftsman, so nowhere else in the fortress but here is there the feeling of being observed by a godhead.”

Except within your own skull, wretch.

He almost snarled at this interruption from from his inner mind, but steeled himself against it, refusing to be distracted by the god-fragment he carried. Instead he forced himself to remain calm before the brutish servants he had ordered brought to him.

The disastrous battle at Besh-Darok and the aftermath of pogroms and executions had drastically reduced the numbers of the Mogaun host, and killed off most of their chiefs. A few tribes had turned renegade but most of the remaining warriors had obeyed the Acolytes' command to pledge their allegiance to Welgarak and Gordag. With most of the Mogaun shamans dead, insane or fled, there was little stomach for mass rebellion. But Byrnak had taken it upon himself to examine these two more closely and determine the strength of their loyalty and their fitness for the battle ahead.

“How would you feel,” he said to them, “if such statues were made of you? If it came to be that you inspired this kind of veneration?”

Welgarak blinked but his frown remained grim. The other, Gordag, whose once-stout frame was now gaunt, seemed stupified by the suggestion for a long moment. Then he gave a hesitant smile.

“I...I don't know, great lord,” he said. “Happy, I suppose.”

“When all our battles are won,” Byrnak said, pitching his voice low, almost as if he were confiding in equals, “there will be a mountain of treasure to be divided, and land, titles and power. All for the brave and the loyal.”
Saying no more, he made a small beckoning gesture and led them further along to where the corridor turned left, stopping before a massive mirror. Its frame was intricately carved to resemble one continuous tree entwined with leaves and vines and sprigs of berries, with creatures, faces and people scattered along every side, hiding within or peering out from the foliage. Every time he passed it by, Byrnak fancied that he saw something new among the profusion of images.

The mirror stretched from floor to more than twice a man's height, perfectly reflecting the rest of the corridor and the three figures standing before it. Byrnak's attire was that of upper nobility, a neat-fitting midnight blue doublet with silver embroidery on the sleeves and the high collar.

In contrast the chieftains looked dishevelled and unwashed, with their shirts and breeks bearing rips and grime, theirs furs as matted as their hair, and the sheathes on their belts empty of all blades. Fingers twitched for hilts surrendered to the fortress stewards while eyes scowled at their reflections.

“Now as it might be,” Byrnak said and swept his arms across the mirror.

Its surface shivered and there were twin intakes of breath, then muttered oaths of awe. In the mirror Welgarak wore burnished iron armour inlaid with his clan's black moon totem in gold and pearlshell. His silver hair was long and combed straight and his beard was forked into three with the tips dyed red. Beside him, Gordag was garbed in a bronzed breastplate, gleaming mail, and a red-horned helm over dark, finely-braided hair. Both carried iron-hafted war axes and both seemed taller, straighter, their stares fierce and proud.

Byrnak regarded the chieftains with a sidelong glance, and smiled at their mesmerised stillness.

“There is much to be gained,” he said smoothly. “By those of unshakeable loyalty and courage.”

“I am for you, great lord,” said Gordag, unable to look away from the mirror.

“I too, my lord,” Welgarak said, his voice slack. “What would you have us do in your service?”

“Gather together all the tribes and warriors you can in the Forest of Gulmaegorn in northern Khatris. In just a few days I will come to you both with orders that will change this world forever.”

With an effort Welgarak then Gordag looked round at him and he was pleased to see that there was something new and hungry in their eyes.

“As you will it, great lord,” Welgarak said. “So shall it be.” Gordag gave a sharp nod of agreement.