Shadowgod (6 page)

“All we need is a way through to the back alley, Ffion,” Bardow said reassuringly. “But we shall only ask, not demand. Serjeant - you and your men clear a way through to those buildings there. Be firm, but try not to break any heads.”

“As you say, ser.”

Jamek was tall and broad shouldered, and had been a Second Rul in the city militia before he was recruited to the Knights Protectorate, one of the four new orders founded by Mazaret. He and his men wore polished leather harness decorated with silver inlay, black iron collarettes, and long, dark blue cloaks. They forged a swift and efficient path through the crowd to the mean, two-storey buildings behind the stalls. The surly, bearded landlord of one dim house soon turned eager and cooperative when Bardow produced a couple of silvers from his moneybelt.

A few moments later they were stepping out into a cold alley where thick snow had gone to grey-brown slush.

“Is there another way to Five Kings Dock from here?” Ffion asked him.

“Indeed there is,” Bardow said.

“Do you have a map?” she asked.

“Indeed I do,” Bardow said, tapping his forehead. “In here. I grew up in this city, remember. Now, if we head along this way we should find a side street to take us down to the coast road…”

He urged them all on at a brisk pace, sensing that another snowfall was imminent. Although Jamek and his men were well-wrapped against the weather, Bardow and Ffion had on thin robes over fine indoor garb. Shivering, he wished they had brought a carriage from the palace.

As they walked, Bardow’s thoughts went back to the morning’s meetings. The first had been with coronation officials at the palace, a summary of final, unresolved details which were promptly dealt with. The next had taken place in a small room in the Keep of Day: there he spoke to a small gathering of mages, most of whom had been reluctant to attend, and after some intense discussion persuaded them to agree to a further meeting in the next day or two.

For the third meeting, Bardow had left the palace and crossed the city to Gauntlet Square where senior merchants were gathering at the offices of the Trades Guild. There, the arguments had been labyrinthine, a convoluted tangle of specious precedent, dubious legalities and sheer arrogance which all came down to one basic premise - that the merchants of Besh-Darok be allowed to trade whatever goods they liked with whomever they liked, with no tariffs while paying minimal taxes to the Crown. Bardow had listened to all this with a mounting sense of incredulity and the realisation that even after the fall of the Empire and sixteen years of occupation, these greedy men still did not understand the nature of the evil that threatened them all. The world teetered on the brink of an abyss and they thought only of lining their own pockets.

Yet the new government of Besh-Darok needed them, their experience and their webs of contacts. With the prospect of further savage conflict looming in the spring, there was a great need for huge amounts of iron and wood for the weapon forgers, horses for the cavalry, stone for fortifications, textiles for military tailors and sail makers - the list was near endless and the treasury’s funds were finite. So, without making any important concessions, Bardow had to appear sympathetic to the Guildsmen while persuading them to sign a few vital contracts. Bardow had brought with him a personal message from Yasgur (who had dealt with them in previous years), a scroll which he had passed to Serjeant Jamek before entering the conclave hall. Later, while preparing to leave with the signed documents, Bardow had mused on the persuasive effects of a seal- and ribbon-adorned letter full of manly exhortations read aloud by a steely-eyed, six foot four, strikingly attired Knight Serjeant.

Now, as they hurried along the coast road, buffeted by cold gusts coming in from the bay, a bleak mood stole over the Archmage. Only he and a few others - Medwin, Alael and Terzis and some of the mages - truly understood the threat of the Shadowkings. The Crystal Eye certainly made use of the Lesser Power easier, and stronger in some cases, while serving as a sentinel against Wellsource adepts in and around the city (Nerek it seemed to recognise as an ally). But those who worked with it the most found themselves gaining unsettling insights into the darkness surrounding them. With his perceptions of the sorcerous landscape waxing, he became increasingly aware of the Shadowkings themselves and the sheer scale of the powers at their command. Every so often he had felt the dread weight of their gaze across the hundreds of miles like a black, insidious pressure upon his consciousness. For these brief periods, he had a focus for his purpose, a foe to struggle against, a beguilement to deny. At other times, he threw himself into work on the city’s innumerable problems, hoping to evade contemplation’s burden of despair.

Yet it seemed unavoidable. Even now, with the sound of thundering drums growing as they neared Five Kings Dock, his attuned senses could feel the faint, patient expectation of distant observers. The fine threads of some malefic intrigue were being drawn together this day and even with the Crystal Eye he had been unable to discern its nature.

Crowds milled around the street level archways that led into Five Kings Dock, but Bardow pointed out a wooden ramp, one of several newly-built ones which led up to the first and second tiers. Snow was swirling about them as they hurried up to the first tier. Pillared walkways ran along the rear and either side of the Dock, part of the original stone yard that was built over five hundred years ago. The massive wooden superstructure with its roof was only added a century ago by Emperor Tavalir IX, who had grown weary of conducting ceremonies in the open air.

They were part way along the rearward gallery when Bardow spotted someone familiar among a group of soldiers climbing one of the stairways that went up the outside of the Dock to the second tier. It was Yarram, the new Lord Commander of the Knights of the Fathertree. Bardow saw him for only a moment or two but the man’s grim demeanour was starkly apparent and the mud streaks on his battle harness spoke of an urgent purpose. Then he was gone, ascending out of sight.

Frowning, Bardow slowed to a halt. Yarram had come seeking Yasgur, he was sure of it, probably to pass on some dire news. Unease welled within him - was this the opening move in the enemy’s intrigue?

“What is wrong, ser?” said Ffion. His companions were regarding him with puzzlement and concern.

With eyes closed, Bardow pinched the bridge of his nose. Even though the din of the drums had subsided to a muted four-stroke rhythm, a dull ache was unfurling behind his eyes. He had been on his way to see the Steward of Ceremonies, but that would have to wait.

“We must go up to the State Chamber,” he told them. “I have to speak with Lord Regent Yasgur at once. Jamek - lead the way.”

“By your command, Lord Archmage.”

Pushing through tall, layered curtains they emerged in one of the Dock’s many arbour halls. At any other time, Bardow would have paused to admire the wall hangings, the tiny fragrant garden with its dwarf litrilu blooms, the Cabringan wood carvings, and the roselight lamps, all donations from rich merchants and some of the freed cities. But he hurried them on through a doorway and onto a stone staircase which gave access to all the tiers, and afforded a magnificent view of the entire Dock. The banks of seating, the long balconies and the high cupolas were filling with people, while along either side of the dock stood attendants bearing standards or holding lines trailing from the shadowy ceiling. Pale daylight filtered in via high, narrow windows, but scores of torches and lamps burned at every level, providing a suffusing golden glow which struck gleams from the great tree symbols picked out in gold and silver leaf on the gigantic doors at the dock’s far end.

As Bardow climbed, thinking thoughts as dark as the waters of the dock itself, he chanced to glance over the balustrade at the citizens pouring down the aisles of the second tier. His gaze passed upwards to the crowded walkway behind the topmost bank of benches, then with uncanny accuracy settled on just one face out of those jostling hundreds, one face which caught his attention and doggedly held on to it.

It was Nerek he saw, with her close-cropped hair and the customary battered leather jerkin, except that she seemed more relaxed than usual, less stiff and reserved. There was even a smile, faint and languorous, and when she turned in her progress through the crowd Bardow saw the line of her jaw and the shape of her ear, and suddenly knew that he was looking at an imposter.

Then she caught sight of something on the other side of the dock, and Bardow felt a trickle of horror at the cold, implacable intent that came over her features as she gripped the handrail and stared out. Swiftly he followed that gaze across, searching the people milling about on the first and second tiers….and spotted Keren down on the first in a doorway, nodding and talking with a woman in a flowery headscarf. When he looked back to the other side, the false Nerek was gone and something like panic welled up inside him.

“Down!” he cried to the others, who had clustered around him on the busy stairway. “We must go back down - ”

“But why, Bardow?” Ffion said. “You don’t look well.”

“Be more concerned about Keren,” he said. “They’ve sent an assassin after her! Jamek, get us down to the first tier…”

And pray that we’re not too late
.

But even as they started back down the way they had come, bells rang all around and horns brayed as the huge doors of Five Kings Dock began to open outwards. Tauric had returned from the Earthmother temple at Wybank with the Crown of Flowers.

* * *

To Keren it was almost as if the woman in the headscarf had her under a spell. She had made the mistake of answering the woman’s query about the name Five Kings Dock, that it had been named after five ships that were built here, and that opened the floodgates. Now the woman just would not stop talking, spinning out a long skein of woes and anecdotes about her family and the long journey to Besh-Darok and the state of the roads and the price of food and aren’t city folk rude and…

Then inspiration struck.

“In the Mother’s name!” she cried, pointing. “Isn’t that your husband about to eat a poisonous naqroot?”

As the woman shrieked and looked round, Keren turned and ducked through a nearby curtained archway. Just then bells began to ring and horns blew a fanfare, and there was a rush for the tier seats. Standing by a pillar, Keren avoided being swept down the aisles yet with the phalanx of taller people now standing in front of her she could see nothing but the upper halves of the dock’s doors opening outwards.

Deciding to find a way up to the next tier, she hurried along a gallery past several arbour chambers, one where children played around a fountain, or another where two lovers sat kissing beneath a spiraleaf tree, their arms enfolding each other in oblivious passion. One of the main staircases at the rear was in sight when nearby someone uttered her name in an urgent whisper. She turned and was startled to see Nerek standing partly obscured between the folds of closed hall curtains.

“Keren - I need to speak with you in private.”

“Now? - but the ceremony will be starting soon.”

A slight nod, half-hidden by the curtains. “I know, but this won’t wait.” Her voice was hoarse and flat. “There’s a small staircase in the next chamber - leads up to a seclusion room. Go there and I’ll join you shortly.”

Then she was gone, heavy drapes swaying in her wake. Keren cursed under her breath then stalked along to the adjoining chamber, where several games of Advance lay abandoned, and climbed the narrow spiral staircase in the corner. She came up in a small lamplit room decorated with sumptuous hanging and tapestries, with three quilted settles and thick woven rugs on the tiled floor.

She heard no movement but felt a feather-touch of cold air from a curtain parting at her back. Instinct took over and she went into a turning crouch but a blow still glanced off her temple, sending her staggering sideways to trip over a low table. When she looked up at the face of Nerek, she was ready to unleash a stream of invective….until she looked longer into those wide-eyed, unblinking features.

“The mask of the first to kill the second,” the false Nerek said in a deep, rich voice. “Then the mask of the second will serve the Well.”

A small dagger, scarcely more than a noblewoman’s graceknife, came into view and Keren went utterly still when she saw the gleam of moisture along the edges of the blade.
Poison
, she thought.
The merest cut and I am dead
…

The false Nerek, still staring eerily, tilted her head to one side and leaned in closer.

“The Well is served,” she said.

She drew the dagger back for a slash at Keren’s face, but another hand grabbed her wrist and forced it up and away. Keren gaped to see the real Nerek, her bruised, grazed features snarling with anger and effort. The imposter fought against this intervention, her unwinking gaze flicking from Nerek to Keren and back. As Keren pushed herself away from the dagger, Nerek overcame her imposter and with a cry threw her back onto one of the settles which collapsed under the impact.

There were running footsteps outside, a voice saying “In here!”, and Keren looked up to see Bardow and several cloaked Knights enter. Nerek had armed herself with an iron candlestick but the Archmage waved her back. He was about to speak when the imposter sat up on the wrecked settle and raised the poison dagger before her, pointing out.

“The Well shall be served,” she said.

Before anyone could move, the false Nerek slashed the dagger across the palm of her other hand. Then she smeared the bloody wound down one side of her face, and smiled a frozen smile as she toppled backwards, eyes already full of death.

“Nobody touch that dagger, nobody!” Bardow said. “Or the body either. There is no knowing what traps it carries.”

“Traps, ser?” said one of the knights.

“Fish hooks,” Bardow said. “Or pins similarly poisoned, or insects, or even slow poison in fine powder. Touch nothing with bare skin.”

As Bardow asked for a pair of gauntlets, Nerek came over and offered a hand to Keren. Getting back on her feet, she muttered her thanks as she dusted herself off.