The Art of Hunting (12 page)

Her slender blonde companion glowered at this for a moment, before she turned to Paulus and addressed him in a voice twisted to sarcasm, ‘Thank you, Your Highness.’

Paulus observed her a moment. ‘Have I offended you?’

She snorted and raised her chin. ‘Of course not, Your Highness.’

Paulus’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer, before turning away. He had, it seemed, no desire to provoke a confrontation. But then he stopped suddenly and winced. He shook his head
again, this time in apparent response to some minor pain. And suddenly he reached up and clamped his hands against his temples. His eyes snapped shut and he staggered forward.

Ianthe caught him. ‘Paulus?’

The young prince gasped and collapsed to his knees, pulling Ianthe down with him.

From the other side of the room came a sudden cry. Duke Cyr pointed wildly at the Haurstaf girls. ‘The blonde girl,’ he yelled. ‘She’s doing this. She’s
attacking.’

The dumpy girl who had curtseyed mere moments ago now backed away, her hands raised defensively, her horror-struck eyes fixed on the prince’s agonized writhing. Her fair companion remained
rooted to the spot. The malice had disappeared from her expression, replaced by what appeared to be genuine shock.

‘An assassin,’ the duke cried. ‘An assassin.’

The palace guard wheeled and struck the slender girl across the face with the back of his gauntlet. She crumpled like a pile of sticks, her body splayed across the floor, her hair a lick of
yellow flame. She moaned and raised her head and gaped back in terror at her assailant.

Paulus cried out in agony.

‘Stop her,’ Cyr cried. ‘She’s killing the prince.’

Even as the palace guard raised his boot to strike the girl, Ianthe reacted instinctively.

She closed her eyes and let her consciousness slip from her own body until she was floating in that dark and endless reservoir of perceptions she had begun to think of as the Sea of Ghosts. She
could still perceive the chamber she physically occupied, but now through the eyes and ears of everyone present. It was like being in the room, but removed from it at the same time.

At the focus of each person’s vision, the young blonde Haurstaf assassin lay upon the stone between the feet of the palace guards, her perceived surroundings shining like a beacon before
Ianthe’s own discorporate soul. The chamber seemed to flicker and swell around Ianthe as the Haurstaf girl cast her gaze around. Was she even now looking for escape?

There would be no escape.

Ianthe’s own consciousness flitted through the dark like a phantom. She fell upon that young Haurstaf mind and curled her anger and desperation around it. Through the ears of those others
around her she heard screaming, but she could not tell from whose throat it came. She heard a sudden sharp intake of breath.
Paulus?
And then she felt a stab of agony at the base of her
spine. Her spine? She wanted to cry out, but she had no lungs, no body. No spine. She was nothing but a ghost. A male voice roared, ‘Kill her!’

Ianthe snuffed out the Haurstaf mind like a candle.

She opened her eyes again to find Paulus staring at her intently, but her thoughts scrambled through dizziness and nausea. Someone had tried to attack her. The prince was holding her shoulders,
keeping her drunken limbs upright. ‘Ianthe?’

‘My love.’

‘Hush, you’re confused.’

Her sense coalesced. And suddenly she heard sobbing. She glanced at the floor. The Haurstaf girl lay there, unmoving, one hand pressed against a wound at the base of her spine from which blood
was pouring. One of the palace guards crouched over her, a bloody knife in his hand. The girl lay in an awkward attitude, her torso twisted strangely, her robes scattered about her naked legs. Her
mouth was open but still. Her dead eyes stared at nothing.

The other girl sat on the floor nearby, weeping uncontrollably into her sleeve.

Ianthe failed to stifle a wail.

‘You saved me,’ Paulus said, holding her more tightly. ‘Do you hear me? You saved my life.’

‘I killed her,’ Ianthe said. ‘Before the knife. She was dead before her blood even started to flow.’

‘She was trying to kill me. Another heartbeat and it would have been too late.’

Ianthe rested her head against his chest and began to sob.

Maskelyne’s smile stuttered momentarily when the door opened and his servant Garstone admitted the Haurstaf witch out onto the terrace. The face beneath that white
Haurstaf cowl was not that of Briana Marks at all, but rather the face of a beautiful young woman he had never seen before. It took the meta-physicist a moment before he realized what was going
on.

‘My dear Briana,’ he said to the stranger. ‘You’re here by proxy.’

The young woman extended her hand. ‘Thena Althorpe,’ she said. ‘I will telepathically relay the conversation between Sister Marks and yourself.’

‘I’m envious of your talent, Miss Althorpe,’ Maskelyne said with a smile. ‘But not the task before you.’ He offered her a seat at a table by the edge of the sea
cliffs. They were on a little-used terrace on the eastern side of his fortress, high above the darkly plunging waters of the Sea of Lights. Waves boomed and fizzed against the rocks far below,
sharpening the air with vapours that had long ago corrupted the ironwork of the patio furniture and the railings, giving them a furred bromide texture. In the waning light the Mare Lux glowered
heavily.

Over their heads Maskelyne’s fortress of pink and purple quartz stood atop the island’s spine like a monstrous lantern or even a great crystal skull. Its translucent façades
and buttresses and inner spaces hoarded and amplified the last rays of sunlight so that the whole building glowed fiercely against the darkening skies.

‘May I say,’ Maskelyne said, ‘what a pleasure it is to see you again, Briana. You’re looking especially radiant.’

Thena blushed. ‘Sister Marks asks that you . . . uh . . . refrain from patronizing her, sir. And she requests that you address her as Miss Marks.’

‘She asks and requests?’ Maskelyne grinned. ‘That hardly sounds like her at all.’

The telepath opened her mouth to speak, but stopped.

‘Yes?’ Maskelyne said.

‘I will relay her words exactly.’

‘Harder than it sounds, I imagine.’

‘Sir, I am a trained . . .’ She fell silent again, then recomposed herself. ‘Stop baiting the girl,’ she said in a voice clearly intended to mimic Briana’s own.
There was even a harshness to the tone. ‘I need to speak with you urgently, Ethan.’

‘My dear Briana,’ Maskelyne said. ‘This pretty voice can’t mask your anguish.’ He took the young telepath’s hand in his own, resting his finger on her pulse.
‘Tell me where you are and how I may be of assistance.’

The telepath barely flinched at Maskelyne’s touch. Her eyes remained focused inwards. ‘I’m at sea,’ she said. ‘My exact location is irrelevant and secret. You need
only know that I’m far from Awl and far from you.’

Maskelyne released the telepath’s hand. ‘Some wine? Is this woman able to convey the taste and smell of a rare Losotan vintage across the leagues to you?’

‘Of course not,’ the young woman said. ‘Don’t waste wine on her.’

‘Of course,’ Maskelyne said. ‘We wouldn’t want her slurring your words. Still, I hope you don’t mind if I have some.’ He signalled to Garstone, who was
waiting beside the door. Garstone disappeared inside.

Maskelyne leaned back in his chair. A cool breeze blew off the sea and ruffled his hair. He could see that the telepath seated opposite him was trying to distance herself from the conversation,
removing her own will in order to act as a conduit between himself and Briana Marks. Of course she could not accomplish that completely. The blankness she’d adopted in her expression was
merely an affectation. This girl might be trained, but was certainly not in the same league as Ianthe. ‘Why send such a pretty one?’ he said.

‘She happened to be available,’ the young woman said.

‘The only one available?’

The telepath hesitated. ‘If she pleases you, you may . . .’ She paused again, swallowed, then resumed her conversation in a rather bitter tone. ‘You may have her after our
business is concluded.’

‘Have her?’ Maskelyne said. ‘You mean fuck her?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ the telepath said in a voice now edged with anger.

Maskelyne couldn’t help but smile. ‘Thank you, Briana,’ he said. ‘That’s most kind.’

‘Think nothing of it.’

At that moment Garstone arrived with a tray bearing a decanter of red wine and two goblets cut from the same quartz as Maskelyne’s fortress. The glassware burned with a pinkish light. He
set them down on the rusty table and was about to pour the wine, when Maskelyne dismissed him.

‘What do you want from me, Briana?’ he said to the telepath.

The telepath waited until the servant had gone. ‘Simply what’s in our mutual best interest, Ethan,’ she said. ‘Neither of us can risk letting the Unmer regain their
power.’

Maskelyne watched her over the lip of his glass.

‘An alliance makes sense,’ she went on. ‘As soon as the Unmer have gained a foothold in Awl, they’ll look towards the empire. Hu has no way to stand against them, but
he’ll rally the warlords anyway. He’ll summon you, Ethan. With your knowledge of Unmer artefacts and an army of prisoners at your disposal. You won’t be able to refuse him without
Haurstaf help.’

‘How many of you
actually
survived?’ Maskelyne said.

The telepath took a deep breath. ‘Enough of us to make a difference. Enough of us to be useful in a war against the Unmer.’

‘Assuming Granger’s little girl allows it,’ Maskelyne said. ‘Ianthe destroyed your Guild without raising a finger. And from what I understand about her abilities, she
could very well be listening to this conversation right now.’

‘No,’ the woman replied. ‘Ianthe’s abilities don’t stretch to telepathy. If she’s watching me now, then she’s watching a woman gazing out at the sea.
She can’t hear my thoughts. And she doesn’t know about this proxy. I’ve never met the woman you’re speaking to. Why should Ianthe choose to spy on her?’

It was a reasonable safeguard, Maskelyne conceded. If Ianthe was spying on Briana Marks, as seemed probable, then the use of a proxy meant that the girl wouldn’t necessarily be aware of
this conversation. ‘You can be quite cunning when you want to be,’ he said. ‘But you forget that Ianthe could be spying on
me
.’

‘Your ego truly is remarkable, Ethan,’ the telepath said. ‘It’s possible, but highly unlikely. She can’t eavesdrop on the whole world at once.’

Maskelyne took a sip of wine. ‘Presumably, you want her killed?’

The telepath was silent for a moment. ‘She can’t be allowed to stand between us and the Unmer,’ she said at last. ‘They’ve already tried to enslave mankind
once.’

Maskelyne sighed. ‘Spare me the melodrama, Briana,’ he said. ‘Why should you care what happens to mankind? The Guild’s top priority has always been its own survival.
Ianthe’s power over you is the only thing preventing you from dominating the Unmer. So while she’s allied with them, this is their one and only chance to get rid of you.’ He
snorted.‘The Unmer are doomed if Ianthe dies. The Haurstaf are doomed if she doesn’t.’

‘How did you know she was with the Unmer?’

Maskelyne smiled. ‘You just told me.’

‘So you’ll help us?’

Maskelyne swigged more wine. ‘No.’

‘What?’

‘Why should I care if the Haurstaf disappear?’

‘Uh . . . Didn’t you hear the part about the enslavement of mankind? I said it just a minute ago.’

‘Really, my heart bleeds.’ The metaphysicist set his glass down and leaned forward. ‘The greatest threat to our species is not the Unmer, but the consequences of the sorcery
they unleashed in their final, desperate hours.’ He saw that she was about to object, so raised his hand. ‘The seas are rising, Briana, and neither you nor I know how to halt them. Has
it occurred to you that the Unmer’s liberation might actually be a timely blessing?’

‘Don’t make an enemy of us, Ethan.’

Maskelyne waved a hand. ‘Spare me the threats, please. I have work to finish here. When that is done, I intend to go and see the Unmer myself.’ He looked deep into the
telepath’s eyes. ‘If they do possess a way to reverse the rising seas, then I will offer them my assistance.’

‘You think they care about this world? After everything they’ve done.’

The metaphysicist smiled. He thought about his crystal and the lands he’d seen through its facets. It was entirely possible that the Unmer had no intention of saving this world –
that they would ultimately abandon it for another. Either way, Maskelyne intended to be on their side. ‘I think they care about themselves,’ he said.‘Now, I’m sorry I
couldn’t be more helpful, Briana.’ He rose to his feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do . . .’

The telepath stood up, her face red with embarrassment. ‘You’re making a foolish mistake, Ethan.’

Maskelyne smiled again. ‘Garstone will see you out.’ He gave the young woman a curt bow, then strode off towards the terrace doors. After a few paces he turned back and said,
‘The problem with you, Briana, is that you’ve got into the habit of using people indiscriminately to get what you want. I won’t submit to it.’

‘It’s always served me well, Ethan.’

‘That’s exactly why I won’t submit,’ he replied. ‘I intend to follow your example.’

The servant girl brought Granger to a banqueting hall in the west wing of the palace, where hundreds of guests sat at long tables below a raised stage. Servants moved like
bobbins through a tapestry of commotion, of clashing sounds and smells. Glasses clinked and sparkled by the light of a thousand candles. Men and women murmured, gossiped, roared out laughter. A
fire crackled in the hearth, snapped, settled. By the fine cut of their clothing, Granger took the guests to be wealthy landowners, farmers, shipowners, bankers and other business people from Port
Awl or the river valley.

They were, he supposed, used to such excess.

And yet, their noisy chatter diminished as the girl led Granger down an aisle towards an empty table upon the stage.