The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (198 page)

Nai noticed a curious face that had also broken off from its work. Quickly the woman looked back down again, but still Nai walked around the desk and bent down so he could whisper directly into Styrax’s ear.

‘My Lord, I do not know what your intelligence tells you, so I will repeat everything. A Farlan army approaches from the north; it will reach the city within three days. The Duchess of Byora offers her troops to support your own men in battle.’

‘She said this to you herself?’

‘Her man, Kayel, told me.’

Lord Styrax was silent for a long while. Unable to read the man’s expression, Nai had no idea if this was news to him or not.

‘That was unexpected of them,’ he said at last, with the hint of a smile. ‘It’s been a while since anyone surprised me.’ He pointed in the direction of the gate with his damaged left hand - the dark stain of blood underneath each fingernail looked almost glassy compared with the swirls of white scar tissue covering the rest of his hand. ‘Find General Gaur and repeat what you told me, then tell him I want the Third Army pulled back to the Ismess-Byora border.’

Nai turned to leave when Lord Styrax grabbed his arm. ‘Once you have done that, go to Sergeant Kayel and tell him I accept his offer, then accompany him back to Byora. Larim knows your mind well enough to speak into it?’

The necromancer wavered a moment before saying, ‘I have probably spent enough time in his company, yes; I assume his technique will be very similar to Isherin Purn’s.’

‘Go then.’

Nai gave a short bow and hurried off.

Amber watched as the bare-footed man struggled to control the southern door, then turned to Styrax. ‘My Lord, do you have orders for me?’ he asked, still wondering what it was Nai had revealed.

‘That I do.’ Styrax smiled and pointed at the book in front of the major. ‘What have you learned so far?’

Amber glanced down. ‘Not a whole lot, my Lord. I’m afraid I don’t understand a word - magical theory has never made any sense to me.’ He was beginning to fear he was going to be set another intellectual task.

‘Time for a lesson on codes then,’ Styrax said, not appearing to care that Amber hadn’t understood.

Amber suddenly remembered something he’d heard from Colonel Uresh, his commanding officer: he’d said that Lord Styrax was an unusual sort of genius and his preferred way to work things out was a willing pupil rather than a quiet study. It was in the explanation to another that Lord Styrax found insight.

‘My Lord, I am all yours,’ he said with a slight smile. If this was what it took…

Styrax looked at him quizzically, then began, ‘First of all, this is not a code - it is a hidden message. A code is something we would use in a dispatch to prevent it being read by anyone intercepting it - though our preferred method is to ensure the enemy doesn’t get it in the first place. This tells us something about the message before we have even read the first line.’

‘That someone wants it to be read?’ Amber said uncertainly. ‘Why put it in plain sight if you don’t want people to try and read it?’

Lord Styrax nodded. ‘Exactly, and if someone wants it to be read, then the key must be available. Making it hard to read simply means they have some choice over who does so.’

‘A message for scholars only?’

‘Of a fashion.’ Styrax said cryptically and pulled over the long sheet of parchment onto which he had painstakingly transcribed the entire text of the puzzle. ‘Here it is in full. I have copied it down so I can work on sections. I think in Menin, of course, but the more I work on this, the easier it becomes to use the original Elven.’

‘How does the magical theory fit in?’ Amber interjected before Lord Styrax could get into full flow.

‘Problems are best solved from a variety of directions. “In warfare all approaches should be considered in the light of dawn, midday and dusk”.’

Amber nodded, recognising the quote from a treatise on combat called Principles of Warfare. Every Menin officer read it, and the Mystics of Karkarn devoted years to its study, despite its heretical author.

‘I believe I know what I am looking for,’ Styrax continued, ‘and have done ever since studying the Library of Seasons as I planned this campaign. The hunt becomes easier if one knows what one is looking for.’

‘But no magic works here,’ Amber said, ‘so what use is the study of - ‘ He paused to check the book again and read, ‘field rigidity and the period petrification effect?’

‘I wished to discover whether this deadened field had been created by magic in the first place - field rigidity and period petrification are ways to determine this, even when all trace evidence has long since disappeared.’ Styrax gestured to the page again. ‘So now we have an idea of what it might be talking about, and the hypothesis that this message is intended to be read by those with the right skills.’

‘Crossed pentameters,’ Amber said suddenly, remembering his lord’s earlier words.

‘Cross-pentameter,’ the white-eye agreed, ‘an obscure style, but one that has been revived by different generations of Elven poets. Deverk Grast was no poet himself, but his father was an academic and I would bet the man tried to instil an education in his son.’

‘So he recognised the style in this puzzle!’

‘He did, although either my understanding of the style is flawed or the puzzle is.’

‘In what way?’

‘The style dictates a certain rhythm to the lines, repeated in a pattern of fives, but here the pattern is not adhered to in every line.’

Amber thought for a moment, but his expression of confusion only lifted when Lord Styrax reminded him gently, ‘Remember, the message is intended to be read.’

‘The mistakes are intentional?’

Styrax nodded and pointed to the first line. ‘The first mistake is an obvious one. The sentence is a mess structurally, but to read it in Menin would give you “In combat a mirror to the heavens is raised, in struggle life flourishes.’”

‘That sounds familiar,’ Amber mused. ‘Oh - it’s an adapted version of the first line of Principles of Warfare.’ His eyes lit up. ‘The message uses a reference code! I know about those, where two men have identical copies of a book and then can use numbers to refer to pages and words. Even if the coded message is intercepted, it’s useless without knowing what book is to be used.’

‘Exactly, and this message is written in reference to a work that was originally a collection of fifty-five scrolls - and that is exactly the number of lines written in correct cross-pentameter. But it’s not a scholarly work, Principles of Warfare, not in the usual sense. The author wants a warrior to recognise Eraliave’s great work, and a scholar to know how to use cross-pentameter.’

‘And the incorrect lines?’

‘Dummies to throw off those who might guess the source work but do not understand cross-pentameter.’

‘Oh,’ Amber said, feeling a little deflated. ‘I’d have expected more to it than that. Whoever devised this was a genius and clearly wanted everyone to know it. I wouldn’t expect them to be wasteful.’

Styrax frowned down at the poem for a moment, then reached for one of the pieces of parchment he had been working on. It was covered in tiny rows of precise handwriting. ‘Perhaps…’ he said softly, failing to finish the sentence. ‘“The longest reach requires a second step.” Could it - ?’

‘Is there a problem?’

Styrax looked up distractedly. ‘Problem? No, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact: I think you might have saved me from making a complete fool of myself.’

Amber was too astonished even to look pleased. He had never in his life expected to hear those words from the Lord of the Menin. Styrax had returned to his page by the time Amber remembered to shut his mouth again.

‘Ah, glad to have helped then, sir,’ he muttered in a daze, getting no response. ‘I’ll go back to my book, shall I?’

*

Darkness fell and Byora was quiet. A lingering fear haunted its streets, keeping most people inside. Word of the Farlan Army’s approach had spread through the city like a plague; those praying it was nothing more than fancy saw their hopes disappear as every soldier in the city was called to readiness. Companies of Byoran Guard stomped their way through every district, a warning to troublemakers, while mercenaries and household guards from Coin were drafted into the regiments. Any remaining penitents in Hale were disarmed on sight.

‘Do you really think he’s come for Ilumene?’ Sebe whispered. He and Doranei were lurking in the deep portico of the Derager Wine Store, making sure the street beyond was clear before they risked leaving.

Doranei shrugged and continued squinting through the slit-window. ‘What else? Can’t say whether he’s sent an envoy on ahead to deal with Lord Styrax, but his timing’s good. Whoever’s calling the shots at the Ruby Tower, they can’t afford to flee right now, it’ll all go to shit so fast…’ Doranei tailed off for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was harder, fiercer. ‘The game’s too far advanced now, there’s nothing more they can do about it, and I hope it’s eating them up inside. They have to wait and watch how it plays out, or tear up their plan.’

‘What can we do, then?’

‘Shame that demagogue Parim isn’t here,’ Doranei said. ‘I’d get the bastard to start the whisper that Sergeant Kayel is the reason the Farlan are here - that he’s the one who killed Lord Bahl, or something. You never know, people might hang him for us.’

‘So what’s Plan B then?’ Sebe muttered, trying to conceal as much as possible of his weaponry, including the crossbows hanging under each arm.

‘That was Plan B,’ Doranei said sourly. ‘Plan A was asking Zhia to help us get in and kill them ourselves, but she’s dropped out of sight and that scares me all by itself. Nothing we can do about it now, though, so we’re down to second-guessing what might happen next.’

‘So if the Farlan attack?’

Doranei shrugged. ‘They defend the wall. Ilumene knows what he’s about; it’s got to be worth trying to keep what they’ve got, especially with Aracnan to back you up and no reason to give a damn about your losses. You’d hold as long as you could.’

‘That Harlequin in the deck has already been uncovered,’ Sebe pointed out. ‘Legana’s still alive, so they’ve got to assume Lord Isak knows all about Aracnan by now.’

‘Don’t matter, the bastard’s had too long to practise his art - as long as he avoids a direct confrontation, he’ll survive the battle.’

‘So what’re we about then?’

‘We fall back on what we are,’ Doranei said. ‘We revert to type. First duty of a King’s Man is to poke a stick in the spokes every chance we get, whatever the risk.’

Sebe nodded, fully aware that any action they took would effectively make them hostiles in a besieged city. ‘Stories about Aracnan often have him turning up in the hour of need, so it’s fair to assume he’ll stick with his usual routine.’

‘Exactly, so when the Farlan attack the city there’s a good chance we’ll end up recognising someone heading for the outer wall -either Aracnan or Ilumene.’ He paused. ‘We’ll be noticed in Eight Towers, though, so we can’t risk going in there, and once you’re out the gate there’s a couple of roads you could take.’

‘I reckon we spread our bets and take a fork each, find a room we can each hole up in. First target is Aracnan, next best is Ilumene, but chances are you only get one shot so take whichever looks best.’

‘See you when the killing’s done,’ Sebe said in a gruff voice. Sir Creyl, the commander of the Brotherhood, had come up with the phrase; now it was their standard sign-off.

The Brothers looked grim as they set off in silence through the streets, their minds fixed on the task ahead. When the time came to part, they embraced tightly before going their separate ways. Above them, the clouds rumbled with the distant promise of violence.

He felt the darkness all around him, crawling over his skin, choking every breath he took. The air tasted of hot ash and tears. Every droplet of stinking, greasy sweat seemed to be scalding hot on his skin, but he could not move to wipe them away. His strength had been sapped by the heat radiating out from the rock and the searing chains that bound him. The pitted, ancient iron cut grooves in his flesh, tracing a pattern of bondage across his arms, neck and waist.

In the distance there was sound. He tried to concentrate on the noise to block out the pain, but it was not enough. Sometimes he could hear faint screams, sometimes laughter. Often there was only the slither of scales and skin over stone, or a distant booming that he felt through the rock more than heard. Whatever the sound, it was always dull and indistinct, even when the claws clicked close enough to touch his body. Hot huffs of foetid breath came accompanied by guttural snorts. Their whispers produced images in his mind, horrors he had no name for, and the words themselves were unintelligible.

It was too dark to see, but on occasion flashes of vermilion-tinted light burst in his eyes. His prison was a forgotten fissure. His blood was a feast for his monstrous attendants who crawled up walls and along the roof; sometimes they fought desperate battles, tearing shreds from their enemies; greedily gulping down chunks of hard-won flesh before the battle was even over, or they got cast into the jagged pits and yawning chasms below.

His head sagged and he stared down into the emptiness beneath his feet, mindless of the cruelties inflicted upon him. His tongue was a lead weight that filled his mouth; he could no more gag than scream. For a moment he thought perhaps he had succeeded in howling, until the stench of putrefaction and heavy rasp of limbs told him there had been another victory on the walls around him. In the prison of his mind, his screams were deafening.

Isak wrenched himself awake with such force he fell from his camp-bed. He moaned and dry-retched at the memory of the dream, shudders rattling down his spine. After a few moments he forced his head up and saw the grey light of dawn creeping through the entrance of his tent. He’d managed no more than two hours of sleep and his mouth felt like it was filled with sulphurous ash.

‘No good reason it’s today,’ he said hoarsely, and reached for the wineskin hanging from the ridgepole. ‘Could be nothing but some damn shadow messing with my mind, or the Reapers giving Aryn Bwr a reminder of what’s waiting for him.’