The Demon Lord (30 page)

“The plotting that goes on in Seghar,” he observed aloud, “never fails to astonish me.” The Alban spoke as if he had vast and weary experience of Imperial bureaucracy, which indeed had lately become a more blatant exercise in intrigue than at any time in its history. “And I was only curious about a werewolf…”

No one had yet employed that word—until now—and Jervan’s eyes opened very wide. He had the look of a man who knows more than he is prepared to say, except that with Aldric asking questions and Widowmaker present to ensure answers, the
kortagor
suspected that one way or another he would be prepared to say more than he knew eventually… Voord had had that same effect. And yet for someone who could protest that his words were forced from him by the threat of violence, Jervan proved to be surprisingly talkative and even more surprisingly well-informed. Either he was perceptive to a ludicrous degree, or it was as Gueynor had earlier suspected; he had spies everywhere. For his own protection, most likely, gathering the sort of evidence that might save his neck when saving became an urgent matter.

The Jouvaine girl had heard much of his monologue before, but Aldric listened intrigued to what had happened in Seghar and what Jervan thought was going to happen. When he spoke of sorcery, and of the hunter dragged before Lord Crisen for striking a mercenary soldier, Aldric’s eyes flicked momentarily to Gueynor’s face. The Alban did not like the studied lack of all expression that he saw there—it was unnatural.

“I have my own guesses on this matter,
Kortagor”
he said. “That some spell was used on the forester as a punishment. A cruel and unusual punishment, as the lawyers have it.”

“Unusual, yes. But not cruel. Not for the Geruaths. No. The man was available when Crisen took his fancy for shape-changing. A goat would have sufficed otherwise.”

Aldric stared at him, his mouth twisting as if he had drunk vinegar and his mind reeling with the thoughtless savagery Jervan had confirmed. Despite his own suspicions he had tried to believe that what had been done to Evthan was no more than the invention of a sick mind. The truth—that it was instead a studied, ruthless experiment—was far, far worse.
The man was available
... Available… ! Trying to erase or at least muffle such a line of thought, he asked. “Who was Voord?” and listened without hearing to the reply.

“Voord? An
eldheisart
and a friend of Lord Crisen. He comes from Drakkesborg.” Jervan said that as if it had some significance, but the meaning was lost on Aldric. “And he is much more than only that.”

“Why… ?” The response was dull, incurious, automatic; more because it seemed to be expected of him than because he really wanted to know. But it satisfied Jervan at least.

“If you had met the Lord Commander, Alban, you wouldn’t need to ask. Call it a gut-feeling. The same feeling that I get whenever I see a snake.”

“I know little of your Imperial ranks, but
eldheisart
seems—”

“High? Voord would be your age or a little more. Too young for such an exalted position!”

There was naked envy in the
kortagor’s
voice and Aldric smiled mechanically at it. “Unless he is something special.”
More than he seems
—
just as Evthan was
. “Don’t you think so?”

“It relates to what I told the lady.”

Aldric shot another glance at Gueynor, noting that her lack of expression had not changed—indeed, had intensified into something close to vacuity. As if she deliberately tried not to listen—or even think. “Then,” said the Alban, “tell me too.”

“Independence,” Jervan said succinctly. “Neutrality. Protection by—and consequently from—both Powers in this Empire.”

“As a city-state? Like those in the West? It would never have been permited… ! Are both the Lords of Seghar raving?”

“Not both. Not yet… If such a thing could be established it would work!” Aldric disliked the enthusiasm he could hear in Jervan’s voice. “I know it would; a neutral go-between has more security than any but the most powerful supporter.”

The Alban made a wordless sound as realisation dawned. “Gueynor… ?” he breathed.

Jervan nodded. “She would be acceptable. With sensible advisers.”

“I don’t doubt that for an instant. Your mouth’s watering, man. Careful! You aren’t lord’s-counsel yet.”

Aldric’s hackles were rising: there had been an idle notion chasing itself around the back of his mind, something to do with restoring Gueynor to what had been her father’s place—but now, confronted with the realities of the situation, he shied away. “You seem to have forgotten your uncle easily,” he accused.

Gueynor raised her drooping head, turned it a fraction to gaze at him and hooded her eyes with half-lowered, heavy lashes. “One cannot live for revenge alone,” she reminded him primly.

“No? I recall a different attitude, not long ago. But no matter. I think Crisen Geruath should pay for what he has done here, and not through”—this for Jervan’s benefit— “political altruism. A more intimate recompense… for Evthan, and for the thirty others whose names I never knew. But I’m sure you knew them, even if you choose to forget it now. And if you don’t consider that sufficient reason by itself, without high-minded talk, then I pity you.”

“Keep your pity!” snapped Gueynor. She was beginning to see the Deathbringer in him now—or was it just the high-clan Alban of whom Jervan had spoken. A man who saw blood-vengeance as a necessary expedient, not employed without thought, certainly regretted afterwards—but without hesitation at the instant of its use. That sword… Gueynor stared at it and shivered.

Aldric saw the stare, sensed the shiver and smiled crookedly. His observations were coming too close for the Jouvaine woman’s comfort, he suspected, and she disliked the experience. “Well, lady, it seems you have chosen. Our paths diverge a little here. I’ll leave you to your intrigues. It’s a smell I can’t grow fond of, because intrigue of one sort or another has robbed me in too many ways. But your nostrils seem less discriminating. You may not see me again—and if not, then I think we both may be the better for it…”

His departure was if anything even more dramatic than his arrival, for as he turned his back on Gueynor and walked out to the garden a flicker of forked lightning scratched the lowering sky apart, flinging his black, hard-edged shadow back into the summerhouse with a vast dry-edged shadow back into the summerhouse with a vast dry crack of thunder hard on its heels. Had Aldric been in such a mood, he would have laughed aloud at the aptness of it all. Instead he merely grimaced and lengthened his stride to get himself under cover before the inevitable downpour.

Hands clasped behind his back, Aldric stood at a window and watched the rain slant down like arrows. There was a dry-damp parched smell on the air, a prickling of electricity on his skin. And a sick anger in his mind that refused to go away.

“What’s troubling you, boy?”

The Alban turned half around, completing the movement with a glance over his shoulder. He had not heard Marek come into the room, nor his closing of the heavy door behind him; but the Cernuan was sitting now quite comfortably at a table on which rested a flagon of wine and two cups. Aldric did not even object to being called “boy,” Not this time, at least. “Nothing,” he responded softly.

Marek was not convinced, and though he did not speak his face said as much.

“Nothing,” Aldric repeated, then amended it to, “nothing important, that is.”

“Why not tell me anyway?” The tone, if not paternal, was certainly avuncular. “It might make you feel better. Gemmel told me that you brood too much.”

“Gemmel told you… Well, well.” Aldric’s mouth twisted and if the expression it bore was a smile, then it was one as mirthless as a shark’s. “You know what they say, don’t you? ‘Confide in one, never in two; tell three and the whole world knows.’ And I’ve already told one too many.” He brought both hands round from the small of his back and clenched the right around his
tsepan
, the left on Widowmaker’s pommel. “Matters were simpler years ago.” The suicide dirk slipped free and he lifted the blade to study its tapered needle point. “Much simpler. One way or another.”

The dirk slapped back into its sheath, handled roughly the way no
tsepan
ever should be, and he felt shame that his anger should mistreat an honourable weapon so. “But I’ll have a drink at least.”

Towards evening the rain lessened and the sun attempted unsuccessfully to break through. As it mingled with dusk, the only effect was to fill the sky with the colours of a bruise. Normally Aldric could have appreciated such subtle shifts of tone and pattern as the clouds now formed, but tonight the sullen reds seemed ominous. The prickling, tingling sensation had not lessened with the passing of the storm; instead it had increased until the skin all over his body seemed acrawl with red-hot sparks… a petty irritation that he feared was an intimation of pain to come. The Alban took too large a gulp of wine and tried to put the matter from his mind, because it filled him with an overpowering desire to leave the province—and especially the fortress town of Seghar—far behind him.

The servant whom Marek had sent out for more wine reappeared in the doorway; he was empty-handed, but he bore a summons from Geruath the Overlord. Aldric’s stomach lurched. He had anticipated this for hours…

They followed the retainer out to the courtyard of the citadel, under the very shadow of the donjon. An appropriate place for an execution, thought Aldric, made more uncomfortable still by the two files of helmeted, crest-coated guards who flanked their route and fell into step behind them. But the summons was not that which he feared—nor was it for the discussion which Marek had been expecting all day.

Geruath was waiting for them on the steps of his strange old-new tower. He too was helmeted—this one fitted with earflaps and a flaring nasal that made his thin face look thinner still—and he still wore those three superb blades which Aldric had admired at first sight.

Torches ringed him, sending up twisted whorls of smoke into the still-damp air. It was obvious that he meant to start after the demon at once.

His eyes, seeming to squint a little past the nasal bar, burnt into Aldric for an instant and then slid away from him as if the
eijo
did not exist. Or was already dead. Aldric wondered what that meant and guessed he already knew the answer. From now on he would have to guard his back—and not just from whatever was haunting Seghar…

Someone offered him a lamp. It was heavy, with a stout metal case around its reservoir of oil, a polished reflector and a lens that bulged like the eye of a fish. Expensive, thought Aldric as he cast its spot of yellow light across the rain-glossed ground and hefted the considerable weight approvingly. Not only did it give better light than a life-flame torch, it probably made a better weapon.

There was an outburst of raised voices from the foot of the wooden tower, and he glanced up to see the cause. A man was arguing with the Overlord— unthinkable enough—and appeared to be getting the best of it—which was so unlikely that it could mean only one thing.

“Crisen!” The name passed Aldric’s lips on a released breath, but few shouts carried similar weight. Such was the edge of that single whispered word that Marek’s head jerked round to see what had provoked it. There was something more personal here than politics— something, he guessed, to do with the werewolf which had seemed so delicate a matter when the young Alban had first spoken to him.

“Yes, that’s Crisen,” the demon queller confirmed; then, without much hope of an answer: “Why are you so interested?”

“Purely personal, Marek—”

“And still none of my business. Like the girl… ?”

“Leave her out of this!” The command rasped out with such barely restrained venom that the Cernuan was at a loss to know what he had said wrong, only that the subject would be better dropped. At once. “I—I’m sorry.” A slight, embarrassed bow gave emphasis to the unexpected apology. “I shouldn’t have barked at you like that.”

“Mm?” It was an interrogative noise rather than a verbal question. “Forget it. Just idle curiosity, and misplaced at that.”

“Why the loud words anyway?” Aldric wondered.

The demon queller jerked towards Crisen Geruath with his fork-bearded chin. “Remember what I said about that…” he hesitated briefly, cautiously, and made a sign to avert evil “... intruder… ?” Aldric understood his reluctance: to name the thing was to call the thing. Evthan had known that rule and yet it had not saved him. Evthan… The memory still hurt, for the forester had—almost—been a friend. His fault. He made friends too quickly, too easily, once his doubts and suspicions had been satisfied. Too easily. Especially with women…

“That they want it controlled… ?”

“Just so. Now the Overlord is having second thoughts about the wisdom of such a course and his loving son”— acid dripped from the syllables—”is endeavouring to strengthen the old man’s purpose with well-chosen advice. Hah!”

“So this is Crisen’s idea…” The Alban was not asking a question this time, merely making ah observation—and Marek did not like the tone in which he made it, for it held tod many promises…

At a word of command the column moved off through darkening streets and reentered the citadel at what seemed its oldest and most crumbling point, clattering down a winding flight of worn stone steps into a place that was familiar to Marek, new to Aldric and equally unpleasant to them both.

There was a cross-corridor at the foot of the stairway with a door halfway along its left branch; a door that had been secured by many bolts, all new, but which Aldric could see had been unlocked—literally and with great violence—at some time in the recent past. Its original fastening had been smashed out of the timber in a great semi-circular bit of wood and metal like the stroke of a mace, suggesting that something inside had wanted to get out. And had probably succeeded.

The soldiers detailed to draw the bolts went about their task in an unmistakably scared manner which suggested that Lord Crisen’s great secret was not perhaps so well-kept as he hoped. Like everyone else, Aldric backed away when the door opened, even though nothing more than a sickly smell of stale incense came drifting out towards them.