The Iron Ring (16 page)

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

ESTEEMED COLLEAGUES

T
he plain wooden letterbox on Banric Sahand's desk was so nondescript that a visitor to his voluminous field pavilion might have noticed it anyway, given that everything else in the tent was unforgettable.

An educated person would quickly note that the contents of his bookshelf ran in two varieties—­military strategy and proscribed magical texts—­and that the vast majority of the books had long been thought lost or been banned throughout the West. A businessman or merchant would have noted the ostentatious quality of the Kalsaari rug that covered the ground, or the expense and rarity of the iron-­and-­mageglass chair that loomed behind his massive, hand-­carved desk. A soldier would note the rune-­inscribed broadsword on the rack by the fire not only for the weapon's quality, but also because it was clearly kept sharp, oiled, and in regular use, as were all of the various weapons and armor supported by racks and stands and attended to by invisible specters bound to Sahand's will. An uneducated person, meanwhile, would have likely been distracted by the imposing person of Sahand himself—­his heavy fur cloak; his polished, silver-­toed boots; the dark, iron circlet resting on his rugged brow; the goblet he drank from, made from an arahk's skull.

All of these things were amazing, terrifying, and incredible to varying degrees, and then, as some kind of strange, mundane joke, there was the plain wooden letterbox, sitting alone in a corner of the desk of a man who had once sought to conquer the West.

Of course, few ever noticed it, or anything else at all about the room. They were usually too busy lying on their faces before the Mad Prince, groveling for their lives, to take in the finer points of His Highness's personal living quarters.

On this particular afternoon the groveler was Hortense, a thaumaturge and warlock from Ayventry by way of Freegate. He was perhaps forty, with a teenage daughter, highly recommended as a man of skill, principle, and genteel bearing. Sahand's right-­hand man, the towering Gallo, pressed a heavy boot into the small of the man's back, pushing his face toward the ground; watching this, Sahand noted yet again how quickly one's “bearing” slipped when faced with imminent death. Hortense was weeping tears, drool, and snot on Sahand's expensive carpet. “Pl-­
Please
, Your Highness, permit . . . just . . . just permit me one more chance . . . I—­I—­I
know
we're close . . .”

Sahand sighed and looked out the open tent flap, where the snow was falling in heavy sheets along the upper slopes of the Dragonspine. “Hortense, what did I tell you last fall?”

Hortense tried to look up, his eyes blinded by tears, but Gallo pressed his face back down. “Oh! You said . . . that . . . that I had one year to get the machines to work.”

“And how long ago was that?” Sahand asked calmly.

“Fourteen months . . . but . . .”

“Silence.” Sahand nodded to Gallo, who pressed harder on the warlock's back. “Now, I am not certain how they read contracts in Ayventry, Hortense, but if it is anything like in the rest of Eretheria, twelve months equals a year. That means you are two months behind schedule, which means
I
am two months behind schedule. This strikes me as unfair, Hortense. Doesn't that seem unfair?”

“V-­Very unfair, milord . . .”

“I agree, it
is
very unfair. It seems that you are in a breach of contract, even
after
I so graciously granted you an extension to complete your work and even went to so great a length as to kidnap
numerous
thaumaturges, alchemists, and warlocks to assist you, and procured literally
scores
of wild beasts from
all over the world
to make your work possible. Are you aware of how much such activities cost me?”

Hortense's voice was mangled by his cheek being pressed into the carpet. “A great deal, milord.”

“Do you hear yourself, Hortense?” Sahand asked, standing up. “Are you aware of just how cavalierly you just uttered the phrase ‘great deal'?”

Hortense's breath heaved in heavy sobs. “I . . . I didn't . . . I don't . . .”

Sahand crouched besides the prone warlock. “Of course you don't, Hortense—­this, I believe, is the problem we are having in our professional relationship.” He grasped the man by his hair and jerked his head back until he could see his eyes. “You simply do not appreciate my problems. My goals, my aspirations, my operations, my
finances
are abstractions to you, aren't they?”

Hortense didn't answer save to produce a nasal whine through his running nose.

“I have a solution to this problem—­a way to bind your self-­motivation more closely with my own interests. Now, of course, you are too valuable to punish physically—­an injured, ill, or starving man does not work well. However, I have found men with
families
in jeopardy show a great will to succeed in their tasks.”

Hortense's bloodshot eyes widened and his face crumpled into an even less flattering expression. “Oh . . . oh please, Hann, no! Anything! Anything but . . .”

Sahand permitted himself a tight grimace. “For every day you do not meet the goals I set for you, on that night I grant my officers access to your daughter. It is my understanding that they are not gentle lovers.”

Sahand rose and nodded to Gallo, who released the sobbing warlock. Hortense simply sat in the center of the pavilion, tears streaming down his face, his palms upward in his lap. “It's . . . it's
impossible!
It cannot be done! I . . . I . . .
can't
!”

“Well, then, Hortense,” Sahand said, sitting behind his desk, “congratulations—­you will soon be a grandfather.”

Gallo seized Hortense by the scalp and dragged him from the pavilion like a dead tuna. The tent flap closed behind him, leaving Sahand alone. He glowered at the dark stains on the rug where the warlock had been. Ten years! He had spent the past ten years of his life painstakingly preparing for this winter, and now to think he might fail
just
when success was closest. He wanted to flay the skin of that inept fop of a warlock himself. He wanted to make the entire city of Freegate wade in rivers of blood. He wanted to call down all the powers of the world to crack the fortresses of Galaspin open and feast on the flesh of the fools inside like a bird cracking open a snail. He clenched his fists and teeth until he heard the leather in his gauntlets cracking and his teeth grinding with the stress.

He stood up and released his rage into the Shattering. The heat and raw power of the Fey roared through his blood and blasted forth into one of his bookshelves with a spectacular boom, reducing the shelf and the books to flinders and torn pages. The Mad Prince watched the paper flitter around the tent for a moment before taking a deep breath and sitting down. Then he heard something drop into the letterbox.

On the inside of the lid of the plain wooden container, the spiderweb of intricate Astral runes linked the interior of the box with a spatial rift through which secure messages could be sent. Even the mighty Arcanostrum of Saldor did not possess such devices. The Sorcerous League, however, possessed many secrets the magi of Saldor did not.

The letter inside had a red seal, marking it as important and specifically addressed to him—­the whole League would not be privy to its contents. Waving his hand to seal the tent from intrusion, Sahand broke the seal with the proper word of power and flipped open the letter.

6th Ahzmonth, 26th Year of Polimeux II

Esteemed Colleague of Dellor,

You are summoned to attend a meeting this midnight to discuss and report on the progress of your activities and, additionally, to be made aware of an additional complication and opportunity that is emergent in Freegate.

Curse the Name of Keeper,

The Office of the Chairman

Sahand frowned. The vague wording wasn't unusual for a letter from the Chairman—­it was the highest priority of the League to maintain its secrecy, and so any official correspondence would lack detail in case the message were intercepted. The League assumed, of course, it was aware of his actions in Freegate—­they had afforded him material support in a variety of ways—­but what they would consider a “complication and opportunity” was very much a mystery. Especially since they had no idea what his real plan was, else they never would have agreed to support him in the first place. Whatever the reason, the meeting would have to be attended. As usual, the timing was very poor.

Sahand summoned Gallo back into his tent. Gallo was a man of similar stature to his lord, but far less social grace. Even in this cold, he wore dull and dented plate and mail with a wolf's-­head helm that only partially hid his horrendously flame-­scarred face. His breath was a choking rasp that gurgled and wheezed constantly, as though the man were constantly drowning in his own saliva. His face was a ruin of burn scars, with only a ragged hole for a mouth and two, dark fish-­dead eyes. Of all Sahand's underlings, he knew he could rely on Gallo. He was that rarest of creatures—­a man without ambition or compassion. Whatever fire had melted off the warrior's face had also taken with it whatever made him human. It was, ultimately, only Sahand's skill with life wards that kept the man alive.

“I am not to be disturbed for the remainder of the evening for any reason, on pain of death,” Sahand ordered. He found threatening death to be the most reliable way to keep his idiot underlings away from him for any lengthy period of time, and he knew Gallo would follow through without hesitation. Referring to the spirit clock in his tent, he saw that he had only seven hours before midnight—­just barely enough time for the ritual to be completed. Again he wondered what could be going on for the meeting to be called on such short notice.

Gallo's voice was a hollow rasp. “Is that all?”

“No. Keep Hortense working, and inform the city that we will need to get the idiot more help. You are dismissed.”

Gallo executed a stiff bow and went out.

“Time to address the sheep,” Sahand grumbled to himself. He sealed the pavilion, threw the letter in the fire, and got to work.

T
he nonplace called simply the “Black Hall” seemed to be fashioned from shadows made somehow real, as though condensed and distilled from a midwinter's night. A thirteen-­sided hall with thirteen doors and thirteen terraces of the strange black shadow-­stuff, sinking down to a platform at the center of which rested a broad well of oily black liquid, its surface smooth and still as lacquered ebony. This was the Well of Secrets.

The terraces were full of black-­robed figures that wore faces not their own: Shrouds. The young looked old, the thin looked fat, the women appeared as men and vice versa; among the many secrets of the Sorcerous League, the identity of its membership was among the most jealously kept.

Sahand was the only member to openly flaunt this custom, and this he did to make clear to them that he was above their petty needs for security. He was Banric Sahand, Prince of Dellor, Scourge of the West. His power had made the nations of the West tremble; while others in the League might fear the wrath of the Arcanostrum and its Defenders, he feared nothing. Let them see his face, he thought; let them know who it was they dealt with.

When Sahand arrived in the Black Hall, he saw that the officers had already arrived and were in conference around the edge of the Well of Secrets. As usual, their appearance varied widely, as all of them had worked new Shrouds to make them look young or old, tall or short, ugly or handsome, according to their whim. They could only be identified through the distinctive scepters they bore, which signified their office. Besides himself and the officers, Sahand noted that the two wizards who were assisting him in this last phase of his plan—­one disguised as a young red-­haired man and another as a wizened old woman with a cane—­stood on the level just above the officers and the Well and on opposite sides, as though drawing too close to one another would automatically compromise their identity somehow. They were each speaking with the Chairman, whispering to him from either side, their voices obscured beneath the din of the other members as well as by the sound-­deadening air of the Black Hall itself.

Sahand strode through the crowds of black-­robed sorcerers. They hushed and parted around him as he made a beeline for the Chairman and planted himself on the first level, directly over the “leader” of the League. By the time he reached his place, the Black Hall was silent.

The Chairman's blue eyes—­he always had blue eyes, regardless of his form—­narrowed at him. The face he had chosen for this meeting was broad and plain—­the face of a laborer or porter—­and Sahand thought it made him look stupid. “You are the last to come.”

“What of it?” Sahand barked back. “This meeting deals with me and my activities. It begins when I choose to arrive.”

The League muttered at this, whispering to each other and exchanging significant looks. There were many in the League who saw the Chairman as some kind of important or respected office and coveted it, as well as the other officer positions, but Sahand thought these individuals did not appreciate the symbolic architecture of the Black Hall. It was the first and only organization Sahand had encountered where the leadership occupied a level
lower
than the common members, literally looked down upon. They were servants of the League, nothing more—­facilitators of an organization far greater and more powerful than they. If they hadn't been such fools, he might have pitied them. As it was, he found them and the airs they put on a contemptible, if unavoidable, aspect of his membership.

The Chairman raised his scepter and spoke in a voice that boomed throughout the chamber. “This meeting will come to order.” The request was unnecessary—­everyone already had their attention trained on the officers. Nevertheless, the Chairman gazed across the Shrouded faces staring at him, just to make sure. Finally, he said, “Our Esteemed Colleague from Dellor is recognized by the League and has the floor.” The Chairman gestured toward the hulking figure of Sahand with his scepter. “You may report upon your progress, sir.”