Shadowmasque (3 page)

“The summerhouse….burned down?…”

“Caught fire like a book in a furnace,” Rugal said. “When the alarm was raised, I rushed through the coppice with everyone else, thinking to help your brother and the Lady Ondene but the flames….they were everywhere, great sheet of them roaring up the outside of every wall…”

“No, by the Void, no,” Corlek groaned.

Rugal turned and wandered off a few steps, as if seeing and reliving it all again.

“My clothes were smoking the heat was so terrible — it drove us back. There was no water nearby, except for the well up behind the great house.” A few steps and he was back at Corlek’s side. “But there was nobody coming running from it to help. No, they were all out on their balcony, watching.”

Corlek felt hollow and bereft, his legs trembling and weak. “Was anything recovered… anything…”

“Nothing left but burned ashes and cracked stones,” Rugal said in a hoarse voice, leaning on his spear. “Them up at the house wouldn’t have a memorial stone on the grounds, and they offered nothing towards the cost of one. But I was having none of that…” He suddenly began walking towards the coppice. “Come this way, young master. You’ll be wanting to see it.”

Stunned by the terrible news, Corlek stumbled after him in the darkness, following the gleams of his hooded lamp through the night and back into the dense foliage of the coppice. Rugal led him into its heart where the oldest trees grew, safe from cutting, and behind a screen of vines and dog-ivy he opened the lamp’s shutter a good way and held it higher for Corlek to see.

In some past year lightning had struck one of the elder trees, leaving it a stump from which smaller limbs had sprouted. The trunk itself had later been shaped by a wood carver, whittled into a finely detailed sculpture of leaves and berries and entwining vines, in the midst of which were the faces of Corlek’s mother and brother, eyes closed but smiling as if in peace. Below their images three small, tiered shelves had been carved into the wood, each one bearing a number of thimble-sized votive candles. Rainwater had gathered in each one’s tiny flame-melted cavity.

As he reached out to touch the beautifully rendered faces, the tears came at last, silently in the silence.

No family, no bodies, no bones, and no graves,
he thought emptily.
No home, no hope…

“Nothing left but my name,” he murmured.

“And your honour, young master,” said Rugal. “And the skill of your hand and the sharpness of your eye. And the path that the Earthmother is making for you.”

Corlek felt a hot tear trickle down his cheek.

“You’re still a believer, then, Rugal.”

“That I am, master Corlek. In the liturgy of the Mother it says ‘Great sorrow is preparation for great joy’, and I believe that is true.”

“I envy you,” he said, then paused as a faint pattering and the quivering of leaves announced a passing shower. Taking off his hat he raised his face to the cold raindrops for a moment or two before letting Rugal lead him out of the coppice. The old servant closed his lamp’s aperture down to a gleam, just enough to show the way back to the secret exit in the palisade earthwork. When Corlek realised where they were going, a certain realisation roused him from grief.

“You knew,” he said. “You knew about our hidden door.”

Rugal chuckled in the darkness. “Of course, and it was me who planted those bushes on either side of the wall. Thought an escape hole might come in handy…”

Nearing the wall they both fell silent and moved in a stealthy crouch. At the concealed hatch Rugal knelt to tug it loose he whispered to Corlek an address and a name.

“They are old friends of my family,” he said. “Tell them you were sent by Father Wolf, young master, and they will keep you safe and fed for a time. Then we’ll find somewhere safe outside Sejeend for you to go, though when Ilgarion is crowned peace will become a rare commodity and nowhere will be safe.”

“What do you mean?” Corlek said.

“You may not have heard but in the last week those fanatical Carver-worshipping Mogaun routed Mantinor’s largest army. And what with that Carver prophet uniting the Jefren templarchies…”

Corlek shook his head, having only heard vague rumours about the threat which Carver worship-dominated Anghatan posed to Eastern Honjir, which had been an Imperial protectorate for nearly fifty years. But he had found that difficult to take seriously since the Nagira mountains lay between the two countries.

Next to him, the grassy hatch came away in Rugal’s hands and Corlek crouched down to crawl through, pausing to look back at the old servant.

“Thank you, Rugal — thank you for kindness and for the shrine. It was….more than fitting….”

“I would have done more, had it been possible, master Corlek. Now, I wish you good health and a long life, both of which you are more likely to find someplace other than in this city. That is my advice, which I am sure you’ll not be taking.”

Corlek gave a bleak smile, then said: “Perhaps I will, Rugal, but for the moment tell me the name of the people who own the estate now, the people who watched my mother and brother burn.”

Rugal hesitated and Corlek waited. Then the old man leaned in close.

“They are the dor-Galyn, a powerful family and close favourites of Crown Prince Ilgarion. Their eldest son was recently sent up to the Iron Guard as a captain.” He place the grass plug side down by the gap in the earthwork. “Have a care, young master. May the Light reveal your path.”

As Corlek moved into the dimness he heard the hatch thud into place, plunging him into utter darkness. A moment later he pushed open the log section on the other side, crawled out and wiped his muddy hands on his equally muddy robe, then replaced the log door. Leaning against the wall he stared into blackness for long moments, then sighed and pushed through the bushy undergrowth, westward away from the estate. Nearby was a road that led into the commercial district of Sejeend’s north bank. He thought of the address and name Rugal had entrusted him with….then lingered on that other name.

Dor-Galyn,
he thought.
I need to know more about them…

He gathered all the world onto a stage,
Rivers, forests, cities, all,
And let the savage capers of heroes,
Tell a timely tale of truth

—Epitaph on a poets tomb in Adnagaur

The smoke of a hundred pipes and the main hearth’s leaky flue hung in a grey veil across the high, crossbeamed common room of the Four Winds Inn. The place was warm and busy with evening custom and many drinkers were standing near the tap counter or in clusters by the massive fire, or along the balcony that hung off the streetside wall, right above the main entrance. Scores of conversations merged into one, continuous din of voices punctuated by laughter and coughing while in one corner a couple of musicians were playing requests on fiddle and whistle.

The Four Winds lay at the one of the main crossroads in north Sejeend, between Blueyard Market and the Earl of Westerbow dramahouse. Thus many trades had their representatives among its customers, farmers and merchants from the plains of eastern Khatris, drovers from further along Gronanvel, fur-trappers back from the shadowy gorges of the Rukang mountains, fishermen and oystercatchers, weavers and carpenters, soldiers and scholars. All were watched over by the senior tapsmen and a brace of brawny, hard-eyed men carrying weighted bludgeons.

Another observed the noisy crowd from a small table beneath the balcony, glancing up occasionally when those above stamped or danced or did something to cause the woodwork to creak audibly. Attired in a long, dull green coat over well-worn travelling clothes, Tashil Akri drank sparingly from her jack of small beer, lending an ear to some of the chatter going on nearby while keeping an eye on the main door. She had a mask, little more than a plain eyemask in red cotton, but it was pushed up to sit on her tangled brown hair just as several people within sight had done. In fact, almost no-one in the tavern was actually wearing their masks, apart from a tall gaunt man she glimpsed across the crowded room.

As people came and went, the big door swung open and banged shut repeatedly, admitting frequent gusts of cool air, but Tashil stayed where she was to be sure of catching Calabos as soon as he arrived. She had been at the safe house at Vannyon’s Ford, having just returned from the Honjir Wall, when she received mindspeech contact from Dardan who was passing on an urgent message from Calabos recalling the senior Watchers to Sejeend. Dardan had not mentioned the reason for this, but since Magramon had died only a few days ago Tashil guessed that the two were not unrelated.

With her wicker-seated stool making cricking sounds, she took a generous mouthful of beer and leaned back against the wall, feeling the aches in her limbs. Without really trying she focussed her underhearing on the Treemonks kneeling by the fire, hearing their murmured rumours of the persecutions in north Anghatan and the torture of other monks in Casall…..then she shifted her attention to the head tapsman as he told one of the serving girls to point out a trouble-making customer…..then managed to overhear the short luck prayers that the dicethrowers were muttering under their breath before making a play….

Tashil relaxed, knowing that further temptation might lead to using the Lesser Power itself, and that would be foolhardy.

“You never know who might be listening,” her old mentor Tregaylis once told her. “Being a Watcher means resisting the urge to use the Godriver in unwise situations. It also means being able to recognise such situations…”

It also means learning how to wait,
she thought wryly. Passing time while waiting for others invariably led to eavesdropping as a way of relieving the boredom, just as she was doing with the argument taking place in the corner behind her. Three maskless scholars from a northbank college were exchanging drolleries and retorts with a group of well-dressed students from the Imperial Academy. As a veil for her Watcher activities in Sejeend, she managed a small shop selling books, parchment, inks and stones, and recognised the three scholars from past custom, while the Academy student she knew not at all. The argument had opened with general insults concering each others’ institutions and style of attire, then moved on to more erudite matters. The Academy students, it transpired, were dramaturgic seminarists and cast members of the Imperial Academy’s annual production.

“I see,” said one of the scholars, a handsome, golden-haired youth she remembered as Brondareg. “Then I imagine that you would have everything hired for you, theatre, stagehands, costumes — and audience!”

There was a chorus of guffaws at this barb and Tashil edged round to gain a better view.

“You betray your ignorance with such low wit, ser,” came back one of the Academy students, whose mask was a silvery affair decorated with eagle motifs. “Anyone of consequence would know that Academy plays are always well-attended. Why, last year’s production of ‘The Great House Of Hallebron’ drew a full house every night.”

Entirely true,
Tashil thought.
But since it was also sponsored directly by the crown, it would have been practically treasonous for any of Magramon’s court nobles to not go and see it.

Brondareg nodded judiciously. “Hmm — ‘Great House….’ is a good enough play…”

“Whereas its sequel is by far superior,” added one of his two companions, a short stocky young man in a threadbare brown doublet, whose name escaped her. “But ‘The Fall Of The House Of Hallebron’ is far too provocative for these times…”

Another of the Academy students, his bronze and jet mask decorated with wolves, shook his head. “From your shabby demeanour and sneering tone I would place you as apprentice scoffers, or would-be pedantic tutors!”

Brondareg turned to his friend. “Why Ghensh — this fine fellow seems to have heard of us!”

Then the two scholars gave exaggerated, hand-fluttering bows to their accuser, provoking more laughter from the onlookers. Meanwhile, their third companion said nothing, just lay slumped forward on their long narrow table, head resting on a couple of leather-bound books around which his arms were wrapped.

“Guilty as charged, good ser,” said Brondareg. “Perhaps you could enlighten our meagre souls by telling us which work is the object of your Academy’s ambitions this year?”

“‘The Twilight Emperor’,” was the lofty reply.

At which the third scholar sat bolt upright, a dark-haired young woman who glared across at the haughty Academy boys as they lounged against their own table.

“That overheated, bombastic muddle by Drusarik?” she said. “Surely not…”

Tashil grinned — the girl was Viorne and she was half-Mogaun, just like Tashil.

“You should keep a civil tongue in your head,” snapped the eagle-masked student. “Our stagemaster is a direct descendant of Drusarik himself!”

“But ‘The Twilight Emperor’ has a ridiculous ending,” Ghensh said. “Tauric and the Lord of Twilight duelling in the depths of the Void while hurling florid invective at each other….there is nothing in the historical record to even imply that is what happened!”

“Whereas others prefer to plod along behind the antiquarians,” said Wolf Mask who then suddenly lunged forward and snatched away Viorne’s books. “As I thought — ‘The Great Shadowking War’ by Beltran Calabos….why, you’re all disciples of the Noble Relic!”

Tashil had to force herself to say nothing in Calabos’ defence. Amid the laughter, Viorne and Ghensh rose angry-faced from their seats but Brondareg gestured them to remain as he calmly got up, took a couple of steps towards the Academy students’ table and, smiling, held out one hand. Tashil watched him lock gazes with Wolf Mask who held for a moment then shrugged and gave up the books. Brondareg in turn handed them back to Viorne who quickly stowed them away. Then he sat back down and took up his beaker.

“Not disciples, good sirs,” he said. “Merely seekers after the truth, which Calabos pays more regard to than Drusarik, it must be said…”

Tashil was finding the students’ bantering quite amusing but as the next retort was uttered, she was distracted by a sustained draught of cold air. Turning she was in time to see a large, black-robed and hooded figure sit down at her table. She was about to object when the burly newcomer laid a familiar copper-inlaid, ironwood walking stick on the table before him then pushed back his cowl. Pale eyes that were both piercing and kind regarded her from beneath bushy eyebrows while a strong hand bearing a plain ring stroked a neat beard as grey and tightly curled as the hair on his head. Hanging below his chin was a half-mask made of plain, stitched red satin with no motif other than a third eye staring openly from the brow.