Dark Heart (25 page)

FISHERMAN

‘SHE’S DYING, FOR ALKUON’S sake,’ Noetos snarled. ‘I don’t care about what happens to us. Nothing else matters but her.’

‘She obviously doesn’t think so,’ Duon said quietly. ‘Otherwise she wouldn’t have injured herself trying to save you. Leave your children alone. Let them recover.’

Yes, the comment made sense, as did everything else this foreigner had said since their imprisonment. Noetos chose to ignore it. Had to. He needed to know.

Anomer,
he begged for the hundredth time.
Tell me. How is she?

No answer. No answer now for hours.

Arathé had poured herself out for him, his son had told him, supplying him with unnatural strength in his bid to escape the Summer Palace. It had cost her dearly. Anomer had become more and more anxious, apparently, as she spent herself heedlessly, bolstering her father, until eventually Anomer had struck her, knocking her unconscious. Then he had taken her place as her primary source of magical energy. Anomer had suffered hardly less than his sister.

Noetos had been unable to understand it. Why had fighting a few guards been so taxing? Surely his escape attempt had used much less of his children’s power than defeating the whirlwinds?

No,
Anomer had replied to his question. Wearily, Noetos thought.
The effect is cumulative. We used much of our strength against the storm. Also, Father, we are still learning. I think I may have found a way to do this more efficiently, but we do not have the strength to try it. Not yet.

His children had nothing more to give him. They needed time to recover. Anomer might as well have told his father to go away and leave them alone. It certainly stung as much.

He’d told Duon nothing mattered but Arathé, but this didn’t explain the hurt he felt at Anomer not replying to him.
Unless he also—unless he is resting. Yes, resting.

Nor did it explain his rising fear.

Claudo had been to visit them soon after they had been thrown in here, hours ago now, trussed together and locked in. His effeminate voice spelled out the likely consequences for having slain the Neherian general and a number of his elite guards. Death would come eventually, Claudo had told them pleasantly.

‘You’re not showing much caution,’ Noetos had told him, ‘given that we have superhuman strength at our command. Ought we not be chained, at the least?’ He was past caution.
As usual,
his son’s voice had said.

‘I don’t care how strong you are—or were. You won’t break out of this prison. You ought to know: it was your grandfather who had it built. The strength of ten men won’t bring down this door.’

Easy for Claudo to say, given he was currently on the far side of it.

‘We’ll have questions about your performance in the throne room,’ Claudo had continued. ‘You will explain to us how you accessed this wild strength, and why it is temporary.’

‘Could tell you now, if you like,’ Noetos had said. ‘Or show you.’ Bravado, but it sustained his courage.

‘We don’t want to know yet. Now, get some sleep. Rest up and regain your strength. We want you at your most inventive tonight. The Neherian court will be here to witness your explanations, and they require entertainment. They are notoriously difficult to please.’

‘The Neherian court? The court has come north? Are they insane?’

Duon had grunted. ‘Not as insane as leaving some of their number behind,’ he said. ‘The best way of avoiding a coup is to keep the entire court in one place.’

‘Oh? An expert on Neherian affairs?’

‘No, but that is how it would work in Talamaq. How it did work, in fact. We lost the most powerful members of every major Alliance in the Valley of the Damned.’

‘Is my friend right?’ Noetos asked Claudo.

‘It is as he says,’ the man had replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘What have they to fear? They have a navy and an army to protect them. Far safer here than at home. And there are special entertainments for them to look forward to. They are particularly keen to meet the surviving seed of Roudhos. Why do you think Fossa was liberated first?’

‘Because it’s one of the closest villages to Neherius, you feckless fool.’

‘You’re going to torture us publicly?’ Duon had said. ‘Barbarians.’

‘Torture? No. After your questioning, which is likely to be rigorous, you will be given your freedom. That is, if you are able to slay’—he paused for a moment, as though considering—‘a legion of our finest soldiers. Sound fair to you?’

Noetos had spat at the door.

Claudo left them then, to endure the waiting as best they could. Noetos knew it would be a race between his children’s recovery and the onset of questioning. He speculated as to what his children might be able to do to aid him, then fell to wondering what the Neherians would do to him to encourage him to talk. Hot irons; they were known for that. Pincers. The removal of body parts. He tried to think of something other than what awaited him; he knew the Neherians were leaving him time to dwell on the sordid nature of his fate in order to break down his resistance.

They didn’t know, or had forgotten, that he had seen far worse than they could inflict upon him. What was his own flesh compared to the defilement and death of those nearest to him?

Noetos sighed. He wasn’t fooling himself. Everyone talked under torture. After they’d finished screaming.

‘Do you have any of your power left?’ Duon asked him.

‘None. Listen, I’m sorry you became involved in this. I didn’t make you, though.’

‘No, let history record I came here of my own free will,’ Duon said dryly.

Noetos listened carefully: Duon did not sound as fearful as someone in his position ought to be.

‘I saw you,’ Noetos said to him. ‘You kept up with me, which means you had power of your own.’

The man grunted.

‘You’re a sorcerer then? Are you a true sorcerer, like my son and daughter? Or do you borrow your power, as I do?’

‘As I understand it, every worker of magic borrows the power from someone else,’ Duon said.

‘Not a true sorcerer, then.’ A true sorcerer would know this for certain. It had been a recent but crucial discovery, so Arathé had told them. Sorcerers died young because their magic ate them. It drew on their own energy. So the alternative, until recently known only to a few, was to absorb the essence of magic from everyone around them—and, if one was highly skilled, everything. ‘But you still know about magic. Who is using you?’

‘I do not know. I thought I was going insane. There’s a voice in my head telling me things, mocking me, but supplying me with uncanny strength. Using me. But what you’ve described about your children sending you power sounds very much like my experience. Except I don’t know any sorcerers. Certainly I have none in my family. I don’t know who it could be.’ Duon’s voice petered out, ending on a frankly puzzled note.

‘The issue for us is whether you still have that link. Can you call on your power at any time?’

‘I don’t know how to call on it,’ Duon confessed. ‘It just happens. It calls on me.’

‘Huh. Then we will have to trust your mysterious benefactor to intervene at the right moment. I don’t like to plan on the basis of such an arrangement.’

‘He hasn’t failed me yet.’ The man laughed, a dry sound. ‘Not that I know what success and failure are for him. He’s told me nothing of himself or his purposes.’

‘And you?’ Neotos asked gently. ‘Would you speak of yourself and your purposes?’

Duon’s mouth opened, as if about to speak, then closed again, and his lips pressed together as if trapping any ill-considered words inside.

‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘Not yet. I have two masters, one seen and one unseen, and I trust neither of them. My friend, I am not certain what my purpose is.’

Noetos grimaced. ‘Unless your benefactor is strong enough to overcome our guards, I fear the only certain purpose left us is to provide entertainment for the Neherians.’

Duon nodded and turned his head away.

A slitted window high above the two prisoners projected a small rectangle of sunlight on the rough walls of their cell. The rectangle moved gradually from left to right, rising higher above their heads until it turned from yellow to red and began to fade. Along with their hopes. Despite checking regularly, Noetos continued to hear nothing from his children.

The guards came for them a little while after the rectangle disappeared. A dozen strong, they arrived prepared for trouble: swords drawn, heavy chains draped over their shoulders. They all crammed themselves into the cell, their very closeness making it impossible for Noetos and Duon to fight.

Not that Noetos had the heart for it. Surely if Arathé had survived the day, his son would have told him. He ought to have said something. The fisherman had died a hundred deaths in the course of the afternoon, starting at any strange sound, thinking it might be the beginning of Anomer’s voice in his head. Eventually even his own thoughts began to sound like his son’s voice. He wondered if a headache might make him unreceptive. If the thick walls of the cell were impenetrable. If he would fall asleep and make himself unreachable. If a hundred other things.

When the Neherians wrapped their chains around him, he offered no resistance. He shuffled compliantly at the point of a sword. Duon had it worse: the way they were chained together meant he had to walk backwards.

Reality gave way to a walking dream. He’d been down these corridors many times. Played in them as a child. Hidden in that alcove, stared out this window, swung on that railing. For a wonder, the pennants of the countries that had once made up Old Roudhos still decorated the southern atrium, though the lovely stained-glass windows were all smashed. The whirlwind might have done that. But the whirlwind hadn’t left the pennants to moulder and slowly go grey. That had been neglect.

The ballroom, converted to an impromptu throne room earlier that day, had again been transformed. The real throne room, high above in the tower, had been broken by the storm: he had seen it lying in pieces at the foot of the cliff on which the palace was perched. But the Neherians had improvised: surely every bright and pretty thing left intact by the whirlwinds had been taken from Raceme town below and installed on the walls or hung from the ceiling. Spirals of coloured paper intertwined with strings of beads in random patterns. Paintings, many no doubt valuable, had been brought up from the vaults or moved from other corridors in the Summer Palace and scattered around the room with no thought for suitability or placement. Garlands of flowers splashed colour everywhere; the most spectacular arrangements were framed by tall, arched windows. The floor had been festooned with orchids and lilies. Servants bearing trays laden with golden goblets trod on the fragile blooms with no regard. Every kitchen and pantry, every secret store and treasure room, must have been emptied. Some of this must have come north aboard ship, or overland with the army.

Neherians, all right.

The extravagance was daunting. A table weighed down with food ran the length of the room. Buckets filled with ice—
ice! Could only have come from the Jasweyan Mountains!
—preserved seafood delicacies. Haunches of meat, placed at intervals on the table, steamed in the cool air. Air that was laden with a dizzying mix of perfume and exotic spice. Gluttony and desire.

His hearing, however, was the sense to suffer the most from this onslaught of excess. A hundred people were arranged along the far side of the table, dressed in their courtly finery, and filled the room with their talk: excited babble, raised voices as they strove to outdo each other, shouts, shrieks of laughter, nodding heads, hands slapping thighs. A parody of a banquet.

He was not the only one suffering deprivation. A score of guards stood in rows behind the empty wooden throne, four rows of five, no doubt the army’s best men. Each wore a red uniform, threaded with gold, the ceremonial garb of the Valiant Protectors of the Duke of Roudhos. Five of their number had much more elaborate uniforms than the others, but appeared no less hungry. They all looked on stoically as the people they were paid to protect indulged themselves.

Noetos narrowed his eyes. The Valiant Protectors had been slaughtered, along with their Duke, seventy years ago at the behest of the Undying Man. He’d not heard of their revival, though anything that had happened in the last twenty years would have been beyond his ears. Why had the position been restored? Why had the entire court come north? No, the real question was why any of the court had come north. Surely the conquest of the Fisher Coast could be accomplished by their military might alone. What was happening here?

He knew they had not gone to this trouble purely to make sport of him. Despite the revelation that they had invaded Fossa to find him, he knew he was of little importance. Noetos of Fossa would be a small sideshow in the Neherian travelling circus. He was merely a loose end to be tied off. And he would likely go to his death in ignorance of the larger game being played here.

Trumpets blared a brazen fanfare. Liveried heralds advanced into the room from doors at either end, making two columns. Into the corridor between the columns came a man and a woman wearing simple circlets of silver on their heads, in clear defiance of the Edict of Regional Sovereignty which forbade any display of political independence in the Bhrudwan Empire. Together the man and the woman proceeded to the throne, arm in arm, where the man sat and the woman took station to his left on a stool provided by one of the Valiant Protectors. Still sounding their trumpets, the heralds left by the opposite doors to which they had come in. The fanfare ceased, leaving Noetos’s ears ringing. A moment later the echo died, and silence fell.

A hundred and twenty pairs of eyes turned to the two prisoners.

Despite having known it was coming, Noetos could not help feeling intimidated by their regard. The combined disapproval of this many people had an impact, no matter how much one steeled oneself against it.

‘Who are these people?’ Duon whispered.