Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North (11 page)

Sasha blinked a few times, disentangling herself from the dark thoughts Eremul knew preoccupied her. She had said little since they had left the depository. ‘I believe you. I knew there was something strange about Isaac.’

Eremul grimaced at the mention of his erstwhile manservant. ‘The legends state certain among the Fade possessed an ability to beguile that is akin to magic. I believe Isaac manipulated me for years. You recall I sent him to the Wailing Rift with you back in the summer? No doubt that was his intention all along. He wished to guide events towards his own ends… whatever they were.’

The pain that flashed across Sasha’s face at his mention of the Rift surprised the Halfmage, and he said nothing more for a time. He watched the harbourside sprawl, noting once again the sorry state in which the city found itself. Dorminia was still reeling from the destruction caused by the catapults and ballistae the Thelassan army had unleashed. Last night’s arson attacks had hit hard; the damage was extensive. He watched as a Collector hauled the body of a woman from the husk of yet another burned-out building.

Sasha shook her head. ‘The common folk can’t take much more. I thought the worst was behind us.’

‘Trust me when I say the worst is always to come. Be grateful you weren’t visiting Shadowport when Salazar dropped a billion tons of water on the city.’

‘I heard the White Lady is sending ships to look for survivors,’ Cyreena said. Her mouth twisted angrily. ‘A wasted gesture on her part, when there are many in Dorminia that require her aid.’

‘Be sure to raise the point
after
you’ve relayed to her my warning,’ said Eremul. He knew Cyreena despised Thelassa’s Magelord – the White Lady had after all succeeded in offing her master – but he didn’t want the woman jeopardizing the delivery of his message. The one-time Augmentor had lost none of her self-assurance following Salazar’s death. For that, he had to admit to a grudging admiration. Augmentors that had been severed from their bondmagic often went insane.

Though, I suppose one might ask how you can break the mind of someone who is already a thousand glittering shards of crazy.

He was suddenly reminded of the Grand Regent’s words – the accusation that he himself was a loony, and his subsequent ignoble departure from the Grand Council Chamber. He would never be permitted to return to the Obelisk. Furthermore, if he didn’t keep a low profile, a permanent visit to the tower’s dungeons seemed a distinct possibility. Timerus was known to be a petty, vengeful little man.

In that, I suspect, we are alike.

‘Are you sure the harbourmaster’s office will be open?’ Sasha asked. She looked decidedly worse for wear. Her eyes were blurred from lack of sleep and, if Eremul was any judge, moon dust comedown. He had experimented with narcotics himself during his lowest ebbs but found them all wholly underwhelming. Nothing could compare with the thrill of magic dancing through one’s veins.

‘I’ve lived here for thirteen years,’ the Halfmage replied. He swallowed the barbed comment he was about to make, a reminder about the boat he had arranged for her and her unlikely band of companions scarce two months past. There was no need to bring up the Wailing Rift again.

A few minutes later they arrived at the docks. The harbour was ghostly quiet compared with the previous morning. The Thelassan ships had all departed and were now sailing west, crossing the Broken Sea towards the Endless Ocean. The few ships that were left, the remains of Dorminia’s once-great armada, were a sorry sight to behold.

‘It stinks of fish,’ Cyreena complained.

‘I can’t smell a thing,’ Sasha replied, rubbing at her nose. Eremul looked from one sister to the other. It was easy to see the resemblance now. Cyreena was ten years older, her hair blonde rather than the dark brown of her sister’s, but the similarities were obvious. It was the eyes where they truly differed. Sasha’s held a sadness unaccountably deep for one so young, yet there was also a sparkle there that even recent events had not entirely dulled. Cyreena’s stare, on the other hand, carried nothing but deep malice. By Eremul’s reckoning, she was a sociopath.

‘Those warehouses store the fishermen’s haul,’ the Halfmage explained, gesturing to a huddle of huge wooden buildings covered in bird shit. ‘Whatever they can dredge up from the Broken Sea. The fishermen’s catch grows smaller with each passing year.’

‘There are men up there,’ Sasha whispered, pointing to the roofs of the warehouses. Figures milled around, crossbows at the ready.

‘Crimson Watchmen,’ Eremul said. ‘Famine is coming. Fresh fish will soon be a luxury only the rich can afford. There will be rioting in the streets.’

Even as they made their way towards the harbourmaster’s office, they passed beggars covered in rags and streetwalkers soliciting the handful of longshoremen that worked the docks this early hour. Cyreena’s expression suggested she would like to drown the women in the harbour.

The offices were located in a smaller building set back a little from the waterfront. ‘Let me do the talking,’ Eremul said, allowing his gaze to linger sternly on Cyreena.

He pushed open the door and wheeled himself into the reception area. This early in the morning it was thankfully deserted, with the exception of a stern-faced secretary sucking a cigarillo and a dark-haired woman sitting on a wooden bench pushed up against the far wall. She peered over her reading lenses as they entered.

Eremul approached the receptionist’s desk. Sasha and Cyreena waited just behind him. The secretary was a large woman, fair-skinned and sporting an unruly mass of red hair that indicated Andarran heritage.

The secretary plucked the cigarillo from her mouth with one chubby hand and heaved a dramatic sigh at the sheer temerity of the public in disturbing her smoke. ‘Yes?’ she asked, voice full of righteous indignation.

Eremul forced his mouth into what he hoped passed for a smile. ‘A good morning to you! I would like to speak with the harbourmaster if possible.’

‘Come back later.’ The receptionist waved a hand dismissively and stuck the cigarillo back in her mouth.

‘This is a matter of some urgency.’

‘Are you deaf? I said come back later.’ The receptionist noticed her cigarillo had gone out. She tutted and began to fumble for her tinderbox.

The Halfmage reached forward and grasped the end of the cigarillo between his fingertips. He evoked slightly, teasing the magic out, shaping it into a fire spell. The tips of his fingers glowed red for a brief moment. Then he pulled his hand away and fixed the secretary with his most imperious stare. She looked at her cigarillo in astonishment. The end was now burning brightly.

‘Who are you?’ she whispered.

‘They call me the Halfmage. You may have heard of me.’

The woman on the bench turned to stare at him. The secretary’s mouth quivered, her chins wobbling. ‘You...
you
are the famous Halfmage? The wizard that killed Salazar?’

‘That’s right,’ he said. He wasn’t too big a man to accept a little adulation now and then.

‘But you’re a cripple!’

The smug smile on Eremul’s face evaporated. ‘And you’re a fat cow,’ he snapped back. ‘Why the fuck do you think I’m called the Halfmage?’ He glared at the secretary. ‘You tell the harbourmaster I want to see him this instant. Or else I’ll show you exactly why the Tyrant of Dorminia begged for death come the end.’ The last part was an afterthought. If he was going to bullshit his way through this, he might as well commit to the performance.

The receptionist reached under the desk with a shaking hand and withdrew a large iron key. She pushed it over the counter towards him. ‘This is the key to his office,’ she said, voice trembling. ‘It’s just down the hall, first door on the left.’

Eremul took the key from her unresisting fingers and nodded at the sisters. Then he manoeuvred his chair awkwardly around, accidentally bumped into the desk, somewhat spoiling the moment, and sped off down the passage beyond the reception area. He found the room he was looking for and placed the key in the lock. It clicked open with a twist, and he entered. Sasha and Cyreena followed behind him.

Sitting beside a table stacked high with paperwork, half-empty bottles of wine and what looked suspiciously like a pile of moon dust, was an ugly little man with a bandage around his right hand. His eyes were closed; he apparently wasn’t yet aware he had guests. Eremul and the sisters watched him for a moment or two. The rhythmic wet noises from beneath the desk were the only sounds in the room.

‘I’m going to assume that woman hanging off your cock isn’t the wife you spoke so fondly of.’

Lashan’s eyes shot open. ‘What the fuck!’

A head emerged, dirty brown hair and a dusting of white powder covering a face that had seen better days. The hooker wiped her mouth and smiled stupidly. ‘You want me to carry on, milord?’

‘No! Get the fuck out!’ Lashan cried. The whore scrambled out from beneath the desk and hurried from the room. Lashan began to fumble with his breeches, fixing Eremul with a stare of utter loathing. ‘What are you doing here, you bastard half-man?’

‘I’m looking for the harbourmaster. Mardok, I believe.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘Coughed up his guts. I’m the new harbourmaster.’

Eremul frowned. Several influential figures had been strategically poisoned by agents of the White Lady months ago. The poison could replicate the effects of a common cold for months before necrosis occurred. While Timerus had assured the council that all traces of the black lung toxin had been destroyed, hardly a week passed without another high-ranking official turning up dead.

‘I need a ship chartered to Thelassa,’ Eremul said. ‘Today.’

Lashan was still fiddling with his breeches, the act greatly complicated by his injured hand. His pupils had the dilated look of someone high on
hashka.
‘You’re asking me for a favour? After you broke half my fingers? I never found that shit-eater Isaac or the gold he owed. I couldn’t even afford a physician for my hand. You can suck my—’

Cyreena walked over to Lashan, grabbed a bottle of wine, and smashed it over the edge of the table. Red wine sprayed all over the man’s face and tunic. Before he could react, Cyreena placed the broken end of the bottle right up against his naked manhood.

‘You’ll have a ship ready to sail within the hour,’ Cyreena hissed. The expression on her face could have killed the passion of a thousand raging cocks stone dead. ‘If you don’t, I’ll slice off your balls and force them down your throat until you choke on them.’

Eremul raised an eyebrow. ‘She’ll do it,’ he said. ‘If you think I’m irascible after our last encounter, let me tell you – you haven’t seen anything yet.’

‘I hate you,’ whispered Lashan.

‘I trust you have everything you need.’

Sasha nodded. She clutched the satchel Eremul had given to her back at the depository. It contained a map of Thelassa, a pouch filled with coins, and enough food to last a week.

Cyreena had already boarded the small caravel that had been hastily commissioned for them. The dusky-skinned captain scowled down from the forecastle. He was a wine merchant, and had agreed to stop off in Thelassa on the way back to Djanka, a small nation on the west coast of the Shattered Realms to the south.

Eremul handed Sasha the papers authorizing the ship to dock at Thelassa. Lashan had required little in the way of persuasion to put his signature to the document; Cyreena had drawn blood by that point. For a brief moment Eremul had thought he might be required to intervene. Lashan was a pathetic creature, but there were certain things you just didn’t do to a man.

‘How did that odious fellow know you?’ Sasha asked. She seemed about to say something else only to change her mind at the last moment.

Eremul glanced up at the sky. Dark clouds were starting to roll in and a wind had picked up. A storm would break soon. ‘He came looking for Isaac. Just before the city fell to the White Lady. I didn’t appreciate his tone. Before he fled, he mentioned a contact of Isaac’s going by the name “the Crow”. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?’

Sasha shook her head, causing her brown hair to dance around her face in the sudden breeze that swept across the harbour. The caravel swayed on the rippling water and the captain coughed loudly, clearly impatient to depart.

‘Time to go,’ Eremul said. He reached into his robes and took out the parchment with the transcribed Fade script. Then he withdrew the glass jar containing the tattoo they had cut from the rebel’s body. The jar was filled with salt to preserve the flesh.

‘Bring these to the White Lady,’ he instructed. ‘Repeat to her exactly what I told you.’

‘What if she doesn’t believe us?’

‘Then you had best pray your sister is right and that my suspicions are but the crazed delusions of the mentally unstable.’

‘You could come with us.’

It was Eremul’s turn to shake his head. ‘As I’ve already articulated, Thelassa is no place for a wizard. The White Lady would not tolerate me in her city.’

Sasha hesitated again, and this time Eremul decided to take pity on her. ‘Look, I’m sorry about Davarus Cole. I have told you all that I know. The city was in a state of chaos that night. Anything might have befallen him.’

‘No one will ever know what he did for us.’

‘Fame is overrated,’ Eremul replied. ‘The fact of the matter is that the Council, and more specifically the White Lady, do not want it known that a boy slew the mightiest wizard in the north. Why, the wrong sort might start getting ideas.’

‘So that’s it?’ Sasha’s jaw clenched angrily. ‘Cole is just forgotten about?’

The Halfmage stared at the girl. ‘I’ll make sure people learn the truth,’ he said eventually. ‘Not now, but someday. You’ll just have to trust me.’

Cyreena appeared on the caravel’s deck, a deep frown of irritation on her face. ‘Are you coming, sister? We’ve already spent more time in this charlatan’s company than is healthy.’

Sasha gave Eremul a slow nod as if to say that she did indeed trust him – a gesture that for some reason he found strangely gratifying. Then she climbed the gangplank to board the ship.