The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (33 page)

The woman shook her head. ‘I can’t help you there, Mistress. I’ve no influence there, not at those levels.’

‘Who does?’

‘Very few since the duke was killed. The duchess hasn’t left Eight Towers this last week; some clerics have started fighting back against her measures to control them. They say warrior-priests of Karkarn have ambushed patrols all over the city for the last two weeks, and a government minister, Garan Dast, he was murdered by a Mystic of Karkarn at the Mule Gate. Even when the penitents fail, the guards are killing indiscriminately, and arresting people all over the place. They’re winning no friends - there have been riots, and they’re getting worse.’

‘Who has her ear? Is it still that mincing fool Leyen?’

‘No, he died in the Prayerday assassination. Perhaps Lady Kinna?’

‘Lady Kinna?’ Zhia repeated. ‘I don’t recognise the name. How do I get to her?’

‘I don’t know, Mistress. I know nothing of the woman, other than she’s apparently giving the orders on the duchess’s council. They say she’s pushing the others to pass an order to close the Temple of Death.’

‘She intends to bar the gates of Death?’ Zhia said with an appreciative laugh. ‘I like her already. Can you get someone in her household to provide us with a lock of her hair?’

Harys frowned for a moment, then smiled a little. ‘Yes, I would have thought so.’

‘Why not just drop in and see this child yourself?’ Koezh asked.

‘Little steps, dear brother, always little steps when you’re negotiating. We don’t want to frighten the poor mite, do we?’ Zhia said. Her smile showed her teeth.

Doranei leaned nearer the little fire that was struggling fitfully against the breeze. The chill had begun to bite in the last half hour and he realised he was shivering even while patting out the occasional spark that hopped onto his clothes. Caution still ruled, even though they were a mile or two inside the Narkang border, hence the small fire. He risked a couple more branches, then checked around to see if they had company yet.

‘Cheer up; at least it’s not raining,’ said someone from the darkness.

Beyn’s voice was unmistakable and Doranei kept on with his task of chopping up firewood as his comrade walked into view. The tall blond man hobbled his horse near Doranei’s before joining him and squatting down to warm his hands. He didn’t even glance at the dark shapes that had followed him but were lingering outside the circle of light. Doranei ignored them too, He knew why they were hanging back.

He grimaced.
Thank the Gods for Beyn’s arrogance.

He slipped on a glove and gingerly retrieved a lidded clay pot from the edge of the fire-pit. Opening it up, he sniffed at the contents.
Good enough
, he decided;
if the rest of them want some they can damn well ask
. There was a larger pot hanging over the fire, barely bubbling yet - tomorrow night’s meal, courtesy of Sebe’s skill with a slingshot.

Doranei could feel Beyn’s eyes on him as he bent over the pot he’d secured between his outstretched legs. The warmth of the pot itself and the first few cautious bites improved his mood no end, but even the smile on his face didn’t draw the watchers closer until Sebe trotted in from his sentry shift and squatted at Doranei’s side. The wiry man pushed back his hood to reveal a lopsided grin at the prospect of hot food.

‘What’re you lot waiting for?’ Sebe called as he retrieved a similar pot. ‘Want a written invitation?’ He elbowed Doranei. ‘All the more for us, then.’

Sebe’s jocular familiarity seemed to decide it and five people emerged to join them around the fire. Three were members of the Brotherhood, which annoyed Doranei even more. How could his own comrades be wary around him? Why was it so hard for them to get a handle on the strange relationship he had with Zhia Vukotic?

Tremal was the oldest of the three. The wiry little man had proved himself a useful addition to the Brotherhood over the last few years. He was, most obviously of all the Brotherhood, an Ascetite, and the life of a thief had honed that latent magical potential into a skill that couldn’t be taught - but his cat-like reactions and thieving instincts had made him permanently wary, so perhaps his reticence was just normal. Janna, Sebe’s lover, always said Tremal was a few meals short of being handsome, but she’d never managed to feed the man up enough to make him worth the effort, or so she maintained.

The other two Brothers, Firrin and Horle, were both young enough to make Doranei wonder if he was getting old. They were dressed in identical brigandines.
Have to have a word about that, it’s looking too much like a uniform
, he thought.

He looked at the woman with them, Hirta, who stared straight back at him.
As prickly as a hedgehog, that one - although she’ll have to be if she does end up staying and joining the Brotherhood.

Hirta was even smaller than Tremal, but she looked like she had Chetse blood in her, for she was powerful with it. She wasn’t quite twenty summers, but she was already older than most when they joined up - although the commander wouldn’t send a woman out with them until he was sure she could cope. Most men weren’t tough enough, so it was rare a woman was even put up for membership.

‘Get yourselves some food,’ Doranei growled at last. ‘We’ll be leaving at dawn.’

‘Where to?’ Beyn asked.

‘You’re taking him to Sautin first, then Mustet,’ Doranei said with a nod towards the fifth member of Beyn’s troupe. Eyl Parim flinched at the movement and kept his face low. The demagogue was doubtless hating life out on the open road; winter was never fun, and the Brotherhood travelled harder than most, no matter what the conditions.

Parim was something Doranei couldn’t classify, somewhere between an Ascetite and a minor mage. He could use his voice to be preternaturally persuasive, and as a result was more used to enjoying the hospitality of rich benefactors than travelling with a band of rough-living men. Beyn had tracked him down two years ago and reminded the man of past infractions; they had been waiting since then for a real challenge for Parim’s rare skills.

Never mind how little you enjoy Sautin and its enthusiastic approach to crowd control, I’d trade in a heartbeat
, Doranei though sourly. His own mission was to start looking for Zhia Vukotic in the Circle City, which was presumably her nearest bolt-hole to Scree.

‘Keep it quiet and keep it subtle,’ Doranei continued. ‘Sautin is the priority, so get there and start stirring up ill-feeling against the Menin - and any appeasers. Once established, Beyn, you take Hirta to Mustet to lay the ground there. Once Beyn’s gone on, Horle, you’re calling the shots in Sautin, understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Doranei’s face darkened. ‘Cut that out,’ he snapped, ‘we’re not bloody soldiers. You answer to one man alone, remember?’

‘Right, yes, sorry.’ Horle managed not to flush at his mistake, but his embarrassment was plain to see and Sebe chuckled merrily. Doranei glowered at his Brother, but that was ignored. Sebe too had been cautious around Doranei for a bit, but now he’d taken on the role of ensuring his best friend looked like any other Brother. Doranei might be first among equals now, but he wasn’t going to get the respect Ilumene had been granted - something he was profoundly grateful for.

‘And you - until you stop looking like a kitten you shouldn’t be laughing at anyone,’ Doranei said, earning himself an idle cuff around the head. Sebe’d shaved his long black hair off the previous summer and it had only just started growing back.

‘Beyn, take this with you - and only to be used when absolutely necessary.’ He handed over a small wrapped object.

Beyn frowned at it for a moment before taking it. He disliked surprises. Inside the leather wrapping he found a large hooked claw.

Doranei felt a flicker of pleasure at the confusion on his supercilious comrade’s face. ‘Something Endine prepared for us,’ he said by way of explanation.

Tomal Endine was one of King Emin’s most trusted mages; while his magic wasn’t particularly powerful, his knowledge and skill had few rivals in the whole of Narkang and the Three Cities.

‘Is that supposed to fill me with confidence?’ Beyn muttered, turning the claw over to see the sigils that had been scratched into its surface and filled with silver, the substance best suited for magic. ‘Are these the wyvern’s claws?’

Doranei nodded. ‘One for you, one for me. If you’re desperate to send me a message, trace it out on your arm - or any piece of bare flesh. As long as I’m carrying the other claw it’ll scratch out the message on my skin.’

‘Sounds painful,’ Beyn said before a dark grin crept across his face.

‘Don’t even think about that,’ Doranei warned. The same thought had crossed his mind too. ‘Anything that’s not urgent, you’ll be getting a nice long reply, I promise.’

Sebe sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Sounds dangerous. What if this ends up in the wrong hands - Ilumene’s, for example? If tracing over the skin is enough to scratch, what happens if he pushes it into the flesh? How far would he need to go before he hits your artery? Remember the state of his hands? Bastard wouldn’t even hesitate.’

‘It won’t work like that,’ Doranei said, raising a hand to stop Sebe. ‘The claws came from our wager in Scree; the only people who can use them are those who were part of that wager. It’s how Endine managed to bind the spell, so he says.’

‘The three of us and Coran, then?’

‘That’s the lot. Coran’s got the remaining claw, messages go to both.’

‘Will we be hearing from him tonight?’ Beyn asked, suddenly grave.

Doranei grimaced and felt an unexpected urge for a strong drink. He thought for a moment. Morghien had visited their agent in Tor Milist a few weeks back, and been summoned to Narkang with all haste.

‘Probably not. If he’s lucky he’ll be there by now, but the king’s too cautious; he’ll wait until tomorrow evening at the earliest. I’d guess there’s some preparation required and this isn’t something you want to screw up.’

Beyn and Sebe looked at each other; the others just looked puzzled. The king had many secrets, and not even the men of the Brotherhood got to hear them all.

‘Not something I’d want to do at all,’ Sebe muttered. ‘Piss and daemons, there are some enemies you just don’t want to make.’

Doranei didn’t reply. He was painfully aware of the hard look Beyn was giving him.
Gods, he’s right too. Might be I’ve already made that enemy
. ‘Any of you got any brandy?’ he asked, pulling his coat tighter around his body. ‘Think the night just got colder.’

 

There was an orange smear across the eastern horizon as the fading sun dropped behind a crown of clouds. From one of the silver-capped towers of King Emin’s palace Morghien had an unparallelled view of the sunset. For a minute or two he followed the progress of a local mage illuminating each of the night spheres in the wealthier streets, leaving stepping-stones of pale bluish light in her wake.

‘Is it time?’ called a tired voice from within the tower.

Morghien checked the sky again and turned back. ‘Close enough to begin.’

King Emin was sat on a three-legged stool, the only seat in the room. The open arrow-slit windows meant it was freezing in there and Morghien felt a pang of sympathy for his friend, wrapped only in a white linen sheet in anticipation of the ceremony to come. He at least had his heavy leather coat and gloves to ward off the cold. Beside the stool was a bundle of clothes and a long pair of iron tongs Morghien had brought from the fireplace in his room.

The king was hunched over, hugging to his stomach a smooth, rounded object. He looked as tired as he sounded. Sleep had become a rare thing with Queen Oterness nursing a month-old son, and the touch of the Skull of Ruling only dulled the constant growl of anger at the back of his mind.

Morghien felt his fingernails dig into his palms. The Skull’s reputation was not a pretty one and this close to it he could well believe the rumours. It had been made to endow Aryn Bwr’s heir with the strength to rule after his father’s death, but the Skull felt like a wild force to Morghien. Just being in its presence made his skin crawl, and that wasn’t normal - nothing like that happened when he was with the young Lord Isak, who carried both Hunting and Protection.

Covering much of the centre of the room were two circles marked in chalk, one inside the other. Between the two Morghien had drawn the sigils of each of the Gods of the Upper Circle: Death, Karkarn, Nartis, Tsatach, Amavoq, Belarannar, Larat, Ilit, Vrest, Inoth, Kitar and Alterr. He skirted the circles, treading carefully to avoid disrupting the chalk, and removed the augury chain from around his neck.

He pulled off the jewelled coins and placed them in turn on the corresponding sigil. The last two, the Lady and the Mortal, went into a pocket. That done, he opened a small ivory-inlaid box and withdrew a handful of dried, blackish-green leaves.

‘Deathsbane?’ Emin said with a frown. ‘Is that wise?’

Morghien gave a sour bark of laughter. ‘Do you mean, “Will it only antagonise him further?” ’ He scattered the leaves liberally between the two circles, not waiting for an answer.

‘I mean that it’s usually only used in necromancy, or so I understood.’

Morghien shook his head. ‘My friend, what we are planning to do will win us no commendations for piety; deathsbane is used in necromancy because it is effective. Healers use it often in poultices and brews; they don’t tell people because there’s always some fool who will use any excuse to tie you to a stake, but it’s not heretical.’

‘Very well,’ Emin muttered, shivering a little. ‘What now?’

‘Now you sit in the circle, carefully.’

Lifting the edges of the sheet so they did not smudge the chalk markings, Emin positioned himself by the side of the circle, squatting down to leave most of the space empty behind him. The only light in the room was a single oil-lamp, turned down as low as it could go to leave just a glimmer.