The Immortal Prince (55 page)

“The Cabal of the Tarot.”

Declan's eyes narrowed dangerously. “Where did you hear that name?”

“Cayal mentioned it. He said the Cabal was a secret society before the last Cataclysm dedicated to destroying the Tide Lords.”

“So you and the Tide Lord found plenty of time to chat, then?”

His tone cut her to the core…but there was no way to explain what she was feeling. Or what had happened between her and Cayal. Declan would not understand, of that much she was quite certain. “What is it you want, Declan?”

“Finding the bastards is the first problem.”

“Do you know where they are?”

“A few of them,” he explained, helping himself to more tea. “We always know where Maralyce is. She never moves from her mine up in the mountains around the Valley of the Tides. We're pretty sure Brynden and Kinta are in Torlenia. Medwen is living in a village in Senestra. Arryl was last heard of in Senestra, too, although where her sister, Diala, is…well, that's anybody's guess. Krydence and Rance are running a circus in Tenacia. Jaxyn's here in Lebec. And until you let him go, we had the Immortal Prince right where we wanted him.”

“And what of the others?”

“We have no idea.”

“Can't the Crasii sense them?”

“Of course, but any immortal worthy of the name forbids the Crasii from revealing who they are as soon as they encounter them, so unless you've got a Scard in the mix, we're never going to hear about it.”

“
Could
you stop them?” she enquired. “I mean…once the Tide returns…once their powers are restored…”

“We have a year,” he told her. “Maybe less, before the Tide is strong enough to cause us real problems. We need to find them before then, and find ways to prevent them gaining influence. Your experience with the Immortal Prince places you in a unique position, Arkady. You know him better than any other mortal alive. And—I'm relieved to see—you appear to have survived the experience unharmed. Given Cayal's reputation and your obvious fascination with him, I feared you might fall victim to his charms.”

Arkady swallowed a nervous lump in her throat. “How can you be sure I haven't?”

“I'm not.” He shrugged. “I'm taking a chance on the fact that you'd rather side with your own kind than a bunch of immortal homicidal megalomaniacs.”

She smiled thinly. “You know, Stellan thinks I'm insane to believe Cayal was anything other than a wainwright turned killer.”

“More likely a killer turned wainwright,” Declan corrected. “I'll put him straight, if you want. For a price.”

Arkady sighed. This was the hammer blow she'd been expecting. “What price?”

“Firstly, I want you to stop Jaxyn Aranville's access to the Lebec Crasii.”

Is that all?
she groaned silently. “That may not be as easy as you think without tipping him off that you know what he is. Stellan thinks very highly of his ability to work the Crasii. Accuse his Kennel Master of being a Tide Lord and my husband will likely laugh at you and, worse, turn straight around and share the joke with Jaxyn.”

“I'm aware of the risks involved, Arkady, which is why I'm relying on you to deal with this for me. You have to encourage your husband to find him another position in your household. In a perfect world, you'd have him appoint Jaxyn his ambassador at court where I can keep an eye on him while you're in Torlenia. At least there, all he'll be doing is hanging around the Herino Palace playing cards with all the other freeloaders.”

“In a perfect world, Declan, there wouldn't be any Tide Lords to begin with.”

“True. For now, I'd settle for keeping Jaxyn away from the felines. Lebec has an army of Crasii that could threaten the throne and you've got them being trained by a Tide Lord.”

Although what Declan was saying made a great deal of sense, Arkady still wasn't ready to commit to anything. “You said
firstly,
” she reminded him. “I'm assuming there's more?”

“I want you to help me find Cayal.”

“He's trapped in the mountains somewhere,” she told him. “Buried under a cave-in.”

“That won't stop him. He's immortal.”

“Even so…”

“You know him, Arkady. You know what he looks like.”

“So do any number of other people,” she pointed out. “The warders at the prison, for instance, his cellmates in Recidivists' Row. The Crasii in the cell opposite him could
smell
him.”

“The canine, Warlock?” Declan asked. “The one your husband pardoned?”

Tides! He actually believes Stellan signed those papers.
She smiled, although not for the reason Declan thought. “Warlock's input was very helpful. He was one Crasii not overawed by a Tide Lord.”

Declan studied her curiously. “Do you know where he is now?”

“Warlock? I have no idea. I haven't seen him since he was released.”

“I should probably find this fearless canine of yours,” he said. “I believe the Scards may well be our only allies if things go the way I suspect they will.”

“That places you in a very small minority, Declan.”

He nodded. “That's why I'm asking for your help. To face this threat the Cabal will need people like you. People who have faced down a Tide Lord and walked away from it unscathed.”

Arkady took a sip of rapidly cooling tea from her cup, hoping the delicate china would hide her uncertainty at Declan's optimistic and entirely incorrect assumption that she had emerged from her confrontation with a Tide Lord unscathed.

She had been marked by Cayal far deeper than she cared to admit. It was just that nobody but Arkady could see the scars.

With the callous disregard common to all canine females, the day after Boots and Warlock mated so savagely and irresistibly in the lane outside the Kennel, she was all business again, acting as if nothing had happened between them. While the change in her attitude did not surprise Warlock, it did disappoint him. Intellectually, he understood the primal urges that drove his race to procreate, while in his heart, he resented mightily the immortals who had so thoughtlessly created them. The Tide Lords had wanted slaves and cared nothing for the way canine society might happen to evolve.

Warlock lamented the lack of opportunity for a meaningful relationship with a female. There were no anniversaries celebrated by their kind. No rewards to mark a marriage that had stood the test of time. There was affection between them and the urge to mate. Love as it existed for humans was unknown to them, and Warlock thought the Crasii poorer for the lack. Canines made friends and formed family groups for protection of their young, they cohabited, even married, but when it came time to rut, all bets were off and the strongest male won, regardless of what had gone before or might happen in the future.

The musky, maddening scent of Boots had faded significantly by the following day and was gone completely after a few days, which made it much easier for Warlock to concentrate when she was around. The males who attacked them in the alley returned to the Kennel, showing no interest in continuing the fight, once the female was no longer in heat. Had the memory of their sharp, savage coupling not been imprinted so vividly in Warlock's memory, he might have begun to believe he'd imagined it.

Every day they made the trek through the crowded, dirty streets of the Lebec slums to Shalimar's attic, and every day—at least once—they ate like noblemen while Warlock tried to recall everything Cayal had said to Lady Desean in his hearing. He told them about Gabriella and Planice, the Queen of Kordana. He told them of Arryl and Diala, Syrolee and Engarhod, Tryan and Elyssa, Krydence and Rance and the enigmatic Lukys, who even among the Crasii remained something of a mystery. He told them of the suzerain's dark moods, his assertion that Warlock was probably a Scard and Cayal's promise—which had seemed so empty at the time—to settle the score once the Tide returned.

Shalimar took copious notes as he spoke, and then questioned Warlock extensively, probing for details he may have overlooked or not recalled in the first telling. Warlock found the interrogations quite exhausting, but he suffered through them willingly enough. Not only was it an opportunity to eat like a civilised being, but it meant Boots stayed with him, listening intently to every word, adding her questions to Shalimar's, revealing a sharp intellect and a remarkable eye for detail in the process.

“Did Cayal never speak of the destruction of Kordana?” Shalimar asked one afternoon, following another intensive session of questions.

Warlock shook his head. “He spoke of it only in passing. He blamed Tryan for it, I know that much, but he never said exactly what happened. Is it important?”

“Knowing what drives these monsters is always important,” Shalimar said, putting down his notes. “If we could define some pattern in their behaviour…some trigger that sets them off…perhaps we could find a way to stop them.”

“Be more use to us to find a way to kill them,” Boots grumbled, picking at the bones of a chicken she had all but sucked dry. Warlock liked to kid himself she was hanging around because she fancied him, even though she was no longer in the grip of her mating instincts, but he suspected she was driven by the need for decent food just as much as he was.

“Then you and the Immortal Prince are of one mind,” Warlock remarked. “He'd very much like to find a way to kill himself, I suspect.”

“Would that we could aid his quest,” Shalimar lamented, stretching his tired shoulders. It was hot in the attic and his face was damp with sweat, but he didn't seem to notice. “What a torment Cayal must be suffering, to want death so desperately while knowing it can never be.”

“Tides, Shalimar!” Boots complained. “You sound as if you feel sorry for him.”

“I do a little,” the old man replied. “Not enough to want to be enslaved by him, mind you, but I pity any creature in pain.” Suddenly he smiled, revealing a row of uneven teeth, yellowed with age and cowberry juice. “In fact, I'd
like
to help the poor sod find a way to kill himself. I'd then like to apply the same remedy to the rest of his merciless brethren and be rid of the whole flanking lot of them.”

“Do you think there is a way to kill an immortal?” Boots wondered without looking up, too busy picking over the bones of the chicken for any tiny morsel that may have escaped her notice to give the others her full attention.

“Maybe.” Shalimar shrugged. “I suppose the one thing the immortals don't lack is the time to look for it.”

“Are they all like Cayal?” Warlock asked. “Do they all seek an end to their endless existence?”

Shalimar looked thoughtful. “To be honest, I have no idea. Until you shared your incarceration with him, we didn't even know any of them
wanted
to die. And it could just be some sort of temporary insanity brought on by the long Low Tide. First hint of the Tide turning and for all you know the Immortal Prince is fair bouncing with glee at the prospect of another millennium lording it over the rest of us.”

“Might get interesting if it isn't temporary,” Boots remarked.

“Why?” Warlock asked.

She pushed the plate away and rubbed her greasy hands on her shift to clean them. “Suppose he finds a way to die and the others aren't interested in joining him in oblivion? The Tide Lords are bad enough, by all accounts, when they can only
hurt
each other. What happens if they find a way to start murdering each other, too?”

“It may not be such a bad thing,” Warlock speculated. “It'd thin their numbers down at the very least.”

“Might also take the rest of us with them,” Shalimar reminded him with a frown. “But it's an interesting problem and one I will dwell on much in the coming weeks, I suspect. Will you come back and see me again tomorrow?”

Warlock glanced at Boots, who nodded. “If you want.”

“I'd like to know more of what Cayal told you about the Eternal Flame.”

Warlock was going to say that he'd already told him everything he knew, but then he glanced at the laden table and nodded. “I'll try to make sure I remember everything,” he said.

“Then I'll see you tomorrow,” Shalimar declared, rising to his feet to usher them toward the door. “And we'll see if we can't learn all about becoming an immortal, eh?”

 

“What does Shalimar do?” Warlock asked Boots a little later, as they strolled past the beggars and the whores of the slums toward the Kennel. It was almost sunset and the streets were even busier than they had been earlier. They passed slaves and workmen, indentured servants and free Crasii of every sub-species, even a pair of canines mating up against the wall of one of the many taverns scattered through the city outskirts, in full view of the passers-by. He looked away in disgust, his disapproval tempered by the knowledge he was no better than they were. At the thought, his disgust turned to a measure of self-loathing, the faces of the couple against the wall blurring in his mind, his tormented imagination replacing them with himself and his companion against that wall…

Boots noticed his expression and the copulating couple and because she had no notion of the direction of his thoughts, she smiled. Warlock looked away, embarrassed by his own weakness as much as her amusement.

Despite the noise and the smells, Warlock was a little surprised to find he was growing accustomed to the hordes of people and had discovered the hang of shouldering his way through a crowd. He still wasn't used to the libertine attitudes of the slum Crasii, but was growing a little more accepting of the idea that instinct was a harsh mistress. She didn't like to be ignored.

“What do you mean?”

“Pardon?

“You asked about Shalimar.”

Warlock forced himself to forget the couple and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. “I was wondering where all the food comes from? He has to pay for it somehow. How does he make his living? As a healer? A scribe? A fortune teller?”

Boots thought about it for a moment and then shrugged, stepping over an oily puddle exuding a smell that made Warlock want to retch. Between the endless spring rains and summer fast approaching, stinking, unidentifiable sludge regularly clogged what passed for gutters here.

“Don't really know. Maybe he gets by on donations.”

“From whom?” he asked, wondering how Boots could negotiate these streets so oblivious to the smells and the refuse that polluted them. “This is the Lebec slums, Boots. There's nobody here with the coin to keep their own bellies full, let alone give it away to set a table as full as Shalimar's.”

“From the Scards he helps, perhaps?” she suggested, clearly worried now that Warlock had brought the matter to her attention. “Maybe he charges passage to Hidden Valley and puts a percentage on top.”

“That would make him a scavenger who lives off Crasii misery,” he said. “Not the great man you seem to think he is.”

Boots looked up at him curiously. “What are you trying to say, Warlock? That Shalimar is some sort of evil charlatan trading on Crasii misfortune?”

“Do you
know
where Hidden Valley is?”

“No.”

“Have you ever spoken to anybody who's been there? Seen anybody come back from there?”

She frowned. “Well…no…”

“So for all you know, Shalimar is getting rich pretending to help our people, when in fact, he could be taking their money, slitting their throats as soon as they leave the city and burying them in an unmarked trench somewhere, just outside the city.”

Boots stopped and looked up at him for a moment and then shook her head, rolling her eyes at him. “You're crazy.”

“I was just asking how he can set a table like that, that's all.”

“Why don't you ask him?”

“I might, tomorrow.”

“You do that,” she said, obviously annoyed. “I'll look forward to Shalimar's reaction to what you're insinuating.”

Warlock sighed. He hadn't meant to make her angry. “Boots…I wasn't trying to insinuate anything. I was just thinking, that's all, how it seems a little odd—”

“Halt!”

Instinctively, Warlock froze at the shouted command. Boots, being much more used to freedom than he was, had the opposite reaction. She ran—a futile ambition in these narrow crowded streets—only to slam straight into the arms of a pair of City Watchmen. She yelled at the men, struggling violently as they tried to restrain her, scratching one on the cheek, biting the other on the arm. Warlock growled low in his throat and moved to help.

“Not another step, dog boy!” someone yelled behind him. “Not if you and the bitch expect to live!”

Warlock hesitated and glanced over his shoulder to discover a crossbow aimed squarely at his torso. There were a dozen or more Watchmen behind them and even more moving in behind the pair who held Boots. Completely surrounded, the Watchman with the bow trained on him was almost close enough to touch, certainly close enough to shoot before Warlock could reach him, and near enough to be confident he wouldn't miss.

After a tense moment while Warlock debated the wisdom of trying to free Boots and make a break for it, he slowly lowered his tail and raised his hands. The officer visibly relaxed.

“Wise decision, dog boy.” He turned to his men. “Take him back to the Watch-house.”

“What about the female?” one of the Watchmen asked.

“Take her, too,” he ordered.

The men moved in closer, and quite warily, probably because of Warlock's size.

“What am I being arrested for?” he called after the officer, who was ordering the remainder of his men to clear the street of the curious onlookers who had gathered to gawk at this unusual event. “I have done nothing wrong! I have a pardon from the Duke of Lebec.”

The officer glanced over his shoulder at Warlock. He seemed singularly unimpressed by the news.

“It's not the duke who wants you, dog boy,” the officer told him with a shrug. “It's the king.”