The Tree of Story (26 page)

The Marshal locked eyes with the mage and Brax recoiled at the fury he saw there. The man was resisting the power of
the werefire with everything he had. His white-knuckled fists shook and the sweat stood out on his brow. It was a terrible thing to see, and as Brax watched the struggle, he felt an unexpected admiration for the man. Caliburn was stronger than he would ever have imagined. How he fought to hold on to the truth, to all that was slipping away from him.

During his time in Fable, Brax had taken care to learn all he could about the senior commanders of the Errantry. Now he saw he would have to put some of what he’d discovered about the Marshal’s past to use. He leaned close to Caliburn and put a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Don’t forget what happened, my lord,” Brax said softly, “to your son.”

Lord Caliburn’s gaze turned inward. His face crumpled with pain. The words, Brax saw with satisfaction, had dealt the final blow. The Marshal’s son, he’d learned, had died trying to prevent an outlaw named Corr Madoc from stealing Errantry horses.

“You weren’t vigilant enough then,” Brax said, his voice low and almost soothing. “You didn’t see the true danger until it was too late. That must not happen again. The Errantry needs you to be strong, now more than ever. We must make sure that no more young men die needlessly.”

The Marshal passed a hand over his eyes. He looked up again at the mage, but now his gaze was beseeching. “Help me, Brax,” he said. “They’re all depending on me. What … what should I do?”

“First, my lord, before anything else you must sign an order invoking martial law in Fable and throughout the Bourne.”

“The Errantry … has never … ruled by force of arms.”

“The threat to the Bourne demands it. There is no other way. And Thorne must be restored to his command and
appointed acting Marshal before the poison incapacitates you any further. Thorne is one of the few we can still trust.”

“Yes. Emric. He must take command when I … when I am no longer able.”

“Sign the orders, my lord, and Thorne and I will see to what must be done. As you know, I am the only one who can detect any imposters that remain among us. I must have the power to apprehend and detain them. The men Captain Thorne hand-picked to guard the toyshop have already proven their loyalty, but I suspect I will need more. Perhaps many more.”

“Yes, that is best,” the Marshal said quickly. “You’ll have the men you require. We must unmask the traitors and root them out. Find them, Master Brax.”

“Sign the orders, my lord, and I will get to work at once. Oh, and there is one other matter. Something has to be done about those who’ve been sowing fear and making false accusations about me. It’s regrettable, but Pendrake’s housekeeper must be locked up and kept under guard to stop her from spreading any more lies. For all we know she may be in league with the false loremaster.”

None of what Brax had just said, which moments ago would have goaded Caliburn to outrage, had roused him to the slightest protest. The mage permitted himself a smile. The Errantry would be his. He would have the time he desperately needed and no one could hinder him. After that the rest of Fable would follow swiftly. Let the Nightbane come. Let the opposing armies batter each other to dust on the field. By then he would be the master of the secret fire. He would remake this city into a stronghold, a fastness, a fortress to withstand anything. The warriors of a thousand banners would bend to his will. In time he would reach out to command armies, nations. Even perhaps to force a truce with the power of the Shadow Realm.

He came out of his thoughts to find the Marshal waiting, like an obedient underling, for him to speak again.

Brax slid the blank scroll across the desk. “Sign the orders, my lord.”

The Marshal nodded. He dipped a quill pen in its inkwell and began to write on the parchment in a slow, laboured hand. “This will … give you the powers you need, Master Brax.”

When he had finished he pressed the silver ring on his finger into the parchment, then rolled it up and handed it back to the mage. Then the Marshal dully, unsteadily climbed to his feet. His face was ashen and he looked haggard and ancient, a very different man from the one who had confronted the mage only moments ago.

“You were right, Master Brax. The poison is doing its work. I ask you, tell no one about this. It would only spread fear. No, we will say I have taken ill, that is all. Thorne will assume command for the time being. You will be his second, with emergency powers to arrest and detain as you judge necessary. I am counting on you to rid Fable of its enemies and keep the people safe.”

“My lord, I am yours to command.”

“Yes. Good. Now …”

Once more the Marshal seemed to be searching for words. He looked again at the mage, his gaze suddenly sharp and penetrating, and for a dreadful moment Brax thought that Caliburn was about to remember what had really happened here. There would no choice this time but to strike a killing blow and deal with the consequences. With this paper in his hand he already had what he needed. Brax readied himself, but then the older man’s eyes clouded over again. He raised a trembling hand and placed it on the mage’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Master Brax. You’re a true friend to Fable.”

The mage smiled warmly and gripped the Marshal’s shoulder in turn. “I am your friend, as well, my lord. Never doubt it. And I beg you, call me Ammon.”

14

A
LL THE
N
IGHTBANE THAT
Finn and the doctor came across were already dead, but Alazar would not give up the search.

From the upper parapet, where the skyships had landed, they found their way to the level beneath by way of a wide stone ramp probably meant for the passage of wheeled vehicles as well as foot traffic. The ramp led into a long vaulted hall with passageways branching out in every direction. Deep slits in the roof, lined with some kind of reflective metal, let in shafts of sunlight, but most of the passageways beyond the hall were dark. Finn borrowed a lantern from one of the Stormriders and he and the doctor set out to explore.

With growing awe Finn began to grasp the true size and extent of Adamant. Each circle, as the Ironwise called the descending levels, was fronted by a broad curving platform that formed an outer walkway. Set in from this projecting walkway
were the inner chambers, halls, vaults and connecting passageways of that circle. Each level thus extended deep into the rock, so that the city was actually much larger and far wider in circumference than it appeared from the central well.

Adamant had a system of pipes, sluices and troughs to deliver water up and down the levels. Some of the troughs fed into basins that lined the outer walkways. Cold, fresh water still trickled into a few of these basins. The water was in great demand by both Ironwise and Stormriders, as the city was stifling hot and everyone’s throat soon parched in the dry, smoky air.

Realizing how easy it would be to get lost in such a place, Finn and the doctor did not venture far from the hall in the first circle. Each chamber they explored they marked with a piece of chalk to help them keep their bearings and find their way back.

The farther they went, the fewer bodies they found. Finn was startled to discover that not all the dead were mordog or other races of Nightbane. There were a few men among them. “This army isn’t all that different from your brother’s,” the doctor observed as he examined one of these dead men. Finn had been thinking much the same thing.

They moved on and in the adjoining chamber they found a party of Nonn’s delvers clearing rubble from a partially collapsed passageway. The dwarfs warned them away, telling them that Nonn had forbidden anyone to venture farther into the city until they had made sure it was safe.

They returned to the pier and enlisted four Stormriders to come back with them to the rooms they had already visited and load the dead bodies on a wheeled wooden cart they had found in one of the passages. Alazar’s plan was to burn the corpses, but Kern appeared as they were dragging the cart into an open court for that purpose. He quickly took in the
situation and ordered the Stormriders to throw the bodies into the central well.

“We’re not holding any funerals, healer,” Kern said calmly when Alazar protested. “This will send a message to the rest of the Nightbane still hiding in the city.”

The doctor objected angrily, but Corr’s lieutenant could not be swayed. The Nightbane bodies were lugged to the edge of the parapet and tossed over like so much trash. Kern watched without expression, then made a note in the little book he carried with him and strode away.

Finn and the doctor returned to the pier exhausted, grimy and sombre in mood. They found that Corr’s men had been busy setting up tents near the ships and stringing lanterns between the masts. By now it was late afternoon and the light was failing. As the last of the sunlight climbed slowly up the walls, the circles of the city seemed to recede farther into the depths.

Finn and the doctor sat with a party of Stormriders near a cooking fire that had been set up in a large brazier. Neither had any desire to return to the flagship where Corr had set up his command post. None of the men they sat with had
gaal
pouches on their belts, and Finn remembered that the rank and file in the Sky Lord’s army were not given their own supply. But some kind of warm brew was being ladled out into cups and from the steam Finn caught a scent he knew very well by now. There was fever iron in the drink. He felt his craving clutch at him again, but he refused a cup when it was offered to him because he feared his hand would shake from eagerness. He wondered how many of these men knew what means had been used to save his arm.

The Stormrider who sat next to Finn, a squat, broad-shouldered man with a squashed nose whom Finn remembered seeing at the defence of the breach, gave him the last piece of
the loaf that was being handed around. Finn told him to keep it for himself, but the man insisted and Finn at last yielded.

“How’s your wound, young master?” the man asked him in a kindly voice.

“Better, thank you,” Finn said, unpleasantly surprised to be called
master
. As Corr’s brother he received respect and honour that he hadn’t earned and didn’t want. Then he had a sudden thought. “At the breach there was a Stormrider younger than me, with dark hair. He died just before the battle ended.”

“I think you mean Ferret, my lord. That’s what we called him, anyhow. Never heard if he had another name or where he was from. He wasn’t with us long.”

“I wonder how old he was,” Finn murmured. He saw again the dead, blank, dust-caked face. It could have been anyone’s face. His own.

“I couldn’t tell you, young master.” The man shrugged and then grinned toothlessly. “Not really sure what age I am myself.”

Someone shouted a warning and the Stormriders jumped quickly to their feet. Several fetches, faint and almost shapeless, hovered at the edge of the pier, nearly invisible under the glare of the lanterns. Their eyes were like dark holes in smoke. One of the Stormriders stepped forward and threw an empty stoneware tankard at them. It passed right through one of the fetches, who seemed utterly unaware of it.

“Damned rotting ghosts,” the man growled. “What do they want?”

“They hang about like the fumes from your backside, Borlak,” someone said to the man who had thrown the tankard. “That’s probably what they are.”

The other Stormriders laughed uproariously. The man named Borlak growled and drew his knife. He approached
the dim shapes, brandishing his blade and shouting crude curses. The fetches drifted away and then faded from sight in the darkness.

The men returned to the warmth and light of the brazier and sat back down, laughing and joking at the easy victory, although Finn could tell they were rattled and on edge. Despite what he had told the old Stormrider, his wound had begun to burn and throb again some time ago. When the pain had become nearly intolerable, he excused himself on the pretext of getting water from one of the basins.

Once away from the light and voices he took a small pinch of the
gaal
. The bitter grains melted quickly on his tongue and in a matter of moments the pain lessened and his head seemed to clear. Finn drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, then opened them again.