The Twilight Herald: Book Two Of The Twilight Reign (36 page)

‘It’s difficult,’ Mayel insisted. ‘If he gets suspicious, he’ll leave, and take his chances somewhere else.’

‘You’re runnin’ out of time, cousin,’ Shandek growled. ‘Be bolder, like our friend the priest there.’

Mayel turned back to see the priest becoming increasingly animated, shaking his fist at the women, his voice loud enough to make the whole street stop and stare.

‘If that’s being bold, I think I’ll pass on it,’ he said. ‘The man’s going to get himself thrown into a cell if he carries on that way. If he touches any of them, he’ll be in trouble—Oh, there he goes!’

A mutter ran through the crowd as a scuffle broke out. Two guards had stepped in, one receiving a flailing elbow in the face for his troubles. The other grabbed the priest by the scruff of the neck, not even seeing the fist of a young nobleman as it arced towards his face. After that, there were only thrashing limbs and angry shouts for half a minute before the rasp of steel being unsheathed stopped everything dead.

‘These nobles,’ Shandek said under his breath and he began to lever himself upright. ‘None of the bastards ’ave a sense of humour. Time for another jug.’

 

Zhia stared down at the figure on the floor in distaste. The priest was a large man, but Legana had laid him out with one crisp punch. He was spread-eagled on his back, legs splayed out, one hand groggily reaching for his bruised cheek. Legana stood over him, sword drawn and levelled, holding off the men who had joined in the brawl.

‘My dear, my respect for you just continues to grow,’ Zhia said out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes fixed on Mistress Siala as the ruler of Scree stormed over. The woman was flanked by rusty-skinned Fysthrall soldiers. In the flickering light their glistening armour shone weirdly, as though crude lamp-oil had been spilt on it. Zhia sighed inwardly. No doubt Siala would see it a slight that the priest had chosen Zhia to voice his complaints to. Siala was beginning to realise that Zhia rivalled her for power in the city, and she was taking every opportunity for confrontation. That the vampire gracefully backed down every time seemed only to goad her further.

‘Mistress Ostia, what is the meaning of this disturbance?’ The ruler of Scree looked drawn and weary. The constant politicking amongst Scree’s nobles was clearly taking its toll. Zhia knew Siala was working night and day to maintain her support in the city and keep the opposition from uniting behind anyone else.

‘A complaining priest, Mistress Siala, nothing of great consequence, ’ she said soothingly.

‘And his complaint?’

‘The granting of permission to execute criminals on stage.’ She kept her tone conciliatory, her eyes low.

‘And what do you propose to do about it?’

Zhia shrugged. ‘He was raving, and you yourself gave the minstrel permission. I have decided to assume he had been drinking, though that cannot excuse laying a hand upon a Sister of the Circle. I’m sure we can find a nice quiet cell for his temper to cool off.’

Siala gave a brusque nod. ‘See to it. I doubt he’ll try it again. Legana, whilst I commend your swift action, do remember that as a Sister of the Circle you should try to conduct yourself with a little more grace. We keep dogs for a reason.’ She waved a dismissive hand at the guards beside her and Legana bowed in acknowledgement, sheathing her sword.

‘And now, Legana, you will accompany me to the play. I’ve hardly seen you since Mistress Ostia took you under her wing, and I think it is time we caught up.’

She caught Zhia’s eye and the vampire gave a miniscule nod. It was to be expected that Siala would interrogate Legana, so her story was ready prepared. With the briefest of bows to her companions, Legana followed as instructed.

As soon as Siala had moved on, Zhia beckoned Haipar over. ‘Have him put in a cell, give him a day or so alone to calm down.’

‘Yes, Mistress,’ Haipar said with mock solemnity. Zhia guessed Haipar was resenting being forced into respectable clothes to visit the theatre. Once the two battered guardsmen had hoisted the priest up and taken him away, the onlookers, realising this stage of the entertainment was over, began to drift inside. Zhia felt the pull herself, some force gently urging her in.

She stopped and turned to Haipar to see whether the Deneli had noticed the same, but Haipar seemed oblivious. She couldn’t be sure the broad-faced woman from the Waste was even registering that people were walking past her. Haipar stared towards the gate, lost in thought, her face blank and empty.

The smell from the food-carts, burnt fat, tamarind and honey, suddenly washed over them. Zhia felt her mouth begin to water at the scent of honeyed meat on the wind, but her attention was focused on Haipar. The effect of the breeze was like someone shaking the shapeshifter awake; startled, Haipar looked around with a confused expression before finally setting off for the theatre entrance, faltering after a few paces when she realised Zhia was not beside her.

Zhia looked up at the roof of the theatre and the clouds beyond. Her nerves were alive with strange sensations, a prickling under her fingernails that she couldn’t place: something familiar, yet curiously alien -rare enough in itself for an immortal, but a blend of contradictory strains that had Zhia confused.

There’s something I’ve missed here, but what is it? I can feel magic surrounding this building but its nature eludes me.
She stopped; through the gloom of night she suddenly made out a face on the roof of the theatre, looking down at her, apparently grinning at what had gone on below. All she could see was that face, the glow of a cigar end and the outline of what looked like a crossbow.
Who are you, and who’s that crossbow for? This square is crawling with soldiers, so you can hardly be here for security.
As though she’d asked the question aloud the gargoyle-like figure disappeared in a flash of movement. Only a wisp of smoke remained behind, which soon disappeared to nothing.

‘Perhaps I should be a little more direct in my snooping around here,’ she said out loud.

‘What are you expecting to find?’ Haipar asked, returning to Zhia’s side.

‘Answers, my dear.’ Before Zhia could say anything else, someone discreetly cleared their throat behind her.

‘Your pet is back,’ Haipar said acidly, ‘and this time he’s got ribbons in his hair.’

Zhia turned and beamed at the men now standing before her. King Emin, in the centre, sported a magnificent broad-brimmed hat that kept his face in shadow. Doranei, at his side, looking considerably less at ease than his king, wore a high-collared formal tunic. He stood with eyes lowered and lips pursed, unable -or unwilling -to meet her smile.

Zhia inclined her head; the White Circle ruled here, and that was all the respect any man was offered. ‘It is delightful to see you again, sir,’ she said, careful of his title in such a public place.

Emin bowed low, sweeping off his hat. He was smiling. ‘Mistress, you honour me by remembering your humble servant. ’ Zhia returned the smile. It was hardly a surprise that King Emin knew exactly how to act, and yet she found herself pleased all the same. When she did find the time to lock wits with this man, she suspected she would not be disappointed.

‘And Doranei, how handsome you look!’

The King’s Man glowered, and continued to scrutinise the cobbles at her feet.

Zhia looked at the remaining men, six members of the Brotherhood, dressed alike in dark tunics and high riding boots, these men were definitely bodyguards. The king looked more like a successful merchant; his lack of fashionable quirks made him almost anonymous.

‘But your constant companion? Left behind?’ Zhia enquired. There were quite a few white-eyes in the city, many of whom had been drafted into the Third Army to bolster the Fysthrall troops and set them well above the troops Zhia had influence over, so Coran would not have attracted undue notice. His absence surprised Zhia, and left her a little irritated - she had heard all the stories about the two having undertaken some obscure rite to link their minds, or souls, maybe, but she had not yet had the chance to observe them together.

‘These are tense times,’ Emin replied, ‘and his temper is somewhat short, particularly in this uncivilised weather.’

‘Tell him I sympathise. Tense times indeed, and thus your presence here is a remarkable risk.’

The king’s face remained politely blank and inscrutable as he replied, ‘A necessary one, Mistress. I have taken a few precautions in case I am recognised by the Circle, your good self notwithstanding, but I’m not here to continue that fight. I have business that cannot be delayed.’

Zhia looked at him for a moment, her head tilted on one side, as if she were pondering her next remark. Finally she sighed, and said, ‘I suggest you take care. Something is happening in this city, some sort of convergence. Your presence raises the stakes even higher.’

Emin nodded. ‘That comes as no surprise,’ he said mysteriously. Then he turned his attention to the ornate theatre gates. ‘Look - I think the performance is about to start. We should find our seats.’

‘One of my companions has had to join Siala, and my box will be terribly empty. Doranei, would you give me the pleasure of your company?’ Zhia asked, a smile trembling on her lips. ‘Haipar is no great fan of the theatre, and she does grumble so.’

‘Haipar? The shapeshifter?’ Emin asked sharply, receiving a nod from Haipar in response.

‘And she is not the only Raylin in the city,’ Zhia added as she offered her arm to Doranei. His cheeks flushed as he stepped forward and she beamed at him and patted his solid forearm with girlish affection.

Turning back to the king, she bade him goodbye. ‘It has been a pleasure, as always -and I hope this happy chance meeting will be but the first of many. It would please me if you would join me for dinner one evening.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘The Circle, for all its many talents, is not known for its conversationalists.’

‘Of course, Mistress,’ Emin said with alacrity. ‘And do be careful to return Doranei in one piece, he is somewhat delicate.’

Ignoring the amusement of Doranei’s fellows, Zhia smiled in reply and swept through the gates, Doranei in tow and Haipar following close behind.

 

Zhia had retained one of the best boxes, in the newly built second tier. The darkness of the corridor was broken only by thin lines of light that leaked out of the gaps between the thick canvas curtains covering each small doorway. They could hear muffled voices and the scrape of chairs as their fellow theatre patrons made themselves comfortable for the evening’s entertainment.

To Zhia’s surprise, her private box was already occupied. As Doranei politely held back the curtain for her, the oil lamp within illuminated a person -a man, she quickly realised -sitting with his back to the stage. He looked up and Zhia could see his tattoos, black feathers on both cheeks, and an ugly red scar that cut down one side of his face. Oddly - for the tattoos alone marked him as other -he was dressed in a labourer’s shirt and cropped trousers.

‘While the boy who served us last night was somewhat lacking in commonsense,’ Zhia commented as she entered her box, ‘I confess to being a little surprised that he has been replaced by a monk . . . albeit a monk of unusual habits.’

‘A former monk,’ the man replied. His sharp-featured face looked shifty, suspicious. ‘Vellern and I have parted company.’

‘And so instead you grant me your company: am I to be placed above the Gods?’ She turned to Doranei as he peered past her at the stranger and said quietly, ‘Could you give us a moment alone?’

The King’s Man gave a grunt, looking hard at the former monk before retreating.

‘I’m not here to discuss the Gods,’ the man replied sourly. ‘The minstrel told me to speak to you. Your interest in us has not gone unnoticed.’

‘And you’re here to warn me off?’ Zhia said quietly. There was almost a sneer in her voice.

‘I am here to say that we will not tolerate your spies any longer.’

Zhia bent down to look the man in the face. ‘What is your name, little man?’

‘My name? Jackdaw. My name is Jackdaw.’ His eyes betrayed his growing apprehension.

‘Well now, Jackdaw,’ she snarled, ensuring he got a good look at her teeth and enjoying the way his face turned from white to green, ‘tell your
minstrel
that if he wants to frighten me, he needs to work a little harder than this.’

‘He—That was not the intention,’ the monk almost spluttered. ‘He hoped we could come to an understanding.’

‘And what exactly is it that you wish me to understand?’

‘That we need not be competitors,’ the monk said, almost pleading, ‘that we could help each other -be allies.’

‘And exactly what help would I need from you, little monk?’ Her voice was soft, and menacing.

‘What do you need? My master has a particular talent for helping the ambitious.’ He sounded less shaky, back on firm ground. Ambition was something he could understand.

Zhia’s hand darted out and she seized the monk around the throat. Jackdaw yelped and scrabbled at her fingers, but for all her apparent delicacy, he was helpless. She felt him reach for magic and the familiar coppery tang filled her mouth as she tore the energies from his grip.

Jackdaw gasped with shock. He began to tremble, as if he had only now recognised what danger he’d been sent to confront.

‘My ambitions are my own. What do you think you can give
me
? What can I not take for myself?’

‘How can you take something you know nothing about?’ Jackdaw croaked. ‘What is more valuable in an age where the future is not certain than information?’

Zhia looked at him, considering. What else was going on in this city that she didn’t know about? She knew spies for the Knights of the Temples were making overtures to Scree’s élite, though they were hardly likely to fall for that. A necromancer was performing increasingly complex experiments somewhere in the poorer districts, but necromancers tended to be oblivious to politics. Neither were particularly interesting to her, at least at the moment.