When the Heavens Fall (50 page)

Ruined buildings became visible between the trees, little more than wall foundations for the most part. The settlement was much smaller than the one the party had passed through this morning. Trees grew among the remains of the buildings, and Ebon's horse had to pick its way through the roots that twisted across the ground. His vision flickered once more. Ghostly boatlike structures reared up from the ruins, and the sound of booming waves and snapping sailcloth filled his ears.

Mottle was muttering: “… still ripples in the Currents. Memories thick as pooled water. Such secrets for discovering! An immortal once strode through this city. A goddess? Yes, Mottle is sure of it. The thunder of her footsteps resonates still…”

They followed a street that led to the heart of the settlement. Pieces of pottery, stone, and metal protruded from the leaf fragments. The road passed through a clearing, at the center of which was a series of stone constructions made from huge, rectangular slabs of rock, each twice Ebon's height. His visions ceased for a few blessed heartbeats.
The spirits have no memory of this place.

Mottle's commentary continued: “… bones of another civilization, yes? One nation's detritus piled on top of another's. A house built on shifting sands indeed…”

Along the street two of Garat's armored demons stepped into view. Beyond them Ebon saw a flicker of light on water and the remains of a bridge. Abruptly the mysterious tug in his mind became stronger, and his gaze was drawn to a white building by the waterline. He realized with a start that it was the first undamaged structure he had seen since setting foot in the forest. The whispering of the spirits in his mind took on a reverential tone.

Ebon urged his horse forward. Some of the consel's soldiers were visible now, gathered by the road in the shade afforded by a section of wall. Ebon saw his exhaustion reflected in the slump of their shoulders. Garat's sorceress, Ambolina, sat across from them on the plinth of a statue that was now no more than a pair of feet. The remaining two demons loomed behind her. Not a bead of sweat showed on the woman's face. She glanced at Ebon as he drew near before looking away, uninterested.

The two armored warriors barring Ebon's path made no move to step aside as he approached. Irritated, he steered his hesitant horse through the gap between them, conscious of their axes hovering over him. He saw the consel then, standing at the foot of a rough staircase leading down into the earth. The steps ended at a stone door framed by an architrave decorated with faded carvings. Garat was running his fingers over the symbols. His clothes were covered in dust.

Ebon dismounted, gritting his teeth against the pain that flared in his chest. The settlement lurched and swayed.

The consel looked up. “Ah, your Majesty. You've arrived in time to settle an argument. My sorceress and I have been discussing this doorway. The grain of the rock, the markings on the stonework … so different from the other ruins in this settlement.”

Toppling from his saddle, Mottle shuffled on hands and knees to the top of the steps. “Extraordinary find, Consel! See the fluting to the columns, the projecting cornices … Of the Fourth Age, Mottle declares—”

“Ah, then we are in agreement,” Garat cut in, flashing a smile at Ambolina. “And yet the Vamilians were of the Second Age, were they not? How could something of the Fourth Age come to be buried under a settlement that preceded it by millennia?” He shrugged aside his own question. “I suspect what we have here is the tomb of some king or other dignitary. Clearly someone excavated this stairwell—we can assume, I think, that they knew what they were looking for—but then chose not to open the door. Curious.”

“Perhaps the wards defeated them,” Mottle said, his fingers caressing the air as if tracing the shape of some invisible obstruction. “An unfamiliar flavor to the sorcery, yes? Weak, but still efficacious. The question Mottle must ask himself is, were the wards about the tomb intended to keep intruders out, or its occupant in?”

Garat had turned back to the door. “The carvings on the lintel are mostly indecipherable, but this one in particular interests me.” He pointed. “A creature of fire—the engravings have retained a trace of their red coloring—slaying a dragon.”

“The aggressor, Mottle declares, is a tiktar.”

The consel raised an eyebrow. “My scholars assure me that tiktars are a myth.”

“Nonsense! Mottle has it on the highest authority.”

“Whose?”

“Why, his own of course. The Currents reveal all…”

This has gone on long enough.
Ebon said, “Evidently whatever lies here, Consel, was not meant to be disturbed.”

“No doubt,” Garat replied, “but does that not make you want to unearth it all the more?” He cast another glance at Ambolina. “Particularly since it has my sorceress and her pets so … unsettled.”

The king blinked.
Unsettled?
The woman looked as cool as frostbite.

Ambolina said, “We have no time for this, Consel.”

Garat gave Ebon a conspiratorial wink before climbing the stairs toward him. “Perhaps not now,” he agreed. “On our way back, however…”

Ebon felt another pull from the direction of the white building, but he ignored it. “Consel, do you have water you can spare us?”

The Sartorian waved a languid hand. “My soldiers have found a well near the river. The water seems pure enough.”

Vale spoke. “What about herbs? Blackroot? Galtane?”

The consel looked at Ebon through new eyes, then covered a smile. “Sadly not. At least, none we can spare.” He scanned the members of Ebon's party. “This is all of you? Just five survived your attack on the Fangalar sorceress? I grieve for your losses, of course.”

Ebon took a breath to keep his temper in check. “What more have you learned of the power we are facing?”

“Little, admittedly. Since we entered the forest we have encountered the undead only twice, and on both occasions they were on the opposite side of the river. The enemy, it would seem, has spread his forces thinly.”

“Agreed. Though we must assume resistance will increase as we approach wherever it is we are heading.”

“Inspired reasoning, your Majesty. Thank the Lady you are here to share your wisdom with us.” Garat paused before adding, “Though I must confess I am surprised to see you again. It does seem a remarkable coincidence that we should meet in this place.”

“No coincidence. As the earth-magic fades, Mottle is able to extend his senses deeper into the forest.”

“Ah, so you came to find me. To beg my protection.”

“I came to suggest we join forces.”

“We don't need your help. By all means, travel with us if you wish. That is, at least until I have had an opportunity to honor my blood debt.”

“Honor, Consel? An interesting choice of word.”

Garat laughed. “I see you are going to make an entertaining traveling companion. Though while you are with us, I trust you will be quicker than you were in Majack to heed my … advice … when it is given. Your decision to use the West Gate…”

Ebon did not hear his next words. Another tug came from the white building, strong enough this time to almost wrench him from his feet, and he staggered against his horse. His vision hazed. Vale was beside him, offering his arm for support. The Endorian's voice was low in Ebon's ear. “Perhaps it's time for me to give the consel that demonstration he asked for in the throne room.”

Ebon looked back at Garat, but the Sartorian had already moved away. The king shook his head. “Find the well. See to the horses.”

“Ellea and Bettle can deal with that. Someone should stay with you.”

He thinks I mean to follow Grimes into the river.
“No,” Ebon said, pushing at him. “I need to be alone. There is something I must do.”

*   *   *

Luker looked down on Hamis's slave market from the second-floor window. The courtyard—half in shadow, half in sunshine—was thronged with people facing a wooden stage. In the center of the platform stood a squat, bow-legged man. In one hand he clutched the arm of a young, scantily clad woman, shackled at the wrists and ankles. Blood trickled from a cut to her lip, yet there was still defiance in her eyes as she glared at the assembled masses. An expansive gesture from the slavemaster brought an unheard comment from the woman. He responded with a backhand slap that sent her sprawling. The crowd roared its laughter.

Luker slammed the window shut, and the shouting dropped to a murmur.

What in the Nine Hells was keeping Merin?

The Guardian began pacing. The opulence of the slavemaster's quarters bore testimony to the riches that the emperor lavished on his agents. Patterned rugs adorned the tiled floor, and the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with bookcases. On a desk to Luker's right stood an incense burner that filled the room with the scent of jasmine and dewflowers. Chamery lounged on a divan, idly flicking through a book. His straw-colored hair was freshly washed, and his wispy beard had been combed and oiled. The boy's endearing mix of smugness and arrogance had returned with the trappings of civilization, his ordeal in the Waste apparently forgotten. Predictably, he had not said a word of thanks to Luker for taking down the Kalanese.

From behind a door in the far wall came muffled voices, and Merin entered before crossing to the desk and pouring himself a glass of water from a jug. His face seemed to have gained a crease or two since Luker last saw him.

“I was starting to wonder if you'd show,” the Guardian said.

“I've been arranging a spare horse.” Merin settled into the chair behind the desk. “We lost precious time in the Waste.”

Luker glanced at Chamery. “Aye, maybe the boy can tell us what he did with it.”

The mage did not look up from his book.

Merin's gaze held steady on Luker. “I understand Jenna was with you when you arrived. I thought she was going—”

“You thought wrong.”

The tyrin scowled. “She's coming with us?”

There was that gratitude again. This time Jenna was the lucky recipient. “With what she knows, I'd have thought you'd want to keep her close.”

“The emperor can't afford to have his agent here compromised.”

“You can trust her as much as you can me. Now, enough of this. What news?”

Merin's expression was calculating. “Little that we didn't already know. Arandas is under siege. Kalanese forces are massing to the west, but as yet they've launched no attack.”

“Then they're idiots. If Tantwin marches from Helin now, Arandas's walls will become the anvil to Tantwin's hammer.”

Merin nodded. “Something's going on. The Kalanese have the numbers to surround Arandas, but they haven't. Instead it seems a parley has been arranged with the city's Aldermen.”

“And while the talking goes on the Kalanese supply lines stretch back nearly a hundred leagues through hostile territory.”

“A bit too convenient, yes. This has the smell of a feint, but to what end?”

“Lure Tantwin out of Helin, maybe?”

“That would leave the Kalanese with Arandas at their back. Risky.”

With the window now closed, the heat within the room was building. Luker flung himself into a chair. He couldn't pretend he cared about Arandas or Tantwin. Now he'd got Merin's tongue wagging it was time to move the conversation on to more sensitive matters. “Is the emperor still in contact with the Aldermen?”

“Until a few days ago, yes,” the tyrin said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning some of our agents in Arandas have disappeared. The ones that are left are lying low.”

“How low? You said there'd be news about Kanon.”

Merin sipped at his water. “Kanon was here,” he replied at last. “Or rather, he was in Arandas. He left some time ago.”

“Go on,” Luker said. Then, “Don't make me drag it out of you.”

“Kanon came here on Mayot Mencada's trail. Arrived a score of days after him.”

Chamery closed his book with a thud. “Mayot was here too? And the emperor's agents just let him slip—”

“Shut it!” Luker interrupted, gesturing for Merin to continue.

The tyrin steepled his hands. “Our agents think Mayot was gone by the time Kanon got here. Kanon tried to pick up the mage's trail again, but it seems someone interfered with his efforts.”

“Who?”

“We don't know.”

“You said ‘interfered.' How?”

“Kanon said someone was spinning him false trails.”

Chamery barked a laugh. “Hah! An excuse, no doubt, to mask his incompetence.”

Luker rounded on him. “One more word from you, mage…” He swung back to Merin. “‘Spinning him false trails'—Kanon's exact words?”

“Is it important?”

Luker silently swore.
The Spider. Where in the Nine Hells does she fit into this?
“What did Mayot do while he was here?”

“We don't know.”

“Where did he stay? Was he traveling with anyone?”

“We don't know.”

Luker turned to the window. Looking down into the courtyard again he saw a naked boy being paraded up and down the stage. Scars from old lashings covered his back. “Maybe I should have a word with these agents of yours myself.”

“There's no reason for them to hold anything back.”

“It's not them I'm worried about,” Luker said, facing the tyrin again.

Merin's dark eyes betrayed nothing. “Kanon left three weeks ago. By my reckoning, the day after we left Arkarbour.”

Chamery spoke. “And the day after I first sensed the Book had been activated.”

Aye, a trail even the Spider couldn't hide.
“Kanon went north?” Luker asked Merin. “Following the Book?”

“Yes.”

“To the White Road, then.”

The tyrin leaned forward in his chair. “You've been this way before?”