White Wolf (26 page)

Skilgannon sounded angry, and Rabalyn fell silent. They walked on, coming at last to the gates of the Embassy Quarter. Crowds had gathered here too, and they had to force their way through to the front. The gates were locked, and beyond them stood around forty soldiers, some in the red cloaks of the Drenai, others in the thigh-length chain mail and horned helms of Vagria. Beyond the soldiers were bowmen, arrows notched. The gates were high, and tipped with iron points. On each side were high walls, but already some in the crowd had scaled them and were sitting on the top, shouting down at the soldiers.

Skilgannon tapped Druss on the shoulder. “They won’t open the gates for us,” he said. “If they did the crowd would storm them.” Druss nodded agreement, and the small group eased their way back through the mob, moving off to the side to a jetty overlooking a canal. Stone steps led down to the water’s edge. Skilgannon led them down to the water side. The angry shouting from above was more muted here, and Rabalyn sat down with his back to the stone wall, and stared out over the water. In the distance he could see more ships anchored in the harbor, awaiting their turn to be unloaded.

“They are going to storm the gates,” said Garianne.

“I don’t believe they will during daylight,” Skilgannon replied. “They may be angry, but no one wants to die. They will shout and curse for a while. That is all. Tonight may be different.”

Druss stood silently by. Skilgannon approached him. “You seem deep in thought, my friend.”

“I do not like that woman.”

“Who could? She is a malevolent crone.”

“What did you make of what she said?” The older man’s eyes locked to Skilgannon’s gaze.

“Probably the same as you.”

“Say it.”

Skilgannon shrugged. “She knew too much about what your friend was seeking. How? My guess would be that Orastes went to her, seeking her help, and that she then betrayed him to this Ironmask.”

“Aye, that would be my reading also,” said Druss. “Though I cannot work out why. If she hates Ironmask, why would she deliver a potential enemy to him?”

“She is a subtle creature, Druss. She wants Ironmask dead. How better to do that than to make him an enemy of Druss the Legend?”

“There could be truth in that. However, this is a woman who once sent a demon to kill a king. I fought that demon, and, by Missael, it almost had me. Why does she not simply send another after Ironmask? She has the power.”

“The answer to that,” replied Skilgannon, “probably lies in what she did
not
say. Tell me about this Ironmask. She said you met him.”

“Yes, when I came here three months ago. As she said it was at a banquet. The king did not attend, and Ironmask greeted the guests. He is a big man, but he moves well. There is an arrogance in him—a physical arrogance. I’d say he was a fighting man, and a good one.”

“What was his role here?”

“He led the king’s bodyguards and also supervised the creation of the Joinings. The plan was to use them in war, but they could not tame them sufficiently. Ironmask was also the lord of some group calling themselves Arbiters. Strange bunch. Every one of them I met looked at me as if I was a demon. They have a hatred of foreigners. Diagoras thinks it ironic—since Ironmask is also a foreigner.”

“Where is he from?”

“No one seems to know. Probably Pelucid.”

“Why do they call him Ironmask?” asked Skilgannon.

“He wears a metal mask, which covers his face. Did I not mention that?”

“No.”

“It is a close-fitting and well-made piece, beautifully crafted.”

“He is disfigured then?”

“Not really. I saw him remove it at the feast. It was hot in the hall and he wiped his face with a cloth. He bore no scars. The skin on his nose and the right side of his face is discolored, dark, almost purple. Like a large birthmark. The mask is just vanity.”

“You say he supervised the creation of the Joinings. Is he a sorceror himself?” Skilgannon asked. Druss shrugged.

“No one knows. Diagoras thinks not. He says Ironmask brought a Nadir shaman to the city. From what the Old Woman said I would guess he is from a stronghold in Pelucid.”

Skilgannon turned away and gazed out over the harbor for a while. Then he swung back. “I too know little of magic, Druss, but I would think it is this shaman who prevents the Old Woman sending demons after Ironmask. A summoned demon must be paid in death. If the attack is repulsed the demon will return to the sender and take her life. If this shaman is powerful—and judging by his creation of Joinings he is—then the Old Woman dares not attack Ironmask directly with sorcery. If the shaman repulsed her spell she would die. Therefore she needs a mortal weapon.”

From above them the shouting increased. Then someone screamed. People began running down the steps to the water’s side. Others fled along the quayside. Datian soldiers in full battle garb, of breastplate and shining helms, appeared on the steps, swords in their hands. As they marched down the steps the milling city dwellers below panicked and begun to hurl themselves into the water. One man put his hands in the air. “I meant no harm,” he shouted. A short sword plunged into his belly. A second soldier slashed a blade through the man’s neck as he fell.

Several more soldiers, swords drawn, advanced on Druss and Skilgannon. Rabalyn was terrified. Then Skilgannon spoke, his voice calm, his attitude relaxed. “Is the path to the gate now open?” he asked. “We have been stuck here for an age.”

The soldiers hesitated. Skilgannon’s easy manner made them unsure. One of them spoke: “You are from one of the embassies?”

“Drenai,” said Skilgannon. “My compliments on the efficiency of your action. We thought to be waiting here all day. Come, my friends,” he said, turning to the others. “Let us go through before the mob returns.”

Rabalyn scrambled up and moved alongside Garianne. Together they followed Skilgannon and Druss. No one moved to stop them. Soldiers were still massed upon the steps. “Make way there,” called Skilgannon, climbing the steps and easing past the swordsmen.

On the square above there were bodies lying sprawled upon the stone. One moved and groaned. A soldier stepped alongside him and drove his sword through the injured man’s throat.

Skilgannon and Druss approached the gates, which were still shut. “Open up, lads!” called Druss.

And then they were through.

As they walked on Druss clapped Skilgannon on the shoulder. “I like your style, laddie. We’d have taken a few bruises if we had to fight our way through them.”

“One or two,” agreed Skilgannon.

Later that afternoon Diagoras took Druss to see Orastes’ servant, Bajin, but they learned little of consequence. Bajin was a gentle man, who had served Orastes for most of his adult life. His mind had been all but unhinged by his experiences in the Rikar Cells. Heavily sedated he had wept and trembled as Druss tried to question him. One fact did emerge. Orastes had indeed sought help from the Old Woman.

Diagoras led Druss out into the gardens of the embassy. The Drenai soldier’s head was pounding. “I’m never going to drink with you again,” he said, slumping down on a bench seat. “My mouth feels like I tried to swallow a desert.”

“Aye, you look a little fragile today,” agreed Druss, absently.

Diagoras looked up at the axman. “I am sorry, my friend,” he said. “Orastes deserved a better fate.”

“Aye, he did. One fact I have learned in my long life is that what a man deserves rarely has any bearing on what he gets. As I walked this land I saw burned-out farms, and many corpses. None of them
deserved
to die. Yet it will go on, as long as men like Ironmask hold sway.”

“You still intend to go after him?”

“Why would I not?”

Diagoras rose from the bench and walked to a well in the shade of a high wall. Drawing up a bucket he dipped the ladle into the water and drank deeply. Then he thrust his hands into the bucket, splashing water to his face.
“Why would I not?”
Ironmask had more than seventy men with him, and was heading into a stronghold friendly to him. That stronghold would be packed with Nadir fighters. There were no more terrifying foes than the Nadir. Life was cheap on the steppes and the tribesmen were raised to fight and die without question. Rarely did they take prisoners during battle, and if they did it was to torture them in ways too ghastly to contemplate. He glanced back at Druss. The axman had walked over to a red rose bush and was removing those of the flowers that were past their best. Diagoras joined him. “What are you doing?”

“Deadheading,” said Druss. “If you allow the blooms to make seed pods the bush will cease to flower.” He stepped back and examined the bush. “It has also been badly pruned. You need a better gardener here.”

“So, what is your plan, old horse?” asked Diagoras.

Druss walked across to a second bush, a yellow rose, and repeated the deadheading maneuver, nipping off the faded blooms with thumb and forefinger. “I shall find Ironmask and kill him.”

“That is not a plan, that is an intent.”

Druss shrugged. “I never was much for planning.”

“Then it is just as well I’ll be traveling with you. I am famous for my planning skills. Diagoras the Planner they called me at school.”

Druss stepped back from the rose bush. “You don’t need to come, laddie. We are no longer searching for Orastes.”

“There is still the child, Elanin. She will need to be taken back to Purdol.”

Druss ran a hand through his black and silver beard. “You are right. But I think you are a fool to volunteer for such an enterprise.”

“I am also famous for my foolish ways,” Diagoras told him. “Which I expect is why they didn’t make me a general. I think they were wrong. I would look spectacularly fine in the embossed breastplate and white cloak of a Gan. Will the Damned be traveling with us?”

“Part of the way. He has no score to settle with Ironmask.”

“The man makes me uncomfortable.”

“Of course he does,” said Druss, with a smile. “You and he are warriors. There is something in you that yearns to test yourself against him.”

“I guess that is true. Is it the same for him, do you think?”

“No, laddie. He no longer needs to test himself against anyone. He
knows
who he is, and what he is capable of. You are a fine, brave fighter, Diagoras. But Skilgannon is deadly.”

Diagoras felt a flicker of irritation, but suppressed it. Druss always spoke the truth as he saw it, no matter what the consequences. He looked at the older man and grinned as his natural good humor returned. “You never mix honey with the medicine, do you Druss?”

“No.”

“Not even velvet lies?”

“I don’t know what they are.”

“A woman asks you what you think of her new dress. You look at her and think: “It makes you look fat and dowdy.” Do you say it? Or do you find a velvet lie, like . . . “What a fine color it is,” or “you look wonderful”?

“I will not lie. I would say I did not like the dress. Not that any woman has ever asked me about how she looks.”

“There’s a surprise. I see now why you are not known as Druss the Lover. Very well, let me ask another question. Do you agree that in war it is necessary to deceive one’s enemy? For example, to make him think you are weaker than you are, in order to lure him into a foolhardy assault?”

“Of course,” said Druss.

“Then it is fine to lie to an enemy?”

“Ah, laddie, you remind me of Sieben. He loved these debates, and would twist words and ideas around and around until everything I believed in sounded like the grandest nonsense. He should have been a politician. I would say that evil should always be countered. He would say, “Ah, but what is evil for one man may be good for another.” I remember once we watched the execution of a murderer. He maintained that in killing the man we were committing an evil as great as his. He said that perhaps the killer might have one day sired a child, who would be great and good, and change the world for the better. In killing him we might have robbed the world of a savior.”

“Perhaps he was right,” said Diagoras.

“Perhaps he was. But if we followed that philosophy completely we would never punish anyone, for any crime. You could argue that to lock the killer away, rather than hanging him, might prevent him meeting the woman who would have given birth to that child. So what do we do? Free him? No. A man who willfully takes the life of another forfeits his own life. Anything less makes a mockery of justice. I always enjoyed listening to Sieben ranting and railing against the ways of the world. He could make you think black was white, night was day, sweet was sour. It was good entertainment. But that is all it was. Would I deceive an enemy? Yes. Would I deceive a friend? No. How do I justify this? I don’t.”

“I think I understand,” said Diagoras. “If a friend in an ugly dress asks your opinion, you’ll give it honestly and break her heart. But if an enemy in an ugly dress comes before you, you’ll tell her she looks like a queen.”

Druss chuckled, then burst into laughter. “Ah, laddie,” he said, “I am beginning to look forward to this trip.”

“I’m glad one of us is,” muttered Diagoras.

Servaj Das was a careful man, painstaking in all that he did. He had found that attention to detail was the most important factor in the success of any undertaking. Originally a builder by trade he had learned that without adequate foundations even the most beautifully constructed building would crumble. In the army he had soon discovered that this principle could be applied to soldiering. The uninitiated and the romantic believed that swords and arrows were the most vital tools to a soldier. Servaj Das knew that without good boots and a full food pack no army could prevail.

He sat now in a high room at the Naashanite Embassy, staring out over the harbor and considering the mission orders he had received by carrier pigeon. He was to locate and kill a man swiftly.

How could one pay attention to detail when the orders specified speed? Speed almost always led to problems. Under normal circumstances Servaj would have followed the man for some days, establishing his routines, getting to know and understand the way the man’s mind worked. In doing this he would better be able to judge the manner of the man’s death. Poison, or the knife, or the garroting wire. Servaj preferred poison. Sometimes when he followed a man, and observed his habits, he found himself liking the victim. He had never forgotten the merchant who always stopped to pet an old dog at the street corner. It seemed to Servaj that a man who took pity on a mangy, unwanted hound must have a kind heart. Often the man would feed the creature small tidbits he had taken along for that purpose. Sarvaj sighed. He had been forced to garrote him when the poison failed. Not a pleasant memory. Servaj filled a goblet with watered wine. Sipping it he rose from his chair and stretched his lean frame. His back gave a satisfying crack. Placing the goblet on the table, he interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. No, poison was better. Then one was not forced to observe the death.