The Bone Mask Trilogy: (An Epic Fantasy Boxed Set), page 5
Flir shrugged. “You only killed a noble’s Broann slave. That’s the way they are up there. Though the palace does work fast, I’ll admit that.”
“They’re indentured servants, Flir.” He rubbed his cheek. “But I agree. That’s exactly the way the palace is.” He dropped the notice.
The Queen’s Harper lay close to the Antico Gate, which had once granted entry to the city, many years gone, before the Lower Tier grew toward the harbour. Seto’s inn was always open – all Notch had to do was reach it and he’d at least be able to change his clothes, and hopefully figure out what to do next.
Flir’s idea of leaving the city shouldn’t have been tempting. At the least, he could chase down the Blue Lady’s captain in the Far Islands himself, retrieve his father’s sword. But he had to make it known that he wasn’t a child-killer. That he wasn’t the scum of the earth. Every other name he could, and had worn. None of them mattered. But the last one had to go.
The clump of booted feet echoed up an intersection. Notch ducked into the recess of a candle maker’s shop and Flir pressed her slight frame against him.
“Extra patrols?” he whispered.
“Fugitives are bad for city morale, I guess.”
A small group of Anaskar Shields came into view, swords out, orange uniforms dark in the lamplight. More impressive than their matching tread was their bearing. Heads swivelled and eyes were bright, shoulders loose. They were either just on shift or particularly dedicated. But why not use tier troops or the Vigil?
Maybe all three forces were out there, looking for him.
“Go,” Notch said when the men passed, heading down a musty side street. He crossed another park where he accidently trampled the contents of a flower bed, then paused half a street from the Queen’s Harper. A three storey building, graced with a balcony on the top floor, towered over surrounding homes and businesses. Black roofing tiles glinted in the moonlight.
Beneath the latticework sign, shaped as a harp, a pair of Shields and a single Mascare stood in the pool of yellow light pouring from the windows. The Mascare’s crimson robes were without crease or fold and his white mask glowed in the light, exaggerating the darkness of his eye slits. He gestured to one of the soldiers as he spoke, his words too soft to make out.
“What in hell is he doing here?” Flir snapped. “How’d they know you’d come looking for Seto?”
He grunted. “Maybe they’re guessing? But that’s what the Mascare do. They ferret out secrets.”
She snorted. “Of course, how else can they protect the king from his own people?”
“But out in plain sight?”
“I know.”
“Maybe he’s a decoy.”
“What now then?”
Notch scratched his cheek. There were other places he could go. Safer, quieter if colder, places. But he wanted the Harper’s warmth and food, he wanted access to Seto’s mind. Their sometime employer might be difficult at times, but he was a well of knowledge, a demi-God of the Second Tier. “Distract them.”
“Quite an idea, Notch.”
“Thanks.” He rubbed his neck. “A fire might be a bit much.”
“And I could start heaving flagstones at them but we’d still draw too much attention.”
“Then we circle round, go in through the stable yard.”
“The back wall’s quite high.”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
Notch slapped her shoulder. “You’re strong enough.”
“Fine. Get a move on then, I want to bathe.”
Circling to the rear of the inn, Notch slowed when they reached the alley leading behind the stables. A wide door without a handle faced them. Seto’s men never opened it for someone who didn’t first walk through the front door. He couldn’t start thumping on it anyway, the Mascare and the Shields were out of sight, but any disturbance might reach them. Flir stepped over a pile of trash and gestured up, her hand movements half-visible in light cast from the mouth of the alley.
“Ready?” she whispered.
It was high. Notch frowned. If he’d misjudged this, and Flir couldn’t get him up, there’d be quite a racket when he crashed back down. He placed a foot between her hands and steadied himself, tapping her shoulder once he was set. Flir heaved him into the air.
He caught the top of the wall with a grunt of surprise and effort. The stone was cold and sharp beneath his hands, but he was already pulling himself up, boots scraping. He lay atop the wall and held his breath. No hurried footsteps from the front of the inn. Good.
Notch tapped the stones twice, softly, and reached down to Flir.
She leapt to catch his hand and he pulled her onto the wall. For Flir it was effortless, the height of the wall was nothing to her, but she’d nearly dragged his arm from its socket when she pulled back for leverage.
She sniffed. “It’s not so high.”
“For you at least.” He looked into the stable yard. A square of light from an open door showed dusty flagstones and the openings of quiet stalls. A water barrel lurked in a corner and beside the door rested large crates marked with the Royal Swordfish. Fire-lemon was too expensive to be stacked in the yard. The bottles themselves were doubtless in the cellar. Always the best for Seto.
Flir chuckled, lowering herself then dropping lightly to the ground. Notch followed, but with less grace, the impact jarring his bones. “By the Ocean Gods.”
“Come on, Notch. You’re not old yet.”
“It’s a high wall.” He limped after her. His ankle was tender, whether it would hold up he’d soon discover.
The kitchen warmth rushed over his exposed skin, coming from still-glowing embers in stoves, the smell of fresh bread and leftover meat and sauce stinging his mouth with anticipation. The cook, a large man with scarred arms, ducked through hanging pots and utensils, meat cleaver in hand. Luik’s ancestors were originally from the southern forests, though it wasn’t easy to see at first glance – a tan concealed his Braonn heritage. It also served to prevent him from dealing with most of the prejudice his race bore from Notch’s people.
When Luik saw Notch he beamed.
“Notch? Thought you were sailing for the Far Islands?” He put the blade aside and took him in a warrior’s grip. “What happened?” His nose wrinkled. “You don’t smell very good.”
“Something went wrong. I’ll tell you about it once we see Seto.” He grinned. “Flir wants to bathe first.”
Luik turned to Flir, his smile becoming broader. “What, this mouse?”
“Mouse?” She threw her arms around his neck and Notch saw him wince, but he laughed.
Luik set her down. “How were the mines? I’m surprised Notch didn’t go with you this time.”
“He was hurt. And you know how he is about his family.”
“I’m not welcome there,” Notch said. “You know that.” Hadn’t been for years, and nothing would change the fact.
Luik raised an eyebrow. “Even your mother?”
“Luik.”
The chef shook his head but left off.
Flir gave him a look but kept on. “I’d barely returned when I heard about Notch getting himself into hot water.”
Luik chuckled. “He’s good at that.”
Notch rolled his eyes. “Yes. And I’ll tell you all about it but I should speak with Seto first. Is he upstairs?”
The big man nodded. “Sleeping. I think he was quite the busy little bird today, trouble with his ‘interests’ in the harbour as he calls them.”
“I’ll wake him gently then.”
“Come and see me after,” he said. “I’ll have something good for you to eat. Then you gotta cough up the details.”
Notch climbed the narrow stairs at the opposite end of the kitchen, his ankle holding up well, where the low murmur of conversation snuck through gaps in the woodwork of the door. His stomach rumbled but he could wait.
“Think Seto will be glad to see us?” Notch said. “You did make bit of a mess last time.”
“Don’t worry. I’m his favourite.”
Light came from under the door. Notch knocked, but Seto didn’t answer. He tried the handle. “Locked.”
“Let me.” Flir nudged him aside and took out a lock pick. Within moments the door swung open, light from an oil lamp revealing a low bed set against one wall and a desk resting beneath a pair of shelves. Stuffed into the shelves were books, papers, little statues, tiny jars of coloured powder and in one space, a pin cushion and strips of ribbon.
Dominating a corner, a layer of dust obscuring its carvings, stood a tall harp. Notch had never seen it played, let alone wiped clean, in all the years he’d known Seto.
A thin man lay on the bed, spindly hands crossed on his chest, sunken eyes closed. He still wore a tight vest of red and soft shoes on his feet, as if he’d gone directly from dinner to bed.
“You both smell terrible. Get out.”
“Seto.”
He opened his eyes and sat up, unruffled. “If you wish to talk, go and bathe first. Especially you, Notch. And Flir?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t pick my lock again, dear.”
She hung her head, but Notch could see she was smiling. “No, Seto.”
“You go first,” Notch told her. “I’ll be along shortly.”
Notch stepped into the corridor at a wave from Seto. The old man smoothed silver hair back and began sorting items on his desk. “Quickly, Notch. I cannot tolerate your stench much longer.”
“You’ve heard?”
He made a ‘tutting’ sound. “Of course.”
“Well, I didn’t kill the girl.”
Seto glanced over his shoulder. “And now you wish for me to intercede on your behalf?”
“I want your help, yes.”
He turned and spread his hands. “I’m sorry but you know I will never set foot on the priceless stones of the First Tier again, Notch. Not even for an old friend.”
“That’s not what I’m asking, Seto. I want –”
He raised a long finger and pointed. “Bathe. We will talk then. And shut the door after you.”
Chapter 7
Sofia flipped the book shut with a satisfying thump. She couldn’t prevent a sigh escaping. Her father turned from where he’d stood, lost in thought. As ever, the study was lit by lamps and the blaze in the hearth.
“Sofia?” His voice softened. “Do not despair. The text is dry, but it is important.”
“I know, but I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“Who? The Prince?”
She glanced at the mask where it governed from the mantle. “No. Argeon.”
He placed both hands on her shoulders. “It will grow easier, each time.”
“I hope so.”
“Both knife and poison master are pleased with your progress.”
“But none of that helps with Argeon. Or what a Successor must do. And how. Father, I’m not ready.”
“You will be. And you know the words, they are your guide. Say them with me.”
She chanted, matching her voice to his. “To Protect the Prince, to follow in my father’s footsteps, to protect our Order from enemies within and without, to watch the people, to watch for our enemies.” Just as Tantos once said. The First Protector’s Oath.
“And I do all of that with Argeon’s power?”
“With your own.”
“Father.”
“Just remember. Argeon is dangerous too. We must move slowly. I do not want him to overwhelm you.” He came to stand before her. “Do the robes fit, at least?”
Sofia nodded, plucking at a crimson sleeve. The fabric was heavy but she was not stifled in the room. She’d pulled the robes on over her Carver’s clothing as a test and not bothered to remove them. Surprisingly, they felt right.
“You will make me proud, have no fear.”
“I hope so.” She reopened the book, skimming the bold script. “You left early this morning, father.”
He sighed. “I thought I had been quiet.”
“Is something wrong?”
He did not reply. She leant back, looking up to his mask. Finally he spoke. “No. I visited the harbor... in case your brother had survived.”
“Oh.” Sofia turned back to the book but did not read. “Do you believe he did?”
“No.”
She turned another page.
“Come, we must focus. Tell me, what does The Long History of Greatmasks say of Lineage? This will help with Argeon. He is like a library of our lives.”
She flipped through the heavy tome, scanning the text. Much was familiar. The mask’s carving from bones in the Old Land, over five hundred years past, to their careful transport across the vast oceans to the Landing at Anaskar. Or their dwindling number during the rule of the first kings, troubled by vicious attacks from the Medah and internal scheming, all the way up to the masks’ eventual rise from powerful tool to sacred object, possessed only by the most powerful houses and now down to one, possibly two – Argeon and Osani. The King’s Greatmask, Chelona, was said to have been lost at sea when his elder brother drowned, but when she’d asked, her father revealed he had his doubts about the story.
She pushed away the thought of drowning.
Her father was waiting. “Lineage. Do not expect to know a Greatmask without first understanding its lineage of custodians. Due to the fact that the men and women who wear them remain jealous, and remain opposed to the sharing of such a mask, they end up spending near to their entire lives communicating with their masks. In this, they impart as much of themselves into the bone as the Greatmask lends them.”
She kept a finger on the page. Of her grandfather she knew only what father had shared. That he was a quiet man, prone to moodiness but nonetheless a stalwart defender of the crown. “Do you know Argeon’s lineage?”
“Of course. Back to the Landing.”
“And I need to know that to wear Argeon?”
“To become a Protector, yes.” He sat. “Let me explain. Using a Greatmask is most like a conversation. When you wear it, you communicate with Argeon but he is also communicating with you. Or trying to. He is accustomed to speaking with those who have come before you. Me, your grandfather, our ancestors. You must be sure you are using the same words, the same thoughts.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Nor will it fully, for some time. We will try again. Remember, every time you wear him you will have to make him notice you, through your force of will. Argeon is busy with the ages I feel. Sometimes he will not listen even to me, no matter my call.”
“Father, it’s as if he’s a mystery even to you.”
“In many ways he is. Argeon has been in our family for centuries. He is unknowable in the whole.” He patted her shoulder with his free hand. “Things will get better.”
“I hope so.”
Her father retrieved the mask. “This time when you wear Argeon, don’t worry about which words you use. Call to him with more need. Draw his attention. He is aware of you, but it may help you to call to him, in your mind. What he will respond to I suspect, is your will, your strength, not your voice. Try, I will be here.”
She raised the heavy mask to her face, the cool bone sliding against her skin, the scent one of age. Blackness came and then there was only Argeon. Her father, the fire, the whole room, the city of Anaskari, everything was gone.
Only Argeon’s face remained.
To be looking at something she was wearing from the ‘outside’ was odd, but the thought barely registered. The force of his indifference hit her again, and she gave a small cry. Call to him. Hear me, Argeon. I am worthy.
“Argeon.” She shouted into the dark – though who knew if she also spoke aloud? The Greatmask did not respond. He had to answer. If she was unable to draw his attention, unable even to complete such a simple task, then she was useless. She ground her teeth and called again. A flicker of interest? It passed but before she could try again, the room snapped into focus.
“Well done, my daughter.” Her father held Argeon.
Sofia rubbed her temples. “My head. What happened?”
“The learning will be painful, but you did well. He acknowledged you.”
“Even with such a small response?”
“Yes. It’s early in your relationship. You are just as strong as your brother, have no fear that Argeon will continue to –”
The door to his chamber flew open.
Sofia flinched. Mascare, Shields and finally the Prince burst inside, crowding the study. The king trailed his son, wandering rather than storming into the room. He appeared confused, not at all like himself. Her father shot to his feet, Argeon still in hand. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? And worse, such carelessness? This is hardly the Open Chamber.”
She stared. Several of the Mascare, those closest to Prince Oson, wore no masks at all. A matter of grave seriousness, that they would go without masks before so many. Reserved for the most secret trials of the Order.
The Shields were made up of the King’s personal guard, each with the fin insignia emblazoned across their chests, and held drawn weapons. One was Captain Emilio, but he did not meet her gaze.
The Prince wore an expression of triumph, sending her an evil grin before his eyes strayed to Argeon. Beside Oson, the king’s eyes fluttered. He leant on the arm of a Mascare without a mask. There were three such men, one with a hooked nose in a sour face, the other two with lips set in firm lines. They flanked the King.
“Protector Danillo, you are hereby accused of conspiring to murder King Otonos and overthrow the Royal Swordfish,” Prince Oson announced.
“What?” Sofia burst out.
Her father raised his hand. He turned to the Prince. “In that you are mistaken, my Prince. You act greatly beneath you, your father and your House in this churlish attempt to discredit me. I have never, nor will I ever conspire against the crown.”
The Prince flushed, glaring across the room. Only her father, as Protector, could speak to a member of the royal family in such a way. Even so, faces blanched.
The sour-faced man responded in the Prince’s place. Solicci. “No more lies, Danillo. We have evidence. Evidence the King must see with his own eyes.”
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