The Bone Mask Trilogy: (An Epic Fantasy Boxed Set), page 65
The Mask on the black door was carved in a frown. Just like Tantos’ imposters. Coincidence?
Ain and Wayrn conferred and Flir moved closer. Runes were marked beneath both masks and neither possessed a handle. “Wayrn, can you read these?”
He examined the runes. “No...they seem to have some basic similarities with modern Anaskari writing, but I can’t be sure.” He handed his torch over and rummaged through his pack until he found a stub of charcoal and a sheet of parchment. “The mask’s expression seems pretty clear,” he said, copying the runes.
“It does.” Flir lifted one of her torches closer for him. “Do you carry that around everywhere you go, Wayrn?”
“Only if I think I’ll need it.”
“And what does Ain say about the trail?”
Luik finished with the body and joined them.
“That the older path is beyond the silver door.”
“And the black one?”
“The newer path goes down there, but it is strange. I don’t quite understand him, but he’s not comfortable. He keeps mentioning something about the path ‘faltering’ but as to exactly what that means, he’s not sure. He’s certain that down is the most recent.” Wayrn finished up and took his torch back. “Will it open?”
Flir stepped over and gave the black door a push. It swung open on silent hinges. Steps led down to darkness. She turned to Wayrn. “Ask Ain if both paths lead to the same place.”
Wayrn asked and Ain shook his head. His eyes were a little wide and he seemed to be repeating something beneath his breath.
“We’ve come this far,” Flir said.
Luik shrugged. “Still have plenty of light for now.”
Wayrn spoke to Ain, who gave a short response that sounded vaguely affirmative to Flir.
Flir drew her sword. “Weapons ready, all right?”
The rasp of steel answered and she took the first step.
Chapter 42
Flir led them down the winding stairwell. Ain and Wayrn brought up the rear, the Pathfinder muttering quietly, but she let him go. It hurt no-one and besides, she was ready for whatever might wait below.
A broad stair, with room for three abreast, the stone beneath her boots was rife with footprints.
She gestured. “That’s a lot of traffic.”
Luik nodded. “There’s something down here he wants.”
“This must be why you couldn’t find him beneath the city,” she called softly to Wayrn.
“Not from lack of trying. I even chased down a Scrapper, you know. Tira and Areth he was filthy.”
Flir was glad he couldn’t see her smile.
The stair wound on. Once Ain slipped, but caught himself. He stopped muttering then, and it wasn’t until they reached another landing and a similar door to the first, that anyone spoke.
“No mask this time,” Luik said.
The onyx door was unlocked and beyond, a long passage lined with stone columns was revealed in the torchlight. Carved into the columns were masks, each with a different emotion. Some barely looked human. Of the closest, one possessed a sharp nose, another wide-set eyes – too wide to be human. Flir didn’t step inside, instead pointing.
“Look.”
From the opposite end of the corridor came a faint yellow glow.
“Then we’re about to meet Vinezi again,” Luik said.
“Let’s hope so.” Flir moved quietly, but set a steady pace. If Vinezi was down here, he was about to get a nasty surprise.
“Wait,” Wayrn hissed. He waved his arm. Luik stood across the corridor, peering between the columns. She joined Wayrn. “Another door,” he said.
“Over here,” Luik said.
Ain spoke softly and Wayrn translated. “The path goes toward the light.”
“Which is where we’ll go after we check this door. Open it,” Flir said.
Wayrn pushed, then stepped inside, torch first. Flir was on his heels. Beyond lay a wide room lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves. A small chair and table sat in the middle. Each shelf contained a small barrel. They must have numbered in the hundreds.
“What’s inside?”
Wayrn took a barrel down and pried open the lid with his blade. Inside rested a fine powder. “It’s dust,” he said. He ran it between thumb and forefinger. “Hmmm. It’s very fine. Not acor at least.”
Flir waved her blade. “Well, put it back. That’s not what we’re here for.”
He did so, pausing. “Some are missing. It looks like they’ve been moved recently.”
“We’ll solve that little mystery another time.”
Outside, she shook her head at Luik and he fell into step beside her.
A warm glow slipped from around another door at the end of the corridor – this one of stone but still lined in silver, and slightly ajar. Flir paused. A voice drifted through the door.
A man was singing. His voice was rough and the words were unfamiliar. She raised a hand for silence. He sounded happy.
“I don’t recognise the language,” Flir said. Which was odd. “And I’ve come across a few over the years.”
Wayrn leant closer to the opening, a frown on his face. “It sounds like...” he trailed off. “Sometimes I think I have it but then...I don’t know.”
Luik hefted his mace. “Let’s just go down and see who’s there. Just one voice, right?”
“Sounds like it.”
“Good.”
Flir inched the door open but as before, the hinges were silent. A short passage, lit by lamplight, came to an open room beyond. Dominated by a huge skull, not unlike the Sea Beast’s, the floor was littered with chipped stone and debris, but what caught her eye was something else entirely.
The singer was a giant.
Easily three times the size of Luik, he sat on a row of stone benches, a wooden doll in his giant hand. The bare skin of his chest was dusky, almost molten, like the flame lizards of the Far Islands, patterns fading around his hands and face and along the top of his bald head.
Dark eyes regarded them with shock and his singing broke off.
He stood, head brushing the roof as he drew a huge sickle from his belt. The giant pointed at them with a warning shout.
Flir stood her ground, Luik flanking her. “That almost sounded familiar.”
Wayrn jumped forward, holding up his hands and answering in kind.
The giant man paused.
Wayrn spoke again and the strange man lowered his sickle.
Flir picked up a name, Vinezi, and then the conversation quickened. At one point, Wayrn fell back as the giant roared, but the man only slumped onto the stone bench. They spoke further and finally, Wayrn switched back to Anaskari.
“I can hardly believe it.” His eyes were a little wide. “This man is Vinezi’s prisoner. His name is Alosus and he’s been down here for months. He’s supposed to guard the path. Or something beyond it I think.” He summarised for Ain, whose expression calmed somewhat.
“Like Vinezi’s nest?” Luik asked.
“No, something else. But he’s hard to understand – he’s speaking old Anaskari or something like it.”
“Maybe he’s been down here longer than he says,” Luik said.
Flir glanced at the man, who still held the doll but now only stared at the huge skull mounted on the wall. Alosus’ biceps were bigger than Luik’s torso. Scrapes covered his shoulders. It must have been a tight squeeze for him at times. “Wayrn, how is Vinezi controlling him?”
“Vinezi has his son as collateral ‘back home’ but I don’t really understand where that is.”
“He doesn’t look like home is anywhere close by.”
“No.”
“Ask him if he knows where Vinezi is.”
Wayrn did as instructed. Alosus growled as he replied, Wayrn nodding. “In the little city below,” he said.
Luik raised an eyebrow. “Little city?”
Flir joined Wayrn, speaking directly to the giant, introducing herself first. “Alosus, we will help you find your son, if you help us stop Vinezi.”
She waited for Wayrn to translate. The big man straightened and a light in his eyes grew. But it faded quickly and he shook his head.
“We can stop him,” Flir said.
She waited for Wayrn. This time Alosus snorted, gesturing to her as he spoke. He held up a finger and thumb, barely spaced.
Wayrn opened his mouth but Flir interrupted. “He thinks I’m too small, right?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “Tell him I’ll prove it. Tell him I’m stronger than he is.”
Alosus laughed.
Flir strode around the centre bench and knelt across from him, placing her elbow on the stone and opening her hand. She looked at him. “Try.” She mimed a struggle.
Alosus glanced to her, then to Luik and said something. Wayrn explained. “He said not even the ‘small guy’ could be strong enough.”
Luik only grinned.
Wayrn spoke again to the giant, who finally shrugged. He lumbered over and knelt across from Flir, raising his hand. She clasped his thumb and his fingers engulfed her hand and wrist.
“Ready?” She took the strain.
He gaped. Then she applied pressure and his arm began to descend. He clenched his muscles, slowing her progress but barely. A futile effort; in the end she didn’t even get to break into a sweat. When his wrist touched the stone, she let go, leaving him with wide eyes.
She stood, offering him a hand up. He stared at her a moment before giving a slow nod. He took her hand, rose and bowed. When he spoke, his voice was touched with awe.
“He’s happy to help us,” Wayrn said.
Flir thanked Alosus then turned to the others. “Seto will be pleased for once; we’ve got Vinezi now.”
“We do?” Wayrn asked.
“We do. He’s in the city, remember? We just have to go down and set a little trap – he’s going to come back this way sooner or later.”
Chapter 43
Giovan took Seto to the dark, cold cells beneath the palace. Smaller than the city prison, there remained enough room for Seto’s purposes. Extra torches had been lit, light catching on the bars of cells.
Five people stood in a single cell, one of which was a Mascare. The front of his robes were stained with blood and his nose was swollen. Trien of House Tartaruga. The young man glared through the bars. The other men were lesser palace functionaries, though one was a council member he recognised – by face if not by name.
“All the names he gave us, Sire,” Giovan said.
“And Nemola?” he asked.
“In his own cell.”
“And these...traitors. Have they offered you more names?”
“This is all of us,” the mask replied.
Seto strode forward. “Truly? This many of you conducted a covert plot which delivered multiple deposits of the Sea Beast unseen into the palace?”
One of the men fell back and others looked away, but the mask stood firm. “Yes. We alone are responsible for trying to bring about change for the better.”
Seto turned to Giovan, a question going unformed. Solicci? His Captain shook his head. Good, no links to Solicci had been found. And as yet, no torture had been administered, as per his wishes. He wanted to see who they were first.
But now there was the possibility of more lies and the necessity of consequences.
“Giovan?”
“Your Majesty?”
“Break their legs.”
Cries from the cell.
Giovan gave a short bow, face hard.
“Perhaps they will be more forthcoming if they understand the first price of treason.”
“It will be done, Sire.”
“Good.” Seto left without a backward look. By the time he reached his rooms he was breathing hard through his nose. Gods of the Sea, how had so many come to such folly? Fools. Damn fools.
His hand brushed Chelona where she nestled in his robes.
“And how have you helped me?” he said to the mask. Gods, a day, maybe more, maybe less, before Renovar ships were due to strike and Chelona remained unobtainable. How she taunted him – the violent rejection whenever he placed the mask on.
He lowered himself to the bed.
Earlier he’d woken, for the tenth time that day, on the thick carpet, fire low, after attempting to wear her. She hated him and his family – hated the Swordfish. But why? What had Otonos – or Father perhaps – what had they done?
Stubbornness had achieved precisely nothing. It was time, despite his misgivings, to seek help. Now when both Sofia and her father were unavailable, he needed them most.
Solicci was the only other man with any Greatmask experience in reach.
He was yet to prove himself fully perhaps. And Solicci had been watched. For weeks now, and not one slip up in sight. It was hardly possible to survey the Head of Cavallo House every single moment of every day and night, but Seto’s men came close. The fellow either expected to be watched, or was exceptional at hiding his true motives. At least Giovan had found no connection to the betrayers.
Instead, Seto had called for Metti and Abrensi, and when a knock came on his door, he welcomed them not to his sitting room, but the banquet room. A long table inlaid with carven bone sat on polished hardwood floors from the Bloodwood – a hideous expense but typical of Father. The day it was completed, the carpenters left with bags of gold.
Carved Swordfish and crashing waves lined the table and atop rested a modest feast – steaming slabs of beef with a rich sauce and a blood-red wine that waited in an ornate server of treated bone, from which he poured for each guest.
Abrensi thanked him with a sitting bow. “Served a meal by my King – this is an honour.”
“Wait until you hear what I have to ask of you,” Seto said. He handed a plate to Metti. “For you, my dear.” He looked to the impassive form of Guingera, lurking in the shadows beyond the candle light. “Guingera?”
The man shook his head.
Seto nodded. “You’ll polish off a small child later, then?”
Guingera grunted but Metti’s mouth might have twitched in a smile and Abrensi grinned around a forkful of beef.
Once the meal was close to complete, and he’d heard from Abrensi on the progress made healing the city, Seto lowered his glass. “Now we come to your visit. I have something to share – and something I have debated revealing for some time.” He shrugged. “But soon, the city will know. If I could have your assurance, each of you,” he looked to Guingera again, “that no word will leave this room before the Renovar attack?”
“Of course.” Abrensi gave a small clap. “I admit, you have me quite curious.”
“And I,” Metti said, as she too gave her agreement.
“I have recovered something precious, something long thought lost.” He raised Chelona from where he’d hidden her on his lap. “The Lost Mask of Casa Swordfish.”
A stunned silence.
Metti recovered first. “Then that is what I have felt of late.”
“You can sense her?”
“Yes. She is like a beacon to me – especially now that I know. And to anticipate your next question, I believe few others would sense this. Chelona is different to both Argeon and Osani, who I always felt.”
“That brings me to my request. She will not speak to me. I cannot use her to save our people.”
Abrensi put down his fork and knife. “Surely Solicci is worth approaching?”
“Perhaps. But I’d like to start with you both.”
He shrugged. “I have few, few memories of your father using it and certainly none of your brother. You’d have more surely?”
“It was always easy for him and he used it little, obsessed as he was with warfare.” He sighed. “There is no lore, no song?”
“I will search, but I believe not.”
“Madam?”
Metti shifted forward. “I could not use it, nor advise you, Your Majesty. When I touch a bone to work my magic, it is left charred and ruined.”
“Then can you sense something of her disposition?”
“I will try. Bring her near, but not to touch.”
He placed the mask before her. Metti closed her eyes, folding her hands together. Her face, usually still, grew even more motionless if possible. Did her chest even move? Seto realised he was holding his breath.
She murmured something.
The candles danced and Abrensi nibbled on some vegetables.
Her eyes opened and she sighed. “I sense resentment, yes. That, above all else – but she is closed to me for the most part.”
“That is all?”
“There is also the image, an echo, perhaps, of a man with your features, only younger. And he wears a beard. Your father?”
“I would say so, yes. He and my brother were last to use her before I stole her.”
Abrensi spat his drink. “You stole the Greatmask?” He fumbled for a napkin, daubing the table and the front of his robe. He didn’t seem to be achieving much.
Seto chuckled. “Ah. It seems I haven’t mentioned that before?”
“No, my King, most certainly not.”
“I stole her when Father passed me over for successor. Because even then, I could not use Chelona. And so I foolishly thought I would take her somewhere and learn how to use her, to prove that I was able. A worthy King. The sea had other plans, of course.”
“Then that is the source of the mask’s resentment toward you,” Metti said.
“I once thought so, but – she wanted me to take her. I know that. When I removed the mask from the setting, in these very rooms – she came to my hand eagerly. I felt the urgency in her; I was her rescuer.”
“And she sees a dark shadow of your father perhaps, when you touch her,” Abrensi added.
“My revelations aside, my problem is that I do not know if I can reach her.”
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