Ghosts of Mehan'Gir, page 7
part #3 of The Four Trophies Series
To his dismay, Aruel revealed herself to be more than proficient with a piccolo flute and Vander not only exhibited a superb singing voice but started to learn a strummed instrument as well. Lanvik sang flat, struggled with instruments, lacked sufficient sense of rhythm to accompany a simple march on a tambourine and was unable to dance or even move in time to a musical accompaniment.
‘Perhaps you could learn a different entertainment,’ Tremano suggested one day: ‘acrobatic skills, or juggling, or something with knives. Something you could do alongside us, or mix with what we did.’
‘You could put on a demonstration of your magical powers,’ Garran commented.
‘No,’ Magda kicked him. ‘Even if he could do that, he couldn’t do that.’
‘I know that,’ Garran shrugged. ‘I was joking.’
That was how they spent their time for a few weeks, until they started getting restless.
2
From Tirassa, the assassin known as Foxblade took a ferry to Vallierta, and another from there to Biravia. She had the option of a third boat to Port Evendar, but instead caught a coach directly inland to Arafel. That was cheaper and almost as quick.
Guildmaster Shadowguard was on duty when she reached the Guildhouse, and her heart sank slightly: he would be the first to learn of this failure as well as her last.
‘Adept Foxblade,’ he greeted her, and then consulted the contract: ‘Doctor Gossine, of Little Tirassa?’
‘Dead.’
‘By your hand?’
‘No.’
There was not a flicker of reaction, damn him. Instead he asked: ‘Has another taken the credit?’
‘No.’
‘Do you wish to claim it?’
She had considered that on the way back; like the last, this job carried a considerable fee. Although she guessed that the Human called Lanvik wouldn’t contradict anything she said, there was too much of a risk that he was not the real killer and that someone else might still come forward. So she answered, ‘No. The client should be informed that the target was dead before I arrived, dead by the hand of another.’
‘The retainer came to seventy Crowns. Did that cover your expenses, or do you require additional funds?’
‘My expenses were covered by the retainer, Master.’
‘A second problem,’ he remarked, flatly.
‘The same as before, but on this occasion I arrived only an hour or so too late. There was another Human at the address.’
‘The killer?’
‘He claims to have no memory of what occurred between them, but the circumstances and timing would tend to suggest that he was the killer, yes.’
‘Any connection to your last contract?’
‘He claimed to be the same individual who was arrested for Lord Skollet’s death.’
‘Did you take any action against him?’
‘There was no need.’ It was another mantra that Guild Assassins do not hurt and do not kill unless they have been paid to or unless it is necessary. That would be simple torture and simple murder, and no government in the Three Lands would tolerate that for long.
‘Perhaps someone is playing with us – trying to send us a cryptic message. But even if they are, that does not matter.’
‘No, Master.’
‘Do you want me to keep the same note in place, against this client? That you have an interest in taking any future commissions from them?’
‘Yes, I would be grateful, Master.’
‘Why is that, Atterlie? After you’ve been beaten to the target twice already?’
‘If there is a problem a third time, then I would be the most likely to spot any pattern or link, or any additional information that might be useful to ourselves or to our client. And there’s a question of professional pride. Next time, I will travel faster and I will successfully discharge the commission.’
There was native curiosity as well, of course – a part of her simply wanted an explanation of what had happened. Curiosity wasn’t a good trait for a Guild Assassin. And neither was frustration.
‘Be careful,’ Guildmaster Shadowguard echoed her thought, ‘or else this will start to look personal. Don’t let people think that, or you will never work again. Remember – this is a business.’
‘I understand, Master.’ She hesitated for a fraction of a second, again.
‘Well?’
‘What is the best way to kill a mage, Master?’
‘We do not kill mages.’
‘No, but if I needed to?’
‘Then the best way to kill a mage is quickly, and when the mage is not near his staff. He may have defences that you cannot see, and if he becomes aware of your intentions then you will die as soon as he thinks it: quicker that your heart can beat. Quicker than even you can move, Adept Foxblade.’
‘Thank you, Master.’
Instead of going straight to her Common Room, she stopped at the noticeboard and scanned the half dozen unclaimed commissions posted there. Surprisingly, there was a contract in faraway Helvengar – some local businessman, aristocrat or criminal, no doubt. That would be perfect. Just what she had been looking for.
Helvengar was the capital town of the mineral-rich and mountainous kingdom of Falkenvey, north of Ruthin, so she could choose a route that took her through Belsace and Rossony, where she had personal matters to attend to. There were people that she wanted to find: people that she believed had left Ruthin to escape the long war and were now living among the temporary tent villages of refugees. Or, at least, that was what she had been told.
She took her bags and weapons back to her room, passing through the Common Room and greeting the Sisters who were there.
The Helvengar job would give her hardly any time in Arafel, but first she had to file an account of the contract in Uvellia – that would require to be submitted and approved before she could leave again. She forced herself to complete the paperwork before even changing and washing, and she submitted an application request to the Common Room – she would need the approval of her Chapter before lodging a new note of interest at the front desk. Finally, she drafted a full application and put it to one side: she would review it, and perhaps rewrite it, if her application request was approved.
Finally, she washed some of her clothes from the last few days.
It was dark by the time she finished and cold outside, so she hung them up alongside the sheets in the Guildhouse laundry room to dry. She would move them outside tomorrow.
Sister Tessany found her there.
‘I’ve read your account of the Uvellia commission,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you were unlucky. Again. But the Sisters see no reason for you not to apply for new work at this time. We hope that it’s more straightforward than your last.’
‘Thank you, Sister. I hope so as well.’
Atterlie returned to her desk, turned up the oil lamp and read through her application. There were a few lines that she struck through and rewrote, and she moved some of the points around until she was happy with the way it read. Then she made a copy in a fair hand and took it to the front desk of the Guildhouse.
Finally she ate in the Chapter Common Room, making light conversation with her fellow Sisters. She never felt completely safe anywhere, but the Chapter rooms in Arafel were the safest place she knew – the place that was most like home to her.
She tried to relax as much as she could with the others but a part of her mind was already rehearsing questions and answers. The Guildmasters would ask why she wanted the job – it was small and not well paid, in a place that was difficult to reach: surely it was hardly worth the fee. But they would be inclined to believe that she wanted a simple, quick and straightforward success – for her reputation and confidence as much as the income. So they would assume that they already understood her motives. That would help.
She would say nothing if they asked whether she had any personal interest in the contract, as they often did. Every assassin sometimes took work that allowed them to visit family, but Atterlie was an orphan: everyone knew that. So any “personal” reasons for her would likely imply a possible conflict of interest. There wouldn’t be any such conflict, of course – this job was simply in a convenient location – but denying any personal interest would be the simplest course. Assuming they believed her.
In the event, there was no interview and she was given the job almost as a formality.
Guildmaster Ivory talked through the requirements and the details of the contract with her, checked her eligibility, issued her with the retainer from Guild funds, and wished her luck. She assumed that no-one else had even applied, deterred by how remote Helvengar was from Arafel. If Atterlie had not come forward, they would presumably have passed the job on to a closer Guildhouse.
She took advantage of their discussion to ask: ‘Master – may I ask why we do not simply pass commissions such as this on to local Guildhouses?’
Atterlie had expected Guildmaster Ivory to answer that Arafel had seniority or that it was traditional or some other equivocation justifying why they fulfilled as many jobs as possible for the sake of the Guildhouse coffers. But instead, she explained: ‘Whenever possible, commissions are fulfilled by the Guildhouse where the commission was lodged. It is more important that contact is maintained and a relationship built with the client, than with the target. Of course, if no-one here wishes to fulfil a commission, then we’ll pass it on. Even if we don’t, though, local Guildhouses should assist with knowledge of any particular circumstances. Why do you ask? Was there a problem with the Guildhouse in Tirassa?’
‘No, Master,’ she said. ‘There was no problem. I was simply curious. I hadn’t thought about it before.’
As she walked back to the Chapter rooms, she reflected that there had been a perfectly reasonable explanation why Arafel kept contract work for itself. Again, she had misjudged, erred. She had rushed to a premature conclusion – worse, a judgemental conclusion: she had judged and condemned her own Guildhouse.
She recalled another Guildhouse mantra that might have guided her, if she’d thought to apply it correctly – the easiest way to discover information is to ask. That was something she had first heard from Guildmaster Whitethorn, years ago. There was still so much that she could learn here, and not simply about being a better assassin. She simply had to avoid becoming complacent.
Finally, although it was past midnight, she went to the Chapter bathhouse and let herself soak in steaming hot water for fully half an hour, calming her mind and relaxing the muscles that were sore from so much travel … hopefully preparing them a little for more travel.
Tomorrow, she would catch the overnight boat south to Port Evendar: from there, she could travel east and avoid the high pass through Ruthin. She would rather stay away from Ruthin: thanks to the ongoing military campaign it was unpredictable, and professional killers loathed “unpredictable”. Also, it was winter, and sometimes even the Ruthin Gap became difficult.
And she had bad memories of Ruthin, from a long time ago.
3
The journey from the Imperial Capital Emindur back home to Corvak took the Hierarch’s caravan less than five weeks. The Highway east of Emindur, with their escort under Captain Bisetter, followed the river gradually higher and higher towards the White Mountains. They passed through a number of large towns, tens of thousands of souls, but apart from overnight stops in near-identical inns and lodges, they didn’t break their journey. They travelled south and east around the Crow Hills and then turned due east towards Ruthin and the Gap.
It was rumoured that the White Mountains were so high that they could be seen from two hundred miles away, but by Pireon’s reckoning, they were closer than that when they first glimpsed them – a pale bluey-white blur on the horizon, almost impossible to distinguish from the sky. Every day after that, that blur became gradually darker and more distinct and seemed to rise higher and higher: every day new and still paler peaks appeared above the ones they had become familiar with. After a few days, when they looked towards the mountains they were looking up at them rather than forward.
As they came closer, the very highest ranges took on the clean blinding white of their name: difficult to stare at in the sun, sharp and clear against the blue sky and the clouds.
The White Mountains ran like a spine down the centre of Mehan’Gir and almost everything to the west of them comprised the Empire, except in the far north and south. The mountains were a formidable obstacle to travel: during high summer, there were perhaps three or four places where they might be crossed by a small party on foot. But for carts and wagons, or a larger group of men, the only choice was the Ruthin Gap – a narrow ravine that twisted and turned, in places flanked by cliffs towering two thousand feet or more. In the middle, at the narrowest point stood the Great Iron Gate.
The Duchy of Ruthin sat awkwardly on both sides of the Gap – high, barely fertile pastures clinging to the sides of the mountains.
The Imperial Highway sometimes ran eastwards for dozens of miles in an almost straight line, unashamedly engineered with cuttings and embankments and bridges to simply ignore the quirks of the landscape. Towards the mountains, however, even the Empire’s roadbuilders had relented and their route began to accommodate the terrain, performing ever more elaborate twists and turns to avoid the steepest slopes. They kept to the low ground, or else switched back over and over again as they climbed the sides of steep valleys. Sometimes they followed the tops of ridges and saddles for as far as they could, flanked by steep fields, occasional villages and increasingly isolated farms and houses, before descending dramatically down again.
All the time, the hills and peaks around them grew higher and higher until the party seemed to spend half of each day in shadow. Pireon marvelled at them, but most of the Priests hardly noticed the landscape, and were more concerned with how far they still had to travel. To them, the White Mountains were simply an inconvenience, forcing them to spend more of each day on foot, in order to allow the wagons to travel lighter and faster.
The road became gradually narrower as they progressed further from Emindur. Although still maintained to the same standard, it had officially ceased being a “Highway” at Maranth, the last large town on their route. After that, they saw fewer people and animals, and they passed less and less traffic: the other users of the road were now mostly military, or else long slow convoys carrying timber from the high forests, or stone, or mineral ores.
Way station garrisons and forts became more common than villages, which at least ensured that their network of places to stay overnight would continue so long as they remained within the Empire.
Four days after passing through Maranth, they reached the border.
A number of military buildings flanked the road and armed soldiers came out to meet them, wearing thick jackets and gloves against the cold. The border was demarcated by a low intermittent fence and its route seemed to be dictated by local fields and grazing patterns, as if it primarily existed to prevent livestock from inadvertently migrating between the two states. The buildings at the crossing point, in contrast, were ringed with fences and ditches, together with watchtowers and rows of stakes driven into the hard ground. These were defences to prevent people from attacking the border post, rather than to prevent them from crossing the border itself.
The guards seemed nervous and ill at ease: twitchy.
Once they were past the border, the landscape was almost indistinguishable from the one they had been travelling through for the past few days. Indistinguishable, except that there were signs of war, conflict and dissent almost wherever Pireon looked: fire-damaged buildings; hastily painted slogans, counter-slogans and symbols; abandoned fields and dogs roaming free. The emblem of Ruthin – the head of a mountain bear – was painted on the sides of buildings and on rocks and was presumably a symbol of resistance against the new rulers. It was impossible to tell how active any resistance still was, though: even if Imperial troops had painted over these or cleaned them off early in the conflict, they hadn’t done so for some time. Some of the images looked years old.
Despite the warnings of Father Demnadias, the Priest-Consul in Emindur, they encountered no physical dangers. Of course, it was impossible to tell whether that was due to their “ceremonial” escort of a hundred armed and mounted soldiers.
There were more inhabited areas further into craggy Ruthin. Small patches of farmland gave way to near-vertical rows of terraces cut into the slopes, looking like strangely truncated and abstract replicas of the Corvak Lakes. Although the people were thin and suspicious of them, the fields were being actively worked and they saw livestock from time to time.
Eventually, where the pass was at its narrowest but still twice the width of the road, they reached the Great Iron Gate. Just as the name implied, there were two black iron gates, four or five times the height of any Elf, standing open but ready to close and block the road. They were wrought from thick iron – thicker than a man’s head, too thick to easily cut through, but cast in ornate patterns so as not to allow spaces where men might squeeze easily or quickly through. Yet the design left enough space that archers could shoot through from either side and three from every four arrows would pass without being deflected.
There were bunkers, walls and ledges built into the rocks high above the road – protected vantage points. These gates could be closed and easily defended by no more than a hundred men against an army of almost any size.
The capital Ravensgill, where they would rest for a day, lay a few miles beyond the Great Iron Gate on the eastern side. Huddled against the cold, its streets were a warren of narrow lanes than ran in unexpected and angular directions. While the carts laboriously followed these twisting and turning roads, the locals on foot kept to the shorter network of steep alleyways and steps.
Ravensgill was like nowhere that Pireon had seen before: as they ascended towards the palace, they turned corners and found surprising parks, tumbling streams and sudden clear views of the towering peaks around them. Apart from the sheer number of armed soldiers in the streets, it was impossible to tell that there was any trouble in the Duchy at all. Everyone looked well-fed and content. There were lights in the streets, no damaged buildings, and no slogans daubed on the walls.
