MARBLE 6.4: FIRST LADY
“So the decision of this Council is as follows: the orcish delegation shall leave Mund under pain of prosecution. They shall not return, nor shall they send further embassy hence. The barbarians can wail about their deprivations until Kaile shuts both his eyes; it is their depravations that concern the elves, and we will not judge in their place how best to protect their border-lands. We are not in the habit of betraying our friends, and the Drathdanii have been friends to Mund since the Peace of Nimmenvyl. If they insist on bringing the matter before us again, the orcish tribes will attain official subhumanoid classification. Let’s see how they enjoy being exterminated like grell.”
– the Lord Malice Deynos, in session before the Malice Council, Taura 980 NE
We arrived early to the Arrealbord Palace, which I thought beforehand might’ve given me a little time to become acclimatised to my surroundings. In hindsight we should’ve arrived on the dot of one o’ clock, because the longer we lingered the worse the nausea became, like my guts were foaming inside my belly. We barely spoke, instead staring around at the gardens outside the window, and at the magnificent murals which (in this room) all depicted Wyre Eldervane, the Builder, the Master of Elements.
At least I wasn’t alone. Killstop and Stormsword seemed at least as disturbed as me; none of us wanted to sit down. There must’ve been too much divination going on around the place for Tanra to experience all the various possibilities of this appointment in advance, and I knew for a fact that Em had never been here before. The Palace was located high in Hightown, on the north-eastern slopes near the walls of Mund, and the Palace’s own walls made proper inspection impossible unless from the air. I’d never had the occasion to fly near it, not in the day at least. Which had made this appointment all the more enticing, intimidating. It wasn’t far off being invited to the Maginox after getting involved in champion-on-champion combat.
We’d met at the end of the street and walked up together. Garbed as we were in our champions’ attire, we had no issue with the guards at the gate – some magisters gave us the magical once-over with the rod and the three tests, and then we were admitted into the dome of force protecting the Palace, the ancient seat of House Sentelemeth. The terracotta pavement led in an almost-straight path towards the actual building – or buildings, given that the Palace seemed to basically be twenty manor-houses all linked together by corridors. The path we followed was flanked on either side by gardens of hedges, plants cultivated by druids into creatures of a thousand varieties in a thousand poses. Unmoving lions prowled the trimmed verges. Elk with fur made from shoots and stalks seemed to shiver in the wintry winds as they stooped eternally beside well-stocked ponds. Even the evergreen trees had been touched by the druidry, their great bulbs of leaves hanging like griffons above the horses and buffalo sheltering in the eaves.
The guard who accompanied us, walking at the front of the group with a spring in his step, was a well-spoken chap. He had a hilariously-tiny moustache curled above his upper lip and what seemed to be an eyebrow’s-worth of hair connecting his chin to the middle of his lower lip. Someone without my eyes could’ve been forgiven for thinking he’d just failed to give his face a wash, if they saw him from a distance, were it not for the fine silver-and-blue livery he wore, clearly marking him out as someone who took a regular bath.
It was from him that we received our education as to how to ‘comport’ ourselves.
“When we enter the building, the man-at-arms shall request any weapons about your person.” (He seemed to know without glancing back over his shoulder that the three of us looked at each other in incredulity.) “Before you ask, yes, we are of course aware that this formality means little in the presence of dangerous individuals.” (He said it without missing a beat, as though that were the only way, the best way, to describe archmages – champions – even to their faces.) “Nonetheless you shall surrender any overt weaponry you possess, even should it be concealed, and we will abide by the formality as we have always done. Then you shall be escorted into an antechamber to await those others attending, and from which your envoy will collect you when the hour of your audience arrives.”
And so it had been done – at least I’d drawn some surprised looks from the prim-and-proper Palace servants with the sheer quantity of explosive daggers I managed to produce from my sleeve and demiskin. Now I looked out through the tall windows at a wind-whipped green expanse ringed by walls, and in their reflection I could see the face of the Founder-wizard, Wyre Eldervane, that was painted upon the wall behind me. His face was only suggested by the smears of purple and brown upon the gold-coloured background: the great brows were lowered in focus, with the eyes closed above the wide, almost Westerman-looking nose. His lips were pressed tightly together.
Behind him – composed in white-on-gold and barely-discernible until one stood back and took in the whole thing – the walls of Mund were rising.
“Doesn’t look any more believable when it’s painted, does it?” Killstop observed. She was in the corner, wearing her frowning mask and multicoloured robe, and out of nowhere she’d suddenly decided to sit down – I didn’t notice when it happened, but she was now slouching down in a high-backed chair, seemingly doing her best to tip it over backwards.
I just grunted in response, trying to ignore the seething in my stomach. The last thing I needed was an argument.
“What do you mean, ‘believable’?” Stormsword sounded surprised, as I’d expected, and turned around to better-regard the mural. (I instinctively thought of her as Stormsword now, when she was in costume and trying so hard to make her accent disappear into the generic upper-class accent she’d adopted.)
Killstop stared at her. “Because the idea of five ancient guys getting together and just ending the Age of Nightmares and then having a chin-wag before creating Mund is, like, soooo believable…”
“But you can’t use your powers to go back and check, can you?” Stormsword said smugly. “Does this not mean a powerful diviner is blocking you?”
Killstop shrugged. “I’m sure there were powerful diviners – but a single man, whose foresight guided the city down all the centuries? Puh-lease.”
“Give it up, Killstop,” I muttered. My gut massively-preferred the silence to the bickering. “We took the tour at Breyton Hill a couple of days ago.”
“The Master Clock?”
I nodded. “There’s nothing that’ll convince her Arreath didn’t make the damn thing himself, now.” I looked across to the wizard. “And against my better judgement I’m tempted to agree with her.”
Killstop merely snorted and turned her focus elsewhere; Stormsword smiled affectionately at me, and I knew I’d picked the right side in that little battle.
It was the twenty-ninth of Illost, one of the months that had thirty days. In three days, on the second of Mortifost, the final month of the year, we would have another full moon and another Gathering to attend – and sure enough, on the Master Clock, the little symbol of the full moon had been showing there on the cog marked ‘Mortifost 2’, just wheeling into view when we’d visited. The contraption was comprised of what must have been a million moving parts, and was the size of a house. The engine at its core was a series of sealed glass tubes standing there like statues for all to gawp at, twenty feet or more in height, the coloured waters inside moving from fluid to vapour and back again in precisely-controlled intervals, heated by spellbound plates underneath, fire-runes glowing to my sorcerer’s-eye. In the very middle was a centrifuge in which the different liquids were spun and separated, a beautiful example of the discipline called ferromancy, one of the trickiest wizardries. The huge clock-face on the outside of the building, facing down into the central district of Hightown, had hands not only for seconds and minutes and hours, but for days and months and years too. You could see at a glance that this year was three hundred and sixty-eight days long, could see which months were what length and why.
I’d always been of the opinion that thirteen months made most sense, following the moon cycles more closely, like in the Tales From The Dark Side. The undead-apocalypse story-books set in the fictional world of Nirvanos that I’d read as a child were clearly written in an attempt to normalise the world we lived in for Mundian children – they certainly toned down the horror while keeping everything deliciously grim. (Jaid managed to get through them all last year – Jaroan was still halfway, but stubbornly continued to insist he was still reading them whenever I tried to move his current one back to the shelf.) The way I understood it, the system they used in the books would only need correcting by slightly lengthening Yearsend…
Or why not ten (almost forty-day) months? The highborn, magister types loved the number ten for whatever reason. However, witnessing the fabled Master Clock, I had to admit that whoever had invented the damned thing was clearly several orders of magnitude more intelligent than me, and probably had at least one good reason, if not a hundred, for the whole twelve-month, twenty-four hour setup. Not that the Chronoministers would allow any changes to come from secular sources, anyway – the sect of Chraunost’s priests who actually approved of the Master Clock went completely overboard in their devotion, a pair of them dressed in severe robes and expressions at every access point to dissuade touching.
The best part of the tour, according to my sister at least, was getting to see the device’s special Yearsend hand. It was decorated in the green and gold colours of the holiday, crawling its way towards the last five days of the year that fell into no month, ‘Yearsend 1’ through ‘5’ rolling around into view. Yearsend, the festival period famous the world-over, a holiday that would see everyone in the city, native and tourist alike, take to the streets for the carnivals and entertainment in defiance of the winter’s chill.
Only a few more weeks away now.
A few more weeks of pointlessness.
Other than defeating the two dark archmages during the whole twin arch-wizard fiasco, we’d achieved little. Me and Em had stopped a fire – well, Flood Boy and Em had stopped a fire – and we’d caught a few lame-ass inkatra-fuelled criminals mid-crime. We tagged along when Doomspeaker disrupted a cult of Vaylech breeding an army of giant bugs in the Hilltown sewers, but the critters and craven priests didn’t even put up a thirty-second fight. I did manage to claim a decent prize from Zakimel’s messenger for taking a crate of cursed items out of the hands of some idiotic merchants. Killstop helped Glancefall and Spiritwhisper take down Rainlost, a wizard infamous in Rivertown, which was probably the most momentous event of the month since Zadhal – as far as the general citizenry were concerned, at least. (The criers hadn’t breathed a word about twin arch-wizards, of course.)
And – other than that – our metaphorical hands were empty.
Nighteye – traceless. I seemed to be the only one who still harboured hopes he would return to us, and even when I espoused my view I said it with a sour taste in my mouth, knowing I was hoping against hope itself. Yune hadn’t answered my prayers. Mortiforn’s creepy ‘Mr. Owl’ claimed to know nothing when I took a planar jaunt to his daydream world. Zel hadn’t found a single lead, and had apparently been blocked from viewing Nighteye’s home troubles by the interaction of the two powerful arch-diviners who’d been visiting. If she weren’t my bound eldritch I’d have questioned whether she was just doing the same as Tanra, trying to stop me doing something I’d later regret, but I had her swear by her name and she still claimed to be in the dark.
Dreamlaughter – less than traceless. Less than a ghost, a fiction of imagining. For all we knew, we’d never even seen her in her true form – what exactly were we even supposed to be looking for? Yet it was six times now that she’d intruded on our operations – she’d clearly taken our disruption of her ghost-illusion on Ekenrock Road personally. Either that, or she’d just been waiting for someone like us to come along, provide her with a challenge. Whatever the explanation, she’d started making our lives hellish with as great a regularity as she could manage. In the midst of a fruitless afternoon spent with Irimar wandering South Lowtown – ostensibly helping him search for Duskdown, but really doing little more than offering an ear for the arch-diviner’s worries – I was suddenly deluged in puppies falling from the sky. One night Em had been thrown into what appeared to be a huge, horizon-to-horizon bath while flying over Hilltown.
Fortunately, we both had abilities or assistance enabling us to escape Dreamlaughter’s range when she struck our perceptions with these stupid images. Unfortunately, she’d only been lulling us into a false sense of security. In the midst of the fire we extinguished in south-west Sticktown, we both put ourselves in danger to rescue people who simply weren’t there; and whilst the danger was mild at worst, considering our abilities, it meant she was changing the nature of the game. It was nothing more than a warning.
She hadn’t touched us for a week but we were going into a heretic situation today or tomorrow. Would she leave us unmolested through that ordeal?
And then there was this latest attack last night. The reason we’d been summoned today. Not an attack on us – not directly. She’d made it political.
In spite of all our disappointments with the kidnapped druid and the wayward enchantress – or perhaps because of them – I was really looking forward to Yearsend. All this would be over by then – the upcoming heretic attack, this business with the politicians… hopefully Dream, too, and if there were still no signs of Nighteye by then, even I would give up hope…
Yearsend was a form of escape, in those few sweet hours I reserved for just hanging out with the twins: instead of gaming we often went shopping nowadays, an activity newly opened up to us by the fact my purse was in fact rather full at the moment. I’d already bought presents for Orstrum and Xantaire and Xastur, and a small candy present for Morsus that Orstrum would take to his grave – a gift Xastur had suggested, all out of nowhere. Them aside, I had a few things in mind for the twins. (They were already aware No Eldritch Mounts was a hard rule I wouldn’t bend on.) For Em, I’d eyed over a dozen gifts, and I was on the verge of splurging my cash by just getting everything I’d spotted, rather than forcing myself to choose between a first-edition Magister’s Handbook with some hilariously-outdated rules, awesome decorative phoenix-style wings of real dragonscale, a miniature working replica of the Master Clock that had so enraptured her, a cookbook called Too Hot To Handle… perhaps I’d skip that one…
The door opened abruptly – ushered in by a guard, Spiritwhisper entered the room, wide-eyed behind his mask.
“A-alright, chaps,” he stammered, trying to look nonchalant. His gaze took in me and Em, then lingered a little longer on Tanra.
“I know, right,” I said with a grin.
The arch-enchanter seemed to relax his tense stance a little, nodded to me. “Man, why’d we have to come here? You seen the way they look at you? You should hear what they’re thinkin’… or not, you know?”
“I just hope they aren’t going to drag us over the coals,” Stormsword said. “Do you have any idea of what they want with us, Bor?”
He shook his head. “I’m not gonna do a deep search. Probberly trip a dozen wards… if they got any sense, anyway. But no one I’ve met is actually thinking of what’s goin’ on with us. Don’t think they’re high-up enough to know why we’re here.”
I nodded my agreement.
“What’s going on out there?” Killstop muttered, sounding frustrated.
“They can’t see us till the others arrive.” Stormsword, whose voice fitted-in nicely with our opulent surroundings, seemed less ill-at-ease than the arch-diviner. “I do wonder what is keeping Timesnatcher, though.”
“I don’t mean that – I mean – out there –“ the young seeress gestured at the window “– with the waywatchers…”
“What about the waywatchers?” Stormsword blurted, standing up straight.
“Those are the magister-guards with the funny shoulder-pads?” I asked.
Stormsword nodded at the same time Killstop shook her head.
“I don’t know what’s happening with them.” The diviner’s words were almost so quiet I couldn’t make them out. “If I knew what was happening, I…”
“I don’t think it’s worth troubling yourself over,” Lovebright said, leaning forwards in her chair. “Try to relax. I’m more worried about what the First Lady’s going to say to us!”
I happened to agree with Jo.
Killstop let out a shuddering breath. “I just don’t like waiting. Waiting, and eyes. Eurgh.”
“And yeah, you’re right, Storm,” the enchantress continued, as though Killstop hadn’t said anything. “Where the Hells is our great leader, and his mount?”
Killstop sniggered – it took the rest of us a moment longer to realise Lovebright was referring to Neko sitting astride Irimar’s shoulders, back on that afternoon when we’d first met the gnome. It was a pretty bad joke, but we all laughed along anyway. She was trying, bless her. It was endearing, the way she could be so painfully awkward sometimes.
It was five more minutes before Jo, Bor and Tanra seemed to perceive almost simultaneously that the others were arriving – and it was five more minutes after the arch-diviner and arch-druid arrived, well past one o’ clock, that the envoy finally ‘collected’ us.
* * *
The lady showing us around (surely not a Lady, but still, ‘woman’ wouldn’t do justice to the level of condescension she showed) was the best-dressed person I’d seen in my life. A creamy gown covered in webs of delicate lace fell from her bosom to her ankles, the whole thing shimmering with specks of diamond. Across her shoulders and down her arms, a tiny black coat of thick, fine wool served as her shawl. Her pointy-heeled shoes clipped the polished oaken flooring smartly as she strode and, as though it were us and not her teetering on high-heels, we were forced to walk quickly to keep up.
Sunspring had elected to saunter the wide, high-beamed corridors as a big, thistle-green cat, and despite the envoy’s disparaging remarks no one seemed to want to actually do anything about it. We younger champions, perhaps a little over-awed, were more reluctant to utilise our gifts. Better to scurry along like a mere mortal. In any case, there was too much to look at for me to focus properly on my powers.
The windows displayed the outer grounds and the wall on one side, but on the other I was treated to a view of inner courtyards, no less splendid than the gardens – fountains lit with rainbow lights that shone only on the droplets in ever-changing hues, statues seemingly moving and reciting facts about themselves, vast flowerbeds still vibrant at the end of Illost… it went on and on. And on the walls between each window, painting after painting: the deeds of every illustrious First Lord of Mund, every war victory and every diplomatic negotiation, every new discovery in magery and every great monument raised in Hightown…
Not one image of Zadhal, I noted, even from the days preceding the Diamond War, the days of Zadhal’s glory.
This was not to suggest that all the art was historical in nature. Much was in the modern style, there to be interpreted, impart wisdom rather than knowledge – my favourite was a sculpture of a metallic, golem-like hand holding in its palm a human skull, through the roof of which a fabulous blue rose was bursting. At the same time as I admired it, I did wonder at its presence here. Could our rulers really be so decadent as to openly mock the state of the world? This world they’d ushered into existence? I was nonplussed.
The employees and the lords – guards, secretaries, dignitaries, ministers – it was hard to tell them all apart, frankly – didn’t seem to even notice their surroundings. Striding alone with purpose or in small groups and engaged in low conversation, we must’ve passed a hundred people in the span of two minutes and not one of them was actually looking at any of the finery on display all around them.
I supposed that was just the way of becoming habituated to places, but some of the people out in the courtyard were actively avoiding the walking talking statues, as though their presence were more an annoyance than a marvel. I guessed it would get annoying after a few times, though; to be sitting there eating a sandwich, the likeness of the Fourteenth Evil Seat from two hundred years ago creeping around behind you, waiting for the opportune moment to spring out and describe his crummy contribution to Mundic law yet again…
These posh folk didn’t even look at us, beyond an initial cursory glance. Derisive smiles were the order of the day. I reduced my shields down to the innermost, the reinforced circle, after the first time I accidentally shoved someone into a wall – thankfully he seemed low-rank enough to not make a fuss and scurried away, looking at least as perturbed as me. No one else gave a sign that they’d noticed the brief commotion.
Then we crossed the busy landing of a great sunken foyer that spanned several storeys. There were a number of wide stairs leading from other landings down to its burgundy-carpeted floor.
My steps faltered, and I slowed, lost pace with the others.
Staring.
“It is ze door to ze Chamber of ze Realm’s Council,” Em whispered, linking my arm and drawing me on. “Ze Arreax.”
I craned my head around to try to take it all in, the doorway that was the focus of the massive, bustling room.
Of course it was the door to the high council of the world. What else could it be?
It wasn’t just that the doorway was a fantastic arch of burnished metals, twenty-something feet high, inlaid with a thousand gleaming stones; it wasn’t the runes in Old Mundic embossed on the surfaces of the two closed doors, or the surfaces themselves, shining platinum –
It was that I’d dreamed of that door – I was certain of it. I couldn’t place the memory precisely but I’d seen that door, damn it – seen myself, knocking on it, desperate to get in?
I’m not a diviner. I’m not a diviner. I’m not a diviner.
“You’re not. There’s no way you can get that off me.”
Nice of you to join in. How’d you know that?
“Arch-diviners in front of me, arch-diviners behind me – not exactly my idea of fun.”
So she was going to ignore my question.
“You’re right – I guess it’s possible, but it’s never… Let’s talk about it later.”
Either way, the internal conversation helped calm me, distract me from my reverie, and I looked ahead again, tried to get my head back in the game. We’d left the foyer behind, following the carpeted corridors into another building.
It was only now that I recognised the new closeness between Killstop and Spiritwhisper. There was nothing overt about it, but they walked at each others’ sides with a casual familiarity I hadn’t noticed before. When their arms brushed one another’s, they didn’t adjust their courses to give each other more room – they stayed near, maintaining the contact.
I smiled. It was nice to see the two of them were progressing.
Then I spotted as Neko suddenly changed back into his gnomish form, his autumnal robe and beetle-like, mandible-sporting mask – and I knew we’d arrived.
The windows of the room into which we were being led were all curtained-off with massive seaweed-green drapes. It was a long and narrow chamber of white globes and deep shadows; the obvious focal point was the massive table of varnished redebon stretching out to the far end of the space, like a single seamless plinth of dark, blood-spattered marble. Almost three dozen high-backed chairs of the same wood, gleaming in the globe-light, lined either side of it, and in the farthest seats three people were waiting. They stood as we entered, their jewels glinting across their fingers, around their wrists, hanging from their necks.
On the left, a frog-like fellow in a silly black velvet hat – it looked like he’d got his head stuck in some kind of sack – and a matching coat, equally tasteless-looking (to me, at least). The man on the right was incredibly old-looking, face covered in whiskers with a crescent-moon nose that had to be a good inch longer than any I’d ever seen before, the hair hanging to his shoulders so white it was yellowing.
And in between the two men, at the very head of the table, the First Lady herself: Twivona Sentelemeth.
She wasn’t tall or particularly scary-looking, neither old nor young; her face was round and welcoming, skin pink and healthy, not pale like her advisors. But her gaze was imposing, even if she was doing her best to give us an inviting smile. Her gown, like all else here, was only the most expensive apparel, a shimmering thing of silver-grey scales. A demure mantle of blue fur spotted white was about her shoulders; yet it was her golden griffon’s-mane hair, framing her head like a feathered halo, that most drew my attention.
No one had ever mentioned that the First Lady was pretty damn hot.
Our envoy slowed after the guards at the door stepped aside, and swished her arm at us as we filed down the room and fanned out beside the chairs. “Champions of Mund – show your reverence for the Honourable and Dignified First Lady Sentelemeth, the Honourable Lord Justice Haid, and the Honourable and Dignified Lord Shadow Wenlyworth.”
Timesnatcher bowed. We all showed our reverence, more or less. I managed to dip my head without it falling off, which was good going for a Sticktowner confronted with lords the likes of these.
Possibly the three most powerful people in the world – politically speaking, of course – looked us up and down.
“Honourable and Dignified First Lady,” the envoy continued, “Lords Justice and Shadow, might I present these seven brave champions, names put forth by the formidable Timesnatcher himself –” she indicated the arch-diviner “– Sunspring, our most-venerable druid –“
“Hmph!” the gnome erupted.
“– ah, Spiritwhisper and Lovebright, whose previous experiences with Dreamlaughter may prove to be of some value; and the Liberator of Zadhal, Feychilde, Stormsword, and Killstop, about whom the darkmage’s recent escapades appear to centre.”
“Hey, leave me out of that one.” Killstop had her arms folded across her chest. “These two, sure, but the witch can’t find me.”
I went cold inside, felt myself tense, hearing the combative tone to her voice.
Doesn’t she realise these people could have us killed at their whim?
I didn’t have to trust her judgement just because she was an arch-diviner.
“Killstop is the juvenile I mentioned,” the envoy said at a slightly lower volume, “if her chosen moniker did not already inform you.”
“At least I’m not wasting months waiting for Dorel Mitethron to give me a rose.” Killstop shrugged. “One just couldn’t help but wonder what you were doing at my age, Phengil Antara.”
The envoy’s jaw dropped.
“It’s quite alright, Ms. Antara,” the First Lady Sentelemeth said forgivingly, her voice deep for a woman of her slight stature. She sounded surprisingly informal given the extremely upper-crust accent. “You can leave us to it, now.”
“As m’lady commands.” Phengil, the envoy, curtseyed briefly and backed away three paces before turning and leaving. The guards closed the door behind her, staying on the inside of the room with their eyes averted, staring fixedly across the doorway at the plumes atop one another’s helms.
“Plus, I’m fifteen in less than nine months,” Killstop concluded brightly.
“Happy birthday,” Sentelemeth retorted dryly. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony. Please – sit –“ she lowered herself back into her chair, the lords on either side of her following suit “– and would anyone like a glass of wine, before we begin? Or some fruit extract for our young protector here.”
As we found our places, she clapped her hands together smartly, and a concealed door at the back of the room opened, a pair of servants shuffling in.
I glanced at them, then glanced away, sitting down in my chair heavily.
“I don’t think so,” I murmured.
Neko, who’d become a beetle and flown rather than face the indignity of physically climbing into the chair, also shook his head.
“I’m up for one,” Timesnatcher said, looking at me.
“You should give ‘em a taste of Flood Boy’s grape,” Spirit muttered.
Sentelemeth’s eyebrows were raised. “What’s this?”
I smiled benignly. “Since none of the arch-diviners are leaping up to stop me…” I waved a hand. “Might I present Flood Boy, of the otherworld-realm?”
The frog-man with the stupid-looking hat, Lord Justice Haid, gasped a little as my portal produced the faun. The First Lady and the ancient Lord Shadow Wenlyworth kept their composure, though.
“Give them a nice bow, Flood Boy; these are very special people.”
Olbru sneered at me, then cocked his leg and bowed over his hoof. “Pleased to make your acquaintances, special people.”
“What is the meaning of this?” frog-man Haid spluttered.
“A very fine, very fortified wine,” I answered, encouraging Flood Boy with a twirl of my hand. “Go on, show them your goblet. Have we got some glasses?”
I winced as Sentelemeth clapped her ring-laden hands and the servants scurried to do my bidding. I hadn’t been thinking that bit through. I was tempted to make some grand gesture, get up and follow them to help them carry the things – but I knew I was just as likely to get them in trouble as myself. That was how the highborn operated. It didn’t have to make sense; it just had to be wrong.
I carefully kept my eyes from meeting theirs.
Flood Boy took the glasses in turn and filled them to the brim before passing them back to the servants.
“Fascinating,” the First Lady said, raising her glass and smelling it. “I can’t say I’ve ever partaken of extra-planar alcohol before.”
“Is it quite safe?” Lord Haid was holding his a little higher, staring into it at eye-level.
“Don’t be a dunce, Gathel,” Lord Wenlyworth wheezed. He’d already taken a long swig. “Father used to swear by such stuff. A lovely drop – reminds me of the sherry my wife used to drink – can’t for the life of me remember the name of it…”
Gathel Haid, then, was it? I could tell from the frog-man’s increasingly-bulging eyes that he didn’t like this continued tone of familiarity here in front of us, a bunch of ruffian-champions.
In any case, after Sentelemeth sipped at the stuff Haid had to have some too – Stormsword and Timesnatcher joined them, and Killstop surprised the rulers of Mund by drinking her strawberry-juice seemingly without lifting her mask or even moving the glass from its coaster on the table’s surface; we heard her smacking her lips, saw the pinkish froth around the rim and the little bit of residue at the bottom sloshing, but she was still sitting back in her chair, elbows on its arms, swinging her feet.
Now that the pleasantries were over and everyone had settled into their seats, a look of shrewdness, circumspection, came over First Lady Sentelemeth’s face.
“So, champions, I will keep this as brief as I may. I – we – wish to discuss Dreamlaughter. I am unsure as to whether Timesnatcher has advised you of the details – you are aware of the slaughter?”
“Pretty much,” Killstop said.
“Speaking for those who don’t know everything that happens, whenever it happens,” Sunspring said, “I don’t know much about it.”
“A lot of highborn died,” Spirit said.
“That is quite right, young man,” the First Lady said, glancing down at the wine-glass in her hands. “Perhaps it would be best if – Icaron?”
Lord Wenlyworth responded, the impeccably-dressed hundred-year-old body, wizened and shrivelled like a sun-dried prune, stirring slowly under his willpower. He gripped the arms of his chair, drew himself up a few degrees.
“Certainly. Yes. Just after sunset yesterday, Westrise was attacked. More accurately, a number of specific households. Their security teams were disabled – including two archmages – and, before local magistry or champions could respond, twelve of the richest families in Mund had lost their heirs apparent.” He took another gulp of his wine, drew a wheezing breath, and looked around at us again. “Twelve firstborn sons and daughters, hurled from the cliff to land in Sticktown. They said the laughter echoed for half a mile.” His rheumy old eyes focussed on Timesnatcher. “Rumour has it you’re the best people to ask why this happened.”
I, for one, had heard the sound from my apartment, but that was due to Zel’s cursed abilities, not proximity.
How many hundreds has she killed? I pondered. How many hundreds? But twelve highborn is enough for three of the supposedly-busiest people in the Realm to shut up and take notice.
“With all due respect, m’lady, m’lords,” Timesnatcher said, “we are doing our best with an increasingly-difficult situation. Duskdown murdered Lightblind – I do hope my missive and its Magisterium corroboration reached your desk, Lady Sentelemeth?” She inclined her head politely, and he continued, “We’re being assaulted on all fronts, and, as your Magisterium representative should’ve informed you, we anticipate a heretic attack within a matter of hours. Dreamlaughter is our top priority, I understand this, but we have numerous obligations. The magisters’ own eff-”
“I’m afraid not one of us specialised in divination in our school days.” Gathel Haid dismissively waved his pudgy fingers as though he were casting a spell. “Can’t you just, you know, see where Dreamlaughter is?”
“Gosh, why didn’t we think of that?” Killstop muttered.
Spirit reached across from his adjacent chair to put his hand on hers but she snatched it away before he could.
I sensed the enchanter’s confusion, hurt, as he slowly withdrew his hand.
“Killstop, please.” Irimar sounded tired, more tired than I’d ever heard him. “We know for certain that Bladesedge and Bookwyrm, the champion-diviners who disappeared four years ago, were divested of their enchantment-blocking artefacts and taken by her.”
I remembered being surprised by that, when Timesnatcher had told us all. There was no surprise on the faces of the three officials – I suppose they’d been kept in the loop.
He continued, “She may have access to any number of arch-diviners…”
Why didn’t we think she’d taken Nighteye? I asked Zel curiously.
“We did, didn’t we?”
Did we? Well… why did we think she didn’t take him?
“It was what Lovebright said – it’s too much of a coincidence, and Dreamlaughter has no need for a druid. She assured everyone Nighteye was a top priority and all of you bought it, not just you. I know I’ve said it a million times, but taking the advice of an enchanter whose amulet…”
The memory arose before my mind, filmy and thin, like a shadow, a water-painting with the ink running. It must have just been that I’d had my thoughts on something else when we went over that topic in our meetings.
Yes, I could remember it now. Jo’s vehemence that Dream had nothing to do with Nighteye’s disappearance. The strange intensity in her voice.
Oh, yeah.
I tuned back in to what Timesnatcher was saying.
“… powers, shielding her plans from our closest inspection, even if we can get a general bead on her. For instance – we know she intended for this meeting to take place. I even warned against playing into her hands, remember?”
Lady Sentelemeth frowned, looking across to the faces of her advisors – they seemed as befuddled as her.
Timesnatcher rose from his seat, suddenly trembling violently.
“Oh, dearie.” Lovebright sighed. “It’s all getting away from me.”
Killstop threw off her mask and threw up, keeping her head down so that the strawberry mess went straight down onto the floor. Her hands went to her throat; she started tugging at the neck of her robe, as if she felt her windpipe was swelling –
I couldn’t move.
Joceine Tamaflower was just behind Killstop’s chair, love-heart mask smiling down at everyone. She helped the diviner adjust her robe, and the odour of something sweet and revolting vanished from the air.
Then the enchantress replaced Tanra’s mask; the seeress sat back and put her elbows on the arms of the chair, regarding us as if nothing had happened.
Had something happened? Why had everyone gone quiet?
I looked at Timesnatcher. He was sitting there with his head in his hands, and I caught him shaking, as though something had momentarily shocked him. It was passing, now.
Lovebright was on her feet out of nowhere, adjusting his mask.
“There we are, there we are now,” the enchantress said gently. “Well – shall we crack on with it? There’s a bit more to cover. You said you were going to make it brief?”
I hadn’t been listening, but I heard the last sentence, and, whoever had been speaking, Gathel Haid seemed to take their question as a challenge. The frog straightened up, the back of his shapeless velvet hat swinging precariously around to the other side of his head and almost tugging the whole thing off.
“What we’re really asking is, why is she targeting highborn now? Why us?”
Lord Justice to the First Chair. Lord Justice Haid.
How did such a creature have the word Justice in his title?
I glared at him.
Timesnatcher didn’t reply – he looked like he was shivering.
“So – that – we’d – come – here –“ Killstop grated as if her jaws were clenched firmly shut, fingers gripping the arms of the chair.
And when Spirit broke the silence the sound was measured, his voice taut, the anger submerged but only barely.
“Wait, everyone. Wait. You – you let us put ourselves through hell, chasing, finding and fighting people like Dream – while you sit here, thinkin’ we’re just wagglin’ our fingers – I mean, come on, you are a mage, right? – clappin’ your hands and summonin’ your servants and wearing the value of half a street around your neck…”
“Champions are well-reimbursed,” Sentelemeth said softly.
“That is not his point,” I said.
“Feychilde…” Storm hissed, barely moving her lips.
“No – no, Spirit is right,” I carried on. “Frankly I’m incredulous at this. Yeah, you heard me, froggy – incredulous. Look it up if you don’t know it. Being brought here, answering your summons, as though we serve you! You own the land – you don’t own us. We serve the people. The people you have forgotten. But we can’t forget. We’re in the middle of it, every day, every one of us. Did you find the bodies of these dead kids? Did you see the remains?”
Did you feel the urge to bring them back, answer your questions, give you a dropping – clue – as to where the hell-spawned arch-enchantress was, what she was doing, what she was going to do next –
I was leaning forwards, elbow on the table, jabbing my finger at the rulers of the Realm, and my anger seemed to have rattled them.
“You weren’t there. You’re never there! It’s always words on a piece of paper to you, or a report coming at you in a bored emissary’s voice. You – you’re supposed to stand for the people of the Realm, the vast majority of whom probably can’t even read. You’re supposed to stand for the people of Mund – and here you sit, but only when it’s highborn – only when it’s your lot who’s losing their –“
I looked aside, swallowed. “We are supposed to be out there now, getting ready to save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. We are supposed to be trying to catch Dream. To catch Duskdown… To find a lost friend…”
Em put her hand on mine, and I let her do it, let my tongue still on my conclusion:
“If you want us to catch Dream, end the meeting here, and permit us to go do what you pay us for.”
Lovebright was nodding reassuringly. The First Lady and her advisors regarded me and I stared back, Em’s hand in my own, awaiting my sentence.
Men had been killed for less than that, I knew.
It was only then that the poison in Olbru’s wine started to display its effects.
Leave a Reply