Shadowmasque Page 11

  In her mind she prepared the thought-canto Entwine as she doffed her low boots and crept barefoot along the hall. All her undersenses told her that the intruder possessed no sorcerous aura, yet that was no comfort in the light of recent events.

  She stopped before the day-room, pushed it open and stepped back, the Entwine spell spinning in her thoughts, ready for release. The room was dark with shadows.

  “Whoever you are,” Tashil said loudly, “come out here where I can see you.”

  For a moment there was nothing, then a tall figure in a long cloak emerged from the gloom.

  “You’ve a strange way of greeting visitors, ‘Sheel,” said a voice that was familiar. Then the figure came into the light and she saw that it was her brother, Atemor, but there was a hollow, haunted look to him.

  “Atti,” she said, relaxing her guard and letting the Entwine spell dissipate. “What are you doing here….wait, is our father….is he?…”

  “No, ‘Sheel, Old Man Akri lives yet,” he said. “He’s even taken himself a new wife so we can expect another brother or sister by next year.”

  Such news was irritating for Tashil, but was like the ache of an old wound, a source of discomfort and bitterness.

  “I do not think that you came to tell me of Father’s latest acquisition,” she said, ushering him back into the day-room, where she parted the drapes to let in light. “So why are you here?”

  “Father has decided to make the pilgrimage to the Isle of Besdarok,” said Atemor, looking around him at the piles of books that cluttered chairs and shelves. “So he made it a point of duty for all of us to accompany him.”

  “And my mother?” she said levelly. “Did she come too?”

  Atemor gave a wry smile. “She refused. Said she would make his life a misery if he forced her to go.”

  “But the others came?” Tashil said.

  “Wives, brother, sisters, even the granfers and a couple of the greatfathers…”

  He mentioned a string of names, her half-brothers and half-sisters, as well as a short but sad list of those taken by death since the last contact she had, which was with one of her uncles. Listening to all this was like being engulfed by the meaning and essence of Family, the very thing she had striven to escape with her voluntary exile. Yet instead of feeling smothered, she found that she was enjoying hearing about all her many relatives in the sprawling Akri family.

  But then Atemor seemed to grow weary or run out of gossip or both, which returned Tashil to the most puzzling question of all.

  “And did the family arrive safely at Besdarok?” she said.

  “Yes, we found a fine camping spot to the north of the city.”

  “So telll me — if they are camped at Besdarok, why are you here?”

  Atemor was silent for a long moment and when he finally looked straight at her, she could see fear and desperation written starkly in his face. Her unease flared into dread.

  “I was walking sentry last night,” he said. “Everything was quiet, apart from the buzz of krezziks off in the bushes. Then I started to hear….these voices whispering at first then getting louder, telling me to come to Sejeend, to leave everything and come, no pause, no delay!” His voice shook as he spoke. “I thought that I was being attacked bya spirit of madness, like the old tree hermits of Gulmaegorn — then I thought perhaps it was the voices of the gods, maybe even the Grey Lord himself.

  “But then the next thing I remember is riding my horse south from one of the bridges, with the voices filling my head, like a cloud of pain that I could not fight against. I had no control over my body….then I blacked out again and when I awoke I was entering Sejeend, but I also had my body back and the cloud of pain had gone. I remembered where you lived and came her, got in through a window in your shop.”

  Distress overwhelmed him and he sank to his knees.

  “The voices are still there, ‘Sheel, calling, calling, on and on and on! You have to help me — have I been cursed or possessed? You must help me, I beg you — when I woke there was blood on my dagger —”

  With outward calm, Tashil took his hands and got him back on his feet. “I don’t know how to help you, Atti, but I know someone who can.”

  Inwardly, however, she was racked by horror and panic. And if Calabos can’t help you, what will we do with you then?

  Chapter Eight

  Such a trap of honeyed poison,

  The court of this malign king,

  Where words of virtue,

  Mask greed and hate,

  Where arrogance calls itself valour,

  And foundations decay unnoticed.

  —Jedhessa Gant, A King In Alvergost, Act 1, ii, 6

  The noise of some two hundred or more conversations filled the pillared audience hall of the Daykeep, a continuous surging, swirl of babble. This was the sound of the empire’s aristocracy making itself heard, with old ties reaffirmed, old enmities cordially expressed, pecking orders strictly applied, insults covert and overt loosed, and flattery delivered with or without irony. And since the rigidities of palace etiquette demanded formal maskering, the potential for misidentification and misunderstanding was considerable. Indeed, to an aloof observer the assembled throng might resemble an exotic herd of jewelled and gilded wildlife.

  To the Countess Ayoni, standing by her husband amid the opulent mutlitude, there was a certain exciting edge to not being completely sure about who you might be talking to. In the early years of his reign, Emperor Magramon apparently moved through similar gatherings, disguised in an innocuous mask devised by his costumiers. The stern Ilgarion, on the other hand, would by all accounts be very unlikely to risks with what he regarded as his dignity.

  Which did not lessen Ayoni’s enjoyment in guessing who lay behind which mask while keeping her eyes open for those she knew to be close allies of Ilgarion.

  All the nobility had full face-masks while their attendants wore half-masks that were as plain or distinctive as their masters decided. Some masks were modelled after the blazon beasts of noble houses, like the Earl of Rovali’s moorcat or the stormcrow of the barons of Ashryn Hold. Others had clearly been created to whim and fancy, resulting in a gallimaufry of images: Bull listened and nodded to Salamander, Glintmoth shared a joke with Stag, while Dog tried to cold-shoulder Crab. Ayoni’s mask depicted a vixen, which derived from her own family’s crest, while her husband Jarryc’s was the bear of the counts of Harcos. At that moment, Count Jarryc was engaged in a muttered exchange with two of his closest allies, Baron Klayse of the Rukangfell and Margrave Tergalis of Westershore: the former was masked as a boar, the latter as a greathound.

  “Did you notice dor-Fandresk?” Klayse murmured.

  “With dor-Gaemos over at the Fathertree tapestry?” said Tergalis. “Could they be ready to declare for Ilgarion, I wonder?”

  Beneath his bear mask, Count Jarryc laughed quietly.

  “While it’s wise to entertain the possiblity of darker motives, milords, facts are usually vital to any appraisal.” He turned to Ayoni. “Mayhap my lady wife knows a mite more than we?”

  Ayoni met gaze and smiled. “My lord husband honours me,” she said. “I do know that Lord Fondresk’s second cousin has asked for the hand of Lord Gaemos’ great-niece….or they could be discussing the missive which they and all of Magramon’s old supporters received this morning from Ilgarion’s chamber steward…”

  The Baron and the Margrave stared at her for an astonished moment while the Count chuckled.

  “Gentlemen,” he said in a low voice. “Before consenting most graciously to become my wife, the Countess was for several years one of Queen Darlia’s ladies-in-waiting, many of whom married into high nobility yet maintained their interwoven friendships.”

  “Intriguing,” said Margrave Tergalis. “Milady, perchance do you know what was in this letter?”

  “Sadly no, my lord,” she said. “The messengers would only deliver it unto the nobles themselves.”

  “Knowing Ilgarion,” said Baron Klayse
. “It would be either a bribe or a threat.”

  The Margrave had just begun to say something about bribes needing subtlety when the general hubbub around them died down and all eyes turned to the main entrance before which three figures stood. Two were spear guards in ring mail and red cloaks; they flanked a tall man in a silver-inlaid leather hauberk and long black cloak. Ayoni recognised him as Duke Mendalse, High Minister of Night and master of the Nightkeep. Odd, she thought, that there had been no sign of Byrceyn who was the master of the Daykeep.

  Impassively regarding the glittering crowd, he cleared his throat.

  “My lords and ladies, I must inform you all that the caudal audience of His Royal Highness will now take place in the Grand Hall. If you will follow me, this will entail but a short walk along the Sun Corridor.”

  And so saying, the High Minister of Night turned and strode through the entrance. There were several indignant protests but the Minister seemed not to notice as he walked from the chamber with a stately pace, accompanied by his guards. Arguments broke out between noble family members and the attendants serving refreshments attracted petty reproaches. But Ayoni heard little of it, having urged her husband and his cronies and their own retainers into swift pursuit of High Minister Mendalse.

  Soon the entire mass of nobility was in motion along the Sun Corridor. It was a broad, enclosed colonnade that cut through one of the imperial gardens, joining the Daykeep to the main buildings of the palace. Its floor was tiled in rose and dove-grey, and was brilliantly lit by a profusion of hanging lanterns and wall lamps fashioned in gold and brass. The white walls were decorated with a large number of acid-etched pictorial mirrors which were interspersed with small niches occupied by exquisite paintings or figurines carved in pale wood.

  Before long the corridor ended at another known as the Coronal, which encircled the Grand Hall, the side doors to which stood agape. Ayoni knew that across the hall another set of doors opened out to the Moon Corridor which led straight to the Nightkeep; the front half of the imperial palace was modelled on the ancient palace at Besdarok, but without the massive fortifications or lofty central spire. Or its plain austerity.

  The Grand Hall was roughly oval in shape, narrower towards one end where the vacant imperial throne sat atop a semicircular dais approached by a dozen or more girdling steps of pale blue marble. The throne itself was a high-back piece crafted in black ironwood, silver and various crystals and gems, and was fashioned in the form of a stylised tree, the ancient symbol of the Khatrimantine emperors. This was the focus of the Grand Hall, the seat of power, and everything in it — the sweep buttresses of the high arched ceiling, the supporting columns, the placing of lamps — helped to draw the eye to it.

  Of Ilgarion, however, Ayoni saw no sign as she and the Count and his companions entered and proceeded towards the dais as part of the vanguard of the nobility. There were others already present — Duke Byrceyn, the High Minister of Day, and a large retinue; the earls Broha and Narlaq, both long-time allies of Ilgarion; a group of men and women in sombre brown attire and blue three-quarter masks, whom her undersenses told her were mages; another large group wearing silver half-masks and grey or black robes marked with the book-and-keys sigil of the Imperial Academy. In addition, there were more guards posted at intervals around the hall, and a cluster of court officials murmuring among themselves. Finally, off to one side there was a knot of some six or seven affluent-looking men in rich red or green garments, their dark grey masks and skullcaps proclaiming their status as merchants.

  Then she noticed that one of the women in Duke Byrceyn’s retinue wore a distinctive butterfly mask and was sure that this was his wife, the Lady Fyndil, who was an old friend. Thinking that she might learn more about this gathering, or even the mysterious letter, she told her husband where she would be and set off through the growing crowd. But she was barely half way to her goal when a tall, blue-masked figure appeared beside her, laid a hand on her shoulder and steered her out to the fringes of the throng.

  It was the Archmage Tangaroth, which she knew instantly from her undersenses, and realised that this encounter would have to be handled carefully.

  “Countess,” the Archmage began smoothly. “I beg your indulgence for this unseemly intrusion, but I only mean to preserve the good-nature calm of this occasion. Which I fear might be disturbed were you to attempt to approach Duke Byrceyn.”

  Maintaining an amused demeanour, she glanced past him to where the High Minister of Day’s retinue was gathered and noticed details missed before. What she had taken for servants in a neutral brown livery before she could now see were swordsmen who stood in a barrier between the Duke’s people and the other attending nobles. The Duke himself was dressed in black and grey with a gold silk mask vestigial enough to reveal his mouth which was set in a grim line.

  “Well, the Duke certainly has a glum look about him,” she said lightly. “And yet you would prefer me not to go over and bid him good day — why ever not?”

  “Grave matters of state, my lady.”

  “Oh, you mean that the poor Duke has earned his Royal Highness’ enmity in some way. Is he under arrest? Will his punishment be a lesson to us all?”

  Masked, the Archmage’s features were unreadable but Ayoni could sense his contempt.

  “Given your family history and your upbringing, Countess,” he said, “It is disappointing that you do no show more decorum and loyalty -”

  “I weary of this, Archmage. I fully intend to go and talk Duke Byrceyn…”

  Tangaroth moved to block her path. “I would strongly advise against that, Countess. I am quite capable of inducing sleep in you and making it resemble a faint.”

  Ayoni stepped angrily one side. “You must do what you see fit, ser, as must I!”

  The Archmage faced her, bare hands empty at his side, and was about to speak when a man in a garish flamebird mask, laughing drunkenly and looking over his shoulder, careered into him. The contents of a large goblet sloshed forth to drench Tangaroth’s midriff and sluice down into his leggings and boots. There were mutual cries of surprise, of which the Archmage’s was by far the loudest.

  “Oh, good ser!” said the unsteady culprit. “I am so terribly, terribly sorry…”

  But Tangaroth was beside himself with fury.

  “You half-witted imbecile! — you’ve ruined this coat...no, stay away from me!”

  This last he shouted as the man in the flamebird mask tried to use his own dangling sleeves to mop the spillage from the Archmage’s garments. Then, for a moment, the man’s eyes met Ayoni’s — and he winked.

  Stifling her laughter, she stepped smartly around Tangaroth and wove a path back into the crowd. But before she could get close to Byrceyn’s party, horns blared and a column of guards carrying spears hurried into the hall to form a long corridor through the gathering. Which neatly stopped Ayoni getting any nearer to the Duke and his wife.

  The horns sounded again, softer this time, and began a pattern of notes in round fashion as Ilgarion and his retinue entered the Grand Hall.

  Two attendants in trailing, blue robes led the way, carrying between them a small casket of some kind covered in a white shroud. Then came Ilgarion and his wife, the Lady Gesaul, their hands joined and held at waist level. The son had his father’s solid build and full head of black hair, now well streaked with silver, but where Magramon had possessed a certain warmth and approachability, Ilgarion glanced at the massed nobility with cold, pale eyes that betrayed only mistrust.

  Behind him strode a veiled priestess of the Earthmother temple, her white robes edged with carmine suggesting someone of high rank, possibly the Abbess herself. After her came Shumond, Lord Commander of the Iron Guard, flanked by four of his senior officers, all wearing golden, open-faced helms surmounted by drakken emblems, and dark blue cloaks trimmed with wolf fur.

  Following at the rear were more servants carrying a variety of wrapped bundles under arms or on shoulders. As they filed off to one side of the dais, Ilgar
ion — accompanied by the Lord Commander Shumond and High Minister Mendalse — climbed the dais steps but stopped half way up and faced the wondering nobles.

  During the procession, Ayoni had worked her way forward to where she could see both Ilgarion and his audience. Then, to her surprise, it was Mendalse who raised his hands for silence.

  “Behold!” he said. “The High Keepers!”

  A sense of stunned amazement passed through the nobles and in its wake came whispers, shaken heads and exchanges of wide-eyed looks. Ayoni was no less shaken, realising that Ilgarion had somehow persuaded the Conclave of Rods to disregard the Low Coronation and to hold the High Coronation now and within the palace precincts rather than by the sea’s edge as was traditional. This would, she knew, be deeply unpopular with the citizenry yet it was clear that the assembled nobility were prepared to accept and endorse this sidestepping of obligation without protest.

  Then she remembered Duke Byrceyn’s predicament. Perhaps the acquiescence of the aristocracy is not quite unanimous, she thought.

  Along the guard—lined corridor came two figures cloaked and hoodedin pale blue, each carrying a long, sigil-topped staff in the right hand and a cloth-wrapped object in the left. By the time they reached the foot of the dais, the other servants had unpacked their burdens to assemble pole lamps, slender wooden frames draped in ceremonial banners and placed either side of the throne, little tables and plinths on which sacred relics and ritual lamps were placed. Perfumed odours soon began to filter through the hall but nothing could obscure the fact that these hasty preparation were a shabby, shameful travesty of the time-honoured coronation traditions. Ayoni wondered if the Conclave of Rods had withheld their assent until the very last moment, and likewise wondered what kind of pressure Ilgarion had brought to bear upon them.

  The High Keepers had laid down their staffs and doffed their hoods, revealing the faces of elderly men, both of whom were holy brothers of the Earthmother temple appointed by the Conclave of Rods for this specific task. Each held the object he had brought, now unwrapped, replicas of the Motherseed and the Crystal Eye, the ancient heirlooms that were lost in the great Shadowking war.