BMT belongs to Trudi CANAVAN
Chapter1. Imardin - A Tale of Two Cities
"The others didn't come then," a low, guttural voice sneered as it's owner sank down to sit on a silken cushion, the edges dusty and grey from the sandy ground it lay on.
"I knew I was a fool to come at your beckoning," the man muttered, half to himself, as he gestured to a raggedly clad slave, that hovered uncertainly, to bring him some wine from the flagon he held. The speaker snatched the proffered cup and drank deeply from the watered wine it contained. He then glanced appraisingly at a richly tented pavilion that lay pitched some twenty paces away - the flares positioned around it causing its jewel-like colours to ripple and shine, absurdly opulent in the desolate and barren surroundings.
The new-comer then finally looked to the man whom he had addressed; he sat cross-legged and staring into the flickering flames of a fire and his hair hung black and lank around a face that was a sickly shade of jaundiced brown. He picked at his teeth with a small, but intricately jewelled, dagger and small narrow eyes glittered as he glanced sharply to his new companion from beneath heavy dark brows. His mouth curled in a sneer as he spoke.
"Old habits die hard, Harikava; you were always one to defer pitifully to others in Arvice. Still, no matter, your weakness has brought you here and that is all to the good."
"What do you want Kariko? I only came out of my former acquaintance with your brother. Speak quickly or I will be on my way!" Harikava responded sharply. Kariko glowered dangerously back at his fellow Ichani and spat suddenly into the fire.
"Dakova's pet," Kariko stated contemptuously.
"What of him. He is long dead in the Pass, I'll warrant. Wild limeks are probably gnawing his bones as we speak." Harikava's tone was impatient and dismissive. A harsh, hollow bark of laughter came from Kariko's throat then his face suddenly sobered.
"No, he is not dead," Kariko said softly. "He managed to crawl all the way back to their filthy city and has made himself quite at home again."
Harikava looked at the other Ichani, his brows pulled together in query, his interest piqued. "How so?" he asked.
"I sent a spy into Kyralia – he informed me two days ago that the Guild have made Akkarin their leader. It seems he has used his new-found power to pass their tests and convince them to make him their High Lord."
Harikava considered Kariko's words a moment, then scowled. "And you brought me here to tell me this!?" He hissed in angry consternation. "I am not the one who had a pact of revenge with Dakova," he continued. "This is your business now; you waste my time!" Harikava upended the remains of his wine on to the sand and made to stand up. Kariko suddenly reached out an arm and a strong, bony hand restrained the other Ichani.
"The Guild do not know Higher Magic- don't you see?" Kariko demanded in menacing irritation. "Dakova's pet has made himself their protector, but he is just one and we are several. He could make himself emperor of the Allied Lands for all it mattered; he cannot withstand us alone." Kariko said vehemently as a feverish hunger sprang to life in his eyes.
"He may have taught them all Higher Magic," Harikava countered. Kariko released his grip on his companion's arm and relaxed back on to his cushion.
"No. I know Dakova let you read his pet's mind Harikava. You saw his pride and his revulsion for Higher Magic – a revulsion also held by the Guild magicians. I do not think that he will be so eager to reveal his true nature to them. The Guild is fearful and ignorant; they would have cast Akkarin out, not made him their leader. Do you see what this means? We can take the Guild and Kyralia with it. We can shake the foundations of the Allied Lands." Kariko's voice lowered and he glanced at his fellow Ichani solicitously. "We can gain back the favour of the king in Arvice, and then..." Kariko trailed off, raising his eyebrows and spreading his hands suggestively.
"How can we be sure that Akkarin has not revealed his secret?" Harikava's voice became clipped with sudden adrenalin, though his features remained tight and controlled.
Kariko leaned forwards and whispered harshly into Harikava's ear. "Test them," he answered. "See if they recognise Higher Magic when it is under their noses. See if they can overcome it. See how they like having their people picked off and killed one by one."
Harikava held Kariko's savage eyes for a moment, then a cruel smile spread slowly across his face. "That sounds like good sport. What do you plan?"
The High Lord pulled at the upright collar of his ceremonial robes. The black silk was the same, but collar and hem were edged with gold thread and a gold sash was tied about the waist. This was only the second time he had worn them, the first being at his own inaugural ceremony just some few months before, and no amount of tugging softened the stiffness of them. Akkarin's comfort was not eased by the final, defiant fling of summer that caused the air to be unusually oppressive. He sighed and smoothed his hair as the carriage came to a halt in the outer courtyard of the Palace.
Today, the coronation celebrations for the new king would begin. The official mourning period for the old king was over and what would follow was five days of formal ceremony combined with an unusually abandoned rejoicing that particularly pleased the guests from the Elyne nobility.
Akkarin had never been entirely comfortable with court gatherings. They inevitably acted as a façade for the underlying political machinations and maneuverings of the Houses. Akkarin had always found them dull and tedious affairs and, as a young man, had usually skulked around the edges, wine glass in hand, and at the mercy of his mother and sisters who constantly prevailed on him to dance with numerous young ladies from other powerful Houses. Akkarin's brooding and scowling presence on the periphery of the room did nothing to still the fluttering of the girls' hearts as they dreamed about being the one to break through the chill of the most eligible young man.
Since Akkarin's unusual ability to read the surface thoughts of unknowing minds, without physical contact, had surfaced since his return, such formal occasions gave him a headache as the cacophony of snide and cruel thoughts of others reverberated around his head. Of course, he had learnt to control this gift and to maintain a smiling mask of polite, if cool, interest in the people who, as High Lord, he had a duty to converse with.
He had pondered as to his strange ability, the power of which seemed to be constricted to people near to him; the further from him a person moved, the fainter their discernible thoughts became. He wondered whether it had come about from his gathering of extra power using black magic, or whether it was merely a quirk of nature that had matured - the Delvon family were known to produce powerful magicians.
Whatever its source, the High Lord had learnt the advantages and disadvantages of knowing the thoughts of his friends and colleagues and used the power sparingly. Akkarin's innate sense of courtesy also precluded him from reading his friend's thoughts without their knowledge, and he had quickly learnt how to block them.
The first day of the coronation celebrations dawned brightly, the Sun rising into a clean-washed deep blue sky with only a slight breeze to mark the onset of autumn.
Nobility and guests from every corner of the Allied Lands milled around the outer courtyard, their rich and brightly coloured clothes resembling the fabric markets of Lonmar. Outside the palace walls the sound of the city people could be heard as they converged on the Inner Circle, vastly outnumbering the arriving ranks of nobility. Traders, craftsmen, herders and players had all arrived in Imardin to take full opportunity of the profit that such a gathering of the wealthy offered.
Amongst the throng of people were no small amount of slum dwellers who had come to find the truth of whispers that had gathered strength since the old king's death. Whispers that had fluttered like seeds on the wind and the Dwells had come to see if they were to be planted in the fertile land of the new monarchy, or fall barren on the stony ground of the palace courtyard. Rumours that the Purge was to end.
Such rumours couldn't be further from the minds of the assembled guests, however, as they filed into the inner courtyard of the palace and were carefully directed to seats, in order of their rank, by ushering stewards.
The pale smooth stone of the palace had been newly scrubbed, the floors swept, and the bordering gardens tended to within a pruned leaf of perfection. In the middle of the courtyard a circle of grass gleamed like a giant emerald against the ochre of the surrounding sandstone. A small, open-sided pavilion had been erected on the circular lawn, resplendent in its brightly coloured billowing roof. Eager and rosy-cheeked children peered over surrounding balconies, stroking the fat, over-indulged palace zill that sunned themselves languidly on the balustrades.
As the king entered the courtyard wearing full court attire and lacking only the circlet bearing the royal insignia, an impressive and almost eerie silence fell on the gathered guests.
Lady Vinara glanced obliquely at the tall figure of the High Lord that flanked her left side. He looked preoccupied; there was a disquiet in his eyes, and a restlessness in his manner. With an inconspicuousness perfected during long sessions in the Guildhall, Vinara let her hand find contact with Akkarin's. He felt the light touch and looked at her. Vinara smiled.
-I think that Merin will be glad when this part of the proceedings is over, she sent to him. Akkarin watched the King's stiff demeanor – already the burdens of responsibility were telling on the tense shoulders.
-Thank the Eye it is only a short ceremony. I am sure he will enjoy the festivities to come, the High Lord responded.
Vinara thought back to the stories that abounded some years ago of a young Akkarin and Merin and their over-zealous love of wine. She glanced at the High Lord again. Though Akkarin had retained his love of wine, the aloof, austre man at her side now little resembled the man of the tales.
-I am sure he will, but don't you dare get him drunk tonight! Vinara warned. Surprised and amused at the Healers forthrightness, Akkarin raised a dark eyebrow in mock chagrin, then abruptly his expression darkened and he moved his hand from out of her touch.
"I suspect I'll be too concerned with getting myself drunk to worry about Merin," he muttered under his breath, thinking of all the political and marital sidestepping he was going to have to do tonight.
What?" Vinara had not heard him clearly.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Nothing. Let us concentrate on the ceremony."
The applause as the King concluded his speech was as properly sober as the occasion demanded yet there was an underlying impatience for the festivities to begin. As the King moved from his seat at the high table in the palace's Great Hall and the applause died away, a group of musicians at the far end of the room began the first notes of a formal set dance.
Merin glanced around him for a moment, then held out his hand to Lady Vinara and led her onto the floor. From his own place at the high table, Akkarin watched proceedings with a slight smile on his face.
It had been his suggestion that the king should choose the Head of Healers as his partner for the all important first dance; a diplomatic move to ensure that no noble family with designs on the future could claim their own eligible daughter had been slighted in favour of another by the, as yet, unmarried king. Being of middle years, and being a magician whose allegiances belonged to the Guild, Vinara could pose no subject for the speculation of court gossips.
As the evening wore on, many courted Akkarin's attention since they viewed him, as a known friend of the king, to be a sure route to Merin's ear. The High Lord found the flattery, machinations and occasional outright bribery, intensely annoying and his patience was running out.
Suddenly, he became aware of a presence at his side and he turned reluctantly, stealing himself for another encounter with an importuning father – instead he found himself looking into the vivid green eyes of King Merin. The king's face broke into a grin as he detected the barely veiled irritation on his friend's face. The king clasped Akkarin's shoulder in a brief gesture of greeting.
"Come Akkarin, the worst part is over. The first set dance is done and the wine and food are flowing." Merin gestured to a long table to one side of the room where an abundant display of food had been laid out on golden platters. The small delicacies piled on each plate were skilfully made and artfully arranged, looking more like elaborate pieces of art than food.
"Their attempts to marry us both off to their daughters will soon dry up – unlike the Anuren Dark, which, of course, is the plan," the King continued, grinning and gratified to see his expression mirrored on Akkarin's face.
Since his return from his travels, his childhood friend had become strangely solemn, distant even, the King mused. It was not often that Merin saw a smile touch the magician's eyes as he once often had. Then the King scanned the room in agitation . "Where are the damn servants? I could do with some wine right now to fortify me."
"You've coped magnificently so far Merin," Akkarin observed with a flicker of amusement. "Your confidence in your speech did you credit."
Merin's eyebrows shot up. "From you that is high praise indeed!" he exclaimed, laughing. "There is your mother! It has been a while since I spoke with her – come." Akkarin followed the King's gaze across the room, raising an eyebrow as he noticed a slender and graceful woman at his mother's side.
"Ah, and I suppose my younger sister at her side has nothing to do with your sudden urge to exchange pleasantries with an aging woman?" Akkarin said sarcastically. "I am amazed she is still unwed...- damn!"
Alerted by the venom in the High Lord's voice, the King saw that his gaze had shifted and followed it. Cleaving with casual determination through the crowd towards them was a tall blonde haired, red-robed woman of exquisite beauty. "Your cousin," Akkarin said through clenched teeth. The King frowned.
"I know she can be headstrong Akkarin, but you would be the envy of every man in Imardin if you formed a connection with her. Weren't you intimate with her once anyway?" the King asked. Akkarin smiled wryly.
"I am not immune to the charms of feminine beauty Merin, and I cannot deny that she has that in abundance, but... we are too much alike, and I have a feeling that she would not be content with being just the wife of the High Lord." He glanced again at the approaching woman. "Now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you to the charms of my sister and be on my way." And with that, Akkarin turned and disappeared hurriedly through the arched doorway that led to the balmy and jasmine scented air of the gardens.
"Lorlen!" The black robed man called as he approached the balustrade where the Healer stood overlooking the spectacular vista of the formal gardens, illuminated by the light of many flares. As Akkarin came to stand next to Lorlen and casually leaned on the decorative stonework, the green robed man glanced at him and inclined his head in mock reverence.
"High Lord," Lorlen said solemnly, but with a soft smile which widened as his face rose and met the scowling glare of Akkarin.
"Please Lorlen; you do not have to when there is no-one to hear," the High Lord muttered. Lorlen gave a short laugh.
"I cannot help myself, I'm sorry. It's just that, if I say it often enough, I might convince myself that my closest friend is now the leader of the Guild!"
Akkarin's expression softened. "If you ever become appointed to an exalted position, I shall remember to be equally merciless!" he said.
"Me?" Lorlen asked in astonishment. "Oh, I think my robes and sash will always be green," he said somewhat wistfully.
"I don't know Lorlen,""Akkarin mused appraisingly, "maybe your organisation and diplomacy skills are wasted on Healing. The Administrator has been mumbling about retirement lately and hinted, none too subtly, that he wants an assistant to hand the reins to," Akkarin said looking at his friend speculatively.
"You know what that position entails; are you trying to drive us both into early graves Akkarin!?" Lorlen exclaimed, taking a slug of wine and looking back to the gardens.
Akkarin frowned. "I sincerely hope not," he murmured. He too then gazed out at the gardens, lost in thought, but after a moment his eyes glazed over and his brow became creased in a slight frown. He became only dimly aware of what Lorlen was saying.
"...Akkarin? Have you had too much wine already? Akkarin?" Lorlen leaned forwards to regard his friend and Akkarin shook his head and turned to him.
"I'm sorry Lorlen. I...I have something to attend to. I think I'll slip away," he said abruptly. "I'll leave you to enjoy the gardens – and the company!" He added with a wry half-smile as he noticed a group of giggling young people from House Paren pass by on the terrace below. Lorlen grimaced and Akkarin clapped him on the back before striding purposefully away.
The High Lord mulled over the message Takan had conveyed through his blood ring whilst he had spoken to Lorlen.
-Master, My acquaintance with family in the slums, has told me of a third death. All the same signs as before and no obvious cause. I am worried master; your appointment as High Lord has alerted them. They have come for you already.
Akkarin did not share his servant's concerns that the Ichani themselves had come to Imardin. They would not risk themselves so readily, and the killings, whilst bearing all the hallmarks of black magic, seemed clumsy and opportunistic. Akkarin had spoken with the city guard and liaising magician and it appeared that the magical potential of the victims was weak. Also, the first two deaths had narrowly escaped being seen; the Ichani would not be so careless for such little gain, Akkarin mused.
But one of their slaves might..., he thought as he walked through the furthest perimeters of the Inner Circle. I need to track this killer, and if he is what I think, I need to read his mind.
An angry shout and the slamming of a door broke his thoughts causing him to look up sharply, suddenly aware of his surroundings. He was now in the North Quarter. The tall and elegant merchant houses on the edge of the Inner Circle had given way to an incongruous jumble of large stay-houses, bol-houses and small, well kept stores of various nature. The streets, whilst by no means the neat imposing avenues that graced the Inner Circle, were relatively clean and unusually bustling at this late hour due to the extra trade to be had from the coronation.
As Akkarin strode purposefully on and under the North Gate, subtle changes crept insidiously on the landscape. The stores became less frequent and shabbier and the bol-houses became less inviting - sinister even; their cracked windows steamed with the fog of activity inside that was signified by raucous laughter and the odd sound of a skirmish. Unsavoury and suspicious faces peered from crumbling doorways, and the odd painted whore leered at Akkarin invitingly before shrinking back into the shadows at one warning glance from his eyes.
The flagstones beneath the High Lord's feet became jagged and uneven and littered with rotting food and debris; the gutters that fell to either side swam with a foul looking slurry. In a short distance, the road bore so few flagstones that it was little more than a dirt track.
Akkarin's dark eyes narrowed as he took in the randomly placed buildings, so dilapidated that they barely warranted the name. The pungent smell of stale filth,of bol and rotting food, began to assail his nostrils. The repugnant odour grew as he drew further away from the officially designated areas of the city; the smell compounded by the heat and humidity until the air seemed thick with it and Akkarin had to stop himself from gagging.
Skeletal zill, their coats matted and filthy, nosed around for scraps to fill their bloated and empty stomachs. Akkarin grimaced in disgust and dismay at the conditions he was witnessing that lay just a stone's throw from the main thoroughfare into the city. He pulled his cloak tighter, drawing the hood further over his face, as if he might be recognised; an absurd notion, he told himself, as no-one here would ever have seen him. No-one except...
One of Kariko's slaves, who may have seen me when Dakova entertained his brother, Akkarin thought, and his face darkened. At that moment a young boy of no more than six years, painfully thin and wearing nothing on his filthy and calloused feet, suddenly shot out of one of the numerous side-alleys clutching a half-eaten bread roll. As he raced to cross Akkarin's path, he shot him an entreating glance and the magician slowed his pace.
"Hai! Stop that boy!" An urgent cry went up and a second later a sweating and red-faced guard appeared from the narrow alley. As the boy ran by he flashed a smile at Akkarin and winked. Such a spirit of defiance and survival was in the clear blue and sharply intelligent eyes, that Akkarin stopped in his tracks and his gaze followed the child until he darted into another opening and was lost to sight.
"Hai!" The puffing guard rushed by and glanced suspiciously at Akkarin's tall, still figure.
So this is the Slums, Akkarin thought grimly looking around him. This is where the king and the Guild herd people every year. Then they find their way back into the city to try to find work and better themselves, only to be thrown out again the next year. Akkarin's mouth became a hard line and a frown knitted his brow. Like an unwelcome, stray zill begging for food at the door of an abundant kitchen.
A shrill, pained cry of a young baby that came from one of the decrepit shacks broke his musings.
Maybe I should talk to Merin, Akkarin thought, but for now I have other things to worry about, and his black eyes hardened. Someone else holds the slum-dwellers in equally little worth – only this person is killing them one by one, and, if I'm right, I am the only person in the Allied Lands who can stop them.