The Art of Hunting (48 page)

‘At the harbour.’

The king nodded. ‘We had expected this, Cyr.’

Cyr nodded. ‘There has been an interesting development at the pit contest,’ he said. ‘A Bahrethroan sorcerer by the name of Jian Cobul.’

‘A bastard race?’ Marquetta said.

‘His father was Unmer,’ the duke replied.

The king stopped eating. ‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Cobul.’

‘Why does that sound familiar?’

‘Your father, sire, had a sorcerer of that name attached to one of his personal divisions. He had the man boiled alive and exiled for treason.’

King Paulus grunted. ‘And now he’s back, looking for a reprieve no doubt.’

‘That is one possibility,’ Cyr said. ‘He seems rather talented for a half-breed. After he won his initial battle, no one else will face him in the arena. His opponents are
forfeiting. If it carries on like this, he’s going to win the pit contest by default.’

The king glanced up. ‘He must be using an amplifier.’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Then how is he able to channel that much power?’

Cyr shrugged. ‘Natural ability?’

Marquetta seemed to consider this. ‘We’ll have to kill him.’

‘Of course, sire.’

‘It wouldn’t do to have a bastard race triumph over one of our sorcerers.’

‘I shall make the necessary arrangements.’

The king took a sip of water. ‘Has Fiorel revealed himself to you?’

‘He has not, sire. But he wishes us to know he is in Losoto.’

‘In what form did he last enter your dreams?’

‘He came to me in the guise of a white hart, sire.’

The king smiled. ‘How fitting, don’t you think?’

Granger stayed with Conquillas and his daughter until the morning of the tournament. If today went as well as fate could allow, his daughter would wake up a widow. Such an
outcome was far from certain, however, for it depended on Conquillas defeating an opponent who many claimed could not be defeated.

Killing an entropath was hard enough. They were far stronger, faster and more cunning than normal men. But killing a shape-shifter would be more complicated still, Conquillas explained. If the
god could change his shape at will, then he could re-form any part of his body that sustained damage.

Their only hope was to deliver a lethal injury to the brain.

But Fiorel would certainly try to trick them. Conquillas had fought an entropic beast before. The brain wasn’t necessarily where you expected it to be. And, of course, they wouldn’t
even know who Fiorel was, until things started to go bad.

Granger listened to all this with growing dread. He neglected to tell Conquillas what Shehernan of the sword had told him – that Fiorel also happened to be Granger’s father, and his
grandfather, and great-grandfather, and so on, for at least a dozen generations. They were going out to fight half of Granger’s entire family tree.

A whole network of ancient Unmer tunnels connected the natural cavern Conquillas used as his bolt-hole to the sewer system and the trove market, and to numerous other parts of Losoto. And it was
from one of these tunnels that Granger, Conquillas and Siselo emerged in the forest north of the city.

They found themselves in a hollow, where a natural overhang and unchecked vegetation obscured the tunnel entrance.

Granger had to send three of his sword replicates to cut a path for them. The sky above was white and smelled of autumn. Cold rain coming from the north. The leaves were already starting to
wither and brown. The three of them trudged through the forest in silence, following a little-used hunters’ trail.

They reached the gates of Segard by late morning.

A temporary settlement had sprung up around the entrance to the Unmer ruins. Thousands of people slept under canvas or warmed themselves around campfires. Hawkers wandered to and fro with
baskets of produce or trinkets. Children played. Jugglers juggled. A carnival atmosphere suffused the place. The forest road had been churned black by a constant stream of ox-carts and people
– merchants, spectators and combatants heading back and forth between Losoto and the arenas.

There were fewer combatants outside the halls than Granger had expected. He spotted a group of warlords sitting around a fire, drinking from goatskins, two Anean lords waiting on horseback
surveying the scene around them with some apprehension, and a few men-in-arms, but the majority of people were here to watch the tournament.

When they saw Conquillas and Granger they stopped and stared.

Siselo had grown weary of walking, so Conquillas carried her on his shoulders. She seemed thrilled by everything and everyone and took no notice of the stares. Granger trudged alongside,
scowling at onlookers, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. He supposed that by now his dead flesh had started to smell foul, but his companions did not mention it. Nevertheless, he
noticed the frowns and the wrinkled noses of the people they passed. He thought he might buy a balm or perfumed oil from one of the sellers, but was too embarrassed to approach them.

Finally they passed through the Segard Gate and into the Halls of Anea.

Conquillas had warned him to expect a subtle shift in perspective when he entered the ruined city. They were, he explained, entering a rift – a universe created by sorcerous means to
contain Segard. To create such rifts took massive amounts of power, and Segard was one of the largest ever constructed. Nobody had yet explored it all. It might be as vast as the whole of the Anean
peninsula and possibly larger still.

Granger merely grunted.

A square tunnel brought them into a huge chamber – a space much larger than any Granger had seen before, where numerous depressions in the stone floor acted as arenas. Thousands of gem
lanterns of every colour had been strung on wires across the entire area. To one side, a ramshackle corral of rope and timber enclosed the combatants’ area. Beyond this stretched an acre of
green canvas military tents, all bearing the royal insignia. Here Unmer lords mingled with the most powerful warlords and Anean nobles. Servants brought food and drink to groups huddled around
braziers, while musicians strolled among them with pipes and drums and gourds, and guards patrolled the perimeter. Among them Granger spied the tattooed faces of Brutalist and Entropic
sorcerers.

King Marquetta’s compound.

They found the majority of the tournament combatants in the corral. There were knights bearing crests of wealthy Losotan families, a scattering of lesser warlords, pirates, privateers,
sell-swords, mercenaries and soldiers of every description and from every part of the empire, all drinking, laughing, shouting and singing. At least three groups of musicians were playing
different, clashing tunes. Merchants sold ale and wine by the cup from great wooden barrels while young lads wove through the throng with planks of hot flatbreads and pies.

As Conquillas entered the corral and stood before the tournament officiator’s desk, with little Siselo still perched on his shoulders, and Granger at his side, the raucous chatter fell
noticeably. The eyes of everyone nearby turned to the new arrivals.

A nervous official checked Conquillas’s presence on the lists, and then tipped his spectacles back on his head and pulled out a sheet of paper from a metal cabinet behind him. ‘Is it
the Lord’s List, sir?’ he asked.

Conquillas nodded.

‘Ten thousand, please.’

The dragon lord reached inside his tunic and withdrew a fat leather purse. He tossed it onto the table in front of the official. ‘There’s twenty,’ he said. ‘For both of
us.’

The official glanced at Granger. ‘It isn’t usual,’ he said. ‘I mean . . . not common for one competitor to pay for another. I mean, why . . . eh . . . reduce your odds of
. . .’

‘Winning?’ Siselo said from up on her father’s shoulders.

‘Um, I suppose . . .’ he replied.

Conquillas merely stared at the man.

‘Very good, sir,’ the official said. He took the purse. ‘Now, please, come with me,’ he said, gesturing to the tent compound. ‘The area for the lords is . . . eh .
. . this . . .’

‘Way?’ Siselo said.

He nodded quickly. Then he led them onwards past the gaping crowds and brought them to the entrance to the royal compound, whereupon a guard unhooked a rope and waved them inside.

‘Now, I have . . . eh . . .’ The official moistened his lips. ‘Special instructions, sir. The king himself invites you to join him for drinks before the games . . . eh . .
.’

‘Commence?’ Siselo said.

The official nodded.

‘You should eat some coal,’ Siselo said.

He looked up at her. ‘Coal? Why?’

‘So your mind doesn’t keep running out of steam.’

Conquillas laughed. ‘Take us to Marquetta,’ he said.

The official bowed and beckoned them towards a much grander tent situated nearby. This was roped off from the rest of the compound and patrolled by yet more guards, who stepped aside to let them
through. Finally, they lifted a flap of canvas and were ushered into the presence of the king.

The King of Anea lounged on a pile of cushions, sipping wine from a crystal goblet. He eyed the new arrivals with apparent boredom, and said, ‘I had almost given up hope of seeing you
here, Lord Conquillas.’

‘Paulus Marquetta,’ Conquillas said. ‘You haven’t aged a day.’

The king offered him a thin smile. Then he rose and came over to meet them. ‘And this must be your daughter.’

‘Siselo,’ she said.

He gave her a nod before his attention turned to Granger.

‘Colonel,’ he said. ‘Must I presume that Conquillas has denied all knowledge of poison and you now blame me for your daughter’s condition?’ He gave a weary sigh.
‘Have
you
come to challenge me too?’

‘I have,’ Granger said.

A fleeting smile touched Marquetta’s lips. ‘Well then, I look forward to that,’ he said. ‘Let us hope you survive the early rounds. But please . . .’ He gestured
towards the back of the tent, to an area sectioned off by painted paper screens depicting battle scenes from what was presumably Unmer history. ‘There is something I would like to show
you.’

He rose and then led them behind the screens.

Granger’s breath caught in his throat. Duke Cyr stood next to a long table, upon which lay Ianthe. Her eyes were closed and her skin was as white as the winter sky. They had dressed her in
a light shroud and clasped her hands at her chest, so that she resembled a corpse. If he hadn’t seen the gentle rise and fall of her chest, he would have believed her to be dead. He rushed
forward and took her hand in his. Her skin was as cold as stone.

‘She is safe,’ Cyr said. ‘For now.’

‘Wake her,’ Granger said.

‘And have her succumb to whatever poison she’s been given?’

Conquillas gazed down at her. ‘There is no poison.’

Granger turned to Marquetta. ‘I know she rejected you.’

‘She didn’t reject me,’ Marquetta said. ‘Far from it. This is what I wanted to show you.’ He approached the sleeping girl and rested his hand upon her belly.
‘She’s pregnant.’

Granger could see the truth of it at once – the slight, but nevertheless visible swell of her belly. His mind reeled.
When?
He turned back to the young king, furious, raising his
fist to strike him.

Conquillas stopped him. ‘The arena,’ he said.

Maskelyne eyed the names on the slate board and frowned. ‘ColonelThomas Granger,’ he said. ‘That man has an uncanny knack of turning up alive against the
odds.’

The last time he’d encountered Granger had been on a mountainside in Awl, when the colonel had tried to kill him by crashing an Unmer chariot into the gun emplacement Maskelyne had been
using to bombard the Haurstaf palace. Maskelyne had found the wrecked chariot empty, however, and it was only after he’d learned of Granger’s replicating sword that he’d figured
out what must have transpired. Here was one soldier who really did have nine lives.

Now here he was in Anea again. Maskelyne wondered if, after all this time, Granger still possessed that sorcerous weapon – and what cost it had exacted from him. With Unmer artefacts there
was always a heavy price to pay.

‘How would you fare against nine men?’ he asked Cobul.

They were in the cleanest section of the combatants’ area, where Cobul had become a fixture next to an ale seller’s barrel. The Bahrethroan sorcerer drained his ale and said,
‘I’ve faced plenty worse odds.’

‘I wonder what the bookies are offering on Granger,’ Maskelyne mused. He faced Cobul. ‘Are you sure you want to drink that much before the main tournament begins?’

Cobul had won the pit fights by default, since nobody else would fight him. The main event was scheduled to begin any minute now. ‘I’m sure,’ he said.

Maskelyne turned back to the lists. ‘Granger faces some Losotan lord in the first round. I happen to know that Granger carries a replicating sword.’

‘Nasty things,’ Cobul said. ‘I’m surprised he’s managed to stay alive.’

‘It’s one of his most frustrating habits,’ Maskelyne replied, checking his pocket watch. ‘Come, it’s about to begin.’

They located the correct arena and Maskelyne found a bookie who took his bet of five hundred gilders on Granger to win. The odds were, as usual, appalling, but Maskelyne didn’t much care.
He was starting to enjoy himself. They arrived late, and so were forced to find a place on the uppermost tier, forcing the other spectators to make room. Maskelyne found that people were always
willing to make room when you have a Bahrethroan Brutalist sorcerer with you.

Moments later, the bout official wandered out into the stone circle below them and raised his hands to quiet the crowd. ‘For this, the third of our matches today, we have two locals armed
to the teeth with the most dangerous and wicked sorcery.’ He gave a signal, and an unseen operator raised the northernmost gate. ‘Firstly, I give you Marek Swale from the Yorburn
district of Losoto, representing the Yorburn family itself.’ The crowd cheered as through the gate came a handsome young man in highly polished armour. He wore a plain shield strapped to one
arm and carried an enormous hammer in the other. Maskelyne eyed that weapon and noted the Unmer markings etched across the metal.