The Art of Hunting (9 page)

Marquetta merely blinked.

‘We’re not leaving,’ Ianthe said.

‘We can’t stay here.’

‘Why not?’

He had to get out of here. He had to figure out a way to beat this sword. Maybe he could snap the bloody thing. Or melt it down. But whatever it was, he had to act quickly. And he needed Ianthe
with him. He looked at her in her fancy robe and he wanted to tell her that they didn’t belong here, but was embarrassed to speak such words in the present company. Where did they belong? He
wasn’t even sure if she belonged with him. And he couldn’t tell her the truth – that he didn’t want the Unmer to have her. To use her. Too many people had used her. ‘I
promised your mother I’d look after you,’ he said. ‘And that’s what I’m going to do.’

‘I don’t want you to look after me,’ she said.

He grunted.

Marquetta intervened. ‘You are, of course, welcome to leave whenever you choose,’ he said. ‘However, given your eh . . . Given the unusual circumstances of your situation,
don’t you think it would be prudent to remain under observation for a few more days? Until we know for sure.’

‘If I turn out to be a sword replicate,’ Granger said. ‘Then how does staying here help me? Can you reverse it?’

Marquetta shrugged. ‘Unfortunately—’

‘That’s what I figured. Ianthe, get your things.’

‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’

He bared his teeth. ‘Yes you damn well are.’

‘No, I’m not missing the ball just because you wake up and want to leave. We’ve been planning it for days now.’

Granger shot a quizzical look at the prince.

Marquetta explained. ‘We have organized a ball tonight as a gesture of peace and friendship with our neighbours. Every nobleman, official and landowner in Awl will attend. Will you not at
least stay until then?’

A ball?
Mere weeks after the Haurstaf slaughter and the takeover of Awl’s military, and the Unmer were having
a ball
? Granger was about to protest when he saw the look of
fierce determination in Ianthe’s eye. It was almost a warning.
Don’t embarrass me
. But she was too young to understand the dangers of remaining here. She hadn’t seen the
corpse piles the Unmer had left in Dunbar and Dorell and a hundred other places before the dragon wars. She hadn’t been in that transmitting station in Pertica and seen the entropic horrors
Herian had summoned from god knows where. Whenever you stumbled upon one of the Unmer in some remote place, as Granger had done while following Ianthe to this palace, there was always trouble.
Herian had likely been in that war-ravaged station for centuries, working away like a weaver on the looms of fate, manipulating events for his otherworldly masters – those eternal god-like
creatures the Unmer called entropaths. Granger still didn’t know why the Unmer operator had manipulated events to bring him there, or what the entropaths wanted of him, but he suspected it
had everything to do with Ianthe. The Unmer were a dangerous, secretive race. His daughter was too trusting, too naive to deal with them. Hell, half the time Granger felt that he was too naive
himself. No. Even one more night here was too long.

He was about to tell Marquetta just what he thought of his damned ball, when a second wave of dizziness overcame him. The room tilted and blurred before his eyes and he nearly toppled to the
floor.

‘Colonel Granger?’ Marquetta said. ‘Do you require assistance?’

‘I’m not a colonel,’ Granger said. ‘Not any more.’ His head was reeling so much he could barely see the others in the room now. Their three forms seemed to merge
into one and then separate. And for a horrible moment he thought he saw eight more figures. His sword replicates, standing at the back of the room. But then his vision returned to normal, and the
replicates – if they had ever been there – disappeared. Ianthe was looking at him anxiously. The duke had his eyebrows raised and wore a faintly questioning expression. And it seemed
that Marquetta’s smile evinced arrogance.

‘Stay one night at least,’ the young prince said. ‘Until these dizzy spells stop.’

Granger could only nod.

‘Excellent.’ Marquetta smacked his hands together, denoting an end to the matter.

Ianthe’s face was full of joy.

A flash above the young prince’s shoulder caught Granger’s attention. It was the tiny silver sphere. It hung there in the air, bobbing slightly and emitting a crackling hum that
sounded disturbingly like a chuckle.

‘He seemed overly keen to be reunited with the sword,’ Paulus said, as they strolled along the corridor beyond Granger’s room. ‘Not a good sign, I
fear.’

‘You think he has succumbed to its will?’ Ianthe said.

‘I don’t know,’ the prince admitted. ‘Does he seem like the man you know? Is he normally so rude, obstinate and irreverent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then perhaps he still has some time,’ the prince said.

‘What will happen to him?’

‘When weapons possess a will, they almost always seek power. Many tyrants through the ages have been steered by the ghosts of long-dead sorcerers.’

‘But he can resist it?’

‘Only for a limited time.’

Ianthe stopped and clutched Paulus’s arms. ‘Please, isn’t there anything you can do to save him?’

‘I am sorry.’

Her eyes welled with tears.

Paulus hugged her. He held her head against his chest and smoothed her hair. ‘At least you will make him proud tonight, Ianthe. He will leave this earth knowing that his daughter is in
safe hands.’

She sniffed, nodded.

They walked on and passed through a grand portal into one of the central palace thoroughfares. It had been nearly a month since the westernmost wing had been destroyed by Ethan Maskelyne’s
bombardment, and a great deal of the rubble had been cleared, exposing a maze of roofless chambers to the open skies. But there still remained several weeks’ worth of work to do before any
reconstruction could begin. The workers had erected temporary tarpaulins and tin sheets to keep any rain out, although they had been fortunate with the weather so far. Early summer was generally
calm and sunny in Awl. Paulus had by now recruited the military to assist in the task and, as Ianthe walked beside the young prince and his uncle, she passed groups of former Haurstaf soldiers
carrying chucks of black marble along the corridors or out through gaps in the walls to carts waiting outside. Every one of them, she noted, avoided Cyr’s glare.

Those who wished to continue to earn a living had had little choice but to accept Unmer rule, but it seemed to Ianthe that these men did not yet trust their new masters.

Once they reached the grand antechamber behind the main palace doors, however, there was no trace of destruction. The floors, staircase and pillars shone like black glass, as pristine as the day
Ianthe had first seen them. The corpses had been removed to one of the army bases to the south of the palace, where they had been burned. The main doors had been thrown open to admit sunlight and
cool, pine-scented morning air. A palace guard wearing a grey cape over boiled leathers bowed to Paulus and then to Cyr as they approached.

‘Our guests are on their way,Your Highnesses,’ he said. ‘A convoy of carriages approach on the Port Awl road.’

Cyr chuckled.‘We must ensure that our effusive Commander Rast does not have them shot at one of his checkpoints.’

The guard bowed. ‘Your wife requests your presence in the hospital,’ he said. ‘She says she is at a loss as to what to do with the leucotomized and begs your
assistance.’

‘My ideas on the matter would only distress her,’ Cyr remarked. ‘Besides, we have more pressing issues. Three weeks, and the Guild commanders are still bumbling around like raw
recruits. Trust must be fostered and strategies must be set on course if we are to call Awl home.’

‘Losoto is my home,’ Paulus said.

The old man smiled. ‘And we will reclaim it in good time, Your Highness.’

But the prince’s expression only darkened. ‘Sooner, rather than later, I trust.’

Cyr dismissed the palace guard and waited until the man had gone before he addressed the prince. ‘My dear Paulus,’ he said, ‘do you think I could bear to leave our people
trapped in those ghettos for a moment longer than is absolutely necessary?’ He steepled his fingers under his chin and regarded the young man with a look that suggested great sadness and
wounded pride. ‘I yearn for safe reunion just as you do,’ he added, ‘but we must lay the necessary foundations to ensure success. We mustn’t go rushing in like impetuous
young men.’

‘Every moment we delay puts our kin at greater risk,’ Paulus replied. ‘What if Hu decides to act before we get there? He might simply panic and leucotomize all of
them.’

‘The emperor will not harm them,’ Cyr insisted. ‘Even Hu is not that foolish. He’ll keep his own psychics close by. He’ll wait and he’ll watch. If we’re
lucky, he’ll use our kin to make the only sensible political move he can make.’

‘What move?’

‘To ally himself with us,’ Cyr said. ‘With Ianthe on our side, the Haurstaf can no longer threaten us. The emperor can no longer use them as a shield.’ He gave a sudden
chuckle. ‘That will save him vast amounts of money at least,’ he added. ‘A clever ruler would release his Unmer captives as a gesture of conciliation.’

Paulus shook his head. ‘But that’s my point exactly,’ he said. ‘Hu is not a clever ruler. You overestimate him, Uncle.’

Cyr raised his eyebrows. ‘And perhaps you underestimate me, Paulus.’ He gave a short bow. ‘I will personally guarantee our people’s safety. You can have my head if
I’m wrong.’

The young prince laughed. ‘You see how he manipulates me, Ianthe? My own uncle? I should hope he is wrong or else fear for my throne!’

Ianthe smiled sweetly. The duke merely nodded.

Paulus took his uncle’s arm and moved to lead him away. ‘About this extravaganza . . .’ he said quietly.

‘Diplomacy is hardly an extravaganza,’ Cyr replied. ‘We must cement our relationship with both the Guild soldiers and the Port Awl authorities. An empire is like a palace: it
must be built upon solid ground.’

‘Yes, yes. Buy them, you mean.’

‘With Haurstaf money, My Lord,’ Cyr said. ‘Such a delightful irony, don’t you think?’

The prince nodded impatiently. He glanced back at Ianthe and then whispered something in the duke’s ear. Cyr smiled once more and then rested his hand on top of Paulus’s own. A
gesture, Ianthe guessed, designed to reassure the young prince. Then he said loudly, ‘But come, if it pleases you, release me to answer my wife’s summons. I feel stricken with a sudden
and brief sense of mercy, and thus temporarily and inexplicably endowed to cope with her poor crippled charges.’

‘You? Merciful?’ Paulus said. ‘This we have to see.’

They left the grand hallway and strolled along a corridor in the north-west wing of the palace, which had wholly escaped Maskelyne’s bombardment. Ianthe knew these lesson rooms and
libraries well from her time as a student here. They were all empty now, the desks and chairs stacked away, the chalkboards wiped clean. Paulus led her to the far end of the wing, towards the
dormitories formerly occupied by year one students.

She heard the patients before she saw them. From the last few rooms there came a great maniacal howling and then a cacophony like the cries of wounded beasts. This, then, was what had become of
those Unmer upon whom the Haurstaf had experimented. The leucotomy process involved severing the link between the lobes of the brain, thus stripping the recipients of their innate and peculiarly
destructive powers, as well as most of their higher functions. Leucotomized Unmer were used to train Haurstaf combat psychics in safety.

They walked through the first dormitory door and there found rows of pale men, women and children strapped or chained to beds. Each bore a scar upon his or her forehead, a mark showing where the
Haurstaf surgeons’ knives had done their work.
Decreation.
That was what Paulus called the process by which his kind could extinguish whatever they touched. Matter was not destroyed,
he said, but simply displaced through entropic manipulation. Through will. Nothing vanished from the cosmos; it was merely scattered and displaced. Sometimes he referred to it as
entropic
trade
. A simple punch from an Unmer warrior could send a fist-sized lump of his opponent to the other end of reality.

Upon sensing the presence of new arrivals the patients turned their wild and haunted eyes on Paulus, Cyr and Ianthe. They gibbered. They grinned and spat and frothed at the mouth. One man
screamed terribly and rattled his chains. Another started to howl like a dog. Ianthe grabbed her prince’s hand.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Paulus said. ‘I won’t let them harm you.’

They were bound, impotent, and she could have destroyed every one of their minds with a single thought, but she accepted this unnecessary offer of protection without comment. If it made him feel
better . . .

‘Now where’s Anaisy?’ the prince murmured.

They found the duke’s wife in the second dormitory, a room which turned out to be a good deal quieter than the last one. She was fat and grey and restless and her hands fluttered
endlessly, scrunching tissues and mopping her brow and scrunching and mopping and wringing the air with despair. She sniffed and wiped her nose, which was as red as a boil. Her eyes were as dull as
puddles. She sat at a table in the centre of the room, writing in a journal, while the patients around her writhed and groaned and made muted sounds. The ones in here, Ianthe noted, were all
wearing gags.

‘Anaisy,’ Paulus said, opening his arms.

She looked up and beamed. ‘Paulus? Where’s Cyr?’

‘You really do need glasses,’ Cyr replied, coming through the door behind the young prince.

‘I see perfectly,’ she said. ‘My mind . . .’

‘Engages the voice without sharing information?’ he enquired. ‘Or tactics?’

‘My mind,’ she said, ‘was engaged.’

‘The new book?’ Paulus enquired.

She shook a hand dismissively. ‘Oh it’s nothing really.’

‘But I’m sure it’s marvellous,’ the young prince insisted.