The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (49 page)

Collecting her slate and chalk, Legana unbolted the door and went out into the darkened corridor. She barely needed the support of the walking stick the wine merchant had lent her. It had been old and blackened - his father had used it for thirty years - yet when she touched it, the tarnish had disappeared, revealing the stick’s beautifully patterned silver head.

Legana paused to tuck the slate under one arm and allow her eyes to get used to the light coming up the stairs. They were still sensitive, colours washed out to grey, but much of the fuzziness had gone and now she could see the corridor almost as clearly as anyone else. It was for comfort that she ran her fingers along the wall as she headed for the stairway that led downstairs.

She still felt fragile, but instinct told her that her healing was done. Her hearing was diminished and her voice remained a ruin, but she was far stronger than a man now, and vastly more resilient - the occasional bouts of poor balance and her tendency to move slowly and carefully were ingrained, and she would have to learn to live around them.

The building was split into three parts. Business was conducted in the large hallway at the front. It looked more like a storeroom than a shop front. Legana headed there first, knowing Lell Derager, the wine merchant who was Byora’s Farlan agent, didn’t conduct business after dark. The slamming of the door was almost certain to have been those fools from Narkang returning.

As she reached the bottom of the stair Legana found Derager and his wife, Gavai, standing at the entrance to his cramped office. At the sound of her feet the rotund man turned and spread his arms in a welcoming gesture, remembering that Legana found the nuance of facial expressions difficult to make out.

‘Legana, do you feel better after your nap?’ he said in a booming voice.

She nodded, not bothering to write on the slate. Lell wasn’t the sort of man to mind. He was courteous to the point of sparking Legana’s suspicious nature, and did everything for her himself, rather than call for a servant. He wasn’t old - less than forty summers - but his mutton-chops and beard made it hard to judge his age. He was far more ebullient than his wife, who was ten years his senior, but they were both considerate, caring hosts - and the least likely spies Legana could imagine, which had presumably been the former Whisper’s logic.

‘Your friends have returned,’ Gavai advised her. ‘They’re just drying off. Let us go into the family room and wait for them.’ She offered her arm to Legana. After a moment’s hesitation she took it and allowed herself to be led to the second largest room in the house. She had precious little actual experience of how a daughter should be treated, but Legana was beginning to imagine it was something like this.

An inordinately wide bog-oak dining table dominated the room, but large though it was, there was at least ten foot clearance on either side. A candelabrum hung from the main beam of the low ceiling above the table. On the left, a mismatched assortment of chairs were arranged almost at random around the fire. Gavai directed Legana to one facing away from the flickering flames and placed herself beside the former Farlan assassin. Lell followed them in and ushered his teenage son towards the kitchen, saying something Legana didn’t catch.

By the time Lell returned, goblets of wine in each hand, Doranei and Sebe had joined them and gratefully accepted the offer of a drink. Doranei tossed back the wine in one gulp, which didn’t surprise Legana until Sebe followed suit swiftly.

As Lell picked up the brass wine jug to refill their glasses, Legana scribbled on her slate, -
Bad news?
She thought she detected a scowl on Doranei’s face, and that was confirmed by the grim tone of his voice.

‘Looks like you were right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Azaer’s disciples are here.’

‘You’re certain?’ Lell said, before adding, ‘Well, of course you are. No one wears that face unless they’re sure. How did you find out?’

‘Our agent here is being watched by men reporting to the Ruby Tower,’ Sebe answered for Doranei as he made headway on the drink. ‘It’s a tighter network than yours, and almost certain not to be casually picked up. We interrogated one of the watchers. They’re to report any visitors to a new sergeant in the Ruby Tower Guard.’

Duchess and Azaer?
asked Legana.

Doranei shook his head. ‘I doubt it, but the description of the sergeant was easy enough to recognise. If he’s here, then the rest of Azaer’s disciples probably are too. I don’t think they have the strength to divide their forces now; Scree, especially the loss of Rojak, will have drained their resources considerably.’

‘Which means either Aracnan’s murder of High Priest Lier is coincidence, or it’s a sign that he’s under Azaer’s command,’ Lell said, glancing at his wife. ‘Getting Lier out of the way makes the duchess more easily influenced, as well as fuelling the conflict between Eight Towers and Hale.’

‘And this is not a business of coincidences,’ Gavai finished for her husband. The pair might not have ever been at the sharp end of spycraft where Legana and the King’s Men lived, but they were under no illusions about what they were involved with.

‘I know enough to report to my king,’ Doranei said, staring straight at Legana, ‘but what are you going to do?’

Legana didn’t respond immediately. As everyone turned to look at her, she kept her eyes on Doranei. He didn’t understand what had happened to her - she didn’t understand it herself yet - but he himself, perhaps without knowing it, was not just a pawn in the game; he was a man who could call Lord Isak friend and Zhia Vukotic something more. Of all of them, he was the only one who could understand the twilight world she now inhabited. Her hand went to the line of bumps around her neck, a regular curve just above the collar-bones. She couldn’t feel the shadow mark that overlaid half of the emeralds under her skin. She couldn’t see her own eyes, though she knew they were different. And the changes didn’t stop there. There was a fire in her blood, like she’d always imagined magic to be like: a tiny prickle that could erupt into the fury of a furnace at a moment’s notice.

-
Do I call myself Farlan any longer ? Can I? I accepted the Lady’s kinship but she’s dead now - I feel the part of her inside me is dead - but what about the other Gods? Are they my kin now, or am I just Raylin, a being of power but with no allegiance?

Finally she wrote hesitantly, - I
do not know to whom I now kneel.

Gavai whispered the words aloud as Legana wrote. She placed a sympathetic hand on Legana’s arm, but withdrew it when she flinched.

-
The only place I’ve ever belonged is the Temple of the Lady
, Legana realised as she wiped the slate clean. -
Whatever spark of divinity that remains, is that enough to sustain the temples, or will they just end up as killers for hire? We were halfway there already.

‘I understand your problem,’ Doranei said, interrupting her thoughts, ‘but we could use your help. You once called us allies; could that not continue? Even if only out of a common enemy?’

-
He is too strong for me
, she wrote.

‘Gods! I’m not asking you to take Aracnan down.’ Doranei shook his head firmly to emphasise the point though he was speaking loudly enough for her to hear him. ‘Information will be our greatest weapon; information provided by someone with insight we cannot get elsewhere.’

-
They would sense me if I spied on the duchess.

‘Then let us find another way.’ He paused. ‘You do want revenge, don’t you?’

Legana didn’t reply. For herself she felt nothing, just the emptiness in her gut that had once been the divine touch of the Lady. But then she remembered that night in the temple; the brutality that had broken her body, and the sight of the Lady, skin flayed and scorched as she turned away from Aracnan.

-
Why did she save me and not herself? Even if she couldn’t save herself, why save me? Who gives up in a fight even if they’re outmatched?
Legana felt her hand tense at the memory of Fate’s dying expression.
The Goddess didn’t think like that. The creed says we are her daughters, and a mother does not abandon her daughters
.

-
I want revenge
. The image of Fate was clear and painful in her memory, the emerald green of the Lady’s eyes shining out from the darkness of the grave.

-
But not enough to abandon my sisters
, she added, holding the slate out to Doranei for emphasis.

‘Of course. I understand,’ he told her. ‘King Emin always spoke in fond terms of the Lady. If there is help Narkang can provide you, just ask.’

‘Before all that,’ Lell interrupted, ‘I need to send a bird to Tirah. Lord Isak needs this information.’

-
I will tell him.

‘Can you reach him directly?’

She shrugged. Her divinity was so new to her that she hadn’t had much chance to explore its potential; she’d been sleeping mostly, recovering her strength, not testing its limits. It was also risky - Lord Isak was also new to power, and he might react without thinking. The prospect made Legana’s hands tremble, but she had made up her mind: her loyalty was to her cult and her sisters, but she had spent years fighting for the Lord of the Farlan, and she had respected Lord Bahl, and that meant she had to extend that to Bahl’s heir. That in turn meant telling him to his face that she was no longer in his employ.

-
I will find him
, she wrote with crisp, certain strokes.

 

King Emin looked up at the massive man at his side: Coran, his bodyguard, was staring silently down at him, his face grave. Behind them Emin could hear the shutters rattle and shudder under a storm’s assault.

‘Well?’ Emin turned in his seat to look at the white-eye. There were only two other men in the gentlemen’s club, a retired captain of the Watch who was snoring softly in a corner, and Count Antern, who stood at the back of the room frowning down at a stack of reports. The king used the club as a front for various activities, and many of the members had been involved in those activities at one time or another. Coran would normally be happy to speak in front of either of those present.

Coran pushed up the left sleeve of his tunic. ‘I’m going to cut that damn mage’s balls off,’ he said fiercely, and turned so King Emin could see the inner forearm.

‘We can’t blame Endine for his successes, can we?’ Emin replied in a slightly forced way. It was clear to all that a weight had been lifted from him after his sundering, but the process had taken its toll.

Coran gave him an old-fashioned look as a trickle of blood ran down his fingers and dripped onto the carpet. ‘I think I’ll find a way.’

Emin peered at the bloodied skin. ‘Just be glad he used the Brotherhood’s shorthand, my friend! “Enemy sighted, Ilumene and others, purpose unknown, request orders”,’ he read aloud. ‘Curious he doesn’t specify what others - important enough to mention but not name.’

‘Ilumene will be in charge, whoever else is there,’ Coran growled, the reason for his dark mood now apparent. Ilumene had escaped him twice now, and Coran took such things to heart.

‘No doubt, but I think it more likely Doranei has identified a new disciple, one we’ve yet to assign a shorthand symbol to.’ Emin stood and looked at Count Antern on the other side of the room, who had looked up when Coran started speaking. He had heard the message.

‘Antern, please fetch Sir Creyl and Morghien,’ the king asked, and his first minister hurried away. Emin walked over and nudged the dozing man.

‘Captain, time for you to go home to your wife,’ Emin said gently.

The white-whiskered man twitched a few times before he opened one eye. ‘Eh?’

‘Bugger off home,’ Coran said.

‘Bugger off yourself,’ the captain replied in a gravelly voice. ‘She don’t want me there, not since Brandt died defending your palace.’ His skin was creased like old, worn leather, and his white beard had grown rather patchily where there were scars. He was past sixty now, and losing the bulk that had kept him alive in many a street fight. When Coran didn’t reply he gave a sigh and began to heave himself upright. The white-eye reached forward and took most of his weight until he was standing.

‘I dreamed I was young again,’ the captain complained to Emin, ‘chasing a man through Queen’s Square with all the gladness of youth.’

The king smiled. ‘You were a growling old bear when we first met and I doubt it was any different twenty years before that.’

The captain laughed and began to walk stiffly towards the door. ‘Hah - and you were the most arrogant man I ever met,’ he said. He added softly, ‘Still haven’t come good on your promise though. I’ll never forgive you if I don’t live long enough to hear the shadow’s dead.’

‘I’ll do my best, my friend,’ Emin said as he watched him hobble out.

As the old officer passed them, Morghien and Sir Creyl, Commander of the Brotherhood, nodded respectfully. Once the door was shut, all was business again.

‘Gentlemen, Doranei has sighted Ilumene in the Circle City,’ King Emin announced. ‘Suggestions?’

‘Don’t let anger get the better of you,’ Sir Creyl said. He was a heavyset man dressed in the functional clothes of a hurscal. His arresting pale blue eyes had more than once been mistaken for white, though Creyl was a calm man who was entirely out of place on a battlefield.

‘Thank you, the point has already been made.’

‘What was the message?’ Morghien asked, walking past Emin and settling himself into the chair just vacated by the captain. He stared at the fire, watching the flames dance in the occasional gusts of wind down the chimney.

Emin repeated it.

Since the ritual in the tower they had barely spoken. The wanderer looked even more strung-out than usual. He had moved into one of the club’s guestrooms and spent as much time in the Light Fingers as Doranei had before his latest mission. ‘Another ruse?’ Morghien said eventually.