The Shadowmage Trilogy (Twilight of Kerberos: The Shadowmage Books) (75 page)

“My Lord Baron had need of my services?” Tellmore asked.

“Ah, yes. Our friends here have some requests I would like you to document,” the baron said, and Tellmore scooped up the quill lying on the desk along with a blank sheet.

Lucius, following a gesture from the baron, was the first to speak.

“There is a ship that comes into Turnitia at the bottom end of every month, the
Sarcre Pioneer
. I would be grateful if no officials board it. Ever.”

What followed was an hour of good old-fashioned horse trading that Lucius found himself rather enjoying, and he could see that Grennar was getting into the swing of things too, particularly as they found the baron to be in agreement with much of what they asked, only modifying a few requests slightly to protect Pontaine’s interests. Between them, Lucius and Grennar bought the thieves and beggars of Turnitia plenty of blind eyes from the guardsmen of the city, knowledge of their patrol routes, which minor officials were open to bribery, exclusion zones around their guildhouses, pardons for individuals still in the dungeons of the Citadel and even access to the courtyard outside the keep on certain days.

Adrianna requested nothing but complete freedom for her Shadowmages when under contract and a truly extortionate amount of gold for the services of one Shadowmage to act as bodyguard for the baron. He granted both requests without batting an eyelid.

“So, we have an accord?” the baron said at last.

Grennar glanced up at Lucius and Adrianna before answering.

“Your Excellency, I believe we do.”

CHAPTER TWO

E
VEN AT THIS
early hour, Enlightenment Avenue had started to stir, and the broad, cobbled road was beginning to fill with the crowd that would swell and bustle for the rest of the day.

Shopkeepers were busy unlocking their doors and hauling out tables on which to display their expensive – the less pious would say over-priced – wares, each bearing the proud stamp
By Faithful Appointment to the Anointed Lord
. As endorsements went, none was better in Scholten. The shopkeepers paid high taxes for the privilege, were forced to purchase only from similarly endorsed suppliers, and endured regular inspections of their goods to ensure purity.

Few complained, given how much they personally earned under the watch of the Final Faith.

Alhmanic, Preacher Divine of the Final Faith, paid little attention to the shops or the hawkers of scripture that had also joined the commercial procession along the avenue, all getting ready for the day’s pilgrims and the silver coin they brought with them. He had far weightier matters on his mind. Like the dull, constant ache in his shoulder that flared whenever he walked more than a few hundred yards. Or whenever it rained.

The wound he had suffered in Turnitia at the hands of a rabble of thieves had come to serve as an ever-present reminder of his failure. That in itself was an unfamiliar emotion for Alhmanic, as blessed as he had been throughout his, to be truthful he thought, great life.

What had been more worrying was the effect that failure to hold on to the city had had upon his career and standing within the Church. Alhmanic, once the trusted advisor and confidant of the Anointed Lord (praise her name) had been denied an audience with his leader since he had returned from the free city, and he had been surprised how callous that dismissive stance had been. It was not just the loss of power and standing among the other clergy and, by extension, the Empire of Vos. The loss of her trust had cut far deeper than he had guessed it would, and he had begun to doubt himself.

That would all change today, he knew. An invitation to the cathedral of Scholten meant his reinstatement, in fact as well as name. No doubt the Anointed Lord (blessed be the ground she walked upon) had encountered some knotty problem the flunky clergymen around her were unable to deal with, and now she required his wise touch once more.

Alhmanic was happy to oblige. Truthfully, the combination of his wisdom and her fiery passion were the most formidable force on the peninsula. There was nothing that could not be achieved, in the name of the Final Faith.

Reverently, his aching shoulder now forgotten, Alhmanic looked up at the cathedral that soared into the sky before him. It was the tallest building in the entire peninsula, he was sure of that, and the broadest too. Its foundations, sunk deep into the earth, supported eleven ornate spires, one for each of the Great Saints. He had always suspected that it was inevitable that a twelfth would be commissioned and built upon his own death.

The stained glass windows that depicted the Trials of Sainthood were shining clear, even at this distance, and the grotesques that leered at pilgrims entering its mighty doors hid a complicated drainage system that provided enough clean water to support the entire clergy within, should it ever be necessary to bar the cathedral’s doors. The original architect was a nameless genius and, it was rumoured, had become an intimate part of his design before it was completed, buried within one of its yards-thick outer walls.

The red-tabarded guard that lined the avenue on the final stretch to the cathedral all bent their heads as he passed, and this cheered Alhmanic. He did not consider himself a vain man, but it was right and proper for them to give him his due.

More guards bent their backs to open the massive doors of the cathedral, iron-bound oak that could reputedly withstand a week’s attention from a battering ram. The Final Faith was confident in its power over the people, but the Anointed Lords of the past (may history bear them reverence) were not known for skimping on details. The doors swung open, slowly but soundlessly on hinges lubricated with consecrated oil, leading to the yawning interior.

It was not a dark place, the cathedral of Scholten, and everything about its architecture was designed to inspire and encourage piety. There was no need for the building to be oppressive and frightening. Its size alone demonstrated everything about absolute power that the Final Faith needed to convey.

Acolytes worked diligently in the huge entrance hall, careful to remove every speck of dirt and detritus left by visitors the day before. It was as much part of their devotions as prayer, and Alhmanic grimaced slightly as he remembered his own lessons as an acolyte.

One bowed low as he approached and indicated a padded chair with a tall back set alongside one wall, the traditional place of waiting for respected outsiders. Alhmanic frowned at this, wondering what this might portend, but he shrugged it off and sat. No doubt there was to be some ritual of forgiveness led by the Anointed Lord (may her name shine through the ages) that marked his official return, a formal declaration to the rest of the clergy that the Preacher Divine was back and had the full trust of their leader.

As he sat, dwelling on this, Alhmanic considered his assignment in Turnitia and, not for the first time, considered what mistakes he had made. This pondering always returned the same result – he had clearly not been at fault himself, and his imposed exile from the heart of the faith had been a signal, nothing more, to warn others of what might happen should plans go... awry.

It was clear that he had done everything right. No one could have foreseen a motley collection of disparate thieves actually fighting alongside one another. And certainly, no one could have accounted for the witch who burned down half of the city.

Turnitia was a stinking cesspool anyway, a relic from a bygone age without the wit or sophistication of Vos. Its change in leadership to Pontaine was no loss at all.

And had he not demonstrated his own devotion to the cause by taking that terrible wound in defence of the Citadel, while thieves and assassins assaulted its walls?

No, clearly, he was not to blame.

As strains of song from the Eternal Choir, sequestered deep within the cathedral, began to filter through into the hall, Alhmanic began to consider what his new task might entail. Finding out who really was to blame for the issues that had arisen at Turnitia, he supposed, the tracking down of which incompetent strategist among the clergy had been responsible for their irrecoverably weak position there. Then again, perhaps much larger events were afoot, requiring his presence. Maybe the Anointed Lord’s plans (may they bear ever-lasting fruit) had accelerated, and the scheme to turn Pontaine into a wasteland was now ready.

Coughing gently to gain his attention, another acolyte bowed low before Alhmanic and gestured to him to follow.

Alhmanic was led, at a pace he found interminably slow. They did not enter the nave with its endless ranks of pews, a new invention that Alhmanic himself had helped to bring to the cathedral many years ago, and instead went down a corridor, past the consultation booths. Later that day, these booths would be turning over a steady procession of pilgrims, each seeking to buy absolution and miracles from a priest for mere silver.

Such was the generosity of the Final Faith. Once the preserve of the wealthy, now anyone could buy their way into a better afterlife. Miracles by volume, that was the key. Another innovation Alhmanic had helped push through the bureaucracy of the clergy.

They turned left into another corridor, and Alhmanic frowned. They were not heading to the Anointed Lord’s (may the ground be fertile where she walks) audience chambers, but deeper into the administrative complex of the cathedral, where much of the Final Faith’s work across the peninsula was planned and directed. He was tempted to ask the acolyte where they were headed, but decided instead to keep his questions to himself. It would not serve to show his confusion.

They came up short at a solid door set within an alcove of the new corridor, and the acolyte rapped gently on its panelled surface before bowing and retreating, leaving Alhmanic to enter by himself. Taking a breath, and steeling himself to whatever his mistress had planned, Alhmanic grasped the handle and went inside.

“I am glad to see punctuality is not a trait you have abandoned,” said a slow, dry voice.

Inwardly, Alhmanic groaned.

The man sat behind the desk, itself piled with papers high enough to nearly obscure him, was older than Alhmanic. Even in the padded chair, he was hunched over, and his thinning grey hair revealed a skin pale from lack of sun, and deeply creased by age.

“Klaus,” Alhmanic said.

He saw a thin crease of a smile tug at the corner of the man’s lips, and Alhmanic immediately guessed he would not be greeted with the happy news he had been expecting. Klaus was an old rival among the clergy and though officially a mere priest, the man had wormed his way into many aspects of its administration. Alhmanic had always considered that their longstanding and private battle had been fought and won when he had become the Preacher Divine, but now he began to suspect a new front had just been opened.

“I am afraid the Anointed Lord has decided not to join us for this little chat,” Klaus said, his voice apologetic, but his eyes almost triumphant in their rheumy mist. “For that, I am sorry.”

Alhmanic dismissed the false apology with a wave.

“Blessed be her works, one cannot expect her favours every day.”

“Or at all,” Klaus said, narrowing his eyes as his voice adopted a slightly harder tone. “We have been most... distressed over the incident that lost us Turnitia. We had built high hopes upon the acquisition of that city.”

“The situation was untenable for anyone,” Alhmanic said, trying very hard not to sound defensive. “I trust our beloved leader knows that.”

“That... remains to be seen.”

Alhmanic frowned. “Just what do you mean by that?”

In reply, Klaus shrugged innocently. “That is not for me to say, I am sure. However, I have rather been given the impression that the Anointed Lord is most perplexed at a failure that should have been an early victory. Furthermore there has been talk – not from me, you understand, I know the pressures of high station – that perhaps your time as Preacher Divine has passed. That maybe someone new should adopt the role. Someone younger.”

“And I have no doubt you have lent weight yourself to such arguments?”

Again, Klaus gave him a look of pious innocence. “My dear friend, I stand with you in this. I firmly believe that wisdom only comes with age – I have several years on you, how could I say different? Still, young men have their place too, especially in more... energetic pursuits. Besides, it is just possible that placating Turnitia was a poor use of your skills.”