City of Songs Copyright © 2021 

by Anthony Ryan. 

All rights reserved.

Dust jacket illustration Copyright © 2021 

by Didier Graffet. 

All rights reserved.

Print edition interior illustration Copyright © 2021 

by Anthony Ryan. 

All rights reserved. 

Print interior design Copyright © 2021 

by Desert Isle Design, LLC. 

All rights reserved.

Edited by Yanni Kuznia

Electronic Edition

ISBN

978-1-64524-038-9

Subterranean Press

PO Box 190106

Burton, MI 48519

subterraneanpress.com

Manufactured in the United States of America

To the memory of that most accomplished player of games, the late Iain M. Banks.

To seek truth you must first understand its nature.

For truth is not stone, it is water,

It flows and ebbs according to channel and tide,

It freezes into the illusory permanence of ice,

It is moulded into storms and waves that can shatter whole nations,

But always, as water remains water, truth remains truth.

—Injunctions of the First Risen.

Chapter One

The Eye of the Shark

The fisherman waited for the sharks to appear before throwing himself overboard. He had said little since they sailed away from Carthula, his weathered, bearded features betraying little beyond the preoccupation of a skilful soul engaged in a lifelong task. He shortened or lengthened ropes with automatic precision in response to the shift of wind or current, angled the tiller with a carefully light touch that spared his passengers the worst of the sea’s torments, even occasionally casting his nets over the side to ensure they were fed. But he did it all with barely a word spoken.

It was when the Spine appeared that his demeanour abruptly changed. Suddenly, he stood straighter and his narrow grey eyes took on a gleam Guyime recognised as keen anticipation. Also, his brows and lips began to twitch in a manner he recognised all too well: the mask of the mad. Guyime had seen it on more faces than he could count: soldiers who had witnessed too many battles; mothers who had buried too many children; fishermen who had lost their home port along with all the souls they held dear.

Still, the fisherman remained diligent, steering this sturdy but small craft towards the largest gap in the Spine, the channel Guyime knew would provide passage from the Second Sea to the Third. Lakorath, ever the perceptive demon, found reason to worry in the fellow’s change in mood.

Planning to run this shit bucket into the rocks, perhaps, my liege? he mused, the blade strapped to Guyime’s back giving off a small thrum of concern. I don’t relish spending the next few centuries on the sea bed. Fish are decidedly dull company. I suggest a head-lopping, just to be safe.

Guyime ignored the demon, but did keep a closer watch on the fisherman as they drew ever nearer to the Spine. The huge ridge filled the horizon now, resembling a poorly crafted saw as it made jagged progress from north to south. As is the way with seemingly impossible features of land or sea, the Spine was shrouded in a welter of legend ascribing its origin to all manner of divine or monstrous calamities, most featuring krakens or sea serpents of unfeasible size. Today marked Guyime’s third visit to this region and each time he found his skepticism for these legends diminish, for the Spine became both more impressive and more forbidding with each viewing.

It wasn’t only the sheerness of the stone walls ascending from an unceasing froth of waves, or the unnaturally dark hue of the rock which seemed immune to the bleaching of sunlight. Nor was it that the stone was weathered and pockmarked by the elements in a manner that left it smooth rather than coarse, like something polished by time rather than eroded. It was the complete absence of life that made Guyime suspect an unearthly birth for this feature. No birds nested on those cliffs and not a speck of green crowned the Spine’s pointed summits. From end to end this three-hundred-mile-long wall was devoid of life, apart, of course, from the sharks.

“Secauris Nilvus,” Lexius said, using the formal Valkerin name for the first shark that consented to show more than a fin above the choppy waters. “White bellied shark,” he added for clarification although Guyime knew the common name. The beast measured a dozen feet from nose to tail, making it a juvenile specimen of its kind for adults were known to grow to over twenty feet in length. It showed an underside the shade of alabaster as it angled its body and dove once again for the depths; however the increasing number of triangular fins knifing the surrounding waves made it clear it hadn’t been alone.

“I had wondered if the tales of shark-infested waters around the Spine were mere fable,” Lexius went on. “Now I see it confirmed. What do they eat, I wonder? These waters are also notoriously poor in fish or seals.”

His lean features were lively and his eyes wide behind the thick glass lenses strapped to his face. Guyime had seen the former slave-scholar remove his lenses only once during their voyage, revealing small, squinting eyes that gleamed like dark beads amidst skin callused by years of wearing the leather and brass contrivance that kept them in place. Even so, the man’s intellect and unquenchable curiosity still shone bright in those eyes, as they did now. Guyime was compelled to remind himself that, although this recently freed slave had a world’s worth of learning in his head, this voyage represented his first experience of the real world beyond the cages of his youth or the book-filled catacombs beneath his slain master’s house.

It was the fisherman who answered, one of the few full sentences he would utter throughout the voyage. “Each other,” he said in a toneless mutter. “They hunt their own kind ’cause there’s nothing else.”

“Then why do they not migrate to more fruitful waters?” Lexius enquired.

“That.” The fisherman nodded to the towering wall of the Spine, now less than a mile off the prow. “It’s a snare. They swim too close and it catches them, won’t let them swim off. And it changes them. These aren’t as other sharks.”

“How so?” Lexius pressed, clearly fascinated, but the fisherman’s verbosity now appeared exhausted. Wordlessly settling the tiller, he kept the boat on course for the cut in the wall.

At this distance the pass appeared as a narrow slash in the otherwise unbroken barrier of stone teeth. Guyime knew it to be about three hundred yards across at its narrowest point, a decent gap for most craft but it was a treacherous channel. The waters churned constantly, masking a maze of hull-slicing reefs only a few feet below. Navigating it required experience and an expert hand on the tiller, both of which the fisherman claimed to possess, albeit in a soft grunt. Guyime wasn’t sure whether to be reassured or dismayed by the glowering concentration he saw take over the man’s features. With other men he might have voiced an encouraging word or leant close to whisper a dire threat, but he knew this man to be immune to both.

Kill him, Lakorath advised, the demon letting out a sigh of exasperation when Guyime ignored him once again. This newfound… Lakorath paused before expressing the next word with an appropriate measure of disdain …morality is becoming decidedly aggravating, my liege. Need I remind you that it is not thanks to such tiresome mortal notions that you are still breathing?

Guyime gave no reply, as was his wont unless necessity required he converse with the inhabitant of the cursed blade he carried, but he did traverse the deck to stand closer to the fisherman, close enough for the reach of his sword should the need arise. He had steered many a boat in his time and, whilst he couldn’t claim the skill of a true seaman, he knew enough to at least keep this vessel afloat. Successfully clearing the pass, however, was another matter.

“Awful lot of these toothy beggars about now, your worship,” Lorweth advised. The Mareth druid’s gaze betrayed none of Lexius’s keen curiosity as it roved the increasingly busy waters beyond the rails. “I’d raise up some gales to see them off,” he said, flexing his leather gloved hands, “if I thought it’d do any good.”

“It won’t,” Guyime assured him, casting a pointed glance at the boat’s swollen mainsail. “And I’d reckon we have wind enough, thank you, master druid.”

“Some lightning then,” Lorweth suggested, turning to Lexius with a hopeful grin. “Fry a few of the buggers and the rest’ll turn tail.”

Lexius rested a hand on the short sword strapped to his belt, head angled in a manner Guyime knew to mirror his own when listening to the voice of a soul trapped in steel. “My wife’s answer consists of two words,” the scholar informed Lorweth. “Both short.”

“Some arrows perhaps?” Lorweth’s gaze swung towards Seeker, who sat by the prow with Lissah curled up at her side. The elements had stripped away much of the monochrome paint that once covered Seeker’s face, making her sea-born misery plain in the hard lines around her eyes and downturned mouth. She had spent the voyage so far huddled with Lissah, the caracal distracting its mistress from her nausea with constant fussing for more scritches. From the wordless scowl Seeker directed at Lorweth and her failure to reach for the ivory and horn bow propped close to her hand, Guyime divined she had no interest in any other activity at this juncture.

“It would be a waste,” Guyime told the Mareth. “Our real defence lies in successfully clearing the pass.”

He soon had cause to regret uttering this unvarnished truth for it was only a few moments later that the fisherman chose to act. He made no speeches, nor gave any indication as to what provoked his choice. However, Guyime assumed it stemmed from the glance he cast over his shoulder at the darkening cloud gathering above the horizon and the patter of fresh rain upon the deck: the fisherman saw the storm coming and what remained of his resolve to keep living withered under the hopelessness of their course. As waves buffeted the boat’s prow, the mainsail billowed with a rapidly changing wind and the surrounding waters transformed from choppy to fractious, the fisherman let the tiller slip from his grasp, turned to the port rail and leapt over the side.

Guyime quickly grabbed hold of the tiller as the boat tilted to an alarming angle, but not before a steep pitch of the deck revealed the fisherman’s fate in full. Guyime reflected that reason had supplanted madness in the man’s brain with the first bite for he thrashed and screamed in the crimson spume as would any other terrorised soul facing death. Fortunately, the sharks’ frenzied attentions made his cries short and his flailing arms disappeared from view barely seconds after he entered the sea.

“Oh, shite on it!” Lorweth cursed, edging closer to the port rail and casting a squeamish glance at the churning red waters. The Mareth’s voice took on a plaintive whine as he thumped a frustrated fist to the boat’s mainmast. “What did he do that for?”

“To lose one’s home is to lose one’s soul,” Lexius said in tones that indicated a quote.

“It wasn’t all gone,” Lorweth returned. “The outer bits were still mostly there, as I recall.”

“Carthulan fishermen made their homes in the second circle for the most part,” Lexius explained. “A good portion of which we saw destroyed by the kraken’s ghost. I doubt our helmsman had much to go back to.”

“And now we’ve got bugger all chance.” Lorweth cast a glob of spit into the waves, now mostly free of the fisherman’s blood. “Selfish sod!”

A sudden surge set the boat heaving, Guyime having to fight to keep the prow from dipping below the surface as it crested the tallest wave yet. The rain was thickening fast and the sky taking on the colour of an angry bruise. A rumble of thunder sounded soon after followed by the whipcrack of lightning that sent forking tendrils over the summits of the Spine, painting its sheer flanks with a blue-white glow.

“Tell me, master druid,” Guyime called to Lorweth above the increasing gale, “can your particular talent offer any assistance here?”

“Sadly no, your worship,” the Mareth called back, both hands now clutching a bundle of knotted rope affixed to the mainmast in an effort to avoid being sent over the side. “Whilst I can conjure a small storm, I’ve no ability to quell one.”

Guyime’s gaze roved from the darkening clouds to the billowing mainsail. Although the canvas had taken on a chaotic dance, it was clear the storm’s fury lay mostly at their back, meaning it would send them into the pass regardless of any attempt to change course. There was nothing for it but to try and steer this boat through a channel stirred into something resembling a boiling cauldron.

“Draw in the sail!” he called to the others. “Else the wind’s likely to tip us over!”

Watching the three of them engage in a rapid but inexpert lowering of the mainsail, Guyime allowed himself a moment of wry reflection. Although the current occupants of this craft consisted of a beast-charmer, a druid of not unimpressive gifts, and two wielders of the most powerful magical artefacts known to exist, when confronted by nature’s fury they were as helpless as infants barely out of the cradle.

With the sail dragged into an untidy bundle on the deck, the boat’s heaving course became marginally less violent, enabling Guyime to keep the prow roughly in the centre of the approaching channel. The flanks of the cut reared above them now, the storm so thick the summits were lost in the haze of wind-driven rain. Seeing a disconcerting amount of water slosh about the hull beneath the sparse decking, Guyime called to the others to start bailing. They set about the task with the buckets that no fishing craft ever lacked, but it was soon evident their labours were pointless for the water was accumulating far quicker than they could cast it overboard. Guyime let them continue, however, reasoning that it at least gave them something to do.

Upon entering the channel Guyime heard the judder and scrape of the hull meeting submerged stone. Fortunately, it was a glancing blow and the hull remained intact, a stroke of luck he knew to be only temporary. He strove to recall the course taken by the ships that had carried him through this pass before, finding it something to which he had afforded scant attention at the time.

Always the way with kings, Lakorath observed in arch judgment. The skills and knowledge of lesser folk lie beneath their notice.

“You were there too,” Guyime pointed out, the words blowing salt water from his lips. “Or does demon memory fade like a mere mortal’s?”

Of course not. Lakorath’s voice held a note of genuine offence and he allowed an artfully prolonged pause before consenting to provide the required guidance. Steer another five points to starboard or you’ll rip the hull out in short order. Then aim for the promontory to the north at the far end of the pass.

Guyime altered the angle of the tiller accordingly and, although the boat heaved with even more violence, there were no more worrying scrapes to the hull. He blinked brine from his eyes and sought to peer through the swirl of rain and spume to make out the promontory, seeing only chaos.

“I can’t find it!” he shouted, drawing a helpless thrum from the sword.

Then, my liege, I have no more assistance to offer. The demon let out a dispirited sigh. So, the sea bed it is. Perhaps I’ll encounter a friendly octopus. They’re surprisingly clever creatures, you know. There’s enough wit in those tentacles to drag me to the shore, eventually.

Guyime began to voice a profane reply but his anger swiftly turned to alarm when a wave the size of a hill rose directly in the boat’s path. Before he could haul the tiller the prow was lifted to a near vertical angle. He saw Lissah sail yowling through the air then latch her claws onto the mast, long body curling around it. Her mistress was similarly fortunate, sliding across the deck to collide with the mast’s base. The force of the impact caused an ugly torrent of vomit to gush from her mouth, but she found the fortitude to embrace the oak pillar and hold on tight.

Lexius arrested his tumble by the simple expedient of drawing the Kraken’s Tooth and stabbing it into the starboard rail, the stahlius glowing bright as it sank effortlessly into the thick timber. Lorweth, lacking both a demon-cursed blade and, on this occasion, good fortune, described a lazy arc through the pelting rain before plummeting into the waves a dozen yards off the port bow.

Hardly the greatest loss to humanity, Lakorath concluded as the boat came plummeting down. The impact jarred the tiller from Guyime’s grip and left him flailing in a rising pool of bilge water. Sputtering, he heaving himself back into place at the stern, dragging the tiller back to midships. A glance at the heaving sea revealed Lorweth’s flailing arm sinking beneath the surface. Also, slicing through the waves a hundred yards beyond, the tall fin of a full-grown white-bellied shark.

He’s naught but a loud-mouthed, mercenary turncoat, Lakorath pointed out, his voice riven with warning as he sensed the urge rising in Guyime’s breast.

“We would have perished at Carthula without him,” Guyime muttered back. “A debt is a debt.”

DON’T! Lakorath commanded but Guyime was deaf to his outraged shout, calling for Lexius to take the tiller before hurrying to gather up a coil of rope. Knotting it tight about his waist he handed the other end to a baffled Seeker. “Tie it to the mast,” he told her, not tarrying to answer the question on her face before turning and diving over the starboard rail.

After the fury of the storm the world beneath the waves proved a shocking contrast, an endless void of pale blue lit by shifting columns of light streaming through the swirling waves above. He found Lorweth quickly. The druid appeared to have been stunned by his impact with the water, his head and limbs twitching as his body drifted gently downwards. Beyond him, a shadow of slate grey and alabaster white flickered in the dancing fog.

Knowing time was short, Guyime kicked hard, quickly closing the distance to Lorweth and grabbing him about the waist. Naturally, the shark moved with much greater fluency and had come fully into view by the time Guyime’s arms embraced the druid. Even for a mature specimen, Guyime deduced it to be larger than most of its kind. He judged it as close to thirty feet from the tip of its pointed nose, so riven with scars it appeared deformed, to the triangular tail swishing with deceptive slowness.

Closing to striking distance, the beast angled its huge body, back arching and jaws widening to reveal rows of teeth set in a red maw, each the length of a dagger. However, it was its eye that transfixed Guyime, a black orb betraying only utter indifference towards the two morsels it was about to devour. He found it humbling to know himself as prey, something worthy of regard only in the momentary sustenance it provided.

Indeed, my liege, Lakorath mused in dour resignation. The enviable simplicity of the predator’s existence. I do miss it.

The demon’s voice betrayed a not entirely displeased acceptance of Guyime’s imminent death that stirred enough anger to shatter his fascination. Keeping one arm clamped on Lorweth’s midriff, he reached over his shoulder to draw the sword, the blade glowing bright as he levelled it at the shark. He had often called upon the demon’s gift for commanding or distracting the minds of beasts, something that also occasionally worked on the more dull-witted human. It was usually sufficient to snare a horse to his will or freeze a hound or lion in its tracks, but here, its effect was very different.

A rush of displaced water sent Guyime and Lorweth reeling as the shark recoiled, jaws snapping shut and mighty body twisting. Its tail came within an inch of blinding Guyime and he considered himself fortunate to suffer only a shallow cut to the forehead before the beast faded into the gloom below.

It’s not gone, Lakorath assured him, the sword exuding a thick cloud of bubbles as its glow heated the surrounding water. All you have managed to do is banish its indifference. It seems you succeeded in breaking whatever unearthly bonds confine it to these waters. You also made it very angry. 

Feeling the sword tug his arm down, Guyime’s gaze snapped to the vast emptiness below. At first he saw nothing, then a dark circle, growing rapidly in size, blossoming with dismaying speed into a red flower ringed with rows of teeth.

I should like you to know, my liege, Lakorath informed him, speaking with acid precision, that you are the greatest fool who ever wielded me.

A violent jerk and Guyime found himself doubled over, the meagre air remaining in his lungs forced out as the water turned white around him, then disappeared. He felt the chill rush of passing air and the lashing of rain before his back connected painfully with something hard and unyielding.

A prolonged interval of retching and gasping left him senseless until he dragged enough air into his lungs to banish the clouds fogging the edges of his vision. Seeker’s face loomed into view, wincing in concern. Glancing to the side he found Lorweth rolling about on the sodden deck, features slack and no sound coming from his mouth.

“Fortunately, my wife’s facility for levitation remains undiminished.”

Guyime watched Lexius give a tight smile as he hefted the Kraken’s Tooth, the blade glowing a vibrant shade of blue. His satisfaction turned to instant alarm as the boat shuddered from the impact of something large striking the hull.

He’s still angry, Lakorath chimed.

“The tiller!” Guyime gasped, casting an arm towards the stern as he tried vainly to rise. Seeker rushed to take hold of the wooden handle whilst Lexius stumbled to the port rail. Guyime saw a myriad of colours thrum the blade of the Kraken’s Tooth as the scholar held it ready, his gaze searching the water.

“There’s something you can’t do,” Guyime groaned to Lakorath, receiving a dismissive sniff in return.

Parlour tricks from an inferior soul. She’ll probably ask you to pick a card later…

The demon’s voice was drowned when Lexius swiftly lowered the stahlius blade and the air was riven by the peculiar crashing roar that told of lightning. The scholar’s wiry form was outlined in a fierce, eye-straining glow before becoming shrouded in a hefty gust of steam rising from the sea.

“Did you kill it?” Guyime asked, finally managing to gain his feet.

“I’m not sure,” Lexius replied. He continued to stare into the depths for a time, sword poised for another strike, then stepping back as the multi-hued glow faded from the Kraken’s Tooth. “Calandra says he’s gone to find easier prey.”

“Pity his friends don’t share his sentiments,” Guyime said, nodding to the many fins cutting the waves on either side of the boat. However, he took comfort from the fact that the storm had lessened. Rain fell only in a constant patter rather than a deluge and, whilst the wind remained fierce, it no longer possessed the strength to tip them over. Looking to the left of the boat’s bobbing prow he grunted in satisfaction at the vague shape of a rocky promontory resolving out of the haze.

“Steer for that,” he told Seeker, pointing out the landmark before turning back to Lexius. “Help me get the sail up, then we’ll see if our shipmate has contrived to keep living.”

“With my unmatched sorcery and that sword, your worship,” Lorweth enthused, “there’s not a contract we couldn’t secure.”

Guyime didn’t look up from the chart, affording the druid the courtesy of a muttered response. “I’ve led a mercenary’s life before and had my fill of it. Besides, your sorcery is not unmatched, as I recall.”

Lorweth paused for a moment of injured pride. Since waking from a brief period of insensibility following their passage through the Spine, he had been even more ebullient than usual. His expressions of gratitude were flowery and irksome in their frequency. More irksome, however, were his attempts to entice Guyime into his profession.

“I was instructed to lose, as y’well know,” the druid stated. “Just a facet of the role the sorceress’s father had me play. It would’ve been a different tale had we been matched on equal terms.”

Guyime looked up, noticing how Lorweth’s voice had lowered and he failed to mask the careful glance he cast in Lexius’s direction, or rather the direction of the short sword on his belt. Calandra Azrillo may have lost her mortal body when the great city of Carthula fell victim to the roused spirit of a vengeful kraken, but her soul remained both alive and more potent than ever thanks to the properties of the artefact she now inhabited.

“Besides,” the Mareth went on briskly. “I owe you a debt now. Strikes me I won’t get chance to repay it if you all go traipsing after these swords you’re so taken by.”

“I consider all debts between us balanced.” Guyime returned his attention to the chart, putting a note of dismissal to his voice as he added, “And our course is not your concern, master druid. When we reach our destination, please be sure to seek out one of your own.”

He sensed Lorweth hesitate, perhaps in an attempt to convey hurt feelings Guyime doubted truly lay within the province of the Mareth’s greed-driven heart. He was an unusual breed amongst his people, for in Guyime’s experience the Mareth put scant stock in wealth. Commerce within their realms, such as it was, consisted mostly of barter and they had no form of currency beyond familial loyalty. But, clearly not a man to push his luck, Lorweth duly retreated to the prow without a further word.

“Remarkable.”

Guyime’s eyes flicked to Lexius, seeing the fascination in his scholarly gaze as he scanned the chart. New lines had appeared after they cleared the Spine, some snaking off into spirals before fading away. Others tracked haphazard courses in all directions before they too disappeared to be replaced by others. Only one stayed true, a gently curving line that proceeded east until it blossomed out into a complex pictogram showing a city constructed atop a series of circles of diminishing size.

“The Cartographer’s work, I assume.” The scholar’s narrow mouth formed a smile as he continued to stare at the chart.

“Quite so,” Guyime said, his voice hardening to reflect the grim mood that rose when his thoughts turned to the Cartographer. “One I paid for in full, which didn’t prevent her betraying me to your former master the moment I was out of her sight.”

“At least she was consistent in her treachery,” Lexius offered. “She featured in many of my researches, accounts that date back several centuries, and none paint her in a flattering light.” His magnified eyes narrowed a little as he peered closer at the chart. “But they also attest to her considerable powers. This chart will lead you to the remaining five swords, I assume?”

“And Ekiri,” Guyime added, glancing at Seeker who continued to helm the boat now they were in the far calmer waters of the Third Sea. She said it distracted her from her seasickness for which Guyime was grateful; her constant retching was becoming tiresome. “My companion’s daughter, as you recall,” he added. “The Cartographer indicated their fates were bound together in some way, but was vague on the details.”

“The daughter sold as a slave to Ultrius Domiano Carvaro, one of the Exultia of Atheria. He cropped up in Queyo Vatori’s correspondence from time to time. It seemed he shared my master’s interest in antiquities, but whilst Vatori was mainly concerned with amassing ancient texts, Ultrius Domiano appeared more interested in the visual arts. It’s said he possesses the finest collection of painting and sculpture in all the Five Seas.”

“Your point being, that such a remarkable collection might include one of the Seven Swords.”

“If one could be found, such an avid collector would surely desire to own it. The question is: which one. Not all the names of the Seven Swords are known, and those that are change with the passage of time. The Kraken’s Tooth is a notable exception. But the others…” Lexius’s spindly shoulders moved in a shrug. “I’ve read of one dubbed the Trickster’s Dagger by the Warrior Priests of the northern icelands, which I believe has also been called the Conjurer’s Blade. There are tales of another known as the Sword of the Oracle that later becomes the Seer’s Blade or the Diviner’s Scalpel. Sadly, a confusion of names is inevitable when one hunts for legends.”

“And this?” Guyime gestured to the sword on his back. “What names does it bear?”

“None, that I know of. Although some primitive cultures mistook its inhabitant for a god and named it such, none have lasted in human memory. Its record in history consists mainly of the havoc it wreaks and the destruction left in its wake.”

“A nameless blade then.”

Not acceptable, my liege, Lakorath stated, the sword exuding a heated pulse of consternation. The Sword of Havoc suits me better. Or perhaps the Blade of Destiny? Sword of the Ravager. Now, that’s a good one…

“The Nameless Blade it is,” Guyime said. “To be known forever as such. When you write of our journey, I would prefer it recorded thus.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Call me Guyime, or, if it pleases you, call me Pilgrim as Seeker does. I’m no longer any kind of lord and you are a free man.”

“I am no longer a slave, it is true, but a lord remains a lord as long as he is worthy of the title.” Lexius paused to offer a cautionary grimace. “Ultrius Domiano will not be an easy man to approach. Members of the Exultia occupy the very pinnacle of Atherian society. As a sign of their peerless nobility they wear masks to hide their features from the merely wealthy and refuse to acknowledge even the existence of the lesser orders.”

Guyime gave a soft grunt as he furled the map into a scroll. “I’ve never yet encountered a door I couldn’t open, or break down if need arose. This collector of fine art will talk to us, one way or another.”

“And if he does possess one of the swords?”

“Then he’ll give it to me, one way or the other.”

Chapter Two

Atheria

Viewed from afar, the city of Atheria seemed wondrous to the inexperienced eye. The tall, marble spires that formed its centre shone white even beneath a clouded sky, creating a beacon of sorts that proclaimed it as a place of great wealth. Guyime knew the city enjoyed much the same commerce as Valkeris whilst also being half the size of that eternal metropolis, but it was a wealth not universally enjoyed by its citizens.

When approaching from the sea a visitor was unable to discern the five rings that formed this great port, hewn from the upper western coast of the Ebernian Peninsular. The outer ring was the only one to be incomplete; a mile-wide gap formed the busy harbour where it was said a thousand ships berthed and departed every day. Each ring was separated from the other by canals that widened as they proceeded into the city’s heart, so that by the time they reached this privileged island, dubbed the Cora Exultia, it had become separated from the lesser regions by a small sea. Its palaces, theatres and galleries rose five storeys high in places and featured spires that would sometimes pierce the clouds when the air grew humid. The whiteness of these marble wonders leant it an opulence that contrasted starkly with the besmirched outer rings. Here the beggared masses lived crammed into tenement slums and gleaned what coin they could from servicing the docks or engaging in the rampant criminality that always accompanied a busy harbour.

“Smells worse than Sallish,” Seeker commented as Guyime guided the boat into the harbour, aiming for the western extremity where small craft moored up to feed the fish market. The beast charmer’s gaze had taken on a familiar, near predatory cast as it surveyed the city and he needed no guidance from Lakorath to know what she hoped to see.

“Because it’s bigger,” Guyime told her. “More people, more stink.”

Her narrowed eyes shifted to meet his. “More slaves too?” she asked but it was Lexius who answered.

“Atheria styles itself a free city,” he said. “Owning slaves is not permitted within the city proper, but the trade is tolerated within the confines of the docks. Most slaves transported here will be sold at the flesh market and then shipped off. Slavers favour this port because of its famed neutrality, so captives taken in war can be bought and sold without any diplomatic complications.”

Seeing a flicker of dismay pass over Seeker’s face, Guyime said, “But Ekiri was bought by a member of the Exultia. Wouldn’t that mean she might still be here?”

“Possibly,” Lexius conceded. “Custom dictates that Atherian merchants take no direct part in the slave trade, but they are permitted to buy slaves in order to free them. This is usually done on the basis of the purchased individual accepting the role of an indentured servant. Since such indenture typically lasts for decades, they are essentially exchanging one form of slavery for another.”

“Then it’s possible,” Seeker said, “that Ekiri may at this very moment be labouring in this Exultia’s house?”

Guyime took notice of the weight she put on the word ‘labouring’ and the way her hand tightened on her bow stave as she said it.

“We’ll need to investigate,” he said, hoping his placid tone would quell any more direct alternatives she might consider. “And carefully, this place is more dangerous than it appears.”

They sold the boat to the fishing wharf’s overseer for two score of the thin copper triangles that served as currency in Atheria. Guyime had long given up on trying to gauge the relative worth of coinage, as it changed so rapidly over the years. However, Lexius judged it a decent price for such a ragged and storm-beaten vessel. Certainly, the pitch of Lorweth’s pique when Guyime denied him an equal share of the purse indicated it to be a tidy enough sum.

“All debts balanced, you said,” the druid said with a frown when Guyime handed him only three of the triangles.

“And they are,” Guyime replied. “But not all crimes are forgotten. Besides, our mission is of great import and requires a war chest.” He felt a momentary temptation to offer Lorweth additional coin for lending his skills to this enterprise, but a disdainful sneer from Lakorath confirmed his instinct that it would be unwise: The man is too much a mercenary to ever be trustworthy, my liege. Lexius and Calandra saw the need to find the swords, and Seeker was ever compelled by her hunt for Ekiri. Although Guyime couldn’t judge him as malign, he knew the druid’s soul was mostly consumed by greed.

“So then,” Lorweth said, forcing a smile as he pocketed the money. “Reckon I’ll be leaving all this dangerous sword finding to you, your worship. Word of advice, if ye’ll allow me? I’m no seer, but even I can sense a swirl of ill omens around this whole endeavour. Bestow a favour upon the world and let the swords alone.”

He backed away, raising two fingers to his forehead in the Mareth sign of farewell to a kinsman. “May the winds favour your course, in any case.” He nodded briefly to Lexius and Seeker before turning and disappearing into the raucous bustle of the fish market.

Guyime expected some manner of dark advice from Lakorath but it was Seeker who spoke. “I don’t like the thought of leaving him at our back. Not knowing all he knows about our intent.” Lissah bristled at her side, tail coiling and lips drawing back in anticipation. “She can take care of it,” Seeker added, “and quietly.”

“He’s greedy enough to sell us out to any interested party,” Guyime said. “But also wise enough to know the risks of doing so. Leave him be.”

Guyime had intended to make enquiries at the nearest customs post, but Lexius suggested approaching a suitably connected merchant house instead. “Atherian officials are notoriously difficult to bribe,” the scholar advised. “And the bureaucracy of this city is legendarily labyrinthine. Those of a commercially inclined nature are likely to be more helpful, if profit is part of the enquiry.”

“Meaning we’ll have to have something to offer to ensure their cooperation,” Guyime said.

“Yes, and fortunately, my lord,” Lexius touched a hand to the hilt of the Kraken’s Tooth before casting a meaningful glance at the sword on Guyime’s back, “we both possess items that are sure to pique the interest of their Ultrius.”

Even as a king Guyime had never had much patience for the tedium that arose from dealing with bankers or merchants. Throughout his reign he had delegated such things to subordinates of appropriately loyal inclinations gifted with the correct temperament and knowledge. Fortunately, Lexius possessed the latter qualities in abundance. So, whilst Guyime and Seeker prowled the lobby of the Carvaro Mercantile Bank under the gaze of the half dozen guards flanking the door, Lexius approached a high, broad mahogany desk. Over the course of several hours the scholar continued to engage a series of clerks, senior clerks and supervising clerks with remarkably affable solicitation.

Guyime thought the clerks must all belong to the same family, so alike were they in their plain attire and pinched, narrow faces. Age was the only obvious indicator of status amongst them, although the lack of expression betrayed in response to Lexius’s enquiry increased with each face that appeared behind the desk. The first, and youngest, had been the most telling, although even his marginal narrowing of the eyes and twitch of the mouth at the mention of Ultrius Domiano Carvaro hadn’t revealed much.

“We will, of course,” the most recently appeared clerk said some three hours after they entered the establishment, “need to inspect and appraise the items in question before this matter can proceed any further.”

“Appraisal of antiquities would, naturally, be part of any negotiation,” Lexius replied with his boundless equanimity. “However, given the inestimable value of what myself and my colleagues have to offer, we could only permit it at a venue of our choosing and in the presence of the Ultrius himself.”

Guyime saw some expression on the clerk’s face then, merely a pursing of the lips, but it was accompanied by a thin sheen of sweat on his balding pate, and this room was cool. “That,” the clerk stated, voice clipped and flinty, “will not be possible at any juncture. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the customs of this city, but to imagine any member of the Exultia would condescend to place himself in such…” the clerk’s mouth twisted in disdain, “…company is absurd, sir. You will deal with me or you will not deal at all…”

His voice faltered to a halt at the echo of Guyime’s boots on the floor. The clerk’s narrow face paled at his approach but he managed not to quail until Guyime came to a stop and reached over his shoulder to draw the sword.

“My name,” he told the clerk, “is Guyime Mathille, formerly King Guyime, First and Only of His Name, known commonly as the Ravager, and this,” he tilted the sword as Lakorath giggled and allowed a faint blue glow to ripple along the steel, “is a demon-cursed blade I have carried for the span of several mortal lifetimes. It is one of seven. My friend,” he nodded to Lexius, “carries another, the Kraken’s Tooth, recovered from the bowels of the city of Carthula, most of which recently fell into the sea, as I’m sure you will be aware. These swords are both for sale and the price matches their value. If your master wishes to purchase them, he can come and find us, in person.”

Guyime turned about, sliding the sword into the scabbard and offering a grim smile to the now tense guards at the door. “And if this brace of bastards tries to stop us, we’ll kill them.”

They found an upmarket boarding house amidst the cleaner neighbourhood several streets from the docks. A two-storey villa with a pleasant garden complete with fountain, it was frequented by the more succesful breed of sea captain who preferred not to suffer the company of their sailors whilst ashore.

“How many rooms, good sir?” enquired the matronly woman who greeted them at the door. Guyime liked her for the creditable effort she made to conceal her nervousness, for they were an unusal trio and the sight of Lissah tended to unsettle most folk. Her demeanour also brightened considerably when Guyime handed her the full purse of triangles.

“All of them,” he said. “Just for tonight.”

The housekeeper’s fingers tightened on the purse, though her face retained an understandable level of uncertainty. “I have three other guests at present…”

“Tell them to leave.” Guyime’s gaze roved over the exterior of the building, judging the likely points of ingress for assassins. “For their own health,” he added, offering the housekeeper a smile which evidently failed to convey reassurance. “And you, good woman, would be best advised to sleep elsewhere this night. Don’t worry,” he patted her shoulder as he stepped through the door, “we’ll be gone by morning, although I can’t promise there won’t be some cleaning to do afterwards.”

“You’re sure they’ll come?” Seeker asked a few hours later. They stood together on the villa’s second-floor balcony, a fortuitous vantage point that offered uninterrupted views of the surrounding streets. She had her bow in hand with an arrow nocked to the string. Lissah had disappeared come twilight and Guyime knew she would be patrolling the rooftops, ready to communicate a warning to her mistress at the approach of any threat. The three sea captains in residence had displayed varying levels of reluctance in surrendering their berths, but there were few souls capable of maintaining courage when confronted by a demon-cursed blade. The housekeeper had vanished by nightfall, but not before setting out some refreshment for her untypical guests.

“Someone will,” Guyime said, popping a grape into his mouth and reaching for the crystal caraffe of rose-coloured wine the housekeeper had kindly provided.

“Lured by the promise of swords you have no intention of selling.” Seeker’s brow creased doubtfully. “In my experience, wealthy folk don’t like to be disappointed.”

“In my experience, wealthy folk fear like any other, and bleed the same too.”

“Is it your intention to cause chaos here? Bring another city down so you can sift through the rubble to find your treasured swords? They are the most important thing, are they not?”

The edge of bitter concern in her voice made him pause in the act of pouring wine into a goblet. “Ekiri has equal importance,” he assured her. “If she’s here, we won’t leave without her.”

Her face tensed, gaze becoming downcast as she murmured, “She isn’t. I…sense it. She was here, but not now.”

“Then the man who bought her will tell us where she went.” Guyime filled the goblet with a generous measure and raised it to his lips. “Not bad at all,” he said, arching a questioning eyebrow to her as he reached for the caraffe again. “Care to try some?”

Seeker didn’t answer, her grim features shifting abruptly into keen-eyed alertness as she crouched, gaze focused on the streets below. Guyime could see nothing of interest, but knew somewhere out there a caracal perched unseen as she communicated a warning to the beast charmer.

“Someone comes,” Seeker said.

“How many?”

Seeker’s face took on a puzzled frown. “Just one. A man, alone and unarmed.”

The solitary visitor came into view a moment later, a trim figure in a dark, knee-length robe moving with a steady but unhurried stride. “If he’s an assassin,” Seeker said, “he’s a brave one.”

“I suspect him to be a fellow of a more worrisome stripe.” Guyime set his wine goblet down and turned to go inside.

“A sorcerer then?” Seeker asked.

“No,” Guyime winced as he made his way to the stairs. “A bureaucrat.”

“Tolemio Lucarni,” the dark-robed man introduced himself, placing a hand on his chest and lowering his head. Guyime had visited this region often enough to recognise it as the customary greeting of respect for equals used by the upper reaches of Atherian society. The fellow’s status was also signified by his mask which covered only the upper half of his face. Full face masks were the province of the Exultia and those who shared their blood. Lucarni’s mask was a finely crafted but not overly opulent mix of dark lacquer and mother-of-pearl, creating an impression of monochrome anonymity not unlike Seeker’s now vanished paint. The lower half of his face was covered by a short beard salted in grey, bespeaking a man with more years than his trim form might have indicated. But Guyime felt Lucarni’s voice to be his most telling characteristic, only a note shy of gruffness with the well-modulated pronunciation that betrayed a soul who understood the importance of unambiguous communication.

Not truly a bureaucrat, Guyime concluded. This is a man of the law.

“I have the honour,” Lucarni went on, his next words confirming Guyime’s appraisal in full measure, “to occupy the role of Enquiring Magistrate of the Atherian Governing Council.”

“Guyime…”

“I know who you are,” Lucarni cut in as Guyime returned his gesture. “And your companions. You were fulsome in your introduction at the offices of the Carvaro Mercantile Bank.”

“Have they registered a complaint?” Guyime asked. “Reported a criminal transgression? That is your business, is it not? The investigation of crimes.”

“It is.” Lucarni’s lips shifted beneath the edge of his mask, forming a fractional smile. “And they have not. However, your enquiries there were reported in full to their superiors, who in turn reported them to the Governing Council and they,” the smile slipped from his lips, “reported them to me.”

The magistrate’s gaze was mostly hidden within the shadowed eyeholes of the mask, but Guyime saw a faint glitter within and knew Lucarni was taking a good look at the sword handle jutting above his shoulder. Guyime said nothing, deciding the outcome of this conversation would be best served by allowing the other party to reveal their intent.

“You sailed here from Carthula,” Lucarni said. “Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“All manner of strange and lurid tales have reached this port recently regarding Carthula. Are you in a position to confirm any of them?”

Guyime reply was prompt but uninflected. “The heart of the city was destroyed and tumbled into the sea.”

“You saw this?”

“We did.”

“Have you any notion of what caused such a calamity?”

“The roused and vengeful spirit of a long-dead kraken.”

The small points of light within the shadowed eyeholes dimmed, indicating a gaze narrowed in deep suspicion. “And do you know what roused it?”

“The unwise machinations of the late and unlamented Vatori Dio Azrallo, Queyo of the now extinct House Azrallo.”

The name of Azrallo clearly held some meaning, for the magistrate paused before asking another question. “You can confirm that Queyo Azrallo is dead?”

“I can, and gladly.”

“And the manner of his death?”

Guyime saw Lexius shift a little and decided that providing a full account of Azrallo’s fate was probably unwise. “Crushed beneath a great deal of falling rock,” he said. “An end he fully deserved, I assure you.”

“So, you are not here on his account.” This wasn’t a question and Guyime heard a conclusion in the magistrate’s voice. He thought Azrallo might have sent us, he realised. If so, why would that be an issue? The wealthy folk of the Five Seas trade and intrigue with each other all the time.

Isn’t it obvious, my liege? Lakorath asked, voice laden with a smugness born of demonic insight. He gave a small laugh in response to Guyime’s impatient and unspoken demand for clarification before consenting to elaborate. A servant of the law comes instead of a servant of the Ultrius. Why would that be? Another, aggravatingly long pause. Because the bastard’s dead, of course. Murdered, I assume, and this one thinks you might have some link to it. He’s searching for motives. A man keen of both mind and eye, my liege. Also, immune to any form of bribery. He delights in the solving of mysteries and the application of justice. Have a care how you deal with him, or just kill him now.

“We came here to trade with Ultrius Carvaro,” Guyime said. “Would I be wrong in assuming we’ve had a wasted journey?”

The magistrate’s posture barely altered, but the small shift in the angle of his masked features betrayed the fact that he was taking another, longer look at Guyime’s sword. “So, the tales have some substance to them,” he murmured. “Your demon whispers hidden truths.”

“He’s not mine,” Guyime said. “And he rarely whispers. I believe we would both benefit from some plain speaking. Ultrius Carvaro is dead, is he not?”

The mask shifted again, a slight nod. “He is.”

“And you have come to ascertain if our presence here has any bearing on his murder. He was murdered, I take it?”

“He was. And, whilst your arrival so soon after his demise certainly raised my interest, my primary goal in coming here was to extend an invitation.”

“To what?”

“The Galleria of Ultrius Domiano Carvaro.” The same thin, brief smile rose then faded from the magistrate’s lips. “His heir would very much like to meet you.”

Chapter Three

The Carvaro Galleria

The barge that carried them through the maze of canals and across the miniature sea to the Cora Exultia was at least twice the size of the fishing boat that had borne them from Carthula. Despite its impressive dimensions it was a plain craft, lacking the elaborate carvings and bright paintwork of the other barges they encountered. The five strong crew all wore similarly dark and unadorned garb to Lucarni and treated him with a marked deference. Guyime also noted that none bore arms and their journey from the boarding house to the canal had been free of any escort. The magistrate either knew that attempting to compel their cooperation through a display of force would be pointless or assumed that their mission, whatever it might be, ensured their acceptance of his invitation.

As they approached across the darkened waters, the Cora Exultia resembled the crown of an unseen giant, the blazing beacon fires and countless torches painting its classical pillars and arches in shifting hues of gold. The light dimmed as it ascended the flanks of the spires, their pinnacles lost to the night sky. To Guyime it seemed something from one of the many paintings celebrating the wondrous architecture of the Valkerin Empire at its height, even though he knew this had all been raised long after the empire’s fall in the cataclysm at the climax of the Kraken Wars. 

When I first came here, Lakorath mused as the spires of the Cora Exultia loomed above, this island was home to a collection of huts inhabited by mud-covered savages who thought the shiny thing they pulled from the water to be a gift from their shrimp god. It was a skinny, teenage girl who had the misfortune to bind herself to me. Some of the other savages didn’t like the truths that spilled from her mouth so tried to sacrifice her to the Mighty Shrimp. She used me to cut them into little pieces and proclaim herself a queen. By the time she died some centuries later, a messy business involving a veritable army of fire-conjuring shamans from the neighbouring tribes, that collection of huts was a decent sized town. In many ways I could be said to be the father of this city, and is there a single statue or shrine to me here? Is there buggery. Mortals are ever the most ungrateful wretches.

“Are you capable of telling any story that doesn’t end in despair and death?” Guyime enquired.

All stories end thus, my liege. Except mine. I just continue.

“Until the day I have all seven swords within my grasp.” He had noticed recently how mention of the swords tended to achieve something he had once thought impossible, to wit, making Lakorath shut up. So it proved now, the demon maintaining a sullen silence as the barge moored at a jetty jutting from the base of a sheer, cliff-like edifice that apparently formed the west-facing wall of the Carvaro Galleria. The edifice was rich in windows, tall and narrow, the light of the barge’s torches revealing panes of real glass stained in various hues. Guyime imagined the spectacle they created within when the sun set must be something to see.

Lucarni led the way as the three of them followed him along the jetty and past the two fully armoured guards stationed at the galleria’s entrance. The magistrate was evidently expected for the sentries drew back their halberds and stood to attention as he passed through the door, offering no word of greeting nor any acknowledgement of their presence. This was how it was here, Guyime knew, those set above others by dint of birth only deigned to notice their lessers when compelled to do so. He felt it boded ill for the outcome of their impending meeting with Carvaro’s heir.

He sensed Seeker’s increasing tension as they followed Lucarni up successive flights of marble stairs. In all the long years of her hunt, she had never come so close to real evidence of her daughter’s continued existence. Now answers were at hand and he knew she feared what she might find as much as she hungered for it.

“Have you a scent of her?” he asked.

“No more than the faintest trace.” Despair flickered across Seeker’s face before she forced her features into something resembling calm determination. “But she was here. I have no doubt of it. Also,” her gaze narrowed and voice lowered to a murmur as they came to the last flight of stairs, “this place has seen death recently, and not just once. And the killer lingers. It has the feel of a hunting ground not yet denuded of prey.”

“Is the killer human?” Guyime asked. “Or something else.”

“Human,” she confirmed after a moment’s reflection. “But…changed. Not demon, but no longer fully mortal. I smell more rage than malice here.”

The beast lover is wrong, my liege, Lakorath put in. Apparently, the chance to cast doubt on Seeker’s word was sufficient reason to break his sulk. There’s a demon within these walls. I know the stink of my own kind.

Lucarni took a left turn into a long, heavily shadowed corridor lit by a succession of large candles placed atop iron stands, their footfalls echoing loud in the empty space. “The only region of the galleria to feature no art,” the magistrate explained. “Even Ultrius Carvaro felt the need for a respite from the wonders he had collected, so placed his personal quarters in this wing so he could conduct business without fear of distraction.”

“Is this where he died?” Guyime asked, which caused Lucarni to lapse into a short silence.

“We’ll discuss all the relevant details in due course,” he said. “Once the terms of your assistance have been agreed.”

“You assume a great deal,” Guyime pointed out. “First that we will be capable of assisting you, and second that we would have any interest in doing so.”

“One thing all those called to the role of investigator learn very quickly,” Lucarni replied, a subtle note of humour creeping into his tone, “is never to assume anything.”

He brought the party to a halt at a broad set of substantial doors where another pair of guards stood to attention. This time it appeared the magistrate’s rank was not sufficient to gain unquestioned entry.

“Magistrate Lucarni to see the Ultria,” he said. “We are expected.”

The guard on the left took a long appraising look at the magistrate’s unusual companions, gaze hardening as it tracked over their weapons.

“I believe instruction regarding the usual restrictions was also given,” Lucarni added.

The guard’s face hardened in reluctant acknowledgement. Turning, he nodded to his comrade and they hauled the heavy doors open before standing aside. The space beyond was large but dimly lit, Guyime’s gaze picking out a scattering of candles, flickering like distant campfires in the gloom.

“Speak only when addressed directly,” Lucarni said, his voice betraying a controlled but clear note of trepidation. “And don’t take offence if her manner appears…strange. She knows nothing of the world beyond the Cora.”

The loud echo of their footfalls on marble became the duller tread of shoe leather on wood as he led them inside. A downward glance revealed a floor of polished mahogany gleaming in the candlelight. The meagre glow revealed little of the chamber they had entered, although Guyime was able to make out the dark lines of many shelves lining the walls. Ahead, he made out the silhouette of a slender figure standing at a large oval-shaped window affording a view of the western edge of the Cora Exultia.

The figure turned at the sound of their approach, revealing a full-face mask composed mostly of silver, the eyeholes and mouth ringed in small reddish beads Guyime soon realised were rubies. Bejewelled combs, also of silver, glittered in the dark mass of her hair. Her gown, black for mourning, was adorned by rows of pearls that swept down from her shoulders to narrow at the waist before expanding to form a star field on her skirts. Such a display of wealth should have been garish but Guyime instead thought it remarkably elegant, as was the graceful manner in which this masked woman stepped away from the window and raised a hand when Lucarni began to voice his introductions.

“I increasingly find formalities tiresome, Magistrate,” she told him in a smooth, modulated tone that mixed authority with a smaller measure of affection. Denied the sight of her face, Guyime couldn’t judge the sincerity of either emotion. “Not to mention wasteful of time at this juncture. I know full well who these people are.”

“Then,” Guyime said, deciding to test Lucarni’s strictures against talking without first being addressed, “you have the advantage on us, my lady.”

She angled her head, remaining still and wordless for the space of a heartbeat before he heard a small laugh emerge from between the frozen lips of the mask. “Quite so, your highness,” she said. “How remiss of me.” She gave another display of peerless grace by arranging herself into a curtsey, lowering her head in a manner that drew a part-smothered gasp from Lucarni.

“I am Orsena Carvaro,” the woman said, holding the pose with a dancer’s precision. “Ultria of House Carvaro, and I bid you welcome to my home.” She rose from the curtsey with much the same poise as she had adopted it, raising hands gloved in black lace to gesture at their surroundings as she went on in her silken tones. “Please forgive the parlous lighting. Ancient Atherian custom dictates that no flame larger than a candle be lit in a house stricken by the loss of an Ultrius.”

She paused, the thin light shifting like oil on the surface of her mask as the blank eyes tracked over Guyime’s face. “No condolences to offer me, your highness?” she enquired. “My last visitor, the Chief Treasurer to the Governing Council, was so bereft on my behalf he collapsed into a sobbing mess and had to be carried from this chamber.”

“I didn’t know your father,” Guyime replied. “So can’t mourn his passing. But I suspect if I had known him, I wouldn’t be weeping now.”

This brought an appalled hiss from Lucarni. Guyime felt sure the magistrate was about to utter a rebuke until the Ultria once again raised a hand. “Honest insight is to be welcomed,” she said, moving closer. Guyime wondered at the skill of her dressmaker in arranging mere fabric in such a way as to make even the simple act of walking across a room an object of fascination.

Oh no, Lakorath said in a sigh of weary recognition. Not another infatuation, please, my liege. What an army can’t accomplish after a day of slaughter, the right woman can in seconds.

“The lost King of the Northlands,” Orsena Carvaro mused, halting a single step short of him. Unlike the magistrate, Guyime could see nothing within the eyeholes of her mask, but the sense of deep, penetrating scrutiny was uncomfortably strong. “Persecutor and ravager of the Risen Church.”

Guyime found he had to cough before voicing a reply, something that drew an inevitable caustic laugh from Lakorath. “You thought I would be taller, I assume.”

“No, older.”

She switched her gaze to Lexius who until this moment had been carefully surveying the room, his magnified and scholarly gaze no doubt seeing more than Guyime had amongst the shadowed shelves. “My father,” Orsena said, “once offered Queyo Azrallo a purse of diamonds for a slave in his possession. A man, it was rumoured, who had memorised every word ever written in the Five Seas. Having such a man in his service would have brought him great joy, for he had so many more treasures to collect. Sadly, the Queyo sent a reply stating that even a whole chest of diamonds would not be enough.”

“Not every word, Ultria,” Lexius said, offering Orsena a deep bow. “And memorisation is an empty skill, since memory without insight is like a knife without an edge.”

“Well said. You still go by Lexius, I’m told. A free man could choose his own name, could he not?”

“He could.” Lexius flexed his fingers over the pommel of the Kraken’s Tooth. “But it is the name my wife uses, and so I keep it.”

Orsena lowered her own head a fraction before shifting to stand before Seeker. As she did so Lissah slunk from her mistress’s side to wind her sinewy form around the Ultria’s skirts, tail coiling as she emitted a chorus of loud purrs.

“How wonderful!” Orsena exclaimed, crouching to play a hand over Lissah’s back, now arched in delight. “Her name?” Orsena asked, glancing up at Seeker.

“Lissah,” Seeker stated shortly. Guyime saw anger rising in the beast charmer’s gaze and wondered if she saw the caracal’s uncharacteristic affection for this woman as a betrayal, although he doubted it. The cat was bonded to her in a manner that couldn’t be broken, but she retained a good deal of agency. This apparently included free choice of who she allowed to pet her, a list that didn’t include Guyime. However, he soon discerned that Seeker’s anger stemmed not from jealousy but a basic impatience with all this useless talk when she had a most pressing question to ask. She spoke on with barely a pause, tone hard and demanding. “Your father purchased a slave named Ekiri some time ago. A girl with colouring like mine who probably didn’t speak your tongue…”

“Actually, she spoke it very well,” Orsena cut in. “Such a sweet voice too. Rather like the birds she cared for.”

“Birds?”

“Yes. The south-eastern wing of the galleria is given over to Father’s menagerie, the pride of which is the aviary. Birds of every breed and colour from all corners of the world brought here for his delight. However, they were often an unruly lot, given to killing one another with annoying regularity. Father reasoned, correctly as it transpired, that a servant with beast charmer blood could calm them.”

Guyime watched Seeker try to keep a succession of emotions from her face, mostly without success. He saw the ever-present guilt war with joy before being overcome by a mix of surprise and pride. “She…she could charm them?”

“Yes. Some more than others, but often her mere presence was enough to quiet their endless quarrels.”

“I…” Seeker’s voice was hoarse and moist beads shone in her eyes, “…never taught her how.”

“Some gifts are innate, as with the most talented artists.” Orsena straightened from the caracal to address Seeker in a brisk but not unkind tone. “You wish to know where she is, of course. I’m sad to say that she departed my service only a day after my father’s demise. It was my first act as Ultria to annul the indentures of all servants in my employ. They were invited to stay and receive due reward for their service, and many chose to do so. Others, Ekiri amongst them, chose to leave.”

Guyime watched Seeker take a long breath, the candlelight shifting as it played over the tensed planes of her face. “Where…?” she began in a choked voice only for Orsena to reach out and clasp her hand. This was clearly another remarkable breach of etiquette judging by the start it provoked from Lucarni.

“Perhaps, Ultria,” he said, “this matter could be more fulsomely discussed once we have agreed on how to best address the more pressing issue…”

He fell to an abrupt silence as Orsena’s mask swung towards him and Guyime found it strange that a frozen parody of a human face could still communicate the sense of a withering glance.

“She went to find her mother, of course,” Orsena said, turning back to Seeker. “I paid her in full for her years of service and she took ship with the next tide. One of my own freighters, the Silken Lady, bound for the ports on the southern reaches of the Second Sea. This was eight days ago.”

“Eight days,” Seeker repeated in a whisper, her gaze widening in alarm and shifting to meet Guyime’s. “The storm.”

“The ship may have avoided it,” he replied. “There are other routes to the Second Sea.”

“All ships belonging to House Carvaro are required to release a messenger bird whenever they dock,” Orsena said, patting Seeker’s hand. “The Silken Lady is due to arrive at her first port of call in three days. The bird should arrive here shortly after. I will be happy to provide accommodation if you wish to wait.”

“In return for our assistance, I assume,” Guyime said which drew the Ultria’s blank eyes to him.

“In return for nothing, your highness,” she said, a certain hardness colouring her voice for the first time. “As for your assistance, I do have something to offer in return.” Her mask altered its gaze a fraction and he knew she was looking at the handle of his sword. “Something I’m told you greatly desire.”

“You have one of the Seven Swords,” Guyime said, disliking the slightly breathless hunger with which he spoke. Once again, he coughed and once again Lakorath found it amusing, although his laugh had grown more sour than venomous.

Why not simply allow her to attach strings to your limbs, my liege? the demon suggested. It’ll save us all a great deal of time.

“My father was the greatest collector of art and antiquities in all the known world,” Orsena replied before adopting a prolonged silence. It was a deliberately cryptic response, one that promised both nothing and everything.

“For a woman who has never left this galleria,” Guyime said, “you appear highly educated in matters of business, my lady Ultria.”

A tinny, partly restrained laugh emerged from her mask as she curtsied once more, imbuing her form with an even greater level of poised elegance. “Why, thank you kindly, your highness.” She straightened quickly, clasping her lace-webbed hands together and striding towards the door. “Now, let’s be about it, shall we? Best to start by showing you where my father died, don’t you think?”

Chapter Four

The Temesia Collecta

The guards followed as Orsena led them through the halls of the Carvaro Galleria. The echoing emptiness of this wing soon gave way to chamber after chamber filled with statuary, and wall after wall lined with paintings and tapestries. Guyime’s unnatural span of years gave him an appreciation of artistic expression and its many variations across era and region. Consequently, he soon realised the Ultria’s description of her father had been no idle boast.

One chamber was given over entirely to statues of the Valkerin pantheon, some clearly dating back to that great city’s earliest days, making their value and rarity incalculable. Another was filled with fine pottery of exceptional delicacy and intricate decoration that must have been caravanned, at staggering expense, from beyond the desert roads of the land bordering the Fifth Sea.

Most familiar of all was the collection of painted wood panels depicting the principal saints of the Risen Church. He could tell at a glance that there were no copies here, these were original, ancient triptychs once found adorning the church’s most venerated chapels and cathedrals. Crude compared to much of the wonders on display within these walls, they still possessing enough clarity and meaning to summon an old urge, one he hadn’t felt since he pondered murdering Book, the murderous Risen priest from his sojourn across the Execration.

So, it seems you didn’t actually burn it all, Lakorath commented as they made their way through the disconcerting collection. How uncharacteristically remiss of you to allow so much blasphemous frippery to survive, my liege.

Guyime gave no reply, keeping his gaze focused on the slim, black satin form of Orsena Carvaro, which he found to be a welcome distraction. Looking too long at this particular gallery, he knew, would soon have him scattering lamp oil and lighting a torch.

Such hatred, Lakorath chided. Even a demon couldn’t match it. Often, I ponder the curious fact that you were already cursed long before you ever met me.

Guyime’s dark compulsion was fortuitously forgotten when Orsena led them up a broad staircase to the largest gallery yet. This one was of cavernous dimensions, the ceiling supported by a forest of pillars. Between them stood more statues but very different from those Guyime had glimpsed so far. A dozen candelabras laden with flickering flame hung from the ceiling to paint the gallery in a shimmering glow. The revealed forms were all clearly recognisable as human or animal, and rendered with the expert precision of a master, but there was no Valkerin classicism here. Nor did he see any of the smooth, idealised forms preferred by sculptors of recent history. Most were bronze, although some of the smaller figures had been chiselled from stone, and they all shared a sense of vibrant tactility. Even though he could see the veins tracing over muscle and the pores on the faces of the larger statues, the hand that had crafted these, and Guyime had no doubt this was the work of one artist, imbued them all with a semblance of life he had thought beyond human artifice.

“What is this?” he asked, realising that he and the others had all come to an unbidden halt. He felt Lakorath stir as his gaze roved the statues, the sword emitting a cautionary thrum. Demon stink, my liege, he advised. Stronger here than anywhere else.

Orsena stopped and turned, Guyime hearing a sombre note in her voice. “My father’s greatest achievement. At least by my reckoning.” She raised her hands to encompass the gallery. “Behold the Temesia Collecta.”

“Temesia?” Guyime asked, finding the name unfamiliar.

“Temesia Alvenisci,” Lexius supplied. “Rumoured to be the greatest artist of the modern age.”

“Why only rumoured?” Guyime’s gaze continued to rove the bronze and stone inhabitants of the gallery, finding marvels with every glance.

“Few examples of her work have ever been seen in the wider world,” Lexius said, his own gaze far more shrewd as it scanned the collection. “Those that have fetch prices only the most wealthy could ever hope to pay. She remains a mysterious figure, her work being so rare and her skill so fabled. My former master even opined that she might be a myth. It appears in this, as in so many other things, he was wrong.”

“Oh, she was very real, I assure you, sir,” Orsena informed him. “Perhaps she still is, somewhere far away. I certainly like to think so.”

“She is no longer in your employ?” Lexius asked.

“Technically, the contract that bound her to my father lasted for the span of her life. She was as much an indentured servant as any who laboured beneath this roof, even though her rewards were considerable. It was Father who discovered her, you see, a bony, rag-clad child he happened across during a rare foray beyond the Cora, scraping pictures on paving stones with a stub of chalk she’d found. But what pictures they were…”

Orsena’s voice faded and she moved to the wall near the gallery entrance, pointing to the paving stones hanging in a row. Moving closer, Guyime was struck by the sense of peering through a clouded window at a street, the people beyond the glass caught in time. The chalk made the images blurred and foggy in places but this only added to the impression of realness, capturing the smoke, dust and chaos of a busy thoroughfare.

“Quite something, aren’t they?” Orsena said. “She was perhaps five years old when she drew them. Of course, Father couldn’t allow such treasures to be lost to the feet of passing commoners, so had them brought here, along with the tiny artist who created them.”

“What of her family?” Lexius asked. He spoke in a flat tone but Guyime sensed an inner bitterness he knew stemmed from how this story resonated with the scholar’s own.

“Father said she was an orphan,” Orsena replied. “But I always suspected he had simply bought her from her family. Temesia herself never spoke of them, but she was a soul consumed by her work and personal matters seemed to be beneath her. Despite the riches Father bestowed upon her, she only ever asked for more materials with which to craft her wonders.”

“You implied she’s no longer part of your household,” Guyime said. “Was her departure connected to your father’s death in some way?”

“Temesia didn’t so much leave as vanish, over three months ago. One morning she was simply…gone. Father was frantic, of course. Every corner of the galleria was searched and agents sent forth to scour the city and beyond for any sign of her, but quietly since he was keen no other collector should know of her disappearance lest they try to seek her out. No trace of her has been found. Come and see,” Orsena turned, beckoning as she moved deeper into the gallery, “perhaps, your highness, you’ve encountered her on your many travels.”

They followed the Ultria through the maze of statuary, Guyime finding his gaze repeatedly captured by the brilliance on display. One figure was particularly fascinating, a massive bronze tiger rearing with its teeth bared at some unseen threat. He recognised the animal as a snow tiger from the length of the teeth and the fur, recreated with what he felt to be an unnatural fashioning of metal into myriad strands frozen in the moment of the beast’s distress. So raw and convincing was its ferocity that Guyime sent a questioning thought at Lakorath who replied with a pulse of muted puzzlement.

The demon scent lingers, but its source is hidden. It could be that it resides within this brute, or in any of these others. Until it chooses to reveal itself, there’s no way to know.

“Temesia was a painter as well as a sculptor,” Orsena said as they neared the far wall of the gallery. Here a row of paintings had been arranged, most of impressive width and height, but one modest in comparison, standing about six feet high. The other paintings were all panoramic scenes depicting numerous figures in various landscapes, but this painting held only one subject.

“A self-portrait, I assume,” Lexius said, his eyes blinking behind the lenses as they cast a critical gaze over the canvas. The woman who stared out at them was of life-sized proportions, clad in a plain dress of dark blue cotton. The light that outlined her form came from a single lamp placed somewhere beyond the edge of the canvas, meaning most of the picture consisted of varigated shadow. The woman clutched a brace of paintbrushes in one hand and gazed at Guyime in the manner of one engaged in intense study. Her complexion was the light olive brown typical to this region, and her hair an unkempt cascade of black curls. Looking at the serious, frowning oval of her face, Guyime was reminded of the snow tiger, feeling there to be something predatory in it.

“Indeed,” Orsena confirmed to Lexius. “Her only portrait of any kind, in fact. Most of what you see in this gallery came directly from her imagination. Father had instructed her to start on a series of sculptures depicting the Carvaro family, beginning with me, actually. However, she disappeared before she was due to begin. I sometimes wonder if she ran away because she found his commissions too constraining. It must be hard for an artist to be compelled to create something not born of their own passion.”

Guyime continued to stare at the portrait, finding it hard to look away, until an insistent vibration from the sword drew his gaze to the huge painting hanging beside it. Not a man given to expressions of shock, he was still unable to contain the harsh gasp that escaped his lips as the scene on the canvas came fully into view. He retreated from it, wanting badly to turn and flee but finding himself snared by the scene he beheld.

“She can’t have been there,” he breathed, heart hammering and a sudden chilly sweat beading his brow. “It’s impossible.”

“Pilgrim?” Seeker asked, moving to his side, brow drawn in concern. She reached out to touch his arm only for him to flinch away. He saw concern turn to alarm as his gaze snapped to hers and he knew she was seeing something he hadn’t shown her before: true, unbridled fear.

Lexius seemed more bemused than alarmed by Guyime’s reaction, but let out a soft grunt of realisation when he stooped to peer at the Valkerin lettering on the brass plaque affixed to the painting’s frame. “Oh,” he said.

“What is it?” Seeker demanded, her focus still on Guyime as she watched him vainly try to banish the tremble from his hands.

“‘The Victory of King Guyime the Ravager at Saint Maree’s Field’,” Lexius read from the plaque. He straightened and offered Guyime a sympathetic grimace. “Can I assume, my lord, this is…an accurate rendering?”

Oh, I’d say it is, wouldn’t you, my liege? Lakorath said in cheerful admiration. And remarkably so, too. All the other paint-daubers who’ve tried to capture it always understate the number of corpses, or they have me felling the whole Risen Host with demonic fire. This Temesia, however, has given you due and proper credit for the bulk of the slaughter. I wonder how she knew.

Finally, Guyime wrenched his gaze from the canvas, turning away with eyes closed and keeping them so until the screams of dying men and women faded from his ears and his nostrils were no longer assailed by the stink of blood and shit.

“It…forms part of a series my father commissioned,” Orsena ventured after a prolonged silence. “The Great Battles, he called it. They were amongst the first works he had Temesia create and the few he was happy to exhibit to the rest of the Exultia. It was thanks to these that Temesia was commissioned by the Governing Council to carve the First Damnation, the monument that now takes pride of place in the Grand Plaza of the Cora Exulta. Father met most of the costs, I assume as a means of stoking the jealousy of his fellow Exultia, with great success it should be said. Of course, it would have been illegal for any of them to lure Temesia from his employ, but he had credible reports that some had hatched a plot to poison her. As a result, she was hardly ever left unguarded, which made her disappearance even more baffling.”

Guyime dragged air into his lungs and re-opened his eyes, turning to face the Ultria who had considerately moved position so he was not required to look upon the painting again. “You suspect the other Exultia of orchestrating his murder,” he said. His voice was hoarse and he swallowed before continuing. “Jealousy over art would seem a petty motive.”

Another laugh emerged from her mask, richer in genuine humour this time. “Then, your highness, it is clear to me you have scant experience of my caste.” She turned and strode towards a flat-topped marble plinth several yards away. It stood two feet tall, its surface, a shade of aquamarine veined in purple, marred by extensive brown streaks, as was the surrounding floor.

“This is where Father was found,” Orsena said, gesturing to the plinth before nodding to Lucarni. “On the advice of the Investigating Magistrate I haven’t had it cleaned. He can provide the necessary gruesome details.”

Lucarni bowed and moved to the plinth, extending both arms to form a diagonal line across the surface. “The Ultrius’s body had been placed atop the plinth thus,” he said. “He had several deep cuts to his face and hands, but the killing blow consisted of just one stab wound to the chest.”

“The weapon?” Guyime enquired.

“Nowhere to be found,” Lucarni said. “Examination of the body by Atheria’s finest physician indicates a curved blade at least twelve inches long.” Straightening, he gestured to the brown stains on the floor which extended to the base of the nearest statue, a faceless bronze woman in a cowl, her arms raised to the ceiling as if beseeching divine deliverance. “As you can see,” the magistrate went on, “the killer left a trail, but it’s short. I believe they paused to wipe clean their shoes before making their escape.”

“The statue that stood here?” Lexius asked, peering closer at the stained plinth.

“It has been empty since it was delivered to the gallery,” Orsena replied. “It was going to be the home for my own statue when Temesia completed it.” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “I’ve a perverse fancy to leave it bare without explanation, thereby creating a mystery for scholars to ponder in ages to come.”

“Has the time of your father’s demise been ascertained?” Guyime asked her.

“It was Father’s habit to tour this gallery most nights. Banishing all servants from this wing so he could enjoy Temesia’s work in private. Sometimes he could wander amongst it until morning. On the night in question, the interval between the last sighting of him and the discovery of his body was eight hours.”

“So, our assassin can be said to be familiar with the Ultrius’s routine,” Lexius mused. “Do you have any notion of how the assassin got in? Or got out?”

The Ultria shook her head. “All doors and windows were sealed and guards posted as per household routine.”

Lexius began to ask another question until Guyime caught his eye and gave a fractional shake of his head.

“I see now the nature of the assistance you require of us,” he said to Orsena. “You believe we will find your father’s killer, since the task has proven to be beyond Magistrate Lucarni’s abilities.”

Lucarni stiffened a little but kept silent in deference to the Ultria’s response. “I am satisfied that Magistrate Lucarni has exhausted all possible avenues open to him,” she said. “However, this crime is clearly the work of someone possessing unnatural abilities. Who better to hunt them down than the bearer of a demon-cursed blade?” She inclined her head at Lexius and Seeker. “And his remarkably skilled companions, of course.”

“Services you expect us to render without payment?” Guyime asked, provoking an amused sigh from the Ultria.

“Of course not. I know what you came here for. One of Father’s most valuable bequests was a very well-informed network of spies and informants. Your pilgrimage to the Execration and your subsequent adventures in Carthula were all reported to him and, therefore, to me. You came here in search of the Seven Swords.”

She fell silent, once again displaying a sound understanding of business in forcing him to frame the bargain they were about to strike.

“We find the killer and you give us the sword?” Guyime said, voice heavy with resigned irritation.

“Sadly, it won’t be that simple. You see, whilst I know that Father greatly desired ownership of a demon-cursed blade, I can’t say with any certainty that he actually succeeded in purchasing one. He was a man who valued secrets almost as much as he did art. Beneath this gallery there lies a maze of storerooms and tunnels crammed with all manner of treasures. I suspect, if the sword exists, it’s to be found there, but doing so would be the work of months and I can’t promise success. What I can promise is access to Father’s archive of correspondence.” Her mask shifted to regard Lexius. “Where one skilled in unearthing value from mounds of paper is sure to find answers.”

Guyime exchanged glances with Seeker and Lexius. The scholar’s lively nod displayed his keenness on accepting this bargain. Apparently, the prospect of plunging into the archive of another wealthy man held much the same appeal as charging into battle had once held for Guyime. Seeker’s nod was more restrained, however it was plain she felt a debt towards the Ultria; after all, she had offered up the information regarding Ekiri without demanding anything in return.

“Very well,” Guyime said, turning back to Orsena. “But Lexius must be given immediate access to the archive. It’s possible it holds information pertinent to your father’s murder.”

Orsena’s mask angled in agreement. “Accepted. Anything else?”

“Room and board until it’s done,” Guyime said with a shrug, before adding, “Also, finding the killer will be our only role in this. Administration of justice is the magistrate’s concern. I have no interest in becoming embroiled in a war between the Exultia.” He stared into the black eyeholes of her mask. “You do suspect another member of your caste, I assume?”

Candlelight moved like slowly melting gold over her frozen features as she tilted her head, holding his gaze. “I have little doubt one of the Exultia did this deed,” she said. “And don’t worry, your highness, I just require you to find out which one. If war results, I have ample resources to win it and see my father’s murderer flayed and beheaded. It being the long-standing punishment for those that spill our blood.”

The body of Ultrius Domiano Carvaro lay on a steel-topped table in a vault in the bowels of the galleria. The y-shaped, stitched cut that extended from the Exultia’s collar bone to his hips indicated that the organs had been removed and the body embalmed with preserving fluids. What remained was kept from rot by the huge slabs of blue-tinged ice that enclosed it. According to Lucarni, the ice was the product of an ingenious contrivance owned by the trading branch of the Carvaro Mercantile Bank. The exact method was a closely guarded secret but Guyime gathered it married the mechanical with the magical to render sea water cold enough to freeze. It made for an uncomfortably chilled atmosphere that steamed breath and brought an ache to the eyes, although Lexius didn’t appear to notice as his careful gaze tracked over the corpse, lingering on the wounds.

“I take it,” he asked Lucarni, not lifting his eyes from the body, “the Ultrius carried no weapon?”

“No,” the magistrate replied. “Why would he? Especially in his own home.”

What pampered fools these Exultia are, Lakorath observed in arch disdain. As I recall, the nobles of the northlands wouldn’t walk the halls of their own castles without at least one blade to hand.

Guyime and Lexius were alone with Lucarni in this room of ice. Orsena had retired to her chambers, claiming a need for sleep although Guyime suspected she wished to avoid the sight of her father’s corpse. He had asked Seeker to track the assassin’s trail through the galleria, reasoning that her insight and Lissah’s nose could perceive tracks invisible to others. 

“They didn’t leave,” Seeker had cautioned before setting about the task. “This place remains a hunting ground, and it’s vast. I could hide here for a month without fear of discovery.”

“Then find the hunter’s lair,” Guyime said. “But don’t attempt to capture them, not without us.”

Hearing Lexius let out a soft grunt of rumination, Guyime watched as the scholar used a stylus to probe a cut on the Ultrius’s face. He had been a hale and sturdy fellow in life, of average height but broad stature, his frame well muscled and lacking the portliness or obesity typical to rich men in their middle years.

Yes, Lokaroath mused in appreciation. He looks well for a one-hundred-and-twenty-three-year-old. I smell a mix of various potions lingering in his organs, the kind that mixes the medicinal with the magical. Hugely expensive and hard to find, of course, but I doubt that was an obstacle for one such as him.

Guyime watched Lexius’s inspection shift to the dead Exultia’s face. Carvaro’s features were distinguished by a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, one of which featured a deep incision that traced to the chin.

“Something?” Guyime asked Lexius.

“Shallow,” he said, peering closer at the cut. “Slow and deliberate. Some of these other wounds,” he flicked the stylus at the dark rents sliced into Carvaro’s arms and hands, “are clearly defensive. The result of him trying to fend off a frenzied assault. The cuts to the back of his legs are similarly chaotic, although they did succeed in rendering him immobile, so I suspect they were inflicted first. But these,” the stylus tapped the cut on the Ultrius’s cheek before pointing at another on his forehead and a third below his left eye, “are different. Carefully applied and not as deep.”

Torture, my liege, Lakorath opined with the confidence of one greatly experienced in such things. Or rather an attempt at torture. This is the work of one un-used to inflicting torment. Perhaps one who, having made the first few cuts and drawn forth the required screams, found they didn’t like it as much as they expected, so finished him off with a quick thrust to the heart. This is not the work of a skilled assassin. Whoever did this hated Carvaro with a passion but lacked the innate cruelty to fully exact the vengeance they craved.

“I believe,” Guyime said, turning to Lucarni, “it’s time we discussed your list of suspects. You do have one, I assume?”

The lower half of the magistrate’s bearded features formed a thin smile. “It has ever been the nature of the Exultia to despise each other,” he replied. “Tonight, Ultrius Domiano’s funeral will take place in the Grand Plaza, it being custom to conduct the death rites for a slain Exultia at midnight. His body will be conveyed to the Mausolia Artifica, where only the greatest patrons of the arts are laid to rest. It is a curious paradox that the people sitting at the forefront of those mourning Ultrius Domiano’s passing will also be those most delighted by it.”

“If I’m to discern which one did this,” Guyime said, “I’ll need to stand before them, hear their voices.”

“Ultria Orsena has been kind enough to furnish letters of introduction to the principal suspects. We can make our first call whenever you’re ready.”

Guyime inclined his head at Lexius, still engaged in his close inspection of the corpse’s injuries. “My friend requires access to the archives, as we discussed.”

“A servant is standing ready outside to provide it.”

Guyime nodded and watched Lexius frown as he shifted his scrutiny to the slain Exultia’s hands. “Could only be delivered when fully open,” Lexius murmured, probing a cut on Carvaro’s palm. “Who would open a hand to someone intent on their death? Was he begging…?”

“Lexius…” Guyime began only for the scholar to wave a faintly irritated hand.

“The archives, yes, my lord,” he said, reaching for the Ultrius’s other hand which featured a lateral slash across the fingers. “I’ll attend to it presently.”

Lucarni gave a polite cough and Guyime turned to find him gesturing at the narrow opening in the wall of ice. “Shall we?”

Chapter Five

The Exultia

Lakorath was not a being typically given to expressing appreciation for art, especially when crafted by mortal hands. However, upon beholding the statue rising from the centre of the Grand Plaza at the heart of the Cora Exultia, the demon’s reaction was one of unnervingly genuine awe.

Well, that…he breathed, the sword pulsing with a rhythmic vibration Guyime hadn’t felt before…is quite something, my liege.

At first, Guyime assumed the structure must be the result of some manner of persistent enchantment, its form seeming to defy the mundanities of gravity and wind. It rose in an inverted conical spiral from the marble paving that formed the plaza, comprised of numerous linked figures, all frozen in the act of falling. As they neared it, Guyime made out the beauteous features of the falling men and women, albeit twisted and gaping in unheard screams of torment. He also saw the wings that sprouted from their backs, splendid and whole at the top of the monument, but rent and ragged at the base where the plunging unfortunates appeared to plummet into the black void of a deep circular well. Even if Orsena hadn’t told him who had created this terrible wonder, he would still have recognised Temesia’s hand in the terror and pain imbued into this tumbling mass of impossibly beautiful people. Nor did he need to be told its title. 

“The First Damnation,” he said as he and Lucarni came to a halt near the monument’s base. “When the Angelicum fought a mighty battle to drive out the corrupted souls of their fellow servants of the Eternal Plain. Denied the grasp of paradise and borne down by the weight of their sins, they fell into the endless torment of the Infernus.” Noting how the late morning sun played over the nearest figure, a woman with long, twisting hair and features gaping in a scream of utter despair, Guyime’s brow creased in surprise. Rather than the gleam of marble, he saw how the light painted a grainy sparkle on the silver-grey surface.

“Wood?” he asked the magistrate, seeing again how each figure was joined to each other. “The whole thing is carved from one piece of wood?”

“Quite so,” Lucarni confirmed, smiling in prideful admiration as he looked up at the towering marvel. “For as long as any could remember, a great tree stood in the centre of this plaza, its origin lost to the ages, but said to embody the soul of the city. They called it the Silver Guardian for the colour of its bark. So, when it began to die, a great deal of consternation resulted. It was, of course, Ultrius Domiano who suggested that, instead of simply allowing the Guardian to perish, it should be carved into a monument worthy of Atheria. By great good fortune, he had in his employ an artist equal to the task. Temesia was not yet sixteen when she began the work, and in her mid-twenties when she finished.”

Are you here somewhere? Guyime asked Lakorath as he slowly circled the monument, gaze flicking from one face to another.

In response, Lakorath let out a snort of derision. Not all demons were crafted from the twisted souls of fallen Angelicum. The First Damnation happened long before I first crawled free of the birthing pit, an event as much a legend to demon-kind as it is to mortals. But, I did once hear one of the Old Ones talk of it and I fancy this isn’t far from the reality. However, he didn’t lose his wings when he fell. The demon paused to utter a fond chuckle. The Angelicum are legendary for the inventive cruelty of their pious curses, so his wings would burst into flames if he ever tried to fly.

Guyime gestured to the monument as he turned to Lucarni. “I can see how this would have stirred the jealousy of those obsessed with status and displays of grandeur. But murder seems an extreme reaction.”

“The Exultia are a unique caste in all the world,” the magistrate said. “So far removed from the concerns of daily life the very notion of hunger is alien to them. From birth all their needs are met by others and anything they desire provided, to be kept or discarded as whim dictates. Sickness plagues them not, for they have wealth enough for all remedies, physical or magical. Some are rumoured to have lived more than two centuries without a day of illness. Ultrius Domiano is unusual in having deigned to father an heir; most Exultia see children as a pointless, even dangerous indulgence. To souls such as these, the constant reminder that one of their own caste possesses something they can never have is the closest to true pain they are ever likely to experience.”

Guyime saw apprehension in the way Lucarni stiffened as he turned his masked gaze to the plaza’s eastern border where a huge, multi-tiered palace ascended five storeys high. The crimson-hued marble that formed its many towers and minarets caught an array of pink gleams from the burgeoning sun, giving it the appearance of an enormous bejewelled cake. “And,” he said, voice heavy with gathered resolve, “I believe it’s time we met the first luminary on our list, your highness. I hope your manners are not overly offended by displays of nudity.”

The mask worn by Ultria Municia Belluzi was the most ornate Guyime had seen so far, the face a chequerboard of black and white ivory that featured a single, huge black opal in the centre of its forehead. Strips of mother-of-pearl formed the lips and circled the eyes whilst silver horns rose from its crown. The branching tines were adorned with dangling jewels in the manner of a Mareth tree shrine. The mask was made yet more noteworthy for being the only item of clothing worn by the Ultria.

“How fortunate you are, Magistrate,” she said, playing a languid hand through the surface of the pool through which she waded. “Had you besmirched my home with such accusations without benefit of the Governing Council’s protection, I would have had you suspended from my ballroom ceiling by your intestines.”

The Ultria spoke without particular offence, her voice possessed of a serene, almost dreamy quality. To Guyime she did indeed resemble a vision summoned from a dream. Her unclad body, golden of skin and dappled by the light reflected from the pool’s surface, was as perfectly proportioned as any of the figures from Temesia’s monument. However, his practiced eye noticed a certain stiffness in the way in which she traced her hands through the water, disturbing the many lilies that surrounded her. Also, the tension of her finely honed muscles told of something beneath the façade of beauty.

Pain, my liege, Lakorath confirmed. She’s wracked with it, and heavily drugged to keep it at bay. She didn’t come by that body naturally.

A glamour? Guyime asked.

No, it’s real enough. But it’s been altered. Crafting it into what you see now has been achieved by a combination of magic and scalpel. The work of decades, I’d judge, and she paid for it with more than mere coin. There’s enough poppy juice in her veins to fell an elephant, and the waters she bathes in are a melange of exotic concoctions.

“In which case,” Lucarni responded to the Ultria, maintaining a tone of neutral placidity, “I humbly crave your forgiveness, Ultria. However, I’m sure you understand the unprecedented nature of our current circumstance.”

“Of course I do.” The woman lowered both hands to the water as she turned away, seemingly preoccupied with the trails she created through the carpet of lilies. “Hence your continued possession of your innards. The murder of an Exultia.” A faint hiss escaped her mask, Guyime unable to discern if it was an expression of pain or distress. “I can’t recall it happening, well…ever. Still, strange as it all is, I can’t credit why you would bring this…” the antlers of her mask scattered droplets as she swung her gaze to Guyime, “…savage to gawp at me so.”

Guyime returned her scrutiny with a steady, unblinking gaze. The journey through the myriad halls of this palace, made under the watchful eye of an escort of guards, had given him a great deal of insight into its owner. As with the Carvaro Galleria it was a place filled with art, endless alcoves housing endless sculptures, mostly dating back a few centuries rather than the truly ancient and priceless artefacts hoarded by Ultrius Domiano. The paintings were of similar origins, and he saw little that enticed or held his eye for more than a passing glance. Every form or image represented an attempt to capture beauty, but in idealised form, some of it absurd in its unreality. True beauty, in Guyime’s estimation, had little to do with perfection. So, even before he and Lucarni had been conveyed into this expansive chamber filled from end to end with water, he had already gained the necessary insight into the owner of this temple to vapidity. But not all sensations communicated to him by Lakorath were mere empty vanity; the Ultria was capable of a great depth of emotion, little of it pleasant.

“Ultria Orsena tells us you hated her father a great deal,” he said. “Did she misspeak?”

The woman’s body stilled in the water, except for the hands, long-nailed talons curling beneath the surface. “Orsena,” she hissed. “Domiano should’ve drowned the little bitch at birth. I told him as much. It strikes me, Magistrate, if you wish to find whoever killed him, focus your attentions upon who stood to gain the most from his demise. I’d fancy his pestilent heir would sit at the top of the list, would she not?”

“Ultria Orsena didn’t murder her father,” Guyime said. “I would know if she had. Her emotions regarding his demise are mostly sadness mixed with curiosity. Yours are far darker and still rich in resentment of his memory, despite his death. Why is that?”

“You think to question me?” Municia Belluzi’s pale form froze in the water to become as statuesque as the marble effigies she had surely sought to emulate. The black ovals of her pearl-rimmed eyes bored into him, Guyime finding he had no need of Lakorath’s insight to sense the rage burning within. “Because of that thing on your back, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Guyime said, seeing little point in obfuscation. This woman might be a slave to her own vanity, but clearly that didn’t make her foolish or ignorant. “And know that it affords protection as well as insight, and my soul is every measure as vengeful as yours.”

Her talon-like hands flexed again, scattering droplets across the pool. He knew she had killed with those hands and enjoyed the experience. Her body quivered with unaccustomed self-control as she let out another hiss, forcing a disdainful laugh through the mouth of her mask.

“I’ll confess to hating Domiano,” she said. “But it was not born of anything so base as envy. It was birthed with the lapia perfecta, said to be the most perfect block of marble ever hewn from the earth.” She drew in her arms, hands shifting to caress her flesh. “The only stone that could do this form justice. Domiano had been quick to purchase the perfecta of course, but I offered him a vast sum for it and to hire the services of his talented guttersnipe to carve my image, preserve it for all time. For is it not worthy of preservation?” Her hands ascended her body, palms smoothing over her thighs, belly and breasts. “He refused and set Temesia to work carving an effigy of his bitch daughter. It was as calculated an insult as I’ve ever suffered.”

All true, Lakorath confirmed. She hated him enough to kill him, but she’s the kind who likes to do her own killing. I’d fancy if you dug through the vaults of this palace you’d find the bones of several dozen murdered servants.

Guyime felt an unwise itch in his sword hand, the kind that would soon see him reaching for the cursed blade and turning the waters of this pool red. “We can go,” he told Lucarni, turning away then pausing as Municia spoke on.

“Your entrapped demon whispers to you, doesn’t it.” The word ‘demon’ emerged from the woman’s frozen lips with so much venom Guyime was surprised to find it wasn’t accompanied by a cloud of acidic vapour. She reclined into the water to let herself float, the lilies clinging to her pale flesh as she revolved in cruciform pose. “I met a demon once,” she said, the words accompanied by a part-smothered yawn of practised nonchalance, “conjured for me by a sorceress in my employ. I wanted something, you see, but the price the foul creature demanded was far too high, even for me. So, savage, I remain free whilst you are chained to that thing forever.”

“You wanted to be beautiful,” Guyime said. “In exchange, the demon demanded your soul. You refused and opted to pay the price in pain instead, pain that will last for as long as you continue to inflict your presence on this world. You didn’t kill Ultrius Carvaro. You hated him, but it was but a candle flame next to the raging fire of your true hatred. That you reserve for yourself.”

He inclined his head at the magistrate and turned to go, striding from the chamber without a backward glance despite the shrill, enraged cry the Ultria cast after him. Her words were accompanied by furious splashes, making them only partly comprehensible, but the promise of a painful death should he linger in Atheria without the Council’s protection was clear enough.

“That wasn’t wise.”

Lucarni’s mouth was set in a hard line and Guyime could sense the disapproving frown behind his half-mask. They had traversed the plaza once again, this time making for the Cora’s northern quarter, the magistrate moving with a stiff, purposeful stride and sustaining a creditable silence until his anger finally spilt forth.

“If you wanted a wise man for this task,” Guyime replied, “you should have looked elsewhere. Wisdom, I can assure you, is not my province.”

“When this is done I will have to endure the consequences of your disrespect,” Lucarni returned, voice clipped. “It is not conducive to my role to leave a trail of enraged Exultia at my back.”

Oh, piss on his role, Lakorath drawled in arch contempt. He’s just a glorified lickspittle to this gaggle of disgusting sloths. I did say you should kill him, my liege. Draw me forth and let’s have a good old-fashioned rampage. I suspect this city will be greatly improved by the downfall of the Exultia. What are they for, exactly? What do they actually do? Say what you like about the overlords of the Infernus, at least they can never be accused of idleness.

Lucarni lapsed back into a stern silence as he led Guyime through a succession of parks and fountains. Eventually they halted at the edge of what appeared at first to be a clifftop affording a view of the artificial sea off the Cora’s northern coast. Moving to his side, Guyime saw that this was in fact the top tier of a steeply descending row of stepped seating. They extended away on either side in a broad curve, converging at the edge of an expansive stage to create a vast marble bowl. A series of tall panels lined the rear of the stage, all painted with grand renderings of the huge temples and columns that characterised Eternal Valkeris during its golden age. A large number of people were moving about on the stage, their movements accompanied by a chorus of song. The lyrics echoed through the amphitheatre with eerie clarity, sung in ancient Valkerin that Guyime had little trouble translating.

“The Ode to Juseria’s fall,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it sung better.”

“Atheria is named the City of Songs for a reason,” Lucarni replied. “Before their passion for sculpture and painting consumed them, it was patronage of theatre and song that drove the Exultia. For one in particular, it drives him still.” He spoke on as they started down the narrow row of steps between the rows of seating. “Ultrius Septemil Ulfezzi is the owner of this amphitheatre and holds sway over most of the theatres in the wider city. He commands a veritable army of performers, musicians, dancers, and, most pertinent to our enquiries, actors. It is one actor in particular who provides the motive for Ulfezzi’s potential involvement in Ultrius Domiano’s demise.”

“They were love rivals?” Guyime asked.

“Hardly. Ultrius Septemil is another rare example of an Exultia who chose to father an heir. The child was raised to adore theatre in all its forms. Unfortunately, his education birthed within him a desire to act, something for which he was decidedly ill-suited. But, as is the way with prideful parents, the son’s efforts were indulged by his father. Repeatedly, he was given roles far beyond his abilities. Whilst Atherian society is deferential to the Exultia, it is a long-standing tradition that this deference does not extend to the city’s theatrical critics. Suffice to say, they were not kind. The boy was crushed by the cruelty of their reviews and resolved to prove them wrong by any means possible. It’s said he turned to a fellow Exultia for advice, for Ultrius Domiano was knowledgable in matters of an arcane nature. It was from him that the boy learned tales of demons granting favours to mortal kind willing to pay any price.”

This is starting to sound somewhat familiar, Lakorath commented. Don’t you think, my liege?

“What happened to him?” Guyime asked. “This actor of small talent?”

“Oh, he disappeared some time ago. I was tasked with finding him but could uncover not a single clue. One day he was in his chambers, his voice echoing through the halls as he tormented the servants with yet another script recital, the next he was gone with no indication as to how he had exited the mansion. It was a singularly troubling mystery and one that irks me still. Although, it irks his father more. He expended a great deal of wealth in fruitless attempts to find his son and blames Ultrius Domiano for leading the boy along unwise avenues.”

They came to the base of the steps where Lucarni bade him wait before approaching the guards stationed to the front of the stage. Beyond them, Guyime saw a portly man in a full face mask striding about the platform, castigating the performers arrayed before him in a high, piping voice.

“No!” he declaimed, raising a finger for emphasis. “No, no, no, no! Must I remind you all that the Epic of Juseria is a tragedy? Yet you caper, you laugh, you cast your lustful grins at each other. Yes you, Melodia,” his finger jabbed at a lissome young woman in the front row of the assembled company, “don’t think I haven’t noticed. You were hired as a dancer, not a strumpet.”

From the unfortunate dancer’s poorly contained tears and the rigidly bland faces of the other performers, Guyime doubted any thought their current circumstance to be anything other than tragic. He watched the portly Exultia let out a weary sigh and put a hand to the brow of his mask. “What it is to be cursed with a vision of greatness,” he observed, apparently to himself but loud enough to ensure all present heard him. “To know perfection is within your grasp, only for it to be snatched away by the…” his hand shifted from his mask, fingers flicking derisively at the performers, “…imperfect.”

He stiffened and turned as the guards parted to allow Lucarni to mount the stage. The Ultrius’s mask tilted to an imperious angle as he attempted, unsuccessfully, to look down upon the magistrate. Guyime heard only snatches of their conversation, discerning a dismissive indifference on the Exultia’s part before he shuddered in apparent outrage at something Lucarni said.

“You expect me to besmirch my dignity,” Guyime heard him sputter. However, his burgeoning tirade came to an abrupt halt when the magistrate added a few words with a pointed glance in Guyime’s direction. A brief interval of silence followed before Ultrius Septemil Ulfezzi waved a distracted hand in the direction of his performers. “No more for today,” he said, the company dispersing with a chorus of relieved if muted sighs.

Seeing Lucarni beckon to him, Guyime passed through the cordon of guards to ascend the stage. The Ultrius’s mask regarded him in apparent fascination as he approached. It was a surprisingly plain visage, adorned in grey enamel rather than jewels. The glossy paint had been applied to the eyes and mouth to create a permanent expression of sorrow. It would have put Guyime in mind of a jackanapes if it hadn’t been so utterly devoid of humour.

“You are…” the Ultrius began, his voice thin and faltering before he coughed and mastered himself. “You are truly the one they call the Ravager?”

“I have been called such,” Guyime replied. “In my time.”

“The wandering king who destroyed the Execration?”

Wandering King? Lakorath laughed. That’s a new one.

“I was there when it fell,” Guyime replied. “Its destruction was wrought by…other means.”

“My son, Altinius, had a terrible fascination for the Execration, you see.” Ultrius Septemil’s hands twitched in agitation and he clasped them together, knuckles whitening. “It often occurred to me that he may have somehow contrived to go there, seek the Mad God’s blessing. He did so want…” His voice faltered and the mask dipped, Guyime hearing a sharp intake of breath.

“Perhaps, Ultrius,” Lucarni ventured, his tone careful in its application of respect, but also not lacking in a certain insistence, “we could deal with the matter at hand.”

A snarl emerged from the mask as it swung sharply towards the magistrate. However, the Ultrius showed a creditable self-control in failing to surrender to outrage. Instead, his portly frame took on a stern rigidity and he let out a thin sigh, rich in injured pride and reluctant acceptance.

“You believe I may have had a hand in the demise of my beloved brother in the Exultia,” he said. “I’ll confess I detested the very ground he walked upon, for it was he that put those stories of the Execration in Altinius’s head. Do I mourn his passing? No. Did I have anything to do with it?” The mask shifted to regard Guyime, words emerging from the grey-painted lips with a clipped precision. “I. Did. Not.”

A silly little man, Lakorath concluded without pause. But not a liar. His cruelty is a petty thing, indulged in his futile attempts to produce great theatre. Unusually for one so wealthy, he’s never actually killed anyone, nor hired another to do his killing. And he genuinely loved that talentless little bugger he fathered. Grief lingers in him like a cancer.

Guyime turned to Lucarni, shaking his head.

“Our thanks for your attention, Ultrius,” the magistrate said with a bow before turning to go. “We will trouble you no longer.”

“I would hear more of the Execration.” Ultrius Septemil reached out towards Guyime, although he managed to restrain himself from actually touching a lesser soul. “Your journey through it, I mean to say. The legends say pilgrimages to the Mad God’s shrine were undertaken in groups. I wondered if…”

The clear if plaintive note of hope in the man’s voice was quick to stir Lakorath’s inherent cruelty. So, Player’s tale is revealed in full. Except of course, he wasn’t really the lost son of an Exultia, was he? Please tell him the truth. His reaction will be delicious.

Looking into the oval eyes of the Ultrius’s mask with its clownish paint, Guyime knew that beneath lay the gaze of a man made desperate by grief. It seemed the Exultia were not so removed from mundane humanity after all.

Tell him, Lakorath urged in a hungry whisper. Tell the pampered fool his idiot son sold his soul to a demon in return for the talent he lacked. Tell him how that demon stole the idiot’s guise to undertake a pilgrimage through the Execration, but only after he consigned said idiot to the Infernus where he performs endlessly for an audience of the damned. If he wants to see his darling son again all he need do is hire a sorcerer to beseech a demon on his behalf. They will be reunited in the Infernus for all time. Tell him, my liege…

“I journeyed through the Execration with six companions,” Guyime said. “All but one perished along the way. There were no Atherians amongst our party.”

Ultrius Septemil stared at him for a prolonged moment; then, his portly frame sagging, he turned away with a weak flap of his hand. “I shall be sure to pen a missive of complaint to the Council,” he told Lucarni, his voice dull and lacking true anger. “For the outrage I have suffered this day.” His voice faded as he disappeared into the shadowed gap between two of the huge scenery panels, but Guyime fancied he heard a sob echo forth a heartbeat later.

The mask of Ultrius Massilano Benezzi was the most unusual Guyime had seen so far, it being just a blank oval of white porcelain. It lacked any form of ornamentation or sculpted features. In place of a nose there was only smooth ceramic and the eyes and mouth consisted of thin lateral rectangles in the otherwise flawless surface.

His garb matched his mask, being also an all-white robe of satin and silk cladding his tall, slim form from neck to ankles. Unlike their previous interviews, there had been no delay in gaining access to this member of the Exultia. The guards stationed at the entrance to his three-tiered palace opened the gate without requiring any formal greeting or presentation of documents by the magistrate. Beyond, an unspeaking servant waited to guide them through the many corridors and halls of this vast building.

Guyime had expected the interior to be crammed with art and was not disappointed. However, this collection differed from that of the Carvaro Galleria and Ultria Municia’s palace in being far older. Many of the antiquities were incomplete and subject to the depredations of age. Part-shattered vases flanked the borders of incomplete mosaics and half-rotted tapestries hung beside ragged paintings. The passion of Ultrius Massilano appeared to be stirred by all that was aged and damaged.

Then, my liege, Lakorath opined with poorly concealed relish, he’ll probably fall in love with you at first sight.

The Ultrius received them in a chamber on the second floor of his mansion, surrounded by fragmentary statues standing atop cracked plinths adorned in archaic script. Guyime recognised some of the lettering as Ultrean and others as originating in the eastern realms. A few were completely outside his knowledge and, he fancied, beyond the wit of any modern scholar to translate.

“I know why you have come,” the Ultrius said, holding up a hand when Lucarni began his greeting. “And I take no offence in your visit, good Magistrate, for it is the duty of the conscientious official to apply themselves to difficult tasks.”

Guyime found the Exultia’s voice to be in keeping with his appearance; mostly empty of emotion and featuring only the mildest inflection. He couldn’t tell if it was the product of deliberate artifice or a true absence of feeling.

Mostly the latter, Lakorath informed him. He’s the oldest member of this bizarre caste yet, though not as old as you, of course. About century and a half, I’d say. All those years tend to have a weathering effect on a mortal soul, scouring it down like the wind and the rain on exposed rock until it become smooth, featureless. Except you, my liege. With you, the passage of time only makes you more interesting, uglier too. But that’s the price you pay for a noteworthy life, eh?

He uses the same potions as Municia, I assume? Guyime asked.

Indeed, and a good deal of more exotic origin, plus a strict regimen of diet and exercise. No cutting for him so he’s plainly not fond of pain. A quick round of torture should get this business over with.

Guyime swallowed an impatient sigh, ignoring the suggestion. And his guilt?

Can’t tell yet. He’s…difficult to read for a mortal. If you’re not going to torment the truth out of him, I suggest you talk to him more.

“I was told you envied the Carvaro collection,” Guyime said. “And yet I find yours to be markedly different in nature.”

“Envied?” A lighter note crept into the Ultrius’s voice, his mask tilting ever so slightly in contemplation. “No. I can’t say that I did. However, it is true I wanted to own numerous items in my brother Exultia’s possession, items of great age and interest. The art of the modern era is meaningless to me, you see. The age we inhabit is a vile, corrupted shadow of a greater past. Perhaps that’s why Domiano loved it so, it being a reflection of his own corruption.”

Lucarni voiced a small cough. “The items of great age and interest, Ultrius?”

“Oh, yes. They originated from the days long before the rise of Valkeris, some even before the Ultrean era. It was Domiano’s delight to hide them away in his vaults. He would regularly invite me to his galleria to view his latest acquisitions or watch his pet artist at work, but never would he consent to display the antiquities I actually wished to see. The taunting of others was one of his principal joys. But, would I have killed him for such disrespect?” Ultrius Massilano lapsed into a contemplative silence. “No,” he said a few seconds later, voice laced with faint surprise, “I don’t believe I would, although I’ve certainly killed others for less, when I was younger and given to expressions of anger.”

Strange, Lakorath mused in response to Guyime’s unspoken question. No trace of a lie, but not what I’d call truth either. There’s a fog around his mind and it’s not the result of madness. The taint of sorcery is strong. It’s my guess he’s paid a good deal to have his thoughts shielded. If he did kill Carvaro, I won’t be able to pluck the truth from his head, which neatly returns us to my previously proposed strategy, my liege.

“You said he invited you to watch his artist at work,” Guyime said. “I assume you mean Temesia Alvenisci.”

“Yes. I suspect Domiano thought the sight of her talent would stoke my ire. Instead I found it pitiable.”

“You found Temesia’s work pitiable?” Guyime’s voice contained enough doubtful scorn to draw a prolonged stare from the Ultrius.

It appears you’ve managed to anger him where Carvaro couldn’t, Lakorath observed with a wry chuckle.

“Temesia Alvenisci was a soul of undoubted skills,” Ultrius Massilano replied, his tone as mild as before even though Lakorath continued to communicate his simmering anger. “However, it was an innate skill, unlearned and un-directed by a discerning mind. In truth, she was little more than a performing animal. But it was not her work that I pitied, it was the way Domiano fawned over her so. Our caste is attuned to reading emotions even through a mask and it was plain to me that he had made the terrible mistake of falling in love with his pet. Sad, and disgusting in equal measure.”

“Then her disappearance would have affected him badly,” Guyime said.

“I assume so. I didn’t see him again after her absence became widely known. To the best of my knowledge he wasn’t seen in public from that day forth. I like to imagine him wandering the halls of his galleria, plaintive sobs echoing through his worthless treasures. A fate I would certainly have left him to, rather than resort to the vulgarity of murder.”

Truth and lies, Lakorath reported. All mixed up together in the mist shrouding his thoughts. Enough talk, my liege, surely it’s time for torture.

Guyime flicked his eyes at Lucarni then the door. The fact that he hadn’t nodded or shaken his head provoked a narrowing of the magistrate’s eyes before he forced a smile of appropriate blandness and bowed to the Ultrius.

“Our profound gratitude for your attention, Ultrius. We will take our leave and trouble you no more this day.”

“A moment, King Guyime,” the Ultrius said as they turned to go. The Exultia’s voice barely altered, but Guyime heard the hunger beneath the uninflected tone.

“I will pay you a ship’s hold full of diamonds for your sword,” the Ultrius said. “Or, if that is insufficient, I invite you to name your price.”

Guyime was unable to contain a bitter laugh as he favoured the featureless mask with a minuscule bow. “If I could, I would give it to you for nothing,” he replied, straightening and striding towards the door. “Rest assured, however, it’s not worth one diamond, never mind a ship-ful.”

Chapter 6

The Rats Circle

“Sorcery you say?” Orsena enquired, the voice emerging from her mask coloured by an amused delight as a hummingbird hovered near her palm, its beak lancing into the peach slice resting in her upraised palm.

Guyime and Lucarni had found her and Seeker together in the Galleria’s aviary. It was a huge contrivance of iron and plate glass that must have cost several fortunes to construct. A small forest had been grown beneath the glass, trees both exotic and familiar spreading their multi-hued, leaf-laden branches to create a playground for countless darting and chirping inhabitants. The beast charmer stood a short ways off beside an ornate fountain. A flock of small, blue-feathered birds created a complex azure spiral as they circled her with blurring speed. There was no sign of Lissah and Guyime assumed Seeker had wisely sent the caracal off to explore a different region of the galleria rather than expose her to such temptation.

“Ultrius Massilano has occluded his thoughts by sorcerous means, Ultria,” the magistrate informed her. “It may well be an effort to conceal evidence of his guilt in your father’s demise.”

“Or just the precaution of a suspicious, heartless old wretch, as my father liked to call Massilano.” Orsena laughed again and tossed the peach slice away, the hummingbird chasing after it along with a swarm of companions.

“Exposing a mind to sorcery is a risky endeavour,” Guyime said. “One not to be undertaken lightly. A man of Ultrius Massilano’s age and experience would know that.”

Orsena cocked her head at him. “You suspect him, don’t you, your highness?”

“Of all the Exultia we interviewed, he seems the most likely. But suspicion doesn’t equal proof. For that we’ll need to find whoever cast the spell that shielded his thoughts. With the shield removed, his guilt can be fully ascertained.”

“Atheria is not lacking in arcane practitioners,” Orsena returned. “Finding one amongst so many would appear an arduous and prolonged task.”

“Most who claim such abilities are charlatans trading on meagre skills,” Lucarni said. “In all my years of investigation I have encountered only three souls in this city capable of weaving such a spell. One is dead and another languishes in the Council’s dungeons.”

“Am I to conclude, good Magistrate,” Orsena said, “you know the location of the third?”

“I have a good notion of where to look, Ultria. However, finding them will entail venturing into parts of the city that are best avoided, at least without an armed escort. Also, persuading them to talk…” Lucarni’s voice trailed to an uncomfortable halt.

“You need money for a bribe,” Orsena deduced.

The magistrate gave a short nod. “The usual methods will not avail us with this particular individual, Ultria, and the amount required is beyond the means of my office.”

“Very well, I shall underwrite the expense, but I have a condition.”

“Of course, Ultria. I shall be happy to provide properly witnessed documentation…”

Orsena waved a laced hand. “Not documents, good Magistrate. I am keen to hear this sorcerer’s account for myself, and see some of the wider city with my own eyes. Therefore, I shall accompany you when you seek them out.”

Guyime had assessed Lucarni as a man of considerable experience and ability, not to mention self-assurance, so the sight of him frozen into dumbstruck silence was amusing and off-putting in equal measure.

“I…” he managed to stammer out after a prolonged interval. He paused to cough before ploughing on with valiant if faltering determination. “Ultria…an Exultia cannot simply…walk the streets of Atheria…”

“Why not?” Orsena enquired, and Guyime knew that behind her mask there lay an artfully raised eyebrow. “Is there a law restricting those of my caste to the Cora? If so, I confess my ignorance of its existence.”

Lucarni did some more stammering before the word, “Custom…” emerged from his lips in a stutter.

“I see.” Orsena’s tone hardened as her mask tilted to a more acute angle. “But custom is not law, is it, good Magistrate?”

Lucarni finally managed to regain his composure at this, drawing in a deep breath before addressing the Ultria in tones that were just shy of stern authority. “To venture into a slum of this city wearing your mask and clad as you are would be folly of the worst kind. The mere sight of an Exultia would rouse the common folk to…an unwise pitch of excitement, if not outright riot…”

He trailed off once again as Ultria Orsena Carvaro raised her lace-clad hands to the sides of her mask, undoing the clips that held it in place before removing it completely. Guyime hadn’t been sure what to expect if he should glimpse this woman’s features. An improbable level of feminine beauty perhaps, or some previously unmentioned disfigurement. In fact, the face of the young woman before him was neither improbable nor malformed. Her features had an elfin prettiness with skin a good deal paler than the norm for this region with a scattering of freckles over the small, upturned nose. Her sparse eyebrows were twisted into an amused frown above eyes that shone with keen intelligence as they flicked from Lucarni to Guyime. Her gaze lingered on his for a second longer than felt comfortable, much to Lakorath’s amusement.

It appears she also has a passion for old things, my liege. 

“A problem easily rectified,” Orsena said, glancing again at Lucarni before striding between them, heading for the aviary’s exit. “I shall adjourn to my chambers to find clothing more suitable for our excursion. Please be prepared to set forth within the hour.”

“She’s strong of will for one so pampered,” Seeker observed. The spiral of birds surrounding her peeled away as she approached, but one lingered to perch on her shoulder, chirping out a tune Guyime vaguely recognised from the shores of the Second Sea. “And bearable company. I haven’t felt any desire to kill her at all.”

“For which I’m sure she’s grateful,” Guyime said. He saw a glint of satisfaction in Seeker’s eye, the kind that rose when she happened upon a trail she knew would lead to prey.

“You found something,” he said.

“I did.” She raised a finger to the bird on her shoulder, the chirping creature hopping on to it and falling silent. Seeker gave a gentle blow of her lips and the bird took wing, darting away into the maze of branches above. “Best if I show you.”

“I could find no trace of an intruder,” Seeker said as she led Guyime and the magistrate through the corridors of the galleria’s northern wing. “No windows or doors forced and no scents that didn’t belong to those already familiar to this place. Lissah discovered a few narrow openings in the roof but so small only a snake could have gained entry.”

“I’ve heard tales of shifter-magic,” Guyime said. “Sorcerers who can change form.”

“So have I,” Seeker replied. “But sorcery like that leaves a distinct scent, and there’s not a hint of it. No, Pilgrim, the master of this house was killed by one who had long dwelt within its walls.”

“Making for a very short list of suspects. Wouldn’t you say?” Guyime added, glancing over his shoulder at Lucarni who had maintained a preoccupied silence since Orsena removed her mask. He saw the magistrate’s mouth tighten in response but he said nothing, Guyime sensing the distracted frown behind his half-mask.

They turned a few more corners before coming to a set of doors, the oaken panels of both decorated with intricate relief carvings. Leopards pursued fleeing deer through forests whilst wolf-packs howled at the moon and bears prowled the shadowed corners. The clarity and vibrancy of the carvings left no doubt as to the identity of who had created them.

“Temesia’s chambers,” Guyime concluded.

“The Ultria was kind enough to show them to me,” Seeker said, stepping forward to open the doors. “By her father’s order they were left undisturbed after Temesia’s disappearance.”

Following her into the chamber beyond, Guyime was immediately by struck its sparseness. He would have expected an artist’s dwelling place to be rich in clutter, discarded sketches or half-finished maquettes. Instead, the chamber was a neat and tidy affair, featuring a narrow bed close to the circular window, a writing desk free of papers and a table holding a bowl and a water jug.

“Orsena said Temesia wanted the place where she slept to be a haven,” Seeker explained. “‘Somewhere to escape the endless need to create,’ she called it.”

Guyime’s eyes roved the chamber, finding an absence of anything that might hold his attention, save the dust. It lay on all surfaces, the result, he assumed, of the late Ultrius’s order that this place not be touched.

“I would guess your cat found something I’m missing,” he said to Seeker.

“That she did.” Seeker moved to the bed, crouching to play a hand over the bare tiles of the floor. “See how the dust is a little less thick here? I confirmed with Orsena that there was a carpet covering this spot. Now it’s gone. She has no notion as to who removed it or why, except to say it could only have been done on her father’s order.”

“Why?” Lucarni wondered, stepping closer to inspect the floor. “A keepsake, perhaps?”

This drew a faint snort from Seeker. “Blood,” she said. “It’s faint, little more than a small colouring to the air. Whoever tried to scour the stain away was thorough, lye and vinegar scrubbed in for hours on end. But Lissah found it. Have no doubt, people died in this room.”

“People?” Guyime asked. “More than one.”

“Two were killed here, and in savage manner. There are traces on the walls.”

“So,” Guyime glanced up at Lucarni, “it appears we have three murders to investigate, not just one.”

Once again the magistrate set his mouth in a hard, tight line, provoking Guyime to rise and move closer to him. “I require honesty from my allies,” Guyime told him. “I would know your thoughts, sir.”

Light flickered in the shaded eyeholes of the magistrate’s mask and Lakorath’s assurance that the man was about to voice a lie came as no surprise. “There are still questions to resolve before I share my conclusions,” he said. “Once we have spoken to the sorcerer and the last vestiges of doubt removed, then you’ll know all I do.”

Horse-shit, my liege, Lakorath yawned. He already knows which string to pull to untangle this knot, he just doesn’t want to accept it yet. I can’t tell exactly why, but for him the consequences of solving this puzzle will be severe. Still, a grudging note of respect crept into the demon’s voice, he’ll do it when the time comes, consequences or no.

Guyime grunted and stepped back from Lucarni, turning towards the door. “Then let’s find this sorcerer and have done. I had my fill of riddles in Carthula.”

He paid a brief visit to Lexius before departing the galleria, finding the scholar in the archive busily enthralled in the centre of a veritable nest of books and piled parchment. “Not yet,” he snapped before Guyime could voice an enquiry regarding his progress.

Lexius shifted his focus from book to parchment to unfurled map with jerky rapidity, the eyes swollen by his lenses bright and hardly blinking. Guyime thought it noteworthy that he could see a glow emanating from the scabbard of the Kraken’s Tooth as Lexius worked. Even confined within the weapon’s cursed blade, it was clear Calandra still possessed considerable knowledge and Guyime knew her guidance would be loud in her husband’s mind.

“But you’ve found something?” Guyime pressed, hoping to hear some morsel of insight regarding the Seven Swords. However, the question brought only an irritated scowl to Lexius’s brow and a muttered, cryptic reply: “What I have found, my lord, are far too many impossibilities for my liking…” He trailed off, abruptly crouching to plunge his hands into the base of a tall stack of aged scrolls. Knowing further questions would provoke only more mystifying answers, Guyime left him to his labours.

Orsena had clad herself in a plain dress of grey cotton that, she claimed, would cause any curious passersby to take her for a servant of some kind. However, although the dress lacked decoration, the quality of the material, minuscule stitching and overall impression of cleanliness and finery it conveyed would make her appear out of place in any slum. Seeker rectified the situation by taking one of Orsena’s least embroidered shawls and throwing it into a horse trough outside the galleria’s main gate.

“Here,” she said, wringing out the besmirched garment and arranging it to cover Orsena’s head and shoulders. Orsena’s smile of gratitude dimmed considerably when Seeker began casting handfuls of brown trough water over her skirt.

“Is that really necessary?” she asked, grimacing at the freshly stained and ill-smelling cotton.

“I’ve been to places where folk would slit your throat for a scrap of this dress,” Seeker told her before placing both her hands on Orsena’s shoulders and drawing her forward a little. “Don’t stand so tall, or walk so well. You move like a dancer, not a maid. Also, keep your head lowered and eyes averted. Anyone speaks to you, tell them to fuck off in as loud a voice as you can manage.”

“Fuck off!” Orsena repeated with dutiful stridency. Despite the enthusiasm of the profanity, to Guyime’s ears Orsena still sounded more a queen than a servant.

“Better still,” Seeker said, “just punch them.”

Lucarni hired the least opulent barge they could find in one of the many wharfs that ringed the Cora Exultia, eschewing the use of his own craft. “Fetching up in the Rats Circle in a Council barge would only invite trouble,” he said.

In addition to the choice of boat, he had further disguised himself by exchanging his formal robe for meaner garb and, like Orsena, removed his mask. The revealed face conformed a good deal to Guyime’s expectations, stern with a forehead creased by age and the permanent squint of the professionally curious. However, Guyime felt there to be something new in the guardedness and restrained glimmer of fear that rose whenever Lucarni’s gaze slipped towards the Ultria.

“Rats Circle?” he enquired as the barge slipped from its moorings, a dozen oarsmen labouring to convey them across the broad waters.

“A segment of the city’s fourth ring,” Lucarni explained. “A place where anything can be bought, as long as the buyer is willing to risk a visit. Many a corpse is tumbled into the canals that border it and few questions asked regarding their demise.”

“So it’s un-policed?” Guyime asked.

“The Governing Council of this city has long held to a certain…pragmatic outlook. All cities have districts like the Rats Circle. They are inevitable, even necessary in a place where so many souls live in close proximity. As long as the rats stay in their sewer and keep their ambitions small, they are left to their own devices. There have been occasions when this equilibrium has been disturbed, with unfortunate consequences. The Council is pragmatic, but it is often a brutal pragmatism.”

After traversing the artificial sea separating the Cora Exultia from the city proper, the barge entered a maze of canals on the northern edge of the first circle. The waterway narrowed as the craft moved deeper and, although the surrounding buildings lessened in height, they seemed to loom ever larger. Guyime also noted how the air changed the further in they went, the floral notes of the inner rings giving way to an acrid mist of woodsmoke, rotting detritus and sewage. By the time Lucarni called on the barge’s master to moor up they were enshrouded in a dense, brownish fog that obscured much of the surrounding streets.

“Wait for us,” the magistrate told the barge master, Guyime hearing the chink of a purse before Lucarni stepped ashore. Four of his own men were left on the wharf to ensure the craft didn’t depart and they proceeded into the Rats Circle accompanied by a pair of Orsena’s household guards. They were both similar to Guyime in stature with weapons concealed beneath long cloaks, resembling moving walls as they flanked the Ultria’s slim form.

“We must be quick about our business here,” Lucarni said, striding on through the fog. “Lingering will only draw unwanted attention.”

“Could anyone even see us in this?” Orsena asked, wafting a hand in front of her face.

“We’ve already been noticed,” Seeker assured her, the beast charmer’s eyes peering up at the dim outline of the rooftops above. She had her bow in hand, although hadn’t yet nocked an arrow to the string.

“Do they intend violence?” Guyime asked her.

Seeker’s features twitched as her eyes continued to flick about. “Not yet. Just watching for now, like lions tracking the herd.” She cast a brief glance at Lissah, the caracal letting out an anticipatory hiss as she bounded off to scale the nearest wall. Her long, lithe form disappeared into the upper reaches of the fog a heartbeat later.

“She’ll warn if the lions get hungry,” Seeker said.

They followed Lucarni along a succession of cramped, winding streets, passing no more than a dozen people on the way. Most were slumped in corners or staggering about, either too drunk or drugged to take notice of any unusual visitors. However, Guyime saw a few watch their passing with intent, silent scrutiny, careful to keep to the shadows as they did so. He had visited many a slum in his time, but few had possessed such an aura of constant and impending threat.

Lucarni eventually came to a halt at the junction of five streets where a line of weary folk stood, buckets in hand as they awaited their turn at a water pump. Many abruptly forgot their chore at the sight of the magistrate, turning about and swiftly fading into the surrounding streets. Others lingered to stare at the newcomer, faces nervous or nakedly hostile. Lucarni ignored them all and made for the slumped, spindly form of a man seated at the base of the low stone dais where the water pump stood. His occupation was signified by the empty tin cup sitting next to his bare feet. But for the faint bob of the beggar’s head as Lucarni crouched to address him, Guyime might have taken the fellow for a recently expired corpse, so grimy and lifeless did he appear. He couldn’t hear the words exchanged between beggar and magistrate, but they must have held some value for Lucarni dropped a copper triangle into the man’s cup before straightening and rejoining the party.

“Our quarry currently resides in the Scrapes,” Lucarni reported, nodding towards the narrowest of the five streets. “We have until sunset to garner what answers we can. After that, our safety is not guaranteed.”

“You required permission to proceed from a beggar?” Guyime asked, jerking his chin at the slumped, spindly man at the pump.

“All kingdoms have a monarch,” Lucarni said. “And he’s no more a beggar than I am.”

The Scrapes, it transpired, were a well-named warren of constricted lanes even more choked by fog than the other neighbourhoods in this district. Many of the buildings were of haphazard or aged construction with walls that leaned close together, meaning the party were often obliged to traverse corners in single file. Guyime and Orsena’s guards had a particularly irksome time of it, frequently adopting a low crouch to maintain progress. They encountered no other souls during the journey but Guyime heard the patter of running feet on cobbles several times. Seeker also assured him that their trail was being followed by a growing band on the rooftops.

“Youngsters, mostly,” she said. “Seems the cubs keep to the high ground here. They’re wary, for now, but hungry. The young are more like to risk injury when their belly growls.”

“This is a disgrace,” Orsena said, Guyime hearing true anger in her voice. “Beggared people and starving children, here in the richest port in the Five Seas. It won’t stand, Magistrate, mark me well.”

“Remarks best addressed to the Governing Council, Ultria,” Lucarni replied, voice flat and lacking the genuine respect from before. The magistrate also avoided looking directly at her as he spoke, Guyime seeing a deep wariness in his eyes.

He’s more scared of her than of anything lurking in this shit-hole, Lakorath concluded. With good reason, I’d say. Something’s not right about her. I sense mostly the usual ragbag of mundanity that all mortals exude, but there’s so much doubt too, so much curiosity.

“Doubt and curiosity?” Guyime murmured. “You merely describe all of humanity.”

This is different. Fully grown mortals are jaded, cynical wretches. She is…cleaner, her mind brighter. Like a child.

Guyime was about to press the demon for more clarity but paused when Lucarni came to a halt. Up ahead a lantern’s glow showed through the brown miasma and he heard the faltering notes of some manner of musical instrument.

“Best if we two proceed alone,” the magistrate told Guyime. “He’ll get overly agitated by a larger party.”

“Unacceptable,” Orsena said with prim insistence. “I didn’t come all this way to hear second-hand information, sir.”

She raised her chin to an expectant angle whilst Guyime watched Lucarni bite down on a retort. It was clear he had no desire for the Ultria to witness what was about to transpire but couldn’t find any way to prevent it.

“As you wish,” he said finally, lips forming a grimace that may have been an attempt at a polite smile. “But, I implore you, Ultria, remain silent.”

He turned and moved off without waiting for a response, something that clearly irked Orsena’s guards more than it did her. “It’s all right,” she told the marginally larger of the two as he started after the magistrate, face dark with retributive intent. “Both of you wait here,” she instructed before inclining her head at Guyime.

Tracing the magistrate’s path towards the glow, they found him regarding an aged man standing beside a cart, the lantern dangling from its side. He wore a black silk scarf across his eyes, a signifier of complete blindness recognised throughout the first three seas. Before Lucarni’s approach, the old man had been engaged in turning a handle affixed to the rear of the cart, pushing a laggardly torrent of air through a set of steel pipes on its topside. The resultant music lacked any recognisable tune but seemed to suffice for the small monkey perched on a board protruding from the cart’s side. Clad in a minuscule breastplate and helm, the beast capered about in response to the pipes’ tuneless utterance. When the music fell silent it bared its teeth and let out a peevish screech.

“Takings are thin today,” Lucarni observed, nodding to the empty cup at the monkey’s side. “This is hardly the best place to ply your trade, Huelish.”

Guyime kept a close watch on the blind man’s face, keen to gauge his expression. However, it remained a passive, wrinkled mask and the response, when it came, didn’t emerge from his lips.

“There are few refuges left in this city of tyrants where an honest soul can earn enough for mere sustenance.”

The voice was smooth and cultured, the words spoken with a fluency that would have shamed a trained orator. The fact that they had come from the mouth of the monkey made them doubly interesting.

Moving to Lucarni’s side, Orsena let out a delighted laugh, face lit with wonder as she leaned closer. “How charmingly remarkable,” she enthused, extending a hand only for the monkey to abandon its eloquence and let out a harsh shriek of warning, lashing out with its claws.

“Sully me not with your touch, wretched Exultia!” he hissed, adding as Orsena snatched her hand away in shock, “Yes, I know well the stink of your kind, mask or no.” Its bulbous black eyes glared at Lucarni. “Why have you brought this gilded hellion to gawp at me, Lucarni? Has poor Huelish not suffered enough at your pestilent hands?”

“What is this?” Guyime asked Lakorath in a low mutter.

A mortal mind squeezed into a beast’s brain, the demon replied, the sword pulsing with the discordant rhythm that indicated unwelcome surprise. Something I’ve not seen for a millennia at least. It’s a rare and powerful form of sorcery I thought lost to mortals, but this one seems to have found it, much to his regret I’d guess. The incantation is irreversible once a mind is plucked from a human body, and only beasts can be inhabited thereafter. It takes a severe toll on the chosen vessel. I’d guess he needs a new one every few years.

Blinking in alarm, the monkey whirled away from Lucarni, baring its small fangs at Guyime, the black eyes fixed on the sword handle jutting above his shoulder.

“And you bring demons to assail me!” Huelish wailed, staggering back and throwing an arm across his brow. “So much power brought against one poor worker of meagre magics!”

“You’re far from poor,” Lucarni said, his voice the unimpressed sigh common to law makers the world over. “And your magic is not meagre. In fact, you recently cast a very powerful charm for a member of the Exultia. I would know who paid you and exactly what thoughts they had you conceal.”

Huelish chittered in resentment, crossing his arms and adopting a sulky pose that would have been amusing but for the depth of enmity Guyime sensed from this ensorcelled beast. He clearly hated Lucarni with the passion all criminals reserve for representatives of officialdom.

“You ask me to break a confidence,” the monkey huffed. “You know discretion is essential to my business.”

“So is continuing to enjoy safe harbour within this city,” Lucarni returned. “I have serious doubts as to your longevity should an order of exile be issued. The tales I’ve heard of your life beyond our borders speak of many enemies left in your wake.”

“I earned my place here, doing favours for the likes of her.” Huelish jerked his small head at Orsena. “Think they’ll be happy to see me gone, do you?”

“I think,” Orsena said before Lucarni could reply, “that one short note from me will ensure my brothers and sisters in the Exultia will never hire your services again. I also think you know full well the reason for our visit.” She and the monkey stared at each other for a tense interval until the sorcerer gave a snarl and lowered his gaze.

“However,” Orsena went on in a more conciliatory tone, “I am prepared to compensate you for the damage to your reputation.”

Huelish’s eyes narrowed to a suspicious squint as a small, pink tongue emerged to trace over the creased edge of his lips. “My price will be high,” he told her.

Orsena’s slim shoulders moved in a shrug. “So name it. I can have a chest of gold here in an hour.”

“Not money.” The tongue darted across Huelish’s lips again. “I want a bird, one of the great mountain eagles of the north lands.” He raised a claw to scratch at his neck. “I’m tired of this weak thing, the fleas are driving me to distraction.” He bared his fangs again in a sardonic smile. “I’ve a yen to fly, you see, far away from this pit of foul humours and fouler people where I’ve only this dullard for company.” He cast a sour glance at the blind organ grinder who continued to stand in expressionless passivity.

“Done,” Orsena replied. “My father employed an extensive network of bird hunters to maintain his aviary. I’m sure securing your prize will be within their abilities. It will take some months, however, and,” she leaned closer to Huelish, lowering her voice to a harder pitch that allowed for no misinterpretation, “delivery is dependent on your honest answers to the magistrate’s questions, to be given now with no further argument.”

The monkey splayed its tiny digits in acceptance. “A bargain struck and accepted then. Ask away, Magistrate Lucarni. Although, I caution you that there isn’t much to say. It was one of my less challenging glamours, just a little surface confusion to ward against unwanted intrusion.”

“To be clear,” Lucarni said. “Ultrius Massilano Benezzi paid you to shroud his thoughts via arcane means.”

Huelish inclined his head in affirmation. “That’s the truth of it, and all I can usefully tell you.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I think when presented with Massilano’s thoughts you would be unable to resist taking a look at what he wanted to hide.”

The sorcerer’s mouth gave an resentful twitch before he consented to nod once again.

“He planned the murder of Ultrius Domiano, did he not?” Lucarni pressed.

“That he did. Quite an elaborate scheme it was too. However, the curious thing was…”

The sorcerer fell silent as a sudden, fierce gust of wind swept through the narrow channel of the street. The brownish fog vanished in an instant, revealing the sight of a man stumbling towards them, his feet tripping over the cobbles, causing him to collide repeatedly with the walls. Although his face was hidden in shadow Guyime had no difficulty recognising Lorweth’s rangy form. The fierceness of the wind, no doubt conjured by the druid’s hand, instantly stirred Guyime’s suspicion, causing him to reach over his shoulder for the sword. However, the sound of Lorweth’s voice, pain-filled but strident with warning, gave him pause.

“Run, your worship!” the druid called out, staggering to a halt a dozen paces short. He drew in a heavy breath and collapsed against a doorway, Guyime seeing his bleached, blood-streaked features as he fell free of the shadow. “They’re coming…” Lorweth gasped out as Guyime rushed to his side, catching him before he slid to the cobbles.

“Who?” Guyime demanded, the druid shuddering in his grasp. He could feel a warm dampness through Lorweth’s clothing, and the whiteness of his skin told the tale of a man fast leaking away his life’s blood.

“Alchemists…” Lorweth told him in a voice dulled to a whisper by pain, managing to summon a smile before the light began to fade from his eyes. “Told you…I settle my debts…your worship.”

“Stand ready!” Guyime barked, rising and drawing the sword from the scabbard. “We are attacked!”

His words sent Orsena’s two guards running towards their mistress. Beyond them Seeker drew an arrow from her quiver, eyes raised to the gutters above. Guyime began to follow her example but stopped as something landed on the cobbles beside the organ cart with a heavy, metallic thunk. He had time to gain a full and dire appreciation of its nature: a spiked iron ball the size of a melon from which there protruded a short black cord. He had last seen a device like this in the Execration. That too had been the work of an alchemist and he recalled with awful clarity the ease with which it had transformed the head of a monstrous snake into a cloud of bloody vapour. He watched with impotent dread as the cord on this particular device blazed out a bright ball of sparks, burning swiftly down to the root.

Chapter 7

The Two Lost Blades

“Get back!” Guyime shouted at Lucarni and Orsena, both still standing in baffled immobility close to the cart. The Ultria’s guards were almost upon her now, reaching out to drag her away, too late and too close to avoid the consequence of what happened next.

Guyime threw his arms across his face an instant before his vision was swamped by a blinding flash. He felt his feet leave the cobbles as the blast cast him away like a giant swatting a fly. The narrowness of the street amplified rather than muffled the effects of the device, propelling him like a pea in a straw. He tumbled along, bouncing off the walls before a fortuitously placed alcove brought him to a painful halt.

Finding himself immobilised by shock was an unaccustomed experience, and one he found he didn’t like at all. At first, all he could manage by way of movement was a feeble flexing of his fingers and blinking of teary eyes that saw only a pale blur.

Get up, my liege, Lakorath said, his tone lightly insistent but also clear in its warning. This is not a time to be indulging in sloth.

Through the shifting haze clouding his vision, Guyime made out the shadowy form of a figure dropping to the ground a short distance away. Blinking furiously, he managed to clear his eyes enough to make out the sight of a slim man moving towards him in a cautious crouch. He wore a hood over his head and Guyime could make out the black cotton scarf that covered his face.

“Careful,” a voice said. Guyime’s eyes flicked towards another figure descending from the rooftops close by. He wore much the same garb as his companion, although he displayed less inclination to venture near to Guyime’s inert form. He also clutched an iron-spiked ball in his hand and a smoking taper in the other.

“He’s not dead yet,” he said, hooded face keeping a wary vigil on the smoke-shrouded street. Guyime could hear shouts from within the smoke; diminishing, plaintive expressions of agony from one too injured to voice a scream. “They told us we can’t take it until he’s dead.”

“Then let’s speed the process,” the first hood muttered, drawing a dagger from his belt. He reached out to grab hold of Guyime’s chin, forcing it up to bare his throat. Spittle flecked Guyime’s lips as he grunted with the effort of raising his arms, but he could do no more than flail ineffectually at the hooded man’s knife hand.

“Thought this would be a good deal harder,” the assassin said, the chilly kiss of the blade caressing Guyime’s skin, “for what they’re paying us…”

His words transformed into a startled shriek as a red blur streaked down to attach itself to his face. Shredded cotton mixed with blood and muffled screams as the hooded man reeled away, trying desperately to sink his dagger into the ravening creature busily tearing his face to tatters. Lissah avoided the jabbing knife with ease, twisting her long body this way and that as her claws and teeth continued their vicious work. She soon found a suitably fruitful vein and, after dipping her head to deliver a final, savage bite, leapt free of the hooded man. He staggered about for a short interval, blood jetting from the fingers he clamped to his opened neck, then collapsed into a spasming heap on the cobbles.

His companion, however, had not been idle during the struggle, backing away and touching his taper to the iron ball’s cord. Lissah crouched to pounce as the alchemist drew his arm back. Before he could cast the device, he stiffened, back arched and body jerking as a steel-barbed arrowhead erupted from his neck. The iron ball slipped from his grip as he fell, Guyime staring at its fizzing cord as he managed to half rise, knowing he wouldn’t reach it in time.

“There was another one further along,” Seeker said, striding from the smoke with bow in hand. “Put an arrow in his leg, but the fall broke his neck,” she added, crouching to pluck the sparking cord from the device a half-inch short of completing its mission. Hefting the iron ball, she offered Guyime an apologetic grimace. “No one left to tell any tales.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Guyime groaned. His body shuddered as feeling finally began to return to his muscles and he accepted her proffered hand to lever himself upright. “I know who hired them.”

He was gratified to find Lorweth still alive, albeit only a short distance from death judging by his pallor and the amount of blood pooling around him. Guyime set Seeker to work bandaging his wound and went to check on the others.

Lucarni had contrived to turn his body side on to the explosion, meaning only half of him had been rendered into black and red ruin, the remnants of his clothes still smoking as they clung to the raw flesh. Crouching at his side, Guyime was amazed to see the magistrate’s eyes were open. They were dulled by what must have been an unspeakable pitch of agony, but, incredibly, he still held to the last vestige of life.

“The…lapia…” he murmured, as Guyime crouched to put his ear close to Lucarni’s mouth. The words emerged in a faltering rasp, but were spoken with precise insistence. Even at the cusp of death the investigating magistrate was determined to fulfil his duty.

“The lapia perfecta…” Lucarni whispered into Guyime’s ear. “I saw it…once. So…flawless… It gleamed so white…”

The last word dwindled into a hiss, sending a faint brush of air against Guyime’s skin. Leaning back, he saw that Lucarni’s eyes were empty now.

An angry sigh snapped his gaze to the pile of splinters and bent metal that had been the organ cart. What remained of the blind organ grinder now decorated the wall beyond in an ugly smear alongside a smaller stain within which Guyime saw a faint glimmer of brass. Huelish the hireling sorcerer and his remarkable arcane knowledge would not be inhabiting the body of a mountain eagle and flying away.

The sigh had come from a slender figure climbing to her feet from beneath the smoking and torn corpses of her two guards. Orsena’s plain but fine dress was mostly in tatters, revealing a good deal of the body beneath. Her flesh, besmirched by soot and the slain guards’ gore, still shone pale and perfect in places and, as far as Guyime could tell, she hadn’t suffered a single cut or even a bruise.

“Oh no,” she said as her eyes alighted on Lucarni’s corpse, voice heavy with what Guyime recognised as genuine regret. She came closer, her movements lacking any sign of a stagger or even a tremble. “Perhaps the only honest man in this entire city,” she said in a forlorn whisper, sinking to her knees to press a hand to the magistrate’s brow. Her sorrow was palpable, but Guyime found his attention fixed on her complete lack of injury.

The guards must have shielded her, he thought, although Lakorath’s reply was quick to echo his doubts.

No, they didn’t. As I said, my liege, something is decidedly not right with her. I’d suggest killing her now, if I thought you could.

They were forced to leave the bodies behind, Guyime knowing the scene would soon be overrun by locals intent on gathering what loot they could from the aftermath of murderous violence. As they departed the scene, Guyime saw numerous small faces staring down from the surrounding rooftops, eyes agleam with vulturine anticipation. He and Seeker carried an unconscious Lorweth whilst Orsena led the way. She had clad her half-naked form with one of the guards’ cloaks and moved with a rapid, unerring stride, displaying an impressive memory as she navigated the maze of alley and street.

Upon reaching the barge, the Council guards were greatly agitated regarding the magistrate’s absence and, when the Ultria’s authority proved insufficient to persuade them to leave, she promised a substantial sum to the barge master to set off immediately. The Council guards were duly left behind to seek out the magistrate, although Guyime doubted there would be much to find beyond a stripped corpse by now.

As the barge neared the Cora, Guyime joined Orsena at the prow, venturing a compliment on her ability to retrace their steps with such accuracy.

“Oh, I don’t forget things,” she said. “Facts, figures, what I ate for breakfast three months ago. In fact it was only recently that I realised it to be an unusual ability. The many tutors Father hired throughout my childhood neglected to educate me in the concept of forgetting, I assume on his instruction. I think it was because he didn’t wish me to think of myself as overly gifted. He was never unkind but strict in the manner in which he approached my upbringing. ‘The Exultia are a caste ruined by indulgence,’ he told me once. ‘You, my dearest, will never be so ruined.’” She paused, sadness playing over her blood-streaked face. “These were among the last words he ever spoke to me. I thought them strange because he was rarely so open with his thoughts. I recall I wanted to say something in return, something…profound, something grateful. But I couldn’t. The words simply weren’t there. Of course, now I wish I had.”

Guyime wanted to steer the conversation towards Lucarni’s final statement. Perhaps she too had once seen the lapia perfecta and might offer some insight into why it was to a block of stone that the magistrate’s thoughts turned as he lay dying. However, a warning thrum from the sword stopped the query as it rose to Guyime’s tongue.

Let’s see what the scholarly slave has to tell us, first, Lakorath advised.

You know something, Guyime replied inwardly. What is it?

Just the small seed of a notion, my liege. One that must be nurtured with knowledge. For now, the less you tell this one the better.

Orsena summoned a clutch of healers to see to Lorweth’s care as soon as they returned to the galleria. Thanks to their ministrations the druid soon recovered enough of his strength to flail about on the bed he had been laid upon, but not enough of his wits to utter more than confused nonsense in the Mareth tongue.

“What a melodious language,” Orsena observed when Lorweth gabbled out a particularly lengthy, if garbled speech. “The way it flows. Quite poetic, wouldn’t you say, your highness?”

In fact, the few intelligible phrases to emerge from the druid’s mouth consisted of desperate pleas that his father stop beating him. Clearly Lorweth’s delirium had placed his mind in a particularly painful childhood memory, one where it appeared he had been harshly punished for stealing a greatly treasured item. “I swear it wasn’t me, Da!” he yelled into the face of one of healers, Lorweth struggling in the grip of the others fighting to hold him down. “Don’t! Please don’t… I didn’t take the Lych Wand! I DIDN’T!”

The fear and desperation on the Mareth’s face was a hard thing to see, stirring echoes of the many beseeching faces Guyime had regarded with stony indifference when folk had last called him ‘your highness.’

“It’s not poetry,” he said, moving to the door. “I should consult with Lexius. Thank you for caring for this man. I leave him in your care.”

“The healers’ care,” she replied, following him to the door. “I should also like to hear what your esteemed scholar has found in my archive.” The emphasis she placed on the word ‘my’ left no illusion that he could avoid her company, at least for the immediate future. Whatever secrets Lexius had unearthed from his nest of paper could not be kept from her and, although Guyime couldn’t yet guess their nature, he felt a dire certainty she would not react well to the unveiling.

“As you wish,” he said, pausing to address Seeker. “Stay with the druid. See if he starts to make sense. I’m keen to know what transpired before he turned up knifed in that alley.”

“Domiano Carvaro was certainly a man prone to obsession,” Lexius said as he placed a trio of documents on the desk before Guyime and Orsena. The chaotic nest from only hours before had been transformed into a neatly arranged series of stacked papers, from which these three had apparently emerged as significant. Two were inscribed and sealed bills of sale of some kind but the third was a large scroll on fine-grained paper.

“His principal obsession, of course, being the works of Temesia Alvenisci,” Lexius went on. “But, his correspondence makes it apparent that the identification and collection of the Seven Swords had become a major preoccupation.”

“But was he successful?” Guyime asked.

“He certainly believed so.” Lexius took hold of the bill of sale on the left, turning it about to display the contents. The text was written in the dense, perfunctory script common to busy clerks the world over, set down in the modernised version of Valkerin favoured by merchants of all the Five Seas. The block printed letterhead identified it as originating from a merchant house in the city of Lementa, one of the Allied Ports on the southern shore of the Fourth Sea. The listed sum paid by the Carvaro Mercantile Bank would have sufficed to fill Guyime’s treasury for a year when he had still sat a throne. However, it was the description of the item sold that most interested him.

“‘A curved short sword,’” he read aloud. “‘The blade formed of patterned steel and inscribed with fine script of unknown origin. The handle is crafted from black ivory and the overall design resembles blades forged in the pre-Ultrean era. Estimated age, three thousand years.’”

He looked up to meet Lexius’s eyes and they shared a moment of unspoken, mutual understanding. “Does it lie in the stores beneath this galleria?” Guyime asked, his rising hopes quickly dashed when Lexius gave a regretful shake of his head.

“The auditors from the Carvaro Mercantile Bank were thorough following the Ultrius’s death. A full inventory of all items stored here was carried out. This blade is nowhere to be found, and neither,” Lexius handed Guyime the other bill of sale, “is this one.”

“He found two?” Guyime said, eyes busily scanning the bill which he felt to be a far less impressive document. An unreadable signature had been scrawled across the bottom of the page alongside a date confirming the sale as having taken place some twelve years previously. The hand that had inscribed the description of the item sold was only marginally more legible, however, Guyime was able to decipher it after a short period of annoyed squinting: ‘The Crystal Dagger: being a straight, ornamental blade formed of black crystal, possibly obsidian.’

“There are legends concerning the Crystal Dagger,” Lexius said. “Fragmentary and contradictory, but some claim it to be one of the seven demon-cursed blades. Others say the opposite. What is clear is that throughout the ages it’s been seen as an artefact of great evil, a malign influence on all who have the misfortune to possess it.”

“So,” Guyime’s hand shifted to the other bill, “Domiano thought he had found two of the Seven Swords. We have a name for one, but the other?”

“I found only one potentially useful reference in his notes, apparently sourced from an ancient Ultrean text: Ix salicsh ont Venar.”

“‘The Conjurer’s Blade’,” Orsena translated, demonstrating the impressive scope of her education.

“The words ‘conjurer’ and ‘artist’ are often interchangeable in Ultrean,” Lexius said. “From what scholars can gather the Ultreans were a civilisation that saw little distinction between art and magic.”

“Two blades.” Guyime straightened, fingers tracing through his beard as he mused on the sudden wealth of information. “Two weapons, potentially capable of unleashing considerable arcane power, both missing. And their owner slain by a blade but no weapon to be found.”

“But Magistrate Lucarni confirmed that the wounds suffered by Ultrius Domiano were inflicted by a curved blade,” Lexius pointed out. “However, I would have thought injuries caused by a demon-cursed blade to be more extensive.”

“Not necessarily,” Guyime said, shaking his head. “It all depends on the intent of the blade’s wielder, or the demon that inhabits it.”

“So,” Orsena said, peering at the two bills, “it would appear we have arrived at a confluence of purpose.” She had briefly donned her mask again when in the presence of the healers, but removed it upon descending to the galleria’s vaults. Her eyes shone with keen and serious interest as she scanned the documents before turning to Guyime with a faint smile. “Our paths have aligned, your highness. You search for the very sword that murdered my father.”

“So it appears,” Guyime acceded. “Did your father never show these blades? It seems strange he would display so much of his treasure, but not these.”

“He could be as secretive as he was boastful. However, never did I perceive him to be under the influence of a malign, magical dagger.”

“There is something else,” Lexius said, turning to the large, fine paper scroll. His voice held a tight reluctance, betraying a controlled trepidation over what he was about to reveal. “Something very curious indeed.”

As the scholar unfurled the scroll Guyime was unable to suppress a shudder, finding he had to force himself to look at the revealed image in full: Saint Maree’s Field. The scroll displayed what at first appeared to be an exact copy of the great painting hanging in the Temesia Collecta, albeit rendered in pen and ink rather than pigment.

“A cartoon,” Lexius said. “It’s often standard practice for wealthy patrons of the arts to commission a smaller copy of a major work. It makes them easier to sell should the need arise, or in Ultrius Domiano’s case, to boast about to his fellow Exultia. This one is clearly the work of a lesser hand, but sufficiently clear in its details for me to notice this.” Lexius pointed to a less busy section on the lower left portion of the image.

“I see nothing,” Guyime said, glad of the chance to shift his focus from the disconcertingly accurate carnage in the centre. At the spot indicated by Lexius he could see only churned mud, rendered here in burnt ochre although it would surely have possessed a crimson sheen in the original.

Lexius began to voice a reply but Orsena spoke first. “Where are they?” she said, leaning close to the cartoon, her tone one of disconcerted bafflement.

“They?” Guyime enquired.

“The bodies.” Orsena splayed her lace-covered fingers over the patch of bare mud, fingers that twitched and trembled until she forced them into a fist. “There are two bodies in that section of the painting. They draw the eye because, unlike every other corpse on that field of slaughter, they are shrouded. I have been looking at that painting for years and those bodies have always been there.”

“Ultria,” Lexius said, “this cartoon is less than two years old. I have a copy of the contract your father agreed with the artist who produced it.”

“Perhaps your memory can play you false after all,” Guyime suggested, which caused the Ultria’s suddenly moist eyes to flash at him in palpable distress.

“That, your highness, is impossible,” she grated. “I told you: I do not forget anything.” She swung back to the cartoon, drawing in a series of deep breaths to calm herself before speaking on. “Clearly, some manner of deception is at work here. A…jape of some kind.”

“Did your father ever strike you as a man given to japes?” Guyime asked. “And why hide it away in his archive where you may never see it?”

“I do not presume to know my father’s mind in all things.” Her tone was sufficiently sharp to herald a brief silence, broken when Lexius ventured a soft-spoken suggestion.

“The painting itself would appear to be worthy of further investigation,” he said, Guyime noting how his hand went to the hilt of the Kraken’s Tooth as he spoke. Once again the blue glimmer was visible at the edge of the scabbard. Divining that Lexius was about to propose a sorcerous solution to this mystery, Guyime met his gaze and held it. Not a man to miss a signal, Lexius said nothing more. Guyime turned to Orsena, still staring fixedly at the empty portion of the unfurled cartoon.

“Ultria, sunset is upon us and the hour of your father’s funeral draws near,” he said, his tone respectful and, he hoped, placatory. “Perhaps it would be best to address this mystery when the formalities are concluded. Also, I need to hear what the druid has to say before forming any final conclusions.”

Orsena blinked and turned her back on the cartoon, reaching for her mask and settling it in place as she smoothed her hands over the mourning dress she would wear to the funeral. It was a typically elegant confection of black satin with a few carefully placed silken adornments in dark crimson. Her mask was also different from the one she wore at their first meeting, lacquered all in black save for the small rubies that outlined the eyes.

“You know who killed my father?” she asked after a moment of stillness, not looking at Guyime.

“I believe we now have the means to find out,” Guyime replied. “A task to be completed tomorrow when we are all rested. This has been a very trying day.”

“That it has. Very well.” Orsena gathered her skirts and strode away, footfalls echoing loud in the vaults, creating a perfectly regular accompaniment to her parting words. “Until tomorrow then, good sirs. I would invite you to the funeral, but only the Exultia and their household escorts are permitted.”

Guyime waited until the unfaltering rhythm of her steps faded completely before turning back to Lexius. “I have another artefact for you to find,” he said, keeping his words muted to ensure they didn’t reach the ears of any lingering servants. “A block of marble known as the lapia perfecta.”

Chapter 8

Saint Maree's Field

Lorweth’s features remained a stark shade of greyish white, but his breathing was steady if laboured. Also, Guyime was gratified to see, his eyes retained a gleam of rational clarity.

“Bet you were surprised to see me, eh, your worship?” he asked in a raspy croak, a shadow of the usual sardonic smile playing over his lips. “Coming to save you, like I did, all heroic and such.”

“Yes,” Guyime replied with unvarnished honesty. “I did say I considered our debts settled.”

“Ah, but that was your estimation, not mine.” Lorweth’s face bunched as he tried to sit up in bed, quickly abandoning the attempt with a pained wince. The healers had departed the room at Guyime’s instruction, the most senior amongst them pausing to advise that the Mareth was considerably fortunate to still draw breath and would require extensive convalescence.

“Would I be wrong,” Guyime said, dragging a stool to the bedside before sitting down, “that you were approached with a commission to kill me?”

“You would not.” Lorweth’s wince became a smile once again, his brows arched in mock-regret. “And quite the bounty it was too. That trio of alchemists your lovely companion and her cat did away with weren’t too confident they could do the job themselves, y’see. Even less so when I told them who you really were.”

“But that didn’t suffice to put them off.”

“Not with the kind of money they’d been promised.” Lorweth gave a judgmental huff. “Some folk are just too lost in greed, don’t you find? As you can see, they didn’t take kindly to my polite refusal. I’d guess one of them knew enough truth-telling magic to discern that I was intent on seeking you out with a warning.”

“Promised by who?” Seeker asked, moving to the other side of the bed. As she did so, Lissah hopped up onto the covers and curled up on Lorweth’s outstretched legs with a yawn.

“Will you look at that?” The druid gave a weak but delighted laugh. “She likes me.”

“Don’t be too impressed,” Seeker told him. “She’s claiming your carcass. If you die in the night, she’ll eat you. I asked a question.”

“I don’t know who hired them,” Lorweth said, with a rueful shake of his head. “I do know the sum was considerable and their instructions two-fold.”

“Kill me then take the sword,” Guyime said.

Lorweth lay back on his pillow, eyes closed and responding in a tired sigh. “Quite so, your worship.”

“So the magistrate and the Ultria weren’t the target,” Seeker concluded.

“So it appears,” Guyime mused. “And Massilano Benezzi is the only soul in this city with the wealth and desire to commit this crime.”

“Never heard of him,” Lorweth mumbled, eyes fluttering in the manner that told of imminent sleep. Within a few seconds his head lolled and he began to snore.

“The magistrate’s death was incidental,” Guyime said, rising from the stool. “Which means Benezzi didn’t fear what he might uncover.”

“Or he could have been trying to kill the Ultria,” Seeker suggested.

“He couldn’t have known she would accompany us. A member of the Exultia venturing into the city’s worst slum could never be anticipated. It’s my guess he’s had agents following our movements ever since we arrived in the city.”

“Not desiring to kill Orsena doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her father. Why else would he have his thoughts shrouded by sorcery? That monkey confirmed as much.”

Guyime thought about the words spoken by Huelish before the alchemist’s device transformed him into an ugly stain on the wall. Quite an elaborate scheme it was too. However, the curious thing was…

“Benezzi planned Domiano’s demise, that’s plain enough,” Guyime said. “But it’s one thing to hatch a plan, another to carry it out. Besides, there’s still a great deal to uncover here.”

“Benezzi will have all the answers,” Seeker insisted.

“And he’ll give us those answers tomorrow, ensorcelled mind or no. No charm will stand against a demon-cursed blade. We’ll probably have to fight our way into his mansion, and I’ll kill him when we’ve got the truth. Magistrate Lucarni is owed that much. However,” Guyime’s features tightened in frustration, “we didn’t come here to administer justice, we came for the swords, and Ekiri.”

“The Ultria has been true to her word, my daughter is within reach now. Orsena is owed the completion of this task as the magistrate is owed justice.”

Ultria Orsena, Lakorath repeated with knowing mirth.

“What do you know?” Guyime demanded, glancing over his shoulder at the sword’s handle.

Oh, I wouldn’t wish to spoil the moment of revelation, my liege. Lakorath’s tone was laden with demonic enjoyment of mortal limitations. I believe it’s time to speak to the scholar and confront your most terrible moment. I think you’ve put it off long enough, don’t you?

He found Lexius on a balcony on the second floor overlooking the galleria’s grand entrance. Moving to his side, Guyime looked down to see Orsena departing through the huge doors in company with a coterie of guards. The party moved in solemn procession down the steps beyond and across the Grand Plaza where many torches had been lit to illuminate the funeral of Ultrius Domiano Carvaro.

“The lapia perfecta,” Guyime said. “What did you find?”

“It’s much the same story as the swords,” Lexius replied. “I uncovered evidence of its purchase, but no sign of its presence. Careful questioning of the servants confirms that it was intended to be carved by Temesia into a sculptural portrait of Orsena, but none recall her commencing work on it. All who saw the lapia claim it was sitting untouched in the vaults.”

Guyime watched the Ultria and her retinue approach the glowing forest of raised torches, the light flickering over the irregular flanks of the great monument to the First Damnation.

She moves with such graceful perfection, Lakorath observed. Every step so precise. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that, if you measured them, they would all be exactly the same length, down to the smallest fraction of an inch.

“It’s time we took a look at that painting,” Guyime said, turning away and striding towards the Temesia Collecta.

This time he didn’t allow his gaze to falter. Despite the increased thud of his heart and the sweat beading his brow, he forced himself to scrutinise every inch of the huge canvas. He scanned the clusters of knights, men-at-arms, conscripted peasants and Church levies, all frozen in the moment of frenzied combat.

Set back from the central melee he made out the last stand of Sir Malcon Le-Sharl, most famed sword of the Risen Church and the leader of their fanatic levies. Guyime had harboured a deep desire to kill Sir Malcon himself but, come the day of the final clash betwixt Church and Crown, the great knight had been surrounded and hacked to death by a mob of peasants. The Church levies had been responsible for many village burnings and arbitrary executions of supposed heretics so Le-Sharl’s fate was fitting. However, even now, as this dread painting stirred a hard ball of sickness in his gut, Guyime felt a hungry itch to his hands as he watched Le-Sharl disappear beneath a thicket of hacking billhooks and pitchforks.

Off to the left he found the last act in what became known as the Charge of the Twelve, the cavalry assault that had shattered the Church army’s ranks and allowed him to wreak this final orgy of slaughter. The charge had been led by his twelve most trusted retainers, those who followed him throughout the long years of exile and stood at the forefront of his campaign when he returned to the Northlands.

Temesia had eschewed depicting the Twelve’s moment of triumph in favour of its immediate aftermath. There was Sir Leonne of the Kindly Hand, dead or close to it, still seated in the saddle despite the dozen arrows jutting from his armour. There lay tall Sir Julean, his hand still clutching the handle of his great sword. Never willing to wear a helm, he lay face down in the mud, grey and red gore spilling from his shattered skull. The others were all present too, but only one still drew breath for this was the day the Twelve became the One.

Sir Lorent Athil stood regarding the stricken form of the Lady Ihlene whose belly had been sliced open by an axe of enchanted design. The Risen Church, ever the hypocrites, had resorted to buying arcane weapons as the Ravager’s Crusade reached its climax and extinction of the faith seemed imminent. Lorent had been Guyime’s cousin by marriage and the finest swordsman in all the Northlands, perhaps even the world. A man of humble temperament and shy manners, he had loved Lady Ihlene for years but never told her. Now, he never would.

Of course, it was the figure rising above the mound of slain or struggling bodies in the centre that dominated the picture. Guyime knew the years since had changed his face; the sword kept age at bay but offered no protection against scarring. Even so, the features of the man raising high a glowing sword, blood trailing from the blade as he tore it free of his most recent victim, were uncanny in their accuracy. It was impossible for him to have ever been in Temesia’s company, or for her to have witnessed this event, and yet she had captured the madness and bloodlust that claimed him that day with disturbing precision.

“It’s not truly a painting,” Lexius said, providing Guyime with a welcome excuse to shift his eyes from the canvas.

“How so?” he asked.

“It’s an enchantment.” Lexius drew the Kraken’s Tooth from its scabbard, the blade’s glow pulsing in time with his voice. Plainly, he was relaying Calandra’s words. “This…thing was crafted by magical means. It is a melding of artistry with the arcane.”

Guyime recalled what Lexius had said about how the Ultrean language often used magic and art to mean the same thing. “The Conjurer’s Blade,” he said.

Lexius nodded, his own gaze dark as he surveyed the ugly spectacle. “My wife believes, and I concur, that Temesia had possession of the Conjurer’s Blade when she created this. A gift from her patron, one assumes. A gift that enabled her to surpass even her own remarkable talents. But also a dangerous power to afford anyone, for what we see here is not mere pigment and canvas. It is a window, and what lies beyond a fragment of reality. A real place, and like any real place, one that can be visited.”

Guyime looked at the two shrouded bodies lying in the mud at a short remove from the central struggle, bodies Orsena insisted had been there since the painting’s creation, but remained absent from its copy.

“You’re saying someone entered this painting and put those corpses there?” he asked, a skeptical frown creasing his brow. “I have seen a good deal of magic, my friend, but this I find hard to credit.”

The Kraken’s Tooth glowed brighter, although this time instead of relaying her words, Lexius shook his head.

“What did she say?” Guyime asked him.

The scholar’s features bunched in tense reluctance and he said nothing until the Tooth exuded a bright, impatient flare. “There is a way for us to pierce the veil that separates this world from what lies behind this image. We can…open the window, if you will.”

“How?”

“This was crafted with the aid of the Conjurer’s Blade. The same magic resides in both your sword and the Kraken’s Tooth. Calandra believes that all the demon-cursed blades share a form of magical resonance. Their abilities differ, but she thinks that by unleashing their power the enchantment that binds this painting will recognise us, allowing us entry.”

“Is she right?” Guyime asked Lakorath, who replied with none of his usual humour.

Yes, sadly she is. But, I would question the wisdom of following this course, my liege. As he said, what lies within this thing is real. The battle will be every morsel as deadly as it was when you fought it.

“I survived it then. I’ll survive it now.”

You were different then. Besides, surviving the battle is one thing, surviving your younger self is another.

Guyime’s eyes inevitably slipped to the painting’s central figure once more. He wanted to think of this man as unrecognisable, a malformed, best forgotten monster he no longer was. But he remembered it all so well and knew his actions that day, albeit enhanced by the sword’s magic, were not the work of anything other than a human soul intent on vengeance. This might appear like a man lost to savagery but Guyime recalled a strange calm descending after the Twelve’s charge broke the Church Army’s line and he threw himself into the thick of their exposed ranks. Every stroke of the sword was deadly and awful in the destruction left in its wake, but it was a controlled destruction. This was Guyime the Ravager at his height, rejoicing in the climax of retribution.

You fool, he thought, staring into his own features, depicted via Temesia’s peerless skill as the livid, blood-spattered mask of a man intent upon a much-relished task. You spilled an ocean of blood to claim a kingdom you never wanted, all to destroy something that couldn’t die.

“How is it done?” he said, reaching over his shoulder to draw the sword. The blade had already taken on a steady glow that grew in intensity as Guyime levelled it at the painting.

“Calandra knows various cants that might work,” Lexius said. “Ancient words of power…”

Oh, piss on that! Lakorath interrupted, the sword emitting an eye-paining flash of annoyance. Cants are merely theatre for gullible mortals. Tell the over-educated bitch to just focus her intent. The magic that binds us to these metal prisons will do the rest.

“He says…” Guyime began only for Lexius to cut in.

“She heard what he said.” The scholar eyed Guyime’s sword with narrow disapproval. “The demon should learn to guard his tongue. My wife is not a forgiving soul.”

Neither am I, Lakorath responded in a preoccupied mutter, Guyime altering the angle of the blade as he sensed the demon’s attention shift to the painting. The sword began to pulse with a steady, mounting rhythm. There was a short pause before the Kraken’s Tooth began to do the same. The pulses soon became syncopated and Guyime felt the uncomfortable itch to his skin and prickling of the hair that told of an accumulation of arcane power. It continued for several seconds until the entire canvas before them turned a bright shade of blue.

The sword shuddered in Guyime’s hands and he found himself holding tighter to the handle as the blade was drawn towards the great shimmering rectangle. He could feel and see the connection between the swords and the painting now, charged, arcing lines of power that bound them like a constantly shifting web.

Now, my liege, Lakorath said, the sword shuddering more violently still as a dark, vertical line appeared in the shimmer, soon expanding into an oval just wide enough to accommodate a man. We need to be quick, the demon warned. With only one blade to sustain it, this portal won’t hold forever.

Guyime had to quell his disgust as the sound and the stench of battle reached through the portal to assail him. He could see the many figures beyond, struggling and dying. Fortunately, Lakorath and Calandra had positioned their magic well, providing a straight run towards the two shrouded corpses. Still, he hesitated. Cowardice had been a rare thing in his life, but never had he been immune to its temptations.

What use is there in this? it whispered to him in familiar seduction. You have all the information you can garner from this place. Why risk this for the promise made to one born to so corrupted a caste?

“I gave my word,” he hissed back, teeth gritted and summoning rage to fuel his self-reproach. “I have nothing else left in this world. It has to still be worth something.”

Leaping forward, the cool, faintly aromatic air of the galleria abruptly shifted to a smoke-laced atmosphere rich in the stench of loosened bowels and sundered flesh. The screams of men and horses assailed him, accompanied by the clang and scrape of blades. Exiting the portal, he landed in a shallow ditch, splashing brown water slicked with red. Guyime ducked as a crossbow bolt buzzed past his ear like an angry hornet, burying itself in the face of a churchman a few yards to his front. A peasant conscript, his scraps of mismatched armour liberally spattered with gore, rushed towards the stricken churchman with axe raised, then halted to stare at Guyime. His features showed baffled fascination as they switched between the sight of his king and the man busily engaged in dealing death fifty paces away.

Desirous of avoiding unnecessary complications, Guyime dropped the gaping peasant with a single punch, stepping over his senseless form and making for the corpses. However, there could be no safe places on this field and his path was obstructed twice, once by a dismounted knight then by a bare-chested priest bearing a bloody dagger in both hands. Guyime knocked the knight unconscious with the sword’s pommel and sliced the priest open. The cleric demonstrated the depth of his insanity by continuing to preach a garbled sermon, still raising his daggers above his head even as his guts continued to spill from his belly. Guyime left him to his rantings and hurried on.

He fell to his knees upon reaching the two shrouded bodies, keeping low in the hope of avoiding further aggression. Tearing away the shroud of the nearest corpse, he found himself confronted by a face both familiar and strange. The upturned nose and the scattering of freckles were both present, but the revealed complexion was far darker. Also, as he peered closer, he saw several small but present moles on her skin, plus a few minor scars of the kind children inevitably collect as they grow. This was an imperfect face, the face of a woman who had lived as all mortals live.

Pulling away more of the shroud, he saw the fresh marks of violence on her chest. She had worn a fine, richly embroidered dress at the moment of her death, the bodice torn and punctured by several deep stab wounds. The silk was still sodden with her blood, making him realise that this corpse had been spared the depredations of corruption by being placed in the painting. This was a place forever removed from the passage of time.

I suppose the shade of her skin didn’t matter so much, Lakorath commented with a small note of triumph. Since she wears a mask all the time. This raises a curious moral dilemma, wouldn’t you say? Can she be called an imposter if she doesn’t know she is one?

“She doesn’t know?” Guyime asked, ducking another irksomely close projectile, this one an arrow, sailing within an inch of his head to birth a tall spout of reddish water from a nearby puddle.

Of course not, Lakorath replied. I would have known. The thing playing the role of Orsena Carvaro genuinely believes herself to be Orsena Carvaro.

“But…her memories.”

Yes, the memories. Perfect, just like everything else about her. I have sunk my claws into many a mortal mind, my liege, and none, no matter how blessed by wisdom or intelligence they might be, ever possessed a truly perfect memory. The real Orsena lies dead on this field.

“Then what is she…?” The question faded from his lips as the answer dawned, making Lakorath’s explanation redundant, not that the demon could resist voicing it.

The lapia perfecta. The perfect stone carved into the perfect woman, or what the sculptor imagined the perfect woman to be.

“How?”

The Conjurer’s Blade, of course. The demon within must be an artistic sort, rare amongst my kind but not unheard of. I imagine it greatly delighted in marrying its abilities with so talented a mortal as Temesia. What walks and talks like Orsena Carvaro is merely the idealised image of the woman lying here. I am, however, curious to discover if I am right as to who lies beside her.

A harsh, guttural cry from behind caused Guyime to reverse his grip on the sword, thrusting it under his arm to skewer a charging peasant through the chest. Kicking the sagging corpse free of the blade, he stooped, reaching for the shroud covering the second corpse.

“YOU!”

Guyime froze as the roaring challenge cut through the din of battle. I don’t want to see him, he thought, his voice a small, plaintive thing in his head. However, the purposeful squelch of approaching boots left him little option. Slowly, raising his gaze Guyime beheld a large man with a glowing sword striding across the crimson-stained mud towards him.

Chapter 9

The First Damnation

The face of King Guyime, First and Only of His Name, was a thing of nightmare that day, streaked in the blood of his enemies and set in a rictus of as yet un-sated vengeance. To his back lay the mound of corpses he had built, not a living soul amongst them for he had been thorough. Around them the battle had begun to ebb, as it had in the real world when the survivors of the Church Army saw what the Ravager had wrought. A contagion of fear spread through the priests and levies alike. Casting their weapons aside they fled, tearing their armour away to aid their haste and terror. It wouldn’t save them. Guyime would be swift in organising his mounted knights for a pursuit and the runners would be chased down and slaughtered without exception.

However, in this created version of that moment the victorious king had found another focus for his vengeance. “You!” he snarled again, coming to a halt a dozen yards short of Guyime. His features were twisted in mingled disgust and rage at the impossible sight of his older self. “What are you?” he demanded, steam rising from his glowing blade as he raised it in challenge. “Some denizen of the Infernus twisted into my image? Did their hireling sorcerers conjure you? Don’t imagine that guise will save you, demon!”

Guyime returned the glare of this all-too-accurate reflection, the urge to raise his sword in response flaring. However, as he looked into his own eyes, lit by a fire that he knew would take years to dwindle, he understood for the first time how deep his madness had been all these years ago. To his surprise, it stirred more pity than anger.

“Oh, go away, you blood-drunk fool,” he muttered, waving a dismissive hand and once again crouching to inspect the body at his feet.

“Face me, demon!” his younger self raged, lurching closer.

Guyime felt the heated glow of his sword but ignored it, instead pulling away the shroud covering the second corpse. He shouldn’t have been surprised by the face he beheld, but still a tremor of shock ran through him at the sight of the slack, but handsome features. Like Orsena, Temesia had died by the knife, a deep, wet wound stark and red in the centre of her throat.

Strange that she should be so unkind to herself in her own portrait, Lakorath commented. Still, I suppose the influence of the Conjurer’s Blade makes for an overly critical eye.

“The Conjurer’s Blade,” Guyime repeated. “If she called upon its magic when she painted her self-portrait…” He trailed off, straightening and turning back to the dark oval of the portal. As he did so, Lexius’s voice emerged from it, loud and urgent.

“My lord, the statues! We need you!”

Oh, Lakorath said, his voice tainted by a sudden, embarrassed chagrin. That probably should’ve occurred to me earlier.

“Hold fast you Infernus sprite!” the Ravager King commanded, stepping into Guyime’s path as he started for the portal. “Do not imagine you can escape my justice…”

The fury that claimed Guyime blossomed in a rush, welling from within as he beheld the wild, hungry visage of the man he had once been. The sword flashed white as he flicked it against the blade of its copy. Although the power that had created this living image was evidently considerable, a mere copy of a demon-cursed blade could never stand against its original. The younger Guyime’s sword shattered in an instant, the power unleashed by its destruction blasting its wielder from his feet, leaving him sprawled in the mud, bafflement competing with rage as he beheld the blackened remnants of his hand.

Guyime paused before turning back to the portal. He knew that what lay within this ensorcelled canvas was separate from true history, that it was a world of its own. He was not in the past, but in a version of it. So his next words would make no impression on the course of his life, but he spoke them anyway, because a part of him needed them to be said.

“There is no place for you here now,” he told the maimed man. “You will try to rule but it will be an empty, worthless reign. Your subjects will fear you but never love you and your attempts to extinguish the remnants of the Church will only birth the seeds of its resurgence. So you will begin your second exile. But you will find there is no place for you in the world entire. And you have made it thus. You sought vengeance and you got it, but all you won on this field was damnation. Loise would have been ashamed of us. Remember that.”

Another urgent cry from Lexius shifted his gaze back to the portal, now visibly narrowing. Guyime surged into a sprint, leaping and diving for the opening.

He landed hard on the marble floor of the galleria, rolling into a crouch as centuries-old instincts warned of an attack. He leaped aside, the tiles he had landed on exploding, pounded into oblivion by the massive form of a plunging tiger. The beast whirled towards Guyime, fangs bared in feral hunger. He had time to comprehend the fact that it was a dark shade of brown from nose to tail, that its fur caught a gleam as it tensed for a leap, a beast of metal given life.

Guyime drew the sword back, ready to stab the glowing blade at the tiger’s metal belly as it leapt. But as its paws left the marble, a web of lightning lashed out to snare it about the chest. The beast let out a silent scream as the coiling, sparking lash bore it down. It thrashed, smoke rising in acrid gusts when the lightning coil tightened its grip, transforming the tiger’s bronze flesh into molten scrap. It finally lay still when the lightning had melted its way through its body, leaving two steaming segments on the galleria floor.

“My lord!”

Guyime’s gaze snapped to Lexius. The scholar stood before the painting, the portal now closed behind him. He held the Kraken’s Tooth in one hand, lightning still crackling along the blade, his other pointing at something to Guyime’s rear.

He ducked, feeling the rush of displaced air as something fast and heavy swiped close to his head. Taking a two-handed grip of the sword, Guyime whirled, the glowing blade leaving a line of melted bronze across the midriff of the statue that had tried to crush his skull. Retreating a few paces, he saw that it was the cowled woman he had noticed during his first visit to the collecta. Her arms were lowered now, the beseeching hands transformed into elongated talons. A blank oval face emerged from the cowl to regard him in apparent stupefaction before glancing down at the cut left by the sword. Stillness returned to the statue then and the two inert pieces made a loud clang as they clattered to the floor.

“Where are the others?” Guyime asked Lexius, scanning the Temesia Collecta which now stood empty but for the paintings on the walls and the steaming remains of the two murderous statues.

“She took them with her,” Leixus replied with a helpless sigh. “I couldn’t stop her, not whilst keeping the portal open.”

“Her?”

Lexius nodded to the painting beside Saint Maree’s Field, Temesia’s self-portrait which, Guyime saw as he strode closer, now stood empty. Instead of the dark-visaged woman there was only a shadowed room.

“She emerged just as you reached the bodies,” Lexius explained. “She had it in her hand; the Conjurer’s Blade. Calandra could hear the voice of the demon within it.” Lexius met Guyime’s gaze, sweat beading the skin around his lenses. “It was laughing.”

“She spoke to it?”

“Briefly.” Lexius paused as the blade of the Kraken’s Tooth gave off a rapid series of glowing pulses. “She says he was oddly polite, but also keen to be about his task. Then the statues all came to life and Temesia led them from the building, save these two. I heard screams from the lower floors.” A shadow passed across the scholar’s narrow features and his next words emerged in a guilty mutter. “The servants, I suppose. There was nothing I could do.”

“The funeral,” Guyime said in grim realisation. “She intends to wipe out the Exultia.”

Lexius’s prediction regarding the servants’ fate was fully borne out as they made their way through the Carvaro Galleria. Crimson streaks decorated the marble hallways and indifferent faces of older, lifeless sculptures. Maids and stewards littered the floors and stairs, their bodies all torn and gashed. The great doors that guarded the entrance lay twisted and mangled on the steps descending to the plaza, the guards posted there scattered about like reddened chaff.

“What did this?

Guyime turned to find Seeker and Lissah bounding after them. “A question with a very complicated answer,” he replied, looking towards the cluster of torchlight at the base of the plaza’s central monument. Already, many of the torches were blinking out and he could hear the discordant chorus of screams that told of a recently commenced massacre.

“You are not obliged to follow me in this,” he told Seeker. She had taken up position at his side as soon as he began to descend the steps. “As you said, Ekiri is within your grasp…”

“And wouldn’t be without your help,” Seeker replied, her features hardening into the mask of combat. “The druid paid his debt. Let me pay mine.”

The three of them covered the distance to the unfolding slaughter in a rapid sprint that still wasn’t swift enough to save many of the gathered mourners. Guyime leapt the bodies of two disembowelled Exultia, man and wife he assumed given the way they embraced in death, their masked faces touching. Ahead he saw a guard in the livery of Ultrius Septemil Ulfezzi sail through the air, propelled by the charge of a bronze bull. The guard landed nearby, his neck broken and entrails leaking from the wounds gored into his belly. Tearing his gaze from the ugly sight, Guyime saw the guard’s master only a dozen paces away, facing the bull with arms outstretched as it whirled towards him. The Ultrius still wore his clownish grief mask but Guyime knew the face beneath was set in an expression of relieved acceptance as the bull’s trampling hooves pounded him into the plaza’s tiles.

“Don’t waste your arrows,” Guyime told Seeker as she drew a bead on the bull. “We need to find Temesia. Kill her and the sword she wields becomes useless.”

He charged on into the chaos before them, twisting aside when the bull came for him. Bringing the sword up and down in a glowing arc, he severed its massive head from its shoulders. All around he saw Exultia and their attendants dying in gruesome fashion, but could find no sign of Temesia or Orsena.

“My lord!” Lexius shouted in warning, rushing to Guyime’s side with the Kraken’s Tooth raised to the sky. Lightning lanced from the blade to envelop the descending form of a bronze eagle, searing its wings into molten stubs to send it tumbling to the plaza in a cloud of shattered stone.

A high-pitched and desperate scream, unmistakably the product of a female throat, drew Guyime on. He had hoped to find Orsena, even though he felt it unlikely such a frantic sound would come from her mouth, and let out a disappointed curse at the sight of Ultria Municia Belluzi. She was on her back, scrabbling desperately away from the tall statue advancing upon her, the elaborate black dress she wore constraining her movements. Around her lay the slain or maimed bodies of her attendants, most with their skulls crushed.

The bronze figure was a tall man clad in the formal robes of ancient Valkerin aristocracy. Guyime knew him as a representation of the philosopher Gethric, author of the Songs of Reason upon which much of the eternal city’s laws had been based. This version of the great man carried a scroll which he used as a club, repeatedly attempting to bring it down upon the Ultria. Despite the billowing skirts and bodice that bound her, Municia displayed a surprising agility as she twisted to avoid the blows. The Gethric statue’s lips moved as he swung the scroll, his features set in an expression of pious judgment. The words were unknowable, since these animated effigies appeared to lack a voice, but Guyime suspected the famously austere Gethric had found much to criticise in Municia.

Let the vapid bitch die, my liege, Lakorath advised. Her pain would have driven her to suicide soon enough anyway.

Guyime felt a sharp temptation to follow the demon’s guidance. What did he owe this woman? This living monument to pointless vanity? It was the image of his younger self that spurred him to act, the hate-filled, still un-sated face of the Ravager. That man would certainly have stood and watched the Ultria die, possibly even found amusement in the moment, for such was the deserved fate of those unwise enough to threaten him.

Charging forward, Guyime drew the statue’s attention with a shout, the sword sweeping up in a blinding slash. The blade left a diagonal cut from Gethric’s hip to his shoulder. The philosopher blinked, brow furrowing in sombre criticism, before the two parts of him slid apart. Animation fled the metal as the segments collapsed, Guyime concluding that these things required wholeness to sustain their semblance of life.

“I…” Municia began, climbing unsteadily to her feet. She faltered and fell silent as Guyime stared into the empty eyeholes of her mask. Was she about to thank him? If so, it seemed she was incapable of speaking the words. It occurred to him that this woman had never thanked anyone for anything throughout the course of her meaningless existence.

How ungrateful, Lakorath observed. Let me have a taste of her, my liege. I’m curious to discover what all that magic does to mortal blood. No one will notice amongst all this.

“I suggest you return to your home, Ultria,” Guyime told Municia, turning his back on her. “The plaza isn’t safe at present.”

Surveying the scene he saw that the statues, having mostly exhausted their supply of victims, were clustering around the base of the Monument to the First Damnation, creating a shifting bronze barrier. Beyond it, Guyime saw the flickering glow that told of demonic magic at work.

“The Angelicum,” Lexius breathed in realisation. “She carved them too.”

Guyime saw that the scholar’s gaze was raised to the spiral of wooden figures that comprised the First Damnation. As he watched, the glow from the base of the monument changed, coalescing into a rising web of twisting spirals that coiled around the interlinked effigies of the denizens of the Eternal Plain. As the glow touched each one he saw how they spasmed into life, splinters erupting from their wooden flesh as they began to struggle in the bonds that bound them to each other.

“I don’t think she’s content with just slaughtering the Exultia,” Lexius said. “If she unleashes that upon the city…”

Needing no further elaboration, Guyime hefted the sword and started forward. “Lexius and I will make a hole,” he told Seeker. “Be ready.”

He nodded to Lexius and the scholar duly pointed the Kraken’s Tooth at the wall of statues, the lightning streaming forth with an ear-splitting crack. Guyime saw a stag and a bear transformed instantly to slag as he spurred into a run, hacking down a weeping old woman who came at him with fang-like teeth even as bronze tears streamed down her cheeks.

The statues closed ranks in response to his charge, the sword wreaking havoc amongst the wall of metal flesh whilst Lexius called forth a salvo of lightning bolts. The air thickened with the smoke of burning bronze, the miasma lit by the glow of the blade and the luminescence of the Kraken’s Tooth until, finally, they were through.

Guyime kicked aside the smouldering remnants of a cherubic child that had sought to bite his legs off, then paused at the sight of the two women standing beneath the writhing majesty of the First Damnation.

Temesia, or rather the version of herself from the self-portrait, stood to the right. She clutched a glowing, curve-bladed short sword in her hand from which spirals of demonic energy continued to leach out and ascend the twisting monument above. The artist’s face was set in a furious glower, apparently unmoved by the pleadings of the woman before her.

Orsena had removed her mask and held her arms out towards Temesia, her features stricken with desperate entreaty. The glow of the Conjurer’s Blade generated a deep, resonant thrum which swallowed most sound but Guyime heard the Ultria’s cry, “You must stop this!”

Temesia’s glower only deepened in response. Raising the Conjurer’s Blade high she bared her teeth, her reply emerging in a snarl. “The Exultia were but maggots feeding on a festered wound, Orsena! Can’t you see, this city must be cleansed! As your father was cleansed!”

Orsena retreated a step, shock showing on her pale features. Guyime saw guilt flicker across Temesia’s face, mixed with a great depth of sorrow. The glow of her sword diminished as she stared back at Orsena, tears glimmering in her eyes.

“Why do you grieve for him?” she demanded. “How can you? Don’t you know? Haven’t you realised yet?”

Keen to take advantage of the distraction, Guyime shot a glance at Seeker. His command was unnecessary, however, for she was already raising her bow.

“You were made!” Temesia shouted at Orsena as the now wide-eyed Ultria took another faltering backward step. “You are a creation, as am I. We are not real. We are unnatural. Others will see us as nothing more than monsters to be killed. To survive this world we must make it anew…”

Seeker’s arrow took the artist in the neck, aimed precisely to sever the jugular and pierce the spine. She staggered from the impact, eyes bulging, but failed to fall. Temesia coughed up a glob of something that glistened as it dribbled down her chin, then reached up to drag the arrow from her flesh. It trailed a long, multi-hued tendril of pigment as she plucked it free, tossing it aside and fixing her renewed glower on the three intruders into her moment of vengeance.

It’s always hard to kill what doesn’t bleed, Lakorath observed, Guyime’s gaze shifting to Orsena at the demon’s urging. But neither does she.

Seeker loosed a second arrow but a swift, winged form descended to block the shaft’s flight before it could find its target. The angelicum folded its wings as it landed, regarding them with the arch, placid curiosity of the superior for the inferior. The smoke vanished as other angelicum separated themselves from the monument, Guyime looking up to see them forming a spiralling flock above the plaza.

A crack of splintering wood snapped his gaze back to the angelicum before them, the wooden creature flexing its impossibly perfect torso to cast out Seeker’s arrow. Its previously serene eyes narrowed as it flared its wings once again, raising a wooden sword the length of a small tree as it took a decisive step towards them.

Once again, the Kraken’s Tooth unleashed its lightning, the crackling stream whipping out to enmesh the angelicum, turning its timber flesh a deep, ashen black. Still it kept on, a flaming giant intent on their end that faltered only when Guyime charged forward to hack its legs away below the knee.

As the charred and maimed angelicum fell, the surrounding air became a maelstrom of dust and smoke, Guyime squinting through the blizzard of grit to see the spiralling flock descending. Others had already joined the surviving bronze statues to form another, tighter cordon around Orsena and Temesia, creating a barrier through which they couldn’t hope to burn or cut an opening. Guyime could see the two women through the gaps in the wall of metal and wood, Orsena still gaping in horrified realisation whilst Temesia once again raised the Conjurer’s Blade, now growing brighter than ever.

“The sword!” Guyime shouted, coughing as the whipping air sent a grating mouthful of detritus into his throat. He retched and tried again, Orsena finally turning to regard him as his rasping cry reached her ears. “You have to take the sword from her!”

The Kraken’s Tooth split the air as Lexius unleashed another lightning bolt, sending an angelicum tumbling to the plaza a short way off. A dozen more swept down in a wide arc, angling their wings to skim across the corpse-strewn tiles. As they neared, Guyime saw there was no vestige of the divine in their faces now, each one wearing the leering rictus of the inherently cruel intent on murder. This, he knew, was Temesia’s face, or rather the face of what her captured soul had become.

Straightening his back, he set his feet and raised his sword to his shoulder, level and ready. Beside him, Lexius flicked sweat from his brow and gripped the Kraken’s Tooth in both hands. The blade’s glow was less constant now, taking on a flicker that told of fast-approaching exhaustion for the soul within.

“Even a spirit can tire, my lord,” he said with a grimace of apology.

“Burn as many as you can,” Guyime said, focusing on the leering features of the leading angelicum. “I’ll take the rest.”

He waited until the creature had closed to a dozen paces before drawing the sword back for an upward swing, intending to split its skull in two. However, before he could begin the swing, the angelicum flared its wings and reared, the others doing the same. They ascended in a fluttering, discordant gaggle, gaping wooden lips forming soundless screeches.

Whirling back to the wall of statues, he found it now in disarray. Many of the bronzes had reverted to their inert original forms whilst the angelicum stumbled about in confusion. Beyond them Guyime saw Orsena standing above Temesia’s slumped form. The Ultria had the artist’s wrist in her grip, nearly torn free of the arm, limb and hand connected by only a few ligaments of pigment. The Conjurer’s Blade still glowed in Temesia’s hand, but it was flickering now.

He watched Orsena and Temesia share a final glance, wordlessly staring into each other’s eyes. Temesia’s lips moved, the words too faint for him to hear, but not Orsena.

Her features tightened as tears welled in her eyes before her face hardened in resolve, her reply emerging in a restrained sob. “I don’t remember,” she said, then tore Temesia’s hand free of her arm.

As she did so, the Conjurer’s Blade slipped from the artist’s severed grip, the glow fading completely. It seemed to take an age to fall, the army of angelicum plummeting in concert as all life fled their wooden forms. They thudded to the ground all around, Guyime barely noticing, still transfixed by the blade’s fall, seeing Orsena stretch out her free hand to catch it.

“Don’t!” he called out, rushing towards her. “Don’t touch it!”

The warning either came too late or Orsena’s fascination with the object was such that she failed to heed it. She stiffened the moment the blade’s handle touched her palm, back arched and body shuddering. Guyime caught her before she fell, sliding his sword into the scabbard on his back to gather her up. She lay insensate in his arms, the Conjurer’s Blade still clutched in her hand. He felt a deep temptation to pry it free but Lakorath was quick to warn against it.

You know the only way to free her of it now is to kill her, the demon said.

A piteous, fading moan drew Guyime to the sight of Temesia’s withered, diminishing form. Much of her body had subsided into a sprawl of flaked pigment, rapidly dissipating as the wind scattered it. Her face remained, however, staring up at him with mingled accusation and despair.

“Domiano…deserved what…I gave him…” she said, her voice a forlorn rasp. “He killed us…you see…”

“I know,” Guyime replied before nodding at the sprawl of corpses surrounding the piled ash and scrap marking the site of the vanished monument to the First Damnation. “But did they?”

“Lives of pointless…luxury…” Temesia rasped back, her voice diminishing as the cracked paint forming her face began to sublime into the wind. “A burden…best removed… Grieve not…for them…”

Her words died as her lips flaked away, leaving only the eyes, staring intently at Orsena’s unconscious face. Not, Guyime saw clearly, in hate, but deep, hopeless longing. Then a fresh breeze swept across the plaza and the eyes too were gone, lost forever to the wind.

A panicked, wordless shout drew his attention from the last, fragmentary remains of Temesia Alvenisci. A dozen paces away a tall man in a black robe struggled to his feet from beneath a mound of slain guards. Ultrius Massilano Benezzi still wore his mask of pure white, albeit heavily stained with ash and blood. He stumbled about in confusion for a time, incoherent demands emerging from his mask until the dark slits of his eyes fixed on Guyime. He froze, staring in silence for a short interval before recovering his composure. Straightening his back, he began to walk in the direction of his mansion. Guyime watched him traverse half the plaza’s length before glancing at Seeker.

“Magistrate Lucarni is owed a debt too,” he said.

He didn’t linger to watch as Lissah loped in pursuit of the retreating Exultia, instead carrying Orsena’s surprisingly light form back towards the broad steps of the Carvaro Galleria. However, he felt that the screams of Ultrius Massilano were all too brief as they echoed across this plaza of corpses.

Chapter 10

The Dagger's Path

“I could just throw it into the sea.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Melt it down then. Destroy it.”

“The demon within won’t allow it.”

Guyime watched Orsena grit her teeth, veins pulsing in her temples as she regarded the sword she held. It had been a full day since the massacre and, despite her position as the wealthiest member of the Exultia caste left in Atheria, she hadn’t replaced her mask.

“I hear it,” she murmured, fist tightening and relaxing on the handle of the Conjurer’s Blade. “The thing living inside it speaks in my mind. I don’t like what it says.”

“It’s the imprisoned spirit of a creature crafted from pure malice,” Guyime said. “It exists to cause mischief and misery and wishes you to be its instrument. The voice will become… easier to bear, in time, but you must be always on your guard. As the demon learns more about your character, the more cunning his schemes will become, the more insidious and seductive its suggestions. To carry a demon-cursed blade is to be forever burdened by the worst temptations.”

“Forever?” Orsena stared at him and he noted how her hand trembled as it gripped the sword. “I cannot endure this, not for the rest of my life…” Her voice trailed off and the despair on her face shifted into grim amusement. “If I am truly alive.”

Her laugh echoed loud and bitter as she performed a pirouette across the empty floor of what had been the Temesia Collecta. All the statues that once stood here had been consigned to a foundry and the walls were bare of paintings. On Orsena’s order every canvas had been burnt. Guyime wondered if the denizens of Saint Maree’s Field had been aware of their fate. Had his other self met his end and died screaming in a fiery inferno? The notion stirred Lakorath to offer an unsought opinion.

Then the copy of the Ravager met a more deserved fate than the original, wouldn’t you say, my liege?

“I feel the air,” Orsena said, skirts flaring as she whirled to a halt in the centre of the bare expanse. “I feel my heart beating. My eyes produce tears and my skin sweats when the sun is hot. And yet, I am a creation. A thing of stone. Can I even die? Will I truly carry this thing for all time?”

“I know that the Seven Swords were created for a purpose,” Guyime told her. “It is my belief that by gathering them together and fulfilling that purpose, there will be no more reason for their existence. If we achieve that, we can be free.”

“We?” Orsena’s expression showed mock indignation at his presumption but, looking deeper, he saw also a hopeful wariness. “You wish me to join your band of wanderers?”

“Wanderers have no goal. Our goal is very clear, although the path is ever treacherous. I’ll not attempt to compel you, but know that I doubt this can be accomplished without your help.”

“Besides,” Orsena let out a sigh of rueful resignation before forcing a thin smile, “what other choice do I have?”

Guyime shrugged. “Stay here, enjoy the empty splendour of an Exultia’s life. There are none left alive who know your true nature. As far as this city is concerned, you are Ultria Orsena Carvaro, saviour of Atheria. Everything that was Domiano’s is now yours, and always will be.”

“Always,” she repeated softly. “So that is my fate. To linger in this house of art whilst the city around me eventually falls to decadence and fades to dust, as all cities will. In me Father may have achieved what he always wished for: a creation that will last for eternity.”

“We are all creations,” Guyime returned. “One way or another. And life is still life, regardless of the vessel that carries it.”

A brief flicker of light played over the blade of the sword in her hand, bringing a flicker of amusement to her brow.

“Did it say something?” Guyime enquired.

He thinks you’re a pretentious arse, Lakorath said when Orsena replied with a vague shake of her head. It’s the nature of demons to despise each other, but I think I might actually get on with this one. He’s also at pains to point out that all the recent death and destruction was Temesia’s idea alone. Apparently, she required no urging from him to slaughter the Exultia. She’d been dreaming of doing so since childhood.

“Do you really recall nothing of what you shared with Temesia?” Guyime asked Orsena.

“According to him,” she flicked the Conjurer’s Blade, “I was made deliberately to have no memory of it. She…carved me from the lapia perfecta at Father’s instruction but I was only truly born after he…” she swallowed and forced the words out “…killed us both, or rather, killed them. For I am not her.”

“How?” Guyime wondered. “He would have needed the Conjurer’s Blade to bring one of her creations to life and it’s clear she had hidden it in her self-portrait, along with the most vengeful aspect of her soul.”

“The Crystal Dagger,” Orsena replied. “The Conjurer’s Blade he gave to Temesia so that she might enhance her talent, but the Crystal Dagger he kept for himself. Its magic brought Temesia’s statue to life on his instruction, and he wished that I recall nothing of the love between Temesia and his daughter. He felt she had been sullied, ruined in fact by returning the affection of one so far below her caste. It enraged him to the point of murdering them both, an act that drove him beyond reason. Although he wasn’t so mad that he neglected to hide the bodies in the painting of Saint Maree’s Field. Or it’s possible the dagger was responsible for all of it, controlling his every act. This one,” she raised the sword again, “seems very frightened of whatever lives within that blade.”

“Does he know what became of it?”

“Only that Domiano didn’t have it in his possession when Temesia’s soul emerged from the portrait to kill him, and he has no sense of its presence now.”

All true, my liege, Lakorath said. If another demon were close, I would feel it. Wherever it is, it’s far away now.

“Meaning it’s found another wielder,” Guyime murmured. The realisation led his thoughts along a path that brought a deepening dread to his breast the more he followed it. Your daughter, the Cartographer had said to Seeker when she drew the map that led them to Carthula. The swords you crave, fallen king. To find them you must find her, and to find her you must find them.

“The ship carrying Ekiri,” he said to Orsena, causing her to stiffen at the sharp urgency in his voice. “Did you receive word of it yet?”

“‘I regret to report that the Silken Lady foundered in a storm of unprecedented strength off the eastern coast of the Third Sea some days prior to the date of this report,’” Orsena read, eyes bright with sympathy as they darted from the letter she held to Seeker. The missive had arrived at the Carvaro Mercantile Bank that very morning before being conveyed urgently to the Ultria. “‘The vessel is believed lost with all hands and cargo.’”

Seeker gave no immediate reaction to the news, her face like stone as she went to the circular window of Orsena’s private chambers. Guyime allowed a short interval before moving to her side, speaking quietly. “The storm didn’t kill us. Nor did it kill her.”

Seeker closed her eyes, face lowered. “I know,” she said, although Guyime heard no joy in her voice. “If she no longer drew breath, I feel sure I would sense it. But…” Opening her eyes, she stared into his. “Something has changed, Pilgrim. I dream of her every night, but the last few dreams have been different, troubled. The Ekiri I meet in them is not the Ekiri I lost.”

She carries the Crystal Dagger now, Guyime thought but decided not to say. “She can be,” he said instead. “When we recover all the swords.”

Reaching into his jerkin he extracted the Cartographer’s chart, Seeker and Lexius coming closer as he unfurled it on Orsena’s desk.

“What is that?” the Ultria said, angling her head in curiosity at the revealed map of swirling lines.

“Our path to the Crystal Dagger,” Guyime said, tracing a finger from the icon representing Atheria to the eastern reaches of the Second Sea. As expected, a cluster of lines swirled around the many inlets along the shoreline. As they watched, one line separated from the others and began to trace its way inland. The line was thick at its base and faint further along its length as it branched in various directions, but always the course trended towards one point of the compass.

“Ekiri,” Seeker said, touching a tentative hand to the branching lines. “Where is she going?”

Guyime watched the course plotted by Ekiri’s path with a steadily increasing pulse and a tightening of his throat. This, of course, caused Lakorath a good deal of amusement.

Why so apprehensive, my liege? he chuckled. It’s not as if there’s anyone still drawing breath in those lands who actually saw you with their own eyes. Nor any statues to commemorate your reign, since they tore them all down years ago.

“She goes where we must follow,” Guyime replied, managing to quell the tremor in his voice as he added, “Into the Northlands.”

Thank you for reading a Subterranean Press book!

Subterranean Press creates readable art, publishing luxurious specialty, limited editions and groundbreaking original works in the science fiction, fantasy, and horror genre. Subterranean works with a wide range of authors, from cult favorites to some of the bestselling and most acclaimed authors in the world.

Based in Burton, Michigan, Subterranean issues approximately 45 titles each year. Since it began in 1995, both the publisher and numerous works it has produced have been honored with accolades including the World Fantasy, Locus, Horror Writers Association, and Hugo awards.

SIGN UP FOR NEWS AND OFFERS

Make sure you don't miss interesting happenings by joining our newsletter at our homepage!

Check out all of our other Anthony Ryan books right here!