The Assassin King (49 page)

Talquist's eyes narrowed. The merchant in his blood was suspicious; he had many times seen men with daggers behind their backs ambling as if they had not a care in the world, and so was always suspicious when situations that should be worrisome appeared innocuous. But the shadow of the titan continued to approach in the dark, leaping in the light of the fires, while the soldiers of the city garrisons stood in the gutters and muttered under their breath.

When it finally reached the main gate in the wall surrounding the palace, the living statue stopped and raised its eyes to the balcony on which Talquist stood.

The Emperor Presumptive held his breath.

Then, with all the humility of a kitchen wench, its arms at its sides, the statue bowed.

Talquist exhaled again. He signaled to the guard on the balcony of the library below his chambers. “Tell them to let him in directly,” he said.

He turned away from the window, listening to the sounds of murmuring reduce to silence as the portcullis was lifted, the wood screaming, the chains clanking, then lowered again.

Talquist willed himself to be calm as the minutes ticked by. He sat in his great walnut chair, one of the first things he had imported from Manosse when he first took over the Mercantile, and watched himself in the mirror at the end of the room.

I look regal, he decided. And nervous.

The heavy footsteps thudded against the stone of the inner staircase. Talquist swallowed.

He clutched the arms of the chair as the resounding steps grew closer, forcing himself to breathe. Finally Faron appeared in the entranceway at the top of the stairs. He cast a glance at the guards on the balcony, then pointed down the stairs.

The Emperor Presumptive considered their usefulness for a moment and, deciding that it was minimal, nodded. “Leave us,” he said. The guards complied rapidly.

“I am glad to see you have returned,” he said smoothly, years of negotiating in tenuous situations aiding him in his attempt to sound calm. “I was worried that you had become lost, or misdirected, even captured.”

The muscles of the stone titan's face curled into what, in a living man, would have been a wry smile. Please, it said. The word dripped with irony.

The emperor's black brows shot up into his hairline. He stood quickly and looked more closely at the titan, noting the appearance of details that had not been present in the rough-hewn statue of the ancient soldier he had harvested to make it. Eyebrows, lids and lashes, articulated joints and opposable digits; the formerly primitive effigy of an anonymous indigenous warrior had evolved into a giant man, a soldier of titanic proportions, an animist god of a sort.

And though its mouth did not move, it could speak.

The voice it spoke with belied its appearance. Not the deep bass or thundering roar that might have served as a complement to its appearance, Faron's voice was instead harsh and high-pitched, with a crackling edge to it. In that voice the echo of other voices could be heard, some low and soft, others shrieking, all brimming with a nascent and ominous power that made the skin on Talquist's neck prickle in fear.

“What—what is your intention now, then, Faron?” he asked. “When I heard that you had left the battle at Sepul-varta, I thought perhaps you had tired of leading the army.”

I had.

“Then why are you back?” Talquist set his teeth, knowing that there was nowhere to run.

I wish to continue our association for now, the statue said in its harsh voice. But on my terms.

Suddenly Talquist relaxed. He had been in the Mercantile long enough to recognize when a deal was about to be laid on the table that would be beneficial to both sides.

“All right,” he said. “What are your terms?”

The statue's eyes met Ms directly, sizing him up.

I will lead your army. We will take the Middle Continent, even unto the northern reaches of the Teeth. The land will be yours—but I want a particular prize.

“Certainly,” Talquist said quickly. “What sort of prize?”

Like you, I seek a Child as well—a child that sleeps in the mountains. I want that child—and the scales. All of them.

The emperor's throat tightened. “I've—I've never denied you access to your scales, Faron,” he said quickly. “Or to mine.” The titan's blue eyes gleamed more brightly. They will all be mine, Emperor. One way or the other. Talquist inhaled. The threat in the sharp voice was unmistakable. The thought of relinquishing the violet scale that had given him his throne, and his power, was a loss almost too painful to contemplate. Even the knowledge that the titan was offering to fulfill one of the crucial elements in his greatest plan was scarce comfort; the ancient piece of a dragon's carapace had taken root in his soul, had appeared in his dreams almost every night from the moment he had found it in the sand and fog of the Skeleton Coast buried beneath the bones of ships of the Cymrian Third Fleet. He had spent a good deal of his life trying to discover what it was, and what it could do, apprenticing himself to ships'

captains and miners, merchants and priests. All that servitude was finally beginning to reap a benefit. But, he reminded himself, should he try to withhold it now, Faron would grind him into pulp where he stood. It seemed little enough to pay for getting everything he desired. The merchant met the titan's eyes, then went to the secret chamber, returning a moment later with the scale swathed in its velvet wrapping. He walked directly to Faron and extended his hand.

“Done,” he said. The titan smiled. In that moment Talquist thought he could hear the rumblings of the gears of the world turning.

Gurgus Peak

Consider this,“ Rhapsody said as she unrolled a sheet of parchment on the worktable in front of Achmed, Grunthor, and Omet. ”The lower-mid spectrum, the blue and green sections, Kurh-fa and Brige-sol, are more innocuous in their powers; they alter less of the reality of the world as it is. Part of this is because of the length of the waves of light, the song that they emit is the longest in duration. This is because so much of the blue spectrum is present in the reflection of the sky, which is why the Liringlas are so attuned to this lore, revering the sky as they do. Knowing the blue is key to the rest of the spectrum. So since their primary powers in the Light-catcher are scrying and obscuration, perhaps these would be the safest to test first.

The risks are not as great as some of the others, at least of the primary powers."

“Indeed,” said Achmed. “Though the secondary powers may be even more risky.”

“I'm not in any way prepared to begin experimenting with the secondary or tertiary scales,”

Rhapsody said seriously. “The consequences of misuse are far too great. But if you want to try and see if the blue spectrum will add further cover to the realm, and keep prying eyes even farther at bay than they are at the moment, I suppose I am ready to attempt it. It's not without risk—nothing with this instrumentality is. But it's the safest of the ones we have, a little like only leaving your hand unarmored upon entering the lion's den instead of your head.”

Bolg king. Achmed went rigid. The voice in his ear was light and strained.

I am in the causeway. The wind went silent for a moment, then rustled in his ear again, this time the voice weaker. Come.

Achmed was on his feet before Rhapsody could blink. She and Grunthor followed him out of the mountain peak and down to the outer battlements of Canrif overlooking the canyon that separated the city from the Blasted Heath.

In the tunnel Rath was waiting, crouched on the floor, his arms around his middle, struggling to breathe. His head was shiny with sweat, his skin sallow in the dim light from the torches beyond the causeway.

“The—news I bring—could not be—worse,” the Dhracian said, gasping between breaths.

“The Gaol—know of this— but—you could not—hear me---”

'Tell me," Achmed ordered as Rhapsody knelt beside Rath, loosening his shirt.

The Dhracian attempted to wave her away. "I found—the— beast's host and—had her in—

Thrall, but I was— interrupted—"

“By what?” the Bolg king demanded. “What could even have entered the area with all that power in the air?”

“A—man of Living—Stone,” Rath whispered as the Lady Cymrian began to softly sing a chant of sustenance, the healing reserved for those on the battlefield at the point of death.

“Titanic—and able—to walk under his—own—power. The demon—escaped—and has found—a new—host—in him. ”And it is—invulnerable." The two Bolg looked at each other as Rhapsody continued her ministrations.

“We are going to need to take risks earlier than we planned,” Achmed said finally. “While it's imperative to test the blue spectrum, tomorrow the first rays of the sun should be aimed at the Blood Saver panel—I assume you agree, Rhapsody.”

She looked up at them, then somberly nodded. “Grunthor, carry him to the Lightcatcher,”

Achmed instructed. He turned to go, but Rath seized the edge of his robe and dragged him back a step. “Hear me,” the Dhracian whispered, his eyes alight with fire. “You—now no longer—-have a—choice. Someone has to—kill—this titan. It is beyond—the skills of—the Gaol. No—more can you remain—a king—” Achmed snatched the hem of his garment from the Dhra-cian's failing hand. “That is where you are wrong, Rath,” he said flatly. "I will remain a king for as long as it suits me. One of the few things Ashe has ever said that I agree with is that a king must stay and hold the land, until there is no choice but for him to leave.

For now, no matter what goes on in the world outside, I will remain here. I have a Child to guard, and if nothing else, I am the last bastion in that fight. “But,” he continued as the Sergeant-Major lifted Rath from the ground, “now that the F'dor has chosen a host who is formed of Living Stone, elemental earth, I happen to have an assassin who is just perfect for the job.” Grunthor broke into a gigantic grin. "Oh, goody! An' it ain't even my birthday!

Thank you, sir." He proceeded back up the tunnel, whistling a merry tune.