Runes and daemon-script were carved into his skin: rough, uneven symbols inscribed with savagery, torture beyond anything that could have been inflicted on the living.
His left arm had been burned white by the touch of Nartis in Narkang, and in the fading light of dusk his skin now shone with terrible intensity. Haphazard loops and slashes of shadowy scarring seemed to rise and swarm like traces of dark magic before Aels’ eyes.
Eventually she turned away, unable to bear the look on his face as the memories of those injuries returned afresh in his mind. From across the city came the haunting sound of daemon-song, a terrible jubilation ringing across a land of weakened Gods, running its cold claws down the spine of all who heard it.
‘I know sacrifice only too well,’ Isak breathed, ‘for I am its favourite plaything.’
‘It was a mistake to try and kill them,’ said a figure in black, one slim shoulder visible against the open window behind.
Counsel Aels froze, halfway inside the door to her private office. Her hand went to her belt, but the knife wasn’t there now. She’d left it behind on her desk; there it was, just visible in the twilight of the darkened room.
‘You?’ she exclaimed, ‘how did you get in here?’
The man inclined his head to the open window by way of explanation.
Aels frowned as she pictured the wall outside: twenty feet at least of sheer stone, all while regular patrols walked the path underneath. Only an acrobat could climb that, or a Harlequin. ‘You take a great risk, invading the office of a member of the Night Council,’ she muttered as she shut the door behind her.
She jumped as she saw another figure shift slightly in the dark, this one wearing the familiar diamond-pattern clothes and white mask. ‘Still more so by dictating to us how we should respond to threats to the state.’
‘You showed him your hand by sending troops to kill him.’
She dismissed the comment with a wave of the hand. ‘An underling overreacted; the council did not sanction the action.’
‘That is no longer relevant,’ said the one who’d named himself Venn on his previous visit. He stood perfectly, unnaturally still as he watched her, unnerving her and making her wonder about this new ally of the Night Council, but she suppressed the question. This one claimed to be the enemy of their so-called saviour, the man who would tear down everything they had built here in Vanach. The Night Council’s decision was correct, and the price of Venn’s information modest.
‘There will be no further efforts.’
‘Good. Have you decided how you will proceed?’
Anger welled inside her. ‘Who are you to demand answers from me?’ Aels snapped. ‘I am a Sapesian of the Commissar Brigade and Second of Toristern Settlement, sitting member of the Night Council. Adopt a more respectful manner or my inquisitors will ensure you can never climb again.’
If there was any change in Venn’s expression it was too minute for Aels to discern. ‘My apologies, Sapesian Aels.’
Again, the man’s manner made her hesitate. His words sounded entirely sincere and cowed, but his poise indicated no such correction.
‘We will proceed as we see fit,’ she said at last. ‘The Night Council does not rule the Sanctum; other ranking councils must have a reason to follow our lead.’
‘Confirmation of your concerns?’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Exactly. Why? Can you arrange this?’
Venn bowed and slipped out of the window. His mocking reply drifted through the night air. ‘All things are possible for those of faith.’
CHAPTER 15
Major Amber looked down the main street of Kamfer’s Ford in a daze, unable to quite believe this wasn’t a dream. From some of those passing, civilians and soldiers alike, came a few askance glances, but bizarrely, that was all: no shouts or curses, no drawn weapons… Were these people used to such strange sights that an armed enemy in their midst was barely noteworthy? In a Menin camp, a Narkang soldier would have been beaten into the ground or run through, not ignored.
The most suspicious looks came from the groups of women prowling the town — priestesses, he guessed, escorted by armed, scowling women who looked like they had once been Hands of Fate, devotees of the Lady trained as killers. Most were wearing pendants of emerald or green glass, some new symbol of allegiance, most likely.
The early autumn sun casting a low yellow haze over the cloudless sky somehow added to Amber’s disjointed sense of bewilderment. The streets of this bustling town were similarly tinted, and even the gloomy mien of Camatayl Castle on the hill was diminished. A squad of troops in Kingsguard uniforms tramped past and Amber turned to watch them go, wondering why his hand was not automatically reaching for a scimitar.
The town was in a sorry state, he realised. The Menin Army had passed near here, destroying much of what was in its path. According to Nai, this town had been the heart of military operations in Narkang, and the people had fled before the Menin arrived.
‘They got off lightly,’ he said, frowning at his own lightheadedness. ‘I thought most towns were destroyed.’
‘Most were,’ the soldier behind him replied, his hand returning to his sword. He couldn’t have been more than a year or two in the army; he was too young to hide his fear of the big Menin officer he’d been assigned to guard. ‘The locals left enough supplies behind that your scouts were more interested in scavenging than burning. Bastards still managed to wreck it, though.’
Amber nodded distantly. He had nothing to add to that, and no reaction at all to the soldier’s belligerence.
In every direction he looked there were repairs taking place, and new construction too. Two large fields of tents flanked the town, and it looked as though they were planning on wintering here. The major looked back to the castle. His companions had gone there, Nai and Ardela both demanding to see King Emin as soon as they arrived here. He’d felt a jolt in his stomach at the prospect of meeting the man responsible for all that had befallen the Menin, only to be left empty when informed that the king was away.
A cool gust of wind, unexpectedly chilly in the bright sun, woke him from his reverie. Amber sighed and turned to the door nearby. There didn’t appear to be much else to do since the king wasn’t here, so he went in. Eyes watched warily as he stepped through the door and blinked at the dim interior. There was a fire ahead of him, dividing the room in two, and a bar extended the length of the wall on the right. Amber ignored the looks and not- so-subtle loosening of weapons and headed to the bar.
‘Beer,’ he said to the plump man behind it, a greasy, nervous specimen with a short, scraggly beard, but once Amber spoke, hatred won over fear on the barkeep’s face.
‘Not for you,’ the man said with a shake of the head. ‘Get out.’
‘Make me,’ Amber growled.
Aside from the handful of locals there were four soldiers in the tavern. He could feel their eyes on his back, Nai had insisted Amber be allowed to keep his scimitars for some reason, and he was big, even for a Menin. If they wanted him out they’d need to do more than throw punches. After what their king had done Amber didn’t have any fear left; pain was an old friend of his and there was nothing more they could take.
‘I don’t serve Menin here.’
‘I’ll fucking serve myself then.’
‘Not while I breathe.’ The barkeep pulled a shortsword from behind the bar, no doubt plundered from some battlefield. He didn’t look like he knew how to use it, but he pointed it defiantly enough at Amber. The Menin officer let his baldric slip off his shoulder and the grip of one scimitar fell into his hand. He didn’t yet draw it, but turned side-on so the soldiers behind him were in view.
‘Doesn’t strike me as a problem,’ Amber said as his left hand moved slowly to the hilt of his other sword.
