end to him.'
Then start acting like the Speaker of the Realms instead ofsome little tyrant who's desperately afraid that she's going to be overthrown at any moment. But he couldn't say that. Didn't want to say that. Besides it was all too late now. Incompetence begat unrest, unrest begat turbulence, and turbulence was about to beget out-and-out war. Almiri and Prince Sakabian had seen to that. Instead he shrugged. 'You have the Adamantine Men, Your Holiness, and that means you have nothing to fear. Besides, as I said, anyone can paint their armour red. How do you know you haven't got the red rider.'
Her eyes gleamed in the torchlight. 'I don't.' They reached a crossroads in the underground passages. A breeze blew across their path, carrying with it the smell of graveyards. Zafir turned towards it. 'Let's find out. Either way, I will need to convince the people of it. I will need another cage prepared, Night Watchman.'
'That one has been ready and waiting for quite some time, Your Holiness.' For me or Jehal, I was never sure which.
The passage became more of a tunnel, sloping down deeper into the earth. Once, a long time ago, before the Adamantine Palace had been built around it, the Glass Cathedral had been a stronghold all on its own. That had been back in the times when the dragons were free and the people who had lived around the Mirror Lakes were food. Every place that had a history going back to those times inevitably had a huge and complicated burrow of tunnels underneath it. That or there was nothing left except a note in the history books, recording how many people had died when the dragons had finally razed it.
Vale wrinkled his nose. He didn't like tunnels, he didn't like being underground and he particularly didn't like these tunnels. It didn't seem all that long ago that Lord Hyram had dragged Jehal down here and put him on the torture wheel. Not his finest moment.
He shuddered. Even on the wheel, Jehal had won.
The smell was getting worse. Vale had never been down this far into the tunnels. 'Is this all one vast oubliette?'
Zafir shrugged. 'I don't think any of my predecessors were too picky about where the bodies ended up. And it is a long way back to the surface.' She shook her head and rolled her eyes. 'With so many steps, what's a poor torturer to do? Spend all his time lugging bodies back and forth. I suppose the smell adds to the general ambience.'
'Then perhaps I should spend some time here, in case I might find Lady Nastria?'
Zafir shrugged, which was enough to tell Vale that Nastria's body hadn't ended up here. No, the lakes. It had to be the lakes.
They reached a roughly hewn square room. Alchemical lamps struggled feebly against the gloom. Vale could see two men chained to the walls. Other figures lurked in the shadows.
He sniffed the air. He ought to have smelled a taint of truth-smoke. And the men lurking in the shadows, if they were real torturers, should have been wearing veils. He made a face. 'I hope these men are still alive. I don't know why you want me to hear their confessions, but if they're dead, this has been a waste.' No, best not to make too much of that. The whole exercise was a sham and they both knew it, but for some reason Zafir seemed convinced that it mattered. As though hearing from a tortured dragon-knight that Almiri had kept the Red Riders supplied would make a difference. As far as Vale could see, no one cared; pretending that they did only made Zafir seem a fool. He knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted him to obediently hear what she wanted him to hear, and then take it back with him to a council of kings and queens, parrot out the words and give her the excuse that she wanted for war. As if it mattered. It would make no difference, even if it was true! And even if it did, you're the speaker. Tell me what to say and I will obey.
'Oh you'll hear them.' Zafir favoured him with another faint smile, the toothy sort that would probably have meant sleepless nights to lesser men. She led him towards the closer of the two captives. The man, what was left of him, was hanging limply from chains manacled to his wrists. As Zafir and Vale drew near, a tall man in a leather apron moved to intercept them. He bowed low.
Vale bowed back. Hello, Kithyr. This is why Zafir brought me instead of jeiros, isn't it? Because Jeiros would have known you at once for what you are. And you think I don't? How stupid must you thin I am?
'This man looks more like a butcher that a torturer.'
Zafir waved a hand. 'Not having been down here before, I wouldn't have the first idea.' She looked down at the man in the apron, still bent double. 'So who are you, and why are you standing in my way?'
Kithyr scraped even lower. 'Holiness. I'm the physician.'
Zafir raised her eyebrows in mock bewilderment. 'A physician? Here? Forgive me, but that seems a little out of place.'
'I make sure they don't die, Your Holiness.' He gave a noncommittal shrug. 'For when people want to talk to them again. Usually, once they talk, the torturers don't worry too much about what happens to them afterwards. Chopped up and fed to whatever dragons are in the eyrie, I suppose.' He caught Zafir's glare and bowed again, muttering apologies for his crudeness. Vale kept a stony face. Zafir would have most men whipped almost to death for the slightest lapse of proper respect and here was her blood-mage practically pissing on her boots. Or is this a test? Perhaps if I didn't know who this man truly was, he'd already be wallowing in his own blood while I ground his face into the ground. He put a hand on his sword and took a step forward in case. At least the blood-mage had the decency to look afraid for an instant, before Zafir touched her hand to his arm.
'Don't.'
'If one of my men spoke to you with such disregard, Your Holiness, I would have him drawn and quartered on the spot.' He glowered at the magician. Here we are, all pretending that we don't know what each other is. What a farce this has become.
It didn't get any better. The blood-mage pretended that a dead man was alive and made him talk, and Vale pretended not to notice that anything was out of place. They heard names and places, all of it exactly what Zafir wanted to hear. None of it seemed desperately new or exciting. Vale dutifully committed it to memory. Most of the kings and queens of the realms abhorred blood-magic to the point where they'd see poisonings, high treason and a few murders as trivial by comparison. Since the men doing the confessing were already dead, Zafir would keep them well away from Jeiros. When she summoned Almiri to a council of kings and queens, it would be Vale's word that would condemn another queen to her death. Although this time at least there can be no doubt. This evidence is false, yet Almiri has most certainly aided the Red Riders. Her guilt is beyond question.
When they were done, Zafir seemed pleased. Vale was only bored and depressed. His mind wandered. He quite wanted to wrap his hands around Zafir's neck and squeeze. He was fairly sure that most of the other kings and queens wouldn't have minded at all, although they'd still put him in a cage by the gates as a matter of principle. He'd be disappointed if they didn't.
Yes. And the last time I broke with my orders and all the traditions that lie behind them, look what happened. All of this. There are reasons for our creed, and I would do well to heed them.
'Can we go yet?' he asked. 'I have preparations to make.'
That got him a strange look – annoyance, contempt and something else all wrapped up together. 'If you can contain yourself, Night Watchman, I'm not done here yet. I want to know more about the red rider.'
Inwardly, Vale snorted and rolled his eyes. 'There is…' There is no Red Rider. Just an opportunistic knight dressed up in an old prophecy.
Zafir was looking at him, frowning. He bowed, but that obviously wasn't enough. Well then, I shall choose my next words carefully.
'I do not believe in myths and prophecies and phantoms, Your Holiness. That is the way we Adamantine Men are made. I do not pretend to understand the universe, but I do not believe in ghosts. The red rider is a myth. It is quite possibly nothing more than the random mutterings of an ancient priest so addled with Souldust that even his own acolytes once admitted that half of everything he said makes no sense.' He shrugged and cast Kithyr a glance.
The look he got back was icy. 'The prophecies are truth, Night Watchman,' said the magician.
Vale glared back at him. 'Belief like that turns men into fools. I suppose for the likes of you that might be an improvement, physician.' Be that insolcnt to me again and we'll see just how magic your blood is, mage.
'And in what do you believe, Night Watchman?'
'I believe in what my eyes can see and what my hands can touch. I believe in fire and steel and blood.'
The dead man chained to the wall stirred and moaned again and slurred something to the effect that he hadn't
