Turcaret glanced out the window to check the angle of the light. It was almost dark. Almost time.
“I sent a semaphore message to the king of Ravenon,” he said to Chan. “Shortly after you left Castor’s manor. The king had never heard of you, nor the damsel who calls herself Calandria May. You are not couriers for Ravenon. We don’t know what you are—but I did receive permission to have you arrested and sent back to the capital in irons if I chanced upon you again.”
Chan took another sip of his wine, his expression bland. “We’re alone in this room,” he pointed out. “If you wanted to arrest me, you would have already done it.”
“True.” At least Chan wasn’t the idiot he looked. “I had a better idea,” Turcaret admitted.
“I’m all ears,” said Chan. Turcaret had never heard that expression before; the image was so bizarre he laughed.
“I originally intended to turn you in,” he said. “After all, you rendered me a tremendous insult.”
Chan sat up straight. “In what way? I’m sure we intended none.”
“You intended none?” Turcaret couldn’t believe his ears. “Well, to start with, you stole my property away on a pretext.”
“What property?” The fool looked puzzled now.
“The Mason girl.”
A look of disgust slowly spread across Chan’s face. He tilted the glass, pouring the wine out on the floor. That was all right, Turcaret decided; he’d probably drunk enough by now.
“People are not property,” said Chan quietly. “They have rights, even in this godforsaken country.”
“Rights? Yes, let’s talk about rights, now,” said Turcaret. “That girl was just a thing, of no consequence, and no one would protest her fate, because no one can do anything about it. She was my right, she was the payment of a debt, and that was the beginning and end of it. “But you! You have the gall to be indignant about that little trollop when you yourself are nothing but a thief yourself—the thief of a title of Ravenon! You are the one befouling propriety here, and I’d be within my rights to have you summarily executed right here and now.”
“You and what army?” asked Chan. He shook his head stupidly; the plant extract the priests had prepared for Turcaret must be starting to work.
“You’re referring to the fact that we’re alone. Perhaps you think you could take me in a fair fight. Maybe. But you wouldn’t get far, even if you avoided my men and escaped the grounds.”
“‘Zat so?” Chan seemed to suddenly realize what had happened to him. He tried to stand, unsuccessfully.
“Oh, yes, you’ve been drugged,” said Turcaret. “But that’s not why you’ll never get out of here. The Winds have chosen you to play a part in the events that are about to unfold. The Winds are on our side. We know they favor us. By the time this evening is out, everyone will know it.”
“Go to hell,” muttered Chan. He didn’t seem afraid at all. Angry, maybe. Turcaret supposed he was stupider than he looked, after all.
The controller smiled, not trying to hide his smugness. “You have been sent to us, sir. You might think you were the author of your own actions, but you are not. A higher power has sent you to us.”
Chan shook his head sloppily. “Yer delusional.” He tried again to stand, unsuccessfully.
“Feeling a bit weak?” Turcaret asked. “Good. Stay there, I want to show you something.”
He reached behind the orange tree and brought out the wrapped packages his man had delivered just prior to Chan’s arrival. He leaned the long cloth bundle on his own chair, and put the smaller package on the table. He unwound the cloth that wrapped it. Chan blinked at him owlishly as he did so.
Turcaret spared a glance outside. The sun was down. It was time.
“Recognize any of these?” Turcaret unrolled the smaller bundle to reveal a dagger, a cloak pin, and a wide, ornate belt.
“Hey!” Chan fell forward over the table top. “Those’re mine! You stole ‘em?”
Well, that was finally a satisfying reaction. Turcaret casually unwound the cloth from the longer bundle. He held up the sword and let the last drapes of cloth fall from its tip. “And how about this?”
Chan stared at the blade. He said nothing. He had obviously expected to see his own sword revealed under the wrap, correctly assuming that it had also been stolen from his room. This was not his sword, but rather a much more ornate, finely made epee. “Yuri’s favorite sword,” Turcaret said. “He keeps it in his bed chamber. I’ve only borrowed it, don’t worry. It’s going to be back there in an hour or two.”
Shaking his head, Chan tried to rise. “Hey, wait. Just wait a—” He fell back, head lolling.
“You should see yourself,” Turcaret said. “You look pathetic. That’s no way to die, Chan. I would have expected more of an ‘agent of Ravenon’.”
He raised the sword, aiming it straight at Chan’s heart. “I’ve been told to kill you neatly and quickly,” he said. “And I will. But not before you tell me something.”
“Huh?” Chan levered himself up with his arms; his legs seemed unresponsive. Turcaret stepped forward and kicked him behind the knees. The man went sprawling off his chair.
Turcaret raised the sword, turning it so that it gleamed in the lamplight. Chan’s eyes were fixed on it.
“Tell me this, or I’ll make it a slow death rather than a quick one,” Turcaret said.
“Why are the Heaven hooks coming to take Jordan Mason?”
*
August’s epee flashed in the dimness. One of the men who had entered the room screamed and fell, clutching his leg. The other dove forward, reaching for his own blade. This brought him up against the bed.
Jordan looked up into the startled eyes of a man wearing Turcaret’s livery.
“Run, Jordan!” August’s thrust clove the air where the man had been an instant ago. Jordan rolled sideways and ended up in the middle of the room. He could see the other two struggling, hands locked to wrists. The man August had stabbed was crawling toward the door; his left calf streamed blood. August had ham-strung him.
“Run!”
Jordan staggered to his feet, and ran. He was in shock from the unexpected violence, and didn’t even bother to check whether there were more men in the hall. He stumbled down the steps, mindless, until stopped by a heavy thump above him. A dark silhouette with a sword appeared at the top of the stairway.
“Jordan!” He stopped, and let August catch up to him. The man was clutching his side, where he had been wounded last night.
August grabbed Jordan by the shoulder and shook him. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you try that with me,” said August in a deadly tone. “My sword-wound!”
“What about it?”
“There’s a shallow cut there that looks fresh, but I can’t feel anything deeper. It’s healed!”
“Uh…”
“And why were two of Controller General Turcaret’s men invading your chamber?”
“I don’t know!”
“You! Stop!” Several men with swords had appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Later, then. Go!” August shoved Jordan down the last few steps. This time Jordan didn’t hesitate, but ran. The ring of steel echoed after him as he shouldered open the door to the courtyard, and then he was dodging between statues, as the sounds of the fight faded behind him.
*
Axel tried for the fifth time to stand. “Go to hell!” he muttered. Concentrate, he told himself. Think of a way out of this.
The damned controller kicked him in the ribs. It didn’t hurt much, but there went his equilibrium again. Whatever it was they’d spiked his drink with, it had gotten past his usual immunities, and so far the diagnostic nano hadn’t caught it. Cheap hardware. Never should have bought it from Choronzon.
He had left his sword and dagger in his room, where all his gear was packed for their flight from this place later tonight. Etiquette had prevented him from wearing them to what he’d been told was a simple meeting with Turcaret; they’d known that he’d leave them behind, so it must have been simple for someone to slip in and take them.
He tried to use his radio link to call Calandria. It needed some pretty specific mental commands to operate, and he couldn’t focus well enough to give them. “Damn!”
“Tell me!” insisted the controller. “Why are the Heaven hooks coming for Mason?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Axel.
“The Heaven hooks will take the Mason boy tonight,” said the controller. “I know all about him, though you tried to hide him from me. The Winds have not told me why they want him, though. All they will say is that he threatens ‘thalience’. What does that mean? What is thalience?”
Axel had never heard the word before. He said so. “Who’s really pulling your strings, eh? Tell me that, I’ll tell you what the Winds want with Jordan.”
Turcaret raised the sword, face white. Then he thought better. “If you paid attention to something more than the scullery maids and the location of the better wines, you’d know what’s going on,” said Turcaret. “We’re putting Yuri’s mask in the parade room. He backed the wrong man.”
“You’re in bed with Brendan Sheia?” Axel had to laugh. “You’re an idiot! He’s going down in flames! The queen is going to lose her war and then he’ll be stateless. He hasn’t a prayer of convincing the family he’s the rightful heir. You know that.”
The controller had calmed down. In fact, he looked much too calm now. “Well, Mister Chan, maybe I know something you don’t. Unlike Yuri, we have the backing of the Winds. We know the Truth about them, you see.” Axel was sure Turcaret had put a capital T on Truth. “That the Winds are ultimately destined to be our servants.”
He swung the sword in a bright arc over his head, and brought it down on Axel’s neck.
*
Jordan was half way to Axel’s room when the new vision began.
He could sense Armiger, somewhere in the back of his mind. He knew the man was still in bed with Megan, but had stoically managed to stay away from them. Armiger’s senses were seductive, dangerously so.
This new thing was something else, another voice or voices. Despite himself, he stopped, bewildered.
He stood in one of the main halls of the manor. He could distinctly hear voices coming from one of the salons. Layered overtop that was a confused jumble of whispers, whose origin he could not place. They seemed to be coming from all around him.
Many of the whispers were in languages he didn’t know; some were in his own. He also caught fragmentary, strange glimpses of things: black sky; the side of a building at night; something that looked like a tiny model of the Boros estate, viewed from above.
He shook his head, trying to remain calm. As he had the last time, he would have to pause now, and damp the visions down, or else he would be unable to get to the safety of Axel’s room. If he was to do that, he would have to find a secluded spot, or Turcaret’s men would find him.
He moved as quietly as he could to the door to the mask room. No one would be here at this hour. As he pushed the door open, he leaned against the stone lintel, and the touch sent an electric sense of awareness into him.
“What—?” He snatched his hand back. The murmuring voices hushed again. They might have been coming from the ranked masks on the wall, but somehow he sensed it was more than that. Still, the vacant eyes of the masks sent a shiver down his spine. He turned his back on them.
Tentatively, Jordan reached out, and touched the stone wall with his fingertips. Again he felt a sense of connection, as though he had stepped from a silent corridor into a bright hall full of people.
“What is this?” he whispered.
The voice was strong this time. I am stone, said the stone wall.
*
Calandria had visited the kitchens and filled a pair of saddlebags with food. Then she’d gone to the stables and overseen the provisioning of Axel and August’s horses. Leaving at night was bound to cause talk, but hopefully not until morning, when they would be many kilometers away.
When everything was to her liking she went back to her chamber to tell August Ostler he should make ready to travel.
She could tell something was wrong from the bottom of the stairs. The door to their room hung open. Calandria moved silently up the steps, watching for any movement. The room seemed empty, but she saw fresh blood on the floor.
She cursed under her breath and stepped inside. There was no one here. Had Ostler attacked Jordan? The blood was smeared inside the room, but she could see drops of it receding down the hall. Whoever it was that had been hurt, they had left under their own steam, or had been carried.
None of this made any sense, and not knowing the situation alarmed her more than any certainty would have.
She opened her radio link to Axel. “Axel? Where are you?”
There was no answer. Now fully alarmed, She stalked past the discarded blankets by the fireplace, and began stuffing her few possessions into a bag. She scowled down at the beautiful gown she wore; it would be very difficult to ride wearing this confection. Although her instincts told her to run from the room, she paused long enough to shuck the gown and pull on her tough traveling clothes. Then she hefted her bags and turned to go. These few things would have to do.
Where next? “Axel?” Still nothing. He had not activated his transponder, so she couldn’t locate him that way either.
Jordan’s few things lay on his bed, and she eyed them. He had not taken anything with him, a sign that he had not gone willingly.
Axel was supposed to be visiting Turcaret right now. She could go that way, or follow the blood stains to where Jordan might be in danger.
Axel could take care of himself, but Jordan was only here because she had kidnapped and coerced him to be.
Cursing foully, Calandria wrestled her cape into position, threw her bags over her shoulder, and went to follow the blood trail.
As she left the room, a voice emerged from the darkness ahead of her.
“You’re in quite a hurry for an innocent traveler, Lady May.”
*
Turcaret stared at the place on Yuri’s sword where it had broken cleanly in half.
Axel Chan’s hands were at his throat. He gurgled. Then he rolled to one side, spat, and gasped.
“The sword broke,” whispered Turcaret. “On your neck…”
Axel put his hands under himself and carefully rose to a kneeling position. Then he grabbed the edge of his overturned chair and used it to brace himself as he stood up. He tried to speak, but only a cough came out.
His throat was red and lacerated where Turcaret had hit it with the sword. Little blood flowed; the wound seemed superficial.
Obviously, he had struck the stone floor with the tip of the sword before the rest of the blade had touched Chan’s throat. That must have been what happened.
No time to worry about that, Chan was on his feet. Turcaret grabbed the man’s own dagger off the table. Chan made a clumsy grab for him but Turcaret stepped inside his reach and stabbed up, right under his heart.
The dagger tore through Chan’s shirt and grated across his ribs. He staggered back, coughing. Blood flowed freely from the wound. Turcaret could plainly see he’d raised a flap of skin the size of his palm—but the blade had not penetrated.
Surprised, but not worried, Turcaret jumped after Chan, who was trying to get to the door. “Die, damn you!” He reversed the dagger, grabbed Chan’s shoulder and stabbed him again and again. It was like stabbing a table. Each blow cut Chan’s shirt as the blade scored across his skin, and plainly he wore no armor. But the blade would not penetrate more than a few millimeters. Finally it too broke against the man’s shoulder.
Turcaret backed away. “How have you done this?”
Chan huddled against the closed door, gasping. His whole upper body was covered in blood. This was not going to be the clean kill Brendan Sheia had demanded. There was no way Chan would appear to have been killed by Yuri’s dying blow. Maybe it could be made to look like more of a fight had taken place, but they had wanted to avoid that because the question would be raised why no one had heard anything. But the man would not die!
Chan turned now and uncovered his eyes. He might have been vulnerable there, but Turcaret had not thought of it in time. Chan’s face was transformed. The skin around his mouth was pure white, and his eyes were wide. He was shaking, but not, it seemed, from fear.
“Help,” Turcaret said under his breath. Then he screamed it.
“Get in here and help me!”
*
Jordan was no longer sure where he was. When the wall spoke to him he’d bolted, and came to himself briefly to find himself here outside on the front lawn of the estate. He tried to keep going, to somehow escape the noise in his head, but only made it fifty steps before he went blind again. He could see—with a clarity which was itself frightening—but no longer through his own eyes.
The spirits surrounding him were handing vision back and forth, like a ball. All the parts of the Boros estate had their spirits, it seemed, and each kind of thing perceived the world in a different way. They were all speaking at once, looking about themselves, as though awoken from an ages-long sleep to find themselves startled by the world.
Something had awoken them. Something was coming.
The trees told of a gargantuan weight descending through the air, and of a shadow between them and the twilight sky. The stones could feel an electricity spreading in a kind of wave, coming from the east. Jordan understood these things because the stones, and trees and water, were speaking in common terms of reference, some of which were actual words and phrases he could understand, some images, some physical sensations.
He staggered to a stop, swaying, unsure whether he was even still on his feet. No, he seemed to be above the ground now, very high up. He could see the rooftops of the manor, and he saw the windowed facades (last rays of sunlight touching them gold) and felt the draft of the passage of human bodies through the halls within. The attentiveness of the estate seemed to draw a tighter focus, bearing him images of people. He seemed to touch the faint trails of heat left by the cooks in the kitchen, as reported by an archway there. The flagstones in the courtyard felt the pressure of walking feet, and measured the passage of four people. The sound of voices echoed weirdly as if from a long distance.
The spirits were searching for someone, he realized—a man or woman who was somewhere on the estate.
He knew he wasn’t really in the air; this was just a vision. Jordan began to move again, perversely wishing they would notice him because then he could see where he was, if only through their eyes. He put his hands before him like a blind man, and walked.
The heavens… something was coming down from the sky. The estate knew it, and increasingly the snatches of vision Jordan caught were images from a vast height, far above the highest trees.
If he wasn’t able to fight back these visions, he was as good as dead. Was he just going to stand here and let whatever it was that was coming take him?
Angry at his own helplessness, Jordan stopped walking, dropped his arms to his sides, and breathed in deeply. Once. Twice. He called on all the things Calandria had taught him, and tried to subdue the panic. All so he could have his own eyes back, for just a moment.
He felt the kaleidoscope of visions clearing, and tilted his head back. He saw the cloudless sky, scattered with the first stars of evening like finest jewels on blue silk.
And he saw the Heaven hooks.
*
Linden Boros displayed the family smile to Calandria. It was no more charming coming from him than it had been from Yuri or Marice. He was dressed in dark riding breeches and a red embroidered jacket, as if he had just arrived from the stables. He had ten men with him, all armed. August Ostler stood near him, looking uncomfortable.
“August told me there was a fight,” said Linden. “Were you a witness to it, lady?” His bodyguards had their swords out.
Calandria looked at the swords, wide-eyed. “What is this about?”
“It would seem my bastard brother has overstepped his boundaries,” Linden said dryly. “Through his friend Turcaret.” He gestured for her to come up the steps. She walked up to stand before him.
“Where is my apprentice?” she asked. “He should be with your man here.” She indicated Ostler.
Linden’s brows furrowed slightly. He glanced at Ostler, who shrugged. “Not my concern,” he said. “But I think you owe us an explanation.”
Calandria cocked her head to one side. “Explanation? Regarding what? That we saved your man here from death requires no explanation—unless you are one of those who would not save a life unless it profit you. That we hid him? It was at his own request. He was a bit ashamed of himself after breaking the rules of the house.”
“And why are you dressed for riding at this late hour, lady?”
“Considering the kindness I’ve done your man, Mister Boros, I think I’m entitled to keep that to myself.”
He scowled. “May I remind you that you are a guest in this house?”
“Not for much longer,” she said. “And I am not the guest who transgressed the rules,” she added, nodding significantly at August, who shrank back.
Linden folded his arms. In this light he appeared quite menacing, slim and poised, with his sword loose at his side. The blond hair cascading down one shoulder was bound with black ribbon. Standing this close to him, Calandria caught a scent of leather, horses and sweat. “Speaking of transgressing rules,” he said with some irony, “the Winds might be upset to know just how much science you carry around with you, Lady May.”
She didn’t reply. “Our poor August, here, was done for, by his own admission,” Linden continued. “Someone tried to disguise a freshly healed sword wound with a new and shallower cut, but it’s a clumsy job. Especially since there’s a corresponding scar on his back. I’ve never seen such a pair of scars like that before… most people with that sort of wound don’t last a day. Now August assures me his blood is actually rather thin, making it difficult for him to clot a cut finger. He says you did something to him… something scientific, which brought him back from the brink of death. The last person to try that was general Armiger, whose entire army was destroyed by the Winds.”
“But—” she started.
“But,” interrupted Linden, “you happen to be right. You did save my servant’s life, by his own admission. I’m not sure what it is you are doing, but those who attacked August the first time just returned to finish the job. That tells me you are not one of them yourself. I don’t know who you are, but—”
He was stopped mid-word by screams and shouts breaking out below them. A man ran up the stairs recklessly, shouting “Sir! Sir! He’s dead!”
Calandria had bent to pick up her packs. She hesitated, as the man stumbled on the top step, skidded to his knees, and shouted, “They’ve killed Yuri!”
Linden’s eyes widened. “Brendan! I knew it!” He rounded on Calandria. “If you have some involvement in this, lady, then you won’t live to see trial. But you saved August, so if you love our house then come with me!” He raced down the stairs.
Calandria reached for her packs, but August already had them. “Where is Jordan?” he asked her, as men raced around them like a river in flood.
“Don’t you know?”
He shook his head. Then they turned as one and ran after the mob.
*
Axel reached for the first thing at hand. It was a potted spider plant.
“B-bastard,” he managed to croak. His throat burned like he’d been branded. Every time he moved, his arms and shoulders screamed pain. The subcutaneous armor worked just as Calandria had advertised, or else he would be dead by now. It wasn’t enough to prevent loss of blood and deep bruising. He had to hope Turcaret didn’t realize just how close to collapse he really was.
He threw the pot. Turcaret dodged it easily. Axel’s reflexes were still pathetic, but the dizziness was passing.
“I’ll kill you,” Axel told the controller, trying to sound confident. He stepped into the center of the room. Turcaret backed to the window. Axel stared at his stolen possessions, laid out on a piece of cloth on the table top as if they were for sale. They were going to plant them wherever they killed Yuri, in case they didn’t get Axel himself. Good plan.
Turcaret stepped to the window and shouted “Men! Get up here!” loudly.
“Oh, right—” Axel began, but just then the door behind him burst open. Four large men with swords spilled into the room. They stopped their onrush when they saw Axel, bloody by the table, and Turcaret backed against the window.
The leader’s eyebrows hopped up and he sneered at Turcaret. “Shall we finish him, sir? It’s well past time for—”
He had laid himself wide open, so Axel put a side kick into him. The man sailed across the room and shattered a fine lacquer cabinet. Axel staggered and nearly fell over.
A sharp blow to the shoulder drove him to his knees. This time he had the sense to roll forward, and came to his feet on the far side of the table. The man who had tried to chop his head off was looking at his sword in surprise.
Two of them came around opposite sides of the table. Axel hopped onto it and let one stab him in the chest. He reached out and took the man’s wrist; Axel twisted it and took the sword out of his hand while the other bodyguard watched in confusion.
He couldn’t let these men catch him. He turned to see a good view of Turcaret’s rear end, as the controller struggled to get out the window.
Axel put the pommel of the sword into its owner’s face and got off the table. He kicked a chair between himself and the other bodyguard and ran for the window. Turcaret had made it outside, and was clinging to the casement, some three meters above the roof of the manor.
No more time to look—they were converging on him. He grabbed the window frame and pulled himself through it as they howled after him.
The fall would have broken something had he been unarmored. As it was, he was stunned for a second. When he pulled himself to his knees on the rooftop, he could not at first spot Turcaret.
But there he was struggling with the metal door set into the rooftop. Behind him the moon was rising, huge and white. Axel barked a laugh and painfully pulled himself to his feet.
Turcaret looked up in fear—and it took a moment for Axel to realize the controller was not looking at him, but past, at the sky.
Ventus only had one moon, and Diadem was small. The thing Turcaret was silhouetted against was huge—larger than Earth’s moon—and growing by the second. It glowed from within.
Turcaret was staring at something behind Axel. He turned around, and looked up… and up.
“Oh, thank you,” Turcaret said.
*
The Boros family feud really wasn’t any of Calandria’s affair, but right now she was surrounded by shouting men for whom nothing could be more important. She let herself be swept along with them, thinking that by doing so she might find Jordan.
Linden raised a hand. “Silence!” he thundered. “Where?” he said to the man who had told them of Yuri’s death.
“In his bedchamber!”
“Oh, pray he was not butchered in his sleep.” They hurried out into the courtyard, which was ablaze with torches. The sky was lit by the crepuscular glow of a vagabond moon, huge and lowering over the estate. Servants crowded everywhere, gawking. Linden’s men were rallying under the main doors to the manor. “Where is Sheia?” roared Linden.
“We’ve got his men barricaded in their rooms!” crowed a lieutenant. “Don’t know where he is—doubtless he’s run, like the cur he is.”
“Where is Marice?”
“With Yuri.”
“Come then.” Linden hurried into the manor. They followed. August stayed close to Calandria, but said nothing.
Yuri’s bedchamber was on the third floor, at the front of the house. It had a commanding view through many floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows. Two fireplaces faced one another across the room; Yuri’s giant, canopied bed hulked near the one to the right. Linden’s men crowded in after a whole mob of people, who were babbling and wailing incoherently.
Everything had been knocked about in the course of Yuri’s final battle. Tables were overturned, chairs smashed. It was astonishing no one had heard the fight—but then, the walls were thick stone, and the door was four centimeters-thick oak.
Yuri lay on his back on the bed. His belly was slit, and intestines bulged blue out of the wound. His eyes were still open, glaring at the ceiling.
Lady Marice stood next to the bed. There was no expression at all on her face; it was as if she were carved from stone. She watched as people ran back and forth shouting.
“The assassin fled,” someone said to Linden. He stepped up to Marice and took her hand. She snatched it back, and turned away from him.
“But he left his sword.” The man pointed to the floor by the bed.
“Did he now?” Linden knelt and prodded the blade that lay there. “And whose is this, I wonder?”
Calandria gasped. It was Axel’s sword.