He returned his attention to the burned corpse at his feet. “Why did Geran attack you?” This was a little trickier, since it called for speculation, but the mage hoped that Valdarsel’s corpse might retain enough resentment toward his slayer to cooperate.
The grisly thing did not answer for a long time, but just as Rhovann was about to give up, it stirred. “Vengeance,” it said. “I ordered Larisse to destroy the Hulmasters in Thentia, and gave her gold to hire sellswords and scrolls to summon devils. For that Geran Hulmaster slew me.”
Rhovann frowned, wondering which of Valdarsel’s followers Larisse was. She might have been one of the assassins who died in the attack, of course. He’d been almost certain that Valdarsel was behind the attack at Lasparhall, although he’d also suspected House Veruna and the Crimson Chains of involvement in the clumsy debacle. It seemed that Geran Hulmaster had uncovered Valdarsel’s hand behind the attack too. If it had been anybody else, Rhovann might have savored the sheer justice of Valdarsel dying at the hand of an adversary he’d underestimated; after all, he’d been foiled by Geran Hulmaster before, and there was a grim satisfaction in measuring himself by the quality of his enemies. “Did Geran tell you anything about his plans when you met him here?” he asked the corpse.
The corpse groaned again. “No. He only spoke of vengeance. Now let me rest.”
“Very well.” The mage straightened and brushed the soot from his robe. With a gesture he ended the ritual, severing the tenuous thread that imbued the corpse with its animating force. It fell still at once, nothing more than a dead body again. Rhovann absently rubbed at his right wrist, thinking about what he’d learned.
Edelmark looked down on the corpse, frowning in distaste. He cleared his throat and asked, “Are you finished with the high prelate’s remains, Lord Rhovann?”
“Hmm? Oh yes, I have no further use for poor Valdarsel here … no, wait. I may very well need to speak with him again. Inform the surviving clerics that we will see to the high prelate’s burial, and have the remains sent back to the castle.”
“Yes, m’lord.” The mercenary motioned to one of the Council Guards hovering nearby, and glanced around at the wet, smoking ashes and rubble. “It seems that Geran Hulmaster has much to answer for. I can’t believe that he would be so foolhardy as to defy the harmach’s edict and wantonly murder his councilors.”
“I can,” Rhovann muttered. He knew all too well that Geran was a man with more determination than sense at times, and Valdarsel had certainly provoked him. “I must speak with the harmach about my findings here. Have word sent to the other members of the Harmach’s Council; there is to be an emergency session at three bells this afternoon. We must weigh our response to this attack.”
Edelmark bowed, then marched off, calling for his messengers and guards. Rhovann gestured for Bastion to follow him, and made his way back out to the street. He climbed into his carriage while the golem took its place at the running board across the back like a gigantic footman, its weight testing the wooden springs. “Back to Griffonwatch,” Rhovann instructed the driver; the carriage set out with a small jerk, rocking side to side as it clattered through the mud, slush, and uneven cobblestones toward the castle.
As it so happened, the occasion of an emergency council gathering was convenient. For many tendays now, Rhovann had been working to create a Maroth Marstel that could look after himself without constant guidance. The old Hulburgan lord was failing swiftly, his body worn by age and heavy drinking, his mind broken by months of control under Rhovann’s enchantments. Rhovann kept the harmach of Hulburg safely locked away in his own chambers, too ill to see to his duties … but that was about to change. In a vat in his laboratory an alchemical copy of Maroth Marstel was almost ready for its debut, and the council’s meeting would make for an excellent test. As soon as the coach halted in Griffonwatch’s courtyard, Rhovann returned to his laboratory to see to scores of the final details involved with his rituals and alchemical processes.
A little before three hours after noon, he left his laboratory-sealing and warding it behind him, as he always did-and descended from his working space to the castle’s great hall, which served as the meeting place of the Harmach’s Council. He was pleased to note that his fellow councilors were already assembled, waiting for him. Their conversations faltered and they turned astonished looks up at the stair leading down into the room from the castle’s upper floors.
Rhovann smiled and gave a slight bow as he stepped to one side. “My lords and ladies, may I present Harmach Maroth Marstel?”
His simulacrum of Marstel limped forward, raising his hand in greeting. The thing was a perfect copy of Marstel-or, to be more precise, Marstel as he might have appeared had he been enjoying his first days of good health after a long and debilitating illness. To lend credence to the idea that the harmach had simply been indisposed for a time, Rhovann had carefully added a hint of dark circles under the eyes, a little looseness to the flesh to suggest a loss of weight, and a slight shuffle to the footsteps. But the false Marstel’s eyes were clear, and his smile was genuine enough.
“Ah, my good friends!” the false Marstel said in something close to the booming voice of the old lord. “It’s been far too long, it has. But I’m glad to report that I am finally feeling myself again.”
Rhovann made a show of offering his hand, which the old lord’s duplicate refused. He made his way down the stairs, leaning a little on the balustrade as the wizard followed, ready to aid him if he faltered. The waiting councilors stood and applauded as the harmach took his seat at the head of the table. The moon elf moved around the table to his own place, where the master mage customarily sat. The false Marstel inclined his snowy head, accepting the applause of the assembled councilors and guards. “Most kind, most kind,” he said. “Good Rhovann informs me that I’m still recovering and shouldn’t weary myself too much yet, so let’s get to our business.”
He waited as the council members took their seats again, and looked over to Rhovann. “You’d best let the council hear what you had to tell me about the murder of Valdarsel, Rhovann.”
“Of course, my lord harmach,” Rhovann replied. He made a mental note to instruct the simulacrum to act with more bluster and bluntness; he was perhaps just a little too reasonable and mild-spoken for Maroth Marstel. He turned to face the rest of the council. “I investigated the remains of the Temple of the Wronged Prince at length. My divinations and questionings are quite conclusive: High Prelate Valdarsel was killed by none other than Geran Hulmaster, with the aid of the sorcerer Sarth Khul Riizar. I have carefully reviewed the reports of those of my guardians who were involved in the pursuit as they fled the scene. Unfortunately, the murderers vanished somewhere near the waterfront, and I cannot conclusively determine if they have fled Hulburg or not. They may still be here, sheltered by Hulmaster loyalists.” He paused to study the reactions of the merchant leaders around the table before adding, “I will, of course, begin a new course of divinations immediately. If Geran and Sarth are still here, we’ll unearth them quickly enough.”
“There is also the question of those who helped Geran Hulmaster to enter the city, or sheltered him before his attack on Valdarsel,” Captain Edelmark said. “Any such actions amount to high treason against the rightful harmach. If we fail to catch Hulmaster and his half-devil accomplice, we can make sure that those who aided them are suitably punished.”