Tattersail almost laughed aloud at that patent exaggeration.
Mock sipped his wine. ‘So what is all this to me?’
‘I can’t tackle a mage. But you can.’ He pointed to Tattersail. ‘Send her down to blast them to Hood’s teeth.’
Mock crooked a brow, grinning. ‘Really?’ He looked across to her. ‘Tattersail, dear. Do I send you anywhere?’
She peered down at Geffen, making no effort to conceal her disgust. ‘I choose to use my talents to support Mock. And I strike only ships. I don’t murder people in the streets. Especially not on the say-so of some lowlife criminal.’
‘Guess I’m just the wrong lowlife criminal, then. Listen, dearie, sailors die when those ships go down, don’t fool yourself.’ He returned his attention to Mock. ‘If you won’t help me, then I’ll help myself. I’m sending word for a professional from the mainland. Someone to take them down. Just so you know. You brought this about.’
Mock waved him off. ‘Hardly. And don’t come back here again, Gef. I don’t consort with your kind.’
‘You don’t shit gold, Mock. I knew you when you was a no-good backstabbing murderer yourself.’
Mock sent a pained smile to Tattersail. ‘I’m a freebooter,’ he answered. ‘If I killed anyone it was on the high seas with swords crossed in battle.’
Geffen snorted his derision and turned on his heel.
‘Nothing public!’ Mock shouted after him down the hall. ‘Don’t scare off the merchants!’
Tattersail eyed him rather narrowly, and he cleared his throat, his mood obviously broken. He lifted the glass, saluting her, and downed the last of its contents. ‘Well … preparations. We must refit the men-o-war.’ He rose to his feet, unsteady. ‘So, celebrations in honour of this pact, hm? I shall await you in my chambers, yes?’
She nodded, smiling. ‘Yes. You go ahead, dearest. I’ll join you shortly.’
He answered her smile, smoothing his moustaches, and headed to the stairs, staggering slightly. Tattersail knew that by the time she joined him he’d be dead asleep. She sat in silence, considering Geffen’s harsh words. It was true, no doubt, that some sailors died when their vessels broke apart – but that was anyone’s risk in joining battle. She’d never deliberately killed anyone. And it was something she didn’t think she could ever bring herself to do.
She eyed her rosewater tea, cold now. Well, if all went as planned she wouldn’t have to worry about such things again. She wouldn’t have to get her hands dirty at all. There would be others to order about for that.
Brother regent, Tarel had named Mock, apparently. Hollow flattery? Then again, wasn’t the story that the man had murdered his own sister to come to power?
She did not like that. No, not at all.
* * *
Tayschrenn walked the lightless tunnels of the deepness far beneath the Temple of D’rek’s lowest halls. He walked with his powers raised to their utmost sizzling heights, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, barely aware of his surroundings, his senses cast far off in a maze of power conjunctions and interstices that wove and danced between the walls of the Warrens themselves. He did this offhandedly, though he’d heard that maintaining such a pitch of strength and focus was a feat rather difficult for other mages.
He knew such research was forbidden, touching as it did upon other Warrens – Thyr especially, but Rashan and others as well. He sensed underlying truths, however, and would pursue them wherever they may lead. And, recently, such hints had been drawing him ever closer to the half-forgotten ancient figure of K’rul.
So he walked the night-dark tunnels, sensing, briefly, the far deeper murmurations of Burn herself within D’riss, and the accompanying soothing rhythms of D’rek.
Starved of light, his eyes came to play tricks upon him, and so he was dismissive at first of one particular weaving spark of illumination as it seemed to draw near. Eventually, however, the spark resolved into a flickering golden flame and he was startled to realize that someone was holding it upright as they came.
He stopped, as did the newcomer. He studied the person as one might interrogate a mirage. Female, near his age, a far lower-ranked priestess unfamiliar to him, holding a torch and carrying a small iron box under one arm.
She bowed to him, murmuring, ‘Tayschrenn.’
He answered the bow. ‘Priestess.’
The resins and pitch of the torch popped and hissed between them, unnaturally loud in the utter silence. The torch he understood; and after a moment, the box as well. Many were the annual rituals and observations that the cult of D’rek was required to perform, and this box must be concerned with one such. Few knew the list of all the duties. Perhaps the box held an item that had to be replenished, or a scroll to be read in a certain location, or some offering to be made at a certain day and time. Or, some whispered, unmentionable food for things that had to be fed.
The priestess bowed again, murmured, ‘My condolences,’ and continued on her way.
He turned after her, his brows crimping. ‘I’m sorry – did you say “condolences”?’
She stopped, turned as well. ‘Oh. I am sorry. I thought you knew. Our guiding light, Lord Demidrek Ithell, passed on not two days ago.’
‘Ah – I see. No, I did not know. Thank you for informing me.’
The priestess bowed again, then went away down the tunnel.
Tayschrenn watched the sputtering flame of her torch diminish into the distance, turn an unseen corner, and be swallowed by the dark. He searched his emotions. He knew that the man’s death had been close, was inevitable, and that he should rejoice now that D’rek had taken him to her breast. Yet he was saddened. The man had been a kind spirit. Had shown him great generosity and patience. Had been the closest thing he could consider to a father, given that he possessed no memories of his life prior to his abandonment to the streets. Turning, he quickened his pace and headed to the nearest route up.
* * *
He found the main halls of the temple complex given over to the requisite mourning. Candles burned at every intersection and those ranked of the black all walked with cowls raised, heads bowed in prayer. Incantation and whispered songs of veneration murmured through the halls.
He headed for the Demidrek’s private quarters to offer his services, should there be anything to be done.
Here he found his way barred by a lower-ranked priest, one Feneresh, of no particular talent save a rigid unimaginative devotion to the rules and procedural minutiae of the cult.
‘Tayschrenn,’ the younger man greeted him. ‘What is your business?’
He was rather taken aback by the blunt words, but collected himself. ‘I offer my services, of course, should they be required.’
The fellow inclined his shaven head in acknowledgement, his thin lips pursing. ‘All is taken care of. You need not concern yourself.’
‘I see. Well, may I kneel before our Demidrek and offer my prayers?’
‘The remains have been removed for interment. You are free to pray before the icons of the Demidreks in the temple proper, of course.’
Tayschrenn tried to peer in past the shorter fellow to the private quarters beyond, but all was shrouded in darkness and low guttering candles. ‘I see. Very well. My thanks, brother.’
‘Of course. Glory be to D’rek.’
‘Ah … yes.’ He turned to go, but Feneresh cleared his throat and so he turned back. ‘Yes?’
The priest pointed to his waist. ‘Your honorary rank has been rescinded, of course.’
Tayschrenn frowned, confused for a moment, then realization came and he started. ‘Oh! Of course.’ He unwrapped the crimson sash and handed it over. Feneresh folded the cloth and tucked it away.