‘They are better for the journey, in fact.’
Battu grunted and his gaze slid away. Losara could tell he wasn’t really listening. News of the Throne’s death seemed to be troubling him. Why? Because it had not come at Battu’s hand? Because it was a clear display of Losara’s power and purpose? It didn’t matter. Soon, he was sure, one way or another, he was going to have to deal with Battu. Could the dark lord be convinced to join the cause for the common good?
Optimism indeed .
The Shadowdreamer forced a smile that was almost a grimace. ‘You must be tired from your travelling and mighty accomplishments,’ he said. ‘You should rest – but tonight I would like to hold a feast to welcome you home. What say you, Apprentice?’
Losara nodded. ‘I thank you, lord Shadowdreamer.’
‘And feel free to bring your companions.’
‘The ghost as well?’ said Losara, genuinely surprised.
‘Why not?’ said Battu, although Losara thought perhaps Battu hadn’t remembered precisely who the ‘companions’ were before making the offer. ‘He likes to eat, doesn’t he?’
‘Indeed he does.’
Battu waited until he was sure Losara was truly gone. It was hard to tell, what with his Apprentice’s ability to travel wholly in the shadows. But this was still Battu’s castle, where the shadows obeyed him, and he could seal the room from outside influence if he wanted to. Cautious in my own throne room , he thought angrily.
‘Tyrellan,’ he said. ‘How long have you been at my side?’
‘Twenty-four years,’ replied Tyrellan blandly.
‘Yes. And how well you’ve served me during that time. I’ve never forgotten the part you played in my rightful rise to the throne, when all others stood against me …against us.’
‘Raker was weak,’ said Tyrellan. ‘We were right to hurry your ascension, lord.’
Battu relaxed. How could he ever have doubted his First Slave? ‘But now,’ he said, ‘I fear there is a new threat to the sanctity of Fenvarrow.’
Tyrellan arched a hairless eyebrow. ‘Lord?’
‘My Apprentice,’ Battu sighed. ‘He grows reckless, committing these acts of war on behalf of the gods. I must question whether the gods act with the best interests of our people at heart. Do they care what sacrifice, what suffering they cause to our folk? I think not, for they seek to steep us in a war of attrition.’
Tyrellan’s steely gaze remained unreadable, but he took a few moments before speaking. ‘What must we do?’
‘What we have always done,’ said Battu. ‘We must crush any who stand against us.’
‘Of course, lord.’
‘Losara has become a liability,’ said Battu. ‘And even though I could squash him like a grape, I fear for the safety of those living in the castle should it come to a battle between us.’
‘My lord Shadowdreamer is kind indeed to take the lives of such insects into account,’ snarled Tyrellan.
Good, good , thought Battu, elated by the goblin’s response. ‘That is why I have a quieter way of dealing with Losara in mind,’ he continued. ‘Something …non-magical. Something that my First Slave will be greatly rewarded for administering.’
‘The feast, lord?’
‘Yes,’ said Battu. ‘I want you to oversee the preparations of the feast.’
In Tyrellan’s experience, sometimes one had to wait for one’s moment. During his long career, he’d often observed that impatience was the precursor to downfall. He remembered once escorting an important prisoner from Trelter to Morde, an Arabodedas who knew that death awaited him. The man had been desperate, and had made an ill-considered break for it across the Ragga Plains. As he’d dashed madly away over land without cover, it had been a simple matter to see an arrow into his leg. A couple of hours later, in a rockier region, the escort party had been attacked by brown huggers. It would have been the perfect time for a prisoner to attempt a getaway, but the poor sod was already crippled.
Tyrellan knew there was no question of escaping, even briefly, to try to get word to Losara. Instead he would have to play a part in Battu’s ridiculous scheme, and play it well, until there came some chance to act. After a short stop at his room, he made his way to the kitchens, acutely aware that Battu, in his paranoia, could be watching from any shadow.
If he had wondered previously about the Shadowdreamer’s sanity and worth, all his questions were now answered. Clearly Battu had lost perspective, willing to risk (or rather, guarantee) punishment in the afterlife to secure his earthly throne. What madness, to attempt assassination of the blue-haired man, a being clearly blessed since he’d been the little babe Tyrellan had brought to Skygrip. Had Battu not seen his hands, or stared into his void-like eyes? While Tyrellan maintained a calm exterior, internally he seethed with fury. How dare Battu offer him ‘reward’ – did he not know Tyrellan even after all this time? Had he not learned that Tyrellan cared not for base pleasures, that all he cared about was defeating the light?
He reached the kitchens, where word had already arrived about the feast that evening. Grey Goblins bent over pots, chilling the contents on beds of ice. Others chopped and pounded ingredients, or rubbed herbs into meat, and the smell of seafood filled the air. Even the fireplace was lit for special preparations, tended to by the lowest in the kitchen hierarchy, a tiny Grey squirming uncomfortably at being so close to the heat.
As the cooks noticed Tyrellan’s arrival they stiffened, but kept working so as not to draw attention to themselves. They made sure not to stare at his butterfly, for none who gawked at it met any good end. Gutless drones , he thought – they would have been even more frightened had they known it was likely that Battu followed Tyrellan, slipping unnoticed from shadow to shadow, watching his will being done.
Tyrellan padded across to where a fat Grey, whose name he remembered was Saray, stood preparing sea anemones. Each one was rolled on a tray of ground bread and salt, then placed in an ornate serving bowl.
Tyrellan was surprised by his own pettiness: the least he could do was make sure Battu couldn’t enjoy his favourite dish.
‘Stand aside,’ he snapped. Saray turned, started when he saw who it was, and sidled backwards, bowing low.
‘Cease your hovering about my toenails,’ said Tyrellan. ‘Get up. Watch.’
Tyrellan picked up the bowl containing the finished anemones and tipped them back into the oily vat with the unseasoned ones. ‘You’re going to start again,’ he told Saray. From his pocket he produced a white cloth, which he unrolled carefully. Inside was a purplish ball, porous and powdery. It was made from the salivary glands of cavespitters, crushed and dried, the most potent poison in his arsenal. He took the ball lightly in his claws and crumbed it evenly over the tray, until a fine layer of purple dust lay atop the ground bread.
‘A special preparation for the Apprentice Losara,’ he said. ‘To be delivered to him, exclusively, on special orders from lord Battu. Make sure these are placed in front of him – and make no mention of the extra ingredient unless you fancy wearing your feet from your ears. Is there any way your wormy little apple of a brain is not comprehending me so far?’
‘I understand, First Slave,’ stammered Saray.
‘Good.’
Tyrellan brushed the remaining powder from his claws. He noticed a shadow against the wall which did not seem to be cast by any object, but let his eyes wander on. Better if Battu did not realise that Tyrellan knew he was there.
‘Make sure all the anemones are coated well,’ he said. ‘When you’re finished, ensure this tray is never used again. I am going to stand here and watch you do all this.’
He waved for Saray to begin. As he watched the nervous Gray re-coating the squishy blobs, he reached under an ice lantern on the wall and let the cold water that dripped from it cleanse his hands of toxic residue.