There was a roaring fire in the taproom of the Unicorn, and Hebba and Sallana, the serving maid, were working at full stretch. The place was packed tight with a mass of bodies, and the heat and the noise were overwhelming. To the Cavalry-master, it was absolutely wonderful. Parric had to elbow his way determinedly through the throng of early evening drinkers, laborers mostly, who tended to call in for a glass or two of ale before going home for supper.
“Hebba!” he cried, when he finally managed to get within sight of her. “It’s me!”
Hebba’s expression turned glacial. “I remember you,” she said. “The vulgar one.”
As a joyous welcome it left a lot to be desired, but Parric was determined not to let it spoil his night. Years, it had been, since he had tasted a proper pint of ale in a genuine tavern, and he deserved it after everything he had been through: first the years of slavery in Hellorin’s city, then the dreadful massacre of the Nightrunners....
Only at that moment did Parric realize he had no idea whether this woman’s business partner was alive or dead. He was on the verge of blurting out the news of the bloodbath, when common sense prevailed. The Nightrunners were viewed by the authorities here as criminals. If it was seen that he knew what had happened, there would be awkward questions asked at the very least, and his most likely prospect was a quiet arrest and an unofficial execution.—No—difficult though it would be, he must keep his mouth shut, until Pendral was dead, at the very least. At the moment, the Cavalrymaster had no idea how he could accomplish the High Lord’s death, but he decided to wait until tomorrow to come up with a plan—just as soon as he had recovered from the headache he intended to earn himself tonight.
The evening went very much as the Cavalrymaster had planned. The hours flew by in a blur of good food, good ale, and later, when a few drinks had made him mellow, good company. Indeed, it seemed no time at all before everyone was going home. “Don’t leave,” said Parric, clutching at the sleeve of a burly mason. “Don’t everybody leave yet. Why, it’s still early. We’ve time for another ...”
“You most certainly do not.” Parric’s new friend had somehow turned into Hebba, who was standing in front of him with a broom in her hand and a truculent expression on her round, red face.
“But I’m Hargorn’s old friend,” the Cavalrymaster protested. “Old old friend
...”
“Hargorn would befriend any piece of human refuse that gave him a hard-luck tale—and besides, he isn’t here. You have me to deal with now. Go on, you—get you gone. Haven’t you got no home to go to?”
Parric made a valiant effort to stand up. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t—” and fell flat on his face.
The Cavalrymaster awakened with his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and a herd of wild horses stampeding through his head. Though it was pitch-dark, he conceded, after a moment, that the horse part could be right, at any rate—judging from the smell and his bed of prickly straw, he seemed to be in a stable somewhere.
How did I get here? Parric wondered. Great portions of the latter part of the evening had vanished from his memory. He still felt light-headed from the ale, so he judged that it was probably nowhere near morning yet. He staggered to his feet, driven by two urgent needs. The first was managed quite easily—he simply relieved himself in the opposite corner of the stable. The second was a little more complicated, but if he didn’t get a drink of water soon, he would perish.
Feeling his way along the rough, cobwebbed wall, Panic groped his way out of the building. He realized at once that Hebba was not as harsh as she had pretended to be—though she could well have thrown him out into the gutter, she had let him shelter, instead, in the stable of the inn. Once outside he could see quite clearly; the moon was high and almost full, cloaking the city, in cold blue light. The Cavalrymaster was glad of it—it showed him the revolting slick of dark slime around the inside of the horse trough. Luckily, there was also a pump nearby, so he could have his drink fresh and clear.
Parric rose from his haunches and wiped chilled hands on his tunic and his dripping face on his sleeve. Gods, but it was good to be back in Nexis! When he had been a captive of the Phaerie, he had honestly believed he would never see this place again. His breath smoking in the frosty midnight air, he turned to look out across the city. It was a view worth savoring. The Unicorn was situated on the same plateau as the Garrison, high on the north side of the valley. From here, he Could look down and see practically the whole of Nexis laid out before him, including the gracious colonnades of the Grand Arcade, the squat rotunda of the Guildhall, and the high promontory, once the home of the Magefolk, that cast a long shadow like a dark shrouded figure stretching right across the city.
At first Parric thought it was a result of all the drink. Spots before my eyes, he thought, rubbing them hard. Then he looked again, at the swirling skein of dark specks that rose like a swarm of bees above the Academy. There was something familiar ... Then he remembered, and his blood turned to pure ice in his veins. Someone had removed the time spells from the honors imprisoned down in those black vaults, and the Nihilim were swarming over Nexis.
Parric was not the only one who looked on, aghast, at the Death-Wraiths. High over the northern moors, about a league out of Nexis, the glittering throng of Phaerie warriors faltered in their flight, and halted, hovering in midair, to witness, with magically augmented vision, the dreadful sight of the Nihilim whirling in their mad dance of death above the city, then plunging down into the unprotected streets in search of their prey. Hellorin pulled up his mount beside D’arvan’s Xandim steed. “Do you know anything about this?” he demanded.
“You were the last one to talk to that Mage, the lady Eilin’s daughter—and she was the last one to venture beneath the Academy where the Wraiths were imprisoned. What has the wretched woman loosed upon us now?”
D’arvan clenched his fists tightly in the Xandim’s mane. “I can’t think how this can have happened. Aurian only freed that single Wraith—the one that snared poor Finbarr’s body. Mind you, it had certainly escaped from Wyvernesse when I left the place, so it might have found some way to free the others.”
“Folly. Pure folly!” Hellorin snorted. “Where was her brain when she set a Wraith free to inflict death and horror upon the world? I never heard of anything so ridiculous. Trust a meddling Mage to stir up trouble!”
“She had her reasons,” said D’arvan, “though I agree with you—in the light of this new development, it may have been a mistake. In any case, our chief concern is how this will affect our plans. I don’t really think that Nexis is a very healthy place to be tonight.”
“I think we should wait here for a while, and see what they do.” Maya spoke up from her place at D’arvan’s other side. “After all, we’re far enough away to see them coming and beat a hasty retreat if they start heading in this direction.”
“Who asked you, Mortal?”
“Sounds a good idea to me.” Hellorin and D’arvan spoke simultaneously, and turned to glare at one another.
“You forget, my Lord,” Maya said coldly to Hellorin, “that I’m not one of your empty-headed little chattels to be filled with Phaerie seed. I’m a warrior, and I used to be second-in-command of the Nexis Garrison. I know what I’m talking about.”
“Maya is right,” said D’arvan. “It would be folly to reject her advice just because she’s a Mortal.”