“I think I can guess what it is, and where he’s sending it,” said a man’s voice, broad and slow.
“Where?” said Tali.
“We know he’s planning to put the Pale down, so I’d reckon this is the death order. And a highly symbolic one, since he’s written it on a page of the iron book.”
“The Consolation of Vengeance,” whispered Tali. “And the book was unfinished. The ending hadn’t been written.”
“It has now,” said the man. “What’s he doing?”
“I–I can’t see,” said Tali. She did not speak for a minute. “He’s calling someone in. A servant. No, a courier.”
“What’s he saying?”
“The only word I could lip-read was matriarchs. Now the courier’s put the iron page into a bag. He’s running out.”
“How far is it from Caulderon to Cython? Quick!”
“Um… the nearest entrance is nine or ten miles, on horseback.”
“That’s all I got before the trace broke,” said Lyf. “But it’s enough.”
“Where is she?” said Hillish.
“Somewhere in the Seethings, I’d say. Close to Cython.”
“Do you know how she plans to get in?”
“No.”
“Can you get the trace back?”
“Not unless she spies on me again. But I don’t need to.”
“Why not, Lord King?”
“She’ll have to use magery to sneak through any of the entrances, unseen, and I’ve had spy devices fitted to all of them, linked to the clangours. The moment she sets one off, she’ll be taken.”
“She’s clever,” said Hillish grudgingly. “Better warn the matriarchs she’s coming. Should I call another courier?”
“No,” said Lyf. “I’m riding to Cython at once. I want to be there when she’s taken.”
CHAPTER 90
Grandys reached over and scratched Rix under the chin, like a grandmother with a baby. “You hate me, and you can’t do a thing about it. I love that.”
“It’s the only way you can command loyalty,” Rix forced out.
Grandys snorted. “My men love me. I give them power for the first time in their lives.”
“Power to die for your own aggrandisement.”
“Any of us can die. But unlike Hightspall’s gutless generals, when my men look up they see me at the front, risking my life as I lead them to victory.”
“With power and magery none of your opponents can match,” Rix sneered, “and an enchanted sword protecting you all the way. You’re not taking much of a risk.”
“Maloch only protects to a degree,” said Grandys. “An arrow in the eye, the throat or the heart can kill me as easily as any man.” He sauntered out, grinning.
Oh, for an arrow in your eye! The moment Grandys was gone, Rix lay on his mattress, closed his eyes and started attacking the command spell afresh.
A fortnight had passed since Rix’s vow to kill Grandys, a time of frustration and failure as the army had gone back and forth, attacking enemy fortresses and Hightspaller manors indiscriminately. Rix had to find a way; it had to be now.
For years he had fought the compulsion Lyf had put on him via the heatstone, and the battle had strengthened his will immeasurably. Could that be why Grandys’ command spell had slipped before, when they had fought at the feast after the capture of Rebroff? Because Rix had recoiled so violently from Grandys’ atrocities?
The spell always felt tightest when Rix was fighting beside Grandys, overcome by the euphoria of following a charismatic leader. But once the battle had been won, and Grandys was despoiling the bodies and tormenting the prisoners, or revelling in the destruction of priceless artwork and libraries, Rix’s fury rose to the surface and the command spell weakened. It had not yet slipped enough for him to kill his master, though.
He debated his plan again, wishing Tobry were here, for he saw the flaws in a plan far more clearly than Rix. Nor was Tobry troubled by the self-doubt that sometimes crippled Rix. What if he succeeded in killing Grandys, but it made things worse? Would it be better to wait and see if Grandys could defeat Lyf first?
But the more Rix saw of Grandys, the more he knew what a monster the man was, far worse than Lyf who, for all his flaws, wanted to heal the land, not tear it apart. If Grandys defeated Lyf he would be too strong; there would be no check on him. Besides, Grandys no longer trusted Rix and might cut him down at any time.
He could not beat Grandys in a fair fight. The man was too tough, skilled and ruthless, and he would use every dirty trick he knew. Neither Grandys’ ego nor his reputation could allow him to lose.
How Rix wanted to crush and humiliate the brute; to inflict the same misery of defeat on him that he had done to so many others. It was unworthy, he knew. Well, he thought wryly, I never claimed to be a saint.
If he attacked Grandys, would the other officers intervene? No, they wouldn’t dare. Intervening would be saying that Grandys could not take care of himself. But if Rix should win by foul means, since fair ones offered no hope, Grandys’ men would probably tear him to pieces.
He was going to do it anyway. There was a faint hope that, if he did kill Grandys, he might wrest command of his army the way he had taken over Leatherhead’s raiders, then take on Lyf. Rix had no hope of beating Lyf’s vast forces with an army of ten thousand, but for the sake of his country he was prepared to try. A man who wasn’t prepared to die for his country was no man at all.
His plan was simple. He would avoid fighting side by side with Grandys, since that strengthened the command spell, yet stay as close as possible when he was committing his atrocities, in the hope that this would crack the spell completely.
But this time Rix must restrain his horror and his disgust. If he gave any hint of his true feelings, Grandys would tighten the spell anew.
You’ve got to kill him tonight. You can’t risk it any longer.
It was a strange feeling to be cold-bloodedly planning the death, no, murder — or would it be easier if he thought of it as an execution? — of the Hero Rix had admired all his life, the legendary founder of Hightspall.
He would call Grandys out. Then Rix planned to publicly repudiate the oath he had sworn after they left Glimmering. What kind of a man am I, he thought, that I’m prepared to commit murder, yet can’t do it while I’m sworn to the brute? Then, unless Rix was killed first, he would drive a dagger through Grandys’ weakest point — his eye.
Only one obstacle remained, the command spell. It had to be cracking if Rix could actually plan his master’s murder, but it was far from broken. He prayed that the afternoon’s attack would shatter it — Grandys’ planned onslaught, using just a hundred of his men, on a castle that had already offered to surrender.
The attack was so unnecessary. Half the men of Bastion Cowly, a small fortress in Lakeland, had marched off to join the chancellor’s army this morning. Several hours later its remaining inhabitants, desperate to avoid the fate that so many other fortresses in the north had suffered, had run up white flags the moment Grandys’ small force had appeared.
“How dare they?” Grandys fumed. “No Herovian would ever surrender. But to surrender without a fight, when the attacking force is far smaller than their own, is utter cowardice.”
Rix had been restraining himself for days now, but could hold back no longer. “What the hell does it matter? You wanted Cowly, and now you can take it with no bloodshed and none of your men lost.”
“I don’t want the damn castle, and I couldn’t care less about the lives saved,” snapped Grandys. “I want the fight, miserable though it will be with such an easy target. What’s the matter with these people?”
“They’re just trying to live their normal lives.”