‘What did he tell you?’
This time First Voice replied. ‘He told us much about you. You were once a favoured apprentice of the Tyrant of Dorminia. When Salazar ordered the Culling and those with the gift were put to death, he chose to spare you. Why was this?’
The Halfmage frowned. He had asked himself the same question often enough over the years. ‘I would like to think my wit and charm made me indispensable,’ he began, ‘but I fear the truth is somewhat simpler.’ He leaned forwards in his chair. ‘My magic was too weak to pose a threat. Even a ruthless murdering bastard like Salazar recognized that having another wizard around might one day prove useful to him. I was maimed and cast out of the Obelisk, with one final set of instructions.’
‘Which were?’ asked Third Voice softly.
‘I was to act as a spy and informant for his lordship. Who better to masquerade as an insurrectionist than one who had suffered so visibly at his hands? I have thwarted many a nefarious and wholly incompetent plot against Salazar.’
Second Voice took a step towards him, and he saw immediately what was wrong with the eyes of the women. They were entirely colourless save for the black pupils at their centres. ‘You serve the Tyrant of Dorminia? Tell us why we should not kill you now.’
Eremul sighed. ‘Trust must be earned before it can be betrayed, no? Believe me when I say I hate Salazar more than anyone in this city. But the only way I can truly work against him, the only way I can survive, is by pretending I am a loyal servant of his regime. To maintain that illusion, I must sometimes feed the magistrates useful information.’
‘Information that means the deaths of the unfortunates involved,’ said Second Voice, again without emotion.
Eremul gripped the sides of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white. ‘Those are the sacrifices that must be made.’ He let out a deep sigh and sagged in his chair. ‘Look, I could wheel myself up to the Obelisk while proclaiming Salazar to be a cunt of the highest order. Apart from a fleeting sense of satisfaction, that would achieve precisely fuck all, except to earn a rather messy death. So I play a longer game.’
First Voice held out a hand and beckoned to Second Voice, who returned to her side. ‘If your intentions were truly in any doubt,’ she said slowly, ‘you would not walk away from here.’
Eremul raised an eyebrow.
‘You would not leave here,’ First Voice amended.
‘Are you threatening me?’ Eremul asked, almost pleasantly. He drummed his fingers on the sides of his chair.
‘You have no idea what you face,’ answered First Voice. ‘Your magic would be of little use against us.’
‘What are you?’
‘You may call us… the Unborn. We walk in places others cannot. In time you will not remember our faces. I trust you are not planning to test your magic against us?’
The Halfmage shook his head. ‘I prefer to avoid unnecessary violence. Waving one’s prick around and spoiling for a fight always strikes me as the privilege of the barbarian or some other testosterone-fuelled brute. I’m a survivor.’
First Voice nodded. ‘Then we are of accord. You will not betray us.’
‘I don’t plan to,’ Eremul agreed. ‘Now that we’ve established I am on your side, why did you summon me here? What do you want of me?’
‘Nothing,’ replied First Voice. ‘The White Lady simply wished to establish your intentions. She will move against Salazar soon.’
‘Salazar… or Dorminia?’ asked Eremul carefully. ‘I would rather this city didn’t become another Shadowport.’
First Voice folded her hands beneath her breasts. Her strange, empty eyes gave nothing away. ‘The White Lady wants to liberate Dorminia, not destroy it. She grieves for Shadowport and what was done to the people of that city. She has concluded that Salazar must die.’
For the first time in the course of this clandestine meeting, Eremul found himself smiling. ‘Tell me how I can help.’
‘You cannot,’ First Voice said. ‘Preparations have already been made. The risks are great, and it is possible we may fail. If we do not succeed, the White Lady will contact you again.’
‘Any hints as to what you’re planning? Give a poor crippled mage something to cling to. It helps keep me warm at night.’
First Voice shook her head. ‘The less that you know of our plan the better.’
‘Fine,’ Eremul said, rather irritably. ‘If we have nothing more to discuss, I’ll bid you goodnight.’ Besides, my arse is throbbing and I desperately need to piss.
‘Remember,’ said First Voice, as her sisters placed a hand on each of her narrow shoulders. ‘Speak of this to nobody. Betray us and you will suffer consequences beyond your-’
‘Bah, shove your threats,’ Eremul interrupted. ‘I’ve heard it all before. I’ve suffered it all before. I may be a traitor and a turncoat, but at least do me the honour of taking me at my word when I tell you-’
He stopped short. He was speaking to thin air. The candles on the table had burned down to tiny stumps that flickered feebly, surrounded by pools of wax. The pale women had simply disappeared.
Eremul shivered. There had been no magic at work, or at least none that he could sense.
He spun his chair around and wheeled himself back outside, breathing in the crisp night air and listening to the sounds of water lapping against the cliff below. He tried to recall the faces of all the men and women whom he had betrayed to the magistrates. People like him, united in their hatred for the city’s despotic ruler and determined to bring about a future free from his tyrannical rule.
Sentenced to death. By me, the unassuming, maimed scribe hiding in plain sight among the fakeries of book and tome and scroll. A… spider, damn it, yes, the irony… a spider at the centre of a web of deceit. Bitterness welled up inside him. He swallowed it down. One day Salazar and his cronies would learn that this spider had venom.
Shoulders slumped and bladder bursting, Eremul forced his aching arms into motion and pushed his chair back down Raven’s Bluff towards the harbour — and, for want of a better word, home.
The Great Escape
Cole took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. He squinted up at the purple sky where the glowing orb of the sun was just about visible behind a thick band of clouds. Dawn was upon them.
The Redemption had crossed into the Swell in the early hours of the morning. The captives had been allowed on deck shortly after first light. They had enjoyed a breakfast of thick gruel, dried nuts and salted beef, washed down by a generous cup of fresh water from the barrels stored in the small hold near the mizzenmast at the stern of the ship. With strict rationing, the provisions on board would last for months.
He had spoken with eight of the prisoners while on deck the night before. Seven had agreed to his plan. The last had said nothing, only looked at him with a hard expression before glancing off in the direction of the captain. Cole’s heart had felt as if it was lodged in his throat as he waited for the lank-haired fellow to run over to Kramer and tell him everything. Instead, the man had simply looked down and spat on the deck.
Still. Eleven men. With the exception of the engineer, Soeman, every one looked like he could handle himself in a fight. If everything went smoothly they would be sailing away to freedom before the morrow.
He looked around one last time, meeting the eyes of each participant in this daring plot. He saw the hint of worry on one face, excitement on another. Three-Finger positively smirked at him. Cole gave his co-conspirator a confident nod, a gesture he hoped conveyed an iron certainty that, for some reason, he wasn’t really feeling.
Red Bounty’s small crew waited by her railing for the men on the smaller carrack to board. A small rowing boat had detached from the cog and now bobbed alongside the Redemption on her starboard side. Rope was thrown down and the first group of prisoners was lowered onto the vessel under the careful gaze of four Watchmen. It took only a couple of minutes for the boat to cross the small expanse of water. The passengers were hoisted up the side of the cog, and then the rowing boat swung around to collect more men.