Cole scratched his head. His cropped scalp was still itchy, though having caught sight of himself in the waters of the Redbelly River he had to admit he looked rather fetching. Dangerous, even. ‘What’s a Stasiseum?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Eremul spun his chair around to stare him directly in the eye. ‘This is where we part ways.’
‘You’re not coming with me?’
The wizard shook his head. ‘The incident with the guard left me emptier than a magistrate’s pockets after a night of moon dust and expensive whores. I will be impotent, figuratively speaking, for the next few hours. Focus on killing the Magelord and nothing else. Do you understand? We will never have a better opportunity to rid the city of that genocidal, deicidal son of a bitch. Salazar must die.’
Cole nodded. He gripped Magebane’s hilt tightly. ‘I won’t fail. This is what I was born to do. My father’s legacy to me.’
Eremul looked at him, a strange glint in his eyes. ‘Go and make your father proud, Davarus Cole.’
The second floor of the Obelisk opened before him like the entrance to hell. Unlike the first level of the tower there were no windows to let in any natural light. Torches on brackets provided the only illumination. Cole crept down the narrow passageway, sticking to the inside wall, a loaded crossbow in hand. His booted feet made no sound on the soft carpet.
The passage curved slowly around the side of the tower. He followed it until he spotted a shadow looming on the opposite wall, moving towards him. He crouched low and prepared to shoot. The shadow suddenly wavered, then turned and disappeared in the other direction. Cole took a deep breath and padded forwards until the shadow reappeared and he could see the Watchman who cast it.
The sentry was facing away from him. He appeared to mutter something, and Cole’s heart sank as another voice mumbled a reply. Two of them. This could prove tricky.
He retreated back down the passageway and waited. After a minute or two the shadow of the closest Watchman drifted back into view. He moved with it, keeping just out of sight. When the sentry finally stopped to turn back in the other direction, Cole made his move. He raised his crossbow and fired. The bolt hit his target in the neck. He was on him in an instant, Magebane silencing the guard before he could utter a sound.
He dragged the body along the passage all the way back to the stairwell and hid it there. The carpet would hide the bloodstains, but he would need to be quick now. He sped down the passage as quietly as he could manage. A shallow alcove opened on his right, leading to a huge set of metal-bound doors. The other guard was just ahead. He was facing in the other direction.
Cole thanked his luck and raised his crossbow again. He was just lining up a shot when the Watchman turned. The young Shard threw himself into the alcove and back-pedalled until he was pushing up against one of the huge doors. He held his breath.
‘Who’s there?’ the guard demanded. There was the sound of steel being drawn. Cole dropped the crossbow, drew Magebane and plunged it into the sentry’s chest just as he rounded the side of the alcove. The enchanted dagger drove through the chainmail armour and deep into the flesh beneath. Death, Cole thought. Death is here.
Staring at the dying man’s face, though, the desire to utter some witty remark wilted like parchment caught in a flame. He’s not much older than me, Cole thought. He doesn’t have cruel eyes like Pock-face or that other one, the Watchmen who killed the old man back at the Hook.
He remembered Kramer’s shocked expression when he had slit his throat. Murder isn’t noble or just or heroic. It’s… just murder. Cole sagged back against the double doors. This is Salazar’s fault, he told himself. When he’s dead there will be no more killing. Dorminia will surrender and we will be free to build a better city. A fairer city.
He put his ear against the double doors. They were locked. The Grand Council Chamber must lie beyond, but he could hear no sound from within.
Stepping carefully over the body, he continued down the passageway, eventually reaching another set of stairs. He climbed them and emerged into the library on the third floor. There was no one about, but he flitted from bookcase to bookcase just to be safe.
When he reached the Obelisk’s fourth floor, Davarus Cole’s breath caught in his throat.
The entire level was a huge circular chamber. Thick transparent glass ran all around the circumference save for where the two sets of stairs connected to the lower and upper floors. Behind the glass, artfully positioned and displayed, was a wondrous array of stuffed creatures he had never before seen.
One display held a green-skinned humanoid with protruding tusks. The taxidermist had teased the beast into an aggressive pose: the spiked club in the creature’s ham-like fist was raised as if it would smash open its glass prison. The display was so detailed Cole could see the individual hairs bristling from its piggish snout.
In another part of the chamber he saw what appeared to be an egg the size of a child suspended above a large brazier. He stared in amazement. There was fire around the edge of the brazier, so realistic it couldn’t possibly be fake — and yet the flame was completely static, as motionless as ice. He put his hand to the glass and felt the warmth emanating from behind. Smoke was suspended near the top of the display, unmoving. It too was apparently frozen in time.
What had Eremul called this place? The Stasiseum?
The dome in the centre of the chamber stood apart from the rest of the displays. Cole walked up to it, peered inside — and was almost sick. A robed man was spread-eagled in the middle of the dome, suspended some six feet in the air by four iron spikes driven through his wrists and ankles to the small tree behind him. A fifth stake emerged from the floor vertically to impale him up the length of his body. Cole stared at the designs on the robe. He recognized the symbol of the Mother from the temple near the Hook as well as the ruins beneath Thelassa. There were other symbols too — the black horn of Tyrannus he knew, as well as the skull of the Reaver and the anchor of Malantis.
The priest’s face was locked in a scream of eternal agony. Beads of blood hung suspended in the air, caught in the act of dripping from where the spikes pierced his body. Just in front of the priest was a pedestal, and in the centre of the pedestal was a golden urn. There was a name inscribed upon it. Cole peered more closely and saw that it read Dorminia.
He stared at the tree to which the priest was staked. It was a small oak, with leaves the colour of gold. There had been a tree like that in Verdisa Park in the Noble Quarter when he was a boy. It had burned down years ago. Shortly before his father’s murder.
He tore his gaze away and headed for the stairs.
Cole hurried through the gallery on the fifth floor. He had become distracted, a mistake the Darkson would surely have chastised him for. What was his mentor doing now? What part would the master assassin play in the fighting? He didn’t have time to worry about that, he realized. He had a destiny to fulfil.
Benches lined the centre of the gallery. Sculptures stared proudly at him, positioned at intervals down the chamber. Covering the walls were paintings and tapestries depicting places and events from the distant past. One of the largest tapestries caught his eye and against his better judgement Cole slowed to inspect it more closely.