He was a Prince of Keidro Bay, Third Lord of the Serpent Road, Master of Ghulrit Island and High Overseer of the Spice Web. By far the wealthiest of his peers he lived in a coastal manse that was all but unassailable. It sat on the easternmost promontory of the island, looking out towards Dravhistan, and was surrounded by walls reaching forty feet towards the sky. Sheer cliffs made it impossible to reach from the sea, and only a single gate, guarded day and night, allowed access from the land. Mandel Shakurian should have felt secure in his holdfast. But he did not.
His troubles had started weeks before with the news that Bolo Pavitas had been murdered in Steelhaven. Not surprising news in itself, Bolo had always been reckless and his early demise expected, but it had heralded a slaughter never before seen in Keidro Bay.
Five Lords of the Serpent Road lay dead. Five of Mandel’s fellows — all men of wealth and power. Pirate kings, surrounded by veritable armies, killed in their homes, on their ships or even in the street. And there was no pattern to the murders; two had been killed silently in the night, the others murdered along with dozens of their guards. The warlord Amon Tugha must have unleashed all the assassins of the Riverlands to cause such mayhem in Keidro Bay, the very place the Lords of the Serpent Road were supposed to be safest.
Curse Amon Tugha to the Underworld, and curse the day the Lords of the Serpent Road had ever entered into a bargain with him. It had seemed a good deal at the time — the pirates would provide a fleet of artillery ships and the men to sail them in return for a supply of prime Teutonian slaves, much sought after in the Eastern Lands since the abolition of the slave trade in the north. Naturally, after the death of Bolo and the loss of all those slaves, the bargain had been annulled … or so they had thought. Now it could not be clearer that Amon Tugha was still determined to have his ships.
‘No!’ said Mandel aloud, opening his eyes and looking out onto the turbulent sea.
He would never give in to the demands of some Elharim outcast. He was Mandel Shakurian, wealthiest of the Lords of the Serpent Road. He had not reached his dominant status by crumbling at every threat of assassination.
His manse was a virtual fortress, manned by forty of the most savage warriors in the known world. Many had been bought from the fighting pits of Mekkala, with a few from far-flung Kaer’Vahari. He had bolstered their number with enslaved tribesmen bought from the warlord beast-men of Equ’un — these warriors, though scarred and demoralised by their enslavement were yet formidable fighters, and they would obey his every whim.
The other Lords of the Serpent Road had been careless, had not taken the threat seriously enough. Mandel would not make that mistake. He had made himself safe here. There was nothing to fear. Yet still he could not rest.
He breathed deeply, sucking up the sea air and trying his best to put such thoughts away. Something to take his mind off it, perhaps?
Food? Mandel patted his substantial belly. Perhaps not.
Whores? But no, not that diversion for the moment. Mandel had more than slaked his thirst for women over the past days of strife. Besides, there was no telling what guise Amon Tugha’s assassins might come in. He must be wary of strangers, must keep himself surrounded by men he knew he could trust.
Music perhaps?
Mandel Shakurian relaxed just a little. Of all the pleasures he indulged in there were none he relished so much as music.
He walked to the huge oak cabinet that took up one wall of his chamber. With his heart aflutter he opened the six doors, each intricately carved with scenes of merriment and debauchery. Inside was an array of musical instruments from the four corners of the known world: a harp, from Kaer’Vahari, its frame carved to resemble a swan; war pipes from the snowy wastes of Golgartha, their sound as wicked as the barbarians who had crafted them; a black polished lute reputed to have been played by the Sword King Craetus himself; drums from the tribes of the Aeslanti, said to be made from human hide; and an array of others. Mandel looked at his collection with pride.
As a boy he had been trained in many arts and had become an accomplished musician before moving into the spice trade. But as much as he loved music, he had always loved money more, making it an easy choice to become a merchant rather than a minstrel. Nevertheless, Mandel often still played for the sheer pleasure of it.
He strolled in front of the instruments, wondering which to pick. The lute looked the most attractive to him and he reached out a hand for it.
A loud bell began to ring.
Mandel recognised it instantly — the alarum.
An intruder.
But it couldn’t be. Not in his impregnable citadel. Nothing short of an army could break in. It must be some mistake … a false alarm?
Nevertheless, Mandel locked his chamber door and slid across the three bolts that would secure him inside. As he backed away he stared at that door, wondering what was coming from the other side. Whether it would be able to smash its way through. Whether it would simply wait him out.
A scream echoed across the rooftops of the manse.
And the bell stopped ringing.
Mandel looked around him. He had to defend himself. There must be something in his chamber he could use as a weapon. But Mandel Shakurian was no warrior. He had no need for weapons. That’s why he surrounded himself with bodyguards. That’s what he paid good, honest gold for.
Another scream, followed by voices shrill with panic.
It appeared his good, honest gold might well be going to waste.
Mandel moved to the cabinet, grabbing the black lute by the neck and brandishing it threateningly … or as threateningly as he could manage. He knew he must look pathetic, but the feel of the sturdy wood in his hands reassured him somewhat.
More shouts from outside, the clashing of metal. The scream of someone falling from a great height suddenly cut short by a sickening thud.
He was breathing heavily now and had a sudden urge to piss. This was intolerable, but what was he to do?
Perhaps he could bargain. Perhaps gold would get him out of this. It had always worked before. There was not a man in all the continents of the world who couldn’t have his loyalty questioned by the promise of riches. It was how Mandel had risen so high. Bribery had always been his weapon of choice, followed only when necessary by threats of violence and blackmail. It had always worked before.
A thudding at the chamber door made Mandel jump, and he let out a pathetic squeak.
They were here. They had come for him and he had no one to protect him.
Another rap at the door.
Mandel tightened his grip on the lute. He wondered ruefully if this was it; the ending of his song.
‘My lord? Are you in there?’
Mandel let out the breath he had been holding at the sound of Dahlen, his equerry.
Another insistent knock. ‘My lord? Please let me in.’
Mandel moved forward, then stopped. What if Dahlen was being held at knifepoint? What if the assassins who had invaded Mandel’s home were waiting on the other side of the door?
Dahlen knocked again. ‘Please, my lord, we must get you out of here.’
‘How do I know this isn’t a trick?’ Mandel asked, trying desperately to subdue the quaking in his voice.
‘My lord, please, we don’t have time for this. We have to leave while we still have the chance.’
Mandel considered his options. Stay inside until the intruders were able to break down the door, and he was dead. Or, if he opened the door and it was a trick, he was dead.
His only chance was to trust Dahlen.
Mandel slid back the bolts and opened the door, expecting to be faced by murderous assassins.