‘I … er … yes but …’
Nero had come to stand beside Ferenz now. The Raven Knight towered over him, but Waylian was somehow more afraid of the Archmaster than he was of the imposing warrior.
‘Don’t make this difficult, Waylian. There is only one way this will end if you do. Don’t make me have to force you.’
That strange feeling was creeping back into Waylian’s gut. The feeling he’d had whilst trying out his words of power. A wave of nausea engulfed him.
Was this fear? Was he even gaining some kind of masochistic thrill from this? What the fuck was wrong with him? Something was boiling inside. Something was stirring like molten iron in the pit of his stomach.
‘No!’ he bellowed, rising to his feet.
To his surprise, Ferenz and Nero each stepped back, the Raven Knight almost backing up to the chamber door. Nero regarded him with a furrowed brow, but he seemed more confused than angered.
The two men glanced at one another, unsure what to do next since it was clear their attempts at intimidation had failed.
‘That’s most disappointing, Waylian,’ Nero said finally. His voice was quiet, almost weak sounding. ‘But if that’s how you feel, there’s nothing we can do, is there Marshal?’
Ferenz shook his head, his confidence clearly reduced.
Waylian didn’t quite know what to say as Nero fumbled at the door handle. Ferenz just looked on with confusion as Nero finally opened the door and they both left, slamming it behind them.
As soon as they’d gone Waylian walked to his desk and sat down. His heart was drumming against his chest and he looked down to see his hands were shaking.
Should he tell the Magistra about this? That he’d been approached by one of the Archmasters and told to betray her? She had enough on her plate to deal with right now. The last thing she needed was Waylian burdening her with yet more problems. And he’d handled it well enough, hadn’t he? Told those two exactly where he stood?
That creeping sense of nausea was still filling his stomach and Waylian looked down at the book.
Authority of the Voice.
Had he just manifested some kind of magick?
That was an Archmaster and the marshal of the Raven Knights. If they’d wanted to beat you around your bedchamber until you bled and then make you thank them for it, they could have done.
Couldn’t they?
Waylian looked into his little mirror. What he saw made him cry out in shock and stagger back, tipping his chair over.
The glass in the frame was cracked, the mirror now resembling a spider’s web.
No, this couldn’t be. Was he finally getting it? Was he beginning to learn his Art?
His stomach turned. The knotted feeling in his belly twisted. Waylian was struck with the sudden and uncontrollable urge to shit.
He barely managed to unlace his britches and grab his bedpan before his back end opened up in a flood. Waylian squatted, holding his arse cheeks open as the watery contents of his stomach splashed the pan. By the time he was done it was all he could do to lie on his chamber floor surrounded by stinking brown water.
As Waylian lay there, one thing seemed to be quite evident — if he was beginning to learn his Art, he was more than suffering for it.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The revelry had gone on for three days. Friedrik had laid on wine and ale to apologise to his guests. Something to do with the dogfight not turning out quite the way he’d planned.
Rag had no idea what had gone on down in that cellar and she was none too keen to find out. She’d spent the last two days keeping her head down while people fucked and fought in every corner of the tavern. She’d never seen anything quite like it before. Of course she knew what happened late at night on street corners. She’d lived long enough to see some dirty things, but this was very different.
People were going at it three or four at once, men and women sometimes not caring what was stuck where or in who. As everyone got drunker and drunker it just got worse and worse. Part of Rag wanted to run away, as far as she could. The other part, that curious little part she could never quite get rid of, wanted to stay and watch, no matter how sickening it got.
In the end people started to wander off and the crowd thinned out a bit. Rag had no idea who the people left were, but they must have been in Friedrik’s good books. Wasn’t often he extended a welcome like this. Wasn’t often he extended a welcome at all unless he saw something in it for himself.
When there were only around a dozen people left in the tavern, the rest of Friedrik’s lads turned up. No sooner had they arrived than Yarrick and Essen went about tidying the place like they were housemaids or something. Neither of them looked particularly happy about it but they didn’t complain. But then nobody ever complained when Friedrik told them to do something. Harkas just stood around looking scary and Shirl moped in a corner. He looked a lot better than when Rag had last seen him, but he still looked like someone had kicked the shit out of him and no mistake.
‘You all right?’ Rag asked as he limped in and sat himself in a chair all gentle like.
‘I’ll live,’ Shirl replied.
Before she could ask more, Friedrik walked out of the kitchens, chewing on something cook had made. The smell of food wafted out and Rag felt her stomach grumbling.
‘Right, I have things to do,’ said Friedrik. ‘You’ll keep the rest of my guests entertained until they’re ready to leave, won’t you, Rag?’
She nodded, though what he meant by ‘entertained’ she had no idea. Looked like they were making their own entertainment to her.
‘The rest of you make sure this place is cleaned up by the time I get back.’ Yarrick looked up from his sweeping and Essen mumbled his agreement as he grabbed a handful of tankards.
Friedrik walked out of the tavern. Where he was going at this time of night, and with no bodyguards, Rag had no idea, but then she weren’t going to ask.
She was more concerned about what they’d done to the bloke in the cellar.
Surely Nobul, or Lincon, or whatever his bloody name was, was dead by now. Still, there was a niggling little voice at the back of her head telling her he might not be. There was only one way to find out, she supposed.
When no one was looking at her she moved to the back of the tavern. The cellar door was open and it was black as the hells down there. A couple of candles were burning on a shelf, and Rag took one in each hand before taking the stairs down. The candlelight didn’t pierce very far into the dark, but it was enough for Rag to see by, and she remembered the layout well enough to not trip over anything. That was the last thing she wanted down here.
It didn’t take her long to find him, and when she did part of her wished she’d not come down here at all. He was still chained to that same post next to the pit. His head lolled forward, his clothes torn, his hair matted with blood.
Rag moved towards him, wary of what she’d find. She was half scared he’d be dead, half scared he was still alive. Maybe it would be a mercy if he weren’t breathing.
Gently she placed the candles down by his legs and crept forward, stooping low. His chest was moving in a shallow rhythm, breath coming all ragged.
‘Nobul?’ she said.
At first he didn’t move and she thought maybe he hadn’t heard, but then he slowly lifted his head. His face was a mess, blood crusted on his nose and lips, one eyeball all red where the other was white, and one of his ears had the bottom torn off.
She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to do.
And then he smiled.
Blood was all stuck to his teeth and gums and it looked like someone had used his face to hammer in a nail, but still he smiled at her.
Rag shook her head, feeling the tears coming at what they’d done to the man who’d saved her life those weeks back.