In the end-for the Guildmasters and for Meddiras himself, if not for his city-it was, every last bit of it, a wasted effort.
In an inner room of a large stone house, a faint breeze kicked up where no breeze could possibly blow. The dust and dead beetles accumulated over years of neglect danced across the carpet, fetching up against the walls, and the flimsy wooden door whistled in its uneven frame. Had anyone been present within the room, and had he possessed a remarkably acute nose, he might have noted the faintest humid odor, rather akin to mildewed parchment.
The impossible wind ceased as swiftly as it appeared, and then there was someone in the room, standing at the heart of the miniature storm. One hand clutching the bridge of his nose, the other outstretched to prop himself against the nearest wall, the wizard Nenavar took deep, deliberate breaths, trying to allay the quivering of his muscles.
Teleportation was so much easier when I was younger…
It would pass quickly enough; it always did. While he waited, he placed his back against the wall and allowed himself to slide. There he sat on his haunches, the overly large sleeves of his fine tunic dragging in the dust. He found himself, for lack of anything better to do, staring at the floor.
"I really must remember," he muttered to himself, "to hire someone to tidy up while I'm away."
After a few moments, Nenavar felt his strength (such as it was) returning, and he rose. Night had fallen outside, and no lamps burned within the house, but the old man had little trouble finding his way. This was but one of several abodes he owned throughout Imphallion's major cities, and all had been built to his specifications, identical to one another in every particular. Such intimate familiarity with one's destination made teleportation easier-not to mention rather less prone to catastrophic accident-and exhausting as it was, Nenavar far preferred it to weeks on horseback.
He felt a few startled glances from neighborhood folk who knew the house to be empty, but otherwise attracted little attention as he shut the door behind him and stepped into Denathere's streets. The throng bustled around him, jostling and deafening even at this hour, and he felt himself cringing, his skin threatening to unwrap itself from his body and go hide in a corner. Gods, he hated being touched!
Or spoken to. Or looked at. It was one of the reasons he'd taken up his studies in the first place: lots and lots of blessedly peaceful solitude.
Nenavar gritted his teeth into a cage to imprison the various snarls, imprecations, and occasional pestilential spells that sought to hurl themselves from his throat at anyone who drew too near, and continued on his way.
There was, at least, no danger of becoming lost. He'd made certain he could always find the man he now sought before he first let him out of his sight.
The unseen path led him, after twenty minutes that weren't doing his elderly knees any good, to a house not much larger-though certainly far nicer-than that in which he'd appeared. Two stories overlooked a modest property, complete with flower garden and a stable large enough for only a single horse. Despite his confidence in his magics, Nenavar couldn't help but wonder if he'd come to the right place. He'd expected-well, more.
Then he spotted a quartet of burly figures loitering in the street nearby, laughable in their efforts to remain inconspicuous, and he recognized the sentries for what they were. This was, indeed, the right place.
Nenavar mumbled into his beard as he approached, tongue and cracked lips forming sounds that scarcely qualified as words. He walked right past the guards and up the path toward the house, and none made so much as a move in his direction. He wasn't invisible, precisely; the spell simply rendered him unworthy of attention. One of the men even nodded politely in his direction before dismissing him as a random passerby and forgetting his presence entirely.
The wizard swallowed a delighted cackle, shaking his head at the feebleness of the average mind, and pushed through the entryway.
And practically toppled backward, overpowered by the scent that had lurked in ambush behind that door. Heavy smoke in the air stung his eyes, and he gagged on the metallic miasma of blood and other humors. He gulped twice, fighting the urge to spit and clear what felt like a clinging film on his tongue and throat.
The interior of the house had been transformed into the fever dream of a demented cannibal. Corpses and bits of corpses formed a layer of carpeting. Mail rings lay scattered across the floor, and several bodiless hands still clutched weapons. So widely strewn were the remains, Nenavar couldn't guess how many guards had actually stood post within the house.
Grimacing, he picked his way carefully through the carnage, his steps mincing as he focused on keeping the worst of the sludge from his shoes. The room's far door revealed a dining nook, and here the scene was even worse. What had once been a woman-a serving girl, to judge by what remained of her clothes-lay facedown in the fireplace; fluids leaking through blackened skin had smothered the last burning embers. Beside her, an old cook hung from the wall, held by a torch sconce protruding all the way through muscle and bone. Around the table-some slumped forward in their chairs, others sprawled on the floor-were half a dozen more, their bodies in various stages of mangling or incineration.
And sitting in one of those chairs-atop a fallen corpse, the weight of his armor slowly crushing the body beneath him-was Kaleb. He had removed the skull helm that completed his disguise, and kicked his feet up on the table. He waved Nenavar over with one hand, the other clutching a chicken leg from which he was taking great, tearing mouthfuls.
"How in the gods' names can you eat?" the wizard choked as he entered.
Kaleb shrugged. "It's good. You want some?"
"I'll pass."
"So will the chicken, once you've eaten it."
For some time, Nenavar just glared. Then, "Was all this truly necessary, Kaleb?"
"You wanted it, Master. You wanted horror, and fear, and panic. Well, here are the seeds. Now we just let them grow."
The wizard sighed, but nodded. "The guards outside?"
"Didn't hear a thing. They'll be my witnesses. I'm planning to make a suitably dramatic exit, make sure they all see 'Rebaine,' maybe even kill a few before I disappear." Kaleb grinned. "I already got Duke Meddiras and his people in the keep. This was my second stop. Three Guildmasters and their families. They were here because one of their assistants was throwing a dinner to celebrate his daughter's coming out next week." He gestured with the greasy drumstick at the headless corpse of a teenage girl.
Nenavar swallowed the vomit rising in his gullet.
"Don't go soft on me now," Kaleb said. "You knew what you were getting us into, and you know what's at stake."
"I… Yes, I know. Don't think you have to lecture me!"
"I don't have to. I just like to."
"I want you to do Braetlyn next. Say, five nights from now."
Kaleb tossed the remains of the chicken leg to the floor, where they landed with a wet squelch, and rose, stretching. "That's a bit fruitless, isn't it? We sort of know Jassion's not there."
"I know. But I want to keep driving him, keep him too furious to think of anything else. Do his staff and servants. It'll take a bit of time for the news to catch up to you, but sooner or later he'll hear rumors of it in some town or other."