Masque of Death (Kormak Book Nine) (The Kormak Saga 9) Read online

  “They almost got me,” he said.

  “What? Who?” Orson said.

  “The Guardian…” Balthazar pulled up short and glared at the changeling. He still wore Kormak’s shape. Balthazar began to back away.

  The false Kormak laughed. The changeling’s features slid into a new configuration, mocking those of Balthazar. “It is I. Tell me what happened.”

  Balthazar stared at the changeling. His fingers flexed as if he was considering casting a spell. He took control of himself and said, “Troops showed up at my house, along with the man whose form you just mimicked. I barely escaped into the old tunnels. I made my way here.”

  Orson said, “What if you were followed? You might have led the Guardian right to us.”

  “I wasn’t followed,” Balthazar said with the serene confidence of a man who was certain of the truth. “I covered my tracks with sorcery. Anyway, they were too busy over-running my house. It was chaos.”

  “You assured me that the Governor was too frightened to risk a run in with the nobles,” the changeling said, staring at Orson.

  “It would appear that the Guardian has given him some spine.”

  “The Guardian arrived with Count Shahad,” Balthazar said. “Shahad made demands about seeing the murderer of his wife.”

  “That was clever,” Orson said.

  “Clever?” The changeling’s features were blank. That was usually a sign he was troubled.

  “The Governor can pretend that he had nothing to do with it. It’s not politics. It’s personal. That’s something most of the nobles can get behind. Particularly Balthazar’s enemies. It will keep a lid on the situation for a while. The Guardian can move through the shadows and pick off anyone he wants, just so long as he is with Shahad.”

  “No matter,” said the changeling. “We have found the men we were looking for.”

  “Sooner or later someone will talk.” Orson looked directly at Count Balthazar. If what he suspected about the alchemist was true, then some very dark secrets would be revealed. Everything they had worked towards for so long was about to come crashing down. “We cannot remain here. We will have to flee.”

  That was going to be hard at his age. He was used to luxury, and he needed the potions that Count Balthazar prepared to keep his heart beating. This could be a death sentence for him in many different ways. How had things gone so wrong so fast?

  “I feel certain that you have gold hidden away somewhere. You strike me as a cautious man, Orson.” Was the changeling showing more than a little too much interest in his personal cache. It came to him that it would be very easy for it to kill him and replace him and thus have access to all his money.

  He also suspected that the assassin considered him expendable now that he had found what he was looking for. After all, it was easy for him to walk away from the consequences of his actions. Orson would find it a lot more difficult to hide in the crowd.

  “I have an escape plan,” Orson said. “I always find it best to keep those to myself. You never know who will be captured and who will betray you.”

  “Excellent thinking. What can any cell member tell the Guardian?” The question was addressed at Count Balthazar.

  “Not a great deal. Everything was organised on a need to know basis.”

  The changeling’s glance tracked back to Orson. “You are a conspicuous figure. Could someone name you?”

  “Yes,” Balthazar said. “Some know of my friendship with Goodman Waters.”

  The changeling nodded, “We must assume that some member of your cell is going to spill everything that they know. It would be best if we were not here when that happens.”

  “Right now we need to squeeze our prisoners for what they know while we still have time,” said Balthazar.

  The changeling nodded. “Take a cowled robe. We shall begin the interrogation.”

  Anders’s head ached. His mouth felt dry. “Worst hangover I ever had,” he muttered. He tried to move, but something held him in place. “What the hell,” he muttered and shook his head. That made the room spin. He was not in very good shape.

  He glanced around. The walls were made of huge blocks of unmortared stone. The air was damp and fusty and far too warm. There was a smell of spices and embalming fluid. A single lantern lit what looked like a small cell. As he turned his head, he saw that’s exactly where he was and that he was not alone.

  Gregor’s familiar figure was tied to a chair nearby. Skeletons, their bones picked clean, hung in chains from the walls.

  Gregor opened his eyes. Anders could see his face was bruised, and two teeth were missing. The little man looked around and said, “Bloody hell. They don’t feed their prisoners very well around here, do they?”

  Anders glared at him. “What happened?”

  “They caught us apparently. How’d they get you?”

  “Dunno. One second I was talking to you. The next second I was here. Something hit me on the back of the head judging by the way it feels.”

  “You were talking to me? You been chewing the bloody loco weed again?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How were you talking to me? Were you seeing bloody visions?”

  “I wasn’t seeing anything at all. It was pitch dark.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I heard your voice.”

  “You talked to me? What about?”

  “Why are giving me aggravation about this? You were there!”

  “I’m giving you aggravation, mate, because I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.”

  “You told me you circled, went down Cheap Street . . .”

  “What? I headed for the West Gate. Got grabbed by a bunch of the big guys on Temple Way. They told the passers-by that I had skipped from Mother’s place without paying my bill. Not that anybody was interested. I fought, but they gave me a right seeing to.”

  “Something’s not right here. I could swear you were with me when I was taken.”

  “That looks like a pretty bad bump on the back of your bloody head, mate. Maybe you remember something that didn’t happen.”

  Anders wondered if he was going mad. He knew what had happened. He was certain of it. And yet Gregor seemed equally certain that it had not. Something was wrong here.

  The door slammed open interrupting his train of thought. A big evil-looking man with a scarred face entered the room. The most noticeable thing about him was the sword slung over his back. Very few people carried their blades that way and with good reason. No one except a Guardian of the Dawn would want to attract the attention of the Old Ones or their children.

  A moment later two other men appeared each garbed in the cowled robe of a priest. One was an enormously fat man and the other was almost as tall but considerably fitter looking.

  The man with the sword on his back moved with feral grace. When he spoke his accent was odd, at once educated like that of a priest and slightly foreign. He was not a Siderean. Judging from his black hair and his savage features he was not even a Sunlander.

  “You two are in big trouble,” he said.

  “We’re not the ones kidnapping innocent men from the bloody street,” said Gregor. The stranger slapped him on the face hard. Gregor’s head slammed to one side.

  “I’ve been hit harder,” he said. “By tougher men.”

  The stranger’s smile showed very white teeth. “This is not a contest. You are going to tell me everything I want to know, and you are going to tell me truthfully. It will go much easier for you if you do.”

  The really terrifying thing was the relaxed way in which he spoke. He had no doubts about what he was saying. It was the voice of a patient man who knew what he’s doing. He was giving them a chance to cooperate. He didn’t care whether they did or not except for the fact that their cooperation would make his job easier.

  “What do you want to know?” Anders asked.

  “And what will you bloody well do to us if we tell you?” said Gregor. It was a f
air question, but Anders suspected they all already knew the answer.

  “My name is Kormak,” the stranger said. “I am a Guardian of the Dawn. I have been sent here to find out where a certain coffin came from. A sarcophagus containing elements of truesilver and white gold, inscribed with ancient runes. I know you are the men who sold it to Governor Aurin. I want to know where it came from. You are going to tell me. These two fraters are witnesses.”

  “Why do you want to bloody well know?” Gregor really could not keep his mouth shut. He needed to prove how tough he was. There was no need. He was every bit as hard as he thought but Anders could tell that in this situation he wasn’t hard enough. There was casual death in this stranger’s winter grey eyes.

  The stranger shrugged. “I want to know because the sarcophagus contained a living Old One. It almost killed Aemon, King-Emperor of Siderea.”

  Something of the man’s tone told Anders that the stranger did not like Aemon or his title. Not that it mattered much. Anders had worked for plenty of people he didn’t like. Had done good work for them to.

  “A bloody Old One? Pull the other leg, mate. I piss beer when you do.”

  “It does not matter whether you believe me or not,” said Kormak. “What matters is that you tell me where you found it. The quicker you do so, the better it will go for you.”

  “You’re going to bloody kill us anyway, aren’t you,” said Gregor. There was a desperate edge to his voice. What he really wanted was to be convinced otherwise.

  “Why would I do that if you cooperate?”

  “Because someone is going to be strung up for the attempt on the King’s life and you can bet that sword on your back that it’s not going to be the Governor.”

  “Governor Aurin does not get to decide who dies around here. I do.”

  “And of course, you are bloody well going to spare the life of a couple of tramp swordsmen rather than take the life of a Royal Governor.”

  “I don’t much like the Governor. I don’t much like you either. I might like you more if you helped me. And I would particularly appreciate it if you did not waste any more of my time. All I need are a few simple answers. Where did you get the coffin?”

  “Piss off,” said Gregor. He was still a bit drunk, and he was in pain from the beating he had taken. Anders could tell he resented it. It was a mistake.

  “We found it on the High Plateau beyond the Xilarean Mountains,” Anders said. “Out in the middle of the Desert of Demons.”

  Gregor looked at him as if he was some kind of traitor. Anders shook his head imperceptibly. He thought he had found a way out, or at least of keeping them alive for a little bit longer.

  The Guardian walked over to his chair, circled it. Anders could feel his massive presence behind him. It made him nervous, as no doubt, it was meant to.

  “Go on,” said Kormak.

  “In the desert, there is another mountain ring and in the middle of the ring, there is an ancient city. It does not look as if it was built by humans. It looks like some of the stuff you see in the Graveyard of Angels in Umbrea but on a much bigger scale.”

  Anders flinched as the stranger put his hand on his shoulder. His fingers were like claws. Very strong claws.

  “Tell me more.”

  “We found the coffin there.”

  The Guardian glanced over to the fat priest. “Is that likely?”

  When the priest spoke his voice was rich and mellow. His accent was local. “Perhaps. Not many people go up onto the High Plateau, and even fewer go through the Desert of Demons. It’s haunted. There are tales of monsters and ghosts and other things.”

  “There are monsters,” said Anders, “and that’s not the worst of it. The whole city is a death-trap.”

  “A death-trap,” the thinner priest said. He sounded like a nobleman, but then many of the clergy did. They were often drawn from the ranks of the nobility or so Anders had heard—younger brothers without an inheritance and such. “But you are here.”

  “We are the only survivors of a whole company of men who went in.”

  The Guardian and the priests exchanged a look. Anders sensed that he had got their attention.

  “You are lying,” said the fat priest. “You are telling us a tale, and it will go badly for you.”

  “Why would I lie?” Anders said, as persuasively as he could. He knew he was arguing for his life. The Guardian stared at him, his gaze unreadable and suddenly alien. “There was a company of us, all sworn brothers, former mercenaries. When we were discharged, we headed up into the Highlands searching for the lost gold of the ancients.”

  “And next you are going to tell me that you found it,” said the fat priest. It seemed to be his chosen role to disbelieve. Anders felt the compulsion to prove the fat man wrong settle on him, and he fought it down. Hungover or not, he knew that was what the fat man wanted, and he was not going to get out of here alive by giving his captors anything for free.

  “You are saying you are former soldiers of the crown?” the Guardian said.

  “Why else would the Governor grant us an audience. We served him well in his wars with the natives.”

  “The Governor never mentioned that,” said the fat priest.

  “It would not surprise me if there were a lot of things he never revealed,” said the Guardian. Was it an act, Anders wondered or had they just revealed a gap in their knowledge that he could exploit? Best to stick to the truth for the moment. That would serve them best. Or keep them alive longest.

  “So a whole company of you just happened to go off into the Desert of Demons?” the fat priest said. “And you just happened to find a lost city there.”

  “You sound as if you have been around the colonies longer than I have,” said Anders. “You must have heard the rumours of lost Xanadar.”

  “I know it is a dream of madmen and sorcerers,” said the fat priest. “I doubt some half-witted mercenaries just stumbled on it when men have sought the place for fifty years.”

  “But we did not just stumble on it,” Anders said. “We were led there by an old prospector who needed us to protect him from the Guardian demons. He was right too, but we could not keep him alive in the end.”

  The fat priest grunted in disbelief. Anders fought back the flood of memories, of monsters and sand demons, of old Henrik’s final moments when he died screaming, not a league from the treasure house he had sought all his life. Of the deadly metal monsters that had emerged when they found the sarcophagus. Of Sarge’s final order and the last wild ride on the wagon out of the city and into the desert. Of Donal being dragged screaming from the back of the wagon by the metal horrors. Of the way their pursuers had stopped so suddenly at the city’s edge and refused to follow even though they could have easily overtaken them.

  He realised he had fallen silent and that the priest and the Guardian were staring at him. Had they asked him a question?

  “I said how did you get to this place?” the Guardian repeated. “Answer me.”

  “Don’t tell the bastards anything,” Gregor said. “The rest of the treasure is ours. We swore that one day we would go back for it.”

  The Guardian cuffed him casually. Gregor’s head snapped back, and the chair tipped over. It threatened to fall to the floor, but the Guardian halted it by stretching out his hand. He was both quick and strong. Anders knew he would not want to get into a fight with this man.

  “I told you earlier—you will tell me everything I want to know. You can do it willingly or unwillingly. I don’t care which.”

  “Then it’s unwillingly you fu . . .” Gregor’s shout of defiance was stopped by a scream of agony. The Guardian had stabbed him with something. Blood pumped from his shoulder. The Guardian twisted whatever he held in his hand, and more blood came forth.

  “The stiletto is tipped with acidworm venom,” he said. “It sterilises the wound but at the same time makes it agonisingly painful. If left untreated the poison will make its way along the nerves, burning them out as it goes. It is
excruciating, and it is fatal. It takes its time. I’ve seen men last for days, begging for death the whole time.”

  “Wanker!” Gregor shouted, his face a rictus of pain.

  “That’s amusing,” said the Guardian. Anders was not sure whether he was talking about Gregor’s comment or his agony.

  “Stop it,” Anders said. “I’m telling you what you want to know.”

  Gregor had turned pale, and a stream of gibberish and cursing flowed from his mouth. Anders had seen him this way before when the chirurgeon was sewing his leg after the battle of Borgata.

  The Guardian stared at Anders. The man’s grey-eyed gaze was chilling. Very slowly he took out a vial of something, touched it to the stiletto’s tip and then poked it into the wound. Gregor screamed again, but his agony visibly faded. Beads of sweat showed on his face.

  “I have more interesting venoms,” the Guardian said. “And more destructive ones. You might want to bear that in mind.”

  I am going to kill you slowly, Anders thought. Don’t know how. Don’t know when. But it is going to happen. He said, “I will bear that in mind.”

  “That would be clever. Now go on with your story.”

  Anders told him about Xanadar and its monstrous metal inhabitants and the endless traps and mazes and evil magic. He stressed how deadly it was. The Guardian listened intently. The fat priest went from disbelief to silence.

  Anders piled on the concrete detail, wanting to convince them, needing to convince them. In the end, he thought he had succeeded, when the Guardian said, “And you intend to go back there.”

  “We intended to go back, but we got distracted spending the money the Governor paid us.”

  “And there were more coffins like the first one you found.”

  “Yes, but they were guarded. The defenders only emerged when we disturbed the first one.”

  “Nothing bothered you until you did that?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Now you will describe how you got there.”

  “And then you will kill us.”