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

  “That is useful to know.”

  “It’s something to bear in mind, Sir Kormak. This really is a new world.”

  “I’ll try and remember that.”

  The priest coughed so hard that he almost doubled over. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, and when he drew it away, Kormak could see there was blood on it. “If I can be of any aid to you, please let me know. It is good to know that there is someone here who is loyal to the ideals of the Holy Sun.”

  “I will do that.”

  “I had best return to my chambers. I fear I may be suffering a relapse.”

  “You have rooms here?”

  “Near here. But I am the Governor’s adviser on a number of matters. He likes to keep me on hand.”

  “You are not quite so humble a priest as you had led me to believe.”

  “As I told you earlier, everyone here is playing a part, one way or another. I shall wish you a good night, Guardian.”

  Kormak watched him go. The priest’s ominous words set him to thinking about the dangers that might be lurking below the surface here. That brought Orson to mind. He wondered what the merchant was up to now.

  Chapter Three

  Orson strode through the gates of his mansion, loosening the buttons on his tunic’s collar and slapping at a mosquito. Sweat drenched his garments and not just from the heat. He really did not like the way the Guardian looked at him, like a wolf contemplating a nice fat sheep.

  He had no doubt that Kormak suspected him of wrongdoing and rightly so. Both of his former bodyguards, Urag and Burk, had made covert attempts on the man’s life, and both had failed, even though Burk was a changeling, a shapeshifting assassin trained from the Courts of the Moon.

  It had made for some interesting verbal fencing at the dining table of the Pride of Siderea during the voyage over. He doubted he had convinced the Guardian he had nothing to do with it. That was alarming. More so was the fact that there was a keen mind lurking behind that blunt, barbaric facade.

  He paused and took a deep breath. He would have taken a palanquin from the Governor’s mansion if there had been any available. To a man of his great bulk walking even the few hundred strides from one great house to the other was a strain in this heat. No sea breezes here. Not tonight.

  He produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow. Once again he wondered about the Guardian’s mission. According to the changeling, he was in Terra Nova to seek the source of the sarcophagus whose inhabitant had so nearly killed the King of Siderea. But that could just be a cover story.

  Perhaps he had been sent here to stiffen the spine of Governor Aurin and take action against Balthazar’s people. Perhaps more was known about the planned rebellion in the name of the Old Ones than Balthazar suspected. Kormak had come along with a new admiral, a relative of the King no less, and a small army of troops. Coincidence? When the rebels were almost ready to strike? That would be too much to hope for.

  A shadow detached itself from the verandah of his mansion. His factotum, Lorenzo, moved out to greet him. The broad, bullet-headed man rubbed his hands together then bowed. “Welcome home, Master. Count Balthazar awaits you in the sanctum.”

  Lorenzo was loyal, but he had no idea what Balthazar truly was. “Very good. I will see him at once. Bring food and wine.”

  The servant nodded and then cleared his throat. Orson knew him well enough to know that it showed he was nervous. “And a soldier arrived. I did not recognise him, but he said he came from you. I allowed him admittance and told him to wait in the hall. He went straight into the sanctum to talk with the Count.”

  Orson cursed. And that would be the accursed changeling. He had at least remained in disguise on the ship and restrained himself from attacking the Guardian.

  “I asked him to leave, but the Count told me that he could stay and . . .”

  He let the words trail off. Orson understood too well. Few defied Count Balthazar when he chose to exert his will. “No matter, old friend. I will sort the matter. See that we are not disturbed.”

  Lorenzo looked grateful. “Of course, master.”

  Orson scratched at a mosquito bite. Sweat made his fingertips moist. He wanted a cold bath but, as always, business would have to come first.

  “Ah, Orson, welcome home!” Count Balthazar’s resonant voice rang out as Orson entered the room. He raised his goblet in a toast with as much ease as if he had been sitting in the guest room of his own rundown manor. Still in the form and dress of a marine from the Pride of Siderea, the changeling also raised a glass.

  Orson strode across the richly furnished room, took an antique stone pitcher from the heavy oaken table and poured himself a goblet. He swigged it down unwatered, slumped down into a massive overstuffed armchair and studied his companions.

  Balthazar looked the same as he had when Orson departed for Siderea. He was very tall, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip and fitter looking than a man of his age had any right to be. People thought the extent of his alchemy was to dye his hair and beard black. Little did they know. Inwardly Orson cursed the weak heart that made him reliant on the potions Balthazar provided. With the Guardian around, being an associate of the Count was likely to be very dangerous. He let none of these thoughts show on his face.

  “Thank you, my friends,” Orson said. “It is good to be home although I fear that our ship has brought us a new problem.”

  “Yes, our new comrade was informing me of that. A Guardian of the Dawn. One of the fanatical witch hunters of the Holy Sun. And by all accounts a very deadly one.” From his cheerful expression, you would have thought Balthazar was discussing a pleasant surprise.

  “That is most assuredly the case,” said Orson. “One capable of killing a newly resurrected Lunar warlord.”

  “This is very bad timing,” said Balthazar. “As far as our plans are concerned.”

  “And possibly not a coincidence,” Orson said. He could not help but notice the changeling’s expression. If anything he looked even more relaxed than he had a few moments ago.

  Orson guessed he was paying keen attention to their discussion. Well, if they expected support from the Courts of the Moon for their rebellion, it would be best if he was involved. One thing was certain. The changeling would not be telling the agents of King Aemon anything.

  Balthazar cupped his wine in both hands and studied its depths. “We are so close. The jungle tribes are almost ready. When the signal is given, our brethren here within the city will rise against their oppressors. Terra Nova will be free, and the old faith will return. But we have another and yet more pressing problem.”

  He pulled a small miniature painting from within his tunic. Orson recognised the profile at once. It would be hard not to. “Lady Khiyana,” Orson said.

  “She is suffering a crisis of faith in our holy mission,” said Balthazar. “I fear that she intends to betray us and soon. Perhaps she already has. She has spoken to Frater Ramon a few times. She has always been weak.”

  There was a note of recrimination in the Count’s voice. Orson had been one of Lady Khiyana’s sponsors. He had seen how useful she could be.”

  “That is not the only problem,” said the changeling. “We must find the source of Vorkhul’s coffin. And we must find it before the sun worshippers.”

  He spoke with calm authority. Orson wondered as to the exact contents of the Lunar emissary’s chat with the Count. It looked as if he had managed to convince Balthazar that they were of the same faith. Orson wondered how true that was. He had his suspicions about the true nature of Balthazar’s beliefs. He had always kept his distance because of them.

  Balthazar nodded. “He is correct, Orson. Our Lord demands this. He has spoken to me in visions.”

  Orson was not sure how much credence to place in Balthazar’s visions. They always seemed to support whatever the Count wanted to be done. But then he was the voice of Xothak in this place.

  “Our whole plan is on the verge of being unravelled by one weak woman and you are con
cerned with locating some ancient relic.”

  “A relic which our enemies want as well.” There was a note of menace in the Count’s voice; one Orson had learned it was best not to ignore. He needed to find a way of breaking the Count’s grip on him and soon.

  Orson sighed. “How do you propose that we do this?”

  “The men who sold the coffin to Governor Aurin must be located. They may still be in town, and you have many contacts here. It is imperative we find them before this Guardian does. And we must do all we can to slow down his investigation.”

  “Very well. I will have Lorenzo start searching at once. If they are present in Maial, he will find him. Now, what are we going to do about the Guardian and Lady Khiyana?”

  The changeling leaned forward and studied the miniature portrait. “If you will allow me to suggest something,” he said, “we may be able to kill two birds with one stone.”

  The changeling made his way from Orson’s mansion to the Governor’s house. The scabbarded longsword tugged at his belt. His hands moved to the pouch stowed beside it, checking it carefully. His collection of poison vials lay within it along with his stiletto he would use to deliver them. He hoped he would not need it tonight. Poison was too subtle for what he had in mind.

  From all around came the sounds of revelry. A small domino mask covered his face. The warm, humid air swirled around him. He allowed himself to sweat a little, knowing that if he did not, it would look suspicious.

  A party of drunks approached him, proffering a bottle. He smiled amiably and waved them on, putting a weave into his step that suggested he had already taken far too much. The last thing he wanted at this stage was to be drawn into a fight with some offended reveller.

  He considered his options. He had not expected things to be quite so chaotic when he reached Maial. Originally, the plan was that he make contact with the rebels here and aid them in any way possible. Anything that destabilised Siderea and strengthened the power of the Courts of the Moon was a good thing.

  But then Vorkhul’s coffin had come to light, and he had been told to find its source at all costs. A geas, a spell of compulsion of the most powerful kind, had been laid upon him to make sure he did so. It annoyed him, but he understood the reasons. The Eldrim warlord Vorkhul had been thought dead for millennia and yet somehow he had returned.

  He had seen the havoc the thing from the coffin had wreaked. It had run amok through the most heavily guarded sanctum of the Sunlanders and only been killed by a Guardian of the Dawn.

  There was a terrible mystery here. Where had Vorkhul come from? And were there more like him? The geas nagged away at the back of his mind, driving him to seek the coffin in the way an addict was compelled to seek his drugs.

  He had to find the coffin’s source before the Guardian did, and his allies must be protected at all costs, at least until they had helped him locate what he needed to know.

  He had his suspicions about his allies too. Orson was obviously not a true believer in the Lunar faith, and he suspected that Count Balthazar was something worse. He seemed a sincere worshipper of Xothak, a being about whom very dark tales were told. It was fortunate indeed that the changeling had infiltrated enough Shadow cults to know their secret signs. The knowledge had enabled him to convince Balthazar that they followed the same dark lords.

  The cultist was a sorcerer of considerable power who had not taken any precautions against corruption by the Shadow. The subtle signs were all over him. The Guardian would doubtless spot them too. The changeling needed to know exactly how deep into darkness the Count had fallen. A corrupted sorcerer would be a very dangerous ally.

  Still, if he was to be believed, Balthazar was on the verge of fomenting rebellion in the richest colony of Siderea. The chaos that uprising brought could only strengthen the Courts of the Moon.

  The changeling would soon be able to confirm his suspicions. He would interrogate this Lady Khiyana before he removed her. She would tell him all she knew, and he would decide what to do about Balthazar and his minions once they had aided him in his mission.

  The Governor’s mansion lay ahead of him. He altered his features and build to resemble those of one of the revellers he had seen earlier and strode confidently through the gate, adjusting his domino mask. No one paid any attention to him. The party was at that stage.

  He moved through the gardens, hunting for his prey. He would need to move cautiously at first. He walked among the guests, avoiding conversation and deflecting all advances. He saw the Guardian and Captain Rhiana and Admiral Zamara talking.

  For a moment, he quailed at the thought of being discovered. His arm bore a scar from where Kormak’s sword had bit into it. He had been lucky. None of the delicate fleshwoven mechanisms embedded beneath his skin had been damaged beyond healing. It had been a mistake to try to take the man head on. Deadly as the changeling was, the Guardian was more so. Violence was the sphere in which he excelled. Still, there was more than one way to skin a panther, as the hillmen said.

  He moved closer, studying the area for other threats. There was no sign of the initiate mage. Those could sometimes prove to be a problem. A sorcerer’s powers could cause him inconvenience.

  He took in a deep breath, enjoying the corruptly sweet perfume of the tropical blossoms. As he watched, he saw the Guardian take the merwoman by the arm. They said goodnight and withdrew up the stairs. He had observed their behaviour on the Pride of Siderea enough to know that they would not be returning tonight. He continued to watch until he saw the Admiral draw off into a side chamber with a lovely tall woman, then he removed the sword belt from his waist and strapped it over his shoulder.

  It was time to get to work.

  Chapter Four

  Lady Khiyana felt sure she was being watched. She glanced around and saw the Guardian Kormak staring at her, his gaze that of a great hunting cat studying a gazelle. He knew something; she was certain. He was going to take her to the dungeons and question her.

  She bit the end of the strand of her hair. In a way she was glad. Soon the long nightmare would be over, one way or another.

  One of the servants walked past. She flinched then smoothed her dress with both hands to cover the motion. The man’s mask was off papier mâché. It showed the face of a loyal hound. Even on this night of all nights, the servants were made to know their place. The Governor was a stickler for keeping the divisions between classes visible, no matter how much he liked to tup his servant girls.

  The servant offered her a glass from the tray he carried. She shook her head, a quick sharp motion. She changed it to a longer more emphatic one and added the languid gesture of dismissal of a society lady for her inferiors.

  The man nodded respectfully and moved on. Clearly, he was not one of those who hoped for a dalliance with a noble lady this night. Not that she hadn’t done such things in the past. Back when she had been a silly girl. That all seemed so long ago now, though. The action of another woman in another life.

  She wondered how much longer the Guardian was going to make her wait for the axe to fall. This was a game of cat and mouse to him. If he was trying to frighten her, he was succeeding. It would not take much to make her tell him everything. Several times over the past few weeks she had come close to confessing to Frater Ramon. Her fellow cultists were starting to look at her oddly. It was only a matter of time before everything fell apart.

  Once again she went over her story, polishing it. She wanted to reveal only the angles that showed her in the most flattering light. It was close enough to the truth anyway. She was not a Shadow worshipper. She was not.

  Oh, she had taken part in the rituals. She had seen human sacrifice performed. She had watched demons manifest and feed upon blood and souls. She had taken part in orgiastic rites of celebration. But she had never meant to.

  She had not. She had not. She had been deceived as so many had been deceived before her, and when she had found out the truth it was too late to back out. She was in too deep. She had gone too far.
She had blackened her soul, stained it so deep that perhaps she would never again walk in the Light.

  No. That could not be true. That was not what scripture said. It was not what the priests said. No one was so steeped in sin that they could not find their way back to the Light. The Holy Sun would accept sincere repentance and there had never been a more sincere repentance than hers. She could not go on like this. She could not.

  She looked over at where the Guardian had been standing, but he had disappeared. Perhaps he was not interested in her after all. She did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  What if the Guardian did not believe her? Or what if he believed her but yet took her to be guilty. The Church had dungeons in which heretics were put to the rack and the hot iron. She could not face that. She could not face the thought of her skin being marked and her body being broken.

  A couple moved towards her. One of them was a man, tall and dark, and she wondered for a moment whether it was the Guardian. Had he brought a companion? Did he mistake the purpose of her earlier glance? She should not have flirted with him. But she could not help herself. It was what she did with men. It had been ever since she was fourteen years old.

  The couple moved past. It was a tall swordsman alright, but he was with one of the paid companions the Governor liked to provide for those who could not find their own, or for those whose tastes were so outré that volunteers could not be found. They pushed by her, heading for a dark spot among the trees, away from the lanterns. The man giggled. His companion stroked his arm and then moved her hand lower.

  It would not have been so long ago that she might have been taking part in such sport. She looked back at those innocent times as if they had happened to somebody else.

  She felt as if she had aged a score of years over the past few. She was sure that if there were a magic mirror that showed the way she felt, her reflection would look like a hag. It was her membership of the Cult of Xothak that had aged her. How could she have been such a fool? How could she have believed it would lead her to power and immortality? All it had done was lead her into sin and death.