Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 17

He staggered over to the basin and threw water at his face. Most of it just dribbled down his beard. Leor knew it would do nothing to wash away last night’s grime, but he didn’t have the energy or the co-ordination to try any harder.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that maybe he was playing his part a little too well. When he had settled into the cramped room in this tavern in a humdrum part of Kelvha City, he had not identified himself as a wizard – that would have made the rates sky-rocket – but as an unsuccessful horse-trader. It had only needed the use of a little melding spell. Although he had forsworn all magic, there was no harm in this morsel of it: a tiny charm to turn himself into a good-natured but totally unmemorable drunk.

It was slightly alarming to discover how easy it was. How well it worked. The landlord barely remembered who he was from day to day.

Indeed, I’m not sure that I recall myself: is this really me? Leor wondered, staring into the inadequate mirror. His eyes were still red-rimmed from last night’s smoke. He threw some more water at them before running his fingers through his hair in lieu of a comb. Then he clattered downstairs into the gloomy little parlour. At this time in the morning it was almost empty: but not quite.

Veron was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged in a chair in the corner. He wore neither his cloak with the wolfskin hood nor his Vonnish green, either of which would have marked him out as a stranger to the city; but rather an outfit of drab, rusty black which matched Leor’s own. Veron too would have looked entirely unmemorable were it not for the array of weaponry dangling from his belt and the piercing watchfulness of his gaze. To Leor’s eyes, he still had the unmistakeable air of a hunter.

“Well? How did it go last night?” inquired Veron.

Leor went over to the dresser, looked at the plates of cold congealing meat and drying bread, and groaned. He picked up a pitcher of water and sat down with it opposite Veron.

“I drank too much,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

“Your choice,” said Veron. “But what did they say?”

Leor threw his mind back to that smoky tavern – much bigger than this one, and even less salubrious – in the northern quarter. He’d managed to latch on to a group of workmen celebrating the last day of their construction job. Repairs to the bridge near the bath-house: they expressed their loud relief in being finished with the place and its dreadful stink.

Leor had said to them with casual geniality, “It still stinks, though. So did your repairs not work?” His melding spell was just as effective there as elsewhere: it made him fit into his surroundings, reflecting the clothes and speech of those around him so that nobody bothered to question who he was. If anyone had asked them, they would just have answered, Oh, that’s what’s-his-name. You see him around.

“It’s the drains. Clogged up by all those foreign riff-raff hanging round the northern quarter,” answered one of his companions.

“Nah, it’s that temple on Old Tanneries Street,” grumbled another. “Attracts all sorts. Unsavoury. They ought to close it down.”

“It’s not just drains,” said a third in a mysterious tone. “I told you. They’ve got a demon in there, underneath the wall.”

“You and your demon,” said the first, draining his tankard.

Leor gestured for another jug of beer to be brought over and poured out. “What sort of demon?” he asked.

“It’s small and black. It burns through doors. They give it human sacrifices.”

“Who do? That temple?” asked the second man.

“Nah. Not them. Like I said, it’s buried underneath the wall, not far from the north gate. The night watchman on the gate said he’s heard the screams.”

“You’d scream too with that stink in your nose all night. And that watchman has his head in a brandy bottle half the time.”

The talk had rambled on around the subject. After Leor related this to Veron, he added, “They didn’t actually know anything definite. It was all rumour and suspicion.”

“But you spoke to the watchman?” said Veron.

“Yes. Once I left the inn,” continued Leor, “I went to the gate and pretended I was a minor lord – second rank – who’d got lost and was afraid of footpads. I shared the watchman’s brandy and bought him some more as an inducement to guide me part of the way home. Expensive stuff it was too, considering its harshness on the tongue. To say nothing of the head.”

“And?”

Leor frowned. “I, um, persuaded the watchman to take a route close to the bath-house.”

“Persuaded how?”

Leor shrugged. “I just suggested it.” It had required no more than a tweak of wizardry. “I asked him what was going on in there, apart from the stink, and pretended I’d heard noises. And then I got the full yarn: the clanging of gates that vibrated through the wall even though the main north gate was shut and locked for the night: the sound of carriages on the outer side: visitors arriving at the inside, on horseback, from the city, cloaked and hooded...”

“I know about those,” Veron said. “I don’t need to know what’s happening. I need to know what people think is happening.”

“Mostly a demon,” said Leor. He took another draught of water. “The watchman thinks it’s some evil spirit conjured up by the Temple of Borgun, intentionally or not, and now it has to be kept safe by the Kelvhan army. Because it can’t be killed. But they don’t want people to know it’s there, in case they panic.”

“But people do know it’s there. They know there’s something there.”

“Something with no face, no name,” said Leor. “Nobody said the word darkburn. If they’ve heard of darkburns they don’t know what they actually are.”

“So it’s a spirit. Demon. What about the screams?”

“That’s the demon calling for his lover, according to the watchman,” said Leor wryly.

“Not human sacrifices?”

“No. My builder friend thought that one up all on his own.”

“And you suggested?”

“To the watchman: I say I’ve heard it’s some creature that they’re breeding for the combats. Part bear, part whatever. To the builders: I’ve heard a rumour that the army are tunnelling below the wall to make a secret passage, for defensive purposes, and have hit an ancient cess-pit. No demon, the story’s just a conspiracy to keep ordinary people out. All top security. I say I shouldn’t have mentioned it but my second cousin knows the nephew of the Keeper of the Swords, and I’m sure they won’t pass it on to anybody else.”

“I like that one,” said Veron.

“So do I. Happy?”

“Happy enough.” Veron stood up, speared a piece of meat off a plate with one of his knives, and began to eat it. “And what about today?”

“I was rather hoping to go back to bed,” said Leor.

“Go to the markets instead.”

“Which one?”

“All of them. You can be as many different people as you like. Can’t you?”

Leor rubbed his chin, not wanting to admit it. “Why?”

“Another tale for you to spread,” Veron replied. “This one is about the city walls. There’s an infection in the stone. Makes it go bad. First it stinks and then it crumbles.”

“Infected walls? Who’s going to believe that?”

“Not many,” said Veron. “But every little helps.”

“Every little what?”

Veron grinned at him. “Every little bit of added confusion.” Putting another slice of meat between two chunks of bread, he made for the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Have you been to the temple?”

“The temple of Borgun? I’ve had it pointed out to me.”

“Been inside it?”

“No,” said Leor. “Should I?”

“Up to you. But someone has been, who looked like Huldarion but wasn’t.”

“Looked like…” Leor was shocked. “Well, that certainly wasn’t me.”

“Good,” said Veron. Until then he had continued playing with his knife: now he thrust it back into his belt. “Might be nothing but the priest’s imagination. Might be something.” He nodded and went out.

Something? Leor felt as shaken as if an unknown someone had been impersonating him, not Huldarion. Had that knife been a warning? He felt a flash of anger. If Veron thought he could threaten him or hurt him, he was wrong.

But Veron did not threaten. Leor had never heard a threat come from the hunter’s lips.

He gives his prey no warning, Leor thought. They make a slip, and then they’re dead. But I am warned, regardless. Who could walk the streets of Kelvha City pretending to be Huldarion, apart from myself?

Only my other half. The only other wizard in this world: Adon. Once so close to me, his path now so diverged from mine that I no longer know him. I do not know where he is. I cannot detect his presence. Not long ago, I idly thought he might be hiding in the Kelvhan army when we marched into the city. What if it was no idle thought? What if he is here?

Leor’s heart was thumping alarmingly despite its unbreakability. He told himself that Maeneb would undoubtedly detect Adon; she would feel Adon’s mind, if he were anywhere close, and she would tell Leor.

Undoubtedly? Make that probably. No. Possibly. If Adon were to shield himself, Maeneb would not feel him…

Almost my brother, he thought, once more than brother: my twin, my closest friend, my mirror image. But the mirror now is broken.

If he is here, how will I know him?

And if I find him, what should I do?