In the darkness of the passage the Watcher became flesh again. The grey dead's head snapped up at once. Around him the candle flames flickered. Shadows danced around the walls, ripping themselves free. The Watcher felt power sizzling in the air. Sorcery. ‘Who are you?’
The Watcher stayed in the shadows and bowed. ‘I am the mouth for the Regrettable Men. I have come to arrange the terms.’ Every Vespinese would know at once what he meant. The Regrettable Men were civilised killers of the highest order.
‘Terms?’ The grey dead stood up. He pulled back his hood. His head was shaved, his face and neck covered in tattoos. The flickering of the candles grew to a frenzy. Shadow shapes danced everywhere.
The Watcher bowed again. ‘For our mutual convenience. If there is a poison you would prefer then we can discuss your choice.’
The grey dead smirked and slowly nodded. ‘I see. Who wants me, assassin? Tell me and I'll change their outlook.’
‘I'm desperately sorry but that's not how this plays. There's no outcome save one. I'm here as our usual courtesy, to make your departure as convenient and easy as possible with minimal distress to those around you. You may have a few days to put your affairs in order. If there is a particular location or time of day you would like the assassination to take place, you may request it. We will do our best to honour your wishes.’
The grey dead threw back his head and laughed now. ‘No, I don't think we'll be discussing those things. Tell me who sent you or I'll rip it out of you.’
‘I cannot, for I do not know. In three days at dawn then, if there is nothing to discuss. Those are our usual terms.’
The grey dead threw out his hands. Shadows poured from his sleeves. The Watcher ducked into the darkness and shifted to become the fire of one of the candle flames and the light and the heat it gave. The shadows recoiled, screaming and wailing and whirling around him. He shifted again and led them away, became the stone, the air, the darkness of the unlit path. He led them a long and merry chase, dragged their mindless hunger far away and then left them and returned alone, back to the room that stank of fish and its candles. There he stayed, a little pinprick of flame, and did what he did best.
The Regrettable Men of Vespinarr had a reputation second only to the Elemental Men themselves when it came to murder. The Watcher waited for understanding to take its course, for the grey dead to realise that he was a dead man walking. Patiently, to see what the grey dead would do.
He wasn't disappointed.
12
Berren the Crowntaker. The Bloody Judge of Tethis, that's who he was. He took the first of the queensguard from the flank. Stabbed the man's horse in the neck so it fell and then killed the rider while he struggled on the ground. He took the man's broadsword and battered away a swing from the next horseman to gallop past. Javelins scattered the road. He snatched one and threw it. Took one of the queensguard in the face then dived out of the way of a half-dozen more as they galloped past. The next javelin missed. He danced and parried between hooves and blades, looking for what he wanted. Damned body was slow, weak. It kept letting him down. He kept missing. A riderless horse, that's what he needed, caught in the flood of the retreat. When he saw one, thundering along the road with the rest in headlong flight, he hurled himself at it and leaped onto its back. His new legs didn't have the strength he asked from them and he landed short, almost fell off but managed to haul himself the rest of the way. Tore another muscle while he was at it. No one tried to stop him. The queensguard were wild and panic-stricken. His own men couldn't be far behind, not far at all.
He gave chase, almost sliding sideways off the saddle as soon as he was on it as he snatched yet another javelin out of a corpse. He was among the last remnants of the queensguard now. He galloped after them, javelin in hand, turned a corner in the road and then pulled up with a roar of rage. He was too late. He'd found the rear-guard, nothing more. The Dark Queen, Gelisya, was long gone, and Vallas and her death-mages with her. He'd waited, standing out here all night, freezing cold, and they hadn't even been on the road. He screamed in fury as the last of them faded into dust, full flight, job done. Clenched his fists and ground his teeth and hurled his javelin into the ground. It stuck in the dirt, quivering. ‘Vallas! I'll find you, warlock! You hear me? Wherever you are, I'll find you! I'll find you!’
The queensguard were gone. There was nothing he could do.
No. There was something he could do. He bent sideways and snatched up the quivering javelin and turned, because there were more riders coming any minute, and if he couldn't hunt down Vallas Kuy then he could damn well have his army back. They probably thought he was dead. Well, he wasn't. He turned his horse across the road and snorted in the still dusty air. The sun beat down on his head. He felt naked without his armour and his helm.
They were coming. He could feel them.
At the side of the road, at the edge of the wood, a pair of crimson butterflies danced together over a patch of bright yellow milk-flowers. Birdsong fluttered between the trees. A stillness settled over everything, everything except the rumble of hooves coming closer.
He snorted again, blowing the dry snot out of his nose.
The first horses rounded the corner. They came straight at him. He held the javelin high overhead so they couldn't miss it. Ordering them to stop. He stared at them, willing them with his eyes to know him.
They didn't even falter.
The horse at the head of the riders. It was his. And as they charged closer, he saw it wasn't only the horse. His pennant. His helm. His armour. Him.
He stayed very still because he simply couldn't move now. He couldn't think. Staring at his own body. It paralysed him.
The riders stopped a dozen paces short. The man who was on his horse lifted his visor. His visor, and behind it his face. His own eyes looked at him. Beyond, more faces he knew stared coldly. Friends, damn them! Men who'd fought with him for years, some from the very start, and now they were looking at him as though they didn't know him. Like he was a rabid animal.
‘You're a bit ambitious for a warlock,’ said the man who wasn't him but who had his voice. ‘Brave though, I'll give you that. Or maybe just stupid.’
Berren raised his javelin to throw in the usurper's face, then stopped. He was shaking. Not shaking with rage any more but shaking with fear. The man had his face! He'd just thought. . He just hadn't thought. Supposed he must have died on the battlefield and everyone thought he was gone and how pleased they'd be to find him again once he could make them understand what had happened, what the warlocks had done. .
But he hadn't died. And they weren't pleased. And here he was.
The other Bloody Judge stared back at him, the one who had his skin, wild-eyed and spattered in blood. He kicked his horse slowly forward until the length of the javelin was all that was between them.
‘Who are you?’ Berren croaked. The muscles in his arm twitched.
‘Who am I?’ His own voice! For the love of the sun! Holy moon, his own voice, his own face! ‘Who am I? I think you know very well who I am, warlock.’
He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Didn't know what to say.
‘Well?’ He couldn't tear his eyes away. His own face watched him, unblinking. Did he really look so hard, so harsh, so cruel? But still, it was his face.