Then he was hurried along through the interminable stone halls of the complex. To his surprise and growing discomfort, he was not escorted as he’d expected straight to Council. Rather, he was taken into older dusty halls where they met almost no one save for the odd harried-looking clerk. Was he to be imprisoned? Questioned?
The way led to what he recognized from formal gatherings as the Great Hall. The largest of the surviving ancient wings of Majesty Hall. Guards pushed open one of the immense copper and bronze panelled doors and Aragan was escorted in.
The long hall was, for the most part, empty. The only light entered in long shafts from openings high up where the pale marble of the walls met the arched roof. A small scattering of people waited at the far end, where one fellow sat on a large seat, or throne, of white stone blocks: the Legate. As Aragan had heard rumoured, the man had indeed taken to wearing a gold mask. However, a few of the gathered coterie also sported gold masks — slim things that encircled their eyes and covered only the upper half of their faces.
The escort stopped Aragan directly before what he guessed he ought to consider a ‘throne’. He crossed his arms, waiting. In time the Legate ceased his low conversation with an old man — a rather jarring figure in his old tattered clothes amid the glittering finery and riches on display among the coterie. This fellow stepped forward, hunched, hands clasped to his chest as if hugging himself.
‘Ambassador Aragan,’ he began, almost cringing, ‘I speak for the Legate.’
Aragan ignored the ridiculous figure and addressed the Legate. ‘You speak to the Imperium when you speak to me … You should show proper respect.’
The old man glanced backwards to the Legate — like a dog to its master, Aragan thought. ‘Invaders, thieves and murderers deserve no respect,’ he said, gulping as if in horror of what he’d just announced.
‘Darujhistan was more than eager to cooperate with us in the crushing of the Pannions,’ Aragan observed as drily as he could manage given his growing anger.
‘Self-interest guided us both in that,’ the old man said. ‘Now, that same self-interest should guide your diminished forces north to Cat in a withdrawal and complete abandonment of the lands of South Genabackis.’
‘That is your demand?’
‘Such is our generous offer.’
Aragan couldn’t help himself; he had to drawl, ‘Or what?’
The figure on the throne gave one lazy flick of a hand. ‘Or they will be annihilated,’ the old man said, disbelief in his hoarse voice.
A number of the gathered crowd hissed their anxiety at that announcement; clearly it was far beyond anything they anticipated. All faces, masked and otherwise, now turned to study Aragan. He squinted his scepticism and opened his hands. ‘With what? By whom? You have no army worth the name.’
‘We need no army,’ said the old man, rubbing his chest. ‘We merely speak for all the peoples of the south. It is they who will throw off your foreign yoke.’
‘Or trade a new one for an old one, I suspect,’ Aragan answered, now eyeing the masked figure with new suspicion.
‘We merely advise and guide … just as a caring parent wishes the best for his children.’
Aragan cocked a brow. ‘What?’ Where did that come from?
One of the masked followers — a tall fellow with a great mane of salted hair — motioned curtly then, and the spokesman bowed. ‘The audience is at an end. You have our terms. Follow them or many will die.’
The Wardens urged Aragan back. He retreated, eyeing the masked Legate who sat so immobile on his throne. Was that even the Lim in truth, he wondered. Yet he’d recognized a number of councillors among the crowd. They would know him. Surely they would not put up with some impostor.
His thoughts elsewhere, Aragan allowed himself to be ushered out and back down Majesty Hill. So, it was all out in the open now. War had been declared. Yet a war against what, or whom? He felt as if he was facing a ghost, a shadow. Who is our enemy? This masked would-be king? If Darujhistan wants a king in all but name then that is up to them — we never controlled the city.
But if the army is attacked … well, that is another matter entirely.
Back in the manor house Aragan entered his offices to find the emissary from the Imperial Throne sitting on his couch, legs outstretched, waiting for him.
In the plain light of day he saw more clearly whom he faced: the tall thin frame, the oddly shaped eyes, silvered hair. So this was Topper — true to his descriptions. The once and returned Clawmaster.
‘You witnessed?’ Aragan grunted, and headed to a sideboard to pour a drink.
‘From a distance, yes.’
‘A distance?’
‘There are some very powerful magi gathered together on that hilltop.’
Aragan gulped down his drink, studied the lanky, unnerving man. ‘Too much for you?’
A thin humourless smile. ‘Let’s just say it would be counterproductive for me to tip my hand as yet.’ The man’s gaze roved about the room as if uninterested in him. ‘And what ridiculous demands were made?’
‘Very ridiculous ones. We’re to withdraw to the north. Relinquish all territory south of Cat.’
‘Including Pale?’
A sombre nod from Aragan. ‘Yes. Including Pale.’
‘That would not go down well.’
‘No. I imagine it wouldn’t.’
The man cocked his head like a grackle, watching him. ‘And what would you recommend?’
It occurred to Aragan that he was angry. He felt insulted. As if he, and by extension the entire Empire which he represented, had been accorded none of the respect they warranted. He sucked his teeth then finished the last few drops of the rare Moranth liqueur. ‘It seems to me that so far whatever it is that now squats on Majesty Hill has done all the pushing. It’s long past time someone pushed back.’
The thin slash of a smile drew up, revealing sharp white teeth. ‘Mallick chose well in you, I think, Ambassador Aragan.’
‘Most of my promotions were under Laseen.’
The smile faltered and the man sat up, leaning forward. The mention of the former Empress seemed to have stung him. Ah yes, Aragan realized. His failure in averting her assassination. ‘Yes. A lesson there for all of us.’
‘Lesson?’ Somehow Aragan could not help probing; it pleased him to be able to penetrate the fellow’s irritating manner.
Elbows on his knees and hands hanging loose, the master assassin said, ‘That in our line of work we all die alone, Ambassador.’
Aragan didn’t know whether to laugh or snort his scorn. What the devil did he mean by that? What line of work? He served the Throne.
Topper stood. ‘I will begin making my arrangements, then.’
‘You’ve located our assets?’
‘Oh yes. And it’s time I paid a visit. They will be none too pleased.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘See to our regular forces, Ambassador. Leave the rest to me.’
Aragan nodded. ‘Very good. May Oponn favour you, Clawmaster.’
A clench of pain crossed Topper’s face. ‘Let’s leave those two out of this, shall we?’
‘I’m tellin’ ya it’s some kinda foundation … but for what I got no idea.’ Spindle sat back in his chair and frowned his confusion. ‘Seems too flimsy for a wall.’
At the table Picker sent a glance to the historian, Duiker. The man was unaware of her regard, his thoughts obviously distant as he pursued the problem. Good. May it rouse the man even further. ‘Guards?’ she asked Spindle.