The collar of Rik’s dress tunic felt tight. His head felt fuzzy from all the late nights of forced learning. Sardec, garbed in a full formal uniform, looked just as uncomfortable as he, although perhaps it was the motion of the ship that upset him.
What was the difference between the sea and the river he wondered that one could make you feel nauseous and the other did not? Rik knew that some of the soldiers were affected. For many of them, pleasure boat rides around the harbour had turned into theatres of misery. He counted himself fortunate that he seemed immune to sea-sickness.
The Barbarian stood on the deck nearby along with Weasel and a few of the other Foragers. It was their job to see that Asea arrived at the Council’s reception safely. Apparently a little light piracy had been known to happen even in the harbour. The possibility of robbery seemed a universal constant wherever you went.
Rik was not sorry when the boat tied up and they made their way up the stone steps carved from the living rock of the island, towards the Great Tower. He even felt a thrill of anticipation. Tonight, he was going to meet Lord Malkior, the Terrarch who was possibly the murderer of his mother, and possibly his father.
The buzz of conversation increased as the Talorean party entered the chamber. It was high-vaulted, like a cathedral. Massive carved wooden statues, the figureheads of long-salvaged merchantmen lined the high alcoves. Between them hung the banner of Harven, a black squid on a blue background. In each tentacle it clutched a flag or a treasure chest or a sword. Doubtless there was a symbolism to it that Asea would have no trouble explaining. He could almost hear her voice in its lecturing mode: the Harvenites would be insulted at him calling the beast a squid. This was the Great Kraken of Quan, their legendary patron and protector, the mother of all Sea Devils.
At the far end of the hall where the altar would have been in a cathedral was a full-sized ship, a small trading caravel which Rik knew was the legendary Golden Morning, the first trader to have anchored in this harbour, the ship of the city’s founder Lord Harven, the Terrarch who had made the pact with the Quan.
The great hall was cold and damp. It was no wonder all the merchants wore fur, and hardly surprising that their hair and beards were long and plaited. The thick gowns the women wore made even the thinnest of them seem somewhat dumpy. The most surprising thing was that the number of humans and the number of Terrarchs present seemed almost equal, and they did not seem at all uncomfortable talking to each other. Certainly, the Terrarchs kept mostly to themselves on one side of the huge chamber, and the humans milled around on the other, but there was no sense of stifling hierarchy that you felt at such a gathering in Talorea. There the only humans you were likely to see were servants. There were some things that he liked about the place.
He studied the crowd even as it studied him. There were hundreds of wealthy men and women present, all robed in furs, and bearing long curved swords. There were a number of masked Terrarchs, sorcerers judging by the Elder Signs woven on their long flowing robes, and the winged staffs they carried. There were even a few humans garbed in a similar manner. They seemed squat and graceless compared to the Terrarchs but the fact that they were here at all astonished Rik. For a human to practise magic was a crime punishable by torture and death on most of the Ascalean continent.
There were other Terrarchs, garbed far more richly than any he had seen, rings glittering on their fingers, gold chains dripping from their necks. These were the legendary merchant princes of Harven. Their glances were cold, their smiles merry. Rik fixed a smile on his own face, and saw that Asea had done the same.
The introductions began, a roll-call of the rich and powerful of the city, human and Terrarch. They went on for a very long time and then suddenly Rik found himself bowing to Lord Malkior.
Malkior still looked like his portrait. He wore a deep purple tunic and dress britches instead of armour but Rik could tell this was the Terrarch in the painting. The artist had accentuated the leanness and good looks, the aggressive intelligent gaze. He had glossed over the scars and the mole on the chin and missed out the warm smile completely. The painting caught the aura of power that hung over Malkior but not the ease and friendliness that went with it. Rik looked at the Terrarch, hoping that the surge of interest and dislike that he felt was not immediately obvious to everyone.
Malkior bowed to Asea and kissed her hand. He showed no tension despite the fact that their nations were at war. She responded easily, and although Rik knew with certainty that she hated, feared and loathed the Sardean, he would never have guessed it from her expression. She looked delighted by his attention. Rik had long ago learned that while the face might lie, body language did not, and yet he could detect none of the subtle signs of animosity he would have expected to see in the way she moved or held herself. It would seem that Asea had mastered the art of concealing even those. It was a thing worth being reminded of. His patron was an extremely gifted liar.
“So you are the hero of the Serpent Tower,” said Malkior as they bowed to each other.
“Hero is too strong a word,” said Rik. He had to force himself to keep his tone casual. Was this Terrarch his father? Had he really killed his mother? Rik wanted to grab Malkior by his furred collar and slap some answers from him. He forced his shoulders to untense, and his hands to relax. It would not do to assault a high noble of Sardea at this reception, much as he might like to.
“I know many people who are simply dying to talk to you about it.” Rik smiled at the man, wondering what was going on behind those kind brown eyes. If Sardec’s suspicions were correct, Malkior’s statement held at least one double meaning.
“Perhaps you can introduce us, and I will do what I can to aid their understanding.”
“That’s a very generous offer, and I am sure I will take you up on it.” Malkior’s words seemed perfectly sincere, and yet Rik felt as if he had just been subtly threatened. He told himself it was his imagination, but he was sure that it was not.
Malkior smiled. “My daughter speaks very highly of you.”
“You have talked to her recently?”
“Before she went to Halim.”
“You have heard from her since the robbery? You have had a letter, perhaps?”
“I have,” said Malkior easily. “And I would like to thank you, Lady Asea for taking such an interest in the case.”
“It disturbs me that I could not find out anything,” said Asea. “It was almost like the Shadowblood were involved.”
“Come now, my dear, let us talk of more pleasant things. We left such darkness behind us on Al’Terra.”
Asea looked at him and smiled very coldly. “I have my doubts about that,” she said.
Malkior raised an eyebrow. “If you have suspicions, I must take them very seriously. Perhaps we should talk about them in a more private place.”
“I look forward to it,” said Asea. “We have much to discuss.”
“Such as?”
“We can talk about that in private. Did you know that Rik hails from Sorrow? A city with which you are more than a little familiar.” A subtle, mask-like quality came over Malkior’s face. Or was that Rik’s imagination?
“The last time I was there must be twenty years ago…”
“Nineteen. Just before Rik here was born. Just after too.”
Malkior inclined his head and studied Rik with more care than he had before. “It’s a small world,” he said.
“His mother was murdered, you know. In quite a spectacular fashion.”
Malkior looked at her now. If he was getting Asea’s message, he gave no sign. “I am sure the subject must be more than a little distasteful to our young friend here.”
“He’s not entirely an orphan. I have spent considerable effort locating his father, and I think I may have found him.” Rik felt oddly embarrassed and uncomfortable. The way they were talking made him feel like an object, a thing that was not there. He wanted to tell them both to stop it, but kept his mouth firmly shut and his attention focused.