‘Preparations are underway,’ Torht said, satisfied hands resting on his stout belly. He felt around for a desk bell and gave it a sharp ring, and a moment later a silent companion appeared at his elbow, one hand on the Watcher’s arm, the other carrying a torch. ‘Please, follow me.’
Torht pulled the hood back over his head and strode off into the darkness, steered by the figure at his arm. Palo stood and followed without question, the hand she kept on the prince’s shoulder bringing him smartly alongside. Chel and Rennic exchanged a glance, then hurried after them into the dim tunnel beyond.
Torht held forth as he walked, his voice echoing down the clammy passageway. Two more of the hooded figures had joined them from somewhere, walking in silent lockstep. ‘To lift the shadow that haunts our land, we must strike at corruption’s heart. We must excise the tumour, as a surgeon might say. And that tumour sits behind walls of stone and steel, for he knows full well his sins. How could he not? Lo Vassad has corrupted the sacred office beyond redemption, and none knows sin better than a primarch.’
Torchlight ahead revealed a widening of the passageway, then a carved spiral of wide stone steps twisting upward through the granite. At last, Chel thought, stairs. Already the air seemed to smell a little fresher.
‘You’ve heard the stories, no doubt. The Primarch never leaves the tower of Black Rock. The Primarch travels incognito, sending doubles in his stead. The Primarch sees only the king and has him carried into his chambers on his sickbed. The Primarch rules the kingdom, and not your father, highness.’ Tarfel stiffened at this, but Torht continued as they began to climb the stairs.
‘He is protected by a legion of red confessors, who taste his food, purify his water, let none catch even a glimpse of their charge.’ He chuckled, then waved his free hand. He was already slightly out of breath. ‘Each of these stories carries, at its heart, a kernel of truth. Our adversary lives a life of jealous fear, terrified that at any moment the people will see him for what he truly is, and rise up!’
The air warmed as they climbed, until the stairs finished at a sturdy door of dark wood. Torht’s companion paused and fished for a key from a ring at his belt, then unlocked the door with an echoing clank. Two more bolts followed before the door opened. He ushered Torht through into the darkness beyond, and the others followed. The two other hooded figures moved ahead of them, rummaging in the gloom until a shaft of cold grey daylight broke through, then widened and flooded their surroundings.
They stood in the annexe of a store-room, piled with boxes and crates, a narrow gap opened from a wall of loose stones. Sounds of activity echoed from an open archway beyond. As they were hurried into the room itself, Chel marvelled at the efforts put into disguising the door and its vestibule. The two hooded figures remained in the darkness, replacing the loose stones, and when the last slotted into place there was no longer anything to suggest that there had ever been anything there but blank, coarse wall.
Torht cleared his throat. He was wheezing a bit. His attendant had stowed his torch in a sconce.
‘Please, this way.’
They passed openings as they walked, store-rooms and kitchens, where hooded figures toiled. All were absolutely silent, bar the clatter and clank of their activities. Chel saw elements of fine craftsmanship in the stonework and throughout the hallways.
As they approached a large open space, Palo called Spider, Dalim and his two henchmen to her; a moment later the four marched to the hallway’s end and disappeared from view. Torht had stopped at a door. After a quick rummage with a key, he entered, the attendant steering his steps.
Inside were a simple desk and chair, rolls of pressed paper and a heavy smell of ink. Torht shuffled over beside the desk, and indicated that the prince should sit. ‘There is, however, one other person permitted access to the Primarch’s chambers.’
‘Who?’ Tarfel asked, obeying without thought. Chel and Rennic squeezed into the office, and Palo pulled the door closed behind them.
The Watcher rested one hand on the desk. To Chel’s eye, he was struggling to keep down a smirk. ‘The only remaining embodiment of royal power in the kingdom, highness. Your brother.’
Tarfel’s expression danced through a series of emotions, arriving finally at suspicion. ‘Meaning what? That he’s the Primarch’s man?’
‘No, no, quite the opposite. Highness, you have come to us at a crucial juncture.’
‘I didn’t come to you, I—’
‘Your highness, we must tread carefully. Your brother is surrounded by overwhelming force at all times, ostensibly his to command, but in truth the engine of Vassad’s shadow state. But his actions and proclamations are dictated by Vassad’s vicious proxies. Our Primarch’s vile plot has a weakness, however, a critical flaw: the power of the state must still be seen to rest with the crown, lest suspicions be aroused and light be cast upon the corruption he has wrought.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning, your highness, that if your brother commands, he must be seen to be obeyed. He lacks only the understanding of the wheels that turn against him, against your royal family, the kingdom and its people. He lacks only the knowledge of what he must command. And this is where you come in. Prince Mendel is the key to unlocking Vassad’s stranglehold, and you are the key to his rescue.’
‘I am?’
‘We must be swift and judicious. There is now a window to reach your brother, to alert him of your survival and collective peril, and move to rescue your father before we are discovered. We must secure Mendel before Vassad realizes our intentions, for I dread to consider what he might do should he become aware of the noose that tightens around him. As you found yourself, highness, once Primarch Vassad deems you disposable, prince or no, a knife in the dark soon follows.’
‘But, but … surely he wouldn’t dare try to kill Mendel? He’s the crown prince!’
‘If he realizes he is cornered, I doubt he would hesitate for an instant. He’s tried before, after all … Or do you still believe that bandits killed his elder twin, your highness?’
Tarfel paled. He placed trembling hands on the desk, visible sweat on his brow. ‘You’re lying!’
‘Consider, highness. The time of year, the location of the ambush, for ambush it was. Two dozen highly trained, well-equipped “brigands” set upon your brothers, enough to overpower their guard, enough to leave no survivors. It is a testament to your brothers that one should give his life that the other might live, even scarred.’
‘It was brigands! They—’
‘You have seen it for yourself, highness. The men who tried to murder you in the winter palace, were they not confessors disguised as Norts? Vassad has his favoured tricks.’
Tears were leaking down Tarfel’s wan cheeks. ‘You’re lying,’ he said in a sad, small voice.
Torht nodded, and tapped the attendant’s hand. ‘Founin.’
The attendant reached into his robe and produced a slim tube. From the tube slid a narrow scroll, which he unfurled onto the desk before the prince. Parts of it were stained very dark.
‘This is the order, highness. This is the order that Vassad gave to his agents, five years ago, commanding your brothers’ deaths. Look closely, and you will see the imprint of his signet upon it. I’m told.’
Tarfel stared. The room was too cramped for Chel to feel like he could offer any comfort. Rennic was staring at the ceiling, where a narrow-bodied spider bustled over an expansive web.
Torht reached out a hand to Tarfel’s shoulder. ‘Vassad killed your eldest brother, your highness, and has tried to kill you. Repeatedly. Mendel is not safe while he rules.’
Tarfel swallowed, then looked up, blinking tears from his watery eyes. ‘What must I do?’
‘Simply write a letter.’
‘Eh?’
‘Winter is nearly upon us,’ Torht said, his smile growing, ‘but before the great and good withdraw to their palaces for the feasting season, the Star Court will gather for one last grand occasion: the King’s Hunt in Talis. Your brother will attend; indeed, he will be expected to lead the hunt in your father’s absence. Scattered in the dark woods, away from the eyes of the confessors, here we may finally reach him. All he needs is a message, signed and sealed by his dear little brother, telling him that you are alive and are coming to free him. We can guide him to an arranged meeting point, and there spirit him away before Vassad’s thugs are any the wiser. You still have your signet?’
‘Will I be going to Talis?’
‘Do you wish to see your brother?’
Tarfel looked up and over and met Chel’s eye. He seemed to be looking for comfort, or confirmation. Chel offered him a nod.
The prince steeled himself, wet-eyed. ‘I do. What should I write?’
‘Hey, hey. Wait.’ Rennic was looking around the cluttered room, at each of the faces in turn, his eyes searching. ‘You can’t take my prince anywhere. I’ve not been paid yet.’
Torht raised his head from Tarfel’s ear. ‘You wanted greater payment, Master Rennic? Ensure that this endeavour is a success, and it can be yours.’
‘Now hold on,’ Rennic said. ‘This “endeavour” is, what, ride out into the woods and hope princeling’s brother shows? What if he doesn’t? Or what if he does, and Vassad’s fucking murder-boys are with him?’
‘The wording in the letter will be most specific. Once Mendel is separated from his minders, he will be ours. And our party, in turn, will not be defenceless. For this journey, we will open our coffers. If, that is, Master Rennic, you are still interested in paying work?’
Rennic paused, swallowed, cleared his throat. ‘If I say yes, I want a proper contract this time. In writing. And back-pay for bringing the prince.’
‘You shall have it.’
‘My people are back at Wavecrest, no doubt honing their skills with each passing moment—’
‘They can catch us later. We must depart immediately, we daren’t delay.’
‘If I don’t like what’s in the contract—’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Now please excuse me, I must help his highness with his words.’
Rennic looked decidedly unconvinced. He shot Chel a challenging look. ‘I assume you’ll be following your man on this mad little jaunt.’
Chel’s eyes were still on Tarfel. On my oath, he thought. He nodded, and Rennic rolled his eyes. ‘You realize, if you’re going as his sworn man, you don’t qualify for a share of the job’s take? Is he even paying you? What does a sworn man make these days?’
Palo moved to open the door. Rennic caught her arm. ‘You going along with this, too, Palo?’
She shook him off without a look and pulled the door open. ‘Death to tyrants,’ she said, and marched out.
‘Fucking partisans,’ Rennic muttered. ‘Well, it’s not like I can let you go on your own, is it?’ he said to Chel. ‘You two could drown in a puddle.’
***
A line of wagons stood in the courtyard, each bearing the colours or pennant of the Merciful Sisters. Many were loaded, some with ale barrels, some with medical supplies, and a few with both. Torht and his attendant walked to the vehicle at the end of the wagon line, a great wooden hospital wagon painted in the Sisters’ colours, lashed to four thick-bodied oxen. Sisters milled around it. One of them moved with an evident strut, a long pole with a leather-wrapped end resting over one shoulder. Chel nudged Rennic.
‘Is that Dalim?’
The big man nodded, brows drawn. ‘And friends.’
Chel looked again at the figures and realized that Spider and Dalim’s two henchmen made up the wagon’s crew, all robed as Sisters. This mission of mercy travelled beneath a false flag.
‘So that’s where they went.’
Rennic grunted. ‘Our friend the Watcher seems to have banked on your prince’s assent.’
Torht and his attendant led Tarfel to the wagon’s rear while Palo climbed up to the driver’s bench. Tarfel was looking anxiously at the vehicle, almost recoiling from its bulk.
‘We’re travelling right away?’
‘Indeed,’ came Torht’s reply.
‘In this?’
‘Rest assured, it is more comfortable inside than it looks. I’m told.’
Dalim’s henchmen led out a string of pack mules, two spare for Chel and Rennic. Rennic eyed the mules with distaste. They did not look even-tempered. Rennic breathed deep through his nose, shook his head and wandered over.
A flutter of wings from above announced the flight of a dozen doves, soaring into the silver sky from somewhere deep beneath the Sepulchre. They wheeled and split, disappearing over the walls and out of sight in a dozen different directions. Chel watched them, wondering if each of them carried a different message, and to where. The partisans must have agents all over the kingdom. Everywhere …
Torht was beside him, his eyeless face beatific. ‘You hear the doves, Founin? Great wheels have begun to turn.’
‘How are you getting the message to Prince Mendel?’ Chel kept his voice low, mindful of potential eavesdroppers.
Torht turned, dragging his attendant back half a pace.
‘Yes, Vedren Chel?’
‘If he’s watched by the Thorn at all times, how are you going to get Prince Tarfel’s message to him?’
Torht smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.
‘The crown prince escapes their notice on special occasions. For example, when he pays a moonlit visit to his betrothed, the confessors will maintain a safe distance, lest their sacred vows be tested.’
Chel frowned. The mention of Latifah, Mendel’s intended, had raised the hairs on his neck. People call her Latifah the Dim, sometimes to her face, poor lamb.
‘If,’ Torht continued, ‘we had, for example, an agent in the young lady’s retinue, I imagine it would be only too easy to slip a message into the prince’s belongings while he was otherwise occupied.’
Chel swallowed. You know, bit of this, bit of that. Making friends, keeping my eyes open.
‘Do you have such an agent?’
Torht’s smile affected insincere uncertainty. ‘Perhaps.’
I’m not a duckling, Bear.
‘And what would be her name?’
‘Dear Master Chel, I think you already know.’