Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (39 page)

Adelmar took his wife’s hands. “By orders of the emperor,” he told her. “It seems the war goes poorly, and I am to take command of the campaign. We must stay to see the Order’s tower completed, and then we depart for The Vigil.”

“So we’re to once more don chainmail and march with your army, the girls and I?” He smiled at Ellara’s tendency towards the dramatic. The three of them had in fact been carried south in the most luxurious carriage the north had been able to provide. “Can we not remain here? What use would we be in yet another gloomy fortress?”

The idea of his wife and daughters roaming unchecked through the streets and boutiques of Ehrenburg made his blood run cold. Even worse was the thought of leaving them unsupervised in his brother’s company. “It would affect my ability to command, without you by my side, you know that,” he said. “My mind would be distracted.”

It was the right approach to take. Ellara demurred, though was obviously still not overjoyed at the prospect of leaving the capital so soon. With a sad smile, she kissed his cheek and disappeared into their bedroom, to change back into her more comfortable day-clothes.

Adelmar watched her as she left, the dark mood that had settled heavily upon his shoulders all morning lifting at last. Aside from his disagreement with his father over his attendance at the next service the Archon would deliver at Ehrenburg’s grand cathedral, he was pleased with the morning’s outcome. It would feel good to march to war shoulder to shoulder with his troops once again. As badly as the campaign had started it was not lost yet. He had spent the last two nights poring over intelligence reports, and was looking forward to turning his mind towards plotting a way of penetrating the enemy defences.

As he left his chambers, headed for the barracks to commence the preparations required for their departure, Prince Adelmar’s heart was light.

*      *      *

If the nobles of Ehrenburg, the fine lords and ladies that graced the imperial court, believed in one thing, it was hierarchy. They were secure in the knowledge that some were simply born better than others. That on society’s ladder they were, if not at the very top, the position occupied by the emperor and his sons, they were, at most, just one rung below.

Within that stratum, there was a near-infinite spectrum of subtleties of position, never still, ever-changing. A successful reception could catapult a minor lordling to within a hair’s breadth of the soles of the emperor’s feet, standing on the rung above. Similarly, an indiscretion or careless faux pas could prove catastrophic, knocking a heralded dignitary from their lofty perch to within grasping distance of the rabble below. It was a game that took a lifetime to master, and where even the best players were never immune to the caprices of fate. All of the key players were at all times acutely aware of the relative positions of their rivals; objects of either envy or scorn.

Such was their sense of superiority, that many of these nobles would be surprised to learn that the same ruthless attitude towards status existed in each of the rungs below them. Indeed, most would be shocked that the chaotic masses below them could be distinguished from one another at all. They were dimly aware, perhaps, that people were involved somewhere in producing and laundering their clothes, cleaning their estates and providing them with sustenance. But if those involved in those processes entered their thoughts at all, it was as a faceless grey entity, its constituent parts identical and interchangeable.

But it is human nature to seek out hierarchy, and jealousy and ambition are not exclusive to the upper classes. Nowhere in the capital was this more apparent than in the imperial palace itself. The servants who lived and worked above ground knew they were superior because it was they who tended in person to the lords and ladies, the emperor and the princes. Scores of valets, footmen, chambermaids and grooms kept their masters clean and dressed and cared for their horses; often treating them better than they did their own spouses or offspring.

Below ground, the kitchens were a hive of activity at all hours, day and night. The vaulted cellars were always full of smoke, steam and clamour. Great stoves and ovens forever burned, iron kettles large enough to bathe a full-grown man always boiled over red-hot coals. The air was full of the aromas of roasted meats, fragrant spices and fresh-baked breads. The battalion of cooks, porters and pot-boys that tended the kitchens knew that they were superior, for if not for they, who would keep the masters fed?

Where both sets of servants found common ground, however, was in their disdain for those whose existences were played out in the under-cellars. Immediately beneath the bustling kitchens and larders were a number of disused and dusty storerooms, full of oddments of furniture and long-forgotten possessions accrued by centuries of imperial rule. This level also contained a large and fully stocked wine cellar, where racks of cobwebbed bottles lined the walls between tuns of ale and mead the size of cottages. Set deep within the rocky mount that the palace was built upon, the temperature remained cool and constant all year round.

Beneath these were the dungeons, the domain of burly and uncouth gaolers. They did not believe themselves superior to anyone, aside from the hollow-eyed, malnourished forms that populated the dark, dank cells. It was a source of both entertainment and scientific enquiry for the cell-keepers, to find the fine line that existed between survival and fatal neglect; discovering the bare minimum of food, water and warmth needed to sustain life.

The surly and unwashed wardens of the dungeon were aware there was a level even below their own. A shudder went through them on the rare occasions somebody mentioned The Pit. The wretched souls unfortunate enough to end up in that ceaseless darkness were not offered even their callous ministrations. The denizens of that place were mourned by their families the day they were taken, though their deaths, down in the black depths of the imperial mount, may not occur until years later. None who entered The Pit ever returned.

The gaolers’ knowledge of the subterranean passages beneath the Palace ended there. Even Chamberlain Wyverley, who prided himself on his knowledge of the every brick and tile of the imperial palace, knew nothing of the secret places far below.

But Jarrod knew them. The abyssal darkness that existed below even The Pit melted away as the young prince’s torch descended a rough-cut stairway. As he set foot on the rocky, uneven floor of the hidden passage, he peered hopefully ahead into the gloom. It was no use, however; the flickering orange glow did little more than accentuate the darkness beyond. He sighed, and began to pick his way through foul-smelling puddles that besmirched his coal-black moleskin boots. Whether the murky water was merely stagnant or was in fact some ghastly leakage from the palace garderobes far above he was unsure, but the noxious vapours arising from the puddles he disturbed soon filled the tunnels. Jarrod’s narrow face wrinkled in disgust, and he clamped his free hand firmly against his nose. Why did the blasted man insist on meeting in this place? Jarrod was a firm believer in secrecy, many of his habits demanded it, but nevertheless such measures seemed excessive even to him.

Familiarity guided his feet through a labyrinthine network of passages, though even so he took care not to rush. Green slime of uncertain origin dripped down the walls and collected on the ground. A wrong step would send him slipping headlong into the darkness. Losing either his torch or his bearings would likely mean his death in such a place, for who would find him? Conceited as he was, Jarrod was under no illusion that the person he was to meet would lose a wink of sleep if he did not arrive, and was never seen nor heard from again.

Some time later, he found the meeting place. Dim light seeped out from a doorway hacked unevenly into the passage. He ducked his head beneath a low stone lintel to enter, and found himself standing in a sparsely furnished room. In one corner was a table filled with odd-shaped bottles, jars and other alchemical apparatus. Several shelves had been erected nearby, containing a variety of thick, musty tomes... the very sight of which bored him immediately. On the wall above the table a map of the Empire had been pinned. In the middle of the room were two chairs and a tall candelabra standing between them. A solitary candle was burning, casting a feeble glow around the room. The light from this did not extend to the far corner of the room, where another chair had been placed. Unlike the others, this one was occupied. A pair of feet and the bottom of a brown-coloured cassock were all that emerged from the shadows.

“You came.” A man’s voice, deep and laced with bemusement. “I was beginning to worry that you were lost.”

“I’m deeply touched by your concern,” Jarrod replied, lowering himself into one of the vacant chairs. It did not escape his notice that he was now the most brightly lit object in the room, while the other speaker remained shrouded in shadow. “Could I recommend the Wainwright’s Tavern for your next furtive encounter? Far easier to find and the ale is to die for.” He considered a moment. “Or from, possibly. So why did you choose such a place for us to meet?” he added, with a glance at their surroundings. “Would your chambers not have been more fitting?”

“The walls of the palace have ears, my prince,” the man replied. “These walls, on the other hand, are so old and forgotten they have grown deaf.”             

Such confidence!
No guards, no weapon that he could see. He felt the bulge of the stiletto at his hip. It would be so easy to plunge it into his host’s chest and put an end to his infuriating smugness once and for all.
Alas, I have need of him,
he thought regretfully.
For now.
There was also something in the shrouded man’s manner that almost seemed to invite such a move. There was a latent power there, at rest but no less threatening, like a sleeping crag cat.

There was a low chuckle from the corner of the room. “Did you see Prince Adelmar?”

“I did.” Jarrod’s face twisted with distaste. “He didn’t go for it, just as I predicted. He practically tossed the chain I gave him on to the midden-heap before I even left his chambers. You can take the tired, old, lame warhorse to water, but unfortunately you can’t drown him in it.”

“Not when he’s a prince of the realm and heir to the imperial throne.” The voice was calm. Jarrod was relieved; he’d been braced for anger. “No matter. Converting Prince Adelmar to our cause would have been a convenient solution, but it is far from the only one available to us.”

“I could steal into his bedchamber tonight, and place the stone around his neck myself,” Jarrod offered.

The hood shook from side to side in the shadows. “Alas, ours is a gift that must be accepted willingly. There is nothing to be gained from forcing it upon another. Your brother also spoke to the emperor this morning.”

Jarrod flicked a speck of imaginary dust from his lace cuff. “Yes, I saw them leave together, thick as thieves. No doubt by now father has given him his favourite speech about chains and fucking... and believe me it isn’t as interesting as it sounds.” He smiled. “Dear old Addled came out looking like the cat that got the cream, so doubtless that means he’s off to join the fighting any time now. I suppose it’s too much to ask that a Tenebrian lens-tower does for him like Jug-Ears Galvarey.”

“Ah, the great white hope.” There was genuine sorrow in the speaker’s voice. “The emperor was loath to call on the Bloody Prince until the invasion was well underway, but he’s been left with little choice in the matter. It suits our purpose, so I have done little to dissuade him.”

“You want him to lead the campaign, winning himself more fame and glory no doubt. Not that he needs it.” Jarrod was appalled. “Whatever for?”

The shadowy figure sighed. “The prince could have been a useful tool, but it seems as though that avenue is no longer open to us. He remains an obstacle.”

A slow grin crept across Jarrod’s face. “Yes, and war can be such a dangerous place,” he mused. “A burned ship, a stray arrow. I’ve heard even the beasts of that land are savage and untamed. So many dangers. Why, it would almost be a shock if he came back at all.”

“It presents us with a unique opportunity to advance our plans,” the deep voice agreed. “But it is too important a matter to be left to fate. Sometimes, a helping hand is required.”

Jarrod leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Intrigue, is it? How delicious! I’ve always said that the only game worth betting on is the one that’s been rigged. But how would it be done? The Bloody Fool will be surrounded by his loyal guards day and night.”

“If we have the right man in place, then the opportunity will eventually come. All we will require is patience.”

“But who can be trusted with such a task? Even if we have a man’s loyalty, it must be done right. No suspicion can be allowed to fall back on to ourselves.”

“I have an idea or two. Your father once again provided us the means. It was unwise to draw attention to yourself this morning at court.”

Jarrod’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“When I saw him after your brother had left, the emperor was quite insistent that both of his sons should join the campaign. I tried to change his mind, of course.” The shadowed figure spread his hands in a gesture of apology. “But, alas, in this my counsel was not heeded. It seems His Excellency believes the experience will be beneficial for all concerned.”

Jarrod paled. “You mean...”

The figure leaned forward into the candlelight. From the recesses of the hood he wore, a pair of emerald-green eyes glittered. “Yes, my prince,” the Archon said. “Pack your belongings. You’re going to war.”