“Where?”
“I would hope you’d be able to tell me. Somewhere private, where we can talk freely.”
He thought a moment. “You ever seen a bull shark being butchered, m’lady? Quite a sight, though not for the squeamish. You come along to the butcherin’ hut in a little while, and we’ll be able to talk. I’ll see that we’re given some space. And if anyone asks, we’ll just say I was giving you a lesson on shark anatomy. You’re a curious sort, that’s well enough known. Might give you something to talk about with the Great One too when next you sit down for some dinner.”
She nodded, thinking it through, and supposed that he was right. It would make for decent cover, she decided. “Done. I’ll meet you there shortly.”
“Aye, but give it an hour,” he told her, looking over to the longhall at the heart of the village. It had been built from the bones of an overturned galley. Smoke rose from the chimney and Amara could hear laughter rolling out from inside. “I’m known to like a drink or three when I come back from the lake, so best keep up appearances, don’t you think?”
That made sense. “An hour, then. I’ll continue my wandering until we meet. Thankfully, I’m known for that too.”
“It all fits like a glove.” Captain grinned, bowed, and stepped away.
Amara looked out toward the mouth of the cave, wondering what was happening in the world beyond. Soon, is all she thought. I’ll find out soon.
19
“So what happens now?” Amilia Lukar asked, looking down at the repulsive little corpse.
“Well…” Lord Morwood scratched his big nose. “Typically there would be a…a trial, I suppose. I would be called as a…as a witness and required to give my testimony, and you…well, I’m sorry to say, Amilia, but you would be found guilty. There was no premeditation, and no intent to kill, but…well, he is dead, my lady.”
And good riddance, she thought. Standing here before the corpse of Lord Emmit Gershan, she had wondered if she would feel anything, any guilt or remorse, anything at all, but no, there was nothing so much as a flicker of that. “Yes,” she said. “I can see that plainly enough. So you’re to tell me, Trillion, that I’m to be put on trial?”
“Well…in a normal case…”
She waved it away. “Let’s forget all that, shall we? We’ll just say he tripped and hit his head. Like my grandfather Modrik. These old men can be clumsy when they’re drunk.”
“Drunk? But he hadn’t been drinking, Amilia.”
“He didn’t trip by accident either, but let’s not mention that. It was only us, Archie, and Anna in the room. Let’s not make this any more complicated than it needs to be.”
“No, my lady. No, of course. We can just say he tripped, as you say.” He had another scratch at that big bulbous nose of his. “The damage to his face, though…”
The old creature had a nasty gash on his chin, severing the flesh almost to the bone of the jaw, and a good number of his old rotted teeth had been smashed out and shattered, leaving his mouth a red ruin. That was the work of Amilia’s golden chalice, hurled into his ugly smirking maw. What had killed him was the crack to the back of the skull, however. A simple fall could not possibly have done both.
But Amilia Lukar didn’t care. Even if the word got out of what happened, she didn’t imagine much would come of it. “I’m a princess, Trillion. Well enough liked, I’m led to believe. And this little old cretin was widely despised. Just make it all go away. I’ll leave it with you.” She turned to step away.
“My lady, there’s another matter…”
“Yes, what now?” She turned back to face him.
“This um, portal, you spoke of. And the system of tunnels, through the mountain. You have not yet shown me the way, my lady. As you said you would.”
“Did I? I must have been drunk.”
“Well, you had been on the wine, that is true.” He rubbed at his jowls, thick with stiff bristles. “You did not…make that up, did you? This of…of Ilith, and the refuge?”
I could say yes, she thought. Pretend it was all some jest. But no, that would be a little too petty, even for her. “I was telling the truth, Trillion.” Damn you Jonik, for making me do that. “If you want to find this door, I advise you send men through to search for it. I wouldn’t know the way back, even if I wanted to. It’s a maze in there, and not a fun one, and black as pitch as well. There are chasms, ridges, tunnels so tight that anyone with a bit too much upholstery might struggle to squeeze themselves through. Now it’s possible there are many different ways to reach the portal, but if there are, I don’t know them. So please, leave me out of it.”
“Yes, my lady. I…of course.”
“Good. Then I’ll leave it with you.” She prepared to step away, then stopped, remembering something. “Did you send word to Lord Mortimer, as I asked you?”
Morwood gave a nod. “I had Archibald send a crow.”
“Will it reach him, do you think?”
“Hard to say. There are still reports of these crow-killing dragons flying above our lands, but they’re not so numerous as they once were. When Lord Mortimer writes back, we’ll know that word got through, and if not, we’ll write again.”
It was the best Amilia could hope for, lest she send men on horseback and that would take too long. The letter had been written in her own hand, a plea to ask Lord Mortimer of Clearwater Castle to search for her dear friend Astrid, whom she hadn’t seen since the loathsome mage Meknyr had lulled them all down that cold and windy road, posing as Sir Munroe Moore. Amilia had been assured during her time in the refuge that Astrid had not been harmed, that both she and Kegs the big smiling wagon-driver had been sent back the way they had come, but Amilia wanted to know for sure. Astrid saved my life, she thought. And I promised her a place at my side, here in Ilithor. If she could go looking for the girl herself, she would, but she couldn’t, she was too far away. So she would have to leave it to others.
She turned and strode away, out of Lord Gershan’s festering bedchamber, which had taken on the stink of a sickbay since his fall. Now that he was officially deceased, however, he would be removed down to the crypts, and subsequently sent back up to those dreary old moorlands from whence the old lech had come. I’ve done this city a favour, she thought. And the girls of the palace in particular. Nary a day went by when Gershan didn’t grab at some poor serving girl or chambermaid inappropriately, threatening and cajoling them into joining him in his bed. Perhaps I’ll gather them all around so they can spit upon his corpse.
She met Sir Mallister outside the room, dressed in the triple-coloured cloak of the Six. “How is he, my lady?”
“Dead,” she said.
“Oh.” Mallister Monsort dipped his chin in sullen respect of the fallen. “He is in the Great Forge now, listening to Tukor in his toil. May he rest in peace.”
That doesn’t sound so peaceful. Amilia had never much liked the idea of the Great Forge, where the sons and daughters of Tukor all went when they died. It all seemed so terrible sweaty and noisy. The Hall of Green sounded much more pleasant, though of course that was reserved for the Emerald Guards. Even in the afterlife, these knights get the finest treatment. The Hall of Green. Varin’s Table. Even the Suncoats of Rasalan had a great chamber to call their own, down in the sea god’s halls.
They began walking down the wide carpeted corridor, the lanterns lit, dusk falling. Through the tall arched windows they saw skies soaked in sunset, great shredded banners of broken cloud rippling in russet and red. Further down, the city was starting to twinkle, ten thousand lights blinking awake.
Why would anyone want to leave? Amilia Lukar wondered. Why exchange the wonders of Ilithor for that cold lifeless mausoleum and its population of creeping mages? If the war was to reach them here, perhaps, but so far they had not been troubled. And that journey to the door. She did not imagine many would want to make it, lest Morwood and his men carve out an easier route. What was Ilith thinking, putting his portal all the way back there? Clearly he had intended to build a road there before he died, cutting out a great smooth corridor through the rock, bridging the chasms, for his people to move easily to the door. Well, he’s not dead anymore. Perhaps he ought to get back to work…
Sir Mallister interrupted her thoughts. “Your mother was asking for you again, my lady,” he said, as they strolled along. “She calls for you every day.”
