night’s activities, he thought it better than to sit back and catch some sleep, lest he never wake again. He knew the mind of the older sister scowling at him all too well.
Imagine the awe on the faces of the drunks who witnessed the three of us entering the depository together in the early hours of the morning. I would help spread a scurrilous rumour, but I suspect my legend is already stretched to the very edge of plausibility.
‘What are you smiling at? I’m still not sure I buy your story, Halfmage.’
Eremul’s amusement drained away. He frowned back at Cyreena or Ambryl or whatever she was calling herself these days. He was still struggling with the bizarre circumstances in which the sisters had been reunited – a turn of events that could rival any of the hero’s tales he had read for sheer absurdity.
‘You’ve seen the evidence,’ he replied. He patted his robe, where the page he had removed from the tome back at the depository lay carefully wrapped beside the grisly trophy they had cut from the rebel’s corpse earlier that night.
‘I’ve seen an illustration in a dusty old book. A book that is more than likely a flight of fancy, intended to mislead gullible fools into believing in some mythic past rather than facing the mundane truth.’
Eremul frowned. ‘Mundanity is a matter of perspective, especially when one is a wizard. Besides, Saltierre was no Kenats.’
Kenats had been a historian who had gained fame for presenting previously unknown facts about the Age of Legends. Later it had been discovered that he had fabricated almost everything he had written, employing an army of stooges to ‘corroborate’ his research. The fraud had ended up in a prison in Kingsport, and was eventually stabbed to death by a disgruntled inmate distraught to learn that the many-breasted wandering succubus did not in fact exist.
‘I distrust the word of any man who chooses to isolate himself with nothing but a quill and his imagination for company,’ Cyreena stated. ‘I can think of no vocation quite so emasculating.’
‘Then you of all people should have no issue with scribes of every stripe,’ Eremul snapped back. The woman was starting to grate on his nerves. ‘We have irrefutable evidence that the rebels are connected to the Fade. The script on that tattoo is a perfect match with the ancient Fade script Saltierre transcribed in his book. I only wish he had recorded the meaning. With any luck, the White Lady will possess the means to translate it.’
Sasha blinked a few times, disentangling herself from the dark thoughts Eremul knew preoccupied her. She had said little since they had left the depository. ‘I believe you. I knew there was something strange about Isaac.’
Eremul grimaced at the mention of his erstwhile manservant. ‘The legends state certain among the Fade possessed an ability to beguile that is akin to magic. I believe Isaac manipulated me for years. You recall I sent him to the Wailing Rift with you back in the summer? No doubt that was his intention all along. He wished to guide events towards his own ends… whatever they were.’
The pain that flashed across Sasha’s face at his mention of the Rift surprised the Halfmage, and he said nothing more for a time. He watched the harbourside sprawl, noting once again the sorry state in which the city found itself. Dorminia was still reeling from the destruction caused by the catapults and ballistae the Thelassan army had unleashed. Last night’s arson attacks had hit hard; the damage was extensive. He watched as a Collector hauled the body of a woman from the husk of yet another burned-out building.
Sasha shook her head. ‘The common folk can’t take much more. I thought the worst was behind us.’
‘Trust me when I say the worst is always to come. Be grateful you weren’t visiting Shadowport when Salazar dropped a billion tons of water on the city.’
‘I heard the White Lady is sending ships to look for survivors,’
Imagine the awe on the faces of the drunks who witnessed the three of us entering the depository together in the early hours of the morning. I would help spread a scurrilous rumour, but I suspect my legend is already stretched to the very edge of plausibility.
‘What are you smiling at? I’m still not sure I buy your story, Halfmage.’
Eremul’s amusement drained away. He frowned back at Cyreena or Ambryl or whatever she was calling herself these days. He was still struggling with the bizarre circumstances in which the sisters had been reunited – a turn of events that could rival any of the hero’s tales he had read for sheer absurdity.
‘You’ve seen the evidence,’ he replied. He patted his robe, where the page he had removed from the tome back at the depository lay carefully wrapped beside the grisly trophy they had cut from the rebel’s corpse earlier that night.
‘I’ve seen an illustration in a dusty old book. A book that is more than likely a flight of fancy, intended to mislead gullible fools into believing in some mythic past rather than facing the mundane truth.’
Eremul frowned. ‘Mundanity is a matter of perspective, especially when one is a wizard. Besides, Saltierre was no Kenats.’
Kenats had been a historian who had gained fame for presenting previously unknown facts about the Age of Legends. Later it had been discovered that he had fabricated almost everything he had written, employing an army of stooges to ‘corroborate’ his research. The fraud had ended up in a prison in Kingsport, and was eventually stabbed to death by a disgruntled inmate distraught to learn that the many-breasted wandering succubus did not in fact exist.
‘I distrust the word of any man who chooses to isolate himself with nothing but a quill and his imagination for company,’ Cyreena stated. ‘I can think of no vocation quite so emasculating.’
‘Then you of all people should have no issue with scribes of every stripe,’ Eremul snapped back. The woman was starting to grate on his nerves. ‘We have irrefutable evidence that the rebels are connected to the Fade. The script on that tattoo is a perfect match with the ancient Fade script Saltierre transcribed in his book. I only wish he had recorded the meaning. With any luck, the White Lady will possess the means to translate it.’
Sasha blinked a few times, disentangling herself from the dark thoughts Eremul knew preoccupied her. She had said little since they had left the depository. ‘I believe you. I knew there was something strange about Isaac.’
Eremul grimaced at the mention of his erstwhile manservant. ‘The legends state certain among the Fade possessed an ability to beguile that is akin to magic. I believe Isaac manipulated me for years. You recall I sent him to the Wailing Rift with you back in the summer? No doubt that was his intention all along. He wished to guide events towards his own ends… whatever they were.’
The pain that flashed across Sasha’s face at his mention of the Rift surprised the Halfmage, and he said nothing more for a time. He watched the harbourside sprawl, noting once again the sorry state in which the city found itself. Dorminia was still reeling from the destruction caused by the catapults and ballistae the Thelassan army had unleashed. Last night’s arson attacks had hit hard; the damage was extensive. He watched as a Collector hauled the body of a woman from the husk of yet another burned-out building.
Sasha shook her head. ‘The common folk can’t take much more. I thought the worst was behind us.’
‘Trust me when I say the worst is always to come. Be grateful you weren’t visiting Shadowport when Salazar dropped a billion tons of water on the city.’
‘I heard the White Lady is sending ships to look for survivors,’
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