The Grim Company

Friends in High Places

Eremul wiped sweat from his brow and attempted to dry his hands on his filthy robes. He succeeded only in smearing mud, sweat and other assorted scum further over his palms and fouled garments. With a muttered curse, he squinted down the hill that overlooked the harbour, attempting to catch sight of the utter bastard who had upended his chair and scampered off with a handful of coins he had spectacularly failed to earn.

The White Lady’s agents will be positively awed to make my acquaintance. Filthy, bruised and stinking of mud and shit. Perfect.

Of course, the lout Eremul had hired couldn’t have guessed the pitiful cripple he was pushing uphill was a mage. If he had, there wasn’t a chance in hell he would have tipped him unceremoniously onto his arse and run off back down the hill.

He had come within a whisker of evoking a powerful wind to sweep the treacherous son of a bitch from the bluff and send him hurtling towards a messy death on the rocks far below. Perhaps the only reason he hadn’t was the sudden shock at finding his useless body flopping around on the muddy ground. It had taken all of his strength to right his chair and somehow pull himself back on again.

Damn it, Isaac. Where are you?

The small band of rebels had not returned to Dorminia and Eremul was beginning to worry. Isaac was loyal and usually competent when it really mattered, despite his frequent buffoonery. The fellow he had hired to manoeuvre him to the top of Raven’s Bluff, on the other hand, was typical of the lowlifes he had no choice but to tolerate on a daily basis. Only a select handful of Dorminians knew he was a mage and therefore treated him with a modicum of respect. The rest saw a scrawny, bookish cripple who was known to be irascible and hence the perfect target for all manner of cruel japes.

About the only use they have for books is to fuel their hearths during winter’s coldest months — or else wipe their arses with in the case of an emergency.

He had considered moving to a more affluent part of the city, but that would entail swapping honest ignorance for conceited superiority and insufferable pomposity. Frankly, that wasn’t a trade he was willing to make. Besides, the unassuming nature of the locals suited his purposes. The more distance between himself and his masters in the Noble Quarter, the better.

The ruined lighthouse loomed ahead, illuminated by the crescent moon in the clear midnight sky above. The tower here at Raven’s Bluff had once overlooked the point where the harbour opened up into Deadman’s Channel. As Dorminia had grown the harbour had expanded. New lighthouses had been constructed further along the coast, leaving this old building obsolete.

The Halfmage squinted at the tower, searching for any sign of his mysterious contacts within. He could see nothing except darkness. The structure soared before him like some giant skeletal finger stuck in the ground, as dead and silent as a corpse.

The thought made him uneasy. Thelassa’s enigmatic Magelord was said to practise strange magic and maintained a strict isolationist policy. Merchants required a special permit to trade and visitors were strictly monitored.

Those who had spent time in the City of Towers reported it to be a wondrous place, as beautiful as Dorminia was ugly, where fairness and equality were there to be had by all. More disturbing accounts made reference to queer things such as apparitions that materialized and then disappeared just as suddenly, pale women who seemed normal apart from their eyes, which were as dead as those of a corpse, and last but not least mass orgies in the streets, so licentious that the white marble of the city itself seemed to pulse with pleasure.

The White Lady was potentially a very useful ally — but Eremul didn’t approach anything without a healthy dose of scepticism. Expect the worst and you can’t be disappointed. Optimism is the luxury of the young, the foolish and the dullard.

His arms shaking from exertion, the Halfmage wheeled his chair up to the rotting old door at the foot of the tower. It was overhung with a thick mass of cobwebs that had not been disturbed in many a moon. He sagged.

They aren’t here. Have they been discovered? Dorminia and Thelassa are technically at peace, but any fool can see war is imminent. The White Lady’s agents could be protesting their innocence in the dungeons of the Obelisk at this very moment.

Without warning, the door suddenly creaked open. Husks of long-dead spiders and ancient, clinging cobwebs showered him, torn away from the wall above the door by a sudden breeze. He cursed and shook his head violently, brushing his hands carefully over his robes. He hated spiders.

Yet another layer of finery to add to my glorious attire. Sweat, dirt, shit, and dead arachnids and half-eaten insects. At least I haven’t pissed myself. Yet.

‘Enter,’ commanded a feminine voice from within. Eremul plucked away a spindly leg dangling from one eyebrow and pushed his chair into the building. The interior was a damp and filthy ruin. A trio of thick candles on a table in the centre of the circular chamber provided the only light. There was a stairwell on the other side of the chamber, and the draught from that black maw caused the flames to dance as they illuminated the women around the table.

There were three of them. Each of the women was slender and pale and wore a plain white robe down to her ankles. They watched him expectantly. Something about their eyes seemed strange, he thought. And there was something else-

Eremul stared in shock. None of the women cast a shadow.

The tallest bowed slightly. ‘We appreciate you coming here,’ she said in a voice that was soft, controlled and completely devoid of emotion. ‘You may refer to me as First Voice. I speak with the authority of the White Lady. These are Second Voice and Third Voice.’ She gestured to the women to either side of her.

Eremul raised an eyebrow. So it’s going to be like this. ‘You can call me Halfmage,’ he replied. ‘I would bow in return and kiss each of your hands, but you would surely grow tired of lifting me off the floor. In any case, I find formality overrated.’

First Voice nodded, unperturbed by his poor attempt at humour. ‘You are known to us, Eremul Kaldrian. You are far more than you appear.’

He shrugged. ‘Not a particularly impressive feat, it must be said.’

‘We uncovered one of your agents in Thelassa,’ replied Second Voice. ‘He was most forthcoming.’

Eremul nodded. He had expected as much. ‘Is he unharmed?’ he asked, almost fearing the answer.

‘He is. When it became apparent that our interests were similarly aligned, we had no reason to use more… creative means of coercion.’

‘What did he tell you?’

This time First Voice replied. ‘He told us much about you. You were once a favoured apprentice of the Tyrant of Dorminia. When Salazar ordered the Culling and those with the gift were put to death, he chose to spare you. Why was this?’

The Halfmage frowned. He had asked himself the same question often enough over the years. ‘I would like to think my wit and charm made me indispensable,’ he began, ‘but I fear the truth is somewhat simpler.’ He leaned forwards in his chair. ‘My magic was too weak to pose a threat. Even a ruthless murdering bastard like Salazar recognized that having another wizard around might one day prove useful to him. I was maimed and cast out of the Obelisk, with one final set of instructions.’

‘Which were?’ asked Third Voice softly.

‘I was to act as a spy and informant for his lordship. Who better to masquerade as an insurrectionist than one who had suffered so visibly at his hands? I have thwarted many a nefarious and wholly incompetent plot against Salazar.’

Second Voice took a step towards him, and he saw immediately what was wrong with the eyes of the women. They were entirely colourless save for the black pupils at their centres. ‘You serve the Tyrant of Dorminia? Tell us why we should not kill you now.’

Eremul sighed. ‘Trust must be earned before it can be betrayed, no? Believe me when I say I hate Salazar more than anyone in this city. But the only way I can truly work against him, the only way I can survive, is by pretending I am a loyal servant of his regime. To maintain that illusion, I must sometimes feed the magistrates useful information.’

‘Information that means the deaths of the unfortunates involved,’ said Second Voice, again without emotion.

Eremul gripped the sides of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white. ‘Those are the sacrifices that must be made.’ He let out a deep sigh and sagged in his chair. ‘Look, I could wheel myself up to the Obelisk while proclaiming Salazar to be a cunt of the highest order. Apart from a fleeting sense of satisfaction, that would achieve precisely fuck all, except to earn a rather messy death. So I play a longer game.’

First Voice held out a hand and beckoned to Second Voice, who returned to her side. ‘If your intentions were truly in any doubt,’ she said slowly, ‘you would not walk away from here.’

Eremul raised an eyebrow.

‘You would not leave here,’ First Voice amended.

‘Are you threatening me?’ Eremul asked, almost pleasantly. He drummed his fingers on the sides of his chair.

‘You have no idea what you face,’ answered First Voice. ‘Your magic would be of little use against us.’

‘What are you?’

‘You may call us… the Unborn. We walk in places others cannot. In time you will not remember our faces. I trust you are not planning to test your magic against us?’

The Halfmage shook his head. ‘I prefer to avoid unnecessary violence. Waving one’s prick around and spoiling for a fight always strikes me as the privilege of the barbarian or some other testosterone-fuelled brute. I’m a survivor.’

First Voice nodded. ‘Then we are of accord. You will not betray us.’

‘I don’t plan to,’ Eremul agreed. ‘Now that we’ve established I am on your side, why did you summon me here? What do you want of me?’

‘Nothing,’ replied First Voice. ‘The White Lady simply wished to establish your intentions. She will move against Salazar soon.’

‘Salazar… or Dorminia?’ asked Eremul carefully. ‘I would rather this city didn’t become another Shadowport.’

First Voice folded her hands beneath her breasts. Her strange, empty eyes gave nothing away. ‘The White Lady wants to liberate Dorminia, not destroy it. She grieves for Shadowport and what was done to the people of that city. She has concluded that Salazar must die.’

For the first time in the course of this clandestine meeting, Eremul found himself smiling. ‘Tell me how I can help.’

‘You cannot,’ First Voice said. ‘Preparations have already been made. The risks are great, and it is possible we may fail. If we do not succeed, the White Lady will contact you again.’

‘Any hints as to what you’re planning? Give a poor crippled mage something to cling to. It helps keep me warm at night.’

First Voice shook her head. ‘The less that you know of our plan the better.’

‘Fine,’ Eremul said, rather irritably. ‘If we have nothing more to discuss, I’ll bid you goodnight.’ Besides, my arse is throbbing and I desperately need to piss.

‘Remember,’ said First Voice, as her sisters placed a hand on each of her narrow shoulders. ‘Speak of this to nobody. Betray us and you will suffer consequences beyond your-’

‘Bah, shove your threats,’ Eremul interrupted. ‘I’ve heard it all before. I’ve suffered it all before. I may be a traitor and a turncoat, but at least do me the honour of taking me at my word when I tell you-’

He stopped short. He was speaking to thin air. The candles on the table had burned down to tiny stumps that flickered feebly, surrounded by pools of wax. The pale women had simply disappeared.

Eremul shivered. There had been no magic at work, or at least none that he could sense.

He spun his chair around and wheeled himself back outside, breathing in the crisp night air and listening to the sounds of water lapping against the cliff below. He tried to recall the faces of all the men and women whom he had betrayed to the magistrates. People like him, united in their hatred for the city’s despotic ruler and determined to bring about a future free from his tyrannical rule.

Sentenced to death. By me, the unassuming, maimed scribe hiding in plain sight among the fakeries of book and tome and scroll. A… spider, damn it, yes, the irony… a spider at the centre of a web of deceit. Bitterness welled up inside him. He swallowed it down. One day Salazar and his cronies would learn that this spider had venom.

Shoulders slumped and bladder bursting, Eremul forced his aching arms into motion and pushed his chair back down Raven’s Bluff towards the harbour — and, for want of a better word, home.