Sen Dunsidan took a long pull on his ale and set the glass aside. “You will forgive me, sir, if I voice a note of skepticism. I don’t know you, but I do know her. I know what she can do. I know what happens to those who betray her, and I do not intend to become one of them.”
“Perhaps you would do better to be afraid of me. I am the one who stands here in front of you.”
“Perhaps. But the Dark Lady has a way of showing up when least expected. Show me her head, and I will be more than happy to discuss a new agreement.”
The cloaked figure laughed softly. “Well spoken, Minister. You offer a politician’s answer to a tough demand. But I think you must reconsider. Look at me.”
He reached up for his hood and pulled it away to reveal his face. It was the face of the Ilse Witch, youthful and smooth and filled with danger. Sen Dunsidan started in spite of himself. Then the girl’s face changed, almost as if it were a mirage, and became Sen Dunsidan’s—hard planes and edges, piercing blue eyes, silvery hair worn long, and a half smile that seemed ready to promise anything.
“You and I are very much alike, Minister.”
The face changed again. Another took its place, the face of a younger man, but it was no one Sen Dunsidan had ever seen. It was nondescript, bland to the point of being forgettable, devoid of interesting or memorable features.
“Is this who I really am, Minister? Do I reveal myself now?” He paused. “Or am I really like this?”
The face shimmered and changed into something monstrous, a reptilian visage with a blunt snout and slits for eyes. Rough, gray scales coated a weathered face, and a wide, serrated mouth opened to reveal rows of sharply pointed teeth. Gimlet eyes, hate-filled and poisonous, glimmered with green fire.
The intruder pulled the hood back into place, and his face disappeared into the resulting shadows. Sen Dunsidan sat motionless in his chair. He was all too aware of what he was being told. This man had the use of a very powerful magic. At the very least, he could shape-shift, and it was likely he could do much more than that. He was a man who enjoyed the excesses of power as much as the Minister of Defense did, and he would use that power in whatever way he felt he must to get what he wanted.
“I said we were alike, Minister,” the intruder whispered. “We both appear as one thing when in truth we are another. I know you. I know you as I know myself. You would do anything to further your power in the hierarchy of the Federation. You indulge yourself in pleasures that are forbidden to other men. You covet what you cannot have and scheme to secure it. You smile and feign friendship when in truth you are the very serpent your enemies fear.”
Sen Dunsidan kept his politician’s smile in place. What was it this creature wanted of him?
“I tell you all this not to anger you, Minister, but to make certain you do not mistake my intent. I am here to help you further your ambitions in exchange for help you can in turn supply to me. I desire to pursue the witch on her voyage. I desire to be there when she does battle with the Druid, as I am certain she must. I desire to catch her with the magic she pursues, because I intend to take it from her and then to take her life. But to accomplish this, I will need a fleet of airships and the men to crew them.”
Sen Dunsidan stared at him in disbelief. “What you ask is impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible, Minister.” The black robes shifted with a soft rustle as the intruder crossed the room. “Is what I ask any more impossible than what you seek?”
The Minister of Defense hesitated. “Which is what?”
“To be Prime Minister. To take control of the Coalition Council once and for all. To rule the Federation, and by doing so, the Four Lands.”
A number of thoughts passed swiftly through Sen Dunsidan’s mind, but all of them came down to one. The intruder was right. Sen Dunsidan would do anything to make himself Prime Minister and control the Coalition Council. Even the Ilse Witch had known of this ambition, though she had never voiced it in such a way as this, a way that suggested it might be within reach.
“Both seem impossible to me,” he answered the other carefully.
“You fail to see what I am telling you,” the intruder said. “I am telling you why I will prove a better ally than the little witch. Who stands between you and your goal? The Prime Minister, who is hardy and well? He will serve long years before he steps down. His chosen successor, the Minister of the Treasury, Jaren Arken? He is a man younger than you and equally powerful, equally ruthless. He aspires to be Minister of Defense, doesn’t he? He seeks your position on the council.”
A cold rage swept through Sen Dunsidan on hearing those words. It was true, of course—all of it. Arken was his worst enemy, a man slippery and elusive as a snake, cold-blooded and reptilian through and through. He wanted the man dead, but had not yet figured out a way to accomplish it. He had asked the Ilse Witch for help, but whatever other exchange of favors she was willing to accept, she had always refused to kill for him.
“What is your offer, Morgawr?” he asked bluntly, tiring of this game.
“Only this. By tomorrow night, the men who stand in your way will be no more. No blame or suspicion will attach to you. The position you covet will be yours for the taking. No one will oppose you. No one will question your right to lead. This is what I can do for you. In exchange, you must do what I ask—give me the ships and the men to sail them. A Minister of Defense can do this, especially when he stands to become Prime Minister.”
The other’s voice became a whisper. “Accept the partnership I am offering, so that not only may we help each other now, but we may help each other again when it becomes necessary.”
Sen Dunsidan took a long moment to consider what was being asked. He badly wanted to be Prime Minister. He would do anything to secure the position. But he mistrusted this creature, this Morgawr, a thing not entirely human, a wielder of magic that could undo a man before he had time to realize what was happening. He was still unconvinced of the advisability of doing what he was being asked to do. He was afraid of the Ilse Witch; he could admit that to himself if to no one else. If he crossed her and she found out, he was a dead man; she would hunt him down and destroy him. On the other hand, if the Morgawr was to destroy her as he said he would, then Sen Dunsidan would do well to rethink his concerns.
A bird in the hand, it was commonly accepted, was worth two in the bush. If a path to the position of Prime Minister of the Coalition Council could be cleared, almost any risk was worth the taking.
“What sort of airships do you need?” he asked quietly. “How many?”
“Are we agreed on a partnership, Minister? Yes or no. Don’t equivocate. Don’t attach conditions. Yes or no.”
Sen Dunsidan was still uncertain, but he could not pass up the chance to advance his own fortunes. Yet when he spoke the word that sealed his fate, he felt as if he were breathing fire. “Yes.”
The Morgawr moved like liquid night, sliding along the edges of the shadows as he eased across the bedchamber. “So be it. I will be back after sunset tomorrow to let you know what your end of the bargain will be.”
Then he was through the doorway and gone.
Sen Dunsidan slept poorly that night, plagued by dreams and wakefulness, burdened with the knowledge that he had sold himself at a price that had yet to be determined and might prove too costly to pay. Yet, while lying awake between bouts of fretful sleep, he pondered the enormity of what might take place, and he could not help but be excited. Surely no price was too great if it meant he would become Prime Minister. A handful of ships and a complement of men, neither of which he cared overmuch about—these were nothing to him. In truth, to gain control of the Federation, he would have obligated himself for much more. In truth, he would have paid any price.
Yet it still might all come to nothing. It might prove nothing more than a fantasy given to test his willingness to abandon the witch as an ally.
But when he woke and while he was dressing to go to the Council chambers, word reached him that the Prime
Minister was dead. The man had gone to sleep and never woken; his heart stopped while he lay in his bed. It was odd, given his good health and relatively young age, but life was filled with surprises.
Sen Dunsidan felt a surge of pleasure and expectation at the news. He allowed himself to believe that the unthinkable might actually be within reach, that the Morgawr’s word might be better than he had dared to hope. Prime Minister Dunsidan, he whispered to himself, deep inside, where his darkest secrets lay hidden.
He arrived at the Coalition Council chambers before he learned that Jaren Arken was dead, as well. The Minister of the Treasury, responding to the news of the Prime Minister’s sudden passing, had rushed from his home in response, the prospect of filling the leadership void no doubt foremost in his thoughts, and had fallen on the steps leading down to the street. He had struck his head on the stone carvings at the bottom. By the time his servants had reached him, he was gone.
Sen Dunsidan took the news in stride, no longer surprised, only pleased and excited. He put on his mourner’s face, and he offered his politician’s responses to all those who approached—and there were many now, because he was the one the Council members were already turning to. He spent the day arranging funerals and tributes, speaking to one and all of his own sorrow and disappointment, all the while consolidating his power. Two such important and effective leaders dead at a single stroke; a strong man must be found to fill the void left by their passing. He offered himself and promised to do the best job he could on behalf of those who supported him.
By nightfall, the talk was no longer of the dead men; the talk was all of him.
He sat waiting in his chambers for a long time after sunset, speculating on what would happen when the Morgawr returned. That he would, to claim his end of the bargain, was a given. What exactly he would ask was less certain. He would not threaten, but the threat was there nevertheless: if he could so easily dispose of a Prime Minister and a Minister of the Treasury, how much harder could it be to dispose of a recalcitrant Minister of Defense? Sen Dunsidan was in this business now all the way up to his neck. There could be no talk of backing away. The best he could hope for was to mitigate the payment the Morgawr would seek to exact.
It was almost midnight before the other appeared, slipping soundlessly through the doorway of the bedchamber, all black robes and menace. By then, Sen Dunsidan had consumed several glasses of ale and was regretting it.
“Impatient, Minister?” the Morgawr asked softly, moving at once into the shadows. “Did you think I wasn’t coming?”
“I knew you would come. What do you want?”
“So abrupt? Not even time for a thank you? I’ve made you Prime Minister. All that is required is a vote by the Coalition Council, a matter of procedure only. When will that occur?”
“A day or two. All right, you’ve kept your end of the bargain. What is mine to be?”
“Ships of the line, Minister. Ships that can withstand a long journey and a battle at its end. Ships that can transport men and equipment to secure what is needed. Ships that can carry back the treasures I expect to find.”
Sen Dunsidan shook his head doubtfully. “Such ships are hard to come by. All we have are committed to the Prekkendorran. If I were to pull out, say, a dozen—”
“Two dozen would be closer to what I had in mind,” the other interrupted smoothly.
Two dozen? The Minister of Defense exhaled slowly. “Two dozen, then. But that many ships missing from the line would be noticed and questioned. How will I explain it?”
“You are about to become Prime Minister. You don’t have to explain.” There was a hint of impatience in the rough voice. “Take them from the Rovers, if your own are in short supply.”
Dunsidan took a quick sip of the ale he shouldn’t be drinking. “The Rovers are neutral in this struggle. Mercenaries, but neutral. If I confiscate their ships, they will refuse to build more.”
“I said nothing of confiscation. Steal them, then lay the blame elsewhere.”
“And the men to crew them? What sort of men do you require? Must I steal them, as well?”
“Take them from the prisons. Men who have sailed and fought aboard airships. Elves, Bordermen, Rovers, whatever. Give me enough of these to make my crews. But do not expect me to give them back again. When I have used them up, I intend to throw them away. They will not be fit for anything else.”
The hair stood on the back of Sen Dunsidan’s neck. Two hundred men, tossed away like old shoes. Damaged, ruined, unfit for wear. What did that mean? He had a sudden urge to flee the room, to run and keep running until he was so far away he couldn’t remember where he had come from.
“I’ll need time to arrange this, a week perhaps.” He tried to keep his voice steady. “Two dozen ships missing from anywhere will be talked about. Men from the prisons will be missed. I have to think about how this can be done. Must you have so many of each to undertake your pursuit?”
The Morgawr went still. “You seem incapable of doing anything I ask of you without questioning it. Why is that? Did I ask you how to go about removing those men who would keep you from being Prime Minister?”
Sen Dunsidan realized suddenly that he had gone too far. “No, no, of course not. It was just that I—”
“Give me the men tonight,” the other interrupted.
“But I need time.”
“You have them in your prisons, here in the city. Arrange for their release now.”
“There are rules about releasing prisoners.”
“Break them.”
Sen Dunsidan felt as if he were standing in quicksand and sinking fast. But he couldn’t seem to find a way to save himself.
“Give me my crews tonight, Minister,” the other hissed softly. “You, personally. A show of trust to persuade me that my efforts at removing the men who stood in your path were justified. Let’s be certain your commitment to our new partnership is more than just words.”
“But I—”
The other man moved swiftly out of the shadows and snatched hold of the front of the Minister’s shirt. “I think you require a demonstration. An example of what happens to those who question me.” The fingers tightened in the fabric, iron rods that lifted Sen Dunsidan to the tips of his boots. “You’re shaking, Minister. Can it be that I have your full attention at last?”
Sen Dunsidan nodded wordlessly, so frightened he did not trust himself to speak.
“Good. Now come with me.”
Sen Dunsidan exhaled sharply as the other released his grip and stepped away. “Where?”
The Morgawr moved past him, opened the bedchamber door, and looked back out of the shadows of his hood. “To the prisons, Minister, to get my men.”
Together, the Morgawr and Sen Dunsidan passed down the halls of the Minister’s house, through the gates of the compound, and outside into the night. None of the guards or servants they passed spoke to them. No one seemed even to see them. Magic, Sen Dunsidan thought helplessly. He stifled the urge to cry out for help, knowing there was none.
Insanity.
But he had made his choice.
As they walked the dark, empty streets of the city, the Minister of Defense gathered the shards of his shattered composure, one jagged piece at a time. If he was to survive this night, he must do better than he was doing now. The Morgawr already thought him weak and foolish; if he thought him useless, as well, he would discard him in an instant. Walking steadily, taking strong strides, deep breaths, Sen Dunsidan mustered his courage and his resolve. Remember who you are, he told himself. Remember what is at stake.
Beside him, the Morgawr walked on, never looking at him, never speaking to him, never evidencing even once that he had any interest in him at all.
The prisons were situated at the west edge of the Federation Army barracks, close by the swift flowing waters of the Rappahalladran. They formed a dark and formidable collection of pitted stone towers and walls. Narrow slits served as windows, and iron spikes ringed the parapets. Sen Dun
sidan, as Minister of Defense, visited the prisons regularly, and he had heard the stories. No one ever escaped. Now and then those incarcerated would find their way into the river, thinking to swim to the far side and flee into the forests. No one ever made it. The currents were treacherous and strong. Sooner or later, the bodies washed ashore and were hung from the walls where others in the prisons could see them.
As they drew close, Sen Dunsidan mustered sufficient resolve to draw close again to the Morgawr.
“What do you intend to do when we get inside?” he asked, keeping his voice strong and steady. “I need to know what to say if you want to avoid having to hypnotize the entire garrison.”
The Morgawr laughed softly. “Feeling a bit more like your old self, Minister? Very well. I want a room in which to speak with prospective members of my crew. I want them brought to me one by one, starting with a Captain or someone in authority. I want you to be there to watch what happens.”
Dunsidan nodded, trying not to think what that meant.
“Next time, Minister, think twice before you make a promise you do not intend to keep,” the other hissed, his voice rough and hard-edged. “I have no patience with liars and fools. You do not strike me as either, but then you are good at becoming what you must in your dealings with others, aren’t you?”
Sen Dunsidan said nothing. There was nothing to say. He kept his thoughts focused on what he would do once they were inside the prisons. There, he would be more in control of things, more on familiar ground. There, he could do more to demonstrate his worth to this dangerous creature.
Recognizing Sen Dunsidan at once, the gate watch admitted them without question. Snapping to attention in their worn leathers, they released the locks on the gates. Inside, the smells were of dampness and rot and human excrement, foul and rank. Sen Dunsidan asked the Duty Officer for a specific interrogation room, one with which he was familiar, one removed from everything else, buried deep in the bowels of the prisons. A turnkey led them down a long corridor to the room he had requested, a large chamber with walls that leaked moisture and a floor that had buckled. A table to which had been fastened iron chains and clamps sat at its center. To one side, a wooden rack lined with implements of torture was pushed against the wall. A single oil lamp lit the gloom.