Act of Will

SCENE L



Implications

No,” said Renthrette.

She had said that a lot in the last half hour.

“Yes,” I said. “It all makes sense.”

“It makes no sense at all,” she said. “Why would Arlest shelter the raiders here? It’s crazy, and we have no evidence except for some idea.”

I told her that investigation was too risky but, like her brother, she thought theories were for sissies. We walked along the long corridors that led to our rooms wondering if those moth-eaten tapestries concealed doors, but we were always under the casual watch of the guards. We thought, very briefly, about going to the chancellor or to the countess, or even to Arlest himself, but that was clearly hopeful to the point of stupidity. We had to presume they were all involved. That left us with a puzzle: How might we get a look in those rooms?

An hour later the puzzle had changed. How had Renthrette convinced me to stand guard while she climbed a rope from the battlements down the side of the keep? We were back on the roof, where the troops were few and not so much casual as dormant. One of them asked me where my “lady friend” had got to and went off chuckling, convinced that she’d dumped me for some burly soldier. Nothing so mundane; she was swinging at the end of a rope, trying to force the second-story shutters with a throwing dagger. Naturally.

But then she was calling me to climb down after her, and I had other things to worry about. I’m not fond of climbing; factor in a howling wind and a rain-slicked rope, and you might understand why it took me three hellish minutes to inch down to the shuttered window where Renthrette was waiting for me. Then she was muttering about my incompetence and pulling me in with the kind of rough, physical manhandling that always sounds like it should be exciting, but is usually just embarrassing.

Inside was exactly what we had expected: one of two large dormitories identical to the cavalry barracks below. The room was deserted, but there were footlockers full of red-flighted arrows and scarlet cloaks hanging from racks around the walls. At one end of the room was a heavy door. I felt we’d seen enough, but Renthrette tried it anyway.

Behind it was a stone staircase.

We inched down the stairs. They went not to the ground floor, but to a familiar round chamber in the basement, its floor glowing with the soft, white luminescence of the Ugokan caves and the Iruni stone circle. I stood on the steps and looked at it, as if I had seen it only in nightmares before. There was, thank God, no sign of the raiders, but the place alone gave me the creeps. Renthrette felt it too. She gazed wide-eyed at the room and then looked back to me. “It’s just as you described it,” she said.

“You didn’t believe me?” I asked, momentarily incredulous.

“Of course I did,” she said, “but, you know . . . You’re the storyteller, right? I thought perhaps you had embroidered it a little. Made it more dramatic.”

“You want drama?” I said petulantly. “Try filling the place with raiders. That part was true too.”

She gave me a slightly pained look. “Right,” she said. “Sorry.”

All I wanted to do right now was get out of this awful place: not just the room, or the secret barracks, but the castle itself. For once, she seemed to agree. We retraced our steps, climbed back up the rope to the roof, and returned to our rooms, badly rattled but apparently undetected.



It was difficult to decide where our discovery left us, other than with the sense that we should have thought of this weeks ago. There had been clues that we had managed to miss completely, like the fact that we’d been served conspicuously watered ale while the bar was piled high with beer barrels for its less public inhabitants. Or the prohibitively expensive horses at the huge ranch by the river, which was obviously just a big stable for the raiders who were on the ale over at Count Arlest’s House of Hell. What was more difficult to figure out was what we were supposed to do with our discovery.

One thing we did learn, for what it was worth, was that although the long corridors did have concealed doors into the raiders’ quarters, the raiders themselves almost certainly never used them. The raiders moved between their barracks and the great circular chamber in the basement, which could put them anywhere in the area. They could come and go without ever setting foot in a public area inside or outside the keep. It was tough to swallow the idea that the servants, the regular army, the count, his pale wife, and the rest of the castle were unaware of the presence of two hundred armed men, but it was possible.

“Well, now we know,” said Renthrette with a satisfied smile, as if she’d figured it all out for herself. This annoyed me, as it had been my flash of genius, but it was typical of Renthrette and Garnet. You only make progress by doing things. Ideas are worthless. What really moves things along is hefting your ax at somebody or swinging from the walls like some lesser primate. I might as well give up on the smooth, witty banter and just toss her a piece of fruit from time to time.

But not everything was falling neatly into place. The attack on Arlest, which we’d witnessed when we first arrived, was a round peg for our square holes. I was tempted to see the count as innocent and the attack as genuine, while Renthrette thought they were all guilty as hell and the attack had been purely for our benefit. That men had died in the course of laying this false trail only convinced her of its spuriousness.

I considered the spectral army that had ravaged the region 250 years ago. After the dust had settled, three new capital cities had been built, and one of them had been Adsine. The keep was as old as the town. Someone had known what that opaline rock could be used for and they had built it into the basement of the fortress. Had those who had lived here ever since forgotten about the spectral army, or had they always known what that stone could do, and Arlest (or whoever was responsible) was merely the first to use it since? And if so, why now?

As ever, the more I learned, the less I understood. The only thing I knew for certain was that we had to get out, and we had to do so quickly and without rousing suspicion. I figured we should just fill our saddlebags and take a couple of fast horses. Renthrette argued that the contents of the wagon were too potentially useful in what might yet transpire.

Right. We needed that wagon like we needed cobras in our underwear. I told her it was slow and obvious. She said we weren’t supposed to look like we were running away and that if we did, no matter how fast our horses were, they would get us. I suspected they would “get us” Whatever we did, but she was sick of hearing me say that, so I shut up and let her play party leader, grudgingly grateful for her not pointing out that I could no more handle a fast horse than I could beat my arms and fly back to Cresdon.

It was a curious thing, but considering that we’d solved the main part of the mystery, I couldn’t help feeling that it made little difference. After all, knowing where the raiders came from didn’t make them disappear. What were we supposed to do, shout “We know where you live!” and figure they’d go away out of sheer embarrassment?

Renthrette was all business, only interested in the job at hand. Whatever minuscule spark there had been between us had given up the ghost as soon as adventuring had reared its ironclad head. Her face was all steely again and she had gone back to double-checking our equipment and polishing her sword. I was just an extra, a walk-on who announces the arrival of the mad duke and then goes off into the wings and is forgotten. In my plays I’d always tried to give my walk-ons a bit of something special: some pithy philosophy or wry political humor. I got Enter Messenger. Messenger gives letter to the warrior queen. Exit Messenger. Renthrette had her script memorized and was ready to hold center stage for a good while to come.

Then, while I was laboriously pursuing this metaphor through my head and she was carefully checking the links of her mail shirt one by one, she said, “You’d better think up something to tell the count so that he won’t suspect anything.”

Great. So she’s in control but I have to think us out of this fortress.

“Such as?” I said testily.

“You’re the storyteller,” she answered, without looking up.



I thought through all the lies that had helped me out of tight corners before: the sudden death of an aged aunt, the news that my house was on fire or that my wife had just had twins. I was a good liar and could deliver all the usual one-liners with a straight face: “What a delightful baby,” “You can count on me,” “I only play cards for fun,” “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing, Officer,” and of course, “Your wife? I had no idea. . . .” Still, this time my back was really up against the wall and the old chestnuts wouldn’t help. As a rule, however, I don’t worry about plausibility when I lie, I just state the case and adamantly say that it is so until the opposition begins to waver and confesses that he was too drunk to recall, exactly. . . . I went to think amongst the ancient volumes of the tiny library on the second floor.



Renthrette and I saw Arlest immediately before dinner and announced our intention to leave as soon as we had eaten, hoping to travel a few hours before stopping for the night. She thought this was too sudden, but what we had learnt had radically altered my perspective on the place and the people in it, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to imagine speaking to Arlest at all without freezing up. The castle seemed still darker and colder, with longer, more eerily silent corridors and more guards than seemed necessary. The chancellor struck me as calculating and the pale, silent countess was positively sinister. It had become a place of strange shadows and howling winds: a castle of ghosts and vampires. Only Arlest himself remained oddly unblemished. I still couldn’t quite cast him as the villain, plotting and laughing up his sleeve as he ensnared his victims. I had seen too much death and misery to be able to pin it all on this weary, mild-mannered old man.

“Why the change of plan?” he asked with guileless interest.

“Well, sir,” I began.

“You needn’t call me sir, Will, you know that.” He smiled.

“Right,” I said, a little uncomfortably. “Well, we are moving off because we have vital information to pass on to our friends who are currently monitoring the movements of the raiders in northern Grey-coast.”

I felt Renthrette shift anxiously. We hadn’t discussed my story.

“Information?” he said. “What information?”

“I know where the raiders come from,” I said.

Again Renthrette moved, fractionally. They were both still and tense, waiting to hear what I had to say. I swallowed hard to steady my nerves. “They come from the lost kingdom of Bangladeia across the sea.”

I paused for effect and the count sat down slowly, as did Renthrette. I doubted either had heard of Bangladeia, and both, for quite different reasons, were about to start doubting my sanity.

“Over two hundred years ago,” I went on earnestly, “the people of Bangladeia were beset by a terrible calamity which the books of your library here describe as a dragon.”

“A dragon?” said Renthrette, a little too dryly.

“Probably a poetic description,” I added with the indulgent smile of a teacher imparting knowledge, “for something far more mundane. A drought or famine, for example. The small kingdom of Bangladeia was unable to support itself, and many of its people died. From the dregs of their civilization they formed an army and set to wandering from place to place, taking from others what they could not grow or produce for themselves. Somewhere along the line, it seems,” I went on, quite reasonably, “they met Relthor the Necromantic Sage of the Western Mountains, and through him they traded their souls for life. After a hundred and eighty years of wandering, they have found their way to your lands. The warriors are vampires. We must completely rethink our approach, since I am in no doubt that we are facing the ranks of the Undead, who dwell in the darkness of centuries and survive by drinking the blood of their victims.”

There was a long silence and they both looked at me with wide eyes.

“You think the raiders are vampires?” said the count, cautiously.

“Certainly,” I replied with becoming gravity. “And have been for a hundred and eighty years. They turn into bats between attacks.”

Renthrette’s mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out.

“So you’ll want to borrow some good horses,” said Arlest with a sort of resigned bewilderment. I couldn’t say if he was disappointed or just caught completely off-guard.

Renthrette found her voice and cleared her throat before saying slowly, “We are in no great hurry. Will has been working very hard over the last few days and is—” She paused for thought. “—rather tired. I will drive the wagon back to Greycoast and he can rest in the back.”

Now she was getting the hang of it. The two of them exchanged knowing glances, and Arlest nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ll provide some blankets,” he said kindly.

“That would be helpful,” I said, “and we will want as much garlic as you can get hold of.”

The count nodded slowly, his eyes wary. I tapped my finger on the side of my nose significantly and sidled over to the bar. I poured myself a very large glass of wine, downing it hurriedly as I muttered about sunlight and wooden stakes. Meanwhile, Renthrette and the count talked in concerned tones.

Fine. I get to be scapegoat again, but if it gets us out of this fortified charnel house in one piece, I’ll take it.

The rest of the dinner party arrived as I was conspicuously downing a third cup of wine, and they were informed of our decision to leave, along with a version of the reason. Nobody said too much about Bangladeia and its blood-swilling geriatrics. Renthrette didn’t speak to me until dinner was over, though she gave me a couple of long, blank looks while I was talking earnestly about vampire battle tactics and plotting the positions of certain ghoul units with pieces of cheese and cured ham. It was a quiet meal.



A couple of hours later we were on the road and Renthrette was driving. Once out of Adsine’s rutted and smelly streets I came up front and sat beside her. She turned a stony face on me and said, “What exactly were you trying to do, Will? Get us killed?”

“We were quite safe,” I answered cheerfully.

“I have never heard such rubbish in all my life,” she said, clutching her face in both hands for a moment. “I couldn’t believe my ears.”

“You told me to come up with a story. I did.”

“How could you come up with something so absurd? All that Bankle-Whatever-it-was rubbish—”

“Bangladeia,” I inserted.

“Whatever,” she snapped back at me. “If I hadn’t suggested you were going mad, he would have smelled a rat so fast that our heads would be on the block by now.”

“You’re a lousy judge of human nature.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” I said, “that so far they haven’t given us credit for discovering anything. They must believe that we’d fall for something utterly preposterous or they wouldn’t have invited us to share a castle with the raiders, would they? If Arlest really is responsible, then he brought us in on the assumption that we were too stupid to figure out the truth. They are dying for a chance to laugh at our stupidity, so I gave it to them, and they went for it. Hook, line, and sinker. You don’t have to be plausible. Just give them what makes them feel good about themselves.”

“Well, it seemed dangerous to me,” she said, a little less emphatically.

“A serious excuse would have made them analyze it seriously. In our position, our greatest strength is our ineptitude.”

She thought for a moment and said, “How on earth did you dream up all that garbage?” she said.

I couldn’t tell if this was supposed to be praise, but I took it as such.

“Actually,” I said humbly, “most of it is from a legend I came upon in the library. As I said, it’s probably a reworking of that ghost army story. If you see it as just a small, ruined country trying to win itself some profits by force, then it seems kind of similar to Shale’s current position.”

“So you were deliberately sailing close to the wind.”

“If you have to sail at all, you may as well get a thrill out of it.”

“But,” she said, coming back to the matter in hand with a jolt, “the raiders have attacked villages and convoys in Shale as well as elsewhere.”

“True. But, as you said, they also seem to have staged an attack on Arlest in which their own people got killed. Maybe they wanted to divert suspicion, or thin out the population a bit. You know, make resources go further.”

“That’s appalling.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It is.”



As the sun got low behind us I turned over the question as to why Arlest had let us go. Though it was tempting, I couldn’t quite resign myself to the idea that—if it was him holding the reins of the raiders—he had believed us so completely that he no longer considered us a danger. That seemed far too casual for so meticulous an operation, even considering what a wooden sword our knowledge was. Someone in that room, maybe several or all of them, knew that our discovery of those barracks had always been a danger. That they took our departure so calmly bothered me and made me wonder for a moment exactly who it was who had been deceived. I felt the explanation in my bowels rather than in my head. They were about to do something that would make our suspicions and discoveries worthless: something conclusive.

It was getting too dark to go on, rather like this narrative. We would soon have to camp or stay in an inn. I told Renthrette that I was worried. For once she didn’t seem to want solid reasons. I wondered if she felt it too, that sense of brooding heaviness, like the air before a storm. I was glad when we came upon an inn and the chance for a beer and a night’s sleep. Renthrette suggested that we get up early and—if we could buy or rent them from the innkeeper—yoke two extra horses to the wagon. That way we might be over the Greycoast border by noon the following day.

Nothing of a remotely personal nature happened.