He wants you to kill him.
Sirus glanced up to see Morradin standing near by. The Grand Marshal had an Islander’s drinking-horn in one hand and what appeared to be a cigarillo in the other, though the aroma spoke of something more potent than Dalcian leaf. Still has an effect, Morradin told him before taking a hefty gulp from the drinking-horn followed by a deep draw on the cigarillo. A trifle dulled though. Sirus could sense a certain fuzziness in the marshal’s thoughts, although his usual desire to guard his memories had diminished somewhat. The recent battles loomed large, the scenes of slaughter all coloured by a note of reluctant triumph. It appeared that Morradin was beginning to enjoy his work.
Must be the shame of defeat, Morradin said, moving closer to peer down at the pleading Islander. Very strict honour code amongst these savages, you know.
He’ll feel differently tomorrow, Sirus returned.
Perhaps. Or perhaps our drake god will toss him to his brood. Though it would be interesting to see what he knows about the Shaman King. Morradin crouched, leaning closer to the fence and speaking aloud, his modified throat making the words guttural and rasping, like a snake attempting human speech. “Ullema Kahlan,” he said, a name that seemed to hold the same meaning on every island they took.
The Islander’s face hardened at Morradin’s words, the desperation abruptly replaced by defiance. He muttered something in his own language then lowered his gaze and squirmed away from the fence, rolling over and lying in hunched defeat. See? Morradin asked, straightening. Loyal to the death. These tribes feud and fight for generations but forget it all when the Shaman King calls for unity. He’ll have word of us by now, boy. It’s an even bet he’ll be gathering his warriors. A cheery note crept into Morradin’s thoughts as he took another puff on his cigarillo. I suspect we might actually have us a real battle next time.
And you relish the prospect?
Morradin shrugged. Easy victory is boring. Carvenport. He bared pointed teeth in a nostalgic grin. Now, that was quite something. I’d’ve taken it in three days if it wasn’t for those confounded mechanical guns, and their Blood-blessed. He pushed a memory into Sirus’s head, the images vague and out of focus until Sirus realised he was viewing a fierce struggle of some kind through a spy-glass. Figures leapt to unnatural heights, pistols blazing as they shot and lashed out at one another whilst the air around them shimmered with blasts of heat.
Blood-blessed in battle, Sirus realised, a sight he had never seen before. It was a grim spectacle, but a spectacle nonetheless.
Yes. Morradin’s memory was rich in warm satisfaction. The day I sent in the Blood Cadre to punch a hole in the Protectorate defences. Didn’t work, of course. They threw in their own Blood-blessed, as you can see. Only a half-dozen Cadre agents made it back. But it was a fine old show, and I had the satisfaction of watching so many of Kalasin’s beloved children die. The city would have been mine the next day . . . His thoughts darkened, crowding with scenes of slaughter, the horde of drakes exploding from the jungle to tear his army to pieces.
Morradin drained his drinking-horn in a few gulps, the memories becoming more indistinct under the weight of alcohol. Emperor’s balls, that stuff is rank, he observed, tossing the horn aside and turning to walk away on unsteady legs.
They say he’s a Blood-blessed too, Sirus thought. The Shaman King. The only one born to the Isles in six generations. Perhaps that’s why they revere him so.
Then I hope he’s drunk his fill of product, Morradin replied, continuing to stagger away. Because I’m hoping for another fine old show.
CHAPTER 18
Lizanne
Makario’s fingers danced over the keys as he favoured Lizanne with a grin, eyes twinkling behind the long dark hair that hung over his slender face. “Well?” he asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow and removing his hands from the pianola allowing the last few notes to fade.
“The prelude to Huberson’s Second Symphony,” Lizanne replied promptly. “A little pedestrian for my tastes, though I noticed you added a flourish or two.”
His gaze narrowed slightly. “I, my dear, am an artist, not an automaton.” He returned his attention to the keyboard, face set in a determined frown. “This one is bound to flummox you.”
This tune was far more dramatic, a series of low, prolonged notes followed by a sudden, almost jarring lurch to the other end of the scale. Makario’s hands usually floated across the keys but now they darted, fingers splayed and spider-like. The tune was complex and unfamiliar, conveying a sense of melancholy counterpointed with an angry urgency. It was also undeniably one of the most affecting pieces of music Lizanne had ever heard and she winced in annoyance as a loud rhythmic pounding sounded from above.
“Give it a rest, for fuck’s sake!” came the Electress’s muffled cry through the ceiling. “My head’s splitting!”
“It seems our little game must be postponed,” Makario said, closing the pianola’s lid. “Did you get it?”
Lizanne smiled and shook her head. “At first the arrangement reminded me of Illemont, but the melody is . . . strange.”
“As ever, you prove to have an excellent ear, dearest Krista. It was indeed composed by the great man himself. The pianola solo from his unfinished symphony, the composition of which is said to have driven him to suicide.”
“The ‘Ode to Despair,’” Lizanne recalled. “I thought the whole thing was lost. He burned all his papers before drinking poison, or so the story goes.”
“And the story is true. But Illemont had a student with a keen ear and a penchant for listening at keyholes. In time he made his way to the empire and, keen to impress a handsome youth in his charge, taught him this lost masterpiece, or rather a fragment of it. I’ve been trying to fill in the blanks ever since, but then, I’m no Illemont.”
Lizanne turned at the sound of Melina’s strident step. The tall woman dumped a bag of chits on a card-table and began to count them out. “Time to cough up your tips,” she told Lizanne. “And don’t hold out, she’ll know.”
Lizanne went to her room to retrieve the bag containing the unimpressive haul of gratuities she had collected over the previous week. “Is this all?” Melina asked, fixing Lizanne with a sceptical frown.
“They tend to save their favours for the upstairs ladies,” Lizanne explained. “And not all gamblers take kindly to a dealer who can tell they’re going to cheat before they even try.”