Bones of Haven Read online

  One man was standing on his own before the open fireplace, his face cold and calm, and Ritenour knew at once that this had to be Daniel Madigan. Even standing still and silent, he radiated power and authority, as though there was nothing he couldn't do if he but put his mind to it. He stepped forward suddenly, and Ritenour's heart jumped painfully. Although Madigan wore no sword, Ritenour knew the man was dangerous, that violence and murder were as natural to him as breathing. The threat of sudden death hung about him like a bloodied shroud. Ritenour felt an almost overwhelming urge to back away, but somehow made himself hold his ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other terrorists looking at Madigan with respect, and something that might have been awe or fear. Or both. Madigan held out a hand for Ritenour to shake, and the sorcerer did so, finding a small satisfaction in the knowledge that his hand wasn't shaking. Madigan's hand was cold and hard, like a store mannequin's. There was no warmth or emotion in the handshake, and Ritenour let go as soon as he politely could. Madigan gestured at the two chairs before the open fire.

  "Good of you to come and see me, sir sorcerer. Please; take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. And then we can have a little talk, you and I."

  "Of course," said Ritenour, bowing formally. His mind was racing. When in doubt, take the initiative away from your opponent. "I wonder if I could prevail on you for a bite of something, and perhaps a glass of wine? Prison fare tends to be infrequent, and bordering on inedible."

  There was a moment of silence as Madigan stared at him impassively, and Ritenour wondered if he'd pushed it too far, too early. Everyone else in the room seemed to have gone very still. And then Madigan bowed slightly, and everyone relaxed a little. He nodded to the young man sitting at the table, and he rose quickly to his feet and left the room, fumbling at the door's bolts in his haste. Ritenour followed Madigan to the two chairs by the fire, and was careful to let Madigan sit down first. Horn moved in to stand beside Madigan's chair.

  "Allow me to introduce my associates in this glorious venture," said Madigan mildly. "You've already met Horn, though I doubt he's told you much about himself. He is the warrior of our little group, a most excellent fighter and an experienced killer. His family were deported from Outremer some generations ago, stripped of title and land and property. Horn has vowed to avenge that ancient insult.

  "The young lady watching you so intently from that table is Eleanour Todd, my second-in-command. When I am not available, she is my voice and my authority. Her parents died in an Outremer cell. She fought as a mercenary for the Low Kingdoms for several years, but now they have betrayed her by seeking peace with Outremer she has joined me to exact a more personal revenge.

  "The large gentleman at the door is Bailey. If he has another name, I've been unable to discover it. Bailey is a longtime mercenary and a seasoned campaigner. And yet despite his many years of loyal service to both Outremer and the Low Kingdoms, he has nothing to show for it, while those he served have grown fat and rich at his expense. I have promised him a chance to make them pay in blood and terror."

  Someone outside the door gave the secret knock. Bailey looked through the peephole, and then pulled back the bolts and opened the door. The young man who'd left only a few moments before bustled in carrying a tray of cold meats and a glass of wine. He set down the tray before Ritenour, who smiled and nodded his thanks. The young man grinned cheerfully, and bobbed his head like a puppy that's just got a trick right, then looked quickly at Madigan to check he'd done the right thing.

  "And this young gentleman is Ellis Glen," said Madigan dryly. "One of the most savage and vicious killers it has ever been my good fortune to encounter. You must let him show you his necklace of human teeth some time. It's really quite impressive. I have given his life shape and meaning, and he has vowed to obey me in everything. I expect great things of Ellis."

  He tilted his head slightly, dismissing Glen, and the young man scurried over to sit at the table, blushing like a girl who'd been complimented on her beauty. Madigan settled back in his chair and waved for Ritenour to begin his meal. The sorcerer did so, carefully not hurrying. More and more it seemed to him he couldn't afford to seem weak in front of these people. Madigan watched him patiently, his face calm and serene. Ritenour could feel the pressure of the others' watching eyes, and took the opportunity his meal provided to study them unobtrusively.

  Horn looked to be standard hired muscle, big as an ox and nearly as smart. You could find a dozen like him in most taverns in the Northside, ready for any kind of trouble as long as it paid well. He had a square, meaty face that had taken a few too many knocks in its time. He wore a constant scowl, aimed for the moment at Ritenour, but its unvarying depth suggested it was probably his usual expression anyway. And yet there was something about the man that disturbed the sorcerer on some deep, basic level. He had the strong feeling that Horn was the kind of warrior who would just keep coming towards you, no matter how badly you injured him, until either you were dead or he was.

  Ritenour suppressed a shudder and switched his gaze to Eleanour Todd. She was altogether easier on the eye, and Ritenour flashed her his most winning smile. She looked coldly back, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him as he ate. Judging by the length of her splendid legs, she would be easily his height when standing, and her large frame was lithely muscular. She wore a standard mercenary's outfit, hard-wearing and braced with leather in strategic places for protection, but cut tightly here and there to emphasize her femininity. With her thick mane of long black hair and calm dark eyes, she reminded Ritenour of nothing so much as a trained fighting cat, awaiting only her master's instruction to leap upon her prey and rend it with slow, malicious glee. She held his gaze for a moment, and then smiled slowly. Ritenour's stomach muscles tightened. Her front teeth had been filed to sharp points. Ritenour nodded politely and looked away, making a firm mental note never to turn his back on her.

  The huge warrior, Bailey, could well be a problem. He had to be in his late forties, maybe even early fifties, but he was still in magnificent shape, with a broad muscular chest and shoulders so wide he probably had to turn sideways when he walked through a doorway. Even standing still on the other side of the room, he seemed to be looming over everyone else. He made Horn look almost petite. And yet his face was painfully gaunt, and there were dark shadows under his eyes, as though he'd been having trouble sleeping. Ritenour shrugged inwardly. Any mercenary Bailey's age was bound to have more than a few ghosts haunting his memories. Ritenour studied the man's face thoughtfully, searching for clues. Bailey's hair was iron-grey, cropped short in a military cut. His eyes were icy blue, and his mouth was a thin line like a knife-cut. Ritenour could see control in the face, and strength, but his cold mask hid everything else. Ritenour decided he wouldn't turn his back on this one either.

  Despite Madigan's unsettling praises of the young man, Ritenour didn't see Ellis Glen as much of a problem. He was barely out of his teens, tall and gangling and not yet into his full growth. His face was bright and open, and he was so full of energy it was all he could do to sit still at his table while Ritenour ate. He was probably only there to run errands and take care of the scutwork no one else wanted to be bothered with. Useful battle fodder too; someone expendable Madigan could send into dangerous situations to check for traps and ambushes.

  And finally, of course, there was Daniel Madigan himself. You only had to look at him for a moment to know he was the leader. He was darkly handsome and effortlessly charismatic, and even sitting still and silent, he radiated strength and authority and presence. He was the first person everyone's eyes went to on entering a room, drawing attention in much the same way a wolf would, or any other predator. Looked at coolly, he wasn't physically all that outstanding. He was slightly less than average height, and certainly not muscular, but still he was the most dangerous man in the room, and everyone knew it. Ritenour felt increasingly unsettled by Madigan's gaze, but forced himself to continue his meal and his appraisal of the terrorist leader.r />
  The more he studied Madigan, the clearer it became that violence of thought and deed was always simmering just below a calm surface. And yet there was nothing special you could put your finger on about his face or bearing. Ritenour had heard it said that Madigan, when he felt like it, could turn off his personality in a moment, and become just another anonymous face in the crowd. It was an attribute that had enabled him to escape from many traps and tight corners in his time. Ritenour studied the man's features carefully. Just now, Madigan was showing him a cool, unemotional politician's face, half hidden behind a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were dark and unwavering, and his occasional smile came and went so quickly you couldn't be sure whether you'd seen it or not. He looked to be in his early thirties, but had to be at least ten years older, unless he'd started his career of death and terror as a child. Not that Ritenour would put that past him. If ever a man had been born to violence and intrigue and sudden death, it was Daniel Madigan. No one knew how many people he'd killed down the years, how many towns and villages he'd destroyed in blood and fire, how many outrages he'd committed in the name of his Cause.

  He had vowed to overthrow and destroy Outremer. No one knew why. There were many stories, mostly concerning the fate of his unknown family, but they were only stories. The Low Kingdoms had long since disowned him and his actions. He was too extreme, too ruthless… too dangerous to be associated with, even at a distance. Madigan didn't care. He went his own way, following his own Cause, ready to kill or destroy anyone or anything that got in his way.

  And now he was sitting opposite Ritenour, studying him coolly and waiting to talk to him. With a start, Ritenour realized he'd finished his meal and was staring openly at Madigan. He buried his face in his wineglass and fought his way back to some kind of composure. He finally lowered his glass and put it carefully down on the arm of his chair, aware that the other terrorists were watching him with varying shades of impatience.

  "Did the vintage meet with your approval?" asked Madigan.

  "An excellent choice," said Ritenour, smiling calmly back. In fact, he'd been so preoccupied he hadn't a clue as to what he'd just drunk. It could have been dishwater for all he knew. He braced himself, and met Madigan's unnerving gaze as firmly as he could. "What do you want with me, Madigan? I'm no one special, and we both know it. I'm just another mid-level sorcerer, in a city infested with them. What makes me so important to you that you were ready to start a riot to break me out of Damnation Row?"

  "You're not just a sorcerer," said Madigan easily. "You're also a shaman, a man with intimate knowledge of the life and death of animals and men. I have a use for a shaman. Particularly one who's followed the path of your recent experiments. Oh yes, my friend, I know all the secrets of your laboratory. I make it my business to know such things. Relax; no one else need ever know. Providing you do this little job for me."

  "What job?" said Ritenour. "What do you want me to do?"

  Madigan leaned forward, smiling slightly. "Together, you and I are going to rewrite history. We're going to kill the Kings of Outremer and the Low Kingdoms."

  Ritenour looked at him blankly, too stunned even to register the shock that he felt. He'd known the Kings had arrived in Haven. That news had penetrated even Damnation Row's thick walls. But the sheer enormity of the plan took his breath away. He realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it with a snap.

  "Let me get this right," he said finally, too thrown even to care about sounding respectful. "You're planning to kill both Kings? Why both? I thought your quarrel was just with Outremer?"

  "It is. I have dedicated my life to that country's destruction."

  "Then why the hell… ?" Horn stirred suddenly at Madigan's side, reacting to the baffled anger in Ritenour's voice, and he shut up quickly to give his mind a chance to catch up with his mouth. There had to be a reason. Madigan did nothing without a reason. "Why do you want to kill your own King?"

  "Because the Low Kingdoms' Parliament has betrayed us all by agreeing to his new Peace Treaty. Once this worthless scrap of paper has been signed, land that is rightfully ours and has been for generations will be given away to our hereditary enemies. I will not allow that to happen. There can be no peace with Outremer. As long as that country exists, it is an abomination in the sight of the Gods. That land was ours, and will be again. Outremer must be brought down, no matter what the price. So, both their King and ours must die, and in such a fashion that no one knows who is responsible. Both Parliaments will blame the other, both will deny any knowledge of any plot, and in the end there will be war. The people of both countries will demand it. And Outremer will be wiped from the face of the earth."

  "We're going to do all this?" said Ritenour. "Just the six of us?"

  "I have a hundred armed men at my command, hand-picked and assembled just for this project. But if all goes well, we shouldn't even need them much, except to ensure our security once we've taken control of Champion House. You must learn to trust me, sir sorcerer. Everyone in this room has committed their lives to carrying out this plan."

  "You're committed to your Cause," said Ritenour bluntly. "I'm not. I'm here because I was promised a great deal of money. And all this talk of dying for a Cause makes me nervous. Dead men are notorious for not paying their bills."

  Madigan chuckled briefly. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "Don't worry, my friend. You'll get your money. It's being held in a safe place until after this mission is over. And to answer the question you didn't ask; no, you will not be required to die for our Cause. Once you have performed the task I require of you, you are free to leave."

  There was a knock at the door, an ordinary, everyday knock, and Madigan's people tensed, their hands moving quickly to their weapons. Bailey stared through the peephole, grunted once and relaxed. "It's all right. It's just the traitor." He unbolted the door and pulled it open, and a young nobleman strode in as if he owned the place.

  He was tall and very slender, with a skin so pale it all but boasted that its owner never voluntarily put a foot outdoors. His long, narrow face bore two beauty spots and a look of utter disdain. He was dressed in the latest fashion, with tightly cut trousers and a padded jerkin with a chin-high collar. He had the kind of natural poise and arrogance that comes only with regular practice since childhood, and his formal bow to Madigan bordered on insolence. He swept off his wet cloak and handed it to Bailey without looking at him. The old warrior held the dripping garment between thumb and forefinger, and for a moment Ritenour thought Bailey might tell the young nobleman what he could do with it. But Madigan glanced briefly at him, and Bailey hung the cloak carefully on the rack by the door. The young noble strutted forward, ostentatiously ignoring everyone, and warmed his hands by the fire.

  "Beastly weather out. Damned if I know why your city weather wizards allow it. My new boots are positively ruined." He glared at Ritenour as though it was his fault. The sorcerer smiled in response, and made a mental note of the young man's face for future attention. The nobleman sniffed loudly and turned his glare on Madigan. "This is the sorcerer fellow, is it? Are you sure he's up to the job? I've seen better dressed scarecrows."

  "I don't need him for his fashion sense," said Madigan calmly. "Have you brought the information I require, Sir Roland?"

  "Of course. You don't think I'd venture out in this bloody downpour unless it was absolutely necessary, do you?"

  He pulled a roll of papers from inside his jerkin, and moved over to spread them out on the table, scowling at Glen and Eleanour Todd until they stood up and got out of the way. Ritenour and Madigan got up and went over to join him at the table. The sorcerer studied Sir Roland with interest. Either the man had nerves of steel, or he was totally insensitive to the fact that he was making enemies of some very dangerous people. Sir Roland secured his papers at the corners with the terrorists' wineglasses, and gestured impatiently for Madigan to move in beside him. He did so, and everyone else crowded in behind him.

  "These are the floor plans for Champion Ho
use," said Sir Roland brusquely. "All the details you'll need are here, including the location and nature of all the security spells. I've also marked the routes of the various security patrols, and how many men-at-arms you can expect to encounter at each point. You'll find details of their movements, a timetable for each patrol and so on, in the other papers. I don't have time to go through those with you now. I've also got you the plans you requested for the cellar, though what good that's going to do you is beyond me. No one's been down there for simply ages, and the whole place is a mess. It's full of rubbish and probably crawling with rats. And if you're thinking of breaking in that way, you can forget it. The cellar was built on solid concrete, and there are unbreakable security wards to prevent anyone from teleporting into the House.

  "Now then, this sheet gives you both Kings' separate schedules, inside and outside the building, complete with details of how much protection they'll have. With these schedules, you'll be able to tell exactly where each King should be at any given moment. There are bound to be alterations from time to time, to accommodate any whims or fears of the Kings' security people, but I'll see you're kept up to date as much as possible. For the moment, everyone's so afraid of offending somebody that they're all following their schedules to the letter, but you know how paranoid security people can get. You'd almost think they had something to worry about. Finally, this sheet gives you the names of those people who can be trusted to support you, once the operation is underway. You'll notice the list includes names from the parties of both countries." The young noble smiled slightly. "Though of course they won't reveal themselves unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Still, I think you can rely on them to keep their fellow hostages in line, prevent any heroics, that sort of thing.