Negotiations Ch. 04

"Looks like a charm of protection." Theobald has come up behind her, quiet as death.

"You were a lot of help back there." Pike shoots him a cold look.

The veteran shrugs. "I warned you not to interfere with their sport. Can I see that please?"

Pike passes the charm. "What are you looking for?"

Theobald shrugs. "Signs. Portents. Anything. War bands don't usually attack caravans of this size, with an armed escort and everything. There are easier targets out there."

Pike considers this. "The band was pretty large for raiders, but they had a lot of second line fighters. Men past their prime, women not really used to combat."

The old soldier grunts his assent. "They sent anybody who could hold a weapon and walk. If they are that desperate, the winter must be really biting in the high valleys." He flips her the charm.

"And? You learn anything?" Pike asks.

"Charm of protection from their goddess of motherhood and fertility, I think. She probably had a kid recently."

Pike bites her lip. "We killed three quarters of their warriors. This clan won't make it through the winter."

Theobald grunts. "We should be so lucky. If the little vermin grows up, it will inevitably come knocking on doors behind which my grandchildren play."

He meets her cold gaze unflinchingly.

"This is the world we live in Lady Pike. We are all monsters to someone."

***

Outside, the sunshine of a cold, clear winter day, reflecting off the snow, is bright enough to make his eyes tear, but the darkness in the catacombs beneath Castle Whitestone is cold and deep and cloying, like a mantle of moth-eaten satin.

Percival follows the secret ways deep into the hill, to where the rock weeps black mineral oils and the heartbeat of the mountain reverberates in his bones. Down here, the darkness seems to suck up the meager light from his torch. He steps carefully; the passages are uneven, roughly hewn rock and full of dancing, twisting shadows in the unsteady torch light. If he breaks a leg down here nobody will find him, for he is the last to remember these passages. Cassandra had still been too young when the Briarwoods came.

When he reaches his destination, a dusty stone chapel set in an unremarkable side corridor, he takes his time lighting half a dozen torches, evicting the darkness from its home. The flickering light reveals runes of protection and warding etched upon older, darker designs of beasts slaying men.

He rolls his shirt sleeves up, grits his teeth against the pain and draws his dagger over his forearm, catching the blood in a bronze bowl. When he has enough for his purpose, he heals the slash with a hissed command that makes the light of the torches dim briefly.

He has little love for these powers, has never coveted them but now that they are thrust upon him by necessity he is pragmatic enough to make use of the tools he is given.

Dripping blood over the summoning grid and interfering with the spell work would be ... less than ideal.

He takes his time with the runes, dips the brush carefully into the bowl, and paints the arcane symbols with the patient perfectionism of a calligrapher.

Finally when he is done he fills a goblet with wine and puts it next to the blood bowl in the summoning grid, claps his hands three times and calls out:

"Ipkesh. Patron. Come forth."

A burst of blue flame consumes the blood, the torches flicker in a sudden burst of wind and in the blink of an eye a handsome, regal young man has appeared in the summoning grid, casually holding the goblet in his left hand.

"Why, if it's not young Percival. I must confess myself to be disappointed: abominable taste in vintages and the décor ..." Ipkesh leans forward and eyes the runes. "Where is the trust, Percival? Where is the trust?"

Percival ignores him. "I propose a contract."

"Straight to business, then? Fine." Ipkesh folds his long limbs into a tailor's seat, lounging like a fat viper waiting to strike, bleeding shadow into the world.

"What do you propose to offer me then, boy? Can't be your soul, I already own that."

Percival nods easily, "So you do, but I'm a man with ambitions; I would prefer to enter damnation in a position of authority and in good standing with the powers that be. The higher the standing of my patron, the better my own position. So, I'm offering the soul of a sinner consigned to the abyss and the hated host of demons, if you assist me in recovering her and leave me in charge of her contract."

Ipkesh laughs, genuinely amused but the slippery bastard cannot hide the greed flashing in his yellow snake eyes.

"Still in the materium and already building your own retinue? That's the spirit. Consider me intrigued. Who is it then, that you would go to such lengths to wrest her soul from the abyss? And a her, is it?"

Percy grits his teeth and woodenly nods his assent. "It is."

"How terrible romantic." Ipkesh sighs dreamily. "So? Who is the lucky girl?"

"Ripley." Percival is smiling entirely without humor.

"Anna Ripley."