Forge of Darkness

‘Daddy will know.’



‘Remember Ivis killing that rut-mad hunting dog? How he came up behind it and sliced through the tendons of its back legs, with one slash of his sword?’



‘Sure I remember. That dog howled and howled, until I thought the sky would crack.’



Envy nodded. ‘Father doesn’t scare me. We just need to give people a reason to be Ivis.’



‘Daddy’s the dog?’ Spite snorted. ‘Hardly. He’s got Mother Dark. No need to rut everything in sight, with her around.’



‘You don’t get my meaning, sister. You’re not subtle enough. You never were.’



‘Maybe you think that, but you don’t know anything about me.’



‘I know that you’re a murderer.’



‘Now, try saying it like you think it’s awful, Envy.’



‘You didn’t get my meaning, but what you said has given me an idea. But I need to work on it some more. First, though, there’s the people in the house to deal with.’



‘Tonight?’



Envy nodded. ‘It has to be, I think.’



Spite smiled knowingly. ‘You just want to know what it feels like.’



To that, Envy only shrugged.



A moment later and they were on their way, rushing down the hidden passages between the walls.



Accidents happened, and when accidents happened, the most important thing to do was cover them up, and fast — but not so fast as to make mistakes and so give it all away. Hiding the truth was Envy’s special talent — among many special talents, she reminded herself. Spite was good at the practical matters, the things that needed doing. But she needed guiding. She needed direction.



The night ahead was going to be glorious.



In the house of Draconus, there was war. Even in those rare moments when she was alone, when she no longer struggled on the battlements, Sandalath felt the title of hostage close about her, like clothes long outgrown, and their constriction was suffocating.



House-mistress Hilith stalked the corridors day and night. As far as Sandalath could tell, Hilith slept when demons slept, which was never. The hag cast a huge, devouring shadow upon this house, and even that shadow had claws. At night, Sandalath dreamed of death-struggles with the woman, all blood, spit and handfuls of hair. She dreamed of pushing knife blades deep into Hilith’s scrawny chest, hearing ribs pop, and seeing that horrid face stretched in a silent scream, the black tongue writhing like a salted leech. She woke from these dreams with a warm glow filling her being.



It was all ridiculous. Once Lord Draconus returned, Hilith’s empire would collapse in a heap of rubble and dust. In the meantime, Sandalath did her best to avoid the old woman, although certain daily rituals made contact inevitable. The worst of these were meals. Sandalath would sit at the end of the table opposite the unoccupied chair where Lord Draconus would have sat, had he been present. As hostage, she was head of the house, but only because the Lord’s three daughters were not yet of age. Sandalath rarely saw them. They lived like ghosts, or feral kittens. She had no idea what they did all day. For all that, however, she felt sorry for them, for the names Lord Draconus had given them.



It was the Lord’s practice to assemble most of his heads of staff for these repasts. When the household was intact, Ivis and Hilith would be joined by Gate Sergeant Raskan, Master of Horses Venth Direll, Armourer Setyl, Surgeon Atran and Keeper of Records Hidast. Among these notables only the surgeon was of any interest to Sandalath, although she’d yet to meet Raskan as he was riding with the Lord and his bastard son. Venth stank of the stables and often entered with horseshit under his boots and still wearing his stained leather apron. His hands were filthy and he rarely spoke, busy as he was shovelling food into his mouth. The few times he did say something, it was to complain to Captain Ivis about exhausted horses, listing the animals that went lame in accusing tones. Sandalath had heard from her maids that Venth slept in the stables. Setyl, the armourer, never spoke at all, for part of his tongue had been cut away by a sword thrust back in the wars. The scarring on his lower face was terrible to look at and he struggled to keep food in his mouth, and never met anyone’s eyes. The keeper of records, Hidast, was a small man with a sloping forehead and an oversized lower jaw, giving him a pronounced underbite. His obsession was with the household accounts, and the Lord’s vigorous expansion of Houseblades was a burden that he took personally, as if all of the Lord’s wealth in fact belonged to Hidast rather than Draconus. He looked on Captain Ivis with open hatred, but this was a siege he was losing. Most mealtimes Hidast complained of stomach pains, but every offer from the surgeon to treat his ailment was met with a rude shake of the head.