Free Shadowmasque by Michael Cobley Page A

we’ll have some answers.”
    But it was not Calabos but another taller man who stepped through the arch, stooping slightly as he did so. Clad in a long, powder blue coat of austere cut and a plain grey skullcap, his very presence silenced the entire room. His hair was short and as silvergrey as his well-trimmed moustache and beard which, in his weathered and bony face, gave a strong impression of authority and intellect. His eyes were a pale blue, somewhere between ice and ash, and held no pity.
    “Good,” hs said in a level, slightly harsh voice. “Everyone is here, everyone except the poet.”
    Startled at this intrusion by a complete stranger, Tashil wondered why the other mages looked tense and guarded, saying nothing as they watched the newcomer who returned their collective gaze with a disdainful smile. But before she could ask his name, Sounek spoke from his chair.
    “This is a private meeting, ser,” he said. “It appears that you have entered the wrong house.”
    “No, Sounek, I am in the right place,” the man answered.
    “I fear that you’ve mistaken me, ser — I am Ven Hortis, a master of antiquities from Scarbarig -”
    “Sounek of Tymora,” the man went one. “Born to a family of barrelmakers, ran away at age eleven, studied at the Green Hall in Tobrosa, admitted to the Order of Mages 31 years ago by my predecessor, renounced the Order eight years to become a Watcher….”
    “You’ve worn out your welcome, Tangaroth,” Chellour said angrily.
    Tangaroth?
Tashil thought in amazement.
The Archmage? Here?
    “Aah, Nyls Chellour, youngest son of an Adnagauri pickpocket, made a ward of the House of Guilds, trained as a scribe and illustrator until a mage brother at the Earthmother temple saw his potential and helped him become an initiate. Admitted to the Order of Mages 25 years ago but left 14 years later…”
    He surveyed them. “I know each and every one of you, what you were and what you think you are, even your rash young guest over there…”
    “No, you don’t, Tangaroth,” said a familiar voice from beyond the arched entrance. “You may know details of their lives, but you do not
know
them as I do…”
    Tashil felt a rush of relief as Calabos, looking spry and alert, entered the room, shrugged off his damp cloak and slung it over an empty highbacked chair before turning to confront the unwelcome visitor. The two men faced each other for a drawn-out moment before Calabos addressed the Archmage.
    “So why are you here, Tangaroth?” he said. “To merely dispense threats and the crown’s unique menace, or was there ome other reason?”
    “You and your Watchers are only just tolerated, Calabos,” the Archmage said. “Keep that in mind. Renegades, outcasts, and the offspring of enemies -” He shot a glance at Tashil with that. “Only your marginal usefulness has saved you from the dungeons thus far.”
    Tashil felt a strange hollowness, a mingling of panic and anger at the Archmage’s cruel jibe. Some of the others got to their feet and Dardan clenched his fists as he took a step towards the Archmage. But Calabos halted him with a raised hand and a tight smile.
    “That was a mean blow, Tangaroth,” he said. “And not worthy of your office. You must know that all of us here have vowed to protect the interests of the empire and its people — that is why the Watchers exist.”
    Tangaroth sneered. “You seem to have forgotten why the Mage Order exits, then...but in any case, when Ilgarion and his court take up the reins of power he will learn of you and wonder why all of you are not under my direct control and guidance” He shrugged. “I doubt that any record of past achievements will stand between you and incarceration at his majesty’s pleasure.”
    “Unless?” Calabos said.
    “Unless the Watchers perform a service vital to the sanctity of the realm.”
    Everyone’s eyes were on Calabos. Tashil stared at the old man’s face, wishing and hoping that he would turn down