Shadowrun - [Earthdawn 05] - Shroud of Madness Read online

  SHROUD OF MADNESS

  by

  Carl Sargent & Marc Gascoigne

  Copyright © I995 FASA Corporation.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Published by FASA Corporation I100 West Cermak - B305 Chicago, Illinois 60608

  First Printing, July I995 I0 987654321

  Series Editor: Donna Ippolito Cover: Les Dorscheid Frontispiece: Steve Bryant Map: Aldo Pinkster and Carl Sargent

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  EARTHDAWN is a Registered Trademark of FASA Corporation. EARTHDAWN, FASA, and the distinctive EARTHDAWN and FASA logos are trademarks of the FASA Corporation, I100 West Cermak, B305, Chicago, IL 60608

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Prologue

  Before science, before history, there was an age of magic and legend, an age of heroism and of terror, the age of Earthdawn. In this mythical time, magic flowed freely. Mages, swordmasters, troubadours, and weaponsmiths bent the patterns of life with their mystical powers.

  The rise of magic also weakened the fabric of the metaplanes. Horrific creatures from the astral plane began to spring forth into the world, ravaging the land, the waters, and mankind. At first the Horrors were few and weak, but over time they grew many, strong, and deadly. They were a pestilent tide, a Scourge that could not be turned back.

  The great mages of the Theran Empire understood the futility of trying to fight the Scourge from beyond and so they prepared their peoples and cities for the day of the Sealing. The people would build great underground kaers, sealed and warded by magic, where they would wait for the centuries to pass as the Horrors roamed and devastated the land above.

  Now, after five centuries of living deep in the belly of the earth, humanity and the other races of Earthdawn have emerged once more onto their beloved Earth as the Horrors have begun to fall back into the abyss from which they came. From their great cities, the Therans have sent armies and airships across the world, re-establishing links with their many fortresses and relaunching their campaigns of conquest. Great and powerful in arms, magic, and wisdom, the Therans seek to repossess the world lost to them when the Horrors came.

  In such turbulent times, little goes smoothly even within the fortresses of the Empire, and darkness and corruption lie within as well as without. . .

  1

  The knife was damnably sharp, but not so sharp that he did not feel every last rigid inch of it slide into his stomach. Slowly, fascinatingly, it nosed its way through his flesh, until it was lodged in the inverted V-shape beneath and between his lowest ribs. Blood welled around the hilt, running in a narrow rivulet down into the creases between the hooded figure's thumb and forefinger as they adjusted their grip. The howling came without warning, was not a part of him, drawn unconsciously from deep within his destroyed body. With a single heft, the hand drew the knife in a straight line down through his innards. A quiet hiss of exertion, or maybe satisfaction, escaped shadow-masked lips.

  Lamp oil spilled across the back of his brain and was set alight; the searing flames ignited behind his eyelids. The knife was pulled free, cleanly and without effort, and for a crazed instant he felt the loss of its presence within him, an uncomfortable emptiness. Another wave of agony washed through him, erasing all such fancies. Lowering his head and daring to look again, he saw the gore-streaked hands twist the long knife a half-turn, push it into his side and draw it across his guts. At the far end of its devastating journey through his midriff, the knife was pulled unceremoniously from him.

  He reached for his intestines as they fell wetly from his gaping stomach, but his hands were still restrained by the daggers with which they had crucified him. He kicked his legs and heard the tearing of cloth, but they would not come free from their bindings. Blood welled up into his throat, drowning his lungs. The second hooded figure approached, pushed back one rough gray sleeve to reveal a slender wrist with grasping artificial claws. They pulsed, as if scenting his blood. Without ceremony, the figure pushed its hand into the ruins of his stomach, rooting upwards through his insides, wriggling up beneath his rib cage. There the claws found their prize, squeezed hard so as not to lose their grip, and yanked hard. Lost within a shrieking storm of tormented agonies, he imagined he felt the savage nails digging into his flesh as his heart was torn from his body. A crimson tide rose fast across his mind, and it was over.

  The air felt like a baker's oven even at four in the morning. In all the Great City there had not been a single breath of cooling breeze to lure fitful sleepers into sleep and relief, save for those pampered and wealthy families—or magicians—whose magic of elemental air kept their homes and colonnaded academies cool. Cassian woke from his own fretful tossing and turning with hair stuck to his forehead, sweat glistening on his bronzed back and arms. No such cooling magics were to be found in his barracks; the praetori of Thera were expected to dispense with such luxuries. His single cover was tangled lightly around his legs; the tear through which one ankle was thrust indicated just how restless his sleep had been. Memories of an already-forgotten dream fled faster than his mind could chase and recall.

  The elf had been wakened by an unexpected early visitor. At first he thought it was the slave boy, Izman, the young Croatian, bringing him his ceramic bowl of water to wash and shave, but the boy would have knocked at the door and waited to be asked in. No such formality delayed the haughty, dark-haired man who swept through the door in a wave of crimson and silver. For an instant, Cassian felt something close to alarm. The garish golden sunburst on the man's chest, with the tri-colored ribbon dangling below it, told him the visitor came from the offices of the karinthini, the Arbiter-General. And the man's manner told him this wasn't the usual summoning of a praetor to a junior functionary who, bored, would shuffle through his paper and give him some trivial instructions—this was important. The fact that the man had no members of the Imperial Phalanx at his back also told Cassian that the importance was not a matter of some awful blunder he had somehow committed. The incipient sense of alarm vanished, to be replaced by apprehension. At this time of the morning?

  "Karinthini Andreax will see you in half an hour," the man said curtly. "Be sure you are well presented." Without another word, and before Cassian could ask more, the man spun smartly on his heel and left. Half an hour wasn't enough time for the elf to make himself truly presentable for an audience with the forbidding Arbiter-General and he knew it. Mixed with splashing sounds as he threw water over himself while searching for the soft green lathering soap to shave his face was an irate yell to the slave boy to bring his family robes from the racks of uniforms, and to do it damnably quick.

  Nearly a thousand miles away in the city of Vivane, some papers dropped from the shaking hands of a much older elf. Everything was there, everything, all the lies and deceit and swindling, documented to such a degree that there were details even he had forgotten until he'd gathered his stunned thoughts enough to read the missive a second time. 1 am ruined, his heart and soul told his mind.

  The t'skrang! It has to be one of the Carinci t'skrang, he thought feverishly. They've always envied our position here. We negotiated too many of the trading rights in the Theran conclave, they've always been jealous. Has it come to this, that I am betrayed by one among my own House?

  No. His mind rejected the simple instinctual conclusion. This isn't their way; they aren't so
devious, nor so precise in spying. This is beneath them. They would try to better me, not bring me down like this.

  The consequences of the document were clear to him. There wasn't any hint of blackmail about it; it simply promised to make every last fact public after the feast of Kypros, fifteen days away. He would be ruined, his property and title stripped from him and lost to his House. For one mad moment he even suspected his wife, for his ruination would mean that his son would never inherit; then tears rose to his eyes as he remembered some of the best moments of nearly a full century of togetherness, Karlanta's love and loyalty, her ever-kind nature and good heart. His hands crumpled the last page into a ball with anger, rage at himself for having deceived her in his ways.

  Daralec sat quietly for a few minutes, and pondered what must be done now. There would be a brithan hunt, and a tragic accident. It would be simple enough; he could fall from his mount, and if the brithan didn't kill him, his hunting weapon could easily pierce his guts. If there were no brithans to be found, anything would do— , a stag, perhaps, or a wild boar. Perhaps his unknown persecutor would be stricken with remorse, though the cold dispassion of the document suggested otherwise. At the least, though, the sympathy aroused by his death would surely close ranks around his son if this dismal history ever became public. And some might even suspect that he had not been killed in an accident at all, and that an act of murder was being followed by this public defamation, and there would be anger at that. Whoever stood in the shadows and had watched him for so long might even be brought to justice by that anger.

  He burned the letter. He thought of his son, so long in Thebenta, and his face creased into lines of pain as he yearned to see him one last time and knew he could not. But the boy would inherit, and that was what mattered now.

  His gaze strayed through the window, to the six vast pillars of Sky Point so many miles away, barely visible on this hazy morning. A line of slaves was meandering across the plain, now being led toward the city from the distant garrison. The irony of it brought a grim smile to his face. I am about to die, and their new life in this city is about to begin. None of us has any choice in the matter.

  He rose from his chair and called for his manservant, trying to muster a feigned good-hearted desire for a day of fine hunting that was as far from his true feelings as anything he had ever pretended, simulated, or lied about in what felt like a wearisomely long life of deceptions. He thought of his son again, sadly and lingering long.

  He had no way of knowing that his son was already back within the walls of Vivane, and had himself only three days left to live.

  "I am sorry that you have been roused at so early an hour." The velvet voice came from a fresh face that showed all the proof of a contented night of sleep. Andreax most certainly would have slept in blessed cool while the rest of Thera sweltered in the Sollus heat. "I have a matter of some importance before me, and I have judged that you are the right praetor to undertake this delicate enquiry. Your record has impressed me, Cassian ma'Medari." The name was spoken with a soft, gently different emphasis from the formality of the Arbiter-General's greeting.

  Use of his House and family name sent a slight shiver along Cassian's spine and he guessed that was Andreax's intention. The older elf hadn't lived nearly three centuries not to know how to touch just the right spot, looking for an emotional response. The two elves shared family and House origins, though both would have been expected to have transcended such ties long igo. Their different trainings had been designed to ensure just that. Now, Andreax was cleverly subverting such matters and impressing the importance of it all at the same time. Reminding the much younger elf of his House and family ties, he was stressing their common role in protecting the strength of the Theran Empire. So much was contained in a mere name and the timbre of its utterance.

  "I am greatly honored, lord." Cassian waited.

  "The matter before me is a disturbing one. There have been certain misfortunes befalling individuals of noble Houses in one of our cities, Cassian. One of importance—Vivane."

  Cassian nodded with a slight raising of his eyebrows. Of all Theran cities, Vivane had particular significance, bordering as it did the wild edges of the province of Barsaive, where Thera sought to retake the lands it regarded as its rightful territory. Much of the city had been shattered in the Scourge, and the occupying Eighth I .egion and its accompanying artisans, slave workers, and magicians had as yet rebuilt only a part of it. Most of the city's inhabitants dwelled in near-ruins, it was said, and I he place was an uneasy mix of Theran scribes, administrators, builders, merchants, and House members trying to raise their station, on the one hand, and a large number of Barsaivians varying from the trusted to the unscrupulous to the downright seditious, on the other. Cassian had never been posted there, and the prospect was not inviting, but he would go where he was told. A praetor had no choice in the matter.

  "These misfortunes are not minor matters. Two cases of apparent suicide, one case of seemingly incurable insanity, and one very unpleasant murder. The obvious reasons have been researched to some extent, but between you and I, the skills of Kypros and Crotias do not run to the investigative."

  The two elves shared a smile, just for an instant, at the mention of the names of the military controllers of Vivane and its satellite, Sky Point. Overgovernor Kypros had ambition, General Crotias had a magnificent history of battle conquest and a temper to match the thick red braid that fell the length of her back, but neither was renowned for an over-abundance of intelligence.

  "These misfortunes have some hallmarks of a House feud, Cassian. And it is our role to investigate such feuds and resolve them; such is our lot." The Arbiter-General nearly allowed himself the hint of a reflective, resigned sigh. He was a past master of the subliminal gesture. It might not be a skill absolutely necessary for becoming Arbiter-General, but it was very useful when re-election time came around every four years. Andreax hadn't survived three elections without possessing formidable skills of charm and persuasion.

  "Be that as it may, the Vivanians are expecting us to send a praetor to investigate. They will be restless if this is not done. I am glad to have you at such a time."

  "As you wish, lord." Cassian was still waiting to hear why he had been summoned at such an impossibly early hour. He had investigated some murderously inclined House disputes before, but none of those had ever justified being dragged from his bed almost before dawn for a briefing. Nor had any of those cases ever justified a meeting with the Arbiter-General himself. Only the most senior of his fellows could expect that, and Cassian still only regarded himself as of middling rank. With at least two centuries of natural lifespan left to him, he was in no hurry to be overambitious.

  "I have a full briefing for you, but it will have to take the form of this record, I'm afraid," Andreax said, opening one of the many drawers of the latrawood desk that seemed to stretch all the way to the vast shelves of scrolls and records covering the walls of his huge atrium. "You must be ready to leave Thera within the hour. The Ascendancy will be sailing from Cloudtouch in an hour's time and you will be on it."

  "The Overgovernor's own airship? I thought it never left Sky Point," Cassian ventured.

  "We are not in the habit of making public its whereabouts every minute of each day," the Arbiter-General shot back tartly. "The vessel is merely collecting cargo, goods that are not so easily to be had in Vivane. Captain Korrurg will not be pleased if you are late. Not even I can delay his arranged time of travel."

  The elves shared a smile a second time. Korrurg was known to them both, a troll with an appetite for schedule and precision that would have terrified half of Thera's Imperial Scribes. He would not have delayed his time of departure if the First Governor himself had been an unexpected additional passenger.

  "I must go and collect my things," Cassian said, waiting for a nod from his elder before beginning to lever himself out of the chaka-leathered chair. He reached for the sheaf of papers, tied with the ribbons of office of Thera
's supreme diplomatic service.

  "Don't bother about your things. They've already been fetched for you. If I were you, I would spend my last hour or so getting a decent Theran breakfast down my gullet. They say that boiled chakta bird is regarded as a delicacy in Vivane."

  Cassian laughed, but the smile had faded from his face halfway down the seemingly endless corridor leading away from the offices and sanctums of the Arbiter-General. Something was still not quite right, though nothing in what Andreax had said, nor in how he'd said it, gave him the slightest clue to what that was. Only his instincts said otherwise.

  Cassian squinted in the sharp sunlight as he strode down the massive marbled front steps of the Conclavium. He stood a stone's throw from the First Governor's palace, its extraordinary dome glittering in the early morning glare. No matter how many times he saw it, it always sent a shiver along his spine. The entire surface was covered in fine chips of mica and marble, colored and patterned into shapes that seemed utterly abstract on the one hand, and yet suggested flying birds, dancers, airships, archers, exotic beasts, and much else besides to the mind's eye. No one ever saw the same things twice in the mystery of the dome. The magic that was woven into the sculpting had been the work of First Governor Hastiriash himself, five centuries past, or so it was said. Now, there had been a Heavenherd, to be sure, if any of the tales of that long-dead ruler were true; and, perhaps, Kanestrin— current occupier of the palace—did indeed have something of his forebear's skills. At least, it seemed to Cassian that the figures danced and sparkled more brightly than they had before the obsidiman had ascended to the Everthrone. Cassian had heard from the few wizards he knew that the life of the dome reflected the magical soul of the First Governor. If so, then Kanidris's soul had powerful life indeed.

  Turning left, he gazed at the imposing spires of the Eternal Library. Perhaps going there to study the papers Andreax had given him might lay to rest his lingering apprehensions. What might have been the promise of a breeze to dissipate the stifling heat of Thera caught at his blue and silver House regalia, setting it to drifting lazily about him. After another moment's pause, Cassian rubbed his chin reflectively, then put the papers out of his mind. There would be plenty of time to study the documents on the journey ahead. With time at a premium, it might be a better idea to get that breakfast after all.