The Dark Defiles (9 page)

She looks at him like a doting mother.
No, you aren’t. You are not made that way.

All blades have a breaking point.
It’s a line from his treatise on modern warfare, the one no one in Trelayne would touch with a publishing barge pole.
All men, too.

Firfirdar inclines her head.
You are all made to run yourselves against the grindstone, true enough. But some take longer to wear down than others, and some give out brighter sparks. You shower incandescence at every unyielding turn, Ringil.

I won’t do it,
he says quickly.

You won’t do what?

Whatever it is you want. I won’t take up your fucking tools and be your cat’s paw. Not anymore.

She breaks out into soft, throaty laughter. It’s as if he told a very sophisticated joke, and the punch line has only just dawned on her.

Oh Ringil,
she says fondly.
That’s not how it works. You should know that by now. I do not send you back to the world with
instructions.
I offer only guidance, I tell you only what you might anyway wish to know.

Which is what?

Another regal shrug.
That Ornley is fallen in your absence, that your friends are now captive and your enemies lie in wait. That war is declared and battle soon to be joined. That the Aldrain are bringing the Talons of the Sun to light the skies once more with the glare from a myriad undeserved deaths—unless you can stop the machine in time.
She gestures cheerfully.
Things like that.

You think you’ll hook me again?
He manages a shaky laugh. He clears his throat, clears out the hoarseness in his voice.
You’ve had your fun, you and the court both. I broke Risgillen for you. But that’s the end of it. Show’s over, time to go home. I am done playing this game.

But the dark queen only shakes her head.

No,
she tells him gently.
You’re only just beginning.

P
ROPPED UP TO PEER CAUTIOUSLY OVER THE RIDGE ONCE MORE, HE
watched himself poke about in the long grass along the ruined wall of the croft. Watched himself step over the threshold of a doorway that barely existed. Watched the uncertain storm-light gather there nonetheless, and wrap itself in some indefinable way around his black-cloaked form.

Watched it fold him somehow
away.

When he was sure the scar-faced sorcerer assassin had really gone, he got himself upright and scuttled down the grassy bank to the path. He stood there, eyes fixed on the croft doorway, until his vision blotched with the imagined lines and angles of its shape, and his head was wiped clean of everything but the white, rinsed-out whisper of the wind.

He wondered dizzily—the thought went fleeting half unformed, through his head like a cold-sweat twinge of pain—what if he followed himself through that doorway? What would he find on the other side, what would he have to face?

He turned hastily away.

Blinked to clear his vision, and hurried down the path after the marines.

rcheth had a one brief, blind moment in which to curse Menith Tand for a traitorous piece of shit. Then she saw him on the other side of the narrow street, pinioned by armed men in unfamiliar garb, and she woke up to what was really happening.

The sword at her throat belonged to a grim-faced stranger.

“Easy there,” she told him, lifting hands wide and well away from her knives. “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot.”

The flat of the blade chucked her roughly under the chin. She had to rise on tiptoe to avoid getting cut.

“Shut your fucking face, sorceress.”

He spoke Naomic, and she realized she had done, too—some reflexive carryover from her words with Critlin before she walked out into the street. But even without the exchange, she’d have made this one for a northerner right off. Pale faced and craggy featured, none too clean smelling. The blade at her throat was a League navy cutlass, shorter and chunkier than anything you’d get out of an Empire smithy, and the man’s clothing was cut from drab shades of gray and green no self-respecting imperial would have been seen dead in. There was a woolen seaman’s cap crammed onto his head, a cheap metal badge in the shape of a cross pinned into the cloth.

Up on tiptoe, Archeth was unable to focus on the design of the badge, but she didn’t need to. She already knew what it depicted—a rolled and sealed scroll crossed with a cutlass not unlike the one now nestling under her chin. Letter of marque and a blade.

Privateers.

“I think you’re making a mistake,” she said conversationally. “We are a licensed and authorized—”

“Sogren, get over here.” Her captor didn’t turn to speak to his comrade. The eyes behind the cutlass blade stayed narrow on her the whole time. “Come and take this fucking witch’s knives off her before she starts getting any ideas. Check her over good.”

Sogren was bigger than his companion, a capless, long-haired giant with a face that looked oddly cheery despite the various scars it bore. He carried no blades, had only a long sealing club slung at his belt, but he didn’t look like he’d need much else in a fight. He collected her weapons with the brusque efficiency of long custom—unbuckled the harness that held the knives sheathed about her waist and at her breast, lifted it away in one hand entire, then bent and took Falling Angel out of her boot. He handed everything off to someone else she couldn’t see clearly, then went over her body with blunt-fingered care, pressing and prodding for hidden blades, inevitably taking the opportunity to grope her between the legs and squeeze approvingly at her breasts. Swell of chuckling as his companions saw it. She bit her tongue, stared straight ahead, submitted, because, realistically, what else was she going to do right now? Sogren finished up his fun, checked through her stiffly braided hair with his fingertips, stepped back, and nodded.

“We’re good. Nothing on her.”

The cutlass under her chin dropped a grudging couple of inches. She was able to look around and take in the full extent of the shit they were in.

The street was thronged with the drab privateer uniforms. She counted two dozen in her first sweep, possibly there were more. She saw crossbows, cocked and leveled, a variety of unsheathed steel. Tand’s men must have been overwhelmed on the instant, no chance to stand and fight or even run. Then the privateers had simply waited on Tand to come out, and then her. It showed an admirable level of patience and tactical smarts she didn’t generally associate with the League’s licensed pirates, whose depredations up and down Yhelteth’s coasts in earlier years had been legendary for senseless bloodletting and terror.

She heard the clop of horse’s hooves, coming steadily up the darkened street. Saw how the men stiffened around her at the sound. She turned gingerly to face the new arrival, mindful of the blade still hovering at her chest.

An explanation of sorts offered itself.

The rider wore the martial colors of Trelayne—rich cream cloak bordered in sunset red, the tunic in blue slashed across with the same tones of red and cream. There was a lightweight open helm on his head and the spike of a broadsword pommel over his left shoulder. A second, shorter sword was sheathed at his hip. And he was flanked by six men in skirmish ranger attire—Trelayne’s nearest equivalent to the Throne Eternal.

Privateers or not, the newcomers looked to be under formal military command.

She met Menith Tand’s gaze across the street. The slaver raised one eyebrow, nodded down to where his captors’ hands still had him firmly pinned. He shrugged apologetically.

And you, in any case, are expedition leader, Archidi
… 

She made eye contact with the man behind the cutlass, pitched her voice for calm and command. “I’ll speak with your commander now. You may stand down.”

The man bared his teeth at her, made a noise in his throat like a wary hound. But he voiced no actual objection, and when she lifted—slowly, slowly—one loosely curled hand and gently pushed his blade aside, he let it happen. She stepped out into the center of the street, just as the Trelayne knight reined in. She made a brief dip of obeisance, just enough to meet etiquette, then drew herself up.

“My lord, I am
kir-
Archeth Indamaninarmal, imperial envoy of his majesty Jhiral Khimran the Second of Yhelteth, and leader of an accredited expedition in good faith to the Hironish isles, as licensed by the city council of Lanatray in certain letters of—”

“Yeah, good.” The rider waved it away with one gauntleted hand. He leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle, seemingly fascinated by what he saw. “Been looking for you, my lady. Glad we found you so easily, in fact. I’d not want an officer of the southern court to come to any unwarranted harm, even in these times.”

These times?

“You have not given us
your
name, sire.” Menith Tand, apparently also let free by his captors and now standing haughtily at Archeth’s side. “Which is, at a minimum, our diplomatic due. Perhaps you would care to remedy your lack of manners?”

The mounted man scratched under his helm at the back. Grinned. “You’d be Tand, right? The slaver? Yeah, they said you was a scrawny, arrogant fuck.”

Tand grew very still.

“Klithren of Hinerion.” The helm came off, doffed as if it were some peasant’s cloth cap. The head beneath was recently shaven, showing less growth than the man’s stubbly beard. One ear was chopped and notched from some past near miss. “Knight supplemental in the united land armies of the Trelayne League. I’m not much for protocol, I’m afraid. But I have a feeling that’s why they sent me.”

“This is an outrage,” said Tand coldly. “I have good friends in the Trelayne Chancellery, Captain Klithren. I’m not entirely sure how you managed to attain your present commission, but I assure you, your lack of respect will not be allowed to stand. I will see you whipped for this.”

Klithren sighed.

“Sogren.” He raised an arm, snapped his fingers, and beckoned. “Explain the situation to my lord Tand, would you? Without breaking anything.”

Archeth turned just in time to see the giant who’d searched her earlier come up behind Tand with a grin. He grabbed the slaver by the hair, yanked him about, and punched him solidly in the belly. Tand grunted with shock, sagged, and would have fallen to the floor if Sogren hadn’t still been holding him up by his immaculately groomed gray locks. The giant landed another punch and Tand threw up, hung there by Sogren’s grip on his hair with vomit spilling down over his chin and onto his clothes. Sogren clubbed him solidly back and forth across the face three times, let him drop to the cobbles, and then put the boot in with judicious, repeated force until Tand stopped trying to get up.

Klithren of Hinerion fitted his helm carefully back on his head.

“We are at war, my lady. My lord. Empire forces took my home city by storm nine weeks ago yesterday. The League has responded with a formal declaration of unity in the face of imperial aggression. Armed levy to be raised in every city, an army of liberation to march on Hinerion before season’s end. All imperial citizens found within the borders of the League to be detained pending exchange or ransom.” A wintry smile. “Or trial and execution for spying.”

Archeth gaped up at him. “You
what
?”

“As you heard, my lady. You are now my prisoners under terms of war.” Klithren nodded to Sogren, and the giant hauled Menith Tand upright with no more effort than you’d use picking up a saddlebag. Klithren looked the slave magnate over. “As my prisoners, you can expect to be treated with the courtesy that befits your station. Provided, of course, that you observe that same courtesy yourselves. Got that, my lord Tand?”

Tand’s lips moved but nothing audible came out. He made a jerked coughing sound and tried to collapse again. Sogren grinned and held him up.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Klithren glanced at Archeth. “Yes, my lady, you have a question?”

“I, yes, I—for what cause?” Her head still whirling, krinzanz fogged. “The assault on Hinerion—what cause was given?”

Klithren sniffed and rubbed at his stubbled chin. “Well, not that it much matters—we all know you lot been spoiling for another fight ever since Vanbyr—but the charge given was murder of an imperial legate and impeding the actions of imperial authority in bringing the culprits to justice. Which I think your ladyship would agree is pretty fucking thin as an excuse to tear up a whole city.”

She stopped herself nodding, just. Her thoughts skittered about like panicked rats, seeking logical bolt-holes from the madness.

What the fuck are you playing at down there, Jhiral?

Who’s been pouring poison into your ears while I’m gone? Which buggered excuse for an imperial counselor thought
this shit
was a good idea?

Citadel pressure?

Impossible. Following the death of Pashla Menkarak and the collapse of the Afa’marag temple cabal, the Citadel Mastery had been meek as a gaggle of fresh-bought harem initiates. Jhiral had them eating out of his hand when she left.

Shield-beating at the Empire’s edge, then?

But garrison command on the marches was chosen with exactly that kind of risk in mind. The commanders were shrewd and sanguine to a man, the cream of Yhelteth’s officer class even in these pinched times. None of them would be so stupid.

Did something else force your hand?

Is there something new in play, something I missed?

Not for the first time since they arrived in the Hironish isles, Archeth had the dizzying-urgent sense that she was in the wrong place. That somewhere, a serious miscalculation had been made, and now they were all going to pay.

“And so.” Klithren leaned forward on his saddle once more, eyes fixed directly on Archeth’s face, holding her gaze. “To our next point of business. I’d be grateful if you’d confirm for me the continued presence on this expedition of the Trelayne renegade and declared outlaw Ringil Eskiath.”

“
Y
OU DID NOT KNOW OF THIS, MY LADY?”

In the low yellow light from the tavern lamps, Klithren watched her shrewdly for reaction. She made her face stone. Shrugged.

“I knew he wasn’t getting on well with his family.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” He leaned forward on the table, poured wine for them both. Around them, his men bustled about the business of setting up billets with the landlord and getting drinks of their own. “His family have disowned him before the Chancellery. Gingren Eskiath has declared him outlaw and forsworn blood vengeance on anyone who brings in his son’s head. Cheers. Your very good health.”

Archeth left her brimming goblet where it was, though she, too, was forced to huddle into the table somewhat. It was a small tavern, basically someone’s converted kitchen in a farmhouse on the outer corner of the drover’s road where it came into town. There wasn’t a lot of space with Klithren’s men milling around.

“Curious,” she said. “At Lanatray his mother was quite civil. Helpful even. We were guests at her residence for a week and she said nothing of this. In fact, I’m told it was her word in council that expedited our license to come here.”

“Well—mothers with their sons.” Klithren made her a tight little smile as he sipped his wine alone. “Never had a mother myself, but I’ve known a few. Women often lack the mettle to do what is needful. They don’t deal well with the harsher realities of life.”

“Is that a fact?”

“And, frankly, Lanatray’s pretty much a one-horse town. Been the lady Ishil’s summer residence for a couple of decades now. I hear she dominates the place like Firfirdar on the throne. Of course, the outlaw proclamation is Trelayne’s alone, so Lanatray is no more obliged to recognize it than any other League city. But still, it was smart of Ringil, putting in there. Took a couple of weeks before the news leaked back to Trelayne.”

“Lanatray was five hundred miles closer along the coast.” She tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice, because, whore’s breath and
fuck
it, Gil should have told her this shit ahead of time—not left her to find it out secondhand from some hacked-about over-the-hill League captain with a bounty gleam in his eye. “Since we were told any incorporated city may issue license of passage for the whole League territory, there was no need for us to cover the extra distance.”