Authors: Richard Morgan
She shook her head. “Gone like smoke. The Guard Provost is making a big thing about turning the city upside down, but so far it’s all noise.”
“What I thought. They don’t have the—”
A diffident knock. The door eased open and Kefanin poked his head through the gap.
“My lord Ringil?”
“Yeah?” If Shendanak was back with
more
fucking names of cousins you could trust with your life, seriously, he was going to …
“Captain Rakan of the Throne Eternal to see you, my lord.”
“Oh.” He looked at Archeth, who just shrugged. “All right, then. Show him in.”
“He said he would wait for you in the courtyard.”
“The
courtyard
?”
Not that it was an unpleasant venue. Archeth’s house was built, like most of the properties on this side of the boulevard, in traditional Yhelteth corral fortress fashion. High walls and two-story construction around a broad open airspace that in antiquity would have served to shelter livestock from rustlers and wolves alike. In its urban incarnation, the space was cobbled and studded with a trio of ornamental fountains. On the stables side, in faint echo of tradition, there were hitching rails and a drinking trough, but elsewhere the inward-facing walls of the
courtyard boasted stone benches set under awnings and trellis ceilings tricked out with crimson-flowering creeper.
Beneath one of which latter he found Noyal Rakan, waiting. The young captain was resplendent in full Throne Eternal dress uniform, rigged with a sword that owed more to soldiering than display, and cutting, truth be told, a rather fetching figure all around. But, Gil noticed as he and Kefanin approached, the young man’s demeanor was no match for his imperial finery. Instead, Rakan stood irresolute and staring at the sun-dappled ground, as if hemmed in by the beams of light that spilled through the foliage overhead. He turned awkwardly at the sound of their footfalls on the cobbles, and he stuck out his hand with a heartiness that Gil made for counterfeit.
“Captain Rakan.” Ringil made the clasp, and tried to read the younger man’s sun-striped face for clues. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“The honor is mine.” Rakan produced a smile that had most of the characteristics of a wince. “To serve under such a commander is …”
The words trailed off.
“Difficult?” Ringil hazarded. “Irritating? Don’t worry about it. Been upstaged the same way myself a couple of times, and once by a real king-sized asshole. Stings a bit at first, but after a while you’ll see I’m doing you a favor.”
The Throne Eternal’s eyes widened. “No, my lord, I have only respect for your record and reputation.”
The words lay drying in the sunlit air. Ringil blinked. Groped for his composure.
“Well, that … suggests, Captain”—he licked the lips of a smile he found he’d suddenly grown—“that you’ve heard
very
little about me.”
“I’ll bring lemonade,” said Kefanin hastily, and left.
“I have heard of Gallows Gap,” said Rakan with an odd, quiet fervor. “And I have heard of Beksanara, too. I know and have spoken with men who were in my brother’s command, who saw what you did there.”
Gallows Gap. Beksanara. The siege of Trelayne. You gather the names like dirt under your fingernails, no way to scrub it out
.
And all the young men line up, to admire the fucking manicure
.
Ringil mastered his smile. He cleared his throat, gestured at the nearest bench. “Shall we, uh, sit down?”
“Yes. Gladly.”
They took station at opposite ends of the bench. Rakan stretched out long, slim legs in cavalry boots and leaned back. Gil felt a suddenly risen pulse tripping in his throat. He’d missed the cues before, registered them, if at all, for that mannered laxness that the Yhelteth upper class were wont to deploy as proof of their better-than-peasant standing. But now, belatedly, it was dawning on him that Throne Eternal captain Noyal Rakan was, in at least one fashion, very different from his elder sibling.
“I’m very sorry about your brother,” he said awkwardly. “He was a fine soldier.”
“And you led him to a”—the younger Rakan swallowed. “A fine and honorable death. Defending the Empire against a great evil. He would not have had it any other way.”
Actually, I more or less embarrassed him into it
, Ringil recalled silently.
I dared him to stand and die at Beksanara, and he did it because there was no way he could let a degenerate northerner make him look bad in front of his men
.
“So,” he said, for something to say. “They have given you his command.”
Rakan shook his head quickly. “His rank only. Throne Eternal service is in our family, we have provided the Khimrans with three generations of bodyguards and retainers. On my father’s death, Faileh rose to the post. Now I …” A brief, fluttered gesture. “Well, it is traditional.”
“Tradition, eh. How’s that working out for you?”
The young captain met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. “I, well … it’s difficult. You are measured against the other man, always.”
“Yeah, that can be tough.”
“I wanted,” Rakan blurted, “to thank you. For your intervention the other day. I am accustomed to dealing with soldiers. I have little experience of this kind of thing—merchants and entrepreneurs, men with power and wealth but no ethic of service to either Holy Revelation or Empire. It is not … That is, I would not have believed it could be so … ”
“My pleasure.” Ringil lifted a languid, dismissive arm. “We’re a whole city of merchants up in Trelayne, even those who work hard at pretending otherwise. The League is built on trade these days, not conquest. I’m used to it.”
The Throne Eternal captain blushed. “I did not mean to—”
“Insult me?” Gil grinned. “Didn’t you hear the Lady kir-Archeth at dinner the other night? I’m of noble imperial stock on my mother’s side. Besides.” He slouched a little, dropped that languid hand to his thigh and left it there. “I don’t exactly fit in, back in Trelayne. I am not what you’d call a pillar of mainstream society there. If you catch my meaning.”
“I—yes.” Hurriedly: “My lord Ringil, I have been considering some of the logistical issues for the coming expedition. Now, with plague and slave rebellion rumored around Hinerion, we will most likely need to avoid the northern march coast. Which means, of course, a lengthier initial voyage, and landfall in Gergis may be much farther west.”
“Yes, quite.” He fought for a detached curiosity of tone. “Slave rebellion, you say?”
“So it appears. Reports from the Tlanmar garrison are garbled, but the garrison commander seems certain that at least one slave caravan has risen up against its chains and slaughtered its masters. There may be others. And with the plague rampant, the Tlanmar commander is not prepared to risk sending a force into Hinerion, so we really have very little idea what’s happening. Of course, we have until next spring, but everything seems to indicate we should bypass Hinerion if we can.”
Ringil put together a fresh smile. “Well, it’s not much of a town, Hinerion. No loss there.”
“Uh, yes. I’ve heard that.”
“Though, of course, every town has its less conventional side. Every city is possessed of streets that its more mannered citizens might not like to talk about. Even Yhelteth, unless it’s much changed since my last visit.”
Rakan held his eye this time.
“It is not much changed,” he said.
here was a wolf out there in the dark, he knew, and it was watching him. It was waiting for him to move.
Oddly, the thought didn’t bother him at all.
He stood alone, head tipped exhilaratingly back, on the tilting, turning surface of the Earth, felt the massy weight of its whirl behind his eyes. The steppe sky spun by overhead, darkened purplish masses of cloud fracturing apart on the wind and letting in a golden orange light. He heard the hurrying of the breeze, felt the deep chill on his face that seemed to distance him from his own flesh …
Campfire smoke, drifting across his eyes, fragrant with—
No, wait …
Somewhere distant, someone coughed. He blinked at the sound, and it was as if the world turned slowly, majestically upside down and let him fall. The steppe washed away, the smoke remained. It hung in the
air, thick and sweet, the unmistakable catch of flandrijn at the back of his throat. The cough came again, from somewhere behind him, and this time he joined in. He propped himself up on one elbow and rubbed at his eyes.
Drapes of muslin, the hue of dirty honey in the low flickering lamplight. A dimly seen jumble of reclining figures beyond, and the odd upright form, bending to minister to them. He felt a body at his back, felt someone mutter grumpily at his sudden movement. Memory swam up into view, like a big ugly fish on a line.
I’m in the pipe house
.
He was indeed. The long, smooth barrel of the flandrijn pipe was cupped loosely in his left hand, but the ember was long out. He set it aside and sat up fully. No pain in his leg, though he could feel the tug of the stitches the doctor had put in. And his clothes smelled faintly of liniment. He had no idea what time of day or night it was. He had no idea how long he’d been here. On closer examination, along with the whiff of liniment, he detected less pleasant odors. Then again, his clothes hadn’t been exactly clean when he stumbled in here, however long ago that was. Blood, sweat, drenching with river water, and, he now remembered, somewhere in the long run of pipes they’d brought him, he’d lain there and pissed himself with the gentle disregard of a baby.
He gathered up his bundled cloak and lurched stiffly to his feet. Stumbled through the carpet of drowsing bodies, trailing a wake of curses and complaints. An attendant came running, fresh pipe in hand, but he waved her away.
“Enough,” he said gruffly. “Had enough.”
His immediate instinct was to seek some coffee and a good long soak in a hot bath. But on reflection, he supposed the way he smelled now would go a good way to completing his beggar’s disguise. Best keep it that way.
He grimaced at the thought.
Life in the big city, Eg
.
Yeah, and life in the big city is making you soft as the next fucking courtier, Dragonbane. How often did you bathe in hot water out on the steppe? Come to that, how often did you bathe
at all
on deployment during the war?
True enough—he spent most of the war smelling far worse than he did now. At Gallows Gap, Ringil had joked with him, handkerchief held affectedly to mouth, that just the way they stank ought to turn the reptile advance.
Urann’s balls, he missed that faggot.
He got himself outside, squinting at the blast of the sun overhead. He estimated time of day, reckoned early afternoon. He’d been piped up for at least a full day, then, maybe two.
Yeah, maybe three
, said something authoritative, through the fumes in his head.
Vaguely, he recalled the doctor muttering, as he finished up his ministrations, something about
cheap pain relief from our coastal brethren downstairs
. The disdain in his voice would have been hilarious if Egar hadn’t felt quite so much like boiled shit.
Well, you’re the one renting a coffin-sized room above them
, he’d felt like growling.
You’re the one doesn’t look like he’s been on a fucking horse in his life
.
He’d dripped coins into the doctor’s hand in silence instead, watched with thin satisfaction at the little fish-mouth gape the man made with each clink. Then he lurched shakily away downstairs to talk to the coastal brethren.
They’d sorted him out. Quite politely, too, the good doctor’s disdain notwithstanding.
Doesn’t matter where you go
, Ringil told him once, as they sat horses on the cliffs at Demlarashan, overlooking the beach,
that shit never changes. Men need someone to hate. It makes them feel strong, it makes them feel good about themselves. Binds them together. Yhelteth against the League, coastlanders against the horse tribes, marsh dwellers against the city—
Skaranak against Ishlinak
, Egar offered companionably.
Just so. Same shit everywhere, Eg. Only way you stop them squabbling is show them someone else they can all hate together
.
Egar grinned in his beard, and gestured down to the beach below.
Better hope we don’t beat these fuckers too easily then
.
The fury of the previous week’s storms had shoved the dragondrift up almost to the base of the cliffs, and it was beginning to bubble up in a way they’d seen before, farther north. Just a matter of time, they both
knew, before the hatching began. There was a queasy kind of excitement building around the camp with the waiting. Previous experience had shown you could never be sure what exactly would come tearing its way out of the sticky, purplish-black mess when the time came. Might be eight-foot-tall high-caste reptiles, might be swarms of the weaker, smaller peons. Might be something else entirely.
Of course, on this occasion,
something else entirely
turned out to be exactly right.
A something else entirely that would send men—many of them seasoned levy troops—screaming for their lives in retreat. A something else entirely it would cost over a hundred lives to defeat, and earn Egar the title that would catapult him into the upper ranks of the alliance overnight.
Yeah, shame we’re down to brawling with jealous husbands and priests these days, Dragonbane. Not going to give you any medals for that, now, are they?
He limped up the sun-saturated street with a wry grimace. Leaning into the limp a little more than strictly necessary—it couldn’t hurt to get in the habit, after all. Start playing his new role to the hilt. He let the cavalry cloak flap open a little in his grubby grasp, enough so it showed what it was. He slowed his pace to a beggar’s shuffle. Something appropriate to a broken man of war.
Close enough, after all, innit? Egar Cuckoldbane
.
Yeah, yeah, very fucking funny
.
His age fell on him abruptly, out of the pitiless, sun-glaring sky. He felt himself sag for real, no theater in it now.