Authors: Richard Morgan
“I’m his sworn representative, too.”
“Hmm.”
Ringil caught the undercurrent. Something in the air between these two that they hadn’t bothered to share with him yet. He cleared his throat.
“This Rakan. Any relation of old Faileh?”
Archeth nodded absently. “His younger brother. Seconded when the elder died. He’s supposed to have the command, but Mahmal doesn’t think he’s up to it.”
“He isn’t,” said Shanta gloomily.
“Yes, well, if that’s so, Mahmal, I don’t really see how we can proceed.” Archeth, working on
quite exasperated actually
. Ringil thought he caught the scraping edge of
no krin today
in her tone. “We’re going to have a fucking mess on our hands, trying to get this early start you want.”
“It’s a price we’ll just have to—”
“Yeah, a higher price than you—”
“Archeth, it’s worth the—”
“It’s a fucking mist—”
Ringil cleared his throat, loudly. They both shut up and looked at him. He tried out the thin smile again. Couldn’t hurt to practice a little ahead of time.
“It’s perfect,” he told them. “That’s what it is. Perfect.”
hey paid off the boatman at Prophet’s Landing. Puddles of bandlight on the river’s skin, and the drip-dribble of water from the shipped oars. The clink and dull gleam of coins counted out into a callused palm. Payment stowed, the boatman shoved off immediately and without a word—he was still sulking by the look of it. They watched the darkness on the river swallow him up, then went carefully up the green-grown slimy stone steps of the landing. At the top, the merchant quarter brooded in deserted early-hours gloom—shut-up shops and warehouses, auction halls and stabling, the odd glimmer of a watchman’s lantern here and there, but otherwise no sign of life. They slipped into the warren of darkened streets and away.
There had been no pursuit.
None you saw, anyway
.
Egar said nothing to the others, but still, he could feel the vague
snake of worry turn over in his guts. A year ago at Ennishmin, they’d run from the dwenda and he’d seen the pursuing scouts glimmer into ghostly blue-lit life on the banks of the river, watching him in silence as he passed. He spent most of the journey downstream from Afa’marag looking out for the same thing, but he saw no recognizable sign. Whether that meant they were in the clear, he had no idea.
He caught himself wishing Ringil were there. He missed the faggot’s sour, selfish introspection and book-learned wit.
Gil would have known what to make of all this.
He shook it off.
Come on, Dragonbane. Bad enough you let Imrana do most of your thinking for you these days. Now you need a fucking faggot at the task?
Be asking him to fucking tug you off next
.
He made the effort. If Pashla Menkarak was treating with dwenda under the impression he was in holy communion with angels, Egar was almost tempted to let the whole thing run its natural course. He’d pay hard coin to see Menkarak’s face when the angels shrugged off whatever glamour they’d cast and stepped forward for what they were. Maybe they’d stalk the corridors of the Citadel and tear every fucking invigilator within its walls limb from limb. Maybe they’d put every priestly head on a tree stump still living, the way they’d done with the victims at Ennishmin.
(Still gave him the odd nightmare—what he’d seen done in that swamp.)
Be hard to feel bad about an outcome like that, though. Certainly, it’d get the Citadel off Archeth’s back.
They found a tavern still open, weak gutter of candles melted down in their own wax along the trestle tables, clientele down to a few drowsy drunks and a couple of whores counting up the night’s takings with their pimp in a corner. Harath went to get mugs of spiced wine at the bar, while Egar sat at an empty table opposite the girl and gazed at her like a problem he had to solve.
Which she pretty much was.
“You’re bleeding,” she said quietly.
It was a reminder he didn’t really need. The wound in his thigh throbbed every time he took a step, but it seemed to have stopped
bleeding on the ride downriver. The other stuff was superficial—furrows and scratches no worse than you’d get from a crooked whore trying to roll you. The old adage welled up in his head.
Ignored gashes heal the fastest
.
“Used to it,” he grunted. “What am I going to do with you, girl?”
“Anything you want.” The same low, colorless voice. “I am yours now.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Right.”
He supposed the obvious thing was to take her to Archeth’s place. But—
Harath arrived with the wine, which was by now lukewarm. They sat in silence for a while, sipping, cradling the scant heat of the mugs in their hands. Presently, a serving maid came out and put a platter of cured fish portions on the table for them. Harath dived in.
“So what you going to do with her?” he asked, as if the girl were not sitting there.
“That’s not your concern. What
you
do is get back to your room, pay the rent, and keep your head down. I’ll come by with the rest of your money in a couple of days.”
“Worried about those demon things, huh?”
“No.”
Harath, nodding to himself as he chewed. “Worried they’ll track us, right?”
“You fucking deaf? I said no. I said I’m not worried about them.”
The Ishlinak jerked his chin. “Yeah, doesn’t sound like it.”
Egar drew a hard breath, let it slowly out. He looked down at the backs of his hands. There was a gouge across the left one he hadn’t noticed before.
Great
.
“All right, yes. This is some serious shit,” he finally admitted, to himself as much as the Ishlinak. “The Citadel are fucking about with things they don’t understand. Things I don’t understand, either. But it’s black shaman stuff. Night powers magic.”
“Oh, you
reckon
?” Suddenly there was a hiss in the younger man’s tone. He leaned in across the table. “Corpses—of
my
fucking kin, Skaranak—rising from the dead after we just fucking killed them! Faceless
warriors that walk with the lightning! Night powers, you say? Are you
sure
?”
“Keep your voice down.”
Jabbing finger across the trestle and into his face. “You said we wouldn’t kill any—”
Egar grabbed the hand at the wrist, slammed it flat to the table. “I
said
keep your fucking voice down.”
He locked eye with eye, forearm tensed as the younger man tried to free his trapped hand. The struggle coiled and uncoiled, draining ache through muscles already hammered hard in the fight. He hung on.
Make it look easy. Work the bluff
. He tilted his head a little, inquiring. Kept the stare. Used it all to lean imperceptibly in and reinforce the downward hold. Harath heaved one more time and gave up, tried to pull away. Egar held on another couple of seconds to make sure, then gave him his hand back.
“You were paid, Majak.” Hiding among spaced and even words how badly he needed to get his breath back. “Sometimes things don’t work out the way they’re planned. Demlarashan ought to have taught you that much.”
Harath looked back sullenly. “They were my friends.”
“Yeah? Well as I recall, when I came calling on you, your best guess was that your
friends
had sent me to murder you. Remember that?”
“You
said—
”
“I know what I said. I didn’t know what we’d find in there. Now the fight is done, you’re alive, and your purse is full. Pretty good outcome for a freebooter, I’d say. So shut the fuck up and let me think.”
Silence. They sat and let him think.
Obvious thing was to take her to Archeth’s place.
Right.
But the Citadel were going to be watching Archeth’s place, now more than ever, and out of sight to boot.
Couple of days ago, could maybe have sneaked her past the old cordon they had out there with nobody the wiser. But that was before you decided to go breaking bones and faces for fun. Now they’ll have spies in beggar’s rags along the boulevard and probably men with spyglasses in upper rooms across the street. No way to tell who’s watching where anymore
.
Nice going, Dragonbane
.
Grimace.
Could try it anyway—wrap her head-to-foot, maybe. Not exactly unheard of around here
.
But he knew the scheme was dead in the water even as he hatched it. The Citadel would be looking for any possible way there was to discredit Archeth, and Archeth’s tastes were widely whispered of. The arrival of a fresh female, however attired, would just fan the flames of gossip. It would get back to Menkarak for sure, and if the invigilator chose to do the needlepoint, stitch Majak freebooter to mysterious female to dwenda with gashes from a staff lance to the disappearance of a certain slave girl in Afa’marag …
No. Forget Archeth’s place.
There’s always—
Egar shot the younger man a surreptitious glance, saw the way he was drooling over the girl like some street dog confronted with a bowl of fresh offal. Dumped the idea before it made it all the way to a clearly formed thought. He barely trusted the Ishlinak to keep himself out of trouble the next few days, let alone keep anyone else safe at the same time. Harath, with a stuffed purse and swelling bravado from their adventures and safe escape …
At best, he’d force himself on the girl by way of payment for the favor. Maybe have her running off screaming down the street. At worst, he’d have her out on display at every mercenary watering hole in town while he told the tale for beers.
Forget it, Dragonbane. Worse idea than Archeth’s place
.
He wondered for a moment about Darhan, maybe some comrade of Darhan’s from the Combined Irregulars …
You don’t want to lean too much on that tribal thing
.
His old trainer’s own words, against the early-morning rattle of staff practice. And a speculative look in his eye.
You’re a fucking idiot, Dragonbane, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. You, and your loyalties. Going to get you killed one of these days
.
He realized, with a slow seeping chill, that he didn’t really know Darhan anymore—perhaps had never known the man, save as a gruff elder-brother substitute when he pitched up in the city, callow and gawking, what seemed like a lifetime ago.
You’ve been gone too long, Dragonbane
. He knew it for the truth—it
had that solid, marrow-deep ring to it, like a clean ax blow going home.
Times change, and men change with them. This isn’t the city you remember
.
You are alone here
.
Suddenly, trusting Darhan with the girl and her story didn’t seem like such a good idea.
WHICH LEFT JUST THE ONE OPTION, REALLY.
HE SENT HARATH HOME.
SIT TIGHT, WAIT FOR WORD
. HE DOUBTED THE
younger man would be able to do either for more than a couple of days, but maybe that’d be enough.
“What will you do with me now?” the girl asked him, when the tavern door had swung shut on the Ishlinak.
“I’m taking you to see a friend,” he told her.
Outside, the night was starting to wear thin and gray—but dawn was still a good few hours off, and the streets were as empty as before. Egar stood for a moment, checked for unwanted witnesses in doorways or at windows. Saw none, and beckoned for the girl to come out and join him. She limped to his side, favoring her left foot. He noticed her unshod feet for the first time since they’d gotten out of the temple—legs still mud-splattered and streaked from the river. Hard to see if there was blood. Her lips pressed together as she saw him looking. Panic in her eyes once more.
“I’m
fine
,” she jittered. “I can walk, I’m fine.”
“What’s your name?” he asked her gently.
“They call me Nil.”
“Good enough.” He glanced up at the sky. “Well listen, Nil, we have to hurry here. I want to get you off the street before daybreak. Last stretch, just stay with me. Can you do that?”
A tight nod.
“Let’s go, then.”
Up through the gently shelving streets toward the Palace Quarter, and despite her limp, Nil was as good as her word. She kept to his pace
better than some imperial levy recruits he’d been saddled with in the past. He felt the tension in him begin to ease as they climbed. The higher up the hill you got, the better the neighborhood and the less chance you’d end up in any kind of trouble. Up here, the militia patrols were frequent and well disciplined, not likely to be hitting you up for bribes or favors. Citizens and slaves went about their business with assurance. And any criminals on the prowl would be smart, would have well-planned agendas that didn’t include getting into random street squabbles.
Long and short of it—anyone they met on these immaculately maintained thoroughfares was going to have better things to do than gawk at or otherwise involve themselves with some passing Majak freebooter and his concubine.
So they hit Harbor Hill Rise without incident. Made it all the way to the mansion with the mosaic dome cupola, having seen no more than half a dozen hurrying servants and a couple of doorway-hugging war-wounded beggars who’d somehow avoided being shooed and shoved back down the hill the night before. They found the mansion’s servant entry, and Egar took a moment to square away the last of his vague misgivings.
Then he reached up and tugged at the bellpull.
The chimes chased each other away. Long delay, while voices and footfalls went back and forth behind the wall. He was half tempted to smear a couple of leaping steps up the white stone, grab the black iron spikes at the top, and vault over, wounds or no wounds. It wouldn’t have been the first time—but under the circumstances …
He waited.
Finally, a slat opened at head height in the dark wood paneling of the door. Eyes peered out.
“Yes?”
“Brinag?”
“He’s busy in the cellar. And we don’t pay anyone till end of month, so if you’re here to settle accounts, forget it. What do you want?”