The Path of Anger (35 page)

His senses remained more acute than usual, so he still had some time remaining before the effects of the
animus
dissipated completely. To his right and left he was aware of coachmen dropping to the street and armed men leaving their vehicles. He only had to turn, step into a side-street, and vanish.

But when he stood up his self-assurance was reduced to naught; his heart skipped a beat and his legs almost gave way beneath his weight.

A woman was looking at him with a stunned expression from the coach window, one hand holding the curtain open. Her surprise in no way detracted from her beauty. Age had barely touched the
perfection of her olive skin and the curly hair flowing over her bare shoulders still had the characteristic black lustre of the West.

It was only a brief moment, but to him it seemed to last an eternity.

‘There he is!’

‘Don’t let him get away!’

‘It’s the assassin!’

The voices were only murmurs, while the
animus
made the beating of this woman’s heart loud in his ears. She was stone-still. And then he realised that she recognised the Emperor’s mask on his face, that she was not seeing the man inside but instead a broken memory, like the crack running across the gilt mask. Her lips made a slight movement without any sound emerging. Nothing, he heard nothing but her heart. When a man took hold of his right hand, he offered no resistance. A second gripped his left.

Esyld . . . He wanted to rush to the door, wrench it open, snatch her from the coach and bear her far away. It could all come to an end this very night.

‘I have him!’

‘Don’t move!’

She withdrew her hand. The curtain immediately fell back into place, masking her face, and for a moment he thought he’d been dreaming. But her heart was still beating, so hard, so quickly, so frightened. He barely heard the sound of weapons being unsheathed. He was surrounded by a fog, unable to see clearly, as vague silhouettes came to the assistance of the two men who were forcing him to his knees.

He felt himself weaken, his legs bending.

‘Proud little lord . . .’

‘Advance! Advance!’ ordered a voice.

Hooves clattered on the cobblestones, and the wheels started to turn with a squeal. The heartbeat moved away. The blood on Laerte’s lips had a salty taste that brought him out of his dazed state. He could see them clearly now, the coaches resuming their journey, the two men holding his arms loosely, while a third stretched a hand towards his belt to disarm him.

‘Flee . . . flee, Laerte!’

He rolled his shoulders forward, knocking the men restraining him off-balance, and then with a single movement he pushed his arms in front of him to strike at the third. The hands restraining
him relaxed, and he freed himself from them completely. The procession of coaches was moving off into the distance, more soldiers were coming, and Laerte was out of time. He had to rid himself of these three men and leave the scene.

He punched the first with his right fist, followed by his left, delivered a spinning kick to the jaw of the second and then, kneeling, he seized the last by the belt and the collar before lifting him into the air. He tossed him over his head as if he weighed no more than a feather. He stood up, his heart heavy and his chest aflame and dashed into the adjoining street, ignoring the curses of the soldiers at his heels.

He ran desperately, turning at each street corner, his vision blurred, seeking a way out of his predicament. The soldiers’ voices echoed in the deserted streets and with them the hooves of galloping horses. He was the prey, a fox being hunted by hounds on foot and riders on horseback, and if he did not find a means of escape quickly then the trap would close around him. Distant and faint, he spotted some flickering lights over the rooftops. As he drew closer, the sound of singing and the clinking of tankards came to his ears.

He turned into an alley on his right, almost crashing into a pile of crates. He slowed down as he came out into a wide street illuminated by lanterns hanging from strings. The crowd was dense; men and women were singing, drinking, coming and going from taverns whose doors stood wide open. He removed his mask, tucking it into his belt, and caught his breath. Here he stood a chance. He melted into the crowd.

When he left the neighbourhood he could only hear laughter and cheering behind him. He found an alley and climbed up the side of a building. And when he reached the rooftop he enjoyed a hard-earned rest.

Esyld . . .

He repeated her name silently, as if to assure himself that he had not been dreaming. But no doubt was strong enough to disturb his sudden intoxication. Whatever the reasons for her presence in Masalia, and Aladzio’s silence on the subject, he would reflect on them later. Another irony of fate. His life seemed defined by ironies of fate. Unlike his mentor he had never believed man’s destiny was set out in a book, any more than he had accepted the idea that the
gods had written it. But he had to acknowledge that chance worked in curious ways.

Looking out over Masalia, he spent several long hours watching the masts of the ships rock gently in the distant harbour.

5

REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE

Whatever the reason for your acts,

Whether you can justify them or not,

There will never be any excuse

For taking someone’s life.

The Emperor.

Since the Saltmarsh, Laerte had never stopped thinking about it, imagining the day when, ready at last, he would plunge a sword into Reyes’ heart. He would take his life, showing no mercy, he would avenge the Usters without shedding the smallest tear. He had already judged the man guilty; all that remained was to carry out the sentence.

From the Saltmarsh to Garmaret, from Garmaret to Sainte Amanne, Serray and Sopira Galzi, he had listened to Dun-Cadal’s advice, trained hard, and never faltered despite the pain. His will alone allowed him to overcome all obstacles. They had passed through so many towns; from villages gradually darkened by the shadow of war to Emeris itself, flamboyant and majestic. Perfect and Imperial.

He would soon be fifteen years old and he reckoned he was capable of knocking down every wall separating him from his goal. What a surprise it was when he first saw the capital and its tall white towers, with the waterfall tumbling down at their feet, and how anxious he became when he tried to imagine the cursed Emperor. What did he look like? He must be a giant, a monster of muscle and strength, an implacable warrior.

During their journey he had seen the rebellion spreading and, more than once, he had been obliged to take lives. Each time he shed blood, each time he saw the dying gasp their last breath, the image of
Madog rose in his mind. All this violence, this rage, this turmoil. He was growing up amidst a war whose causes and meaning he barely understood.

Each life destroyed was one more reason the Emperor should pay for his crimes. It was his fault that Laerte was forced to act in this manner. Asham Ivani Reyes was the sole person responsible for this implacable anger. So Laerte rid himself of any doubts, not without some difficulty, for a dark idea persisted within him, as hot as a coal about to burst into flame. His guilt rose to the surface and nagged at him until he managed to push it into the deepest corner of his being, along with Madog’s shadow. Through his experience of combat he gained in confidence and mastery without Dun-Cadal ever seeming to take notice. Not once did he compliment Laerte on his efforts or end a training session with an encouraging word. The general limited himself to repeating the same advice, sometimes mocking Laerte,
teasing
him, as he put it.

Laerte did not like it. Laerte put up with it. Dun-Cadal was an enemy; one of those who had attacked the Saltmarsh; one of those who had taken Aëd’s Watch; one of those who had murdered his family. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself . . .

For upon arriving at the gates of Emeris he found, against all expectation, that he’d grown used to the general and even come to enjoy certain moments in his company. Dun-Cadal’s frankness pleased Laerte but did not excuse everything. He was boorish, hard and uncultivated. He thought he knew everything under the sun, that he’d experienced so much he had nothing left to prove and saw no reason to bow down to anyone except the Emperor. Only his opinion mattered, only his vision of the world was correct, only his words commanded silence. The Empire he served was righteous and just, worth sacrificing his life for. It mattered little to him that men had been hung in its name, and women raped and gutted . . . Or else he did not know of the torments inflicted upon the Uster family.

Naïs . . . my sister was called Naïs.

‘Are you mute, then, having said nothing until now?’ asked the man. ‘I’ve heard of you, you know. You’re Frog, am I right?’

A man wearing a white toga with a red cloth draped over his shoulder was leading them through the hallways of the Imperial palace at Emeris. Dun-Cadal had introduced him as the Emperor’s steward.

‘Yes.’

‘Frog . . .’ said Dun-Cadal reproachfully.

From the corner of his eye, he saw his mentor’s stern gaze and corrected himself with ill grace:

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Your devotion to the Empire has caught our attention . . . as well as our respect, young man,’ added the man.

‘Thank you, my lord.’

At the end of the hallway lined with mirrors were two great doors. And hidden behind them was the lastborn of the Reyes dynasty. Laerte felt his body stiffen, ready to pounce. There was no room for error. Once he passed the threshold he would have to seize his opportunity without hesitation. The steward pushed the doors open.

He would not get another chance . . .

They creaked, revealing a large room with a black-streaked marble floor.

Never get another chance . . .

Dozens of smooth, shining columns led up to a thin red curtain stretched near a large balcony that was brushed by tree tops. Was that the Emperor? The shadow behind the blood-coloured curtain? Was he that black figure over which the female silhouettes were pouring steaming water? Was that really Asham Ivani Reyes? Laerte grew tense. A hand pressed him in the back.

‘Advance,’ ordered Dun-Cadal. ‘And don’t speak until he addresses you.’

There would be no need for words. Only his deed, quick and precise, would count. Behind the curtain, the shadow bent over. The steward beckoned them to follow him.

‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ he announced loudly. ‘General Daermon, returned from the Saltmarsh and his young protégé.’

‘Have you brought back a son?’ a voice jeered. ‘Is that what took you so long?’

They advanced towards the silhouette, propped up in his bath. Only a shadow, but what a shadow! Imposing, strong . . . hateful. Laerte quickened his pace, coming up alongside the steward. His heart was beating so fast, his brow was beaded with sweat, his hands becoming damp as he approached his goal. His fingers brushed the pommel of his sword.

Quickly and well. That was how he must strike. Quickly and well, straight to the heart, his blade piercing the curtain, its colour
blending with the red of Imperial blood. Then it would all be at an end, the war along with his sorrow. His father, his mother, his brother . . . his little sister. His sweet little sister would be avenged. Tears rose to his eyes. His hand slipped to his sword’s hilt. Only a few more yards and he would be in range, only a few . . .

A blade whistled through the air to stop short at his throat. Laerte came to a sudden halt, holding his breath. At the end of the weapon, a hand gloved in leather gripped the hilt tightly. The man wore a dark green jacket and a cape tossed over his shoulders, whose hood covered his head. His face was nothing but a patch of darkness from which a deep quiet voice emanated.

‘Peace, Daermon.’

Laerte tried to detect some trace of humanity in the voice. His attacker only had to make a single move, just one, and it really would all be over. The boy resigned himself to releasing his sword out of fear of immediate decapitation. For the first time – having seen battle, experienced fear, fled from Imperial and rebel troops alike in the Saltmarsh – for the first time, he realized he was facing death. He was forced to admit that, on seeing it so close, he was not ready to confront it. A tear appeared at the corner of his eye.

Was he going to die here without honouring his family’s memory? Without putting an end to this war? Without becoming the greatest knight of all time?

‘He’s not an enemy,’ his mentor rumbled in protest.

Laerte did not know who this man was, but judging by the tone of Dun-Cadal’s voice, even the general seemed to fear him.

‘He comes from the Saltmarsh . . .’ the voice replied.

‘Ever prompt to defend me, Logrid,’ commented the Emperor, in a stronger and more commanding tone.

A servant poured water into his bath as he passed his hands over his face. Wisps of steam drifted along the stretched cloth.

‘But I don’t believe a mere child who has left his region in time of war would come all this way to kill the Emperor.’

Laerte felt the tear brimming at the edge of his eyelid. He had failed so miserably . . . his one and only chance, he had let it slip by.

Trembling and close to actually sobbing, he glared at the hooded man.

‘Logrid . . .’ growled Dun-Cadal. ‘Leave him be.’

The so-called Logrid lowered his arm. But Laerte could still feel
the coldness where the blade had lain against his neck. From the corner of his eye the boy saw the assassin step around the general, replacing his sword in its scabbard.

‘So this is how we’re welcomed back to court,’ murmured Dun-Cadal

‘I’m only following your teaching, Daermon,’ the other man replied in a low voice.

‘The lad isn’t threatening the Emperor, Logrid . . .’

Laerte balled his fists.
That’s a lie
, he thought.
A lie!
He would do more than simply threaten the Empire, he could break it, destroy it, annihilate it. One day he would do it. He wasn’t a
lad
! He wasn’t a
child
! He had not made this long journey for nothing. But although he was boiling inside, his entire body remained paralysed by fear.

‘Frog . . .’ said Dun-Cadal.

Logrid had disappeared. All that remained in front of him was the red curtain behind which the shadow of the Emperor sat hunched over in his bath. He heard the steward murmuring in his mentor’s ear.

‘Perhaps it would be better if you were to have a private audience with His Imperial Majesty,’ the steward proposed.

So he left the room without even glancing at Dun-Cadal.

Upon reaching the door he almost turned round and ran back towards the Emperor. Would this Logrid block his path again? Reason, or fear, prevented him from acting.

He followed the steward through the palace corridors, full of anger and regret, but refusing to admit defeat and flee far away, in the vain hope of leaving all his pain behind in Emeris.

When he discovered the military academy and the steward presented him to the instructors, he remained silent. He was taken to his chamber where he was asked to remove his sword. Then, dressed in the grey tunic worn by the cadets, he let himself be guided by one of them to a courtyard in the middle of which stood a fountain. In the shadow of the open gallery’s arches, his gaze met those of his new comrades. They observed him as though he were a curious beast, some of them exchanging a few words. From their smiles, Laerte knew they were mocking him. But he did not react, still too stunned to defend his pride. He had sought to throw himself into the jaws of
the wolf, thinking to strike a fatal blow, but now found himself lost, ready to be swallowed.

What would become of him?

‘Come on, tattoo man! Come on, defend yourself!’

‘Gods, does he stink!’

Laerte watched the Nâaga carrying two heavy crates, his head bowed. He kept his balance despite being shoved. He was massively built despite his youthful appearance. His heavily muscled arms emerged from his brown jacket full of holes, a physical trait that owed as much to his cultural heritage as to being a slave condemned to hard labour. His body was continually sculpted by exercises that were both cruel and painful. Withstanding blows to the torso while keeping one’s feet was just one example among many, as Dun-Cadal had described them to Laerte in a tone of disgust. From infancy, the Nâaga learned to endure.

Stoically, he tried to reach the mouth to a chain-bridge without dropping his burden, while the cadets taunted and harassed him.

‘Skin like that is repulsive!’

‘You should go wash yourself!’

‘The Nâaga are animals.’

‘Hit him!’

They felt only scorn and disgust. One of them struck the slave in the face with his fist and the Nâaga made no attempt to avoid the blow. He did not utter a sound, continuing as best he could. No one intervened, viewing this sort of behaviour as natural, and Laerte was surprised to find himself thinking of his mentor. Dun-Cadal would never allow an inferior to be humiliated like this.

Laerte believed that he had failed this day, that he had not learned enough from his mentor to confront the Emperor. But perhaps it wasn’t a failure after all, only a trial run; a first attempt which had allowed him to penetrate the monster’s lair. Perhaps there was only another step to climb before he achieved his goal.

And the lessons he’d acquired during his journey from the Salt-marsh to Emeris had not been lost.

‘What a brainless creature,’ jeered a cadet, pointing at the Nâaga. ‘Nothing between the ears!’

‘Go on, punch him again!’ urged a second.

As the third cadet prepared to strike another blow, a firm hand
gripped his wrist. Before he had time to turn round, a foot kicked the back of his knee and forced him to the ground. Then a fist landed on his jaw beneath the stunned gaze of his comrades. They were quick to gather their wits, however, pouncing on Laerte and, very quickly, others joined them. He dodged as best he could, striking back at any who came within his reach, but he soon found himself surrounded. Finally forced to the ground, he rolled himself into a ball as fists and kicks rained down on him.

Laerte endured the pain . . . and he endured the humiliation. The Nâaga was able to escape. Right there and, as a dozen cadets pummelled away at him, he forged an unswerving friendship.