The Steel Remains (21 page)

The man in the cage hadn't been dead all that long. There were still no outward signs of decay, and the birds had not yet taken his eyes— something that Ringil knew could sometimes happen even before the last vestiges of life guttered out in the victim. In fact, there was something unpleasantly life- like about this corpse. Aside from the head, now rolled bonelessly sideways and forward on the neck, the man still stood erect to the demand of the steel spike that held him up. At a glance, and but for the stained ankle- length cream- colored execution robe, he might almost have been a soldier on duty caught rolling his neck around to loosen midwatch stiffness. Even the spike, where it emerged through blood- drenched cloth at the man's right shoulder, might almost have been the pommel of a slung broadsword.

Ringil edged unwillingly a few steps closer so he could see up through the curving bars and into the face. The sun blocked out behind the head, gave it a soft halo. He felt himself grimace as he met the frozen eyes.

“Fuck are you looking at?”

He staggered back, rigid with shock. The corpse lifted its face to follow, kept the sun behind its head, the dead eyes on him. The lips drew back from blackened teeth. He saw a dry shred of tongue flicker between them.

“Yeah, you, pretty boy. I'm talking to you. Pretty fucking brave back in the comfort of your own home last night, weren't you. So now what?”

Ringil locked his teeth behind lips clamped shut. He breathed hard through his nose. He thought he caught the faintest sickly sweet hint of the charnel house.

“Who are you?”

The corpse grinned. “Don't you know?”

Ringil's hand slid up toward his neck and the pommel of the Ravensfriend. The corpse's grin widened to snarling, inhuman proportions.

“Come off it, Gil. This is a krinzanz flashback. You know that.”

And gone.

The corpse stood unmoving on the spike, head hanging once more, silent. Autumn sunlight spilled down over its shoulder, through the cage, and laid the shadows of bars across Ringil's face. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and let his sword hand drop. He glanced around surreptitiously and saw no one paying him any attention.

Well, almost no one.

“Oh, he was my daughter's husband, my lord.” A shawl- wrapped marsh dweller woman had appeared beside him, one of the ones with the fortune- telling gig in the courtyard corner. She carried with her an odor of salt and damp, and her hand was already out for coin. Ringil reckoned her no older than Ishil, but life out on the marsh had turned her into a crone. The characteristic dweller delicacy of her features was not yet completely worn down, but the hand she held out was already knobbed and wrinkled with age, and her voice was cracked and coarse. “Woe is upon us, he left nine hungry mouths to feed, eight little ones and my own widowed daughter, no help for us but—”

“What was his name?”

“His name, uhm, was Ferdin.”

Out of the corner of one eye, Ringil almost thought he saw the corpse shake its lowered head in sanguine and slightly weary denial.

“Right.” He ignored the outstretched hand, gestured at the blanket laid out by the wall and the other old woman sitting on it. “I'm curious, madam. Could you read me my future?”

“Oh yes, my lord. For no more than …” Her eyes flickered about. “Seven …florins, I shall cast the scrying bones for you.”

“Seven florins, eh?” It wasn't quite daylight robbery.

The woman lifted one grubby, sunburned arm so her shawl fell back from it. She touched a long vein in her wrist. “The blood that flows here belongs to the marsh clans at Ushirin, the children of Nimineth and Yolar. I am not a cheap spell- chanter from the stalls at Strov.”

“You're certainly not cheap, no.”

It was water off a duck's back, no impediment at all to the fortuneteller's pitch now it was rolling. As he watched, she freed her other arm from the wrap of the shawl and crossed her wrists in front of her, palms cupped upward. “I trace my family line back eighty- six generations, undiluted, to those among the People who mated with the Aldrain. I have the eye. The shape of things to come opens before me, it is no more mystery than the shape of that which has already been.”

“Hmm. Pity you didn't throw the bones for your son- in- law then, isn't it?” Ringil nodded up at the corpse. “He could have used a little insight into the shape of things to come, don't you think?”

It brought the woman up short. Her eyes narrowed, and he saw the hate come up in them. No surprises there, he was almost pleased to see it. Beneath their garish, played- for- the- crowd affectations of fey, the true marsh dwellers had a thin spine of pride that was mostly extinct in the rest of the Naom clans. They lived outside the city in more senses than the merely physical, and that brought its own detachment. There was a marked lack of deference in their manner when confronted with the trappings of wealth or political power. It was the one quality that Ringil could find to admire amid what was otherwise a fairly grubby and brutal cultural hangover from Naom's pre- urban past. Like most kids, he'd dreamed often enough, smarting from a tanning Gingren or one of his tutors had given him, of running away to live out on the marsh with the dwellers. Often enough, he'd seen the faint flickering lanterns of their encampments out across the plain, had felt the distance and escape under open sky that they promised, just like any other kid.

Nice image. But the reality was altogether too backbreaking, damp, and smelly to seriously entertain.

And fucking freezing in winter.

The fortune- teller dropped her crossed wrists abruptly. Her arms hung at her sides, her shawl fell back and covered her hands. Her eyes nailed his. Nothing of her moved but her lips as she spoke.

“I'll tell you what,” she said softly. “I'll tell you what I see, and at no charge. You know much of war, you carry its spirit stabbed deep inside you, just as he up there has the steel within him. Just as deeply buried, just as hard and unyielding to all the softer things you are and want and own to. And just as bitter in its wounding. You think you'll be free of it one day; you carry it as if the wound will someday heal. But for you, just as for him, there will be no healing.”

“Wow.” Ringil reached up left- handed and tapped the pommel of the Ravensfriend with his fingers. “Nice guesses. I'm sorry, Granny. It's still no sale.”

The old woman's voice rose slightly. “Mark me. A fight is coming, a battle of powers you have not yet seen. A battle that will unmake you, that will tear you apart.
A dark lord will rise, his coming is in the wind off the marsh.”

“Yeah. I lost a pocketknife a couple of weeks ago. I don't suppose you'd know where that is?”

She bared teeth at him.

“Among the dead,” she said savagely. “Forgotten.”

“Right.” He made her a brief bow, began turning away. “Well, I have to be going.”

“You have killed children,” she said to his retreating back. “Do not think that will heal, either.”

He stopped dead.

Once again, his vision seemed to burn out and be replaced. He stood in the courtyard again, amid a thin crowd of rubberneckers at Jelim Dasnel's dying. The viewing stand had been taken down, the cage hoisted high. The stains on the stonework below were drying.

Day two.

It had taken that long for him to get out from under the house arrest. Ishil's decision. When Gingren finally brought him home on the first day of the execution, pale and trembling, vomit- stained, Ishil had taken one
look at her son and snapped. She sent Ringil to his room with icy aplomb, and as soon as he was gone she turned on her husband like a storm. The whole house heard her bawling him out. It was the only time Ringil could remember that she'd truly unleashed her anger at Gingren, and though he was not there to see the results, the lack of marks on his mother's face the next day suggested Gingren had withered in the blast. In the aftermath, the servants crept about the place, and the orders stood in no uncertain terms— Ringil was not to leave the house before the end of the week. Jelim had been a husky boy, and it was well known that Kaad's executioners could, on request, draw out the suffering of an impaled criminal for a good three or four days, if the victim was strong.

Ringil got out at dawn, out of his bedroom window, along fingertip ledges of stone to the corner of the house, and then over the roof to the stables. He went wrapped in a nondescript brown cloak that didn't show what it was worth, squeezed through the hole in the fence, and fled toward the eastern gate.

When he got there, Jelim was still conscious.

And children were throwing stones.

It wasn't unheard of, wasn't even uncommon. If your aim was good and you had a decent- sized stone, you could jolt the condemned man on his spike and make him scream. In the absence of the Watch, enterprising souls among the urchins had been known to bring a supply of rocks and sell them for pennies from a tray.

The first child Ringil noticed was about eight— fresh- faced and grinning, hefting his stone as he stepped forward and cocked his arm. Comrades of a similar age offered jeering advice. Numb and dizzy, Ringil failed to grasp what was happening until the missile flew, and clanged off one of the cage bars.

Jelim made a girlish, shrilling noise. Ringil thought he heard the raw edge of the word
please
submerged in the agony.

“Oi, you kids,” someone shouted. “Pack that in.”

Laughter, some of it adult.

“Yeah,
fuck
off, Granddad,” said the fresh- faced boy, and squared up for another throw. His arm came back.

Ringil killed him.

It happened so fast no one, Ringil himself least of all, realized what he was doing. He grabbed the raised arm at the elbow, locked his hand into the boy's neck, and wrenched. The boy screamed, but not loud enough to drown out the hollow, meaty sound as his shoulder joint snapped.

It was not enough.

Ringil bore him struggling to the ground and smashed his face into the paving. Blood on the dung- strewn stone, and a wet mewling. He thought the kid was still alive when he dragged the head up the first and second times, thought he heard him still wailing, but on the third impact he went abruptly silent. And by the fourth and fifth, it was definitely all over.

He kept on pounding.

Thin, high screaming in his ears like a steam kettle left on the stove.

By the time they dragged him off, the kid's features were pulp, barely recognizable as human. It was only then, as they hauled Ringil bodily away, thrashing and snarling and lunging out at the openmouthed terror of the other urchins, that he registered the high- pitched shriek in his ears for what it was— his own voice, like nails scraping at the doors of madness.

You have killed children.

He shook it off.
Lizardshit and safe guesses, Gil, just like the rest of it. The war is furniture— anyone able- bodied your age or older was in it.
A man with a blade on his back and a warrior stance, a man with the distance in the eyes that he knew he had. A shrewd fortune- teller could read the implications of it all, just the way you'd read a path through the marsh.

He walked away.

At his back, he thought he heard her cursing him.

HE WAS ALMOST BACK TO THE GLADES WHEN HE REMEMBERED THE
last time he'd seen that pocketknife.

He'd put it in a pocket of his leather jerkin in Gallows Water, the night of the corpsemites. The jerkin he wore out to the graveyard and lost there in the fight.

Left there among the dead.

t was on Greasing Night— night of masking and unmasking, night of Ynprpral Walking and the cold that strikes through like a blade, night of acknowledging the wheel of the seasons and inevitable change— that the sign Poltar had been waiting for finally arrived. He supposed it was appropriate in its way; he grudgingly approved of the symbolism it drove home.

Mostly, he was just glad the waiting was over.

He'd watched the sky for weeks after his encounter with Kelgris, gnawing on his hate and his lurid dreams of vengeance.
The Dwellers make their will known for those with eyes to look above,
his father had schooled him, long before Poltar had properly understood that he, too, would one day wear the wolf- eye robe.
Where other men see only to the rim of the world, you must learn to look beyond. You must look to the sky.

Deeds followed words not long after— Olgan was a shaman in the old
tradition, and he intended his son to one day wear his robes with the same conviction. From his father, Poltar learned the seasons and moods of the Sky Road, its colors and the sparks that Urann's iron- shod steed sometimes struck from its surface when the Gray Master rode in haste from the Sky Home to earth or back. He learned why the band might wrap itself in cloud and hide, why it would at other times stand clear and bright from horizon to horizon like a promise in shimmering gold. Learned the humor of storms and the visiting aurora, what they intended and whose business they were habitually about, learned the meaning of each wind across the steppe and what it could tell those with ears to listen. He learned where to find the sky iron, to know when it was most likely to fall to earth, and in what season it could be safely touched. He learned the names and the tales and the invocations and once, when he was still very young, he saw his father raise Takavach the Many Faced from the surface of a crystal mirror tilted to face the darkening eastern sky at dusk.