by Matthew Ward
Josiri sprang to his feet. “Viktor, don’t do this. We’ll find another way.”
Viktor’s gaze met his, eyes full of the cold, stark pragmatism Josiri had come to both envy and revile. “Tell me, brother, do you never tire of being the sole dissenting voice?” He smiled without humour. “Were you alone on an island you’d bicker yourself into the Raven’s grasp. This is necessary, or it will cost us all.”
Josiri glanced about, seeking a shred of support. He found none. Sevaka wouldn’t even meet his gaze. Only Jezek shifted with discomfort. Josiri found himself missing Elzar more than ever. He’d have known what to say. Viktor would have listened.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Viktor was right, and he lacked perspective. That was the problem about arguing with Viktor. The weight of his certainty crumbled mountains to dust.
“If we’re doing this,” Izack put in. “We can’t do it slipshod. We’ll want all the bodies we can get. There are still a handful of Fellnore and Lancras within the walls. Can’t hurt to drag a few proper knights into this. Even if it means waiting until dusk to drop the hammer. I’d join you myself, but Lady Orova and I are riding back east. We’ve Thrakkians due in Tarvallion tomorrow, and someone has to keep that boozy lot from starting the wrong bloody war.”
He spoke guilelessly, but then he always did… even when up to mischief. And there was mischief behind the suggestion, or so Josiri hoped. If Viktor agreed, it bought a few hours in which to defuse the affair.
“I’ll second them to the constabulary, if they’re agreeable,” he said. “We’re more flexible in our approach than the Drazina. And we will be there.”
“Of course,” Sarisov replied smoothly. “I expected nothing less.”
Viktor nodded, his brow unknotting. “Then it’s agreed. We’ll speak afterwards.”
One by one, the others rose and filed out, leaving Josiri and Viktor alone.
“I hope you’re right,” said Josiri.
Viktor twitched a shrug. “You always do. Sometimes only strength will serve.”
As he too departed, Josiri realised how pale and drawn Viktor’s features had grown, the mask of certainty worn for wider consultation abandoned in privacy. It went a long way to easing his concerns about what was to come. If only Viktor hadn’t invoked strength – the virtue Ebigail Kiradin had prized beyond all others, and the justification for so much harm wrought in years past.
Thirty-One
With an aggrieved groan, the board came free. The crack of daylight widened. Startled, Calenne stumbled under the weight, one end almost slipping free of her grasp. A brief flurry of hands, and she was its mistress once more.
Straining for a sign her struggle had drawn notice beyond the locked door, she paced out the moments to a heartbeat she no longer felt. After a ten-count, she set the notched timber against the wall and peered at the window, which she now saw was boarded both outside and in. Where the inner timbers sat snug, the outer were slovenly fixed – affording entry to glorious daylight.
With a last wary glance at the door, Calenne pressed against the inner boards and gazed out.
Had she breath to lose, the vista would have stolen it. Her whole existence – life no longer felt accurate – she’d known only Eskavord. As a child, that town had seemed impossibly vast, untold wonders concealed in crooked streets and alleyways. Far below the jagged glass of the shattered window stretched a townhouse-fronted square capable of swallowing a quarter of Eskavord whole. Beyond, the skyline crowded with slate and tile, arrow-straight roads, skeletal winter trees and snow-covered gardens.
Standing on tiptoes, she peered down at dark shapes heading to and fro atop the square’s melting slush. Insects scurried underfoot, unaware they were observed.
Brilliant orange tongues clawed and raged at the heavens where blocky roofs surrendered to a harbour’s waters. Calenne gazed, transfixed, and wondered how it was that she could smell the smoke, the soot. How she felt the backwash of the flame prickle her skin.
Felt?
Suddenly, she was in the darkness of Eskavord. Unable to move – unable even to think – as fires blazed all around. The echo of pain that was hers, and yet was not. And all the while, the pressure of Malatriant’s will. Smothering. Suffocating. Screaming as her thralls blinked out, consumed.
Overcome by nausea, Calenne stumbled from the window, hiding the flames from sight. Clay fingers glinked against unfeeling lips. She struggled for breath to subdue rising panic, forgetting she no longer had lungs nor diaphragm to command. Eskavord had been home. Tressia was as alien as her body. Alien, and impossibly, unknowably vast. Even if she escaped the clocktower, the streets would swallow her up.
Everything she’d known – everything she’d been – was gone. All save Viktor. Perhaps it was better that she remain contented with candlelight and his fleeting company. Whatever her misgivings, he did love her. He remained her one certainty.
And yet, Calenne found her gaze drawn back to the unfamiliar world and wondered what it would be like to walk beneath sunlight. To hear the small sounds of life swirling about her, even though she stood forever apart.
That freedom could be hers. What she’d seen of the clocktower’s outer face was rife with gaping mortar and rain-worn sculpture – handholds enough for clear-headed descent. Especially if one possessed a body free of ephemeral fatigue.
Footsteps beyond the door dashed her reverie to pieces. She hoisted the window-board back into position. Iron nails snagged, then glided home. By the time the key clicked, Calenne had deposited herself on the sofa, a book spread across her knees.
Tzila said nothing, just as she’d remained silent during each of her brief visits across the morning – interruptions that had slowed and discouraged Calenne’s small attempts at freedom.
There was something oddly familiar about the other woman – a voiceless contempt conveyed by cast of shoulders and angle of head. More than that, there was a wisp of… something. It maddened like an unscratchable itch. Kinship? Or perhaps her own frustrations projected? After all, Viktor aside, Tzila was the only living soul she saw.
Viktor arrived on Tzila’s heels, expression clouded by that brooding, oh-so-familiar scowl. Tzila withdrew, pulling the door closed. But still Viktor seemed in no hurry to speak. For all that Calenne felt his gaze upon her, she’d the impression he didn’t see her at all.
Swallowing guilt over disobedience committed and intended – one advantage of the clay was she feared no tick of expression revealing her thoughts – she set the book aside.
[[This room already has a surfeit of statues, Viktor. It needs no other.]]
Shoulders sagged, the scar on his cheek twisting. “My apologies. It’s barely noon, and already I wish it were tomorrow.”
[[The war?]]
“Someone has stirred the dockworkers to mutiny, and the rot spreads by the hour. Half the city lies at a standstill and if the supply barges remain embargoed, the Hadari will learn of our coming before we mobilise. Surprise will be lost, and the liberation of the east over before it has begun.” He rubbed his face. “I knew the storm was coming. I’ve done everything I could to encourage it to break before the Hadari forced my hand. But the scale…?”
So that was the meaning of the fires? Calenne nearly asked about them, but remembered in time what that knowledge would reveal. [[You make it sound like you wanted this.]]
“No sane man would want this. But sometimes leadership means accepting the inevitable, or even accelerating it so the timing suits your goals, and not your enemy’s. I knew there were tensions. Conscription and other measures made them inevitable. I’d hoped for a brief flaring. One I could end with a minimum of harm. Now?” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Calenne suppressed a shiver. Sometimes she forgot that Viktor and the Black Knight who’d haunted her nightmares were one and the same. Not so at that moment. But even for him, this was bleak. Oh, not in the abstract. It was only when she sought meaning between the words that she glimpsed bloodshed.
<
br /> [[And who is your enemy, if not the Hadari?]]
“He has gone to great lengths impersonating my father.”
[[But he isn’t?]]
“My father died after Davenwood.”
[[There’s no chance you’re mistaken?]]
“I choked the life out of him myself.” Viktor turned about, his expression defiant, almost begging her for challenge. “I saw the light fade from his eyes. He is with the Raven.”
[[So was I.]] Calenne offered response by rote, lost in dismay. [[Your own father? Viktor—]]
“No other course would serve!” he snapped. “Whatever was good in my father died long before I slew the rest. Left loose in the city he’d have dragged it into the mire. His death freed me to search for you.”
But of course, he’d never found her. She’d already been dead in all ways that mattered, swallowed up by Malatriant’s resurrection.
Calenne stood, anger burning away the dismay. [[So it’s my fault?]]
Viktor twisted away. “Of course not. My deeds are my own, my mistakes alongside. I do not tally my father’s death among the latter. And now someone rouses my people to revolt in his name.” He snorted. “My father would never have possessed the nerve. Now I’ve no choice. I must break them all to pieces or more will suffer.”
In those words, Calenne caught a glimpse of the Viktor she remembered – the man driven to unhappy deeds through refusal to shirk duty. Had he come for counsel, or to unburden himself?
[[Have you spoken to my brother? Has he nothing to suggest?]]
Viktor’s voice grew wearier. “Josiri? He has a good heart, but he doesn’t grasp the situation’s urgency. Sometimes I fear he’s lost his fire. Maybe even that I’m responsible for the change…” The corner of his lip twisted, and Calenne sensed the following words would not be the ones originally intended. “He’ll understand afterwards. He always does.”
She seized the glimmer of opportunity. [[Then let me go to him, or have him come to me. Surely nothing bad can come of that?]]
“Not yet. I need to keep you safe a little longer.”
[[Safe from Josiri?]]
“I fear so. I need time to explain, and after this morning I suspect he’s too angry to listen.”
She stuck out her chin. [[It’s my risk to take.]]
“Can you not think of something other than your own desires?”
That same sternness had once shocked Calenne to her senses, sloughing off the calloused selfishness of girlhood to free the woman within. But transformation cut both ways. The woman was not so easily cowed as the girl, adrift in the world though she was.
[[My desires? My wits had barely returned and you pressed me with your vision of a shared future. And today…? Why did you come here, Viktor?]]
One eye narrowed. “To see you, of course.”
Calenne advanced, reinforcing her words by jabbing an angry finger in his direction. [[I think you came to unburden yourself to the one person who won’t – who can’t – reveal your secrets. You don’t fear what Josiri will think of me, but what’ll he think of you.]]
He stiffened. “That isn’t so.”
[[Isn’t it? You haven’t asked how I am, or what I might want. When I state desire, you forbid it. Is this solicitude? Is this love? Or is this obsession?]]
There. She’d said it. And felt selfish even before Viktor’s expression crumbled. Unable to contest the anguish in his eyes, Calenne stared at the floor, and cursed the shortness of temper that had ever led her to ruin. But at her core, she found only the glow of truth spoken.
Was the Raven watching? Was he laughing?
She took Viktor’s hand. [[I’m sorry to speak this way, Viktor. I am.]] At last, she met his gaze. [[I think perhaps we are both of us more changed than the other perceives. Whatever we were – whatever we are to be – will take time to discover. It requires our patience and understanding. If mine have fallen short, I apologise.]]
He stood immobile save for the rise and fall of his chest. The hurt smoothed from his features, leaving an expression bereft of clues to thoughts entertained behind.
“No,” he said at last. “You need never apologise for speaking your mind, even when your thoughts are not gentle. What business have I claiming myself the protector of the Republic if a scolding tongue cleaves me in two?”
Melancholic humour laced the words.
[[Then stay awhile,]] said Calenne. [[We can talk.]]
He gave a rumbling sigh. “If only I could, but I have duties. My desires, at least, must remain subordinate to the Republic’s. It may be that I see you little in coming days, but I will always return to you.” He stooped to kiss her brow, the sensation as dull as all others she was permitted. “Whatever betide, I will again be your champion as I was so long ago… at least, should that be your wish.”
The words mollified, though perhaps not as much as they should – chiefly because Calenne couldn’t be certain whether it was business of governance that drew him away, or his own soured pride. He’d always had such a lot of that. They both did.
[[I’ll seek no other,]] she replied softly.
Letting go her hand, he left the room.
After his footsteps faded, Calenne returned to the window and began work on the second board.
Josiri tugged the cross-belt tight, winced, and let the hasp out a fraction. The constabulary uniform fitted well enough, for all it was seldom worn. By the strict order of things, he faced no compulsion to wear it today – societal status trumped trappings of authority. But his authority would face challenges enough come dusk. Better to face them with the tabard’s crown-badged epaulettes in place.
He examined himself in the dressing-room mirror. It would do. Thicker around the waist than he’d have liked – a reminder of how soft life had become. But there was no helping that.
The door shuddered beneath a knock.
“You wanted to see us, sah?” asked Kurkas, his voice muffled.
“Yes. Come in.”
The door admitted Kurkas and Altiris. The former already wore his parade-ground stare, the latter a measure of wariness.
“You’ve heard what’s to happen?” asked Josiri.
The two shared a glance.
“It’s going ahead then?” said Kurkas. “Won’t end well.”
“That’s why I’m going down there in person. I’m taking the hearthguard with me. The more level heads about, the better.”
“But not me?” asked Altiris.
“I need you to do something else. Both of you.”
“Right you are,” said Kurkas, deadpan. “Death or glory, is it?”
“Hopefully neither.” Josiri drew down a deep breath. “We know how this goes once the Drazina are off the leash. Someone needs to find Hadon Akadra. If we can turn this into a negotiation, there’s a chance.”
Altiris frowned. “Didn’t the Lord Protector dismiss the notion of his father being at the heart of this?”
Josiri hesitated, and threw tact to the winds. “I’m not convinced Viktor’s thinking straight. I’m happy to take Vladama at his word.”
“Gratified to hear it,” Kurkas replied morosely. “Problem is, I don’t rightly remember the elder Lord Akadra being one for negotiating. Nor the younger, for that matter.”
Josiri offered a smile he didn’t feel. “We work with what we’ve got.”
“We’ll make a soldier of you yet, sah.”
“Please don’t. I hate uniforms.” He followed the wan joke with a shrug. “I’ll keep things calm as long as I can.”
Altiris looked scarcely happier than Josiri felt. “My place is with you, lord. Especially if you’re marching into trouble.”
“I’ve the entire constabulary at my back, and a smattering of knights besides. You’re more use helping Vladama.” Josiri raised an eyebrow. “I understand you’re not unfriendly with some of the Sothvaners. That can’t hurt. There’ll be plenty at Silverway Dock.”
“Not as friendly as all—” Altiris stiffened and threw a sidelo
ng glance at Kurkas. “Who told you?”
“Sidara doesn’t keep many secrets from Ana. You did more than deliver food to Midwintertide at Seacaller’s, I understand.”
If anything, the lad looked more miserable, not less. Probably wondering just how few of his secrets Sidara had kept in recent years.
“But more than that,” Josiri went on, “it’s because I trust you. Will that suffice?”
Altiris nodded, chagrin yielding to pride. “Yes, lord.”
“Good,” said Josiri. “No death, no glory. Just get it done.”
Thirty-Two
The key turned. The door to the windowless strong room opened. Blue-green eyes glinted in the gloom. And even after everything that had come to pass it was all Hawkin Darrow could do not to fall to her knees and beg for an embrace. The heart wanted what the heart wanted, even when it was deceived.
What self-control remained, she maintained by clamping eyes shut and focusing on other senses. Damp air against her skin. The rattle of wind about the timber eaves, and the muted roar of a crowd. The brackish scent of the dockside – salt, seaweed and fouled water. Adoration came hard when mired in such scents.
“It won’t work.” Hawkin hoped it was true. “Slit me the ripper’s grin and have done.”
She clung to false defiance born in the still, empty space between the piece of her that didn’t want to die, and the sliver that longed for Kasvin’s embrace.
“Oh, I wouldn’t kill you.” Kasvin’s voice held the innocence of a child at play. “I’d give you the knife. You’d open your veins with a smile. I’m told it’s the sweetest release.”
“Then why don’t you try it? Because you love me?” Hawkin hated the hope beneath the words.
“Love?” Floorboards creaked. Kasvin’s voice grew louder. “I’m a daughter of the Black River. Upon its waters, I floated one way and love another. Shalamoh told me that’s why I rouse such desire. A barren heart singing for solace.”
The night before… the Drazina at Strazyn Abbey. Twitching. Lost in embrace and the whisper of song.
