by Tom Lloyd
‘You know why.’
Sanshir had shaken her head. ‘That’s a stupid reason – I can’t accept it.’
‘It’s all I’ve got.’
‘You threw away everything for that?’ she’d spat, more contemptuous than furious. ‘You threw away us?’
‘I gambled,’ he had said simply. It had been true. Not a good reason, but the real one. Life had been a gamble then. A high-wire walk in the wind, every step a challenge he couldn’t refuse.
Quick as a flash she had her crossbow levelled, the lightweight weapon tipped with red. ‘You. Fucking. Gambled,’ she repeated in a level tone.
The lack of anger had chilled him. Few had known her as well as Teshen, or rather the man Teshen had been before he took that name. He felt the heat of rage coiling inside her, but she’d always been the controlled one of the pair.
‘You wouldn’t have joined us.’
‘How long did it take you to make up your mind? To betray all of us?’
Sanshir had paused just a fraction, but Teshen had known it wasn’t the ‘us’ that really mattered in this. The game was a game, politics little more in his book. There had been only one thing that had given him pause and even then, it hadn’t been enough.
‘To betray me?’
He bowed his head briefly. ‘Long enough.’
‘Would you have killed me yourself, if it came down to it?’
‘No.’
She had been so beautiful in that moment. Proud and strong; mistress of them all, with a dark gleam in her eye. It was how he remembered her, that very last sight. The day she fulfilled all the promise within her and he’d failed to.
Despite the blood and the bruises, the stink of sweat and dirt, and all he’d thrown away. The hours and days and weeks they had spent together – desperate and brutal and tender too. Neither held back when they sparred. No one else in their crew could match the ferocity they unleashed upon each other.
Even before they had become lovers, long before, they had been a pairing of some sort. There had been a connection between them that went beyond respect. Before they had first fought, each had recognised something in the other just by the way they stood. Young Mastrunners grew up assessing poise and balance as well as anyone. The good ones could read their opponents in a heartbeat, but it had never been about rivalry between Teshen and Sanshir. Never anything so mundane.
‘The others are dead. If Kelerris isn’t already, he won’t make it out of the city.’
‘I know. It’s over.’
She lowered the crossbow and let it fall to the ground. Teshen still hadn’t drawn any weapons and for a moment they stood facing each other, hands empty but poised at their knife handles.
‘Go then. You can make it alone.’
Teshen watched the tiny flickers of emotion on her face. Part of him had wondered if it would come to blood between them, if what he’d done might have finally pushed them over that cliff edge. But in that hush of breath while the skyriver shone down upon them, he knew that would never be.
They had nothing to prove to each other. He’d turned his back on her, but perhaps it had always been a duel. One would win, the other lose and there would never have been another outcome. Perhaps that was why he’d chosen this path, even, recognising one day it would come anyway.
The faction he’d backed had meant far less to him than she did, but it was done and neither could see any value in going to the death. There was no returning from this. He’d lost and always would have.
‘Goodbye.’
As dusk turned to dark, Lynx followed a narrow sloped path down to the lagoon’s edge. The whole inner shore was dotted with tiny mage-created islands that resembled smallholdings. Most had a low perimeter wall and contained narrow rows of crops, bushes or fruit trees. Everything about them was small, regulated and neat, in contrast to the chaotic tangle of city behind them. With fertile ground at a premium, even with the abilities of the city’s mages, there clearly was no space for disorder if the people were to be fed.
The scents of seawater, flowers and earth mingled strangely with spices and meat cooking nearby, but Lynx was fast growing used to it. Much of the stink and refuse of a normal city was washed away or carried by wallowing barges across the channel to dump in the water around the spice islands. Apparently it kept the insects breeding in their millions there and those fed the young tysarn that helped fertilise the islands themselves.
Out on an oval jetty, overlooking one of the wider channels between the crop islands, was a ramshackle tavern of sorts. A battered wooden hut served wine to tables placed wherever there was room all across the jetty. The patrons themselves looked fairly well-to-do and as Lynx secured a cup of surprisingly good wine he heard talk in three or four languages. Bulbous white paper lanterns hung on poles all around and he could see the small tysarn darting through the pool of light as they hunted.
‘You speak Parthish?’ Lynx asked the woman at the bar once she’d finished dealing with a customer.
She looked like she had Hanese blood in her, Lynx thought; short and round, with pale skin and long, lustrous black hair. The notion reminded him that he actually had no idea what they thought of his people round here. The armies of So Han had not invaded or come anywhere near this way during their campaign of conquest, but were hardly famed for making friends wherever they went.
‘Of course, this is a place for merchants. A little Hanese too, if you like?’
Lynx shook his head and checked around again, feeling uncomfortable. He realised one further aspect of the bar – or tavern or whatever the hells they would call it here – was that it was separated from the rest of the city. Most of the walls here might be made of stone, but echoes carried and there might be rooms above and below. Confidential business might actually be better served out in the open, where you could see the face of every person within earshot.
‘I was asked to leave a message here.’
‘That is a service we provide.’
‘Good. The message is for the lesser cousin, if that means anything to you?’
‘It does,’ she said gravely, blinking at Lynx with long, dark lashes.
‘Glad it does for one of us,’ he muttered. ‘Well then, tell this lesser cousin, his package has arrived. He can collect it tomorrow morning.’
‘Very well, I shall inform him, ah – unless you would like to tell him so yourself?’
‘He’s here?’
‘Indeed.’
Lynx shrugged. ‘Not much point, I’m just the messenger.’
‘Very well.’
He tipped the remaining wine down his throat, gave the patrons seated all around a cursory look, and nodded to the bartender. Making his way back up the slope again, Lynx felt eyes watching him all the way and had to fight the urge to hurry. Returning to shore he set off down a narrow street and rounded a corner, heading for an oddly domed tavern a hundred yards off.
There were several turns in the road and Aben lingered at one of those. He nodded as Lynx passed and continued on to the tavern. The sign outside rather grandly called it the Old Court. From the uneven shape of its dome, Lynx could see why the locals referred to it as the Odd Egg.
Inside he found Toil, nestled in a dark corner of the upper level. The tavern had a round central bar, at the back of which a pair of wrought-iron staircases curled up to the mezzanine. It was a narrow strip that ran around the inside of the dome, cramped if you were tall and barely three yards wide. An ornate iron railing around the inner edge meant they had a fine view of the drinkers below. Lynx sat and helped himself to a drink before surreptitiously following Toil’s gaze.
‘That lot our winners then?’
‘They’ll do. Lots of booze already down them, lots of talk and dick-measuring.’
‘We’ll outnumber them.’
‘I’ll only fetch a dozen Cards, we wouldn’t want to frighten them off. So long as we’ve got Deern to start the fight and Reft to end it, it’ll serve.’
‘Who are they?
’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘They’re speaking more languages than I know, so it’s hard to say. Badge looks like a bird, probably a raven or something. It’s pretty bad though so I’m calling them the Ugly Sparrows.’
‘Who needs Deern? Just go and introduce yourself.’
‘Oh, you know I don’t like to get caught up in trouble.’ Toil winked at him. ‘That’s what I pay you people for.’
Lynx leaned on the table and took a longer look at the mercenaries below. ‘Are those tattoos?’ he said.
They were from somewhere on the Callais Sea he guessed; tanned or dark skin and only a few among the fifteen-odd men and women were carrying pistols. A lean and muscled lot though, Lynx realised. They favoured sleeveless shirts to display faintly luminescent markings around their biceps and forearms in addition to torcs and bracelets. Most also wore several rings at least, not the most practical thing in combat but they would add a nasty edge to any punch.
‘It must be some sort of mage or alchemical thing,’ Toil agreed. ‘I’ve not seen it before, but I think we might want to find out, no? In case we start showing our own colours?’
‘Couple of big bastards down there,’ Lynx said. ‘Could get nasty.’
‘Oh sure, because the Cards are a cuddly little family who all just want to get along. I could name half a dozen who’ll do it for a laugh. Probably as many who just haven’t kicked anyone in the nuts for a few days and miss the feeling.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying.’
‘I know – but you’re mercenaries. I pay you to fight when I say, that’s literally your job. Some of you are proper soldier types, I know, others are pure bastards who like to spit blood once in a while. I’ve got a use for both. I say this fight is worth having and so it is. You want to give me odds on them not picking a fight tonight anyway?’
Lynx scowled. ‘Aye, I know.’
‘Right then.’ She stood. ‘You and Aben wait here while I go round up a few happy volunteers.’
‘It ain’t that I don’t like it round here!’ Deern insisted, gesturing around the room with his tankard. ‘Weather’s nice an’ all, everyone’s free with their affel … affcec, affections. Thass ma whole point!’
Varain’s battered face screwed up in thought. ‘Eh?’
‘What?’
‘There was a point?’
‘Dunno.’ Deern paused, took a long drink and then threw his arms up, flinging most of what was left over his shoulder. ‘Yeah! Tha wassit, is too nice. Don’t get proper fighters growin’ up round here. Ya need mud an’ cold an’ starvatin’ to make real soldiers outa folk. Here, they’s too busy screwin’ an’ drinkin’ in the sunshine. Can’t blame ’em mind, but … Eh? Yeah?’
He squinted over his shoulder where a man glowered at him, a trail of beer running down his face. ‘Watch your beer,’ the man said in broken Parthish, before adding a few extra words in his own language.
‘Easy there, fella,’ Deern protested. ‘Night’s a bit young fer that talk, me old asazhka.’
The other mercenary paused. Like most of the Cards he was a fair bit bigger than Deern. He ran one hand over his head and swept off the now-damp scarf that covered it, exposing the cropped stubble of scalp.
‘Vehlom,’ he said after wiping his face. He raised his own drink and Deern cracked his tankard against it.
‘Here’s one in yer eye,’ Deern said to the man, reaching out and brushing another drop of beer from the side of his head. ‘And anywhere else you fancy,’ he muttered as he headed back to the tables occupied by the Cards.
Without a glance back, he and Varain deposited the latest round of beers, courtesy of Toil’s purse, to a smattering of cheers from the assembled Cards.
‘That looked all a bit friendly,’ Anatin said as he sat down. ‘Little too friendly, frankly. We’re not here for that, remember?’ he added with a sideways glance at Reft. The big man didn’t react, just took another drink as he watched Deern.
‘Pah – too early ta get cold-cocked,’ Deern said with a shrug and a wink at Reft. ‘Best to get ’em all hot first, eh?’
‘Fuck off – you just bottled it,’ Aben laughed.
‘Like shit I did!’ Deern said, keeping one ear open for the buzz of chat at the tables behind them. ‘I got a plan, but it’s far too early.’
‘A plan? It’s a fucking fight,’ Aben hissed. ‘How hard is that to start?’
‘Hey, there’s a gods-damned art to a proper bar fight,’ Deern scoffed. ‘I don’t lecture you about … ah, whatever the deepest black Toil gets you to do, sittin’ on folk most likely – you don’t try and teach me how to start fights. I always say a good fight is a lot like a good hard fuck.’
‘Oh yeah, say that a lot do you?’
Anatin cackled from the end of the table. ‘To be fair, he really bloody does,’ the commander laughed. ‘With more detail than anyone’d like.’
Anatin had taken off most of his jewellery, just in case he got caught up in things, but with only one hand he wasn’t planning on wading in once Deern worked his magic. There were a dozen of the Cards there, fewer than the Ugly Sparrows, but Toil, Lynx, Safir, Kas and Sitain sat on the mezzanine above. Four as reinforcements, one to put the whole room out if things turned bad.
‘Catch ’em too early an’ it’ll be over in one quick tussle,’ Deern explained. ‘Too late in the evening an’ things go all weak and limp. Got to get the blood flowing, get yer bits all pumped up an’ ready while the booze dulls the senses an’ the sense.’
‘What are we talking about again?’ Estal asked, cheeks pink. ‘Fuck it, I’m up for either now! Where’d Safir go?’
‘Please tell me you didn’t bring any o’ those grenades you picked up on the way here,’ Anatin said, wincing at the thought.
‘Left ’em behind,’ Estal confirmed with mock sadness. ‘I feel all naked now.’
Anatin snickered. ‘Sorry, love, but I don’t reckon that’ll be enough to start a fight. Mebbe a panic?’
Estal made an obscene gesture and knocked back her drink. ‘The expert suggests more beer,’ she said. ‘I best follow orders.’
The next round came and went with great enthusiasm. Even the more quietly dedicated drinkers were happy to act as obnoxiously loud arseholes for the evening and with every drink Deern felt a tingle of anticipation building. It was all he could do not to drag Reft off and out of sight for a few minutes, but he had finally been given a job he was perfectly suited to. He intended to make it part of the company’s legend.
That in itself was enough to let him ignore who was the one giving him that job. No doubt Toil was a bitch of the highest order, Deern was often the first to suggest that. He had more than a little to fear from her too. She was the only one to figure out why the Charnelers had been after them from the outset in Grasiel – but at the same time she was his sort of bitch. No apologies, no stepping back, no handwringing like that fat cockscraper beside her, just a ‘fuck you’ to the world if it didn’t fall into line.
Deern grinned and knocked back another mouthful of beer. He could respect that much at least.
I ain’t ruling out killing her still, he admitted to himself, but not this week I reckon. Not till she’s finished paying so well.
Chapter 8
Reft watches. All around him there is noise and movement, jostling and shouting. The beer is flowing, the tankards emptying and are replaced at a determined pace. Reft is a big man – he drinks his share and more besides, but every night in the pub starts this way. It hits the others faster than him and while he’s with them, he’s also apart – too big to ignore, too huge to throw his weight around.
He’s a silent man and used to being separate from the rest. Even as a child, it had been that way. Large from a young age, silent his entire life, how else could it have been? In the Cards they did not joke about him in the way his peers had – there was no fear in their words, no malice. This acceptance means much to Reft, even if he cannot join in fully.
He ignores th
e stories of his prowess that inevitably are told around newcomers. His size demands that some explanation of his presence be given as the legends of the company are recast once again. All the while the voices grow steadily louder, the gestures more expansive. Their cheeks become flushed, movements less steady. He can feel the warmth in his belly as the booze takes hold, but the beast awakens slowly and all around him it is stirring. Varain and Deern lead the others in a dance, their curse words growing louder and sharper as the hours tick by.
Estal and Braqe are more than willing to snap back, while Anatin’s sharp tongue flickers like a snake’s, his cruel wit restlessly drifting. The others are all boisterous too. A tide of laughter and anger flows over them, but Reft can see Deern’s hand steering it all. There is a deft touch – no one is singled out, no one is ignored but Reft himself.
The attractive man whom Deern had first teased is careful not to look over as much as his friends. Only once did he catch Reft’s eye, a brief and guilty glance that makes Reft wonder, but now he is drinking harder than the rest.
The Ugly Sparrows, as Anatin has insisted on referring to them once or twice, do not wish to be goaded. All the same Reft can see it happening, inch by inch. They will not allow themselves to be chased from the tavern, pride dictates they last as long as the newcomers. On such fertile ground, Reft knows what crop Deern will reap. His partner knows the many flavours of anger intimately, as though he could read it in subtle shades of a person’s aura.
Flashes of annoyance spark around the Sparrows and are smothered, but only just. There is no single moment that has forced them over the edge, not yet. Reft can sense Deern waiting, tasting the air, enjoying that shiver of anticipation and teasing it out a little longer. Reft is not a peaceful man. He is normally placid, though, and it comes as a surprise to most when he does stir to violence.
More people come into the tavern. Locals in plain headscarves, wary at the noise but pointedly ignoring it. They have been fetched by the owner, Reft guesses, and arrive in groups of four or five. Ten, then closer to twenty of them. Green sashes around their waists, cudgels hanging from their belts.
