Jenus almost choked at the outrageous demand. “That is simply not possible, Your Eminence. The Warchosen are an integral part of our new strategy. More, they are each responsible for leading their respective companies. Without them we are unlikely to succeed in bringing down these monsters.”
“Then rethink your strategy. We will be happy to give counsel on the matter. I am certain that we can find a more effective plan than whatever it is you have thought up this time.”
“With all due respect, Your Eminence. You are here to offer spiritual guidance, not dictate military tactics.”
The priest’s eyes were daggers as he turned wordlessly from the war council and swept out of the tent. The lesser priests rushed to follow him.
Traven smiled at him. “Well, it looks like you took care of that issue. But I wouldn’t go looking to get healed anytime soon, Champion.” A few people laughed and the tension drained out of the group.
“So we’re agreed then? We need to come up with something by tomorrow and be ready for them. I’m counting on the mages to keep them off us. I’ve also made a decision. Once we have pursued them for another three days, we will turn back. We will ask the priests to contact His Majesty the king and ask him to bring us home.” Jenus held up his hands as his assembled advisers looked at him in confusion. “We have chased the invaders far from the lands of our allies. Our mission was to save them from the inhuman attacks. We have done so and fulfilled our role honorably. We have chased them through the lands the Abolians themselves fear to walk in. We did not swear to hunt them to the ends of the earth and beyond. Nor did we swear to kill them all to the last.”
Nakok nodded. “You are wise indeed, Champion. We yoke ourselves with our own unrealistic expectations.”
“We are the warriors of Sacral,” Jenus said. “We are descendants of heroes one and all. But our city has remained apart from the world for too long. We need to rethink our way of fighting. We need to rethink the ban on missile weapons in particular. We are well trained, but we need to adapt to the realities of the world beyond our borders. Please give the issue some thought, my friends. We will speak again tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 8
On the seventh day after his first patrol, Salt got up early, as had become his habit, and went down to the training yard. Krigare had suggested he try a large two-handed mace, and Salt liked the idea enough to try it out and get a feel for it. The weight was daunting. Salt had to adjust his swinging style a lot to avoid being pulled off balance. Seeing the problems he was having, Gurt walked over to give him some pointers.
“Don’t fight the momentum, lad, use it. Bring that thing around for another pass in the same direction instead of trying to go back and forth.”
Salt nodded and followed the instructions. There was no question that the weapon could do serious damage, even to an armored opponent. But there wasn’t much room for finesse or surprise. Still, it made a satisfying crack when he hit a training dummy with it.
Gurt smiled in approval. “That’s better, lad. Though you won’t often want to carry something that heavy on patrol or you’ll be too tired to swing the thing by the time you get into a fight.” Salt laughed. His shoulders were already aching from the strain of swinging the mace.
“So what are you up to today?” Gurt asked.
Salt smiled, thinking he was being made fun of. “Same old thing, I guess. Train for a few hours then go out monster hunting.”
Gurt smiled back. “You’re not on a ship anymore. I know you were drunk the night I explained everything to you, but I would have thought you’d ask about things like this. Anyway, every seventh day after patrolling, Night Guardsmen have a day off. You’ve been going on patrol for the last six days. It’s our squad’s day of rest.” Salt was stunned, totally at a loss about what to say.
“What we do isn’t easy,” Gurt continued. “You need some time to yourself to relax and have fun.” When Salt didn’t say anything, Gurt pressed on. “Now I don’t mind you training for another hour or so, but after that I want you to get out of the palace and do some serious thinking—it’s time you took the oath and formally joined the Night Guard.” He held up a hand to stop Salt from saying anything. “I don’t expect an answer yet, but I expect you to have made a decision by the time I wake up tomorrow.”
“Where are the others then?” Salt asked.
“Not sure about most of ’em. Brolt will be with his family. He has four kids and a beauty of a wife. Min is probably in the markets. The others . . . getting into whatever trouble they can find likely as not.” Gurt shrugged.
After practice, Salt went back to his room to get changed. Sure enough, a set of plain but well-made clothes had been left in his trunk. Dwyn was the last person in the room. He had clearly had a rough night and was moving slower than usual.
“Day off?” he asked Salt.
“Yeah. . . . Not too sure what I’m going to do with myself.”
“Hah. I’d kill for a day off right now.”
“You have a busy night planned?”
“Not so much busy as frustrating. Lera’s got my squad moving from the port to Harold’s and then back to the port to check on some new merchant house that set up last week.”
“I hate having Harold on my patrol. Never shuts up.”
“And Gurt wants me to hear him out, keep him happy. I’ll probably be stuck listening to him for half the night.”
Salt buckled on his weapon belt as they were talking, strapped a sword to it, then started adding daggers. Dwyn looked at him with wide eyes.
“You planning on starting a war on your day off?”
Salt noticed what he was doing and stopped. “I guess they’ve just become habit. I’m not sure I want to go out without them after seeing what’s out there.”
Dwyn laughed. “Well, I can relate to that. But you might want to leave most of the fighting to those of us who are on duty. Here, you can borrow my knives. Strap them to your forearms. You won’t attract so much attention, but you’ll still have a weapon to hand. It’s what I do when I have a day off. I don’t think anyone in the Guard would willingly go anywhere unarmed; you just need to be a little more discreet about it.”
A short while later, Salt found himself dressed in his new clothes, walking the streets aimlessly. He had a pocket full of coins. He hadn’t spent a copper penny from his last sailing job, months past now. Most of the Guardsmen liked to play cards or dice when they got back from patrol. The stakes were always low, but so far Salt had resisted the urge to get involved. So here he was, in one of the biggest port cities in the known world, with full pockets and plenty of free time and yet he was at a loss as to what to do with himself.
Salt tried to have a drink in a nice little tavern he passed near the palace. Nothing ostentatious like the places closer to Crown Hill where the nobles all built their homes. He just wanted a nice clean place to get a good meal and a pint or two while he thought about what he was going to do with himself for the rest of the day. The serving girls were pretty if more conservatively dressed than what he was used to. The tables were straight, and the place actually smelled good. The tavern wasn’t crowded this early in the day, so he chose a small table near the back and made himself comfortable. He asked the serving girl to bring him a pint of ale. She smiled at him warmly and brought it right over and asked him for a silver penny. Salt nearly choked; that was ten times what he’d pay near the docks. He blushed furiously, excused himself, and left as quickly as he could, leaving the untouched pint on the table.
He moved on to more familiar areas near the docks after that and ordered beer and food. But even here he felt uncomfortable. Many of the other patrons were looking at him as if he didn’t belong. He realized it was the clothes. Not one person in the drinking hole was wearing anything that could be called new, or might even have been called new when the owner purchased it. For all that his clothes were plain, he stood out like a noble in all his finery. He sighed and moved on, not bothering to finish the drink or even tast
e the food. Gods, how I’ve changed in such a short time. For those watching, his actions were confirmation enough that he didn’t belong. The rest of the patrons visibly relaxed as he moved toward the door.
As much as anything, Salt missed the company of his fellow Guardsmen. For months now he’d been with them, and the four months before that he’d spent on a ship. All told, it had been more than half a year since he had been alone for longer than he needed to take a piss—it just felt strange. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched and felt almost naked without his companions. And my weapons and armor, of course.
Salt wandered through the markets and bought a meat pie from a street vendor. He bit into it and almost spit it out. He very nearly complained to the woman who had sold it to him before noticing that it wasn’t really all that bad. I’ve just gotten too damned used to the food at the palace. Can’t tell a street vendor that her pies are underspiced and that she used cheap mutton. He handed the rest of the pie to a street urchin who was trying to pick his pocket.
I don’t belong anywhere in this city anymore. Thoughts of the dockside brothels kept creeping back into his mind. It had been far too long since he had lain with a woman. But it was a quick way to spend his money, and he didn’t have a clear idea how he would get more. Not that he needed coin for his day-to-day living. Despite his convictions, Salt’s wandering soon brought him to the docks. He passed in front of several likely-looking brothels, all the while fighting with himself over whether or not to go in. He almost gave in when he noticed a particularly attractive brunette waving to him from a balcony. His blood was hot, and he turned back toward the brothel’s entrance. Then memories of his night with the bug priestess flashed before his eyes. He broke out in a cold sweat, and his blood lost its fire.
With a sigh Salt walked resolutely away from the docks and their women. He went east this time, into the slums, and started retracing his patrol route from the night before. Couple months in a new job and I don’t have the first clue what to do without my mates, Salt berated himself. And I can’t find anywhere better to come to than the worst shithole Darien has to offer. Refuse and waste squelched under foot. Rats darted between people’s shoes. The more desperate inhabitants chased after them, looking for a meal. Salt walked around for hours. The slums were a different place in the daylight. No cleaner, of course, no less run-down, but during the day, these poor streets were packed with people. Even children ran this way and that. Just like in the dockside bar, people here could see him for the outsider he was. Covetous glances toward his pockets were common, and Salt kept a tight grip on his coins.
During the daylight hours, a pretense was made of this only being a poorer quarter of the city. Dirty perhaps, poor definitely, but not a bad place. Certainly not the kind of place where anything worse than pickpocketing would occur. Darkness wiped away that conceit. All but the poorest and most miserable of the slum’s inhabitants vanished with the last of the sunlight. Pimps, carash dealers, and worse emerged into the dark streets to do business and look for opportunity. And yet nightfall came as a relief to Salt. It gave him back his anonymity. He was only another man walking the streets in the dark.
The city watch only patrolled these streets occasionally, and then only in numbers. No issue was made of thievery, and anything short of murder was ignored if the culprit was not caught red-handed. Salt couldn’t understand how the slums were allowed to remain. Why don’t they just clear out the whole area? Or at least make a proper attempt to take out the gangs and crime lords? Some of the more unsavory establishments could only attract criminals or encourage budding psychopaths as far as Salt was concerned. And yet the slums had existed, pretty much in their current state, for nearly as long as Darien itself. At least the Night Guard patrol these streets. And I’m sure the Guard wouldn’t stand by and let someone get beaten or killed.
A commotion was moving up the street. Pimps were herding their dazed-looking women and boys off into the side streets as quickly as they could. Most of the other pedestrians seemed to melt into the shadows. Salt smiled when he saw the reason. A large group of city watchmen was moving toward him. Twelve men strong, the squad all walked with thick truncheons in their hands, pushing or striking out at anyone who didn’t move out of their way quickly enough. Salt’s smile faltered. He had seen enough men like these to know the type—they moved through the slums like a gang patrolling their turf. Salt stepped out of the way with everyone else, flattening himself against the filthy wall to let the louts pass. One of the watchmen, the largest one of the lot, stopped in front of a man who was standing to Salt’s left. The man was obviously a pimp. Salt had seen him herding his girls off the street as he walked up. He seemed to have been slowed in his escape by his last girl who was limping badly.
“Terrel! There you are, you slippery fucking worm.” The man Terrel cringed but did not answer. “You’ve been avoiding me for three nights now. And here I find you hiding almost halfway across the Muds.”
Terrel shook his head and forced a smile onto his ugly face. “No, Broten, I would never do that. But business has been slow. So I had to try some different streets. Maybe find some customers haven’t tasted my girls’ wares yet.” The watchman looked back toward his men and nodded at the pimp. One of his men slammed his truncheon into Terrel’s stomach.
“You owe me, worm! And you’re late!”
Terrel kept his feet with obvious difficulty. He looked up, tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Broten, I don’t have nothing. Why don’t you and your boys take your payment outta my girls?”
“I don’t pay for what’s already mine,” Broten said, a vicious look on his face. He smashed his own truncheon into Terrel’s knee. Terrel fell flat on his face in the muck with a high-pitched scream.
“Looks like you don’t remember our arrangement, worm. I’m going to have to remind you proper. And then me and my boys are going to take care of your girls since they’ve been so lonely lately. If you’re lucky, some of them might still be worth a copper once we’re finished with them.” He kicked the pimp a few times to punctuate his words. “Search him, boys. If he was holding anything back, bury him.”
Terrel whined a half-intelligible denial. Broten grabbed the whore who’d been standing next to Terrel and dragged her forward. Salt noticed that she was in her late twenties but moved like a woman in her sixties. Her eyes were glazed over and totally without expression. She moved without protest. Broten looked at her in disgust.
“I hope your other girls have more life in them than this old nag—”
His words were cut off by Salt’s fist smashing into his jaw. Staggered, Broten took a few steps backward and tripped over the fallen pimp. The rest of the group turned toward Salt, murder in their eyes. Salt calmly drew the two knives Dwyn had given him. After the things he’d seen this past week, a group of thugs held no fear for him. They hesitated for a moment when they saw the shining steel.
“I don’t like what your boss is doing. I’m going to have a chat with him.” He saw some of them hesitate. “I figure I can kill three or four of you idiots before the rest bring me down with your sticks. So the question really is, how many of you are willing to die for this ugly piece of shit?”
It was a moment before the first man took a step back. A long moment, while Salt’s heart was hammering in his chest as he tried to look as threatening as possible. After that first step though, he knew he had won. They all started looking at one another and backed off a few steps before running. Broten screamed threats and abuse after them until Salt kicked him in the stomach to shut him up. The pimp, still pinned under Broten, groaned. No more than the bastard deserves.
Salt took the rough cord the pimp had been wearing as a belt and used it to bind Broten’s arms behind his back. The man started to thrash around and struggle. Salt punched him twice in the kidneys.
“Keep pushing me and you won’t live long enough to wear a noose.” Broten twisted to look back at him.
“You have no idea who you’
re messing with, asshole. The people I work for are going to hunt you down like a rabid dog for messing with me. The Prince always pays back what he’s served ten times over.”
Two girls dashed over to the unresponsive woman and started to lead her away with obvious concern. Both of them shot backward glances at Salt as they tried to rush their friend away.
Salt gave them a brief nod and returned his attention to his prisoner. “The Prince, huh? And here I thought the city watch worked for the king.” Salt dragged him to his feet. “Now move before I decide to poke a few holes in you.”
“You don’t get it. The Prince can rip a man apart with his bare hands. He’s got a demon in him, and he’ll kill you and everyone you know!”
“Sounds like just the kind of guy my friends and I hunt down for a living.” If this guy is telling the truth, I should get the Guard on him right away; with a little luck Dwyn will still be at Harold’s and I won’t have to walk all the way to the castle.
Salt dragged the man all the way to Harold’s apothecary. Dwyn and his squad were still there, most of them standing around making poor attempts not to look bored while Dwyn himself endured one of Harold’s infamous monologues. Dwyn looked up at Salt like a drowning man being tossed a rope.
“Salty! What the hell are you doing here? I thought you said you had the night off?”
Broten looked at the group of men and women dressed as Night Guardsmen. “It is, but I ran into—” Salt started to say when his prisoner cut him off. “Help me! This maniac just grabbed me off the street! I’m an officer of the city watch!”
Salt punched him in the kidneys again and dumped him on the floor. “I didn’t say you could talk.” Dwyn looked at the city watchman with disdain.
“I’m sure he’s a piece of crap, Salty, but is he even worth dragging in?”
“I was just going to turn him in quick when he started running his mouth about this guy he works for. Some guy who calls himself the Prince. Sounds like someone we’d want to take a look at.”
The Bones of the Past (Books of Dust and Bone) Page 15
