The Bones of the Past (Books of Dust and Bone)

by Craig A. Munro

  Still nothing. No answer, no expression.

  “All my creations are of course at your disposal, my lord. If you see anything that displeases you, I will be happy to change it. As I mentioned when I first spoke to your servant, I can carve flesh into any shape and purpose given supplies and enough time.” That’s it. The inbred whoreson is going to try to have me thrown out and I’m going to have to kill him.

  The Drokga spoke. “Your creatures are only marginally less useless than the slaves you have created. If they cannot breed, then great effort must always be expended to maintain their numbers. You may see it as a way of ensuring your usefulness. I do not.” He gave Carver a cold look. “Make me something that will not affect the fertility of my brave fighting men and women. I am the ruler of an ancient people. Our future depends on our children. You have one month.” He looked Carver up and down with those strange eyes. “You are not the first mage to enter my service, nor do I imagine you will be the last. There is something you must understand before taking up residence within these walls. I do not tolerate failure. That you are a mage does not excuse you from the consequences of your actions. I could send my warlocks to deal with one such as you, of course, but mage battles cause far too much collateral damage. I far prefer to use weapons to solve my problems. When mages fail me, I have a singular weapon to deal with them. I introduce them to Nasaka Jadoo, my mage hunter.”

  As if on cue, the doors opened behind Carver and one of the strangest-looking men he had ever seen walked in. Nasaka was tall and lean to the point of gauntness. He walked with a lurching hunched-shoulder gait, his overlong arms hanging below his knees. A crazed profusion of leather straps crisscrossed his body, each holding a different charm or talisman so tightly against his skin it was a wonder his flesh did not split. The straps hung looser around his legs, forming a kind of wide skirt of leather and buckles that just barely cleared the floor as he walked. His hair was waist length and braided into a dozen tight tresses each dyed a different color. He barely glanced at Carver as he walked past him. The Drokga made a slight gesture with his hand, dismissing Carver. Carver backed out of the room slowly, not bothering to conceal the relief he felt. Let the fool think I am intimidated by his so-called mage hunter. Carver had come expecting threats.

  Killing the Drokga and his hunter would have been a simple thing, he was sure. But Tolrahk Esal was a treasure trove of new materials for him to use. He didn’t want to lose the chance to have the whole city at his disposal and have to come back in a generation or two to try again. Improve his warriors without affecting their fertility. . . . The man is an idiot, Carver thought angrily. Then an idea hit him and he missed a step, almost losing his balance on the smooth stone floors. Symbiosis. Never before had he considered symbiosis. Not on this scale. He often molded two living forms into one. But to leave the process unfinished. . . . To change one and not the other . . . it might be possible. Carver walked back to his rooms as fast as he had come, his mind swirling with ideas, his walking stick snapping loudly every time it hit the floor. His slaves and their cages trailed behind him, forgotten.

  CHAPTER 10

  A man in an unfamiliar black uniform walked into the training yard. It took Salt several moments before he recognized Gurt. The uniform was obviously tailored to him and made of expensive cloth; a faint outline of an eye over the heart was the only color on him. Salt had never seen anything like it. And was doubly surprised to see anything so fine on his friend.

  “Finished gawking, lad? This is a Night Guard dress uniform; there’s one waiting for you on your bunk. Get it on double-time. The king wants to hear about how you found the Dreth sword. He’s expecting you in twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes . . . the king?” Salt said dumbly.

  “Aye, lad, the king we’re all sworn to serve? The guy whose castle you live in? Now go get cleaned up, you scruffy oaf! I’ll meet you in the barracks in five and you better look good.”

  Salt took off at a sprint. Just when I was starting to get a handle on my life here. His mind was swimming with rumors he’d heard about the throne room and King Arlon himself. Deciding against a bath, he washed himself off as best he could with a jug of drinking water and, sure enough, found a uniform on his bunk that was an exact copy of Gurt’s. He noticed a silver pin of the royal crest was set in the collar as well. He pulled the uniform on and was stunned. It fit perfectly. He’d never worn anything like it, and it felt great. I could get used to this! Salt was just pulling on his shiny new black boots when Gurt walked in. He handed Salt a sword belt with a silver-pommeled rapier hanging from it.

  “Put this on; it’s part of the uniform,” he said in answer to Salt’s confused look. “Rapiers are the gentlemen’s choice for sticking holes in each other. You need to look the part in your parade getup. Anyway, let’s go; we have a ways to walk, and we need to pick up the Firesword from Lera’s room on the way.”

  Gurt knocked on the door at the far end of the hall and pulled it open without waiting for an answer.

  “Hi, Lera, we’re just here to pick up the sword.”

  “It’s right where you left it,” she answered distractedly, her eyes never leaving the scrap of paper she was studying.

  “The honor’s all yours, Salty,” Gurt said, gesturing toward the sword lying on a nearby table. “Oh, and make sure you carry it with both hands, lad.”

  Salt looked over with a rude comeback on the tip of his tongue, but when he saw the look in Gurt’s eyes, he just nodded and held it back. Seeing concern and worry in Gurt’s eyes took him from nervous to terrified. Gods! This is a man who’s faced down demons without blinking.

  They walked out of the wing of the palace that housed the Night Guard and the Crown Knights, and into wider, more opulent rooms and hallways. Lush carpets covered the floors; vases and paintings decorated every surface. At each set of doors, a pair of Crown Knights in full armor saluted and opened the doors for them without saying a word. The salutes never dropped while they were still in sight.

  “There’s some real respect for the Night Guard, even with the Knights,” Salt remarked.

  Gurt just chuckled, a sliver of his normal good humor returning. “As they should. Most of them are hoping to be promoted into the Guard one day.” Salt looked at him, incredulous. “It’s true,” Gurt continued. “Many of our number are attack survivors, and nothing can replace the drive that gives them. But the rest are recruited from the other elite groups within the king’s army. Avish was a Crown Knight, Tassos used to be a Pathfinder.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “We don’t wear the fancy uniforms often ’cause it doesn’t serve our purpose to stand out that much, but that pin on your collar marks you as acting with the full authority of King Arlon. Try not to lose it, by the way. . . . Now, we’re almost there. Don’t worry about formality too much. Bow to the king, of course, and otherwise try to follow my lead. The king knows where most of the Guard come from; he doesn’t expect us to act like nobles.”

  They came at last to a huge set of double doors. Four Crown Knights stood in front of the doors in gleaming silver plate armor. All held heavy halberds at the ready. Like all the Knights before, they saluted and stepped aside. But then a small man in an elaborate uniform stepped out of an alcove and stood in front of them.

  “His Royal Majesty is expecting you, my lord Night Commander. Who may I say is accompanying you?”

  “The king is expecting us both, Sigmond. Just announce him as Salt of the Night Guard and be done with it.”

  The royal herald pursed his lips, visibly displeased. “No surname? No rank? No title? You don’t give me much to work with, my lord.”

  “It will have to do. Now be on with it. The king is waiting.” Sigmond bowed stiffly and turned to open the doors. The huge carved wooden doors swung silently inward at his touch. The throne room was large and opulent, but Salt couldn’t help being disappointed. Rumors he’d heard said that the throne room had a solid gold floor, that the walls were all poli
shed gems and silver mirrors, and that the room was so large that ten thousand people could dance in it without bumping into one another. Marble, more paintings, and you might be able to squeeze three hundred people in here. Not that they’d be able to breathe much less dance. The throne itself was an ancient-looking stone seat, carved out of a single block of gray rock. Fewer than a dozen people stood in the room, four of them Crown Knights.

  Behind him, Salt heard the herald’s surprisingly powerful voice call out: “Presenting Lord Gurtraven Calmosin, lord of Easthaven and Teresh, and commander of the Night Guard!”

  Salt missed a step when the titles were called out. It had never occurred to him that Gurt was anything other than the gruff but good-humored senior Guardsman who gave him advice. “Also presenting Night Captain Saltig Sodigson of the Night Guard.” At that, Salt stopped dead and looked at Gurt.

  Gurt shook his head and smiled. “Damn, Sigmond is too smart by far. The silver pin on your collar is usually never worn by anyone below that rank. . . . As for the name, I would guess he improvised. I assumed your real name was Saltig myself. Anyway, I hope you like it ’cause he’ll never agree to change it now.” He winked and walked on, leaving Salt rushing to catch up. They stopped a dozen paces away and waited while the king conversed with a man in elaborate blue robes.

  Salt took the chance to get a proper look at the king he had sworn to serve. His first impression was of a man not entirely dissimilar to Gurt. King Arlon was in his midforties, tall and fit. He wore functional clothes and no jewelry. If anything, all the courtiers looked more impressive and more richly dressed than the man sitting on the throne. Still, he spoke and gestured in a way that reminded Salt of particularly capable sea captains; there was no doubt that his wishes would be obeyed without question. When the king finished with his adviser and turned to look at Salt, the impression of an iron-willed captain was reinforced. Not a man I’d want to cross. Salt did his best to imitate Gurt’s bow.

  “So Night Captain Salt, is it now? I was led to believe you were a relatively new recruit.”

  “Technically he’s only been with us less than a year, Your Majesty. I had decided that some sort of promotion was merited given his recent accomplishments. Your herald seems to have decided that a captaincy was in order.” Salt couldn’t believe the man speaking was gruff old Gurt. He seemed transformed, both his mannerisms and his way of speaking. The king nodded, a faint frown creasing his brow. His eyes flicked to Salt’s neck and back to Gurt, who nodded in return.

  There’s a whole conversation going on here I can’t hear or understand. And yet Salt felt like his fate was being decided. This is a man who really can choose my fate. One word from him and I’m rich or hanging from the gallows.

  Finally, the king said, “He’ll do.” Then he turned to his blue-robed adviser. “Send for the Dreth ambassador.”

  The man closed his eyes for a moment, then said, “He is coming, Your Majesty.”

  All eyes turned to the door, and Gurt gestured for Salt to stand to the king’s right with him. Almost immediately the doors swung open again. The man who walked in was the strangest person Salt had ever seen. His clothes were bright with clashing colors. Patterns of greens and reds swirled and overlapped down his long flowing robes. His face was covered with a veil that hung down from his headdress. Only his arms were left exposed. The cloth stopped at his shoulders, leaving his overly thin arms exposed. Bones stood out against his blue-tinged skin. He moved with oddly fluid steps, his body barely moving up and down as he walked into the room.

  Again the herald’s powerful voice called out, “Presenting His Excellency, Ambassador Nokor Ben Akyum of Dreth.”

  Salt swallowed hard. A Dreth here! His hands were sweating where they clutched the Firesword.

  The Dreth stopped about two dozen paces away from the throne and bowed deeply.

  “Greetings from Nok Dreth.”

  “You are most welcome, Ambassador, as are the greetings from Nok Dreth,” said the king.

  “Your Majesty has anticipated my mission.” The Dreth bowed again deeply.

  “We know little of your traditions, Ambassador, but we do know how precious these items are to your people. In keeping with what my court mage has told me of these blades, we have allowed no one to touch the sword save the brave man who recovered it.”

  The king turned to Salt. “Night Captain Saltig, give the Firesword to the ambassador.” Salt sprung forward, eager to be rid of it.

  But the ambassador was backing away, his hands up to forestall him. “I cannot touch this weapon.”

  Salt stood confused between the Dreth and the group surrounding the throne before walking back to his place next to Gurt.

  “And those who had the Firesword?” asked the ambassador.

  “They were criminals. They attacked my Guardsmen. Most were killed in the fight. The others captured in their compound were arrested and interrogated before being sent to the gallows.”

  “May I inspect the sword?”

  “Of course, Ambassador Ben Akyum; please proceed.”

  The Dreth turned to face Salt, and as if reading the confusion within him, he said, “No need to move.”

  A few seconds passed in silence before the Dreth spoke again. “The sword is unsullied. Nok Dreth will be grateful. I can offer a generous trade agreement, and a masterwork of Dreth steel, crafted by Thirat Bel Thammar, the personal smith of Nok Dreth. Also a sizable reward in gold for the captain’s family.”

  The king raised an eyebrow questioningly. “I understand the Night captain does not have any surviving family, though I daresay he would appreciate the reward himself.”

  The Dreth bowed low again. “The Night captain will be honored, and he will be put to death after bringing the sword to Dreth.”

  An uncomfortable silence dragged on for several minutes. Salt felt his bowels churn.

  That’s it. I’m dead. I should have known better than to get mixed up with royalty even if I was drunk. . . . Gurt looked to the king before answering the ambassador.

  “His Majesty is not in the habit of sacrificing his most valued servants, not even when such generous compensation is offered. There must be some way we can avoid this unpleasantness.”

  Ben Akyum’s tone was icy when he answered. “Nok Dreth does not trade in lives.” Then he seemed to regain control of his emotions and continued in a more even tone. “The reward is for the return of the Firesword. But Night Captain Saltig is not of noble blood. We seek to honor his sacrifice.”

  “And what if we were to inform you that the Night captain is of noble blood? That he holds lands and title?”

  “If he were a lord of your people, then his touch would not be unclean. It is unfortunate.”

  The king nodded. “Ambassador, you must know that we have no intention of offending Nok Dreth. However, we are unwilling under any circumstances to reward one of our most loyal subjects with death for having performed his duties with distinction. Night captain of the Night Guard is one of the most senior appointments that can be achieved in my service. He also bears the silver mark that grants him the right to speak in my name. But as that does not seem to fit with your traditions, I find myself forced to confer a title on this man.”

  The Dreth cocked his head to the side, clearly confused.

  “In front of these witnesses and by my word as king, I hereby grant to Saltig Sodigson the title of Lord of Dustland, with all revenues and rights associated with his new title and lands.”

  “Gustave, have the proper documents drawn up and make sure Lord Saltig has a signet ring and banner ready for his journey to Dreth.” One of the courtiers on the king’s left bowed low.

  The king then returned his attention to the Dreth ambassador. “Will that satisfy your law? Or do I have to adopt the man into my household to save his life?”

  Ben Akyum bowed deeply with his arms held out straight to the sides. “Your Majesty is wise. An elevation is not possible in Dreth; Nok Dreth will be content and grateful for k
eeping the blood of your servant from his hands.” He repeated the bow.

  “Excellent. I am glad that we could reach a mutually acceptable agreement, Ambassador Ben Akyum. Lord Saltig will depart for Dreth as soon as arrangements can be made for a suitable escort. Say, seven days?” He looked questioningly at Gurt, who answered with a nod.

  The Dreth ambassador bowed again. “I will send word ahead. If you will permit, I will make preparations to accompany the lord to Dreth.”

  The king waved his assent. The Dreth turned and walked out of the room.

  King Arlon sighed loudly. “I will retire as well. Cancel any further audiences. I feel the need for a cup of wine and the company of my family.” The king rose and left the room without ceremony. Most of his advisers followed him out.

  Salt’s legs felt like jelly. Gurt took one look at him and broke out laughing. “Don’t get too excited, lad. You may be a lord now, but just wait until you see your fief.”

  He started to lead Salt out when Gustave stopped them. “A moment please, my lords. There is the matter of the new lord’s heraldry.” Salt just looked at him, at a loss for anything to say.

  Gurt took over. “We’ll leave the details to you, Gustave. Try to do something with the Guard colors. A fearsome creature and a weapon of some sort, perhaps a mace or a hammer given the young lord’s preference.”

  Gustave bowed. “Very good, my lord. I will prepare something suitable.”

  Salt’s thoughts were in chaos. Called to see the king, promoted, sentenced to die by a foreign monarch, and made a noble all in the space of an hour. He blurted out, “Just like that he made me a noble.”

  Gurt laughed again. “It is something of a tradition for Bialta to grant titles as rewards for service. They cost nothing in themselves and yet make the receiver happier than if a pile of gold coins were dropped at their feet.” Salt stared at him blankly.