by Anthony Ryan
He gestured for Vaelin and Erlin to take a seat and sat in silent expectation as they regarded the steaming teacups before them. Erlin lifted his after only a slight hesitation, blowing gently on the liquid before taking a small sip. “Flying Fox,” he said, eyebrows raised in surprised appreciation. “You honour us, Pao. Enjoy this, my lord,” he said as Vaelin sniffed his own cup. “The finest blend of leaves to be found in the Far West. One pound of it would fetch the same weight in silver.”
Reasoning that Erlin wouldn’t have tasted his cup if he suspected poison, Vaelin followed suit. He found the tea pleasing with a slight tingle to the tongue, but not sufficiently remarkable to justify its supposed price. “And yet,” he said to Pao Len as he sipped, “you possess sufficient knowledge to know me by sight, despite the loss of your cousin.”
“A man who has charge of such riches can expect only fame.” Pao Len shifted his gaze to Erlin, speaking on with barely a pause. The Crimson Band, it appeared, had little use for the courtesies of Far Western officialdom. “Why are you old now? When first I saw you, I was a boy. The next time I was a man, and you were no older. Now we are both old men.”
Erlin’s face clouded and he took several more sips of his tea before replying. “The blessings of Heaven were taken from me. I find I don’t miss them.” He smiled, straightening into a businesslike posture. “But I won’t trouble you with a long tale of woe, Honoured Pao, for I recall you were always a man of commerce above all. Lord Vaelin, his companions and I require passage to the High Temple. And we do not wish to trouble the Merchant King with the burden of our company. Lord Vaelin commands riches, as you so sagely note. You will be richly rewarded.”
“The High Temple,” Pao Len repeated. “So you wish to make another pilgrimage to the Jade Princess. Why? Do you imagine she will restore your blessing?”
“No, old friend. I am not so naive. Though, I must confess, I would sorely like to hear her song once more before I fade from this world.”
“Then why?”
“Is it necessary for you to know our reasons?” Vaelin asked. “We require your services and are willing to pay for them. Our purpose is our own.”
He saw Erlin’s face twitch in warning, although Pao Len betrayed no particular offence. “Necessary?” he asked, his tone mild. “No. But certainly desirable, advantageous. All knowledge brings advantage. It is through knowledge that the Crimson Band prospers. For example, we know to within an ounce the weight of gold mined in the Northern Reaches over the course of the last five years. We know that you rule there but fail to enrich yourself in the process. We know that you were once a warrior monk in service to a religion that worships the dead and that you spent five years in an Alpiran dungeon for killing the heir to their emperor’s throne. We know that you were your queen’s general during a war that made her conqueror of the Volarian Empire. And we know she spends the gold you mine from your domain to rebuild the lands she has conquered and grow armies to conquer more. Now you are here.”
“My business in these lands is personal,” Vaelin told him. “In fact I am here without my queen’s knowledge or permission. Under the laws of the Unified Realm this makes me an outlaw, and I will face an accounting when I return.”
“You risk so much for the merely personal. Strange for one so mired in sentiment to rise so high, or is it all due to your skill in battle?” Pao Len angled his head as he studied Vaelin closer still, his eyes seeming to gleam with scrutiny. “Mostly, perhaps. But not all. There is more to you than just the killer. Your presence here is a disturbance, another grain to tip the scales and upset the balance that keeps the Far West in harmony. But the Crimson Band has never prospered through harmony. The Harbingers of Heaven are abroad, it is said. Portents and rumours abound, and word comes to us of a great battle on the Iron Steppe. War is coming and the scales will soon tumble, and when they do the Crimson Band will harvest its reward from the chaos that follows. It has always been so. From the earliest days of the Emerald Empire to the rise of the Merchant Kings.”
He lifted his cup and drank, draining the contents in a few gulps. “So,” he said, setting it down and pouring more tea. “I will agree to facilitate your journey to the High Temple. But the price will be high.”
“I have gold,” Vaelin said, reaching for the purse on his belt. “If more is needed it can be sent for . . .”
“I do not require your gold. I require your word.”
“My word?”
“Yes. Your word is true, is it not?”
“I’ve never broken it, if that’s your meaning.”
“Good. Therefore, Vaelin Al Sorna, Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches, I require your word that when the Crimson Band next asks you for a service, you will provide it. You will make no argument. You will hold no scruple. You will simply do what is asked of you. Whatever is asked of you.”
He lifted his teacup to his lips once more, holding Vaelin’s gaze as he drank.
“Lord Vaelin has access to many treasures,” Erlin said. “Not just gold. Bluestone, fine gifts garnered from all corners of the world . . .”
“His word.” Pao Len’s cup made a slight, almost musical chime as he set it down on its saucer. “No other price is acceptable.”
Erlin turned to Vaelin, speaking in Seordah, a language Vaelin knew well enough for only basic communication. However, from Pao Len’s frown it appeared he knew it not at all.
“Refuse,” Erlin said. There was a weight to his gaze that left no room for doubt as to the gravity of the moment. “This is no small thing.”
“You said there is no other way.”
Erlin gave a helpless shrug. “Hire another ship. Find a secluded cove to put ashore . . .” He trailed off, shoulders slumping in resigned defeat. “No. This is the only way.”
“I have to find her,” Vaelin said. “But your concern is appreciated.”
He turned to Pao Len, dipping his head in a brief bow. “My word is given to the Crimson Band.”
Pao Len inclined his head and raised a hand in a beckoning gesture. The woman who had led them here emerged from the shadows at his back, head once again lowered in servile respect. Vaelin found himself both chilled and impressed that he had failed to discern her presence in the room until now.
“Chien will be your guide,” Pao said. “She speaks your language well and possesses the most current knowledge of the patrol routes favoured by the Dien-Ven.”
“Dien-Ven?” Vaelin asked.
“The ‘Coin Guards,’” Erlin translated. “They oversee all internal travel in the Venerable Kingdom. All roads in the Far West carry a toll, and all travellers must give their name and destination at each gate. The Merchant Kings are ever keen to track the movements of their populace. Hence our need for a guide.”
Pao glanced at the woman and spoke two words in Chu-Shin: “Black knot.”
She moved her head in a swift nod and the tea maker grunted in satisfaction before getting to his feet. “You leave tonight. There is a cellar below where you and your companions can rest. Food will be provided.”
He sketched a brief bow and left the room, the woman coming forward to clear the teapot and cups from the table. “Black knot?” Vaelin asked, making her pause and regard him with a gaze that betrayed the only emotion he had yet seen in her, hard bitter resentment.
“I’ll fetch the other foreigners,” she said in Realm Tongue that was well spoken but lacked the accentless precision of Pao Len. It also lacked any note of respect. “Remain here.” With that she exited the room leaving his question unanswered.
“It means a mission that cannot fail,” Erlin said. “If she doesn’t guide us safely to the High Temple, she is required to kill herself.” He grimaced, shaking his head. “Pao Len must put a great deal of stock in your word if he’s prepared to risk his daughter’s life to secure it.”
CHAPTER TEN
They spent several hours in the vault-like cellar
beneath Pao Len’s teashop. The space was musty with the scent of tea piled in sacks all around. A meal was duly provided, consisting of boiled rice and chicken stewed in a thick peppery sauce. Much to Nortah’s evident annoyance the silent, expressionless men who served the meal seemed content to ignore his clumsily phrased requests for wine. Chien returned after several hours when night had descended on the streets above. She wore a leather pack on her back and carried a plain staff. Her loose cotton garb had been exchanged for sturdier quilted trews and jacket.
“Put these on,” she told them as the silent men returned carrying bundles of similar clothing. “And these,” she added, tossing a broad conical straw hat to Vaelin. “Keep your face lowered when we get above ground.”
Rolled blankets were also provided to conceal their weapons and other non-Western accoutrements. Once they had dressed she surveyed them all with a glance possessing none of the placidity from before. Muttering a disdainful “foreigners look like mules and stink like oxen” under her breath, she turned and strode towards an apparently bare wall at the rear of the cellar.
“No talking,” she instructed, pressing her hands against two separate bricks, one high and one low. There was a loud click within the wall, and Chien began to push against it, grunting with the effort as it slid back on an unseen hinge, unleashing a wave of foul-smelling air in the process.
“By the Father’s arse!” Ellese said, voice muffled as she pressed her sleeve against her face. “What a stench!”
“Sewer,” Sehmon said. His features wrinkled with disgusted familiarity as he squinted at the damp tunnel beyond the false wall. “The route of outlaws the world over, it seems.”
“No talking!” Chien repeated, turning a glare on Vaelin and continuing in Chu-Shin. “Make your servants obey or this is pointless.”
He inclined his head in contrite acceptance before barking out a command for the others to remain silent. Chien seemed only slightly mollified as she tied a kerchief about her face and started into the sewer, beckoning for them to follow.
The tunnel she led them through was narrow and long. Vaelin was soon obliged to follow Chien’s example and tie a rag around his nose and mouth to diminish the stench raised by their feet sloshing through a channel of filth-thickened water. It connected to a broader channel after a hundred paces or so, Chien turning right after a cautious glance at the ceiling. Faint moonlight streamed through a series of circular iron grates in the passage roof, the light dimming at irregular intervals as feet trod the streets above. From the steady rhythm of the footfalls and the dim snatches of clipped conversation, Vaelin quickly divined they lurked beneath a guard post of some kind.
Seeing Chien had come to a halt at an opening in the passage wall, he moved to her side, finding the portal blocked by a thick iron gate. “The guard wall lies above,” she explained in a murmur, glancing up at the nearest grate before reaching out to take hold of the iron railings. A small squeal sounded as they swung back, Vaelin’s eyes making out a hinge where they met the curved ceiling. He expected Chien to swing it all the way open but she waited, gaze still locked on the grate in the ceiling.
“Be ready to move quickly,” she whispered. “We won’t have long.”
“For what?”
The answer came an instant later, the loud toll of a bell sounding through the grates to echo the length of the sewer. Chien lunged forward, swinging the railings up, the loud clang as the metal connected with the brickwork swallowed by the continued tolling of the bell. She held the railings up and jerked her head urgently at Vaelin. He waved his hand at the others and scrambled through into the most constricting tunnel yet. It was barely three feet high, obliging him to crawl on his hands and knees as the others pressed in behind. He heard the clang of the railings falling back into place just before the bell’s toll faded.
“Keep moving,” Chien ordered in a harsh whisper. “The midnight chime is loud, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t hear us.”
It took over an hour of crawling to get clear of the tunnel, Vaelin continually fighting the harsh, rasping gag in his throat from the unabated miasma of foulness. Finally, the air began to clear and he clambered his way out onto a broad ledge. The illumination was dimmer here, coming from a small opening far above. He could see that the ledge extended away on either side for a good distance. Before him lay a long downward slope of smooth stone, streaming with water. It descended into the gloomy depths without apparent end, birthing a brief wave of dizziness that made him take a careful step back.
“Keep your feet together and pointed into the shadow,” Chien advised as she followed the others out onto the ledge. “And your arms crossed. You’ll be tempted to use your hands to slow your fall. Don’t, unless you want the flesh ripped down to the bone.”
Vaelin began to enquire as to her meaning, but the question died as she crossed her arms and leapt clear of the ledge, sliding down the slope and disappearing into the waiting darkness in the space of a heartbeat. Erlin followed her almost immediately, muttering, “It didn’t seem so steep all those years ago,” before closing his eyes and jumping clear of the ledge.
“I don’t want to do that,” Sehmon said quietly, breaking the silence that followed.
“If an old man can do it, so can you,” Ellese said. She took a breath, crossed her arms and leapt, Vaelin catching a muffled curse as she slid rapidly from view.
Alum went next, voicing a soft chuckle as he did so, although Vaelin detected a small, wary note to it before the Moreska slipped into the gloom.
“Master Sehmon?” Vaelin said, raising an eyebrow at the outlaw. He swallowed and crossed his arms but failed to jump as he continued to stare into the depths.
“I’ll be along, my lord,” he said. “Just need a moment . . .”
His words transformed into a terrorised yell as Nortah’s boot connected with his rump, sending him into an untidy, flailing tumble. Vaelin watched Nortah count off the seconds until the youth’s screams came to an abrupt end.
“A hundred feet or so.” Nortah gave a bland smile. “Unnerving but hardly fatal. After you, brother.”
“I assume you’ve calculated a return route through the sewers,” Vaelin said. “And a likely source of wine.”
“What would be the point? I have no coin, as you said.”
“Then you won’t object to going first.”
He met Nortah’s gaze. The long-standing resentment that had so possessed him during the voyage was dimmed now, replaced by something Vaelin felt to be worse. Shame and defeat, he concluded, turning away. They could fight, he knew that. Nortah had recovered some strength and skill on the Sea Wasp but he was still far from his former self. It would be possible to send him tumbling in Sehmon’s wake. But then what? The road they faced was long and he couldn’t spend every step of it worrying his brother might seek out a drink.
“Have a care of the tea seller,” Vaelin sighed, crossing his arms. “He’s likely to take exception to your presence.”
“No more persuasion for me?” Nortah enquired in genuine surprise. “At least a punch or two.”
“I’ve brought you as far as I could. I was a fool to think I could save you. Before she died Sella made me promise to try. And I did, brother. But a drunk is a drunk. It’s time I allowed you to be what you are.”
He crossed his arms and leapt, legs straight as a spear-point as the slope carried him into the gloom.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
His descent ended in a splash and the chilly embrace of water deep enough to cover his head. A short plummet brought his boots into contact with something hard and he kicked, propelling himself upwards. Breaking the surface he found himself in a pool of rushing water, the current conveying him towards a broad cave-like opening. The force of it was too great to swim against and, seeing no other avenue of escape, he allowed himself to be carried into the open air. The water flowed into an oddly
straight river with banks of shaped stone rather than earth. He was propelled along it for several yards until the current began to abate and he saw the dim shadow of Alum on the bank, crouching with his hand extended. Vaelin caught hold of the Moreska’s wrist, grunting his thanks as the hunter helped haul him from the water.
He surveyed his companions, taking note of how badly Erlin, Sehmon and Ellese shivered in the night air. “We need to light a fire,” he told Chien. “Dry off.”
“No time,” she said, settling her pack on her shoulders and hefting her staff. “Walk until dawn, then the sun will dry us.”
“W-where’s Lord Nortah?” Ellese chattered.
Vaelin smoothed a hand through his hair to work out the damp, glancing back at the opening in the base of what he saw to be a sheer granite cliff at least seventy feet high. “He won’t be . . .”
A faint splash sounded and Nortah emerged into the moonlit flow a few seconds later. Vaelin and Alum hauled him from the river, where he spent several seconds retching on his knees. “Think I may have swallowed some of that shit water,” he gasped.
“Then vomit as you walk,” Chien told him before setting off along the riverbank at a brisk pace. “And do it quietly.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Chien allowed no rest, maintaining a punishing pace along the riverbank. By the time the sun rose above the broad expanse of cultivated fields to the east, Vaelin reckoned they had covered at least ten miles. During the trek, the course of the river hadn’t altered by a single inch.
“It’s not a river,” Erlin said when Vaelin asked about its curiously straight appearance. “Merely a minor branch of the canal network connecting Hahn-Shi to the lake lands twenty miles north. They in turn feed the canals that trace all the way to the capital.”
“So we just follow this to our destination?” Vaelin asked.
