The Cold Commands

by Richard K. Morgan

  Somewhere low across Poppy Snarl’s shoulders, a faint shiver came alive. Back in Trelayne, there were the usual tall-growing weed-garden rumors about the whereabouts of the Sileta family. The street said they were somewhere out on the marsh, hiding from the Watch. Or they’d run off to Parashal behind some brothel connection a cousin had there.

  Or they’d been eaten by demons.

  The street said a lot of things, most of which you had to sieve repeatedly for superstition, wishful thinking, and flat-out lies. But on this occasion the gleaming residue of truth remained: The Sileta brothers, toughest and most feared of the harbor-end ganglords, were currently nowhere to be found.

  She shrugged it off, barely missed a beat. “I don’t imagine they’ll be the last.”

  “Probably not. It is a lot of money.”

  The imperial legate waded in. “Am I to understand that we are here bandying words with an outlaw?”

  Ringil shot the man a disinterested glance. “And you are?”

  “I do not answer to—”

  “He’s the Empire’s vested interest,” Snarl said succinctly. “And these are his sworn personal guard you’re bandying with. Now really—perhaps you’d better tell me what you’re doing here.”

  The hollow-eyed stare again. “Can’t you guess?”

  “No, I can’t.” She fought down the faint shiver again. Found the threads of her anger once more. “To be completely honest with you, Gil, my best guess up to now was that you’d crawled back to that shit-hole little mountain town you saved in the war. You know, back to where they still think you’re some kind of hero and don’t mind you buggering their sons.”

  “Oh, they mind, Poppy.” A thin smile. “Even there, even where they owe me their lives, they mind. But what are they going to do about it? You can’t control a son the way you control a daughter. Can’t just lock him in the house or beat him to a pulp like you can with your wife. Not once he gets older than about fifteen, anyway. Too much chance he’ll hit you right back.”

  “They don’t have the cage in this … Gallows Gap, wasn’t it?”

  “Gallows Water. The gap is above the town. And yes, they used to have the cage. Hung up right there in the town square.” Ringil’s expression hardened. “Except the first summer I was there, I had it cut down.”

  Small silence. Irgesh and the imperial bodyguards exchanged glances. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something.

  “How very … flamboyant of you,” Snarl said finally. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. But you still haven’t answered my que—”

  “I’m here to kill you, Poppy.”

  Now the silence came back in like roaring surf. The moment pivoted around Ringil, dizzying, high-fever intensity, like the world rushing away. The legate’s neatly barbered mouth shocked open, the stealthy settling of hands on sword hilts among the—count them off, two, three, four—imperial soldiers. Irgesh, already ahead, less of a fighting threat by his stance, but mistrustful since the stiffening of his mistress when she saw who her guest was. It all fell into place like pieces of a puzzle solved, the geometry of the moment and the fight to come—the heat of the dying fire at Ringil’s back, just the way he’d maneuvered to have it, the men and what they would assuredly do in the next few seconds, and, somewhere out beyond it all, Seethlaw’s voice across salt black emptiness, echoing off sea cliff stone.

  I see what the akyia saw, Gil. I see what you could become if you’d only let yourself.

  He saw the legate’s signal, finger-twitch-small, but screaming loud to his senses as a battlefield death. Heard the minuscule grating of imperial blades coming loose all around him. Felt the fight sheet upward like oil-fed flames.

  He let go.

  The dragon-tooth dagger, dropped from his left sleeve into that hand—he gripped it blade-down, was already spinning, right hand up and reaching past his ear for the jutting pommel of the Ravensfriend at his shoulder. The sword’s rough-woven grip seemed to weld itself into his curling palm, seemed to kick eagerly as he tugged on it. The engineered Kiriath scabbard split along its outer edge, spat the Ravensfriend free as he drew.

  The imperials had cleared their weapons, too.

  He went to one knee. No thought to the motion; it was as if a revolving storm of forces put him there. Vaguely, he knew a cavalry scimitar went scything over his head. He seemed to unfold from the bisecting line of his own rib cage—dragon tooth curving left and into the nearest imperial’s thigh, Ravensfriend right and under the scimitar’s cut. He supposed it chopped the man somewhere between throat and belly—was moving too fast now to find out or care.

  Screams.

  And somewhere, Seethlaw, laughing …

  He left the dagger where it was, came up out of his dropped stance. Got a two-handed grip on the Ravensfriend and reversed his guard. Backed off a pair of blades on the rising edge of his sword and gained himself a couple of steps of fighting ground. The Kiriath steel licked out again, impatiently, took Irgesh across the forehead, and the overseer staggered back howling as blood flooded down his face. It was a sword-tip slash, not fatal, not even very damaging, but in the screaming, red-tinged chaos of the moment, Irgesh could not know that, and would not be given the chance to find out. Ringil blocked another imperial blade, got in close on the turn and snagged a leg in behind his opponent’s feet. Hook hard, and the man went over, sprawling backward into the smoking ashes of the firebed. He yelped and rolled, his cloak catching fire in a dozen places. Ringil closed on Irgesh, beat aside a clumsy cutlass block, and skewered the man in the guts. Twisted the blade and withdrew. The overseer made another noise, low and grinding, and the Ravensfriend came loose in a burst of blood and whatever Irgesh had had for breakfast.

  Ringil whirled about snarling. It was like some noise a Yhelteth war cat might make as it sprang. Blood droplets sprayed the air, off the swinging arc of Kiriath steel, fine as summer rain.

  The imperials reeled apart, away from the thing in their midst.

  One was down, dead or dying or just in shock from that first upward chop into his chest—the Ravensfriend liked bone pretty much as well as flesh these days, and Ringil himself couldn’t say how deep the cut had gone. The others were not in much better shape, one rolling and yelling in the firebed trying to put himself out, a second fighting to stay upright with Ringil’s dagger in his leg, only one unharmed, and now Ringil moved to meet him.

  But they were imperial soldiers, they were a high-ranking imperial’s honor guard. Drawn from altogether finer cloth than Snarl’s march-masters, and not quite what Ringil had been expecting. The man in the firebed shucked his cloak and rolled clear, would be back on his feet in seconds. The stabbed soldier was reaching awkwardly down, eyes fixed on Ringil like he was hungry. The uninjured soldier stepped forward to cover his comrade, locked up Ringil’s attack. Sour scrape of steel as the blades met. The other man got hold of the dragon-tooth dagger and yanked it out of his own flesh with a single gritted roar. He straightened up, teeth still bared in a savage grin—and dragged himself right back into the fight.

  Fuck.

  At the corner of his vision, Ringil saw Poppy Snarl look out across the huddled slave caravan for her men.

  Saw her eyes widen in shock.

  No time for that. He met the two standing imperials in a zigzag blur of steel, deflected both blades and took a slice across his ribs for his trouble; if the injured man’s leg was bothering him, it didn’t show. Ringil kicked out viciously, tried for a knee. He missed, could not afford the instability or time it would take to try again, dropped hastily back, caught a blurred glimpse of the burned man rushing him from the side, and swung about to meet the assault.

  Barely in time.

  The Ravensfriend blocked like something alive, took the brunt. The sword chimed and quivered, his attacker’s steel glanced off it, turned the force of the rush a vital couple of inches. Ringil pivoted with it, flashed out a hand on instinct, grasped something, a buckle on a tunic, an edge of stiffened cloth, jerked the
man forward off balance. The imperial plunged past him, stumbling. Ringil tripped him, put him down. No time to bring the Ravensfriend down for the kill—the others were on him—he settled for a glancing kick to the downed soldier’s head—

  Sensed, somehow, the hurtling edge of steel at head height behind him—

  Ungainly sideways leap—over the sprawled body, and just ahead of the scything imperial blade. He felt it touch his queue, flip the bound ponytail of hair, felt the cool wind of its passing. He landed awkwardly, breath caught up, only half convinced his head was still on his shoulders.

  And whipped about at guard. Tight grin on his face with how close he’d come.

  The remaining two imperials came on. The body of their fallen comrade slowed them down. But behind them, the legate had finally managed to draw a sword of his own, was brandishing it not entirely unhandily. And Poppy Snarl was on her knees in the dirt beside Irgesh, scrabbling for his weapon. Ringil felt the balance tilt, felt what he’d planned sliding out of reach, felt—

  Straight-line crow-flicker black.

  Like a mother hushing unruly boys, but impossibly swift. A rippled fleeting past him through the air, and the two soldiers slammed to a halt, spiked about with sudden, black-fletched arrow shafts. Throat and eye, chest and belly.

  Eril’s men, taking no chances.

  Yeah—took their fucking time about it, though.

  The imperials spasmed, gurgled, and went down, dead or near enough to make no difference. Puff and drift of dust up around their bodies. The man at Ringil’s feet moaned and twitched, but showed no sign of getting up.

  Ringil let his breath out. Surveyed his victory.

  The legate, clutching his sword at an uncertain guard. Poppy Snarl, crouched beside her slaughtered march-master, blinking at what had just happened. And out among the sea of huddled slaves, Eril’s men moving forward. They wore the assumed garb of the march-masters they’d murdered in the night or the captured slaves they’d imitated coming into camp. They held an irregular assortment of weapons, stolen or already owned, among them at least half a dozen recurved bows drawn to a cautious half-taut readiness. Eril himself led the gathering circle, a bloodied knife in each hand and the matching daubs of close-quarters slaughter still on his face.

  Ringil stepped nimbly over the man he’d kicked in the head, booted Snarl sprawling into the dirt as he passed her, and put the tip of the Ravensfriend at the legate’s throat.

  “Drop it,” he suggested.

  The legate’s sword fell out of his fingers. Ringil lowered the Ravensfriend and waited for Eril’s men to reach him. He met Poppy Snarl’s gaze where she lay watching him from the ground. Surprised at the quick pulse of hate it still generated in him.

  Flushed with relief, the imperial legate decided on bluster.

  “This—this is an outrage. Do you have any idea who I am?”

  Ringil turned to look at Eril.

  “Do we have any idea who he is?”

  The Marsh Brotherhood enforcer shrugged. “Some Empire merchant fuck, right?”

  “I am the Yhelteth Emperor’s direct, empowered legate to your countrymen!”

  Ringil nodded. “He is, unfortunately. See that brooch on his shoulder? Yhelteth diplomatic seal. And I’m willing to bet he’s got—”

  He grabbed up the legate’s left hand.

  “Yep, the ring, too.” He let the legate’s arm drop in disgust. “This is the last fucking time I trust Brotherhood spies to get my intelligence for me.”

  Eril looked embarrassed. In the months they’d been harrying Trelayne’s slavers, he’d pulled Marsh Brotherhood favors for Ringil where he could, but the Brotherhood itself hadn’t been particularly cooperative about it. In the end, sworn-sons-of-the-free-city bullshit aside, they were criminals trying to buy their way into upriver respectability, and Ringil’s terrorism wasn’t any more comfortable for them than it was for the slavers. And Eril, blood debt notwithstanding, was a mid-ranking enforcer, acting alone and out on a limb, with very limited pull.

  Surprised it’s lasted even this long, really.

  Well—you did save his life.

  Ringil sighed and cast a brooding glance around. Daylight already strengthening in the east, washing the first faint color into the tree line and the sandy terrain below. The night gone to bleaching shreds of darkness in the west, and all around the thousand eyes of the slaves and their new saviors, all seemingly resting on him.

  An imperial legate. Great.

  “Perhaps now,” the legate stormed. “You realize the gravity of your error.”

  “There’s no error here,” Ringil told him.

  They hauled Poppy Snarl to her feet and held her pinioned for Ringil’s inspection. There was some jeering and groping along the way—Snarl had aged well on the proceeds of Liberalization and the new trade. She still had a bright sheen to hair and eyes, a harsh-boned beauty in the face and curves in all the right places. Hands pawed and squeezed at the more obvious options. She flailed and spat, her clothing tore. Someone—it was hard to keep track of the men Eril hired, Banthir, was it? Or Hengis?—retrieved Ringil’s dragon-tooth dagger from the dirt and brought it to him, wiped carefully clean. The man bowed for respect and handed the weapon over. Ringil nodded absent thanks, tucked it away.

  Snarl head-butted one of her captors, sent him stumbling. Raucous laughter from the others.

  “Got a temper on her, this one.”

  “Soon sort that out. Just needs a good splitting is all.”

  “Get in the fucking queue, man. You don’t—”

  They quieted as Ringil approached. He still held the Ravensfriend unsheathed in his hand. Snarl bared her teeth at him.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Gil?”

  He considered her for a moment. “I’m just the messenger. Does the name Sherin mean anything to you?”

  “Oh, for Hoiran’s sake! Slab said you were …” Snarl bucked again between the men who held her pinioned. “This is really about some whining idiot second cousin of yours? You know, when Findrich told me that, I didn’t believe him. I said you were too fucking smart for that shit. Had to be something else. What the fuck happened to you, Gil? You used to be a player.”

  Ringil backhanded her across the face. Someone among his men voiced a low, hooting cheer. He started to feel vaguely sick.

  “I asked you a question, Poppy.”

  By then she could see it coming, knew her hand was played out. A blank, street-tempered defiance hardened her features. She spat at him, spittle threaded with blood from where the blow must have cut the inside of her mouth. She put on a dreadful, death’s-head smile.

  “What do you think, hero? You think I keep count of every piece-of-shit slave I buy, every bad-debt auction knockdown that falls in the net?”

  “This particular piece-of-shit slave was my cousin.”

  “So fucking what? You want to believe I was there personally when they broke her? Grow the fuck up, Gil. This is a business. You think I care?”

  Ringil remembered where and how he’d finally found Sherin. Remembered what had been done to her.

  He looked into Poppy Snarl’s eyes. Saw nothing there he could defeat.

  “Take her away,” he said woodenly. “Do what you will. But leave her alive.”

  Mob roar of approval from the men. Ringil held himself immobile and watched as they started to drag her back, started tearing at her clothing again where it was already ripped. She growled deep in her throat and thrashed against them. A breast spilled free, was grabbed and bitten into like fruit. Snarl yelled in pure fury. Someone levered her legs open, grasped brutally between. Another yell, sobbing this time, another chorus of whooping as the men heard, and saw. Then they lifted her bodily away, and closed around her like rats on rotting meat.

  He stood. He stood and watched.

  “Hengis.” Sudden shudder—he came to life and grabbed Hengis by the arm as the man drifted to join the rape. “Hengis.”

  “Jengthir, my l
ord.”

  “Jengthir.” He nodded jerkily. “I mean it. If she dies, so does the man who caused it.”

  “Course, my lord, no worries. I’ll see to it. Got a tender touch, I have.”

  Jengthir grinned at him, tugged free, and was gone.

  Ringil turned away from the boiling thrash of men, now collapsing to the ground, and the woman he’d given to them. He wanted to wipe a hand across his face, but dare not risk the gesture. He caught the legate staring bulge-eyed.

  “Fuck are you looking at?” he snarled.

  “You cannot do this.” The imperial was whispering it in Tethanne, maybe unaware he was speaking at all. “The Emperor will—”

  “Will what?” Ringil followed the language shift, strode up to the legate, and smashed him in the mouth with the pommel of the Ravensfriend. The imperial went over backward with the force of it, and Ringil stood over him. Voice shouting to drown out the noises behind him. “The Emperor will what? Tell me what your fucking Emperor will do!”

  The legate put a hand to his broken mouth, brought it away bloody, stared disbelieving at the wet red dripping off his fingers. Ringil dropped to a crouch beside him, forced his voice down to a corrosive, conversational rasp.

  “If I know that fuck Jhiral Khimran, the only thing he’ll do when he hears about this is have it turned into some piece of harem fantasy theater, and then sit back and watch until he gets it up enough to join in. But I wouldn’t worry about it, your excellency, it isn’t going to be your problem.”

  Behind them, Poppy Snarl shrieked and sobbed, and the men raping her roared with ribald delight. The legate heard, gaped at Ringil as if he were something summoned out of a crack in the Earth’s crust. He was trying to crawl backward, away from the gaunt, scarred face and what he saw in it, but his cloak was under him and he got no purchase. His boot heels slipped and slid on silk.

  “What do you …” He was mumbling, numb with terror. “What do you think you’re—you’re doing?”

  Ringil set aside the Ravensfriend, shook the dragon-tooth dagger from his sleeve. He grasped the legate firmly by the hair with his free hand, pulled his head back hard. He leaned in close, near enough to smell the man’s terror-soured breath, near enough to bestow a kiss.