Better than steak.
Marith took a long, shaky breath.
The man on the throne – the Emperor – was staring with a look of utter horror on his puffy face. The guards had formed a tight ring around the throne, swords pointing at Marith. Several of the blades shook. The man in white was backed up against the wall, also holding out a sword. Weakly and feebly, hardly knowing what to do with it. Rate, Tobias and Alxine stumbled slowly to their feet, faces grimacing with pain. Their skin was raw and red. But they were impressively otherwise unharmed. I saved them, Marith realized with a dizzy sensation of triumph. He laughed. His head swam and he almost fell over. He felt quite possibly worse than he’d ever done in his entire life.
‘You … you killed him,’ the Emperor whispered hoarsely. ‘You … you didn’t burn. You should have burnt …’ He started at his guards and began to shriek. ‘Kill him! Kill him now! Before he … he does anything else. Kill him!’
Five black-clad figures moved towards Marith, swords drawn on his heart. Dark blades, sharp as stars, burning blue. They could kill him as easily as thinking. He raised his own sword shakily. He’d felt more able to fight someone at the tail end of a four-day hatha binge. It almost didn’t seem fair. Rate, Tobias and Alxine drew closer together behind him. There is no plan to get out, he thought. There never was. Not for any of us. We all just die. And perhaps he deserved it more than most. The five guards looked at him, expectant.
The guards came at them at a rush, flashing fire from their blades. And they were good. Pressed them back, the four of them, fighting defensively, hardly attempting to do anything more than ward off the blows of the burning swords. They stung where they cut, hissing against the skin. I will not burn, Marith thought. I will not burn … Alxine stumbled backwards, his sword falling useless from his wounded arm. I saved him from burning, Marith thought. His legs felt like they were made of lead; he tripped on Alxine’s sword and almost fell himself. A sword struck him on the shoulder, drawing blood. Alxine was crying out as they trampled him, their own feet were killing him but they couldn’t get him up because they’d be cut down in turn. Rate was wounded in the leg. The swords burned as they slashed them. Not fair.
Not fair.
I’m not going to die, Marith thought.
Blood everywhere. His whole body was covered in it. A voice was shouting: ‘Amrath! Amrath! Death and all demons! Amrath and the Altrersyr!’ It came to him that it was his own. Four of the Imperial guards were dead. He had one of their swords in his hands, and the blue flames rushed over his hands, arching out from the blade, licking hungrily as he killed. He’d killed all four of the guards himself. He was still killing: he almost seemed to watch himself ward off two at once and then cut them down, severing one’s head from its body. Everything he struck seemed tainted by oily smoke. Someone appeared in his vision and he swung round and almost struck them down, before realizing it was Rate. He probably shouldn’t kill Rate. Not until he ran out of other people to kill. His mind was red. Everything was red. His head felt sodden with blood, spinning inside him, the one word ‘death’ ringing in his ears. He would kill and kill and kill until the world was dead and empty. He didn’t bother killing these men slowly. He simply killed them. Hungrily, joylessly. Nothing else in the world.
And so every one of the guards was dead. Not just dead: he seemed to have dismembered most of them. The Emperor was still sitting on his throne. He looked much the same, pale and puffy and stunned, except that he’d pissed and soiled himself. The man in white robes was still staring, with a strange expression on his face. He’d pissed and soiled himself too.
‘I’ll kill you, then.’ Marith turned to the Emperor on his stupid tasteless throne. The man squirmed and trembled before him. He switched to Literan, the absurd dead language of this absurd dead Empire. It made what he was saying even more gratifying. You can’t shout in Literan, he remembered his tutor saying. Not made for it. Too weak and decadent to shout. And his accent was considerably more elegant than the Emperor’s own. He shouted, ‘I’ll kill you slowly and surely and you’ll watch while I do it. You’ll watch as I take your hands. Your feet. Your lips and your nose and your manhood. You’ll watch and beg me to end it. Are you ready?’
He raised his sword. The man shrank back, moaning. Something in the man’s whimpering caught Marith for a moment. Pity, almost. Sorrow and pain at what he was doing. At what he was. The death fires within him were beginning to fade; he felt drained and hollowed-out. Sticky with blood. His eyes were itching. He looked at the gore coating his hands and felt sick.
I could just leave, now, he thought. Walk back through the flames, curl up somewhere with a bottle of something and drink until he couldn’t remember who he was to care. He could make it all go away. Go back somewhere that wasn’t pain and dying and something screaming within him, struggling to get out.
Riding through a meadow when the hay was being cut. Riding through green summer trees. Reading a book by the fireside. Swimming in the sea.
Good things.
I know what I am. What I have given up.
Help me.
The man in white was still looking at him. Like he knew him. Like he hated him. Like he was dirt scraped off his shoe.
Help me.
He moved towards the Emperor, writhing on his throne with a face full of weak fear and a lap full of his own piss and shit. Everything was red in his vision. ‘Death,’ he whispered. ‘Death!’ The man in white let out a cry of terrified rage.
The doors of the throne room burst open. Ten men ran in, yelling, shouting, heading straight towards him.
And then Tobias rushed at him, and everything disappeared in a shower of broken glass.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘You’re getting fat.’
Darath’s body was bronze in the candlelight. The colour of rich wood. Smooth, finely made, warm. Orhan ran his hand over Darath’s chest.
‘I’m not.’ Darath grabbed Orhan’s hand before it reached his stomach.
‘You are. I don’t mind, though.’ Orhan kissed him lightly on the lips.
They lay tangled together in Darath’s bed, dozing after sex. Darath had drawn down the shutters and filled the room with candles even in the sunshine of the afternoon, shutting out the world.
‘Do you want something to eat? I could have some supper brought up.’
‘Not yet.’
Darath sat up and poured himself a cup of iced water. ‘It’s getting stuffy in here.’
‘Don’t open the shutters.’ Didn’t want to be reminded of anything beyond this room.
‘What time do you think it is?’
‘Too late.’
‘Hmm?’
‘We have to leave at some point. This could be the last time we—’
Darath splashed him with water. ‘If I’m getting fat, you’re getting morbid. It’s a bad habit. Let’s change the subject. Is the child really yours?’
‘What?’ Orhan sat up too and gestured for Darath to pass him a cup. ‘Why? Don’t tell me you’re jealous.’
‘Jealous? Surprised, more like. It’s not yours, is it?’
‘Darath, do you really think I’d tell you either way? You may be the desire of my life, but some things are private.’ Orhan smiled at him. ‘If it’s a girl, I can betroth it to Elis, if you like.’
‘Elis?’ Darath sounded genuinely astonished.
‘He’d still be just under forty by the time she was ready for marriage. Then he’d get to be the Lord of the Rising Sun after me.’
Darath burst out laughing. ‘That would make me your … Living and dying, no, that’s just not right. I’m not bedding my little brother’s good-father. Let’s not even think about this. And I’m not marrying my brother to some serving boy’s bastard, either.’
‘Now you’re assuming it’s not mine. You are jealous.’
‘I’m never jealous. How many men have you slept with, then, in the last few years? Describe them all, I won’t even look upset, I swear.’
>
‘No one. You know that. No one but you.’
Darath pulled a face at him. ‘Be still my heart, he loves me beyond reason … Come on, there must have been someone? Pretty curls and pouting lips? No? How disappointing. I’ve been through dozens …’ He sipped his water thoughtfully, Orhan could see him purse his lips at the cold, sweet taste of it, sharp with lemon. ‘Speaking of such things, there seems to be a story spreading that the most beautiful boy in the world has been seen wandering around the city looking to buy swords, helmets and hatha root. Curious, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t listen to stories. Even about beautiful boys.’
‘You should. It alarms me a little … I don’t like people talking about someone buying weapons right now.’ Darath stretched and settled himself comfortably into Orhan’s shoulder. ‘Oh, listen to me, now I’m being morbid. Are you sure you don’t want a cup of wine, something to eat?’
Orhan shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’
‘So easy to please.’ Darath kissed him, wrapping his arms around him. Orhan’s cup spilt and icy water poured over them, making them both cry out in surprise and then laugh. They fell back into the bed together, did not speak again for a long time.
‘We really do need to get up now.’
The candles had burnt low and the room was gloomy, shadows dancing on the high walls. It must be getting on for evening. Time and more than time. Orhan’s stomach roiled. What are we about? Why don’t we just stay here and fuck some more, and content ourselves with that?
‘You need to get up, Darath,’ he said.
Darath rolled over and groaned. ‘You’ve exhausted me … Lord of Living and Dying, just another moment dozing …’ He sat up and rang the bell for a servant. ‘Come on then.’
Body servants washed and dressed them in shirts and trousers, rich silk in bright colours, served them a light meal of bread and smoked meat. They drank a cup of wine afterwards as a toast, eyes meeting silently. Then Darath dismissed the servants and they helped each other put on their armour. Orhan’s fingers fumbled awkwardly with the fastenings. He’d had servants to do this, on the rare previous occasions he’d worn the stuff. They belted on their swords and took long knives also. No helms. No shields.
‘Great Tanis, Lord of Living and Dying,’ Orhan murmured when they were finished, ‘we stand away from You now in the place between light and darkness, between life and death. Protect us, Lord Tanis, hear our prayers and give us life or death according to our due.’ Darath laughed shortly, but nodded. All things done as they ought. They ate a mouthful of salt and honey from a small white dish. Then they went down.
The men were waiting in the inner courtyard. Twenty of them, all the trained men of the House of the East and the House of Flowers combined. Pitifully few, where once the High Lords of the Sekemleth Empire had kept private armies enough to overrun the world. But enough. They had been assembled apparently hastily, told that there was an emergency and that they were needed now. It must have stirred up the streets already, to see Orhan’s men march out fully armed in their blue livery, faces confused and grim. But as they came out into the street they smelled smoke in the air, and heard screaming, and it was obvious that the city was alive with panic because the palace was on fire and men were dying in its halls. Voices were already beginning to cry of invasion and murder; as they went through the Court of the Broken Knife, a woman with blood on her clothes was screaming that she had escaped from the palace, where armed men with the look of Immish were slaughtering all that lived. Other lords would be assembling their men, word might even have reached the Imperial army outside the walls. They went on hurriedly, staring faces crying out in fear and reassurance as they went.
A man came running towards them, eyes very wide, a band of red silk tied around his chest. He nodded at Orhan and said simply, ‘It is done.’ The words were mechanical, as though he did not know what they meant. Which he probably didn’t. Orhan smiled, astonishment and elation rising up within him, mixed with a deep shiver of horror at what he had just achieved. All was changed, now, whatever the outcome. He had changed the world … Only the hard part left. The part he feared with the practical, immediate fear for his own life. He was damned already now. Being cut to pieces was a more immediate concern.
From the direction of the palace came a great crash, like a roll of thunder. The sound hung in the air, almost deafening. Silence again, then a roar like a vast beast. The men started and stared at each other, Darath and Orhan with them. What in Great Tanis’s name …? I must not be afraid, thought Orhan. This was my idea.
‘What did you tell Elis?’ he asked Darath.
Darath shook his head. ‘Nothing. I don’t want him trying to work things out. What did you tell your wife?’
‘Nothing, for the same reason.’ But he’d left her a letter among his papers, torturously trying to explain what he was doing and telling her that he was sorry. For what, he left unspoken. Marrying her, ignoring her, getting her killed, being born. If he’d lived, he wrote, he would have welcomed and cared for the child. Signed it with his full name and title, Orhan Emmereth, Lord of the Rising Sun, the Emperor’s True Counsellor and Friend, Warden of Immish and the Bitter Sea. Though Sorlost had not had suzerainty over Immish since the days of the Calboride Godkings, and had never had any interest in the Bitter Sea.
If he lived, he’d have to burn the wretched thing before Bil found it. If he died, it would probably be burnt unopened when they torched the house and everyone he’d ever known. But it had felt necessary to pretend that Bil, at least, might survive until sunrise.
Tam Rhyl’s men were waiting for them in the palace square. Ten men, well armed in good polished bronze. They blinked when they saw the numbers Orhan was leading but fell into line behind. Good. All set and waiting. They had mercenaries to kill.
A woman appeared at one of the shattered windows, her dress on fire, screaming. She seemed about to jump, but flames billowed up around her and she disappeared backwards. Nobody can be alive in there, Orhan thought. Nobody. At least it made it easier for them, if everybody was already dead. Though it astonished him just how quickly the place had gone up. He thought of his sister’s litter, enchanted against fire. And in a few paces, they’d be going in there. He drew a deep breath as they marched forwards. His hand brushed Darath’s and they looked at each other. ‘I’m glad,’ he said quietly. Then they went through the great arch of the main entranceway that yawned open before them. In through the inner courtyard of the gate, where a fountain played, its water murky with blood. In through the first of the great audience rooms, floored and lined in gold, that led in and up to the throne room itself.
In and on, killing a handful of confused mercenaries as they went. In and on, until the doorways were choked with bodies and the walls ran with fire and blood. In and on, until they were too far to go back.
And then the doors closed on them. And then ten more men appeared, dressed in Tam Rhyl’s colours, swords drawn. And then Tam Rhyl’s men turned on them, cutting down several of their troops before they even had time to react.
Darath looked at them in utter confusion. Cursed as the realization took hold. Orhan didn’t even wonder. Betrayed. He’d known all along, in the back of his mind. Nobody got away from something like this unbloodied. If Tam hadn’t turned on him, he’d have had to turn on Tam. He raised his sword as the men came for him. I’m sorry, Darath, he thought. Really I am. But you did talk me into bringing you in on it. He’d almost suggested Darath didn’t come at all, stayed safe at home waiting for news. No need for him to be here. No need for them both to die like this. Not when Darath could have lived a little longer and poisoned himself painlessly when he heard they’d failed.
There was another violent howl, nearer now and more terrible. Orhan shuddered. Too loud. No one should be able to cry out that loudly. Or as though they were in that much pain. The sound made the men squaring off against each other shudder, almost break off fighting to check that they were still alive.
/> Tam’s men were fighting defensively, keeping together as a block, not trying anything too risky. They’re trying to stall us, Orhan realized. They probably wanted him alive, to grovel and confess all before being horribly executed.
Orhan began to edge along the wall towards the further doors leading to the throne room. Gestured frantically to Darath to follow his lead, shouting an order to the men to push forward. Amlis was already dead, useless as he was. Sterne was down and dying. Might be best if he died, in some ways. Awkward, in an impossible future where they all survived, the four of them bending over the baby’s cot. He signalled the men to press more aggressively, try to break through. If they only had orders to hold them …
Darath shouted and slumped over, and Orhan let out a cry of grief. No. No. No. He cut through a man to try and get to him. Couldn’t see Darath die. Not like this. Tam’s men’s stance became more aggressive, no longer holding them back but trying to gain an advantage over them. The walls were beginning to burn. It was all going so wrong.
Several men from each side down, the fighting getting less organized, more spread out. A couple of Rhyl’s men broke and ran. Orhan pushed forward again and found himself near the doors. Got one open and called to his men to rally through it. Couldn’t see Darath any more. Couldn’t wait and look for him, they’d all be dead anyway if he didn’t finish this.
I’m sorry, he thought again as he ran.
In the next room, two servants were dead. In the room after that, he and Darath and Tam and the Emperor had sat together only a few days previously and pretended to discuss the affairs of Empire. Whoever survived would sit here in a few days’ time and do the same. It’s all just a bloody game, he thought. It doesn’t matter to anyone outside this building. What does it matter who rules, as long as the gold keeps circulating? Nobody cares. Except those of us who live and die for it.
The Court of Broken Knives Page 21