The Legion of Flame

by Anthony Ryan

  “Are they aware of your current . . . activities?”

  He shook his head. “Only if they’re looking down from the heavens they was always going on about. Last purge but one. Emperor didn’t like their holy books, see?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged, continuing to shuffle in nervous expectation.

  “You’ve never done this before, have you?” she asked.

  “Brotherhood don’t let their Blood-blessed trance. Too worried the Cadre might be listening.”

  She pointed him to a stool next to the bed. “Please, sit.”

  After some hesitant fidgeting, he duly sat on the stool, though his eyes remained fixed on the floor.

  “It won’t hurt,” she assured him. “Though the first time is confusing.”

  He clasped his hands together, hard enough to make the knuckles turn white. “Ma and Pa’s cleric told of how the trance steals part of your soul,” he said in a strained murmur. “Said you lose a piece of your soul then the gate to the heavens is barred to you. S’why they wouldn’t take me to try for the Token.”

  “I thought the Brotherhood eschewed such notions,” Lizanne said. “Didn’t Bidrosin call religion the ‘triumph of delusion’?”

  “She did. But it ain’t easy setting aside all you learnt from a young age, miss.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t. But we have a mission, you and I, a mission that requires mutual understanding, and trust.” She reached for the Spider and disconnected the vial of Blue it held, removing the stopper and holding it out to him. “You can trust me, Hyran.”

  After some more fidgeting he took the vial, eyes flicking up to meet hers for the first time. “How . . . How much?”

  “Just a sip will suffice for today,” she said.

  “Aren’t we s’posed to talk awhile first? Become friends or some such?”

  “A brief acquaintance will suffice for basic communication.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Drink up.”

  He did so, grimacing at the burn before handing the vial back to her. “They said you’d try to take all I know,” he said, watching her raise the vial to her lips. “Korian said it’s a good job I hardly know anything.”

  Lizanne smothered a laugh and drank a small amount of Blue. We all see more than we know, my lad.

  • • •

  Arberus slipped back into the role of cavalry commander with practised ease, though the addition of an eye-patch and spear-point moustache did much to reduce the chance that a fellow officer might recognise a disgraced major of Imperial Dragoons. His dark green uniform and black cap marked him as a lieutenant in the 18th Light Horse, an undistinguished regiment often called upon to assist the constabulary in matters of internal security. He rode at the head of a dozen men, all members of the Brotherhood with sufficient military experience to pass for soldiers. Lizanne rode in a prison wagon of sturdy oak construction with barred windows and a slat in the floor for her bodily needs. She wore only a rough woollen smock and her unwashed and unbound hair was tangled with several days’ worth of grime and sweat. After two weeks on the road she must look quite frightful, which was all to the good. Also, thanks to a painful but necessary procedure undertaken before leaving Corvus, she had a persistent and acute pain in her lower jaw.

  They met other travellers on the road, mostly traders carting their goods to the capital’s markets who were quick to shuffle onto the verge and lower their gaze at the sight of Imperial soldiery escorting a prison wagon. Occasionally they happened upon a constabulary check-point which invariably required Arberus to exchange curt pleasantries with their commander before proffering his forged orders. The sight of the Interior Minister’s crest was usually enough to discourage further questioning but not all members of the constabulary were so easily cowed.

  “Can’t take any chances, Captain,” one particular check-point commander said. “What with all the trouble in the capital.” His boots thumped on the wagon’s rear step as he climbed up to peer at Lizanne through the barred window on the door.

  “A traitor, eh?” he asked Arberus. “Sure she’s not a whore too? I can see her as one, but not the other. Though I wouldn’t give more than a few pins for a gobble off that mouth, the state she’s in.” He moved back, glancing to the side. “Unless you’re offering a free go?”

  “Don’t let appearances fool you, Inspector,” Lizanne heard Arberus reply in a commendably mild tone. “You’ll likely find yourself short a few inches.”

  The inspector grunted, looking down as he read something. “No name on the warrant,” he observed, without any particular surprise. “Another one for the ranks of the disappeared, eh?”

  “My orders come directly from the Interior Ministry.” Arberus’s voice had taken on a clipped, cautionary note. “Experience teaches me the folly of looking too closely at the particulars.”

  “Quite so, Captain.” The man’s brutish face lingered behind the bars a moment longer, Lizanne staring back at his predatory lust with studied indifference. More than a few inches, she decided. I’ll take his balls too.

  “Very well.” The inspector disappeared, his barked commands audible through the wagon’s sides. “Raise the barrier!” The oak planking next to Lizanne’s head gave a loud thump as he pounded a fist against it. “Enjoy your time in Scorazin, my dear!” he shouted with a laugh. “I hear a whore can last at least a month if she’s generous enough!”

  • • •

  “I’ll stop by and kill him on the way back,” Arberus said. They had halted for the night, allowing her the chance to engage in the daily stretching exercises she employed to prevent her muscles atrophying during the journey. He stood at the wagon’s door, face framed in the barred window. She had forbidden any temporary liberations during the journey lest such a conspicuous breach of procedure attract attention.

  “No you won’t.” Lizanne groaned a little as she raised her torso, keeping her legs straight and arms outstretched. “Much as I appreciate your chivalry, personal vendettas are a barrier to successful mission fulfilment.”

  “I hate it when you talk like that.”

  She looked up at the harsh tone in his voice, finding his face set with suppressed anger. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. It’s like you step back from being you, becoming . . . someone else, someone Exceptional Initiatives made you into.”

  “They didn’t make me into anything. They only refined what was already there.” She arched her back, sweeping her arms over her head so her body described the shape of a drawn bow. “And if they hadn’t, I doubt either of us would be here now.”

  He said nothing, watching her hold the pose for several seconds before she relaxed. She sank into a sitting position and began working her neck muscles with a series of slow revolutions. “He said there was trouble in the capital,” she said.

  “There were riots when the Emperor announced the treaty with Ironship,” he replied. “Relatives of those lost in the Arradsian campaign joined with traditionalists who despise the notion of allying their once-great empire with the hated corporatist enemy. The authorities were obliged to turn out the entire city garrison to restore order. It seems the Emperor has been even more industrious than usual in signing the resultant execution orders.”

  “So he’s still mad,” Lizanne mused. “For the time being, at least. We can but hope it lingers long enough for his forces to be of some use when the White comes north.”

  “So our fate is dependent on the continuing madness of an inbred fool.”

  “If we accomplish our objective perhaps it won’t be necessary. How much longer?”

  “A day and a half.” She watched his face take on an even more grim expression. “Once I hand you over, there will be nothing I can do to assist you.”

  “On the contrary,” she said, offering a smile which he failed to return. “You will continue to gather intelligence and prepa
re for my return, and contingencies in the event I do not. Your Brotherhood must be made to understand the danger we face. Seek them out, as many as you can, tell them what you saw in Arradsia. Tell them yet another hopeless rebellion will only hurt our cause, and theirs.”

  He sighed and gave a reluctant nod. “I suppose it’s better than simply waiting at the rendezvous for you to trance with Hyran.”

  “Be sure to leave clear instructions with your people at the rendezvous. If I fail to trance within four weeks, assume me lost and try to convey word of the mission’s failure to Director Bloskin. Also . . .” She hesitated, closing her eyes. “In such an event I would request that you return to Feros.”

  “You brought me here because of my useful allegiances. Now I’m back, you can’t expect me to abandon them.”

  “Tekela is the daughter of your closest friend and comrade. Isn’t she more deserving of your protection than these hopeless dreamers?”

  He met her gaze through the bars, the eyes harder and more unyielding than she had seen before. “If you’re expecting a solemn promise in that regard, you will be disappointed. I’ll not deprive you of yet another incentive to survive that benighted pit. If you wish to safeguard Tekela, stay alive and do it yourself.”

  With that, he was gone, leaving her to ponder the folly of intimate relations for one such as she.

  • • •

  She smelled the smoke a good while before the wagon trundled up to the walls of Scorazin. It was faint at first, the mingled scent of burnt coal and wood mixed with a sulphurous tinge. Soon the scent thickened into a cloying, acrid miasma. It wasn’t quite as bad a stench as the green-leather tannery in Carvenport, but certainly came close. She heard the muffled exchange of military greetings as the wagon came to a halt, then the thump of boots on the step before keys rattled in the lock.

  “Out!” Arberus commanded in an impatient bark.

  Lizanne checked to ensure the manacles on her wrists were properly secured then got slowly to her feet. “Hurry up, you traitorous bitch,” Arberus said with weary brutality as she emerged, blinking into the light. She gazed around with a blank expression that conveyed the impression of a woman unable to comprehend her changed circumstances. The walls of the prison city towered above her, at least three times the height of the barrier that had ultimately failed to protect Carvenport. She couldn’t see the top of it through the pall of yellowish smoke escaping the confines of the city beyond. Before her stood the gatehouse, which was in fact a substantial fortress protruding from the wall like an ugly brick-and-wood tumour.

  “Do you think I want to loiter in this stink a moment longer than necessary?” Arberus said, yanking Lizanne from the wagon with a hard tug. Her bare feet met mud-covered cobbles and she slipped, collapsing with a scared sob.

  “Can’t see any scars on her,” a man said, the voice muffled. Lizanne shot a fearful glance up at a blocky Senior Constable, eyes dark and curious above the mask he wore, presumably to assuage the foul humours that brought a sting to her own eyes. “When the Cadre sends us a traitor they’re usually marked up something frightful.”

  “Apparently, she was very co-operative,” Arberus told him. “Sold her friends out in return for her life. They barely had to touch her.”

  “Life?” The constable laughed. “Weren’t you sold a lame horse, love. Alright, get up.”

  He was surprisingly gentle as he brought her to her feet and she experienced a moment’s disorientation upon reading the expression in his eyes: deep, unalloyed pity. “No name, I take it?” the constable enquired of Arberus.

  “Number only: Six-one-four.”

  “Duly noted.” The constable scribbled something on the document he held and handed it to Arberus. “Transfer complete and witnessed, Captain. I wish you a pleasant journey. Right, love.” The constable turned away, taking hold of Lizanne’s arm and leading her towards a small door in the base of the fortress-like gatehouse. “Let’s get you sorted.”

  Lizanne didn’t look back at Arberus as she was led away, and hoped he had the good sense to just close up the wagon and ride off. Somehow, though, she knew he had lingered to watch her disappear into the doorway.

  The Senior Constable led her through a series of guarded doors, unlocked and then locked behind them as they passed through. Her escort hummed a faint but jaunty tune behind his mask as they made their way deeper into the maze of corridors and holding cells. He paused every now and then to exchange a word or two with the other guards, usually drawing a laugh with some witticism or shared gossip. He appeared to be a popular fellow. Lizanne kept the shocked, blank expression in place whilst her practised mind recorded the route they took and any names or other intelligence revealed by the guards. It seemed that the Warden Commandant, a new appointee of questionable judgement, had an unwise habit of actually venturing beyond the confines of the barracks.

  “Came back covered in shit yesterday,” one of the guards told the Senior Constable with a smirk.

  “He’s lucky it was just shit.”

  “True enough. Seems he didn’t make it more than two streets before they ambushed him, Wise Fools mostly. Had his squad shoot three of the buggers by way of recompense.”

  “Wonderful,” the Senior Constable groaned. “Makes it more likely there’ll be another bloody riot on Ore Day.”

  They moved on, eventually coming to a small tiled room which contained a chair and table, both bolted down. On the table a pair of plain but sturdy shoes sat alongside a folded set of overalls and a cake of soap. In the centre of the room a bucket of water sat close to an iron-grated drain. “Sit down, love,” the Senior Constable told her, pointing to the chair and closing the door. He removed his mask as she sat, revealing a broad, fleshy face set in a grimace of habitual sympathy.

  “Your prisoner number is Six-one-four,” he told her, unlocking her manacles and setting them on the table. “Remember it. You’ll need it on Ore Day, otherwise you don’t get fed. Understand?”

  Lizanne stared up at him blankly for a moment before giving a hesitant nod.

  “Good.” His grimace deepened. “Need you to strip now. Best if you don’t give me any trouble. Don’t worry, I’ve seen everything you’ve got a thousand times and never been tempted once.”

  She briefly considered throwing a hysterical fit of some kind, but decided meek acquiescence would better suit her current persona. The constable was patient as she stood up and slowly pulled the coarse woollen smock over her head, placing it on the table and standing hunched with an arm across her breasts and a hand over her crotch. “You’ll find the water’s cold,” the constable said, pointing to the bucket and handing her the soap. “Sorry about that. Be sure to be thorough.”

  So she washed, gasping at the chill of the water and dragging the cheap, odourless soap over her skin as he looked on with professional scrutiny, his eyes lacking any vestige of lust. She was unsure whether to find this reassuring or not. She deliberately prolonged the washing, knowing what came next and a lack of hesitancy would be sure to arouse suspicion.

  “That’s enough,” he said, finally. “Rinse off.”

  He had her stand facing the wall with her hands raised and legs parted. “Alright then, love,” he said as she shivered and bit down on a whimper. “You got anything hidden, now’s the time to tell me and it’ll stay just between us. But if you don’t tell me and I find something, well, that’s a different matter. Last lady who tried it got put through the gate with no clothes and no blanket. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

  “I-I’ve nothing!” Lizanne babbled. “I swear!”

  “Well, let’s hope so, eh?”

  The subsequent inspection was brief but thorough enough to provoke an involuntary shudder or two.

  “Good,” the constable said in brisk satisfaction. “Let’s get you dressed, shall we?”

  • • •

  “It’s better if you don
’t think of Scorazin as a prison,” the constable told her a short while later. She walked ahead of him, her overalls chafing as they descended a series of stairwells into the bowels of the gatehouse. The garment was fashioned from thick, tight-woven cotton and, despite a recent laundering, retained a faded but recognisable blood-stain on the midriff. “It’s a city, really,” he went on. “And like any city it has rules. The precise details change according to whoever’s enforcing them, but for the most part it boils down to two basics: don’t take what you’re not strong enough to keep and don’t fight anyone you’re not strong enough to kill.”

  They reached the bottom of the last stairwell where a heavy iron-braced door waited. The constable put a hand on her shoulder, turning her around, his gaze rich in the same pity she had seen outside the gatehouse. “Few words of advice, love,” he said. “Make friends fast, and don’t be picky about it. You’ll need protection. There’s a place you might want to make for. A tavern of sorts. When you get through the grate find Sluiceman’s Way, it’s the widest street in the eastern quarter. Follow it until you come to Pick Street. Keep to the sides and don’t speak to anyone that speaks to you. If they press their case, start running. The place you’re looking for is called the Miner’s Repose but the sign’s long since faded. You’ll know it ’cause it’s by far the largest building in the street. Ask for Melina.” He cupped her chin in a gesture that was almost fatherly. “Tell her Constable Darkanis sent you.”

  Lizanne coughed, drew breath and asked in a small voice, “It’s . . . It’s a whore-house?”

  He lowered his hand and gave a heavy sigh. “Trust me, love, it’s far better than the mines.”

  He turned and worked a key in the heavy door, hauling it aside to reveal a tunnel. “Before I got here,” Constable Darkanis said, hefting an oil-lamp to illuminate the tunnel, “they used to send the new arrivals in through the main gate at the start of each week. One big parcel of the poor sods served up like feeding time at the menagerie, ’specially if there were any women in the bunch. Started having a bad effect on the size of the work-force, so we’ve got a more civilised way of doing things these days.”