by David Gunn
At the top is a study, with an oil lamp already lit on the desk.
It’s a man’s study, because a hunting rifle hangs above the fireplace and a ferox skull stares from a vast shield on a wall behind me. The heavy brow ridge and skull crest show it to be a fully grown male.
Never knew a woman who collected trophies.
Not that kind.
‘This could be dangerous . . .’
Simone abandons her pep-talk. Probably because I grin. People like her don’t know how addictive danger is. Except I’m wrong and she does. It’s in her eyes and the swiftness of her pulse and the way her mouth opens slightly when I steer her towards the desk. She keeps glancing at the door as if she expects someone to enter.
I can’t tell if she hopes someone will.
Or fears they might.
She says nothing when I lift her onto the desk. And nothing when I hook that expensive silk round her hips. It takes me a second to free her breasts.
‘Don’t tear my top,’ she says.
Too late.
Having got her breath back, Lady Simone Kama reaches into a drawer of the desk and produces a small box, flipping it open. Inside is a silver ring, showing a ferox skull in an enamel circle. The circle contains a motto.
Senatus Populusque Farlightus.
I’ve no idea what it means. But I’ve seen a hundred like it. Every Senate officer and NCO wears one. As do a thousand others, who cadge drinks in scuzzy bars, based on having been something they never were.
I take it to the lamp.
That’s the second time she’s proved me wrong.
The ring is platinum. Its enamel a mosaic of rubies. And the skull is not yellow and black, as I expect, but two shades of purple used only by OctoV and the members of his Senate.
Not here, not now . . .
That’s something a fully grown ferox said to me once. I’ve been waiting for Death to catch me up ever since. So far he hasn’t dared.
‘Use it wisely,’ she says. ‘And take this . . .’
Simone scrawls three lines on a piece of paper from a different drawer, and signs it with a flourish. Safe conduct through the city. Signed by Augustus, Archbishop of Farlight.
At least that’s what the signature says.
She grins, eyes glittering. ‘He won’t mind.’
Finally, she rips her scarf in two, pulls a jewelled bottle from her pocket and splashes several drops on one half. She ties that half round my arm. ‘Once you find Vijay,’ she says, ‘remove the ring and lose the band. Your lives depend on it.’
‘What—?’
‘Don’t ask questions.’
She kisses me on the lips and steps back, adjusting her top.
‘Go,’ she says.
So I turn for the stairs.
‘One last thing. I don’t know your name.’
‘I’m Sven.’ Habit almost makes me add the rest. Sven Tveskoeg, lieutenant, Death’s Head, Obsidian Cross, second class.
‘Just Sven?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Just that.’
‘Take my sister with you then, Sven. Keep her safe.’
Chapter 26
THERE IS AN ORNATE BRIDGE HALF A MILE TO OUR LEFT. Another, much simpler, roughly the same distance to our right. The first is gilded, made from cast iron, and decorated with underage nymphs and naked boys holding tridents.
The second is built from slabs of basalt, and has OctoV’s crest carved into its sides. Different eras. Different tastes. Although not that different. Each nymph and boy stares out with wide eyes, a sweet smile and perfect cheeks. Our glorious leader’s face is the model for every one.
‘Well?’ says Anton. ‘Which bridge?’
‘Neither.’
Anton, Sef and Leona follow me down a flight of steps to a jetty that has three boats tied to its end. Only one boat is big enough for all of us. The problem is that five militia stand between us and its rope. All are armed, and their sergeant is already raising his rifle. It’s a Kemzin, obviously enough.
‘Recognize the regiment?’ I ask Leona.
She mutters the name of a high clan that means nothing to me. Five of them, three of us. Plus Sef, of course. Although there’s little point relying on her for anything. Unless . . .
‘Tell them we’re taking the boat.’
‘We’re taking your boat,’ Sef says. ‘If you don’t mind.’
The sergeant with the gun looks worried. It’s Sef’s voice. So obviously high clan. The rest of us look like rabble. But she’s trouble.
‘Madame,’ he says, ‘my orders—’
‘Are of no interest to us,’ I tell him.
The NCO thinks dealing with me is going to be less grief than dealing with Sef. Shows what he knows. Particularly as he’s let us get too close.
‘Listen—’ he says.
And then says nothing. Instead we get muted gurgling. Must be my hand gripping his throat.
‘Sven . . .’
For fuck sake.
How many times do I have to tell Anton not to use my name?
‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘but I think . . .’
A corporal next to the sergeant has the muzzle of his rifle under Leona’s chin. ‘Let go,’ he says. ‘Or I’ll shoot him.’
‘It’s a her, fuckwit. And you think I care?’
Leona’s face goes blank.
Guess the corporal doesn’t see her fingers edge towards a kitchen knife in her belt. She’s going down fighting. The other militia stand there, undecided. We’ve got their sergeant and corporal on our case. So they’re going to sit tight, and see what happens. That’s militia for you. Being cannon fodder doesn’t mean you have to like it.
‘I said . . .’
‘Yeah,’ says Anton. ‘He heard you.’
My fingers close a little, and the sergeant starts struggling. ‘Drop your weapon,’ I tell the corporal. ‘Or he dies.’
The idiot obeys.
And I know they’re amateurs.
Getting your sergeant killed should be every junior NCO’s dream. Instant promotion, plus you haven’t broken a basic rule: never surrender your weapon. It’s a good rule, since the pain OctoV is likely to inflict if you do is infinitely worse than anything an enemy can threaten . . .
I let their sergeant drop. He hits the deck of the jetty and we rock a little. Stepping over his body, I begin untying the boat. When Leona dips to grab the sergeant’s rifle and I hear a snap as she clicks its slide, I know it’s going to be one of those nights.
‘Boss,’ she says. ‘We’ve got company.’
There’s a tightness to her voice. Now, Leona is not a trooper to get jumpy without good reason.
Very slowly, I turn.
Although I retie the boat first.
Don’t want the bloody thing floating off while I sort out our latest shitstorm. A dozen rifles point at me. Make that two dozen. A handful of seconds later the number is up to three dozen and militia are jostling each other in their eagerness to take aim.
‘Sven . . .’ says Anton.
He looks at me.
‘It’s OK? I mean, if I call you Sven?’ Anton nods at the soldiers. ‘You don’t think it’s going to make matters worse?’
Not sure what’s got into him lately.
A captain stands at the top of the stairs.
Two militia NCOs grab me before I can reach him. One goes down in silence. Don’t imagine he’ll get up for a while. The other sits on his arse whining that I’ve broken his arm. If it was smashed he’d have shards of bone sticking through his skin.
‘Dislocated, moron.’
Yanking him to his feet, I fix his shoulder. OK, I do it by bouncing him off a stone wall, but the joint pops back into place and he’s able to move his arm again.
‘Enough,’ the captain says. He’s got his Colt to my head.
I can take him, and the corporal with the light machine gun behind that. It’s the sergeant beyond who worries me. When I glance back, I see Anton and the others on the jetty. Leona, at least,
holds the Kemzin she took.
‘Your ID,’ demands the captain.
‘Not carrying them.’
Since this is a crime he’s surprised I’d volunteer that information.
Most people in my situation would be patting themselves down and protesting that they’d had their papers a moment ago. I’m not most people.
‘What’s your name?’
‘What’s yours?’
The captain scowls. ‘I have a weapon to your head,’ he reminds me.
As if I’m going to forget.
‘Might be more use if you took it off safety.’
Glancing at his piece, he realizes the safety is already off. But he’s just made himself look a fool. It’s been a while since I enjoyed myself like this.
The captain is tall, thin and elegant.
He probably thinks it’s original to sound that bored with life. Maybe he should see more of it before deciding it’s something he’s willing to toss away. This strikes me as dangerously close to intelligent thought on my part.
So I decide to sneer at him instead and watch his eyes tighten.
‘Take him to HQ.’
‘What about the others, sir?’
‘Take them as well, obviously.’
One of the NCOs glances at another. The captain isn’t popular. I file that information for use later. As one of the soldiers starts down the stairs, Leona readies her rifle.
A dozen rifles point in turn.
‘Lower it,’ I tell her. ‘I want to see this idiot’s CO anyway.’
The militia captain slicks me a glance. I’m not behaving how freshly taken prisoners are supposed to behave. No one grabs Leona when she reaches the top, with Anton and Sef behind.
‘Sven,’ Sef says, sounding anxious, ‘we have to find—’ She stops, smiles brightly. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘We can ask them.’ Turning to the nearest trooper, she says, ‘Do you know Vijay?’
A hard-faced sergeant starts, then stares straight ahead. A callus of hard skin is visible beneath his jaw. I’m right, this man is ex-Legion.
‘Sven,’ I say, sticking out my hand.
He ignores it.
The man hasn’t got me pegged as an officer yet. Thinks I’m hired muscle for whoever Anton is. But he’s beginning to wonder if Anton is someone. And you’d have to be an idiot not to know that Sef is trouble, however you cut it.
‘Brandon,’ he says, after a while.
‘What regiment?’
‘Fifteenth.’ Sergeant Brandon’s eyes flick to my jawline. It’s hidden in shadow. ‘How about you?’
‘Third.’
‘Ah, right . . . Posted at Zami.’
The third haven’t been near Zami. Not in my lifetime. ‘Karbonne,’ I tell him. ‘One of the forts south of the capital. If you can call a dogshit market and three brothels capital of anything.’
He grins, nods in recognition.
‘So,’ I say. ‘Does Vijay Jaxx ring any bells?’
Sergeant Brandon’s eyes flick to his captain.
‘Man’s a fuckwit and I’m over here.’
The sergeant has trouble not grinning again. ‘Arrested some one of that name an hour ago.’
‘What for?’
He shrugs. ‘Not my business.’
‘I really do need to see Vijay,’ Sef insists.
‘Madame,’ says the captain, voice tight, ‘I’m sorry, but . . .’
‘Call me Sef,’ she says, putting out her hand. ‘Lady Serafina Rivabella y Kama.’
‘Rivabella y Kama?’
‘Yes,’ Sef says brightly. ‘That’s right.’
Picking the captain up, one-handed, I move him out of my way.
No one stops us when we turn for the final twist of stone steps that take us from the embankment to the street above. Although Sergeant Brandon follows without being ordered. So does everyone else eventually, like an untidy shadow.
The HQ is someone’s house.
Not sure if it belongs to an officer. Or has simply been commandeered for the night. Either way, it’s heavy on gilt, marble tiles and oil paintings, and the occupants have made themselves at home. A lieutenant stands by a candlelit table, scowling at a paper map of Farlight’s river.
An aide de camp is offering him a drink.
The boy looks about twelve.
Their CO sits at a coffee table, peeling a pear with a tiny knife. The way he has his boots on the chair opposite makes me think the house stolen. I’ve got two questions for him.
‘The Wolf,’ I say. ‘Has he been here?’
The major stares at me.
He’s facing a one-armed intruder. And it’s his HQ. But I’m also taller than him, broader and holding a rusting pistol in the hand I do have. So he does what I’d expect of a man like him. Orders someone else to arrest me.
A lieutenant hits the wall.
‘Let’s try that again.’
‘No, sir . . . He hasn’t.’ The ADC shakes his head, then blushes.
Walking to the drinks table, I pour myself a triple brandy and feel it warm my throat and heat my gut on its way down. A roast chicken sits on a silver salver on the sideboard. I’m wrong; it’s bigger than a chicken.
‘Anton,’ I say. ‘What’s bigger than a chicken?’
‘A turkey.’
See, he knows things like that.
Ripping off one leg, I toss it to Leona who tears off half the meat with her first bite and looks up, muscle fibres sticking from her mouth.
‘What, sir?’ she demands.
‘Didn’t say a thing.’
It feels hours since we ate and my gut’s empty. Also, the brandy is strong enough to go to my head. So I bite a chunk out of the other leg and offer the rest to Sef, who’s looking round the room. Probably seeing if she knows these people socially.
‘Want some?’
‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’
Anton gets fed instead.
‘Sir,’ says a voice behind me. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t . . .’
Yes, he could, he just didn’t, there’s a difference. And the fact the captain let us go into his HQ first and trailed after tells me everything I need to know about him.
‘You know this man, Captain Vard?’
‘Yes, sir. He said he wants to talk to you, sir. And the woman with him is Serafina Kama, sir.’ The captain no longer drawls, and he’s uncertain where to look. Glancing at me, he looks at the major and then looks away from him as well.
He ends up staring at Sef. She has that effect on people.
‘I’m here for a prisoner.’
The major raises his eyebrows.
‘Vijay Jaxx.’
‘We’re getting married,’ Sef adds.
The major’s still thinking about that as I head for the door. ‘Stay here,’ I tell Sef. ‘You two, stay with her.’
Sergeant Brandon is waiting in the corridor outside. Since he’s alone, issues no orders to stop and makes no attempt to raise his Kemzin, he’s obviously been waiting for me.
‘You don’t like what’s happening, do you?’
He shakes his head.
‘Nor me.’
It seems enough.
I’m turning away, when he says, ‘The Wolf was here, sir. About two hours ago. He also asked about a Vijay Jaxx. And about a one-armed lieutenant. Dangerous, and a traitor, seemingly . . .’
‘That’s what you wanted to say?’
‘Didn’t say anything, sir.’
A flight of stairs leads to the cellars. As I open the upper door, the major, the captain, the lieutenant who hit the wall and the little ADC come bundling out of their room and head towards me.
‘You can’t—’ the major says.
He freezes when I reach into my jacket. Man’s an idiot. If I wanted him dead he’d be dead already.
The major takes the paper I offer.
Blood drains from his face. It really does. He goes pale faster than someone with a severed artery. Over his shoulder, Captain Vard reads the first two lines
and steps back. It’s a reflex action.
‘I’ll have to check,’ the major says. ‘Really, I really should check.’
He’s having trouble meeting my eyes. The major tries to say he must see if my safe conduct is real. Only he doesn’t dare. And he doesn’t need to check, either. He’s just trying to save face in front of his staff.
I could help him out, of course. But why would I bother?
Instead I thrust Simone’s ring in his face. It takes the major’s eyes a second to refocus.
‘Shit,’ someone says. Think it’s the little ADC. ‘That’s . . .’
The ADC’s looking at Captain Vard, who is staring at the major. The major’s open-mouthed. Probably wondering what someone like me is doing with a ring like that. Anton might get away with pretending to be high clan.
I never will.
He reaches the only conclusion possible. The Senate is rumoured to employ killers. Highly paid, never mentioned and beyond the reach of the law. I must be one of those.
‘Sir,’ says the major. ‘If we could . . .’
But I’m not interested in talking. I’m only interested in rescuing Vijay Jaxx before someone decides to find General Luc and tell him the men he’s hunting for are here.
Chapter 27
SHIT AND FEAR, THE SMELL OF SWEATBOXES EVERYWHERE. THE cellar beyond the door has no ventilation. It’s high summer in Farlight, fifty or more people are down here in pitch darkness, with more being brought in while we wait.
Half will suffocate before the night is out.
‘Jaxx,’ Sergeant Brandon shouts.
A thin man stumbles towards the door. He’s blinking against the sudden brightness of the sergeant’s torch and wiping rivers of sweat from his face. Dark patches blossom under the arms of his once-white shirt. It could be piss staining his trousers, equally well it could be sweat.
‘Where is Vijay Jaxx?’ I demand.
Pale blue eyes blink at me. ‘I’m Vijay Jaxx,’ he whispers.
Never seen him before in my life.
‘You know the general?’
He wants to tell me everyone knows the Duke of Farlight. Only, he has no idea who I am and he’s being dragged out of a stinking cellar in the middle of the night. Traditionally, that means execution or torture. For someone not sure which, he does a good job of raising his chin and meeting my eyes.
