The Iron Ring

by Auston Habershaw

  Sahand now stood on the table so that he was eye-­to-­eye with the Viscountess herself, who dangled by the wrists from the rafters of her own dining hall like a chicken trussed up for plucking. Joining the smell of roast meat and delicate soup was the smell of blood, now coating most of the floor and soaking the tablecloth crimson. As Sahand paced down the length of the table, he kicked the body of a man out of his way and sent the corpse toppling to the floor. “I find it hard to believe that I need to say this, Renia, but spying on me was not in your best interest.”

  Of all the methods of torture devised by man, strappado was perhaps the easiest and most portable. All the torturer needed was a rope, a beam, and a strong man. The victim’s hands would be tied behind the back, the rope thrown over the beam, and then the strong man would hoist them up by the wrists, pulling their arms painfully out of their sockets from behind, tearing ligaments, mashing nerves, and, if the man were strong enough, you could drop them suddenly and then stop them with a jerk, breaking bones and ripping muscles to shreds. If they kicked and struggled, the pain only got worse. For someone who wanted to torture their enemies while on the go, there really was no substitute.

  At the moment, Banric Sahand was just such a man.

  “Again.” He nodded to Gallo, who wordlessly loosened his grip on the rope so it slipped a few inches before jamming down on it again with his heavy armored boot. The Viscountess shrieked as the sudden stop dislocated one shoulder. She flailed and kicked, spitting and howling like a mad cat, as Gallo slowly hoisted her back to her starting elevation.

  Renia Elons was young and vital for a woman of seventy, which was a keen indication of just how much money she had and what manner of sorceries she tended to spend it on. Her face was pale as parchment. “You can’t do this . . . you can’t!”

  “Is that so?” Sahand’s mail jingled softly as he looked about at the carnage he and Gallo had wrought of Renia Elons’s retainers. It had been a simple matter, really—­hardly an effort. Once he knew where to find her, the only complication was how best to travel here quickly and without being observed. Ironically, the Black Hall had served as an admirably convenient shortcut. “Do you have additional retainers I need to worry about? I must say, this array of overweight farmers was something of a disappointment. I fear it’s true what they say: the flower of Eretherian chivalry perished with Perwynnon.”

  The Viscountess hazarded a glance over at the passionless, fish-­eye stare of Gallo. Her voice rose an octave. “My cousins! My sons! The Defenders! They will know this was you! I will be avenged!”

  Sahand’s face was still as a stone carving. “Again.”

  Gallo let her drop and caught her again. This time the Viscountess screamed for almost an entire minute, tears streaming down her face. Sahand waited for her to fall silent before seizing her by the laces of her bodice and pulling her so close to his face that he could see the tiny webwork of wrinkles at the edges of her eyes. “Your simpering cousins? Your elderly sons, likewise fat from too much beef and beer? The Defenders, stretched thin and chasing down common thieves like constables? These are your threats? Listen to me, Renia, and understand: twenty-­seven years ago I had the world in the palm of my hand. I was poised to conquer the West, and none of you mewling idiots seemed able to stop me. All I needed to do was to sack one simple town . . .”

  “Calassa? This is about Calassa?” Renia moaned.

  Sahand thrust her away and let her swing, the motion causing the old woman to howl in pain. “Everything is about Calassa! Every waking hour since that time has been dedicated to undoing my indignities at Calassa. You, Renia, have endangered that plan.”

  “What you’re doing is madness, Sahand!” Renia sobbed. “Madness. All those ­people . . .”

  Sahand had to hand it to the old sorceress—­she, over and above anyone else in the League, had actually figured it out. He wondered, in that moment, if Lyrelle Reldamar knew. No—­she couldn’t. If she did, she would have stopped him somehow.

  And there was simply no one who could stop him. Not now.

  The Mad Prince thought about explaining this to Renia Elons, but couldn’t see the advantage in it. “Again.”

  Gallo dropped her so sharply that a bright bloom of red blood appeared at the shoulder of the Viscountess’s fine white dress. She was weeping and gasping with pain all at once; Sahand figured her arms were just about ready to pop out of their sockets for good.

  “Wh-­What do you want from me?” the Viscountess moaned, “Anything! I’ll give you anything! Please don’t drop me again. For Hann’s sake, mercy!”

  Sahand showed his teeth. “And what would you offer me, Renia? Gold? Titles? What, exactly, would I want from a withered old wench in an expensive gown who’s too old to tumble and too young to bury?”

  Renia Elons drew a shuddering breath. “Then why torture me? Why, gods, why do this? I’m . . . I’m just an old woman . . .” Gallo began to hoist Renia up again; she began to scream. “Oh gods, Sahand! You don’t have to do this!”

  Sahand reached up and wiped a tear from the Viscountess’s cheek. “I have some good news, Renia: I am not going to kill you tonight.”

  Renia Elons shuddered with sobs of relief.

  “No, you see, Renia, if I were to kill you at this moment, it might look as though I were trying to keep you from talking, and I know I am being watched, and I must keep up certain appearances.”

  Renia gasped, “Oh thank—­”

  Sahand held up a finger and shook his head. “I hadn’t finished, Renia: I can’t kill you now, because it will look like you learned something about me. I can, however, slowly torture you to death because then it will look like I was trying to learn something from you.”

  Renia’s eyes seemed likely to pop out of her head and roll around. “Wh . . . what?”

  “Don’t worry—­I’ll see to it that you last until morning. I am a man of my word.”

  Renia struggled weakly against the ropes. “No . . . no, please . . . no!”

  Sahand looked at Gallo and nodded.

  “Again.”

  To be continued in Iron and Blood: Part II of the Saga of the Redeemed . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Living in a fantasy world is hard to do with bills to pay, so thanks are in order. Thank you to Josh, Will, DJ, Perich, Christine, Serpico, and Deirdre, whose creativity and sense of fun made my world breathe for a time and without whom this project would have been a much duller affair. Heartfelt thanks, also, to my parents, who have always encouraged me; to my wife, who has always stood by me; to my first readers—­Katie and Will—­and to my editor, Kelly, for making this fantasy real.

  The Saga of the Redeemed will continue in Part II, Iron and Blood.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  Iron and Blood

  on sale June 2, 2015, from Harper Voyager Impulse.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE SEMI-­INVITED

  “Well, you are certainly dismal today. You look like the walking dead,” Carlo diCarlo observed.

  Tyvian didn’t bother scowling, but he did manage a snort. “I was up well past dawn, that’s all.”

  Carlo moved to signal his coachman. “We could stop for some karfan. There’s a little place—­”

  Tyvian held up his hand. “No! I’ll not attend a party with brown teeth. Bags under my eyes are preferable. Drive on.”

  A coach was a relatively rare form of transport in Freegate, given that a significant portion of the city streets featured stairs, but Tyvian was glad of the novelty as they jostled over the cobblestones toward the diplomatic quarter of the city. Directly adjacent to the sprawling Beggar’s Market, it was there that the various governments of the world had once kept their embassies before the Municipal Council of Freegate had cut all formal diplomatic ties with everyone.

  At the time they had done it because the Illini Wars and the conquests
of the Mad Prince Sahand forced the traditionally neutral city to become entangled in a worldwide conflict. Kalsaari assassins and undercover Defenders killed each other in the streets, Dellor forcibly garrisoned troops within the city limits, and Alliance High General Conrad Varner had even entertained sacking it in order to cut off Sahand’s supply routes. When Sahand and Kalsaar were finally defeated, Freegate had enough and kicked all the diplomats out. Everybody had assumed the Council and Lord Mayor would allow the embassies to be reestablished after a while, but the merchants of Freegate soon found the absence of various armed parties holed up in fortresses within their city limits to be quite pleasant, and no embassies were ever allowed to be rebuilt.

  This didn’t mean foreign powers weren’t present in Freegate—­far from it. It simply meant they needed to keep their numbers down, couldn’t operate openly, and weren’t allowed to send ambassadors to harangue the Council or Lord Mayor for any reason whatsoever. As for the fortresslike embassies that dominated the Castle District—­as the diplomatic quarter was called—­they either fell into disrepair when nobody bought them or had fallen into the possession of private owners with sufficient funds who needed to possess a large, fortified complex in the center of Freegate. One of these owners was none other than a Hanim of the Imperial Kalsaari House of Theliara. It was there that Tyvian and Carlo were bound.

  “I’m rather surprised you managed to secure this meeting, Carlo,” Tyvian remarked, examining his hair in a pocket mirror. He was dressed in his finest clothes—­white linen shirt with flaring, embroidered collar, purple vest with gold piping, a mink-­lined half-­cape, and enough rings and jewels to show he meant business, but not so many that he looked like he was trying too hard. He hadn’t brought Chance, of course—­doing so would be a grave insult—­but he did have a stiletto hidden in his right boot. The boot, of course, had runes of antiscrying etched into its interior, just in case.

  “The Hanim is celebrating her thirtieth birthday, and a very select group of five hundred ­people have been invited. As I implied yesterday, one of them owed me a small favor, so I was able to get us on the guest list.”

  Tyvian frowned. “Did you bring her a gift?”

  Carlo chuckled. “Yes—­you.”

  “Charming.”

  “It will be, I promise.”

  “How much do you know about this Hanim?” Tyvian asked, peering out the window. In the gray light of early evening the stylized minarets of the Theliara compound—­an architectural oddity even in the eclectic, hodgepodge environment of Freegate—­could be seen looming over the lower buildings around them like a trio of ivory lighthouses on a rocky shore. “How long has she been in town did you say?”

  “About two months. Her full name is Angharad tin’Theliara Hanim, that last bit being her title as a lady of the Kalsaari Imperial Court.”

  “I am well aware of her name and the meaning of her title. Tell me about the woman.”

  Carlo threw up his hands. “Who can tell with Kalsaari nobility? Lies and illusions everywhere, as always, and I haven’t been able to pick out the true bits. She has taken no husband, which makes her a very valuable political ally among the beys of her family and beyond. She is no doubt a viper and an enchantress, doubly as dangerous as any woman you are likely to meet in the West, your sainted mother excluded. She is also supposed to be very beautiful, but you can take that with a grain of salt—­these Kalsaaris use so many glamours and Shrouds that they could make an old man look like a sixteen-­year-­old girl and you’d never know without a true-­seer or mage-­compass. For all we know this is her ninetieth birthday, and she has four husbands and a gaggle of children back in her home country.”

  “So, in other words, you know she is a Kalsaari Hanim, who may or may not be married and who may or may not be female. Really, Carlo, I’m disappointed.”

  Carlo frowned and rearranged his robes to try and hide his gut. “She has done a very good job of giving my regular rumormongers the runaround, and no one outside of her household seems to know anything about her for certain, other than the fact that she’s been importing all manner of exotic beasts from around the world to display in her menagerie. Selling them, too, to whatever rich dimwit wants a purple man-­eating parrot or an albino gorgon or whatnot. As I said at lunch yesterday, I try not to do business with the queenies except in emergencies, Tyvian. I’m afraid of them—­I admit it! Some of the things I saw in Kalsaari camps during the war would curl your toes.”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Spare me stories, Carlo. That was twenty-­five years ago in another country during a war. This is a bloody birthday party.”

  “Hmph,” Carlo grunted. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I hope your little proposal is worth the risk.”

  Tyvian didn’t look at the iron ring, but he felt it tingle on his finger. “It is. Don’t worry.”

  They were met at the gates by a pair of turban-­wearing Kalsaari mark-­slaves, each stripped to the waist to reveal their stupendously muscular, tattooed torsos. They seemed to take no notice of the freezing winter air as they inspected Carlo’s invitation. Tyvian marveled at the sophistication and artistry of the enchantments inscribed in their tattoos, and noted the ease with which they wore the heavy scimitars at their hips.

  While Tyvian had no doubt that the mark-­slaves would be extremely dangerous opponents in a fight, he was reassured that their enchantments in no way enhanced their mental faculties. Their search of Carlo and his persons was straightforward, mundane, and so poor that even a common thief could have smuggled a dagger or two past them. The only thing objectionable about the search was the sheer amount of awkward pawing Tyvian was forced to endure. By the time they were let past, he had to spend another few minutes rearranging his hair and clothing to restore them to presearch standards.

  “Come on—­we’ll be late,” Carlo hissed in the grand domed antechamber beyond the gate. The acoustics of the room was such that his whisper echoed off the far wall and back again.

  Tyvian looked around and noted that, apart from the pairs of mark-­slaves posted at various intervals throughout the massive hall, they were alone. No one else was making their way across the oceanic floor of polished marble toward the ten-­foot-­tall double doors that were thrown open. He frowned. “Do you mean to tell me, Carlo, that we were invited to a party and we showed up on time?”

  “What? Should we have been early?”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “We’re not going in yet.”

  “Where will we go, then? We can’t leave and come back—­the Hanim would hear of it! They would think it suspicious.”

  Tyvian whispered into Carlo’s ear so that the sound did not travel. “Pretend to be sick.”

  “Are you mad?”

  He squeezed Carlo’s upper arm. “I will not be the first person to arrive at an exclusive party. It will paint us as either fawning sycophants or unsophisticated rubes, and I won’t allow it. Now, either summon up some vomit or, so help me Hann, I will slug it out of you.”

  Carlo shook his head and sighed. He then, through some trick of bodily control that Tyvian wished he possessed, became very green and nauseous looking. His cheeks bulged and his good eye became as glassy as his crystal one.

  Tyvian smiled. “That’s more like it.” He escorted the queasy Verisi pirate to one of the many doors leading out of the antechamber that wasn’t the main one heading toward the party. The mark-­slaves drew their scimitars and crossed them before the door.

  “You don’t understand.” Tyvian said pleasantly, not knowing whether he was understood or not. “My friend here is ill, and would like somewhere to lie down for a while.”

  “Are there some difficulties I may be improving upon?” The smooth, unctuous voice came from behind them. Tyvian and Carlo turned to see a slight, thin man in an ankle-­length red robe and jeweled turban—­no doubt a steward of some kind. His beard was oiled and fashioned into the shape of
a particularly sharp garden trowel, and only his thin red lips were smiling. His eyes were giving off an even mix of anger and terror.

  Tyvian nodded. “Ah, yes. I was just telling your slaves here that—­”

  The steward executed a short half bow. “My endless pardons, sirs, but your repetition is not necessary. I, Fariq the slavemaster, hear all that the marked hear.”

  Tyvian smirked. “That must get rather noisy sometimes.”

  “Ha ha.” Fariq laughed like a mechanical clock. “Truly you are the most amusing man I have met.”

  Carlo wretched, placing his hands on his knees. Tyvian patted his back. “As you can see, my friend could use a private spot to relax. Motion sickness, you know?”

  Fariq’s nostrils flared. “Such a thing is regrettably impossible. Her Beauteousness, the Hanim, in Her immortal wisdom, has forbidden foreign visitors from all but the approved places. If you will follow me, please.” He motioned toward the tall doors.

  Carlo hacked and gagged up a string of saliva that drooped, slowly, toward the spotless floor. Tyvian saw Fariq stiffen at the sight. “Look, Farroo, if my friend doesn’t get a chaise and a chamber pot, pretty soon he is going to baptize Her Beauteousness’s floor with the contents of his stomach. Just a room, man—­you may lock us in if you like.”