The Steel Remains (Gollancz)

by Richard Morgan

‘Do you think they’ll be back?’ she asked him.

  He was quiet for a while, so quiet she thought he hadn’t heard. She was about to ask again when he spoke.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe we scared them away, yeah.’

  ‘We can stop them,’ she quoted his own words back at him. ‘We can send them back to the grey places to think again about taking this world.’

  The smile came back, faint and crooked. ‘Yeah. What idiot said that? Sounds kind of pompous, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Even idiots get it right sometimes.’

  ‘Yeah.’ But she could see that somewhere inside he didn’t really believe it enough to dwell on. He turned instead and gestured at the great black buried spike of the Kiriath weapon. ‘Anyway, look at that fucking thing. It murdered an entire city, and turned what was left into swamp. If that won’t scare you off, what will?’

  ‘Scares me,’ she agreed.

  It did, but not for the reasons she let him assume.

  When they finally found the place - and even with the scavenger guides and Ringil’s help, it took longer than you’d expect - most of the humans in the party could not see the black iron spike any better than the Aldrain bridge that led to it. She didn’t know whether that was the dwenda’s doing, some cloaking glamour to keep the scavengers away, or if it was something her own people had done when they built and unleashed the weapon in the first place. She saw it clearly enough, and so did Ringil. Some others could manage it for a few seconds at a time, if they stayed and stared and squinted for long enough, which most did not care to do. The majority claimed to see only an impenetrable mass of dead mangrove, a tangle of poisonous-coloured vegetation, or simply an empty space that every instinct screamed at them not to approach.

  ‘This is an evil place,’ she heard one grizzled levy corporal mutter.

  That was one way to look at it, and another helpful corollary was that the evil came from the dwenda presence here, either the once-long-ago mythical city or the more recent incursion. But Archeth could not help, could not stop herself from wondering, if that sensation of evil came from the weapon itself, if there was not some smouldering remnant of its awful power still buried at the tip and if that was what came rising from the surrounding swamp like some ancient phantom in black rotting robes.

  She had for so long been confident of Kiriath civilisation, of a moral superiority that lifted her and her whole people above the brutal morass of the human world. Now, she thought back to some of Grashgal and her father’s more brooding moments, their less intelligible meditations on the past and the essence of who they were, and she wondered if they had lived with this knowledge, of weapons to murder entire cities, and had hidden it from her, out of shame.

  These fucking humans, Archidi, Grashgal had told her, and shuddered. If we stay, they’re going to drag us into every squalid fucking skirmish and border dispute their short-term greed and fear can invent. They’re going to turn us into something we never used to be.

  But what if, Archidi, that wasn’t the truth of the revulsion in his voice at all. What if the truth of Grashgal’s fears was that these fucking humans are going to turn us back into something we haven’t been for a long, long time.

  She didn’t want to think about it. She buried it in the day-to-day tasks of the clear-up, the creation of the new garrisons at Beksanara and Pranderghal and a half dozen other strategically placed villages around the swamp. If the dwenda were coming back, it was her job to ensure that the Empire was equipped to repel them with massive force. For the moment, nothing else need matter.

  But for all that, the knowledge would not go away.

  Even here and now, in the sun and the garden at Pranderghal, the great black iron spike stayed buried in the back of her mind just the way it was buried in the swamp, and she knew she’d never get rid of it. Knew, abruptly, looking at Ringil’s slowly healing face and the stitched wound that would inevitably leave a scar, that he was not the only one the dwenda encounter had damaged for good.

  He caught her watching him and gave her a grin, one of the old ones.

  ‘Want to finish your beer?’ he asked her. ‘Come out and wave goodbye?’

  So they all went out to the start of the road to say farewell. Archeth had gifted Ringil and Sherin both with good Yhelteth levy mounts - and she thought she’d seen the faintest of sparks kindle in Sherin’s eyes when the woman saw her horse, and understood that it was hers to keep. It was a tiny increment, a trickling spring-melt droplet of good feeling inside Archeth, but she supposed it would have to do.

  ‘What are you going to do when you get back?’ she asked Ringil as they stood beside the horses.

  He frowned. ‘Well, Ishil owes me some money. I guess that might be first port of call, once I’ve seen Sherin here safely home.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve done what was asked of me, there wasn’t a plan after that. And to be honest, I doubt I’m very popular in Trelayne right now. I’ve dishonoured myself and the Eskiath name by not showing up to a duel. I’ve crippled a member in good standing of the Etterkal slave traders’ association, and killed most of his men. Fucked up the cabal’s plans for a new war. I have a feeling it might be time to leave town again, soon as I’m paid.’

  Egar grinned and poked him in the chest. ‘Hey, there’s always Yhelteth. They won’t give a shit what you’ve done, long as you can swing a blade.’

  ‘There is always that,’ Ringil said gravely.

  He took his arm out of the sling to get on his horse, winced a little as he swung up. In the saddle, he flexed the arm again a couple of times and grimaced, but he didn’t put the sling back on.

  ‘See you again, then,’ he said. ‘Someday.’

  ‘Someday,’ Archeth echoed. ‘Well, you know where I’ll be.’

  ‘And me,’ the Majak said. ‘Don’t leave it too long, though. We’re not all semi-immortal half-breeds around here.’

  Laughter, again, in the warm sun. They made the clasp all round, and then Ringil nudged his horse into motion and Sherin, wan and quiet, fell in alongside. Archeth and Egar stood together and watched them ride away. Fifty yards out, Ringil raised a hand straight into the air for them, but that was all. He didn’t look back.

  Another five minutes and watching the tiny figures recede started to seem faintly ridiculous. Egar nudged her with an elbow.

  ‘C’mon, I’ll buy you another beer. We can watch them disappear over the hill from the garden.’

  Archeth stirred, as if from a doze. ‘What? Okay, sure. Yeah.’

  And then, as they wandered back towards the inn. ‘So, did I hear right? You’re going to come back to Yhelteth with me?’

  The Majak shrugged elaborately.

  ‘Been thinking about it, yeah. Like Gil said, I’m not exactly popular back home right now. And I could use some sun. And from what you said about the Citadel, you could use some armed protection about the house.’

  ‘Nah.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m fucking hero now. No way they can touch me after this.’

  ‘Yeah, not publicly, maybe.’

  ‘Okay, okay. You’re invited. Stay as long as you want.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Egar hesitated, cleared his throat. ‘You uh, you ever run into Imrana these days?’

  Archeth grinned. ‘Yeah, sure. Seen her around the court, on and off. Why?’

  ‘Dunno, just wondered. I suppose she’s married by now.’

  ‘A couple of times at least,’ Archeth agreed. ‘But I don’t think she lets it get in the way of anything that matters to her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  EPILOGUE

  Grace-of-Heaven Milacar jolted awake.

  For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was; he’d been dreaming of the past, the house on Replete Cargo Street, and now the room he woke to felt wrong. He blinked at the full-length balcony windows and their muslin drapes, the polished decor and space around him, and for that first waking moment, it all felt alien,
as if it didn’t belong to him, or worse, as if he didn’t belong to it.

  He reached out blindly in the bed beside him. ‘Gil?’

  But the bed was empty.

  And he remembered then where he was, remembered how he’d come to be there, the years it had taken, and last of all he remembered he was old.

  He sagged back on to the bed. Stared up at the painted ceiling, the debauchery whose details it was too dark to make out.

  ‘Ahhh, fuck it.’

  A sliver of the dream dropped abruptly back into his head, a piece that didn’t fit with the nostalgia and the old house memories of the rest. He’d been standing out on the marsh, quite a long way from the city walls, and it was getting dark. The sunset showed amidst ragged black and indigo cloud at the horizon, like a smashed egg in mud. There was salt on the breeze, and a few odd noises in the undergrowth that he could really have done without. There was a chill on the nape of his neck.

  A young girl stood before him amidst the marsh grass with a flagon of tea clutched in her hands. The wind plucked at the simple oatmeal-coloured shift she wore. At first he thought she was going to offer the flagon to him, but as he put out his hands she shook her head and turned away without a word. She started walking away, into the gloom of the marsh, and he was seized with a sudden, unaccountable fear of her leaving.

  He called out after her.

  Where are you going?

  I have other fish to fry, she said obscurely. I don’t need to watch this to the end.

  And then she turned back to look at him, and she was suddenly a red-tongued, white-fanged she-wolf, reared upright on its hind legs and grinning.

  He fell back with a yell of horror - it was this, he guessed now, that had woken him - but she only turned her back again and walked off into the marsh grass, still balancing delicately upright.

  He sat up again in the big bed. The dream had left him sweaty beneath the silk sheets and he could feel the hairs on his legs pasted to his skin. He swallowed and looked around the room. He felt the sense of ownership, the sense of belonging settling back over him. He felt his skin cooling. He rubbed a hand down his face and sighed.

  ‘Something keeping you from sleep, Grace?’ asked the shadowed figure by the window.

  This time, it was a full kick to the heart. He was awake, he knew he was awake now, and this was no fucking dream.

  And outside of a dream there was no way anyone should be able to get in here if he hadn’t invited them.

  There was a cool breeze wandering through the room. He registered it for the first time, felt it on his skin. Saw the way the muslin drapes stirred by the open window.

  He’d closed it before he went to sleep. He remembered.

  The figure stepped out of the shadows at the casement edge. Bandlight crept in from the balcony and did its best to touch the face.

  ‘See—’ he began, and then clamped his mouth shut

  The figure shook its head. ‘No. Not Seethlaw. You won’t be seeing him again.’

  ‘Gil ?’

  A grave inclination of the shadow-dappled head. Faintly now in the bandlight, he made out the features to go with the voice.

  ‘Gil. How did you get in here?’

  ‘Easily.’ A gesture back to the balcony. ‘You’ve really got to start picking your boys for competence, not looks, Grace. I walked right past three of them in the gardens, I could have been invisible for all the notice they took. Didn’t have to kill them or anything. And then, well, ornate stonework’s never a good bet if you don’t want burglars scaling the walls. Like I said - easy.’

  Milacar swallowed. ‘We all thought you were ... gone.’

  ‘I was gone, Grace. Into the grey places. You made sure of that.’

  Ringil moved again, closer to the bed. Now the bandlight caught him full, painted its pallid glow across his face. Milacar winced as he saw the scarring along the jawline.

  ‘What are you talking—’

  ‘Don’t.’ There was a terrifying matter-of-factness in the single word. ‘Just don’t, Grace. There’s no point. I remember you in the garden. I was just supposed to stay colourful for you here in the slums. That’s what you said. Here in the slums. Because that’s where we were, wasn’t it? The garden at the old place, across the river on Replete Cargo Street.’

  ‘Gil, listen to me—’

  ‘No, you listen to me.’ There was a cold, hypnotic quality to Ringil’s speech that Milacar didn’t remember from before. ‘That’s where I woke up the morning after Seethlaw. Replete Cargo Street. I thought at the time it seemed familiar, but I didn’t make the connection. Stupid of me really - you even told me you’d hung on to your old address, that first night I came here to see you. It took me a while to sort all this out in my head, Grace, try to put it all together, decide what was real, what wasn’t. But you see, I’ve had a while. I’ve had a long leisurely journey back here to think it all through. And you and the garden and the old place, that was real. It felt different to all the other stuff. I remember that now. Only thing I can’t figure out is whether it was Seethlaw’s idea, or whether you suggested it to him. Care to tell me?’

  He met Grace’s eye. Milacar sighed and slumped back on his propped elbows. He looked away.

  ‘I don’t ...’ He shook his head wearily. ‘Make ... decisions where Seethlaw is concerned. He comes to me. He takes what he wants.’

  ‘Kind of exciting for you, huh?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Gil. I didn’t want you hurt, that’s all.’

  Ringil’s voice hardened. ‘No, that’s not all. You didn’t want me in Etterkal, just like everybody else. Or if I went - because you knew damn well they wouldn’t be able to stop me - you wanted Seethlaw to know and have it covered. You sold me to him, Grace, you told him where to find me. Had to be you, no one else knew I’d gone to Hale’s place.’

  Grace-of-Heaven said nothing.

  ‘Back before I had to kill him, Seethlaw accused me of interfering with his affairs, and what he said was quite specific. You brought your blade and your threats, he said, and your pride that no beauty or sorcery could stem your killing prowess. He heard me say that to you, that first night here, out on the balcony. He was here, in your house, wasn’t he? And then later he followed me home, along with a couple of your more inept machete boys. I scared them off easily enough, but Seethlaw stuck around to laugh at me. Can’t blame him for that - you were both on me from the start. Cosy as fucking spoons in a drawer, and both laughing. Are you in the cabal, Grace?’

  Milacar chuckled and shook his head again. There was more energy in it this time.

  ‘Something amusing you?’

  ‘Yeah. You don’t get it, Gil. The cabal touches us all, you don’t have to be in it for that to happen. The cabal is Findrich and Snarl and a few others in Etterkal, a handful in the Chancellery, a couple more up at the Academy. But that’s just what’s at the centre. Beyond that, anybody and everybody with an ounce of power in this city has their feet in cabal mud. Just a question of how far up your legs you let it creep, how much you want and how much you want to know. Me, Murmin Kaad, even your own fucking father. One way or another, we’re all beholden. The cabal reaches out for what it needs.’

  Ringil nodded. ‘Needs a traitor in the Marsh Brotherhood, does it? You want to hear what happened to Girsh?’

  ‘I know what happened to Girsh.’ A long sigh. ‘I’m in the middle here, Gil. I try not to get too deep in on any one side, try not to get too committed or locked in. It’s politics. You get used to that.’

  ‘Seethlaw wasn’t politics, though, was he?’

  ‘Seethlaw.’ Grace-of-Heaven swallowed. ‘Seethlaw was—’

  ‘Beautiful. Yeah, I know, you told me that. Of course, you also told me it was second-hand knowledge, but that was just the quick lie to cover your arse. Couldn’t really admit to me you were fucking the fabulous dwenda in Etterkal, that would have ruined everything. I just wonder why you bothered mentioning him in the first place.’

  Milacar bo
wed his head. ‘I thought it might scare you off.’

  ‘Yeah? Or you thought I might be competition you could do without? ’

  ‘I just didn’t want you hurt, Gil.’

  ‘So you keep saying. Look at my face, Grace. I got hurt.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’m sorry.’ Sudden, flaring anger. ‘If you’d fucking stayed out of it like I told you to, maybe you wouldn’t have that ugly scar now.’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  Silence, like a shared flandrijn pipe between them. The shape of what was coming began to emerge in the quiet.

  ‘He took you to the grey places,’ Milacar said finally, bitterly.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ And though, just from looking at Grace-of-Heaven’s eyes, he already knew the answer, Ringil asked the question anyway. ‘You?’

  Milacar stared off across the room, into the dark corner Ringil had come from. ‘No. He talked about it, but ... I don’t know. Never the right time, I guess.’

  ‘Don’t feel bad. You don’t know how fucking lucky you got.’ Ringil leaned forward and tapped the scar along his jaw. ‘You think this is ugly? You should see what I’m carrying inside.’

  ‘You think I can’t?’ Milacar looked at him again, and now he was smiling sadly. ‘You need to take a look in a mirror some time, Gil. How did you kill him, then? The gorgeous Seethlaw?’

  ‘With the Ravensfriend. I carved his beautiful fucking face in half.’

  ‘Well.’ A shrug. ‘You did say it wouldn’t stop you. That’s you, Gil, all over. Start you up, you won’t be stopped ’til it’s done. Have you come to kill me too?’