Redemption's Blade

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  At the sound, another man stepped forwards, squat and bald, pauldrons and breastplate gleaming bright over his white robe. The plate bore the Temple’s emblem boldly: a shield, half plain for strength of faith, half cut into a brickwork pattern for strength of body, and as a reminder of one of the Temple’s most notable Guardians of the older days. Everyone took a step back from him: seer, Dragon Speaker and Governor. There was a moment when the priest might have said anything, but then he nodded somewhat curtly to Adondra and said, “You have brought your grievance here and the Governor has given her verdict. Be bound by it, or be divided by blood, and seek no sanctuary in Ilkand, nor trade. How much do your people crave war?” From his tone he wouldn’t have lamented a bit of bloodshed there and then.

  “Same bloody Ilkin Temple,” Celestaine whispered to Ralas and he nodded glumly. Unlike the mild priests of the Gracious One in Cinquetann Riverport—or, at least, unlike their mild selves before the war—the Templars of Ilkand had brought religion home with the stroke of a warhammer. Founded under the gaze of a knot of warlike Guardians and devoted to the god known as the Just Watcher, Celestaine had never got on with them. Not evil, but excessively rigid, in her opinion; unwilling to overlook the slightest infraction, unwilling to let circumstances cloud the sharp edges of their codes and laws. Back before the war, they had been a loud voice in Ilkand, but not an overwhelming one; far too many other factions and interests had tugged and pried at the Seaport’s reins of power, and the Harbourmaster had been venal enough to blunt their pious demands. Now it seemed as though they were shouting louder than everyone else combined.

  The Udrengasi and Ystachi representatives hesitated, briefly united in their dislike of the Templar.

  “I wish the judgment of the Silver Tower,” the Dragon Speaker spat, the blue scales of his otherwise human face twisting. “Let the Mage-Lord speak on this, as he used to.”

  Celestaine pricked her ears up.

  “Archmage Roherich has closed his doors to all petitioners,” Adondra stated frostily. “Even now he watches the forces of the enemy that still threaten our security and peace. Will you drag him from that vigil for such squabbles as these? And will the others, that great line of plaintiffs who stand each day to bring their grievances before the will of Ilkand? No, you will not. As the Archimandrite says, be bound by my words, or spend a generation cutting each other’s throats.”

  “There is no middle way,” the priest declared, in a tone that suggested there never was.

  The moment balanced on a knife edge, but then the two of them were agreeing with poor grace, swearing on the Ttemple and on the Just Watcher to bind their respective peoples. Celestaine wondered if the oath would last. After all, the Just Watcher had been as silent as all the other gods since the Kinslayer emerged.

  “Thank you, Archimandrite,” the Governor said stiffly. “Your assistance is, as ever, invaluable. Now, what’s the next business?” She looked around and a clerk hurried up, pointing at the two newcomers. Even at that distance Celestaine saw her eyes narrow. That’s not a good sign.

  She was an imposing woman, Adondra. Not tall, but solidly built, her reddish hair cut short enough to show the shape of her skull, making her strong jaw even more pronounced. Glowing runes curved beneath each eye, a magical affectation of the Ilkin rich. Possibly it gave her insight into the hearts of those she dealt with, or perhaps it just gave them the jitters. She wore a simple dark coat, cut to recall the Templar vestments, with a white scarf-like tippet slung over it, tucked into her belt. A little pewter Temple shield pinned over her left breast completed the image of someone who knew exactly what organisation held the shoving power in Ilkand today. The hammer in her belt looked, as Celestaine had noted, entirely functional. Most likely it had seen its share of enemy skulls when the fighting had washed through the streets of the city.

  “Well. Such an honour,” she said, every ounce of her tone contradicting the words. “Celestaine the Slayer and… Ralas. You’re a Slayer too?”

  “Something of the opposite,” said the bard.

  “Well, famous foes of the Kinslayer nonetheless,” Adondra sad acidly. Then, to the clerk, “Please tell the remaining petitioners that I shall be closeted with these great dignitaries for some time, listening to their tales of their own deeds and importance.”

  “Look—” started Celestaine, but the woman silenced her with a mismatched stare.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “You came here swinging your names like maces, so you get what you asked for.” And then she was marching off, and it was either follow her or stay under the bristling countenance of the Templar.

  Adondra fell back to a small room mostly containing a desk, which she sat at, and no other chairs whatsoever. The walls were papered with lists and documents, accounts and reckonings—Celestaine had seen quartermasters keep similar records, and she suddenly had an image of Adondra as a company book-keeper during the war, constantly fending off starvation, finding the wherewithal to replace broken swords and armour and to pay mutinous soldiers. And now here she was, endeavouring to walk the same tightrope for a whole city.

  “Ilkand can’t be short of supply, surely?” she wondered, only realising late that she was speaking aloud. “It’s the biggest port on the northern coast.”

  Adondra looked at her sourly. “The Slayer has spoken. Obviously I, with all my careful calculations, am doing something wrong. Although perhaps you haven’t taken into account the literal thousands of the displaced who are thronging our streets right now, all of them victims of the war, not a malicious bone in them, except anyone will start fires and break doors if they get hungry enough, if they get cold enough. And the Temple will hand out its precious largesse only to those it deems ‘worthy,’ which means those who already have work and wealth enough to appear respectable, not those who have nothing and need it the most. So yes, I have a hundred plates spinning across the city, each of which requires my constant attention, not to mention the arguments, like that little spat you witnessed. And tomorrow’s watch patrols will tell me if my compromise has stuck or whether we’ve got a dozen dead Ugrengasi and Ystachi lying about the place as the first shots of a new street war. But no, of course, let me listen to the words of heroes.”

  She turned pointedly to the papers on her desk, but stopped when Celestaine asked evenly, “Are we to blame for any of that? It seems to me that you could have heard us out and given us what we want in the time you spent making that speech.”

  “Diplomacy!” Ralas coughed into his sleeve, but Celestaine ignored him.

  “We had your friend Garenan here ten days ago. He came waving his name about too. ‘Garenan the Bold,’ he was calling himself.”

  “My condolences.” Of all the Slayers, Garenan had been most prone to blowing his own trumpet. There were a dozen songs out there outlining his achievements, prowess and potency, and he had paid bards to write each and every one of them.

  Adondra raised an eyebrow. “I thought you hero types stuck together.”

  “Do you see him here with me?”

  “And you’re not here like he was, to ‘save the city’ by becoming its de facto tyrant on the back of a lot of gullible people who thought he was their saviour?”

  “Gods alive,” Celestaine swore. “What happened?”

  “I managed to persuade the Temple that just running him out of town was enough. They wanted to execute him. And I got enough stick from them about it that, if they want to light you on fire, I won’t put you out. Things have got worse since then, and the Templars are done with being lenient.”

  Celestaine exchanged a look with Ralas. Not the Ilkand we remember, for sure. And what do we ask for now? She didn’t fancy telling the Temple that she knew they’d got the Kinslayer’s Crown and would they just hand it over? “We haven’t come here to be the new Harbourmaster, believe me,” she said. “I mean, I can see just how coveted that role must be.” At Adondra’s grudging nod, she went on. “I’d like to see the Temple now. Not for a handout, but… wel
l, they’d welcome a Slayer, show her round, wouldn’t they?”

  “Not if you don’t wear their colours.” Adondra shook her head. “I need the Temple. Nobody else has the fear and respect to keep order, right now, and they have a lot of people, plenty of recruits who sign up for the regular meals and the moral certainty. But they’re waiting for a word from the Just Watcher. They believe they have a purpose, that the world has a shape it needs to be in. And when you carry a hammer, everything looks like it needs a few knocks to put it right. You want to go join all the petitioners outside Temple Gate, be my guest. You want to see the Inner Temple, you’d better start studying scripture, because I understand there’s a written exam for the priesthood.”

  “I’ll take it up with the… Archimandrake,” Celestaine tried awkwardly, because ranks of the Templar hierarchy was probably also required reading. “But what about Roherich?”

  Adondra’s face closed. “No.”

  “Look, Garenan was never a friend of mine, but Roherich was. As much as he had friends. We went through a lot together. I have a standing invitation to the Silver Tower.”

  “Not any more,” the Governor said flatly. “I don’t care how many times you saved each other’s lives and shared fermented blood and milk by the fire or whatever it is you Slayers do. He said nobody, not anybody, is to disturb him. And his name carries as much weight as the Temple these days. He’s the great hero, in this part of the world. What he says, goes.”

  “At least let him know I’m here,” Celestaine insisted.

  Adondra shrugged, “If I get the chance. Now, you’ll excuse me, but I have the needy to feed and house and clothe, and a thousand godsdamned factions who want to set fire to each other and every street in the city.”

  SOON AFTER THAT they found themselves outside the Temple Gate again, ejected from the Harbourmaster’s officers like a vagrant from an expensive shop. Celestaine scowled upwards. She could just see the apex of the Silver Tower if she really craned her neck; probably, Roherich was up there laughing down at her. Or not laughing, because that would be rather more demonstrative than he was wont to me. Smiling distantly with one arched eyebrow, that way he did. Utterly maddening.

  “Huff,” she said, abruptly exhausted by sheer frustration, and sat with her back to the gate—she wasn’t the only one, either. A rank of the tired and travel-worn were slumped around her, who had come so far into Ilkand and no further. Ralas folded down beside her, his starved limbs making him look like a dead spider.

  “What good are we?” Celestaine asked him.

  Ralas looked around, to take in any number of penitents, petitioners and vagrants. “Who now?”

  “Slayers.” She spat the word. “Do you remember how it was, back when we were united? One purpose, one vision, storming through the world to bring the Kinslayer to justice. We were all sorts, nothing in common except we’d become the champions of our people, the defenders of the weak, those who dared. Even back at the start, when you couldn’t get news without a list of battles lost and towns taken, we were the ones who held the line the longest, in our way. Even me. Even Garenan, for all he was a self-glorifying weasel, he held the damn line. He made people stand up and fight for their homes and families. Even Lathenry, though he used to drink himself half to death every night. Even Pelevar the murderer, even you.”

  “Why, thank you.” Ralas lent back on his spindly elbows. “I always viewed myself as simply putting a few sounds to the rest of your actions.”

  “Even Roherich.” She stared up at the tower. “And the moment the Kinslayer died, I felt that bond break. It was all we had keeping us together, and you know what? I regret it. For that thing only, for the most selfish of reasons, I regret we killed him. We fought and we hurt and some of us died, but I enjoyed it. I enjoyed being a hero. I knew I was doing the right thing. I knew I was alive. And now he’s dead and we’re… lost. It’s like the world expected us to die with him, and doesn’t know what to do with us.”

  “Preaching to the choir here,” Ralas agreed bitterly.

  A new voice broke it. “It was ever so.” The old man beside Celestaine gave her a grave look. He was a ragged creature, the cast-off from some distant village, no doubt just ash and bones now. He gave her a grin made more of gaps than teeth and nodded at the gate behind her, encouraging her to scoot back from it until she could appreciate the huge carven figures that dominated its face.

  “You think they didn’t feel the same way?” the old timer croaked. “When they’d driven the Kinslayer into the earth, that first time, over the body of their fallen brother?”

  The Ilkand Temple had a prestigious heritage as far as Guardians went, and their founding fathers were set out in idealised images upon its gates. Of the five, two were gone entirely beyond, and none of the others had come out of the war with particularly glowing reputations.

  “What, then?” Celestaine got slowly to her feet, wondering whether the outburst she could feel brewing in her would get her set on fire by the Templars. “The Custodian, I see there.” The leftmost figure, bearing a staff and with tears chiselled into his stone face. “Can’t really throw much mud that way. He wasn’t to know he would get his heart ripped out and eaten to give the Kinslayer power and a new name. And Vigilant, there,” she nodded to the rightmost, bearing a torch and a bow. “He got nailed to these gates by the Kinslayer the first time Ilkand fell, so he tried. Fury, first amongst the hunters after the Custodian’s death.” Next to the Vigilant, a bestial creature, part man, part dog, with crooked clawed hands. “But he’d not been seen for decades before the Kinslayer came back. And Wall,” the huge central figure, armoured from head to toe and bearing a massive hammer. “He holed up in the north with some other fanatics, promising that he would come save us all when the time was right. Only the time was never right and we saved ourselves. And last of all.” She nodded at the final icon between Wall and the Custodian, carved to seem like a Forinthi hero of old, all swept cloak and sword and long hair. “Last, and absolutely least, is you, Deffo, because I am not fooled. I am not fooled at all, no matter how few teeth you’ve given yourself.”

  The old man leapt up, face a picture of outrage at being uncovered. “You wretched ingrate,” the Undefeated spat through his ravaged gums. “Your life is so great now that you’d pass up the help of the divine?”

  Celestaine just stared at him, shaking her head slightly. “You had your chance,” she told him. “Every moment of the war, you had your chance. Just go away. I won’t make you that again.” She nodded at the imposing carving. “If you ever were.”

  “Ralas,” the Undefeated hissed, looking the ragged bard up and down. “You know me. I can help you, I can lift you up again, make people love you like they used to. Just drop my name into your songs, remind them of me. I raised my hand against the Kinslayer all those years ago. I avenged my brother’s death at his hand. Is that not worth something?”

  “You had people sing your songs back then,” Ralas observed, not unkindly. “The way I look at it, you used up your credit and did precious little since to earn any more. Come on, Celest, let’s go find somewhere that serves beer. I’ve missed beer.”

  The Undefeated watched them go. Celestaine thought his ragged beggar’s look suited him far more than the sagacious old patriarch from the Skull Cap.

  “Back to the others, then?” Ralas prompted. “Tell them the bad news?”

  “No,” she told him. “Not a chance. I am going into the Silver Tower, Ralas. I don’t care what Roherich wants, or what he told the priest and the Governor or anyone. I am going to ask him about the crown, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  YORUGHAN DID NOT take well to inaction. Any field commander knew that if his indomitable warriors were going to be sitting on their hands for any length of time then they would need some diversionary raiding or a few competitive games to stop them making trouble. Nedlam, always first amongst the troublemakers, was not happy. She would sit on the creaking bed an
d grumble to herself for five minutes at a time, and then get up and prowl the confines of her room, kicking at the walls and furniture. So far nobody had braved the stairs to find out what damage she had done, but at some point a fear of ruin would overcome the landlord’s common sense and then there would be trouble.

  Heno, who was temperamentally more suited to patience, watched her with open amusement. “How did you ever end up on prisoner detail?” he asked her in their tongue. “Interrogation’s such a subtle art.”

  “Not the way I do it,” she shot back. “I think the Reckoner’s own staff was about the only place left to send me by then. Been in everyone’s army, me. I’m too much for them. They can’t handle this much Nedlam.”

  “Surprised they didn’t just make an example of you.”

  “Was too good for them,” she replied in Middle Kingdom human, “You don’t go killing off the woman who breaks the line and wins the fight.” She thumped at her chest. “Just give her a pat on the head and a better job.” She nodded to Amkulyah. “And we speak so he can understand, or he’s going to think we’re up to something.”