by Tom Lloyd
A longer pause, then another nod.
‘Good, least you’re not lying to me. Now, I’m guessing you work for someone in Burn or Wheel, right? You’ll be taking me back with you. I think they want to talk to me.’
‘She won’t like it,’ the girl answered, ‘she’s gotta bad temper on her. Most likely she’ll get Vasca to break our heads.’
‘Who’s Vasca?’
‘Doorman.’
‘Brothel? Tavern?’
‘Both.’
Doranei put the knife away. ‘He wouldn’t get a punch in,’ he said confidently, taking a step towards her.
‘Now who got too big a mouth?’ she demanded.
He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter if you believe me. He’s no friend of mine and if I have to break his face to talk to whoever wants that door watched, that’s fine by me.’ He clapped his hands together with forced jollity and then pulled his cloak tight around his body. ‘It’s getting pretty cold out here though, so if you want to argue further let’s do it walking in the right direction.’
‘What’s in it for me?’ she demanded, holding her ground as he began to head towards her.
‘You’ll get a silver level for your trouble, how about that?’
‘Up front.’
‘Piss on you,’ he snapped, stopping a sword-length away from her. ‘You’ll get a copper house if it’ll stop you whining and nothing more till I meet your boss.’
She didn’t argue the point. He could still hurt her if he wanted. ‘Fine, this way,’ she said sulkily.
He fell in beside her, one of his longer strides to two of her brisk little steps. After half a minute she cleared her throat and spat the phlegm on a doorstep. ‘So where’s that copper then?’
‘Gods, your name isn’t Legana, is it?’
She made a disgusted sound and skipped two paces ahead of him, forcing Doranei to catch her up. ‘Gimme the coin and you find out.’
Doranei was surprised at the size of the tavern. It had clearly once been a warehouse, with staff quarters on one side and the owner’s round the back. Fat pitch-blackened beams melted into the gloom of night, leaving panels of white-washed brick appearing to hover in the air. Silhouetted against a thin veil of moon-lit cloud were two stone gargoyles, hunched on the corners of the tavern front and peering down at the entrance.
There was a sudden break in the cramped streets past the tavern - the fissure the locals called Cambrey’s Tongue. The smooth ripple of scorched black earth, the only undeveloped ground in Burn, extended a good hundred yards downslope. Doranei had only ever seen it in spring, when the seeds that drifted down from the mountain burst into rare and lovely wildflowers.
To Doranei’s surprise the girl didn’t break and run for the door, shouting for Vasca, but walked in, bold as brass, through the double-width oak door. She was pulling off her coat before she’d even crossed the threshold. Walking to the bar she cast a meaningful glance back at Doranei for the benefit of the fat man propping it up.
The mood in the room changed immediately as Vasca heaved himself up off his elbows and started forward. Doranei flexed the fingers of his left hand under his cloak and tightened them into a fist. He stepped forward to meet the big man as he unhooked a club from his belt.
Vasca wasted no time in swinging at Doranei’s ear, hard enough to crack the Narkang man’s skull, but Doranei checked his stride and jerked his head back just in time. After that, Vasca barely saw him move.
Grabbing the doorman’s wrist, Doranei pulled him off-balance and swung a low punch up into the man’s exposed ribs. When his steel-backed gloves connected Vasca gave a pig-like grunt of pain, but Doranei hadn’t finished. He tugged Vasca round and smashed a knee into his kidneys. The doorman’s legs turned to jelly but Doranei was already swinging back around and a loud crack rang around the tavern as his right forearm smashed across Vasca’s nose. The man fell to the floor.
Doranei spun around on instinct, bringing his sword up, just in case anyone had slipped behind him, but everyone in the room was frozen to their seats, staring aghast. He lowered his sword a little. There was a table of soldiers by the left-hand side wall.
‘A little dramatic, don’t you think?’ said a voice to his left. ‘I don’t recall you being much of a fan of the theatre.’
Doranei nearly dropped his sword when he saw who’d spoken: sitting at a table of his own in the corner, lounging like an idle young nobleman, was Prince Koezh Vukotic. The vampire was the only person not drinking out of a clay pot, and Doranei found himself hoping it was just red wine he could see though the cut-glass.
Koezh was dressed in anonymous grey travelling clothes, his only jewellery a gold signet ring on a chain around his neck. There was an indulgent smile on the vampire’s lips, but Doranei had grown used to being mocked by members of that family. If Vorizh Vukotic had turned up and laughed at the state of his boots, Doranei was pretty sure he’d just sigh and shake his head, refusing to rise to the bait. Almost sure, anyway.
He sheathed his sword and stepped around the supine Vasca, who gave an involuntary snort as the blood began to run up his nose, then whined like a beaten dog at the pain. Doranei looked at his young guide, who flinched away when he pointed towards the kegs behind the bar, and walked to join the ruler of the Vukotic tribe. Koezh’s eyes flickered momentarily around the room and their audience obediently turned their attention elsewhere. By the time Koezh invited him to sit, the conversations at every table had resumed.
Doranei pulled the chair out and sat, not bothering to remove his cloak. He doubted it would be long before Koezh dismissed him and he would have to leave like a dog with its tail between its legs. They sat facing each other in silence. After a half-dozen heartbeats a pewter tankard of beer was placed in front of Doranei. Divested of her outdoor clothes, Doranei saw his guide was a fragile-looking little thing with auburn curls and a thin face. Twelve winters, no more, he judged. In Koezh’s presence her face was expressionless, her demeanour muted.
Good thing too; no matter how bad your attitude is you’d have to be a fool not to sense his power.
‘Aren’t you going to say something?’ Koezh said once the girl had gone. ‘A delight to see you again? I’ve missed you? That jacket really brings out your eyes?’
‘Don’t even know what to call you,’ Doranei muttered, wondering what exactly he’d got himself into. Koezh had tolerated him, but nothing more than that - and Doranei was horribly aware that he was the only person in the city not under Koezh’s control who knew his identity. Added to that was his mission: to pry into the secrets of Vorizh, Koezh’s younger brother.
‘How about Osten?’ Koezh replied with a smile. ‘I’m sure my sister would approve. Shall we get our business out of the way before we start reminiscing?’
‘Business?’
Koezh leaned forward and Doranei felt his entire body tense involuntarily.
‘You are not drinking your beer,’ the vampire pointed out, indicating the tankard. He spoke the local dialect in a precise, slightly stilted manner, a blend of thick Menin consonants and elongated Litse vowels. Doranei might be more fluent than Koezh, but in comparison he sounded like a dockworker.
The King’s Man coughed, trying to smother a nervous laugh. Koezh was not a particularly large man, but there was an aura surrounding him, and that filled Doranei with dread. The sapphire eyes didn’t blink as he reached for the beer and took a long swig. A second reduced the tankard to half-full and finally calmed his jangling nerves. Shame there isn’t a shot of brandy in this, he thought.
‘Business then,’ he said for the second time that evening, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Want to tell me what you’re doing here?’
‘Not really,’ Koezh smiled. ‘You?’
‘Perhaps.’
The smile widened a shade further than Doranei would have liked. ‘Progress, then.’
‘I was looking for your sister.’ Doranei said cautiously.
‘That is not your reason for being here. As much as
I would like to dismiss you as a foolish little boy, you have not tracked her down to play the love-sick puppy.’
‘Is she here?’
‘In the city,’ Koezh conceded, ‘but busy this evening. Shall I pass on a message?’
‘I have questions I need to ask of her.’
‘She is a little old for romantic gestures.’
Doranei hiccoughed at the thought and needed another gulp of beer before he continued, ‘You remind me of King Emin.’
‘Does that mean you will perform tricks at my command?’
Doranei’s eyes narrowed as Koezh’s voice hardened. ‘Is that what you think of me?’
‘Only that you are more brittle and grim now than on that magical night we shared at the theatre.’ Koezh leaned back in his chair, one elbow propped on the armrest while sipping his wine delicately. ‘Keep your temper under wraps, puppy,’ he said lazily.
Good point, Doranei thought, wrong person to get into a pissing contest with. I should have left as soon as I saw he was alone here.
‘I’m sorry. Today has been a little strange.’
Koezh looked at him enquiringly. ‘Stranger than the usual company you keep? Do tell.’
Doranei thought of the half-blind Farlan woman with a shadow’s handprint on her throat and a God’s blood in her veins. Mortal-Aspect of a dead Goddess. I don’t want to know what would happen if they met. ‘I cannot, not yet.’
‘Then tell me what you want to ask my sister.’
Doranei hesitated. He knew perfectly well that whilst they may have been allies of sorts in Scree, that meant nothing now. The Vukotic family were enemies of the Gods and nothing would ever change that, just as no amount of good works would bring them redemption.
‘I wanted to ask about your brother.’
‘Vorizh?’ Koezh sounded genuinely surprised for a moment there. ‘What do you want with him?’
‘We’ve heard a rumour,’ Doranei said hesitantly, ‘of a journal belonging to him.’
Koezh took another sip of wine, all the while looking at Doranei through narrowed eyes. ‘A journal? You remember my brother is quite mad, don’t you?’
‘We do. And that is why I’ve come to ask why someone might want to read it.’
Koezh pursed his lips. ‘All sorts of fools - we are a somewhat notable family, after all.’
‘Do you know of this journal?’ Doranei suddenly felt the air grow cold around him, the shadows lengthen.
‘No. But I will tell you this,’ Koezh said softly, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘Be careful when you pry into the past. The Great War saw horrors you cannot even comprehend. Some secrets are best forgotten.’ He leaned forward. ‘You have finished your beer - it is time you left.’
CHAPTER 23
‘He’s on his way.’
‘What? Are you certain?’ Certinse looked up, the papers piled on his desk immediately forgotten.
Senior Penitent Yeren nodded absentmindedly as he wandered over to the drinks cabinet, scratching the stubble on his cheek. ‘Mebbe hasn’t left yet, but he’s accepted the invite.’ He gave the fat brass door handle an experimental tug and smiled as the door opened.
I shouldn’t have left the damn thing unlocked, Certinse thought, taking another sip of Fayl whisky and rolling it around his mouth. Yeren pulled out a decanter of wine and held it up to the light, wrinkling his nose at what he saw. The brute even knows what he’s looking for.
Reaching further into the recesses of the deep wooden cabinet he found a rather smaller decanter. This time the pitch-black liquid received a nod of approval. Yeren plucked a glass from the top shelf.
‘That’s a goblet,’ Certinse said. ‘The blackwine glasses are on the far left.’
‘Yep,’ Yeren said, setting the decanter down so he could remove the stopper, ‘but they’re tiny.’
Certinse rounded the desk with rare speed and removed the goblet from his hand, replacing it with a far smaller one shaped like an opening tulip.
‘I don’t care. Blackwine isn’t for quaffing, or whatever it is your sort do. It is to be savoured,’ Certinse said firmly. To his surprise the mercenary didn’t argue and filled the glass he’d been handed before raising it in toast.
‘How did you find out?’ Certinse pressed.
‘My men are better couriers than any wet-behind-the-ears novice. Most clerical correspondence goes though us nowadays.’
‘Haven’t they noticed you’re reading the messages?’
Yeren laughed. ‘Your lot are bloody stupid, didn’t you know that? They know nothing of secrecy. If they declare war on Lord Isak, the Chief Steward will have them for breakfast.’
‘A good thing too,’ Certinse pointed out, refilling his own glass, ‘but before you make too many claims to competence, might I remind you that Ardela ended up not dead, but in the Chief Steward’s custody? Lucky for you I managed to make a bargain with Lesarl to deal with her quickly.’ He sighed and sat back on the edge of his desk, pondering the news Yeren had brought for a while. ‘Every member of the Synod thinks he should be the leader of a glorious religious crusade,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m amazed they managed to agree in council that he should be invited - whatever his religious status, he’s still from another tribe.’
‘Well they did, and he is,’ Yeren announced, unperturbed. ‘You don’t want him?’
‘Use your brain, man; can you imagine what will happen?’
Yeren grinned. Certinse could smell the alcohol on his breath - not blackwine, but some sort of rough moonshine the soldiers brewed. Gods, he probably can’t even taste the blackwine. He’s just drinking it to annoy me - and to show he does know what the good stuff is.
‘Would be quite a sight if you ask me,’ Yeren said.
‘And afterwards?’
The mercenary’s face fell slightly. ‘I see your point.’
‘He is coming to Tirah.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Of course, you damn fool.’ Certinse’s voice rose to a high whine. ‘The Synod has approved it and invited him openly.’
‘Can you not persuade the Synod to change its mind?’ Prayer kept his voice to the barest whisper. He believed they were alone in the vaults beneath the Temple of Nartis, but voices carried far in the dim underground passages. Though the vaults were home to room after room of records and religious texts, there were few scholars willing to come here these days. While the newly raised High Cardinal Certinse had blunted the savagery of his predecessor’s Morality Tribunals, it hadn’t stopped half a dozen different sorts of purges being enacted. Some were cross-cult, most were simply unfathomable.
‘They are suspicious of me as it is. The Morality Tribunals haven’t turned out the way they intended and they’re looking for someone to blame - and the tribunals were my success!’ Certinse spat the last word as though it burned his mouth to say.
Prayer could imagine the look on the High Cardinal’s face, though he was unable to see it because he’d positioned himself round a corner in an attempt to keep his identity secret. He had left the High Cardinal instructions for how to contact him in an emergency, never really believing it would come to that. Lesarl preferred his coterie to keep a pace back from events, listening and gathering information rather than actively behaving like spies.
‘What are they saying about the deaths of Bern and the last High Cardinal?’
‘They know Lesarl was behind Bern’s death - Gods, even a child of five summers could work that one out - but they can’t work out how to officially blame him yet. As for High Cardinal Echer, they’re confused; the death of the Lady has thrown them. They don’t know what to think there. They know Lesarl uses devotees, but Ardela has never been on the roster. Because she has always been a clerical bodyguard that means she’s come from their own camp.’
‘They have accepted your evidence?’
‘Yes, and for that reason they don’t want to hear any more of it. If Lesarl announces he has captured and executed her immediately they will breathe a sign of
relief. None of them trust each other. Just don’t let her surface where she’ll be recognised, and keep her from coming after me. I’ve got enough problems without her pursuing a vendetta.’
‘You cannot stop him?’ Prayer said, getting back to the matter in hand. He heard the swish of robes against the stone wall and imagined Certinse shaking his head violently.
‘Lesarl must find a way.’
‘He must,’ Prayer agreed. ‘We don’t want to have to rebuild Cornerstone Market again, do we?’
Dancer stamped his feet on the paved floor in a vain attempt to get some warmth back into them. He winced as the unyielding leather pushed down on his toes, and once again tried to work out a better way to meet his employer clandestinely. Cold Halls had been abandoned as a ducal palace, and failed as any other sort of private residence every time someone tried to make it their home. Though it was undoubtedly grand, Cold Halls lived up to its name. Dancer didn’t know whether it was because of a quirk of architecture, an underground river or supernatural forces, but by the time Chief Steward Lesarl turned up he wouldn’t be able to feel his own face.
Dressed in the uniform of a Palace Guard - courtesy of a guardsman only too happy to lend it out while he sat in a coffee-house with his feet up in front of a fire - Dancer lurked just inside the stable-side door of Cold Halls and waited. From time to time a clerk would hurry through the door, stamping the snow off their boots, and head off to their office without even a glance at the soldier guarding very little in the dim hallway.
After the best part of an hour Dancer heard neat little footsteps patter down the corridor towards him. He remained at attention until he was sure the Chief Steward was alone. When at last Dancer did turn to face his employer he realised the man was even paler than usual, a rare sign of strain.
‘You look ridiculous,’ Lesarl grumbled.
Dancer bit back a comment about the way Lesarl’s coat hung on his spindly frame. ‘He’s coming.’
