by Sam Sykes
Portolés muttered an apology, and Iqbal fidgeted with the damp sack he carried.
“Do you think I relish what we have to do? Do you think I would put my soldiers through it, if I had a choice? Why would I give such a command, if it was at all avoidable? Why—” Sir Hjortt was just warming to his lecture when a fissure of pain opened up his skull. Intense and unpleasant as the sensation was, it fled in moments, leaving him to nervously consider the witchborn pair. Had one of them somehow brought on the headache with their devilish ways? Probably not; he’d had a touch of a headache for much of the ride up, come to think of it, and he hadn’t even mentioned the plan to them then.
“Come on,” he said, deciding it would be best to drop the matter without further pontification. Even if his bodyguards did have reservations, this mission would prove an object lesson that it is always better to rush through any necessary unpleasantness, rather than drag your feet and overanalyze every ugly detail. “Let’s be done with this. I want to be down the valley by dark, bad as that road is.”
They edged around a hairpin bend in the steep trail, and then the track’s crudely hewn stair delivered them to another plateau, and the mayor’s house. It was similar in design to those in the hamlet, but with a porch overhanging the edge of the mild cliff and a low white fence. Pleasant enough, thought Sir Hjortt, except that the fence was made of bone, with each outwardly bowed moose-rib picket topped with the skull of a different animal. Owlbat skulls sat between those of marmot and hill fox, and above the door of the cabin rested an enormous one that had to be a horned wolf; when the cowherd had mentioned such a beast being spied in the area, Sir Hjortt had assumed the boy full of what his cows deposited, but maybe a few still prowled these lonely mountains. What a thrill it would be, to mount a hunting party for such rare game! Then the door beneath the skull creaked, and a figure stood framed in the doorway.
“Well met, friends, you’ve come a long way,” the woman greeted them. She was brawny, though not so big as Portolés, with features as hard as the trek up to her house. She might have been fit enough once, in a country sort of way, when her long, silvery hair was blond or black or red and tied back in pigtails the way Hjortt liked… but now she was just an old woman, same as any other, fifty winters young at a minimum. Judging from the tangled bone fetishes hanging from the limbs of the sole tree that grew inside the fence’s perimeter—a tall, black-barked aspen with leaves as hoary as her locks—she might be a sorceress, to boot.
Iqbal returned her welcome, calling, “Well met, Mum, well met indeed. I present to you Sir Hjortt of Azgaroth, Fifteenth Colonel of the Crimson Empire.” The anathema glanced to his superior, but when Sir Hjortt didn’t fall all over himself to charge ahead and meet a potential witch, Iqbal murmured, “She’s just an old bird, sir, nothing to fret about.”
“Old bird or fledgling, I wouldn’t blindly stick my hand in an owlbat’s nest,” Portolés said, stepping past Sir Hjortt and Iqbal to address the old woman in the Crimson tongue. “In the names of the Pontiff of the West and the Queen of the Rest, I order you out here into the light, woman.”
“Queen of the Rest?” The woman obliged Portolés, stepping down the creaking steps of her porch and approaching the fence. For a mayor’s wife, her checked dirndl was as plain as any village girl’s. “And Pontiff of the West, is it? Last peddler we had through here brought tidings that Pope Shanatu’s war wasn’t going so well, but I gather much has changed. Is this sovereign of the Rest, blessed whoever she be, still Queen Indsorith? And does this mean peace has once again been brokered?”
“This bird hears a lot from her tree,” muttered Sir Hjortt, then asked the woman, “Are you indeed the mayor’s wife?”
“I am Mayoress Vivi, wife of Leib,” said she. “And I ask again, respectfully, to whom shall I direct my prayers when next I—”
“The righteous reign of Queen Indsorith continues, blessed be her name,” said Sir Hjortt. “Pope Shanatu, blessed be his name, received word from on high that his time as Shepherd of Samoth has come to an end, and so the war is over. His niece Jirella, blessed be her name, has ascended to her rightful place behind the Onyx Pulpit, and taken on the title of Pope Y’Homa III, Mother of Midnight, Shepherdess of the Lost.”
“I see,” said the mayoress. “And in addition to accepting a rebel pope’s resignation and the promotion of his kin to the same lofty post, our beloved Indsorith, long may her glory persist, has also swapped out her noble title? ‘Queen of Samoth, Heart of the Star, Jewel of Diadem, Keeper of the Crimson Empire’ for, ah, ‘Queen of the Rest’?” The woman’s faintly lined face wrinkled further as she smiled, and Portolés slyly returned it.
“Do not mistake my subordinate’s peculiar sense of humor for a shift in policy—the queen’s honorifics remain unchanged,” said Sir Hjortt, thinking of how best to discipline Portolés. If she thought that sort of thing flew with her commanding colonel just because there were no higher-ranked clerical witnesses to her dishonorable talk, the witchborn freak had another thing coming. He almost wished she would refuse to carry out his command, so he’d have an excuse to get rid of her altogether. In High Azgarothian, he said, “Portolés, return to the village and give the order. In the time it will take you to make it down I’ll have made myself clear enough.”
Portolés stiffened and gave Sir Hjortt a pathetic frown that told him she’d been holding out hope that he would change his mind. Not bloody likely. Also in Azgarothian, the war nun said, “I’m… I’m just going to have a look inside before I do. Make sure it’s safe, Colonel Hjortt.”
“By all means, Sister Portolés, welcome, welcome,” said the older woman, also in that ancient and honorable tongue of Sir Hjortt’s ancestors. Unexpected, that, but then the Star had been a different place when this biddy was in her prime, and perhaps she had seen more of it than just her remote mountain. Now that she was closer he saw that her cheeks were more scarred than wrinkled, a rather gnarly one on her chin, and for the first time since their arrival, a shadow of worry played across the weathered landscape of her face. Good. “I have an old hound sleeping in the kitchen whom I should prefer you left to his dreams, but am otherwise alone. But, good Colonel, Leib was to have been at the crossroads this morning…”
Sir Hjortt ignored the mayor’s wife, following Portolés through the gate onto the walkway of flat, colorful stones that crossed the yard. They were artlessly arranged; the first order of business would be to hire the mason who had done the bathrooms at his family estate in Cockspar, or maybe the woman’s apprentice, if the hoity-toity artisan wasn’t willing to journey a hundred leagues into the wilds to retile a walk. A mosaic of miniature animals would be nice, or maybe indigo shingles could be used to make it resemble a creek. But then they had forded a rill on their way up from the village, so why not have somebody trace it to its source and divert it this way, have an actual stream flow through the yard? It couldn’t be that hard to have it come down through the trees there and then run over the cliff beside the deck, creating a miniature waterfall that—
“Empty,” said Portolés, coming back outside. Sir Hjortt had lost track of himself—it had been a steep march up, and a long ride before that. Portolés silently moved behind the older woman, who stood on the walk between Sir Hjortt and her house. The matron looked nervous now, all right.
“My husband Leib, Colonel Hjortt. Did you meet him at the crossroads?” Her voice was weaker now, barely louder than the quaking aspens. That must be something to hear as one lay in bed after a hard day’s hunt, the rustling of those golden leaves just outside your window.
“New plan,” said Sir Hjortt, not bothering with the more formal Azgarothian, since she spoke it anyway. “Well, it’s the same as the original, mostly, but instead of riding down before dark we’ll bivouac here for the night.” Smiling at the old woman, he said, “Do not fret, Missus Mayor, do not fret, I won’t be garrisoning my soldiers in your town, I assure you. Camp them outside the wall, when they’re done. We’ll ride out at first”�
��the thought of sleeping in on a proper bed occurred to him—“noon. We ride at noon tomorrow. Report back to me when it’s done.”
“Whatever you’re planning, sir, let us parley before you commit yourself,” said the old woman, seeming to awaken from the anxious spell their presence had cast upon her. She had a stern bearing he wasn’t at all sure he liked. “Your officer can surely tarry a few minutes before delivering your orders, especially if we are to have you as our guests for the night. Let us speak, you and I, and no matter what orders you may have, no matter how pressing your need, I shall make it worth your while to have listened.”
Portolés’s puppy-dog eyes from over the woman’s shoulder turned Sir Hjortt’s stomach. At least Iqbal had the decency to keep his smug gaze on the old woman.
“Whether or not she is capable of doing so, Sister Portolés will not wait,” said Sir Hjortt shortly. “You and I are talking, and directly, make no mistake, but I see no reason to delay my subordinate.”
The old woman looked back past Portolés, frowning at the open door of her cabin, and then shrugged. As if she had any say at all in how this would transpire. Flashing a patently false smile at Sir Hjortt, she said, “As you will, fine sir. I merely thought you might have use for the sister as we spoke, for we may be talking for some time.”
Fallen Mother have mercy, did every single person have a better idea of how Sir Hjortt should conduct himself than he did? This would not stand.
“My good woman,” he said, “it seems that we have even more to parley than I previously suspected. Sister Portolés’s business is pressing, however, and so she must away before we embark on this long conversation you so desire. Fear not, however, for the terms of supplication your husband laid out to us at the crossroads shall be honored, reasonable as they undeniably are. Off with you, Portolés.”
Portolés offered him one of her sardonic salutes from over the older woman’s shoulder, and then stalked out of the yard, looking as petulant as he’d ever seen her. Iqbal whispered something to her as he moved out of her way by the gate, and wasn’t fast enough in his retreat when she lashed out at him. The war nun flicked the malformed ear that emerged from Iqbal’s pale tonsure like the outermost leaf of an overripe cabbage, rage rendering her face even less appealing, if such a thing was possible. Iqbal swung his heavy satchel at her in response, and although Portolés dodged the blow, the dark bottom of the sackcloth misted her with red droplets as it whizzed past her face. If the sister noticed the blood on her face, she didn’t seem to care, dragging her feet down the precarious trail, her maul slung over one hunched shoulder.
“My husband,” the matron whispered, and, turning back to her, Sir Hjortt saw that her wide eyes were fixed on Iqbal’s dripping sack.
“Best if we talk inside,” said Sir Hjortt, winking at Iqbal and ushering the woman toward her door. “Come, come, I have an absolutely brilliant idea about how you and your people might help with the war effort, and I’d rather discuss it over tea.”
“You said the war was over,” the woman said numbly, still staring at the satchel.
“So it is, so it is,” said Sir Hjortt. “But the effort needs to be made to ensure it doesn’t start up again, what? Now, what do you have to slake the thirst of servants of the Empire, home from the front?”
She balked, but there was nowhere to go, and so she led Sir Hjortt and Brother Iqbal inside. It was quiet in the yard, save for the trees and the clacking of the bone fetishes when the wind ran its palm down the mountain’s stubbly cheek. The screaming didn’t start until after Sister Portolés had returned to the village, and down there they were doing enough of their own to miss the echoes resonating from the mayor’s house.
BY SAM SYKES
BRING DOWN HEAVEN
The City Stained Red
The Mortal Tally
God’s Last Breath
THE AEONS’ GATE TRILOGY
Tome of the Undergates
Black Halo
Skybound Sea
An Affinity for Steel (omnibus edition)
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CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
WELCOME
DEDICATION
MAP
ACT ONE: WHERE DEAD MEN TREAD PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE: PAPER MEN, FOLDED
CHAPTER TWO: FRAYED
CHAPTER THREE: A VEIL SO THICK
CHAPTER FOUR: LEARNING TO DROWN
CHAPTER FIVE: TIMING
CHAPTER SIX: RIVERS AND SHADOWS
CHAPTER SEVEN: LADIES-IN-WAITING
CHAPTER EIGHT: A MATTER OF GRIT
CHAPTER NINE: VIPERS FOR BEDFELLOWS
CHAPTER TEN: AN IRON WHEEL TURNS
CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE THRILL OF PAIN
CHAPTER TWELVE: RATS IN THE BASEMENT
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: IN HEAVEN WE ARE QUEENS
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE GULLET
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: LIQUOR, HEAVEN-SENT
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE HARMONY OF SLAUGHTER
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: SERMONS TO THE DIRT
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: TEN FINGERS POINTED SKYWARD
CHAPTER NINETEEN: A BREATH WITHHELD
ACT TWO: A ROAD OF COLD WATER CHAPTER TWENTY: KINGS AND PILGRIMS
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE ORACLE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: AN EMPTY SKY, SPRAWLING WIDE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: SHE WHO STOOD UNBLINKING
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: OUR FATHER IS DEAD AND WE ARE ALONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: A MOON PAINTED BLACK
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THE WOLVES GATHER
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: TWO CORPSES IN ONE GRAVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: TOMBS OF IVORY AND SILK
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: BURY HER DEEP, BENEATH THE STREET
ACT THREE: THE GRAVE OF GODS CHAPTER THIRTY: HIS WORD
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THE ROAD OF THE DEAD
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: A BURDEN OF STEEL
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: WHITE WINGS SPREAD WIDE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: A COFFIN FOR A THOUSAND MEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: WHEN BLOOD HITS THE WIND
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE SERPENT’S LAST MEAL
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: WOODEN SMILE, HOLLOW EYES
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: AN ETHICAL KNIFE IN THE BACK
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: PILGRIMS ON A RED ROAD
CHAPTER FORTY: NEVER LET GO
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: THE HAND THAT HOLDS THE KNIFE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: THE BLADE, FALLEN
EPILOGUE: SALVATION
EXTRAS MEET THE AUTHOR
A PREVIEW OF GOD’S LAST BREATH
A PREVIEW OF A CROWN FOR COLD SILVER
BY SAM SYKES
ORBIT NEWSLETTER
COPYRIGHT
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Sam Sykes
Excerpt from God’s Last Breath copyright © 2016 by Sam Sykes
Excerpt from A Crown for Cold Silver copyright © 2015 by Alex Marshall
Cover design by Lauren Panepinto
Cover photos by Arcangel-Images
Cover copyright © 2016 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than
for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First Edition: March 2016
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Map by Lee Moyer
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Sykes, Sam, 1984- author.
Title: The mortal tally / Sam Sykes.
Description: First U.S. edition. | New York, New York : Orbit, 2016. | ?2015 | Series: Bring down heaven ; book 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2015043163| ISBN 9780316374897 (softcover) | ISBN 9781478931232 (audio book downloadable) | ISBN 9780316374903 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Epic. | FICTION / Action & Adventure. | FICTION / Fantasy / Historical. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3619.Y545 M67 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015043163
ISBNs: 978-0-316-37489-7 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-37490-3 (ebook)
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