Dark Forge

by Miles Cameron

  “Let’s run,” she said, and Aranthur followed her down towards the Spice Market.

  “Aren’t we going the wrong way?” he asked.

  “Trust me,” Iralia said, and Aranthur found that he did.

  They sprinted along familiar streets, utterly deserted, past Kallinikos’ former apartment, and his own yellow door. Then up into the Academy proper, where they slowed down to breathe before descending the steep marble steps into the valley that separated the Academy from the Precinct. In the light of both moons, they could see High Bridge behind them, white and graceful. The play of light on the bridge meant that Iralia’s last working was still functioning.

  “Illusion,” she chuckled.

  But when they reached the base of the Academy steps they were in the slums below the Pinnacle, and they were too well dressed. Aranthur had not been in the Pinnacle since he had returned. He was shocked at how much worse the tent city on the steep slopes was—how it stank, how crowded it was, and how many dead he could see as huddled piles of boneless flesh.

  “Yes,” Iralia said. “Someone is pushing the plague. Someone truly evil, with a great deal of sihr. A new Servant? Or perhaps a Disciple?”

  “Sophia,” Aranthur spat, trying to breathe through his mouth.

  As soon as they passed in among the tents and hovels, they were followed. Close in were a handful of silent, persistent beggars; farther back, someone better trained or perhaps more sinister.

  Just as they passed under the Black Aqueduct, Iralia scattered some silver soldi in the moonlight. They emerged from the darkness under the stone water trough without any beggars and started downhill.

  “It’s not black,” Aranthur said.

  Iralia glanced back. “No, silly. In the First Empire, the racing teams repaired and maintained the aqueducts. Red, White, Black, Gold and Lions.”

  Aranthur would have laughed, but a pair of very large men stepped out of the darkness.

  Iralia stopped. “Don’t get in my way,” she said.

  One of the men smiled nastily.

  “Honey, I don’t even have to ask if you have anything I want.”

  Iralia also had a particularly nasty smile.

  “I’d prefer not to kill you,” she said.

  The man clutched at his chest, and blood came out of his mouth, black and slick in the light of two moons.

  Iralia smiled at the other man.

  “Truth? I dislike people who threaten me, and I have the power to make my dislike strike home.”

  The first man was flopping on the ground like a fish pulled from the water. His face screamed silently; his agony was obvious.

  The second man turned and ran.

  Iralia raised an eyebrow. “Now we run again, I fear,” she said.

  “Footpads?”

  “Al Ghugha,” Iralia said, and started down the hill.

  Aranthur had to exert himself to catch her. They raced side by side through the lower slopes and past the tenements of Northside, where most of Aranthur’s Twenty-second City Regiment had been raised, and then, breathing hard, in the great piazza above the Spice Market. Even at this hour, there were shops open in the market. Lamps burned, and men and women struck deals, and in the canal behind the market, a long line of gondolas waited for late-night patrons.

  Iralia dropped into the first in line, and Aranthur stepped down behind.

  “Take us to see the Stars,” Iralia said breathlessly.

  The gondolier, a heavy woman with a red scarf on her head, leered.

  “Oh, the Stars,” she said.

  She used her long oar as a pole to push the slim black craft away from the Spice Market pier, and then they were coasting on the smooth canal water.

  “You can raise the screen there if you want more… privacy,” she said.

  Iralia sat back on the cushions.

  “I love the Stars,” she said.

  The Stars were a series of three very new fortifications built to protect the entrance to the private harbour of the Imperial Palace: three star forts, with modern cannon and magikal defences that the Emperor’s father had built to complete the sea walls he’d designed himself. Because they were lit up at night and had lighthouses, they had a spectacular, other-worldly look. Visitors loved to be rowed out to look at them.

  Aranthur sat next to Iralia, aware, as he always was, of her proximity, her femininity, and her allure, even in men’s clothes and covered in sweat.

  She smiled at him. “Thank Sophia you came home. Tell me about the General. Tell me everything.”

  Aranthur raised an eyebrow and glanced at the gondolier.

  Iralia smiled. “We are murmuring sweet nothings to each other. I do these things quite well. Speak! She can’t hear you.”

  Aranthur narrated the campaign in Armea as best he could, from his arrival with Ansu, Sasan and Dahlia until they left for Masr. Twice, in the midst of his recitation, Iralia smiled at him, and he leant closer…

  Both times she laughed and pushed him away, leaving him confused.

  “Too much verisimilitude,” Iralia said the second time. “As in, no.”

  Aranthur flushed, but then nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded back. “I’m sure I was sending mixed signals.”

  Aranthur’s embarrassment deepened. “I’m a fool,” he said. “Please pardon me.”

  Iralia shrugged. “Apology accepted.”

  Aranthur turned away to cover his annoyance at himself, and there were the Stars—all three of them. The two end Stars were attached to long fortified breakwaters that defined the outer harbour of the palace. The third, the middle fort, was on a small islet, and was higher, larger, and even better armed.

  “Take us in to the Palace Harbour,” Iralia said.

  “Can’t do that, ma’am,” the gondolier said. “Forbidden.”

  Iralia held up a badge that lit in her hand.

  “Palace business,” she said.

  The gondolier sighed. “And now no tip, I suppose,” she muttered.

  “On the contrary,” Iralia said. To Aranthur, she said, “the Lions tend to be country people, and they don’t think of the City as surrounded by water. Drako and I use boats as much as we can.”

  She lay back. Again she gave him her brilliant smile, but Aranthur believed that no meant no, and he was not led to try again.

  Instead, he sat up. “Does the Palace Harbour have its own customs boat?”

  “It could if one was ordered.”

  They had come to the narrow harbour entrance. Only Imperial pleasure boats and very small military ships ever entered the Palace Harbour.

  “I have to stop, milady,” the gondolier said.

  Iralia stood up and held her crystal aloft, and it glowed a bright lavender.

  “Pass,” called a voice above them, and the watergate was opened.

  Aranthur leant over, but not to kiss her, despite her glory.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Do you want to rescue Drako?”

  “Before they torture him?” Iralia said, her eyes suddenly as brilliant as diamonds. “Most assuredly.”

  “How soon can you get us a customs boat?”

  “Half an hour at most.”

  Iralia stood up. They were coming alongside the Palace pier, a white marble confection slightly marred by some very green seaweed clinging to the base of the arches.

  Aranthur turned to the gondolier.

  “If you will wait a few minutes, I’d like to go to the Angel,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll pay,” Iralia said.

  The woman in the red scarf grinned. “Anywhere you like, my honeys.”

  An hour later, two green lanterns appeared on the waterfront by the statue of the Angel. An Imperial Axe placed them there, and no one questioned him.

  Two hours later, the Customs Service cutter ran alongside the trabaccolo half a league south of the Stars. Mera saluted with both hands to his forehead, and the Customs officer stepped aboard, followed by Aranthur.

 
; He kissed Inoques, and then turned to Dahlia.

  “It’s bad. Drako’s taken, and Iralia’s thinks he’s being tortured. We’re going to get him.”

  “When?” Dahlia asked.

  “Right now,” Aranthur said. “Are you in?”

  “Of course.” She smiled.

  Kollotronis grunted. “Am I invited to this party?”

  “May I ask how this ship has passed…?” The Customs officer had Inoques’ bill of lading in his hand. “Good gods! From Masr? And Antioke?” He looked at Aranthur. “We have orders not to allow any foreign ship to land, or any Imperial ship from overseas, unless we have permission from the Watch.”

  Aranthur nodded. “And you have the Emperor’s orders to allow this ship to land at the palace,” he said.

  The Customs officer swallowed. “Gods. All right. Gods.”

  “You plan to do this without killing anyone,” Dahlia said, as the low trabaccolo, its topmasts struck down, crept through the watergate to the palace.

  Aranthur nodded. “If it can possibly be avoided. Subterfuge and non-lethal force.”

  She smiled. “I’m willing to try. But if it fails—”

  “Just try and remember that almost everyone, even the most virulent Lions, are merely people. Imperial citizens. Misled—”

  Dahlia laughed. “Aranthur, you are sometimes the most patronising man I know. They’re my friends from childhood, most of them!” She shrugged. “I don’t want to kill them. Perhaps one or two. And Roaris…” She shook her head. “I don’t believe everything you’ve said. He’s a hero, Aranthur. Old-fashioned, loud-mouthed, a bit of a bastard…” She shook her head. “Not a traitor.”

  An hour after first light, General Roaris rode into the hexagonal fortress that dominated the Lonika Gate, accompanied by a dozen staff officers and a troop of the Noble Guard in their scarlet doublets and plumed hats. The officer in charge of the General’s guard saluted smartly, and answered the password contemptuously, as if it wasn’t worth her trouble to talk to her inferiors.

  The military guard indicated the immediacy of the Emperor’s favour. None of the officers in the Gate fortress could remember any general who was granted a Noble Guard. Likewise, the general was in a fine, expansive mood, and he took a few minutes to turn out the gate’s guard, militia from the Twenty-first Northern Border Regiment. He looked them over, complimented their astonished officer, and then went into the fortress proper.

  His staff stayed with him, but the escorting Nobles demanded wine and went to the kitchens on the City-ward side of the fortress.

  “Wine at eight bells?” asked the Watch officer.

  The Watch had its headquarters in the South Tower, across from the military headquarters. Mocking the military was a professional duty, despite the fact that most of the men and women on the Watch were military veterans.

  “Look out, lads and lasses, his nibs is coming this way,” said the Night Sergeant.

  As eight o’clock was just ringing in the Temple of Aphres on the other side of the “Long Canal” behind the gate fortress, the Night Sergeant was technically still on duty, although she was already putting her weapons into the rack.

  “Why not just get his precious Yellowjackets to do the Night Watch?” muttered a duty officer.

  A dozen beautifully uniformed staff officers, each more poisonously disagreeable, early in the morning, than the last, took up a great deal of room. The Watch’s outer office was suddenly flooded with fine cloaks, fur-lined dolmans, braided jackets, and elaborate moustaches and coiffed hair.

  “General the Prince Verit Roaris,” announced a gigantic military courtier, and several of the Watch bowed.

  Roaris himself was affable. He was a big man and he projected his size as confidence. He swept through his staff, at once apologising for their arrogance and enjoying it.

  “I need to have you bring out a prisoner,” he said. “Immediately. Order from the Emperor.”

  The Night Sergeant looked at the seal, which was very solid. She passed it through an aperture on her desk, and a bright green light shone.

  “Genuine,” she said. “My lord…” She read down the document. “Syr Drako. My lord, I have a request here that his mother be allowed to visit him.”

  “Denied,” Roaris said. “I’m sorry. But I’ll be taking him to the palace.”

  The Night Sergeant nodded. “Yes, my lord. If it is not impertinent, my lord… Is the Emperor…?” She paused.

  Roaris smiled. “Your loyalty does you credit, sergeant. The Emperor is very sick. The darkness—we all know what it is.”

  “Sixteen officers not reporting for work,” the oncoming Day Sergeant said, mostly to get noticed by the general. “I’ll fetch Drako.”

  The Night Sergeant tried not to show what she thought of the Day Sergeant. Most of the Watch stood in various forms of attention, and the staff took up too much space and looked around. No one spoke.

  “How bad has crime been since the darkness?” Roaris asked the Night Sergeant.

  She frowned. “We’ve sent you our reports.”

  “I wanted to hear it from your own mouth.”

  “I am only a sergeant. Syr.”

  Her dislike was unmistakable—a woman who did not hide her disdain for superiors she regarded as less than perfectly competent.

  Roaris’ eyes narrowed. “I asked you a question,” he snapped.

  Her shoulders sank slightly, as if she had sighed.

  “There has been very little trouble since the initial burst of rioting, and the violence in the Academy,” she said. And then, greatly daring, “We have a rash of complaints against your Yellowjackets.”

  “Deputies,” snapped one of Roaris’ staff, a slim woman with the most elaborate hair the Night Sergeant had ever seen on a soldier. Even a staff officer.

  “Here he is.”

  The Day Sergeant emerged from the direction of the cells, and gave his prisoner a gentle shove.

  The prisoner was in irons. He had been beaten, and his hands looked like melons.

  “What the hells?” the slim staff officer said.

  “We were ordered to keep him this way,” the Night Sergeant said. “The Captain protested.”

  Drako didn’t raise his head. He’d been badly beaten in the head, and his flesh was puffy, the way soft tissue is before the bruises have time to rise to the surface.

  “Take him,” Roaris said. “Give the sergeant the quitclaim.” He turned and gave the sergeant a little bow. “I’m sorry that…”

  The Day Sergeant was shaking his head.

  “I thought Roaris hated Arnauts,” he said to one of his officers.

  The man, who had been standing at attention, looked at the big staff officer who was holding Drako.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “Shit,” the slim staff officer said, and stepped back.

  Roaris was already out of the door and the big man who had Drako’s chains was next. The slim staff officer smiled at the Watch officers standing around. They were all staring at the retreating staff.

  She bowed and gave them all a brilliant smile.

  “I’m truly sorry for any misunderstandings,” she said, and the stone portal was suddenly full of a lavender fire.

  Then she turned and followed the general’s staff, who were not going to their horses in the courtyard, as might have been expected. They moved to the east, across the marble-paved octagonal parade ground between the two main towers. There was a barracks block, as well as the ranges, the practice courts, the kitchens, and, of course, the access to the canal.

  A knot of staff officers were just emerging from the elegant marble gate to the Military Tower across the courtyard.

  Roaris walked across the courtyard toward them as if he was the Emperor himself. Most of the staff officers bowed formally, but one checked himself in mid-bow, and instead cast. His casting was quick and fluid, and General Roaris’ face seemed to run like an actress’s make-up in the rain.

  “Damn,” Arant
hur said.

  Alarms were sounding. One of the real staff officers shouted. Another drew his sword, and the tall man who’d thrown the disruption came forward.

  Aranthur, no longer concerned with keeping up his complex guise, turned to cover the two men carrying Drako.

  The man running at him was Djinar. The young noble burst into a blossom of shields.

  Aranthur emanated his own shields, which flowed out in a brilliant scarlet display to those who could see such things.

  Djinar actually paused when he saw the puissance of Aranthur’s shields. He looked back to see if he was supported. Aranthur glanced back at his people, all of whom were still in their guise, which was still confusing their adversaries.

  By the gates to the barracks block, stood two of his Noble Guard, who fell in behind his chief of staff.

  Aranthur, secure behind his shields, replaced his guise. Djinar was demanding that a pair of military guards go forward.

  The last of the Arnauts passed behind Aranthur and entered the barracks. Aranthur bowed to Djinar just in time to see General Roaris emerge from the Military Tower behind Djinar. Aranthur backed into the barracks gate, cast a simple transference that moved an immense quantity of real smoke into the courtyard, and ducked back into the barracks. He went down the steps to the kitchens, collecting the rest of his “Noble Guard” on the way. Out in the marble court, there was an alarm sounding, and pounding feet, and a shot was fired. Everything smelt of woodsmoke, and people were coughing.

  A dozen cooks looked out from various stoves and hearths, and were surprised to see Verit Roaris himself striding along the kitchen’s corridor, followed by most of his staff and twenty Noble Guards, one of whom closed and locked the hall’s main door. She threw the key out of the window into the shining surface of the canal. Then all thirty of them walked out onto the kitchen’s private pier, where the massive supplies of produce were daily landed from canal boats. Above them was the main bridge into the city. They could hear the portcullis coming down, and shouts.