Swallowing down the lump in her throat, Lark nodded. “What can I do until then?”
“I have already arranged the trade. Our dead for the slain guards—what pieces we can retrieve. The Lord Governor understands that the Imperials are at fault in this. There will be no further trouble.”
From him. From the Regency though… She shuddered at the thought of a visitation from the Office of Oversight.
“The Imperials won’t be appeased,” she said, “not if the houndmaster couldn’t hold them back. And they have an abomination, Cayer.”
“Yes. I saw it.”
“Surely the Regency can’t object to killing him.”
Cayer grunted and looked back to the offering bowl, where the big eiyet now appeared to be chewing on the garnet. “We are authorized to kill any Imperial monster that enters our domain, yes. The benefit outweighs the sacrifice. But it is among the other Imperials. Unless we are given permission, we can not risk killing them accidentally.”
Teeth gritted, Lark struggled not to see that vicious blade slicing through her bodyguards’ faces like they were made of clay. “This isn’t one of their spies, Cayer. This is a Hunter. An abomination Hunter. Whatever Cob is, they want him badly enough to break all of our agreements and send a fully-authorized monster straight at us. We can’t let it get away. We can’t keep cowering while those bastards spread their festering ‘Light’ everywhere!”
“We are awaiting orders, not cowering. Dry your eyes and go speak with the goblins.”
Lark inhaled sharply and thought about spitting at him. Though he was the leader of the kai and her mentor, he had never been a friend. When the Shadow Folk had moved into this territory decades ago to take advantage of the blossoming of the Illanic cities, he had been one of the young toughs who threw in with them to fight the slaver cartels that had owned the streets. He considered people by their value to the organization, and the dead had no value. It was a mentality that the Regency encouraged.
No vengeance, no high drama or passionate violence. Just business.
Perhaps that was why she was failing.
“If there’s a kill-order, you’ll tell me, right?” she said, pushing to her feet. “I want to be in on it.”
He regarded her briefly, then shook his head. “You are our goblin liaison.”
“We’ve got diplomats on both sides now. It’ll be fine. Look, I’ll go with a crossbow, take some of that Trifolder stuff, and we can see if it works. He’ll be dead, we’ll have new information, all is well.”
“Perhaps.”
“Thanks. Don’t let them talk your ears off.”
Cayer nodded from beneath his garment of shadows, and Lark headed for the ladder, already planning her strike-team. She wanted all the Imperials dead, but one would have to be enough.
*****
Battered and exhausted, the soldiers mounted the steps of the city garrison. Lieutenant Sarovy had led them up the first ramp to the surface they could find—to an empty warehouse near the city wall--but since their exit onto the streets, Trevere had dogged him with smothered fury. Demanding to go back down into the depths. Insisting that he had caught the quarry’s scent and just needed light.
Sarovy was not falling for it again.
Now, as he herded his men up the steps past the night watchman, he heard Trevere’s aggravated sigh behind him. “We failed,” the Hunter groused.
Sarovy held his tongue. It would be un-Imperial to say he was glad for it. Instead he turned and clutched Trevere’s shoulder. The Hunter lifted his head, eyes locking aggressively with Sarovy’s; despite their difference in height--accentuated by the steps--that cold, flat gaze forbade Sarovy any sense of superiority.
“We will report and see what our orders are,” Sarovy said. “And then you should rest. You’ve done more than any of us.”
Surprise touched Trevere’s blood-smeared face, then a sort of petulance. “I’m fine,” he said, and tried to shrug Sarovy’s hand off, but Sarovy had a firm grip and steered him up to the open door. A moment of resistance, then Trevere let himself be herded inside.
The narrow entry-room was empty, the door behind the front desk standing wide to show the crowded rally chamber beyond. A soldier held the door for them, and Sarovy steered Trevere in then let him go when he shook away. He had other concerns now. The gathered men quieted, parting from his path as he moved for the split stairs on the far side.
He mounted up to the halfway landing, then turned and took a quick headcount, marking the men’s sweat-stained faces as they removed their helms. The bobbing mage-lights cast an unpleasantly clinical glow upon them, but they were all there: all sixteen he had gone down the ladder with, including Sergeant Benson with the crushed leg, still with his arms across the shoulders of his comrades, Virn and Wolfsden, who had hauled him all the way here. He was grey-faced but focused, attentive. The ogrekin mage Voorkei leaned against a nearby wall, smothering a yawn with his huge hand.
And there was Lancer Linciard, coming out of the second-floor hall onto the balcony with several men in city livery, one in lavish civilian garb, and a mage in noxious green. The lancer pulled up into an instant salute, and Sarovy returned it, relieved. It seemed they had not been entirely betrayed.
“At ease,” Sarovy told the waiting men. “Injured to the infirmary. Everyone else… Guard Captain. If you would indicate which bunkrooms my men can occupy.”
One man on the balcony, a grizzled old fellow in the city’s noxious olive livery, grunted and plodded down to stand beside Sarovy. “Rightward hall. Second, third and fourth room,” he said, pointing. “Mess hall’s in the rear, but the kitchen staff’s gone for the night.”
“And the infirmary, Guard Captain?”
“Leftward hall, all the way back. Have to get someone to go roust the medic.”
“Please do so.” Sarovy looked to his men. “Eat if you can. Bed down as soon as possible. I want a mage-light in every room, Voorkei, and wards if you have the energy. Two able men in the infirmary at least until the medic arrives—Virn, Wolfsden, it looks like you’ve volunteered.” Down in the crowd, the pair gave their ‘yessir’s. “Good. Expect mobilization in the morning. Dismissed.”
As the men scattered, Sarovy turned to the others descending the stairs. Two wore guard livery—the first a hulking, wide-jawed old soldier in ornate dress-plate, the other whiplash-lean with a narrow, pointed face, his armor light chain and leather heavily scarred by claws and teeth. Like an honor guard, they flanked the third man: a civilian in a coat of forest-green velvet and broad pantaloons of gilt-stitched silk, burdened with jewels and rings and a pendulous gut, with a round, dark, doughy face and shrewd black eyes. His teeth, when he smiled, were capped in silver.
“Lieutenant!” the civilian boomed with false heartiness, teeth gleaming in the mage-light. “Such a short stay and already I have heard so much of your exploits. Most bold, to assault the Kheri in their very stronghold.”
“Lordship. I hope our activities have not drawn you from bed,” said Sarovy neutrally. From tasseled slippers to soft velvet hat, he knew who this man must be. Lord Governor Mekhos Bahdran, the city’s ruling official.
“Ah, hardly. You must know by now that Bahlaer never truly sleeps.” Governor Bahdran offered his hand palm-down, presenting his beringed knuckles as if for a liege’s kiss. Aware of protocol, Sarovy took it and bowed slightly over it, studiously ignoring the glitter of gemstones.
“Yes, your lordship. It is apparent.”
The Lord Governor’s thumb pressed against the back of his hand, holding his grip. Sarovy straightened warily.
With a silver smile, the Lord Governor said, “Have you met my associates? Commander Tonner, in charge of my full garrison, and Houndmaster Chelaith of your Imperial Crimson Army.”
Sarovy’s gaze flicked to the houndmaster, marking again the green tabard but now noticing the small, lacquered red medallion of the Crimson Claw at his throat. Easy to tuck under the armor when one did not wish to be associated with t
he Empire. The houndmaster gave him a flat smirk that he probably thought was a smile.
“I have not, your lordship,” said Sarovy, not liking where this was going. He and his men had been in town barely a mark before word of their quarry had arrived, and Hunter Trevere had insisted that they follow up immediately. There had been no time to clear their operation with anyone else in command--though technically the Crimson Hunter was the highest authority here.
“They have both been exceedingly helpful in keeping the peace,” said the Lord Governor, the fleshy folds of his eyelids crinkling unpleasantly. “I prize the stability that Bahlaer has seen despite the war, as I am sure your General does. After all, we do ship quite a lot of supplies to your encampment.”
“I’m certain the General appreciates that, your lordship.”
“Thus you understand what disruptions within the city could do to your war effort.”
“We have no intention of distressing your honest citizens, your lordship.”
“Ah. Do you not?”
For a moment, looking into those keen eyes, Sarovy’s blood ran cold. It was impossible to tell if they were Illanic-dark or Shadow Cult black. The garrison commander and the houndmaster had shifted subtly; now they seemed to bracket Sarovy more than the Lord Governor, like enforcers. The Lord Governor still gripped his hand, keeping him unable to pull away politely.
“I appreciate your sentiment,” the Lord Governor said. “And I expect that you have far better uses for your time than to comment on the activities of our honest citizens.”
In a flash, Sarovy saw the panorama of crates and boxes, the vast holdings beneath the city that the Crimson Army had never investigated—never imagined—in their thunderous march southward. What did they hold? Food, weapons, medicines, housewares, artifacts? Where were they bound?
To the enemy?
“Proper dedication brings proper rewards,” said the Lord Governor into the silence.
The rings gleamed up at Sarovy, gorgeous even in the mage-light’s harsh glow. He let himself look now, realizing that this was the bribe. Gold and silver set with big opal cabochons and sparkling cuts of emerald, filigreed jade, citrine and green tourmaline. In this day and age, they could buy armies.
Likely they already had.
More than anyone, the Lord Governor would know how badly the Crimson Claw was hurting for coin. He would know everything that flowed through his city en route to the camps. The food supplies they had confiscated on the road south were used up. Requisitions from the Imperial Heartland brought nothing. Merchants sold to them at extortionary rates, skirting the edges of the General’s ire and fleeing into the bandit lands when they went over the line. The farms that the army controlled were producing enough to keep up the basic ration but no more, and the freesoldiers needed to be paid; Sarovy had seen his monthly stipend drop by two-thirds since the Kanrodi siege began.
But Sarovy had no family to support. His estranged wife, far removed in love and distance, had returned to her kin. No children. No elderly parents—his father was still hale, still seething, having long since disowned him. His siblings had their own lives, and never returned his letters. There was nothing to starve him for gold.
He could not say the same for his men, nor for any other man under the General’s command.
A bribe, then, and a threat.
Slowly, Sarovy let his eyes rise and saw in the Lord Governor’s face the mirror of his knowledge. Those black eyes measured him frankly, that smile just a line marked in the flesh like a stylus-cut through wax.
Lifting his free hand to his collar, Sarovy tugged out the pendant that hung hidden beneath his armor. The Lord Governor’s gaze flicked to it and went cold.
“I will report to the General in full as it pertains to our quarry,” Sarovy said. “This is my duty.”
The Lord Governor’s eyes narrowed further, but if he saw anything beneath Sarovy’s fixed expression, he did not show it. With a grunt, he released Sarovy’s hand and nodded to his bought soldiers, who moved again to flank him. “I expect nothing else of you,” he said, and then—with a sidelong look and a slow silver smile—he added, “Oh. We shall send your General the bill for blood price. City guards and civilians…tsk.”
With that, he and his retinue stalked down the stairs, followed by the green-robed mage. The houndmaster glanced back just once, to tip a wink and a nasty smirk.
Then they were gone, their little parade slamming the main door behind them, and Lancer Linciard was at Sarovy’s side, shifting on his feet anxiously.
Sarovy ignored him for a moment, gauntleted fingers curled tight around the pendant he had exposed. The winged star, the holy mark of those faithful to the Light.
Deep breath. Exhale. Concentrate on the report. I am not a diplomat, I do not make deals on behalf of the army. The Crimson General can rectify this if I have made a mistake, but the only way to see it done properly is to tell him everything.
“Lancer. Report.”
“I got the guards as you said, sir. They called in a mage—that mage—and we went to the tavern but they didn’t hold it, they just took the bodies. There was a fellow in black talking to, uh…” Linciard trailed off and Sarovy looked back to see the guard captain still standing behind them, glaring. At Sarovy’s glance, he looked away.
“I see,” said Sarovy. “Where did they take them?”
“The dead guards, back here. Ours too. The cultists, I don’t know, sir. Then they stuck me in the infirmary with the medic lady, said I didn’t look so well. Didn’t let me out until just before you got here.”
Down below, Voorkei emerged from the bunkroom hall, a small flock of lights bobbing over his head. Sarovy caught his eye and nodded toward the meeting rooms upstairs. “You did well, Lancer,” he said as the ogrekin mage drifted over. “I’ll have it noted.”
“Thank you, sir, but—“
“Find Hunter Trevere for me, please.”
“Yessir.”
Lancer Linciard headed down the steps, giving Voorkei a wide berth, and Sarovy started for the meeting rooms. He heard the guard captain fall in behind him and felt the momentary urge to kick the corrupt, cult-abetting bastard down the stairs, but restrained himself.
“Voorkei," he said. "The rooms are lit and warded?”
“Hyes.”
“And you can contact the Crimson General?”
“I have scrying stones, hyes. I vill fhrefare scrying vowls.”
Scrying bowls. “Good. Let’s get started.”
The meeting room he chose was windowless, the rear of it crammed full of scroll racks and the walls covered in maps of the city and surrounding countryside. The guard captain bustled through and ripped down a few before Sarovy could inspect them, but from a glance he gathered that they were of the underground. It did not matter to him, and once the guard captain ran off to hide them somewhere, he felt much more at home.
Voorkei produced two broad, shallow bowls from the satchel he carried, and set them on the long table that dominated the room. His mage-lights whizzed off to bob in the corners, bathing the place in their piercing light. Sarovy finally acknowledged the complaints from his feet and calves and sank into a chair to unbuckle his shin-guards, kick off his boots and set aside his helm. Hunger gnawed at him, but there would be time for that later.
Linciard showed up shortly with Hunter Trevere. Voorkei sent the lancer out to fetch some water, but Trevere came over to claim a seat by Sarovy and slumped down as if boneless. Sarovy did not envy him his easy relaxation. He looked haggard and smelled worse, the toxic stink even more intense.
“Wouldn’t have taken you for faithful,” Trevere said as he stretched his legs under the table. “Most of your kind get stuck out here because they’re not.”
Sarovy blinked, then glanced down at the pendant, still in sight. He tucked it down his collar again. “Not your concern.”
“No. But interesting all the same.”
The Hunter fell silent but Sarovy sensed him observing. He fix
ed his attention on the mage’s work and pretended not to notice. Voorkei appeared to be meditating over the bowl, mouthing some guttural incantation as he did so. The beads on the three prongs of his braided beard clacked together as he swayed in time. They and the ropes of teeth and claws and amulets and other oddments that hung about his neck made him look like every nasty tale of ogrish spiritists, except that he was not naked. Sarovy was very thankful for that.
“Here, here,” the ogrekin mage gruffed as Lancer Linciard returned with a pitcher of water. He snapped it from Linciard’s hands and Sarovy gave a nod toward the door when the lancer looked over: a silent dismissal. Relieved, Linciard saluted quickly and made himself scarce.
“Hyou voth sfheak vith General?” Voorkei asked, waggling a rune-covered stone at the two of them. “Who go first?”
“He will,” said Trevere.
“Ahh. Lieutenant.” Voorkei beckoned, and Sarovy reluctantly heaved up from his seat to approach the scrying bowls. The mage placed the stone in one bowl and took up the pitcher, pouring just enough water in to submerge it, then offered Sarovy a silver-edged knife, hilt first.
“Leetle cut,” he said. “Leetle drop. Do not vleed all over, not good.”
“Blood magic,” Sarovy said dubiously.
“Confidentiality.” Baring all his big yellow teeth in a pleased grin, the ogrekin said, “I not hear General, hyou not hear Anakvykhagi. Ve can have sfhecial orders, hyes?”
“He’s talking about the Inquisitor Archmagus,” said Trevere. “That’s who he reports to.”
Sarovy sighed. “Very well." He set the silver edge to his thumb. It sliced in easier than he had expected; no doubt it was enchanted. Wincing, he held his hand out and, at Voorkei’s impatient gestures, squeezed a drop into the water over the stone.
The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1) Page 23
