The Tower of Living and Dying

by Anna Smith Spark

  “There’s nothing to understand! It’s a vile story about my vile accursed family. My vile accursed poisonous blood.” His father’s sad cold face, listening, nodding a little, his eyes flicking between his two sons, the queen beside him watching, sighing, sometimes taking her husband’s hand. “Sitting after dinner in the hall, some sycophant who calls himself a poet reciting the great deeds of our ancestors, Ti and me sitting looking at each other. Sitting listening. Me. My blood.” King Ruin. King of Death. Divine demonic cursed filthy blood. “My past. My blood. That’s what you need to know! To understand! My blood! Hilanis who skinned his older brother Tareneth alive to claim his crown, Hilanis who dressed Tareneth’s widow in the skin on their wedding day! What we do to each other. What we are and do. My blood. What I am and can’t escape.”

  “Your past?” She stared at him blankly. “Your blood? You—Marith, it’s an old story. About someone who lived and died hundreds of years ago.”

  “About my family. About me.”

  “Marith.” She stood up, came over to him, she was dressed in green, she looked like forest pools, she looked like light and shadows on a green tree. “Marith, the Asekemlene Emperor of Sorlost is reborn anew each lifetime, the son of a wineseller or a farmer or a crippled beggar or a, Great Tanis, I don’t know, a street whore. It doesn’t matter whose child he is, a great lord’s, a murderer’s, a mad idiot. He is the Emperor, and he is what he is. I don’t know who my parents were. No one can know.”

  “Stop it,” Marith said.

  Thalia picked up the book. Opened it. Flicked through it.

  “I remember,” she said, “the day I chose my lot. I put my hand into a box and picked up a wooden token. I let it go. Picked up another. Drew it out. If I had not put the first lot back again, I would, I don’t know, I would be a lowly Temple priestess like Ausa or Helase. Or, more likely, I would be fifteen years dead. Another girl drew her lot ten days after I did. She is fifteen years dead.”

  She tore a handful of pages out of the book. “In a story I once read, a kitchen girl swaps her own fatherless baby with the king’s son, her child grows up to be king. If you found out tomorrow that your father was not your father, that you had no … no Altrersyr demon blood …”

  She dropped the pages into the fire. “It would change nothing that has happened. Would it? Nothing about you. About any of this. There. It’s gone.”

  The flames leapt up. Licked the parchment. It crumbled away. The fire was bright but the room was darker. Marith cowered away from the flames.

  “Come here,” she said. “Please.” Held out her arms to him. Saleiot. So bright with life.

  They went over to the bed. The sheets smelled of rotting wounds.

  She is betraying you.

  I thought you needed to know.

  Marith thought: I shouldn’t have come here. I hate this place.

  Chapter Forty

  “Why did you tell me?” the boy asks his uncle.

  His uncle looks … sad, the boy thinks. Weary. Ashamed. Filled with guilt.

  His uncle toys with the books before him on the study table. Picks at a scratch in the red leather that covers the table top. His uncle says at last, “Because I thought you needed to know.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  “Amrath! We stand before You clad in bronze and iron. We stand before You with swords drawn. Our swords are ready. Our swords are sharp. We will make the music of bronze and iron, the music that lifts joy in Your heart. Blood we will bring You. Death we will bring You. War we will bring You. You who delight always in blood and death and war.”

  Behold the Army of Amrath, preparing to march on Illyr.

  Gods, there are a lot of the sweaty buggers.

  Tobias, Raeta and Landra going to join them.

  It takes a long time, planning to kill someone. Tobias has thought and thought round and round. Infiltrate Malth Elelane. Bribe the guards. Co-opt someone close to him. Get Raeta a job as a scullery maid, poison his wine. But it wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t godsdamned work. And the Army of Amrath—yes, they were referring to it as the Army of Amrath in capitals and portentous voices now, with entirely straight faces, seriously—and the Army of Amrath sailed to Ith and he still hadn’t thought of a plan as he watched them go in their black ships, and he still hadn’t thought of a plan when the news came that they had taken Tyrenae.

  “Fucking hell. I mean … fucking hell.”

  Landra had laughed hysterically. Raeta had bitten her lips white.

  Tobias had looked at Raeta bleakly. “To be fair to myself, it’s harder than you’d think, killing someone.”

  A vast crowd of chancers, gamesters, shysters, hucksters, cut-throats, con men and whores were pouring over to Ith in the Army of Amrath’s wake, mad keen to follow it to Illyr. Morr Town was even more crowded than it had been for Sunreturn. Every inn was heaving with people, ships sailed every day across the Bitter Sea to Tyrenae with another load of soldiers, salesmen and interesting if undefined types looking to make a quick bit of cash. Amazing, the skillsets the people of Morr Town turned out to possess.

  “They can perfectly well get fleeced by the Ithish, you know,” Tobias told one sweet and lovely young lady who was boarding in his inn. She was sailing to Tyrenae the next morning. Planning to sign up with the heavy cavalry, obviously. What else? “There are sexually transmitted diseases, loaded dice and ruinous loan rates in Ith already. You don’t need to export them.”

  “Why,” Sweet Face said sweetly, “should foreigners get all the fun? He was our king first.”

  Gods, he should pray for another storm to drown the whole bloody lot of them. Wipe the earth clean.

  “Thirty years ago,” said Tobias when Sweet Face had left them, “thirty years ago, Marith’s own grandpa led an invasion of Illyr. There’s a very famous song about it. The refrain goes something like this: Glorious they sailed, a mighty host in golden ships. I alone came back. Most of this lot probably still have empty places at the dinner table where their dad or uncle used to sit.”

  “Never underestimate people’s desire to hopefully possibly get rich while hopefully possibly being part of killing things,” Raeta said.

  Making a killing in every sense. Yeah. I know. And the good people of Tyrenae were reported as being remarkably accommodating to their new king’s followers. Very little a White Isles accent couldn’t get you. The drink flowed like water. “Hurrah for King Marith” shouted everywhere. Various very grand Ithish ladies alleged to have developed quite a talent for striptease.

  Tyrenae could have held out against him for bloody years, behind its walls. Cowardly sods.

  “You fought with him,” said Landra. “You shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “What can I say?” said Tobias wearily. “Maybe I’m just too much of an optimist.”

  And then it had struck him. The answer struck him.

  All these plans he’d made, rejected, break into Malth Elelane, bribe the guards, co-opt an insider, poison his drink: they all had one stupid stupid stupid flaw.

  It’s easy as piss, to kill someone, if you’re quite happy to die doing it.

  Endless, endless soldiers in bronze armour, armed to the teeth, their helmets covering their eyes. Men and women and children. The injured. The half-dead. Parading before Good King Marith, swords and spears and knives sparkling in the sunshine. Men and women, voices and faces from all over, chaos and confusion of half the world flooding into Tyenae to fight for the new king. We stand before You with swords drawn. Our swords are ready. Our swords are sharp.

  Sail to Ith. Join them. March into Malth Tyrenae. March up to the boy. Stab him in the gut. Die.

  He dies. We die.

  Hard? It’s easy as piss. His death and my death, Tobias thought. A kind of dim pleasure, in thinking that.

  By a truly staggering coincidence, the next boat sailing for Tyrenae turned out to belong to Raeta’s brother. His new ship, bigger and flashier than the last one, the one Tobias had arrived on the White Isles on. The
figurehead was a woman, her hair dark, holding a silver disc like a shield. The sails were new and black.

  Lan stared at the ship for a long time before they embarked. She looked very white.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I …” She stared at the figurehead. “I … I thought I recognized this ship.”

  “Seen it in Toreth Harbour, maybe.” Winced, as he mentioned the place name. Lan jerked like he’d stabbed her. He said hurriedly, “You’re holding everyone up, come on.”

  “Another’s Luck. No, I’d remember the name.”

  “Bloody stupid name.” Oddly enough, it did look vaguely familiar. Something about the figurehead of the woman, the way her face looked. Familiar in a not-good way. Made him nervous. “Raeta said her brother only got it recently. The paint’s all new, you can see it’s been repainted, done up. So you probably wouldn’t recognize—”

  Oh.

  Another’s Luck.

  Oh.

  “It looks like a lot of ships do,” said Tobias. Gods gods gods, if she realizes, if Landra realizes what ship this is. Another’s bloody luck, gods yes. “Let’s just get on board, yeah, before it whatever the term is. Casts off. We’re holding the queue up. Come on.” Before she realizes what ship this is. Was. The Brightwatch, it had been called when she last saw it. The figurehead had had yellow hair, had been holding a sunburst. Had had as its cargo a dead man.

  First chance he could, Tobias cornered Raeta.

  “You know, don’t you? What ship this is?”

  Raeta shrugged. “My brother got it very cheap.”

  “I’ll bet he did. What happened to the last owner, then? Your brother tell you that?”

  “I would rather imagine,” said Raeta, “that he’s dead. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Gods, Raeta! And if Landra—if Lan finds out?”

  “She will not find out,” said Raeta.

  “She’s wracking her brains right now trying to work it out. She’ll remember. It’s hardly the kind of thing you don’t remember. This being the ship she brought Marith back to Malth Salene in and all.”

  Raeta looked at him. Her blue eyes opened very wide. She looked … ah, gods, she looked like something … something … A sound in Tobias’s ears. Rustling leaves. Like … like …

  “Raeta?”

  “She will not find out,” said Raeta. “It’s not … ideal, no. I’m sorry. But unless you want to wait … My brother did get it very cheap. And the name fits.”

  Painless journey. Sea smooth as silk. Smooth as a well-paved road. The winds were very favourable, the sails bellied fat and shining, the sky was cloudless blue. A school of dolphins raced the ship one afternoon; they even saw a whale blow. The fishermen off the coast of Sel Isle waved and cheered their passing. “Good luck! Good luck to you! Joy to the king!” Tobias and Raeta and Landra sat on deck and watched the sun rise, watched the sky change, watched the sun set. Tried to relax.

  “Pretty.”

  “Pretty enough. Not much different to yesterday. Bit more cloud.”

  “One of nature’s wonders, the sunset. Never the same twice.”

  “Yeah? Could say the same thing about a bleeding wound.”

  A few of days of life left. Wondered if Raeta and Landra had worked that out yet.

  Hard to relax.

  They’d reach Tyrenae in record time, Raeta’s brother said. Benefits of Good King Marith having a weather hand in his service. Sweet west wind and calm sea and the ship fair danced on the wind. How kind of Good King Marith. Another’s luck indeed. Poetic, like. Or something.

  And Tyrenae! Soldiers everywhere, not so much a city as an army camp. If Morr Town had been crowded with eager young faces longing for battle, Tyrenae was filled to overflowing, bursting at the seams, the air heavy with bronze and leather and horses and men’s sweat. The perfume of ten times a thousand pairs of muscular thighs. The smoke of forge fires and cook fires. The endless, endless clang of the smith’s hammer. The sheer amount of piss and shit and body fluids an army in peace time can produce. Almost nostalgic, the smell, like the way Tobias’s tent had smelled on damp mornings, in the Company. All those strong, excited, pent up young men …

  A grain ship was mooring up at the quay beside Another’s Luck. Wagons waited to take its load. Marith must be stripping the White Isles bare to feed his soldiers. Sailors on their own ship shouted as they got everything secured; the human cargo surged for the gangplank, the crew strained to unload bales of wool cloth for soldiers’ cloaks.

  “I remember him when he first arrived in my squad,” said Tobias. “He was dressed in tatters, his hands shook, he hadn’t had a bath for gods know how long, his hair had lumps of dried puke in it. He looked about twelve. He looked like someone had just nicked his favourite toy. He looked like he’d wet himself if someone spoke to him.”

  The buildings around the quayside were so tall they blocked out the light. They were built of black stone. Looked like teeth. Lodging houses, whole families living five, ten people to a room. So inhabited by a lot of people. So a lot more young men looking for a way to prove themselves while making some cash.

  “Mind your backs!” a voice shouted. A wagon of tin ore went crashing past them. Ith was famous for its tin. Made very good bronze, did Ithish tin. Bronze that kept an edge very well. A troop of soldiers marched past in the other direction.

  “We could still … not do this,” Tobias said pointlessly. “We could just go home again. Boat’s not sailing until tomorrow night.”

  Raeta said, “We could.”

  “Someone has to be king,” Tobias said pointlessly.

  “Someone has to use all that Ithish tin,” said Raeta. “All those strong healthy bodies, all that wheat. Couldn’t just leave them alone to sit around doing nothing, could we?”

  Another wagon went past, carrying a load of sarriss. The sarriss certainly weren’t pointless.

  The boiling mass of people and goods pushed them up the streets further into the city. Dancing on it, like the ship at sea. Whirled round and along. Eager eager crowds: like a festival, the atmosphere in Tyrenae. The air fairly buzzed.

  “We’ll find an inn today.” Tobias almost had to shout over the chaos. “Get the stuff we need tomorrow. Scout out.” The paving stones were bobbing up and down after days at sea. He felt tired and worn down. His leg was killing him. The crowds shoved past him, looking for the same thing. “Watch your backs,” a voice shouted as a wagon rolled past, almost knocking into him.

  They got settled in an inn called The Weeping Woman, beside the west gates, where they could have a cupboard beside the scullery-cum-latrine for double what a room had cost in Morr Town. The west gates, it quickly turned out, being the major point of ingress for the city’s meat supplies and egress for the city’s effluent.

  “Bloody hell,” said Raeta.

  “That, Raeta, woman, is the true smell of war. Bronze, hot metal, sweaty men’s bodies and all that, yeah, maybe, but twenty thousand tons of human shit and horse shit and cow shit … that’s the authentic odour of glory.” Tobias’s head was hurting something desperate. In the common room, two women were talking loudly in the harsh rough accents of Immish. Tobias slumped over a beer listening to them. Immish women. His own countrywomen. The older woman had a voice and a turn of phrase that reminded him of his mum.

  Back and forth, like a loom working, discussing the beautiful young soldiers, the fine ships in the harbour, the bountiful nature of the new king.

  “A statue spoke aloud, today, in the Great Square,” said the older woman. “A statue of Turnain the Godking. Milk and honey ran from its eyes and its mouth. It spoke in praise of the king.”

  “What did it say?” the younger woman asked. Her eyes went dreamy, thinking about it. A moment of splendour in her foetid life. She was only perhaps as old as Landra Relast.

  “Milk and honey flowed down from its eyes and its mouth,” the older woman replied. “People caught it in their hands, said it was sweet to drink. Nane elenaneikth, that�
��s what they say it was saying. Joy to Him.”

  “It was a trick,” a man at the next table shouted to them. “I saw it.”

  The two women raised their cups to him. “It probably was at that,” the older woman said. “But it spoke. I heard it.” A pause. “Course, I was off my tits on firewine. It might have been saying anything.”

  “We’ll need to get ourselves armour,” said Raeta. She didn’t look entirely comfortable saying it.

  Tobias touched the purse at his neck. “I’ve got plenty of blood money, haven’t I?”

  They had something resembling a wash and a meal, went out again into the city. Even in the evening twilight, the place was running with people, all the shops and stalls were open. Everyone caught up in the preparations, buying and selling their lives before the war. And it’s remarkably easy, buying arms and armour, when everyone and his wife and his kids and his dog is buying it too. Churning the stuff out night and day. Selling it alarmingly cheap. “If you’re fighting for Him,” the armourer shouted, “you can have it at cost. Amrath! Amrath!” The state of the bloke suggested he hadn’t stopped to eat, or wash, or sleep, for the last week. He looked basically insane. Six children in the back of the shop were hammering bronze as if their lives depended on it, and one stopped for a breath and another screamed “Don’t fucking stop!” and hit him. In the dark, the whole thing was lit by the forge fire. The children’s faces looked scalded red. Fucking hell, thought Tobias, and I thought people were looking to make money out of this.

  “If you’re joining the Army of Amrath, joy to you!” a woman shouted, seeing them gathered at the shop door.

  “It’ll be ready in three days,” said the armourer. “Can’t do quicker than that, I’m afraid. Rushed off my feet.”

  Part of Tobias thought: too slow. Too slow, damnit.

  Part of Tobias thought: three more days!