The Legion of Flame (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  The panicked thought that she might be dead flicked through his head until he peered closer and saw the gentle swell of her chest. A glance at Sigoral confirmed he was also still alive, though he remained every bit as unconscious as she did. Clay could see no obvious sign of injury on either of them, although it did little to quell his rising anxiety. Someone had brought them here and it was a safe bet they weren’t far away.

  He levered himself from the pillar, gripping the crutches with trembling hands as he swung himself to the edge of the dais. He was wary of letting the crystal’s light touch his skin, so could only crouch to peer closer at Loriabeth for any sign of injury. She slept on, seemingly quite peacefully, and remained deaf to his entreaties to “Wake up, cuz, Seer-dammit!”

  Clay straightened, his gaze drawn inevitably to the crystal floating above. His mind was filled with all he had witnessed in the city beneath the mountain, all the Briteshore Minerals folk standing and staring at the Blue crystal in the dome, every one of them somehow transformed into Spoiled. This crystal, however, wasn’t Blue. In fact, as he squinted at its facets he saw that it seemed to hold myriad different colours within itself. “Whatever you’re doing,” he said, raising his revolver and aiming at the centre of the crystal, “chances are it ain’t good.”

  He had begun to squeeze the trigger when he heard a soft thud at his back.

  He whirled, losing his balance and staying upright only by virtue of colliding with the edge of the dais. A dim figure stood in the shadow cast by one of the pillars, a slender figure half-edged in white by the crystal’s light. The figure stepped closer, the light catching its face, a female face, the eyes narrowed in shrewd appraisal. Her skin was a shade darker than his own, but so completely absent of flaws that he couldn’t discount the thought that she was something conjured by his pain-addled mind. The sense of unreality was heightened by the fact that she was also completely naked but for a shiny silver belt about her waist.

  Shoot her you Seer-damn fool! instinct screamed as his eyes alighted on something in the woman’s hand, something metallic with a short stubby barrel. He had time to half raise the revolver before she shot him in the chest.

  CHAPTER 27

  Lizanne

  The parley took place in a large ruined theatre occupying one side of Pitch-Blende Square. The building featured an ornate and mostly untouched frontispiece that mixed granite and marble to accomplished if overly elaborate effect. The words Constellation Theatrical Emporium were carved in classical Eutherian on a large marble lintel above the doors. According to Makario it was Scorazin tradition for negotiations to be held here, partly because the interior space was large enough to accommodate each party along with their escorts, but also due to the rats. “The place is riven with them,” the musician explained. “It’s why no one’s ever claimed it.”

  Lizanne soon realised he hadn’t been exaggerating. A large black rat sat on the front steps as she followed the Electress into the theatre, Anatol and Melina on either side with ten hand-picked Furies following. The rat continued to sit as they drew closer, regarding them with baleful disdain until Anatol stamped a massive boot at it. Even then it seemed to saunter away rather than scurry.

  “Too much corpse meat in the diet,” the Electress commented to Lizanne as they ascended the steps. “Makes ’em less afraid of us than they should be. Probably time we had another grand hunt. Have to every few years or they get too large in number, and too bold.”

  They proceeded through the doorless entrance into a foyer where a pair of once-opulent staircases ascended on either side, ready to convey an audience to upper floors that no longer existed. Beyond lay the auditorium with its long rows of seats, once plush with velvet and now grey with ancient mould. The stage and its massive curtain had subsided decades ago into a pile of decayed wood and fabric where a dozen or so rats moved about, apparently uncaring of the intruders. A thin drizzle fell from the occluded sky visible through the criss-crossed beams above, all that remained of the roof.

  Lizanne saw that the Electress had timed her arrival well, as the other three delegations were already in attendance. Chuckling Sim and a retinue of Verdigris occupied a position parallel to centre stage. King Coal had placed himself off to the left and stood flanked by Julesin, his tall pale-faced lieutenant, with a dozen Scuttlers at his back. The leader of the Wise Fools stood to the right. Lizanne was surprised to find that Varkash had come alone, standing cross-armed with beads of rain shining on his thick muscled arms and the pyrite nose he wore.

  “Fashionably late, my dear Electress,” Sim said, offering a fair imitation of a courtly bow. He wore a well-tailored suit of dark cotton, his greying hair slicked back by oil and his face rendered white by a fine dusting of powder. Lizanne knew that powdered skin and oiled hair were both affectations of the Corvantine nobility that had fallen into disuse over twenty years ago. Had the leader of the Verdigris found himself in noble company his appearance would have made him a laughing-stock. Here, however, he was anything but.

  Electress Atalina came to a halt halfway down the auditorium’s aisle and replied with a polite nod of her head. “I’m sure you’ll excuse a lady for exercising a time-honoured prerogative, Jak.”

  “Always, my dear.” Chuckling Sim straightened from his bow, maintaining a welcoming grin as he surveyed the Electress’s party, his gaze soon coming to rest on Lizanne. “And who is your delightful companion?”

  “Krista,” the Electress replied. “She kills people a lot, so best not to develop too much of an interest.”

  “Oh, at least let an old fool indulge a dream or two.” The leader of the Verdigris came closer, Lizanne sensing her companions’ sudden upturn in tension as he halted before her, bowing lower than he had for the Electress and extending his hand. “Jakisil Ven Estimont, at your service, my dear,” he said, slipping into Eutherian that was a little too coarse to be the product of a noble upbringing.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” Lizanne replied, placing her hand in his so he could press a brief kiss to it. She noticed a slight twitch in his composure as he released her, possibly due to the fact that her Eutherian was decidedly more refined than his.

  “So accomplished a young lady,” he said, his smile becoming sad. “Consigned to a place such as this. The capricious nature of the world never ceases to amaze, don’t you find?”

  “We are but leaves cast afar by the gales of life,” she replied. It was an old Corvantine adage from the pre–Imperial Era, one clearly beyond Chuckling Sim’s knowledge judging by the flush of annoyance he failed to keep from his gaze.

  “Quite so,” he said, reasserting his smile as he turned and strode back to his retinue. “We are called to parley by Electress Atalina, recognised leader of the Furies,” he said, slipping back into Varsil and raising his voice to strident formality. “The rules of parley were in place long before any of us came through the gate, yet remain unbroken to this day, a tradition all present are expected to observe. Failure to do so will result in the other parties allying against them. Before proceeding we must agree on a moderator. As two of my brothers lie dead due to the agency of one party here present, I cannot claim impartiality in this matter.” He turned and bowed to the leader of the Wise Fools. “Therefore, I nominate you, Brother Varkash.”

  “Seconded,” Electress Atalina stated promptly.

  All eyes turned expectantly to the leader of the Scuttlers, who stood frowning in silence for several seconds before shrugging. “What the fuck do I care?”

  “Eloquent as ever, my liege,” Chuckling Sim said, switching to Eutherian once again and casting a wink at Lizanne.

  “And enough of that noble-pig talk,” King Coal growled, hands shoved into a leather overcoat, presumably to conceal bunching fists. Seeing him at such proximity for the first time, Lizanne noted how the flesh of his face seemed possessed of a continual quiver, betraying a constant inner rage that threatened to erupt
at the smallest provocation.

  “Eloquent or not, he makes a fair point, Brudder Sim,” Varkash said. He spoke in a low yet commanding voice that would have been much more impressive but for the nasal squeak that accompanied every hard consonant. Lizanne found it noteworthy that no one present felt inclined to utter the slightest sign of amusement as the Varestian spoke on. “Every word spoken must be clearly understood by all parties. Rules of parley.”

  “Of course, brother. I crave forgiveness.” Chuckling Sim offered a florid bow to all present before moving to stand with his retinue.

  “First order of business,” Varkash said, striding to occupy the centre ground and turning to the Fury delegation. “Electress Atalina. You called dis parley. State your grievance.”

  “Unwarranted murder,” the Electress replied, gaze steady on the Scuttlers’ leader. “Done in my place of business without formal challenge.”

  “Challenge?” King Coal took a purposeful step forward, face flushed to a dark shade of crimson. He stopped when Julesin moved to his side, stooping to speak softly into his ear. Whatever counsel the pale man offered seemed to be enough for Kevozan to master himself, albeit after a few seconds’ effort. “Where,” he grated, addressing his words to Varkash, “was the challenge when this bitch bombed my winding house?”

  “Our brother makes false accusation,” the Electress stated with calm authority. “Show me evidence of a Fury’s hand in the bombing and I’ll happily cut it off and present it to you.”

  “Bombs don’t leave evidence,” King Coal replied. “Just useless mechanicals and blasted bodies.”

  “Much like the one that exploded outside the Miner’s Repose not long ago,” the Electress mused. “It seems we share common experience, brother.”

  “I’m not your fucking brother . . .”

  “Accusation and counter-accusation,” Varkash broke in as Kevozan’s face began to flush once more. “Dis avails us nudding. We are not a court. Duh purpose of parley is to reach accommodation in order to prevent further bloodshed.” He turned to Chuckling Sim. “You also indicated a grievance, brudder.”

  “Indeed.” For the first time Sim’s smile faded, not entirely but with an instant loss of humour and hardening of the eyes that told Lizanne much about his true nature. “Two dead,” he continued, staring at the Coal King. “Well-liked men of industrious and loyal demeanour. Such men are hard to replace, and their loss stirs anger amongst their comrades.”

  “I also lost two men,” Kevozan replied, a defiant glint in his eye which told of an unwillingness, or more likely, an inability to be cowed by the Verdigris leader. “And another last week,” he added, turning his gaze on the Electress. “Left outside my place with his skull mashed in.”

  “If a beaten body lying in a Scorazin gutter is cause for war,” the Electress said, “we would never have peace.”

  This provoked some laughter among all present, apart from King Coal, who silenced the chuckles of his own men with a glare. “I’ve got war aplenty,” he said, eyes fixing on the Electress. “If you want it. You want formal challenge, you can have it here and now.”

  “Calm yourself, brother,” Chuckling Sim said, his smile returning to its former fullness, though Lizanne detected an edge of warning in his voice. “We all remember the last unfortunate round of hostilities. The constables left us to starve for a full month as punishment, as you recall. I for one have no great desire to taste rat meat again. Besides which, since my grievance remains unresolved, a challenge spoken in the forum would apply as much to the Verdigris as to the Furies.”

  He fell silent, letting his gaze and his smile linger on the Coal King. Lizanne saw the quiver of Kevozan’s features deepen into a shudder, his body tensed from head to toe with poorly contained anger. Once again it was Julesin who calmed him, his words too soft to catch but evidently carrying enough wisdom to stem his leader’s rage. “I’m not making any settlement,” he said, “until my winding-gear is fixed. Brother Sim worries about going hungry, so do my men.”

  “So fix it,” the Electress said with a shrug.

  “The only two fuckers who knew how are lying in pieces on the midden,” King Coal returned. “I want the Tinkerer.”

  “Then perhaps you should hire him,” Chuckling Sim suggested.

  “Already tried, he said no.” Kevozan’s gaze roamed the Furies until it came to rest on Melina. “She can persuade him, though. Everyone knows he’s sweet on her.”

  The Electress turned to Melina with a questioning glance. “If he’s paid well enough,” the tall woman said. “It’ll take a lot of books, though.”

  “I’ll contribute to the fee,” Sim said. “Though it’ll pain me to denude my library. Brother Varkash?”

  “I don’t have any books,” Varkash said, before continuing with evident reluctance, “but I do have maps of duh south seas. Cost me six sacks each.”

  “Surrendering one to the cause of continued harmony would seem a reasonable exchange,” Chuckling Sim said.

  The pirate stood silent for a long moment, tapping a finger to his false nose in sullen consideration. “Very well,” he said finally. “Duh fee for Tinkerer’s services will be met equally by parties present. Speak now to voice disagreement.”

  Silence reigned for half a minute or so, broken only by a faint groaning Lizanne realised was the sound of Kevozan grinding his teeth.

  “Agreement is reached,” Varkash said. “Leaving duh madder of redress.”

  The haggling continued for another hour and by the end of it the Verdigris were richer to the tune of ten sacks of coal, five for each of their lost men. The Electress agreed to part with one tenth of the Furies’ next food allotment to compensate the Scuttlers for their denuded income. In return she would receive a dozen sacks of coal as compensation for the attack on the Miner’s Repose. Varkash was also provided with one sack each from the other parties in recognition for his wise moderation of the proceedings.

  “Dis parley is concluded,” the Varestian said in pinched but formal tones. “All parties will now give solemn oath affirming observance of duh truce agreed here today. By rules of parley, any who breaks their oath will be marked for death togedder wid any who stand in their defence.”

  “So affirmed,” the Electress stated.

  “Affirmed,” Chuckling Sim said, adding in Eutherian as he favoured Lizanne with an arched eyebrow, “or may the gods rend my house asunder.”

  King Coal took longer to answer, his glowering gaze fixed on Atalina as a sheen of drizzle glittered on his still-quivering face. Lizanne wouldn’t have been overly surprised to see steam rising from his shaven head as he gave a terse, guttural, “Affirmed,” before turning and stomping from the theatre, his escort close behind. Julesin followed at a slight remove, his gaze sweeping across all the Furies as he passed by. He hid it well, but Lizanne saw the way his eyes lingered on her for the briefest second with a concentrated, detail-hungry focus unique to those of a particular profession.

  “Could have been worse,” Melina commented as they made their way back to the Miner’s Repose. “One-tenth of the food will sting a bit, but it’s hardly going to break us.”

  “You stupid bitch,” the Electress muttered, the drizzle beading broad features set in a preoccupied frown. “That farce didn’t change anything. At least now I know who’s twitching that fuckwit Kevozan’s strings.” She stopped, turning and fixing Lizanne with a steady gaze. “Time you earned your keep, my dear. I want that pasty-faced bastard dead by Ore Day.”

  • • •

  “It wasn’t us,” Demisol said as soon as the mansion-house door closed behind Lizanne.

  “I know,” she said. “It appears we have a competitor.” She lifted the heavy sack from her shoulder and strode through the hall and into the dining-room.

  “Competitor?” Helina asked, lowering her voice and closing the dining-room door.

  “So
meone intent on sowing discord,” Lizanne replied. “Rather than destruction.”

  “Who?”

  “As yet unclear, but I believe the Coal King’s chief lieutenant may be at the heart of it.”

  “Julesin?” Demisol asked. “He’s barely been here six months.”

  “And yet somehow managed to rise high in the interim. What do you know of him?”

  “Well, he’s a killer to be sure. Cut down three men his first day through the gate. All fair fights, and none were members of the main gangs.”

  “So he established his credentials early, and was careful about his targets.” Lizanne concealed a faint grin of recognition. An agent to be sure. But whose? She recalled what the Blood Imperial had told her in Empress Azireh’s crypt: Sent my two best. The first one lasted three days, the second managed four . . . She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now the prospect of two presumably experienced and capable agents failing to survive more than a few days in Scorazin seemed unlikely. Dreadful place though it was, she had come to understand that the greatest threats came from hunger or disease rather than other inmates. Unless they were spotted by someone even more capable. Also, they were both comparatively recent inmates whilst Julesin had arrived months before. If he isn’t Blood Cadre, then who is he? She decided it was not a matter she could afford to spend too much time considering. In a complex mission the straightest course is usually the best one. Another lesson from her training days, one she had often found useful. Cadre or not, he’s an obstacle, and the Electress will be expecting swift results.

  “Do we delay?” Demisol asked.

  Lizanne shook her head. “Delay invites discovery and adds to the risk of betrayal. Not to impugn the commitment of your fellow citizens, but the more time they have to dwell on the likelihood of their demise, the more their thoughts will slip towards survival.”

  “We’ve been emphasising the prospect of escape,” Helina said. “Though our comrades aren’t idiot criminals to be easily gulled.”