by Matthew Ward
Applause rippled across the hilltop. Even a few cheers. Kurkas refrained from either, his eye skipping from one adulating group to another, seeking trouble. The old Lord Reveque had been well-meaning, but walked as if he at any moment expected the ground to swallow him up. Full of good intent, but lacking resolve. The man on the stage was another matter entirely.
Brass grunted. “Looks like he wants to scarper and never come back.”
Kurkas frowned, but saw nothing of the claim reflected in Lord Reveque’s expression or posture. “I don’t see it myself.”
“It’s the eyes,” said Brass. “Prey’s always like that. Hackles up, a firm stare and a snarl on the lips, but the eyes always tell the truth.”
Poacher’s knowledge? Brass had been a blight on the Akadra estates before he’d been put to honest employment. “Don’t let his hearthguard hear you say that. Nor Lord Trelan.”
“You reckon I blame him?” Brass spat on the grass. “Me, I’d rather swim with sharks than witter at council. At least you know what you’re in for.”
Lord Reveque at last broke his spread-armed pose, and gestured for quiet. “Friends. Citizens.” He lingered on the latter word. “In the name of the Council and the Republic, I welcome Konor Zarn to the service of the Privy Council, and his family to the first rank.”
Lord Zarn joined him at the podium’s edge. The crowd’s joy crashed back full force, cheers drowning out applause in a raw, almost frantic bellow. Fists punched the air. Old soldiers hoisted scabbarded swords high in salute.
Kurkas chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. Viktor Akadra had earned such a response when he’d been named the Council’s Champion. But he’d been a war hero. The vanquisher of rebellion and shadowthorns. The Raven’s right talon, bloody to the knuckle. Zarn had done nothing save amass a small fortune through trade. And yet the cheers grew louder as he offered a deep and florid bow.
There was little denying that Zarn was handsome – black hair, oiled and brushed back from his brow, combined well with narrow, aquiline features. His dark green suit was trimmed with gold brocade, and clung tight to his wiry frame in a manner that suggested the tailor’s skill had been every bit as expensive as the cloth. Gold also trimmed the white velvet cloak – a garment so short and narrow-cut it served no purpose other than an excuse to wear the opal-crusted clasp holding it in place.
It was an appearance to bewitch and beguile, to set hearts a-fluttering, or otherwise earn their envy. And yet Kurkas found himself beset neither by tremor nor jealousy. For all that Zarn seemed the perfect match for the lustful dreams of his youth, the man’s manner was somehow amiss. Even as Zarn straightened and gazed out across the Hayadra Grove, Kurkas had the peculiar sense that he didn’t see the assembled citizenry, but his own reflection.
“I don’t have the First Councillor’s way with words…” Zarn’s voice was perfect complement to appearance – warm with promise, but lacking depth. “So I’ll restrict myself to two pledges. The first is that I shall do my utmost to live up to the responsibilities of this great office. And the second is that I shall not forget my friends.”
He spread his arms, not in supplication, as Malachi had done, but as a showman. The crowd cheered again, though on the podium, only Lord Lamirov seemed pleased, no doubt counting himself among Zarn’s nebulous “friends”. By contrast, Lord Trelan’s expression was a study in stony neutrality. Kurkas wondered – not for the first time – why his master expected anything different.
Archimandrite Jezek made careful procession up the podium’s steps, the foot of his sceptre thumping and his scarlet robes pooling behind. A black-clad serene followed, bearing a time-worn copy of the second book of Astarria.
As Zarn placed his hand on the book, Kurkas turned his back on the podium, and set his attention on the crowd once more. He’d heard the oath more times than he cared to remember. He’d even spoken it himself, back when he’d first enlisted – though like most he was entirely ignorant of the old, formal language and had merely parroted the sounds.
The crowd listened with rapt attention, although by now the outer edges were dispersing as folk lost interest. Still, Kurkas was content to embrace a morning bereft of violence, rare as it was.
“El, versas cala te tremar…” intoned the archimandrite.
A disturbance broke out downhill. Drawn steel betrayed a constable seeking to send a message. Kurkas sighed. Inexperience everywhere. Nothing incited a mob to violence like the promise of a brawl.
He tapped Brass on the shoulder. “I’m off for a wander. Keep an eye, would you?”
Without waiting for confirmation, Kurkas ambled downhill.
“I’ll not tell you again,” said the constable with the drawn sword. “You’re not coming through. Now back off.”
The ragged, red-haired lad balled his fists. “I have to speak to the duke.”
“Then you request an audience at the palace. But clean yourself up, first. This ain’t the Southshires. We’ve standards here.”
The lad flung himself forward, only to be intercepted and borne to the ground by a sergeant. In height, the two were evenly matched. In terms of bulk the lad was at marked disadvantage, though that didn’t stop him wriggling free and regaining his feet. A peal of laughter went up from the onlookers.
The lad broke again for the line. Two constables seized his arms and held him fast. The sergeant bore down on the lad with fists clenched. The crowd’s jeer darkened into disapproval.
Enough, Kurkas decided, was enough. “There a problem?”
“No problem,” the sergeant spoke without turning. “Just a southwealder brat getting a lesson in manners. His sort always did need a slave’s bridle to keep ’em quiet.”
“That’s ‘no problem, sir’ or ‘no problem, captain’,” said Kurkas equably. “Or do you need a lesson in manners too?”
The sergeant glanced behind, winced, and unfurled his fist into something that might have passed for a salute. “Sorry, sir. Like I said, there’s no problem.”
“Of course there’s a problem. Always is when there’s a southwealder around. But it’s not always them that starts trouble, is it?” Kurkas squinted at the lad. “Met you yesterday, didn’t I? You miss the chains so much you’re picking fights?”
“I have to speak to the duke.” It was hard to look defiant when dangling from the grasp of two constables, but the lad gave a fair effort. His whole body was tense as mooring rope. “It’s important.”
“Everything’s important.” Kurkas shrugged. “Tell me, and I’ll pass it on.”
“No.” The refusal came hurried and frantic. “I have to speak to the Phoenix.”
Kurkas rubbed at his brow and glanced at the podium. “Free piece of advice, lad. Don’t call him that.”
“Altiris. My name’s Altiris.”
“Doesn’t change the advice.” He sighed. “Let’s have the message. Then these fine gentlemen can let you go, and we can all go back to enjoying the archimandrite’s droning voice.”
Defiance and desperation fought for control of Altiris’ features. And underneath it all, fear. “If I tell you here, now, people will die. It has to be the duke, and in private.”
“Ignore him, sir,” said the sergeant. “Just another southwealder dreg wasting everyone’s time.”
Kurkas frowned. An urgent request, a hint of mystery and peril. Just the thing to convince a soft-hearted soul like Lord Trelan. Might even get a body close enough to cause mischief. But leaving Altiris to the sergeant’s displeasure meant a beating, and ugliness in the crowd warned Kurkas how that would end. It would have felt like a betrayal, and not just of the lad.
“Finest woman I ever knew was a southwealder,” he murmured. “Let him go.”
The sergeant’s brow creased. “Sorry, sir, I thought I heard you say—”
“Let him go.” Kurkas leaned close. “You don’t want me to ask again.”
The constables, faster on the uptake, let Altiris drop. He scrambled away and came to a halt as Kurkas’
heavy hand found his shoulder.
“Come along,” said Kurkas. “But you remember what I said about phoenixes. And don’t even think about causing me any grief. You hear?”
He set off uphill towards the podium. With a last glance at the constables, Altiris fell into step.
As they approached the ring of hearthguard, the archimandrite muttered his way through the last syllables of the oath.
Zarn repeated them in a booming voice. “Te magnis cala nomaris, magnis vratis!”
Altiris shook his head. “The power of justice is power indeed?”
So the lad had an education? Lucky him. “The world ain’t perfect,” said Kurkas. “Still, the crowd likes him.”
“Of course they do. Half of Dregmeet got drunk on Zarn’s purse before midnight. They’re hoping for the same again.”
Kurkas grunted his surprise. Not at the bribery, which was as common as breathing in the Council’s rarefied orbit. But it seemed Zarn wanted to be loved – or at least be seen to be loved – so badly he’d stooped to muckying his boots in Dregmeet.
“Not you, though?”
“Oh, I took his coin, but I won’t cheer him.” Altiris laughed bitterly. “Just because I’ve nothing doesn’t mean I can be bought.”
The archimandrite withdrew. Zarn’s eyes dipped from his audience to rest on Kurkas and Altiris. Distaste, no doubt, for the two dishevelled creatures making oblique progress towards the podium. Then he returned his attention outward in final address, arms spread wide once more.
“My friends, I thank you all. I promise you, we will see the Republic restored! We will, every last one of us, get everything that we deserve!”
With a final bow, Zarn descended the stairs to the podium’s rear, followed by newfound peers. Only Lord Reveque remained as the brash buccinas marked the ceremony’s end, head bowed in hushed conversation with the archimandrite.
The first carriages were already pulling away along the tree-lined colonnade of Soldier’s Mile as Kurkas approached the back of the podium. The name Soldier’s Mile was new, bestowed in honour of the patriots Viktor Akadra had led to end Ebigail Kiradin’s treason a year before. It hadn’t stuck. Sinner’s Mile, folk called it, linking as it did the squalid business of the council palace and the Shaddra’s piety. As crack of whip and rumble of wheel bore Lord Lamirov and Lady Beral down the hill to strike fresh sins in politics’ name, Kurkas climbed aboard the Trelan carriage, gestured for Altiris to follow, and awaited his master’s arrival.
Lord Trelan showed no surprise at Altiris’ presence, but then he was getting better at keeping thoughts close. He took a seat opposite and pulled the door to. “Altiris, isn’t it? And in something of a state. I thought you’d been granted sanctuary.”
“In the workhouse? It’s just a different sort of slaving. I’ll take my chances in the gutter.” He leaned closer. “Your grace, I know where they are. Some of them, anyway.”
Lord Trelan’s eyes flickered in a wince at the reminder of his old title. “You’re not making any sense.”
Altiris glanced left and right before pressing on. “Our fellow southwealders, your grace. I know where the vranakin have taken them. A warehouse down in Westernport. I’ve seen the carts. Scores have gone in, but no one comes out.”
“Have you told the constabulary?”
“Look at me. Do you imagine they’d listen? They’d just send me on my way. If I was lucky, they’d skip the beating first. If I was really lucky, they’d not tell the vranakin.”
“You might be surprised. Things are changing.”
“Maybe if you’ve a name,” Altiris said sourly. “And money.”
Kurkas gave a warning tug on the lad’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”
Lord Trelan waved a dismissive hand. “It’s all right, captain. It’s nothing I haven’t said. You’re certain of what you saw?”
“I’ve been inside. Only over the threshold. Didn’t dare go further.” Altiris clenched his fists and stared down at the carriage floor. “They’re killing them. Please, your grace. You have to do something.”
The shallow nod. The tightness about the eyes. Signs Kurkas had come to know too well.
“Have you heard anything about this?” asked Lord Trelan.
“Not had much chance to ask around,” Kurkas replied. “And after yesterday? Won’t be many tongues flapping. But I’ll give it a go, if that’s what you want.”
“How long will that take?”
“Couple of days. Maybe a week. Like I said, lips’ll be tight after yesterday’s raid.”
“Not good enough.”
Kurkas cleared his throat. “The portreeve’s manor was one thing, sah. Westernport’s another. Right in the thick of Dregmeet. I can round up Brass and the others, but we don’t have the numbers. I’ve been telling you for months that you need a larger hearthguard.”
“So I’ll speak to the Council. Malachi can’t ignore this.”
“Ignore the word of a dregrat?” said Kurkas. “Nothing easier.”
“He’ll believe me.”
“And if the lad’s wrong?”
“You’d have me gamble lives against my reputation, captain?”
Kurkas stared past his shoulder. “’Course not.”
“As for the size of the hearthguard… Altiris, can you handle a sword?”
“Not well.”
Lord Trelan nodded. “Then you’ll learn. You’ll have lodgings, a wage and a purpose… if you want it. Otherwise, there’s always the gutter.”
Altiris’ mouth hung open. “I’d be honoured to serve the Phoenix.”
“Then you can start by never calling me that again, nor your grace. Those titles…” For a moment, Lord Trelan was far away, amid the ruins of an ashen, mist-wreathed home. “They don’t belong to me. I don’t think they ever did. ‘Lord Trelan’ will serve.”
“You sure about this, sah?” asked Kurkas. “Not exactly the done thing, filling your hearthguard from the gutter.”
“And where did you start out?”
Kurkas shot him as baleful a stare as propriety allowed, but said nothing.
Lord Trelan offered a dry chuckle and shook his head. “Then it’s agreed. I’ve every faith that the captain of my hearthguard will make something of the boy – he’s quite formidable, so I hear. Get Altiris cleaned up, give him a uniform, and meet me at the palace. We’ve work to do.”
Fifteen
Green-white mist drowned the uneven flagstones beneath Apara’s feet, and grasped at her knees. It billowed thickest about the crumbling archway, remnant of an ancient temple upon which the warehouse had been built. The cages along the walls belonged to another world, the stream of mournful sobs and ragged breaths distant and faded. Above all, it was cold. As chill as an elder cousin’s presence. Ice under the skin, prickling at bone.
Erad’s talons flashed. The mists rushed red. His victim passed, her whimper lost beneath the sonorous chant of masked vranakin concealed about the low rafters. She hung heavy a moment in the arms of two grey-robed cousins, body bound in black ribbon and garlanded with tokens of feather and bone. Then she was gone, flung past the elder cousin’s crouched form and into nightmare streets beyond the archway; all crooked architecture and strange shadows beneath a viridian sky.
Apara wondered who she’d been. Another stray southwealder? A cousin who’d displeased the Parliament? It was unwise to know. Did the maid concern herself with the log given to the fire, or the butcher with the hog? All were fuel. All served grander purpose. The shadow within her disagreed, and set her gorge rising.
The elder cousin remained motionless through it all, rag-bound hands on his knees. Lost in meditation. Or what Apara assumed was meditation. He seemed realer, the frailty of recent months washed away by blood. By death. As if he feasted alongside the Raven when an offering was made.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Even so close, Krastin seemed more shadow than shape, the flesh beneath his gold-trimmed robes a mystery save for the withered hand about a soot-black
walking stick, its head sculpted in the form of a spread-winged raven. “Otherworld embraces us once more. The Raven is appeased. Even Athariss is smiling. Shurla mutters her nonsense about scripture and holy purpose, but it’s a small enough price to pay if it stops her complaining.”
“I feel nothing,” Apara lied. Better that than admit the empty sensation in the pit of her stomach. Like pieces of her were melting into the mist. “Cold, perhaps.”
A thin laugh. “It’s natural to worry, but unnecessary. The long decades of our dwindling are ending. As the mists rise, the Council will learn why even Malatriant fled us. No more hiding. No more frailty. And you? The shadow preys upon your weakness. The mists will strip that weakness away and leave only strength. Perhaps an elder cousin’s strength? Time will tell.”
An elder cousin. How Apara had yearned for that while still a child – to have the influence of one steeped in the Raven’s blessing. And yes, the fear. No one commanded fear like an elder cousin, save the three pontiffs. For all that Krastin pretended affability, his presence gnawed her spirit. Still, better him than his siblings; Athariss’ bleakness and Shurla’s fervour were each more unsettling in their way.
Now? The prospect brought uncertainty. Or perhaps it wasn’t her uncertainty at all, but the shadow twisting her instincts. Half the problem was that Apara could no longer separate her own reservations from those forced upon her. The other half was that it was sometimes stronger than she, and held her back from the deeds required of a kernclaw. What use was an assassin incapable of bloodshed? She was fortunate the Parliament of Crows indulged her. Such largesse would not last.
Two vranakin dragged another captive to the archway. The old man offered no resistance as black ribbons were bound about his limbs, nor as the jagged eye-rune was smeared on his brow in the blood of past victims. He barely blinked as the talons stole his life. Then he too was cast through the arch into Otherworld’s crooked streets, an offering to he who drew sustenance from all that perished.
