by Lloyd, Tom
‘Agreed,’ Arlal said finally, sheathing it again. He flicked the clasp of his cloak so that it fell from his right shoulder and he could attach the scabbard to his baldric; in a few moments the sword had disappeared, the cloak returned to position, and gorget and scarf restored. ‘You require method or time?’ he asked.
‘As long as it happens before the end of summer, dead will do.’
Arlal murmured agreement and left with Chade hard on his heels.
When the sound of footsteps had receded, Amber turned to the general. ‘How heavy is the helm then?’
‘Not heavy.’
‘Light as a bloody feather, I’d guess,’ the major said, his amber eyes flashing with laughter.
‘Close,’ Gaur admitted with a twitch of a furred cheek that could have been a smile, although with tusks protruding up to his nose it was hard to tell. ‘He may get one small amulet from them.’
‘Pretty and stupid,’ Amber commented as he eased himself upright again, ‘just how I like ’em.’
‘Thank you, Major,’ the beastman replied gravely. ‘Time for you to get back to your duties, I think.’
Daken reached out and grabbed the nearest King’s Man by the scruff of the neck. ‘What d’ya mean, they lifted the restrictions on entry? I’ve just spent a fucking hour in that there damned barrel! And with Telasin bloody-Daemon-Touch with me!’ he added, pointing at the man now clambering out of the same smuggler’s barrel. ‘When he farts, it smells like the bastard Dark Place — and I had to put up with that for nuthin?’
‘Could’ve been worse,’ Coran called, clambering out of his own and gesturing to the woman behind him, ‘Sparks kept comin’ off Ebarn the whole bloody journey.’
Daken released the man and turned to watch Ebarn, the Brotherhood’s dark-haired battle-mage, who was clambering her way out with a scowl on her face. She was a few winters older than Doranei, and a veteran of King Emin’s war against Azaer.
‘You learn to keep your fucking hands to yourself,’ she growled, ‘and that’ll stop happening.’ Once she was standing upright again Ebarn groaned and flexed her muscles before running her finger through her cropped hair.
Coran didn’t smile with the rest of the Brotherhood, the more unusual of whom were still being helped out of the barrels used to smuggle them into Byora.
They were being unpacked in the storeroom of Lell Derager, the Farlan’s agent and pet wine merchant. The cheerful middle-aged merchant and his two most trusted men were releasing them one by one from the half-dozen fake barrels they had escorted into the city.
Once she’d stretched, Ebarn noticed that Coran was still staring at her, and she turned away with a slight sneer on her face. The white-eye had never been popular with women, not even the whores on whom he spent most of his money. He’d never acquired the skill of treating one as a colleague.
Coran rubbed his hands together as though warming them up. ‘My fingers have gone numb with all those sparks — didn’t know what I was touching.’
‘We’ve heard you say that before,’ called Ebarn, ‘and not even the goat-herder believed you then!’
While the rest of the Brotherhood smirked, Doranei’s face remained set and stony. Coran ignored the taunting and made his way over to Doranei. He gripped his shoulder and looked him straight in the eye, his expression grave. They all knew Sebe and Doranei had been as close as birth-brothers, and his loss wasn’t just that of a comrade. Doranei gave a glum nod of thanks and thumped Coran on the back in reply before pushing past him.
‘You must be Daken,’ he said to the other white-eye, who was eying him appraisingly.
The mercenary nodded as he tugged his enormous axe from the barrel and swung it up onto his shoulder.
‘The answer to your question is this: you didn’t put up with Telasin for nothing. While the restrictions have been lifted, there’ll have been half-a-dozen folk watching the gate and taking note of anyone unusual coming in.’
‘Well, we’re in now,’ said the mercenary battle-mage, Wentersorn, as he emerged from his own barrel and immediately sidestepped away from Daken. The white-eye hadn’t had the opportunity yet to live up to his reputation, but the Mad Axe still clouted Wentersorn around the head every time he came within reach. ‘I take that as a good sign, so how’s about we find us some whores to celebrate my homecoming?’
‘Fucking mercenaries,’ Doranei sighed. ‘Does keeping a low profile mean nothing to you?’
Wentersorn scowled and pointed at Daken. ‘He’s my commander, not you.’ He gave Daken a hopeful look, not a kindred spirit, but at least a common interest. The white-eye’s appetite for women was said to surpass even Coran’s.
‘Much as I’d love to agree with the ugly little shit and go get me some,’ Daken said, ‘we don’t need the trouble.’
He lifted his shirt to reveal a mass of blue tattoos and pointed to the largest, a woman’s head and upper torso in profile. Her mouth was twisted into a cruel smile and her fingers ended in sharp claws. As Doranei watched the smile widened a shade and her fingers briefly stroked the line of Daken’s pectoral muscle.
‘Litania does love to join in,’ Daken said. He pointed to a series of scars just below his navel, adding, ‘And she’s a biter.’
Doranei coughed to cover his surprise and forced himself to tear his gaze from the Aspect of Larat inhabiting a man’s skin. ‘Well, if that’s settled, have your men find bunks in there.’ He pointed to a wide door on his left. ‘That storeroom’s been cleared; it’s cramped, but it’ll serve for tonight. Food and beer will be provided. Daken, do you have a second-in-command?’
The white-eye jabbed a thumb towards a bald man with bronze earrings and a pair of scimitars. ‘Brother Penitence there.’
‘Brother Penitence?’ Doranei and Derager gasped in unison, both sounding dismayed.
‘Aye, he’s a cleric — Mystic o’ Karkarn to be exact!’ Daken gave a laugh at their expressions. ‘Hah, look at the pair of ya; we ain’t completely dumb, I just wanted to see your faces at his name.’
‘I realise the name would be unwise in these troubled times,’ the Mystic of Karkarn said in a surprisingly cultured voice. Many of their number were former soldiers, and most barely educated. ‘Considering the way so many cults have abused the office of the Penitency in recent months I am willing to give it up for the time being. My birth name was Hambalay Osh; that is what you may use instead.’
‘What’s a mystic’s involvement here?’ Doranei demanded. ‘I can’t believe you’re being paid like a mercenary.’
Osh dipped his head to acknowledge the point. ‘I am an old acquaintance of the king’s; one who owes him a considerable favour and whose skills are the only way of addressing the balance.’
Doranei grunted. This was neither the time nor place to pursue the matter. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and led them up to a staircase. Coran, Daken and Osh followed him two floors up to an attic room that had two small beds and a table at the window. One of the beds was neatly made up, a man’s possessions arranged with military precision on top. As Coran passed it he kissed the knuckles of his right hand and touched them to the maker’s mark on the guard of the dagger that lay there. The little-known but much admired weaponsmith provided most of what the Brotherhood carried.
Doranei headed for a seat at the window and took a moment to gaze out at the view across Breakale district to Eight Towers.
‘What’s the latest then?’ Coran asked after a minute or two, interrupting Doranei’s reverie.
‘Apart from the lifting of restrictions?’ he said. ‘Only Lord Styrax killing a dragon.’
The white-eye whistled. ‘Must’ve taken some doing.’
‘Smacks of showin’ off if you ask me,’ Daken commented, perching carefully on one of the beds until he was sure it could take the weight of a white-eye.
‘Maybe,’ Doranei said. ‘Whatever the truth, it sounds like he’s won over more than a few by it. Folk here have never had such a powerful ruler and they’re beginning to th
ink it’s better to be inside his empire reaping the benefits than outside trying to fight it.’
‘Might have a point there,’ Daken said with a grin. ‘So we’re goin’ to be the ones fightin’ it - folk call me mad; what’s your excuse?’
‘It’s not our concern at the moment; we’ve only got one target in Byora.’
‘Why? If not this season, then one comin’ soon, Lord Styrax is goin’ to want to add Narkang to his empire. Why not throw a few sails in the pond?’
Seeing both Doranei and Coran looking puzzled by the expression Daken explained, ‘Sail-raptors? No? Ah well, type o’ lizard; swims, eats ducks, scares the shit out of ’em. Anyways, why not try slow him up a bit?’
‘You don’t get to question the king’s decisions,’ Doranei replied, ‘and we don’t have the time or resources to set up something that’ll catch a big-enough duck to make our lives worthwhile. The Menin can’t move much further, they must be badly stretched as it is. If they don’t stop to consolidate they’ll lose the city-states they’ve taken and while they’re doing that, we’ll be invoking our agreements with the Farlan. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s return to the reason why we’re here.’
‘Killing Ilumene,’ Coran said, savouring the words.
‘Not only,’ Doranei corrected sharply. ‘As you’ll see tomorrow — well, not you two, I guess, just Osh and me — there’s more than just Ilumene in Byora.’
‘Such as?’
‘A child, Ruhen, and the rest of Duchess Escral’s inner circle, a man called Luerce, even Aracnan, if he’s still alive after Sebe winged him with a poisoned bolt.’
‘Who’s this Luerce?’
Doranei scratched the stubble on his cheek. ‘I don’t know if I’ve quite worked out his place in things yet. This is what I’ve got so far: there’s a crowd of beggars camped right outside the gates to the Ruby Tower, writing prayers and fixing them to the wall and gates, asking Ruhen to intercede with the Gods on their behalf. Ruhen is — well, we’ll come to him. The beggars are being organised by Luerce and his followers — they’re calling themselves something like Ruhen’s Children, though I’ve heard a few other names mentioned.’
‘So what’s the game?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ Doranei admitted. ‘The duchess has been turned against the cults; Hale district is still almost entirely shut off. The goal appears to be cutting the population off from the Gods, removing the priesthood from daily life. By having them call to Ruhen they’re weakening the Gods, but to what end I can’t say. This would have to go on for decades — and spread throughout most of the Land — before the Gods were weak enough for Azaer to be any sort of rival.’
‘Could someone else be a rival instead?’
Doranei sighed. ‘Perhaps — certainly someone with a Skull could kill a God, and the weaker they got, the easier it would be.’
‘Remember that trip you got sent on after Scree?’ Coran asked pointedly, ‘to the monastery on the lake? You’re looking for mad and strong enough to kill Gods — there’s your answer.’
Doranei considered Coran’s point. While King Emin had left the ruins of Scree with the Skull of Ruling, Azaer’s disciples had been intent on getting something else the island-monastery’s abbot had in his possession. The journal of Prince Vorizh Vukotic had been Azaer’s prize, and its contents remained a worrying mystery.
‘You could be right,’ Doranei mused, ‘but it doesn’t explain why — unless it’s revenge for something that happened in the Age of Myths, there’s not a good enough reason. Just to cause chaos and misery can’t be all there is to it: there has to be a plan, and that’s what we’re missing.’
‘What if this is a game of the heavens?’ Osh asked unexpectedly. ‘I don’t pretend to understand much of what is going on, but I suspect my theology is better than any of you. There is clear precedent of insurrection there — Lliot, the God of All Waters, rebelled against the rule of Death and His queen. That failed, so perhaps another God has chosen a different line of attack and found a daemon cunning enough to lay the way for it. If successful, the rewards would be commensurate.’
‘The king doesn’t believe so,’ Doranei said. ‘It’s the best explanation we have, but investigations say it ain’t right. No God of any significance has been spared the effects of the backlash, and the king’s mages have consulted a host of daemons — there would be some sort of a whisper about it if such a thing were happening. Anyway, Azaer’s no true daemon — ’
‘And too fucking arrogant to be a hired hand,’ Coran broke in.
Doranei nodded. ‘Even with the collusion of a God it doesn’t fit with what we know of the shadow. If it sparks a war within the Pantheon it will be solely for its own purposes.’ He raised a hand to stop any further conversation. ‘We can discuss this later, but right now we have an assault to plan. Surviving that is my only concern at this time.’
‘So what’s the bet?’ Coran asked automatically.
Doranei glowered and glanced at Sebe’s belongings on the bed. ‘You kill Ilumene or Ruhen, or you finish off Aracnan, you can name your fucking price. I’ll pay it gladly.’
The next day was one of unexpected sunshine, long shafts of light cutting through clumps of drifting cloud to shine down upon Byora’s streets. It felt to Doranei like the entire population had been ushered outside, flocking to the recently replenished markets or just making the most of the weather after the months of grim, lingering cold. He had left the wine merchant’s not long after dawn, taking with him the Mystic of Karkarn, Hambalay Osh, and Veil, one of the Brotherhood.
The trio took a long, winding route through the quarter. They were in no hurry to get to the Ruby Tower; it was the perfect day to get a feel for the city again — they’d be more inconspicuous than usual with so many people out and about. The streets of Wheel and Burn were hives of activity now the Menin had reinstated free passage and carts of all sizes had clogged the streets in their eagerness to deliver the raw materials Byora so desperately needed. The few Menin patrols they saw were carefully keeping out of the way of everyday life; many were sitting outside taverns and eateries, behaving themselves like soldiers under orders.
Heading into Breakale, the central district where more than half of Byora’s citizens lived, they found the streets no less busy. Doranei led them past the Three Inns crossroad, where their Brother Sebe had died, to an eatery that faced east, towards Blackfang. The wedge-shaped building had been built to divert the floodwaters that occasionally swept off the mountain slopes, and from the tip of the wedge on the upper floor they had a good view of the surrounding area. Since it was well before midday, they had it to themselves.
They sat in silence, sharing a jug of weak wine and watching gangs of labourers work through the rubble of the buildings that had once stood to the right of them; the place where Sebe had been holed up with his poison-tipped arrows, from where he shot Aracnan. And it was there he had died, when the immortal mercenary had indiscriminately unleashed the power of his Crystal Skull, killing hundreds in a storm of raging magic.
‘Here’s to you, Sebe,’ Veil said at last, raising his goblet in salute, ‘you monkey-faced little bugger. We’ll miss you.’
Doranei kept quiet, he’d said his goodbyes already, but he downed the rest of his wine with the other two. When a girl brought them a plate of bread and white crumbly cheese he ignored it and picked up the wine jug, his eyes still on the workmen below.
‘Something I thought I’d never see,’ he said eventually, more to himself than the others. ‘You see those men with white scarves tied round their necks?’
Veil looked up from his food a moment. ‘Look like they’re in charge of the work. Some sort of labourers’ guild? I saw a few on the way here like that.’
Veil was a wiry man a few winters younger than Doranei. He wore his dark hair long, tied back with twine. Unlike Doranei he’d been late coming into the care of the Brotherhood; he’d been twelve winters when his parents died of the white plague. He’d been marked a
s someone worth watching from his very first night, when he’d blackened Ilumene’s eye before the older boy had managed to land a blow, a very rare occurrence.
‘I’ve been asking about that building. The owner was killed when it collapsed, but someone bought the plot and is rebuilding. Word is that it’s going to be some sort of sanctuary.’
‘And?’
‘And that sanctuary will be for anyone in need, run by followers of the child Ruhen — that’s what the white scarves signify. They’re the ones camped outside the Ruby Tower.’
Veil took a closer look at the men Doranei was talking about. One wore a tattered leather jerkin that looked like padding to go underneath mail; the rest looked in even worse condition. ‘It’s no sense of civic duty. The fucker’s pissing on Sebe’s grave.’
