by Tom Lloyd
Celao waddled away from him, edging towards the guards, while Gesh stood still and watched him. ‘Soldier, summon my guards!’ Celao barked nervously.
‘I don’t think that will do any good.’ Gesh took a step towards him, and Celao drove unexpectedly forward, his spear outstretched. Fat he might have been, but Celao still had the speed and strength of the Chosen, and he could move faster than a normal man when he needed to.
‘Didn’t have the guts to try it yourself? I expected as much,’ Celao spat, pushing the tip of the spear right against Gesh’s chest. The enchanted steel neatly sliced through the cloth, but Gesh didn’t retreat, nor did he unfurl his wings.
‘I’m not here to kill you, nor have I arranged anything of the sort,’ he said with infuriating patience, ‘and your spear is pointing in the wrong direction.’
‘Do you take me for a fool?’
‘I think he was trying to help,’ said a voice behind Celao as a sword-tip pierced his shoulder.
Celao grunted with shock and tried to turn, but a second blade impaled him low in the ribs and held him fast, caught like a stuck pig. His mouth fell open, but the only sound that came out was a faint hiss of expelled air as pain struck him like a hammer. Then the swords were withdrawn and Celao staggered sideways, drunkenly reaching for his two guards. In their place was a single figure in diamond patchwork clothes and a ghostly white mask. Blood trailed from each of its swords, which were held outstretched, as though the figure was awaiting applause after a dance, while the bodies of his guards twitched on the ground either side of it.
‘You politicians, always looking for the hidden meaning in what men say.’
Celao tried to turn and bring his weapon up, but his arm was a lead weight, his legs treacherous. He lurched around and saw a slim man in black behind him, Harlequin swords in his hands and teardrop tattoos on his cheek. When he spoke, the man’s voice seemed to come from elsewhere, as though he was being used as a tool for some far-distant mage.
‘It is time for a new ruler in Ismess, do you not agree, Lord Gesh?’
Celao tried to lunge, but he was clumsy and slow; the man in black moved, faster than he could follow through the haze of pain, and battered the blade away. Celao felt the patter of blood on his left foot and wavered, fighting to keep standing.
‘A change, yes,’ said Gesh, his eyes never leaving Celao’s bow, still in its sheath, ‘but one I could have brought about myself.’
The assassin looked thoughtful for a moment, then he reached forward. Celao watched the tip of his sword draw close, but his body was unresponsive as the man prodded him gently in the shoulder, once, twice. The motion was so neat and deliberate Celao didn’t even feel any pain, but his spear fell from his fingers and his arm flopped dead. He staggered back a step before catching his balance and looked down in disbelief at the now-useless limb hanging at his side.
‘You got it on the second,’ the black clad assassin said, almost to himself. ‘It doesn’t count — I win.’ He paused and cocked his head at Gesh. ‘Certainly you could have done this. I suspect that fine bow was intended for just this task. Lord Ilit would not have chosen a Krann likely to miss such a target.’
‘In which case, do not consider me in your debt.’
‘Debt?’ The assassin giggled like a girl and Celao blinked. The man’s expression hadn’t changed from studious concentration, yet the laughter didn’t sound forced. ‘No debt; this is a gesture of friendship.’
‘No price?’
‘None. It serves our purpose that the Litse have a stronger ruler, one less encumbered by alliances and allegiances.’
‘One easily influenced.’
In the firelight the assassin’s shadow twitched and moved as though alive. ‘Influence is best achieved through gain — if Ruhen’s friendship aids your purpose, you will continue and further it.’
‘Friendship,’ Gesh said, without feeling.
The assassin said, ‘I realise it does not come easily to your kind, but pragmatism does. You can either ally yourself to us and restore your people’s glory, or watch us from the sidelines.’
‘What do you need?’
‘You could usefully turn a blind eye to a series of unfortunate accidents; beyond that I ask only that you allow us to help our friends: your poor need feeding, your borders need protecting. Your lost souls need nurturing.’
Gesh said, ‘Your preachers will minister to my people, feed them and tell them tales of a child sent to intercede with the Gods on their behalf.’
‘It is not the warrior they expected, perhaps, but that is the difference between what a man wants and what he needs. “A saviour comes in disguise, for we are tyrants to ourselves” wrote the poet Galasara.’
‘A heretic and enemy of the Gods.’
‘Beloved of the Gods in his time; he played no part in the Great War.’
Celao, ignored by both men, sank to his knees. The rooftop was slick with sticky blood. A chill was seeping into his limbs, leaving him light-headed and lumbering. He could feel the breeze on his skin, more real than the pain of his injuries and the trickle of blood on his thigh.
‘Ah, I almost forgot!’ the assassin exclaimed, and kicked Celao onto his back. The vast white-eye flopped back with a gasp, one wing pinned underneath him. The clouds raced above him, calling him up to join them; he could feel the tug of their presence, the freedom of the air he’d rejected all those years ago. His free wing extended weakly, brushing the terrace floor in an effort to extend.
‘There is one last thing,’ the assassin said, peering down at Celao with distaste. He held out a silver chain on which had been strung a coin. Celao watched it catch the light with wonder, his jaw working away as though he were trying to ask for it, but no sound came from his throat. ‘A symbol only, but we ask you to wear this in friendship.’
Gesh took it and inspected the coin. ‘No magic,’ he commented with surprise. ‘Something — a blessing? An echo?’
‘No magic,’ the assassin confirmed. ‘Do you accept Ruhen’s gift?’
‘I do,’ the white-eye said, tucking the coin away, ‘but I will not wear it — the priests will not stand for me to wear the symbol of any other than Ilit.’
‘As you wish, but keep it safe, and out of sight of prying eyes.’ The new Lord of the Litse nodded. ‘You, girl: what happened here tonight?’
The dark-haired girl approached, shivering with fear but unable to take her eyes off Celao as he wheezed his last on the floor. ‘The — the guards?’
‘No.’ Gesh glanced at the bodies of Celao’s bodyguard, then the assassin. ‘They were true to their duty. This was me alone, do you understand?’
‘“The conqueror’s hand holds life and death in the breadth of a palm”,’ breathed the assassin, watching her face with a strange expression of delight.
He gave the girl a knife from his belt and gestured to his Harlequin companion to do the same for the other girl.
‘A landed fish could not look so pathetic,’ the assassin said as their knuckles went white around the grips.
Celao’s eyes were wide with fury and fear as the pair crept close.
‘I think you two have earned the right to finish him as you see fit,’ the new Litse lord said.
Knight-Cardinal Certinse hesitated at the gate of the gaol as it opened, releasing a gust of festering air from the gaol’s depths: sweat, shit and other stenches he couldn’t even begin to identify. He shivered and put a perfumed cloth to his nose, but the stink overpowered even that. Although his companion wrinkled his nose, Sergeant Kayel’s evil smirk was unwavering.
Certinse gestured for the man to go first, and once Kayel’s back was turned, pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to force away the ache behind his eyes. Somewhere in the street behind them something scraped over stone and Certinse cringed at the sound. For days now he had been jumping at shadows, distracted by the constant throb of sleeplessness ringing through his skull and hearing the distant echo of daemon-song on the wind.
<
br /> The few minutes of sleep he managed were punctuated by horrific dreams of vengeful priests, of torture and pain that he could still feel in his bones hours later. His newly returned power had done little to calm his nerves. The round-up of zealot priests and their devoted followers had been swift and relatively bloodless: a handful of mysterious deaths had helped Certinse’s troops catch them by surprise and the majority of the troublemakers were now crammed into this ageing gaol. A tense peace gripped the streets of Akell, but Certinse found his anxiety only increased with every passing day of quiet.
‘How many, gaoler?’ Kayel asked up ahead.
The guard was wearing a Devoted sash. He scowled at having to answer an outsider’s question, but no one in the company of the Knight-Cardinal was to be denied, so he kept his temper as he replied, ‘More’n four hundred all told, sir.’
‘How many officers?’ Certinse said.
‘About a third, I’d reckon.’
‘Do you have a ledger of names?’
The soldier ducked his head, looking uncomfortable. ‘Some, Lord Cardinal. Others refused even after they got a beating for it. I know it’s our duty, but there’s a good fifty who won’t speak.’
‘Yet only a handful appeal to me for clemency — the rest remain defiant.’
Certinse sighed wearily and walked through the narrow gate into the squat block building which was set into a hump of black rock at the eastern end of the city wall, which gave it the impression of being slowly drawn into Blackfang Mountain. There were few windows on the outside walls.
‘They’re too far gone,’ Kayel commented as he headed into the guardroom. ‘Their minds are burned through with rage, and nothing you could do to them here will change that.’
Certinse had only two guards with him; the rest waited outside while the gate was locked and bolted behind them, but it was still cramped in the narrow passageway. Beyond the guardroom was a heavy iron grille, within which was a narrow gate that the guard now unlocked under the watchful gaze of a crossbow-armed colleague.
They followed the corridor to a gated stairway and walked up to the second floor where a second, empty guardroom overlooked another corridor with more locked doors. From beyond came the muted sounds of imprisoned men. Shadows around them slunk away from the light; further away they were as thick as the rancid flavour of the air.
‘My Lord Cardinal,’ the guard said with an apologetic look, ‘the higher-ranked prisoners are up here. This first cell holds the men who’re appealing for clemency, but-’ He stopped and shifted his feet and stared at the ground, not sure how to continue.
‘What is it, man?’ the sergeant prompted.
‘It’s High Priest Garash, my Lord. He’s confined and shackled, but he’s extremely violent. I — we — don’t know how to treat him, sir. Usually he’d be sent to the lower dungeon, but being a high priest-’
‘You’re wary of dropping him down a hole and forgetting him,’ Kayel finished with a grin.
Certinse stared down the corridor for a while, not speaking. The upper level had been built for prisoners of rank and it was certainly cleaner than the ground floor, but it remained a dank, dismal place. Kayel’s lamp illuminated the bare stone. Just as he was about to speak, a flicker of movement caught his eye at the far end of the corridor — just a glimpse, and he wasn’t sure it was even real, but it set his skin crawling. He shook off the feeling and asked, ‘They are all confined?’
‘Yes, my Lord, five to a cell up here. No one’s free to roam; even below ground they’re chained to the wall. We put your seven in leg-irons so you could call ’em out one by one.’
Certinse shivered, imagining the cold lower dungeon where the prisoner would be forced to wallow in his own waste. Inmates receiving special punishment would be left there. He blinked owlishly down the corridor, but there was no movement there now and the only sound was the echo of voices. There was no sign of the ragged cloak or skirt he thought he’d seen swish through the gloom, nor any glint of tarnished metal or dead eyes. The more he tried to recall the image, the more he realised it had to have been his imagination. There were no women among the prisoners — there were none at all of any rank in the Knights of the Temples.
‘Keep Garash in irons and keep the door locked,’ he ordered.
The guard bobbed his acknowledgement and pointed to the nearest door. ‘The officers you came for.’ At Certinse’s nod he opened the door and a weak thread of daylight came through the arrow-slit window and showed him seven terrified faces. The men were all dressed in stained uniforms and shackles.
Only one was of an age with Certinse; it was the younger faces he scrutinised until he found the one he was looking for. ‘Captain Tillen,’ he said, ‘come forward.’
The soldier shuffled to the door. Certinse had last seen this promising young soldier from Narkang on the march to the Circle City. The Knights of the Temples were a military order, but their success was down to a combination of rich benefactors and sound financial management. They ran many noble estates — for a price — leaving the owners free to pursue more noble callings, and providing a vital income for the Order. Tillen was a simple, idealistic young man, but he was also the scion of a wealthy family whose father Certinse knew well.
‘My Lord,’ Tillen gasped. He leaned heavily on the wall as he dropped to his knees, moaning with pain. There was a large bruise on his cheek and his lips had been split open, by a fist, Certinse guessed. From the way he carried himself the Knight-Cardinal guessed he had at least one broken rib too.
‘You seven are the only members of this mutiny who have shown any repentance,’ Certinse said, ‘but you remain complicit.’
‘I understand, my Lord,’ Tillen replied, looking at the ground. ‘We know we must accept punishment for our actions. But sir, I wish to say in our defence that we were coerced. We were given no choice but to obey. You know the fervour of the cults — they were savage to any opposition.’
‘That I do know,’ Certinse said wearily, ‘but I must know the truth of your parts in these events.’ He pointed to Kayel, looming threateningly with a dagger dangling from his fingers. ‘This man here is bodyguard to the child Ruhen; he is adept at discovering the truth. You will each be interrogated by him; it is he who will decide your fates.’
Kayel leaned forward to scrutinise the faces of each. ‘You,’ he said with a grin, pointing at one on the right. ‘You’ll be first.’
‘My Lord?’ Tillen said with dismay, ‘we’re to be tortured?’
‘Oh yes,’ Kayel announced cheerily, ‘I’m going to cut bits off that one ’till he tells me about all the rest o’ you.’
‘Heretic!’ shrieked the man Kayel had picked, ‘daemon-lover! You’ll burn in Ghenna for your treachery against the Gods!’
Kayel laughed. ‘Bloody fanatics! Even the sneaky ones can’t help themselves.’ He turned to Certinse. ‘Reckon he’s the only one among them though. The rest are just scared at the thought of me cuttin’ on ’em.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Trust me, I know fear in all its lovely flavours. You starve and shackle a man, then tell him his enemy’s got free rein on his body, he’s got to be trained well to pretend his hatred is fear enough to fool me. None of this lot are better’n me at lying.’
Certinse almost sagged with relief. He’d been imagining Tillen’s father reaction to the news that his only son had been hanged for mutiny. ‘Free the rest,’ he ordered, and the guard hurried to obey, helping Captain Tillen to stand up and then unlocking his leg-irons. Before long the six were all free, and standing unsteadily in the corridor, rubbing at the skin of their ankles.
The remaining man lingered apprehensively at the back, shifting his feet as best he could and unsure what to do next. Kayel lounged against the doorpost and watched him as the man’s gaze darted between them all.
‘Try it,’ he suggested helpfully. ‘You never know, you might make it.’
The knife stayed in Kayel’s hand and the fanatic suddenly wen
t very still. He was a jowly sandy-haired man in his early thirties, too young to be the shape he was, in Certinse’s opinion, and looking more like an indolent youngest son than a zealot. After a long pause the man sagged.
‘Too late!’ Kayel announced as he closed the door again and let the guard lock it.
‘Gentlemen, please go downstairs and collect your possessions,’ Certinse said, and they dutifully shuffled off, the gaoler leading the way, leaving Certinse and Kayel standing alone at the cell. Without warning there came a crash against the cell door, making Certinse jump in surprise. The remaining officer had thrown himself against the door and was pounding on it with his fists and screaming obscenities. Before long the clamour died down to sobs and wordless cries, but it had been enough to set off the more desperate or enraged in the other cells and the shouting echoed down the corridor.
‘I still don’t know what to do with them,’ Certinse admitted, looking up at the larger man with a near-pleading expression. ‘There are many well-connected men here besides Captain Tillen — how I can execute the lot of them without fracturing the Order? I’m half-surprised an army from Raland hasn’t already appeared to secure their release.’
Kayel shrugged. ‘Worry about ’em after you get a grip on the Order. Might be you don’t need to do anything about this lot.’
‘What are you saying?’ Certinse demanded. ‘How could that happen?’
Kayel paused and stared at something down the corridor, then moved, perhaps nodded? — Certinse only caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and he missed most of whatever it was. ‘Who knows?’ Kayel said, suddenly the picture of innocence. ‘That’s something I’d leave in the hands o’ the Gods, but gaol’s an unhealthy place, what with all these foul vapours and such.’
He put a hand on Certinse’s shoulder and the Knight-Cardinal felt the strength drain from his body.
His knees weak, his legs unsteady, he allowed himself to be ushered downstairs to the strong room where the weapons and valuables of prisoners were kept. His head throbbed with every step, the stench of the gaol filling his mind with sickening clouds.
