The Cold Commands alffh-2

by Richard Morgan

  Oh, don t mention it, said the Emperor of All Lands sourly. The pleasure is entirely mine.

  The shrieking followed them out.

  On Archeth's instructions, they d put Anasharal in.

  The Queen Consort Gardens. It was an extension to the upper levels of the palace that hadn t seen much use since Akal s beloved third wife died in childbirth eleven years ago a quiet, largely forgotten space, dusty colonnades and wind-rattled palms, here and there a haunting white-stone statue in the Salak style. The interior sections felt shadowed and secret, like long-abandoned ruins, scarcely part of any built architecture at all. The paths through the foliage were unswept, littered with fallen leaves, shaded into patchwork gloom by the spread of the largest trees overhead. A good place for meetings you didn t want noticed. No one came here if they could help it some said the veiled ghost of the queen consort could still be seen on certain nights, prowling the gardens with her stillborn child gauze-wrapped and bloody in her arms.

  But at the far side of all this, the gardens opened out onto an area of sunstruck white-stone paving, and balustrades festooned with pink-flowering creeper. There were broad granite benches, more statues, and a long balcony view. From here, you could look out westward across the city and the blaze of sun on broad waters at the estuary mouth.

  The Helmsman had been placed on a central bench under the balustrade of the middle balcony. A squad of Throne Eternal stood uncertainly at guard beside it. They stiffened up as soon as they saw who was coming. Their commander came forward.

  My lord, I

  Relax, Rakan, it s only us. No need to stand on ceremony.

  Yes, my lord. Noyal Rakan, wound overly tight these days, it seemed to Archeth, wearing his recent promotion to his brother s rank like a helm and uniform cut a little too large. She felt sporadically sorry for the kid. He wasn t long out of his teens; his grief was still fresh and boyish. But he d served in the Emperor s personal guard for the last seven years, and regimental custom for the Throne Eternal was clear, running a tight line back to horse-tribe family tradition.

  So this is our new metal friend, hmm? Jhiral walked a circle around the Helmsman, looked it over with sidelong curiosity. Doesn t look like much, I have to say.

  Do not despise the beggar, grizzled and crippled at the corner, Anasharal quoted tartly. For who can tell what households or kingdoms he may once have called his own. Life is a long dream whose end we cannot see, and he is perhaps but a premonition, a lucky warning you may yet take.

  Oh, it knows scripture, too. An imperial shrug.

  But then they all seem to, don t they? Well, Helmsman I m told you have a warning for me?

  It isn t for you personally, Jhiral Khimran. It is for your people.

  A long silence. Rakan and the other Throne Eternal looked elaborately elsewhere. Archeth clamped down on a creeping grin.

  Then I ll be sure and pass it along, said Jhiral with an abrupt edge in his voice. Now perhaps you d care to give me the specifics?

  And warning s really not quite the word either. You d be better to see it as a tactical opportunity. The chance to get in ahead of your opposition.

  Are you talking about the League?

  No, I am not. I m talking about something that s going to make your border disputes with the League look like the pathetic schoolyard squabbles they always were. I m talking about a darkness out of legend, a storm in the making, a long-buried nightmare brought to waking. I am talking about the end of your Empire, Jhiral Khimran.

  So you d better sit down and listen to me.

  CHAPTER 17

  Downstairs in the bar, he bought the two crewmen another drink and then told them to head back to the ship. There would be no heavy lifting. Neither of them looked too unhappy about it. They drained their glasses, wiped their mouths, and slipped away with laconic sailor nods. Ringil let his own drink stand, leaned an elbow on the bar, and tried to get the room to stop its sporadic blurring in and out of focus around him. For a while, he watched the well-fed diners and tried to work up a modicum of dislike for them, but his heart was not in it. Mostly, he just wanted to lie down and sleep.

  Yeah, well. Arse in the saddle then, Gil.

  He propped himself up off the bar it seemed harder to do than you d expect for so simple a motion paid for the drinks, and navigated his way to the door. Got himself out into the street, stood in the fitful torchlight for a while. Across the way on the temple fa ade, Hoiran grinned at him toothily. Ringil peeled him a sour return sneer, breathed in hard, and shook his head like a wet dog shedding water. The street tipped and teetered downward in response, inviting a fall. Ringil kept his balance with an effort, waited until everything settled again, and then started down the sloping cobbles, one jolting, jelly-legged pace at a time.

  Get to the harbor. Get aboard the Marsh Queen s Favor.

  By now, Eril would have been back to the tavern they were lodged at, would have seen to the selling of the horses, for whatever price could be had at such short notice and time of night. And by the time the sun came up and they were missed at the Dappled Gate, Marsh Queen s Favor would be standing well out to sea, beyond pursuit and the need for any more fugitive planning.

  A cabin, a bunk, departure at dawn while he slept.

  It was like a beacon, pulling at him.

  Ringil Eskiath!

  He lurched around. Realized too late the trap the name implied.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid fucking

  Well, well, well. Venj the axman, there on the corner of a cross-street alley, teeth bared in a savage grin. Bulky figures at his back, half a dozen or more. Thought that was a dodgy fucking Yhelteth accent, if ever I heard one. Thought I knew the face from somewhere.

  The war, the war, the fucking war. Was he ever going to run out of people who knew his face from some blood-soaked skirmish or other?

  Look, he fumbled.

  Look nothing. Venj spat on the ground. I got family in Trelayne still, I hear the stories. Ringil Eskiath turned black mage, turned on his own family. Price on his head, for loosing slaves and killing merchants. And now there s some northern swordsman sorcerer down here raiding slave caravans. Doesn t take a lot of brain to put that together.

  Lucky for you then, Ringil said faintly.

  He thought it got a couple of guffaws from the men at Venj s back. Didn t think it would help much, come the crunch. He held himself upright, tried to look like some kind of credible threat.

  You sure you want to do this, skirmish ranger?

  Sudden flinch in the axman s eyes. That was a long time ago.

  Wasn t it just. I can let this go, Venj, and so can you. Just walk away.

  Walk away. The axman s tone was light, mock-reasonable, as if he were seriously considering the idea. Ringil felt something plummet in his guts at the sound. Yeah, we could do that, couldn t we, boys? Just walk away from a twenty-five-thousand florin reward. Yeah, why not?

  It s fifteen.

  Venj grinned. Either fucking way, it ll do us.

  Growl of approval at his back like surf. No way out, then. Ringil flexed his right hand at his side. Reckoned angles, but groggily hopelessly numb. Recall of the fight at Snarl s encampment only that morning, now faded like some impossible dream of speed and power, some old soldier s tale of a youth and glory that never was. He d have to get the Ravensfriend drawn; the dragon dagger wouldn t cut it against men like these. Not this many, not this type. But they were in so fucking close

  Venj watched it all going through his head and nodded.

  So, you going to come quietly, or do we have to hamstring and drag you?

  Fuck that. Make them kill you.

  But he knew they wouldn t have to. Not in his current state, not with these numbers. And with the promise of a reward that high, Venj s men would take whatever risks and gashes they needed to bring him down alive. They d bracket him, they d crowd him, and sooner or later

  He went for the Ravensfriend.

  Fevered flash grab as fast as he could make his b
ody do it.

  Knew instantly he d fucked it up.

  It was there in the fumbled grip he got on the pommel, the jagged, grudging tug as he tried to clear the blade. Weary inelegant the motions of a man who did not want to fight. Venj must have seen it all, spotted the move even as it bloomed. He leapt in with a yell, grabbing for Ringil s sword-arm before it could swing down. Ringil twisted awkwardly aside, lashed out with a boot and felt it connect. The axman yelped and went over, sprawling and tangled. He lay in a cursing heap on the cobbles as his men rushed in. Their weapons glinted in the gloom.

  Ringil got the Ravensfriend around in a soggy arc, managed to block the first opposing blade of the night. Chime of steel, but he staggered from the impact. Turned it into a backward lurch, tried for some fighting space. No fucking chance they pressed in on him like excited dogs. He swept his blade low, trying to scare them back, but they were a hard-bitten crew and they just grinned, and skipped the feint, and surged back in. Ringil parried as best he could. Behind the mob, Venj was back on his feet, ax drawn, bawling encouragement.

  Something steel got through, he never saw what or how the flat of it clouted him across the left knee with numbing force. His leg buckled, he could not brace it up. The Ravensfriend wavered. He saw a face full of scars, leering. Hands grappled and grasped, someone got to his wrist and bore it up; someone else ducked in and punched him hard and fast once! twice! under the chest. He might have ridden the first one out, but the second dropped him to his knees like a slingshot buck. He swayed there a moment, had time to notice he d lost the Ravensfriend, and then he keeled over on his side, breath creaking in his starved lungs. Someone kicked him in the head for good measure; someone else laughed and spat on the cobbles near his face. He heard Venj s voice again, distantly, berating them about something or other.

  Do I look like a fucking slave to you?

  No, that wasn t Venj. It was hollow and toneless, and it seemed to come out of the air right beside Ringil s ear. He twisted his head up. Saw nothing. But he thought the others had heard it, too, because the excited surf of their voices rolled suddenly back into quiet.

  The fuck? said someone.

  Do I look like a fucking slave to you?

  Something moved in the gloom of the nearest side alley. Ringil, still struggling to breathe, could not get enough of an angle to see clearly.

  Oi! Venj trod forward. Ringil got a worm s-eye view of his boots. This ain t your fucking business, chum, so put that blade up, and clear off while you still can.

  Do I look like a fucking slave to y

  Stop fucking saying that!

  Better run, said another voice, from the other side of the street. Ringil felt a chill smoking off him as he heard the words, though in his fuddled state he could not work out why. Better run.

  Right, that s it, said Venj grimly.

  You were fucking warned.

  Out on the marsh, said a third voice, as cold and empty as the other two. Salt in the wind.

  Footfalls, impossible to tell from where. The swish of a sword blade making passes in the night air. One of Venj s men jerked out a string of curses, but there was a waking terror in his voice. Ringil twisted his head frantically, trying to see something, anything. Thought he made out a solid black figure standing in the shadows to his left.

  Fuck them all, said the third voice, and Ringil remembered, with a sudden, gut-deep jolt, where he d heard those words before.

  Venj roared. Come on then, you motherfucking

  Dark rush of motion. Something like a whirlwind, closing from three corners.

  Wrenched screams. Venj s bellow, turned suddenly castrated.

  And a hot, wet pattering through the air, like a rainy-season downpour back home in Trelayne. As it fell on his face and the cobbles around him, he realized vaguely that it was blood.

  Ringil came round with the stench of someone s voided bowels clogging his throat. He coughed and turned over on the cobblestones, rolled up against the familiar bulk of a still-warm corpse. His knee throbbed painfully and, somewhere not far off, he heard the sea. For a couple of moments he was confused, tangled in old memories, thought he was still lying hidden among the slain at Rajal Beach. Panic-stricken, he froze the cough in his throat. His pulse pounded. If the Scaled Folk were still prowling the breakwaters, looking for survivors

  The leaning bulk of a corner building, the cobblestones under him. Faint glow of street torches. He blinked. Memory swam up to him in all its ugly glory.

  No Scaled Folk anymore, Gil. We slaughtered them all, remember?

  He heaved himself into a sitting position. The cough jumped him, would not be held down any longer. He gave in and let it rack his chest, had to prop himself up on the corpse until the spasms passed. When it finally stopped, there was a sour, acid taste in his throat. He hawked and spat, wiped his mouth and stared around.

  Well, it wasn t Rajal Beach, right enough, but whoever had been at work here could have given the Scaled Folk lessons in savagery. Venj s followers were scattered across the slant of the street in butchered pieces and broad pools of blood. The corpse Ringil was leaning on lacked both legs below the knee and one arm. Others were worse. He spotted a body ripped in two somewhere below the rib cage, another reduced to chunks of meat no larger or better defined than you d see on a butcher s slab. Venj himself sprawled back against a wall, throat torn out, staring down with sightless eyes at his own opened guts. His ax was still gripped firmly in both hands. Other weapons lay about for the taking, one or two with their owner s disembodied hands still clinging.

  A faint odor of scorched flesh and metal hung over everything. The slave market stink of branding.

  Interesting, Ringil mumbled, mostly to keep from thinking too hard about what he d seen of his saviors. He patted the corpse on its intact shoulder, leaned hard on it, and used the leverage to get back on his feet. And very handy. I think

  Hoy!

  Klithren hung there at a panting halt he d come up the rise at a jog. Naked disbelief slapped across his face like cheap paint as he stared at the slaughter in front of him. He grabbed at the sword in his belt. For one drop-stomached moment, Ringil thought it was all over, that Klithren would kill him now before he could even find his sword, let alone put up a guard with it. He met the bounty hunter s gaze, felt himself shaking his head numbly.

  No more, no more.

  Hoiran s fucking balls, Shenshenath. Who did this?

  I uh, I Then, abruptly, he was tumbling forward and Klithren let go of his sword hilt and darted in just in time to catch him and hold him up. His boot heels dug and scrubbed about on the cobbles; he tried to get purchase, but his legs were like marsh grass stalks. The bounty hunter made a hushing noise.

  Hey, hey. Easy, Shenshenath, easy. I got you.

  He lowered Ringil gently to the ground. Put hands on him, checking for wounds. Ringil pushed him away.

  I m fine just gashes. Got hit in the head with something.

  The bounty hunter nodded, took back his hands with an oddly propitiatory gesture. He crouched there in front of Ringil, still taking in the carnage.

  You see who did this?

  They jumped us. No time. Ringil felt another cough coming on, rolled with it, played it up for all it was worth. He nodded weakly to one side. Out of that alley. Like fucking demons.

  But Klithren s brow furrowed. Must have been a lot of them, right?

  Didn t see. No time. He kept his voice faint, tightened up the Yhelteth accent. Couldn t tell.

  The bounty hunter stared around. As his eyes fell on Venj, Ringil thought his mouth grew clamped. Thought his eyes suddenly gleamed.

  He found you, then? Venj. He tell you what he wanted?

  Ringil felt a chilly caution settle over him. He shook his head, feeling his way by inches. Found me, yeah, in a tavern up there. Never told me what it was about. Something important, he said, but they hit us before he could say.

  Well, where the fuck were you all going?

  Another groggy headshake w
ork the act. Dunno. Back to the square, I think. Bounty office. He seemed excited.

  Klithren sat back on his haunches. Just doesn t make any fucking sense. He left me a note at the boardinghouse. Gone back to see you at the tavern, something important, he said. Supposed to meet him there. I get there, he s gone to the harbor, left word for me to follow. I get to the harbor, no one fucking there, either, and some wharf rat drunk tells me he saw men head up the street this way. Heard the fight, but by the time I got up here.

  Ringil nodded. At night, the sound of steel clash and dying would carry half a mile at least. He started to get up, found his legs a little stronger this time.

  Over quicker than you can piss, he said truthfully. And then, with mental apologies to Egar, Thought I saw staff lances. And howling. You hear it?

  Steppe thugs? Klithren looked doubtful. You think? Looks savage enough, yeah, but I haven t heard of a Majak company in these parts since the war wrapped up. Haven t seen any about town, either.

  So maybe I imagined it. Got hit in the head, like I said. Ringil cast about for the Ravensfriend, found it in a pool of blood. He wiped it down as best he could with rags from one of the slaughtered men, slotted it clumsily back in the scabbard on his back. Checked his sleeve for the dragon knife, settled it a little looser. Looked up and down the street for witnesses.

  Ah fuck, Venj. Look at you.

  Klithren had wandered over to stare at the axman s corpse. Ringil came up on his shoulder, got a reflexive, flinching glance from the other man, the skirmish habit of years, and then the bounty hunter went back to brooding on his fallen comrade. Neck bent forward, the nape offered. Ringil felt himself hesitate.

  You know him long?

  A shrug. Four, five years. That s a long time in this business, right? Came down here from Trelayne after the war, chasing some piece of pussy he d fallen for when he was in uniform. Klithren crouched to eye level with the dead man. Sighed and pressed his chin to his folded knuckles. He was an arrogant little fuck sometimes. But you couldn t ask for a better man at your back in a scrap. Saved my life a couple of times for sure.