The Cold Commands alffh-2

by Richard Morgan

  Guess this means we re not heading out the Dappled Gate after all.

  Nah, that was scuppered to fuck anyway. Didn t you hear? Klithren looked up at Ringil. Thought you might have. Thought he might have, maybe that s how come all this rushing around

  Ringil felt his pulse pick up slightly. Heard what?

  Word just came down from the Keep. The bounty hunter said it almost absently, like he couldn t care less. His eyes were fixed on Venj s wounds. No one goes outside the city walls until further notice. They re saying some of the slaves on that caravan got hit yesterday had the plague.

  The world opens up and swallows you down.

  This is not new. You ve spent the last decade of your life, at least, wondering how it ll burn down in the end. Before that, of course, you were too young and alive to really believe in your own death, but the war took all that away.

  The war gave you death as a daily commonplace, an immediate possibility behind every badly timed sword stroke or stumbling misstep you made. Death was there at your side in the screaming chaos of battle, cutting down comrades and enemies alike, occasionally turning your way, ready for the least slip or sign that you d really had enough of this shit and wanted the easy out. Death came to you, pensive quiet and sated in the aftermath, smirking up at you from the rictus grin of the men who d died hard, hanging about at your back in the waning cries and weeping of the wounded beyond repair. Death was your friend, your confessor, your intimate companion, and though the seduction might be lengthy and sly, you always knew he d get you in the end.

  Just not like this.

  Klithren went down behind the blow from the dragon-tooth dagger without a sound. Ringil, stirring from the dimmed moment of the act, saw he had used the weapon s pommel and that though there was blood in the bounty hunter s hair Klithren would live to fight another day. Make sense of that if you could.

  Harbor. Get to the fucking harbor.

  Where the night had by now settled down to seeping bandlight and an illusory, seaward-yearning calm faint, irregular slap of waves against the pilings, soft stutter and creak of mooring ropes as they stretched with the shift of their tethered vessels on the swell. A trio of quiet drunks huddled like cormorants atop a pile of trawl nets at one end of the quay, mumbling sea chanteys and passing a wine flask back and forth. Ringil went past them at a limping trot, got a tipsy salutation from one, hurriedly shushed by his more circumspect or just more sober companions. Farther along, in the puddle of shadow cast by the customhouse wall, he caught the grunts and glottal clicking sounds of some sailor getting a cheap blow job. He thought he saw a queue of figures waiting there in the gloom.

  Eril was draped at the rail of the Marsh Queen s Favor, smoking a krinzanz twig. He straightened when he saw Ringil approaching, pitched the twig into the gap between ship and wharf, and came down the gangplank with a grin. Ringil raised a hand to keep him back. Shook his head.

  Better stay where you are.

  Eril s smile dropped off his face. He glanced about the darkened wharf, seeking enemies.

  Trouble? he asked quietly.

  You could say that. Ringil was fascinated to discover that what he felt most was an obscure embarrassment. You d better tell the captain to get his crew together and slip ropes. Time for a smuggler s exit.

  And our other passenger?

  They re calling a plague quarantine on the city, Eril. You don t get out of here right now, they ll lock the whole harbor up and your ride out of here as well.

  Plague? For perhaps the second time ever in their acquaintance, Ringil saw genuine fear in Eril s eyes.

  Yeah. Seems some of the slaves had it.

  The Brotherhood enforcer made the connection. The fear in his expression shifted into something else.

  You.

  Yeah. Looks like it.

  Silence stretched between them like distance, as if the gangplank were already up and the Marsh Queen s Favor drifting from the shore. Ringil made himself grin, guessed it must look pretty awful. Eril cleared his throat.

  I had a great-uncle in Parashal, got it back in twenty-eight. They say he lived.

  Ringil nodded. Everybody had an uncle somewhere who d survived the plague in some other place or time. It was a bedside platitude, cheap comfort you could hand out like some threadbare blanket you weren t going to miss.

  Sure, he said. It can be done.

  In Majak lands, Egar had once told him, you could cheat the plague of its victim if the tribe could find read, in the constant tribal ruck of the steppes, capture alive in battle a suitable substitute to sacrifice in place of the original sufferer. Given a man or woman of comparable rank and blood, the hovering plague spirit would take the offered life instead and depart with it. The original sufferer didn t just recover, they came back stronger than they had ever been before. Often they would rise to become tribal leaders or shamans in their own right. Such recoveries apparently took place overnight sometimes, if the shaman had the Dwellers favor, before the planned sacrifice had even been carried through.

  Nice trick if you can pull it.

  My debt, Eril began.

  Is hereby canceled. I asked you to help me throw a burning brand into Etterkal, and we did that pretty effectively. I m all done murdering slavers for now.

  The Brotherhood enforcer could not quite keep the relief from soaking into his features. He made an uncharacteristically awkward gesture.

  I, uh, I sold the horses.

  Good. Get anything halfway decent for them?

  Eril shook his head, overvehemently. Got fucked in the arse. Barely three hundred apiece and that s including the tackle. Fucking landlord s going to double his money just by sleeping on it. Here.

  He dug a purse out of his coat, took a half step forward on his way to hand it over, and then remembered. He stopped dead on the gangplank. Ringil nodded, lifted one open hand toward him.

  Sokay. I m not too far gone to catch stuff.

  Eril hesitated, then tossed the purse across the intervening gap. A good, hard throw, to make sure it cleared the edge of the wharf. The weight and impact stung in the cup of Ringil s palm.

  The two of them stood there looking at each other.

  What will you do? the enforcer asked him finally.

  Ringil weighed the purse in his hand. I don t know. Get drunk, maybe. Don t you worry about me, Eril. You need to turn around and put your foot in that captain s arse. Get some sail hoist while you still can.

  He turned away then, because the temptation of the gangplank s sea-rotted edge where it rested on the wharf was getting a little too much to resist. Marsh Queen s Favor sat there, four feet out from the quay, and the urge to cross that symbolic gap to safety was like krinzanz craving. Give himself any longer, and he d do it, he d start trying to talk his way into coming aboard regardless, rationalize his way past the obvious fucking shape of this particular truth, tell the tawdry fucking lies to himself that everybody did, Look, this isn t plague, it s just a bad cold, be over it in a couple of days with some sea air to clear your head, you ll

  Like that.

  He grimaced. You could already hear the pleading tone of it all.

  He walked away.

  Got about three paces before Eril called after him.

  Sire?

  He stopped. Blinked at the honorific. In the best part of eight months, he d never heard Eril use it to anyone. He turned back.

  Yeah?

  I, uh, wanted to say. All that shit they say about you? The corruptor-of-youth stuff, the queer thing. Just wanted to say. I always knew they were a bunch of lying fucks. Knew it wasn t true. You re no faggot. He swallowed. Sire.

  Ringil remembered the times he d caught himself staring with something worse than longing at Eril s exposed arse and shanks when they bathed in rivers on the way south. The hollow ache that stalked behind the lust.

  He found the smile once more. Put it on.

  You neither, Eril. You neither. We re true men, the both of us. Now get out of here while you can. Go home
. Fare well.

  He put the gangplank and the Marsh Queen s Favor at his back again, and this time he kept walking.

  CHAPTER 18

  Then they got up close to the black looming mass of the lock gates, the boatman shipped oars and threw out the anchor. It made a soft, swallowing plop as it went down. The boat tugged about silently on the dark flow of the river; the anchor cord went taut and held them.

  That s it, gents. S as far as I go.

  You could get us a bit closer to the shore, Egar suggested.

  The boatman shook his head. More than my hull s worth. The Citadel posted guards around the temple on that side months ago. See the torches? They catch me at this time of night with you two muffled up like that, well Folk are liable to draw conclusions, aren t they?

  He gave them an amiable grin to show he d already drawn his own conclusions but hey, no hard feelings, we all got to make a living somehow.

  So, Harath hissed at him. You saying we gotta fucking swim across there?

  Well, if you really want to, I suppose you could, yes. The boatman jerked a thumb back over his shoulder.

  But there s a ladder, back there on the lock gate. It s a bit of a jump, but you should make it all right.

  Egar waited to see if Harath could make the leap turned out he could, and with wiry, youthful poise now he d shrugged off his hangover then paid the boatman out.

  Couple of hours, he said. If we re not here, then wait. It ll be worth your while.

  Understood, my lord. The man stowed the coin beneath his jerkin and leaned aside to let Egar get up the sharp end of the boat. Have a profitable evening.

  Yeah, you, too.

  He took the leap it was awkward, the unaccustomed weight of the knotted rope he was carrying slung tight across his body putting him off. He missed the ladder with one hand. But the other found a grip and he hung on, harsh grunt with the effort, beat the barn-door pivot of his body to the side, and got his feet on a rung. He grabbed a couple of breaths dank, pitch-smelling air then went stealthily up to where Harath crouched atop the lock gate in his black burglar s garb and charcoal smear. The Ishlinak nodded minimally toward the shore.

  Four guys, he murmured. Same as before. They do paired perimeter in turns, the other two hold the gate. That puts all the blind spots exactly where they always were. I told Alnarh about that, but he didn t want to hear it. He s all We are Majak, no one will dare. Twat.

  Egar stared at the crenellated bulk of the temple, the scrubby, cleared ground it stood on, the flicker and gust of a night guard brazier out front and the two figures gathered to its flames. Forty yards, fifty at most. He watched the bright yellow dapple of torches go along the darkened walls on the left and around the corner to the front, two vague forms beneath. He checked his knives and hoped he wouldn t have to use them. Killing other Majak wasn t something he d ever really gotten used to even if they were Ishlinak.

  Right then, you call it. Let s go.

  They skulked along the top of the lock gate like rats, quick, purposeful spurts, cautious of balance on the foot-and-a-half width. Egar s pulse picked up with the nighttime slide of it all. He caught himself grinning. The torches paused partway along the riverward fa ade of the temple block, and Harath locked to a sudden halt in front of him. Ten feet to the ground, no time to do it and not be seen or heard. They crouched, waiting.

  Soon as the other two start moving, the Ishlinak warned him. They ll be nattering back and forth, all four of them, like chucking-out time down at the Lizard s Head. No eyes to the left side at all. There see that bush at the corner they ve just passed? King s thorn can t see a thing through it, even during the day. Sprint for it, hold there.

  The torches reached the gate. The two new arrivals became clear silhouettes in the brazier s flare. Faint bass of voices, some laughter indistinct echo off the temple walls and floating out over the water. The rhythm of it was Majak. Some jiggling with the torches, and then

  Now! snapped Harath. Go!

  Off the lock, dark, sudden drop, soft crunch of impact on the ground below, spring up out of it running. Forty yards easy ground, Dragonbane, come on. Behind him, he heard the swift brush of Harath s footfalls, following. The torches wavered away along the wall to the right of the gate. Darkness held the left side. Egar reached the king s thorn scraggle and crunched himself down into cover, trying not to breathe too hard. Harath piled in behind him.

  The float of voices stopped.

  Taut silence.

  Harath put his lips to Egar s ear. They spot us?

  Egar shook his head minimally, raised a warning finger. No idea shut the fuck up. Eyes slitted against the gloom and glare for detail. Hand to knife hilt at his waist.

  Soft mutter of another voice. The figures around the brazier shifted. A long laugh drifted out. Egar relaxed, eased his hand off his knife. Harath got back into a poised crouch.

  Along the left wall, he whispered. Follow my lead, look for that crack.

  And off again, like ghosts into the gloom. They hit the shadowed edge of the wall, scuttled along its darkened length. Ahead of him, Harath found the crack, reached up and swung effortlessly off the ground. Little fucker was good. Egar was only seconds behind him, but by the time he arrived the younger man was already eight feet up the wall above him.

  That envy, Dragonbane?

  He shook it off, checked the crack with his hands. Snaking jaggedly upward, a clean shear through the stonework, about four fingers wide, once-ragged edges worn smooth with time. It was pretty much what you d expect from a building this old. There were fractures like it all over the city, anywhere a structure still stood that had been around back when the Drowned Daughters of Hanliahg vented their volcanic spleen and the Earth shook and the sky over Yhelteth turned black. Not what you d call comfy was Harath s considered opinion. Nowhere to rest, but you can hand-jam if you need to

  Torch glow at the far end of the wall.

  Egar hooked both hands into the crack, jammed his feet in below, made a braced sideways V with his body, and hauled himself up the crack. Sharp pinch of the stonework against his toes the soft-sole boots he d worn for the occasion were thin, and he had to angle his feet downward almost vertically to fit the confines of the crack. The torches rounded the corner and the two watchmen came ambling along the wall in companionable quiet. Apparently they d run out of banter. And he was still less than ten feet off the ground. If either of them took the trouble to glance upward

  He worked his way higher, as close to silently as he could. Finger-width chunks of the fractured stone gave a little under his grip, made a tiny grating sound. Shit, shit Sweating palms, powdering stone under the pads of his fingertips. He hurried his hold past the loose section the haste undid him, one foot slipped out of the crack and he hinged around and out.

  Fuck!

  He forced one hand fully into the crack, closed it up into a fist, and twisted it sideways. The ragged stone bit into his flesh as the hand-jam took his weight. He hung there, teeth gritted, twelve feet off the ground, and tried to quiet his breathing as the guards walked by underneath.

  Which they did. Right on by.

  He let them get a decent distance beyond before he moved. Then, working as swiftly as he could without noise, he worked his loose foot back into the crack, loosened off the hand-jam into a more conventional hold, and climbed the rest of the wall without incident. He came over the crenellated top and found Harath seated with his back to the battlement, as relaxed as if he d come up here to get some sun.

  He sank down next to the younger man, breathing hard. Harath glanced sideways at him.

  All right?

  Egar held up his fist in the bandlight and spotted the tiny black trickle of blood. He licked it away, sucked the ragged edges of the torn flesh clean.

  Fine.

  They see you?

  Yeah, they saw me. They said they d give us an hour inside as long as we didn t break anything. You going to show me this fucking hole in the roof, or what?

  The i
nside of the temple had a musty, stone-dust smell that reminded Egar of rock tombs he d ransacked in Dhashara as a younger man. He kept expecting caskets, raised stone biers, or mummified remains racked in the walls. Instead, the spaces were broad and high and empty. Detritus crunched underfoot, but it was the leavings of decades without occupancy stone and plaster powder fallen from the cracked ceilings, rat turds and grit and the tiny dried corpses of spiders. Somewhere, he could hear the sporadic drip of water falling in from the roof or some damaged cistern in the upper levels. There were a lot of holes up there like the one they roped in through; damage done by the same eruption that had cracked the walls. You could look up as you passed beneath and see the stars in the gaps.

  Old, denied gods held up the ceilings.

  Remind you of anybody? Harath whispered, nodding at one looming figure.

  Egar glanced up at the muscled torso, the shoulder weighed down with horse tackle, the short, squared-off blade in the upraised hand, barely a knife at all. The tight-lipped, somber warrior face and beard.

  Yeah, Urann without the teeth.

  Should think himself lucky he s got any face at all. They tore up some of the others in here so bad, you can hardly tell who they were meant to be.

  Egar nodded, mostly to himself. It was pretty much the way of things, wherever the imperial writ ran. The Revelation didn t like competition.

  They slipped past under the empty stone gaze of the statue. Harath gestured left shallow stone steps, leading up. They took them two at a time, knives drawn for anyone they might happen to meet at the top.

  Nothing. Shadows and dust. Tall, wood-paneled doors twice the height of a man, riddled with dry rot, wedged ajar on the gritty, detritus-strewn floor.

  This opens onto a gallery over the central hall, Harath told him when they got there. Gallery runs right around. Get a good view from up there.

  Egar nodded. He gripped one of the doors at its edge, decided moving it would make too much noise, and inserted himself sideways in the existing gap.

  Deep breath, said Harath judiciously.

  It took rather more than that. The effort of holding his belly tight made Egar s eyes water, and he still scraped himself on the door edge, scraped the door open a farther grating inch, before he popped out the other side. He stood statue-still, teeth gritted, blade in hand, waiting to see if they d been heard.