The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  But the glance the boy gave him made him to falter. In those grey eyes lay the force of an unbreakable will. The lad’s next words were quiet but firm, a mere murmur which nonetheless carved itself into Dun-Cadal’s memory, as powerful as any cry.

  ‘One day you’ll understand. Be certain of that. I shall be the greatest knight this world has ever known.’

  4

  THE ASSASSIN

  ‘Attack someone from behind?

  There’s no honour in fighting like that!’

  ‘There’s no honour at all in killing someone, lad.

  No matter how you strike.

  There’s no glory to be had in taking a life.’

  Everything she knew of the world came from books. Her long years of study at the Great College of Emeris had made her impressively erudite, but all that knowledge consisted merely of words. Here, she was discovering their true meaning. She was finally seeing the living embodiment of those written works, copied and recopied down the centuries by the monks of the Order of Fangol. Until now these servants of the gods had been the sole masters of writing. Recording the voices of the gods themselves, set down in the Sacred Book. But the Liaber Dest vanished long ago, while the Empire had been overthrown and the rules had changed. Knowledge was no longer supposed to be the sole preserve of the elite. In the Republic, a young peasant girl like Viola could be taught the history of her world and how to relate its events with the help of a quill dipped in ink. But what had she really seen with her own eyes? The leafy paths of the village where she had been born, and later, the long and wide avenues of the Imperial city of Emeris. But what else? Nothing but words in books, describing the former Kingdoms in a poetic way.

  So the simple act of walking along the cobbled streets of Masalia seemed to mark a new stage in her life. All along the street, traders exhorted passers-by to try their magnificent goods: vegetables, spices that pricked the nostrils, braided necklaces, lace-trimmed fabrics, dried meats, or the still bloody chops from a pig slaughtered right by the stalls . . .

  The noon sun at its zenith bathed the city in light and the heavy scent of musk and citrus fruit floated in the air. In the days of the Empire, Masalia had been the only city where someone who dreamt of something better might achieve their goal. Now that the Republic ruled the destinies of its peoples, the advantages of this city had spread like an unexpected wind of hope throughout the former Kingdoms. Viola was a perfect example of this, a blacksmith’s daughter who had proved quite brilliant and completed her studies at the Great College, hitherto reserved for the nobility. What career lay ahead of her now? That of a historian, cooped up in a library with ancient tomes? Or that of an archaeologist, travelling the world in search of antique artefacts and idols? Who would she fall in love with? With whom would she raise a family? What was her place in this new chapter of the world, now everyone had the chance to choose their own future . . . ?

  She pondered all these questions without really expecting to find any answers, and the possibility that there might be more than one pleased her. Her parents had not, at any point in their lives, had a chance to consider their futures. Her father had been a blacksmith like his father before him, while her mother barely knew how to write her name. The Fangolin monks had taught the skill of writing to some, but they ensured they alone mastered the art.

  ‘Miss, try the flavours of the Sudies Islands! Spices like you’ve never tasted before!’ hailed a smooth-faced man with an olive complexion. His round belly almost rested on his stall, its surface covered with bags of spices.

  She gave him a brief smile and nodded disinterestedly before passing two men brawling in the middle of the street. No one paid them much attention, and she had other things to do than stroll about the city. She had been charged with a mission and was intent on carrying it out. Finding Eraëd, the Emperors’ sword, was not a passing whim but rather a conscious effort on the part of some to honour the past. Eraëd . . . the sword was much more than a symbol, it was a legendary object, said to have been forged at the beginning of time.

  Leaving the market street, she spotted the dried-up fountain that stood at the centre of a small square paved in red and white cobblestones. There, among the tall, prosperous-looking houses with balconies bright with flowers and wide windows, was the townhouse where she had left Dun-Cadal the previous night. It was not hard to recognise in the light of day. It was the only house whose curtains remained drawn and there were young women with exposed shoulders parading in front of the door. Long skirts fell to their bare feet, and they wore fine, brightly coloured cloth that clung perfectly to their curves. They were selling their charms to the highest bidder, and they had come to the right address for proper training. It was murmured here and there that Mildrel had been one of the most prominent courtesans of the Empire, sharing bedchamber secrets as she distributed both her favours and her advice in the shadowy light of private salons.

  Viola adjusted her spectacles before seating herself on the lip of the fountain. A stone cherub stood in the middle with its wings spread wide and one knee bent, as if about to take flight. She observed the passers-by: traders in Masalia on business, dirt-stained travellers wearily leading their mounts, and even some Nâaga swaggered past, staring all about them. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she finally spied the familiar figure of a badly-shaven old knight.

  Dun-Cadal emerged from Mildrel’s house, raising a hand to shade his face from the sun. In his other he held an apple and he lifted it to his mouth to take a bite. Two of the girls pacing before the door greeted him with broad smiles. The bright sunlight reflecting off the paving stones was dazzling. For someone whose eyelids already bore the weight of a hangover, the glare was almost unbearable.

  ‘I was afraid you’d never come out of there,’ a voice said behind him.

  He threw a glance over his shoulder, munching on a piece of the apple. Viola approached with a light step, her hands clasped behind her back and two rebellious curls falling before her ears. So the young red-headed woman was not going to leave him alone. He examined her from head to toe with a frown.

  ‘You again . . .’ he grumbled hoarsely.

  ‘Did you miss me?’ she asked with a smile, rocking on her feet like a child. ‘As female company goes, I think you did rather well for yourself last night.’

  Dun-Cadal walked away, grumbling as he went. Viola kept up with him.

  ‘I see you’re just as pleasant as you were yesterday,’ she said in a jesting tone.

  ‘Your savage isn’t with you?’ the knight groused. ‘Too busy drawing more tacky things on his face?’

  ‘Oh well, if you’re missing him then don’t worry, you’ll see him soon enough.’

  ‘I could easily manage without that . . .’

  He picked up his pace, eating his apple with an irritated air. To be pestered like this, so soon after waking, was intolerable. As was the hammer beating an anvil within his head. And it was compounded by all the sounds of Masalia; its street peddlers and hawkers . . . even its seagulls gliding past in the cloudless sky. Dun-Cadal shouldered his way through the crowd with Viola still dogging his heels.

  ‘Have you come back to threaten me?’ he asked.

  ‘Threaten you? With what?’

  ‘Now that you know who I am—’

  ‘I’m not about to put you on trial,’ Viola interrupted as she moved up to his side.

  A trader coming towards them with a cask in his arms almost ran into her. She sidestepped to avoid him and then swung back to follow in the knight’s wake. The trader went on his way without missing a step, whistling as he went.

  ‘I’m seeking something other than vengeance,’ she added.

  ‘I won’t help you find the rapier.’

  ‘That sword belongs to history!’

  ‘And that history is long over.’

  At the end of the street, they could see the swaying masts of the ships anchored in the port. Eager to leave all this frantic activity behind and spend a quiet moment in front of a
full tankard, Dun-Cadal turned right. But a tattooed colossus stood at the mouth of the alley with his arms crossed, one corner of his mouth twisted into a strange smile. Their eyes met and, judging by the old general’s scowl, there was nothing friendly in their glances.

  ‘I said you’d see Rogant again,’ Viola murmured behind him.

  Dun-Cadal turned round and headed for the port. Viola hurried to catch up with him before he disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘Dun! Wait, Dun!’ she cried. ‘Wait for me!’

  ‘Why should I wait for you?’ he asked firmly. ‘The only thing I’m waiting for is the moment when you lead the Republican Guards to me.’

  ‘The civil war is over, General,’ Viola replied. ‘Get that through your skull. You really believe I’d turn you in on the faint hope that you’ll talk to me from a gaol cell?’

  ‘The thought occurred to me.’

  ‘Be serious. I’d have to be an idiot to try something like that.’

  ‘That occurred to me as well,’ the knight said sarcastically.

  A multitude of proud, tall ships lay moored in the harbour, rocking gently on the water. Some sort of escort party was disembarking from one of them, composed of guards dressed in red and sky-blue armour, holding halberds and wearing swords at their side. At their head, two less heavily-armed soldiers bore standards with the colours of the arriving dignitaries. The councillors . . . so the rumours were true. He had known several of them in his previous life. He halted and felt Viola’s slight body press up against his back.

  ‘Why would I denounce you,’ she murmured, ‘when so many who prospered far more than you under the Empire, yet never even defended it, are now the elected representatives of the people?’

  There were four of them here, mostly old and wrinkled, wearing rich red cloaks adorned with gold fleurs-de-lys and trimmed with cream fur. Of these four, Dun-Cadal recognised three of them. The Duke of Azbourt, a cruel man with a deeply creased faced, massively-built despite his advanced age, who had long ago retreated to his northern duchy and made no effort to seek the Emperor’s favour. The Marquis of Enain-Cassart was a small man with a high-pitched voice, wearing a tightly curled powdered wig and a large smile on his face, who walked with the help of a cane. He had frequented the palace corridors in Emeris and proclaimed his loyalty to the Empire until the day it fell. What sort of deals had made him a candidate to represent his region in the Council? His personal wealth had certainly played a part. The third councillor in line was a personage unknown to the knight, much younger in age, with a thin scar beneath his right eye, but Dun-Cadal felt sure he had connections with the first two. As for the last man . . . Dun-Cadal shook his head, gritting his teeth.

  ‘I don’t know if you ever met again after he abandoned you in the Saltmarsh,’ Viola said, ‘but Etienne Azdeki is now one of the Republic’s most prominent councillors. Others will be arriving soon for Masque Night. If the people don’t hold their pasts against them, why should they hold yours against you?’

  She stood at his side, her gaze drifting over the crowd that had gathered around the officials and their escort. He had paid no heed to the Republic’s affairs, trying to forget about the world and hoping the world would forget about him. Although he had once known the Emperor himself, he cared little about who governed now, choosing to dwell in a reality apart. But some had risen again from the ruins of the Empire.

  ‘Congratulations, General, you’ve just realised that this world is neither black nor white, contrary to what you believed in the Empire’s heyday . . .’

  Something wasn’t right. He had a sense . . . but it was still too vague for him to understand the mounting fear inside him. His distraction partly accounted for his stinging retort:

  ‘Don’t play this little game with me.’

  ‘I can be sarcastic, too. Only I have a few advantages over you.’

  ‘Those being . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t stink of sweat, and I’m much prettier than you.’

  Dun-Cadal couldn’t hold back his smile, although the air around him seemed heavier, as if foreboding some disaster. No, truly, something wasn’t right. But the scent of lavender had beguiled him for an instant. She wasn’t lying about her pretty face, either.

  ‘I don’t mean you any harm, General, rest assured about that.’

  She gazed at him, her eyes so beautiful, so green, with fine long eyelashes. Their light was barely disguised by the glasses of her spectacles. How could he resist the quiet charm radiating from her, the resolute will contained in a velvet glove? He had the impression that she was stroking him, as if he were an old wolf she was trying to tame. And he found himself liking the experience. He had even day-dreamt that she could have been Mildrel’s daughter. The way the lavender scent clung so deliciously to both women’s throats . . . Without a word he bit hard into the apple, tearing off a chunk as if were meat on a bone, and looked away.

  But the ominous feeling was more distinct now. It was so obvious to him; his warrior’s senses telling him to remain on his guard.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he ordered, watching as the procession left the docks and crossed the big square just behind them.

  Before a wide building whose front steps were framed by tall white marble columns, four carriages awaited the new arrivals.

  The motley crowd was still pressing around the councillors, excited and curious enough that only the honour guard formed up by the halberdiers prevented the most intrepid from accosting their Council representatives. Although Azdeki, Azbourt and the unnamed stranger showed little interest in the people who had come to greet them, Enain-Cassart seemed delighted by their warm welcome. He squinted in the glare of sunlight reflecting off the paving stones, but anyone observing him could see a gleam of joy peeping through the slit between his eyelids.

  ‘General . . . ?’ ventured Viola.

  He raised a hand towards her, warning her to remain silent, and walked towards the square, hunting for anything unusual within the crowd. He could feel it, picture it . . . death, was lurking somewhere nearby, ready to pounce. But on whom? In what form? He couldn’t say, but he could sense it. And when he spotted the hunched figure hidden by an old patched cloak and a hood with rippling folds, he knew, even though it looked like an old man hobbling among the onlookers, gazing intently at the marquis.

  Dun-Cadal finally reached the crowd, the cheers aggravating his still aching head. He took one last bite of the apple and let it fall to the ground. The core was quickly crushed by passing feet. The figure advanced. There were cries of joy, laughter, and then a commotion started a few feet away. Curses and insults were exchanged and several halberdiers left their formation to aid their companions. A fight had broken out at the edge of the procession, small but enough to distract the guards. And the closer Dun-Cadal came, the more his alarm grew. Whatever happened would happen soon.

  The cloaked figure stumbled against a guard. The latter almost seemed to apologise to the old man, but his smile vanished as his legs gave way beneath his own weight.

  Very soon . . .

  The old man held the soldier’s body for a few seconds before letting it drop silently and creeping up behind the marquis’ back. A short distance away the halberdiers were separating three sailors from what looked like a furious Nâaga.

  Now.

  The old man straightened up suddenly, but the movement seemed curiously slow to Dun-Cadal’s eyes. With a twitch of his shoulders, he shed the patched cloak and hood, revealing a much younger man dressed in a green cape, with a thinner hood still masking his face in shadow. On his belt, two daggers sat next to the dull pommel of a sword. He wore leather bracers on his wrists and his relaxed stance was evidence of an extraordinary composure.

  Dun-Cadal came to a sudden halt, his breath cut short. He had been trained to seek out, recognise and detect the approach of assassins. He had protected the Emperor by becoming his shadow, watching for the slightest sign of suspicious movement at the Imperial court. When the Marquis of Enain-Cassart slo
wly turned round, he knew it was already too late.

  ‘Now then, young man—’

  The councillor’s beaming smile vanished as the blade pierced his throat. There was no cry, nor any word, just bubbles of blood that flowed into his mouth before trickling from the corners of his mouth.

  Fast and precise. And without any sign of remorse and regret, or even satisfaction at a duty accomplished. But Dun-Cadal could guess what the man was feeling. He had done similar work for years. To defend the Empire it had sometimes been necessary to strike first . . .

  Enain-Cassart fell to one side without the time to realise that his life was ending, and the cheers died away in general astonishment. For a brief moment, lasting no longer than the space of a breath, there was only the distant sound of water lapping in the harbour. And the flapping of the assassin’s green cape, caught in the wind, against his boots. The sound matched the beat of blood in Dun-Cadal’s temples and hypnotised the general.

  Killing. He’d done it himself, many times, in the same manner.

  ‘You were an assassin, weren’t you?’

  That was before the Emperor had allowed him to train a successor and be promoted to the rank of general in reward for his services. He’d given his uniform to his student . . .

  To Dun-Cadal’s right, a woman with dirty hair tied back in a ponytail and pink cheeks covered in tiny red veins stood gaping. When she finally recovered enough to speak, her voice rang out across the dumbstruck square.

  ‘Assassin!’ she screamed.

  And the crowd finally began to stir, panicked citizens fleeing the scene while the halberdiers hastily escorted the three remaining councillors to their carriages. Alone, standing over the marquis’ body, the assassin seemed to take a perverse pleasure in watching the stampede. He hardly moved when the guards surrounded him, spears and halberds levelled in his direction.

  Dun-Cadal had forgotten about that uniform from the very moment another man had donned it in his place. He had left it behind, like a legacy. A simple green cape . . . a ghost from his past. The general breathed heavily, darting brief glances at the handful of onlookers still lingering a few feet from the scene, as curious as they were frightened. For years he had tried to drown his memories in alcohol, and in the last few hours his entire past had resurfaced. From Eraëd to Frog . . . from Azdeki to the man who’d replaced him at the Emperor’s side.