The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘So you want me to tell my tale, hmm?’ he sighed. ‘Where do I start . . . ?’

  ‘Why not begin with Frog?’

  Suddenly it seemed her green eyes were all he could see. The tavern had disappeared, his blood ran hotly in his veins, and his entire body felt like it was enveloped in cotton. Only that shining gaze seemed to keep him afloat, like a lighthouse guiding a lost mariner.

  ‘Frog . . .’ he agreed slowly.

  And he told her.

  He told her of meeting the lad in the marshes, of the months spent in the Saltmarsh waiting for his injured leg to heal before their mad escape one starry night. He told of the escape itself without dwelling on details he judged to be of minor import, and narrated how he found Frog waiting for him out on the plain that spread beyond the forest. His memory of events returned as if they had happened yesterday. He saw the face of his young apprentice again clearly, twisted in pain. It was not a physical kind of suffering, not at all. The lad had killed a man and could not forget his stunned expression, fixed forever by the point of a wooden sword planted in his neck. It had torn into the flesh, allowing a continuing flow of red to spill forth, a steaming and sticky stream. The general had known full well that the image of the blood running from the body, and with it a man’s life, would mark the boy’s mind forever. He used only a few words to retrace their journey to Emeris, passing quickly over their stay in Garmaret where the Imperial Army had taken up position after it had been expelled from the Saltmarsh.

  No, only their arrival in Emeris really mattered . . .

  ‘How big is it?’ asked Frog.

  ‘How big?’ his mentor laughed.

  It had just been a year since they first met. Riding along a track lined with oak trees they looked like two weary travellers, their large black cloaks stained with mud. The young boy’s frail figure had filled out and one could see the makings of a man; the child had been left behind in the Saltmarsh, with the body of a bald captain. Beneath his hood, the gaze was still dark but the features of his face had been subtly reshaped.

  Dun-Cadal, too, had changed. The cheeks hollowed by months of hunger in the marshes had recovered their original form. The new beard on his face bore witness to their recently rejoining the road, after a halt during which he had enjoyed the comforts of food, a warm bath, a good shave and a soft bed . . .

  Two months had passed since their escape, and a month since their stay in the fort at Garmaret. These past few weeks they had crossed the former Kingdoms and were discovering that the rebellion had spread like gangrene, reaching all four corners of a badly shaken Empire.

  They’d taken part in some of the fighting. They’d confronted many dangers . . . but only their arrival in Emeris mattered to them. And during their journey, he and the lad had come to understand one another.

  Day after day, Frog made progress. Day after day, he drew a little closer to what he had sworn to become. And, day after day, Dun-Cadal felt a pride he disguised behind a gruff exterior. He gave no praise or encouragement, limiting himself to a few satisfied nods of the head. The lad displayed no anger over this.

  ‘Is it twice as big as Aëd’s Watch?’ Frog asked.

  Dun-Cadal gave him a wry smile over his shoulder.

  ‘Three times as big? Ten times?’ the boy suggested in growing wonder.

  ‘That’s up to you to say when you see it, lad.’

  Between the trees, drawn up like an honour guard, the path vanished before them. But, as they advanced, the sinuous track reappeared, descending a wooded hill like a serpent slithering through the oaks. Down below, bordering a cliff from which a misty torrent cascaded, an immense city rose, shining and proud, with high silvery towers overlooking circle upon circle of tall buildings. The radiance of the noon sun sparkled off the summit of the highest tower. Frog’s jaw dropped in silence. Since their escape from the Saltmarsh, he’d had the chance to see cities in the West which were twice as big as Aëd’s Watch, his town of birth being his sole reference point for comparison. But this . . . this exceeded anything he could have imagined. Water from the falls foamed at the feet of the capital and flocks of birds with wide-stretched wings followed the course of the river before they swooped down to its surface. Then they climbed back up into the sky to fly over the great forest which spread for miles until it reached the mountains.

  ‘Well?’ asked Dun-Cadal in mock surprise. ‘Have you lost your tongue, Frog? Or are you trying to figure out how many Aëd’s Watches it would take to contain that city over there?’

  Chuckling to himself, he urged his horse into a trot with a dig of his heels, moving away down the track. When Frog finally tore his eyes from Emeris, the knight was already descending the hill, zigzagging between the trees. As Dun-Cadal expected, the lad was quick to catch up, arriving out of breath.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s huge,’ he stammered as he approached his master’s side.

  ‘There’s another word to describe it,’ Dun-Cadal replied.

  He was remembering the first time he had crossed the bridge over the torrent. He would never forget the dizziness that overcame him when he had advanced beneath the great gate in the white walls surrounding the city. He had been about the same age as Frog . . . and he had left the Daermon family home in the West behind, never to return.

  ‘What word is that?’ his pupil immediately asked.

  ‘Imperial . . .’ murmured Dun-Cadal in a surprisingly grave and respectful tone.

  Yes, he could understand what the lad must be feeling, since he’d discovered the city in somewhat similar circumstances. His uncle had sent him to the military academy, fulfilling his nephew’s desire to leave the West. Just like Frog, he had fled a life that did not suit him, that of a minor and unimpressive lord ruling a small feudal holding of no importance, surrounded by people lacking any ambition. The House of Daermon was relatively recent; its history only dated back to his grandfather and its interests depended on maintaining a sort of humility which Dun-Cadal considered to be craven. The less the House of Daermon was spoken of, the less it risked attracting the wrath of the Imperial family. As a child, he had seen his dreams of glory diminished until he could bear it no longer, and when the opportunity finally presented itself to serve the Empire in a worthy manner, he sought his uncle’s consent to send him to the right school. That opened up a glorious road for him that he decided to stride with self-confidence and ostentation, shrugging off the habitual diffidence of the other members of his house. His destiny had started at Emeris, the symbol of success, for it was here the fate of the world was decided . . . It was the head and the heart of an immortal Empire.

  They trotted through the muddy streets of the poorer neighbour-hoods whose thatched houses formed a ring at the outskirts of the city. When their horses’ hooves struck paving stones, the buildings became more grandiose, their windows much bigger. Frog remained silent. Yet, although he did not utter a word, his attitude said much. When they entered the palace, he seemed less serene. There, in the large rooms with their wide windows, standing among the generals his mentor greeted, he became stiff, his head bowed and his eyes furtive but always darting around as if he were seeking someone. Dun-Cadal introduced him to the others briefly, thereby avoiding further questioning from his brothers-in-arms.

  Dun-Cadal’s adventures in the Saltmarsh had caused quite a stir. The Imperial Knighthood evinced a mixture of pride and jealousy regarding his exploits. Everywhere people were saying he’d defeated the rebel army singlehandedly. Although he appeared not to be paying any attention, the knight kept an eye on his apprentice. It was not so much the lad’s behaviour that concerned him, but what he might be feeling. What was he saying to himself as he clasped so many hands, met so many people, walked down hallways broader than he had ever seen before?

  He must be feeling dizzy too. . .

  To a child of the provinces, arriving among all these warriors in their brightly coloured armour, sporting the ancient symbols of their houses, was intimidating enough. Penetrating the
lair of the Knighthood, seeing the coats-of-arms as well as the armour, the famous old blades hung on the walls like venerable souvenirs, was exhilarating. The relics of the Reyes dynasty’s greatest defenders were gathered here, with the helms of the bravest combatants sitting proudly on display. Armour had grown lighter over the centuries, swords more refined. Daermon had no doubt in his mind that Frog would be able to follow in the footsteps of their illustrious predecessors. But first he would have to overcome his nerves.

  Everything, from the milky white walls of the palace to the stained glass decorating the halls, from the guards in golden helmets, the tips of their spears gleaming in the sun, to the respectful silence of the ladies in their satin gowns, was new to someone who had lived in the marshes. Here the scent of roses and freshly cut grass was mixed with the most bewitching perfumes.

  ‘This is your first visit, isn’t it?’ asked a man wearing a white robe with a red fabric draped over one shoulder.

  They were following him down a long hallway lined with mirrors. Dun-Cadal had introduced the man as a steward to the Emperor. The latter, on hearing of their arrival, had summoned them immediately. Among all these generals, these captains, these counts and barons glimpsed since they had entered the palace, Frog was visibly becoming bewildered. He who had been so insolent, on more than one occasion, was now timid and reserved. To that was added an obvious nervousness. His master observed the effects as they approached a wide pair of varnished doors with gilded frames. The young man’s skin was beaded with sweat, his gestures grew jerky and his breathing muffled.

  ‘Are you mute, then, having said nothing until now?’ asked the steward. ‘I’ve heard of you, you know. You’re Frog, am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Frog . . .’ said Dun-Cadal reproachfully.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the boy rectified.

  ‘Your devotion to the Empire has caught our attention . . . as well as our respect, young man.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ he replied in a suddenly sharp tone.

  Dun-Cadal knew very well what was bothering his apprentice. He recalled the way he had behaved upon arriving here for the first time and meeting Asham’s father, disguising his apprehension with a false cockiness. But Frog was still too young to be conceited.

  The steward pushed open the two great doors with a slow loud creak. Beyond, in a large room with a black-streaked marble floor, dozens of smooth columns ascended to the ceiling. There was no furniture, not a seat or even a throne. Just a thin red curtain that stretched out near a balcony overlooking rustling tree tops. A strange, imposing shadow seemed to be seated in a wide tub from which curls of steam were rising into the air. Feminine-looking silhouettes were pouring buckets of water into the bath.

  Frog froze.

  ‘Advance,’ ordered Dun-Cadal, pressing him in the back. ‘And don’t speak until he addresses you.’

  Behind the cloth, the shadow bent over like a sick child. With a sign of his hand, the steward beckoned them to follow him.

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ he announced in a loud voice. ‘General Daermon, returned from the Saltmarsh, and his young . . . protégé.’

  ‘Have you returned with a son?’ a voice jeered. ‘Is that what took you so long?’

  As they approached, Dun-Cadal noticed the lad’s more resolute step. But he looked even more anxious than before. His face tense and wearing a frown, he quickened his pace and was walking beside the steward. A few more steps at the same speed and he would be the first to present himself before the Emperor. Frog would surely slow down at the last instant. The general smiled faintly. He was about to reply when a peculiar noise caused him to place his hand on the hilt of his sword. A blade hissed through the air to stop short against the boy’s neck. The steward stepped to one side, alarmed.

  ‘Peace, Daermon,’ purred a strangely deep voice.

  Dun-Cadal stiffened. The shine of his own sword had emerged between the scabbard and the guard. He hesitated over whether to yank it completely free. But he recognised the other man and knew he would be far too quick to respond. For it was the Hand of the Emperor who had placed the cutting edge of his weapon beneath Frog’s lifted chin.

  ‘The lad is no enemy,’ Dun-Cadal rumbled in protest.

  ‘He comes from the Saltmarsh . . .’

  The timbre of the other man’s voice was extremely unpleasant, a mixture of hoarseness and whistling, as if there were pebbles lodged in his throat obstructing his breathing.

  ‘Ever prompt to defend me, Logrid,’ acknowledged the voice behind the curtain as a servant poured more water into his bath.

  Wisps of steam drifted along the stretched cloth.

  ‘But I don’t believe a mere child who has left his region in time of war would come all this way to kill his Emperor.’

  The assassin tilted his head slightly to one side, like a wild beast studying the smallest details of its prey. He looked down at the boy’s hand, which was ostensibly reaching for the hilt of his own sword. There seemed to be a tear brimming along the edge of Frog’s right eyelid, ready to run down a face gone rigid with shock. Beneath the assassin’s ample hood not a single feature was touched by the light. Nevertheless, he appeared to be closely examining the lad, who was glaring back at him.

  ‘Logrid . . .’ growled Dun-Cadal. ‘Leave him be.’

  Logrid lowered his blade. As he advanced towards the general, he slipped his sword back into the scabbard which hung from his belt.

  ‘So this is how we’re welcomed back to court,’ murmured Dun-Cadal as he stepped around the assassin.

  ‘I’m only following your teaching . . . Daermon,’ Logrid replied in a low voice.

  ‘The lad isn’t threatening the Emperor, Logrid . . .’

  Logrid gave him a strange smile over his shoulder and, with a silent step, crossed the room to disappear behind a column. In his wake he left a boy who was paralysed by fear . . . or by humiliation.

  ‘Frog . . .’

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if you were to have a private audience with His Imperial Majesty,’ the steward suggested in the general’s ear.

  Dun-Cadal nodded. Whatever had possessed Logrid to cause him to attack a child? The general knew the insurrection in the Saltmarsh was still far from being beaten, but to go from there to suspecting a mere boy of . . . He sighed as the steward led Frog back to the door. The lad did not even glance at him, wearing a sullen expression on his face. Frog, who was so proud, had been frightened so badly in the presence of the most important person in the world. Worse still, he had been humiliated without being given a chance to display his own talents. It would teach him to be patient, the general decided; it would teach him to be humble. A day would come when, having mastered his anger, he would reveal himself to the entire world in all his splendour. Right now, the important thing was the war. The idea that the lad might influence its outcome had to be sown in the Emperor’s mind. That hope had germinated out of chaos. When the double doors closed behind them, Dun-Cadal advanced towards the red curtain, certain that he had returned from the Salt-marsh with a truly precious stone. The shadow climbed from the tub accompanied by a certain amount of splashing and was immediately covered up by the slender silhouettes of the attendants. It looked like an angel folding its wings, assisted by chaste virgins. Or else a demon. The shape of a skull slowly rose up and the ladies stepped away. They appeared at last in flesh and blood, passing around the curtain, all of them young and beautiful and wearing long green gowns with gold embroidery. Four of them carried the still steaming bathtub. Out of the corners of their eyes they directed curious glances at the general before vanishing behind the columns. A door slammed shut and then there was only the whistling sound of breathing. The silhouette remained unmoving, still masked by the curtain.

  ‘He saved my life,’ Dun-Cadal said suddenly.

  ‘I know that,’ replied the Emperor. ‘Forgive Logrid. The revolt has caused trouble even here in Emeris. Who are our friends? Who are our enemies? It’s diffic
ult to know for sure.’ He paused, shifting slightly to one side. ‘Logrid . . . is only protecting me. Just as you did, a long time ago.’

  He seemed to be looking for something at his feet, bent down and pulled up what appeared from the shadow it cast to be a stool.

  ‘How good it was to learn that you were still alive, Dun-Cadal. How pleasant it is to have you here,’ he confided as he sat down.

  ‘My being alive is even more pleasant for me than for you, Your Imperial Majesty. I’m not certain, however, that Captain Azdeki is of the same opinion.’

  The Emperor stifled a laugh.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard rumours. Don’t worry about it. Despite his uncle’s pleas, I’ve sent him to another front. I could not do more than that. He claims he believed that you were dead, and who can prove otherwise? We all believed it. Approach,’ he ordered. ‘Come close to me . . .’

  The general obeyed without saying a word, his sword slapping against his thigh. Outside, birds were singing.

  ‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they? The songs of my Empire . . .’ the Emperor said dreamily. ‘But what happens when some of them become discordant?’ His voice was suddenly harsher. ‘You visited Garmaret, didn’t you?’

  ‘I found Negus there after our escape from the Saltmarsh. He told me the news.’

  ‘Ah, really? What news was that?’

  ‘That the revolt has spread to other regions, Your Imperial Majesty.’

  Behind the curtain, the shadow nodded its head ruefully.

  ‘Like wildfire, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Negus also told me that Uster’s younger son is the suspected ring-leader . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ the Emperor admitted. ‘Yes, that’s what I think. Laerte of Uster, Oratio’s second son . . . His father was found guilty of treason and hung. He denigrated my power with his writings, the treacherous bastard! He denigrated the Liaber Dest, he denigrated the Order of Fangol . . . Everything we believe in, he wanted to trample. I suppose his son is prepared to do anything to avenge him . . . including inciting the people to rise up against me. Our people, to whom I’ve given my life, a people who are no more than ungrateful children! I am their father and they rebel against me without any thought. This Laerte, just like Oratio before him, must be judged! He has encouraged my people to tear themselves apart! And all of them are accomplices in shedding blood.’