“Oh ... that’s a shame. I’ll lend you something, to ensure you can get by. You can pay me back after work with the councilor.”
Erin frowned. “I do not think that I have much choice.”
Jerine rubbed her hands together. “Anyway, the place is almost full, but I’ve got us three rooms, all together, with food provided in the morning and evening. We have to share with another man, but at least we have lodgings. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Dalathos wasn’t so sure. Erin’s purse had already been stolen, and he wouldn’t trust Sirath around his own things. “Can we try elsewhere?”
“I don’t think you understand. I’ve already paid. For all of us, for four nights. That should see how we fare with the councilor’s business, and Erin through to her presentation.”
Dalathos reached under his mail for his purse, intending to repay her. “How much did it cost?”
“At three guilders per person per night, it cost well over three crowns, overall. Our rooms are on the top floor, so they’re the cheapest.”
Dalathos sucked in a sharp breath. Jerine had been robbed — it would only cost pennies for a room at Tulst. Then it struck him — this was the expense of the city, for a group of people over a few days, during the biggest festival of the year. He wouldn’t have enough to pay his share of that and a guild joining fee. The realization left him cold. Dalathos slowly withdrew his hand from his purse.
Something nearby struck solid metal. A heavy bass boomed to the air. Then echoed again, everywhere, in different anvil tones. He glanced about in confusion.
“The evening bell,” Jerine explained, “ringing out from the towers. The last hour till dusk. Let’s get the mules stabled. They’ll need grain after the long journey. And then get ourselves to our rooms.”
The deep sound of hammered bronze continued, like a greeting. Or a warning. The man who had no place in the world finally stood at the heart of empire, in the city of legends. What would his family think to see him so near to his dream? His uncle and auntie would just be glad he was safe. His nephews might find some reason to tease him at the forges. That made him imagine the sight of Alarian, hammering in the heat with a sweat shimmering on his arms. Dalathos felt his chest tighten with longing to be near him. As quickly as it came, he cast out all thoughts of that from his mind. It was no way to make a man of him. He’d left for redemption, not longing.
And he’d finally arrived.
He frowned at Jerine. Now came the challenge of making a life for himself — without having it made for him.
The Traitor
Adoras
General Adoras put down his quill down with a shaking hand.
He sprinkled the note with sand to dry the ink faster, then blew it off. He folded the parchment, dripped blue wax on the fold, and pressed it with the lead seal of his office. He sat back and waited for the wax to dry and his heart to calm.
Councilor Brannon’s letter asked for suitable security for the Imperial Tournament. Adoras’s reply assured that all arrangements were in place.
The exchange confirmed that the Emperor would be assassinated in three days.
Betrayal was the only hope for the Emperor’s Guard. Once they had been the bodyguards of Sephis the Great, risen from the ashes of the Knights of Eiom. Now they were nothing but effete cavaliers, composing poems, drinking, and gambling. And fixated on the latest Irithian fashions — velvet doublets of blue or purple, fine lace shirts, and the current vogue of a wide-brimmed black hat crowned with a white feather. Instead of polished armour, they posed in theatrical costume.
Promised the position of chief-general for his role, Adoras could usher in essential reforms. The difficulty was how to effect change without exposing himself as a traitor.
There was a rap at the door.
Adoras started, and his chest tightened. Fearing his treachery might be discovered, he hid the letter in a stack of wax tablets. And silently cursed that parchment did not burn easily. He tried to control the tremor in his voice, “Who is it?”
“Captain Linnios. I thought you might enjoy a drop of piment?”
Adoras exhaled, and measured his breath. A good spiced wine might calm him. Better, though, was that this could be the sycophantic junior officer he needed.
Steeling himself, Adoras stood. He crossed the floor, then opened the door.
The young captain waited with a silver tray, a green glass bottle, pair of cups, and plate of honeyed cakes upon it.
Adoras gave the perfunctory salute to his chest. Captain Linnios struggled to balance the tray with one hand as he returned the gesture with the other. Adoras enjoyed the man’s discomfort, despising his abject fawning. Young officers tried to suck up to the senior ones, sometimes literally so. “That is most kind of you, captain,” Adoras said, “but I was on my way to Galadon’s office.”
“Chief-General Galadon?”
“Indeed. I require his assistance over some small matter. I would rather not miss out on refreshments. Follow me, I’m sure he would love some himself. Galadon is fond of cakes.”
“Lead the way, general!”
Adoras fought to keep his stride steady. Cracks climbed the walls of the marble corridor, the blue carpet threadbare in places. Arched glazed windows, dirty or even broken, allowed foul-smelling city air to seep in. The grandeur of the Emperor’s Guard was superficial, founded on rot.
The tray rattled as Linnios tried to keep pace. “I do hope the matter is not too important as not to share?”
“Not at all. When is it ever?” Adoras’s sigh was exaggerated. “I am trying to determine which senior officer to put in charge of the Imperial Tournament.” He dared to offer a whiff of a lure for the captain. “Whomever does that will require a junior to cover his duties. Yet whom to choose? The Emperor’s Guard is not what it used to be. Ah, here we are.” Adoras knocked at the door, and waited to be called, before entering.
Galadon’s office was an oval of blue-veined marble, ringed by four columns to a grand domed ceiling. Enameled figures and gold working decorated the walls, and plush blue velvet curtains stood open at the rear, allowing a view over a balcony to the city below.
In the centre of the floor stood a writing desk, Galadon seated behind it with a book on his lap. He looked up, and pushed black ringlets away from his surprised eyes. “I say, this is unexpected. Nevertheless, welcome, gentlemen.”
“We have not disturbed you, have we?” Adoras asked, knowing that Galadon never did anything worthwhile to be disturbed from. The secretaries did most of the real work for the officers.
Galadon glanced down at his page. An illustration of a naked woman was plainly visible. “Well, nearly,” he answered with a nervous guffaw. “A few pages on and you may have caught me in an embarrassing position, holding myself from my trousers.”
Linnios strained to look. “May I ask what you were reading?”
Galadon lifted the book. “It’s a rather saucy number I’ve been given called Confessions of a Sardonian Sister. It’s amazing what mass pleasures some of these nuns get up to. The mind boggles at what you can learn from literature these days.” Galadon’s gaze rested upon the tray. “Cakes, too? I say, what a jolly fine day I’m having! Please, lay the tray upon the desk. Don’t mind the parchments, it’s not as if I do.”
Adoras smiled wryly, but said nothing.
Linnios put the tray down. “Is it the first or the second book?”
“Well sink me, dear fellow! There is another?”
“Bishop Lovestaff appears in a sequel. I have it at home, alongside another that may call your attention, as it deals with the guard in the days of Eiom ... Knights of Passion.”
Both men prattled on, reveling in their desire for these base amusements. Adoras fought to control his impatience during their immaterial exchange. Let it play a little longer, and Galadon might seize on any suggestion Adoras made for the junior officer.
Galadon mopped his brow with a lace handkerchief and grinned. “Even cake seems to pale in
comparison to the joys of religion.”
Adoras coughed gently. “When the chief-general is ready, I have a matter to discuss.”
Galadon sighed. “Back from the realm of fantasy to the world of reality.” He placed a sheet in his book as he closed it. “Sit down, Adoras, and pray tell of this matter.”
It is of who should take charge at the Imperial Tournament.” Adoras found that his nerves made it impossible to sit comfortably. “The Emperor will be present. We need an experienced officer in command, but none are available.”
Galadon leaned back, and feigned a look of thoughtfulness. “Yes ... I’ve been wondering about this myself.” Linnios offered to pour. Galadon nodded. “Do you have someone in mind?”
Adoras shook his head. “We need someone who knows how to deal with crowds. If we have one.”
Linnios spoke out of turn, “Who took charge before?”
“Colonel Annarios,” Galadon said, “but he died of the bloody flux last interval. A terrible loss, and leaves us with our current predicament.” He sipped his piment. “Ah, lovely and sweet ... excellent!”
“My mother’s recipe,” Linnios said. “A secret mix of spices, and honey. All to give a good body to any base wine.”
“Very good.” Galadon took another sip.
Adoras received a cup from the captain, relieved that his hands had something to hold, rather than fidget. “I am uncertain whom to assign against a notorious mob and inevitable riot.”
Galadon lowered his cup. “It was bad enough when they burned the Ansuber Stadium last autumn. And that was only over a foot race.”
Adoras dared to allow his argument to progress. “Let alone the events in Serrilinus at the previous tournament. I am told that Duke Caramanis lost a good few men in that trouble. Now we are faced with the problem here. Our only option is to pull someone from important duties, but the question remains whom, and from what.”
Linnios butted in, “What of Commander Parthaxos?”
Despite the impolite familiarity, Adoras hid a smile behind his cup. That would be his suggestion. Parthaxos was the only officer in the Emperor’s Guard who had the necessary experience. He also supervised the imperial bodyguard. This was all playing out as required.
“Parthaxos, eh?” Galadon repeated. “I must say, it would amuse me to see the lazy old figgit do some real work for once.”
Adoras held his tongue, then offered a trite objection, “But he must not leave the Emperor.”
“He does not have to,” Linnios said. “A general does not have to fight on the front line to direct his troops.”
“Absolutely,” Galadon said. “I’ve read about such things in books. Well, obviously not in this one.”
Adoras could feel himself close. “Parthaxos will need to spend time at the stadium planning the arrangements. We also have the concern of what to do should trouble spill into the streets.”
Galadon shook his head. “The city watch can deal with street problems. Even if that means filling half the city with chains.”
“We could always involve the Cardinals’ Men,” Linnios said, “to quell the crowds?”
Adoras felt his hopes sink. It was rare to speak openly for the Order of Omicron, let alone recommend duties for their troopers. It was a definite mistake. Linnios, for all his suitable naivety, may well have just removed himself from any favor. And set back any advantage that Adoras had gained.
“I say, what! Use the Order?” Galadon exclaimed. “I wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole. Unless I were hitting them with one, that is.”
“Exactly,” Captain Linnios said with a smile. “Let the mob do that for you.”
Galadon blinked, then laughed. “I like your thinking. But, no, we could never work with them.”
Adoras appreciated the captain’s recovery, and dared to act now, before the moment was lost again. “Then who would oversee the bodyguard while Parthaxos is away from the palace?” He allowed a long look to Captain Linnios. “It is neither a question of experience nor ability. We simply require an up and coming officer we can trust.”
Galadon followed Adoras’s gaze. “I think the very man we need is standing in front of me ... a man of promising aptitude who requires just a little more responsibility before his next promotion. Captain Linnios, how would you like to become commander of the imperial bodyguard?”
Linnios stepped back, surprised. “Really?”
“Why not?” Galadon said. “It is but temporary, and when Parthaxos returns he will regain his position without ceremony. A basic matter really. Adoras, this is more your area. I presume you have no objection to updating this captain’s brief?”
“None at all. Though I will need you to sign the order,” Adoras replied, licking his lips. If Galadon sanctioned the arrangements, the consequences would be upon his head.
Galadon and Linnios prattled on again, in good humor. The young captain promised to bring Galadon more erotic books on the morrow, and another bottle of piment.
Adoras could not believe that his plan had worked so perfectly. He had planted a few suggestions, fed the ambition of Linnios, and Galadon even felt it was his own idea. Adoras had got exactly what he wanted. His heart raced to think of everything he might have gained from such a brief conversation.
Captain Linnios was dismissed, and left the room with a giddy flourish.
Adoras faced Galadon. Despite his own relief, his mouth now felt far too dry. Like parchment — like the message in his office he was now able to send. After three days there would be a new Emperor, and Adoras would be the new chief-general. He lifted his cup, and with a smile to Galadon, shared a drink with the man he had just betrayed.
Familiar Dangers
Sirath
The Lion Inn’s common area was more like a hall than a room, and it was packed. The dozens of tables were all occupied, and people without a bench lounged by the walls, else sat on the floor in groups. Above, busy galleries ran along both sides for private chambers. Beyond the raised ceiling were another two floors for even more guest rooms — including the ones Jerine had paid for.
The air was filled with music and revelry. People drank, ate, diced, or danced where they could. A band of musicians nearby played a reel — Jerine among them with a penny whistle, whirling as she performed.
Sirath watched her with a smile, but wasn’t fooled by the mood. Merry laughter hid everyday malice. And drink could turn a man from friend to foe in a heartbeat. He glanced at Erin, seated too close, but kept alert for trouble beyond their table.
At least he’d probably escaped Gutter Jack, and the merchant chasing his baggage mules. Now he just faced the familiar dangers of the city. Jerine’s hospitality kept him safe from cold and hunger. Now all he had to keep wary of were violent drunks, other thieves, the rich, rapists, and murderers. If trouble appeared, Sirath already had it in mind to escape up one of the staircases behind him.
Still, despite his unease, this was a place of opportunity. So much food and drink lay on the tables — it would be easy to grab, then disappear with into the crowd. And squeezing through that, fingers might brush against a bag, tickle a purse, or tease a belt. With everyone pushed up so close it would be hard for quick hands to be noticed. Later, they might explore pockets and folds inside the tunics of senseless drunks. Out there were easy pickings indeed. Cal would have loved to work a place this size. Sirath wondered how much they might have made together — obviously not as much as the proprietor, who charged in gold. Even if they’d found nothing, they’d have been happy enough to huddle down somewhere like this on those long winter nights, when they’d spend their last penny on a roof over their heads. Better to feel hungry than freeze to death. But tonight, Sirath had the promise of a guest room, and that was sheer luxury.
The question was, why? What did Jerine get out of spending three crowns and more on their lodgings? How did she intend to make her coin back? Was this all a trick, and if so, what? He’d seen nothing to make him suspicious, but maybe he should leave now, an
yway. He wondered if that fat pouch of money was still inside her satchel. If so, he could just grab it and run with his mules.
The temptation troubled him. Despite the appeal of greed, Jerine promised comfort and safety. And he enjoyed her cheerful company. He had to trust in Fortune. And he didn’t dare disrespect that with common thievery. Not yet.
The music stopped. Cheering erupted. A fiddler warmed up for a jig. Jerine re-appeared, red-faced and breathless, with a big grin on her face.
“Enjoy that?” Sirath asked, trying to match her good humor.
“Very much!” Jerine seated herself beside Sirath, and placed her tin whistle in her satchel. She looked to Erin. “Did you?”
Erin broke from her thoughts. “Hm? Oh, indeed. I have always been fond of music.”
A tall serving lad appeared — all freckle-faced and gangly and covered with pimples — carrying a tray of mugs and a keg. The lad broke the pitch seal, and poured out clear ale.
Sirath enjoyed the novelty of being served upon, knowing it couldn’t last. It was almost a comfort to be in a city again, after so long on wild roads. Corianth was different, yet similar in many ways to Canalecht: the buildings and tenements, the crowds and commotion. The big difference was that he was living like a rich man. For the moment.
Common conversations caught his ear — small talk about weather, complaints about prices, and someone mocking their brother-in-law. More than once he thought he recognized a face from Canalecht. His heart leaped with both alarm and joy, only to realize it wasn’t them.
Sirath needed to stand on his own, with his own coin in hand. He should find a hay market to sell them mules, or chance that work Jerine had mentioned. Especially as rich employers had so many little things that could go missing. He glanced to Jerine, then something upstairs caught his eye.
Ulric and Dalathos had appeared at the top of the staircase. They pressed their way down through the crowds. It was a relief to see them approach at last. Many here wore swords at their belt, but none carried a blade as long as Dalathos did. Let the two big men handle any trouble as they returned from their rooms. That reminded Sirath — Jerine had said that they’d share with another. “Jerine, you seen that other man you paid for, yet?”
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 5
