Dancer’s arms were tied to his torso, but his hands were free and he grasped the slats and logs beneath him with all his might as the spinning increased to a dizzying speed. In fact, it was quite alarming now, even to him. ‘That’s quite enough!’ he yelled to Kellanved.
The mage too was grasping the timbers. ‘Things are beyond my control now! We are falling and I don’t know how far!’
Several Moranth went flying off the raft, and the spinning reminded Dancer of a child’s top. The gyre of water now rose all about them in walls of whirling darkness. ‘What’s—’ he began, and then something punched up from below, knocking the breath from him, and the logs burst apart.
He came to lying amid tall grass, and, given what he’d endured recently, that was actually a comfort. He let his head fall back for a moment just to luxuriate in green growing things. Then, steeling himself, he rose. All about, Black Moranth were likewise rising from a broad meadow that bordered a rocky shoreline. They stood peering about, utterly dumbfounded.
Dancer went searching for his partner.
He found him sitting inland, a long blade of grass in his mouth. The mage gave him a nod. ‘Well, that went far better than I feared. It was too rushed, and there was interference from the mainland, but still … ach, you saw how it went.’
Dancer gave an offhand shrug. ‘Not too shabby.’
Kellanved glanced past him and he turned; Twist was approaching. The Black Moranth commander walked straight up then knelt to one knee before the mage, helmeted head bowed. ‘We are yours.’
Kellanved waved that aside. ‘Continue your struggle for your people, commander. And keep an eye out. I may call upon you in the future.’
Twist bowed once more. ‘So it shall be.’ Rising, he walked off, gesturing his officers to him.
Dancer looked to Kellanved. ‘And us?’
The mage pressed his fingers to his brow and massaged it. ‘Tomorrow. Please.’
At that admission Dancer allowed his shoulders to ease. It surprised him to feel the level of tension he’d been carrying there all this time. He let out a long breath, and raised his eyes to an unfamiliar southern horizon where mountains rose to the clouds. He nodded to himself. Good. Tomorrow. It had been far too long already.
* * *
Cartheron was with the quartermaster of the main warehouse complex in Dariyal going over the books. Dull, and not the stuff of any bard’s tales of war, but essential just the same. There was an old saying he knew: amateurs talk battle, generals talk logistics.
He hadn’t thought much about it before, but now his life was all timber, nails, cloth and damned disgusting salted pork. The largest problem consuming him – and Napan command – these days was the old and tired one of corruption.
Unavoidable, of course; human nature being as it is. He was under no illusions. But still, there were limits. Outright fraud, for example – that could not be tolerated.
He gestured his disgust to the open books. ‘All this timber. Where is it? I’ve looked. I don’t see it.’
The quartermaster laughed uneasily and peered round at the staff of bookkeepers Cartheron had working in the office. ‘Well, sir, it hasn’t been delivered yet, I imagine.’
Cartheron eyed the fat fellow. ‘You imagine? You don’t know?’
He opened his hands. ‘Well, sir, I do not oversee every transaction. I’m sure you understand.’
Cartheron glanced to the guards he’d brought with him and nodded. ‘Oh, I understand.’ He opened another fat book to a prechosen page and gestured to it. ‘What about this series of transactions? Pay, uniforms, food and weapons for twenty-seven troops in the Seventh Company of the Eighteenth Regiment?’
The quartermaster-general blinked his heavy-lidded eyes and laughed anew. ‘Yes? The Eighteenth …?’
‘The Eighteenth marines. Seventh Company.’
The quartermaster peered about now as if aggrieved, his face darkening. ‘And what of it?’
‘Their weapons, their uniforms, their supplies, food, pay … all backdated four months. All vouchered by a certain …’ Cartheron squinted at the page, ‘a certain “Quartermaster Sergeant Nellat”.’ He eyed the sweating man. ‘Tell me, general … who is this Sergeant Nellat? He’s not on any other book that I can find.’
The man laughed again. ‘I’m sure this is just some clerical error. A mere oversight. That is all. Nothing for someone of your rank, High Fist, to concern yourself with …’
Cartheron nodded. ‘Yes – you’re right, of course. It is nothing.’ He closed the heavy books, one by one. ‘Because unfortunately, what concerns me is that someone will order the Seventh to hold a position, or support another troop, only to find, belatedly, after the battle is lost … that there is no Seventh.’
The man was nodding now, vigorously. ‘Yes, that would be unfortunate. And I promise you that I shall certainly get to the bottom of this!’
Cartheron nodded to the guards. ‘Let’s try.’ They opened the door and two more guards escorted in a soldier, his face an ashen grey. ‘I could not find a Quartermaster Sergeant Nellat, but I did find a Sergeant Tallen. Your son-in-law, I understand.’
The man glowered now, his mouth hardening. ‘You have no proof.’
Cartheron waved for the guards to take them away. ‘That’s for the military court to decide. You’ve wasted enough of my time.’
The bookkeeping staff now started to examine the next set of books and Cartheron peered round, wishing for a drink, as his throat was dry from all this dust. Unfortunately, there was not a drop in sight. He sighed. An easy and egregious case, that one. There were far more sly swindlers out there, but their trials, and the confiscation of their entire estates, would serve as a very public warning to others, and perhaps give them pause for reflection.
The door slammed open then and he turned, startled. One of Surly’s Claws stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, his eyes wide. ‘Come!’ was all the man blurted before he was gone again.
Cartheron nearly dropped the sheets of personnel he was examining. He’d never before seen one of her people agitated like that – in fact, he’d never seen them agitated at all. His first thought was, Gods! Someone’s finally gotten through to Surly. But if so, they’d hide the fact, wouldn’t they?
He nodded to the staff of bookkeepers. ‘Carry on,’ he said, and hurried out of the door.
The palace, just across the harbour, proved to be an overturned anthill of activity. No one he spoke to quite knew why – just that there was a confusion of contrary orders and shifting duties flying about. As he climbed the stairs Napan guards waved him onwards and upwards until he was within the private living quarters set up for the rulers – quarters Surly never used. Now, however, the place was swarming with servants and staff, all bustling about, dusting and cleaning, some with armloads of bedding, others bringing up platters of food and carafes of wine and liqueurs.
Cartheron stood scratching his brow, quite bemused. At least, he reflected, it doesn’t look as though anyone’s been murdered.
Then, as the door to the inner private bedroom swung open, he caught a glimpse of the rake-thin form of Dancer, looking very much the worse for wear, leaning up against a wall, arms crossed. He went to him and they clasped wrists. ‘Dancer! It’s good to see you again. Is …’
The assassin nodded and glanced across the room. Behind a crowd of servants sat a huge copper tub full of sudsy water, and above the mass of foam protruded the shrivelled and wrinkled chest and head of their wizened leader, Kellanved. The man was raising his arms and directing servants with long-handled brushes to his back.
Also present, pacing back and forth, was Surly, her arms likewise crossed, looking rather vexed.
‘Where—’ Cartheron began, but Dancer shook his head.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
Wherever they had been, or whatever they had done, it must have been terrifying, as the man before him appeared to have aged years. His face was blistered and peeling from exposure,
his shirt and trousers hung torn and soiled beyond recognition, and his boots were split and cracked. And slim to begin with, he had lost so much weight he was now no more than rope wrapped round a pole.
‘And Jadeen?’ Cartheron had to ask.
‘She proved unworthy,’ Kellanved supplied from the bath.
Cartheron crooked a questioning brow to Dancer, who waved the comment aside. ‘Never mind.’
‘Please do continue,’ Kellanved invited Surly.
She clenched her lips tight, but continued, ‘Forces out of Malaz are committed to the east, while a Napan task force is preparing to leave as soon as possible for the west.’
Kellanved nodded. ‘I see. And does this constitute all our forces?’
‘Virtually yes, excepting those held back for defence, of course.’
Kellanved nodded again, held out an arm for brushing. ‘Well, I happen to have a target in mind on the mainland and we must attack immediately!’
Cartheron and Surly exchanged alarmed glances; even Dancer frowned his confusion. ‘What target?’ he asked.
The mage, falsely aged and Dal Hon dark, his chest hair grey, stood from the bath and Surly looked away. Servants wrapped a towel round his waist. ‘I intend to attack Cawn!’ he announced.
Cartheron felt his brows crimp almost painfully. ‘Cawn has no military,’ he muttered, bewildered.
‘Cawn is not a strategic target,’ Surly confirmed, dismissively.
‘None the less,’ Kellanved huffed.
Dancer, arms still crossed, tilted his head and enquired, ‘You’d have us pull forces away just to beat up a pack of merchants?’
The mock-ancient’s eyes slit almost closed and his wrinkled features took on a sly look. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Then what?’
The servants were dressing him now, pulling on a new brushed-cotton shirt. He thrust a finger into the air. ‘I shall loose the Hounds upon Cawn.’
Cartheron gaped openly, and only barely stopped himself from blurting aloud, What?
Dancer started from the wall, obviously quite alarmed. ‘You can’t do that,’ he said.
The mage’s tiny eyes darted right and left. ‘Actually, I’m pretty certain I can.’
‘I believe he means you don’t want to do that,’ Surly supplied. ‘It would be a slaughter. They’re all civilians. Families. Women and children.’
Kellanved flapped his hands. ‘Well, then, warn them. Yes, send a warning! They have incurred my displeasure and now must suffer the consequences, blah, blah, such and such.’
Dancer raised a sceptical brow. ‘And just how have they incurred your displeasure?’
The mage threw his hands into the air. ‘I don’t know! Make something up.’ He raised a finger. ‘Wait! I know. Shadow. Two nights hence Shadow will visit them. There, that’s it.’ He brushed his hands together. ‘After that, our main force will land there. Cawn shall be our foothold. After the Hounds there will be no fight left in them. Oh, and also, I want an official historian. Find one.’
Cartheron and Surly shared a puzzled glance. ‘An official historian?’ Cartheron repeated, just to be certain that was what he had heard. ‘Okay. We can get on to that.’
‘Very good.’ Kellanved pulled on new shoes, took a moment to admire them, then headed for the door. ‘Let’s have a look about the place, Dancer. We didn’t have the chance last time.’
The lean knifesman was good enough to offer Surly an apologetic shrug, then a servant handed him a set of new clothes, trousers and shirts, as he headed for the door. Cartheron went to Surly where she stood shaking her head, perhaps in disbelief.
‘You forget,’ he said. ‘You start thinking he’s just a harmless oldster – then he goes and does something like this.’ He, too, shook his head. ‘What are we going to do?’
Surly raised a hand for silence. ‘We can allow him his little pet project, so long as it doesn’t interfere with prior commitments. We can send a small contingent to Cawn. No one gives a damn about Cawn.’
Cartheron would have objected, but he saw that she was struggling to salvage the situation as best she could so he said nothing. He watched, instead, while her lips drew down so very far.
Chapter 18
It all started with someone shoving a sum chalked on a slate piece in front of her. Iko threw it aside to shatter on the floor. It appeared again and she blinked; she thought she’d gotten rid of the damned thing. She threw it away again and took another drink to celebrate.
Someone was now tapping her on the shoulder; she ignored the pesky irritation. The tapping became an ill-mannered resolute jabbing. She grabbed the hand and twisted and was rewarded by the snapping of bones.
She was allowed to drink in peace for some time after that.
Then some fellow appeared sitting opposite her. She blinked at him and decided to ignore him, hoping he’d just up and disappear as quickly as he’d appeared. Unfortunately, the fellow did not go away. In fact, he had the temerity to speak to her.
‘We were wondering,’ he said – or she thought he was saying, ‘when you would be good enough to cover the bill?’
She waved the impertinent fellow away and refused to look at him. That should serve him right. However, when she next sneaked a glance, he was still there.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘you appear to be a cultured woman. But I must let you know that if you do not pay you will be removed from the premises.’
She laughed, and even slapped the table. ‘That I would like to see you try.’
He looked up past her and that was his mistake. She lurched to her feet, elbow rising, to smack meatily into someone’s nose. A hand grasped her shoulder from behind and she turned under it, raising a knee into the fellow’s groin.
Both bravos were stunned, staggering backwards, but she could not press the advantage as her sudden movements now drove her stomach to come surging up into her mouth and she clasped a hand to the table, vomiting painfully.
She clutched the table as if drowning, groaning and gasping. Then, straightening, she realized she was in some sort of shipboard bar as everything tilted one way then the other. She pointed to a group at a nearby table, four of them gaping up at her, and shouted, ‘Stop all this damned moving!’
They all promptly scrambled away.
She turned, blinking anew, and squinting. A huge number of bravos now faced her though their number kept changing. She waved at them too. ‘Stop all this damned changing!’
Someone grasped her arm from behind. She slammed her free palm into that person’s nose, and turned in time to find someone else charging her; she planted her foot into his stomach. Two grabbed each arm. She kicked each in turn in the head.
Then she had to pause to hold her own head. It was throbbing as if a knife had penetrated it. And everything kept wobbling from side to side – why wouldn’t it just stop?
Someone took her in a bear-hug. She threw her head back, smacking into his or her nose with a crunch. A kick to her leg brought her down to her knees. She grabbed her assailant’s crotch and pulled him down with her.
A blow to her head darkened her vision momentarily. She leaned down to her hands and lashed out with one leg, taking that attacker in the stomach. Another blow to the head and she grasped that foe’s shirt to pull herself up, taking him in a headlock and driving his head into a timber post.
She spun to face any others, but that was a mistake as the inn would not stop spinning and spinning, faster and faster, and she blinked, her vision darkening, until the floor hit her face and that was all she knew.
She awoke in a bed. A bed that stank of sweat and puke – unless that was her – in a room decorated garishly with hanging silken wraps and paintings of nudes. Rather like, well, a bordello. Her head ached abominably and her mouth tasted vile.
A carafe of water sat next to the bed, along with a glass. She sat up, gingerly, and gulped down a glassful of water. Her clothes were dirty and sticky with sweat, and her knuckles were crusted in blood. She felt
her head – her hair too was matted in blood, over the lumps.
She staggered to the door, opened it, found a narrow hall lined by numerous similar doors.
She was now certain that, yes, she was in fact within a bordello.
A door opened across the hall and she was surprised to find herself facing not a woman but a slim young male, his eyes heavily shadowed, his lips painted. Caught in mid-yawn the fellow nearly choked, staring. ‘Burn’s mercy, lass, but you’re a mess!’ he exclaimed.
‘Thank you so very much. How the fuck do I get out of here?’
He pointed up the hall. She went, thinking, well, they must cater to everyone here.
She found stairs that led down to a sort of salon, or parlour, call it what you would. Here the girls and boys were gathered, relaxing, clearly off duty. All conversation stopped and everyone stared.
‘I’m leaving,’ she announced. ‘Where’s the door?’ Several pointed. ‘Thank you.’ She headed that way and found another hall leading to a sturdy exterior door.
‘You owe me!’ came a harridan’s screech. Iko paused, her hand inches from the latch. ‘Or shall I call the authorities?’ She turned. A bent ancient, as garishly made up as the premises, faced her.
‘I have no coin to pay you,’ she said.
The old woman gestured impatiently. ‘I know. I had you searched.’
‘So?’
She crooked a bent finger. ‘Come. Let us talk business.’
She was led through a series of narrow, private staircases to what proved to be a verdant roof garden. Here Iko shielded her eyes, blinking; it had been some time since she’d been outside. The ancient picked up a jug and began watering large, oddly shaped flowers of a sort Iko had never seen before. ‘Very rare, these,’ the old woman told her. ‘I sell them for a good price – not unlike those downstairs.’ She gestured to chairs round a low table. ‘Sit.’
Iko did not move. ‘Why?’
‘Because you have nowhere else to go.’
She crossed her arms. ‘And how is it you know so much about me?’
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