by Col Buchanan
Bahn had complained of not being able to hear in his right ear, so Bull nudged him, and the man turned his head slowly, and looked at the waterskin, then looked at Bull. He returned to staring through the wall.
Weakness rode through Bull like nausea. He tossed the water-skin to the staff sergeant, Chilanos, instead, who refused to speak either, only offered a flicker of gratitude with his eyes. The next man along took it from him when he was done with it. This tepid water was all they had by way of luxury; they each sipped it like fine wine.
For three days now, the small group had been deprived in every way that mattered. They weren’t permitted to talk, though they did so anyway, surreptitiously, when boredom finally dulled the edges of their fears. Neither were they left alone to sleep. Their guards would drop small stones on those who had their eyes closed. At night, men would come to urinate on them as they huddled down in exhaustion.
For a while, Bull had searched amongst the soldiers that often stood above them, trying to spot the giant tribesman who had saved him. He wanted to shout up at him, ‘Look – look what you saved me for!’ but there was sign of the man, and he knew he must have died of his wounds.
Every so often, a squad of imperial hard-men would descend on a ladder into the pit, and would chose one of them seemingly on a whim, and would lay into him with their wooden staves. At first they had tried to protest these actions. But each time they did so they were beaten just as brutally, until even Bull could take no more of it, and it made more sense for them to simply sit there, and listen.
Humour was what Bull used in the bleakest of times to help them through it; when one of them was crawling across the floor after a beating; when one of them was standing over the bucket pissing blood.
After three days of this the world had begun to take on a strange sheen of transparency, as though Bull could poke his fingers through into something other and unreal. The smell of the pit had become unbearable, for they shared a single bucket to relieve themselves, and it was only emptied every morning. Bull handled it better than the other men. He was, after all, long inured to the privations of captivity. In a tangible way he became their rock in a storm-tossed sea.
Even now, as a rattle over their heads made Bull squint up at the dark crisscrossing of wood across the pit, dirty faces turned towards him for assurance.
The guards were untying the door to the pit. They flung it open and dropped the ladder down.
He would make a fight of it this time, he decided, if they chose him for a hiding.
Four soldiers climbed down with their heavy staves and studied the men blinking up at them from the floor. The oldest saw Bahn staring at the wall. He pointed his stick at him. ‘Up!’ he snapped.
Bahn paid him no heed.
The other soldiers grabbed Bahn and forced him to his feet, his shackles rattling. With his eyes blinking rapidly, they shoved a sack over his head and tugged him towards the ladder.
Bull struggled to his own two feet, sliding his back up against the earth wall. ‘Where are you taking him?’ he rasped.
‘No talking!’ shouted the older soldier, and he lashed into Bull with his stave. Bull grabbed him with his shackled hands, managed to strike his face with his forehead. He was content enough with that, seeing the blood flowing, and he rode the rest of it through in his usual manner as they lashed out at him, Bull listening to the thud of the blows, refusing to go down as though it somehow mattered, as though he was back in his pit-fighting days, forced against the wall without even a decent defence left to him.
He did go down, though, eventually. He fell to the ground and bared his bloody grin at them, while they bundled Bahn up the ladder, the man making no effort himself as he was manhandled through the opening like a sack of potatoes.
Chilanos opened his mouth and began to sing as they closed and locked the pit after them. It was The Song of the Forgotten, the familiar words loud and stirring in the depths of the pit.
Bull scrabbled up onto his knees with his shackles clinking. ‘Tell them what they want!’ he shouted. ‘You hear me, Bahn? Tell them anything they ask you!’
Sparus was an unhappy man as he descended the spiral steps that wound down through the rock of the island upon which the citadel stood.
Creed had escaped, there was no doubting that now. The Princi-pari of Tume had said as much, taunting him with the news even as the Michinè lay dying of his wounds.
And now this latest news, that the Matriarch’s condition was worsening.
Sparus could feel it all begin to unravel around him, this crazyfool invasion inspired by the plans of his predecessor Mokabi. Even the fall of Tume meant little to him in terms of success. Unless they pushed hard for Bar-Khos now, it could still turn disastrously wrong for them – for him.
More than ever, he wished he had refused the command of this expedition. All those years on dusty foreign campaigns, climbing the slippery rungs of promotion to achieve what he had once thought impossible, the position of Archgeneral of Mann. And now this chancy mess that was the invasion of Khos, with the reputation of a lifetime staked on its outcome. How would he be remembered in the records and the history books if it all went wrong here?
It made him rage just to think of it.
Deep beneath the citadel, the Sunken Palace was a complex of large chambers, brightly illuminated by crystal lanterns hanging from countless candelabra. It was walled on the outer edges by great sweeping windows of thick glass, where Sasheen’s honour guards stood at attention. Past them shimmered the clear waters of the lake, shadowed by the overhanging weed-raft of the city, where fans of light spilled through the open canals. From any window, shoals of distant fish could be seen darting in and out of the daylight. Bubbles rose up from the gloomy lake bottom, some bursting on the surface above, others rolling and bobbing along the underside of the lakeweed itself.
‘Ah, Archgeneral. A word with you, if you please.’ It was Klint, coming to stand before him.
‘What is it, physician?’ he asked the man, without patience.
Klint beckoned him to an empty chamber, a lounge with reclining seats and old portraits on the walls. The man licked his lips and looked around to see if anyone was listening.
In a hurried hush: ‘I believe the Holy Matriarch has been poisoned.’
‘Poisoned? How?’
‘Her wound. I believe the shot was coated in a toxin.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘You can smell it in the wound, if you have the nose for these things. And her symptoms – at first I thought it was blood poisoning. Now,’ he shook his head, ‘I can see it’s more than that. It looks like black-foot spore.’
Sparus closed his eye for a long moment. So here it is, he thought. The disaster you’ve been waiting to happen.
‘I didn’t think the Khosians used such things,’ he said, and smelled the man’s sickly perfume as Klint drew closer.
‘They don’t. Only the Élash produces such toxins. And only our Diplomats make use of them.’
Archgeneral Sparus narrowed his eye and studied the man carefully. ‘You’re suggesting one of our own people did this to her?’
A precise shrug. ‘I’m a physician, nothing more. I can only report my findings.’
Sparus rubbed the bridge of his nose with his grimy fingers. It didn’t make sense to him.
‘Can you save her?’
The physician looked at his feet. ‘It’s hard to say. I’m treating her with Royal Milk, but the Milk itself . . . Our only supply of it is in that jar with Lucian’s head, and she is tetchy about me using it.’
‘Never mind that fool Lucian. Use as much of it as you need to. You have my authority on that.’
‘Thank you. But even so. The Milk is old, used up, not much good for anything more than preservation. We need a fresh supply, and even then . . . Black-foot you see, it’s used by Diplomats because Royal Milk has such little effect on it. King’s Worry, they call it.’
Sparus felt patronized by the physician’s
assumption of his ignorance. He contained his frustration, though, focusing on the problem at hand.
‘What if you had a fresh supply of Milk?’
Klint shook his head sadly. ‘I suppose we could dispatch a skyship to Zanzahar, or Bairat. But I doubt there’s time for that. She’s failing fast now.’
‘Have you told her any of this?’
‘No. For now I think it’s best that she remains rested.’
‘Physician. If she’s dying, she should know of it.’
‘Yes. But perhaps it’s best if we do not tell her how.’
He assented to that, seeing the sense of it.
‘I need to see her.’
‘Yes, of course. You’ll need to follow some precautions, however.’
Klint led him towards the Royal Chamber. They passed the priestess Sool, the woman looking lost here in the depths of the rock. In the anteroom, the physician offered Sparus a silk mask to tie around his mouth and nose. It smelled of mint, and something much harsher than that.
‘Is it contagious?’ asked Sparus from behind the mask.
‘It’s known to be. Especially when it has taken hold. With such things it’s always best to be cautious.’ The man gave him a pair of sheep-gut mittens to wear.
In the main sleeping chamber, Sasheen lay on the bed with the sheets crumpled over her shivering body, lit by nothing more than the blue flickering light of the lake beyond the curving window. She was feverish and panting quickly. Sweat glistened on her face, which was inflamed like her arms and hands. A smell of bile hung strong in the air.
‘Matriarch,’ said Sparus as he stopped by her bed.
Sasheen blinked, confused for a moment. She focused on him weakly. ‘Sparus,’ she rasped, and tried to move, but gave up after a single effort. ‘I’m told I should not touch anyone. For fear I might catch something in my weakened condition.’
Sparus hesitated, then placed his hand on top of her own. Her skin felt hot against the sheep-gut that encased his own. It held a vague tint of blueness to it, as did her lips. The dressings on her neck were stained with patches of yellow.
The doctor busied himself around her. With gloved hands he checked her pulse and inspected the lesions on her body. When he lifted the bedsheets fully back, Sparus could see the blackness of her feet.
Dearest Passion, he thought in surprise, realizing then how far gone she really was.
‘What have you to report, General?’
He cleared his throat from behind the mask. ‘We’re still encountering some pockets of resistance in the south-west of the city. We should have them cleared out presently.’
‘And Romano?’
‘He complains he has not been allowed to enter the city yet with his men.’
‘Does he now?’ she breathed, and even in her condition he could see the rise of her anger. She gasped a few times, drawing the breath she needed to fuel it. ‘Let him complain. I will not risk allowing him into Tume with his men. He knows I am vulnerable. I would only be inviting a coup.’
Sparus bowed his head, keeping his thoughts to himself. He found it difficult to look at her. Already, his head was playing out the possible outcomes of his position now. Romano, with the backing of his family, was the strongest contender to be the next Patriarch of Mann. If Sasheen failed to recover, if she died here in Tume, Romano would declare himself Patriarch, never mind any successor she might name. He would demand to lead the Expeditionary Force himself, for the glory of taking Bar-Khos.
He could have it, he decided, if it meant Sparus could return to Q’os with his reputation intact. But he wasn’t certain even that was possible now. Romano would call for another purge, and Sparus could very well be at the top of the list.
I could approach him with an offer of loyalty now, he thought, and wondered who he could entrust with such an errand.
Sasheen was studying him closely, her gaze darting about his face.
‘I’m dying, Sparus, aren’t I?’
She sounded like a young girl, her voice frail and breaking.
Look at me. I plot my own survival even as she lies here fighting for breath.
‘There’s hope,’ Sparus tried. ‘We’re sending for a fresh supply of Milk.’
Her head settled back on the pillows. ‘Then make it fast. I can feel it worsening with every breath I take.’ She tilted her head to one side, watched the physician Klint unscrew the jar containing Lucian’s head. Within it, Sparus could see the man’s preserved scalp, the level of milk having been reduced that far.
‘Be sparing with it,’ said Sasheen as the physician lowered a small ladle into the jar.
Klint came to her and poured some of it into her open mouth. At once, her lips grew less pale, and colour returned to her face.
‘Let him stay out,’ she instructed him. ‘Next to me.’
Klint looked to Sparus as though he had any say in it. The physician removed the head from the jar and settled it on the bedside table next to her. His eyes were closed, and they flickered behind their eyelids as though he was dreaming.
‘Let us talk later,’ Sasheen said gently as her own eyes closed too.
‘Yes Matriarch,’ he replied, then turned and left the room with the physician following him.
Sparus felt relieved to be gone from there. ‘Keep her condition to yourself,’ he instructed Klint as they removed their masks and gloves. ‘And no mention of poison either.’
He strode for the stairwell that would take him up to daylight, his thoughts in disarray.
‘She’s dying. She has a matter of days at most.’
‘You’d certain of it?’ Romano demanded.
The physician Klint tried to hide his annoyance. ‘Of course. They have sent for more Royal Milk, though I doubt it will arrive in time to do much good.’
General Romano digested the news with a thrill of excitement. His uncle had been right all along. Give it enough time, enough patience, and all things came to those who desired them.
He looked down at the red-faced physician before him. ‘Your assistance shall be remembered.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Klint with a bow of his head. ‘I must return now, before I am missed.’
‘Then go,’ drawled Romano.
He watched the man climb onto his zel, and kick the flanks of the animal harshly until it was cantering back towards the Tume bridge.
Beside Romano, his second-in-command’s expression was as sombre as it always was. ‘It’s time, then,’ Scalp said in his rough voice.
‘It would seem so.’ He showed his teeth in a feral smile. ‘I hope that bitch suffers to the very last.’
The tent was open on one side, and as they stood there with the rotten breeze in their faces, taking in his men and the lake and the island city that floated upon it, Romano felt restored in every way he could be, his doubts scattering like so much chatter. How strange life could be at times. At home in Q’os, he hardly stood a chance of usurping the Matriarch. Now here he was, in Khos of all places, at the very point where the throne was to be lost.
‘What of the Archgeneral?’ Scalp asked by his side.
‘Sparus is no fool. He will be looking out for himself now. Once she’s dead, I’ll demand his loyalty and that of the Expeditionary Force. With the army mine, I can take Bar-Khos. No one will be able to dispute my claim as Holy Patriarch then.’
‘If we wait much longer we might lose our chance at taking the city.’
‘Tsk!’ exclaimed Romano. ‘Don’t bring me down just yet. Let me cherish this a while.’
‘Still,’ said Scalp. ‘We must be swift.’
‘It can’t be helped, I tell you. We play a larger game here, even if your narrow mind can’t grasp it.’
Romano, Holy Patriarch of Mann, he tried in his mind for size.
‘We could at least start making some preparations.’
Romano sighed. He wanted to be rid of the man now, so he could celebrate the news properly with his entourage.
‘Very well. Approach the
captains and other lower officers. Offer them promotions if they side with us. Anyone who refuses an immediate answer, mark for the purging.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Parting Ways
They slept off their hangovers for most of the day, waking occasionally to the odd sound of gunfire in the distance. Curl lay on the tiles they had placed over the beams of the attic, with Ché pressed against her back, an arm across her body to keep her warm.
The old farlander remained outside on the roof, perched in the shadows of a chimney stack, watching the citadel and the streets below.
Curl was hungry, and thirsty too since they had run out of water. Venturing outside was beyond her, though. She’d panicked enough when they had heard noises from the rooms below them; a door closing, a rattle of glasses. She hadn’t moved, staying silent as a rat in hiding.
Ché fidgeted against her in the fading light that filtered in through the hole in the roof.
‘Have you fleas?’ she asked him.
‘Why?’
‘All your scratching.’
He stopped moving. She could feel the ruffle of his breaths against her neck.
‘It will be time to leave soon,’ he murmured in her ear.
Curl nodded. She had been trying not to think of it. She felt safe here in this hiding space, at least as safe as she could be given her circumstances.
‘I’m frightened,’ she admitted.
He held her tighter, though it wasn’t what she needed just then. Curl needed a stiff snort of dust, and some hard liquor to wash it down with.
‘Aren’t you afraid?’ she asked him, turning her head slightly.
‘No.’
How strange, she thought.
‘You still haven’t told me anything about you. I recall it was me doing most of the talking last night.’
‘Amongst other things. And no. I’m not much of a talker.’
‘You don’t want to tell me, is that it?’
A heavy breath. ‘It’s better this way, trust me.’
Curl rolled onto her back, her hipbone sore after lying against the hard tiles. Through the hole in the roof she saw an evening star glimmer in the darkening sky.
