by Matthew Ward
I'm not even halfway recovered when Selloni kneels beside me, the point of his dagger pressed against my throat. There's a mad gleam in his eyes. Even if I were inclined to beg, it wouldn't do any good. I've pushed him too far for that.
Heavy footfalls thump across the stage. Niarr's bellow rumbles like mountains grinding together. "No! He's mine. As agreed."
Selloni rises to his feet in a swirl of emerald velvet, a little of the madness fading from his eyes. "Of course. As agreed."
He sheathes the dagger with a flourish and withdraws to the front of the stage, but he's fooling no one. Without Niarr's intercession, things would have grown a great deal more interesting. Not that I've any reason to celebrate. I know exactly how Selloni won the Thrakkian to his cause.
Niarr's meaty hand clamps around my throat and hauls me aloft. He's a good head taller than I. My feet don't even reach the floor. The stench of his furs is overwhelming. Or perhaps it's not the furs. Some Thrakkians have a profound aversion to bathing – some superstition about a long-vanished nymph goddess, if memory serves. I imagine every time Niarr passes a river, the fish downstream sigh with relief.
"For three years now, I've sworn your death. For Ana."
It's not something I'm proud of. Niarr resisted my approaches for the longest time, even when I threatened to have his beloved daughter killed inch by inch. When he refused? Well, I didn't have a choice, did I? Like I said, I'm not proud of it, but necessity must win out. Once set, the rules of the game must be observed.
Do I feel remorse for the death of Ana afa Niarr? Of course not. That particular apple was as rotten as the tree from which it fell. Not that it matters. Ana could have been the most virtuous of souls and it would have changed nothing. She mattered only as a gaming piece, in life and in death. Still does, as she's now the token with which Selloni bought Niarr's loyalty. It's something of a surprise. After all, Niarr has another daughter upon whom he dotes just as much. He must be very certain of today's outcome.
Niarr's grip tightens. I can't tell whether he intends to choke me, snap my neck, or both at once. The crowd cheers. They don't care. They want blood.
"That's the trouble with the theatre," rumbles Quintus, blinking away his unwanted nap. "I always fall asleep before the finale." He clears his throat. "You do know you're all under arrest?" Even pinned by his minders, he manages a solemn dignity that Selloni and his peers will never master. He's barely forty, but the manner of a disappointed patriarch suits him better than a man of twice his years.
Selloni roars with laughter, and the crowd join in. "I doubt that, captain." Selloni waves a graceful hand towards the curtain. "Mistress Andri claims your hide. The Parliament of Crows are inundated with petitions. The people want justice for sons and daughters led to their deaths under your command. Your head will go to the Roost, and your bones scattered across the city for the rats to gnaw upon."
"Aye, we'll see about that."
Quintus's tone remains defiant, but his posture wilts, just a little. It's not fear. I can practically see the ghosts of the dead swirling about him. A guilty conscience is the mark of a good man. It's also the prerogative of a fool, if the distinction can be made. He did what had to be done. That should be an end of it. The living are burden enough; let the dead remember themselves.
Yet there's something in Quintus's eyes. Not fear. Not remorse. Not even defiance. Expectation. Even dangling from Niarr's grip, it takes me aback. Does he know? It doesn't seem possible, but I'm already suspecting that Quintus is not someone to underestimate. I catch his gaze, and the lack of acknowledgement is all the acknowledgement I need. Well, well.
The chant begins as a murmur, soon swelling to a hollow roar.
Kill them! Kill them! Kill them! The cry echoes around the cavern, as rhythmic as a heartbeat. Selloni, once again revelling in the role of showman, offers a deep bow to the braying masses. It's a safe audience for him, eager to cheer him on. Most are his crewers, or at least his dockside fences and informants. This cavern is one of his favourite nests.
Of course I know where I am. I've always known.
I twist just enough in Niarr's grasp to stare at the new owner of Quintus's hide. Lithel Andri's eyes are fixed on a knothole in the planking. She has no stomach for this. The way this gathering's going, that'll get her killed sooner rather than later. There's no honour amongst thieves, whatever people say. There's only fear, and the will to do what must be done. I'm Niarr's price. Quintus is Andri's. And what of Natilya Eshlan and her ageless stare?
The answer comes easily enough. Though I doubt Selloni knows it, she'll be the true power, whispering, manipulating. Selloni seeks a throne, but all he's really done is taken his leash from one master and given it to another.
Ambitious fools never last.
Four ganglords, seeking profit by my death. But where is the fifth? The answer comes just as Niarr renews his assault on my abused neck.
A hooded figure emerges from the crowd without fanfare, but the chanting dies with its approach. Crimson robes gleam like blood in the firelight.
The newcomer is alone, but from the stumbled steps and widening eyes amongst the audience, you'd think there were dozens. Niarr shoves me back across the stage, into the waiting arms of the minder who led me from the cells, and places a hand to his axe. Natilya goes pale as the corpse she may or may not be. Lithel Andri takes a half-step back, then recovers herself, doubtless hoping no one notices. Quintus watches impassively, even as one of his minders makes the sign of the rose to ward off evil. And Selloni, predictably, decides to brazen things out.
"You're not welcome here."
The figure bows low before the stage, black-gloved hands spread wide. "I come as an emissary."
It's a pleasant voice, as far as these things go. It possesses a strange timbre, almost metallic, not readily identifiable as male or female. The shapelessness of the robes adds to the ambiguity. They hang unevenly, and puddle on the ground like wax from a candle lit too long.
"I've no words for your mistress." Selloni's tone grows firmer, more confident.
The emissary straightens and climbs the creaking wooden stairs. No one bars its way. Doubtless they're recalling the rumours they've heard of Tressia's fifth and newest criminal power. She's called many things. The Red Lady. Mistress Arlia. In the wall-ward slums, they name her Baszoria, after the fabled witch who bathed in fresh blood under each new moon.
None of these are her real name, of course. They're just words to lend a little shape, to clothe the unknown. An identity for the fear she works so hard to propagate. Magic may have passed into legend hereabouts, but the dread of it remains. She understands this.
They say she has no servants, only slaves, their souls ripped from their hearts and set in glittering gemstones for her pleasure. They say she is older than this city, older than the Republic, older than the very hills themselves. They say she commands magics not seen in Tressia since the time of Sidara.
They have much to say, and a great deal of it is wrong. I know the truth. Or at least a portion. It's the only real leverage I have. One last throw of the dice.
The emissary halts a pace from Selloni. "My Mistress asks very little. Just a seat at the table. As an equal. All will profit handsomely." There's a curiously soothing note to the voice. It longs for agreement. It entices acceptance.
Selloni's cheek twitches. Not much, but enough, if you're looking for it. He knows something's off-key. I'm impressed, after a fashion. I wouldn't have credited him with the intelligence. "Your mistress has no place here. I'm not impressed – we are not impressed – by the theatrics of a Thrakkian bog-witch."
"I concur." Lithel Andri steps forward, her thin face hardening into resolve for the first time since my arrival. "The Crowmarket will never embrace Mistress Arlia. If she comes as a friend, she should have presented herself as such from the first, and not contested our territories."
"Agreed." Natilya makes her pronouncement with all the finality of an empress disposing execution �
� a tone I've been unlucky enough to hear first-hand in a different game altogether.
Niarr holds his tongue. I doubt he cares either way, so long as coin flows into his pockets.
Selloni cracks a smile. I'll never know if he'd have had the courage to follow through on the decision alone, but with his newfound colleagues at his back? Well, now he can't back down.
"You have our decision."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Quintus' expression may as well have been carved from granite. Were I a betting man, I'd wager he wasn't expecting this, but you'd never know it from his face.
The emissary cocks its head. "But you've not yet heard her terms."
Before Selloni can interrupt, the soothing voice recounts a list of concessions and trades that Mistress Arlia is prepared to make. It's a generous offer, from what I hear of it, but I'm not really listening.
My attention's given over to the woman standing at the side of the stage, her arms folded across her chest and her back propped against the rough stone of the cavern wall. She meets my gaze and holds it for a moment, her perfect lips hitching into a lopsided smile. Like Natilya, she looks young. Like Natilya, her appearance is a lie.
No one else spares her a glance. It's as if she and I exist in a world apart. Only when the colour fades from my surroundings, do I realise that's precisely true.
The woman pushes away from the wall and advances in a swirl of crimson skirts and black hair. Rubies glint at her pale throat and silk-sleeved wrists. Her footsteps are the only true sound. Everything else is muffled, as distant and weary as my surroundings. Everything but the soft chuckle of her laughter.
Enough with the sideshow, with the distractions. This is where the real game begins.
She halts in front of Niarr, green eyes glinting at me. "I received your invitation."
I nod towards Selloni, now gesticulating wildly in reply to the emissary's terms. If nothing else, I'm grateful to be spared another round of verbal posturing. "He'll never agree."
"I know. But you'll forgive me my foibles?" Her smile broadens, then vanishes as she crosses the remaining distance between us. "What do you offer?"
"A truce. A year to consolidate your new territory, unhindered by me... or by the Council."
A slender eyebrow arches. She curls her lip in disgust. "Have I come all this way for that?"
"No. You came because I guaranteed all your rivals would be in one place. Because I guaranteed you an audience. And, I think, because you were bored."
She shrugs. "Perhaps that's true. But I didn't ask you for anything. You have no hold over me unless I allow it. You're my rival as much as they. Why should I spare you?"
The threat hangs on the air. I don't doubt she means it. This is the moment where the course of the game turns. Defeat or victory rests on my next words. I start with a name. "Fitzwalter."
She stiffens. Just a little, but enough. "And what do you think that buys you?"
She could kill me at any moment. That she hasn't yet means I'm still in the game. "By itself, nothing. It's a warning. I know who you are, even if these fools do not."
Her beauty turns cold. I have her full attention now. In truth, I don't know the importance of the name. It's not one I’m wholly familiar with. It’s certainly not a Tressian name, or one that hails from a realm with which I have passing acquaintance. Fitzwalter could be male or female, living or dead, a beloved ally or a hated enemy. That's not the point. What matters is that it means something to her.
Knowledge is rarely as complete as we might wish. Facts float upon a sea of conjecture and guesswork. The trick in these circumstances is to present what you know in such a way that your opponent believes the knowledge left unsaid is the most powerful of all.
She shakes her head in dismissal, but the accompanying laughter is hollow. "You know nothing of me."
Just like that, the balance of power between us shifts. If she truly believed that, I'd already be dead. She can't kill me until she's certain.
"Then let me prove you wrong."
The words come with a confidence I don't yet feel. But I'm an old hand. Old enough to know that appearance is everything. I may deride Selloni for his theatrics, but I'm as guilty of them as any. A firm jaw, a level stare and you can fool them all. Because deep down, people want to believe. They want their secrets laid bare. It validates them, gives meaning to who they are and what they've done. I couldn't do my work otherwise.
"Selloni thinks you're a Thrakkian, but the realm you hail from is more distant by far. You're certainly not here by choice. And impressive as this little display is, I know you're but a shadow of who you once were."
It's guesswork, all guesswork, no more validated than the wharf-side diviners promising to reveal the future through a deck of scuffed pentassa cards. But like I said, people want to believe. Even people who aren't really people at all.
She steps closer, eyes blazing. "I think I'll kill you now."
But she makes no move to follow through. This time, the threat's empty. I may not know much about Mistress Arlia, but she knows me. Or at least she knows my legend. Ask anyone in the Republic, or a hundred leagues beyond in any direction. They'll all tell you the same stories. Solomon knows. Solomon always knows.
Oh, she's too canny to take every tale at face value. Given time and experience, she might even come to split truth from fable. But not yet. Not before this particular game has ended. For all the uproar she's caused these last few years, the Red Lady is a stranger here, while I've worked hard to become a constant in an inconstant land.
I savour the moment. In many ways, I wish she hadn't moved us into this grey world, beyond the sight of Selloni, Quintus and the others. I shouldn't crave an audience, but I do. How else do legends grow? I swallow the impulse. It's unworthy of me. What I do, it's not about personal ambition.
"I know about the temple buried beneath the Hayadra Grove. I know what you've hidden there. I know it's what gives you the power to perform these little ... tricks of yours." With that my gambit's revealed. She has to know what's coming now, but that doesn't diminish the pleasure. "If I don't walk out of here, my operatives will act. She'll be gone. You'll be gone. Or we can have that truce."
She goes rigid as a board, fists clenched so tightly that red rivulets appear where lacquered fingernails gouge her palms. I'm not guessing. Not this time. Always save the best for last – it lends verisimilitude to the half-truths that come before.
If I'm honest, I'm not certain my operatives can do as I say. There's still so much I don't know about her reach. As for the rest? I no longer have to join the dots – Mistress Arlia's doing that for me. Behind her eyes, she's weaving together the pieces in a way I never could. I don't have to convince her. I never did. I just needed her to convince herself.
"A seven year truce."
She spits the words. It's the sound of concession, of pieces toppled to the board. I restrain a smile. Whatever tale I tell of this moment in years to come, this was no foregone conclusion. It's important to remember that. An acquaintance of mine had a saying: Arrogance is more dangerous than a sword. Words to live by.
"Five."
She nods, swallowing her displeasure. "We have a bargain."
A bargain. I've heard no sweeter words all day. If Arlia's what I think she is, then she's incapable of breaking our accord. Gods can't go back on their words, nor can their shadows. Nor can I, for what it's worth. Another part of my legend – the carrot to the stick.
She turns away, looks over her shoulder, as if the next words don't matter. "And these others?"
"Enjoy yourself."
She smiles, confirming my words as sentence of death, and drifts away into the crowd.
Colour bleeds back into the world. The sound of the crowd rushes into my ears, like I've broken a river's surface after too long underwater.
They're chanting again, the words lost in a dizzying swell of emotion, but it's different now. They're no longer forming words. It's a primal sound, all pulsing rh
ythm and hate. Those eyes I can see are wild as beasts. I've seen that look before. Demons have that fury, at their core, but mortals sometimes harness it without thought. After a siege, when slaughter beneath the walls is repaid by a massacre within. When a parent returns to a house naught but ashes, the charred remains of their children yet inside. It's a hatred that goes beyond reason, beyond words.
Then I see Arlia. She's sitting astride the caravel's bowsprit, her crimson skirts draped across Lumestra's just visage. The metaphor doesn't escape me. Reason drowned in red. That's when I know it's Arlia's doing. She's wide-eyed with anticipation. With hunger. More than ever I'm glad I struck that bargain.
Selloni knows something's wrong. Like the rest of us on the stage, the madness hasn't touched him. But where Selloni's peers – even Niarr – stare aghast at the baying mob, he's still speaking with the emissary. The roar of the crowd swallows his words long before they reach me, and his eyes flick nervously across the chanting throng. He knows this sight better than I. He's brought madness and slaughter to many a harbourside.
A clever man would flee at this moment, but as I've said before, Selloni's a fool. He doesn't understand what's happening. He doesn't know the game he and I played was but a prelude to the main event. All he knows is that the crowd wants blood.
"Don't do it, Selloni." Again, Quintus reads the situation more clearly than I'd expect. Perhaps it's the worried gleam in Selloni's eye. More likely it's the mood of the crowd – the expectation in the air. Madness is so often self-sustaining. I'm sure Quintus saw enough of that on the border. I wonder how he feels about it loose in the city.
Selloni crooks a warning finger, a snarl upon his lips. "Your turn comes soon enough, captain."
Steel glints in the firelight. The dagger that so lately graced my throat slides into the emissary's chest.
The emissary goes limp in Selloni's arms, but there's no blood to mark the strike. There's no body, just shapeless, empty cloth. Selloni's triumphant cry dies on his tongue. The roar of the crowd redoubles. Selloni spins on his heel, scattering the robes to the ground. He sweeps his hand towards Quintus and me. "Kill them both. Now!"