Katat-az had delivered on time, but that was no surprise. Xulans were a trustworthy folk by reputation, because reputation was what they lived and died by. In a culture that had elevated gossip and rumour-mongering to a martial art, what was said about somebody was more important than any truth. Xulan merchants cultivated a reputation for honesty and reliability by being honest and reliable, and they charged accordingly. Anyone who didn’t like it could take their chances with a Carthanian.
The merchandise was here, at least. One more piece in place. But there was so much more that needed to go right before the end, and so many things that could go wrong. He pushed the thought aside. Doubt was a luxury he couldn’t allow himself. His course was set, whatever the consequence.
‘Laine of Heath Edge, by my breath,’ said a voice at his shoulder.
Wilham the Smiler was a small, slight man; freckled, baby-faced, his hair orange as a carrot. He had the innocent grin of someone comical, pitiable and harmless. Never had Garric known anyone whose appearance so belied the person behind it.
‘It’s Garric now, as well you know,’ said Garric. ‘Laine died at Salt Fork.’
‘As did many who shared our cause,’ said Wilham, ‘and all for the cowardice of weak men too afraid of their rulers to resist them.’ He bowed his head. ‘It was a brave try. There are not many left who dare such bold moves.’
‘Not many willing to bear the cost,’ Garric replied.
‘The wheels of change are greased with blood,’ said Wilham. ‘You know it, as do I. Always surprises me how many think they can win their freedom without doing anything unpleasant.’
Garric grunted and they stood in silence a moment, watching the Xulans load the barrels into the hired cart. If the Iron Hand came sniffing, they’d left no trail to Mara’s house.
‘They say General Dakken himself will be at the wedding,’ said Wilham. He smiled when he said it. He smiled a lot, even when there was nothing to smile about. It didn’t always mean he was amused.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Garric.
‘The very man who stole the Ember Blade from our lands, thirty years ago, when he was nothing but an upstart captain. He’s going to present it to the prince. Quite an honour.’ His eyes were shrewd behind the shield of his grin. ‘Think you could take a detour and kill that bastard while you’re about your business in Hammerholt?’ He was only half joking.
‘Who says that’s not my reason for going there?’
Wilham grinned wider. ‘Because I know you, Garric. Murdering Dakken would serve no purpose but your own satisfaction. You always thought bigger than that.’
‘Reckon I should kill the prince, then.’
‘Ha! If only you could get close enough.’
‘I’ll poison him.’
‘All you’d do is to kill his wine-tasters. No, it’s the Ember Blade you’re after, and don’t say otherwise. If you should get it, though, and you need a place to hide it …’ He spread his arms. ‘None know the city like I do.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ said Garric. ‘How goes the struggle in Morgenholme?’
‘Well enough. We intercepted a shipment of weapons meant for the garrison and now we have more sword and armour than we know what to do with. There was a Krodan judge getting too free with the noose, started hanging Ossians for his own amusement by the end, so we hanged him for ours. And then there are the informers. Always them.’
‘Informers,’ Garric echoed, disgusted. There was no lower creature than an Ossian who sold out their kinfolk for coin or advantage.
‘Seems our current range of discouragements still aren’t getting through to some,’ said Wilham. ‘Reckon we need to up the ante. Target partners and families, too.’
‘Children?’ Garric said. That sat ill with him. ‘It’s a fine line you tread, Wilham.’
‘People have to learn. Lie with the Krodans and there are consequences. A man will risk his own neck if he thinks he can get away with it. He’ll think twice before risking those he loves.’
Garric said nothing. This was Wilham’s city, Wilham’s choice, and sacrifices had to be made. But he thought the smiling man should take care, if he went that route. Resistance was a dirty business, but it was all for nothing if they became worse than those they resisted.
‘When do we move?’ he said.
‘Tomorrow night. I have a man on the inside at the vintner’s yard who can let us in through the side gate.’
‘Good.’ Wilham was vicious, but he was clever and thorough. Garric had faith that the plan was sound.
‘We’ll collect the cart from Mara’s in the morning, with the fake Amberlyne barrels—’
‘They’re being delivered today.’
‘Perfect. Once we have everything ready, you’ll meet us shortly after seventh bell o’ dark. We’ll get you into the false compartment in the cart, then exchange it for a real one. In and out, quick as that. But you should be prepared. It won’t be comfortable, and you’ll be in there a long time. A night and day, at least.’
He’d planned for that. Water to drink. Towels to stuff into his underclothes for when he wet himself. Herbs to cause constipation. Maybe Vika could give him something for cramp if she woke in time; the corruption round her wound was almost gone.
It would be an undignified, painful ordeal, but when the odds were not in your favour, you had to be ready to do what other men wouldn’t. History would forget the sordid details, as long as he triumphed in the end.
‘I’m ready,’ Garric said. ‘And you’ll be too busy enjoying your stolen Amberlyne to worry about me.’
‘Ha! You think I’d drink them? Their sale will go towards the cause, my friend. I already have a buyer champing at the bit.’
‘You’re a man of principle and sobriety, Wilham. I always admired that about y—’ His eyes widened in alarm. ‘Careful, you fool!’
One of the Xulan handlers, distracted by something on the docks, bumped against his companion, who was coming up behind him with the last of the small barrels. The man carrying the barrel teetered for a moment, wide-eyed with alarm until the other man grabbed it and steadied him. He looked equally afraid and relieved as he stepped out of the way. His companion gently loaded the barrel into place on the cart and gave the other a lethal glare as they hinged up the tailgate.
Wilham cast a sly glance at Garric. ‘Mind telling me what’s in those barrels?’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow night, Wilham,’ Garric said.
Wilham smiled. ‘I can’t wait.’
71
The Iron Hand’s headquarters was a terrifyingly innocuous building, tall and plain, hoarding its secrets within. It bore no indication of its purpose, yet still people quickened their step as they passed. Violence at the hands of urds or foreign armies was one kind of fear, but this was something else. It was death made bland, murder in plain sight.
Aren sat on a bare wooden chair, his wrists manacled and chained to a ring in the floor, lit by the wan, shivering light of a lantern. His head hung and his chest was so tight it hurt to breathe. They’d marched him past the torture chamber on the way to his cell and he’d glimpsed what was inside. Cages, hammers, a rack. Blades laid out as if for surgery. He knew they’d done it on purpose, to show him what awaited, but he couldn’t put it from his mind. If they were trying to scare him, it had worked.
You’ll talk, Harte had told him. And he would, in the end. Everyone did. It was only a matter of time.
Footsteps approached down the corridor, moving with the swift clip of authority. He heard low voices outside. The awful anticipation almost made him retch, and he fought to control his breathing.
Who else had they got? Keel? Grub? Who else was talking right now?
The key turned in the lock. The door was opened by the stern captain who’d previously escorted him to his cell; his name was Dressle. He moved aside and Overwatchman Klyssen stepped in.
Aren’s eyes widened in recognition. It was the first time he’d seen him close up since the da
y his father was killed. He was small and unassuming, with weak, watery features, but none of that mattered when he wore the black coat and double-barred cross of the Iron Hand. Aren hated him and feared him in equal measure.
Dressle closed the door, leaving Klyssen alone with Aren. The overwatchman stood before him, assessing him, his eyes lizard-calm behind his spectacles. He didn’t speak. The silence dragged out until Aren was hardly able to bear it. He was desperate to know what Klyssen intended to do with him, and was about to ask, but he spotted the trap and held his tongue.
He wants me to babble and plead, to give myself away. He wants me to tell him things I shouldn’t.
‘What did he say to you?’ Klyssen asked at last. ‘What did Garric say to make you follow him? You must have realised you were of no interest to the Iron Hand after you escaped Suller’s Bluff. You could have gone anywhere, started again. Instead, because of him, here you are.’
He began to walk around the cell, circling behind Aren. It made Aren nervous to have him where he couldn’t see him, like losing track of a spider in a room. He half-expected a blow from behind.
‘Garric was your father’s sworn enemy,’ Klyssen went on. ‘He would have hunted him down and killed him like a dog if he could. What could he possibly have said to make you betray your own blood?’
Aren couldn’t help tensing at that. He hadn’t considered that joining Garric’s cause might be a betrayal of his father’s memory. Gods, he’d not only joined him, but on occasion he’d found himself looking up to him, the way he’d once looked up to Randill. Somehow he’d avoided thinking about it, with the same wilful ignorance he’d practised back when he admired the Krodans. But Klyssen had put it in his head now, and it gnawed at him.
‘I knew something of your father,’ said Klyssen, tapping the lantern to steady the flame.
You knew nothing of him, Aren thought venomously, but already he wondered if that were true, if Klyssen knew more than he himself did.
‘Men like him are the reason Ossia thrives today,’ Klyssen went on. ‘You’ve seen this city, its shopping districts and boulevards. You’ve seen the people celebrating, eager for the wedding to come. Do they look unhappy to you? Because if you think that is slavery, if you think that is oppression, then you have not seen Brunland. Your father saw the futility of resisting and wanted to save his countryfolk. The Brunlanders fought to the bitter end, and the end, when it came, was bitter indeed.’
He returned to stand before Aren, who watched him warily. He wanted to know what Klyssen knew, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking.
‘It takes a strong man to accept loss with grace,’ Klyssen said, ‘and a clever man to make best advantage of it. Your father and others like him were strong and clever. They lost the war, but won the peace.’ Then his expression darkened. ‘The man you call Garric did not agree with their philosophy. He has, to date, personally murdered six Ossian highborns whom he believed complicit in Ossia’s surrender. He has been involved in the deaths of five more.’
That was a cold shock to Aren, but he kept it off his face. It’s a lie, he thought, but was it? How much did he know of that man, really?
‘And, of course, he was very eager to kill your father,’ Klyssen added.
‘Garric didn’t kill my father,’ said Aren. ‘You did.’
He saw a flicker of triumph in Klyssen’s eyes and cursed himself silently. He hadn’t intended to engage with his interrogator, but Klyssen’s questions had got under his skin.
‘We did not want him dead. Watchman Harte was forced to execute him only after your father slew several members of the Iron Guard.’ Klyssen spread his hands helplessly. ‘We had only intended to arrest him.’
Again, sowing doubt. Everything he said had the ring of truth to it, and Garric had kept him in the dark so much that Aren didn’t have any solid grounds to disbelieve him. But Klyssen was a Krodan, and Krodans lied.
‘Whatever dream Garric sold you, it is just that: a dream,’ Klyssen said. ‘Ossia is part of the Krodan Empire, and most Ossians are happy about it. We brought you order and prosperity. We protect you from the elaru across the sea and Harrow to the north.’
Aren snorted. That small defiance gave him courage.
‘You don’t believe me,’ Klyssen said. ‘Well, we were all young once, idealistic and naïve. We all thought we could change the world. But civilisation is a structure too massive and rigid to be altered. You may knock down a pillar here and there, but new ones will replace them. You may repaint the façade, but what lies beneath remains the same. Attacking it is futile. You may as well attack a mountain.’ He took off his spectacles and polished them with the sleeve of his coat. ‘It’s time to grow up. Time you learned to deal with the way things are, not the way you wish them to be.’
He put his spectacles back on and gazed gravely at Aren.
‘Tell me where he is.’
Aren looked away; he couldn’t meet Klyssen’s eyes. He saw the torture chamber in his mind again, the instruments of agony, and tried not to think about how they’d be put to use. There had to be some way out of this, some way he could avoid what was to come. His mind raced, searching for an escape.
‘I have interrogated many prisoners in my time,’ said Klyssen. ‘They all feel the need to put up a fight, if only so they can live with themselves afterwards. But I always find out what I want to know.’ He leaned closer. ‘I think you’re smarter than that. Tell me willingly and you will be set free once we have him. Or you can try to keep silent, and be tortured, and afterwards you will be hanged. Either way, I will have my answer.’
Aren closed his eyes, forcing calm upon himself. Klyssen was right: Aren would talk in the end. Garric had already cost his father his life. Should Aren give up his life, too, out of loyalty to a man he hardly knew?
There’s something I’m missing, he thought. He fought to see past the uniform, the cell, the terror of it all, to see Klyssen as he was. To overcome your enemy, you must first understand him.
‘What about Cade?’ he asked. ‘I won’t give you Cade.’
‘I’ll see he escapes punishment,’ said Klyssen. ‘You have my word, you can go free together.’
‘And the others?’
‘They are traitors, and shouldn’t concern you. Tell me where Garric is. Now.’
You’re in a hurry, aren’t you? Aren thought, and suddenly he realised what he hadn’t seen before: Klyssen needed him. He tried to hide it, but there was urgency in his questioning. So maybe the Iron Hand didn’t have Keel or Grub after all. Maybe Aren was the only lead they had. Knowing that, Aren’s fear receded a little. That was a lever with which to push back.
‘What’s Garric’s real name?’ he asked, out of nowhere. If Garric and Keel wouldn’t tell him, perhaps his enemy would, and he had to stall Klyssen to give himself time to think. He was gratified to see a spasm of fury cross the overwatchman’s face at the delay. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
He saw Klyssen considering whether to answer. Give me a little, Aren thought. Help me trust you.
‘They called him Cadrac of Darkwater.’
Aren was disappointed. He’d hoped for a revelation, but that name meant nothing. ‘Who are they?’ he asked.
Klyssen shook his head. ‘You have his name. I will tell you who he is, and who your father was, after you have given me what I want.’
Silence. The flame flickered and twitched in the lamp. Aren felt the chill of the cell, seeping from the walls. Klyssen’s offer hung between them. Freedom for Aren and Cade, in return for Garric. But if he told Klyssen where Garric was, everyone at Mara’s would be arrested. Fen, Orica, all of them. He wouldn’t die for Garric’s sake, but he couldn’t sell out the others.
No solution. No way out. Only bad options.
‘Where are your dreadknights?’ he asked, playing for time. ‘I suppose the Emperor doesn’t want them in the city during the wedding celebrations. It wouldn’t give the right impression to the Harrish. I mean, why
would you need to employ abominations when we Ossians are all so happy with our lot?’
Klyssen’s patience was at an end. He leaned close, his voice soft with threat. ‘If I have to ask you again, there will be no mercy. For you or for Cade. Do you understand?’
But Aren heard what was behind the threat, heard the fear of failure which the overwatchman didn’t even admit to himself. He saw into him then, this small, strange-looking man, beset by enemies on all sides, both real and imagined. Every day he was forced to prove himself against men who were more handsome, richer, better favoured than he, driven to succeed because success was the best vengeance against them. To that end, he had to capture Garric at all costs, and fast. Anything less would prove his detractors right.
Aren knew what he must do then, and his own fear vanished.
‘I’ll tell you what I understand,’ he said. ‘You didn’t catch Keel, or you’d be talking to him, not me. Keel saw me at the inn, but he doesn’t know if I got away. Unless I turn up very soon, he’ll assume I’ve been arrested. Then Garric will know he’s been compromised, and he’ll disappear, and you’ll have lost your chance.’ He fixed Klyssen with a look of calm determination. ‘So you’re short on time, Overwatchman. And you need to make a better deal.’
Klyssen barely managed to keep the amazement off his face. He’d thought he was dealing with a scared boy, whose fragile adolescent truculence would be quickly overcome. Somehow that scared boy had just gained the upper hand.
‘I’ll give you Garric,’ Aren said with a confidence that belied his years. ‘Just him, though. I won’t give up my friends, but then, you don’t care about them. In return, you give me back my father’s lands, property and wealth. Cade and I will return to Shoal Point with a public pardon, and we’ll never see you or the Iron Hand again. In addition, after I’ve delivered you Garric, you’ll tell me everything you know about who he is and who my father was.’
The Ember Blade Page 60