by Matthew Ward
“If that is your decree, then we will respect it, of course,” Cardivan said. “Saranal Aregnum. We serve the throne.”
Saranal Aregnum. The old salute to an Emperor modified only slightly for an Empress. But Cardivan’s second pledge held less weight, for it cared not who sat upon that throne.
“Then we are done,” said Melanna. “In the name of the Goddess Ashana, I thank you for your attendance, and your service. Tomorrow is Midwintertide. A new year beckons. Let us welcome it in friendship, and as family.”
One by one, the assembled monarchs bowed and departed the throne room, entourages streaming in their wake. When the last had departed, Melanna dismissed servants and Immortals with a wave of her hand. Then she sank back on the uncomfortable throne.
“Alas to see the bond between father and son worn away,” murmured a voice. “I understand food tasters are in short supply in Silsaria of late.”
Haldrane drew alongside the throne, robes swishing at the dais. His saturnine face was lost beneath hood’s shadow, little more than a greying black beard, parted lips and perfect white teeth giving shape to thoughtful expression. Statues and drapes offered an embarrassment of hiding places, and the head of her icularis – her Eyes – had as much a knack for concealment as for secrets.
“I counselled against giving Cardivan the conquered lands,” he said. “Now you see why.”
“I’d little choice, as well you know.”
“An Empress always has a choice,” he replied. “It may simply not be the one she wishes.”
Melanna sensed the deeper warning beneath the words. “Like that before me now?”
“War is coming. If not against Tressia, then to preserve your throne.”
She’d once embraced war so readily. The chance to prove herself and thus claim her father’s throne. Glory in victory, fortitude in defeat and honour always. But the Avitra Briganda had changed all that. So many thousands dead. Worse, the Avitra Briganda’s consequences had nearly brought about the Reckoning of the Gods and the world’s ending. Melanna shuddered to think about it even now. The recent past taught a harsh lesson: while kings and princes sought glory, those they ruled died in the mud.
“I won’t do it,” she said.
“You will.” Haldrane spoke with weary inevitability. “Your forebears had to fight for the throne – to claim it, and to hold it. You will have to do the same. If blood is to be shed, better it be Tressian.”
“And where will it end, Haldrane? On and on, and death the only respite. We should be better than this.”
“Undoubtedly.” A touch of amusement danced beneath the words. “But we are not. And you, my Empress, must deal with the world as it is, and not as you might wish it to be.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then they will take from you everything that you value, and leave you with dust.”
She snorted and shook her head. “You offer cold comfort.”
“The year is dead. Cold comfort is all any of us have.”
Nine
Having held off all day, the snows now determined to address the shortfall in glorious style. The street’s firestone lanterns were lost behind a dancing, powdery white veil. Trampled paths, visible minutes before, succumbed anew. Not that Altiris minded a little snow – not so long as there was the prospect of a roaring fire and a stiff drink when the business was done.
Constans thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat and trudged unenthusiastically alongside. “This had better not be a waste of time.”
Altiris doffed his hat and swept clear the brim. His work was undone almost as soon as he set it back in place. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of getting a bit cold?”
“The cold doesn’t bother me.” The lad’s tone shifted, churlishness yielding to mummer’s exaggerated stage-inflection. “Let heavens rage and river crack, and still in wrath I’ll stand.”
The phrasing struck a chord. “Trastorov?”
Constans scowled, annoyed to be caught passing quotation off as sentiment. “Laniran. The King of Fathoms. Wouldn’t expect a southwealder to know the difference.”
“‘My love lies buried, deep on deep. What heed have I for gods’ command?’” Altiris finished, relishing Constans’ surprise. “I know the words. I couldn’t recall who wrote them, that’s all.”
Apt lines. Like the ill-fated King of Fathoms, the vranakin of Dregmeet had placed their faith in divine patronage, and they too had paid dearly in the end. The sunken streets were but a memory, flooded by the waters of Kasdred Mar.
Further north, the Silverway Docks had expanded into the new lagoon. But the kraikons responsible for clearing the wreckage of the drowned slums had been withdrawn before the works were done. In daylight, the ragged join stood plain – the unbowed timbers and bright stone of the new works yielding gradually to the sunken, decaying streets. Not so in the snows, which lent purity even to the undeserving.
Even Constans’ edges seemed a little softer that night. The lack of Drazina uniform helped. But so did the lad’s obvious affection for the playwright’s words. Even the dread southwealder epithet had lacked customary sting. For the first time in years, Altiris conceded there might be someone worth knowing beneath the sneer.
“My father was a mummer,” he said. “Knew all of Trastorov’s works by heart, and a good number of others besides. After Exodus, he told them as bedtime stories to me, and to the children of the other slaves. They lose something when translated into the low-tongue, though. Os lasdella darmanelna, dunmar—”
“So you know a few fancy words?” And with that, Constans was back to normal. “Doesn’t make you good enough for my sister.”
“I didn’t ask.” Altiris scowled into the snows, the lad’s matter-of-fact tone as offensive as the words. “And it’s none of your business.”
They trudged on in silence a few minutes before Constans found his tongue.
“I hope your tavernkeep hasn’t sent us out chasing feylings.”
“She hasn’t.” Adela had been speechless for a full minute after Altiris had set coins on the counter to settle his debt, and more than happy to talk thereafter. “I saw a couple of the brigands in the Ragged Wayfarer. Adela swore they were talking up a storm, promising work and a good meal for anyone who wanted it.”
A promise uncomfortably close to those once offered by the Crowmarket. Allegiance exchanged for a full belly, and a tithe of all takings, be they from honest labour or criminal endeavour. Another pointer that the worst of old days might be returning.
Constans sniffed. “I don’t want to be walking around in circles on some slattern’s say-so. I’ve better things to do.”
He hadn’t, of course. What could be more important than retrieving the Lord Protector’s possessions and bringing the thieves to justice? This was just more I’m-better-than-you preening. “Just remember, you’re my responsibility and you’ll follow my lead. Understand, guardsman?”
Constans held his gaze a heartbeat, then nodded.
Altiris pressed on, mindful of his footing on the steepening cobbles and alert for passersby who were a mite too interested. With tabards and armour shed and weapons concealed, he and Constans were about as nondescript as could be managed, but there was always risk.
Sparse streets emptied. Jettied eaves crowded murky skies, all sagging timbers and rotting windows. Pristine lamp posts gave way to wall-mounted lanterns with cracked glass. The blue-white flames of ghostfire braziers smouldered their sweet scent into the swirling snow. For all that the mists of Otherworld had drowned with Dregmeet, few were minded to take chances with vengeful spirits stirring beneath cold seas. Especially with Midwintertide so close.
Beyond, what had once been Birch Street veered north and south. The empty facades of its western edge projected from the lagoon’s grey, snow-speckled waters, the retaining wall that had once stopped the street slipping away into Dregmeet proper now a weatherworn embankment holding seas at bay. Under clearer skies, Altiris had seen lights blazing beneath t
he waters. Sea fetches, some held them, luring the curious to a drownling’s wedding. He was glad their light didn’t carry through the snows.
Ahead, the spire of Seacaller’s Church pierced the skies. A name once bestowed for a founder’s determination to spread Lumestra’s gospel across harbour slums now lent irony by rushing waters lapping against lychfield walls.
For the first time, the driving wind bore not only voices, but song – the curious atonality of carols brandished with more enthusiasm than skill. A common enough sound in the city’s wealthier churches, but not in Sothvane. And certainly not so long after the dusktithe services were done. Try as he might, Altiris couldn’t pick out the words.
He clung to the fleeting shelter of a crumbling brick wall, and wondered if he’d erred by not seeking assistance. He’d expected a furtive gathering, easily spied upon – or even overcome, were fortune with them – but not this. Even assuming most of the revellers were innocents, that didn’t mean they’d take no side if it came to a fight.
Constans shook his head. “If they want to call Lumestra down from the heavens, they’d do better to learn the words. Hitting some of the right notes would help.” He stomped his feet moodily. “Well, lieutenant? What now? I hear tell you’re in charge.”
What now indeed? How many waited inside? Temptation remained to return to Stonecrest, offer report and return with Brass and the others – maybe a few constables for good measure. Only that would risk appearing afraid – not least to Constans, whose dark eyes watched him with veiled amusement.
“We go in,” Altiris said at last. “Ask a few careful questions – watch for familiar faces – and see from there.”
“At your command.” A sly smile undercut the acknowledgement’s formality.
Altiris flinched as Constans’ hand darted forward. Smile edging wider, Constans reached past his shoulder, plucked something from the wall and opened his hand. A bird’s skull and a wreath of feathers. A crow charm, a vranakin warning to intruders. A tattered and miserable thing, but there was no telling how long it had hung there. Might have been years, months… or hours.
Smile fading, Constans dropped the repulsive bundle into the snow and brought down his heel. “Better safe than sorry, don’t you think?”
Altiris felt the watchmen’s eyes on him as he passed beneath the lychfield’s yew bower – and watchmen they clearly were, for all their lack of uniform or obvious weapons – but recognised neither from the night before. Seacaller’s loomed ahead, light flickering through cracks in boarded-up windows. As he reached the door, the fitful carol died away. Muffled conversation rose in its place, footfall sounding on tile as folk moved about.
Judging the timing to be as good as any other, Altiris put his shoulder to the door. Warmth rushed to greet him, the brackish, earthy aroma of fish stew carried on its wings. And something else… the frisson of a presence beyond ready contemplation. There was power in the dead, and in echoes of faith.
The congregation were not, as he’d feared, a huddle of vranakin. Or, at least, none were masked and garbed as such. Though that in itself was little comfort – nor had Hawkin and her accomplices been the night before.
But her brigands had all been strong, capable fellows. The church housed a worn, filthy rabble, spanning knee-high children to elders whose lined faces had borne witness to long decades. Altiris glimpsed a ragged uniform, a crutch to support a missing limb. Some huddled in groups about the candlelit nave, wooden bowls clutched tight. Others stood with backs to the walls, eyes suspicious. Indeed, the only folk with build and confidence to match the previous night’s attackers – save another pair of obvious watchmen – laboured with pot and cauldron over a low fire set before the altar.
Not exactly the den of iniquity Adela had promised. But still, there was something off about the place. Not least that there was nothing of Lumestra to be found within sight. No sunbursts, no oak leaves – what serathi statues remained with their heads intact wore ragged blindfolds. No priest. No serenes. This wasn’t a simple church offering charity. There was something familiar, though Altiris couldn’t quite identify what.
One eye on Constans, he threaded a group of playing children and made a slow, incurious loop along the southern transept. As he passed a pillar, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
“What’s your name, son?” growled a gruff voice. “What brings you here?”
Altiris froze. He turned about and stared up at a man of about Lord Trelan’s age, heavyset with an unkempt beard. “I…”
“We were told we’d be fed here.” Constans’ voice had lost its arch precision, nasal vowels replaced by something throatier – a better fit for the city’s underbelly, and completely, utterly persuasive. More marked was the shift in posture, no longer the proud highblood, but something shrunken and cautious. “Please, we didn’t mean to intrude, but my brother and me? We ain’t eaten today.”
“You’re wearing good cloth,” the man said with suspicion.
The sly smile returned. “Slipped over the wall and pinched ’em from Stonecrest, didn’t we? For all the yammer about Phoenixes, the master of the guard’s a lazy lump. Couldn’t catch a limping cow. Would’ve had the silver, too, if we’d been quicker. But Devn here startled the mistress of the house.”
Altiris stifled a scowl at the double insult. In Laniran’s The King of Fathoms, Devn was the monarch’s idiot servant.
The man grinned. “Well, you’re here now. Come with me.”
Altiris flashed Constans a glare – which the other ignored – and they followed to the altar’s makeshift kitchen.
A woman pushed a bowl of stew into his hands. “The river provides,” she murmured, without looking up.
Unsure of the proper response, Altiris muttered thanks and withdrew towards a pillar, careful to choose a vantage beyond earshot of others, but which offered clear views across the church. Constans joined him, the heavyset man on his heels.
“Eat,” he said. “Sleep here tonight, if you’ve nowhere else. There’ll be work come the dawn.”
“What sort of work?” asked Altiris.
“The sort you don’t ask questions about.” A nod softened the reply. “Won’t be nothing worse than you’ve already done. Name’s Radzar. Ask for me, and I’ll see you’re taken care of.”
A chorus of mismatched song erupted in a distant corner, soon joined by other voices. Constans waited for Radzar to pass beyond earshot, then hooked an eyebrow at Altiris, his voice quiet but back to normal. “Follow my lead, indeed.”
Altiris took a mouthful of stew to avoid reply. It was surprisingly good, the salt of the fish – mudbream, or something similar – softened by thyme and hunks of potato.
“So what now?” pressed Constans. “We’re not going to find anything worth stealing here, much less worth recovering.”
Radzar was moving through the crowd, clasping hands and ushering folk to the altar. Altiris caught no indication that anyone else was paying them any attention. But for all that, a sour taste crept under his tongue. “It’s like the stockade on Selann.”
“Beg pardon?” asked Constans, his bowl already half-empty.
“There was an uprising. Lord Yordon’s overseers dragged the survivors to the stockade, until they could work out who’d return to the fields without trouble, and who needed… motivation.”
“You think this is the same?” Constans replied, serious for once.
“It’s not just walls and chains keep folk captive. The promise of food and warmth might do it. Or do you think anyone’d be here if they’d a choice?”
“Maybe. Folk are lazy, and free’s free.”
Spoken like a boy who’d never gone without. “Some, perhaps, but not all. Little tastes sweeter than food you’ve worked for – even if the work’s nothing to be proud of.”
Constans rolled his eyes. “Did you make trouble on Selann?”
Old pyre-flames flickered behind Altiris’ eyes. “I knew better. They burned my father for witchcraft, and I knew they’d do
the same to me if I offered excuse.”
“There’s magic in your family?”
Would that there was. “Not a scrap.”
“Then why—”
“They caught him teaching children to read. Scratching letters into the mud with a stick. That was enough.”
Constans pursed his lips and looked away. “That crack before – about you not being good enough for Sidara. I didn’t mean it to be personal. Everyone’s below her. My parents made that very clear. So does she, every time I ask her to join me as a Droshna. We’re siblings. We should be together, but she can barely look at me.”
Altiris grunted. He was unsure how to respond, for all that a reply was apparently expected. And Lumestra knew that an apology from Constans was a rare bird indeed. “It’s forgotten.”
“Viktor says I’m to think before I speak.” He shrugged, not quite disguising the embarrassment of admission. “Sometimes my tongue gets in the way.”
Surprise moved Altiris to his own confession. “Lord Trelan says I’m to think before I act. It might just be that we’re not the right men for this job.” A flash of white-blonde hair at the clocktower doorway caught his attention. “Then again…”
The pale young woman from the ambush. The one who’d stopped Hawkin from cutting his throat. Same blue-green eyes. Same black dress.
“There,” murmured Altiris, twisting away so as not to be recognised in return. “That’s her.”
Constans followed his gaze. “She doesn’t look like much.”
Altiris closed his eyes, echoes of the woman’s dizzying, drowning song rushing back over his thoughts, almost as tantalising as they were terrifying. Not someone to underestimate a second time. “She’s bad enough.”
“She’s leaving.”
Altiris opened his eyes in time to see the woman ghost through the main door and out into the night. A corner of his soul screamed at him not to follow. But the trail – never more than lukewarm – had gone cold. It was follow or admit failure. To the Lord Protector. To Lord Trelan. And to himself.