by Matthew Ward
“Anything else might have attracted attention.” He shrugged. “And so long as the goods go where they are needed, what does it matter?”
“What do you want, Konor?”
“All I’ve ever wanted: to help, and be helped in return. Those of us who see what’s happened to this Republic have a duty to one another.” He leaned forward, voice and expression earnest. “You do see now that I was right about Lord Droshna?”
“After the docks? Yes.”
Zarn shook his head. “It’s what Kasvin wanted, you know. To goad him into something that would dispel all doubt. I knew what it might cost, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“You’re lucky she stopped at arguments,” said Hawkin icily from her post by the drapes.
Altiris twisted in his chair and saw her staring balefully at Zarn. “What does she mean?”
“My relationship with Kasvin was… complicated.”
“Was?”
“She’s dead.”
“She lived when the Drazina dragged her away,” Altiris objected. “They subdued her with silver.”
“And now she isn’t,” growled Zarn. He took a deep breath and spoke softly. “I’m not mistaken about this. We were bound, she and I.”
“Murderer and victim,” snapped Hawkin.
Altiris glanced from one to the other. If anyone had murdered Kasvin, it had been the Drazina on the dockside, but why then did Hawkin hold Zarn accountable? “You’re not making any sense.”
Zarn sat back in his chair, eyes swimming with old ghosts. “Once, I was to be married to the brightest, most charming creature in the city. Lumestra knows what she saw in me. I was arrogant and brash, three sheets to the wind more hours than I was not, and seldom given to kindness. A week before our wedding day, deep in liquor’s embrace and hot with jealousy, I lost what little kindness I possessed.”
“He rang her neck like a chicken’s, is what he means,” said Hawkin.
Altiris stared at Zarn, disgust mingling with puzzlement. “How long ago?”
“Twenty years.”
“Twenty?” Though impossible, the words rang true. Kasvin had looked no more than sixteen summers, but her manner had belonged to someone older, more confident.
Zarn pressed on, the steady, confident voice turned halting and dull. “My father’s bribes preserved me from accusations, but couldn’t save me from myself. I crawled even deeper into the bottle, and there I stayed for ten long years, gnawed by self-loathing and my heart an open wound. Then I heard whispers of a river flowing through the Coventaj caves – of unhappy dead returned to new life and purpose. One moonless night, I broke open Kasvin’s tomb and carried her worm-eaten body into the darkness. I set her adrift on the Black River, and begged Endala to send her back. The next morning, I awoke to find her standing at the foot of my bed, eyes shining. I have been her slave ever since.”
Easy to see the form that slavery had taken. Altiris had felt its pull often enough. Longing that transcended desire. Zarn had lived that way for ten years, a puppet dancing in the glow of irresistible blue-green eyes. And yet Altiris could conjure no shred of pity.
“When the Crowmarket fell, Kasvin saw a chance to fill the void. The Merrow was never my idea, but hers. A name folk could rally around. It pleased her to make me play the hero – a fit reflection, she said, of a wasted, wretched life. She never missed an opportunity to remind me I was not that man, and that when I was no longer of use she’d drown me in the same waters that gave her life.” Cheeks streaked with tears, Zarn offered a wan smile. “Now she’s gone, all I have in me is to finish what she started.”
“Why?” Altiris fought to keep a sneer from his voice. “To absolve yourself?”
Zarn snorted. “There’s no redemption for me. When they put me in the ground there’ll be teeth in the darkness, and I’ll deserve every bite. My rotten soul was the token that bought Kasvin new life, and the Maid of the River always collects. I’ve known good men – six years ago, Malachi Reveque could have left me to die in the council chamber, but he broke a chair across Kai Saran’s shoulders and dragged me clear – but I’ve no place among them. Kasvin is gone. Her purpose remains.” He tapped at his temple. “She branded me with it, and I’m powerless to do aught else.”
Altiris heard no triumph, no determination, no yearning for glory. Only the fatigue of a man tired of the dance and unable to leave the floor. For all his smooth words, Konor Zarn was a husk, hollowed out and filled with another’s purpose. He might have pitied the man, but for the deed that had doomed him thus. “And what does she want?”
“To save this city from Droshna, before it drowns in the Dark.” Zarn breathed deeply, composure returning to his face and manner. “Everything I told you before is true. You’ve witnessed some of it yourself. It’s only going to get worse. Josiri is a good man. I’ve seen the proof of it this very day, but it won’t last. Droshna has him broken and he doesn’t even know it.”
Altiris stared into his brandy. He wanted to contest Zarn’s claim, but the words too closely mirrored his last conversation with Lord Trelan. “What do you want from me?”
“Proof. Something so damning that the city will have to take notice.”
“And where do we find that?”
“Drazina, constable or hearthguard – there’s always one ready to trade honour for coin,” said Zarn. “I can open any room in the city, and take my pick of its contents. Any room, save one.”
Hawkin drifted away from the window. “There’s a chamber above the Lord Protector’s quarters in the palace clocktower. I can’t find anyone who’s ever set foot in there. Except for that seneschal of his, and I know better than to waste my time trying to turn her head.”
Tzila. Altiris nodded. “So the Lord Protector values his privacy. Highbloods do.”
Zarn snorted. “What if I told you this is the room where the high proctor died?”
“They were close.” The first doubt wormed its way into Altiris’ certainty. “It’s no surprise that he’d have wider access than most.”
“And if I said that it wasn’t Ilnarov’s heart that killed him, but something else?”
Altiris narrowed his eyes. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Kasvin had a very… amicable relationship with death. Souls spoke to her.” Zarn leaned forward, eyes burning. “Think it’s worth having a poke around, while the Lord Protector’s away?”
Unthinkable that the Lord Protector had killed Elzar, but that he harboured ruinous secrets? That the near tragedy of Silverway Dock was just the first of many? It was all too plausible. Or at least plausible enough. “Why me? The Merrow has an army to call upon.”
“I don’t need an army. Armies are loud. You and Hawkin will suffice.”
Altiris looked up at Hawkin, her features unreadable. “And what’s your stake in this?”
“Payment. What else?”
The challenge in her tone couldn’t quite conceal the lie, but Altiris let it be. He drained the brandy dry and knew at once he’d need another before the night was done.
“All right. How do we do this?”
Forty-Three
As the cataphract column wound through drizzled, sullen streets, Cardivan almost heard the bells chiming for his ascension. Anticipation rippled through his veins, the ambition of a lifetime at last coming to a head. Worth the chafing of sodden armour, and more besides.
Battle still sounded to the east. No cause for worry. Inevitable consequence of his warriors reaching the Ravencourt barracks too late and finding it mobilised. Elsewhere, all was silent, Tregard’s denuded garrison overwhelmed by sheer numbers and surprise. And the populace, as predicted, cowered in their homes. Come coronation, they’d cheer him. Kings came and went. Fiefs changed hands, and life went on.
A second, smaller column cantered out of the west and joined those gathered between the stag-banner. Uncomfortable as ever in the saddle, Thirava assumed an heir’s proper place on his father’s right just as the bruised and humiliated Brackar r
ode on his left. Not a speck of blood adorned Thirava’s armour. As the father, so the son. A man did not need to wield the sword to claim victory by it.
“My king.” Thirava’s tone was a study in false deference. As ever. “Their ranks are broken, the palace surrounded. But I do wonder at the cost.”
Cardivan regarded his son with weary distaste. So certain of his place in the world. So much to learn. “It’s a sacrifice. An Emperor must not only be strong, but be seen to have strength.”
“I might believe that were it your own men dying, and not mine.”
“The throne will be yours soon enough, will it not? Sooner than I expect, I’m sure.” He offered Thirava a sidelong glance. “Or do you think I don’t know of your agents among my household?”
His son flinched. “I’d never—”
Cardivan waved him to silence. “It’s a family tradition. Should you get the better of me, I’ll deserve it. Dare I hope for competence elsewhere?”
Thirava scowled. “The Empress will be yours by dusk.”
Cardivan let another street pass away beneath his horse’s hooves before answering. “And our agents in the palace?”
“Loyalists hold the walls, their eyes outward. What occurs within is a mystery. I’ve given orders for the assault.”
Cardivan nodded. Even if Melanna and her daughter had escaped his suborned Immortals, the distraction was enough. Action was all, and reaction death. Perhaps, had the Empress been free to rally her warriors, things might have transpired differently – whatever contempt Cardivan held for her person, he respected her ability – but now those warriors were dead or captive. She had no one.
Well, almost no one. A few hundred Immortals within the palace walls. The odd fugitive… Brackar’s cowardice in the face of Apara Rann still rankled – and that it had been the Empress’ pet Tressian who’d humbled his champion, Cardivan didn’t doubt. One last bastion remained, and as the white boundary wall and iron gate of Mooncourt Temple came into view at the street’s end, Cardivan rode to unmake it.
It wasn’t much. A flicker of Tesni’s gaze. Barely a heartbeat of broken attention. But to Melanna, wound tight with outrage and fearing for an absent daughter, a heartbeat was a lifetime.
Bracing a foot against Tesni’s thigh, Melanna ripped free of the hand about her neck and the sword at her throat. The deed set her stumbling, the tangled skirts of her gown and impractical formal shoes offering little stability and less grip.
Melanna circled, trying to keep not only her attacker but the rest of the throne room in sight. Tesni’s sword darted, sending her back the other way, the cowering Jorcari, the throne and the two other treacherous Immortals again lost somewhere behind.
Tesni hacked down. Melanna flung herself aside, losing only the trailing edge of a sleeve to the blade. A grunt sounded behind. A scream. Then Tesni’s sword stabbed forward once again, leaving Melanna no attention for anything else. Tesni bore down with short, stabbing blows. Melanna retreated, her every attempt to break left or right thwarted by steel.
“It isn’t too late,” she gasped. “Give me your sword.”
Tesni offered no words, but Melanna read answer in her eyes. She knew that look. She’d seen it in so many faces. She’d recognised it in herself. The knowledge that bridges behind were in flames, and the only way forward was through the darkness.
Those same eyes warned Melanna of Tesni’s next swing before it arrived. Ducking beneath the blade, she broke right, angling towards the throne. The throne, and the Goddess’ moonsilver sword hanging from the armrest.
“No!” shouted Tesni.
Fifteen paces. A thunder of Tesni’s footfalls sounded behind.
Ten paces. Melanna cursed ever having laid eyes on the formal gown.
Five paces.
An Immortal veered in from Melanna’s right.
She twisted. The sword meant for her heart found empty air. Survival robbed her of balance. She fell, head, shoulder and hip cracking against tile. As she struggled to rise, the Immortal’s helm blotted out the towering statues of the gods, and the throne room’s distant roof. Slowly, deliberately, he spun his sword point downwards and grasped it in both hands.
“Tirane Aregnum.”
The Immortal collapsed, cut down from behind. A withered hand found hers.
“Empress.”
Jorcari helped Melanna rise, his manner again that of an unbending warrior. Behind him, the remaining traitor lay sprawled across the tiles, sightless eyes skyward. The old man bore not a scratch.
Planting a hand in Jorcari’s chest, Melanna shoved him aside. Tesni’s blade hissed between them. Melanna dipped and stood tall with a dead Immortal’s sword in her hand.
Tesni struck again. Melanna met the blow with steel of her own, and welcomed the shiver of impact. For all that an Empress’ duties had atrophied her bladework, her arm knew what was needed.
Swords scraped once, twice, three times. Tesni went back, the first fear in her eyes. A fourth exchange, and her sword skidded across the floor, chased along by the cry of pain from severed fingers. Her boot slipped on a smear of blood. She landed heavily, the ruin of her sword hand further slicking the tiles, the other outstretched to fend off the inevitable.
“Please…”
Melanna pursued, outrage cold as ice. “I offered you mercy. You chose this.”
One sweep of the sword struck Tesni’s warding hand away. A thrust silenced her for good.
Sick at heart, Melanna left the sword buried in the corpse. The sounds of distant battle swelled around her, much of it close enough to be elsewhere in the palace. A moment. She’d bought only a moment. How many of her household had Cardivan suborned? If he’d broken the legend of the Immortals, all were suspect. All who’d chosen to be at her side. How could she defend herself and Kaila, much less the Empire? She had a nation, and yet she was alone.
“Jasaldar Jorcari?” For all that she spoke softly, the words carried. “I owe you a debt I cannot repay, and now I must impose another. I’ve no notion of how matters lie beyond this room. It may well be that the palace offers nothing but corpses. But if your lodgemates live, would you find them, and bring them here? I need men about me I can trust.”
“There is no debt, my Empress. If they live, you shall have them.” He tilted his head, shrewdness gleaming in his eye. “But I must have your promise that you’ll still be here upon our return.”
For a moment, Jorcari was gone, and Melanna’s father stood in his place, so clearly had he read her intent.
“I will not abandon my daughter,” she replied. “I will know that she is safe even if I have to tear this palace apart with my bare hands.”
He nodded. “Of course. But a dead mother is no gift to her child. Even for an Empress, patience is all.”
Melanna scowled, but truth cared little for her worries. “Go.”
Rosa saw not a living soul, warrior or otherwise, though this in no small part was due to her determination to go unseen. A Tressian loose in the Imperial palace was a Tressian of uncertain future – especially with the thrill of freedom running dry, and aching muscles a reminder of how close she’d come to death in recent days.
Of the dead, Rosa saw plenty, though which faction held ascendance was a mystery to her. Nor, in truth, did she care. Loyalist or traitor, they were all shadowthorns, and undeserving of mercy. Little would change if Melanna Saranal was dragged from the throne, save the lingering resentment that another had ended the woman who’d so soured Rosa’s life.
Reaching the next corner, Rosa checked her pace. An open door, bodies sprawled about it, and a room beyond. The ragged, uneven breath of the dying. Sword gripped tight, she edged out into the corridor.
A helmless, grey-bearded Immortal staggered through the doorway, one hand pressed to torn scales on his right side. He looked more a slaughterhouseman than a warrior, for scarcely a scrap bore no blood. His sword came up, levelled in line with an eye crusted shut.
“Are you part of this, Lady Orova?” The v
oice was weary, but unyielding. “I should tell you I’ve orders to kill you, should I find you loose in these halls.”
Rosa halted, her own sword at middle guard. High would have been better, but middle was easier on tired arms. “I’ve killed no one who did not first try to kill me.” She tilted her head, trying to make sense of the shadows behind him. “Don’t join them.”
He cracked a smile. “The arrogance of Essamere. I expect nothing less.” The sword point dipped, then righted. He swallowed hard. “Is your honour equal to your arrogance? Can I—”
He sagged against the architrave, leaving a scarlet trail as he slid to the floor. His sword chimed on tile, released from a twitching hand. A small girl in a soiled dress darted from the room beyond. Careless of the blood, she flung her arms about him.
“You mustn’t die, Shar Rasha,” she wailed. “You promised to find my mother.”
Rosa drew closer, unsure why she did so. The child’s racket would only draw attention.
Rasha put his sword-arm about the girl. “The selfishness of children. This is not how a princessa behaves, is it, essavim?” She gave no answer save tears, and he turned his good eye on Rosa. “I saw you fight, years ago. You broke the wall at Zaragon to save a wounded comrade. You were remarkable. And I marked you again years later, at Govanna, where you were death without mercy. Which are you now?”
Rosa shook her head, thrown by the question. She’d forgotten about Zaragon. A squalid brawl in the borderlands, as all such skirmishes were. A shadowthorn mace had shattered her shield arm. She’d been weeks recovering.
“I don’t know. Maybe neither.”
Dry laughter caught in his throat. “You at least do not seem a woman who would kill a child, and I…” Alertness faded from his expression. A wince brought it rushing back. “I am out of options. Bring Kaila to her mother, and we will both have our answers.”
Rosa shook her head. “Why should I care what happens to the Empress’ brat?” The question set the girl wailing anew. “The sins of the kith care nothing for age. She inherits her mother’s crimes.”