The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  ‘When the river Kryss divided the nations. I know of it.’

  ‘I was War Minister in those days, when Baron Glass was powerful in Liiria. He was a great fighter before losing his arm. I faced him many times, and the Bronze Knight as well.’

  Mirage grimaced at Lukien’s name. ‘Yes, my lord. Those must have been difficult days.’

  ‘You told nothing of the Bronze Knight to Asher.’

  ‘He did not ask me, King Raxor.’

  ‘No.’ Raxor steepled his fingers beneath his chin. ‘But the stories go that Lukien went to Jador, and that he came back with you to Liiria. Chane saw Lukien at the library. Many thought you were his woman. Were you?’

  The question broke Mirage’s heart. She had wanted so badly to be Lukien’s woman. She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘And Baron Glass – he has no claim to you either?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Then you have no man?’

  Seeing where the talk was heading, Mirage said, ‘I have no man, but I cannot be your woman, my lord, whatever that might mean. Your wife is dead, and I’m sorry for that. But I can’t replace her.’

  ‘I will not make you my concubine, Mirage, if that’s what you fear. I won’t force myself into your bed. But I do desire you to stay.’

  ‘Desire, my lord? Or do you order it?’

  ‘It’s too dangerous for you in Liiria. War is coming, and Hes might be the safest place in the world for you. You say Baron Glass has no claim on you?’

  Mirage hesitated, careful with her answer. ‘He has . . . feelings for me.’

  Raxor frowned. ‘Oh.’ He looked away thoughtfully. ‘But he does not know you’re here.’

  ‘But if he learned I was your prisoner . . .’ Mirage let the implication hang there. ‘He has a temper like thunder.’

  ‘I should not be surprised,’ mused the king. ‘You are too lovely for men to ignore. But I will not send you off to him.’

  ‘Because I remind you of your wife? My lord, please . . . that is no reason at all to keep me.’

  ‘I will keep you here because I wish it, because it gives me joy to look at you. And because you have secrets yet to tell me, girl. Asher is right about you – you have too much knowledge in your pretty head to simply let you leave.’ Raxor got out of his chair, then dropped to one knee before Mirage. He took her hand, stroking it and smiling. ‘Let me be kind to you. Maybe then you will trust me, and you will see that you are only protecting a madman.’

  ‘My lord, I cannot love you, not ever, not the way you want.’ Mirage pulled back her hand. ‘If you truly want to be kind to me, then let me go.’

  The old king looked at her, rebuffed and saddened. He got slowly to his feet.

  ‘War is coming,’ he said softly. ‘I will be ready for it. And you will help me be ready. You will make a man of me, Mirage. You can keep your body from me, I don’t need it. Just your beauty is enough for me.’

  ‘No, my lord,’ Mirage protested. She rose to face him. ‘I won’t have it. I won’t be your slave or your salvation. I’m a free woman and not the chattel of any man, even a king.’

  ‘You are my guest, Mirage,’ said Raxor evenly. ‘For as long as I wish it.’

  The king turned to go. Helpless, Mirage chased after him.

  ‘No, King Raxor,’ she pleaded, grabbing hold of his arm. ‘You must know this is wrong. Your wife is dead. Would she want you to do this?’

  ‘My wife loved Reec, and she knew my duty to it. If it meant helping me protect our country, she would understand.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Mirage indignantly, ‘she was as mad as you are.’

  Raxor smiled, reaching out to brush her check. ‘Even when you’re angry you look like her. Rest now, child. I will see you soon.’

  Then, as quickly as he’d come to her, King Raxor left Mirage. Stunned, unsure where to go, she simply stared.

  ‘Madness! Is all of Reec filled with madman?’

  Mirage went back to her chair, first taking the cameo from the table. As she sat she held the image of Raxor’s dead wife. She saw the resemblance between them now and it frightened her.

  ‘Kirsil,’ she whispered, summoning her Akari. ‘I think we’re in trouble.’

  Not far from the drawing room, in a hallway separate from the dining area, Corvalos Chane stood alone, waiting for his master to return. He remained very still, ignoring the servants who had long ago learned to ignore him in kind. As the king’s man, he was accustomed to being in the east tower, though not a drop of noble blood flowed through his veins. In his worn leather trousers and soldier’s jerkin, he looked completely out of place among the castle’s art and finery, keeping mostly to a shadowed corner.

  Corvalos Chane had much on his mind. More than anything, he wanted his master to be pleased. He had taken on the impossible task of resurrecting Raxor’s broken spirit, trying to heal his king and make him ready for battle. Reec needed Raxor, and all the history and glory he represented. When the Diamond Queen at last marched her armies across their border, it would be Raxor that would turn them back. No one else was up to the task.

  In the quiet of the hallway, Corvalos Chane thought about the girl, too, and how frightened she had looked when he’d rescued her. She was a jewel, that one, worthy of his king, but she had also set the spy’s heart fluttering. Chane had not been with a women since he could remember. Until now, their allure held little temptation for him. Mirage was different, though. She was beautiful in a way that other women were not. She was a mystery, and that intrigued him.

  Chane straightened when he heard the familiar sound of Raxor approaching, the distinct din of his heavy boots clicking on the polished floor. Raxor appeared quickly, his face shining in the hall’s candlelight. He was a big man still, as tall as Chane himself and almost twice as wide, and when he grinned he lit the room. Corvalos Chane smiled back at his beloved king.

  ‘My lord is pleased,’ said the spy.

  King Raxor put his giant hand on Chane’s cheek, patting it. ‘I’m grateful, Corvalos. I didn’t believe you at first, but she is everything you promised. She is so beautiful it takes my breath away.’

  ‘She is Lady Helea’s spitting image, my lord, is she not?’

  ‘Aye, she could be her daughter. And fiery!’

  Chane shrugged. ‘I did warn you.’

  ‘Ah, she is afraid, that’s all.’ Raxor twisted a stout golden ring on his finger, the way he always did when worried. ‘She won’t be harmed. I promised her that, though I don’t know if she believes me.’

  ‘Give her time, my lord,’ Chane advised. ‘She will learn to love you.’

  Raxor looked at his trusted friend. ‘That is too much to hope. Her heart belongs to another, I can tell. Perhaps Baron Glass himself.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. She is here with you, and not with Baron Glass.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Raxor. ‘And I will keep her for myself, no matter what storms the Black Baron might bring us.’

  15

  ‘You can get off here,’ said the boatman. ‘It’s not far to the centre of the city. You can walk the way easily.’

  Lukien looked out over the edge of the dock, to the sprawling city on the riverbank. The spires of Torlis shadowed his face. He smelled the briny scent of salt drying along the rocks at low tide and the pungent odours of crowded humanity. While black flies swarmed their boat, the boatman, Akhir, guided his tiny vessel toward the dock, scraping it alongside and tossing ropes to dark-skinned workers. A hundred other boats were tied there, and a hundred more choked the river, fishing boats and barges filled with cargo. Men and boys waded in the shallow parts of the river, tossing nets. Along the bank, homes of mud brick baked in the sun, erected on pylons to keep from flooding when the river rose. Beyond the homes, the centre of Torlis beckoned with its densely built temples and minarets. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang.

  The workers with the ropes jerked the boat to the dock. Lukien held to the rail as the vessel jolted to a stop. Akhir h
urried to secure the moorings, his gnarled hands quickly tying knots. Beside him stood Jahan, looking moonstruck as he gazed upon Torlis. For three days they had been aboard Akhir’s boat, hiring him out of a busy fishing village, the only man willing to ferry them to Torlis. For the price of their worn-out horse and donkey, Akhir had navigated them up the wide river, expertly avoiding the treacherous spots. Years of piloting his ancient boat had given Akhir a confident hand, and while he captained Lukien and Jahan could relax and rest themselves. It had been a pleasant, unremarkable journey, and the two men had deepened their friendship, getting to know one another and swapping tales. Under the starry nights, Torlis seemed a thousand miles away.

  But now the great city towered all around them, and Jahan did not speak at all. He simply gazed, his eyes wide with breathless awe. His ponytail of hair pendulated to the rocking surf. Lukien sidled closer. For both of them, their arrival was a victory. As Akhir secured the vessel, Lukien and Jahan pondered the city and its people. To Lukien, they were very much like the villagers he had already encountered in Tharlara, but their city was much more advanced. Monuments were everywhere, sprouting like reeds among the paved roads cut between the grand buildings. In the centre of the city rose an elaborate palace of shimmering limestone. A trio of graceful spires turned upward from the palace, capped with golden domes that showered sunlight into the streets. The palace was easily the largest building in Torlis, dwarfing everything around it and surrounded by greenery and pools of blue water. Lukien nudged Jahan.

  ‘The Red Eminence?’

  Jahan nodded. ‘It must be.’

  Torlis itself went on for miles, but beyond the city rose a mountain range, and from that range grew a single giant of a mountain, its broad shoulders packed with snow, its peak puncturing the clouds. The river they had followed for so long snaked around the city and disappeared into the mountains. The glorious mountain drew Lukien’s gaze. He had never seen its like before, and despite the grandness of Torlis it was the mountain that made him feel small.

  The boatman finished tying off his moors and came to stand beside his passengers. Akhir was a lean man, long of bone, with thoughtful eyes that gave him an air of wisdom.

  ‘That’s where the river comes from,’ he said, noticing the way Lukien spied the mountain. ‘When the snows melt, the river swells. It will soon happen again.’

  ‘And make the land strong,’ said Lukien.

  Akhir smiled. ‘Yes. You are learning, foreigner.’

  ‘And what about that big mountain?’ Lukien asked. ‘Does it have a name?’

  ‘That’s a holy mountain,’ said Akhir. ‘The people of Torlis call it the House of Sercin.’

  ‘Who is Sercin? A ruler?’

  ‘Sercin is the god of this land. Look, you will see his image everywhere,’ said Akhir. He pointed toward the city and its spires. ‘You see that temple? That is a temple of Sercin.’

  Lukien and Jahan both peered through the daylight. From out of the mud and limestone buildings jutted a tower topped with the image of what looked like a snake, its fanged maw opened wide.

  ‘You mean that one?’ asked Lukien. ‘With the serpent’s head?’

  ‘That is Sercin,’ Akhir explained. ‘That is how the people of Torlis say he appears. He is the patron of the city, the one who looks over them.’

  ‘And he lives in the mountain?’

  Akhir shrugged. ‘So they say. I do not believe or disbelieve. The people of Torlis turn the river to blood when the time comes, and that is all I care about.’

  Lukien was careful not to ask too many questions. So far, they had managed to avoid telling Akhir much about their journey, and the wily boatman seemed not to care. When they had requested passage to Torlis, Akhir had not asked why, but had merely taken their animals and given them to his family for safe keeping. Now, with his cargo safely delivered, he was eager to return home.

  ‘I have to stock my boat,’ he said. ‘And then I will leave.’

  ‘How long will you remain?’ asked Jahan.

  ‘An hour. Maybe two.’ Akhir frowned. ‘You do not want to go?’

  Apprehension made Jahan’s lips curl. ‘No. We will go.’

  But he didn’t move.

  ‘Jahan?’ probed Lukien. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Jahan looked uncomfortable. ‘All of this. It is more than I expected. It is so big! It is nothing like my village. And all these people. I have never seen so many.’

  ‘Jahan, this is what you wanted – to see Torlis.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jahan agreed.

  Still he did not disembark. Akhir made a face of displeasure.

  ‘I can take you back with me if that’s what you wish,’ he said. ‘Those were good animals you gave me. But tell me now. If you are riding back with me, I will buy enough food for us all.’

  ‘I’m going,’ said Lukien. ‘I have to. Jahan, go back with Akhir if that’s what you want.’

  Jahan shook off his apprehension with a laugh. ‘Go back? No, Lukien. How would you find your way without me?’

  ‘I don’t think I could,’ said Lukien with a grin. ‘Come on, then.’

  They said good-bye to Akhir, wishing the boatman a safe journey home, then stepped off his shaky vessel onto the dock. The wooden structure gave a groan beneath them, directing them toward the beach where dozens of fishermen and boys waded into the water or stayed ashore mending nets. Not far ahead of them, the crude homes of mud brick glowed orange in the sunlight. Stepping off the muddy bank and onto a crowded street, Lukien pointed with his chin toward the palace in the centre of the city.

  ‘There,’ he said softly. ‘That’s where we’ll find him.’

  Jahan’s nervousness grew. He licked his wind-chapped lips as he surveyed the looming palace. Around it stood scores of lesser buildings, all beautifully constructed of gleaming stone and precious metals. It would be a long walk, but Lukien could tell it was not the distance daunting his friend.

  ‘Lukien, what will you say to him?’ Jahan asked. ‘Have you thought about it?’

  ‘I will tell him the truth,’ said Lukien. ‘That I’m looking for the sword, and that I’ve come a long way to find it.’

  ‘But look at us. We have nothing to offer. We’re dressed like peasants.’ Jahan smoothed down his garb, trying to make himself presentable. ‘The Red Eminence is rich and powerful. I think perhaps I should not have come.’

  ‘Why?’ Lukien asked. He paused in the middle of the avenue, turning toward his companion. ‘Because the city frightens you? Jahan, it frightens me, too. I’m the real stranger here.’

  ‘No Lukien. The place you come from is not so unlike this. I have listened to your stories. Your city of Koth is a great city like Torlis. And I’m . . .’ Jahan dropped his eyes. ‘I’m a villager.’

  ‘You’re the founder of your village, a Simiheh. Your people are proud and respected in their part of Tharlara. You should tell the Red Eminence about your people, Jahan. If he doesn’t already know about them, then he should.’

  Jahan tried to smile. ‘The Simiheh are proud. I will tell the Red Eminence about my people, if that’s what he wishes.’

  Satisfied, Lukien took the lead as they made their way through Torlis’ crowded lanes. He wore a hood to shield himself from onlookers, but occasionally earned a surprised glance from those who had never seen his like before. Though large, Torlis was not like Koth, with its myriad of peoples. Instead, the people of Torlis were all the same, with skin like caramel and dark, narrow eyes. They dressed themselves in robes similar to Jahan’s, though better made, and the women wore their hair long and adorned themselves with jewelry. As they entered a market, the noise of chattering patrons filled the square. Merchants stood behind tables laden with dates and rice, shouting above the din while caged birds chirped incessantly and dogs ran between the stalls. Old men sat around game tables, smoking pipes and laughing, while boys in long, striped gowns herded sheep through the market. Exotic smells filled the air, making Lukien hungry, but he had very little
coinage left to splurge, and so decided to forgo the market’s many treats. Jahan, who had left down his hood, let his head swivel on his shoulders, taking in every sight and sound. Still, the people of Torlis paid the pair little attention. Too involved with their day to day business, they offered only cursory stares.

  Leaving the market, Lukien discovered a wide, straight avenue leading directly toward the centre of the city. At the end of the road stood the palace. Carts drawn by oxen and donkeys filled the road. Triple-tiered homes lined the sidewalks. Lukien led Jahan down the avenue, marvelling at a temple ascending high above their heads. It was the one they had seen from Akhir’s boat. The enormous image of the serpent’s head surveyed the city with its reptilian eyes, its stone tongue licking the air. Around the temple knelt praying worshippers, holding burning incense and chanting. Even with the help of his amulet, Lukien could not understand their words.

  ‘Look, Jahan,’ said Lukien. ‘What Akhir said about Sercin – did you know about that?’

  Jahan craned his neck to better see the towering serpent. ‘I have never heard of a god named Sercin. But see – he is a rass. They are holy here, too.’

  ‘And the people here turn the river to blood,’ said Lukien, repeating Akhir’s claim. ‘Just like you said.’

  ‘It is the Red Eminence who makes the river bleed, when he kills the great rass.’

  ‘The great rass. Could that be Sercin?’

  ‘I do not know, Lukien.’ Jahan turned eyes toward the palace. ‘Come. The Red Eminence will have your answers.’

  Avoiding the carts and beasts of burden, they took the sidewalks of the avenue, heading directly toward the palace. After a time the avenue changed, and the houses along its way surrendered to more splendid buildings. Here, there were few children playing and the homes were more elaborate. The dress of the people became finer. Taller spires reached into the air and broad-leafed trees shaded those along the walkways. Enormous edifices of limestone – monuments to past rulers, Lukien supposed – looked down at them from pedestals of polished rock, sitting like giants on gargantuan thrones. Passing the monuments, they came at last to the gates leading to the palace. Lukien paused, struck by the gates and the grounds beyond them. All around the palace stood gardens and fountains and meticulously manicured pathways. Butterflies fluttered among the flowers while men in white uniforms and saffron sashes guarded the lanes, their heads wrapped with cloths and pinned with jewels. Other men walked among them, looking like holy men in their simple, off the shoulder robes. The palace itself was set back from the gardens, its three spires achingly beautiful. The blinding-white surface of the palace contained a mind-boggling array of carvings, all climbing forever up the towers, reaching for the golden domes.