“I am so sorry that this happened to you.”
“I flatter myself that they were after me,” she said. “No one has ever attempted to assassinate me before. I consider it a badge of honour.”
“Maybe,” said Garten.
“If it were not for Moten...” she tailed off. The countess had been trapped. Moten had dragged her out before the fire could kill her. “I will have that drink, I think.”
“Good idea.” He went to a drinks cabinet. “Mandofar has a fine selection here. Any preference?”
“Something strong, not too sweet,” she said. Garten selected a decanter and poured them both large measures.
“Thank you,” said the countess.
“You are leaving today?”
“Yes. I would stay—”
“You must return,” interrupted Garten. “I insist. If you are a target then you are not safe here.”
“I do not care, goodfellow,” she said. “If you need me to remain, I am willing, if not entirely able for the moment.” She tapped the splints on her leg with her cane.
“You will go home.”
“Well, one does live in the most inaccessible fortress in all the Isles. I will be safe there if nowhere else. I have disseminated printed copies of my speech. It will lack the power of a spoken presentation, but needs must.” She raised her glass. “To you,” she said, and drank half of it in one swallow. “How are you faring? I imagine this is the kind of office you had in mind for yourself, even if I doubt you intended to gain it so precipitately.”
“I am not the holder of this office. I am to be relieved in two days.”
“Quick, by bureaucracy’s standards.”
“Indeed. I am not comfortable here. There is a scent a man leaves behind him, on the role and on the room. Were this to be mine I’d rip it all out and have new brought in. The smell of that man is insinuating, just like he was. It cloys the back of my throat.”
“The only throats he is irritating now are those of the worms,” said the countess.
“If only it were not so. I could do with his knowledge. I am certain Raganse was behind the bomb. He’s condemned the militant side of the church while pulling the bishop closer in. The chances of a moderate being chosen now for the Maceriyan candidate for High Legate are practically nil. The sons of Juliense and Arvons are in their minority; Arvons’ is barely one. Until they are of age, Raganse is de facto ruler of Maceriya.”
“The last thing Ruthnia needs now is to lose focus,” said Lucinia. “We must be ready for the coming of the Twin next year, not banging tambourines to welcome the gods back.”
“That is the least of it, countess,” said Garten. “There will be dissension in the hundred. Deadlock. I cannot see this devolving into armed conflict, it is unthinkable.”
“Perhaps because it is unthinkable, you should consider it,” she said. “The threat of war is greater now than it has been for decades.”
Garten was glum at the thought. “You are becoming involved in all this, I thought you said the end was nigh, all that.”
“I have lived my life in opposition to the prevailing wind, my dear Garten. Just because I believe Ruthnia to be doomed, does not mean I will not go down without a fight.” The countess finished her drink. “I must be away. My train leaves soon, I move slowly and you are busy.” Garten moved to take her glass, then she offered her arm and Garten helped her up. She leaned in and kissed his cheeks gently.
“Be careful, Garten. You may have guessed that your brother behaved poorly toward me, but you are a good man. I wish you well.”
Moten returned to help her out. There was a wheeled chair just outside. Garten caught a glimpse of it as the door swung shut, he guessed he was not supposed to. The countess was proud. He was sorry to see her go.
Garten sank into endless reports gathered by agents of the Karsan intelligence ministry working in the city. Every one seemed to concern the Church and its growing appeal, each report was worse than the last. Gloom enveloped the room and he absentmindedly hunted about for candles, still reading. Another knock at the door shook him from his concentration.
“What is it?” he shouted. He looked outside. It had become foggy.
“Begging your pardon, goodfellow,” said Moten. “It’s the Morfaan, Lady Josan she—”
Josan pushed past into the room, her odd way of moving and long skirts making her appear to glide. A wide hood concealed her face, but she pulled this back. Underneath she was heavily made up.
“Leave us,” she said to Moten.
“Yes my lady Morfaan,” he said, closing the door behind him.
The papers drooped in Garten’s hand. “Lady Josan.”
“You will listen. I have need of you,” she said. From her such an imperious statement was a simple fact, something a forester might say to a tree before felling it.
“Yes?”
“You helped us after the explosion.” Her speech was stilted, delivered oddly, without the usual array of human ticks. The less extreme facial expressions of the Morfaan were inscrutable to him, when he registered them at all.
“I have enquired about you. You are a good swordsman. I require someone whom I can trust, and who knows how to handle a blade.”
“A blade?” said Garten.
“Yes,” she said, wrinkling her face at him like she had not realised he could speak. “A blade. Tomorrow, at dawn in the Meadow where we arrived. My brother has been asked to duel.”
“A duel? Who wants to fight the Morfaan?”
“I have said this. It has occurred before.”
“Not for three hundred years,” said Garten.
“Nevertheless, there is precedent.”
“Please, Lady Morfaan. This is a trick, so soon after the bomb, the attempt on your life—”
“Was it an attempt on my life? Is that so? Do you have proof?”
“No, I surmise.”
“Leave supposition to minds greater than yours,” she said. “We were masters of this Earth for aeons. There is no threat. A matter of pride and honour, foolish, but sincere. If we decline, our position weakens. We will appear frightened, and a Morfaan fears nothing. I have been told that since Josanad’s last victory, your rules of fighting have changed. I understand that currently it is legally required to have a companion present at a duel.”
“A second,” said Garten.
“Yes. A second to fight in his stead if he be wounded. Do not be afraid. Josanad has never been beaten, by man nor Morfaan nor any other being. You will not have to fight. But you are necessary.”
“Might I ask who his opponent is?”
“The woman, Kyreen Asteria. She is arrogant. You will have the privilege of seeing her die.”
“Lady Josan, Kyreen Asteria is the finest duellist in the world. She has never been beaten. And your brother, if you will forgive, if he suffers from one of his—”
“There is nothing wrong with my brother!” she said. She reared back, like a snake about to strike. “You presume too much.”
“I... I apologise,” said Garten.
Her anger passed. Her neutral expression returned.
Garten sat down heavily.
“You wish me to act as second?”
“Yes,” she said. “You have demonstrated your loyalty. You are skilled with a sword. I trust you. You accept?”
“As an honourable man, I must,” said Garten. “I cannot decline.”
“Very good,” she said. “I shall see you tomorrow.” And then she left.
“I told you to be careful what you wished for,” said Issy.
Garten held his hands up. They were shaking.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The Ice Warriors
THE EXPEDITION STRUCK out into the City of Ice. They took all three sleds, and all the dogs, the members of the party riding sat on either side, feet on the runners. Three marines accompanied each sled, four on the rearmost if Bannord were reckoned among their number. Trassan went out on the front sled with Antoninan and Ullfi
der. The mage and the magister rode the second with the alchemist’s apprentice, a lad named Marlion, and Antoninan’s groom.
The head groom’s son drove the dogs of the last sled. He had no reins as a driver would on a dray wagon, but shouted directions to the dogs. They responded flawlessly. A couple of Heffi’s burliest Ishamalani sailors rounded out the party. The sledges were made of heavy wood that seemed too large for the dogs to pull, but they managed both vehicle and cargo at a brisk trot. Valatrice called out to them from time to time, barking and yipping orders, occasionally resorting to human language when describing an easy route or warning of potential dangers.
Snow hissed under the runners. The dogs panted. Small noises in a wilderness of white silence that filled the world side to side. And ahead, the rainbow glitter of the City of Ice’s prismatic cover curved over to hide the sky.
The city seemed more of an artificial cavern than a city built by men. The interior was a broad space half a mile wide lit by bright light and broken rainbows scattered on snow. The dogs’ panting became louder as they pushed into the city’s silence. Four hundred yards in, a wall blocked off the interior. The cavern was a vast porch to a giant’s building. A gateway opened in the frozen wall. This was of more familiar Morfaan style than the crystalline lattice of the city’s high roof, but still of ice. The gates were open, massive slabs incised with Morfaan characters.
A long road opened. Buildings sheltered under the artificial sky. The scouts had come into this, the city proper, but had stayed near the entrance. Now the plan was to head as far as the road permitted, then work their way back toward the ship to create the map of the city needed for later, systematic exploration.
The buildings were like no human construction, but fluted, strange undulating things that resembled the stems of unfamiliar plants. They crossed over one another and interlocked, with increasing density toward the all-encompassing roof, so that they resembled the interior of a sponge or coral. Toward the road the spurs split, pushing out into air on their own like the twigs of a tree. Some were very long, proceeding for a hundred yards or more without visible support. Bannord had listened to the reports of the scouts, but this was the first time he had ventured through the gates, and none had gone further than this. He grudgingly admitted to himself that Trassan had it right, waiting until they were properly prepared. The place was a labyrinth, and all of it, without exception, seemed to be made of frozen water. There was no trace of metal or building glass, nor of the finely wrought stone the Morfaan utilised elsewhere. Apertures that might have been windows and doors pierced the building limbs, but they were set at strange heights that would make them useless as such. A few opened at street level, permitting a view through into the dark spaces of the buildings’ interiors. The expedition were silent. The alien buildings had a certain beauty, but their unfamiliar nature disturbed them. The ever-present sensation of being watched had faded from the docks, but it returned stronger now they were inside.
The city went back, further than the extent of the exterior, which Antoninan had circumnavigated, suggested. Trassan called a halt to consult his maps and perform calculations. Bannord took his men off the sledges, sending them in twos to investigate the interiors of the mysterious buildings. They came back baffled, reporting empty halls and rooms and staircases that went nowhere. All of them experienced a suffocating silence, and the sense of watchful eyes grew oppressive.
The party refreshed themselves, and passed on, leaving the piss of the dogs bright yellow on the snowy roadway.
Eventually the furthest wall appeared, the roof lowering itself and bowing to meet the floor. The ceiling lost its regular sweep, taking on undulations to match the buildings below. The woven nature of the dome’s construction smoothed. Where it touched the ground it was as solid as a castle wall, and there another gate awaited them.
The sleds pulled up. The party got down, staked the dogs in place, and went to investigate.
Two interlocking teardrop gates made up a circular whole. A smaller circle in the centre bore a device that resembled a flame. Three small indentations were set beneath it. The joins where the gates met each other and the walls were solid, and it appeared to have simply been carved from the ice of the wall.
“This has no counterpart on the far side,” said Antoninan. “It is a sham, decoration.”
“It is not. We’ve already come a mile further than the outer dimensions should allow,” said Trassan. “This is Morfaan magic. Perhaps those holes are for keys.”
“We have no key,” said Antoninan, “and the buildings are empty. I say it is a carving.”
“We have a Vols,” said Trassan. “Goodmage, your services, if you please.”
The mage approached the gates without comment. He placed his hands on them, and withdrew them almost instantly in surprise.
“Magic?” said Antoninan.
“Assuredly,” said Vols. “It is ice, but it is warm. You are correct, goodfellow, this area we are in is not attuned to the normal state of being. The world here has been, er, well... Been extended somehow.”
“The Morfaan come from beyond,” said Ardovani excitedly. “To Perus, from out of nowhere! In the fullness of their power, they could walk between worlds. Could this be one of their gates? Who knows where it might lead?”
“Those are legends,” said Bannord.
“Legends are history in fancy clothes, so we say in Correados,” said Ardovani. “The facts of the Morfaans’ abilities are well-established in the older chronicles.”
“Open it,” ordered Trassan.
“Very well,” said Vols. He closed his eyes and put his hands back onto the door. The area around the gates thickened with magic.
“Stand ready,” said Bannord. Ten ironlocks pointed at the gate. A shimmer sprang up from the top of the gateway, sudden as a spring bursting from rain-sodden ground. Light poured down the join in the gates, reached the floor, then shot upwards around the gateway. The impressions of cracks became cracks. With a moan, the gates parted, rolling off into sockets in the wall. A warm wind blew outwards, perfumed with a scent none of them had experienced before.
“Smells like flowers!” said Fedrion in wonder.
“Smells like trouble,” said Redan.
The tunnel it revealed also appeared to be of ice, but of a different kind to that making up the rest of the city. This was partly clear, with large, leaf-like structures trapped inside in multiple layers, making it translucent. The tunnel appeared like a hollow cylinder rather than a tube bored through a solid mass. At the far end, light shone, bright as sunlight.
“Could you have missed an exit?” Trassan asked Antoninan.
“No,” he said. “I did not.”
“That light is not daylight,” said Ardovani. “It is the wrong colour.” He fished about in his pack, drew out a wooden box and took a complicated eyepiece from inside, comprised of several lenses mounted in series. He put it to his face, clicking different coloured lenses in and out of place. “Not daylight,” he said eventually.
“We go in.” Trassan looked back at the silent buildings. “And I was beginning to worry there was nothing here.”
“Aretimus, Drannan, you up front. Kressinda, Darrasind, guard the rear.”
“Yes sir,” the troopers responded. Aretimus and Drannan advanced cautiously, guns ready. Their hammers clicked as they cocked them.
As soon as they stepped over the threshold a voice boomed out.
“Stop!”
The face of the Morfaan from the dock gates blurred into existence, filling the wide tunnel top to bottom, more solid than before.
“This city is the domain of the Morfaan on Earth. You were warned to depart.”
“Wait!” shouted Trassan. “Listen to me! We come as seekers of knowledge.”
If the head could understand, it showed no indication.
“You shall all perish,” it said, and faded away.
“Shit me,” said Drannan. He looked back to his lieutenant. “What do we do no
—”
He fell dead, a spear of smoking white ice through his neck. Aretimus discharged his gun with a yell and leapt back from the tunnel entrance.
From the corridor walls, things climbed, uncurling themselves from the shapes in the ice like children creeping out from piles of leaves in games of autumn hide and seek. They were made entirely of ice, with smoothly sculpted features approximate to men but vastly bigger, all of them taller than nine feet. They carried bows of ice with strings of crackling energy, and spears with barbed points. Their bodies steamed, hot like the gates, and where they walked snow melted.
“Everyone away from the gates!” screamed Bannord. “Marines, fire to cover our retreat!”
They fell back from the tunnel, running for the doors of the deserted city, Bannord’s men firing into the mass of ice warriors filling its length as they retreated. Forfeth and Timmion covered their comrades, blazing blue bullets smacking into the chest of an advancing warrior. The ice warrior’s chest cracked, and steam whistled, but it did not stop until two more ironlocks spoke. The ice construct shook with releasing pressure as it turned to find its assailants, detonating with a rush of heat that showered the area with scalding water and pointed fragments of steaming ice.
The ice warriors let out a strange, whispering cry, and charged.
“Run!” shouted Bannord.
The piteous yelp of an injured dray squealed out behind him, and he turned to see a dog thrashing in its death throes, a trio of arrows melting into its fur. From the buildings behind more of the ice warriors emerged, unpeeling themselves from the walls. They were flat when they came free, seeming only to pop into rounded being as they walked. Steaming water pattered into the snow from the buildings as they passed, and the air around them danced with heat. Ilona and Darrasind opened fire from a building, but did not slow them.
“The dogs, save the dogs!” shouted Antoninan. He ran for the sled with the dead dray. The dogs were tense, about to flee. He drew his knife as he ran, and fell on the dog, slashing its traces through.
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