by J. B. Lucas
“You can piss here,” called the old man. “No,” came back the reply.
Marcan had not been in the company of such a wealth of intellect before, and it challenged his idea of his own destiny. He had an unshakeable distrust of these people, and this clawed at the idea that he had been given a purpose by the world. Would the gods have chosen such a bunch of creepy, conniving men who revelled in their own sordid natures? He gave credit to Balthasar for his portrayal of this wretched political class.
In front of him, Pello dashed around the side of the smaller building, which had housed the various domestic staff when this estate had housed a grander generation. Marcan felt a heave of gratitude when he saw the boy, blond hair bouncing as he moved in his half-walk, half-trot, his uneven eyes fixed on a thought which seemed to run a few steps in front of his own toes on the ground.
Pello looked up as Marcan’s footsteps reached him. He froze, stared at his face, turned to look in panic over his shoulder, then swung his panicked expression back to Marcan.
A sickly sensation ran through Marcan, an angrier, more vengeful version of the emotion which had felled him on his first night. Rage burned up his sternum, conquering the reason in his head, and with a dramatic lurch, he galloped forward, past the now scampering Pello towards the hidden plotters behind the corner of the cottage wall. He could not stand anymore to have these arrogant old men talking behind his back, planning his future for him.
As he approached, he could see a blurred shadow in the pallid sunshine and he bunched his fists, content to let his mouth utter whatever flew from it before his reactions caught up.
Two steps, one step and he barrelled around the corner. He blinked several times, wondering whether his mind had cracked again.
Loreticus and Selban weren’t there, plotting and scheming with bloodied knives and poison pouches around them. Instead, an old lady sat, rocking in an ancient, beaten chair, its arms so old that the wood was polished from a million touches.
She looked up and saw him. They stared. He hadn’t seen this face for a long time, but he remembered her perfectly, the first face he ever remembered seeing. The crone from the marketplace in Bistrantium.
Chapter 27
Eduus was the assassin of choice in the generals’ circles. He was precise and lithe, full of a wry humour and the edgy arrogance of a diminutive man.
Eduus designed his own cloth-soled shoes and he was rather proud of them. After this big payoff, he would hire apprentices to make them for him. He could sell them to soldiers and mercenaries and make a healthy income which would be better to live on than his retainer from Flaky Ferran.
Three knives of different sizes were smothered in his belt and across his back. Each was sharpened to a butcher’s perfection–after all, cutting through skin was as tough as cutting through pig hide. He was a proud man, making sure that his hair was cut and his nails were buffed before an exercise like this one. He figured that if the details were planned and prepared, then luck was on his side.
Eduus had slogged all the way from the border to this pair of ramshackle huts, following the tracks of horses which rode in semi-military style. The horses were well-shod, which implied a wealthy set of riders. One day, they would teach his tracking skills in the military academy, revelling in his powers of deduction.
The problem before him was the clear space between the break of the slope up to the plateau and the buildings. He presumed that the guard who was making his fire outside the hall front was the only one out, as was the standard military procedure in this situation. Against an attacking force, why expose the squad when they just needed one man to make a noise? He waited, hands down the front of his trousers to keep them warm, watching the shadows around the hall corners and the sides of the smaller house. After half an hour, Eduus raised himself into a stoop and trotted noiselessly across the open ground, then dropped flat on his belly. His green and grey clothes kept him as a shadow against the floor, breaking up his silhouette. He repeated the procedure and pressed himself against the cold floor again, sure that the guard must have been able to hear his breathing. Nothing. The man was sitting, watching the fire, complacent in his reverie.
Eduus lay sprawled, wondering how to attack without raising the alarm. He was lucky that the clouds had quenched the moonlight and he had been able to get this close, but he was still stuck in a dilemma between a rapid attack and patience. A stealth attack was as likely to cause a shout of shock as a raised blade, and that was worse in this situation. Eduus trusted himself to make the right choice when it became clear. Whenever he felt unsure, he reminded himself that he was the imperial choice–the best in the land.
Then his luck changed. The guard stood up, towering a lot taller than Eduus had expected, left his helmet by the fire and stepped slightly away, unlacing the front of his trousers. A noise of piss thumping against the rocky earth and the soldier’s released breath. One step, two steps and then a short sprint. Eduus jumped, his left hand grappling the mouth shut and lifting the jaw. His knife peeled open the throat with such a wide stroke that it burst the veins on either side. Teeth bit hard into the tough leather on the inside of his fingers, wisely gloved against puncture. As the soldier sagged, he shrank and Eduus’s feet came back into contact with the ground. He gently helped the big man down before turning to the main building.
Marcan had planned his escape that afternoon as he listened to Felix natter on. The original architect of the manor house had made the windows small to prevent entry from any average-sized attacker.
But he had walked the perimeter of the building and he had found what he was looking for, something every residence in the empire had. And so, after the sun had fallen and the party had dispersed, Marcan slipped out of the hall door. Down the spiral steps, as quietly as he could manage, given his nerves. His presumption was that his hosts’ horses were stabled in the smaller building as none were with Demetrian.
At the bottom of the narrow staircase, a door stood open and Marcan could hear the guards chatting and detect the smell of hot wine. Further down he went, following these age-old steps in to the guts of the house. Something cracked in front of him, and he stiffened. There were no torches down the stairs, and the only light came from the open door above. He crouched silently, wanting to minimise any silhouette. Something small moved away from him down the steps and he had the impression that he had not been seen.
Further down, the light vanished and he crouched again, waiting for his night eyes to come to him. He could feel on his cheeks a dryness from his surroundings, and there was a smell of old wood. Marcan advanced, hesitantly stretching his fingers in front of him to get a bearing. After a few steps, he felt a stack of something and guessed fire logs. Further into the darkness he went, praying that his inner compass was leading him to the half-hidden trap door at the side of the house.
Eduus crept around the base of the building and after two circuits found the trap door for the wood. With his fingertips, he traced the edges and stepped back to find something to pry it open. As he squinted in the dark, he missed the trap slowly opening of its own volition.
He turned back to see a heavy silhouette emerge from the edge of the house. Not usually a superstitious man, this apparition was more than enough to give him pause. Then the shadow froze as it saw Eduus and the spell broke.
The assassin charged into action, stepping forward heavily and whipping his hand back and forth, launching a line of wicked knife blades. Two struck – he could tell by the movement of the shadow – but the last bounced off the wall behind him.
Then the shadow was moving silently, murderously closer to him. He was fast and he caught Eduus with a blistering punch across his ear. The assassin tumbled, shocked but somehow ready. Out came two of the small blades again, one still dirty with the guard’s flesh. Eduus threw a flurry of jabs, some killing shots, others to distract. But the man ducked and bobbed, and in the dark Eduus couldn’t find the strike that he wanted.
Then the shadow came into the
moonlight and the assassin paused. Standing, bloodied and furious in front of him, was the Emperor Marcan. No more than half a heartbeat and the routine started again, but this time the assassin knew that he had lost the advantage.
Marcan came, his fists drilling into open ribs and unprotected face. Then the emperor lost his footing in the fresh mud, his body slipping, and Eduus’s blade dug through his clothes and stuck in the flesh low down on his rib cage.
Marcan snarled, slapped Eduus with an open palm which felt like rock. It stunned the assassin, rocking him backwards. Marcan half tumbled, half staggered to the shadows. A noise of a fall and Eduus lost sight of him.
He ducked, checking for movement and then closed in. The trap door was closed tight. Eduus stooped, snatching up the two fallen knives on the ground and arranged himself. He was breathing heavily, nursing a split lip and the side of his head felt red hot from the bruising that was coming. But he was close, and his knife was sitting between the emperor’s ribs. His professional pride now demanded proof of the kill.
Something told him that Marcan wouldn’t raise the alarm. The man looked like he had been trying to sneak away, not hide, so Eduus hunted again for a way in. A window was open near the far end. It would be a scramble to get in, but he was much smaller and slighter than the average person. Eduus sprinted on his cloth feet, listening for any change in the sounds around him. One, two, then he launched again, catching the edge of the window with his fingertips so that he couldn’t be seen from inside. Gently he raised his eyes above the mantle. Perfectly quiet, his muscles honed and responsive despite the long journey, the thrill of the murder and the cold heightening every movement.
Nothing inside to worry about. The servants’ kitchen, it appeared. A brace of half-butchered rabbits lay on one counter to his left, and to the right the room spread out of his view. The light was not strong, although coming in from the dark it was as blinding as the sun. He heaved himself through the aperture and landed as gently as he could. Something crackled, then popped. He took another step, the floor feeling uneven under his soft-soled shoes. It gave way with a scratching noise and then a crack.
Another noise and all of a sudden Eduus found himself bathed in light. In front of him, a guardsman rolled over to look at who had made the noise. Eduus glanced down at the floor, where broken crockery had been scattered as an early-warning trap.
The guard yelled at the top of his lungs, and Eduus stepped forward to drive the heel of his clothed foot into the man’s open jaw. In the sudden silence, he could hear movement catalysed by the alarm. Eduus wheeled, not daring to look behind him, and dashed on to the table and back through the window.
Chapter 28
Loreticus woke as his door opened, and he watched the shape of Demetrian move into his room. The soldier sat quietly in a chair against the wall.
“What happened?”
“An assassin. He killed two of my men – one outside and one downstairs. We didn’t catch him, so he’s gone back to his masters.”
Loreticus sat up, the warmth from under his blankets now seeping off him. He rubbed his eyes, stood, smoothed his hair back then started dressing.
“I presume that you’ve checked on Marcan?” he asked in the dark.
“Yes,” replied Demetrian. “A strange situation there. He had a knife in his ribs – nothing serious as it caught on the bindings of his cuirass. It gave him a nasty scratch, but nothing life-threatening.”
“The assassin got that far?”
“No, he didn’t. By my logic, Marcan went to meet him. Something went wrong and Marcan escaped back in to the house. I found blood from the trap door to the cellar to his bed.”
“What did he say?” Loreticus was incredulous now, standing with a boot hanging from one hand. “Was he trying to escape back to the capital?”
“Nothing. He simply made it understood that questions were not welcome. Stuck his bottom lip out as usual.”
“You should have made him talk!” growled Loreticus as an anger spilled in to his mind. The damned fool could do nothing easily. Was it something with the leaders in this empire that they tried every stupid option until all that was left was the obvious one?
“Loreticus, let me remind you – Marcan is my emperor. You are not.”
The party gathered in the great hall, which was lit only by the refuelled fire in the hearth. As Loreticus entered, no-one was talking. Marcan stood, eyes down, a hand on his side. Selban watched the emperor’s face, occasionally glancing at Loreticus to gauge the dynamic. Felix sat by the fire, and Trudix stood on her own as if to watch the entire scene. Both still wore their bed clothes. By the door to the stairs Demetrian waited, flanked on either side by guards dressed in their riding armour.
“We’ve been betrayed,” stated Loreticus. He folded his arms, then considered Marcan. “The generals know that we’re here. You’re a dead man if we stay; you’re a dead man if we go back to the capital. We only have one direction to go.”
“Palova,” said Felix. He matched Marcan’s silent look. “We have friends in the highest places there. Friends that will look after you and will keep you safe.”
“The mountains are horrible. They are impossible for a convoy, and coming down into the zealots’ countryside as a group is waving a flag,” Loreticus stated to Demetrian. “Therefore, you will escort the emperor and myself to just before mid-way. Marcan and myself will go on alone from there.”
Loreticus could see in the soldier’s expression that he was not happy with the decision, but Loreticus’s word held. No-one in that room but Loreticus had crossed the mountains. The great peaks inspired an otherworldly fear in the empire’s soldiers, and Loreticus drew on that now. He had conquered the mountains, not once but several times. What reputation he had once commanded during the Terror had multiplied amongst those who knew him over the years. That Loreticus could perform an awe-inspiring act did not instill confidence that others might match him.
“Everyone should be ready to leave immediately. Demetrian, you are responsible for getting the emperor out of the door and on a horse pointing in the right direction.”
“Yes, Loreticus.”
The spymaster paused, wanting to say something more, but simply turned and walked back in the direction of his room. Slowly Selban and Felix left their positions until only the soldiers at the door accompanied Marcan and Trudix.
She moved over to him and laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t judge us all for the chaotic world we live in,” she said. “If you did, then you’d only be underestimating the wilfulness of your enemies.” He considered her, wondering how to respond. She smiled. “Get packed, follow Demetrian and then Loreticus. Just don’t hurt them and don’t hurt yourself.”
She left him in the glow of the fire, walking back to the bedrooms.
Loreticus watched her approach and saw her startled expression when she saw him in the dark.
“Bloody spymasters,” she said with a smile. “What do you think, Trudix?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I want to trust him but he makes it hard.” “Should we force him in to this, or should we let him go and let the empire do what it needs to do? I honestly don’t know why I’m fighting so hard for a man without loyalty or brains.”
“You’re too hard on him, Loreticus,” she said. “He’s intelligent but you’ve always disliked people who disagree with you. On this occasion, force him. But just remember that he might hold it against you for a long time.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because you will have to fight many battles to win a war. Take the easier decisions lightly,” she said.
Chapter 29
The sun came up cold on the travellers, its white light icier than the moon behind them. The steppes sharpened and bristled on its arrival, as they had every morning for thousands of years. And so it was with dread that Loreticus left Selban, Demetrian and the guard at the edge of the higher peaks, and went forward alone with Marcan to Palova.
Neither spoke as they moved
forward, Marcan turning back once to see the line of men blocking the path to the capital.
Loreticus watched the young man as their horses padded through the chill air. The original Marcan had been married less than two years. How could a man who had been so well groomed and so well bred have caused so much damage within those few months?
Marcan had to encourage his mount on to the dirty snow which crept down from its settling place higher up the grey slopes. Underfoot it was unsound, patchy ice turning into a thick, greasy rug, the hard hooves of the horses whisking away under their own weight. In front of them stretched a bleak, dirty valley of untrodden snow, broad and flat swathes waiting with an unfeeling mastery.
Loreticus wrapped a fur cloak around his shoulders, inwardly grunting under its weight. To his satisfaction, Marcan looked uncomfortable as well with his broad shoulders curled into his chest, his chin down. This was a side to the young ruler that no-one else saw, thought Loreticus. Sullen, childish, dependent.
The route through the Border Mountains took two days, possibly three if the best passes were closed. Soon there would be a necessity to carve through this rock and to build a road. The zealots had broken its back and a tentative black market was beginning to establish itself between the communities. Loreticus had often marvelled how close the new territories were. Marcan’s integrity, if he ever took the throne again, would be sorely tested once he realised just how unguarded Palova was.
The first night was the hardest because of the recent comfort of a fireplace and warm food. Their minds were still alert and it felt awkward ignoring each other, but they both succeeded in doing so. Neither slept comfortably, but Marcan couldn’t complain because this was a journey the older man had made several times on his own. Despite his deep dislike of Loreticus, Marcan began to regard him with more respect.
Exhaustion conquered their discomfort the second night. They slept, as did their horses and mules. Silence was easier now. It was a routine.