Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  “Don’t even think about . . .”

  Malachi pushed off the wall and flung his arms about Aske’s shoulders. Impact knocked the sword from her hand, and most of the breath from his body. The alley lurched. Then the strike of filthy cobbles sucked the rest of Malachi’s breath away. But still he clung tight, and weathered blows from elbows and boots as she fought to break loose. For the first moment since entering the alley, he wasn’t useless.

  The moment passed, as all moments do – this one with an elbow to the gut that left him sucking for breath as commotion reigned about him. With a cry of triumph, Aske scrambled free on hands and knees.

  Vision blurring, Malachi crawled in pursuit. He tried not to think about what he was crawling through. As Aske’s hand closed around her sword, he sprang. The blade hissed over his head and, for the second time that night, they went down in a tangle of arms and legs. This time, Malachi ended up on top.

  A hand closed about the scruff of his collar, hauling him up and away.

  “Easy, councillor,” said Viktor. “Her comrades have fled. She’s had enough.”

  Malachi hadn’t the breath to reply.

  “Enough?” Kasamor stalked back down the alley. Of the sallow man and his two hearthguards, there was no sign. “Not nearly.”

  He kicked Aske’s sword out of reach and hoisted her upright. “Trying to kill me? That’s one thing. But threatening my friends?”

  A hard shove sent Aske stumbling against the wall. Her eyes shone in defiance of Kasamor’s sword at her throat. Malachi had seen that look in the Council chamber many times. She’d gambled and lost. Of course, it was a rare day when a councillor staked his or her life as she had.

  “Let her go.” To Malachi’s surprise, the words were his.

  Kasamor rounded on him, eyes ablaze. “She tried to kill you.”

  “And she failed.” The justification rang hollow in Malachi’s ears, so he strove for a better one. “Hand her over to the constabulary. She’ll stand trial.”

  Kasamor shook his head. “You believe that?”

  Thundering boots heralded Rosa’s return from deeper along the alley. Cheeks flushed from exertion, she stumbled to a halt. “Lost them halfway to the Hayadra Grove. Could be anywhere by now. What did I miss?”

  Viktor folded his arms and propped a shoulder against the dray yard wall. “Kasamor’s about to murder Lady Tarev. Or maybe he isn’t.”

  “You think I shouldn’t?” The harshness had returned to Kasamor’s voice. “Would you?”

  “She’d already be dead.” Malachi couldn’t tell whether Viktor was joking. His friend’s face seldom gave away more than he wanted, and the old scar on his left cheek lent bleak mirth to most expressions. “But we’re talking about you.”

  “Do it, or don’t,” hissed Aske. “I’m not your toy. I’ll not beg.”

  “She’s right, Kas.” Rosa aimed a kick at one of the unconscious hearthguards. “If we linger, someone’s going to see something we’d rather they didn’t.”

  By Malachi’s reckoning, that was one vote for Aske’s death, one against and . . . whatever Viktor’s opinion was. Did he alone see that killing Aske would only worsen matters? But Kasamor had the casting vote, and the sword, and a measure of wounded pride into the bargain. Appealing to that pride might achieve what reason would not.

  “She owes you an apology,” Malachi muttered.

  Kasamor’s head dipped. He gave a weary snort. “She does, doesn’t she?”

  The low rumble of Viktor’s laughter echoed along the alley. Rosa rolled her eyes. Malachi eased a sigh.

  Kasamor’s eyes met Aske’s. “So which is it to be, Lady Tarev? The apology, or the sword?”

  She swallowed. “I . . . I apologise . . .”

  Kasamor’s sword twitched. A trickle of blood broke Aske’s skin.

  “‘I apologise for naming Calenne Trelan a whore’,” he said.

  “That’s how this started?” muttered Viktor.

  Malachi nodded. “That’s how it started.”

  Viktor grunted and withdrew.

  “I apologise for naming Calenne Trelan a whore.” Aske’s defiance gave way to a glare of pure venom.

  Kasamor warmed to his theme. “‘And I see now that jealousy guided my tongue more than any good sense.’”

  “And I see now that jealousy guided my tongue more than any good sense.” Aske ground out the words from behind gritted teeth.

  Kasamor leaned closer. “Now, take off your sword belt. Then you can go.”

  Hands fumbled at the buckle. Belt and scabbard smacked to the ground. Kasamor grinned and lowered his sword.

  “My thanks, Lady Tarev, for a wonderful evening.”

  Face once again impassive, her shoulders set beneath a burden of fragile dignity, Aske shoved her way past Kasamor.

  Viktor’s hand brought her to a halt. He stooped and whispered into her ear, speaking so softly that Malachi couldn’t make out the words. Then Viktor straightened, and Aske was on her way once more – if a touch more unsteady than before.

  “What did you tell her?” Rosa asked.

  “The price to be paid for another attempt.” He shrugged. “I believe we reached an understanding.”

  Laughing, Kasamor reclaimed Aske’s sword and scabbard and held both out to Malachi. “Here. A trophy well-won. And a reminder that you shouldn’t walk the streets without one.”

  Malachi hesitated, then took them. The sword fitted the scabbard to perfection, and the belt sat well enough at his waist. It felt strange, like he’d stepped back into an old life – one he’d been happy to leave.

  “So what happens now?”

  “Now,” Viktor said, “Kasamor owes me a debt. He can make payment in ale.”

  Maladas, 26th day of Wellmarch

  The Dark is never far from our hearts. It feeds on our pride, and on our fear. It tempts us to folly couched in the illusion of greatness, and hatred cloaked in devout proclamation.

  from the sermons of Konor Belenzo

  Five

  King’s Gate bustled with colour and sound. Carts rumbled to market through the maze of cramped, timber-framed townhouses, or returned to outer provinces with the fruits of trades settled. Priests strode in solemn procession, golden robes gleaming. Craftsmen, soldiers and indentured servants hastened to and fro. The lifeblood of Tressia. Malachi just wished it could all have been accomplished a shade or two quieter. His outward path had taken him past the Essamere muster-fields – with all the inevitable shouting and clamour that was as much a part of soldiery as spilt blood – and he’d hoped for respite at his destination.

  The morning after had arrived too soon on the heels of the night before. He felt as though Lumestra’s sunlight shone only for the express purpose of searing his weary eyes. The towering stones of King’s Gate offered blessed shelter from that assault. Alas, they offered none at all from the commotion of the morning’s traffic. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and let the morning pass. But he saw his friends little enough as it was.

  “You have remembered the ring?” asked Malachi.

  Kasamor tapped a saddlebag. “What do you take me for?”

  “A man who’d lose his own sword, were it not buckled to his side.”

  A wry smile. “True. But there are swords to be had all over the city. There’s no replacing my grandmother’s ring. Its sapphires will shine all the brighter on Calenne’s hand.”

  “I still say you shouldn’t ride until your head’s clear,” said Malachi.

  Laughing, Kasamor reached down and patted him on the shoulder. “Nothing like the wind on your cheeks to bring clarity. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with my head. Don’t project your own woes onto others.”

  Malachi grimaced. “Be kind. If I’d wanted taking to task, I’d have stayed home.”

  Kasamor leaned back in the saddle and shook his head. “Another quarrel with Lilyana?”

  Rosa twitched her reins. Her steed side-stepped closer, unfazed by its heavy saddleb
ags. “And who can blame her? Malachi’s a rake. Common knowledge.”

  Malachi snorted at the deadpan delivery. “It wasn’t Lily. Sidara met me on the stairs. You know she refused – actually flat-out refused – to let me past until I apologised for making so much noise?”

  Viktor’s basso laughter joined the chorus, his amusement bright contrast to the shadow of his presence. Somehow he contrived to suck in the sunlight. How he tolerated the velvet cloak on so warm a day, Malachi couldn’t conceive.

  “So what did you do?” said Kasamor.

  “What do you think I did? I apologised. Then I sent her back to bed and staggered off to sleep.”

  “Some councillor you are, losing an argument with your daughter.”

  Malachi sniffed. “Yielding with grace is a cornerstone of politics. It’s her brother I feel sorry for. I suspect she’ll bully Constans fearfully.”

  A column of soldiery marched past, the gold-frocked priest at their rear offering mournful hymn in a reedy voice. The officer at their head clenched a fist to her chest in salute. Viktor returned the gesture until she passed beneath the half-lowered portcullis.

  “I didn’t have to come out here, you know,” said Malachi.

  “Hah!” said Kasamor. “It’s the very least you can do as you shan’t be attending my wedding.”

  “We’ve been over this. I can’t be spared. The Council’s work is endless.”

  “The Grand Council’s work is endless,” Rosa offered drily. “You privy councillors live a rarefied existence. Wine and splendour all around.”

  Malachi ground his teeth, failing as usual in his attempt not to rise to the bait. “I’d love to boot some of my workload down to that talking shop. The state of the fleet. The corn levy. Conscription levels. Clemency for undocumented southwealders. And that’s before we even get onto the subject of the war itself . . .”

  Rosa held up a hand. “Please. Enough. You’re a busy man. We understand.”

  “We’re none of us idle.” Viktor’s swarthy features tightened in thought. “And Kasamor should be riding, while he can.”

  Kasamor frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “That was the third company to march out this morning. A call to arms is coming.” He heaved massive shoulders in a shrug. “But if you’re on the road . . .”

  Malachi frowned. “I’d know if a call to arms was in the offing.”

  “Only if a herald found you,” said Viktor. “At this hour he’ll seek you at the breakfast table, or in your bed. Not loitering at King’s Gate.”

  Kasamor stared back through the marketplace towards the plaza, and the looming spires of the palace. “I should stay, then. Calenne will understand.”

  Viktor shook his head. “The Republic has thousands of soldiers to call upon. It will manage a few days without Kasamor Kiradin. It will be a chore, but we shall endure, all the same.”

  “He’s right,” said Rosa. “There’s no shame in looking to your own happiness, this once.”

  Kasamor threw up his hands. “Well, if the Council’s champion says as much, who am I to argue?”

  “You always argue,” said Malachi. “About everything.”

  “I do not.” He grinned and turned to Rosa. “Still coming along?”

  “Bad enough that no one in your family will stand witness. Your friends shouldn’t abandon you.” She arched an eyebrow. “And you should have someone to watch your back. Love has you blind. The Southshires are dangerous.”

  “Still carrying that torch?” Kasamor gaped in mock innocence. “I told you, I’ve eyes only for Calenne Trelan, and she for me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Shut up and ride, before I change my mind.”

  His face blanked, save for a mischievous gleam about his eyes. “At your order, Lady Orova.”

  Kasamor offered a half-bow to Malachi, and a close-fisted salute to Viktor. “Until we meet again. Please do nothing foolish while I’m gone.”

  Hauling on his reins, he pushed his way into the crowds. Rosa gave a sharp nod of farewell and followed. Malachi watched until they passed through the thin line of tabarded toll-keepers, then turned aside.

  “He gets worse.”

  “Everyone does,” rumbled Viktor. “We either die young and foolish, or old and stubborn. It’s the order of things.”

  Malachi shook his head. “And which am I?”

  “Treasure your family, Malachi. No one is poorer than a man who knows his wealth only when it’s lost.”

  He scowled. What did Viktor know of his marital quarrels? “It’s not that simple.”

  “Nothing worthwhile ever is.”

  The clatter of hooves saved Malachi the trouble of a reply. A young man in a herald’s silver trim reined his steed to a halt. He offered a hasty bow and held out an envelope, sealed with blue wax.

  “Lord Reveque.” The herald straightened. His eyes widened as they settled on Viktor. “Lord Akadra. Forgive the interruption, but I bear a summons.”

  Malachi took the envelope and slit it open. The spidery signature confirmed what the unbroken seal had already told him. He shot a glance at Viktor.

  “Seems you were right, as always.”

  Viktor offered a mirthless smile.

  “Are you coming?” Malachi asked.

  “I might as well,” he replied. “Better to hear first-hand than from my father.”

  Malachi pocketed the envelope and flashed a grin. “You should treasure your family, Viktor.”

  His only reply was a flat, basilisk stare – Viktor’s customary response to any defeat.

  The chamber encapsulated everything Viktor hated about the Republic.

  The murky memory of morning sunshine was held at bay by oak-panelled walls and filtered to rich orange and gold by stained glass. Graven likenesses of councillors past gazed down at their successors from dusty escutcheons. Their expressions ranged from grim austerity to stark disappointment. A vast map, rendered in gilded oils by some long dead artist, graced the north wall. The Ancient and Honourable Bounds of the Kingdom of Tressia.

  Those bounds were a good measure less generous in reality than on the map. The Republic of today commanded but a fraction of the territory of the kingdom whose name it bore, stretching roughly two score leagues south and east of the city’s peninsula. The distant south, beyond the rebellious domain of Eskavord and the Grelyt River, had long ago been absorbed by the quarrelling Thrakkian thanes, while the outflung east had been claimed by the Hadari Empire’s rapacious spread – though this was by no means without positive aspect, as it spared Tressia direct contact with the Ithna’jîm of Athreos, who commanded the arid lands beyond the Empire’s south-eastern border.

  That the Republic endured at all was as much tribute to the finest navies ever to roam the Western Ocean. Unable to make landing in what remained of the Tressian shoreland, invaders had to make dangerous assault across borders fortified by the regal decree.

  The kings who had made such decrees were long gone, but their legacy remained. Tradition layered upon tradition, sealed away from the vibrant city. The squabble and barter of the markets, the tramping feet of soldiery mustered from barrack and chapterhouse; the cries of street-preachers and quarrelling children – even the chime of church bells struggled to reach the austere depths of the Council palace, and risk disturbance of those gathered therein.

  Gold couldn’t buy a seat at this table, nor did valorous action alone admit one through the door. Even blood – while important here as in all endeavours – held no guarantee. Only the approval of those already within granted access and leave to speak. To join the old men and women who dictated the fate of untold thousands without ever truly living among them; whose patronage made or broke others at will.

  Near a hundred seats lined the Grand Council chamber on the floor below. A mere nine high-backed chairs sat around the Privy Council’s gilded table. One had remained unoccupied since Lord Loramir had taken it upon himself to tour the borderlands. Neither his family nor the Council expected him to
return. Two seats had sat empty for a decade. They served as gravestones of the Isidor and Lamakov bloodlines. Until the estates were settled – a resolution that served no one on the Privy Council and was therefore ignored – the Council was left with a quorum of six.

  Or more accurately, five and one councillor with half a voice. Viktor’s seat alone had come neither from inheritance nor unfaltering approval. It was a gift given for a victory he wished he could unmake.

  “It’s worse than we feared. Emperor Ceredic Saran is dead.”

  Little of that fear showed through Hadon Akadra’s wolfish anticipation. The death of a Hadari emperor could never be entirely a bad thing, whatever complications it offered. Though well past his sixtieth year, the elder Lord Akadra still cut a powerful figure. A physique hardened in battle had softened only a little to a councillor’s comfortable life. His hair remained as black as Viktor’s own, save for a burnishing of grey at the temples.

  Lady Marest knotted cadaverous fingers in the Sign of the Sun. “May the Raven shred his bellicose soul.”

  “Indeed. But it would have been better for us all if he’d clung to life a good while longer.”

  Viktor’s father returned his gaze to the bow-legged meeting table, a flicker of disdain stifled almost as soon as it surfaced. Viktor suspected no one else had noticed, but he’d expected it. Mutual loathing of Abitha Marest was one of the few things that brought them together. The old woman clung to power as grimly as to life, and with just as little obvious benefit to others. Her silvery-white hair and frail, uncertain movements gave her the aspect of one who’d already one foot set in the mists. Then again, Viktor couldn’t recall a time when she’d seemed young and vibrant. Perhaps piety did bring its own rewards. If an interminable, withered existence could be considered such.

  “A heathen’s death is always timely,” Lady Marest replied primly. “Ceredic’s passing is Lumestra’s gift.”

  “Oh please, spare us your homilies. You may flatter the goddess in your own time.”

  Dissembling wasn’t in Lady Kiradin’s nature. Nor was restraint. She addressed highborn and low with equal respect, which was to say none at all – save for when she wished something in return, which was rare.