by Ben Peek
‘She wants me to accompany you when you leave.’
‘And what do you want?’
‘There is no future for me here,’ she said truthfully. ‘I wish to continue my grandmother’s legacy. It is mine, as well.’
‘Gather your things,’ Heast said. ‘We won’t be here long.’
It was the news about Zaifyr that sat uncomfortably in him as he left the girl and made his way to The Eel. It surprised Heast and he wanted to question it, but he could not imagine that the old witch would have lied to him: he could no more doubt her loyalty in death than in life. Still, a part of him had relied on Zaifyr to kill Se’Saera, to leave the Leeran Army without its figurehead, to leave him a simple, if messy, job.
Inside The Eel, Kye Taaira was waiting silently at a table surrounded by Maosan veterans. Only Qiyala engaged him in conversation, but even she, when Heast pushed through the door, raised her hand with the others to call him over. In the discussion that followed, the veterans voiced their discontent, their fear and their anger, but Heast found himself returning to the death of Zaifyr, to the failure of the charm-laced man’s gambit. He had placed everything on convincing the Keepers to side with him. He had allowed shackles to be put around his hands. He had let the house he had sat in become a prison. He had been so sure and so confident that Heast could imagine that he had only failed if both the Enclave and Se’Saera had fought against him. He would have to know for sure, of course, but if such an alliance had occurred . . . well, Heast had to admit, the complaints that he was hearing might soon become calls for peace.
Eventually, he left the veterans and fell asleep on the narrow bed. In the morning, he awoke to find that the rain still fell.
Heast did not eat breakfast that morning. Instead, he belted his sword around his waist and, with the tribesman beside him, walked into the stables. There, Anemone waited for him. She had an old, thick cloak over the clothes she wore the day before, and around her waist were a dagger and a collection of pouches. She had neither a pony, nor a horse, and he made a mental note to buy her both before the day was out. Kye Taaira greeted her respectfully, but it was onto the back of Heast’s horse that the young witch climbed, and the three of them rode silently through the muddy streets, turning not in the direction of the gates of Maosa, but towards the castle.
Veterans began to emerge onto the streets as the three of them made their way in the rain. At first, they came singly and in pairs, but a large group, led by Qiyala, waited for them before the castle. He felt Anemone’s warm, excited breath against his neck as he and Taaira rode up the path, and he glanced at the tribesman once, to find that he regarded everything taking place with a calm acceptance. The guards outside the castle took the reins of Heast’s and Taaira’s mounts as they drew up to the heavy doors of the building.
Inside, he made his way to the centre of the castle. On his right stood Kye Taaira, on his left, Anemone, and behind him followed Qiyala and the veterans. The doors of the throne room opened at his approach and the tall, robed figure of Kotan Iata was revealed. He stood in the chalk outline of the Kingdoms of Faaisha, a silver goblet of wine in his hand, and a young page with chalk-stained hands crouched over the map, recolouring the blemishes that had been made by the wooden figures and their movements. At the sight of Heast, Iata frowned, but his scowl deepened into outrage when he realized that behind him were his own soldiers.
‘You were not invited here,’ Iata said, throwing the goblet where, a moment ago, the page had knelt. ‘Guards—’
Heast’s hand clamped over his mouth and his dagger plunged into Iata’s stomach.
The self-proclaimed Warden of Maosa struggled, but soon his body dropped to the floor. In the silence that followed, Heast turned to the men and women who stood behind him and regarded each of them. ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Aned Heast. I am the Captain of Refuge.’
By Ben Peek
The Godless
Leviathan’s Blood
Ben Peek is the critically acclaimed author of The Godless and three previous novels, Black Sheep, Twenty-Six Lies/One Truth, and Above/Below, co-written with Stephanie Campisi. He has also written a short story collection, Dead Americans. In addition to this, Peek is the creator of the psychogeography pamphlet, The Urban Sprawl Project. With the artist Anna Brown, he created the autobiographical comic Nowhere Near Savannah. He lives in Sydney with his partner, the photographer Nikilyn Nevins, and their cat, Lily.
www.benpeek.livejournal.com
@nosubstance
First published 2016 by Tor
This electronic edition published 2016 by Macmillan
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ISBN 978-1-4472-5187-3
Copyright © Ben Peek, 2016
Cover images: figures on horseback © Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel
All other images Shutterstock. Cover design by Neil Lang
The right of Ben Peek to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Map artwork © David Atkinson 2014: handmademaps.com
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