Getting behind a door and locking it was of little use, for as the formation of armed men moved forward in an iron ring that encircled the city perimeter, every building that they passed was searched. The regular law enforcement officers had all their entry warrants ready, and somehow contrived to leave the places that they had examined as neat if not neater than when they came in; but the Bodyguard and the Secret Police went in where they pleased, whether that was through a door or through a window—or even through a wall if the notion struck them as amusing—and left devastation in their wake.
Privilege was no protection. The most privileged person in Drakkesborg was the Grand Warlord who had commanded this operation, and neither rank, money nor the names of friends in high places were of any use. Occasionally such attempts were made to sway the intrusive troopers, but as at the gate those making the attempt were either ignored or put under close arrest on any one of half-a-dozen charges.
No matter how ruthless they were, it was a slow business. Drakkesborg's position as first- or second-wealthiest city in the Empire might have been subject to question, but that it was by far the largest both in buildings and in population had never been in doubt. Slow or not, progress was made and small successes scored; the suddenness of the security raids caught several criminals red-handed in the middle of their preferred crimes, and with no need for a court to judge a guilt which was apparent to all, justice was swift and bloody.
It was, as young Tau-kortagor Hakarl of the Secret Police observed to his men, a bit like lifting up a rock and finding something nasty underneath that needed to be squashed. His squad did its own fair share of squashing before they reached the Merchants' Quarter and Hakarl thought to find out what the Guilds themselves might know…
Oren Osmar's Tiluan the Prince His Life and Triumph was recognized as a classic throughout the Drusalan Empire, and was perhaps the most enduringly popular of the Vreijek playwright's works. Because most of its action took place during the Feast of the Fires of Winter when the days reached their shortest and began to lengthen again, it had been performed at the Winter Solstice since its writing almost three centuries before, in guises varying from masques to musicals.
According to the pamphlet in Aldric's hand, this present revival was based not on Drusalan translations but on the Jouvaine-language original. Having read that same original some two years earlier, and knowing the current state of political turmoil within the Empire, Aldric doubted this production's vaunted "accuracy" at once. In the present climate an Imperial audience would hardly appreciate either the plot or the sentiments it expressed—all about fealty to a lord rather than to his chiefmost lieutenant—and especially not this audience.
Their entry vouchers had been assured by a runner sent from the Towers, and as they were shown to their seats another sheet of paper was pressed into Aldric's hand to keep all the rest company. This, on a superior quality heavy paper, carried the usual things that wealthy theater-goers might want to know: the names of the Lord Constable's Men and of their characters, a useful if over-lengthy synopsis of the plot, a briefer and more restrained description of the effects that had been levered in between Osmar's words—though the program didn't express it in quite that way—and where, from whom and for how much food and drink could be acquired.
There was an unsettling number of soldiers in the audience, wearing either undress uniform or their best civilian clothes, but all labeled clearly by their neatly—if excessively—close-cropped heads. Aldric's own hair was not long recovered from just such a military crop, and though Kyrin either didn't notice them or made a point of not registering their existence, he felt uneasy until it was clear that both their seats—while commanding an excellent view of the stage—were shadowed by a pillar and by the balcony above it. The nasty sensation of being watched was probably a result of nothing more than hindsight-aided wariness; but this was augmented by the idle glances turned towards him by so many of the Empire's military, any of whom might through the workings of an unkind fate have recognized him from past events. He didn't feel truly comfortable until the house-lights were hoisted into their dark-shades and the play began.
Events on stage were more than enough to distract anyone's attention, with plenty to entertain the senses as well as—Aldric sniffed, exchanged a pointed glance with Kyrin in the gloom and smiled thinly—ymeth and other substances in use to dull them.
The audience's own small entertainments aside, Tiluan the Prince had been brought up to date with a vengeance. There was one scene, the Betrayal, which should have been restrained and intimate, as terrifying as a whisper in a darkened room. Instead it took place during the gold and scarlet glitter (the Emperor's colors, a fact not lost on any of the audience still in possession of their senses) of a court ceremony, contrasting outward splendor against inner corruption. The overt political comment did not go unnoticed, drawing whistles and jeering laughter as the scene reached its conclusion— which, to Aldric's mind, suggested it had worked quite well enough.
Trumpets in the wings and among the musicians blared an elaborate fanfare as first the lamps and then the curtain opened up again. Figures in armor fantastical as that of insects strutted to and fro beneath their gilded banners, declaiming the famous well-known speeches that each drew their own separate applause:
It pleases me to see the joyful season that is Autumn. The actor playing Overlord Broknar was saying, for it swells the fruit upon the trees Arid makes the harvest rich and tall. And it pleases me to hear …
Gibart d'Reth had been a Guildsman for forty of his fifty-seven years. He enjoyed it; there was a certain sense of satisfaction in watching, helping and, as time passed, controlling the extraordinary sums of other people's money that gave a merchant guild its power. The power rubbed off. Few men were as respected as those of Guild Freyjan's House in Drakkesborg. There was a degree of amiable rivalry between his House and its opposite number in Kalitzim, but on the whole Gibart felt that he was the senior Master in the Empire. Certainly he saw more money in the form of cold, hard cash than Ascel in Kalitzim could ever hope to do. If he wasn't bound by the near-religious secrecy of the Guild, he could tell such tales…
Drakkesborg was like that. There was enough luxury for any man to enjoy, especially if like Gibart d'Reth he was a bachelor as well as wealthy, but beneath the surface the city was simmering with plots and intrigue. Senior officers in all the arms of service had far more gold to hand than on their rank insignia, and were working busily to have it moved away from any area of trouble— which in the present climate meant right out of the Empire. And then there were the ordinary matters of business, which were sometimes far from what a layman merchant would regard as normal practice. Gibart smiled at the thought and closed his last ledger of the night. He put it, with all the others, into an iron safe with powdered clay packed tightly between its double skin as a protection against fire, and turned the first of the three keys. This was a ritual performed every night, more important by far than simply locking away the Guild's gold. There was not sufficient gold in all the Empire to buy those ranks of dull blue covers—or more precisely, the transactions recorded between them. He put the second key to its lock—
—Then dropped it at the sound of a crashing in the corridor outside. The key made a sound like a tiny metallic laugh as it bounced under the immovable mass of the safe, something that would normally have made Gibart swear at the prospect of the grubbing about with a bent piece of wire which usually followed such a fumble, but he was past worrying about such petty everyday annoyances. Sounds of violence in a Guild House after dark meant one thing only.
The door of his office was kicked open, so hard that it was vibrating like a drum as it shuddered to a halt, and three men stepped inside. Or rather two men, dragging what looked like a side of raw beef between them. Gibart came surging to his feet, mouth open to yell something about the outrageous liberty of entering a Guildsman's presence in this fashion; but he froze halfway as he recognized the side of beef.
&nb
sp; It—he—was Kian, Guild House Drakkesborg's chief guard; and the horrified Gibart could identify him only by his size and by the Freyjan crests marked on his tattered gear. Not even the man's mother would have known him. Gibart could only stare wide-eyed and realize for the first time what that saying really meant.
"He didn't want to let us in," said one of the two men bracing Kian by the elbows, and as he spoke both of them removed their support. The guard swayed forward and his head struck squarely in the center of Gibart's desk before he rolled limply to the floor. "Even though we told him that this was official business."
"What the hell are you doing here?" roared Gibart d'Reth, finding his voice at last. "And who gave you the right to act like—"
The riding-crop of plaited leather that slashed a weal across his cheek was just one more of the several shocks Gibart had suffered in the past few seconds; but it was the first one that really hurt. He clutched his face and flopped back into his chair, too stunned by the impact and the anguish and the suddenness of it all even to protest.
"I told you," said the man who had spoken before; he was very young. "Official business. That means the Woydach himself gives us the right." He grinned, his teeth very white against his tan and the shadows within his helmet, and reached out to stroke the tip of his crop lightly across the other side of Gibart's face. "You don't object to that, now, do you?" Gibart said nothing; only his eyes moved, following the crop as it weaved to and fro before them like a plaited leather snake.
"Wise," said Tau-kortagor Hakarl gently. "Now," he pulled a crumpled sheet of official-yellow paper from the cuff of his glove, smoothed out the creases more or less and held it up for Gibart to see. "Read this description and then tell me: have you seen this man… ?"
… the song of the birds who make their mirth resound through all the woods ...
"Broknar" was over-acting just a touch, his gestures too flamboyant and his voice too determinedly thrilling, but at least it cut through the chords of exciting music so that everyone could hear what was after all the best known speech in the entire play.
Just so long as he doesn't sing, thought Aldric with a mirthless smile. The smile faded almost as soon as it appeared, for he was beginning to hear something very wrong in the treatment of this crucial speech—something very wrong indeed, and a wrongness that was of a piece with the unsubtle use of colors on the stage.
Tiluan's colors were the red and gold of the Emperor—that much he had noticed already, and thought no more than some satirical observation; but "Broknar," leader of the group of lords who seized the country from its prince, not only wore the Grand Warlord's black and silver but was speaking the words of a hero.
The historical Broknar had been a usurper who with his companions had misruled the land and brought it to the edge of ruin before remorseful suicide had restored order, and had been treated as such in Osmar's original play. Here he was portrayed as a wise, experienced military man who had rescued the land from an immature and willful tyrant. The whole play was a propaganda for the Woydachul, and for a policy of war. Just the sort of . thing that would appeal to the young hot-heads amongst the lords and officers of the Warlord's Domain; they wouldn't object to a war, no, not at all, for the sake of its drama, its romance, its excitement—and the rapid promotion that comes with filling dead men's shoes.
Aldric stared at them, actors and audience both. He still remembered—how could he forget?—riding past the battlefield of Radmur Plain, not quite nine months ago. Righteous Lord God, was it really so short a time? Enough to begin a new life of his own, but not enough and never enough to restore the tens of hundreds of lives cut short on those bloody pastures.
It had been before the burial parties started work and he had seen a mile-wide meadow strewn with men and horses, all bloating in the warm spring sun. He had smelled them, too. Even the mere memory of that ripe stench was enough to make him wrinkle his nose. A whiff of it here would drown out the scent of ymeth and of perfume, and put paid to such nonsense as was being ranted from the stage. Or would it… ?
And it pleases me to see ranged along the field
Bold men and horses armed for war.
And it pleases me to see my foemen run away,
And I feel great joy when I see strong citadels besieged,
The broken ramparts caving in among the flowers of
fire, And I have pleasure in my heart when I behold the
hosts Upon the water's edge, closed in all around by ditches, With palisades of strong stakes close together …
Kyrin's mouth quirked in distaste and she turned to look at Aldric to ask if this was really, truly, the rest of the speech she had heard him quote with such good cheer and laughter. Her question was never asked, because the expression on his face provided her with answer enough.
And once entered into battle let every man
Think only of cleaving arms and heads,
For a man is worth more dead than alive and beaten!
I tell you there is not so much savor
In eating or drinking or sleeping
As when I hear them scream …
Aldric stared coldly at the rest of the audience, not feeling superior but just more bitterly experienced. Though most were drinking in the ringing words, several—the more imaginative—were looking apprehensive, and one or two almost queasy. Oh Light of Heaven I would love to make you sick, he thought savagely. All of you. You might be less enthusiastic for this sewage then. The images were there, rising unbidden from the dark corners of his mind like drowned men in the first thaw: a raven with an eyeball on its pick-axe beak; the putrid seethe of maggots; gray wolves whose pelts were slimy with the juices from some mother's liquefying son.
" 'I would speak to thee of all the glory that is war,' " quoted Aldric softly.
"You've seen it, haven't you?" Kyrin said. "You know what it's really like."
"Yes, I've seen that glory." He seemed almost to be tasting the flavor of the word. "Duergar Vathach used the Empire's way to making war; he brought it to Alba with him. Burnt villages, dead children and the sound of women weeping. Crows and buzzing flies and the air so thick with death that you could taste the stink. Sweet, and sickly, and foul." He knuckled tiredly at his eyesockets, all the warmth of wine and food quite gone and only a leaden coldness left behind. "I know indeed. All too well. Kyrin, when this scene ends, we're going—back to the Towers, to pack our things. I want to leave the city at first light tomorrow."
"To go home?"
"Home. Or wherever. I just want away from here."
"Sir, may I speak privately with you?"
"Not now, Holbrakt." Hakarl paused on the threshold of The Two Towers, a mink baulked at the door of a chicken-run, and glanced back at his sergeant. The man's expression—what could be seen of it—was worried. "Or is it as important as you make it look?"
"Yes, sir. I fear it is."
"Damn you!" Hakarl's voice was calm, controlled, without animosity in the curse. "All right, then. You, you and you," Hakarl pointed with his crop, an odd accoutrement for a foot soldier but one he found most useful nonetheless, "get in there. If he's there, call me at once. If he's not, ask—nicely, at first." The Tau-kortagor smiled so that his men could see it. "But don't stop asking until you get an answer."
He left them to their own devices, however inventive and worth watching those might become before the information was obtained, and turned back to Holbrakt. The sergeant still looked like someone with griping in the guts, far from comfortable with whatever it was he had to say.
"What's the matter, man? Your belly hurt?"
"No sir, my neck. As if there was a headsman's axe resting across it." Hakarl watched him but said nothing. "I mean, sir, the Guild Houses and what was done in them."
"I did wonder…"
"Four Guilds will hold you responsible, Tau-kortagor, sir. They will—"
"Do nothing." Hakarl cocked his head sideways and listened as the thuds and grunts and cries of an impromptu interrogat
ion reached his ears. "Particularly when I bring these criminals before the Woydach. That's the way to be forgiven, Holbrakt; forgiven for anything." The rhythmic thudding from inside the inn stopped and there was silence; then a sound of breaking glass and an instant afterward a high, shrill scream suddenly cut off.
"But you killed two Guildsmen and tortured three—"
"I sergeant? Why all this you that I keep hearing. What about we and us, or did I merely imagine seeing you and all the others? You didn't falter when there was a chance of finding gold coins piled up on the shelves. Was that what you expected, sergeant?" Hakarl flexed the whippy crop between his hands and smiled. "Was that why you didn't make your little speech until now, eh? Well, they don't keep their cash like that these days, as I could have told you had you asked."
Holbrakt took a step backward, skidded on the frozen snow beneath his heel and almost fell. Tau-kortagor Hakarl laughed at the man's discomfiture. "That's right, sergeant. There's no sure footing anymore, and we are all of us in this together… which some realized before you chose to say it." He tapped the crop against his boot and looked pleased with himself. "That's why Meulan needed only a suggestion and not an order before he went back to fire all the Guild Houses that show… ah… signs of interference. Rioters and looters, Holbrakt; they always take advantage of any confusion in the city. Am I not right… ?"
"Yes, sir." The words came out grudgingly, but they came out nonetheless. "You are, sir."
"Then remember it. Ah, good." Hakarl turned to face his three troopers as they emerged from the inn. One of them was flexing his fingers and blowing on bruised knuckles, the others were wiping blood-smears from their truncheons. "What news?"
"Sir, we have him. Both of them. They're in The Playhouse even now—watching Tiluan, if you please."
"I do please. Very much. Because the play's no more than halfway done by now, and because we've bloody got them… ! Well, come on, move!"
The Warlord's Domain Page 18