Princess of Blood

by Tom Lloyd

  It seemed to Lynx as though Toil could see the emotions play out on his face, so intently was she watching him. It was all he could do not to turn away, find some unobserved corner and whatever Jarrazirans used to calm their thoughts, but there was a softening of her expression that only made him desire her more.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. Unexpectedly she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips.

  Lynx froze, as much in surprise as anything else, but when she pulled back it was just an inch or two. He stared into her eyes for a moment longer, then his wits returned and he kissed her. This time it was longer, but they were still half-frozen and standing over an unconscious man, so it went no further.

  ‘That was unexpected,’ Lynx said at last, his voice husky.

  A small smile appeared on her lips. ‘I don’t like to be predictable,’ Toil admitted, ‘but sometimes the moment calls for action.’

  ‘I uh … yeah. Can’t complain there.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be very chivalrous if you did.’

  Lynx managed a smile. ‘Aye, that’s me all over.’

  ‘Really?’ Toil raised an eyebrow and looked him up and down. ‘I’ll have to take your word about that.’

  He laughed and took a breath. ‘Yeah, I reckon you will. So – now what?’

  She nodded to the man on the bed, but before she could say anything more there was a crash from the room below and a dozen voices cried out in anger. More crashes followed, tables or chairs being overturned, and the shouting intensified. She hesitated then her head sagged.

  ‘Oh for the love of all that’s shattered, your comrades are like children.’ She shook her head and rose. ‘Now, you watch over this one while I go and break some heads downstairs.’

  She touched him once on the cheek, the tattooed one that read ‘honour or death’ in a language none round these parts could speak, Lynx included.

  ‘Convince him of your honourable intentions, Lynx. I really want to make a friend of that mage.’

  Chapter 11

  Atieno woke flailing, moving from unconsciousness to blind panic in an instant. The room was dim, pungent with smoke and sweat. Slowly the details came into focus, wading through the molasses of his thoughts. A bed, a bunk – another opposite. A small fire at one end, a man in a chair sitting before it – settled down as though asleep, tricorn pulled low to hide his eyes.

  He tried to ease himself up but black stars burst before his eyes like the hangovers of a relived youth. It was all Atieno could do not to heave his guts up.

  ‘It’ll pass soon,’ said the figure, not looking up. ‘Just lie back and breathe. A few minutes and you’ll be on your feet.’

  Atieno felt the spider-claw tingle in his fingertips as his magic surged to the surface, but he got a grip on himself a moment later.

  ‘You,’ he croaked, recognising the man at last. It was the Hanese veteran who’d distracted him in the street.

  ‘Aye, me.’

  ‘What do you want?’ His hand went to his belt and discovered it was missing, his knife too. Atieno looked around and finally spotted the belt hung on a bedpost, the near corner of the other bunk.

  ‘Take it back if you want it,’ the man said, looking up at last but keeping his hands folded across his stomach. ‘I just didn’t want you to have it in reach the moment you woke up, in case you’re as scratchy as me in the mornings.’

  Atieno considered the belt a moment and the state of his head. ‘I’ll do for the moment.’ Tempest magic wasn’t as destructive as some, but its effects could be awful in their own way. He was far from helpless even if he had to be careful not to channel too much.

  ‘Suit yourself. So, how about some introductions?’

  ‘It seems you’ve got the advantage of me already,’ Atieno said, gingerly easing himself up a little so he could prop his head at a more comfortable angle.

  ‘We’ve got some tricks,’ the Hanese admitted, ‘but I’m told you’ve got one up those sleeves too, so I’m hoping we can all rein in and talk like civilised folk – despite the uncivilised start my side have managed.’

  ‘My people pride themselves on their civilised ways,’ Atieno said. ‘I’ll not let a Hanese show me up in those respects. Say your piece, sir.’

  The stranger swept his tricorn from his head and leaned forward. Despite his words, Atieno could see little beyond the brutal exterior there. The battered face of a man who’d lived hard times, the jaw of a brawler, the eyes and nose that were pure So Han. The one thing that could be said about So Han was that they didn’t care about a man’s skin colour – but that meant little when you saw how they treated their white neighbours.

  The Hanese just stared at him for a while, resting his chin on one fist. Atieno blinked at the man in confusion, but eventually the Hanese said, ‘My name’s Lynx, I’m thinking we might have one or two things in common.’

  Atieno gave him a level look. ‘If you say so.’

  Lynx wore a plain grey jacket, unbuttoned to reveal a white cotton shirt underneath and bearing a playing card badge that Atieno recognised as the Stranger of Tempest. More significantly, now that he was leaning forwards, his left hand was on full show. On his middle finger the man wore a silver ring that bore three diamond shapes, black, grey and white.

  ‘You remind me of a man I once met,’ Lynx continued after a while. ‘Something about the eyes maybe. He was a good man, once faced down a priest and some soldiers who were about to execute a child.’

  ‘Sounds like the right thing to do,’ Atieno confirmed. ‘Whoever the child grows up to be, some things are wrong.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I thought – even if you have to take matters in your own hands after, some things are wrong.’

  Atieno blinked, his thoughts moving slowly through the haze of confusion. I suppose even a Hanese can be a follower of Vagrim – they are renowned for a stubborn, fearless streak so surely a few of them have morals too.

  That particular tale of Vagrim was one of the later ones in the book Atieno had read – the child he’d saved had grown up to be a savage warlord and brigand. When Vagrim had heard, he’d tracked the man down and confronted him with only two companions. The warlord had recognised him at once and embraced him – never even seeing the gun that killed him.

  With a nod he reminded himself that he hadn’t returned the introduction. ‘My name is Atieno.’

  ‘Once of Harbello Dohn?’

  ‘Good guess.’ Atieno raised an eyebrow. ‘Or have you been that far south yourself?’

  ‘Never made it that far, but enough to guess the difference between Ulethelain and Harbello.’

  That was said with a smile Atieno quickly shared. It was a common confusion, certainly among the people of the north, for all that the southerners could never fathom how those two regions could ever be confused.

  With an effort Atieno swung his body around so he could sit up on the side of the bed, albeit slightly hunched to keep his head short of the bunk above. His lame foot ached, a cold uncomfortable tingle that waxed and waned but was never absent. His muscles strained inside his boot as he tried to work them. The ankle and foot had set completely rigid over the years, every joint fused as his bones petrified, but the muscles around them still needed to have blood forced through them. That was all the harder when he could hardly move, but Atieno had found a few minutes of working at them eased the pressure.

  A good reminder for an old man, he thought ruefully. Change comes to us all, but the tempest is a lure that’ll kill you if you let it.

  ‘What now?’

  Lynx shrugged. ‘We’re looking for the girl.’

  ‘What girl?’

  The look he received was scornful, but Lynx’s voice remained calm and patient. ‘The mage, Lastani Ufre. You followed Toil out of the Badren Ovens when she started asking questions about Ufre.’

  The vision of red-haired violence appeared in Atieno’s memory. ‘Maybe I just followed her, she’s a beautiful woman.’

  ‘That she is,
but I’m guessing you’re not the sort to press your suit in a deserted street.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but you’re still a few assumptions ahead of me,’ Atieno countered.

  ‘No doubt, but that don’t matter. We’re not going to keep you against your will, nor follow you out the door unless you want a hand.’ Lynx cocked his head and looked at Atieno’s stiff leg. ‘Old injury?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Atieno said. ‘So you’ll just let me walk out right now?’

  ‘If anyone’s got other ideas, I’ll be by your side. Can hardly wear this ring otherwise.’

  ‘But you want something in return.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. If you do come across Ufre – by chance or whatever – we might be in a position to help her. The city’s got a whole lot smaller for her now, the Monarch’s lost patience and there’s a price on her head.’

  ‘What would you do for her, then?’

  ‘She’s got information we want, Ufre’s the closest to an expert there is on the labyrinth. Making a friend of her would be worthwhile to someone who wants to lead an expedition underground, gives our relic hunters a big advantage over the competition.’

  Atieno was quiet for a while as he thought about Lynx’s words. ‘Still quite a risk for a frightened young woman.’

  ‘That it is,’ Lynx agreed. ‘Maybe think of it this way – if she’s confident she can escape the city, she should be gone first thing in the morning. If not, she’s going to get caught one day soon. It’d take a measure of faith that we’ll not just hand her over, but that’s the worst case if she comes with us. And does that lose her anything more than a day or two?’

  ‘I understand. Your friend, Toil?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘She’s a relic hunter?’

  ‘Yup, I’ve seen that with my own eyes. She can read Duegar and navigate underground – seems just about as comfortable in the dark as others would in the sun. If Ufre wants, she can test that. The reading Duegar part anyway. Most folk who style themselves relic hunters do so because “murderous thieves” tends to offend. They’re not the sort to actually learn things. Toil might not know anything like as much as Ufre, but she’ll be able to demonstrate enough learning to set Ufre’s mind at rest.’

  ‘In that case, yes, I’ll convey your message. If Toil is here now, I can ask her to tell me something that might serve – the glyph for “hello” or something along those lines.’ Atieno paused. ‘I see you’ve got a gun, but I doubt most of your company do – Jarrazir is pretty strict on that front.’

  Lynx rose and nodded his understanding. He extended an arm to help Atieno up, which after a pause Atieno took. ‘Point’s made, only a fool picks a fight with two mages. There’s someone watching the Ovens, but their orders are just to follow. The rest of us will be here waiting for an answer.’

  From the diamond-paned windows of the Rainbow Council Chamber, the Monarch of Jarrazir surveyed her city with a strange mix of maternal pride and prickling concern. One hand resting on the swell of her belly, she luxuriated in the warm, tinted light that flooded in through the high windows. The sun was low at the horizon, casting its morning light across her southerly view of the city. Below her were the great jutting ribs that suspended the roof of the grand audience hall, the largest in the Bridge Palace. Stilanna preferred this one, however, and normally the feel of the sun on her face could soothe much, but today it eased little. She could sense the vibrations of anxiety rising up the city streets, could see the spilled blood in her mind and the haunted look in the eyes of her soldiers who’d survived the excursion inside.

  A great curved bank of window stretched all around this side of the chamber, affording a view of half the city and bay – streaks of coloured glass across the top designed to follow the Skyriver’s path. Through it she could see the frost glistening on the orange tiles of the merchant district and the waters of the bay glittering like a jewel. The Senate’s long sweeping walls of pale stone stood out as a counterpoint to the brooding dark hump of the university, while scattered between the two were the verdigris-sheathed guild-houses like a meandering herd of giant beasts, and the dark den of the Deep Market.

  From here it looks no different, Crown-Princess Stilanna mused, as though the mysteries of the labyrinth remained dormant beneath us.

  ‘Crown-Princess, my humblest apologies,’ cried a voice behind her as the door banged. ‘I came as soon as I received your summons.’

  Stilanna turned to greet the last of her private council. She had come late to this meeting to find most of her senior advisers already there – had come late principally because this man, Lesser-Prince Justeben Por, could not be relied upon to be in his own bed on any given morning.

  Still he forces me to wait on him, as though we’d never grown up and I’d not been crowned Monarch.

  ‘Lesser-Prince,’ she replied with an inclination of the head as he bowed. ‘I will instruct my messengers to be more assiduous about their task in future.’

  ‘Or you could just stop screwing every girl you can get your grubby little paws on,’ contributed the eldest council member sitting at the table. ‘Perhaps then your household might have some clue where you spend your nights.’

  ‘Lesser-Princess Aronei, my apologies to you also.’ Por sniffed. ‘I know every hour is precious to one of your advanced age.’

  The silver braids of rank hung unevenly from one shoulder to the other, looking more like an uncomfortable growth than a magnificent echo of the gods’ grand work, the Skyriver. The usual lazy smirk adorned Por’s face. Needling Aronei was at least one of his favourite activities and Por was not a man to forego his pleasures whatever else was going on in the city.

  ‘And your admonishment is doubly effective,’ he continued as Aronei scowled. ‘The disapproval on your face is enough to compel me to swear off all pleasures of the flesh.’

  ‘If I believed that true I’d have spent a lot more time in the company of my idiot grand-niece,’ Aronei declared.

  She was a dumpy woman with long grey hair piled on top of her head and fixed in place with a dozen large, ornate pins, thin silver chains hanging across her chest to indicate her rank as head of one of the four royal families from which the Monarch was chosen. Her pale skin was almost as grey as a canal eel – something Stilanna’s husband had been good enough to privately point out and now she couldn’t get the image out of her head – and her thin lips pursed as though constantly sucking lemons.

  ‘How is the fragrant Lady Rithol?’ Por sighed expansively. ‘You will remember me to her?’

  ‘She has quite enough of a reminder of you,’ Aronei countered, ‘your wife remarked as much only last week. I believe she finds your resemblance to my great grand-niece less amusing than you do. Perhaps that’s the reason why you’re never to be found in your marital bed?’

  Dear gods, are we so long in our peace the city’s leaders bicker while they ignore a crisis? Stilanna pointedly cleared her throat and swallowed her anger. ‘If the pair of you have finished your sniping, perhaps we can spend a few moments attending to urgent matters of state?’

  She looked around the room before continuing. Her husband, Crown-Prince Tylom, sat at the opposite end of a long oval table, the gold braid of rank shining in the crisp clean light coming from above the table. The room was lit by Duegar stones: large milky-white ovals with the smooth, slightly dulled surface of sea-glass that shone with crisp white light.

  Flanking Tylom were Colonel Pilter of the City Regiment, and Senate Voice Elax, both low-born and careful not to speak out of turn here. The last of the Lessar-Princes, Besh, was a burly man with ruddy cheeks and a voice like a startled donkey, while the council was completed by Functionary Breks, the corpse-like senior figure of Jarrazir’s civil service, and Commander Honeth of the Bridge Watch, the Monarch’s personal regiment. Honeth looked like an ungainly, unsmiling thug in a black uniform, but aside from Tylom he was the only one in the room Stilanna could trust completely.

  Once her bickerin
g peers had mumbled apologies Stilanna took her own seat and gestured to the colonel. ‘Colonel Pilter, an update on the labyrinth entrances if you please.’

  ‘We have identified and secured seven entrances, Majesty. Of those, the one beneath the North Keep has been walled up and almost all the mage-spheres moved. There are no more incidents or deaths this morning, but a number of individuals have tried to enter. Only the threat of violence has kept them back.’

  ‘Relic hunters or noble sons with more bravado than brains?’

  ‘Both, Monarch,’ Pilter said, casting a guilty glance towards Lesser-Prince Besh, whose son was among the labyrinth’s victims, but the man’s already grim expression didn’t change.

  Stilanna felt no such guilt in her words. None of the noble families were taking the threat seriously and their mansions were well away from the labyrinth entrances. ‘All of you, let it be known across the city that any – any – man, woman or child attempting to bribe or browbeat their way into the labyrinth without my personal warrant will be shot. I don’t care who their parents are, understand me? The Duegar ghosts or whatever they are have not yet ranged far from the entrances, I do not intend to provoke them to do so.’

  ‘I shall instruct my house accordingly,’ Lesser-Princess Aronei said. ‘In the meantime, what do you propose to do? It is open after all these centuries; you must explore it before trying to close the entrances up, no? The threat of these ghosts is one thing, but everyone knows the myths about what’s inside.’

  ‘I am well aware,’ Stilanna replied. ‘Now the labyrinth has been opened once it can be done again; and its contents are a greater threat to the city than any ghosts. The lure of what may be inside means we must explore it or others will keep trying to. That may mean the more established Militant Orders using political pressure or the smaller and more crazed variety mounting night raids. We may have our differences, but I know none of you want to see madmen like the Sons of the Wind run riot on the streets.’