by Tom Lloyd
Toil managed another weary smile. ‘That’s a question for the scholars, I think. I’ll gladly guide a party back down. There are lamps to make your halls famous, but not much in the way of gold and jewels I’m afraid. I’m sure closing the Fountain is a lot easier than opening it so, once Lastani has recovered her strength, I think we’ll manage it.’
‘We shall have to be content with the treasure you recovered from your competitors, then. What about the saboteurs – Sotorian Bade and his crew? Did they die with General Faril?’
Toil shook her head. ‘I wish I could say for sure. They were backing away but it was a big bloody explosion.’ She paused. ‘But Bade’s the sort of rat who might survive. Right now we can only hope not. If anyone heard our conversation with the general the Charnelers aren’t done with the Cards, not by a long shot. For the time being, however … with your leave, Monarch, I’m going to fall over very soon. I’d like it to be into a vat of wine.’
The Crown-Princess stood and nodded to them all. ‘Such a thing of course is not permitted within the boundaries of Jarrazir, but I’m sure one damned foreigner or another has managed to pollute the city with its corrupting presence. If wine can be found, you’re welcome to ensure as little as possible remains to drag our gods-fearing citizenry down the path of iniquity. In the spirit of goodwill, that is.’
She paused and gave the merest of bows to Toil, despite the fact she was a Monarch standing before her throne. There were no intakes of breath among the Jarrazirans watching, but Lynx saw a few note the gesture and all the seriousness it implied.
‘You have my thanks, all of you – Mistress Lastani and Master Atieno too. For all that you were party to the start of all this, I have no stomach for retribution and the city has seen enough death. Should I have need of your services in the future, however, you will remember this generosity, I trust. Mistress Toil, we will speak again when you have rested. In the meantime I’ve got a city to rebuild.’
Epilogue
Lynx opened his eyes and smiled. A faint glimmer of dawn crept through the curtains, the smell of peppery sweat hung in the small room. Below the window was a disordered pile of clothing atop a travel chest, on the floor a jumble of discarded clothes and boots. In the far corner stood a chair, cartridge cases hanging from its back and the muzzles of mage-guns visible behind, propped against the wall.
He turned his head slightly. A holstered pistol hung on the bedpost, within easy reach, but when he stretched his arm out it was to luxuriate in the quiet comfort of early morning and slide it over smooth bare skin. A distant thump echoed at the back of his head and the edges of his vision were blurry, but he could not tell whether it was the after-effects of the explosion or something more self-inflicted. For the present Lynx didn’t care. He was content just to listen to the soft sounds of breathing beside him, surrounded by the fug of unwashed clothes, sweat and sex.
Somewhere in the building he heard movement and faint snatches of song breaking the quiet. Lynx tried to make sense of it, but they’d been drinking until late so it remained a jumble in his mind. The events of the last few days began to play again in his mind, the frantic fighting and those damned explosions. The injuries he still carried, the protesting muscles and dozen scabbed-over cuts. Somehow, the fatigue and aching felt welcome, though, the lingering sense of hard-earned victory.
It’s been three days and I bet I’ll be pulling more damn splinters out of my backside, Lynx thought as the various pains announced themselves once more. Still woozy after that explosion, reckon we all are. The drink’s helped there, after a fashion. Always good when an appreciative population find a way ta thank their saviours.
The singing grew loud, the unsteady footsteps echoing up the narrow wooden stairwell.
Someone’s just back from celebrating. Lynx smiled. That’ll be their bonus spent, then – not that I’ve been saving like a miser, o’ course.
He glanced over at the chair where the cartridge cases hung. The Monarch had given a bonus to each of the Cards who’d ventured underground, after more God Fragments were unearthed from the smoking pit at the heart of the half-ruined amphitheatre. A leather-bound book sat on the chair, half covered by a stained shirt. Tales of the Last Days, it was called – one Lastani had recommended as a seminal collection of Duegar tales, or those that had escaped acquisitive eyes during the Revival anyway.
Unlike most books he’d owned, this one was in near-perfect condition, the green leather embossed with a spiral of ancient Duegar symbols. Lastani had told him the willow tree was sacred to the Duegar and he’d resolved to read every such book he found until he understood what their new tattoos meant for them all.
Lynx looked down at his naked body. The pale shapes of leaves were barely visible on the skin of his belly, legs and arms, and hardly more noticeable even on the darker-skinned Cards. The marks had faded quickly over that first day along with the power Atieno, Lastani and Sitain could employ, but a brief test had shown they would still glow when the mages used their magic. And that magic itself remained greater than before – not the vast amounts available in the hours after the labyrinth, but more than any other mage Atieno or Lastani had ever met.
And we’re all a reservoir for more, Lynx reminded himself, even if we’re no nearer to working out what it all means.
Without warning the door burst open and a dark figure in a long leather coat charged in. ‘City watch!’ the figure bellowed. ‘Where’s the contraband?’
Toil was up in an instant, moving from sleeping to action in the time it had taken Lynx to blink stupidly. The figure swung towards the bed and Toil twisted to avoid its onrush, grabbing one reaching arm and using it to add force to her knee. Connecting hard, Toil hauled the intruder around and slid one arm underneath theirs, drawing it up behind their back as she slammed them face first into the cheap plaster of the wall. The whole room seem to shake with the impact and the figure howled with pain.
‘I win!’ roared a voice from the doorway. ‘Hand it over, ya squint-eyed turds!’
Lynx sat up, frozen in the act of drawing the mage-pistol, and frowned at the figure in the doorway. He couldn’t focus very well, but there was something familiar about the voice.
‘Aben?’ he said groggily.
‘What the fuck?’ Toil roared.
She released the intruder and spun them around to look at their face. It was Himbel. The company surgeon gave her an unsteady grin, white teeth gleaming in the dim light, as he looked her up and down.
‘Hey, look, you were right, she’s nekked!’ the surgeon declared, puckering up. ‘Give us a kiss then.’
Toil gave a growl of irritation and hurled Himbel back towards the now-crowded doorway.
‘Ah, boss,’ Aben said, ‘yer, ah, well …’
Toil’s growl deepened. ‘What is it with you fucks and walking in on me naked?’ she demanded, whipping the sheet off the bed.
Lynx flinched, now exposed himself, and flapped wildly around.
‘Oh put it away, big fella,’ Llaith called from behind Aben. ‘No one wants to see that.’
Lynx finally succeeded in yanking one of the pillows from the end of the bed to cover himself. Just as he did so, Toil hooked something white on the end of her toe and flicked it towards Lynx. He caught it and held the undergarment up.
‘Mebbe a bit small,’ he hazarded, putting it on the bed and fishing his braies off the floor. He had to flop like a landed fish to haul them on, but in a short time he was sat on the edge of the bed, not quite as on show as he had been.
‘Fancy explaining, Aben?’
The big man’s grin wavered. Lynx could see he was still drunk; perhaps not quite so bad as Himbel, though, and better acquainted with Toil’s nasty side.
‘I ah, well … we were talking, about you, and someone mentioned a bet. I …’
He turned to those behind him, letting go of the door handle in the process. That made him stagger under the weight of mercenaries pressing forward and they all spilled inside. Llaith almos
t ended up in Lynx’s lap, Suth and Layir stumbled over Himbel, while Ylor, a blonde woman who wore the Seven of Snow, seemed to take the opportunity to drape herself over Aben.
‘A bet?’
Suth coughed and straightened up with the theatrical care of someone drunker than they realised.
‘It’s all Llaith’s fault,’ the woman declared. ‘Apparently he thinks I ain’t drunk alcohol before. An’ stupid too.’
‘Not stupid!’ Llaith protested. ‘Just hoping you were a bit gullible and we could get some hazing in.’
Lynx blinked at the Jarraziran for a moment then realised she was wearing her new badge on her jacket – the Knight of Tempest. So it was official now, she’d been released from the Monarch’s service, or at least on indefinite leave. Teshen had been made Knight of Stars, the more senior of the sergeant positions and responsible for more mercenaries, while Suth got the misfits of Tempest.
There had been little choice for Suth or the Monarch really, the tattoos marked her as one of them and once word got out, they’d need each other to protect themselves. She was a tough and capable agent as well as a Bridge Watch soldier. No doubt all sides – Cards, Jarrazir and Su Dregir – would benefit by the new arrangement.
She wasn’t the only new recruit either. Lastani now wore the Jester of Stars, being an ice mage and as bad a shot as Sitain, while Atieno had the Prince of Tempest on his jacket. The man had impressed Anatin but showed no interest in command, so he’d been given the same honorary position as Toil, which seemed to suit everyone.
True to Vagrim form, Atieno wasn’t happy at finding himself tied to the Mercenary Deck, but he recognised there was little he could do about it for the time being. It was more of a wrench for Lastani, Lynx knew. Vagrim were wanderers by nature, but she was a city girl with a family to say goodbye to. The tattoos left her with no real choice in the end and with Toil’s assurance that understanding them was a priority for the whole company, she’d signed up.
‘Fortunately for us,’ Llaith continued, ‘Himbel’s exactly stupid enough after a few drinks. My money was on you shootin’ him, though.’
‘I said you’d put him down before he got halfway in,’ Suth added helpfully. ‘Himbel reckoned you’d see the funny side and give him a kiss.’
At that Aben seemed to collapse into somewhat hysterical laughter, dropping Ylor in the process, and Llaith swaggered forward to haul the dazed Himbel up off the floor.
‘Did I win?’ the surgeon asked the room at large.
‘Not even close, my friend,’ Llaith said, laughing and patting the man on the head like a puppy. ‘Just be glad you’re too drunk to feel your balls right now.’
Lynx watched Toil’s reaction. It was clear she was angry, but there was an endearing lack of malice to their idiocy that was thawing her. For himself, he’d woken up with a pleasingly sore head next to a beautiful woman. The only thing that could improve matters was breakfast and the Cards at play was something, to his surprise, he’d grown comfortable around.
‘Letter!’ Aben exclaimed. ‘That’s it – there was a letter!’
‘What?’
He fumbled around his pockets, getting himself tangled up for a moment and almost ripping off the new badge on his jacket – the Seventeen of Blood – before extracting a folded, sealed missive from an inside pocket.
‘That’s why we came up,’ Aben explained.
‘Also we’d been discussing who was fastest in the company,’ Llaith said, ‘and no one fancied bursting in on Teshen to test him out. Himbel ain’t that drunk.’
Toil grabbed the letter and inspected the seal. From where he sat Lynx couldn’t see it, but by the look on Toil’s face he guessed it was from the Archelect of Su Dregir.
‘Out, the lot of you,’ she ordered.
With a chorus of protests, they obeyed – Aben helping Himbel out by giving him a good shove. The man then gave Toil a nod, winked at Lynx, and shut the door behind him.
Toil opened the letter and scanned the message on it. After a few moments she nodded and tucked it away under a fold of clothing on the chair.
‘Good news?’
She shrugged. ‘Of a fashion.’
She let the sheet fall away from her and stood over him, entirely naked again.
‘New orders,’ she added in a husky voice as she bent to kiss Lynx.
‘Somewhere nice?’
‘For once, yes. The Mage Islands, ever been?’
Lynx pulled Toil down so she was straddling him and kissed her harder. ‘Never,’ he replied after a while. ‘Meant to be nice, though.’
‘Oh, it won’t be for us,’ Toil said. ‘We’re not going to make friends.’
‘Reckon I speak for the whole company when I say I’m shocked by that,’ Lynx said, grinning up at her. ‘When do we ship out?’
‘Not straight away,’ Toil said. ‘You’ve at least got time to get those braies off again.’
‘How about breakfast?’
‘Depends what you do once the braies are off.’
‘I’m willing to rush.’
Toil raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Not what a girl wants to hear, Lynx.’
‘But there’s bacon,’ he protested. ‘I heard the cook say so yesterday.’
‘You realise that’s not actually a good reason to rush?’
Lynx frowned. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘No, you really don’t,’ she sighed. ‘There’ll be time for both, that I promise, but first we work up an appetite, understand?’
‘Aye, as you command, princess.’
‘That’s better,’ Toil purred. ‘Now jump to it, soldier, that’s an order.’
Acknowledgements
You might write a book all by yourself, but that’s rarely part of the whole story. Without my wonderful wife, Fi, life would have less meaning and be far more difficult. This book wasn’t an easy one to write, for a variety of real life reasons, but Fi and the rest of my family helped me see this through to the finish. Without their support I don’t know how many books I would have left in me.
Thanks also to my brother and father for beta-reads, Juliet McKenna for advice on how Toil does what she does best, and Simon Kavanagh who went several rounds with me over some major details of the book. He might not have won every ‘discussion’, but this book is certainly all the better for his input.
Finally, the efforts of Marcus Gipps and Rachel Winterbottom made a huge difference, even more so than normal editing does, and I’m massively grateful for their input. There’s no sense of foolishness quite like delivering a manuscript you’ve worked on for a year, only to have someone point out dozens of quite incredible, glaring mistakes you’ve missed entirely. I didn’t sleep well for most of the time this book was being written and hopefully they’ve stopped you from seeing what that does to a fantasist of very little brain.
Turn the page for a preview of
Tom’s exciting eBook-only novella
following on from Princess of Blood
The Man with One Name
Chapter 1
(Now)
‘Reckon ya can’t get much deader’n that.’
‘Oh blackest hells.’
‘Still reckon those are farmer’s hands, Lynx? Or was it merchant’s hands? I forget. Many merchants out your way got so many anger issues?’ The old woman sniffed. ‘Mebbe out your way, I guess.’
The skinny man at his feet clearly had no further interest in the conversation, or in breathing for that matter. A little further down the bar his friend gave a strangled squawk on his behalf.
‘What the screaming shits …? Jinks? Shattered gods, you killed him!’
The grey-haired woman cackled, voice as rough as the calluses on her hands. ‘Ya think? Was it all the blood that gave it away?’
Lynx flinched at the laughter and stared at his closed fist. ‘Didn’t mean to.’
‘Aye, luck o’ the deepest black it was, that – but don’t fret overmuch about it,’ she said. ‘I always reckoned Jinks there was sof
t in the head, you were just the one to prove it.’
The other man’s lip curled as he backed away. Either he’d forgotten the mage-pistol at his hip or he didn’t want to try his luck.
‘You shut your trap, you old bitch.’
‘Careful now,’ she replied, ‘old bitches can still bite.’
As though to make her point, she raised her tankard and took a swig before waving it in his direction. It was old and battered, but made of pewter and would mess up most faces. Though the wielder had limbs like an elderly sparrow, she’d already displayed a wiry strength. In a backwater farming village like this, when your strength failed you, life soon followed.
‘Sulay,’ Lynx said. ‘A man’s dead already, leave off.’
‘You ain’t the boss o’ me.’
‘The fella’s twice your size and half your age.’
‘You’ll make no friends with that attitude, my Hanese acquaintance.’
‘Last thing I need is lessons in not making friends, woman.’
She gave him a toothy grin. ‘Ah, but you’re a man who’s always honing his craft.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘If you like – first off, Ashel there can’t shoot for shit at the best o’ times, I’ve seen him try. Also – he ain’t as stupid as he looks, for all he might look like the shitting end of a toad. He takes a shot at me and, hit or miss, he’s not long for this life o’ suffering.’
‘’Cos your rug will get him?’ Lynx said, glancing down.
‘Yup.’
‘It is a pretty scary rug.’
‘Don’t try to be funny, Lynx, it don’t suit you.’
Ashel continued to back away towards the door, gaze switching from Lynx to the dirty-white heap at Sulay’s feet as though unsure which was the more dangerous. He was an average man in most respects – shorter than his cooling friend, whose name Lynx hadn’t caught as firmly as his jaw. He was on the slim side with pale skin and lank brown hair, his eyes narrow, his ears oddly small. Ashel managed to be mostly unremarkable bar the fact he carried a gun with less conviction than anyone Lynx had seen survive to claim the name of gunfighter.