After he left Lord Mylt he had to go back to the Court of the Broken Knife, to look. Fewer people gathered there: a hatha eater scratching bloody eyes in the corner, which was only fitting; a young man with bruises on his hands leaning against the statue’s base. A half-naked child flying a scarlet kite.
“A dhol? A dhol?” the hatha eater begged.
“Fuck you all!” the young man shouted. Another man punched at him. The young man kicked and punched back. The two of them fighting, grunting, all sweat and spit and bleeding until the attacker was down and the young man was kicking him.
“A dhol? A dhol?”
The young man ran off. His attacker staggered away.
A woman in the clothes of Immier or Cen Elora knelt before the statue scattering flowers. The statue’s eaten face smiled into the horizon, blind and smug. The yellow light of Sorlost framed it. Strained yellow-blue sky, the thrusting leprous grey stone. A gust of hot wind stirring the dust.
Orhan spat in the dust before the statue, petty absurd gesture that made him feel absurd. “One of your friends is selling you,” he said aloud to the statue. “You have swords. But we have gold. Ha!” The two purses laughed at the boy from the pocket of his coat. His walk home took him past Darath’s house, then down the Street of Yellow Roses. Neither were quite on the way, but not too far off the way, he was thinking, he often walked this way.
Excuses, Orhan?
Darath’s house was silent, hunched over itself. The wine shop in the Street of Yellow Roses was open. The shop boy was outside, stacking rubbish in a careful heap. Strong smell of wine and old food. And a flash of patterned colours: someone had broken a cup and a plate. The doorcurtain moved in a gust of wind. Orhan found himself going in. Sat at his table. The two old men sitting playing yenthes, the old woman watching them. Click of the tiles. Smiles, nodding heads. The Pearl Poet sat in the corner, silent, had never left, was silent there dead and still, a pitiful thing. The shopkeeper had bought a songbird in a cage, since he had been here… yesterday. It sat in a wooden cage pecking at the feathers of its breast. The shopkeeper brought him a cup of the wine he drank, a dish of warm bread.
“Orhan.”
Darath came into the wine shop. Came over to him.
Knives in his head.
Loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou
Ox on his tongue. Stone on his tongue. What do you say?
I love you. I’m sorry.
Forgive me. Please.
loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou
The Pearl Poet raised his head, looked with hatha-blurred blind eyes. Knew and saw. One of the old men coughed. “Clever play, that.” Bone tiles rattled on the table. Voices murmured, discussing the yenthes game. The old woman said, “Another plate of bread?”
A man walks into a wine shop. Not the kind of thing you see every day.
loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou
Darath said, “Orhan.” Sat down opposite him. Neither of them spoke. The yenthes tiles made circles, spirals, sunbursts.
You’re going to die, Darath. We’re all going to die.
loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou
Darath was wearing a green shirt with pearl buttons. The pearls winked milky eyes at him. His hair was greying. Almost all grey. His beautiful gold-black curls. Wrapped a strand of Darath’s hair around his fingers once, pulled it tight, Darath had had longer hair then, long curls down his back. Ah, God’s knives, the memories of Darath’s hair as Darath bent his head down over him.
“Orhan,” said Darath again. The yenthes tiles rattled. Laughter as one of the players made a particularly clever move.
What do you want? Come to jeer at me? See what I’m spending your money on?
loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou
“Selim said you’d be here.”
“Did he?”
“He was… worried about you.”
“Why?”
“You mean, ‘thank you’?” Darath sipped Orhan’s wine. Made a face. “Come home with me,” Darath said.
“You hate me,” said Orhan.
“Fucking bastard, I should slap you. I don’t hate you. Great Tanis knows, I should hate you.”
The shopkeeper snapped at the shop boy that he’d left the rubbish too near the doorway, that it would attract beggar children, put off customers. The Pearl Singer was watching them, smiling at them.
“There’s a room,” said Orhan. “Upstairs. Here. Now. Come on.”
Orhan held his hand out.
Darath took it.
Jolt of fire. Clutched tight. Nails dug in. The skin on Darath’s hand was rough. You’re dying, Darath. You might as well be dead. Up the stairs. Through the door. A storeroom, a broken table, a broken chair, dust gathered, a ragged bed.
“I’m sorry. I love you, Darath.”
Darath’s hands tugging at Orhan’s clothes. Darath’s hands around Orhan’s neck. Orhan’s waist. Orhan’s crotch. “Shut up.”
“You thought I’d slept with him,” said Orhan. “The demon. You accused me of betraying the city to him out of lust.”
“God’s knives, did I?” Darath’s hands opening Orhan’s clothes. Darath’s hair falling over his face as he bent his head down. Black-silver, where once it had been gold-black.
“I love you. I’m sorry, Darath. I’m sorry about Elis. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Darath. The Immish have sold us to the demon. We’ll all die. I love you.”
“Shut up.”
“I was right. I was right. Everything, everything I did, all the pain, all the bloodshed, the deaths, we’re doomed, the demon will bring the fire down on us… but I was right. Did Selim tell you that? I was right. I love you. I was right. About everything.”
He came in Darath’s mouth. Screamed out tears.
“I know. I love you too. Shut up.”
Later they went back to Darath’s house. The onyx gates opened almost joyfully, closed silently with a look almost of peace. Lemon trees in the gardens, the lemons almost ripe, just tinted still with green; an almond tree flowering; a great mass of purple hyacinths as cool as twilight. Gods, the scent of hyacinths, do you remember, do you remember, weddings, grieving, long lonely nights…
“You’ve got a new statue.”
“Yes.”
A young man, carved in white marble, kneeling, veiled.
Darath said, “Don’t talk about it, Orhan.”
The house itself unchanged, but silent. Fewer servants, more unkempt. A beautiful boy with red hair to his waist came out of a doorway and glared at Orhan and Orhan glared back.
Darath said, “Oops.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Are you lying to me again already?”
Orhan said honestly, “No.”
“God’s knives, you’re still a bloody terrible liar, Orhan light of my life my love.” Darath threw the boy a purse. “Piss off. You do look so handsome, Orhan, when you’re squirming with embarrassment.”
Several doors were closed. Doors to Elis’ rooms.
“If I were you, I’d think about having him followed and murdered, then feel overcome with shame at the thought,” said Darath. Pause. “Mind you, if I were you, he’d turn out to be the last King of Tarboran slumming it.” Pause. His voice cracked. Clutched Orhan’s hand again. “God’s knives, I missed you, Orhan.”
“Bil and Celyse and Dion were grateful for the money.” That was so much the wrong thing to say, Orhan thought, as soon as he said it. Darath would think he’d said it out of spite. Heard Darath’s breath catch, saw and felt Darath’s face change, the stab of it in Darath’s gut.
Darath burst out laughing. “You honestly didn’t mean that to sound cruel, did you? You have no idea why you said that, did you? God’s knives, Orhan, I’ve missed you so much.”
They were almost at Darath’s bedroom. A servant Orhan recognized crossed the hall in front of them, d
rew back with bowed head. Orhan was sure she was smiling at them. “Wine and cakes and armfuls of flowers!” Darath shouted at her. “Now!” Holding each other, kissing each other, hands gripping sliding across each other’s skin. Taste and feel and grasp you tight, drowning. God’s knives, Darath. Loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou. Darath whispering, “Love you.” Clutch so tight it’s hurting, bite and kiss and cry out. After two years it’s awkward, like we’ve forgotten things about each other. Changed, both of us. There’s the scar on Darath’s stomach, where Tam Rhyl’s man knifed him, I remember binding that, praying he’d live. New thinness and flabbiness to Darath’s body, the fever wasted him, almost killed him. His hair’s going grey. Lines around his eyes, an old man taste to his breath. Love you. Missed you. We’re both dying. Never leave you again.
Much later, drowsing, sated, sticky and languid, like children resting in the afternoon sun. Darath said, “Tomorrow, Orhan, we’ll talk about whatever our Lord and Ruler Lord Mylt wanted with you.”
Orhan sipped his wine. “He wants me to help him save Sorlost from the demon. Conspire with him and others to save us all, save the world from ruin and death. Will you help me do it?”
Darath sipped his wine. “You mean, he wants you to collaborate with him to preserve our city for the Immish occupiers. You want me to collaborate with the Immish too.”
Darath laughed and laughed as Orhan said, “Yes.”
Chapter Twenty
Tobias the penniless meaningless washer-woman’s assistant
The camp of the Army of Amrath, the insatiable, the murderers, the wolf-men, the beloved of the carrion eaters, more and more he really can’t helping thinking of them as his friends
Rumour had it the attack on Turain would indeed be at dawn, because how stupid would you have to be not to follow up the dragon fire with an attack? Not like Marith really planned this stuff any more. Scare the crap out of the enemy. Barbecue the enemy. Throw wave upon wave upon wave of screaming bloodthirsty soldiers at the enemy until there was nothing left. The strict discipline the army was put under the night before a battle would have been a big hint an attack was in the offing, also, once upon a time before everyone gave up on that in favour of celebrating tomorrow’s success. One battle near Issykol, half the cavalry including King Marith had had to be tied to the saddle to stop them falling off.
The camp followers tended to divide into two, uh, camps on night like this: (i) join in, party like you too are literally going to die tomorrow, so what if my husband finds me pleasuring his best friend tonight, tomorrow they could both be dead; or, (ii) cower in the darkness hoping you’ll survive to see the troops off the next morning, also keeping a clear head means more chance of bagsying something special in the looting; some of the camp followers would be camped out all night near the city walls to be first in line for a bargain. Naillil and Rovi took approach (ii), being sensible sober types. Lenae seemed to as well. They got a fire going, hunkered down, cooked up another delicious feast of slightly pre-smoked blood-stained veg and fruit. After dinner Naillil told the story of the fall of Tyrenae, with added background sound effects, and then for variety Rovi croaked out the story of Serelethe and the birth of Amrath.
Rovi told it well, actually. His rasping dead voice kind of suited the text. Lenae still couldn’t cope with the idea that Tobias and Naillil and Rovi had actually been to where it happened. “I was born two hours’ walk from Ethalden, Lenae,” Rovi croaked out, and Lenae’s eyes near popped from her head. “The whole village went up to the ruins the night of Sunreturn,” said Rovi. “Made offerings in the place Serelethe called the demons to her.”
Always imagined it on the cliffs, somehow. At dusk in the gloaming, clouds all dramatic, Serelethe standing there, arms raised in offering, eyes wide with fear, hair blowing in the wind, the wind blowing her dress against her legs…
Fucking hell I’m having fantasies about King Death’s great-great-great-great-great etc grandma. Just fucking stop, Tobias, mate. But—looked at Lenae sitting by the fire—always kind of wondered, though, like everyone must, what it had been like when Serelethe had done it with the whatever it was. What it felt like. What it, you know, felt like. Couldn’t really not, could you? First thing that obviously came into everyone’s head.
Lenae’s eyes near popped again, when Rovi got to the bit about Serelethe birthing a dragon. Crossed her legs very tight and winced. It was getting late, the noise from the army was dropping off a bit because date wine was very strong stuff, so Rovi stopped the story with Amrath still in armoured clout clothes and they settled down to sleep. Tobias curled up into the scrap of cloth he called a tent and tried to sleep. Sudden flash of memory of being in the desert wrapping his cloak around his head trying to sleep with King Death and Queen Thalia thinking they were being quiet in their wagon. Serelethe’s demon had probably felt: good. It occurred to him that if Marith hadn’t pissed him off quite so much pleasuring Thalia ten times a night in ways he’d clearly never managed to please a woman, he might not have fucked the boy over the way he did.
Woke up suddenly.
Sat up.
What?
What the hell?
His tent had… exploded.
A horse had just collided with his tent.
Like literally collided with his tent.
Rovi next to him was trying to get up. He could see Rovi, and the remains of the tent, and the horse, because the sky seemed to be on fire. Everything was all lit up white and blue.
Uh…
The horse wheeled around. The horse charged back straight towards him. The horse also seemed to be on fire. White and blue flames.
He tried to draw his sword. His arm howled in pain. His sword hung kind of limp. He dropped the sword. Threw himself down flat curled up as small as he possibly could. Godsgodsgodsgodsgodsgodsgods.
Tobias the hard-bastard sellsword! Oh hell yeah!
The horse was on top of him. Rush of cold. Eyes closed buried in the ground: he saw the dark, the shape of it, the fire burning so cold it hurt his mind. Cold punch in his face, buried there screaming.
Hooves all around him. Thundering crashing roar lasting forever, how many fucking legs did this thing have? A whole godsdamn army of pain pounding over him like he was back drowning in the sea off Morr Town. Colder than drowning. He could see blue behind his eyes. So cold.
The crashing screaming roar died away. A little. He stood up and his body wept with pain.
Men were charging towards them. Mounted men. Armed. People were running. Mounted soldiers were cutting them down. Gouts of blue fire. A woman screaming, and her body rang with blue, and she fell into pieces of ice. Soldiers were running. Wrestling on their armour. Gouts of blue fire. Crash of metal. Scream of dying. The riders shouting, pulling their mounts around, surging on.
He’d thought it was some game of Marith’s. Like the children dying. Sudden lurch of kingly self-pitying remorse. Camp followers are the maggots that breed in human ruin. Carrion crows that glut their bloodlusts on an army’s filth. I hate myself for feeding their hunger. Kill them! Kill them!
No. Gods and fucking demons and fucking fucking fucking fuck, some glorious idiot was actually insane enough to be attacking them.
“Tobias!” Swung around. Lenae, screaming. Terrified. Five men in black armour, rising out of the shadows, striding out of the dark, suddenly so close on top of them, hadn’t heard them, hadn’t seen them, how can I not have seen? Five swords drawn. Five black faceless helmets, crowned with antlers. Not men but beasts. Rovi had two knives in hands that were dead and cold and rotten. Naillil had a knife that she used to cut meat. Tobias had a sword. A good sword. Tobias’s sword was lying in the remains of the exploded tent.
On him. Swords cutting. Trying to fight back. Such pain in Tobias’s shoulder. “So how many years you got left, you think, before you can’t do it any more and some younger man spills your guts out in the dust?” Raeta had asked him at the beginning of it. More than he’d thought, in the end. A blade came down. A
wound opened up in him. White, in his mind: how can any man bear the pain of this? This is what I’ve done to people. Lots of people.
A blade came down. He thought: do it. Just bloody do it, will you? Get this over with.
Died years ago. Stabbed. Drowned. Killed myself.
Do it, then. Kill me.
He thought: fuck but I don’t want to die.
Rolled with the sword missing him. Earth in his mouth. Ice. So so cold. Rolled and spat and he was sick, his heart was sick, why am I fighting this? Rolling back one way and another and the swords coming down around him like rain. All over like fucking rain. I’m dying, why am I fighting this? This is what I’ve done to people. Weak fuck people. So painful, dying. This is how it felt when I killed them.
Sword blade right down over him, like a meat cleaver over his face. Threw up his arm, his arm shook, his elbow caught the blade so that it dragged across his forehead and at least it had missed his eyes and his throat. Rolled and thrashed. Kicked. His vision all grey. Cold. Frozen. The blade came down. Like a door slamming shut.
Crash of metal. Shouting roar. The sky’s all light like candles. Warm soft light. The enemy’s gone.
“Tobias.” Tobias sat up. Lenae crouched next to him. Her face was covered in blood. Her dress was torn. Her hair was white with frost. Rovi’s face was black ice.
More riders galloped past them. Didn’t stop. Looked kind of more familiar. Not wearing frigging antlers on their helmets, for one. Ours, thought Tobias. Thank the gods. He watched the horsemen charge off into the dark. Blue light flashed. On the horizon the sky still burned red. A man was lying a little way off from them, bleeding into the earth, his body crumpled up. Tobias crawled over to him. A young man, face hidden beneath his black armour, pink blossom in his helmet wound around the antlers.
“From the mountains,” he said aloud to no one. “Mountain men.”
So cold. The young man’s blood flowed out into the dark earth and froze.
The House of Sacrifice Page 18