But Castor Morveer was not a man to be put off by a few reverses. He had suffered many in life, and saw no reason to alter his formula of commendable stoicism simply because the task seemed impossible. With the coronation almost upon him, he had therefore chosen to focus on the principal targets: Grand Duke Rogont and his lover, Morveer’s hated ex-employer, now the Grand Duchess of Talins, Monzcarro Murcatto.
It would have been a rank understatement to say that no expense had been spared to ensure the coronation lived long in Styria’s collective memory. The buildings enclosing the square had all been freshly painted. The stone platform where Murcatto had administered her fumbling speech, and where Rogont planned to soak up the adulation of his subjects as King of Styria, had been surfaced with gleaming new marble and adorned with a gilded rail. Workmen crawled on ropes and scaffolds across the looming frontage of the Senate House, garlanding the ancient stonework with fresh-cut white flowers, transforming the sullen edifice into a mighty temple to the Grand Duke of Ospria’s vanity.
Working in dispiriting solitude, Morveer had appropriated the clothes, toolbox and documentation of a journeyman carpenter who had arrived in the city looking for piecework, and hence would be missed by nobody. Yesterday he had infiltrated the Senate House in this ingenious disguise to reconnoitre the scene and formulate a plan. While doing so, just as a bonus, he had carried out some challenging jointing work to a balustrade with almost conspicuous skill. Truly, he was a loss to carpentry, but he had in no way lost sight of the fact that his primary profession remained murder. Today he had returned to execute his audacious scheme. And to execute Grand Duke Rogont, both together.
‘Afternoon,’ he grunted to one of the guards as he passed through the vast doorway along with the rest of the labourers returning from lunch, crunching carelessly at an apple with the surly manner he had often observed in common men on their way to labour. Caution first, always, but when attempting to fool someone, supreme confidence and simplicity was the approach that bore the ripest fruit. He excited, in fact, no attention whatsoever from the guards, either at the gate or at the far end of the vestibule. He stripped the core of his apple and tossed it into his workbox, with only the faintest maudlin moment spent reflecting on how much Day would have enjoyed it.
The Senate House was open to the sky, the great dome having collapsed long centuries ago. Three-quarters of the tremendous circular space was filled with concentric arcs of seating, enough for two thousand or more of the world’s most honoured spectators. Each marble step was lower than the one behind, so that they formed a kind of theatre, with a space before them where the senators of old had once risen to make their grand addresses. A round platform had been built there now, of inlaid wood painted in meticulous detail with gilded wreaths of oak leaves about a gaudy golden chair.
Great banners of vividly coloured Suljuk silk hung down the full height of the walls, some thirty strides or more, at a cost Morveer hardly dared contemplate, one for each of the great cities of Styria. The azure cloth of Ospria, marked with the white tower, had pride of place, directly behind the central platform. The cross of Talins and the cockleshell of Sipani flanked it upon either side. Arranged evenly about the rest of the circumference were the bridge of Puranti, the red banner of Affoia, the three bees of Visserine, the six rings of Nicante, and the giant flags of Muris, Etrisani, Etrea, Borletta and Caprile besides. No one, it seemed, was to be excluded from the proud new order, whether they desired membership or not.
The whole space crawled with men and women hard at work. Tailors plucked at the hangings and the miles of white cushions provided for the comfort of the most honoured guests. Carpenters sawed and hammered at the platform and the stairways. Flower-sellers scattered the unused floor with a carpet of white blossom. Chandlers carefully positioned their waxen wares in endless rows, teetered on ladders to reach a hundred sconces. All overseen by a regiment of Osprian guardsmen, halberds and armour buffed to mirror brightness.
For Rogont to choose to be crowned here, in the ancient heart of the New Empire? The arrogance was incalculable, and if there was one quality Morveer could not abide, it was arrogance. Humility, after all, cost nothing. He concealed his profound disgust and made his way nonchalantly down the steps, affecting the self-satisfied swagger of the working commoner, weaving through the other tradesmen busy among the curving banks of seating.
At the back of the great chamber, perhaps ten strides above the ground, were two small balconies in which, he believed, scribes had once recorded the debates beneath. Now they were adorned by two immense portraits of Duke Rogont. One showed him stern and manful, heroically posed with sword and armour. The other depicted his Excellency in pensive mood, attired as a judge, holding book and compass. The master of peace and war. Morveer could not suppress a mocking smirk. Up there, in one of those two balconies, would be the fitting spot from which to shoot a dart lethal enough to deflate that idiot’s swollen head and puncture his all-vaulting ambitions. They were reached by narrow stairways from a small, unused chamber, where records had been kept in ancient—
He frowned. Though it stood open, a heavy door, thick oak intricately bound and studded with polished steel, had been installed across the entrance of the anteroom. He in no way cared for such an alteration at this late stage. Indeed his first instinct was simply to place caution first and quietly depart, as he had often done before when circumstances appeared to shift. But men did not secure their place in history with caution alone. The venue, the challenge, the potential rewards were too great to let slip on account of a new door. History was breathing upon his neck. For tonight only his name would be audacity.
He strode past the platform, where a dozen decorators were busily applying gilt paint, and to the door. He swung it one way then the other, lips pursed discerningly as if checking the smooth workings of its hinges. Then, with the swiftest and least conspicuous of glances to ensure he was unobserved, he slipped through.
There were neither windows nor lamps within, the only light in the vaulted chamber crept through the door or down the two coiling stairways. Empty boxes and barrels were scattered in disorderly heaps about the walls. He was just deciding which balcony to choose as his shooting position when he heard voices approaching the door. He slid quickly on his side into the narrow space behind a stack of crates, squeaked as he picked up a painful splinter in his elbow, remembered his workbox just in time and fished it after him with one foot. A moment later the door squealed open and scraping boots entered the room, men groaning as though under a dolorous load.
‘By the Fates, it’s heavy!’
‘Set it here!’ A noisy clatter and squeal of metal on stone. ‘Bastard thing.’
‘Where’s the key?’
‘Here.’
‘Leave it in the lock.’
‘And what, pray, is the purpose of a lock with the key in it?’
‘To present no obstacle, idiot. When we bring the damn case out there in front of three thousand people, and his Excellency tells us to open it up, I don’t want to be looking at you and asking where the key is, and you find you dropped the fucker somewhere. See what I mean?’
‘You’ve a point.’
‘It’ll be safer in here, in a barred room with a dozen guards at the door, than in your dodgy pockets.’
‘I’m convinced.’ There was a gentle rattle of metal. ‘There. Satisfied?’
Several sets of footsteps clattered away. There was the heavy clunk of the door being swung shut, the clicking of locks turned, the squealing of a bar, then silence. Morveer was sealed into a room with a dozen guards outside. But that alone struck no fear into a man of his exceptional fortitude. When the vital moment came, he would lower a cord from one of the balconies and hope to slip away while every eye was focused on Rogont’s spectacular demise. With the greatest of care to avoid any further splinters, he wriggled out from behind the crates.
A large case had been placed in the centre of the floor. A work of art in itself, fashioned from in
laid wood, bound with bands of filigree silver, glimmering in the gloom. Plainly it contained something of great importance to the coming ceremony. And since chance had provided him the key . . .
He knelt, turned it smoothly in the lock and with gentle fingers pushed back the lid. It took a great deal to impress a man of Morveer’s experience, but now his eyes widened, his jaw dropped and sweat prickled at his scalp. The yellow sheen of gold almost warmed his skin, yet there was something more in his reaction than appreciation of the beauty, the symbolic significance or even the undoubted value of the object before him. Something teasing at the back of his mind . . .
Inspiration struck like lightning, making every hair upon his body suddenly stand tall. An idea of such scintillating brilliance, yet such penetrating simplicity, that he found himself almost in fear of it. The magnificent daring, the wonderful economy, the perfectly fitting irony. He only wished Day had lived to appreciate his genius.
Morveer triggered the hidden catch in his workman’s box and removed the tray carrying the carpenter’s equipment, revealing the carefully folded silken shirt and embroidered jacket in which he would make his escape. His true tools lay beneath. He carefully pulled on the gloves – lady’s gloves of the finest calfskin, for they offered the least resistance to the dextrous operation of his fingers – and reached for the brown glass jar. He reached for it with some trepidation, for it contained a contact venom of his own devising which he called Preparation Number Twelve. There would be no repetition of his error with Chancellor Sotorius, for this was a poison so deadly that not even Morveer himself could develop the slightest immunity to it.
He carefully unscrewed the cap – caution first, always – and, taking up an artist’s brush, began to work.
Rules of War
Cosca crept down the tunnel, knees and back aching fiercely from bending almost double, snatched breath echoing on the stale air. He had become far too accustomed to no greater exertions than sitting around and working his jaw over the last few weeks. He swore a silent oath to take exercise every morning, knowing full well he would never keep it even until tomorrow. Still, it was better to swear an oath and never follow through than not even to bother with the oath. Wasn’t it?
His trailing sword scratched soil from the dirt walls with every step. Should have left the bloody thing behind. He peered down nervously at the glittering trail of black powder that snaked off into the shadows, holding his flickering lamp as far away as possible, for all it was made of thick glass and weighty cast iron. Naked flames and Gurkish sugar made unhappy companions in a confined space.
He saw flickering light ahead, heard the sounds of someone else’s laboured breath, and the narrow passageway opened out into a chamber lit by a pair of guttering lamps. It was no bigger than a good-sized bedroom, walls and ceiling of scarred rock and hard-packed earth, held up by a web of suspect-looking timbers. More than half the room, or the cave, was taken up by large barrels. A single Gurkish word was painted on the side of each one. Cosca’s Kantic did not extend far beyond ordering a drink, but he recognised the characters for fire. Sesaria was a great dark shape in the gloom, long ropes of grey hair hanging about his face, beads of sweat glistening on his black skin as he strained at a keg.
‘It’s time,’ said Cosca, his voice falling flat in the dead air under the mountain. He straightened up with great relief, was hit with a dizzy rush of blood to the head and stumbled sideways.
‘Watch!’ screeched Sesaria. ‘What you’re doing with that lamp, Cosca! A spark in the wrong place and the pair of us’ll be blown to heaven!’
‘Don’t let that worry you.’ He regained control of his feet. ‘I’m not a religious man, but I very much doubt anyone will be letting either of us near heaven.’
‘Blown to hell, then.’
‘A much stronger possibility.’
Sesaria grunted as he ever so gingerly shifted the last of the barrels up tight to the rest. ‘All the others out?’
‘They should be back in the trenches by now.’
The big man wiped his hands on his grimy shirt. ‘Then we’re ready, General.’
‘Excellent. These last few days have positively crawled. It’s a crime, when you think about how little time we get, that a man should ever be bored. When you’re lying on your deathbed, I expect you regret those weeks wasted more than your worst mistakes.’
‘You should have said if you had nothing pressing. We could have used your help digging.’
‘At my age? The only place I’ll be moving soil is on the latrine. And even that’s a lot more work than it used to be. What happens now?’
‘I hear it only gets harder.’
‘Very good. I meant with the mine.’
Sesaria pointed to the trail of black powder, grains gleaming in the lamplight, stopping well short of the nearest keg. ‘That leads to the entrance to the mine.’ He patted a bag at his belt. ‘We join it up to the barrels, leave plenty of extra at the end to make sure it takes. We get to the mouth of the tunnel, we set a spark to one end, then—’
‘The fire follows it all the way to the barrels and . . . how big will the explosion be?’
Sesaria shook his head. ‘Never seen a quarter as much powder used at one time. That and they keep mixing it stronger. This new stuff . . . I have a worry it might be too big.’
‘Better a grand gesture than a disappointing one.’
‘Unless it brings the whole mountain down on us.’
‘It could do that?’
‘Who knows what it’ll do?’
Cosca considered the thousands of tons of rock above their heads without enthusiasm. ‘It’s a little late for second thoughts. Victus has his picked men ready for the assault. Rogont will be king tonight, and he’s expecting to honour us with his majestic presence at dawn, and very much inside the fortress so he can order the final attack. I’m damned if I’m going to spend my morning listening to that fool whine at me. Especially with a crown on.’
‘You think he’ll wear it, day to day?’
Cosca scratched thoughtfully at his neck. ‘Do you know, I’ve no idea. But it’s somewhat beside the point.’
‘True.’ Sesaria frowned at the barrels. ‘Doesn’t seem right, somehow. You dig a hole, you touch a torch to some dust, you run and—’
‘Pop,’ said Cosca.
‘No need for thinking. No need for courage. No way to fight, if you’re asking me.’
‘The only good way to fight is the one that kills your enemy and leaves you with the breath to laugh. If science can simplify the process, well, so much the better. Everything else is flimflam. Let’s get started.’
‘I hear my captain general and obey.’ Sesaria pulled the bag from his belt, bent down and started carefully tipping powder out, joining the trail up to the barrels. ‘Got to think about how you’d feel, though, haven’t you?’
‘Have you?’
‘One moment you’re going about your business, the next you’re blasted to bits. Never get to even look your killer in his face.’
‘No different from giving others the orders. Is killing a man with powder any worse than getting someone else to stab him with a spear? When exactly did you last look a man in the face?’ Not when he’d happily helped stab Cosca in the back at Afieri, that was sure.
Sesaria sighed, powder trickling out across the ground. ‘True, maybe. But sometimes I miss the old days, you know. Back when Sazine was in charge. Seemed like a different world, then. A more honest world.’
Cosca snorted. ‘You know as well as I do there wasn’t a dirty trick this side of hell Sazine would have balked at using. That old miser would have blown the world up if he thought a penny would fall out.’
‘Daresay you’ve the truth of it. Doesn’t seem fair, though.’
‘I never realised you were such an enthusiast for fair.’
‘It’s no deal-breaker, but I’d rather win a fair fight than an unfair one.’ He upended the bag, the last powder sliding out and leaving a glittering he
ap right against the side of the nearest barrel. ‘Leaves a better taste, somehow, fighting by some kind of rules.’
‘Huh.’ Cosca clubbed him across the back of the head with his lamp, sending up a shower of sparks and knocking Sesaria sprawling on his face. ‘This is war. There are no rules.’ The big man groaned, shifted, struggled weakly to push himself up. Cosca leaned down, raised the lamp high and bashed him on the skull again with a crunching of breaking glass, knocked him flat, embers sizzling in his hair. A little closer to the powder than was comfortable, perhaps, but Cosca had always loved to gamble.
He had always loved triumphant rhetoric too, but time was a factor. So he turned for the shadowy passageway and hurried down it. A dozen cramped strides and he was already breathing hard again. A dozen more and he thought he caught the faintest glimmer of daylight up the tunnel. He knelt down, chewing at his lip. He was far from sure how fast the trail would burn once it was lit.
‘Good thing I always loved to gamble . . .’ He carefully began to unscrew the broken cage around the lamp. It was stuck.
‘Shit.’ He strained at it, fingers slipping, but it must have got bent when he clubbed Sesaria. ‘Bastard thing!’ He shifted his grip, growled as he twisted with all his force. The top popped off suddenly, he fumbled both halves, the lamp dropped, he tried to catch it, missed, it hit the floor, bounced, guttered and went out, sinking the passageway into inky darkness.
‘Fucking . . . shit!’ His only option was to retrace his steps and get one of the lamps from the end of the tunnel. He took a few steps, one hand stretched out in front of him, fishing in the black. A beam caught him right in the face, snapped his head back, mouth buzzing, salty with blood. ‘Gah!’
The Great Leveller Page 62