The City

by Stella Gemmell

  He shifted his grip and moved his feet to a lower beam, so he could rest for a moment against the latticework. There was an explosion of glass and a blast of hot air as the window behind him was blown out. He heard glass crashing on the street below and the excited shouts of spectators as they fled the falling shards. He quickly stepped another pace forward, conscious that Em was behind him and closest to the inferno. His right hand slipped on the smooth wood and he half fell, landing hard on his hip, grabbing on again at the last moment, tearing the wound in his side. Pain stabbed through him and his vision blurred.

  That broken sword is the only thing keeping you alive, sir. What did that damn fool know? That sword was keeping him from the battle. His men needed him now and he would not let them down.

  Emly saw her father reach purposefully for the dagger embedded in his side. She knew what he was about to do and she grabbed his hand to stop him. He struggled weakly for a moment, then let go and his body relaxed against her. She guessed he had passed out. He was half sitting against a diagonal beam and she was squatting behind him, holding on with one hand, the other arm wrapped tightly around his chest, her bare toes digging into the timber.

  “Father! Father!” she called in his ear, trying to bring him round. Behind her she could feel the heat of the inferno, and she knew the flames were licking along the lattice bridge towards them.

  “Bartellus!”

  Weak with exhaustion and fear, she looked ahead at the attic window of the lodging house opposite. It was a few paces away, but might as well be a hundred. She was not strong enough to move him. She could barely hold on herself. Before long her grip would fail and they would both plummet to the cobbles.

  She spoke into Bartellus’ ear again, leaning her head against his, and for the first time in a long time her words came clear and fluid. She did not know if she was speaking out loud or the words were still trapped inside her head.

  “Remember, Father, the great stone bridge in the Halls,” she told him. “You said it was a bridge made for giants. We had no idea where we were or where it lead. I was so small you had to pick me up and place me on each step then clamber up after me. You did not leave me in the darkness, in all the long darkness of the Halls, you did not leave me and save yourself. Now I will not leave you on this bridge. I would rather die here or on the stones below than go on without you. Now you must wake up and we will climb to safety together.”

  But Bartellus did not hear her words. Despairing, she looked ahead to the window again. There were three anxious faces, a woman and two boys. As she watched the bigger boy climbed out of the casement. The woman clutched at him, her face contorted, imploring, and Em saw them frowning, arguing, although all she could hear was the roar of the fire so close behind her. The boy shook the woman’s hand off his arm and he launched himself out onto the bridge, climbing swiftly and with confidence towards her. In moments he was at her side, clinging on easily to the latticework of beams. Disappointed, Emly realised he was only young, perhaps ten or twelve.

  “What’s wrong with him?” he shouted at her over the roar of the flames.

  She indicated the knife buried in Bartellus’ side and the boy’s eyes grew large.

  “Help me,” she told him.

  Each took one of the old man’s arms, and between them they tried to lift him but, holding on grimly to the wooden beams, they had not the strength between them to shift the dead weight. Emly cried in frustration and looked fearfully behind her. The farthest beams of the bridge were blackening in the heat, and smoke was rising off them, whipping away into the night.

  The boy stared at her helplessly and glanced past her. His face was yellow in the light of the fire. She guessed he regretted his decision to try to help.

  “Back!” she told him.

  He shook his head and tried again to lift the old man. One of Bartellus’ feet slipped from the beam and his leg dangled over the drop. Emly wrapped her arms around her father and told the boy fiercely, “Back! You’re in the way!”

  His face fell and reluctantly he turned and made his way back to the window. But before he got there a new figure appeared, dark against the light. It was a man and, as he too started to climb out of the window, Em saw it was the tall, pale-eyed man she had seen watching the house. He eased past the boy and made his way along the bridge towards her. She was suddenly conscious that her arms were trembling with the effort of holding on to the old man, her knees cramped from squatting on the beam. She glanced down, and the oval faces of the spectators, turned up towards her, lurched and doubled under her vision. She dragged her eyes away, back to the soldier.

  He reached out and grabbed Bartellus by the upper arm.

  “Let go,” he ordered her. “I will take him.”

  She just stared at him in fear, unwilling to release Bartellus into his grip. But she had no choice. This man was either her saviour or her killer. She did not know which, but in either case she was helpless.

  He glanced beyond her. “You have only moments,” he told her flatly.

  She nodded, and relaxed her grip a little. The man knelt carefully beside them. “Tie his wrists together,” he told her.

  She stared at him for a second, then understood what he meant and tore off the cloth belt at her waist and twisted it. As the soldier held Bartellus she tied the belt around each of the old man’s thick wrists, then round both together, knotting it as tightly as she could.

  The tall man turned round carefully on the beam, holding on with both hands. “Put his arms over my head,” he ordered.

  She did as she was told and, as she did so, Bartellus seemed to rise towards consciousness and he gripped the man’s neck with his arms.

  “You cannot lift him!” Em whispered, and he looked at her curiously.

  “Have you a better idea?” he asked, and she saw a trace of humour in his pale eyes.

  He did not wait for her answer but took a deep breath and straightened his knees, lifting Bartellus off the beam. But the old man’s weight shifted and the tall man’s foot slipped. He came down hard on one knee, his left arm raking across a diagonal beam, tearing his sleeve and the flesh beneath it. In a long slow moment of fear Em saw him grab hold of a lower beam and saw the muscles on his arm bulge as he shifted the weight of his burden back to centre. And she saw, on his forearm, the familiar mark of the S, white against pale skin. The brand Bartellus had asked her about, the mark he had made in the dirt so long ago in the Halls, the mark she had seen him draw in idle moments, always wondering. Who was this stranger with the mysterious brand?

  Then, with a convulsive jerk and a deep groan, the soldier straightened his legs and lifted the old man clear of the bridge. Bartellus moaned and seemed to cling more tightly to his back. Slowly, placing each foot and hand with care, the man carried his burden towards the safety of the opposite window. Emly, casting nervous looks behind, followed as closely as she could, lifting Bartellus by the belt when she could, trying to ease the burden.

  As they came close to the window the older boy and the woman climbed out, and between them they helped carry Bartellus over the low sill. As soon as they took his weight, the rescuer ducked out from under the tied hands and reached backwards, grabbing Em by the arm.

  Behind her there was an explosion of flame, a blast of hot air on her back and shrill cries from the street below. In the moment the bridge dropped away beneath her she placed her foot on the windowsill. The tall man steadied her and, as if she had all the time in the world, she smiled up at him, stepping lightly down into the room as if she were being handed down from a rich man’s carriage.

  They both dropped on their knees beside Bartellus.

  “We must take the knife out,” the soldier said. He looked up at the boys’ mother. “I need some clean towels, rags, anything to staunch the bleeding.”

  Between them they got Bartellus onto a low pallet bed, then the man drew out the knife. He carefully examined the wound before wadding cloth into it. The padding became instantly red, and Emly’
s heart lurched. He pressed more cloths against the wound, and bound them roughly with bandages.

  The soldier stood. “Keep him still,” he told the woman, “and give him water if he will take it.”

  He turned to Emly. “He’s a tough old boy,” he said. “He’s survived worse than this.”

  “Thank you,” she croaked, her voice rendered even more reluctant by the smoke and fumes. Then, feeling her words were inadequate, she smiled and nodded.

  He stared at her. His face was dirty with soot and his pale eyes and lashes were startlingly bright. She remembered that this was a man she had been fearing and, nonplussed, she found herself reddening. She whispered, “Who are you?”

  He coughed smoke from his chest. “My name is Evan Broglanh,” he told her, “and many years ago your father saved my life.” When she made no reply, he said, “And you are Emly?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me, Emly,” he said, “have you heard your father speak of Fell Aron Lee?”

  PART FOUR

  The Good Son

  Chapter 21

  As a small boy Fell had been sent to live among strangers.

  In the barracks and encampments where he had lived his life he had listened to men tell of their mothers, of saints and angels, sweet smiling women, warm and comforting. He thought of himself as unsentimental, and he found the mawkish sentimentality of brutal men hard to understand and, at times, difficult to stomach. He had witnessed the rape and mutilation of women, and turned away, his heart a stone in his chest, and seen the same men in their cups with tears in their eyes speak of their virtuous mothers and cherished, virginal, sisters.

  He remembered no mother, although in fragments of dreams he sometimes saw a girl’s face, a child really, looking down on him, soft lips on his forehead and the smell of warm milk and clean linen. But his earliest clear memory was of a long frightening journey, of being passed hand to hand in darkness lit by flaming torches, of the smell of burning and of horses and blood.

  He had been raised in a foreign barracks with other boys, outlanders all. They had been taught to compete, and encouraged to fight, rewarded for strength and fitness, and skills with sword and fist. But these children were not permitted to kill each other, for they were valuable. And if friendships developed the boys were split up and moved to a different barracks. They were all taught the same language and, as they grew towards manhood, they learned anatomy and battlefield surgery, strategy and logistics, some mathematics and a little philosophy. It was a good education for a soldier, and Fell was near puberty before he understood that all boys were not raised in the same way.

  And he was very much older before he learned that not all children were unhappy and that, for some, childhood was blessed.

  He was no older than six when he was roughly roused from his bed one night and told to dress. It was winter and the boys’ dormitory, an echoing stone hall whose walls soaked up all warmth, was icy, the floor slippery. Fearfully, the child pulled on woollen trousers and a padded jacket as two tall soldiers watched him impatiently. His numb fingers started to fumble with the belt which held the short sword he was ordered to carry with him everywhere, but one of the men stopped his hand.

  “You won’t want that, boy,” he growled and, grabbing him round the wrist, he strode off.

  The boy had trouble keeping up as he was half lead, half dragged through the midnight palace. They crossed the starlit square where the boys exercised each day, then through the great stables, which seemed to stretch for ever. The boy saw the benevolent heads of the horses gaze out at him as he passed, their dark eyes kind and curious. The boy wondered if Lancer, the little pony he had been learning to ride, was there, but he could not see her. Then they hurried through a wide carved doorway and he was in the Red Palace proper where, he thought, he had never been before. Here the halls were high, and the torches the two men carried gleamed off pale stone and carved faces but did not touch the yawning ceilings. It was warmer than the barracks and the child stopped shivering. His nose detected the warm smell of roasted meat and his stomach rumbled painfully.

  “Come on, boy. Do you want me to carry you?” his captor growled down at him as the boy’s shorter legs began to fail and he stumbled, his arm aching where the man held it so tightly in his hard hand.

  “He’s a child, Flavius,” the other soldier said mildly. “The emperor can wait another moment or two. The Lion of the East isn’t going anywhere.”

  The man called Flavius grinned, and slowed his pace a little, allowing the boy to keep up. He glanced up gratefully at the second man, who had red hair, and who returned his look sternly.

  Finally they reached a place where the halls were as wide as they were tall and the carvings of faces on the walls shone like the sun. The boy felt very small as he padded alongside the tall men, across shiny green floors like ice on a wintry lake. Then there were two great glowing doors, flanked by armed men, doors which seemed to open on their own as the three approached. They entered a huge room, much larger than any the boy had ever seen. It was thronged with people, men and women, who turned and looked at them as they entered. The buzz of conversation faltered and stilled. The two men paused then, at some unseen gesture, stepped forward. The little boy could see nothing but bodies clothed with bright fabrics, swords in shining scabbards, hands bearing heavy rings and jewelled bracelets, ankles cuffed in gold. People stepped out of their way as they passed through the throng in silence.

  Then they moved out from the crowd into an empty space and the two soldiers stopped, the boy between them. The red-haired one leaned down and whispered briefly in his ear, “Try not to cry.”

  Frightened and confused by the night’s sudden events, the boy felt his eyes start to prickle at the sliver of compassion in the words, and he gulped and forced back the tears. He stared ahead of him and saw a big dark chair, as wide as his bed was long, with thick cushions and pillows, amid which sat a man with fair hair and a fair beard. The fair man was drinking from a shiny cup and talking to a very tall man standing at his side. Fell could not hear what they said, but they spoke for a long time. Meantime there was silence in the hall. The boy wondered if would be all right for him to sit down, for his legs felt sleepy. But then the fair-haired man turned to him and all the child’s tiredness was forgotten, for the man had an empty socket where one eye should be and the gaping hole was crusted with dry black blood.

  “So this is the cub?” the man said, sitting forward in the chair, and some people in the room laughed.

  “His name is Arish,” the red-headed man told him. “He has been with us for two years.”

  The fair man stood and he seemed to sway for a heartbeat, and several of the people around him stepped forward, but he waved them away. He walked over to Arish and crouched down in front of him, putting the horror of his ruined eye in front of the child’s face.

  “And are you a good boy?” the man asked him.

  Arish felt tears start to form again but, recalling the redhead’s words, he concentrated on the good eye, which was black and cold, like the water in a deep well. He announced, “Yes, sir.”

  “I am your emperor. You must call me sire, boy.” The eye stared at him unblinking.

  Confused and anxious, the boy did not know what he meant. Then he suddenly understood. “Yes, sire,” he said loudly, and the people behind him laughed again.

  The emperor stood. “What shall we do with him? Flavius?”

  The growling soldier said, “The family is all dead. He must die too. Or he could bring us trouble in days to come.”

  The emperor nodded and asked the red-haired man, “Shuskara, my friend?”

  The man shrugged. “Flavius is right. The family is all dead. Every cousin and distant aunt. And in ten years’ time no one will care. We have put the best resources of the City into training him. By the time he is of fighting age he will be its loyal son.”

  The boy looked from one to the other, wondering whose family was dead.

  The em
peror clapped the redhead on the back. “Very well, my friend. Let us hope we do not live to regret your advice. Galliard!”

  An armoured soldier, huge and bearded, appeared from the back of the room. At the sight of him the murmur of conversation started again in the hall. There was some laughter, and a few shouts, although the boy did not understand what was said. As the bearded soldier came closer Fell saw he was carrying something round on a big stick. The shouts and cheers increased, and the emperor grinned. He gestured to the warrior, who slammed the stick down in front of the little boy. Stuck on top of it was a shaggy thing, stinking and green. It looked like one of the plaster heads the boy had seen in the palace’s portico, only this one was badly made or someone had damaged it. He wondered why the soldier was showing it to him. Uncomprehending, he looked up at the emperor for explanation.

  “This is your father, boy,” the emperor said, pointing at the green thing. “Do you not know your own father?”

  But the words meant nothing to the small boy, and his mind was calm and he no longer felt the threat of tears. He thought the emperor wanted something of him, but he did not know what it was, and he could do nothing about it.

  The emperor looked around the great room. “From now on the City will be your father, boy,” he announced, “and you will be a good son.”

  His given name was Arish, but for many years the people of the Red Palace called him Cub, until long after the reason for it was forgotten.