The City

by Stella Gemmell

  “We know what Saroyan is,” Fell interrupted.

  “But,” said Gil mildly, unperturbed, “this introduction is not only for your benefit. It is also for my young friend Elija.” He indicated the curly-haired boy, who blushed under their scrutiny. Indaro wondered how he had earned his place at this table.

  “Saroyan,” Gil went on, “is a Lord Lieutenant of the City. She is not a soldier. She is an administrator.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Elija, his voice barely audible.

  All eyes turned to Saroyan. She stared at the table, as if unused to having to explain herself, but eventually she said tightly, “There are forty administrators in the City under four lord lieutenants. They deal with matters such as food distribution, building works, internal laws. Everything which is not to do with the military’s actions in the field. Over the years I have become responsible, among other things, for troop rotations inside the palace.”

  “Fell Aron Lee,” Gil continued in his slight, delicate accent, “is a warrior of the City. But he is also the son of a king, the last king of the ancient cities of Llor, who called himself the Lion of the East.”

  Indaro stared at her commander, not trying to hide her surprise.

  “Yet you fought for the City?” Elija asked Fell.

  Fell ignored him, and Mason said reprovingly, “We all have much to learn today, boy.”

  Gil continued, “Elija, on the other hand, is a son of the City who has sought sanctuary among its enemies. He spent many years living in the tunnels under the City,” he explained. “He knows his way around them better than anyone.”

  Indaro wondered if anyone gathered around the table knew she too had lived there, that she also knew her way around. Then Gil spoke her name.

  “Indaro Kerr Guillaume is also a warrior of the City. She is of two ancient lines. Indaro’s father was formerly counsel to the emperor.

  “Now,” Gil said, looking around at them all, “events are suddenly moving quickly within the City and we find time is pressing. But it is important we all understand why I have brought you here. Mason will tell you some history.”

  Mason leaned forward on his elbows. His face was grey and lined and Indaro thought he looked exhausted, as if he had not slept for a long time.

  “The City is thousands of years old,” Mason began. “But there was, of course, a time when it did not exist. Its own histories say it was just a barren hilltop surrounded by lush green pastureland to the east, thick forests of oak in the mountains to the south, cliffs looking over the ocean to the west, and the shores of the Little Sea in the north. The people were primitive, their lives short and brutal. They probably prayed to some simple weather gods, but we know nothing of that.

  “The mysterious travellers, those who founded the City, were entirely different. We do not know who they were, or where they came from. But we know they were called, or called themselves, Serafim. They were taller and stronger than the natives, much longer-lived. They knew about mechanics and mathematics, medicine and, fortunately for us, they had a written language.”

  “Unfortunately for us,” Gil put in, “we cannot read it.”

  Mason glanced at him and went on, “It has been my work of the last twenty years to try to decipher some of the earliest texts that have been found, scrolls that date back more than a thousand years.”

  “Where did these documents come from?” asked Indaro.

  “We are straying from our path,” Gil put in mildly.

  Mason looked at him. “So the travellers, much more advanced than the natives, were considered to be gods. They taught the people how to hunt wild beasts, to herd and domesticate sheep and cattle, and to grow crops so they would not have to rely on the hunt. The travellers gave them skills to build homes and eventually palaces, and the talents to create works of art and learning. So the people built the City and the travellers were their gods and their teachers and guardians. Under their tutelage the City became a centre of learning for the known world, a hub of commerce, rich and powerful. The people of the surrounding nations gathered there to learn, to enrich themselves by trade and by learning.”

  Indaro shuffled her feet. Ancient history was of no interest to her. She was regretting sitting beside Fell, for she could not look at him without being obvious. With her face turned politely towards Mason, she could only see, from the corner of her eye, Fell’s left knee, and his hand on it, drumming impatiently out of sight under the table. She could feel the warmth of his body, feel the tension in him, as if he wanted to jump out of his skin. She wearily returned her attention to Mason’s lesson.

  “Then came the time of the Families, those who were said to carry the blood of the travellers in their veins. They were taller and stronger and longer-lived than the common folk, and they ruled by might and by right. Sarkoy, Khan, Kerr, Vincerus, Gaeta, Guillaume and Broglanh. Every child of the City knows these names. They fought among themselves from time to time, but they also bred among themselves to keep their bloodlines strong. So they were mutually dependent and, however one Family might loathe another, it was in all their interests not to let feuds become a war.

  “But the richest blood does thin over the years. Broglanh and Kerr are still honourable names but none of them makes any claim to be descendants of the gods. Indaro carries the Kerr name, but makes no claim to rule in the City.

  “Five Families are still in contention, of course. Araeon, your emperor, of the Family Sarkoy. The Vincerii, the brothers who control the armed forces. Khan, controllers of the treasury. Gaeta, a minor Family interested more in scholarship than in warfare. And Guillaume. This Family has never ruled. Their palace on the Shield remains untenanted. Taxes on their lands remain unclaimed. Meanwhile many eyes turn on Reeve Guillaume.”

  “My father never made claim to power,” Indaro said. “He is an old man who tends his garden.”

  “There is your brother,” said Mason.

  “Rubin is probably dead,” Indaro said bleakly. “I have not heard of him in years.”

  The boy Elija lifted his head. He stared at her, and she looked at him curiously.

  Suddenly Fell stood up, as if he could stay still no longer. His chair crashed to the floor behind him. “Why exactly are we here?” he asked, restrained anger making his voice rough. “You say time is pressing, but you give us a…history lesson.”

  “There is one factor which binds us—all here wish to see the end of the war,” Gil told him. “Even now thousands of City soldiers are facing thousands of Blueskins, as you call us. The Second Adamantine is fighting an incursion of Fkeni in the north. These are people who have only recently been pulled into the war, yet already they have lost a generation of their young men. In the east the remainder of the Fourth Maritime is engaging the infantry phalanxes of the Petrassi, probably your greatest foe. Thousands may die today, and tomorrow, and the next day. Meanwhile we are all short of food, and some of us are starving.”

  Indaro felt a surge of pride. Some of the Maritime were still alive, still fighting! She caught the eye of Saroyan, who regarded her thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps there are some here who don’t want the war to end,” the woman commented.

  Eyes turned to Indaro. “I want to see the end to this war,” she said quietly. “But I do not want to see the City defeated. I have fought for many years, in winter and summer, on plain and mountain, and I have lost comrades, friends. I cannot see their sacrifice wasted.”

  “It is a familiar argument,” replied Saroyan, “but a sterile one, for if everyone feels that way then the war will be endless.”

  “Until the entire continent is barren of life, our cities mere ruins stalked by shadows,” added Gil. “Most of us are soldiers here, but even for soldiers there comes a time when we put down our arms and say, ‘No more.’ Even if the war ended today it might take the land centuries to recover. And the war will not end today.”

  “So what is your plan?” Fell was pacing in front of the hearth.

  Gil said briskly,
“There are three parts to it—emperor, palace and City. The emperor must die, the palace taken and the City pacified. These three need to be executed within a narrow timescale for success.”

  Indaro had discussed the Immortal with Mason many times. He had told her he believed Araeon’s death would end the war. He had almost convinced her, sitting in comfortable conversation in this distant fortress. But now her stomach churned at the thought that she had become part of a plot to assassinate the emperor. She wanted to look at Fell, to see his reaction, but feared that if she did so their thoughts would be plain for all to see. There must be some reason he was pretending to go along with these conspirators. So she kept her eyes meekly on the tabletop and listened.

  “Shuskara is the linchpin to our plan,” explained Gil. “He is the man Elija and Indaro know as Bartellus.” Indaro remembered the old man in the Hall of Watchers, who had treated her with contempt, who had prompted her return to the battlefield. He was the legendary general? She looked at Elija, wondering how he knew the old boy.

  Gil went on. “The revelation to the armies within the City that their lost general has returned must come on the day of the emperor’s death. Only the most traditional of the armies will be in the City that day—the Second Adamantine, and the Fourth Imperial. Shuskara, their hero, will bring them behind the new emperor.”

  “Does Shuskara know of his part in this plot?” Fell asked, his voice loaded with scepticism.

  Mason nodded. “That is why this summer has been so long. The general was grievously injured by his enemies, and it has taken him time to recover. But he is well now and is ready to act. He knows of your part, Fell, just as you know of his.”

  “You are in contact with him?”

  “Indirectly.”

  Fell blew out his breath in frustration. “This is…” he spat out, “a daydream! Here we are, six of us, with no power or authority, in an abandoned fortress far from the action, yet we are plotting to conquer a city and assassinate an emperor. It is nonsense!”

  Mason started, “Trust me, Fell…”

  But Fell turned on him, his voice dark with anger. “Why? Why should I trust you? Or him!” He pointed at Gil. “I certainly do not trust her!” He indicated Saroyan. “And she does not trust us.”

  He turned on Indaro. “Do you have a weapon?” he demanded. Dumbstruck, she hesitated then nodded.

  “You see?” he said to the others. “You can’t trust Indaro and she doesn’t trust you!”

  There was angry silence in the room, in which Fell walked over to Indaro and, looming over her, held out his hand. She reached beneath her tunic and pulled free the sharpened bone. She handed it to him and he threw it on the table. It looked pathetic.

  Mason said mildly, “Sit down. I know this is new to you, but I assure you it is not a scheme recently hatched. Many people are involved and the planning has been going on since it became clear Shuskara is still alive. Now, to continue…”

  But Gil interrupted him. “We have no reason to conquer the City, Fell, if that is what you fear. We could not if we wanted to. We do not have the numbers, or the supplies. We no longer have the heart. We just want an end to war, so all of us can lay down our swords and return to our homes. We will try to build our countries again, restore the land, although some say it is too late now.”

  “What is stopping you going home?” asked Fell.

  “You are, Fell, and Indaro. And your comrades. Araeon would send you and all his remaining armies to chase us down and destroy us in our homelands, no matter the cost to the City. So he must die. It is the only way.”

  Indaro wondered if she could believe him.

  Gil went on smoothly. “But we do plan to capture the palace and winkle the emperor out from his Keep, whatever the cost to us. Saroyan will see to it that mercenaries are rotated to guard the palace on the given day, along with units of the Thousand. This is the only part of the plan in which our troops will be involved and we do not want them killing regular City soldiers at this time. The invading company, around two hundred men, hand-picked, will attack the palace through the sewers, guided by Elija. Indaro will join that group, if she so chooses.”

  Indaro frowned. “Through the Halls? The Great Flood will have damaged the tunnels and gates. They will be more treacherous than ever. When were you last there?” she asked Elija.

  The young man flushed again. “A long time ago,” he admitted. “I know the Halls are much changed but I have studied them and I think I can find a way through.”

  “Have you sent scouts?” she asked Gil.

  “Of course,” he said. “But with limited success.”

  “When is all this to happen?” Fell asked, resuming his seat next to Indaro.

  “Before the autumn rains,” answered Gil, “to give the invading army its best hope.” He glanced at Mason. “At the Feast of Summoning, we have decided. That is in twenty days’ time.”

  “So Shuskara will turn the armies to his side. And your invading force will take the palace,” Fell said. “And the third part of your plot, to kill the emperor?”

  “That is where you come in,” Gil replied.

  Chapter 27

  Fell’s return to Old Mountain had taken less time than he had calculated, for he was sure of his destination and he could see the old fort from way off. He half expected to be found by a search party, but met no one.

  It was dusk on the sixth day since he left. He paused on the road looking up at the great gates, his heart still undecided. If he re-entered the fortress now he would be throwing in his lot with the enemy. He would be a traitor to the City, as certainly as if he had already taken arms against it.

  As he stood, holding on to the moment, his gaze drifted upwards. Above the massive stone lintel two dark figures were barely visible in the twilight. They were carved creatures of stone, facing each other, guardians of the gate. His breath caught in his throat as he realised where he was. He had looked up at those two beasts a hundred times as a child. The Lions’ Gate. He had been brought to his own home, the centre of his father’s kingdom. He had not recognised it. He shook his head in wonder. Why had Mason not told him?

  His mind finally made up, he hammered on the high oak doors to be let in. The guards who opened them seemed surprised to see him.

  Fell had been a soldier for thirty years, and for all that time his mind had been filled with strategies for the battle he was fighting or plans for the next one. In the brief periods of rest he had blurred his thoughts with alcohol and willing women. Memories of Sami’s hideous death, and the vow he had taken, had been buried in the back of his brain. These last weeks of enforced idleness and reflection had returned to him a perspective he had mislaid for three decades.

  He had taken the vow with the other boys, had submitted to the agony of the brand. Even the smallest, Evan, had suffered the ordeal. At the time, in the immediate aftermath of the horror in the arena, Fell had believed his vow. He believed that one day, when the time was right, he would kill the emperor. But the very next day, as he rode out at Shuskara’s side, suddenly plunged into an exciting new life, it was easy to set aside that childish pledge.

  Yet he had never forgotten it. And when Evan Quin had reported for duty with the Wildcats the previous autumn Fell had known him instantly, although he had gained the new name Broglanh. But the younger man had not recognised him.

  Doon’s death at the hands of the emperor’s men had been the final affirmation that the vow he had made so long ago was one he was fated to fulfil. And the thought kept running through his brain—it could have been Indaro. It could have been Indaro, captured, raped, tortured and killed by soldiers of the City.

  He had never felt this way about any woman. When she was out of his sight all he could think of was her. When he was with her he wanted to touch her, hold her, and protect her. She was sitting next to him at the table of the high council and it was all he could do not to reach out and take her hand.

  He had asked Gil Rayado, “Why me?” but it was
Mason who took a breath and replied, “To return briefly to the travellers.” Fell sighed inside. He had had more of the history of the City than he could stomach.

  Perhaps Mason was aware of the frustration among his audience for he paused for a moment, then he went on, “It is said that the crimson eagles that live in the Mountains of the Moon live for a thousand years, for they have no predators and even man the hunter cannot reach them in the high peaks where they make their nests. To the rabbit or stoat that fears the great bird and whose lifespan lasts only years, then the eagle must seem immortal.”

  Mason seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “So,” he went on, “a man whose life is many times longer than the generations of those around him will also be called Immortal. We do not know how long the travellers—the Serafim—lived, but it must have been a very long time, for their descendants, those products of unions between City folk and their gods, those with only half, or a quarter or less of Serafim blood in them, their lives still spanned many generations of normal men and women. We do not know how old the Vincerii are, for instance, but they might be only one or two generations from the travellers.”

  “You are saying that Marcellus and Rafe are a thousand years old?” Fell asked, his voice rich with disbelief.

  Mason nodded. “Possibly.”

  Fell smiled and shook his head. “You are an intelligent man, Mason, but you are speaking of children’s nightmares or the midnight tales of old men. How can men live for a thousand years?”

  “They have abilities we don’t fully understand.”

  “And you believe the emperor is the same age?”

  “No, Fell. I believe he is much older.”

  Fell leaned back and folded his arms. He could see Indaro better from that angle. She turned to him, her face serene. What on earth was she thinking? He could never guess.

  “Listen, Fell.” Gil took up the argument, knowing Mason had lost credibility. “We believe Araeon is one of the original Serafim. One of the first. And the only one, perhaps, with no descendants of his own.”