The City

by Stella Gemmell

  Amita had seen such a creature once before, in the Halls, but this one was far bigger. It was the size of a large dog, and the top of its head came nearly to her chin. Its striped coat was tawny and grey and its eyes, though gold, were otherwise dauntingly human, the long dark curved lashes sprinkled with fat drops of moisture.

  It stopped when it saw her and regarded her thoughtfully. It seemed that she barred its way, as it did hers. Amita backed up onto the staircase, and after a moment it walked past her, eyeing her all the time. As it passed she smelled the stink of its oily coat and heard its hissing breath. Then it slithered behind a wall hanging, its brushy tail lingering for a heartbeat, then gone. Amita grabbed her skirts again and dashed on.

  It was only in her dying moments that she recalled the gulon was wearing a golden collar.

  Chapter 32

  The Little Opera House had been replicated in confectionery a hundred times on the tables of the emperor’s feasting hall. It was round and white, and from the shore of the lake it seemed spun of sugar, its slender pillars apparently too brittle to hold up the ornate roof. It was approached by a white marble causeway, and as Petalina hurried across it, flanked by the two silent soldiers, she wondered, as she had done before, which came first, the building or the lake it graced. Beyond the lake was marshland dotted with sheep, pale humps just visible in the dwindling light.

  She did not recognise her guards. Outside her rooms she was escorted constantly by members of Marcellus’ personal bodyguard, many of whom she knew, but these two were strangers to her. She assumed her lover had made some personnel changes, for he often said that highly trained warriors had better things to do than trail around the palace after him. Or after her, she thought, although he did not say that.

  The causeway was cool and windy, but inside the hall steps led down into a bowl-shaped chamber which was cosy once filled with people. Tonight there was an autumn chill in the air, and Petalina could make out the white ovals of swans through the twilight. The moon was full, its rounded shape echoing the drifting swans and grazing sheep.

  When she stepped into the hall she was surprised to see that she was not late—or, at least, that others were later. Apart from the musicians, who were tuning their instruments in the usual cacophony, and the dozen or so guards, there were few other guests, mostly elderly counsellors. She looked around, but Marcellus was not there, although Rafe was. And there was no sign of her sister.

  “Where is Fiorentina?” she asked Rafael as he walked up to her, smiling.

  “She believes she has a chill,” he answered her seriously.

  Petalina scowled prettily. “Hmm,” she commented.

  “She asked me to remind you of the headache you had on the night of the talk by Bal Carissa on the netherworld of the early empires.”

  “Scarcely the same thing,” she told him, glancing up at her brother-in-law and batting her eyelashes. “There’s no one here to talk to,” she complained, looking around.

  “I am here, my lady,” he replied genially.

  She tucked her hand under his elbow. “Then you must be my escort for the night, for it seems Marcellus has abandoned me.”

  Petalina remembered Amita and the corsage. The wretched girl has got lost, she thought with irritation. She looked at the main door hopefully. At that moment Marcellus walked in, followed by four armed guards. There are more soldiers here than audience tonight, Petalina thought. With Marcellus now in attendance, the soldiers started to close the doors. At the last moment Petalina saw Amita slide through the gap. She was stopped by the soldiers briefly, then allowed through.

  Amita spotted her and hurried down the steps. She was wearing the better of her two dresses, brown cotton with shell buttons and, with her fair hair down, she did not look totally out of place in the hall. She had a pin at the ready and she deftly attached the corsage, glancing at Petalina’s face to see if she was angry. Petalina saw Marcellus watching them. He’ll think I forgot it, she thought. He’ll be annoyed with me.

  “Go, quickly!” she whispered to Amita, who scurried back up the steps to the doorway, head down, trying to make herself small.

  Marcellus and Rafe were talking together at the centre of the hall. As always, all eyes were on them, yet the soldiers, usually keen to stay close to their heroes, basking in their presence, seemed to have withdrawn from them and the Vincerii stood alone. Petalina smelled the scent of danger on the night air. She looked to Marcellus and saw he had noticed it too.

  Then there was the familiar, sliding sound of a sword being unsheathed. All the warriors round the circumference of the hall were drawing their weapons.

  There was a moment of stillness, in which the only person moving was Amita. She did not seem to notice the tension, and had reached the door and was struggling with the heavy iron handle. Petalina saw her appeal to one of the soldiers. The man lifted his sword and casually pierced the girl in the side. She fell like a bloody rag doll and lay still.

  Petalina, appalled, brought her hand to her mouth. Then there was a flurry of action. Marcellus and Rafe, neither armed, backed together towards the centre of the hall. The musicians and guests, realising who were the targets, cringed away from them. Petalina was paralysed. She gazed appealingly to Marcellus, but he was not looking at her.

  A soldier stepped forward, the first one to draw his sword.

  “Your death is long overdue,” he said to Marcellus. “Only with your death can the City live again.”

  Petalina, hand still to her mouth, saw Marcellus had relaxed, looking for all the world as if he was at a party. When he spoke, his voice was warm and seductive. Despite her fear, Petalina smiled, for she had heard this voice so many times before.

  “You have always been a warrior above others, Mallet,” Marcellus replied pleasantly. “Do not let your concern for your men blind you to the realities of this war.”

  Petalina saw the other guests and the musicians smile, and the atmosphere lightened. She could see the danger was averted, that Marcellus would convince the renegades of the error of their ways. She turned to Amita and, without fear, climbed the stairs to the girl and crouched down beside her. There was a pulse in her throat, although blood still poured from the girl’s side.

  “The child needs aid,” Marcellus said to the soldier Mallet. “Let us tend to her, then we will talk about your grievances like civilised men.”

  Mallet seemed unmoved by this reasonable offer and his men still stood, swords in hand, as if on the edge of battle.

  Then Mallet spoke again. “I can see you are speaking,” he told Marcellus. “But my men and I cannot hear you. We have filled our ears with cotton soaked in wax. The power of your voice has no effect on us. Now, traitor, prepare to die!”

  Riis turned his back on the opera house doorway and started to walk back along the marble causeway, five men of the Thousand watching him go. He sighed and rolled his shoulders. He and his ten had only to wait until the end of the concert, and see the Vincerii and their guests safely off the premises in the custody of their bodyguards, then the Nighthawks would be finished for the day.

  “Roll on midnight,” grunted Berlinger at his side. “I’ll sleep like the dead.”

  They had been on duty five nights in a row, “wall-sitting,” Berl called it. Somebody had to walk the walls—the citizens expected it. In the unlikely event that a large enough contingent of the enemy could cross many leagues of no-man’s land, dodge past the multiple guard posts, all without being seen, then launch a night attack on nigh-on-impregnable walls. But tonight they were on bodyguard duties, backing up the Thousand, which was short at least two centuries. One, they had heard, had got itself ambushed by a stray band of Blues, and the Gulon century were on some mysterious mission in the east.

  The Nighthawks, riders of the First Adamantine, considered themselves the elite cavalry force and, now horseless, they had taken a lot of stick from other regiments, especially the Thousand, who considered themselves the elite. So Riis had expected the usual rai
llery from the bodyguards on duty at the opera house. But they had been strangely subdued.

  Riis sniffed the air. It was a clear night, with a cool breeze coming from the west off the far-distant sea. He and his ten would wait at the end of the causeway, away from the jibes of the bodyguards, where they could relax until midnight. And afterwards, in the depths of the night, Riis would find a chance to slip from his bed and make his way round the walls to Petalina’s garden to see if a message awaited him.

  They were partway across the silent causeway, Riis walking ahead, when, on the following breeze, he heard the faint but unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed. He stopped and turned and held his hand up as Berl opened his mouth to speak. Yes, the sound of many swords being drawn came from the opera house. Riis drew his own weapon and raced back along the bridge, followed by his men.

  The five men of the Thousand—from the century called Leopard—had closed the doors, and they turned to face them, their own blades raised.

  “Leave it, Riis,” cried their leader, a veteran well-known to them. “Turn away!”

  Riis shook his head. “You know we can’t do that, Kantei. Stand aside!”

  Beyond the doors they could clearly hear the clash of metal on metal. Riis had no idea what was happening, but he knew if there was swordplay in the opera house, the Thousand should be in there, protecting their lords, not outside guarding the door against aid. He lowered his head as if debating with himself, then sprang forward, lancing the leader in the sweet spot in the neck, a hair’s-breadth above his body armour. Kantei staggered, mortally wounded. But even as blood gouted from his throat he launched himself at Riis. Riis swayed back. Kantei’s sword sliced through his leather jerkin and across his bicep. Then the man fell dying to one knee and Riis plunged his sword down through his neck into his heart.

  He leaped back. “What are you doing?” he asked the remaining four, who were staring at Kantei’s body. “Your duty is to Marcellus!”

  “We’re taking care of Marcellus,” one told him grimly.

  With a roar he leaped forward and Berlinger stepped to meet him, his sword deflecting his opponent’s then clanging against the raised shield. Riis bent swiftly and grabbed Kantei’s shield. The body was slumped at his feet, half on and half off the causeway. Riis kicked it into the water to give himself room.

  Riis had ten men, and there were only four Leopards left. But the causeway was narrow, and they could only take on two at a time. And the Thousand were in full armour, with shields, while Riis’s men had only light leather protection.

  Berlinger killed his man, then immediately fell to the sword of another bodyguard. As Riis battled he heard the splash of Berl’s body hitting the water. The marble under their feet was already slippery with blood.

  After the first two bodyguards fell, the Nighthawks could make no headway. The men of the Thousand battled as if possessed. Riis found he was fighting just to stay alive against the armed man in front of him. Next to him Chevia was stabbing and cutting. Riis’ opponent snarled and lunged suddenly for his heart. Riis twisted and the man’s sword scraped along his chest, ripping into the leather. Riis leaped to his left, his sword striking home. It was a poor blow, pounding into the armoured shoulder, but it knocked the man off-balance. Riis clouted him round the head with the shield and the man tipped into the water.

  Immediately the last Leopard leaped at Riis, and the Nighthawk was thrown back on one knee. He lunged at his opponent, but his sword caught on the man’s shield, breaking the tip. Riis reached backwards and felt another sword being slammed into his hand. But the bodyguard was on him, his sword stabbing towards his face. Riis could not swing his sword round in time. Then the man dropped suddenly, a knife in his eye, and disappeared into the black water.

  Riis sprang up and helped his comrade despatch the last bodyguard. Then they ran to the opera house doors. They were closed and barred from the inside.

  Inside the opera house Petalina knelt on the floor, tucking her shawl under the maid’s head. Blood leaked from Amita’s side, and Petalina knew it meant the girl still lived.

  She stared in despair at the fight in the centre of the room. Marcellus and Rafe were backed against a wall, battling impossible odds. Both had acquired swords, but both carried injuries to arms and chests. Still they fought on against heavily armed men. Their swords moved with a speed that was uncanny, and four of the bodyguards already lay dead.

  As she watched, Marcellus leaped forward and skewered a soldier in the narrow gap above the cheek-guard. The man stumbled backwards, crashing to the floor only feet from where Petalina crouched. His sword slithered across the floor towards her. She stared at it uncertainly, then made up her mind.

  She grabbed it and jumped up. It was heavier than the swords she had practised with as a girl, but she hefted it and sprang at the nearest bodyguard, who had his back to her. She thrust the sword at the gap under his arm, but the weight of the weapon misled her and it clanged against armour instead. The man turned, snarling.

  Marcellus, though fighting for his life, somehow seemed to notice, and he cried, “Lady, no!”

  Petalina backed away from the soldier, then her foot slipped in the blood on the floor and she went down hard on one hip. Pain shot through her. Angered by her own incompetence she forced herself back on her feet again, then ducked as the soldier swung his sword. She used both hands to thrust her weapon at his groin. It slid in easily and she dragged it out again. The man stopped in his tracks and fell to his knees. Then, to her horror, he slowly got up, pouring blood, and advanced on her. Backing away, she swung the sword back and forth, trying to fend him off. She caught the edge of his helm with its tip and wrenched his head round. He fell again, and she slammed the weapon down on the back of his neck. He lay still.

  Panting, she looked around. Her effort had made little difference. Marcellus still had ten enemies surrounding him.

  Suddenly he bellowed, “Enough!”

  The sound was so loud it made Petalina’s head ring, but it seemed to get through to the deafened soldiers, who faltered to a halt, bloody swords still at the ready.

  Marcellus looked at her across the hall. “You are valiant, my lady,” he said and, although the words were said quietly, they rang in her heart like a bell of celebration.

  Then he turned to the bodyguards. “Let the women go,” he said to them, pointing with his sword at Petalina and the injured girl, then at the door. His meaning had to be plain, even to deaf men.

  But the leader of the rebels sneered at him. “Why would I spare your whore, Marcellus?”

  Marcellus asked, “Why would you kill me, Mallet? We have fought side by side a score of times. Why do you betray your City?”

  “You are the traitor,” Mallet snarled. “Once you and the creature you call emperor are dead, we will make peace with the Blues. They want this war as little as we do.”

  “This is your philosophy, Mallet? Surrender and die for the cause of the enemy?” Marcellus asked.

  But Mallet had not heard him. He was ordering his men using hand signs. Petalina guessed they all had only moments to live.

  The Vincerii, injured and outnumbered, looked at each other for a long moment. Nothing was said, but Petalina guessed a decision had been made. Marcellus turned and gazed at Petalina across the bloodstained hall.

  “I have always loved you, lady,” he told her. The words were spoken without warmth, but they struck her heart and tears filled her eyes, for he had never said this thing to her. She tried to smile, for she knew he was telling her because he was about to die, and she with him. “I will never forget you and I will always honour you,” he said.

  Then both men lowered their swords and there was an uncertain silence in the chamber. Petalina felt a buzzing in the base of her skull and a headache sprang up. She shook her head, trying to dislodge it, and she saw one of the soldiers do the same. But it rapidly built up, and she felt a heavy sense of dread in her stomach. Fear and nausea rose up and swallowed her and withi
n moments she was trembling. In front of her throbbing eyes the brothers seemed to have grown taller than the men around them. The headache was splitting her head in two and her stomach felt distended. She squeezed her eyes closed and held her hands to her head and screamed to try to release the awful pressure. When she opened her eyes she saw soldiers dropping their swords to the floor and gripping their heads. Only Mallet raised his weapon and tried to step forward to attack the brothers. It seemed he was trying to force himself through an invisible wall. Blood started pouring from his mouth and ears and eyes, but still he tried to advance. His mouth was open in a silent scream.

  The last thing Petalina saw in this life was the soldier exploding in a fountain of blood, his limbs and head flying apart, his blood cascading over the floor and walls and the two men in front of him. Mouth wide, eyes huge in their sockets, Petalina felt the awful pressure building up inside her and she prayed for relief.

  Outside Riis slammed his hands on the solid doors in frustration. He had sent three of his men to find something to use as a battering ram, and the other two climbing round the outside of the opera house, above the lake, to seek a way in. These two came back to report that the white walls were slippery and offered no purchase. Riis gazed up at the high filigree roof, wondering if he could get in that way.

  Then, from inside, he heard the grate of the locking bar being raised and he stepped back as the doors were flung wide. The stench of bloody death blew out like a gale, and Riis felt a sickening dread deep in his stomach. Yet in a heartbeat the dread was replaced with elation as Marcellus calmly walked out, followed by Rafe. They looked strange and sinister, for the moonlight made it appear as if they were soaked in black paint. Then Riis realised they were both drenched in blood, as if they had been swimming in it. What has happened here? he wondered. He felt the hairs on his neck rise in the breeze across the water.

  Marcellus was silent, looking around him. But Rafe said, “Captain Riis, isn’t it?”