The City

by Stella Gemmell

  Riis, awed and flattered that his name had been remembered, replied, “Yes, lord.”

  “What happened here?”

  “We heard the sounds of battle inside, lord. But the men of the Thousand refused us entry. We killed them,” he said simply. He wanted to ask questions but was afraid to.

  Marcellus seemed to rouse himself. “You did well,” he said. “Give me your knife.”

  Riis swiftly unsheathed the dagger at his side, reversed it and handed it to his lord. “It is stained,” he said apologetically, for he had wiped it roughly on the clothes of one of the dead bodyguards. Then he realised how foolish he sounded, for the hand he gave it to was drenched in blood already. Marcellus spun the knife, then turned and threw it into the lake. It thunked into the neck of a rebel soldier who was feebly trying to swim to the shore under cover of darkness.

  “See that these bodies are cleared away, captain,” Marcellus ordered. “Your dead comrades will be treated with great honour. The bodies of the rebels will be burned.”

  “Yes, lord.” Riis glanced into the silent darkness of the opera hall. “Are surgeons needed?” he asked uncertainly.

  “No. They are all dead. Including the Lady Petalina.”

  Riis said nothing. It was not his place to commiserate with the man. What happened in there? he thought again.

  “The rest of the Leopards must be rounded up,” Marcellus went on. “It may be that they are innocent of this plot but we cannot risk that.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “So,” Marcellus looked directly at him for the first time. Riis resisted stepping back, compelled by the power of the man. “I find myself in need of a new century. Choose ninety-nine warriors of the First Adamantine, of any rank. You have full authority. You are now their commander. It will be known as the Nighthawk century. The name of the Leopards will be expunged from history.”

  Riis bowed his head and said, “It is an honour, lord.”

  He asked, “Do you want the Nighthawks to question the Leopards?”

  “No. That will be done by others. We will find out who is responsible for this night.”

  Then the two men walked away, back along the white causeway, their bodies glistening with drying blood, their bloody bootprints stretching back after them.

  Riis took a deep breath and stepped into the opera hall. He looked around, uncertain of what he was seeing. There were no bodies. Instead, every surface—the walls, the floor, even the high ceiling of the round hall—were drenched with blood. The air was thick with it. Riis breathed in through his mouth and felt, with a tremor of panic, that his lungs were filling with blood. As his eyes accustomed to the torchlit carnage, he started to see bits of bodies, gobs of brain and flesh, shards of bone, the occasional larger piece of flesh strewn across the hall. On one wall half a hand was slowly sliding downwards in the sticky blood. It stopped, then started again. Riis stared at it, mesmerised. Then he shook his head, looking away.

  He turned to his two comrades, standing pale and silent beside him. “Get a clean-up crew,” he ordered. “There is nothing left here to bury.”

  Chapter 33

  The first snows arrived early that year, piling on the pain for the besieged City. It was said by the superstitious that if snow fell before the Feast of Summoning then a hard winter would follow, and old crones looked to the sky and shook their heads and forecast bitter days ahead. In the daytime the snow lay slushy in the streets and alleys, muffling the City in silence. It melted slowly on roof tiles and forced its way into attics and window frames. Then, as the thin sunlight dwindled away, it hardened to ice. The streets of the Armoury, and parts of Barenna and Burman Far, already dangerous at night, became impassable by ordinary folk in the hours of darkness.

  The poorest of the City’s people, those existing on the margin between life and death, already stalked by hunger and disease, and the human predators which fed off the unfortunate, died quietly in the hundreds each night. Those with a will to stay alive descended into the sewers, becoming Dwellers, for it was warmer underground. Ferocious winter weather had always been the Halls’ best recruiting-sergeant. So the population of the City diminished further, and the demand on supplies slackened, and the administrators dealing with food distribution congratulated themselves on their skilful allocation of resources. Those same administrators had nominal responsibility for fuel distribution, but supplies of coal and oil had long since diminished to a point where only the palace, and only parts of the palace, could be warmed in winter.

  It was five days before the Feast of Summoning, on the day marked for Lady Petalina’s funeral, and Riis wrapped a greatcoat over his new uniform and hurried through the chilly corridors of the palace in the first light. He could see his breath in front of him and his hands were rammed into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He was aware he looked nothing like a commander of the Thousand, and self-consciously straightened his posture as he neared the Keep. He glanced at his new aide and grinned. Darius shook his head. Riis had been told to attend a meeting of the Thousand’s commanders in the Keep. He had never entered the Keep before. Today he would be walking into the emperor’s lair, something that only a few weeks ago would have been impossible. He was anticipating it with trepidation and excitement, and he guessed Darius, though innocent of Riis’ ambition, felt the same.

  A veteran rider, Riis had found himself suddenly, unexpectedly, a commander of the Thousand, and he had no idea how such a creature carried himself, what his daily duties were, or how he treated his men. Like most soldiers before him, each time he had been promoted he had merely mimicked the behaviour of the man he had replaced until he had his feet under him and could make the role his own. Here he was adrift. He had never been a part of the imperial bodyguard, and his only dealings with them had been competitive, at best grudgingly cooperative. And he could get no help from his new peers, for the other century commanders clearly despised him for the route he had taken to promotion.

  Darius, normally laconic to the point of terseness, had followed him without question until they reached the green walls of the Keep, when he asked, “Is this a briefing?”

  Riis shrugged elaborately. “How would I know? I was told last night by an aide to general Boaz to be at the Keep today at dawn, on the orders of Marcellus.”

  Darius grunted.

  Riis spread his hands. “I know. But what can I do? I can scarcely refuse to go.”

  “Watch your back.”

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  The two men walked up to the main entrance to the Keep. The bronze doors, deeply inset into curved walls of sage green, were decorated in relief with epic scenes from the Immortal’s life. The doorway was flanked by soldiers in black and silver livery. Riis recognised they were of the Black-tailed Eagle century. He was about to identify himself when one soldier sprang to open a small door set in the great doors. Bristling with insecurity, Riis wondered if this was a studied insult. The soldiers did not salute him. Should they? Riis didn’t know the etiquette of the Thousand yet.

  He stepped into the Keep, Darius at his shoulder. They were in a broad foyer with a wide staircase winding up at each end, and several doorways in front of them. Riis had expected something remarkable, for he was at last in the emperor’s territory. But this was just an empty room, cold as a widow’s tit. Riis and his aide looked at each other.

  Then a tall figure stepped from an open doorway and a rough voice demanded, “Commander Riis. In here.”

  “You were not told to bring an aide,” general Boaz grunted, glaring at Darius, who coolly returned his stare.

  “I was not told not to,” Riis replied pleasantly, staring up into the man’s eyes. It was rare for him to meet someone taller than himself. “I have yet to be informed of the protocols of the Thousand.”

  “The convention,” a voice said as they stepped into the meeting room, “is that members of the Thousand, even the commanders, are just simple warriors serving their City, and as such it w
ould be inappropriate for them to have aides. It is, of course, nonsense,” said Marcellus, holding out a hand to beckon Riis into the room. “The commanders of the Thousand are important officers with many layers of responsibility. They have armies of servants in their homes, and many of them have several aides. They just do not normally bring them to commanders’ briefings.”

  “I was not told this was a commanders’ briefing,” Riis answered. “I was merely told to be here.” He was aware he sounded defensive.

  The First Lord nodded. “Your aide can stay. Your name, soldier?”

  “Darius Hex, lord.”

  Marcellus nodded. “Was your father also named Darius, although they called him Socks?”

  Darius stared stolidly at a point on Marcellus’ forehead, determined not to be awed. “Yes, lord.” For the first time since Riis had known him, he felt annoyed by the man’s taciturnity. He felt like saying, “It’s all right to be impressed by Marcellus Vincerus. He is worthy of our respect.” A vision of two men clothed in blood fluttered on the edge of his mind, but he pushed it away.

  Riis looked around him. It was a round chamber, faced with white marble. Around the walls were carved the ten insignia of the bodyguard. One was covered over, and Riis felt pride in his heart to know the symbol of the Nighthawks was destined to appear there. There were more than a dozen soldiers in the room, seated and standing. Boaz, stooping like a heron, loomed over Rafe Vincerus, a slender figure dressed in black, who leaned idly against a wall.

  “For those of you who have not been here before,” Marcellus explained courteously, “this room is called the Black Room, not because it is black, but because it was built by the architect Tomas Black as an example for the emperor of a perfectly round room with a perfectly round dome. Architects tell me there is a word for such things, but I confess I cannot remember it. It is here that the commanders of the Thousand meet, and here that the emperor addresses us all when he sees fit.” Riis felt his heart racing. If he kept his position as commander, if he lived long enough, then without doubt he would be face to face with the emperor in this room some time in the future.

  Marcellus’ face became grave. “Today we will mark the funeral of the Lady Petalina, killed by treachery. Her only living relative is the Lady Fiorentina, who has arranged the rites and interment. It will be a private affair. Because of the revolt of the Leopards, security will be higher than we would normally see at a funeral. You all have your orders.”

  He paused, then said, “It is easy to overstate the importance of events such as those in the opera house. Although innocent people died, the rebellion was a failure. Mallet’s intent was to kill me and my brother. We will probably never know why, although we must assume the plot was hatched far from the City. But he did not succeed.

  “He will have some success, however, if we lose our focus.” He paused for emphasis. “The Thousand exists to protect the emperor, not the Vincerii. Increasing security around us inevitably risks compromising the guard on the Immortal. You need to all be aware of this and ensure it does not happen.”

  One soldier spoke up, his voice casual as if chatting with a friend. “It would make our task easier if you and Rafe presented separate targets. The fact that you are so often together is a problem for the Thousand. We have discussed this before.” Riis looked with interest at the bushy-bearded, gravel-voiced man. He was clearly relaxed in the company of Marcellus to speak so openly to him.

  “Are you suggesting we not attend the lady’s funeral rites?”

  The soldier seemed unperturbed by the edge in Marcellus’ voice. “I would suggest it if I thought that would do any good, lord. No, I’m saying you should be more conscious about presenting an easy target.”

  “We are soldiers. We can take care of ourselves,” said Rafe.

  “No one doubts that, lord.” Riis swung round. The speaker was a woman, seated on a couch behind him. She flicked a glance at him as he turned. She was of medium height and middle age, with unkempt ginger hair, and big breasts beneath the leather uniform. Is she a commander? he thought. He had no idea there were female commanders of the Thousand.

  “But Fortance is right,” the woman said. “We are only suggesting the two of you attend scheduled events separately.”

  Marcellus sighed. “All our lives are scheduled, Leona,” he said. “But we will think on what you say.” He waved a hand, and the warriors started filing out of the room. Riis glanced at Darius and they made for the door too.

  “Riis.” The word was said quietly. Riis turned back to Marcellus.

  “Stay a moment,” he said. Riis nodded to Darius, who followed the others.

  Marcellus watched the door close. “I have a mission today for your Nighthawks, far from the funeral.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Do you know the lord lieutenant Saroyan?”

  A great hollow opened up in Riis’ chest and he found he had stopped breathing. Is this it? he thought. Does our plan to kill the emperor end here? And he wondered who had betrayed them.

  Marcellus was looking at him enquiringly. Riis tried to think what the right answer would be. He furrowed his brow.

  “I know her by sight,” he admitted uncertainly.

  “Saroyan is on her way back from the east, attended by six of her private guard. By noon they should be at the Paradise Gate. I want you to take a troop of your most trusted men and intercept them before they are within sight of the City. Kill them all.”

  Riis nodded and said, “Yes, lord.” He turned towards the door, trying not to think.

  “Do you want to know why?” Marcellus asked his back.

  “I do not question your orders, lord.”

  “That is what this room is for, Riis, so the commanders can question my orders.”

  He explained, “We have information that Saroyan was involved with Mallet in his rebellion. I found it hard to believe; I have known her for a long time and would have waged my life on Saroyan’s loyalty. It seems I very nearly did.” He shook his head with regret. “I was fooled. Saroyan is unpopular with her peers and is something of a martinet, and I confused that with loyalty. It is always the wild cards we watch with suspicion.

  “I could bring her in and put her on trial, but that would cause unrest in the palace, perhaps throughout the City. She is not popular, but she is respected. It is more practical to have her killed by marauding Blues, her body found in a few days’ time. A tragedy for the City. Another funeral. Her fellow-conspirators, whoever they are, will know what caused her death.”

  Riis nodded. Dismissed, he wandered out of the Keep and found Darius waiting for him. His aide cocked an eyebrow. Riis shook his head repressively and they walked in silence back to the barracks.

  As one of those fellow-conspirators, he had no idea what he was going to do.

  Chapter 34

  In the end, all eighty-one remaining warriors of the Leopard century were executed. It was considered impossible, Dol Salida was told, to distinguish between those who had actively plotted against the Vincerii, those who had known about the rebellion and done nothing, and those who were innocent, if any warrior can be called innocent. So they all had to die. Each was killed with a clean sword-thrust to the heart.

  One of Dol’s informants was in the execution squad, and when Dol questioned him days later his sword-arm was still weary and he was heartsick at the slaughter of veterans who had fought for the City without stinting, without hesitation, and now without honour. He told Dol that after the men were executed their bodies were stripped and examined for brand marks.

  “Brand marks?” Dol asked, suddenly interested. “And did you find any?”

  The soldier grinned mirthlessly. “Veterans, some of them in for over twenty years? What do you think? These men have scars on their scars, yes, and burns aplenty. No, we didn’t find any S-shaped brands but then, between you and me sir, we weren’t really looking very hard.”

  It was around eight years ago when the rumour came to Dol’s ears that the Vincer
ii were interested in a man with a brand shaped like an S. This was all Dol could glean, despite discreetly targeted questions, and he tucked the information away for when it might become useful. So he was doubly interested when, one day that summer at the Shining Stars Inn, Creggan had told him of the man at the bar with a similar brand and Bartellus, remarkably, had pricked up his ears and asked Creggan about him.

  Bartellus had asked, “Do you know of this brand, Dol?”

  Dol shook his head. “Slave mark, I expect. Why are you interested?”

  “How could a man have both the honourable tattoo of the Second Adamantine and a slave mark?” Bart asked.

  Dol replied, “I couldn’t care less.”

  Then, unusually for a man who generally kept his own counsel, Bartellus volunteered, “I saw its fellow a long time ago. On a corpse.”

  “Blueskin?” Dol asked him.

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. He had many tattoos on his body and head. This single burn mark was on his shoulder.”

  Bartellus was a mystery, an enigma far more significant than just a man hiding his daughter’s age, Dol Salida had decided. An intelligent man, and one who was inclined to hide that intelligence, Dol had noticed, Bart kept his own counsel on most matters, but he could not hide his interest in the architecture of the City, a subject he could always be drawn on, particularly in respect to the tunnels and sewers and dungeons. This was hardly suspicious in itself. And having a truant daughter was disappointing but scarcely astonishing. But now someone had seen fit to burn down the House of Glass with Bartellus in it, and he and his daughter had disappeared. In the last weeks Dol had used all his network of contacts, informants, friends and colleagues to seek out the old soldier. The name Sami given to him by the urchin in Blue Duck Alley had proved a dead end; there were a thousand Samis in the army, it turned out.

  The urquat master had decided the only way to find the old fox was through his cub. The man would hardly permit the girl to continue her profession, if they were being hunted, but the daughter could still give him away. Dol stumped the streets visiting the few remaining suppliers of materials for glassmaking, until he found the maker of dyes Emly had once patronised. The old woman, with long grey hair in several braids, badly crippled in both feet, was reluctant to talk about her customers until he mentioned his niece Emly, when the old girl’s face brightened and she became positively garrulous about the talented child. She had not seen her recently, and had no idea where the girl dwelled now the House of Glass was gone. But she helpfully told Dol the name of a craftsman who made Emly a special gold paint. And it was that man who told Dol he had not seen the girl in his shop, but had only five days before spotted her in the marketplace in front of the temple of Ascarides, the god of widows and orphans, admiring her own small window on a side wall.