The City

by Stella Gemmell

  Of course! Bartellus betrayed by the vanity of his daughter. With some reluctance he had reported the girl to Dashoul, so he could set his hounds on her, with the order that the girl, once spotted, be left alone and followed, for the father who kept her out of the army for more than a year was as culpable under the emperor’s law as the girl herself.

  Dol sat in his study early one morning watching the shapes of chimneys and rooftops slowly emerge from the dark. The grey sky turned to silver and now he could see the roofs were covered with a thick layer of new snow. Ice-stars had formed in the corners of the window overnight.

  The Feast of Summoning was only five days away. He shivered. Petalina, his first love, was to be interred today, her cold body embalmed with oils and unguents then placed in the imperial vaults, a signal honour for the child of a merchant. Dol would not be going to the rites. He had sent his excuses to Fiorentina, who understood his reasons better than anyone. Petalina’s death at the hands of Mallet and his men had shocked and grieved him. Her liaison with Marcellus should have kept her safe, had kept her safe. And Dol’s world, the City, would be a lacklustre place without Petalina in it.

  He sighed and shifted his slippered feet, feeling a cool draught around his ankles. He listened, hearing the door to the side alley beneath him closing quietly. He could not hear footsteps, but he stood and limped over to the inner door. Seconds later there was a quiet triple-tap on the wood. He waited. After a few moments there were two more taps. Dol unbolted the door.

  The visitor was called Sully. He was small, thin and clean-shaven, a precise man with the demeanour of a bookkeeper rather than a veteran warrior of thirty years. Dol had known him for that long. He had rare qualities for an old soldier, in that he listened and watched, and spoke only when he was certain of his words. He was quick-witted, and Dol valued him more highly than any of his associates.

  Sully sat in his habitual chair. He rubbed his hands together to take the chill off them, and took a sip of the tisane Dol had ready. “It is said,” he began without preamble, “that the emperor is planning a root-and-branch purge of the Thousand, that none of the centuries are safe, except perhaps the new one, the Nighthawks.”

  “Said by whom?”

  Sully shrugged, as he always did when his source was only rumour and speculation, bar gossip and soldiers’ tittle-tattle.

  “But what do you think, my friend?”

  The little man was silent for a while. Finally he said, “Despite the events of the last few days, the emperor and Marcellus rely on the loyalty of the bodyguard and history has shown they are right to do so. The warriors of the Thousand are well-rewarded. They have prestige, fame and wealth. After such a plot you have to look at who would benefit from Marcellus’ death. It would not be the bodyguard.”

  “Who would benefit? Who were Mallet and his men acting for, if not for themselves?”

  Who would take Marcellus’ place if both Vincerii were dead? Who knew what the emperor would do? It was a subject the two men had discussed many times over the years. It was always the sticking-point. Who knew what a man would do when he kept himself secluded, spoke only to Boaz and the Vincerii, some servants, and a select few of his bodyguard. What went on in the Keep was the deepest of the City’s secrets.

  Dol sat back. “What is known of this new commander, the Nighthawk?”

  “Riis, his name is. He and his brother were hostages of the palace, two of the last, sons of some northern lord. Otherwise nothing is known against him. He fought for three years in the Blue Ridge campaign, and he’s still alive. A survivor.”

  “The brother?”

  “Not a survivor. Riis is said to have a reputation with women.”

  “No women in the First Adamantine. Can’t keep it in the company.”

  “Old values,” said Sully approvingly. He added, “He is much hated.”

  “Inevitably,” Dol replied. “Keep a close eye on him. Anyone new is a person of interest. There is…”—he searched for the words—“a pregnant atmosphere in the palace at the moment, a feeling of impending danger.”

  “No one seems to know why Mallet acted as he did,” Sully offered. “It was quite out of character. He had served the Vincerii for more than twenty years. The Thousand have always been loyal to them. None more so. Perhaps that is why there is a feeling of uncertainty.”

  He drank his tisane in silence for a while, glancing at Dol over the edge. He had something more to say. Dol raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

  “I have some good news for you,” Sully told him.

  “Oh?”

  “You were right, the girl could not resist going to look at her own work. She was seen at the Old Observatory in Gervain, admiring her window. She was followed home to her bolthole. Bartellus was not there, so they plan to seize him this morning.”

  Dol rubbed his hands. “Excellent,” he said. There was a twinkle in Sully’s small dark eyes. “Something else?” Dol asked.

  The little man nodded. “I waited out of sight until I saw him return late at night. To ensure his presence when the palace’s men came calling.”

  “Yes?” said Dol.

  “I have met him before,” Sully told him.

  The horses and riders pounded through the Araby Gate and out onto the snowy plain. The snow was almost hock-deep, covered with a night-time crust of ice, and the hooves threw up showers of crystals into the frozen sky. Riis heard whoops of delight from the men behind him, exhilarated to be released from the City and to be back on horseback. Despite the turmoil in his mind, his spirits lifted as he breathed in; the air was sharp as diamond. Ahead of them their path crossed virgin snow all the way to the distant crest of hills, and the sky above shone silver.

  Leaving Marcellus and the Keep, Riis had chosen twenty troopers and hurried to the stables of the Thousand. For the first time he exercised his full authority as commander to requisition horses from the stablemaster, apparently the only man in the City who did not know, or chose not to believe, of the Leopards’ demise. For himself Riis had picked a huge grey stallion which the stablemaster eventually conceded was called Sunder.

  Sunder had clearly not been exercised for several days for he frisked and danced, also thrilled by the clear air and sparkling snow. Riis, who had been riding since he was at his mother’s tit, allowed the big horse to have his way and when the beast suddenly set off at a gallop towards the rising sun he leaned low over his neck and let him go. Sunder was not a young horse, but he was game and powerful, and within moments they had pulled away from the rest of the troop. Riis tried to form a plan.

  His promotion to commander of the Thousand had been a box of mixed gifts. It had hugely increased his chances as an assassin, but decreased his role as a conspirator. He could scarcely creep the halls of the palace at night; he was far too visible. Every member of the Thousand knew his face, and hated him.

  So it was some time after the women’s death before he took the risk of returning to Petalina’s garden. Hooded and caped, he had climbed the palace wall once more on a bright moonlit night. He knew the rota of wall guards—who better?—and within an hour he was under the fig tree and groping in the darkness for a message hidden in the bricks. His fingers found a piece of paper but he could not read it in the shadowy garden. He climbed to the top of the wall again and in the light of the moon he could make out Amita’s neat lettering, telling him how to find a package she had left for him. Frowning, he followed her words, letting himself into the room to the rear of Petalina’s suite. He took the chance of lighting a phosphorus stick and held it up. He was surrounded by the soft grey shapes of crowded dresses hanging on the walls like corpses. The musty air, laced with stale perfume, smelled like death to him, and in the sputtering light he imagined Amita’s narrow ghost moving across the room, a dead woman’s dress draped over her arm.

  He moved through into the second room. As instructed he looked under the piles of shoe bags and found an old leather satchel shoved out of sight. He pulled it out and glanced insi
de. It was full of folded papers. He left the rooms gratefully and went back out into the clean night.

  That day he risked sending a message, via an illiterate soldier, to Sami at the Pony, and the following morning went there after sunrise, hoping Evan had got the note and would be there. He told Darius he was to meet an old friend, knowing his aide would guess he had a rendezvous with a prostitute.

  The squalid inn was almost empty in the dismal light of morning. Its only customer lay on the floor in a dead drunk, a dog licking his face. The barkeep leaned stiffly against the stained counter, his face grey, his body motionless. Strangely, without its customers the place smelled even worse. Riis breathed through his mouth and peered around in the gloom for Evan. He saw him in the corner, slouched over a table, his fair hair tucked under a cap.

  “Drink?” his friend asked as Riis slid into the seat opposite.

  Riis looked at the scummy liquid in Evan’s glass. “I’d rather hammer nails into my eyes,” he said.

  Evan grinned. “For a soldier you’re a bit of a daisy, Riis.”

  Riis dumped the leather satchel on the table. He was not in the mood to be mocked. “The girl is dead,” he said curtly. “She found these plans. I can’t make head or tail of them, but it seems she could.”

  Evan nodded. “We heard she died in Mallet’s rebellion. Who killed her?”

  Riis shook his head. “I don’t…” Then he said, admitting it to himself for the first time, “Marcellus, I think.”

  Evan stared at him. “Marcellus? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know if he did. I got there too late. They were all dead. Except the Vincerii.” Covered in blood, he thought. Drenched in it.

  “Why would he kill her? Did he find out who she was?”

  “I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. She was just in the opera house. Attending the whore. I don’t even know if Marcellus knew her.” He shook his head. “She was just unlucky.”

  Relieved, Evan clapped him on the back. “Not much of a spy, are you?”

  Riis said, “She was just a girl.”

  “She was old enough,” Evan said indifferently. Riis remembered from past battles that Evan Broglanh had few sympathies for the casualties of war. “She knew what she was getting into.”

  Riis shook his head. “No,” he said with certainty, “she didn’t.”

  And he added quietly, “None of you know what you’re getting into.”

  Out on the snow-covered plain Riis pulled on Sunder’s reins and the warhorse dropped into a trot. They were coming up to the line of foothills called the Araby Break, and Riis expected, if Marcellus’ information was correct, to see their target soon. The Araby Gate was the easternmost of the City gates, lying north of the Paradise Gate but within distant sight of it. If Saroyan and her escort were heading for the Paradise Gate they could not have missed them. Riis waited for the other troopers to catch up, then stopped to address them.

  “On the other side of the Break,” he told them, his breath puffing out in the frozen air, “is a woman rider and her six guards heading for the City. It is our job to stop them and kill them. Take out the escort but leave the woman to me.”

  There were whispered comments from some of the men, and a few sniggers, but Riis chose not to hear them. Some of the riders pulled off the knitted caps and felt scarves they were wearing against the cold and replaced them with their new silver helms. Riis saw the pride in their faces and he looked at his own helm, still tied to his saddle horn. He had not even tried it on yet. He pulled his cap off but decided to leave the helm where it was. He was unlikely to need it.

  They set off again, bunched in tight formation, and as they reached the crest of the Araby Break Riis could see, as predicted, the tiny dots of riders heading towards them across the flat land between hills and river.

  “No prisoners!” he bellowed, and the troop thundered down the slope towards them.

  Saroyan and her small escort spotted the attackers from far away and they turned and raced for the river Kercheval.

  Riis, exhilarated by Sunder’s speed and the frosty air in his face, urged the big horse on. Saroyan and her guard had been in the saddle for some time, and their horses had too little to give. He caught up with the fleeing mounts before they got to the river, and slashed the rear horse across the rump with his sword. The beast slowed, whinnying, and Sunder dodged round it and carried on chasing. It was as if he knew Riis’ mind. He had to reach Saroyan before the others.

  The Kercheval was in winter spate and could be crossed with care, not at full tilt. At a command from the lord lieutenant the bodyguards slowed and turned, spreading out to guard her retreat as she alone urged her mount back into the icy water.

  Sunder thundered towards them, and two came forward to meet him, trying to cut him off. Riis felt the horse bunch his muscles to charge to the right and he leaned to his left, slashing his sword through one of the riders’ reins then, on the rise, piercing the other rider’s jaw. Within moments the other Nighthawks had caught up with them and Saroyan’s protectors were fighting a hopeless battle for her life and their own.

  Riis guided Sunder round the slaughter and plunged him into the river. He could see the woman was on the other side already, her horse clambering up the shallow bank. He had no real plan, just to reach her, protect her somehow. Then he heard the swish of a thrown weapon and saw a light spear thud into the fleeing woman’s back, throwing her off the horse and into the snow. He reined in Sunder and turned, glaring back at the trooper who was grinning with pride at his accurate aim.

  “Stay there!” he ordered.

  Riis felt the icy water crawl up around his waist as Sunder swam across the deep-flowing river, and his teeth were chattering when they reached the other side. He threw himself off the horse and ran to the woman, who was trying to crawl away through the snow, leaving a bloody trail behind her.

  “Saroyan, it’s me! Riis!” he said, but she did not hear him and he put his hand on her shoulder, trying to stop her struggle. “It’s me, Riis!”

  Though the wound was deep and looked mortal, she writhed away from his touch. “Take your hand off me!” she spat, her face contorted with disgust.

  Riis sighed. Even in death she was a disagreeable woman, he thought. He sat down in the snow a few paces away.

  “I’ve been ordered to kill you,” he told her.

  “Who by?” she asked, turning painfully on her side, blood staining her mouth. “Who wants me dead?”

  “The Vincerii.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she spat.

  “Nevertheless,” Riis said tiredly, “it is the truth. The Vincerii…”

  “The Vincerii,” she mimicked. He was amazed at the depths of her loathing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you fool. I am Vincerii,” she said. “We do not kill one another in the Family Vincerus.”

  He just stared at her. He did not know what to say.

  “You’re a fool, Riis,” she repeated. “I knew it from the start. You could have warned me and let me go.”

  Riis, who had thought through every option, said, “If I let you flee they would want to know why and eventually, under questioning, I would tell them everything, and our one chance would be gone. This way, I survive and maybe our plan survives too.”

  “You could have fled yourself, saved me and the plan.”

  He said nothing.

  “You’ve killed my guards?”

  “They were brave men and I regret their deaths.” He looked up. The two mounts stood together companionably, blowing and puffing in the frigid air, their bodies screening Riis and Saroyan from the eyes of his men. He peered through their legs. The battle appeared to have ended.

  “I don’t have much time.”

  She glared at him still, but he could see the pain and exhaustion in her eyes, the look of failure he had seen so often in a defeated enemy.

  She muttered to herself. “Who gave you the order?” she asked, still not wanting to believe it.


  “Marcellus.”

  “Then we have all been betrayed,” she whispered to herself.

  Riis had no idea what to say, but he sat with her, casting covert glances across the river. Two of his men had started to cross.

  “Lie down,” he said finally. “Rest. I will say you are dead.” He knew there was no chance of her surviving, wounded as she was, in icy wet clothes, without shelter.

  Obediently, like a child, she laid her head down in the snow.

  “I’m sorry,” Riis said, and he mounted again, grabbed her horse’s reins and trotted Sunder away. Glancing back, he saw a dark huddle of clothes against the whiteness. Then it started to snow.

  On the ride back Riis felt anger rising inside him—anger for Amita and her pointless death, and anger at the conspiracy in which he had so little faith. Of the handful of plotters he knew of, two were already dead. Within five days a small army would invade the palace and his own men would fight to the death to repel them. He had little doubt that Saroyan was right in one thing—if anyone could kill the emperor then Arish could. But Arish knew nothing about the palace and, crucially, he knew nothing of the power of the Vincerii. The slaughter in the Little Opera House haunted his sleep. Did they cause all those people to be…pulverised? Even Marcellus’ own lover? Each time Riis looked hard at it, it seemed insane. Yet in the crystal air he stared at it again and could see no other alternative. The human soup he had witnessed saturating the walls of the building had been real enough.