The City

by Stella Gemmell

  “Prepare to march,” ordered the general.

  Fell Aron Lee had been in the City for two long nights. He had entered with some difficulty. All the great gates were locked, bolted and barred in a surge of vigilance after the deaths in the Little Opera House. Traders, foreigners and even ordinary citizens had to wait, sometimes for days, before they were reluctantly let in, or out, by surly and suspicious guards. Fell had left Indaro and Gil and the others a league or so from the wall, and rode in alone. He was amazed to find a tent city had sprung up outside the gate. Many thousands were camped in the pouring rain waiting to get in. He had presented the special papers provided by Saroyan to the guards, who left him kicking his heels for hours under a leaking awning while they checked he was who he said he was, then let him through without apology.

  He stayed at a small clean inn in Gervain, where he was a stranger. He kept to his room by day, sleeping away the hours, then walking the streets of the Paradise quarter at night, once unknowingly tracing Indaro’s steps to the square in front of the white temple and its unparalleled view of the Shield.

  At dawn on his second morning in the inn there was a light tap on his door.

  “Yes?”

  “Sami,” said a low voice.

  Fell flung open the door. He and Broglanh grinned at each other, uncertain what to say for there was so much to be said. Fell felt tension easing from his chest for the first time in days. With Evan Quin Broglanh at his side, his chances were increased manyfold.

  He realised the soldier still thought of him as his commander, and thus it was Fell’s place to ask the questions. “Did you know me when you joined the Wildcats?” he asked.

  Broglanh grunted. “No, you bastard, you’d changed a lot. It was later. We were at Copperburn, remember, with those trees? I was on guard duty. You and the general, the one with the ears, you walked past me, ignored me of course, just a peasant, talking about the next day’s action. I knew your voice. Then afterwards, next time we met, I could see Arish looking out of your eyes. It was creepy. Did you know me, just a grunt?”

  “I saw your name on the roster of incomers.” He felt a little sheepish. Why had he never spoken to him about their days as hostages together, after all they went through? Why did he not trust him with his new identity—Evan of all people?

  “When did you take the name Broglanh?”

  “I was adopted. I was ten.”

  “What happened to the others?”

  “Parr and Ranul died,” Broglanh said shortly. “Riis is our man in the palace. He commands a century of the Thousand.” He shook his head, marvelling. “He has Marcellus’ ear—or so he claims.”

  Fell looked sharply at him. “Does he indeed? Do you doubt him?”

  “I don’t doubt his bravery,” Broglanh replied, “or his commitment.”

  “But?”

  “But he resents his minor role. He’s itching to be the hero.”

  “What is his role?”

  “Misdirection. Diverting the Thousand. Keeping them busy, away from the emperor. If we fail, turning his Nighthawks against the emperor and killing him themselves.”

  “Hardly minor.”

  Broglanh sniffed. “He’s jealous of you. Always was.”

  Fell was astonished. “Jealous of me?”

  Broglanh grinned. “All of us, all the hostages, wanted to be like Arish, so damned confident, so good at everything. Ranul hated you for it, at least at first he did. Before the dogs. And Riis and Parr were always coming up with plans to undermine you, but you were always so pigging lucky too.”

  “And you?”

  Broglanh shook his head. “I was just a brat. What was I, eight? You were my hero. Then you disappeared. We all thought you were dead in an alley somewhere.” He frowned. “You should have told us.”

  “I couldn’t. Shuskara took a great risk, taking me away, hiding who I was.”

  “He took a risk getting involved in our defence.”

  “He paid for that in the end. They killed his family. The Immortal never forgets an injury.”

  “Yes, well,” said Broglanh grimly. “He’s not the only one.”

  Not for the first time, Fell felt a flush of shame that so many years had passed while he abandoned his vow as a youngster. While Broglanh, the youngest of them, had never forgotten, but apparently nursed his anger and determination down the years.

  “That’s why you sent me away, with Indaro,” his old friend said, “To take the chance. To kill the emperor then. But it was just another decoy.”

  Even that wasn’t true. Fell had sent him away for sentimental reasons, because part of him still saw the man as a boy, to be protected as he wanted to protect Indaro. He asked, “What happened to you after Indaro left you with a broken arm?”

  Broglanh shrugged as though it wasn’t important, and grinned. “How is she?”

  “The same.” A shadow passed over Fell’s heart as he thought of the dangers she would be facing.

  As if he understood, Broglanh said, “She’ll get through, her and Garret. She’ll probably get to the emperor before we do. In fact,” he said cheerfully, “bastard’s probably dead already. And we can just go and get drunk.”

  Hours later Fell was sitting on a wooden bench in the courtyard of the Northmen, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, his arms folded. He yawned, then sighed. He and Broglanh had been waiting in the courtyard, inside the Gate of Peace, since sunup. They had run out of light conversation, but were both conscious of a metal grille, let into the white stone wall behind them, which stopped any discussion which might get them arrested and executed. There wasn’t a lot to discuss—get as close to the emperor as possible and kill him with whatever came to hand. Not much of a plan. But good enough.

  At the gates of the Red Palace their papers had been taken away and scrutinised and they had been searched for weapons. Fell had a slender stiletto sewn into his stiff leather jerkin, and a knife in his boot. They were ordered to shake out their boots, but the knife was pinned into a specially built recess in the leather and it stayed undiscovered. Broglanh had poison pellets, supplied by Gil’s allies among the Buldekki tribesmen, concealed in the hem of his faded red jacket.

  The tree-shaded courtyard was one of Fell’s favourite parts of the City, with its white stone carvings of wolves and werewomen leaping along one wall. Broglanh had never been there before and he had gazed up at them incredulously. The women had fangs, and fur on their backs, and tails, but also creamy white breasts, and they bounded through a carved jungle towards the pack of snarling wolves, and it was unclear whether they would mate or kill.

  Fell stood. He had spent the last many days, while not in the saddle, going through rigorous exercises aimed at keeping his body strong and his mind calm and focussed. Now he could feel his muscles stiffening as he sat. He swung his arms and paced the courtyard in the thick drizzle, resisting the temptation to run on the spot. He forced frustration and boredom from his mind, concentrating on relaxing the muscles of his shoulders and neck. He might get only one chance, and he had to be ready.

  He saw Broglanh look up. A palace servant was crossing the courtyard. He beckoned to them. Broglanh stood, and they followed the man into the dark of the palace. He led them through a warren of corridors, and down two flights of stairs to where the halls were lit by torches and the air smelled damp and musty. Fell felt Broglanh glance at him, but he did not respond. His focus was taking in everything, the width of the corridor, the height of the torch-brackets, and whether the bald servant, dressed in white robes, was armed or not.

  They came to a high wooden door, barred with iron. The servant opened it and walked in. The two warriors glanced at each other, then followed him, alert for confrontation. They found themselves in a square white room furnished with a desk and several wooden chairs. The desk was covered with papers. It was so clearly an office, part of the ponderous palace bureaucracy, that Fell smiled.

  Another door opened and a tall man came in, a very tall
man Fell recognised as Boaz, commander of the Thousand. Fell had marked him as the first person to kill after the Immortal, for he was the only serious opposition to the Vincerii as emperor. He was flanked by two soldiers with swords sheathed.

  Boaz looked at them both, then nodded to Fell.

  “Fell Aron Lee?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who is this?” he gestured to Broglanh.

  “My aide, Garvy.”

  “You will not need an aide. He will be escorted out.”

  They had expected that, of course. Broglanh’s brief was to linger in the palace for as long as possible, in the hope of being of help. Fell nodded curtly at him and Broglanh turned to go.

  “A moment, soldier,” said Boaz. “First take off your shirts, both of you.”

  Fell avoided looking at Broglanh. He shrugged off his jerkin and dropped it on the floor, then took off his shirt. Broglanh did the same. The servant who had brought them there peered closely at their chests and backs, searching the many injuries on their skin. He looked at Boaz and shook his head.

  “You have many honourable scars,” Boaz said, and Fell thought there was respect in his voice. He was a soldier himself, after all. They put their shirts on again, and Boaz nodded to the servant, who led Broglanh from the room.

  “Our sources say you claim to be the son of the Immortal,” Boaz commented. His eyes hardened.

  “No, sir!” Fell contrived to look embarrassed, slipping into his old jerkin, feeling the solidity of the hidden knife. “I’m the son of the Lion of the East, at least that was what I was told. I don’t speak of it, sir. Now I’m a loyal son of the City. I don’t care about the past. But”—he lowered his eyes as if to hide shame, but really hiding the lack of it—“I was in my cups in an inn, after the defeat of the Maritime, I said I would go back to my real home as the City was doomed. I didn’t mean it, sir, I was just mouthing off. I was asked if I remembered my father. I said not—I was born after the Immortal’s attack on the Lion’s Palace. Someone laughed and said I must be the Immortal’s bastard.” He shrugged. “It was just the ale talking, sir.”

  Boaz was staring at him, his face clean of emotion.

  “And,” Fell rattled on, “I forgot about it, but someone must have reported it to the palace…” He trailed off. “I make no claim, sir. Who my father was is not important. I’m loyal to the City. I believe I’ve proved that.”

  “Yet you changed your name, concealing from the City that the child Arish became Fell Aron Lee.”

  Hating himself, Fell said, “That was Shuskara’s idea.” In his head he vowed to make up the disloyalty to Shuskara if it was in his power. “He believed he was protecting me.”

  “Son of an enemy of the City. Friend of a traitor to the City,” Boaz mused. “You cannot choose your sire, soldier, but you can choose your friends. You chose unwisely.”

  “Shuskara’s treachery came many years after we parted.”

  “Do you have anything to prove you are Arish?”

  Fell shook his head.

  “No birthmarks? No mementoes of your dead mother?”

  “I don’t care about the past,” Fell repeated.

  Boaz considered. He was a dark-eyed, dark-complected cadaverous man, with deeply pockmarked skin and, Fell noticed, unusually long fingers, which were permanently clenched and twisted, as if by disease or torture. He was a legendary warrior, although he had not taken the field in thirty years.

  “Your reputation precedes you,” the general said, after a long moment. “Where do you wish to be assigned now the Maritime is no more?”

  Fell was stumped. He had not given the matter a moment’s thought, for he did not expect to survive.

  “I go where I’m sent,” he replied stolidly.

  Led through a new maze of corridors, following Boaz and flanked by the two guards, Fell wondered at the general’s motives. He was said to be fiercely loyal to the emperor, yet if the Immortal were dead, he would be one of the men best placed to be emperor. Mason’s plan would make Marcellus emperor, yet the Vincerii were of a kind with their emperor, perhaps no better than him, perhaps worse. In all his conversations with Mason Fell had never teased out of the man what he thought the Serafim really were. At different times he had called them more than human, and inhuman. Once he had said they were demons. Then he would become impatient with the questioning and say brusquely that the Serafim would die by the sword like any men, like all men.

  Fell felt a deep uncertainty about the plot he was involved in, but this was one thing he believed deep in his soul, that the emperor would die before this day was out. That was his first, his only, duty. If he succeeded there would be many decisions to be made—but not by him.

  He thanked the gods that he and Broglanh had had their brands cut away and replaced with ugly scars imitating recent knife wounds. Mason had told him the palace authorities were aware of the branded men, but not of their significance. He wondered if Riis had had his disguised too, and hoped so.

  They entered the green walls of the Keep then followed a wide corridor leading upwards in a steep slope. At the end was a huge door, gilded and painted in gold and crimson. It was guarded by two of the Thousand. This had to be an important place, thought Fell, for the Thousand were not given mere guard duty. He relaxed his shoulders, visualising the exact position of the small knife at his side, its heft and its feel in his palm.

  “This is the Hall of Emperors,” Boaz announced, stepping inside.

  Fell looked around. They were in a vast chamber, built like a vertical cylinder, round and deep. They had entered near the top. A wide staircase, carpeted with red, lit by hundreds of torches, wound round the curved walls of the hall, descending slowly towards the floor, which was red and slick like fresh blood. There was an atmosphere of dread in the place which bore down on Fell like a stinking blanket, stifling thought. He shook his head to clear it and felt a headache spring up instantly. He breathed in cautiously and tasted foetid air, the air of a charnel house closed for centuries. His stomach roiled and he fought the urge to turn and leave the room.

  Grim-faced warriors of the Thousand were stationed two steps apart all down the staircase, and Fell was almost relieved to see them. They were men like him, ordinary men with bones and muscles and blood, and if they could stand to be in this terrible place, then so could he.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairway Fell realised the floor was not covered with blood—it was awash with water, less than ankle-deep, lying over red carpet. But the water looked oily and unwholesome, and Fell found himself reluctant to step into it. He did though, splashing a little, following Boaz to the centre of the high room.

  “Wait here,” the general said, and he crossed the flooded room and disappeared through a doorway. It was framed with a substance which glittered, reflecting light like crystal, and Fell saw Boaz’s image doubled and redoubled countless times as he passed through.

  Fell looked around him and smiled. There were more than two hundred warriors in the hall, all staring at him, but only two mattered, the pair behind him. He turned casually and grinned at them. They had their blades in hand, and were a sword’s length away, but they would not stop him killing the emperor if the man came within six paces of him. His spirits rose and he allowed himself to consider the chances of fighting his way out.

  A door creaked, and he looked at the crystal doorway but no one was there. His headache had swelled, and he concentrated on relaxing his neck and shoulders, focussing on the power in his legs, his arms. I will not need the knife, he thought. I will kill him with my bare hands. I will break his neck then, if I am still alive, snap his back—just to be sure.

  A man strode out of the crystal doorway. He walked across the hall to within ten paces of Fell and stopped.

  Fell’s disappointment was crushing. The man was middle-aged, tall, fair and bearded, with the bland gaze of a man who has spent his life among books, or waiting to play the part of another. A blank slate. He smiled affably at Fell. Just
one of the decoys.

  Fell put his feelings aside. This is just one more obstacle to get through, he thought. You have passed some test set by Boaz. Now you must pass this one, and perhaps then you will get the chance to meet the true emperor.

  “Lord,” he said, bowing his head dutifully.

  “We have met before, Arish,” the man said, his voice light and colourless.

  “When I was a child. Yes, lord,” Fell replied. He thought, You had only one eye in those days, lord.

  “Amazing what they can do with glass,” the man told him. Neither eye looked to be made of glass. Both were black, and warm as a skull. One eyelid drooped slightly, as if the man were about to wink. Fell knew Mason had told him something about the eyes, but he could not remember what.

  The feeling of dread and confusion wrapped him in stifling folds. Can he read my mind? he thought.

  The man smiled. “No, I can’t read your mind, Arish. But I remember you, a child of six or so. I showed you your father’s severed head. It was green with rot by then, yet you were brave and did not cry. I remember that, though I had just lost the eye and was in great pain. It was your mother who destroyed it, the eye. Did you know that?”

  Fell was trying to think, but the pain in his head was agonising, and the man seemed so reasonable, so friendly in fact, that he was starting to believe he had made a terrible mistake coming here.

  The man stepped forward, close to Fell. Through the pain and confusion Fell could smell the stink of him, like something long-dead, slowly rotting, and he saw the man’s clothes were filthy, as if he had worn them all his life. A spasm of revulsion ran through him and his mind cleared a little. The creature was standing close to him. Fell knew that was important but he could not remember why. It took all his courage not to turn and run away.

  The man said, “You are not my son, are you, Fell? We have always known that. You came here to kill me, like all the others.