“Much I care,” she drunkenly murmured to herself, popping another white grape into her mouth. “Maybe I shall become obese, and wallow in rolls of fat. Plenty of other Emperors have done the same. And I shall fill my court with beautiful young boys, with lean bodies and painted faces.”
These thoughts inspired a sudden ache in a different part of her body. There were two officers of the Pride guarding her tent, ambitious young men with handsome faces. Neither found Anma remotely attractive, but when required performed their duty on her with as much vigour as they could muster for the sake of their lives and careers.
Anma gave a discreet cough, which was the signal for one or the other to enter, and for battle to commence.
There was no response. Irritated, she rose on one elbow and coughed again, rather louder this time. Still nothing, save a light wind stirring the flap of her tent, and her irritation gave away to anger.
Cursing, she tried to rise, and the tent swam around her. She had drunk too much strong hot wine, gorged on too many iced candies and sweetmeats, and felt an overpowering urge to vomit.
The world spun, and the stars and swirls stitched onto the canvas of her tent merged into a sickly blur. A line of rich red sticky liquid was trickling in from outside, like spilled wine, slowly sinking into an extremely expensive carpet.
Anma’s instincts, honed from years of soldiering, were blunted by excess. Otherwise she would not have merely stood and gaped as something horrible entered the tent, quick and silent as any shade.
The uninvited guest was a tall, spare man, dressed in crude leathers and blood-stained chain mail. His face was a ghastly grey colour with pitiless blue eyes, and a ragged line of stitches ran across his neck and throat. He carried a long straight sword, quite unlike the curved blades of Temeria. The blade was foul with the blood of her guards.
Anma opened her mouth to speak, to shout for help, but the words died in her throat as a gentle voice snickered in her ear.
“A short reign, and an inglorious one, Empress.”
Her sluggish fingers groped for her sword, but she had left it somewhere. All she had was an eating knife, but at least that was something, she could draw it and at least die fighting.
There was a blue blur of steel, a sound like tearing silk, and the Empress’s severed head dropped onto the carpet with a muffled thud.
* * * *
The goat was chained to an iron stake in the middle of the yard. Judging from her fearful bleats and rolling eyes, she knew what was about to happen, and wasn’t happy about it.
Sorrow wasn’t happy, either, having been raised to abhor any form of cruelty to animals, but he could do nothing to rescue her. All he could do was stand and watch as the animal was slaughtered for the sake of a test.
Bail stood nearby, being closely observed by three High Blood warriors. They were in a little enclosure surrounded by a low wall of dusty yellow stone. A three-storey tower stood at the northern corner of the enclosure, perched on a lip of rock overhanging the valley below, and the narrow windows were full of suspicious pairs of eyes peering out at the scene in the yard.
Licking dry lips, Bail raised his blowpipe to his mouth and squinted, aiming squarely at a point between the goat’s neck and shoulder. Having already hailed a lungful of air, since it wouldn’t do to inhale the dart, he blew and prayed.
His dart flew straight and true, piercing the goat’s flesh in the exact spot he had aimed for. She bleated in pain, staggered, her eyes wide and bloodshot, and then fell onto her side with a thump.
Without thinking, Bail lowered his pipe and punched the air. “Three seconds!” he crowed, “now tell me that’s not impressive!”
He looked around at the stony expressions of the High Bloods, and gave a little sigh. They were an undemonstrative people, not much given to any expression of emotion. Bail disliked their hard faces, lean and leathery with hooked noses and deep lines etched into their spare flesh like fault lines in rock, and thought they looked like a set of carved vulture heads.
It also didn’t help that he didn’t speak their crude tongue. Bail reckoned he could charm the birds from the trees if he needed to, but only if he knew their songs. He was quick at picking up other languages, but for the moment was obliged to impress the High Bloods with deeds rather than words.
One of the clansmen, the tallest, with red and white stripes daubed on his hollow cheeks and muscular sunburned chest, folded his arms and grunted something. His companions grunted back, and all three fell to grunting at each other.
“Well, this should decide the matter,” said Bail, not looking at Sorrow, “either they accept us, or we get our throats cut. They will probably eat you, being so young and full of juice. I imagine they might stretch my skin across a couple of poles to make a banner, and then toss what’s left of me over the cliff.”
“You have made a good impression,” said Sorrow in his usual serious, concise manner. His plump round face creased into a frown as he studied the High Bloods, his little hands anxiously twisting the frayed hem of his filthy robe.
Bail shrugged, though his heart was pounding and his bowels threatening to dissolve in fear. “Really? I’m amazed you can make any sense of their jabber,” he said with forced nonchalance, “though the language shouldn’t be too difficult to master. Just a lot of barbaric syllables clashing together.”
The High Bloods abruptly stopped talking, and the tallest one stepped towards Bail. He took it as a good sign that the clansman kept his short spear in its sheath, and an even better one when the clansman tapped Bail on the shoulder with the tips of his middle two fingers, and spread out his right hand to indicate the tower.
“I think we’re being invited to supper,” said Bail, smiling and bowing his head at the clansman. “Let’s just hope we’re not the meat dish.”
* * * *
The lowest storey of the tower was an eating hall, similar to the lordly halls of Bail’s homeland, not that he had been in many. It was cheerless enough, with bare stone walls and no decoration save a few shields and axes hanging from rusting pegs hammered into the mortar.
A fire guttered inside a ring of stones, tended by a gaggle of scrawny old dams, with a large iron-bound bucket suspended over it. The fire filled the chamber with acrid smoke, and there were no chairs or benches. Rather, the people of the clan sat in rows against the wall, chattering in low voices and waiting patiently for supper with clay bowls balanced on their knees.
The dark, smoke-filled airless room stank of unwashed bodies and decaying rubbish, and Bail had to work hard to prevent himself from gagging. Much to his annoyance, the stench didn’t seem to bother Sorrow.
An old man, rheumy green eyes sunk deep behind a mass of wrinkles and crow’s feet, limped on naked, twisted feet to inspect the contents of the bucket. The old women nudged each other and shuffled aside for him. One of them hissed, champed her toothless gums, and hawked some greenish spit on the floor, but he paid her no attention.
“Goat’s meat stew,” he croaked in perfect, if old-fashioned, Temerian, “it hath been goat’s meat stew for supper every night for fifty year, and doubtless will be goat’s meat stew for supper tomorrow night. The Gods know I am weary of repetition, and hath longed for something new.”
He smiled happily at Bail, little eyes twinkling in their deep sockets, and extended his veiny brown hand. “I believe this is how thy people greet each other,” he said, “I am Amkur Beg, chief of these rogues. Our clan name in our own tongue is complicated, but in the High language we are the Blood Eagles.”
Bail cautiously took the proffered hand, nervous lest he might crush it, and was surprised to find a grip like steel sheathed in old leather.
“I am Bail,” he said, “very happy to meet you, Amkur Beg, may I ask how you, ah…”
“Speak the language of the lowlanders? I was taken in a raid, many years since, and held in a lowland jail. Having nothing better to do, I learned their tongue from my guards. When my clan came to rescue me I spared the lives
of my teachers, though I took their tongues, so they might teach no others. We are a stark people, Master Bail. There is no sentiment in us.”
He bent over the bucket again, sniffed, and dunked his wooden spoon into the bubbling brown contents. “Take your food,” he mumbled, ladling stew into his bowl, “and then come sit by me. Bring thy monkey.”
Bail picked up a bowl from a pile lying on the floor, filled it and glanced at Sorrow, hovering anxiously nearby. “He’s no monkey, but a child. His name is Sorrow,” he replied, and Amkur Beg’s ancient face split into a smile.
“My son told me about thy poison darts,” he said, “we have no such poisons to slay so quick and clean, and so thou art is useful, for this time. Your life hangs by such usefulness.”
Bail took that as a warning not to contradict Amkur again.
The old man led them both to a corner occupied by a mother and her brood of naked, squealing infants. Amkur hissed and spat at her, and she grudgingly moved aside, slapping and shouting at her children to do the same. Clearly the High Bloods wasted little time on ceremony or outward forms of respect, even to their own chief.
Amkur squatted down and motioned Bail and Sorrow to sit.
“Thou art brave, to come to my tower in such a manner,” said the old man, dipping a finger into the stew and sucking it clean, “as like as not, my warriors may have cut both thy throats. Fortunate for thee, they were not in a killing mood.”
Bail had to acknowledge the truth of this. It had been his idea to leave their hiding place and venture to one of the towers scattered about the High Places, despite the enormous risk of being killed. But the secrets contained inside Sorrow’s stolen notebook had filled him with the sort of courage he had always despised: reckless, incautious, and almost careless for one’s own safety.
As Amkur said, they had been fortunate to approach a tower guarded by clansmen who happened to be in a slightly less murderous mood than usual. Using some frantic hand signals, Bail had offered to show them his weapons, hence the poisoning of the goat in the yard.
Amkur eagerly slopped down his supper and leaned his bald head against the wall. “Now tell me,” he said, “why thou didst come here, and risk both thy lives? No one does such a thing, unless they are mad, and thou art not. Where, I ask myself, is the profit?”
Bail took a deep breath and looked the old chief direct in his shrewd little eyes. “I have a question for you, first,” he said carefully. “Tell me, have you heard of the Heartstones?”
Amkur’s expression hardened. Now he was no twinkling old man, but the chief of a bloodthirsty mountain clan who had held his title in the teeth of all comers for over fifty years. “That name should not drop from the tongue of any lowlander,” he murmured, “and a foreigner to boot.”
“I know all about the old legends,” Bail went on, fearing that Amkur’s mood change might prove lethal. “Don’t ask me how, all I will say is that my monkey here has been vital to acquiring such knowledge. And we know where the tablets are buried.”
“Many have said such. In my own lifetime I have seen all sorts, gangs of treasure-hunters from the lowlands. All failed, most died. What makes thee different?”
It struck Bail that Professor Denez’s notes might be no more accurate than those used by all the previous hunters of the Heartstones. But he was a charlatan by nature, and a practised actor.
“The monkey knows,” he said, nodding at Sorrow, “trust me, Amkur Beg, he is no ordinary child. He is privy to great knowledge, secret knowledge, and I am certain he knows where the Heartstones lies.”
Amkur ran his eye over Sorrow, and wiped his greasy mouth on the back of his hand. “Then I shall extract his information from him,” he said. “I warned thee, lowlander, we are no soft people.”
He beckoned to two tall warriors lounging by the door, and they unfolded with a look of eager efficiency, loosening the short spears in their belts.
Bail tried to protest, but Amkur ignored him. “Loosen this little monkey’s tongue for me,” he ordered the warriors, nodding at Sorrow. “Make him sing of the Heartstones.”
Sorrow looked at Bail, as if expecting the man to leap to his defence. If so, he looked in vain. The towering shadows of Amkur’s clansmen fell over him.
“You will not touch me,” he said quietly.
The warriors didn’t understand, but Amkur creaked with laughter. “Brave!” he said approvingly, “brave! Do not hurt the monkey too much. Just enough to make him sing.”
He laughed again, throwing his head back, but laughter had an unhealthy rasping sound. His face became mottled, purple blotches appearing on his cheeks and forehead, and he began to choke. His tongue protruded from his shrivelled mouth like a wagging strip of leather, and his hands clasped and mowed ineffectually at his throat.
Sorrow forgotten, the two warriors knelt by their chief and did their clumsy best to save him, pounding him on the back and shouting in their rough voices for help. The clan had no medicine man, as such, but the old women who had been tending the cooking fires swarmed around Amkur.
While the clan’s attention was fixed on their chief, Bail looked around him for an escape route. His slim hopes were dashed when the tall clansman who had attended him in the yard strode over to him and pressed his spear against his throat.
Trapped, Bail gave the hard-faced man a sickly smile. His eyeballs slid to the left to study Sorrow, who was standing with the same look of quiet determination.
“What did you do?” Bail croaked, his voice impeded by the iron pressed against his throat. To his fury, Sorrow ignored him.
“I knew there was something odd about you, but I would have never guessed you were a fucking sorcerer,” Bail went on, “I would never have sold you, had I known. Choke the rest of these bastards and let’s be on our way.”
Sorrow gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. He looked more like a tiny priest than ever, with the infuriatingly stubborn and pious expression that Bail associated with holy men.
“Damn you!” Bail rasped, almost forgetting the weapon at his throat. The tall clansman grunted something and pressed harder, breaking the skin and drawing a tiny teardrop of blood, and Bail lost his temper. His right hand moved in a blur, knocking the spear aside, and he spun, crouched and kicked out with his right leg, sweeping the man’s feet out from under him.
Bail twisted the spear out of the warrior’s hands as he fell, and raised it to plunge into his chest. Two more clansmen leaped at him, uttering shrill war-cries, and Bail was suddenly fighting for his life, whirling his spear in a desperate figure-of-eight pattern to deflect their stabbing blades.
“Stop, stop!” The voice was Amkur’s, rasping and weak, but still the voice of authority. He emerged from the ruck of old women and warriors, snarling aside their concern. His face was still an unhealthy beetroot colour, and his eyes were veined with blood, but he could at least breathe again.
The warriors attacking Bail instantly lowered their spears and stepped back. That left the prone man at his mercy, but Bail was not so stupid as to take advantage. Taking a deep breath, he threw aside his spear, folded his arms and stuck out his jaw as he turned to face Amkur.
There was a moment of tingling silence as their eyes met. Bail read shrewdness in the old mountain man’s deep-set green orbs, experience born of a long and bloody life, along with a certain rough wisdom, but also superstition, ignorance. And fear. Amkur had almost died a moment ago, and knew it.
“My monkey knows a few tricks,” said Bail, feeling his confidence soar as all eyes of the clan fell upon him and Sorrow. It reminded him of being an actor on stage (as he had been, once or twice), performing at the peak of his ability, with the audience eating out of the palm of his hand.
“Forgive my disrespect,” croaked Amkur, rubbing his still-sore throat, “child-witches are unknown in our mountains. But why did he relent, and spare my life?”
Bail improvised gamely. “He was waiting for an opportunity to demonstrate his power. You will not threa
ten him, or me, again. Next time he will bring the mountain down on your head.”
Amkur made a submissive gesture, bowing his head with his hands pressed together as if in prayer. The clan followed suit, even the old women and little children, and once again Bail felt a heady rush of power. This time he felt like a King, surrounded by his adoring subjects.
A King…Bail stored the thought away for a time when he might have leisure to consider it.
“I cannot doubt the boy’s power,” said Amkur, still with his head bowed, “have I not just felt it, clawing at mine throat? Thou art both safe and welcome to our hospitality, for as long as thou should require.”
“That wasn’t the case a few seconds ago,” Bail replied tartly, “and I have no interest in your hospitality, or of staying a moment longer than necessary in this pest-hole. What we require is your obedience, and several of your best people to accompany us.”
Amkur looked up sharply. “Thou spoke truth, then?”
Bail nodded. “Think of it, Amkur. Think of the deathless glory you and your clan will earn. Of all the mountain clans, yours will be the one that helped to finally bring the Heartstones out of the earth.”
Amkur’s vulpine face creased in thought, making him look like an ancient turtle, and his deep eyes were full of rapid calculation. Glory, deathless or otherwise, was a fairly worthless currency, but there were far more practical advantages to be had from discovering a near-sacred relic like the Heartstones.
“So be it, then,” he said, wincing as he rubbed his throat, “we shall help thee as best we can.”
The Path of Sorrow Page 17