The Dusk Watchman

by Tom Lloyd

  ‘Let’s find some other way then,’ Vesna said in a choked voice, ‘lest the end in sight isn’t the one we’re hoping for.’

  Doranei reached into his tunic and pulled out his pack of cigars. He shook out the last one and lit it from the fire. ‘Give him time,’ he said at last. ‘The fire running through him from that damn sword, the shock of mourning – the man needs time. He came back from the Dark Place, that’s a punch none of us could ride so easily. I’ll never bet against him.’

  ‘In time to win this war? Azaer’s forewarned, and everything you’ve told us says it’s not one for a single, simple plan but has contingencies built into every scheme.’

  ‘You want to know one reason why we’re so effective? The King’s Men?’ Veil asked abruptly. ‘Sure, we’re good in a fight, and some of us ain’t got a soul, but that’s not the only reason. We live in a different Land to that of ordinary folk, soldiers too: everything we’ve seen and done sets us apart from the people we protect.’

  ‘We think different,’ Doranei continued. ‘The job makes you think different, and that’s often the edge that counts. We do the unexpected, tackle problems in a way most wouldn’t, and catch ’em unawares.’

  Veil pointed towards Isak. ‘Now just imagine how he thinks now, after all he’s gone through. He saw the holes in his own mind and knew them as a weapon to cripple a man he couldn’t beat in combat – a man none of us could, by design of the Gods themselves. Not even Azaer’s seen that. Not even Azaer’ll see him coming.’

  Vesna gaped. ‘And that’s where your faith lies: in the fact that his mind’s been damaged by horrors that might easily have destroyed him entirely? Isak’s my friend, but—’

  ‘Isak sees the Land different,’ Veil insisted, ‘and King Emin’s genius ain’t for politics, not really. He knows how to use others, how to direct their minds, develop their skills, nudge research or uncover strength they never knew they had. Doranei here, Coran, even Morghien and Ilumene too – we’ve all been refined by the man, all made better and more useful to him. Isak can change the entire Land, and with King Emin’s guiding hand he’ll finish the job.’

  ‘I’ll never bet against him,’ Doranei repeated firmly, ‘and nor will you, whether you realise it or not.’

  Grisat eased his way around the corner table and sat with a view of the door. The evening trade was paltry, just half a dozen others in, along with the landlady. He scowled down at his beer – maybe it was just the stale-smelling piss they served here. The mercenary gingerly sniffed it. Certainly not something to shout about. He took a mouthful and grimaced as he swallowed: piss was just about right.

  So much for Narkang folk knowing how to make a decent beer, he thought sourly. I could have stayed in Byora for this sort o’ crap.

  Without meaning to, Grisat’s fingers went to the coin hung around his neck. It was still there, lurking under his jacket – a hard presence against the skin over his heart. The First Disciple, Luerce himself, had handed it to him, watched him put it on. It had been some sort of test, Grisat realised now – not of him, but of the coins.

  All so eager for the honour now. He took another swig of the beer and shuddered, both at the taste and the memory of the fervent faces within Ruhen’s Children. Their desperate and savage embracing of Ruhen’s message frightened Grisat as much as Ilumene did. He’d not been a willing convert, just a mercenary looking to earn some coin who’d been forced into something more by Aracnan. When that black-eyed Raylin mercenary had died, Grisat had gone into hiding, hoping they would forget about him and the part he’d played in encouraging the Byoran cults’ doomed uprising. The coin he’d taken off, but not daring to throw it away, he’d hidden it in the chimney of the room he’d taken – until Ilumene had tracked him down again.

  Should’ve thrown the damn thing away, he thought miserably, prodding again at his chest. Too late now. The leather it was strung on was still around his neck, but it was unnecessary; now the coin stayed where it was, half-embedded in his skin. If Grisat put his finger on the metal surface he could feel the beat of his heart underneath. But some instinct told him to leave it well alone. He had left the leather loop on too, refusing to cut it away out of some desperate hope that he’d wake and find the coin was not slowly being drawn inside him.

  If this is a dream, though, what does that make my nightmares?

  He swallowed another foul mouthful. In his memory the shadows twitched and moved silently at the corner of his vision – never when he looked directly at them, but he could sense them always behind him. At first he’d thought the shadows some sort of salvation. I suppose in some ways they were.

  Aracnan’s mind had been decaying, slowly collapsing in on itself, and the fire of the Demi-God’s increasing madness had been agony when he’d reached out to Grisat’s mind. In his dreams the shadows had muted that touch, dampened the pain of Aracnan’s lingering presence. It was only later the terror had seeped into his bones as a figure of shadow with eyes of emptiness stared through his soul.

  The door opened and a woman stood in the doorway. She wasn’t dressed for this part of town; her voluminous dress was of fine green cloth, and it reached the top of high, well-polished boots. Grisat blinked at her as the woman inspected the room, a slight curl of distaste on her lips. A plain grey cloak hung from her shoulders, open enough to see a matched pair of daggers belted to her waist and a fat necklace he guessed was a push dagger.

  Mebbe she knows this part of town well enough after all.

  Grisat gulped down half of the remaining beer and scowled at it again. The taste wasn’t improving with familiarity. Without looking at the woman he slid two silver coins to the far side of the table. She made no sign of noticing, but went to the bar and ordered herself a drink, casually inspecting the other drinkers there while she waited for it.

  Satisfied there was nothing unusual, the woman headed towards a free table, changing direction at the last minute to sit on his left, a seat that gave her the best view possible of the rest of the room. As an idle gesture she flipped one of the coins over so the king’s head was face down and slipped the second in her pocket.

  From that she produced a blank coin like the one tormenting Grisat – ground down and scored with a knife so a circle was scratched on one side and a cross on the other. She didn’t place it on the table, just turned it around in her fingers to show him both sides and returned it to her pocket.

  ‘I was expecting someone else,’ she said coolly, one hand resting on a dagger grip. ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘Someone sent to pave the way. He’ll be following soon enough.’

  ‘When I least expect it?’

  Grisat grimaced. This woman was far too like Ilumene for his liking; he recognised the calculating eyes of a professional killer, the fondness for knives.

  She picked up the small glass of cloudy liquor she’d ordered and knocked it back in one. ‘Orders for me?’

  ‘Package for me?’ he countered.

  She looked at him appraisingly for a long time. Grisat did his best to ignore her scrutiny and knocked back the last of his beer. Seeing his shudder the woman flashed him a predatory smile. ‘Next time, ask for something stronger.’

  ‘Next time it’ll be him sittin’ here.’

  She nodded and reached into a pocket in the inside of her cloak. ‘Good.’ She drew out a flat leather pouch two hand-spans across and put it on the bench beside him. Grisat heard the clink of metal links within. ‘It was expensive,’ she said, touching the package with one finger. ‘Silver isn’t cheap these days, nor are mages. Remind him that when you see him.’

  ‘You get paid for this?’

  She smiled. ‘Handsomely. You one of those who found themselves in too deep before they knew they were even in anything?’

  Grisat didn’t reply. The fact that he wasn’t the first, or likely the last, did nothing to cheer him. ‘Your orders,’ he began gruffly. ‘Alert your agents to be ready; get them to join up to a useful part of the army or something, if th
ey aren’t there already. How many knives can you muster?’

  ‘Depends how good they need to be.’

  ‘Endgame quality.’

  A flicker of surprise crossed her face. ‘I hadn’t realised. If we’re that deep in I’ve maybe five besides me good enough for our friend with the beautiful scars.’

  ‘Use the best four.’

  She nodded. ‘Simple kills?’

  ‘Each is carrying something the master wants. Securing it is the highest importance, but it’ll never leave their sides, so most likely they’ll need to kill to take it. They’ll need to have time to escape or hand off the prizes.’

  ‘The targets?’

  Grisat counted off on his fingers. ‘The Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn, Count Vesna. An illusionist, Camba Firnin. Some friend o’ the king called Morghien. General Lahk of the Farlan Ghosts. A Brotherhood battle mage called Fei Ebarn. High Mage Tomal Endine. You also need to surveil High Mage Ashain and the scryer, Tasseran Holtai – both likely to be somewhere near Moorview – for when your friend joins you.’

  ‘That’s a bastard of a list.’

  ‘If it was easy, you wouldn’t have been brought into play. You and yours have been kept back exactly for this sort of job. For each success you can name your price.’

  She raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Don’t think you know our friend so well after all. He doesn’t tend to take kindly to that sort of thing.’

  Grisat shrugged. ‘Special case, this one. He knows the value – ’less they ask for something stupid, he’ll be good for it.’

  ‘That should prove an incentive. I’ll get to work,’ the woman said, smiling. ‘Do I tell them as soon as possible, or a particular day?’

  ‘They take the opportunities they find.’ With that Grisat rose to leave, the package slipped under his own coat. Before he walked away he hesitated. The woman looked up warily, her hand again on her dagger.

  ‘Those who get in too deep without noticing – you ever seen one get out alive?’ he asked in a quiet voice.

  She gave a cough of surprise, pity and wonder mingling on her face. ‘The reluctant ones? No. That might change with the end in sight, but my advice is to accept it. You look like a mercenary, right? Well embrace the cause and enjoy your pay – there’s no quitting and our friend prefers an agent who needs him, not just fears him. Expensive whores, drugs, jewels – doesn’t matter what, if you’re his all the way and you lose the hangdog face, he’ll not piss you away so easily.’

  She looked down and flicked her empty glass with her finger nail. ‘Send the barman over on your way out.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Lord Fernal sat alone in a dim study, picking at the plate of cold meat and cheese sitting on a table beside him. The window shutters were open and he watched the last of the daylight recede in the east, slivers of light gleaming on the drifting river that cut across his view. The fields and hedgerows were already dark, but his predator’s eyes caught the small movements of rabbits on the fringes of the human domain. He watched them moving warily, ears twitching at each shout and laugh from the banquet hall nearby, but not driven from their grazing by the clamour.

  A knock came on the door. Fernal sighed and called for them to enter. A liveried guardsman announced Duke Lomin, but the nobleman was already inside the room before Fernal nodded his assent.

  ‘My Lord,’ Duke Lomin said, ‘your absence has been noticed at the banquet.’

  Fernal turned in his seat to face the bearded soldier. ‘Noticed? I would hope so; I am their lord after all.’

  ‘The new arrivals were all keen to toast your health.’

  ‘Really?’ Fernal asked wearily, ‘and after that I’m sure they’d be commending your lineage, Duke Lomin.’ The man coloured and Fernal held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry. The insult was not aimed at you but your peers.’

  ‘Whatever their feelings, you should come down. You have called them here, after all, and have given little reason for so many to assemble.’

  ‘Is their lord’s will not enough?’

  ‘Not for long,’ Lomin said. ‘My Lord, why are we all here? There’s no insurrection to put down, no threat of invasion from the south – if anything, the army should be heading north to the coast to face down the Yeetatchen raids.’

  ‘The fact that you don’t believe Ruhen is a threat does not alter my policy, Duke Lomin,’ Fernal said with a growl.

  ‘Yes, my Lord, and we are bound to follow you to war – this we know, but some of us have been beyond the Farlan borders for months now. If there is no enemy to fight, well – it is testing the limits of obedience.’

  ‘Chief Steward Lesarl has more than a few things to say about Farlan obedience,’ Fernal said with a gesture of one taloned hand to the letters on another table, ‘but call it what you will, I realise they are chafing under my authority.’

  ‘My Lord, you’ve gathered the rulers of fourteen Farlan domains, along with their troops, here in this pitiful little border town, with no enemy to fight and many concerned they will have to refuse you outright if you press to take the fight to the child, Ruhen.’

  Fernal rose and went to face Duke Lomin; the massive, midnight-blue Demi-God loomed over him. ‘Do they send you as their emissary?’

  ‘I am the highest-ranked among them, it is my place to speak to you. They seek assurances that you will not drag the Farlan into another nation’s war.’

  ‘You mean a war that concerns us just as much as it does our ally fighting it?’ Fernal shook his head sadly. ‘I will never understand your people, Duke Lomin. However, I understand there are formalities to adhere to. Lead on to the banquet.’

  As they went out into the torch-lit street and headed for the banquet hall Fernal’s liveried guards fell in around them. A pair of Lomin’s own hurscals kept to the fringes. Before they reached the hall, however, Duke Lomin stopped and pointed ahead.

  ‘Suzerains Amah and Danva were the most anxious to speak to you themselves, rather than be represented by me.’

  ‘Both recently come into their titles, no? Their fathers lying among the dead on the Chir Plains?’

  ‘Danva’s father was suzerain-in-regent for his infant nephew, now dead of scarlet fever, but Amah was uncle to the previous suzerain.’

  Fernal nodded and moved forward to greet the two recently arrived noblemen. Both knelt and offered him their swords as tradition demanded.

  ‘My Lords,’ Fernal said in his deep, rumbling voice, ‘I am glad to see you both here.’

  ‘Thank you, your Grace,’ Amah replied quickly, a burly man with greying hair and cheeks scarred by some childhood illness. ‘Might we now know why we are here?’

  ‘Because I command it,’ Fernal said.

  ‘The situation here requires so many soldiers?’ he countered, barely keeping the anger from his voice. ‘Is the concern rebellion or invasion?’

  ‘Rebellion is always a concern of mine,’ Fernal said pointedly. ‘I am newer to my title than even you both. However, the greater threat remains in the Circle City.’

  ‘The child, Ruhen? My Lord, have I missed some piece of intelligence? All I hear is that he preaches a message of peace and denounces the corruption of the priesthoods.’ Amah frowned. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but did not the Farlan nobility mobilise specifically to face down the cults and prevent civil war?’

  ‘For which you have my gratitude. But it does not override other matters.’

  Amah shared a look with Danva. ‘My Lord, the child’s threat is surely to the cults? Since we have broken their power and now formally limit it, why are we not allied with Ruhen? Our goals coincide; the enemy is a common one, yet I’m told we have slaughtered two parties of missionaries and turned back others. Why do you seek war, my Lord?’

  ‘They have had their warnings; they refuse to heed them. As for the missionaries slaughtered, they came with several regiments of Devoted as escort and preferred to fight rather than return to their own lands. You would prefer foreign powers be allowed to march troops into Far
lan territory?’

  ‘Of course not – but I still do not understand your antipathy, the preference of provoking war over building links with our new neighbours.’

  ‘You would have me welcome messengers of peace who come accompanied by hundreds of fighting men?’ Fernal asked, taking a step towards the suzerain.

  Unlike Duke Lomin, the suzerain could not help but edge back from the Demi-God’s size and brutal appearance. He didn’t even notice Fernal’s guards putting their hands on their weapons.

  ‘There is a specific agreement between myself and the suzerains of the Farlan. You have received a copy of it?’

  Suzerain Amah nodded.

  ‘Good, so you know the terms already then. Nowhere does it say I must explain myself to you, only that I will not lead you into a war on foreign soil without recognised justification. I choose not to dwell on reasons or explanations; otherwise I might require a few of my own, and point out our finest are already fighting in such a war.’

  ‘My Lord,’ Lomin interceded, stepping forward, ‘we are all aware of the terms, and we shall abide by them. The question remains: what threat exists on our border? The expense of maintaining such a large force here is significant, and we all have matters to attend to at home, in addition to the new lands we are now administering here in Helrect and Scree.’

  ‘You are telling me I must release the nobility to be about their own affairs?’

  Lomin bowed. ‘It would seem time for that, my Lord. All intelligence suggests the Devoted troops are heading for the Narkang border – they pose us no threat. The purpose of this show of strength is achieved, to my mind.’

  And there you have it, Fernal thought as he looked around at the faces watching him, emotion showing even on the faces of Lomin’s hurscals, hovering behind their lord. They offer me a way out, a way to save face and move on. The question is – do I take it? Where does my duty lie? I gave my oath to serve the Farlan, to ensure they do not fall into civil war, but what of the Land itself, the friendships I bear and the war they are engaged in?