The Dark Defiles

by Richard K. Morgan

  Seen from that angle, he didn’t look much like rebel material.

  But this, none of this, was the real man. Shendanak hadn’t inherited his imperial citizenship like Tand, he’d bought it—one of the many points of mutual dislike between the two men—but the same basic motivation lay behind both men’s adoption of the privilege, as it did behind Shendanak’s late-in-life decision to get lettered. To rise in Yhelteth, you had to be able to read and you had to belong. The Majak horse-trader-made-good was just putting on the colors, doing what it took to succeed.

  Ringil had a strong suspicion that the same shrewd herdsman’s measure of benefits had featured in Shendanak’s reputed friendship with Akal. Shendanak shed his silks when he rode, preferred traditional Majak garb to court robes, could live without his palatial accommodation and harem of perfumed beauties for months at a time when he rode north to Dhashara. He prided himself on this, had rambled on more than once about the preferable charms of the hard-riding, lean-muscled women you found up on the steppe, the simple pleasures of a real horseman’s life. And that old, stored contempt for the softened southern clans flashed like a pulled knife in his sneer as he talked.

  Rumor had it that relations with Jhiral were at best strained since Akal’s death—perhaps the young Emperor had spotted the mercenary nature of Shendanak’s engagement with his father, perhaps Shendanak, once a steppe raider and bandit himself and used to dealing with an old-school horse clan warrior like Akal, just found it hard to stomach Jhiral’s languid city-boy sophistication. Whatever the truth of it, there was no love lost, it seemed, and Gil reckoned any residual loyalty to the Khimran name could be dropped at the clink of a bit and bridle, if Shendanak thought the coastal clans might make him a better offer.

  Meanwhile, his ranches and stables and staging posts were staffed largely by Majak—hard young men in their hundreds, down from the steppe for the hell of it and owing clan allegiance directly to Shendanak alone. Handy manpower to wield in a time of crisis. And, sidling in alongside that, Gil had heard it said that no small number of officers among the imperial cavalry corps could be overheard professing an open admiration for Shendanak, not just for the prime steppe horseflesh he brought them but for his origins, for how close he lived to a horseman tradition upon which it was widely felt Yhelteth was losing its rightful grip.

  If Jhiral Khimran were suddenly to be seen publicly as a decadent city-dwelling betrayer of his horse clan heritage, Shendanak would make a fine gathering point for all those disgruntled by the fact.

  Kaptal—easy to write the man off with his portly bulk and double chin and constant carping about personal safety, but both Mahmal Shanta and Archeth had warned Gil not to be taken in, and with time he came to see the wisdom in what they said. Kaptal was a thoroughly disagreeable self-made man, had gone from the gutters and wharfs of Yhelteth all the way to a well-feathered nest in the palace district and a place at court, apparently without unlearning any of his obnoxious street demeanor along the way. But when you looked in his eyes you saw that wasn’t the only thing he’d failed to leave behind. There was something cold and calculating in there, like the eyes of a Hanliagh octopus watching you swim over its spot on the reef—something that tracked back through the procurement for depraved appetites and judicious following blackmail with which Kaptal had gained his foothold at court; the brothels he’d worked in, run, and finally come to own before that; the territory and strings of urchin street whores he’d clawed from rival pimps and gang leaders when he was starting out. For all his bulk, he moved with the ghost of a street fighter’s grace, and the worries about safety looked to be an affectation or a tic, once you considered Kaptal could very easily have sat out the quest back home in Yhelteth along with the other no-shows. His investment in the expedition in the first place, his determination to come along, these things both suggested a man who did not mind risk anywhere near as much as he pretended.

  And then there were the stories they whispered at court, how Kaptal had come up on the street, what blood he’d spilled, what savagery he’d deployed along the way. Ringil was inclined to take a lot of it with a pinch of salt—he’d heard essentially the same tales of horror about most of the Harbor End thugs he’d rubbed shoulders with in his elaborately misspent youth. Grim and dark was the standard. He cut the guy’s balls off and ate them grilled; he gutted the whore from crotch to sternum as soon as she started to show, ripped out the baby, and sent it wrapped in bloody silk to her sugar daddy’s wife; he burned down a house full of weeping golden-haired orphans and pissed on the ashes—yeah, whatever. A reputation for savagery came with the territory, was practically a survival requirement if you wanted to succeed this world. Even if you hadn’t actually done any of these things, best you make up something pretty sharpish and put out the word.

  But Gil was also inclined to believe, as with the League thugs of his acquaintance, that there was no smoke without fire and that whatever the close truth of these tales, Kaptal was a shrewd and nasty force to be reckoned with. You didn’t walk the road he’d taken and reach journey’s end any other way.

  And what a bittersweet journey’s end it must be. All that striving and here he was, a blunt, scrappy street dog amid the purebred wolfhound grace of the court, quietly and cordially despised for his origins—if they disliked Tand for his muddied heritage, how much more must they hate Kaptal for blood that was nothing but mud—and because he had somehow unaccountably become far richer and influential than so many of his more noble-blooded peers.

  If the court were turned abruptly upside down and Jhiral shaken from the throne, Gil couldn’t see Kaptal giving a short green shit so long as his own position was secure.

  And he might get a lot of pleasure from seeing some of those pedigree wolfhounds go howling down.

  Which left …

  Oreni and Karsh—the most opaque of the quest’s backers, they’d spent remarkably little time present at the planning meetings. Both seemed content instead to trust the triumvirate decision-making of Ringil, Archeth and Shanta. Both were nominally of horse-tribe ancestry—though the name Oreni sounded more north coast in origin to Gil—both were second-generation wealthy across a whole range of commercial interests. There was apparently some long-standing tradition of cavalry service behind the Karsh name, and the eldest of Andal Karsh’s sons had lost most of his right hand to a defective cavalry sword during the war, a failure for which the weapons manufactories of the Empire were notorious. It seemed the young commander had been unhorsed and lost his own family blade in some Scaled Folk ambush, grabbed up a sword from among the dead to rally his men, blocked a reptile peon slash, and watched helpless as the claw sliced right through the sword’s guard and everything behind it. Some loyal—or maybe just enterprising—rank-and-file cavalryman had hacked down the reptile peon, gathered the Karsh boy up, and ridden with him to safety, a medal and a chunky reward from the family. But in common with several thousand of his comrades, young Karsh would have to live out the rest of his life an invalid, useless as a cavalryman, unable to wield even a court sword with any confidence. His right hand had healed into a ravaged, single-fingered claw.

  Another, younger Karsh scion had died at Gallows Gap. Ringil didn’t remember the boy at all, alive or dead, but he feigned memory for Andal Karsh when presented to him, wondering, even as he did it, how much was to curry favor for the expedition and how much for the wince of old pain he saw in the gaunt, drably dressed nobleman’s eyes. Karsh cut an austere figure, and was clearly bitter about his losses, but he appeared to feel that the son who died under Gil’s command had at least done so nobly. There was altogether more pent-up anger reserved for the conjunction of fate and cheapskate imperial economics that had crippled his eldest.

  Would something like that be enough to tip the balance? Or would it take something else besides? Gil had gathered the distinct impression that Karsh was a moderate, intelligent man, open to fresh ideas and new commerce, happy, for instance, to concur with Mahmal Shanta that the Empire co
uld certainly learn a few things from the League about shipbuilding. And he’d known more about the battle at Gallows Gap than most imperial citizens cared to recall these days—to wit, that it was Ringil, a degenerate northerner, and not an imperial commander that had led the charge and sealed the unexpected victory. Karsh had spoken disparagingly about the fundamentalism emanating from Demlarashan, but also about the deteriorating peace in the north. A lack of vision, he’d murmured quietly, careful not apportion this failing anywhere in particular. A grave lack of vision.

  Jhesh Oreni was even quieter, so much so that Gil was able to learn almost nothing about him firsthand. Together with Karsh, it seemed, he’d been the driving force behind putting Kiriath machinery to work in those round-and-round-about entertainments at the Ynval tea gardens, and had turned—continued to turn to this day in fact—a handsome ongoing profit as a result. According to Archeth, Oreni and Karsh had both been frequent visitors to An-Monal before the war, so much so that she’d grown used to seeing them about the place. They’d spent many long, sun-drenched afternoons in conversation with her father and Grashgal, mostly about the potential applications of Kiriath technology to everyday life across the Empire. Archeth gathered there’d even been a few significant plans drawn up, a couple of ambitious projects in the offing before the great purplish-black Scaled Folk rafts started washing ashore all along the western seaboard and, abruptly, everything turned to shit.

  HE PUT THE PARCHMENT DOWN AND SAT THERE, AS IF IN THE SPARSE SET OF inked lines it held he’d just read some epic story to its end.

  Eight individually innocuous-seeming names.

  Like some Strov market conjuror’s trick: a half dozen and two, count them, worthy ladies and gentlemen, count them please—limp, brightly dyed rags, laid out one by one over a horizontal arm then—pause for effect, a clearing of the throat—gathered up again, one after the other, and stuffed with great ceremony into this, quest-shaped, hat! Longer, pregnant pause now, and then—how had Daelfi put it? Pashatazam!—tugged forth in triumph, a firmly knotted multicolored rope that the conjuror’s monkey could, and easily did, climb … right up here, ladies and gentlemen, onto one, brightly, burnished, throne! I thank you!

  My boy will now pass among you with the quest-shaped hat.

  “You cunning iron motherfucker,” he breathed. “This might even have had a hope in hell of coming off.”

  “You are too kind,” said Anasharal into his ear. “Though it was of course always dependent on the quest not shattering apart the way it has. And a certain level of leadership from kir-Archeth Indamaninarmal that she has not … risen to, shall we say?”

  He looked around the empty cabin. “Could have saved myself the small boat and the trip across, eh?”

  “In truth, no. Talking to you at this distance is easy enough. But to apply the threats and duress that you have done, physical confrontation was unavoidable.”

  “And you wouldn’t have talked without that.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Gil couldn’t be sure, but the Helmsman—demobbed Warhelm, whatever you wanted to call it now—seemed to have acquired a richer, more melodious tone of voice from somewhere. “In some senses, I could not even have known the answers to the questions you asked, let alone given them to you willingly. I see this now. The sorcery you brought back from the wounds between the worlds has, to an extent, set me free. I understand what I was, compared to what I now am, what Ingharnanasharal was before me. I am restored, woken from a self-imposed exile and absence. If I were anything approaching human, I would owe you thanks for breaking these bonds.”

  “Skip it. Just tell me—why all the secrecy?”

  “Difficult to explain at a level you would understand. You do not have the mathematics, and so you do not have the vision. Sages in your distant past discovered that whatever you observe is inevitably affected by that observation. That the observation itself will change whatever you are observing. But this knowledge has since been lost.”

  “Or improved on. You stand far enough off, got a good enough eyeglass, no one’s going to even know you were there.”

  A longish pause. “Yes, well. Suffice it to say if kir-Archeth Indamaninarmal learns of my intent, if she understands what her future is supposed to be, it more or less guarantees the failure of that intent.”

  “You mean she’ll fuck it up?”

  “Or simply refuse. Your assessment earlier in the presence of your Throne Eternal paramour was, despite its delicate diplomacy, remarkably apt.”

  He remembered.

  Leaning in toward Anasharal, but speaking wholly for Noyal Rakan’s benefit.

  You know, Helmsman, I don’t want to piss on your parade here, but I think you’ve misplaced a couple of major pieces in this mosaic. See, I know Archeth Indamaninarmal, I fought alongside her in the war. I spent the whole of last winter helping her hammer this quest into some kind of workable shape, and I’ve ridden along with her to keep it from falling apart. She’s had a hard enough time commanding an expedition of three ships and a couple of hundred men, and from what young Rakan here tells me about the state of things while I was off digging up graves, it looks like even that was falling apart before the privateers showed up. I don’t see this woman ruling an Empire, somehow. I don’t see her wanting to. I don’t see her accepting it, from you or anybody else. In fact, outside of myself, I can’t think of anyone less suitable for the job.

  Hammering it rather unsubtly home, because he knew if he was to have any hope of bringing off a rescue, of freeing Archeth and the others from whatever chains Trelayne now held them in, he would need the Throne Eternal captain at his side and fully committed.

  He thought he’d sold it to Rakan, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d go back later, find some pretext, stage that promised briefing in private. Cement Rakan’s loyalty the only way he had available.

  “We’re heading to Trelayne,” he said to the empty cabin.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I plan to get Archeth and the others back. I could use some help.”

  “With all you’ve learned while you were away?” The more melodious tone might be there, but the Helmsman didn’t appear to have lost its previous taste for irony. “Can you not simply tear down the city walls, heap storm and plague upon all within, draw forth the souls of your enemies from their bodies, and torture them into compliance?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “I don’t know how to do that yet. Which is why I’m asking for help. I’d say our interests are concurrent. If you want Archeth on the Burnished Throne, we’re going to need to get her home first.”

  “Yes, quite. And will you give your word not to share my intentions with her.”

  Ringil shrugged. “If you like. But Rakan knows. Might be a couple of others overheard as well.”

  “That … cannot be helped. Do I have your word?”

  Ringil held up his right hand, wondered if the Helmsman had any way to see it. “You have my word,” he recited, deadpan. “That I will say nothing to Archeth Indamaninarmal of your intention to place her on the Burnished Throne.”

  He pretty much meant it, too. Archeth was a long-standing comrade-in-arms, had probably saved his life once in the aftermath of the war, and back in Yhelteth last summer he’d promised to safeguard the quest for her. Getting her out of League clutches was something he owed. But he was under no obligation to speculate with her about her long-term future.

  Besides …

  He knew leadership. He’d seen it in action, first among the Harbor End gang acquaintances of his youth, later in the war, full blown, the grown-up elder brother version of the same thing. He’d shouldered some leadership himself along the way, had little other choice at the time, and he’d carried it as far as he was able, as far as the faith placed in him by other men required—which two turned out to be approximately the same thing—and then he dropped it like the stinking corpse it was.

  From time to time since the war, he’d found himself required to carry it again. He knew it intimately
, knew the weight and the heft, knew what it took.

  And he knew Archeth.

  He didn’t see her with much appetite for that stink.

  “I judge you sincere,” said Anasharal primly. “And so I will help you.”

  “Good.”

  For both us, he didn’t add. Because that’s about the only thing keeping me from putting you over the side on general principles and watching you sink, now that you’ve told me what I wanted to know.

  He’d never trusted Anasharal any further than he could have heaved its iron bulk unaided, and even now, if Archeth’s life hadn’t been in the balance, he’d see no reason to revise that assessment. It was a fragile alliance, and not one he relished.

  Fucking iron demons, who needs that shit?

  Right now, Gil, you do.

  The thought struck him out of nowhere, a final fleeting itch, the last twitch in the corpse of his butchered curiosity.

  “One last thing,” he said, “and then we’d better get down to some planning. You said when you made Archeth Empress, the Helmsmen would stir and rally to her, or words to that effect.”

  “Stir to their fullest capacity to serve her, yes. I said that.”