“When I’m with you,” Malden said, “that’s all I ever am. Your man.”
She made no reply.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but she had already lifted her hands and tilted her head back. The ice began to firm up just off shore. Malden knew she couldn’t hold it very long. Hardening his heart, he raced for the far side, for the Ditchside Stair and solid ground.
Chapter One Hundred
The Lemon Garden could no longer hold all the supplicants who wanted a piece of Malden’s precious time-and some of the more devout citizens had begun to object to entering a whorehouse just to make their points heard. Malden took offense at that, but he knew better than to alienate his people by venting his personal feelings on them. So he took over the moothall, a massive stone building in the Spires just off Market Square. Once, the masters of every guild in the city had come there to discuss public policy. Now that the guildmasters were all gone, fled long before the barbarians arrived, it stood empty and its hearths cold.
Velmont built a fire in the enormous fireplace of the main meeting hall, while Malden walked around and around the long oak table, studying the coats of arms hung up by the rafters. The guilds those heraldic symbols belonged to had built Ness, and made it free, even more than Juring Tarness-it had been the money they accumulated that gave Ness its power. Many, many times in its history the kings of Skrae had tried to tax the city, or to enslave its population despite its charter. Always they’d been bought off with tributes and fat bribes. Ness had bought its safety and its freedom with money earned by hard work and shrewd dealings.
That was the official story anyway. It ignored the fact that since the beginning of the guild system the actual workers-the laborers, the unskilled and the eternally apprenticed-had been exploited and ruthlessly kept down, all so the merchants who sat in this hall could squeeze out another farthing from their misery.
“I was downstairs in the cellar, earlier,” Velmont said when his fire was blazing cheerfully away and the room began to warm up. “They got some flash regalia down there. Guild symbols all in gold, and enow ermine and sable to make a menagerie.”
Malden nodded. “They had a grand procession every year. They would trot out the symbols of their mysteries-ornamental tools, ceremonial robes and hats and the like. Basically a way to celebrate their own importance.”
“I was just wonderin’,” Velmont said, a sly look in his eye.
Malden sighed. He knew what Velmont was asking for. For the first time a stab of conscience struck him. The regalia down there was steeped in mystery and tradition-it was part of Ness’s folk heritage, and now Velmont wanted to plunder it? How dare he?
Malden, once called Malden the Thief, could only laugh at himself. How far he had come. There had been a time when he would have tricked Velmont just so he could get first dibs at the stuff.
Now he could only think of how to use the regalia to firm his grasp on his people. “Get a team of thieves down here. Pick the ones who are the best archers, and the most loyal. Cart it all away, but be quiet about it.” The thieves had begun to grumble again, now that there was very little left in the city worth stealing. They were happy to serve Malden as Lord Mayor, they said, but if he was also going to be the guildmaster of thieves, he needed to line their pockets. He knew he could not afford to lose their favor, not when they still represented the best pool of able-bodied men under his command.
The whores, conversely, had never complained once. It seemed that they got what they truly wanted-recognition as full citizens, a little respect-just by being associated with him. He could count on Elody and Herwig and the other madams, at least.
Of the honest folk, who made up ninety percent of his constituents, he could be neither sure nor comfortable he knew how to appease them, and that worried him. If Cutbill was right and the siege was about to come to a head-and he had no reason to doubt it-then now was the time he had to solidify his power. Now was when he had to make common cause with his people, so when he asked them to fight-and die-for him, they would not hesitate.
For nearly a week he had refused to meet with any civic group, because he’d had more important things to worry about than their petty concerns. If they were starving, or terrified by the bombardment, or just desperate for recognition, he’d had no time for their feelings. Now, his neglect was starting to feel like a mistake. Perhaps they would not have turned so maniacally toward the Bloodgod and supernatural aid if they thought they had their Lord Mayor’s ear.
That day, he was in a mood to give them anything they wanted. As long as it didn’t mean losing the city in the process.
Velmont ran out just as the first supplicants started filing in. Malden recognized them at once, though they’d changed their clothes. They were dressed in scarlet and crimson now, with even their leather dyed burgundy.
The self-ordained priests of the Bloodgod. Perhaps the worst of his enemies, he thought. At least he knew where he stood with the barbarians.
There were three of them. Thin, wild-eyed men with shaggy hair and beards. He could barely tell them apart. Only one of them spoke, which meant he didn’t need to remember three names.
“Hargrove, is it?” Malden asked, falling down into a chair at the head of the table. He threw one leg over the arm of the chair and studied his nails. “I’ll ask you to be plain and not waste much of my time. I have a war to fight, you know.”
Hargrove scowled and made a complicated gesture before his face. Most likely some exhortation to Sadu. “Milord, we have not come here to condemn you, nor to censure you. You are His chosen instrument in this world,” he said. “That much has been made plain to us. Yet questions do remain.”
Malden rolled his eyes. “Of what sort?”
“Lord Mayor, you’ve never shown any sign of true piety. At least not since you resanctified the Godstone. You don’t come to our services. You’ve made no sacrifice since then. The people wish to know you believe as they do.”
“The people would be better occupied helping me break this siege,” Malden said.
“But that is exactly the point! The barbarians cannot be repelled by strength of arms. Not any such strength as we possess. Our only chance of turning them away is through divine assistance.”
“Mmm. My mother was a good woman,” Malden said.
Hargrove’s face crawled all over itself. It was known everywhere, of course, that Malden’s mother had been a whore. “May I inquire what that has to do with-”
“It was she who taught me about religion. About Sadu.”
All three priests lowered their heads at the mention of the Bloodgod’s name. They clasped their hands together and said something quick and formulaic.
“At that time the Bloodgod had no priests, nor any church in the city. Yet people still worshipped Him in their hearts. They kept that flame alive, no matter what the Burgraves did to try to snuff it out. My mother taught me that was all that was necessary. That we thank Him every day for the justice He brings to this world-the only kind of justice the impoverished will ever see.”
“Things have changed,” Hargrove said. “Now we have a better way to approach Him. A more effective method of beseeching His aid.”
Malden nodded. He knew what this was really about. “A more visible, more-pragmatic way. A way to show our faith in public, and to share it with each other.”
Hargrove actually smiled. “Exactly! A living church, for the first time in centuries. But that church cannot exist on private faith alone. If you were to make an appearance at one of our services, or-”
“Or if I were to grant you some kind of official commission?” Malden asked.
“Well, ah, that would be most useful in bringing the fire of belief to those not as-as firm in their faith, here in Ness.”
“Very good. Let’s see. The first time you came to me, you asked to be allowed to distribute the city’s food supply.”
“It was always the province of the church to do so, in olden days. Grain was gathered by the churc
h in autumn, and portioned out over the winter by the priests. It was the only way to make sure the poor received enough to eat. This tradition of charity kept Ness alive through many a hard winter.”
“None so hard as this one,” Malden said. “Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of charity and compassion.” Or graft, he thought, or hoarding, or making sure the priests get to eat first, before all those less righteous people who come demanding a bit of bread to keep their families alive. “I’m of a mind to give you exactly what you want. In exchange, I wish only your blessing-and that you not question my piety anymore.”
“I can assure you,” Hargrove said, bowing low, “such questions have fled altogether from our minds.”
Malden saw the priests out of the moothall. He found Velmont standing by the door, having already rounded up enough thieves to clear out the cellars.
Malden waved the others on, toward the regalia in the cellars, but he grabbed Velmont’s sleeve as the others filed cheerfully in. “How much of my audience did you hear?” he asked the Helstrovian thief. “Did you hear what the priests asked for?”
“I heard you givin’ ’em what they hankered for this whole time, e’en after you turned ’em down before.” Velmont looked confused.
“Ah, but back then there was an actual stock of food to be considered. How much is left now?”
“A mite,” Velmont confessed. “A few days, if everyone sticks to one meal a day, and a paltry one at that. What kind o’ fool gives up his last crust o’ bread to folk that’d spit on his shadow?”
“The kind who doesn’t want to be in charge of foodstuffs tomorrow. Tomorrow, when there is no more. When the bread runs out, the starving people will have to ask the priests for food, not me. I’ll be able to say I gave over responsibility for that to the most trustworthy men in Ness. Furthermore, there may be a few head of livestock still tucked away somewhere. How likely are the priests to waste those animals in sacrifices, if they know they’ll have no other source of meat?”
Velmont laughed, long and loud. “Ye’re gettin’ good at this, boss.”
“I’ve had a good teacher,” Malden told him. “All right, send in the next beggar who wants something I can’t afford to give away. I’m ready.” He went back to perching himself on a carved wooden chair, one leg over its arm in a pose of carefully studied insouciance. The image he presented was half his power. Cutbill had taught him that, too.
Chapter One Hundred One
The wailing of Morgain’s female warriors set Morget’s teeth on edge. For six hours they had sat outside the dead Great Chieftain’s tent, tearing their hair and howling at the sky. They followed an ancient custom that hadn’t been practiced in a hundred years, making that horrible noise to drive away the hungry ghosts that might come and snatch Morg’s soul before Death could claim it. Some of them beat on tabrets, while others clashed swords together to add to the din.
Alone among them Morgain was silent. She sat in the snow outside the blood-splashed tent, Fangbreaker naked across her knees. She kept her eyes closed-everyone knew you couldn’t see the ghosts when they came, you had to hear them dragging their bloody feet along the ground-and the paint on her face had never looked more like a real skull.
“She thinks to sway the chieftains by this show of loyalty to a dead man,” Morget said, brooding in his tent. He got up frequently to peek through an opening in the flap and see if his sister had moved at all. She had not.
“She’s trying to make you look bad,” Balint agreed. “Stop letting the cold in, will you? I could cut my meat with these nipples already.”
“You think she does this to shame me? I did nothing wrong. I acted on the will of the clans,” Morget insisted.
“You told me this ritual is never used for warriors who die in battle.”
“No, of course not. Everyone knows Death comes directly for such. After all, she’s already on the battlefield, walking with her children.”
Balint sighed. “You easterners are so transparent, yet you always think your motives are so well hidden. What she’s doing is as plain as your mother’s face. Your sister’s claiming you cheated Morg out of a proper death, by slaughtering him when he wasn’t ready for you. She’s trying to ruin your chances of being chosen as the next Great Chieftain by insinuation.” The dwarf shook her head. “You just don’t understand women at all, do you?” She got up and put another knot of wood on the stove. It was one of the last pieces on the pile-fuel was getting scarce. If Morget didn’t take the city soon, frostbite would start mutilating the clans camped outside.
He stared at his dwarven scold for a while. “Shouldn’t you be digging a tunnel right now?”
“I have a team of twenty of your best men doing it for me. They had nothing else to do.”
Morget’s blood surged in his veins. He jumped up and grabbed Dawnbringer and his axe. “Damn you. And damn her. If she thinks she’ll be chosen instead of me-”
“She has a chance at it,” Balint interrupted. “Half the clans are loyal to her, and she’ll have all the chieftains who remained loyal to Morg.”
Morget narrowed his eyes. “Not if she’s dead. They can’t choose her if she’s dead.”
He did not like the look on Balint’s face then. It was far too smug. Was he really that predictable? He thought of what Morg had said about him, right before he died. That he was under the influence of a wyrd. Such a fate could drive a man headlong, like a horse wearing blinders, until his bloodlust took him right over a cliff.
It could also drive him to everlasting glory. Often at the same time. He stormed out of the tent and across the camp toward where his sister sat vigil. “Get up,” he told her.
“Brother,” she said without opening her eyes. “I heard your feet dragging in the snow. Have you come to sit in my place and protect our father’s soul?”
“You know damned well I have not,” Morget told her. “It can wander the world forever, for all I care. Let him haunt me if he feels I acted wrongly. No real man would agree with him. I said, get up.”
“I am quite comfortable. This snow is soft as any pillow in a westerner’s bedchamber. And my grief keeps me warm.”
Morget growled. “You and I need to talk. Alone. If it comes to an election between us, the clans will never be properly united again, no matter who wins. We need to choose for ourselves.”
“You mean, we two must choose you.” She opened her eyes and stared up at him. Her pupils were two different sizes. He realized she must have been drinking black mead until she could feel nothing at all. Yet her voice had none of the manic pitch associated with the delirium-inducing drink. “I am not done yet with my vigil. Nor is this the place to talk. Do you know the place a mile from here, where a gallows stands at the crossing of two roads?”
“We tore the gallows down for firewood a week ago,” Morget told her.
She watched him without blinking.
“Yes, I know the place,” he told her.
“I will meet you there in three hours,” she said.
Morget looked for the sun. It was already low in the sky, a bright patch behind roiling clouds. The time she’d chosen would be well after dark. Perfect.
He turned and left without another word. Then he went to the blacksmith’s tent and had a new edge put on his sword.
When the time Morgain chose for the meeting came, he was at the place she’d named, ready for anything. Perhaps she thought to ambush him with her cadre of woman warriors. Perhaps she wanted only to talk, as she’d suggested. Regardless, he intended to bury her there, and say she had run off because she knew she could not bear losing to him.
Yet when she came, he did not see her arrive. Nor did she reveal herself so he could strike her down. He only heard her voice, carried along by the wind.
“Brother,” she called. “I would know-what did he say to you, before you slew him? Or did you strike fast, so as not to give him a chance to defend himself?”
Morget turned around slowly, looking for her. If she wan
ted to kill him, she’d picked the right place. He could see no farther than the blade in his hand by the little moonlight that cut its way through the clouds. The wind made it impossible to tell what direction her voice came from. There was even a good hiding place, a cluster of rocks at the exact intersection of the crossroads.
He faced the rocks and lied to her. “He said I should be the next Great Chieftain. And that I should think of some great reward for you, as compensation.”
Morgain laughed, a noise like funeral bells chiming.
“I know what he said to you,” Morget announced. He took a slow step toward the rocks. Was that hiding place too obvious? “He said he loved you.” He put as much scorn in his voice as he could muster. “What did you make of that?”
“I thought to slay him myself for the affront. And to steal your glory.”
“You didn’t, though,” Morget said. Another step closer.
“In the end I decided to do him honor, in a way he would understand. So I swallowed my bile and told him I loved him, too. It was what he wanted to hear.”
Morget grinned wickedly. “It is good for a woman to think of what a man wants, and give it to him.”
Morgain laughed again. “Let us speak of what you’ll give me, in exchange for my chieftains. A great reward, you said.”
“Yes,” Morget replied. “What will you have? You asked me for dwarven steel once. And gold.”
“I can have those things now for the effort of stooping to pick them up,” she told him. “You’ll have to do better.”
Where was she? He was close enough to see the rocks as more than shadows now, and to realize they weren’t rocks at all. They were tombstones. None of them bore names or dates, but they had the round-topped shape of western grave markers. He recalled that in Skrae, suicides and traitors were buried at the crossroads so their ghosts could not find their way back to haunt the living. Another subtle message, Morget thought, that Balint would make much of.
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