A Necklace of Souls

by R. L. Stedman

  Jed told Will little about himself, save what Will already knew. He was a wanderer, working as a hired sword for whoever had coin, travelling from one place to the next. Never found a woman, never settled down, he seemed as lonely and self-sufficient as a mountain. At first, Will had found this reticence strange, but more recently it had been soothing. Jed might be uncommunicative, but he was reliable in a fight and asked no questions of Will. In many ways he was an ideal travelling companion. Although, sometimes, conversations around the fire would be welcome. Out in these wastes the nights could seem very lonely.

  Eventually, the plains gave way to dry hills and the scholar’s small caravan passed under stone watch towers. Dragon-emblazoned flags fluttered from their turrets and eagles circled in the clear sky, calling in harsh voices. It was a bleak landscape — bitterly cold at night, baking hot by day. Paved with tightly fitted stone, the road ran down a dusty valley and, following a dried-up watercourse, left the mountains.

  And there below them were the grasslands: flat steppes covered with grass and tufts of woodland, crisscrossed by canals that sparkled in the sunlight. And a city. The company of travellers stood on a low plateau, staring out at the sprawling buildings. After weeks in the wastelands, it seemed an incongruous sight. It reminded Will of a hive, the horses and camels and carts teeming towards it from all sides like bees to their nest.

  ‘Behold,’ said one of the guards, ‘the Black Stronghold.’

  It took the best part of the day to reach the gates. There were four set in the outermost wall, north, south, east and west, and the road curved around towards them, crossing canals as it went and winding around large domed tents, set like markers on the plain before the city.

  At the city, Jed and Will were permitted to remain at the scholar’s house, sleeping above the stables while they searched for another hire. They were searching, too, for information on the Eternal One, but that wasn’t the sort of matter you could raise directly.

  The delay was frustrating but the city was a place of wonder. It was exciting, thought Will, to walk along the streets and hear every language spoken, to smell strange foods wafting from narrow alleys. The streets were crowded with folk and produce and donkeys and carts. Slaves carried the wealthy in palanquins or on their backs. The feet of a nobleman, Will learnt, must never touch the ground, save in his own palace.

  Wide canals brought water from the nearby rivers and the roads brought a motley collection of men and women from the four corners of the empire. There seemed to be a multitude of faiths; many varied types of temples to many varied gods were set about the city. In one hour Will passed a steepled church, a temple with a bell-shaped roof, a mosque with a gilded minaret, and innumerable stone shrines to various gods.

  The city had been built from grey stone, dragged across the empty plains by dying slaves a thousand years ago. The stone was aged now and stained black by smoke from countless fires, and the city had spread far beyond the original walls. In some ways it resembled an onion; the outermost wall was only the first of the walls that encircled the place. There were seven walls in all, some with gates and sentries, while some lay in ruins and people stepped across their stone mounds freely. But the innermost part of the city, the Palace of Infinite Peace, was forbidden to all save the royal family and their slaves who dwelt within it.

  Will, following the scent of cooking, wandered one morning into an open square with a fountain in the middle. No water played, for the fountain was under repair. Will sat on a bench and watched the slaves scrubbing the statue. It was shaped like a tree. The part they had not yet cleaned was green-black, like liquorice, but the topmost part gleamed like metal.

  Will had never seen a slave before. Here, there were thousands. Just over a week in the city and already he could tell a man was a slave by the brand on his wrist or face, and by his clothing. By his general demeanour too; there was something cowed about a slave. Most seemed healthy enough, with good skin and clear eyes. They spoke little, and then only to one another. There were women slaves too, but one saw them less often; generally, they were ornamental — employed to warm a man’s bed or to dance for his guests. Skilled slaves such as scribes or masons were desirable commodities and were well cared for. But labourers, such as these men hard at work scrubbing the fountain, fell somewhat between a donkey and a mare in value. What were their lives like?

  What would Dana make of it? Was she watching him now, as she slept? It was an unnerving thought, knowing she could cross a world in her dreams. Although, it did give him a sense of security, rather like having a weapon your enemy doesn’t know of.

  ‘What do you think of the city, then?’ said a voice.

  Will started. He’d been so deep in thought he’d not heard any footsteps. A man, tall and bearded, sat down next to him. His face was odd — he had blue eyes and pale skin. Then Will realized with a start that this might be his own face, seen in a stream. He’d become so used to the features of the people of the Stronghold that he saw his own face as foreign.

  ‘You speak my tongue,’ said Will.

  ‘I saw you here and I thought, here’s a chance to see if I can still remember.’

  He had a slight accent, a softening of vowels, a lisp on the s, but, still, it was English and it was a long time since Will had heard it spoken by anyone save Jed.

  ‘You speak very well,’ said Will.

  ‘Thank you.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, watching the men polish the fountain with soft cloths.

  ‘Have you lived here long?’ asked Will.

  ‘Near on twenty years. I am a fabric merchant.’ The man turned towards him, held out his hand. ‘Jean-Luc Moal.’

  ‘Will Baker,’ said Will, grasping the man’s hand. The skin of Moal’s hand was soft, his nails well cared for. This was a man who worked behind a desk. Probably a man of some resource.

  ‘Tell me, Will, what do you think of that fountain there?’

  Will squinted at it. ‘It’s unusual.’

  ‘It is made of silver,’ said Moal. ‘There is a story that many years ago the fountain burst forth with mare’s milk as the Emperor rode past. Since then, the fountain is cleaned and polished at the time of the moon’s eclipse.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘That is the time the Emperor meets his people,’ said Moal. ‘You don’t know of the moon parades? You must be new to the city. Are you seeking hire, Will Baker?’

  Will nodded his head. ‘I’m a fighter,’ he said.

  ‘So I thought, from the power of your grip. You should speak with the noyan, the commander, then. He is looking for capable fighters.’

  ‘The city is rich, well organized,’ said Will. ‘Why does he need fighters?’

  ‘Ah well — the city is not so wealthy that it can be without guards. The preparation of the fountain there means the Emperor will soon come forth.’

  ‘And there is a need for guards at that time?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Moal, sounding surprised. ‘The times are troubled, my friend. The Emperor may be eternal, but is it not said, “even the mightiest may be slain by a single arrow”? The noyan will take no chances.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Will, grabbing Jed’s arm and dragging him from the inn. How did Jed always manage to find an inn? No matter where they went, the man had an almost superhuman ability to find ale.

  ‘Where? What?’

  ‘While you’ve been getting yourself merry,’ said Will, ‘I’ve been gaining information.’

  ‘So have I. I know who makes the best beer.’

  ‘We need more coin, right?’ said Will.

  ‘I s’pose.’

  ‘I know how to get some.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Jed slapped Will on the shoulder. ‘Then you won’t need me.’

  ‘Hey!’ Will grabbed Jed’s sleeve as the man turned back towards the inn. ‘Come on. You’ll thank me later.’

  ‘You always say that,’ grumbled Jed, following. ‘And I never do.’

  As Moa
l had said, the noyan was looking for soldiers. He gestured at them as they came into the room, and said two words. An interpreter stood nearby, a slave with an ugly brand on his cheek. He repeated the words in an assortment of tongues until he reached English.

  ‘Fight. Now.’

  ‘What? Each other?’ said Will, eyeing Jed.

  The slave sighed. ‘No. Him.’

  He pointed to the doorway. Blocking the light stood the widest man Will had ever seen. Bare-chested, barehanded, he watched Will and Jed as though they were insects. Which, compared with him, thought Will, they might well be. The man smashed his fist into an open palm and barked something in the local tongue.

  In a bored voice the interpreter repeated, ‘Fight.’ He nodded at Will. ‘You first.’

  Jed laughed. ‘Fight that? It’s not a man, it’s a monster.’

  Will said nothing but watched the man enter the room. The floor shook. He’s big, thought Will, but is he fast?

  ‘Fight,’ roared the enormous warrior, the interpreter repeating like an echo.

  ‘Alright,’ said Jed. ‘We understand.’

  At the desk the noyan sighed, pushed back his stool as if to leave. Will crouched, a fighter’s stance. He waved the warrior forward with his fingertips and began to circle. Watch him move, he thought.

  No time, no time. The man stooped and rushed him. Hell, he’s fast.

  ‘Come on, Will,’ called Jed.

  Will ducked under the man’s arm, came up under his armpit. He grabbed the wrist, trying to lock his opponent’s arm behind him, pushing forwards against the muscle-bound shoulder. The man shook his hand gently, as if Will were a flea, and pulled free. He pivoted like a snake, grabbed for Will again. Now, though, Will was awake and ready. He ducked again, coming up again under him, one strike to the kidneys, another, left, right. The man grunted, turned again. Will kicked up into the breastbone. Not too hard; too hard could kill.

  The man grunted, shook his head in surprise, bore down on him again. Maybe he should have kicked harder.

  Block, block against the punches, step forward and crunch! Will banged his head into the man’s nose, ignored the pain, stepped away as the man groaned, swayed and toppled forward.

  ‘Well done, Will.’ Jed turned to the startled interpreter. ‘An’ that’s just for starters. Wait ’til I’ve finished with him.’

  The noyan jumped up, his stool clattering, and fired a rapid volley of questions at Will. The interpreter struggled to keep up.

  ‘My lord asks where you are from. He wants to know who taught you to fight like this. He asks which weapons you use.’

  Will smiled, rubbed his forehead. Seems as though he’d impressed them.

  There was a groan from the floor. The huge warrior put his hand to his head. Blood trickled from his nose, and his eye was swelling blue. Will helped him up. The man weighed a ton. An equerry came running with bandages and helped the giant away.

  The interpreter and the commander stared at Will with interest.

  ‘What?’ said Will.

  ‘No-one has defeated him,’ said the interpreter seriously. ‘To even touch him is a triumph. We have never seen him knocked out before now. Ever.’

  ‘When can you start?’ said the noyan.

  Will looked at Jed. ‘Tomorrow?’

  The commander spoke rapidly, the interpreter following as fast as he could. ‘My lord says: “We have a small squad, elite fighters. Their style is similar to yours. You will join them. Come tomorrow to the Dragon Gate. Ask for their leader, Kasar. He is your age. Like you, he is an efficient fighter. You will have much in common.” ’ The interpreter paused. ‘You and Kasar will be an interesting pair. My lord and I wonder which of you will prove the greater fighter.’

  32

  Frivolity and Fireworks

  Great trees had been harvested and left to dry in a covered shed near the parade ground at the end of the last Festival. Earlier in the day they’d been dragged from storage and piled high for a bonfire. Its heat was so intense that, even up on the balcony, we felt uncomfortably warm.

  ‘I had to stop them,’ muttered Father. ‘They were about to pour pitch on it. To make it burn better! Can you imagine it? As it is, the cobbles will be cracked.’

  ‘Relax, Father,’ said Owein.

  ‘He ought to be here,’ Mother hissed. ‘I blame you, Dana.’

  She was always blaming me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You humiliated him.’

  It was about Alden. Again. Mother’s favourite, the son who loved dressing well and dancing. ‘It was an accident, Mother.’

  Alden had always sulked. Once, when I was five and he was eleven, I’d dropped a toy from a window, smashing it on the flag-stones below. He wouldn’t talk to me for a week after that, even though I’d offered him my special doll in exchange.

  No doubt he’d arrive when he had a mind to return. I wasn’t going to fret about my brother’s temper, not when there was so much to see. Jugglers tossed burning brands to one another; the fire lit the faces of the audience but not their clothes, so it seemed that the courtyard was filled with a sea of disembodied heads.

  A piper stepped into the circle of firelight and played a short lament while the jugglers bowed and bowed again, to howls of applause. Up above the crowd we clapped politely but did not cheer, for that was not becoming for royalty. They must have heard us anyway, or were well schooled, for they bowed again to our balcony.

  A group of burly men, their shadows looming behind them, stood at the front of the crowd. They were clothed entirely in leather: aprons, gauntlets, thick chaps over their legs. These were the runners, the carriers of the barrels that yesterday had been covered in pitch and now were placed in a heap beside the gate-house. Traditionally, the runners were blacksmiths, immensely strong, used to working in heat and fire, chosen from villages around the Kingdom. To be selected as a fire runner was a great honour, and a source of rivalry among neighbouring villages.

  A drummer entered the fire circle and joined his instrument to the piper; a dull drone with a deep thumping beat. The men stepped up behind them, forming a rough line as the crowd parted, leaving a corridor for the musicians. Stiff-legged in their leather, the smiths walked towards the barrels. They passed out of our gaze, but this was no matter; they’d return soon enough.

  Mother pulled my sleeve. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘He’s probably sulking.’

  ‘Well, he’s sulked for long enough.’

  ‘Send a servant to fetch him, then.’

  She snorted. ‘Imagine the gossips — that the Crown Prince is too petulant to attend the Firelight Festival?’

  ‘Well, and so he is,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe so, but I’d rather not emphasize the fact.’ She opened her fan with a snap and waved it in irritation. ‘Where can he be?’

  Right now, I didn’t care. The men, their pitch-smothered burdens pressed against their chests, entered the fire circle. Another, slimmer figure, the Fire Master, lifted a burning brand ceremoniously above his head and plunged it down onto the first barrel. It burst into flame as the crowd roared and cheered.

  Holding the blazing wood in outstretched arms, the smith turned, running through the crowd, towards the gate house. The postern gate was open; he stopped there, by that dark break in the lighter grey of the Castle walls, and flung the barrel high. What strength those men must have! It clattered, bouncing down the steep slope of the mount, and plunged into the moat. From here we could see it floating, a distant, flaming spark. The second man followed, the third, the fourth, until there were six barrels aflame on the moat. If they floated all the way around the Castle there would be good luck for the next harvest. Up on the ramparts the guards would keep watch when they could spare an eye from the fireworks.

  Finally, the fire runners returned, their shoulders drooped as though they’d run a long race. Some would have burns on their faces or hands and many would have lost their eyebrows. But right now, no-one was inspecting fac
es or eyebrows. For we were waiting impatiently for the highlight of the Festival: the fireworks.

  The drummer and piper returned to the fire circle, flanking the Fire Master, a thin shadow against the bonfire’s glow. He waved his stick, struck a spark from the cobbles. The crowd roared, me with them. Mother elbowed me in the ribs. This was real magic! Not the golden showers of light that Rinpoche had showed me, but the conjuring of fire from empty air — this was what I wanted to do.

  He struck a second spark, and a third. And finally, it happened; the string of the detonator caught, and the small light travelled, crawling along the line, as the crowd swayed, watching its progress up the wall of the keep, over to the ramparts where it grew and thickened, dividing along the other strings that had been set there. Some burnt fast, others slow. That speed, the master had told me when I was small, was the art of fire.

  ‘It’s not the striking of sparks, little one,’ he’d said when I asked him how it was done. ‘It’s in the tiny strings that the true art lies.’

  I didn’t believe him then and I didn’t today; no mere twist of cord could be as sensational as those frail lights in the darkness.

  The flame reached the top and spread, travelling rapidly as the crowd held its breath. Then, ‘Aah!’ we roared, as the first rocket exploded, a shower of green-gold light against the black night sky.

  I screamed too. But it was not a gasp of pleasure but a shout of terror, for here was N’tombe at my elbow, appearing from empty air. Her hood was thrown back from her face and her eyes, the only part of her face visible in the dark, were wide and troubled.

  Mother’s mouth opened in shock.

  ‘What’s happened?’ said Father, sharply.

  Another rocket burst into the night as the people roared their approval. Any other time, I thought wildly, someone appearing out of nowhere would be a cause for concern, even panic. But not tonight. Tonight, no-one noticed.

  ‘The prisoners,’ said N’tombe.

  ‘What of them?’ said Father, just as a third rocket lifted and burst, showers of purple flowers falling to the ground like malignant rain.