The Legion of Flame (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  Must be the shame of defeat, Morradin said, moving closer to peer down at the pleading Islander. Very strict honour code amongst these savages, you know.

  He’ll feel differently tomorrow, Sirus returned.

  Perhaps. Or perhaps our drake god will toss him to his brood. Though it would be interesting to see what he knows about the Shaman King. Morradin crouched, leaning closer to the fence and speaking aloud, his modified throat making the words guttural and rasping, like a snake attempting human speech. “Ullema Kahlan,” he said, a name that seemed to hold the same meaning on every island they took.

  The Islander’s face hardened at Morradin’s words, the desperation abruptly replaced by defiance. He muttered something in his own language then lowered his gaze and squirmed away from the fence, rolling over and lying in hunched defeat. See? Morradin asked, straightening. Loyal to the death. These tribes feud and fight for generations but forget it all when the Shaman King calls for unity. He’ll have word of us by now, boy. It’s an even bet he’ll be gathering his warriors. A cheery note crept into Morradin’s thoughts as he took another puff on his cigarillo. I suspect we might actually have us a real battle next time.

  And you relish the prospect?

  Morradin shrugged. Easy victory is boring. Carvenport. He bared pointed teeth in a nostalgic grin. Now, that was quite something. I’d’ve taken it in three days if it wasn’t for those confounded mechanical guns, and their Blood-blessed. He pushed a memory into Sirus’s head, the images vague and out of focus until Sirus realised he was viewing a fierce struggle of some kind through a spy-glass. Figures leapt to unnatural heights, pistols blazing as they shot and lashed out at one another whilst the air around them shimmered with blasts of heat.

  Blood-blessed in battle, Sirus realised, a sight he had never seen before. It was a grim spectacle, but a spectacle nonetheless.

  Yes. Morradin’s memory was rich in warm satisfaction. The day I sent in the Blood Cadre to punch a hole in the Protectorate defences. Didn’t work, of course. They threw in their own Blood-blessed, as you can see. Only a half-dozen Cadre agents made it back. But it was a fine old show, and I had the satisfaction of watching so many of Kalasin’s beloved children die. The city would have been mine the next day . . . His thoughts darkened, crowding with scenes of slaughter, the horde of drakes exploding from the jungle to tear his army to pieces.

  Morradin drained his drinking-horn in a few gulps, the memories becoming more indistinct under the weight of alcohol. Emperor’s balls, that stuff is rank, he observed, tossing the horn aside and turning to walk away on unsteady legs.

  They say he’s a Blood-blessed too, Sirus thought. The Shaman King. The only one born to the Isles in six generations. Perhaps that’s why they revere him so.

  Then I hope he’s drunk his fill of product, Morradin replied, continuing to stagger away. Because I’m hoping for another fine old show.

  CHAPTER 18

  Lizanne

  Makario’s fingers danced over the keys as he favoured Lizanne with a grin, eyes twinkling behind the long dark hair that hung over his slender face. “Well?” he asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow and removing his hands from the pianola allowing the last few notes to fade.

  “The prelude to Huberson’s Second Symphony,” Lizanne replied promptly. “A little pedestrian for my tastes, though I noticed you added a flourish or two.”

  His gaze narrowed slightly. “I, my dear, am an artist, not an automaton.” He returned his attention to the keyboard, face set in a determined frown. “This one is bound to flummox you.”

  This tune was far more dramatic, a series of low, prolonged notes followed by a sudden, almost jarring lurch to the other end of the scale. Makario’s hands usually floated across the keys but now they darted, fingers splayed and spider-like. The tune was complex and unfamiliar, conveying a sense of melancholy counterpointed with an angry urgency. It was also undeniably one of the most affecting pieces of music Lizanne had ever heard and she winced in annoyance as a loud rhythmic pounding sounded from above.

  “Give it a rest, for fuck’s sake!” came the Electress’s muffled cry through the ceiling. “My head’s splitting!”

  “It seems our little game must be postponed,” Makario said, closing the pianola’s lid. “Did you get it?”

  Lizanne smiled and shook her head. “At first the arrangement reminded me of Illemont, but the melody is . . . strange.”

  “As ever, you prove to have an excellent ear, dearest Krista. It was indeed composed by the great man himself. The pianola solo from his unfinished symphony, the composition of which is said to have driven him to suicide.”

  “The ‘Ode to Despair,’” Lizanne recalled. “I thought the whole thing was lost. He burned all his papers before drinking poison, or so the story goes.”

  “And the story is true. But Illemont had a student with a keen ear and a penchant for listening at keyholes. In time he made his way to the empire and, keen to impress a handsome youth in his charge, taught him this lost masterpiece, or rather a fragment of it. I’ve been trying to fill in the blanks ever since, but then, I’m no Illemont.”

  Lizanne turned at the sound of Melina’s strident step. The tall woman dumped a bag of chits on a card-table and began to count them out. “Time to cough up your tips,” she told Lizanne. “And don’t hold out, she’ll know.”

  Lizanne went to her room to retrieve the bag containing the unimpressive haul of gratuities she had collected over the previous week. “Is this all?” Melina asked, fixing Lizanne with a sceptical frown.

  “They tend to save their favours for the upstairs ladies,” Lizanne explained. “And not all gamblers take kindly to a dealer who can tell they’re going to cheat before they even try.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt you to smile more,” Melina muttered, counting out half the spoils and handing the rest back to her, along with a full-length copper chit. “Bonus,” she explained. “Your table brought in a third again as much as the others. Don’t expect the rest of the dealers to appreciate it though.”

  The reason for the relative profitability of her table was simple: she never stole, unlike her colleagues. Lizanne was sure the Electress knew of the petty graft indulged in by the other croupiers, but appeared to tolerate it. A discreet enquiry to Makario regarding this curiously forgiving attitude had revealed a simple answer. “Sooner or later she’ll need an excuse to get rid of them,” the musician said with a shrug. “It happens every couple of months. In all honesty, dear, you’re the only dealer whose name I’ve bothered to learn for years.”

  “Will I be needed today?” Lizanne asked Melina.

  “No, she wants you in the shadows as much as possible. You standing close by on your first Ore Day will draw too many eyes. Make your own way there with the girls, but be sure to go armed.”

  “Are you expecting trouble?”

  “It’s Scorazin, we’re always expecting trouble. But the Scuttlers have been a bit antsy lately, so keep a keen eye out.”

  The Scuttlers, Lizanne knew, were the gang with the strongest hold on Scorazin’s three deep-shaft coal-mines and holders of third place in the hierarchy of near-tribal groupings that ruled this city. She was learning that the internal politics of Scorazin were a fascinating if brutal microcosm of the power games played out beyond its walls. The various gangs existed in a perpetual state of flux, feuds and alliances came and went as the balance of power shifted. Currently, it seemed ascendancy lay with the Verdigris, the oldest gang in Scorazin, who ruled over the only copper mine, their position stemming largely from the fact that their ore commanded the highest price. The Furies, under the Electress’s astute but ruthless leadership, were currently ranked second in terms of wealth and membership, a position achieved through complete control over the two sulphur mines. The fourth tier was occupied by the Wise Fools, by far the least well-organised, but most violent gang, who had recently managed to seize governance
of the three open-cast pyrite pits after an ugly massed free-for-all known as the Battle of Pitch-Blende Square.

  “Am I looking for anyone in particular?” Lizanne asked.

  “Oh, all the luminaries will be there,” Makario put in. “Failing to promenade on Ore Day is a terrible social mis-step.” He rose from his stool and came over to loop his arm through Lizanne’s. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll guide you through the cast of rogues. Probably best if you don’t mix too closely with the ladies, anyway.” He leaned closer to add in a whisper, “They’re jealous enough to claw your eyes out as it is.”

  • • •

  The Ore Day Promenade began on a patch of muddy ground known, without apparent irony, as Apple Blossom Park. Makario led her to a row of chicken-coops abutting the park to witness the drab spectacle of Scorazin’s population gathering together for the weekly ritual. The principal gangs all seemed to arrive at exactly the same moment. Lizanne had yet to catch sight of a timepiece in this place but all the inmates seemed to share an ingrained knowledge of the routines that underpinned their existence. The four groups moved in dense masses, clustered around the hand-carts which bore their precious ore. The largest gangs moved to occupy four corners of the field, each leaving a considerable gap between the other and allowing Lizanne to gain an appreciation for their numbers.

  “Which are the Scuttlers?” she asked Makario. They were crouched in the gap between two coops, ignoring the annoyed clucks of the scrawny, mange-ridden hens on either side.

  “Off to the right,” he said, pointing. “The ones with the black patch on their shoulders. It’s supposed to be a coal scuttle, not that you’d know. Embroidery is a rare skill in here.”

  Lizanne estimated the Scuttlers’ number at perhaps three hundred, though the musician assured her their true number was closer to twice that. “Have to leave some behind to guard the mines, lest someone takes advantage of the truce,” he explained. “Their friends will collect their share. See the dumpy fellow at the front?” Lizanne followed his pointed finger, picking out a ruddy-faced man who appeared to be little over five feet tall but with an impressively broad stature. “Devies Kevozan,” Makario said. “Current Coal King. Got the job when he strangled the last one. It was a fair challenge, so no one minded too much. He’s short on brains as well as height, but his untrusting nature means he’s not an easy fellow to plot against, and he’s far too ambitious for the Electress’s liking.”

  Lizanne’s gaze rested on the Coal King for a moment before being drawn to a taller figure standing to his left. He was younger than Kevozan by several years, pale of complexion for most Corvantines and possessed of unscarred and undeniably handsome features. However, it wasn’t his face that piqued Lizanne’s interest, more the way he maintained an unmoving posture whilst his eyes roamed the crowd in unceasing scrutiny. “And him?” Lizanne asked. “The tall man?”

  “Ah.” Makario’s grin returned. “Quite the peach isn’t he? Sadly, his only lust appears to be of the bloody variety. He calls himself Julesin. You might say he’s the means by which King Coal services both his suspicions and ambitions.”

  Ex-Cadre perhaps? Lizanne wondered, her gaze lingering on the pale-faced man and deciding the suppressed violence in his posture was a little too obvious for one of Countess Sefka’s servants. Yet, Cadre or not, she had little doubt she was looking upon the most dangerous individual she had yet encountered in Scorazin.

  “Oh, she does like to bait him so,” Makario sighed. Lizanne followed his gaze to see Electress Atalina lowering her bulky frame in a parody of a curtsy as she matched stares with the Scuttlers’ leader. Her features had an uncanny ability to convey both contempt and solicitation in the same expression. Lizanne saw the redness of King Coal’s face take on a deeper shade as he glowered in response. “I’m not sure that’s altogether wise,” Makario added.

  An angry player is prone to revealing his hand, Lizanne thought, watching Kevozan turn and mutter a few terse words to his pale-faced subordinate. Something every croupier learns on their first day.

  After the four principal gangs had taken their places the smaller factions arrived, standing in the no man’s land between the larger groups in tight, wary clusters. Makario named a few, the Red Blisters, the Forgotten Sons and so on, but it was the last group to arrive that interested Lizanne the most. There were about thirty of them, and they stood out due to the dozen women in their ranks, the other gangs all being overwhelmingly male. Although their clothing was as ragged as the other inmates’ they held themselves with a bearing that was almost regal, regarding the surrounding multitude with a stern defiance. “The Learned Damned,” Makario named them.

  “Learned?” Lizanne enquired.

  “Comparatively speaking. Whereas most of us find ourselves confined here for our unfortunate mercenary or violent inclinations, the Learned Damned owe their incarceration to more lofty pursuits.”

  “Revolutionaries,” Lizanne realised.

  “Yes.” There was a palpable disdain in Makario’s voice as he regarded the cluster of political inmates. “Republicists, Co-respondents, Neo-Egalitarians, all the varied shades of malcontent. For all their pretensions, they’re as dangerous as any of the others and not lightly crossed. Revolution tends to breed dangerous people, which is why they’re generally left alone.”

  He fell silent as a fight broke out among the ranks of the Wise Fools. They were a mostly bare-chested bunch with shaven heads, heavily tattooed skin and, apparently, scant sense of discipline. They quickly formed a circle around the two combatants, both crouched in readiness with knives in their hands and fresh scars on their arms.

  “Isn’t that against the rules?” Lizanne asked.

  “The Wise Fools fight amongst themselves all the time,” Makario replied. “As long as it doesn’t spill over into anyone else’s garden, why care? However,” he went on as the ranks of the Wise Fools parted to make way for a very large figure, “it is frowned upon.”

  The two combatants straightened at the sight of the huge man striding towards them, both dropping their knives. He was even taller than Anatol, his shirtless chest covered in a collage of multi-coloured abstract ink and honed to the kind of muscular perfection usually found only in classical statuary. The image of masculine perfection was somewhat spoilt by the man’s face, most particularly the shiny metal nose, which was secured in place by a leather strap.

  “Meet Varkash,” Makario said. “Famed Varestian pirate. Rumour has it his nose was bitten off by a Blue drake, though you’d be wise not to mention it if you happen to find yourself in his company. He’s apparently under the sincere impression that no one’s noticed he’s wearing a nose fashioned from solid pyrite.”

  Lizanne watched the huge Varestian as the two men babbled excuses at him. He nodded, rubbing his chin in apparent consideration then, moving faster than it seemed possible for a man of his size, his trunk-like arms lashed out left and right, delivering a full-force punch to the heads of both men that left them lying senseless in the mud.

  “He doesn’t like to be shown up,” Makario explained. “Varestians were ever a prideful lot.”

  The honour of leading the promenade went to the Verdigris, the largest and most amply attired group present. They signified their allegiance by wearing copper bands around their necks. According to Makario they never took the bands off, making the source of their name obvious in the dull green stains that marked every neck. The leader of the Verdigris was a rotund man of average height and a cheery, apple-cheeked visage. He wore a long frock-coat and a tall, narrow-brimmed hat that were both at least a decade out of fashion but nevertheless made him the best-dressed figure Lizanne had yet seen in the city. He doffed his hat at Electress Atalina as he led his people from the park, Lizanne noting that this time there was no open mockery on her face as she nodded back.

  “Chuckling Sim seems affable enough, doesn’t he?” Makario said. “To look at him you’d
never know he ran the Corvus gambling dens for the better part of a decade and, I’m reliably informed, always did his own killing and he wasn’t quick about it. The more he chuckled, the longer it took.”

  They waited until the park had emptied out and the grand procession filled much of Sluiceman’s Way as the inmates progressed towards the main gate. It rose to approximately half the height of the city walls and, according to Makario, no convict could remember it ever being opened. The gate lay behind a secondary inner wall curving out from the great stone enclosure in a semicircle to form what Makario called the Citadel. It was from this stronghold that the constables made occasional forays into the city or launched heavily armed incursions whenever levels of disorder began to affect productivity. However, its main purpose was policing the division of supplies on Ore Day.

  Lizanne and Makario fell in with the few hundred non-affiliated stragglers at the rear of the procession. They were a ragged and desperate lot, mud-slingers from the river-banks, shit-pickers from the refuse piles, some so thin and haggard it was scarcely creditable they could still walk. All clutched small bags containing whatever scraps of ore they had managed to scavenge or trade for over the preceding week, plodding towards the gate with a uniformly slow gait, eyes fixed on the Citadel and the promise of sustenance it held. Lizanne and Makario carried no sacks, having surrendered a portion of their chits to Melina, who would exchange them for the requisite amount of ore and allot the received supplies accordingly.

  One of the mud-slingers fell out of the procession halfway along Sluiceman’s Way, a stoop-backed man of middling years with long tendrils of grey-black hair hanging over his face. He seemed slightly sturdier than the others to Lizanne, but his despair seemed to have overcome him. “Fuck it all,” she heard him sigh as he sank down next to a stack of empty ale barrels outside the Miner’s Repose, his mostly empty sack between his knees. Lizanne had time to note the old burn marks on his arms and the fact that he had two fingers missing from his right hand before Makario hustled her along.