The Cold Commands (v5.0) (html)

by Richard K Morgan - [A Land Fit for Heroes 02]

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  “Not looking for work, are you?”

  He looked at her. Saw she wasn’t joking.

  HE LIKED SHANTA ON SIGHT.

  Something of the tangled academic about the man—a willingness to entertain the possibility of something, anything, regardless of how likely it actually was. You could see his eyes kindle as he did it, could see them staring off into other places, as if into the coals of a fire. You could sit there and watch him drift, watch him tugged away from the wharf of the real world by the currents in his head.

  Could almost be Kiriath.

  Though in the Black Folk, to tell the truth, the same trait had manifested itself as something closer to insanity. Grashgal and Flaradnam had both been prone to lapse that way, disconcertingly often in the midst of humdrum conversations, for minutes at a time, then come back down to Earth trailing skeins of mystic gibberish you couldn’t really make much use of in the real world. Ringil had even seen Grashgal do it once in the midst of battle. Had had to snap him out of it pretty fucking sharply to save both their lives.

  He wondered idly how much it was that similarity, that same musing, brooding withdrawal, that drew Archeth to the naval engineer the way she obviously was.

  “Of course, your experiences in the Aldrain realm—the so-called Gray Places—these go only to support what the Helmsman has said about the Ghost Isle.” He was doing it now—gnarled fingers steepled, gaze falling lost through the gap beneath. “If the dwenda are truly at home in places where reality is not moored to the same set of laws we know here, then there is no reason they would not sail whole chunks of territory away with them from time to time.”

  “Yes, and if my father’s people fought them, then they would have had technologies to combat it. Just as the Ghost Isle makes sense, so does An-Kirilnar.”

  Ringil frowned. He hadn’t heard a fervor like this in Archeth’s voice for the better part of a decade. And from the look of her eyes as she leaned forward, she wasn’t even using. Which fact was in itself remarkable.

  Change, it seemed, was in the air.

  “That’s as may be.” Shanta drifting back now from his speculative trance. “But these are hardheaded men we’re talking about, and that bitch Nethena Gral is harder than any of them. It’s going to take more than maybes to loosen their purse strings.”

  The trace of a smile touched Archeth’s mouth. “I think I’m going to leave that part to Anasharal.”

  To Ringil, it was as if the shade they sat in had deepened for a moment. He’d never much liked the Helmsmen.

  “Where are you keeping it?” he asked.

  “At my place.” Archeth gestured out to the rail and the glittering sunstruck city beyond. “We were using the palace, but Jhiral found out Anasharal is mobile, and that was the end of that.”

  “Fucking pussy.”

  Mahmal Shanta glanced at Ringil, fresh interest in his eyes. Archeth saw the look and felt the warning prickle go along her nerves.

  But she had to concur. Jhiral had been childishly aghast.

  That thing can walk about? The Emperor wide-eyed, staring at her in the gloom of the tower. It has legs? What the fuck are you doing bringing it into my palace?

  No point in trying to calm him or explain her observations and inference that Anasharal might be able to walk, but couldn’t walk far. Or that anyway, a being able to eavesdrop on conversations at who knew what remove probably didn’t need to walk about much to achieve its purposes, whatever they might be. She kept silent instead, and made arrangements: Noyal Rakan and his men to escort a carry party of trusted slaves to her home; the Helmsman to be wrapped in sacking and loaded into a nondescript donkey carriage along with a bunch of Kiriath junk from one of the palace storage cellars. More raw material for the jet-black madwoman to ponder over and wreck apart with engineer’s hammers. She already had the reputation—no one would give any of this a second glance.

  “The Emperor,” she admonished, “is of the opinion that this enterprise would best be served at some remove from the palace. We are, after all, trying to encourage a spirit of independent enterprise.”

  Shanta grunted. “You’re not going to have any problem with that, believe me. Problem is going to be keeping all that independent spirit from sheering off in half a dozen different directions, and running before the wind with its sails in tatters.”

  “Ringil?”

  Ringil examined his nails. “I think I can keep them in line. Bunch of merchants, aren’t they?”

  “These days they are.” There was the edge of a chuckle in Shanta’s voice. “But some of them came the hard road to it. Shendanak started out slitting travelers’ throats in the Dhashara pass and selling their horses at auction. Got the right side of an imperial supply contract for horseflesh just in time to miss out on the gallows. Down deep, he’s still more Majak steppe raider than imperial citizen.”

  “Well, I get on well enough with those.” Ringil winked at Archeth. “How’s the Dragonbane keeping, down here in the civilized world?”

  “He’s all right,” Archeth estimated. “Bit twitchy at the moment.”

  “Can’t wait to see the old thug.”

  “You might have to climb a few harem walls.” She knew she sounded bad-tempered, but couldn’t help it. Lack of sleep, lack of krinzanz, lack of Ishgrim—it was all catching up with her at once. And she’d seen the way Egar looked at Ishgrim, had caught him at it a couple of times. “Getting laid’s still his main interest in life. He’s most likely camped out up the hill with his lady friend right now.”

  Shanta, waiting politely for them to wrap up the gossip. “You’ll also likely have trouble with Kaptal and Tand. Tand because he despises Shendanak, and Kaptal because he’s another one who made it up from gutter beginnings and never really left them behind. It’ll put his back up just being in the same room as gentry like Gral and Nyanar.”

  Ringil shrugged. “Seen that before: rank and file hating the nobles, nobles despising the rank and file. Sounds no worse than any other command I ever had.”

  “Yes, my lord Eskiath, but I would remind you, your commands were of military men—men who understood the rigor and discipline of soldiering.”

  He thought back to the crew of mercenaries he’d led and then abandoned outside Hinerion. Had to stop a smile crossing his lips. The naval engineer, for all his apparent wisdom in other areas, clearly didn’t have the faintest fucking idea about men of war.

  “Soldiers come in all shapes and sizes, my lord Shanta.” And here came the smile anyway, leaking out. “I’ve ridden my share of ill-disciplined bastards, and lived to tell the tale. Your gentry will be safe in my shadow.”

  “It’s the gentry that worry me, Gil.” Archeth shot him an admonishing don’t-get-cute look. “Men like Shendanak and Kaptal you can bring to heel—they understand force of will, they understand leadership. It’s a little harder getting past six centuries of selective breeding and entitlement.”

  “Well.” Ringil rolled out a remarkable impression of courtly hauteur. “I would remind you, my lady, I have noble roots myself.”

  This time Mahmal Shanta did chuckle. “I don’t doubt it, my lord. But I’m afraid nobility from the north will not be counted here in the same coin as imperial title.”

  “On my mother’s side”—Ringil, staying in affronted noble character—“I trace a direct line of descent back to the very noblest of this Empire’s, ehm, refugees.”

  It got him an unexpected silence.

  Shanta glanced at Archeth. She shrugged. “True enough. Driven out in the Ashnal schism, apparently. A lot were.”

  “Yes. Yes, I—I thought—” The naval engineer turned to fix Ringil with a fascinated eye. “Something in your face—the cheekbones, the arch of nose—yes, it must be that, of course. Of course. And that skin tone—perfect!”

  Ringil gave him a thin smile. It was all a little too close to slave-auction appraisal for his liking. But he caught Archeth’s tiny shake of the he
ad, and he tried his best to keep the steel out of his voice.

  “I’m happy you approve, my lord. Given, then, that my face fits so well, perhaps I will not need to break the faces of these other nobles to get their support.”

  “Oh, no question,” chortled Shanta, rubbing his age-knobbed hands as if with soap and water. He didn’t seem to have spotted the sudden edge in Ringil’s tone. “Have no fear, my lord Eskiath—we’ll manufacture some very fine cloth from this, some very fine cloth indeed. Whole dynasties were torn down in the Ashnal years. We can load your veins with as much Yhelteth nobility as we like. You’ll see. We’ll have Gral and Nyanar down on bended knee before we’re done.”

  Ringil traded looks with Archeth. He cracked a smile, a genuine one this time. Impossible, somehow, not to get caught up in the older man’s enthusiasm.

  “Glad to hear it. So when do you want me to meet these gracious gentlemen and lady?”

  Shanta pondered. “Better that we postpone your introduction somewhat. I’d like to think seriously about what lineage we attribute to you before we leap into the fray.”

  “Yeah, and your Tethanne could use some polish,” said Archeth unkindly.

  “At the same time, I don’t believe we should delay our preliminary meetings. There is currently a lull in the Demlarashan insurgency, the northern marches remain stable, at least for now, and in the east our relations with Shaktur are cordial. But all or any of this may change, and sooner than any of us expect. Your Helmsman has chosen an auspicious moment to arrive, Archeth, and I think we must seize that moment while it lasts.”

  “Then we’ll need Rakan, at least initially.”

  Ringil blinked. Rakan?

  “I suspect,” Shanta mused, “that you will need Rakan throughout, regardless of our friend here. The Throne Eternal represent the Emperor, in symbol and in fact. They are his sworn men. I don’t see His Radiance taking kindly to them being excluded.”

  “I’m his sworn representative, too.”

  “Hmm.”

  Ringil caught the undercurrent. Something in the air between these two that they hadn’t bothered to share with him yet. He cleared his throat.

  “This Rakan. Any relation of old Faileh?”

  Archeth nodded absently. “His younger brother. Seconded when the elder died. He’s supposed to have the command, but Mahmal doesn’t think he’s up to it.”

  “He isn’t,” said Shanta gloomily.

  “Yes, well, if that’s so, Mahmal, I don’t really see how we can proceed.” Archeth, working on quite exasperated actually. Ringil thought he caught the scraping edge of no krin today in her tone. “We’re going to have a fucking mess on our hands, trying to get this early start you want.”

  “It’s a price we’ll just have to—”

  “Yeah, a higher price than you—”

  “Archeth, it’s worth the—”

  “It’s a fucking mist—”

  Ringil cleared his throat, loudly. They both shut up and looked at him. He tried out the thin smile again. Couldn’t hurt to practice a little ahead of time.

  “It’s perfect,” he told them. “That’s what it is. Perfect.”

  CHAPTER 30

  hey paid off the boatman at Prophet’s Landing. Puddles of bandlight on the river’s skin, and the drip-dribble of water from the shipped oars. The clink and dull gleam of coins counted out into a callused palm. Payment stowed, the boatman shoved off immediately and without a word—he was still sulking by the look of it. They watched the darkness on the river swallow him up, then went carefully up the green-grown slimy stone steps of the landing. At the top, the merchant quarter brooded in deserted early-hours gloom—shut-up shops and warehouses, auction halls and stabling, the odd glimmer of a watchman’s lantern here and there, but otherwise no sign of life. They slipped into the warren of darkened streets and away.

  There had been no pursuit.

  None you saw, anyway.

  Egar said nothing to the others, but still, he could feel the vague snake of worry turn over in his guts. A year ago at Ennishmin, they’d run from the dwenda and he’d seen the pursuing scouts glimmer into ghostly blue-lit life on the banks of the river, watching him in silence as he passed. He spent most of the journey downstream from Afa’marag looking out for the same thing, but he saw no recognizable sign. Whether that meant they were in the clear, he had no idea.

  He caught himself wishing Ringil were there. He missed the faggot’s sour, selfish introspection and book-learned wit.

  Gil would have known what to make of all this.

  He shook it off. Come on, Dragonbane. Bad enough you let Imrana do most of your thinking for you these days. Now you need a fucking faggot at the task?

  Be asking him to fucking tug you off next.

  He made the effort. If Pashla Menkarak was treating with dwenda under the impression he was in holy communion with angels, Egar was almost tempted to let the whole thing run its natural course. He’d pay hard coin to see Menkarak’s face when the angels shrugged off whatever glamour they’d cast and stepped forward for what they were. Maybe they’d stalk the corridors of the Citadel and tear every fucking invigilator within its walls limb from limb. Maybe they’d put every priestly head on a tree stump still living, the way they’d done with the victims at Ennishmin.

  (Still gave him the odd nightmare—what he’d seen done in that swamp.)

  Be hard to feel bad about an outcome like that, though. Certainly, it’d get the Citadel off Archeth’s back.

  They found a tavern still open, weak gutter of candles melted down in their own wax along the trestle tables, clientele down to a few drowsy drunks and a couple of whores counting up the night’s takings with their pimp in a corner. Harath went to get mugs of spiced wine at the bar, while Egar sat at an empty table opposite the girl and gazed at her like a problem he had to solve.

  Which she pretty much was.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said quietly.

  It was a reminder he didn’t really need. The wound in his thigh throbbed every time he took a step, but it seemed to have stopped bleeding on the ride downriver. The other stuff was superficial—furrows and scratches no worse than you’d get from a crooked whore trying to roll you. The old adage welled up in his head. Ignored gashes heal the fastest.

  “Used to it,” he grunted. “What am I going to do with you, girl?”

  “Anything you want.” The same low, colorless voice. “I am yours now.”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Right.”

  He supposed the obvious thing was to take her to Archeth’s place. But—

  Harath arrived with the wine, which was by now lukewarm. They sat in silence for a while, sipping, cradling the scant heat of the mugs in their hands. Presently, a serving maid came out and put a platter of cured fish portions on the table for them. Harath dived in.

  “So what you going to do with her?” he asked, as if the girl were not sitting there.

  “That’s not your concern. What you do is get back to your room, pay the rent, and keep your head down. I’ll come by with the rest of your money in a couple of days.”

  “Worried about those demon things, huh?”

  “No.”

  Harath, nodding to himself as he chewed. “Worried they’ll track us, right?”

  “You fucking deaf? I said no. I said I’m not worried about them.”

  The Ishlinak jerked his chin. “Yeah, doesn’t sound like it.”

  Egar drew a hard breath, let it slowly out. He looked down at the backs of his hands. There was a gouge across the left one he hadn’t noticed before.

  Great.

  “All right, yes. This is some serious shit,” he finally admitted, to himself as much as the Ishlinak. “The Citadel are fucking about with things they don’t understand. Things I don’t understand, either. But it’s black shaman stuff. Night powers magic.”

  “Oh, you reckon?” Suddenly there was a hiss in the younger man’s tone. He leaned in across the table. “Corpses—of my
fucking kin, Skaranak—rising from the dead after we just fucking killed them! Faceless warriors that walk with the lightning! Night powers, you say? Are you sure?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Jabbing finger across the trestle and into his face. “You said we wouldn’t kill any—”

  Egar grabbed the hand at the wrist, slammed it flat to the table. “I said keep your fucking voice down.”

  He locked eye with eye, forearm tensed as the younger man tried to free his trapped hand. The struggle coiled and uncoiled, draining ache through muscles already hammered hard in the fight. He hung on. Make it look easy. Work the bluff. He tilted his head a little, inquiring. Kept the stare. Used it all to lean imperceptibly in and reinforce the downward hold. Harath heaved one more time and gave up, tried to pull away. Egar held on another couple of seconds to make sure, then gave him his hand back.