The Cold Commands (v5.0) (html)

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

  Egar stood there, struck. Turned to watch the cart rumble and grind out of sight in the gloom. A faint shiver wove across his shoulders.

  He shrugged it off, glanced up and down the gleaming iron thoroughfare of the Span, then went and leaned his aching frame against the estuary-side railing. Stared down at the rough-dappled stripe of bandlight across black water. It looked, he thought vaguely, like a horse-tribe Sold daub, slapped across the flank of some midnight-colored stallion.

  So long since he’d had a good horse. No real call for it in the city, and he’d been nowhere else in so many months.

  He shrugged, and it felt like an excuse.

  Up in the vast steel cradle of the Span’s structure, the evening wind swooped and keened. Off to his left and right, the city glimmered. Fragments of thought swirled through him, flandrijn-fogged and slippery, hard to hang on to. He rubbed at his chin, distracted, felt the lengthening growth there. Suddenly he couldn’t decide if he’d let it thicken and bush out when this was all done, get back his full Majak beard, gray-streaked though it might now be; or go back to the soft-murmuring old man this had all started with and get scraped down to city-slick standards all over again.

  Yeah, and tell the old fucker while I’m there what a mess he set me up for.

  Laughter behind him as a gaggle of young street toughs went by. He heard them pause in their merriment as they spotted his solitary figure. Felt them draw closer. Something colder than the flandrijn rose in him, washed away his vagueness as the old signals tripped in his nerves. He dropped a hand into his garb, found a knife hilt. Put his weariness aside and turned, grinning.

  “Got something for me, lads?”

  They backed up, bunching instinctively behind the ringleader as they saw what was waiting for them in the grin. Egar relaxed. Warriors would have done the opposite, would have spread to bracket him.

  The wind hooted, up in the shadowy steel spaces.

  “Well then, you’d better get on home. Your mothers will be wondering what manner of mouth to clamp on their dripping teats without you.”

  That got a collective snarl, and a couple of barked, disbelieving curses. But it was street-cur stuff, and they all knew it; it was clutching at the suddenly razored hems of their street-tough dignity, and finding abruptly what cheap, unsatisfactory cloth it was.

  Egar stamped forward a step, growled in his throat. Showed them teeth and blade unsheathed. They tumbled away backward, scattered and fled like silverfry from the net. Egar jerked his chin after them and snorted, watched the pale flecks of their heels fade away down the Span. Enjoying now the quickened thud of the blood in his veins.

  Yeah, nice work, Cuckoldbane. Your triumphs grow ever greater. You’ll have medals from the Emperor before you know it.

  He shook off the last of his flandrijn-tinted introspection. On the northside, the glimmering city beckoned. Craning his neck over the rail, he thought he could make out the ruddy glow of the Pony Stringer’s lit windows by the water’s edge below.

  He could be there in a matter of minutes.

  CHAPTER 35

  anging at the gate. Muffled voices.

  Ringil stirred in the broad bed, wine-sodden senses floundering for some clue to his current whereabouts, let alone what was going on outside. He’d been dreaming of Egar—some incoherent nonsense, sitting out on the steppe at night, hearing the lick and splinter of campfire flames and watching the Dragonbane’s bearded face against the spark-ridden dark, watching his lips as they enunciated words Gil kept craning close to catch, but somehow couldn’t make out.

  He came up out of it, spiked through with creeping black unease and a sense of time and place gone irredeemably awry …

  The damp-earth odors of recent sex suffused the room around him. It was still dark beyond the shutters.

  Banging at the—

  … banging back the chamber door as they stumbled drunkenly in together. Shoving Noyal Rakan hard against the wooden paneling and pressing up against him. Grins and little growling noises, and then Gil thrust stiffened fingers forward into the young captain’s luxuriant curly locks, tangling there and tugging Rakan’s face in closer for the first stabbing kiss …

  Ah.

  Final, blessed release from the long, solemn, and unbelievably tedious banquet Shanta had thrown in honor of the Nyanar clan. Father and eldest son of said clan both pontificating across the feast-laden table to their host as only courtiers can. And down the table, Shanta and Nethena Gral making arid, mannered counterpoint. Florid toasts, tossed back and forth like escalating bets in some smug game of flattery and form. Speech after turgid toe-the-line speech to the greater glory of Empire, Emperor, Imperial Charter, and the Most Assured Success of this, Our Current Venture, which cannot fail to Magnify His Radiance’s munificent wisdom in …

  He caught Archeth stifling yawns and holding down a glower. Dared not catch her eye thereafter, for fear he would be unable to choke back the bubbles of hilarity rising in his belly. He caught Noyal Rakan’s gaze instead, and held it, gently, feeling it flutter against his own, like a moth in the curl of his closed-up palm.

  Beneath the satin drape of the tablecloth, a building heat in his groin.

  Raise your glasses, I pray you, gentlemen and ladies, raise your glasses once more and drink. To the Holy Might of Yhelteth and her Godly Appointed Mission to lead humankind out from the Shadow of Lesser …

  Yawn.

  Later, while Shanta saw the Nyanars and their entourage to the door, and bade them all farewell, Ringil walked behind Rakan through the dimly lamplit corridors of the riverside villa, shepherding the younger man gradually toward the rooms Shanta had given him. It was taut, skin-thin theater. They paused now and then to admire the naval engineer’s taste in art or sculpture, murmured meaningless syllables back and forth on the edge of excited laughter, brushed against each other in seeming accident, turned suddenly to lock gazes then look away, as those rising bubbles in Gil’s belly turned from hilarity into something urgently else … And burst.

  Once, just once, inches off that first kiss, Rakan hesitated, Rakan said:

  I—my brother, he … He would not—

  Fuck your brother, Ringil growled, tongue delirious on the tips of his own teeth. I’m fucking you, not him.

  And then it was glorious and burning and heated flesh to flesh as the door slammed shut behind them. It was kissing and clinging and peeling clothes and kneeling, finally, before Rakan’s sculpted soldier’s musculature, taking his swollen prick into his mouth and tasting, sucking in, swallowing, all that velvet flesh like a man at the extremes of thirst, given water at last.

  The young captain made noises close to weeping as he came. His hands plastered down, again and again, on Ringil’s head, patting, pressing, as if trying to fit some veil or maybe diadem over the man that was doing this to him.

  Ringil rose, grinning vampiric through the taste, enfolded Rakan’s still-shuddering frame in his arms, folded him down to the bed, and turned him over …

  Banging at the fucking gate.

  Voices, now recognizably barking in coarse Tethanne.

  “Open now, in the Emperor’s name!”

  Ringil sat up in the sheets. He groped at his side, found the smooth rising slope of Rakan’s torso as the captain propped himself up on one elbow.

  A tiny ache welled up inside him at the contact with the other man’s flesh. He blinked, swallowed—sudden shock, as he made the feeling for what it was; an obscure gratitude, that Rakan had stayed. Had not, as Gil had grown so used to expecting in these cases, fled the scene.

  “Fuck is going on out there?” he grumbled, scrambling to cover his feelings.

  “It is the palace,” said Rakan somberly.

  There was the sound of unbolting and opening. Hooves, clattering in on cobbles. Ringil climbed out of bed and went to the window. He slid the edge of the curtain back a judicious half inch.

  Down in Shanta’s courtyard, messengers in imperial ocher and black sat their fractious horse
s while Shanta’s wakened staff boiled about. Ringil watched long enough to see Shanta himself hurry out, wrapping a dressing gown about himself, sparse gray hair stuck up in disarray. He stood looking up at the lead messenger, mouth moving, but there was too much commotion to hear what was being said. Archeth appeared behind him, fully dressed—it didn’t look as if she’d been to bed at all.

  Ringil let the curtain fall back, turned back into the room. Rakan was already out of bed, lean and hard in the dim light. Gil sighed.

  “Looks like the fun’s over,” he said. “Better get dressed, I suppose.”

  A process they were both about midway through when Archeth’s boot heels came tocking down the hallway outside, and she rapped impatiently at the door.

  “Gil? Are you still in bed? Didn’t you hear that row out there? How much did you have to drink?”

  He unslotted the latch, opened the door a handbreadth, checked she was alone before he swung it wider.

  “What the hell are you—” She saw Rakan, seated bare-chested on the side of the bed, bending to his boots. “Oh. Right.”

  Ringil leaned on the door frame, kept her pointedly out in the hall. “Want to tell me what all the fuss is about?”

  She grimaced. “Yeah. Dragonbane just took on a bunch of the City Guard, down at that mercenary joint by the Span.”

  “The Good Luck Pony?”

  “Pony Stringer’s Fortune—but they’re calling it the Lizard’s Head these days.”

  “Oh, well that’s original.”

  “Gil, it doesn’t fucking matter what the place is called. He killed two of the Guard right there, right in front of half the mercenaries in the city. Hurt another three pretty badly, one they reckon won’t live to see the sunrise.”

  He could not prevent the smile from rising to his lips. “Told you.”

  “Yeah, you told me.” Voice tight with anger. “Laugh it up, Gil. Meanwhile, the Guard Provost wants the King’s Reach deployed. Says he can’t afford to have the Guard’s authority flaunted in a place like that. It sends the wrong signal to all the wrong people. He’s up at the palace now, demanding the Emperor’s hand in the matter.”

  “Ah, shit.” Ringil banged his head back on the door frame, then wished fervently that he hadn’t. Closed his eyes against the waves of incipient hangover the blow had stirred. “And Jhiral’s going to cave in, right?”

  Archeth cleared her throat, shot a warning look sidelong, past Ringil to the bed and the Throne Eternal captain who sat on it.

  “He’s got the Ashant clan leaning on him already for King’s Reach intervention; now the head of his militia wakes him up in the middle of the night and tells him the exact same thing? What would you do?”

  “Yeah,” said Ringil drearily. “Makes a soggy kind of sense, I guess.”

  “It certainly does.”

  Rakan appeared at his shoulder, still fastening his sword harness and jerkin. He swallowed, awkwardly. “I, uh. My lady. I must attend my Emperor. He may require—”

  “Yeah, we’re all going,” Archeth said. She looked pointedly at Ringil’s unbuttoned shirt. “Just as soon as everyone’s ready to ride.”

  WHICH GOT THEM TO THE PALACE A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER—A GUSTY, bandlit chase through the string of sleepy riverside hamlets where Yhelteth’s outskirts petered out upriver, then into the deserted nighttime streets of the city itself, at speeds you’d simply never manage with daytime traffic. Archeth, Ringil, Rakan, and the messenger squad who’d been sent to find them—six dark figures, cloaks flapping backward from their shoulders, and the drum of hooves at the gallop. All very dramatic, Ringil supposed sourly, tucking a stubborn corner of his shirt into his breeches while he held on to his mount with his thighs, if you happen to be out and about at this gods-forsaken hour and nothing better to do than gape openmouthed at the mysterious riders as they thunder past. Tales to tell your grandchildren, like something out of some marsh dweller myth. Last Ride of the Dark Company, the Messenger Before Dawn, the Fell News That Would Not Wait, so forth …

  His head was killing him.

  Hoiran curse you, Eg. If you had to take on the City Guard, couldn’t you at least have done it somewhere without witnesses?

  They made the palace as dawn was breaking, storming up the hairpin rises of the approach causeway in the graying gloom. Cacophony of six sets of hooves on the Kiriath paving, profaning the early stillness. They reined in at the top behind a yell from the messenger chief.

  “The King’s Messenger comes! Open!”

  Yawning, shift-end guards came running from their boxes, shocked awake and fumbling halberds as they tried to assemble hard-bitten readiness from the shattered pieces of the night’s sleepy boredom. The messenger bellowed again.

  “Open, fools! In the Emperor’s name!”

  The gates hinged back, creaking. They rode on through. In the courtyard beyond, a high-ranking slave majordomo whose face Archeth knew scurried forward, arms folded into his robes. Stable slaves swarmed behind him.

  “My lady. His Radiance awaits you in the Queen Consort Gardens.”

  “Right.” She swung down off her horse and handed over the reins. Feeling a qualified relief now, because she doubted they’d have to face the Ashant family or the rest of the court just yet. Official meetings and grievances were generally dealt with in the throne hall. Elsewhere was for private council. She looked up at Ringil, who had not yet dismounted.

  “Follow me,” she told him, switching to Naomic. “And don’t make this any harder than it has to be. Try to keep a civil tongue in your head. If you plan on hanging on to either, that is.”

  Ringil sat his horse and grinned evilly down at her. “You wound me, my lady. Am I not of noble imperial blood on my mother’s side?”

  “Fuck off, Gil. I’m serious.”

  They tramped through the palace environs at a fast march. Long corridors and flagstone expanses of halls and courtyard. They passed slaves scrubbing floors and watering plants. The messenger chief took point, as ritual demanded, but behind him Archeth ushered Rakan into the lead. Most likely Jhiral would have a Throne Eternal guard with him, and they’d respond a lot better to a captain from their own ranks than they would to an armed, sleep-deprived, and hungover Ringil.

  Though Rakan himself, hmm, well, now …

  Given what she’d glimpsed in Ringil’s bedchamber, the young captain was not at all what she’d imagined him to be.

  She shelved the thought. Enough else to worry about right now, don’t you think, Archidi.

  Up broad, winding staircases, along colonnaded galleries, into the upper levels. The predicted Throne Eternal were there at the doors to the Queen Consort Gardens, two of them, resplendent in full honor guard rig. They saluted Rakan, and one of them led the party through the dusty, leaf-littered walkways to the balcony, where a lightweight trestle table had been hastily laid with silk cloth and a plethora of filled plates and bowls. Kitchen slaves stood in attendance—behind them more Throne Eternal. His Imperial Radiance Jhiral Khimran sat waiting in a wingback chair, chewing on a leg of roast chicken.

  The chief messenger dropped to one knee before him.

  “The Lady kir-Archeth,” he announced. “As sought. With her, I bring you Honor Captain Noyal Rakan. And, uhm, Lord Ringil Eskiath of the Glades House in Trelayne.”

  He got up again, bowed and got out of the way. Jhiral surveyed the new arrivals without much enthusiasm. He was dressed and booted, which at this hour had to mean he hadn’t been to bed yet, and there was a slightly blurred look to his features that Archeth read as drink, or possibly flandrijn. He’d been experimenting with the drug recently, she knew, working it into his harem sessions.

  “Eskiath,” he said, frowning. “Rings a bell. Should I know that name from somewhere?”

  Ringil shrugged. “Your father gave me a medal, once.”

  “Did he indeed?” Jhiral bit off more chicken, chewed, still frowning. “So you’re a war hero, then. And was I in attendance for this honor?”

 
Ringil met the Emperor’s eyes. His gaze glittered. “I don’t recall.”

  Jhiral stiffened.

  “Lord Ringil was instrumental in our victory at Ennishmin last year,” said Archeth hastily. “You’ll remember, I mentioned him to you.”

  “Oh, yes.” But the Emperor was not mollified. He studied Ringil with narrow disdain. “Well, that must be it, then. Though, as I understood the tale, you went home at the end, sir knight of Trelayne, back to that miserable huddle of trading posts up north.”