For reassurance, he repeated the final stage of their plan to himself, the instant when, finally, he would have Azdeki to himself without risk of compromising anything else.
He took the building’s smallest hallways, preferring to move through the cramped spaces the guards neglected when making their rounds. In two days’ time, the Palatio would no longer be accessible in this manner. The tiniest nooks and crannies would be searched before Masque Night, and throughout the evening the palace would be impenetrable. Although he felt capable of taking on an army to achieve his goal, Laerte knew there was only one way to gain entry. As paradoxical as it might be.
So he ran, hoping he would arrive in time to catch Azdeki. He spotted an alcove where he could tuck himself away, relying on the shadows to mask his presence. Then he waited patiently, leaning against the wall, close to where a small hallway exited into a vast room lined with full length windows. Footsteps could be heard, coming closer and closer at a steady pace.
‘Es it allae . . .’
He had long pondered what he would say first, how he would accost Azdeki. He would have liked to scream his anger at the man, reveal who he was, make him relive their last encounter, but it would be a prideful act and put their mission at risk.
Azdeki had come to a halt, looking neither surprised nor afraid, his sharp face as still as the mask worn by the man a few feet in front of him. Standing with his arms crossed in the shadow of the recess in the hallway, Laerte took a step forward.
‘. . . Es it alle en . . . Es it allarae,’ he continued reciting in a grave voice. ‘Isn’t that Masalia’s motto: what you were; what you are; what you will be?’
Upon the walls draped in red, darkness struggled against the light shed by the oil lamps. It was here, not far from the grand private salons looking out over the outdoor gardens, that Laerte would begin the final act.
‘Who are you?’ Azdeki asked in a stern tone.
He had seized the sword in his belt, lifting the edge of his cape with his elbow. Laerte wondered if he could resist a duel with the man. Would he be able to retreat as planned, or, consumed by his lust for combat, would he give in to the temptation of finishing off his enemy? He could stand up to him. This time, yes.
‘What you were? A more courageous man, a more intelligent man than you seemed to be, in order to manipulate those around you more easily. Isn’t that so? Did you really think you could emerge intact from the role you cast for yourself ?’
‘That mask,’ Azdeki scowled before raising his voice. ‘Do you think you frighten me with this display?’
‘The mocking, the contempt shown to you by the other generals,’ Laerte continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘That’s what you were. A whipping-boy, in the end.’
‘Take off that mask,’ Azdeki ordered.
‘As you removed yours before Reyes?’
‘Take it off!’ he cried angrily.
He drew his sword with a swift jerk and Laerte retreated a step, now standing at the end of the hallway.
‘What you are: a man at bay, as close to defeat as you are to success. An entire lifetime rides on the outcome of a single moment . . .’
Azdeki brandished his sword, taking one step forward. He did not tremble. No. He would never fear this assassin, but he would dread the masked man’s appearance at the very moment of his victory. He would double the number of guards and, thinking he was protecting himself, he would only weaken his defences.
‘And what you will be, Azdeki? You’ll be a dead man.’
Laerte continued to retreat, entering a wide vestibule lined with large windows. Behind the glass he could make out the shadowy forms of a garden, its gravel paths lined with tall torches burning beneath a clear night sky.
‘I know you,’ Azdeki warned him. ‘Whoever you are, I know you. And if you haven’t managed to stop me so far, you won’t do it today. Nor tomorrow.’
‘I’ll take that wager.’
‘Enain-Cassart, Negus . . . they were better men than you.’
‘Not better enough to defend their lives,’ Laerte replied calmly.
‘At least they defended what they believed in. And did it without hiding their faces behind another man’s mask—.’
‘Until Masque Night, Azdeki,’ Laerte promised gripping the hilt of his sword. ‘On Masque Night, the two of us will finally remove our masks.’
With a brusque movement, he turned towards the windows and took a flying leap.
‘Guards!’ Azdeki called, barely making himself heard over the sound of shattering glass.
Laerte had passed right through the window. His arms folded in front of his mask, ready to break his fall with a roll on the cool grass.
‘Guards, to me!’
The reflection of the torches ran along the blade of Laerte’s sword and the clatter of running men in armour rang out. Lifting his head, he saw the guards halt at the shards of broken glass beneath Azdeki’s furious gaze. He had plenty of time to lift his weapon and prepare his first parry.
The spears he broke with two precise strokes, before seizing a soldier by the collar of his breastplate and bending him in two with a blow from his knee. The whistle of a blade at his back made him duck. He spun around and pierced his attacker’s armour at waist level. The man fell back a step, his face distorted by pain and horror, his hand covering the open wound. There had been five guards trying to stop him and he had disposed of two. But soon there would be more. In the distant darkness of the gardens, shadows took form, and with them came the sound of clanking armour.
He had to flee now or lose all chance of executing their plan.
He used the animus and the three swordsmen still challenging him flew through the air like wisps of straw, to fall heavily at the foot of the building. At the window, Azdeki stiffened.
The message was clear: the man in the mask was more than a mere assassin.
The two men eyed one another for an instant. When Laerte returned his sword to his scabbard, Azdeki almost came after him through the window but changed his mind, shaking his head. The new soldiers approaching shouted at him.
‘Halt!’
‘You there!’
The first to arrive brandished his spear, certain of hitting his target, but Laerte retreated promptly. With a firm hand he seized the wooden haft, pulled it towards him, and knocked the guard out with an elbow to the face. Laerte looked at Azdeki the whole time.
He tilted his head slightly and then charged at the other guards. He forced a passage with his bare hands, deflecting their spears, lashing out with his fists and his feet, before leaping over the melee and racing away through the gardens.
He easily outdistanced them, weaving his way through a labyrinth of hedges until at last he saw the wall surrounding the garden and reached the top in a single bound. From there he overlooked the city, seeing a sheer drop of some thirty feet to the ground below. On the far side of the street a series of houses stood like a castle’s crenellations. As he was about to take a leap to reach the first roof, he changed his mind. Hooves clattered on the cobblestones below and a procession of coaches appeared.
The parade passed just beneath him while the soldiers’ voices were drawing nearer. He hesitated.
The coaches were painted in dark colours and bore coats-of-arms on their roofs which he had difficulty identifying. But he guessed they were guests arriving for the wedding and saw an opportunity to take his little demonstration one step further.
He took a deep breath and jumped into thin air.
When he crashed heavily upon the wooden roof, the coachman barely had time to turn his head before Laerte disabled him with a kick to the jaw. The horses whinnied, cries of surprise rang out, and the procession came to a shuddering halt. From the sound of their voices, he knew there were women inside the coach. He rolled across the carriage roof and landed on the cobblestones, feeling a twinge of pain in his chest. He was losing control of the animus. He would have to pull himself together before he was overwhelmed and his body broke down
. He calmed himself, breathing heavily.
His senses remained more acute than usual, so he still had some time remaining before the effects of the animus dissipated completely. To his right and left he was aware of coachmen dropping to the street and armed men leaving their vehicles. He only had to turn, step into a side-street, and vanish.
But when he stood up his self-assurance was reduced to naught; his heart skipped a beat and his legs almost gave way beneath his weight.
A woman was looking at him with a stunned expression from the coach window, one hand holding the curtain open. Her surprise in no way detracted from her beauty. Age had barely touched the perfection of her olive skin and the curly hair flowing over her bare shoulders still had the characteristic black lustre of the West.
It was only a brief moment, but to him it seemed to last an eternity.
‘There he is!’
‘Don’t let him get away!’
‘It’s the assassin!’
The voices were only murmurs, while the animus made the beating of this woman’s heart loud in his ears. She was stone-still. And then he realised that she recognised the Emperor’s mask on his face, that she was not seeing the man inside but instead a broken memory, like the crack running across the gilt mask. Her lips made a slight movement without any sound emerging. Nothing, he heard nothing but her heart. When a man took hold of his right hand, he offered no resistance. A second gripped his left.
Esyld . . . He wanted to rush to the door, wrench it open, snatch her from the coach and bear her far away. It could all come to an end this very night.
‘I have him!’
‘Don’t move!’
She withdrew her hand. The curtain immediately fell back into place, masking her face, and for a moment he thought he’d been dreaming. But her heart was still beating, so hard, so quickly, so frightened. He barely heard the sound of weapons being unsheathed. He was surrounded by a fog, unable to see clearly, as vague silhouettes came to the assistance of the two men who were forcing him to his knees.
He felt himself weaken, his legs bending.
‘Proud little lord . . .’
‘Advance! Advance!’ ordered a voice.
Hooves clattered on the cobblestones, and the wheels started to turn with a squeal. The heartbeat moved away. The blood on Laerte’s lips had a salty taste that brought him out of his dazed state. He could see them clearly now, the coaches resuming their journey, the two men holding his arms loosely, while a third stretched a hand towards his belt to disarm him.
‘Flee . . . flee, Laerte!’
He rolled his shoulders forward, knocking the men restraining him off-balance, and then with a single movement he pushed his arms in front of him to strike at the third. The hands restraining him relaxed, and he freed himself from them completely. The procession of coaches was moving off into the distance, more soldiers were coming, and Laerte was out of time. He had to rid himself of these three men and leave the scene.
He punched the first with his right fist, followed by his left, delivered a spinning kick to the jaw of the second and then, kneeling, he seized the last by the belt and the collar before lifting him into the air. He tossed him over his head as if he weighed no more than a feather. He stood up, his heart heavy and his chest aflame and dashed into the adjoining street, ignoring the curses of the soldiers at his heels.
He ran desperately, turning at each street corner, his vision blurred, seeking a way out of his predicament. The soldiers’ voices echoed in the deserted streets and with them the hooves of galloping horses. He was the prey, a fox being hunted by hounds on foot and riders on horseback, and if he did not find a means of escape quickly then the trap would close around him. Distant and faint, he spotted some flickering lights over the rooftops. As he drew closer, the sound of singing and the clinking of tankards came to his ears.
He turned into an alley on his right, almost crashing into a pile of crates. He slowed down as he came out into a wide street illuminated by lanterns hanging from strings. The crowd was dense; men and women were singing, drinking, coming and going from taverns whose doors stood wide open. He removed his mask, tucking it into his belt, and caught his breath. Here he stood a chance. He melted into the crowd.
When he left the neighbourhood he could only hear laughter and cheering behind him. He found an alley and climbed up the side of a building. And when he reached the rooftop he enjoyed a hard-earned rest.
Esyld . . .
He repeated her name silently, as if to assure himself that he had not been dreaming. But no doubt was strong enough to disturb his sudden intoxication. Whatever the reasons for her presence in Masalia, and Aladzio’s silence on the subject, he would reflect on them later. Another irony of fate. His life seemed defined by ironies of fate. Unlike his mentor he had never believed man’s destiny was set out in a book, any more than he had accepted the idea that the gods had written it. But he had to acknowledge that chance worked in curious ways.
Looking out over Masalia, he spent several long hours watching the masts of the ships rock gently in the distant harbour.
5
REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE
Whatever the reason for your acts,
Whether you can justify them or not,
There will never be any excuse
For taking someone’s life.
The Emperor.
Since the Saltmarsh, Laerte had never stopped thinking about it, imagining the day when, ready at last, he would plunge a sword into Reyes’ heart. He would take his life, showing no mercy, he would avenge the Usters without shedding the smallest tear. He had already judged the man guilty; all that remained was to carry out the sentence.
From the Saltmarsh to Garmaret, from Garmaret to Sainte Amanne, Serray and Sopira Galzi, he had listened to Dun-Cadal’s advice, trained hard, and never faltered despite the pain. His will alone allowed him to overcome all obstacles. They had passed through so many towns; from villages gradually darkened by the shadow of war to Emeris itself, flamboyant and majestic. Perfect and Imperial.
He would soon be fifteen years old and he reckoned he was capable of knocking down every wall separating him from his goal. What a surprise it was when he first saw the capital and its tall white towers, with the waterfall tumbling down at their feet, and how anxious he became when he tried to imagine the cursed Emperor. What did he look like? He must be a giant, a monster of muscle and strength, an implacable warrior.
During their journey he had seen the rebellion spreading and, more than once, he had been obliged to take lives. Each time he shed blood, each time he saw the dying gasp their last breath, the image of Madog rose in his mind. All this violence, this rage, this turmoil. He was growing up amidst a war whose causes and meaning he barely understood.
Each life destroyed was one more reason the Emperor should pay for his crimes. It was his fault that Laerte was forced to act in this manner. Asham Ivani Reyes was the sole person responsible for this implacable anger. So Laerte rid himself of any doubts, not without some difficulty, for a dark idea persisted within him, as hot as a coal about to burst into flame. His guilt rose to the surface and nagged at him until he managed to push it into the deepest corner of his being, along with Madog’s shadow. Through his experience of combat he gained in confidence and mastery without Dun-Cadal ever seeming to take notice. Not once did he compliment Laerte on his efforts or end a training session with an encouraging word. The general limited himself to repeating the same advice, sometimes mocking Laerte, teasing him, as he put it.
Laerte did not like it. Laerte put up with it. Dun-Cadal was an enemy; one of those who had attacked the Saltmarsh; one of those who had taken Aëd’s Watch; one of those who had murdered his family. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself . . .
For upon arriving at the gates of Emeris he found, against all expectation, that he’d grown used to the general and even come to enjoy certain moments in his company. Dun-Cadal’s frankness pleased Laerte but did not excuse everything. He was bo
orish, hard and uncultivated. He thought he knew everything under the sun, that he’d experienced so much he had nothing left to prove and saw no reason to bow down to anyone except the Emperor. Only his opinion mattered, only his vision of the world was correct, only his words commanded silence. The Empire he served was righteous and just, worth sacrificing his life for. It mattered little to him that men had been hung in its name, and women raped and gutted . . . Or else he did not know of the torments inflicted upon the Uster family.
Naïs . . . my sister was called Naïs.
‘Are you mute, then, having said nothing until now?’ asked the man. ‘I’ve heard of you, you know. You’re Frog, am I right?’
A man wearing a white toga with a red cloth draped over his shoulder was leading them through the hallways of the Imperial palace at Emeris. Dun-Cadal had introduced him as the Emperor’s steward.
‘Yes.’
‘Frog . . .’ said Dun-Cadal reproachfully.
From the corner of his eye, he saw his mentor’s stern gaze and corrected himself with ill grace:
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Your devotion to the Empire has caught our attention . . . as well as our respect, young man,’ added the man.
‘Thank you, my lord.’
At the end of the hallway lined with mirrors were two great doors. And hidden behind them was the lastborn of the Reyes dynasty. Laerte felt his body stiffen, ready to pounce. There was no room for error. Once he passed the threshold he would have to seize his opportunity without hesitation. The steward pushed the doors open.
He would not get another chance . . .
They creaked, revealing a large room with a black-streaked marble floor.
Never get another chance . . .
Dozens of smooth, shining columns led up to a thin red curtain stretched near a large balcony that was brushed by tree tops. Was that the Emperor? The shadow behind the blood-coloured curtain? Was he that black figure over which the female silhouettes were pouring steaming water? Was that really Asham Ivani Reyes? Laerte grew tense. A hand pressed him in the back.
The Path of Anger Page 31