He let it drop. He did not even hear it roll across the floor. His belly was burning. Laerte wanted to vomit, to die, to disappear. His anger still tortured him, and he was short of breath. And then he saw it lying on the ground a few feet away, fallen by an open hand. The Liaber Dest. Flames were dancing on its pages without consuming them. Any of them. It remained intact, protected by an unknown magic. But it was something else that made him kneel, his heart pounding fit to burst. Something besides the Book’s astonishing invulnerability.
Beneath the flames he saw an ancient engraving, surrounded by strange glyphs. It showed a knight in plain armour sitting beneath a tree. At his feet a child dressed in rags, similar to the ones he had worn in the Saltmarsh, watched him sleep, with a sword in his right hand. And in his left hand . . .
‘Frog—’
Dun-Cadal had crawled to a statue and turned over on his back, his head resting against the base. He was smiling, but there was a strange sadness in his eye as he stretched his arm towards Laerte. Crossing the caustic smoke, the young man joined him and knelt at his side to take his hand. The old general had a gash in one knee and a trickle of blood ran from his lips but no other wounds were apparent. Laerte understood: it was not a sword that had felled him. They exchanged a glance in silence. Not for from them lay Bernevin, his throat slit.
‘Laerte . . .’ Dun-Cadal said with difficulty.
His chest rose in fits and starts. His heart was betraying him. Laerte felt the old man’s hand in his, but in the midst of the blaze all around them, it was icy cold. They looked at one another. Simply looked. Hand in hand. They were together.
One last time.
A final breath passed through the chapped lips of Dun-Cadal Daermon.
‘Laerte . . . the Book,’ he heard.
Through the thick smoke he could see Aladzio’s silhouette, his tricorne jammed on his head. He seemed lost and distraught.
‘It’s not here. It could not have burned, it—’
The inventor fell silent when he saw Dun-Cadal’s inert body. Laerte slowly placed the general’s hand on his breastplate, and released it. The sound of footsteps and cries could be heard in the distance. He stood without saying a word. His anger had not left him. His fingers contracted around the hilt of his sword as they heard the soldiers approaching. They had broken down the door and occupied the inner courtyard, but had surely been delayed by the panicked councillors. So he wasn’t surprised when he heard Rogant’s deep voice behind him.
‘We have to go.’
The Nâaga tried to hand him the golden mask but Laerte continued gazing upon his mentor’s calm and peaceful face.
‘I cannot leave him here. Carry him,’ he demanded in a terribly cold voice.
Everything around them was on fire. And in a few more minutes, the corridors in this part of the Palatio would be swarming with soldiers hunting for them. They had to leave the chapel and find the passage Laerte had used to enter the building.
‘Carry him,’ Laerte insisted.
He snatched the mask from his friend’s hand.
It had not disappeared.
His anger . . .
EPILOGUE
The destiny of men
Has never been anything
But the murmur of the gods.
Dun-Cadal was buried by the sea without any great ceremony. Only Mildrel stood before the holy man who performed the service, wearing a long black dress with a veil covering her face. No one knew what had really happened at the Palatio. But the rumours spread like burning powder: lies and half-truths, revelations and denials. One name was on everyone’s lips, a name that had been reviled since the fall of Asham Ivani Reyes.
Laerte of Uster.
Etienne Azdeki’s body had been pulled from the fire in time. But not his head. An investigation had been promptly initiated by the High Council in Emeris, disturbing questions had been raised, and dubious answers were given by way of explanation. The atmosphere in the capital was tense, the councillors looked daggers at one another, and there was widespread speculation that a coup d’état had been narrowly averted. But some whispers in the corridors of the former Imperial palace said the plotter was perhaps not who most people suspected. There had been no news of Azinn Azdeki since Masque Night.
The Liaber Dest was mentioned repeatedly. The Liaber Dest had supposedly been found.
Balian Azdeki had taken pains to give impassioned testimony before the High Council, swearing upon his honour that his words were true. His father was above any suspicion, he had founded the Republic and fought the tyrant Reyes.
Only after serving him, some objected.
Esyld, devastated, was even summoned to support her husband’s claims. Timidly, with tears in her eyes, she faced the councillors and swore she had recognised the son of Oratio during Masque Night. She confessed she had known him and tacitly conceded that he had planned to assassinate the Republic’s founding fathers that evening. It was accepted that, as Etienne Azdeki had always claimed, Laerte of Uster had sought to overthrow the Republic and seize power, like the Reyes family before him.
So the truth was deformed, shredded and sculpted by rumours, convictions and political interests. The councillors argued over numerous points, concerning both the nature of these events and their consequences. The only thing upon which they agreed was regarding Laerte of Uster. He had returned and he represented a danger to the Republic. A price had to be placed on his head.
And everyone, from peasant to tavern keeper, from soldier to councillor, told their own version of the tale, imagining the shadowy motives of the Uster heir, his perfidy, his cruelty . . . his vendetta. Without anyone, ever, knowing the truth or hearing the tale of the heroic return of a broken glory. Without anyone ever saying the name Dun-Cadal Daermon, laid in the ground beneath the pouring rain in a cemetery at Masalia, by the edge of the ocean.
From far behind the cemetery gates Laerte watched Mildrel grieve for the man who had left them with dignity.
‘Vengeance only calls forth vengeance.’
With his fists balled, he looked at her, so beautiful and calm. He wondered for a moment if he should join her to pay his respects to the man who had taught him everything . . . but he resigned himself to retreating back into the city’s alleyways.
‘They’re tearing one another to pieces,’ shouted Aladzio. ‘They’ve designated you the guilty party, but in truth they’re just tearing one another apart. What happened in Masalia has just exacerbated the disagreements among the people’s councillors.’
He was nervously piling books up on the long table, coming and going between it and the shelves. Winter was approaching and although the library in the tower lay below ground, a cold draught found a way down and caused the candle flames to flicker.
‘They’re all talking about the Liaber Dest. The Fangolin Order is insisting the councillors who were in Masalia account for the disappearance of their envoys. And worse still, particularly for de Page, they are now demanding seats in the assembly.’
He sorted through the volumes distractedly, throwing those he deemed unworthy of interest over his shoulder. He placed the others in big bags made of worn leather.
‘They’re coming here, Laerte. The Republic’s soldiers.’
He stopped suddenly, wearing a serious expression.
‘The Order of Fangol wants to recover what it considers to be its rightful place. They will inevitably come here, so I’m saving what I can.’
Leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, Laerte held the inventor’s gaze.
‘You can’t imagine de Page’s anger,’ sighed Aladzio, reluctantly deciding to abandon three thick codices. ‘But that said, he’s come out of all this rather well, compared to you. There’s been no mention of his name; he’s pure as snow, and his mercenaries all had time to leave the Palatio by way of the gardens. He talks about you, you know. He asked me if I knew where you’d gone.’
‘You gave me your word,’ said Laerte.
‘I gave you my
word,’ acknowledged Aladzio. ‘But you should contact him. Perhaps he could protect you.’
‘He knows where Azinn went, doesn’t he? That’s who took the Liaber Dest . . .’
Aladzio gave him a dark look, bit his lip, and then struggled to close his bulging bags.
‘That’s what he thinks, yes. But you’re not looking for Azinn because of the Book, are you?
With an effort, he placed the bags around his shoulders.
‘Rogant is on his trail. He’s expecting to see you soon.’
He smiled, but the expression faded as he looked around the library with a resigned gaze.
‘They keep knowledge secret,’ he said sadly. ‘The Fangolins. All of this left to . . . it breaks my heart.’
with a limp hand, he patted the leather of one of the bags hanging in front of his chest.
‘I’m taking my due,’ he smiled grimly.
*
Galapa greeted them with a snigger, sitting on his chair by the door to the ruined tower. Aladzio placed the bags over the croup of his horse, raising his eyes towards Laerte, who was climbing onto his own mount.
‘I fear for this old monk,’ confessed Aladzio contritely. ‘He’s a madman, certainly, but I’m going to miss him.’
The inventor seated himself in his own saddle. In the distance, upon the horizon, a cloud of dust was rising. Riders were approaching. Aladzio lifted his tricorne with one hand before placing it again snugly upon his head.
‘We’re all set,’ he said.
‘Aladzio . . . the Book . . . you’ve read it . . . you’ve seen every page.’
The inventor did not look at Laerte, not even for a second, as if he were embarrassed. He knew what his friend was asking and he was not at all eager to reply.
‘Everyone sees what they want to in it, you know,’ he said evasively.
‘Truly? I don’t believe in a destiny written by the gods, but I saw . . . At the Palatio, I saw Dun-Cadal in the Book.’
‘Ah?’ Aladzio smiled with a little hesitation. ‘I don’t remember seeing that.’
He was still avoiding Laerte’s gaze. Galapa’s sniggering continued.
‘Aladzio, look at me.’
The inventor studied the horizon, seeking to make out the horse-men’s silhouettes in the cloud of the dust.
‘Look at me,’ repeated Laerte.
At last, Aladzio deigned to turn his eyes towards his friend. But his face had lost any trace of embarrassment. A gravity he had never shown before had come over his features.
‘Do you truly believe that?’ asked Laerte.
‘I still have my doubts, Laerte. Certainties are what are really killing the Republic, and I have doubts. And yet, I should like to be certain this book is nothing but a fable written thousands of years ago. Upon my life, I wish I could tell you that it was.’
He licked his lips, tugging slightly on the reins to direct his horse towards the muddy path.
‘Because I’ve seen the end of the Book. It’s an engraving, a simple image that still keeps its secrets but . . . but I’m certain of it. We’re approaching that end, my friend.’
‘And?’
‘And for nothing in the world would I wish to live this particular ending.’
There was a flash of fear in his eyes, just for an instant, that had never been there before.
‘You should go and find her,’ he advised, with a serious air.
‘Who?’
‘Viola. Viola Aguirre. She spoke of you, you know. You would have to be blind not to realise how much she cares about her mysterious Laerte of Uster. So you should find her. She left Emeris two days ago for the County of Daermon, in the West. She claimed it was to do some research, but we know that’s not the only reason, don’t we? It’s her way of honouring him. I think . . .’
He paused, sniffing the air.
‘Yes, you should go and find her. And enjoy a peaceful life, my friend.’
He made his horse join the path and then urged it into a trot.
‘Beakie will follow you! Use her to contact me and take care of yourself, Laerte!’
Galapa’s chortling had stopped. Laerte remained for a few minutes longer, silently contemplating the view, looking thoughtful. Where should he go now? What path should he follow? He had the feeling that he had lost everything, that he was no longer anything.
‘He came, you know, son of Uster, he came to see me,’ Galapa announced, with a beaming smile.
His voice was almost whistling as he lifted his milky-white eyes towards Laerte as if he could see him clearly. Disinclined to begin a conversation with a madman, and seeing the riders drawing nearer, Laerte nudged his own horse onto the path that descended from the tower. But Galapa called out again:
‘He told me that you sliced off Azdeki’s head! That he stood on the threshold to watch you fight!’
Laerte pulled on the reins so sharply that his horse whinnied. He forced it around on the path.
‘Who are you talking about?’ he demanded. ‘Who?’
The only answer he received was a long and exasperating snicker. The old monk slowly unbuttoned his tunic. His head swaying, he spread the lapels of his collar, then proudly exposed his chest.
‘The one who left me this handsome present, of course. The one who knows the Book and the Sword must be united!’
On his pale skin was an old ridged scar in the form of a rectangle crossed by a straight line. No, not a line. It resembled a slender blade, topped by a twisted hilt.
‘The fat Azdeki, he knows him. He heard him murmuring in his ear,’ continued Galapa, sounding amused. ‘What news of the West? What news from beyond the great sea?’
Time was running out, the riders had become more distinct and one of them bore the banner of the Republic’s soldiers. Laerte would have liked to question the monk longer, but he had no desire to fight.
‘Who’s there?’ asked Galapa suddenly.
He ran a brown-spotted hand over his lips, looking confused. Then he snickered again.
In the distance, on a dirt track, dust was rising behind a column of travellers. An obese man with an absent gaze was hiding in the back of a shaking cart beneath a dirty blanket full of holes, clutching a book against him. At times he took little glances around, making sure no one recognised him. In a few hours they would arrive at Eole. At the very end of the track, beyond a wide, dark forest, a city of stone surrounded by strong fortifications rose from the top of a cliff. Here, Azinn Azdeki would be safe. At least he hoped he would be . . . Perhaps he would have thought quite differently if he had noticed the man stroking the flank of his horse on the hill overlooking the track.
‘Vengeance only calls forth vengeance. It’s about the path you chose to take.’
Laerte watched the column straggling its way along the road. Then he climbed back into his saddle, resolute.
‘The path of anger only leads to the abyss, for to continue walking it you must constantly feed that anger, and always be looking behind you. Always. The choice belongs to you . . . Laerte of Uster. My son . . .’
He kicked the horse with his heels and they set off at a gallop . . .
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To Barbara Bessat-Lelarge and Quentin Daniel who were the first to believe in this book.
To the entire team at Bragelonne who have shown great kindness and exemplary professionalism towards me.
To Claire Deslandes for her precious work and advice in revising the work. To Tom Clegg for his suggestions.
A very special thanks to Gillian Redfearn at Gollancz and Stéphane Marsan at Bragelonne for their confidence in me.
Copyright
A Gollancz eBook
Original text copyright © Antoine Rouaud/Editions Bragelonne 2013
English translation copyright © Tom Clegg/Editions Bragelonne 2013
All rights reserved.
The right of Antoine Rouaud to be identified as the author of this work and of Tom Clegg to be identified as the translator of this work has been asser
ted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Gollancz
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London, WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
This eBook first published in 2013 by Gollancz.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 575 13083 8
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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The Path of Anger Page 50