Among Treasured Guests
Daria
The banqueting table was set with candles, as it always was. Daria’s guests were seated in their chairs, as they always were — family enemies, long since vanquished. Now stuffed and displayed. To provide secret counsel.
Daria sat with them, and sipped her blood wine. She smiled, always glad to be among treasured guests.
Tonight, new company joined them. Corraldo had sent such a special gift.
“Allow me to introduce Bishop Serannos,” she said, indicating the seat of honor at her right. For the moment he was but a head, skewered to a silver meat tray. In good time, a body would be found and prepared to stitch it onto.
The others gave their approval. Though they had no tongues to speak, Daria could hear their thoughts.
“Welcome, brother bishop,” Vitellis said.
“Be not afraid of the dark,” Laratos added.
“You open your eyes to face death,” Loranian said, “only to find the reaper has a child’s face.”
“Then you realize that your fear had no grounds.” One of the Commeni.
“So, embrace it,” Corcassian whispered. “Embrace fear as a friend.”
“And realize that you are no longer alone.” Macronis, like a hiss.
Such sage words. Such wise company. Daria turned to address Serannos. “Every death leaves its own wound. We missed mother, oh so much. She left us so alone. But we made a pact in our pain, and embraced the darkness ... Eira and I. Then we were no longer alone. We found we were never alone.”
“Night and fear are our friends,” Angellos said.
“There are no fears beyond ourselves,” Montoyer added.
“There is no fear but to be alone,” Vitellis whispered.
Daria tried to soothe Bishop Serannos. She stroked his gray, pallid cheeks to comfort him. “Were you surprised by the manner of your taking? You will have been pleased at who performed the deed. Or perhaps not. Corraldo Silvano, the Cardinal killer himself. That puts you in good company, if somewhat above your standing.” Her finger traced the hairline. “You must have realized then that everything you worked for was a lie. Does that hurt, to know that the darkness was mine and your light an illusion?”
Daria leaned back in her chair and addressed her other guests. “We will have other trophies soon! Alas, not tonight.”
It was unfortunate that Five Fingers Jack had burned the Lion Inn. So Corraldo had instead left men watching the city gates, expecting to ambush Amberlin’s agents as they fled Corianth. Instead, they had disappeared deeper into the city. No matter. There was no hiding from retribution. Tomorrow was a new day. Corraldo would find them. He was so terribly efficient.
The morning had begun with vengeance. But here, in this moment, she could savor night’s calm and silence.
Daria addressed her company of cardinals, bishops, and lords, “Dawn approaches ... and with its view the dark does hide within us all. The light beguiles ... it fools, it trickens. It makes mockery of all those who think they see, when in fact they perceive nothing. How sublime to mistake sight for vision. In the light we wear our masks, but in darkness we are naked true.”
The others mumbled their heartfelt agreement.
Candles sputtered and died. Shadows grew within the room. There came such a wonderful feeling of calm in night’s shades.
Daria allowed darkness to blanket her, warmed by the promise of vengeance.
PART 4: EXECUTION OF DUTY
A Wet Spring Dawn
Dalathos
Something jabbed at his shoulder. Dalathos mumbled a protest. The movement persisted. He opened his eyes to see Portilla’s lamplit face. Her hair shone white.
“Dalathos? You have your muster with the Emperor’s Guard at dawn.”
That made him rise. He sat up and swung his legs out from his blanket to the floor. His limbs were stiff, his body ached, and his lungs were sore to breathe. He waited for a dizziness to pass.
Portilla left the little clay lamp on a shelf. “I’ll prepare food to break fast with.” She creaked away down the stairs.
Dalathos nodded, trying to remain awake. It seemed he hadn’t slept, merely rolled down and back up again. The light was too weak to see properly, but he could hear the others breathing — rasping, and broken with coughing.
He stood in his linen undershirt and found his clothes at his feet. They were still damp from when he’d tried to launder them last night. He hadn’t wanted to present himself to the Emperor’s Guard covered in soot, but they still reeked of smoke. He pulled on his breeches and boots, padding and mail, and fastened Protector at his back.
The stairs were narrow and steep, a deep well of black, even with a lamp. His boots stomped, the wood groaned. When he reached the small common room at the bottom, he found Ulric eating at a table, still wearing his new mail. Dalathos seated himself on the bench beside him. The lamps barely kept the night at bay, and it felt too early to rise. He managed a weak smile to Ulric, then washed his hands in a bowl of warm water, scented with lavender.
Portilla put a hot porridge of barley and butter before him. She placed a basket of bread rolls, topped with crisp onion slices, between both men. “Fresh from the baker’s oven.”
Dalathos felt his mouth water, and longed for a mug of ale.
Portilla set a steaming cup at his side. “Camomile tea,” she said. “It should soothe after a rough night.”
Dalathos winced. It was a drink for women and children. But he was too tired and thirsty to argue. The food was good, and the drink too hot but he supped it anyway. When he’d finished he said, “I enjoyed that,” and mostly meant it.
Ulric furrowed his brow. “What?”
“I said I enjoyed it.”
Ulric turned, one of his ears bandaged. “Sorry, can’t hear proper.”
Dalathos felt his chest tighten with concern. The noise last night had been deafeningly loud, and Ulric had been nearer to it.
“Can hear out the other fine, though,” Ulric added.
Portilla cleared the bowls away. “Get your things. Gant will bring your mules out front.”
What did you take on a mission for the Emperor’s Guard? The stories had never mentioned that. So Dalathos brought everything he had. Which was little enough as it was. Except for his gold. He left that safe with Tilirine, for when he returned. Ulric did the same.
Stepping outside, the air was bracing cold with a smell of damp earth. The road here was a dirt track, black with deep puddles. The rain had stopped but the sky was still thick with cloud.
Gant was a handsome lad, in his own way, with blue eyes and dark hair. The mules were saddled with a thin piece of shaped leather with stirrups, set over a blanket. Sirath had ensured they were cheap, but they were functional. The mules also now had a harness and reins.
Dalathos was able to strap his traveling bag behind, and his crossbow across one side. The animals were wonderfully docile, and he was thankful for that. He only hoped Sirath didn’t mind him and Ulric using them. He’d tried to ask, but there hadn’t been much sense coming out of Sirath. Not that there ever was.
The sky was starting to lighten by the time they mounted up. The clouds were breaking too, embers of stars fading as dawn approached. Portilla wished them well, and gave each a small sack she said held more bread rolls, and camomile tea. Gant pointed out their directions, and Dalathos hoped he could follow them.
They set off past storehouses, across a square, and then along a short road of gloomy timber buildings. Then they were out on the wide Avenue of Processions, mostly deserted. Dalathos noted the building at the corner — a tavern with a painted sign of a jester — to find his way back.
The Emperor’s Rock loomed ahead.
A few braziers held dying flames to light the way. Paving stones glistened. Wood smoke drifted down from chimneys. That reminded him too much of the choking flames last night. The worst of it was that he’d only seen a couple of lamps above the doors, which meant other rooms had bee
n occupied. Dalathos had been able to save a few people, but others would have perished in the flames. He gritted his teeth in annoyance and shame. Though he’d spent a lifetime at the forge, he doubted he’d ever look at fire the same way again.
He tested his mule with bursts of speed, to get used to the saddle. He took care not to go too fast in the dark on wet stone. Ulric rode less confidently.
The longer they traveled, the busier the road became. Men appeared with handcarts, and shopkeepers set out stalls. Slop buckets were emptied from open shutters. Dalathos kept to the middle of the road, to avoid being splashed.
It took longer than he wanted to reach the end of the avenue. It opened into a circle surrounded by huge painted townhouses. The brass gates to the Emperor’s Rock stood ahead. This is where Pieter had left them yesterday, to continue with the captured bishop. Now Dalathos would enter as a knight.
Two Emperor’s Guard stood behind the gate. Polished breastplates, etched with the rampant lion of Sephis, were worn over imperial blue tunics. Each also had an ornate rounded helm, white gloves, black trousers and boots. Dalathos wondered at himself dressed in the uniform.
The guard shouted a challenge.
Unsure how to reply, Dalathos showed his letter of commission, as did Ulric.
After a few whispers, and scornful looks, the guard opened the gates and waved them through.
Although the Emperor’s Rock towered over the city, the road up it didn’t look so steep. Candle lanterns lit the way. Dalathos followed, and the city fell below as a sprawl of shadows. Pale gulls flitted by, screeching from the cliff face above. His heart rose with each step.
The road climbed, then rounded, and the Bay of Iscal opened up before them — an anvil of gray beneath charcoal clouds, open and flat, stretching to the horizon. Dalathos grinned — he hadn’t seen the sea before. Never had he felt so on top of the world. As a boy, he’d run up Cairngery Hill, above the iron camps, and imagined himself a lord as he looked out. Now he stood with Corianth at his feet, and the endless sea before him.
The road turned again, and they faced the palace. It was as long as a street, and as high as the biggest house he’d even seen. The front was covered with tall, glass windows, and stood as gray as the clouds. It almost overwhelmed Dalathos to see it, even in the gloom of a wet spring dawn. This was the heart of the empire.
“No one about,” Ulric said.
The sound of horses came to them. Dalathos pointed to a path that might lead to them. “This way.”
They passed through tidy gardens. Shortly, it gave way to a huge courtyard, surrounded by statues. Candle lanterns were set on poles, and a crowd of polished breastplates caught the light.
Bursting with excitement, Dalathos led Ulric among the knights. His joy turned to embarrassment as he realized everyone here had proper horses. It only occurred now that he should have hired something better — but he didn’t know much about different types. At least Sirath’s mules were dependable. Besides, these guard also had squires or pages, fastening straps or feeding the mounts. Dalathos tried to maintain a sense of pride, but it was hard to hold under looks of disdain.
An officer in a black hat directed them to the stores. A great iron-shod door stood open to reveal boxes and crates of glittering steel armour and arms inside. Dalathos dismounted and entered into the sharp tang of polish, and the must of old wood and leather. A stocky old quartermaster greeted them gruffly, and picked through uniforms for them both. They were handed blue tunics, and front-and-back breastplates padded with bleached linen. They were directed to remove their mail shirts to wear them.
Dalathos stopped Ulric. “Hold. The steel feels too thin. And it needs more than this padding behind it.”
“You’ll wear the ceremonials you’re given,” the quartermaster said.
Dalathos shook his head. Joining the Emperor’s Guard may be a dream come true, but after the fights and the fires, he wasn’t going to risk his life to weak equipment. “We wear our mail.” He feared himself too stubborn, and that he might be dismissed for it.
Ulric stood by him, and touched at his bandaged ear. “Aye, he knows his metal. We could wear the uniforms over our mail shirts.”
The quartermaster grew red but failed to argue his point. As Dalathos and Ulric already needed large sizes, it took some while to find even bigger tunics that might fit over mail, too. The quartermaster grumbled that some seemed to be missing. Dalathos fastened his tunic, tight over his mail, then fixed his breastplate over it using ties at the side.
Next, they were handed rounded helms. Inside was padded with black wool. Dalathos’s fitted perfectly and he tightened the chin strap. Ulric feared making his hurt ear worse, but when he finally wore it, with his black hair pouring under, he looked more like a bearded lady in a metal wimple. Dalathos couldn’t laugh, as wearing an over-sized uniform, and riding a mule, he felt just as ridiculous.
Then came fine white gloves, black trousers, and polished boots. And a groin guard of hardened leather. Ulric stripped to his small clothes without hesitation. Though embarrassed, Dalathos quickly undressed the same, and put on the rest of the uniform. He stashed his old kit into his bag.
The quartermaster handed them belts, and a baldric to hold a saber at the hip. “Ensure the scabbard sits to the right, so when drawn the blade won’t cross the reins and cut them.”
Dalathos unsheathed his to examine it. Small, and useless without proper training, Ulric would do better to keep his ax handy. Dalathos insisted on trusting Protector at his back.
“Ah, Trinicus, good to see the new men being broken in.” The officer who’d presented their commission arrived, now also wearing a breastplate. He carried a helm under an arm. Lieutenant Domus grimaced at Dalathos. “You stink of smoke. And your faces are covered in grime, even in this light. Not a fitting state for the Emperor’s Guard.”
Dalathos flushed. “Our inn burned down,” he said, more boldly than intended. “We had to run through fire just to escape.”
Shouting erupted. A group of riders lined up. Loud commands from an officer, a chorus from the knights, then clattering from the yard.
Lieutenant Domus frowned. “Well ... let’s just form up our column. We leave at any moment.”
Any moment turned out to be idling in the cold of the courtyard for some time. Their company stood in two lines — twelve knights, including themselves, and three officers at the front. The company leader, a Commander Mollinos, made it clear that Dalathos and Ulric would ride at the back — then argued with knights who tried to bring servants with them.
The sky brightened orange with the dawn.
Dalathos tried to feel bold, tried to steel himself ready. He was one of the Emperor’s Guard! But the others barely noticed him, and lifted their noses when they did. The last of his confidence boiled away. He felt like a pretender, wearing someone else’s uniform that only nearly fitted.
He tried to recover his spirits, and looked meekly at Ulric. Temporary commission or not, today would give them a story to tell for the rest of their lives. He wondered if Alarian would care for it.
Finally, Commander Mollinos shouted to be ready.
Dalathos felt his heart flutter. He fidgeted with his reins and glanced to Ulric. “This is it!”
By twos, the guard broke into a trot from the courtyard. Dalathos found he practically had to canter for his mule to keep up. Ulric struggled at first even with that.
They passed the palace, and it shone gold in the rising sun. It looked like everything he’d imagined it would be. He left it behind, with a part of himself.
They followed the road down the rock, back through the city, and rode in formation along the Avenue of Processions. Though busier now, people stood aside to let them pass.
They continued around a tall keep and then under North Gate, and across a bridge and out from the city.
The morning bells rang out behind, as if in salute. Dalathos could only grin, belly swelling with pride. He’d joined the ranks of legend. Noth
ing could spoil this day for him now.
Without Mercy
Normon
Duke Normon huddled with a goblet of hot mulled wine. Vapors of honey and ginger teased his nose. He enjoyed the heat against his palms — it took his mind from the aches in his elbows and knees. The campfire before his ducal tent crackled and spat with a healthy flame. A scullery boy tended a blackened pot on a tripod. The morning air was brisk and cool as sunrise faded.
He would have preferred to be at home in his castle. There were few comforts as welcome as a roaring hearth, his dogs at his feet, and his mother reading beside him. Hunting was an exception. The deer would be rutting. He could hunt for a hart.
After this duty was finished.
A message had arrived last night from Lord Rodrigan — the Emperor’s Guard rode at dawn.
Normon’s men would have the morning to set up their positions. They had been drilled these past few days and practiced their attacks. With luck, his companies would return by evening with their work completed and few casualties. On the morrow he could pack up and return to his dukedom, and that would be a blessed relief.
His soldiers belted up thick tunics of studded leather, and strapped on their iron helms. They chatted with excitement. Horses snorted as they were saddled, and cinches tightened. His standard — brown griffins on a yellow field — fluttered from every barrack tent, corral, and the empty weapon racks before the wagons. His men. His authority.
His way of returning to favor with King Dreyfarius, after last year’s peasant revolt.
Normon finished his drink, dropped his goblet, stood, and stretched. He strode to where his soldiers mounted and lined up in good order. Normon reviewed seven companies of twenty men, and they saluted to their chests. Each company was led by a knight, fully armored in mail, with a breastplate and helm, and proudly displaying their family arms on their tabard.
Five roads passed near here to the city of Corianth, and each had a decoy prepared: a black carriage with shuttered windows, painted with the crest of the Cardinal Pontifex. A company would ride behind each one, with two held in reserve.
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 26