He picked up The Second Confessions of a Sardonian Sister and opened it. At present, the lead character was involved in a suitably debauched encounter in the kitchen with a maid and three monks. The detailed illustrations that accompanied the text were a delight. And yet, tonight, it was an empty pleasure. He pushed that aside, too.
He examined the pile of wax tablets — notices of meetings with the imperial administration. As ever, these would end with the promise of more meetings, and eventually result in the people least qualified making the most important decisions.
Galadon snorted, and wondered if perhaps a good wine would raise his spirits.
A gentle rap at the door startled him to attention. “Come?” he said, hoping this was the news he waited for. “It is open.”
Marshal Vim entered — impeccably dressed, as always, in his silver-embroidered white doublet. His thinning white hair remained curled, and the points of his proud moustache were twirled up at his ruddy cheeks.
Galadon’s heart rose in joy for the presence of his mentor. He stood. “I say, what a pleasant surprise! Please, do sit. What brings you to my lonely office?”
The Marshal clacked across the floor with his ivory walking cane. “I am well, Galadon.” He settled himself into the chair opposite, with a few stiff grumbles. “How are you?”
Galadon pulled a parchment over Captain Linnios’s book, to hide it. “Simply busy. So much to do.”
“And the mission? The knights sent out this morning?”
Galadon sat down but his stomach seemed to keep falling. “Alas, no word as yet.”
“Troubling, that. It is many years since the guard last rode from the city. It has caused some remark. Councilor Agathios accosted me with accusations of whimsy and folly.”
Galadon spluttered. “It is not lawful for men to diminish their betters.”
“Too true. And I do not doubt your judgment. I have read the note and know its urgency. Before he was ordained, Nicoras was my friend. You made the right decision. I just wanted to warn you of the mood among some councilors. A new chancellor was elected last night, and that has stirred them somewhat ... like carp when the pond is disturbed with new plants and ornaments.” Marshal Vim smiled and his moustache moved with it. “No doubt we will hear news soon enough. You will be vindicated, and the doubters silenced.”
Galadon realized, with horror, that he had failed to provide suitable hospitality. “Perhaps, as we wait, I should uncork a vintage? Would you join with me to drink gold nectar from a silver cup?”
“How could I refuse such an offer?”
Before Galadon could move an urgent knocking interrupted. “Come?” he said, hoping at last for news.
Colonel Fontemeyer burst in, his cheeks flushed. He was far too animated and clearly upset.
Marshal Vim inclined his head. “What ails our favorite colonel this evening?”
“My lords, Imperial Row is in flames!”
Galadon bolted upright. “I have my new apartments there!”
“As are mine.” Marshal Vim trembled as he rose. He pointed with his walking stick. “Galadon, your balcony. Let us see for ourselves.”
Galadon hurried to the curtains — pulled them open, and unlocked the glass doors. A frigid wind rushed in and rustled the scrolls on his desk.
The darkness of the city was punctuated by a glow of orange. A wide plume of gray smoke dragged itself into the black sky.
Galadon shivered from the cold, and a rising panic. From his vantage he could see the roof of the entire row consumed by fire — one that could take the homes of half the city’s gentry. Galadon turned to Colonel Fontemeyer. “Don’t just stand there! Order as many guard together as possible, to assist the city watch in fighting the blaze.”
“But we have barely a man left at our disposal,” the colonel replied.
Lightning crackled across rainless clouds.
“Except at the palace,” Galadon added distantly.
Colonel Fontemeyer shook his head. “That would be against protocol.”
“Protocol be damned, this is duty!” Galadon thought of his boxes yet unpacked, his dressing table that had been his mother’s, and the books on the end of his bed borrowed from Captain Linnios.
Marshal Vim turned in reply. “The Emperor is safe, but the city is not. And neither are our homes.”
Galadon felt the gravity of the responsibility. He faced the colonel. “Leave the bodyguard shift, but use everyone else you can find.”
Colonel Fontemeyer saluted and turned on his heels.
Galadon stared down at the fire. Tackling that was the second important leadership decision he had made today. He could only hope to Fortune that his men could stop it.
Thunder answered in the distance.
A Decision is Made
Sirath
Sirath sipped his wine, his hand unsteady. His legs fidgeted under the worm-worn table. Jerine had gone upstairs a while ago. When she returned, he was going to have words with her.
He was leaving. Now.
Thunder rumbled outside.
His chest tightened at the thought of losing her. She was generous and fun to be with. Heck, he felt for her. What he’d told Pure Heart was true — he did love her in some way. But it was clear from today they were still hunted. More so, it was Sirath’s face that was recognized. All the time he remained here he put Jerine in danger. That was why he had to go — to try and draw any threat after himself, and away from her. He couldn’t see any other way to do it, even though the thought of leaving tore at him.
Frustrated, he kicked out at the table. And nearly spilled his wine in his lap. His head itched from the damp bandage, so he dragged the bastard thing off.
Footsteps came down the staircase. Jerine appeared and smiled to him.
Sirath stood. “I’m leaving.”
Jerine stopped. “Where to?”
“Anywhere. Far from here. I want my gold.”
Jerine stared at him, then walked over. “Are you alright?”
The fragrant smell of herbs came to him as she stood close, and threatened to soothe his mood. But he’d no choice. “No, I’m scared. This city is against us, and it’s too big. We can’t fight back. I’m lucky to be alive. Just look at Erin if you don’t believe me. That could have been me after today. Or worse.”
“I’m scared, too. I know we’ve made enemies. I can’t help that. But we’re stronger together. Ulric and Dalathos could come back at any moment. Then we can leave, all of us.”
She sounded so right. And she’d brought him into Fortune’s favor. But the Wheel of Fortune turned both ways — being attacked in the market had been a clear sign of that. “I won’t stay.”
“You’ll be vulnerable alone.”
“No, I’ve lived on the streets all my life. I know how to get by.”
“Before, perhaps,” she said. “But look at you now. You’re a gentleman. And you’ll be carrying gold. You’d be a target for every type of thief. I don’t think you’ve experienced that before.”
He just wished she’d stop arguing, and get his money. Then he wouldn’t have to see her sweet face and feel so mean for trying to keep her safe. “I can look after myself. I can’t look after you as well. I’m not strong enough for that. I’m sorry, Jerine, I’m going.” He stepped from the table.
Jerine bit her lip, and her eyes glistened. She nodded. “I won’t try to stop you. I just wish you’d stay just a little longer.”
Portilla hobbled behind the serving counter. “You may want to reconsider going anywhere. A storm’s coming.”
“Good,” Sirath said. “That will keep the streets clear. Most bandits are fair weather people, if you get my meaning.”
The door banged open and startled him.
It was just two draymen, rolling a barrel. He sighed and tried to calm his breathing. Then remembered that this was a tavern and sold wine, not an alehouse.
The draymen stopped and righted the barrel. One stared nervously at them, the other averted his g
aze.
Sirath frowned, recognizing something wrong, but unsure how to react. Jerine touched his arm. For comfort? From fear? That decided it for him. He stepped forward with a challenge. “Hey! What do you think — ”
Both rushed him, pushing through the tables with fists raised.
Sirath staggered back, his heart pounding — grabbed Jerine and pulled her behind him. He glanced for something to use as a weapon — a stool. He grabbed one, swung it out, and hurled it.
The nearest drayman tried to dodge it, but he was too close and it struck him. He stumbled back and slipped, and cracked his head against the serving counter.
The second was quicker, and swung.
The air went from Sirath lungs. Then he was on the floor, being pummeled. He pulled his arms up, to protect his face. Punches rained down.
Portilla loomed over, then smashed a clay jug against the attacker’s head. Wine splashed them both. The drayman dropped like a sack.
Sirath struggled to push his way free.
“Sirath!” Jerine was beside him. She helped him stand, supporting his arm with hers.
Sirath’s head was hot and tingling, and his heart hammered hard. He could only blink at the two draymen, crumpled out cold on the floor. Was this the attack he’d expected? Was it all over? Were they now safe? It was hard to think, and the bruise at his forehead burned white with pain. His ribs smarted, too. He rested his hands to his knees, catching his breath, He could only pray to Fortune that the worst was over, and they were now safe.
Portilla stood there with the broken handle of a clay pot in her hands. She took a step back, and almost tripped over the second. “This place is too small to leave thugs laid out like rubbish on my floor.”
Sirath took the hint and helped drag both up onto a bench, to leave them slumped over a table like late night drunks. It was heavy work and left him sweating.
Portilla righted stools that had been disturbed, all the while glancing at the unconscious draymen. “They must be Five Fingers Jack’s men, come to burn my place down with oil. Like they did to my brother’s place.”
“Portilla?” Jerine had a fright in her eyes.
“Yes?”
Jerine pointed. “I don’t think there’s oil in that barrel.”
Sirath frowned, trying to see what had caught her attention. He noticed the stub of rope sticking out from the lid. He’d seen something like that recently. Where? The workhouses? No ... the warehouse. A memory returned of thunder and fire. “Oh ... ”
Lightning flashed outside.
“If not oil,” Portilla said, “then what?”
Thunder rumbled.
The front door slammed open. Mail-clad men rushed in. Tables were kicked over and swords flashed. Portilla was thrown down.
Hands grabbed Sirath, and slammed him to the floor. He yelped as he was grabbed by his hair and pulled beside Jerine. He lay on his stomach on uneven tiles with a boot pressed into his back. A cold blade lay against his neck. Sirath remained very, very still.
A man strolled in, his posture like iron. A black patch covered one eye.
“Corraldo, we have them. Five captured, on the ground floor.”
The one named Corraldo cast a cold gaze. “Good.”
Sirath grimaced — this was worse than trouble. He whispered a prayer to Fortune, for the sake of Jerine’s life.
Corraldo stepped away. “You. You’re the barkeep?”
There was a thump like a punch and Portilla gasped. “Yes ... I am.”
“Where is the Duke Dalathos, or Tilirine?” He waited. “If you do not reply by the time I count to three I will have your eyes cut out. One.”
Another noise like a punch or kick, and a gasp.
“Two.”
Sirath felt a flush of sweat and his bowels fluttered. If Portilla told now, they were all dead.
“Three.”
“Wait! Wait. She ... she’s on the fourth level.”
“Who?”
“Til ... Tilirine. She’s there, with Erin.”
“Who’s on the other two floors?”
Portilla strained to answer, a whine of pain in her voice. “I live with the cook on one. She left this morning, and won’t return for days. The other is only for storage.”
“The unconscious men ... who are they?”
“They ... drank themselves drunk. They were rolling the barrel ... in more ways than one. Their names are ... Sirath ... and Ezekiel.”
A click of the fingers. “Jacopo, take off their heads.”
A shuffle of boots, and the scrape of metal being dragged. A heavy thump. Then the silence of the room holding its breath.
Something heavy crunched into the floor tiles with a ring. There was a strange wet sound. Then it all happened again.
Sick with horror, Sirath realized the order had been carried out, both draymen beheaded — thinking one was him. He squirmed under the boot at his back, but it held him too fast. Any moment they’d learn his true name, then he would be killed. He wanted to yell, cry, scream. He needed to get out — he needed to breathe. He wanted to reach out and protect Jerine.
“Barkeep! Who are these two?”
“Patrons ... looking to purchase — ”
“They are not important. We will deal with them after. Antinos, signal the crossbowmen to hold cover outside. You three, remain with me to guard these prisoners. Cordin, take the rest upstairs, and fill our sack with heads.”
Heavy boots stomped by Sirath’s face, then up the staircase. A flash of white light — was he getting faint? Then a long rumble of thunder, louder than before. It rattled the latticed window at the front of the inn.
The storm drew nearer. And Sirath was about to die.
Flight of the Assassin
Lora
She swooped and swirled over the city on her wings. The air was sharp, and filled with flurries of drizzle. A thundercloud rolled in like a black mountain from the sea.
The night was pierced by an orange glow near Emperor’s Rock — a fire, and a big one, too. She circled it, avoiding the thick smoke that trailed from the blaze. A street in the rich quarter burned. Flames were hurled from the length of the roof. Whorls of red cinders danced to the sky. It was a thing of beauty.
But there was work to complete tonight.
She veered around and headed to the North Gate, to find the Carpenter’s District. This time she would mark her position well, and allow no interruption. Unlike last night, when a firestorm had blasted out from the Lion Inn. There had been no safe way to remain, with the risk of sparks near her arrows, and the danger that fire spread to the building beneath her.
There would be no more surprises tonight. She had followed where they had fled to. And she would remain until her job was done with them.
She weaved through wisps of chimney smoke, then arched her back and climbed to a height, laughing with exultation. Lightning crackled through the clouds and joined into a single blinding strand that stabbed the sea. It was a magnificent sight. But an afterglow remained. She climbed into colder, wilder winds, to allow her eyes to adjust to the dark again.
It was time to act, before the storm broke.
She descended at a glide. Light rain buffeted her. Pirralis Square slipped beneath as she approached the rooftops. An old timber mill stood ahead. She circled it. The tarred roof was steeply angled, and not ideal. She judged her moment — then dropped to clasp the roof with her hands and feet. She paused, waiting to ensure it could take her weight. Everything felt firm enough under her touch, but she would have to take care for rotted wood.
Across the road stood the Bod and Bumpkin. And behind a glazed window at the top floor, that hooded figure in red robes.
Perfect. It was time to complete this bloody business.
She touched a hand to her chest and padded down the roof, her wings folding behind her. She came to rest by a dormer window. Wedging herself in position, she reached for her backpack. Unfastening and opening it, she began to lay out her tools. After snapping
the pieces of her bow into place, she took one of the arrows with the paper tubes, and notched it to test her draw. From this position, she could pick off survivors at leisure.
She aimed across the street and held steady, to ensure a clean shot.
Then she took out the pot with her hot coal, blew on it until it glowed red, then touched it to the first arrow.
She looked aside as the bright spark came to life.
And illuminated two mail-clad men, crouched by the next dormer. They pointed crossbows at the Bod and Bumpkin. Both men stared at her.
Lightning flashed.
A figure loomed up behind her.
Her heart leapt and she panicked — dropped her bow and burning arrow. She kicked out to launch herself over the road. A rush of air, and fingers brushed at her leg. She slammed a hand to her harness to open her wings.
Too late, she realized she hurtled across the road at the opposite window.
She slapped a hand to her chest again to contract her wings. A shriek pierced the night as a man fell. Thunder shocked. She had time only to cover her face.
Way of Fire
Tilirine
Tilirine remained on edge, even though Ezekiel and Sirath had returned. A growing sense of tension — something wrong, and inevitable — cut at her nerves. She listened for the Song of the World. The coming storm drowned everything out. But something came riding on it. Now her anxiety was made real as heavy boots pounded up the stairs.
Ezekiel knelt by Erin’s bed, the staff in his hands reflecting strange colors. He seemed oblivious to the approach of danger.
Tilirine ensured that she had enough space to use to her advantage. She would have to drop into meditation, faster than ever before. She assumed the charayanas of Climbing Monkey, then Creeping Leopard, to quickly stretch her arms and legs.
The room flashed white. Thunder shortly rattled the windows.
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 34