Reaver's Wail (The Legion of the Wind, Book One)

by Corey Pemberton

  “Very well,” said Willow. “Uphold your end of the bargain, and I will uphold mine. May fortune favor you, Argus. I'll be watching you close.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Four days after setting sail, they dropped anchor in the bustling metropolis of Azmar, where Lord Syrio and his family were busy preparing for a feast that would change everything.

  A swarm of beggars greeted them the moment they stepped ashore. Merchants wearing velvet cloaks and polished riding boots squeezed between them. They spoke different languages and had different skin tones, but all of them were in a hurry.

  Azmar was a place that made Davos look like a forgotten backwater. The largest city in the world, the only true metropolis, it was a place where most suffered—and a select few made their fortunes.

  “I hate this city,” said Harun, face souring as he inhaled the pungent wharf air. “So many people stacked on top of each other. Buzzing like flies on a corpse.”

  “True,” said Siggi. “But lots of money, my friend. More dragons than you could ever count.”

  “More people live in this city than the entire Comet Tail Isles,” said Nasira. “Imagine that.” The way her eyes bulged and swiveled showed Argus she was struggling to do just that.

  “Syrio doesn't mind,” he told her. “The more people he can tax, the better.” He had been one of those less than faithful subjects before his mercenary years. Wooing women. Experimenting with magic powders. Even serving in the city watch until his past caught up with him…

  “I thought it wasn't up to him?” asked Nasira. “I mean, not entirely. Isn't this supposed to be a free city?”

  Argus looked at his old mercenary brothers, and they began to chuckle.

  Nasira blushed. “What?”

  “Syrio just rules in a different way,” Harun said. “Some rule by force or chance or divine right. But he rides the almighty dragon. See all those soldiers there?” He pointed to the men in olive cloaks scattered among the teeming crowds. “He's the one who pays for their children's daily bread. So they obey without question.”

  Argus nodded. “Syrio and his brood are the spiders. Live here long enough, and you'll find yourself stuck in their webs.”

  “I don't like the sound of that,” Nasira said. “The sooner we can leave the better.”

  Argus surveyed the strands of Sryio's webs. Bespectacled men with long beards scowled on the piers, waiting with quills and ledgers. Behind them, soldiers watched the wheel of commerce spin, ready to step in should a single dragon escape Syrio's grasp.

  Azmar was the trading capital of the world. It was their responsibility to ensure every piece of cargo was accounted for and, more importantly, taxed. Anyone who fell in debt to the Syrio family remained in the city until they worked it off as indentured servants.

  Many remained there for life.

  At last the ship they'd chartered reached the front of the queue. A customs officer and cluster of soldiers came aboard and searched below decks. Nasira tensed beside him while their eyes swept over the crew, greeting them with glares. But when their captain broke out his purse and paid the tax, adding a slip rental fee for the week he planned to stay, they pocketed the dragons and hurried off to the next ship.

  “Bandits!” the captain said. “Hiding behind fine clothes and pretty words. I was here two months past, and the tax has nearly doubled.” He found little sympathy from his crew, who were busy chatting in their native Pellmerean. The men joked and laughed, eager to touch land again.

  “Sorry to hear it,” Argus said, clasping the captain's forearm. He didn't have the heart to tell him that the tax increase was just a taste of things to come. When the war officially began, it wouldn't surprise him if Syrio increased them tenfold.

  They thanked the captain and bid the crew farewell. Onto the pier they went. Teamsters shuffled past, clad in the scarlet robes that marked them as indentured debtors, rushing to help unload the ship.

  Soon they were swallowed up in the throng of humanity pressing toward the western gate. High cliffs hemmed them in from north and south. As they approached the gate those cliffs began to squeeze, forcing the hordes of arrivals to form a line and enter Azmar no more than ten abreast.

  “By the eternal flame,” said Nasira. “The entire city is a fortress.”

  Argus nodded. Azmar had been invaded countless times. He'd help turn back three of those incursions while serving in the city guard. The city's wealth made it irresistible for many mercenaries and outlaw types. Yet of all the ones who'd tried, none had succeeded in even breaching the outer wall.

  He looked up at the tall walls that ran atop the cliffs. Olive Cloaks patrolled far above the city. They looked down from towers and parapets. Watching. Waiting for war to come.

  They passed through the western gate, under where the cliffs connected and formed the boundary of the walled city. Carts lined the streets. Drivers whipped their beasts of burden and swore. Children darted between them. Sweating and laughing. Ducking into alleyways.

  Argus smelled horse shit and fire and baking bread. A man selling silken shirts grabbed his arm, and by the time he wrenched away, a whore had grabbed another.

  Nasira kept close beside him, clutching her dress tightly.

  “Don't worry,” Argus said. “These people will try to sell you everything under the sun. But only a complete fool would try to steal here.” Even violent crimes were forgivable in Azmar, provided you had the dragons to meet the court's demands. He'd even heard stories of murderers roaming free. But thieves? They disappeared into Lord Syrio's private dungeon, where his hand-picked team of torturers did their worst. They kept them alive longer—and in more pain—than he'd thought a human body could endure.

  Nasira nodded. Her gaze settled on the eastern horizon. A steep hill stood between them and the Eldwhisper, where she'd share the voxtrap's message with the world.

  Her business, Argus thought. She's safely in Azmar. I've done my part.

  Another purpose awaited him on top of that hill. He studied Lord Syrio's palace, visible even at this distance. Its slate walls were interspersed with gilded columns, reaching for the clouds. Those columns supported gardens and terraces and magnificent windows of stained glass. Above it all, a ruby-encrusted dome shimmered in the sun.

  Azmar's beating heart.

  Argus swallowed hard. If all went well, he would be under that dome in a matter of hours.

  “How long?” Nasira asked. “How long must we wait before we can get to the Eldwhisper?”

  Siggi's eyes widened. “Why in the world would you want to do that? It's just a relic from the kingdom past.” He lowered his voice. “I've heard it's made from… unnatural magic.”

  “It can be made from horse manure for all I care, as long as it works. Just keep me safe until I do what I need to do up there. Then we can sail back for Davos and I'll pay you the remaining dragons.”

  Siggi stroked his chin, first the clean-shaven side, then the bearded one to spark deeper thought. “Fair enough. You drive a hard bargain. Though I don't know why—”

  “That's for the best. Consider those two thousand dragons payment for your discretion.”

  “The city is crawling with people right now,” Harun said. A few of them are bound to be hunting you. Let's wait until nightfall. After Lord Syrio starts his feast.”

  Nasira bit her lip. She looked around for some other way, but there was no relief from the crowds. “It kills me to have traveled so far and be this close…”

  “Patience,” Harun said. “It's only a few more hours.”

  Patience, Argus told himself. Having Reaver strapped around his hip was suffocating. He couldn't bear keeping her around any longer—just as he couldn't bear the thought of letting her go. Freeing himself would be like losing a limb. But if there was life there, he was eager to taste it.

  Siggi patted his belly and said, “Let's find an inn somewhere. I didn't sleep a wink on that damned ship, and if there's going to be fighting, at least let me do it on a full sto
mach.”

  Even Nasira agreed with that.

  “Come on,” Argus said. “I know just the place.”

  After squeezing past the line of carts filling Urbek Way, they turned onto a smaller residential street, which narrowed until they were forced to walk in single file. The row houses there were modest but well-kept, the street empty of the detritus found in practically every other city. Syrio's hefty fines and army of debtors-turned-servants saw to that.

  “We almost there?” Siggi asked.

  Argus grunted. “It's close.”

  He looked up into the tiny gap between the houses. The sun had crept out from behind the clouds, but down here he could hardly see it. Azmar residents stacked their houses on top of each other; in some places their walls extended across the alley and met in the middle.

  Rambling through these alleys had always made him feel trapped. Claustrophobic. But when the city walls were finally finished and people flocked from the countryside for Syrio's protection, the only way to build was up.

  “Ah!” Argus said “Here's the place.”

  He led them into a tiny inn called the Deacon. It was empty save for the innkeeper, a glum-faced Harlockian who rested behind the bar, and a pair of fair-haired serving girls prodding a reluctant fire. He greeted the innkeeper and said hello to the girls, whose eyes lit up when they noticed his scar.

  “It doesn't look like much,” he said. “But it has the best lamb stew west of the Cloudbreaker Mountains.”

  He doubted that was true. In fact, he couldn't remember ever having dined here while he lived in Azmar. But Willow had told him to stop here before Lord Syrio's feast…

  Where is she?

  If he shut his eyes and steadied his thoughts, he could almost feel her watching.

  “Are you all right?” asked Nasira.

  “Just hungry.”

  Hungry for answers.

  They sat at a table near the single window and proceeded to order enough food and ale to supply a small army. As they devoured it, Argus watched the traffic outside.

  Everything was in motion out there. That wasn't unusual; the strange thing was how uncoordinated it seemed. Azmar was known for order and efficiency. Yet today, one moment the city guard would ride by on horseback, and the next, jugglers and minstrels would cut through the alley in dazzling colors.

  Preparations were pulling Azmar apart. The city prepared for war just as she prepared to host the very rulers who might head it off before it started.

  Syrio makes out either way, Argus thought. Bastard is probably financing both sides. As long as he can keep his city standing…

  They finished their meals and paid the innkeeper for rooms to rest. Argus shut the door, took off his boots, and sprawled on the bed. He scoured the room for a sign—Willow had sworn there would be one—of what to do next.

  There was nothing there except a crooked door and his musty featherbed.

  Argus shut his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep. Every time he got close his heart began to gallop at the thought of what he planned to do next.

  The dagger will do it. More discreet than a broadsword… but what if I miss?

  His breaths became short and labored. There would be a different kind of battle than the sort he was used to. He rolled to his side and landed on something hard and bulky.

  Reaver was still strapped to his hip.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Argus woke in a puddle of cold sweat.

  He was about to stab the emperor, but his dagger had slipped.

  “Gods.”

  It was only a nightmare, but soon it could be reality. He sprang out of bed and checked the sunlight through the tiny window behind him. Two or three hours had passed.

  Argus rustled through the sheets for his clothes. Moments later he found them…

  But those weren't the only ones he found.

  He spotted a red robe folded on the foot of his bed. After double checking to make sure the room was locked, Argus crawled over and looked at it.

  He picked it up and shook it, half expecting a dozen snakes to come crawling out as repayment for some grievance he'd caused years before. Nothing. Nothing but a clean debtor's robe—the garb worn by eight in ten people of Azmar.

  Below it, on the bed, rested a note.

  This should get you inside the feast. Word is that Lord Syrio is bringing on extra help in the kitchens to serve his guests. I trust you can handle the rest. – Willow

  Argus crumpled the note and checked every corner of his room again. No one there.

  He turned to the window. Sunlight streamed through and splashed right on his face.

  No time to waste…

  Argus put on the robe and tucked his old clothes away under the bed. He pried up a loose floorboard and hid Reaver and his dagger beneath it. Trying to smuggle them into the feast was too risky. Lord Syrio was a careful man, and careful men always had adequate security. All the while he wondered how Willow had done it. Maybe the innkeeper. Or one of the serving girls.

  Once he'd gotten dressed, he slipped out of his room and crept through the hall, past the row of rooms where the others slept. He tread softly on the creaky stairs and made for the door.

  The innkeeper called out, and there was alarm in his voice. Argus—a faceless debtor, now—didn't stop or acknowledge him. He pressed on through the door and into the street. On his way out he passed the serving girls, who were busy sweeping the steps. One girl gaped at him, and the other covered her mouth.

  Argus hurried into the alley. He twisted and turned back to Urbek Way, which led up the hill. He lowered his eyes as he walked, reminding himself to behave like a man of his low station.

  No one said a word to him on the way up. He found himself surrounded in a sea of debtors in red robes. Everyone had to make way a few times during the trek. The rulers were starting to make for the palace. Trumpets and drums and columns of soldiers signaled their approach.

  Argus spotted a dozen or so hunchbacked elders from Pellmere, a decent showing from the council of a dozen dozen that ruled their kingdom. They rode in ornate carriages driven by the giant, silvery horses native to their grasslands. Halberdiers shoved onlookers aside so the carriages could pass. Behind them rode a column of knights from Harlock. Their azure armor glared almost as suspiciously as their eyes. One of their rulers, a wide-eyed boy who hardly looked old enough to grow his first whisker, rode with them. A congregation of Garvahnish guild masters filed in behind them, their multicolored robes fluttering in the breeze.

  The Calladonian procession was the most impressive of all. Argus ducked into an alleyway as it passed. Musicians marched by. Servants of the Sculptor god with their hammers and chisels. And a scad of hearty soldiers. Argus estimated there must have been four hundred of them. Maybe more.

  Great.

  His heart pounded through his chest as the emperor approached, carried on a simple wooden palanquin. Emperor Eamon was a hungry-looking man, with straight blonde hair, green eyes and a sharp jaw. He never stopped scowling, even when some of the Azmarites, who'd packed the alleys and dangled from their windows to watch, cheered.

  Argus waited until the last of the procession disappeared, then followed at a safe distance. At last he crested the hill just before the sun went down. He made for the entrance to Lord Syrio's palace.

  Argus bowed at the phalanx of Olive Cloaks guarding the entrance. The captain scowled, then frisked him before waving him past.

  “Get your arse in there!” he roared, shoving him up the steps. “The feast starts in a few minutes.”

  Argus pushed down the rage that threatened to overtake him and said, “Of course.” He hustled up the grand marble entrance, flanked by statues of the Syrio family forefathers who had started their rise to prominence.

  Once inside, Argus hustled past tapestries and clusters of diplomats, careful not to step on the velvet carpet which had been rolled out for the most important guests. His nose led him all the way to the kitchen. Fires blazed. One chef, a R
ivannan woman with silver hair, shouted orders to sous chefs, and they relayed them to the mass of debtors who'd been recruited to help with basic tasks.

  He kept his head low and worked his way over toward one of the long counters. He grabbed a knife and started to chop the onions in front of it. Others in red robes toiled beside him. Elbow to elbow they worked. Curses and smoke filled the kitchen, and when the trumpets sounded somewhere above, the silver-haired chef lost her last shred of sanity.

  “The first course!” she screamed, clapping her hands. “The first course!”

  Debtors scurried to ladle soup from gigantic iron pots. As the bowls made their way toward the serving line, Argus sprinkled them with onions.

  The silver-head woman screamed again. Her voice sent the debtors shuffling toward the stone steps in the kitchen corner, soup bowls in hand. Argus grabbed two of them and joined the throng.

  Up the stairway they went. He followed the others through an arched passageway which was so low he had to duck beneath it. The debtors surrounding him walked quickly, bumping into one another in an attempt to escape from the insane woman with the silver hair. Someone grunted, and scalding soup sloshed onto Argus's robes.

  “Gods! Can't you watch where you're going?”

  The man or woman—he couldn't tell which in the dim torchlight—had already disappeared into the crowd. He balanced his own soup bowls and felt death sweeping down on him as swiftly as an executioner's ax.

  Each step birthed a hundred doubts, a thousand questions. Assuming he could get close enough to the emperor, how would he do it? Much less escape?

  Then the corridor curved, and there was no more time for hesitation. The wave of debtors jerked to a stop, blinded by the brilliant light. More soup spilled—along with plenty of curses. Driven on by the masses behind them, they walked toward the sound of singers and lutes and raucous voices.

  Lord Lucius Syrio's great hall was everything it was rumored to be… and more.

  Giant long tables filled the room, floating among a sea of gilded tile mosaics. Chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, jade and onyx and agate. Diplomats mingled beneath them. Men and women from across the world, separated by language and culture and religion, but united by their high station.