The High King's Vengeance

by Steven Poore

  “Craw?”

  The service you asked has been discharged, Craw said. The words cut into Cassia’s head. I have brought you safe to Hellea. Would you have more of me?

  It was baiting her, playing with her ignorance and her need. It was a dragon, after all. What else would it do?

  She was tempted to take up the offer implicit in Craw’s question. In so many ways Hellea was more foreign to her now than Galliarca had been, and despite the fact that Rais now accompanied her, she was sure she would need more than mere words to convince the Hellean Emperor of a renewed threat from the North. But in other ways – less important, perhaps, to anyone other than herself – she was not so naive. The Age of Talons might have been a glorious time of magic and heroism, with such a wealth of stories that even her father could never have heard them all, but there were always lessons to be learned from those tales. And the one lesson Cassia would never forget was that, in the end, trust easily given was too easily broken.

  I have nobody to trust. Perhaps not even myself.

  She managed to look the dragon square in the eye. Bright and inhuman, it seemed to leech life from the air. Everything felt much colder than it ought to.

  “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. The words, at least, did not sound wrong. “I think there are some things I should do myself now.”

  A good decision, Cassia Cat’s-Paw. Craw paused there and held the weight of its gaze upon her. She could not tell if it was making fun of her. The drumming at her temples merged with the distant sounds of revelry in the city. And I, also, have other matters to attend, the dragon went on. But I shall watch your progress with interest. The service I still require from you is yet to be discharged.

  “Will you at least tell me what that is?” A large part of her did not want to know.

  No.

  Craw stretched its wings wide, lifted itself as high as it could, and beat its way into the night sky. The air gusted around Cassia, whipping at her clothing and her hair, stinging her skin with dirt and small stones. Very quickly the dragon was little more than a dark, half-imagined blur.

  Rais muttered a low prayer to Peleanna. Cassia closed her eyes for a long moment to steady her soul.

  I’m here. I made it this far. And every step forward is another step closer.

  But closer to what?

  The war drums mocked her as she hitched her packs higher, picked up her staff, and began to walk towards the barely discernable bank that she hoped marked the road. Rais, still behind her, switched from prayers to curses as he struggled to keep up.

  The gates were wide open. This was a festival, a celebration of the year gone around again, and Hellea was a free city, welcoming any and all in Saihri’s name. Two late-arriving travellers went entirely unnoticed, just as Cassia had hoped. Still, there were plenty of reasons to stay on her guard, not least of which was the small matter of the man she had assaulted on the last full day of her previous visit. The storyteller Marko, if he still lived, would not be pleased to see her, especially since she had arrived with her own patched and multicoloured robe proclaiming her identity. Nor would the city’s guild of storytellers welcome her. And there was Rais too . . .

  The Galliarcan prince kept his head ducked down as they weaved through the fringes of the festival. He seemed to veer between the lights of the stalls like an skittish cat, aware of his status as an outsider. Only when Cassia turned away from the wide streets that led to the temples and markets, cutting across the hillside along less-travelled lanes where the surface was muddy or covered with loose bricks, did he appear to relax, though his stance still spoke of tightly-wound nerves.

  “This is not so different,” he said, nodding at the high walls on either side. “Perhaps it is plainer, and not so well constructed, but it is not so far removed from my home. I trust you know where you are headed?”

  Cassia chose not to rise to the bait and Rais fell quiet once more. There was too much weighing on her mind to engage in the kind of verbal sparring Rais enjoyed. Inspired by their return to Hellea, Cassia had worked hard on the small pieces of the puzzle that she had not already figured out. As she navigated the corners and turns, skipping past dithering revellers, she relived the sequence of events that had brought her to Malessar’s ship. The realisation of her abandonment; the fight with Marko; the days in the cramped tunnels of the city’s library – the sarcophagi of knowledge, Malessar had once called them, though Cassia had not understood what he meant. The fear she had felt the first time she climbed the great flight of steps outside the library.

  She had been placed in the warlock’s path. Baum had admitted as much, there at the end. She was little more than a piece to be moved, just as he had manipulated others over the course of the centuries. Her father, Meredith, old Attis and the Almouls. The mad priest at the ruined temple in Lyriss. Arca and the tavern-keeper.

  Ah. Arca the Brave.

  The veteran soldier was stuck in her thoughts – the tales he had told her, the history of his campaigns and the loot he had squandered, and the rare story of his encounter with Malessar himself.

  They were all related, connected as though they stood in a circle, tied to one another with ribbons, like the festival dancers who threaded through the city’s streets. If there was one thing she knew from the dozens – hundreds, even – of tales she had learned over the short span of her life, it was that such relationships had the potential for great power. Stories always placed great store on strangers who discovered mutual acquaintances, and on previously unheralded characters who secretly held positions of great authority. Life was always humdrum and disappointing next to such tales. Or, Cassia corrected herself, nearly always.

  She did not like herself for what she was going to do over the next few days, but she had not been left with much choice. Not if her wisp-thin plan was to stand any chance of success. Malessar had not given her any choice; neither had Baum. Jedrell, the last High King of Caenthell, his shadow cast forward across hundreds of years, had not given her any choice in this matter. And nor had Pyraete, the stone-minded God of the North.

  And so be it, then. If she must do this, then she must have help. And those she asked would have no choice in the matter either.

  She cast a glance over her shoulder to seek out Rais. The prince’s face was a blank smile, a mask to hide his unease as he navigated the streets behind her. He had already chosen to cast his lot in with her, and she wondered how quickly he would come to regret that. But he was a part of this tale now, just as much as she was.

  The streets began to look familiar now, triggering memories of her previous visit to the city. So much had happened since then that they might as well have been memories of a past life.

  And there was the Old Soak itself, the sign over the door too shadowed to read. The shutters were drawn, but the door hung ajar, spilling light reluctantly onto the street. Cassia half expected Meredith to ghost from the alley at the side of the building, to beckon her into the yard for another practice session.

  She had slowed sufficiently that Rais caught up with her at last. He regarded the street with faint disdain. “I suppose it must have its charms,” he said.

  Cassia resisted the temptation to jab her elbow into his ribs. “Perhaps you expected a palace, sir?”

  Rais shook his head. “Hardly. I said that already, Cassia. Who are these people?”

  She paused, words evaporating on her tongue. She had considered Arca a friend once, but hindsight was robbing her of that perception. “Baum knew them.”

  “And you believe they will help you now?”

  “They will,” she said shortly.

  The main room had not altered at all, other than the fact that tonight Ultess’s tavern was busy, the benches full of men drinking and singing songs to Saihri. The boy who tended the fire was employed as Ultess’s assistant instead, refilling jugs with pale wines and thick ales. Ultess himself guarded the barrels at the back of the room; Cassia was awake enough to notice the club propped in a corner, wi
thin easy reach of the tavern-keeper’s large hands. Hellea might be in a festival mood, but Ultess plainly expected trouble.

  Cassia pushed her way between the benches, using the weight of her packs to assist her. Men were forced to lean forwards, grumbling at the inconvenience of her passage, until she managed to reach the clear space at the bottom of the stairs. Ultess’s boy met her there, staring up at her with an inquisitive gaze, one that abruptly widened in shock as he finally recognised her.

  “We will need rooms,” she told him, with all the natural authority she could muster. The drums of the North, quiescent for the moment, still lent her voice a more martial tone, and the tables around her fell into silence, the celebrants turning their heads to see who had made such a demand. At the far end of the room Ultess shifted from his perch, though his hand did not stray to the waiting club.

  The boy’s mouth opened and closed, and he blinked as though to clear his vision. Cassia tapped one end of her staff against the floor. “Tonight, boy, not tomorrow.”

  “All of our rooms are taken,” Ultess said loudly, his voice hushing those who had not yet turned to watch. “This is Saihri’s Feastday, you know. You are late – I think every tavern in the city will be overflowing with paying guests by now. Perhaps you should have sped your journey, eh?”

  Have I changed so much in the last season that he does not recognise me? Cassia wondered. It was possible: so much else had changed it was inconceivable that she should remain the same girl she had been back then, when she had been little more than Baum’s puppet, something to be pushed into position as a fisherman might cast bait. Ultess had directed her down to the docks once she found Baum and Meredith gone. He would never have expected to see her again.

  “I could hardly have travelled any faster,” she said. “But I think we will stay here tonight at least.”

  Ultess’s frown deepened and his fingers flexed, as if seeking the stick he had left behind him. “You misheard me. I said there are no rooms.”

  Cassia sensed Rais close behind her, the very air around him seeming to harden. Even the most pickled of the tavern’s customers could not have failed to notice the tension that both she and the prince had brought with them into the room. The scrawny errand-boy tugged urgently at Ultess’s apron, only to be batted away without even a glance.

  “You would have given a room to Baum,” Cassia said.

  She watched the name register in the tavern-keeper’s mind, and followed the chain of emotions that followed it. Shock, dismay, fear, and a failed struggle to hide all of it beneath a mask of indifferent welcome. Ultess’s face betrayed him absolutely, and at that moment Cassia knew she had been correct. Baum had used his fellow soldiers to manipulate her, throughout her stay in Hellea.

  Ultess’s gaze flicked up, focusing past her shoulder. Even shadowed by flickering firelight, Rais was unmistakeably Galliarcan. If he wore the same hard-eyed expression he had done when playing at interrogating her, then he would appear as every Hellean’s nightmare – an assassin, a reaver, sent from the death-dry deserts to cause murder and spill blood upon the civilised streets of the Empire.

  “Why didn’t you say so before?” Ultess declared in loud tones that, to Cassia’s ears, were strained rather than happily surprised. “Heavens, girl, this is Saihri’s night! What sort of host would I be if I didn’t save a place for old friends?”

  He backed away, beckoning her to follow, almost tripping over the edge of a bench in his haste. Cassia could not resist letting a smile play across her lips, noting that Ultess was even more disconcerted by this. The tavern-keeper ushered them through the curtain into the closed-off back half of the long room, where his own pallet was pushed against a wall and a weathered, round table held the few jugs and tankards he had not yet called into use tonight. He slumped down onto a low stool, and glared at her unhappily.

  “Damn you, girl. And damn him too. He said he would never call upon me again. He guaranteed it. So where is the old bastard?”

  The irony, Cassia thought, was that Ultess appeared much older than Baum had ever looked. Such was the curse of the gods.

  “He told you the truth, at least,” she said. “Baum is dead.”

  It took a long moment for those words to register in the tavern-keeper’s head, and even then he shook his head in disbelief and confusion. “Dead? No. That can’t be. You are mistaken.”

  “Hardly. I was there.”

  “No. The captain was favoured by the gods. He told us – he showed us the truth.”

  Cassia clenched her fists as the first part of her theory was proven. It was difficult to hold her temper down. “The truth is that Baum is dead. And I am here. We are here.”

  Ultess glanced again at Rais, clearly uncomfortable at his presence. A man from the southern shores – from the lands where Ultess had campaigned as a soldier. Cassia was certain Rais was returning the glare with interest.

  “And . . . and what? What do you want from me now?”

  “For now?” Cassia shrugged. “A place to stay.”

  On the other side of the curtain, Ultess’s customers had resumed their celebrations. Someone began a loose rhythm, drummed on the surface of a table, while another man attempted to lay a song over the top. The effect was grating, to say the least. Cassia had become accustomed to the fluid, playful rhythms of the Galliarcan mede.

  Ultess’s shoulders dropped. “I can’t give you a room, girl. Not tonight. Every room I have is full. But you can stay here.” He indicated the pallet to one side.

  Rais snorted, his disgust plain. “On that befouled thing? I’ll take my chances with the palace guards.”

  “The offer wasn’t meant for you, heathen. I’d have to burn it afterwards.”

  Cassia stepped between them. “I’m too tired for arguments, Rais. Ultess, go and see to your customers. Your boy will have given away every bottle you still possess otherwise.”

  The tavern-keeper barely hesitated. Rais watched him go with open disdain.

  “He was once a soldier, Cassia? What a terrible specimen. If all Helleans have so little courage it is a wonder they ever founded an empire.”

  Cassia looked at the curtain. It was thin enough in places that light burned through from the main room of the tavern, flickering as men moved in front of the fireplace. “If you say that a little louder, I’m certain you’ll get the fight you seem to be looking for.”

  Rais shrugged nonchalantly, but lowered his voice. “And now, Cassia?”

  She answered by dumping her packs at the side of the pallet, and seated herself heavily upon it. It was lop-sided and, indeed, the blanket was greasy, stained, and reeked of stale sweat. But at this moment, she was so exhausted it did not matter – the pallet might as well be freshly packed straw or cold mountain ground.

  “I don’t care what you do,” she said, “but I’m going to sleep.”

  Rais merely tilted his head and sighed in that insufferable manner, and then took a seat upon the rough stool as though it was a throne. Cassia turned her back to him and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders.

  The door that led into the yard was wedged open, cold daylight pouring in to stir the dust. Cassia winced. The drums had left a headache that nagged at the back of her skull, and the sharp light of a late autumn morning only aggravated it further. She heard movement in the yard and, for one heart-stopping moment, she expected Meredith to step into the doorway and summon her to practice.

  The dream vanished like the mists at Karakhel, burned by Craw’s fire.

  There was no sound from the tavern’s common area. Presumably any remaining customers still slumbered at their benches or on the cold floor, Ultess and his errand-boy amongst them. Cassia felt a twinge of guilt for forcing the old man to give up his own bed, but that emotion was surprisingly easy to suppress.

  Her shoulders were stiff with tension, and from the way the misshapen pallet had forced her to lie. When she managed to swing her feet around onto the floor, she realised she had already reached for her
staff, an action as natural as breathing. She levered herself to her feet and moved slowly to the open door, wincing again at the tightness in her calves, her arms, at her hips and across her back. It was as though she had spent the whole night running or fighting for her life, rather than sleeping.

  And this, she thought, was only the base of the mountain she had to climb.

  Rais was in the yard. Somehow he had contrived to smarten his appearance. His hair was perfectly greased, and his clothes showed no signs of having been slept in. His smile, and his elegant half-bow to her, were doubtless calculated to make her feel even worse.

  “And so Peleanna brings a new day to us,” Rais said. “Are you rested?”

  “Ask me again tomorrow,” Cassia replied. She paced across the yard, giving herself the room she needed, and to avoid any more of his needling questions.

  The forms did not come easily this morning. Cassia felt out of practice, and ill at ease with herself. Her staff slipped from her grasp at least twice, as though it was greased or poorly weighted, and after the third misstep she forced herself to remain in one place instead, focusing on balance and reach more than movement. She missed Meredith, she realised. True, she had managed without his presence and his tuition for a full season in Galliarca, her skill gradually coming to match her confidence and enthusiasm, but now Meredith was gone – and it was as if he had never been there at all. Everything he had taught her felt somehow wrong. Fraudulent. The confidence she had nurtured was shattered.

  It did not help that Rais still watched her as if this was entertainment. She refused to turn to face him, which inhibited the forms still further until, exasperated beyond all patience, she thumped one end of the staff into the ground. Her body still ached from the rigours of the previous day’s travel.

  “Have you nothing better to do?” she threw over her shoulder.