by Steven Poore
“And dreams,” Arca said. “Nightmares.”
“When Baum came back my heart almost stopped,” Ultess said. “He hadn’t aged at all. I told him – I said, I’m too old to go back to war. And he said that wasn’t what he had come for. Just to do as he said. And that damned young lordling of his – cold as stone. Scared me to even look at him.”
“Did you know what he intended?” Cassia asked.
Ultess shook his head firmly. “No. I swear it. Baum never gave us why; he only told us what to do. He said this was the culmination of all his works. That we should be proud to be part of the end of these things.” He frowned, and his eyes blanked, as though he looked into the past. “We were the unseen hand of vengeance, he said. But there wasn’t much joy in it.”
“No joy at all,” Arca echoed.
For a brief moment Cassia felt a measure of pity for them both. They had been badly used in a trick against a young girl, and now she had returned their burden of shame had only become heavier. But the anger that burned in her heart, fanned by the ever-present drumbeat of the North, wilted that pity before it could take hold. How dare they feel so sorry for themselves? They had been soldiers; they had fought and killed for profit. They had no right to pity and forgiveness for what they had done to her. Not yet. Forgiveness would have to wait. They would have to earn it, from her.
“So you have no idea what you have fostered,” Rais said. The tone of amused superiority, dry as the Galliarcan ground, was back in his voice. “No idea what your captain achieved before his death. You only followed him blindly. I commend your loyalty.”
“Rais.” Cassia lifted her hand without looking at him. “I told you, enough.”
But his words had roused Arca at last. He hauled himself upright, the fingers of one hand tight and quivering against the rough surface of the table. The old man could hardly have turned any whiter and still not be dead.
“Baum is dead?”
She held his gaze and nodded. “I saw him die, Arca.”
He considered her words. “How? How did he die?”
“In battle,” she said. It was close enough to the truth.
Arca seemed to accept that, but the lines that creased his face deepened further as he frowned. “What battle? Who did he fight?”
“The warlock, Malessar.”
Both Ultess and Arca stared at her in disbelief.
“But Malessar lived in the Age of Talons,” Ultess said. “He would have to be . . .” He tailed off in realisation.
“Hundreds of years old,” Cassia finished the sentence for him. “Yes. They both were.”
“Oh gods,” Arca said quietly. “What have we done?”
Cassia told them.
And then she told them how they would help her put things right.
Hellea’s grand library dominated the square behind her. It called silently to her, but Cassia could shrug off the temptation now, and she turned her back to the great flight of steps. Instead she watched the avenue that led down to the precincts of the palace. Traffic was slow after the excesses of the festival, and some traders had not turned up at all. Along the length of the avenue there were gaps and spaces where the missing stalls should have been, and people milled around like spirits in search of a shrine.
Rais had bought food from somewhere – late harvest apples, and a fistful of shelled nuts. It was not much, but it helped stave off the worst of Cassia’s hunger.
“Do you trust him?” the prince asked.
“No,” she said without hesitation. “And . . . yes.”
“You make no sense at all. Did I land a blow to your head earlier?”
His needling was half-hearted. Perhaps it had finally occurred to him that this was not a game of his Court.
“He could just run and hide – this is his city after all. We would never find him.”
Cassia shook her head. “Arca won’t do that. I could see it in his eyes. He’s ashamed.” A stray piece of coloured ribbon, abandoned during the festivities, tumbled across the stones and caught around her ankle. She stooped and flicked it loose with one hand. “And he is too frightened to just run away.”
Scared of Baum, scared of her; frightened of living, terrified of dying. A man who saw the narrow boundaries of his life’s path and would never seek to move them. Arca would do as he was told.
Cassia was not certain where these insights had come from. They were subtle, biting, and cynical. She had not thought she could be such a person. To judge from Rais’s reactions, it was a surprise to him as much as it was to her. But knowing these things, seeing the strands of courage or cowardice that tied men like Arca and Ultess to particular courses of action – that was useful enough in itself that she did not want to question it now. She had no time to doubt herself; Jedrell, or whichever spirit now dominated Caenthell, would not give her the luxury of that time.
“And Ultess?”
The prince’s stare was masked. He was measuring her responses now.
Cassia replied with a question of her own. “Do you think he will flee?”
Rais did not reply immediately. Instead he braced his hands against his hips and looked up at the walls of the library. “How can he?” he said at length. “The tavern is his life; that much is clear.”
Cassia nodded. “More than that, though. He will not abandon Arca.”
Rais seemed to consider that. “A shame my father did not see this side of you. He might well have changed his position.”
“By having me beheaded on the spot, you mean?”
That drew a short bark of laughter, before Rais turned again and peered along the street that led around the base of the hill where the library sat. “Here he comes.”
They had arranged to meet again here, rather than back at the Old Soak, as a precaution. The main squares of the city were open and quiet, and it would be difficult to eavesdrop on the conversation. If Arca was as good as his word, then his contact would surely prefer to meet them here in the public precincts, rather than a dirty old tavern in an overcrowded district of the lower city.
“He’s alone,” Rais noted.
Arca slumped on the back of a mule that Rais had procured earlier, a thin, malevolent thing, close in temperament to the beast Cassia’s father had taken with him. The old man shook with every step the mule took, his hunched shoulders visible through the ratty cloak he was wrapped in. He had come from behind the library, those districts that were less crowded, far more opulent, and contained the homes of Hellea’s great and good.
The mule halted, of its own accord, more than as a result of Arca pulling ineffectively at the bridle. He scowled down at it, cursing under his breath, and then lapsed into a fit of coughing.
“You seem to have lost your escort,” Rais said, his voice light with sarcasm.
The jibe was wasted upon Arca. “The Lady Lianna cannot ride out to speak with you,” he said to Cassia, ignoring the prince completely. “And this damned mule is an ass. Bloody thing can’t tell left from right. Certainly doesn’t understand plain speech. Stupid beast.”
Cassia exhaled, a frustrated, disappointed sigh. She would have to find another way into the palace. Any way she found now would be infinitely more dangerous than the one she had hoped to use.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Rais said.
“I didn’t say that, boy.” Arca glared at him from his perch on the mule’s back. “Learn to listen. I didn’t say she would not; I said she could not.”
“Explain the difference then, you scabrous fool.”
It took all Cassia’s will to resist smacking both of them with her staff.
“The difference, sir, as a well-educated man would undoubtedly tell you,” Arca said in a voice deliberately intended to further rile the prince, “is that the Lady Lianna will see you. At her own convenience, not yours.”
Cassia butted in before Rais had a chance to continue the argument. “We have to go to her house then?”
Arca nodded. His last outburst must have left him
out of breath. The mule turned on the spot as if anxious to make the return journey immediately, and Arca had to lean forward to regain his balance. At that moment he reminded Cassia more than ever of her father – of how he might appear in the last years of his life, reliant on some contrary beast to carry him from town to town. Could she justify the demands she was going to make of him over the next few days, or weeks?
Probably not, she thought, but Arca had already committed himself to this course through his association with Baum. He had to take responsibility for his actions, in exactly the same way Cassia had. No, it would not be pleasant. But it would be necessary.
The afternoon was already waning; the year was turning. This was not the right time to be launching a campaign into the North.
“So we should not wait for the wind to blow us there,” she said, half to herself. The drums rumbled a case for urgency at the back of her mind. “Lead the way, Arca, before your Lady Lianna decides to change her mind.”
The streets in this part of the city were wider, and took the contours of the land into account. There were fewer shopfronts, and the squares where the streets intersected invariably featured a central column upon which stood a representation of one of the Hellean gods. The statues of Saihri, clothed or bare-breasted, were wreathed in garlands and ribbons; those of Casta were sculpted to show the goddess emerging from water, or else pouring water onto the ground at her feet. There were one or two statues of a less familiar figure too, and it was only when Cassia paused at one of them to read the inscription, sounding out under her breath the letters of the formal Hellean script, that she identified him as Manethrar – the first Emperor.
The man for whom Malessar had created the Empire, she thought. There were few statues of Manethrar in the North – or, rather, few that had not been defaced in some fashion.
Other than the garlands and ribbons, there was little sign the previous night had been Saihri’s festival. Even the gutters that ran down the middle of the streets were relatively unfouled. The passers-by wore long, fur-lined coats and cloaks, rich styles and wools that would cost a fortune to transport back into the North. There were closed carriages too, carried high on the shoulders of heavily-muscled bearers. Cassia, footsore after the long walk up into the hillsides of the city, glanced at them enviously. Rais, she noticed, seemed to take it all in his stride.
The plain, whitewashed walls that lined the street were interrupted by arches and closed gates at irregular intervals, discreet but well-constructed, the decorated panels polished and stained dark. Nymphs, goddesses and soldiers competed for space on the panels, paying tribute to a variety of noble figures. This was what Rann Almoul aspired to, Cassia realised – he had enclosed his yard in an Imperial style.
Arca halted before one such gate. It stood open and a tall, heavyset man leaned against the arch just inside. Not a soldier, though his bearing spoke of military discipline. He still looked like a man who was used to keeping order with his fists. The club he held tucked beneath one arm was probably quite unnecessary.
The guard frowned at her and Rais while Arca spoke to him in quiet, urgent tones. Cassia straightened her back and tried to gather her thoughts. It was difficult to know how to present her case, armed with no knowledge at all of Lady Lianna.
“No blades,” the guard said at last. “Leave them here.”
Rais looked as though he would protest, but Cassia tugged on his sleeve before he could say anything. “Your father would say the same,” she reminded him.
The prince hesitated, but pulled his scabbard free at last and slid it onto the long shelf that ran along one wall of the arch. Cassia laid her own weapon alongside it, noting that a third slender blade already lay upon the shelf. It looked like a smaller version of the duelling swords she had seen rich courtiers wear when they came to Hellea’s library to consult with the scholars. A child’s sword? Or – Cassia eyed the hilt and imagined the sword in her own hands – perhaps one made specifically for a woman?
A servant dressed in white linen led them into the house, along windowless vaulted passages, lit only by oil lamps that hung on chains from the darkness above. There was no decoration to speak of, though the walls were lined with panels worked from rich oak, polished to reflect the light. The reflections created ghosts in Cassia’s vision. After what felt like an age, but which had surely been less than a minute – it felt longer because of Arca’s painfully slow tread – the passage opened out into a much larger room. The floor was an odd combination of woven rugs and tile mosaics, laid out in a haphazard fashion between the columns that held up the roof. Statues haunted the darkened corners of the room, silent, immobile attendants to fend off foul spirits; like the charms that warded the taverns and houses in the lower quarters, but on a larger, more extravagant scale. Thin wooden screens created partitions across the room, and ornate fireplaces dominated two of the walls. One lay cold, the hearth clean and bare. Cassia could feel the heat of the other as soon as she entered the room.
A low couch sat before the fire, and partitions on either side directed both heat and light towards it. Lady Lianna sat here, a simple dark blue gown providing effective contrast to the rich patterns and colours of the rest of the room. To Cassia’s eyes she appeared somewhat uncomfortable amidst the vast array of cushions that supported her. It was only as she came closer that she realised the woman’s gown disguised a distended, bloated stomach in the last stages of pregnancy. Little wonder that Lianna could not have met them elsewhere.
A weathered man, his beard clipped short in the current fashion of the nobility, appraised them from where he stood, a bare pace behind Lianna. His short sleeves were intended to display the hard bulk of his arms and shoulders to their best effect and he carried a short blade at his belt. He held himself in the same way Tarves Almoul did; a soldier, then, paid to protect Lianna. Just as Arca himself had once been. The man’s mouth was twisted into a cruel smile, his gaze fixed upon Arca as though neither Rais nor Cassia posed any threat.
Of course. Lianna would not have kept Arca’s history a secret. The mercenary was gloating over the old man’s misfortunes.
Arca bent stiffly from the waist, plainly aware of the other man. “My lady.”
Lady Lianna stared at them in frank amusement. “A girl dressed as a storyteller, and a heathen. If my husband knew of this meeting, he would have a fit upon the floor. And then remove your heads. Even yours, Arca, for such temerity. You should know better than most the reason for all the precautions we must take.” She paused, and winced. One hand moved slowly over her stomach. “You are disturbing him. Are you certain you wish to redeem my debt to you in this way?”
Arca’s nodded response was less than convincing.
Lianna’s eyes flicked between Cassia and Rais. “Very well. You have your audience. Make it count.”
Cassia drew a deep breath, but to her frustration Rais filled the silence first.
“My lady. May Peleanna smile upon you and grant you, your child, and your esteemed husband long and fruitful lives under the sun. Lord Asriak is well remembered in Galliarca. I am Rais, son of Jianir, and Prince of the Watch.”
Cassia fought against the hot flood of anger that pushed against her. The drums thudded in her head. It was a wonder, she thought, that the roof had not already fallen in. How dare he sweep in and take over in such a fashion?
Lianna tilted her head to one side. Her smile was as sharp as the lines of her cheekbones. “And you are known in this city too, Prince of the Watch. If that is truly who you are.”
Rais pulled a silver chain from inside his shirt, letting it hang from his hand so the metal reflected the firelight, shining blood-red. The device at the end of the chain was his seal. “It is.”
“And your purpose here? Or am I to believe you are here only to celebrate the impending arrival of my son and heir?”
Rais shrugged. It was the same easy movement with which he had attempted to disarm Cassia back in Galliarca. Not to be trusted. Always something behind it.
“Only to guarantee that what Cassia has to say is true.”
That surprised her even more than it did Lianna. He believed in her that much? Then why on earth did he not show it? She clenched her fists in frustration. It was something she would have to deal with another time. Especially since Lianna’s attention had turned back upon her, intense and speculative, like a dragon regarding fresh prey.
“You have sponsors in high places, girl, for no reason I can ascertain. And you want me to raise you into the palace itself? Tell me why.”
She drew her breath again, and this time Rais remained mercifully quiet.
“I have a warning for the Emperor. No, for the whole Empire. War is coming from the North. The wards of Caenthell have fallen and evil spirits will devour everything between the mountains and the sea. And they won’t stop there. I have to raise an army to hold them off. I have already been to Galliarca, to Jianir’s court . . .”
“And he believed you?” Lianna broke in.
Cassia hesitated. “Well, no, I don’t think so, but . . .”
Lianna tipped her head back and laughed. “So now you hope to convince the Emperor that your tale is true. Oh dear, girl, if I sponsor your way into the palace my name will be the butt of every joke in the city! My husband will hardly thank me for that. No, girl, take your far-fetched imaginings back to the Guild. Do not think to waste the Emperor’s time with such nonsense. You will gain nothing from it.” She looked across at Rais again. “If your father sent you from Galliarca on this mission then I fear for his sanity. And if you spent weeks crossing the sea to bring fantasies of war from the North to Hellea, then I fear for your sanity as well.”
“Rais chose to come with me,” Cassia said. Her voice was flat and hard. The North pressed at the base of her skull, squeezing her mind, and it was difficult to keep from losing control of herself. This was more than simple mockery. The Lady Lianna was complacent. Spoiled.
She should have known better.