“He wants to see you,” Rollo repeated as he unfolded into the room. Maximilian was always amazed at how the man squeezed through the gap without making it any bigger. Rollo spread out like a pool of blood and nodded politely at Eva, folding his enormous arms across his belly, as if to present a neater menace.
Maximilian narrowed his eyes and studied Rollo, trying to work out the true purpose of Rollo’s visit—an impossible task since Rollo's expression remained completely impassive. “What is this about?”
“Tulgan will fill you in on the details,” Rollo said, gesturing towards the door. “Best not to keep him waiting.”
“Quite,” said Maximilian helplessly. He turned to Eva and shrugged. She looked at him, as unimpressed as Rollo, and exhaled a lung-full of smoke before taking a swig from her bottle, the vapour swapping its exit from her lips to her nostrils.
“See you in the morning,” she said, moving towards his bed.
He glanced at Rollo and replied, “I hope so.”
* * * *
Maximilian knew Rollo well enough to know that the easiest way to travel to Tulgan's office was willingly, and the two walked side by side at a leisurely pace. They knew the route well, as they had made this journey many times, from Maximilian's room through the narrow cobbled streets and past the familiar shops, inns and brothels hacked into the sandstone on either side, onward into the heart of Hardway.
Many of the people they passed knew them. Both characters were well known: Maximilian for owing most of the population money and Rollo for so efficiently collecting the many debts owed to his boss. A few waved and smiled, a few simply ducked out of sight as quickly as possible.
Tulgan's office lay at the end of a narrow ravine with sheer cliffs on either side. A stairway ran diagonally upwards along one wall until it reached a balcony high in the cliff face. The office looked down the length of the valley and over the city. Maximilian knew that tunnels lead from the rear of Tulgan's headquarters, emerging in various places on the island where boats were moored, awaiting the day that the old, self-professed Father of Hardway needed an easy escape. In Maximilian's life time the need had never arisen—Tulgan's 'children' were mostly obedient – but the perceived threat, as was the nature of Hardway, came from without.
As usual Maximilian found himself seated opposite Tulgan with a mug of good wine and the old man's customary pretence that this was a social visit.
“You're like the son I never had, Maximilian.” Tulgan smiled across his desk, fingers steepled before him, his long, white beard immaculately plaited, the end of which nestled somewhere inside his elegant felt smoking jacket.
“A son?” In fact Hardway was crawling with Tulgan's bastard children, but Maximilian knew better than to mention them. “Last time you hauled me into your office your man Rollo here punched me in the guts until I puked!”
“Is discipline not an important part of a father's love?” asked Tulgan, looking hurt. “Besides, he only punched you once.”
“Once was enough,” said Maximilian, gingerly feeling his stomach. “Look at the size of him. I'm still bruised.”
“It hurt Rollo as much as it hurt you. He doesn't enjoy violence, but he knows a man must sometimes do things he doesn't want to do. Isn't that right, Rollo?” Tulgan continued to gaze at Maximilian.
“Life is full of unpleasant tasks. Best to get 'em out the way,” replied Rollo from his customary position—standing by the door looking dangerous. The fact that he not only guarded the exit, but obscured it entirely, enhanced his aura of menace no end.
“My heart bleeds for you,” muttered Maximilian bitterly.
“Now, now—” Tulgan leaned over and poured his guest more wine, “—you'll cut your tongue on such prickly words, young Maximilian. We haven't the time for trivia, I didn't invite you here for an idle chat.”
“Look,” said Maximilian, pausing to take a sip of his wine, “I will have some money for you in a few days. Just give me time to sell my work-”
Tulgan raised a hand for silence. Maximilian cursed himself for a coward as he immediately complied.
“I brought you here,” Tulgan paused, as though he expected a drum roll, “to offer you the opportunity to pay me in kind.”
“You want me to paint your portrait?”
“Good Gods, no!” Tulgan laughed and slowly rocked back in his chair.
“What, then?”
“Hardway is under siege, Maximilian.” Tulgan's smile faded. “The bitter stalemate between the Old Kingdom to the west and Callisse to the east is taking its toll on trade. Whoever gets Hardway has the advantage and both sides know it. They also know that the sheer cliffs and treacherous rocks surrounding our island make invasion impossible. The Council refuse to negotiate with outsiders and the only way in for any invading army, Fort Alex, is too heavily fortified to attempt an attack, so they are targeting the merchants Hardway relies upon. The situation makes it risky for any trading vessels to dock. Many are frightened they'll be punished by one side or the other if they're caught. Needless to say this is putting a squeeze on Hardway's fragile economy.”
“What has this to do with me?” asked Maximilian. He was starting to wish he'd had his usual roughing up and been sent on his way with a warning. He knew where he stood with beatings and threats, but this little meeting had the distinct feeling that it was leading to something, and that something was unlikely to be good for him.
“The situation is unfortunate,” continued Tulgan, “but like every situation, it can be manipulated to our advantage. While some feel the pinch, others grow richer. That's where you come in. Have you heard of the House of the Celestial Sphere?”
“Of course.” Maximilian's anxiety was deepening. Tulgan looked very pleased with himself, which was the only thing worse than Tulgan looking angry.
“It is growing. The future of Hardway is under threat, and where do people turn when they are unsure of their future? Religion. The House's coffers are straining under the weight of their followers' donations—money they should be spending on wine and murka. My money.”
Tulgan's knuckles whitened as he gripped the table and his face hardened, the gleam in the old man's eye betraying his anger. He composed himself and continued.
“Not only that but the House itself is bulging with the sheer number of people, and still more are coming. They are the major religion in Hardway, and religion is the new thing!”
“I still don't understand what this has to do with me,” said Maximilian.
“They're building a new temple! A huge one, not far from Fort Alex, so that everyone who comes here will see it. First the magnificent fort, then the magnificent Temple of the Celestial Sphere!”
“I'm no builder.” Maximilian held up his soft painter's hands as evidence.
“No, but they require your particular talents for something else,”—Tulgan stood and spread his hands out wide-—“a giant mural! Think about it: The painter of the greatest piece of work in Hardway would be famous! Not just here but news of your work would travel. Word would spread of the great Maximilian Shackle!”
Maximilian had been listening with some trepidation, but now his ego had been roused by Tulgan's talk of fame. He tried his hardest to sound unimpressed, despite his excitement.
“I have heard nothing about plans for a mural. Surely word would have spread that the temple required an artist. My peers would have been tripping over themselves to be first in line. Why is news of this not all over Hardway?”
“My dear Maximilian,” said Tulgan, strolling over to the open fire and scooping up the poker. “I run the streets of Hardway, and I have the power to spread rumours or quell them. Besides, the mural was my idea, and the Abbot thought it a very good one. I have all the arrangements in place. This is your big break. And it is all thanks to me.”
“You have met with the Abbot?” Maximilian eyed the old gangster suspiciously.
“Of course. I have negotiated terms,” Tulgan slowly stoked the coals. “The job is yours.”
“What if I don't want it?”
“Do you know how much you owe me, Maximilian?” Tulgan asked.
“Three hundred and twenty sovereigns,” Maximilian replied.
“Five hundred sovereigns, plus interest,” Tulgan corrected him. “And how much do you owe others?”
Maximilian began counting on his fingers.
“I'll tell you how much,” the gangster went on, “sixteen hundred and seventy two sovereigns, to ten different murka dealers, wine merchants, ale houses, even a furious Callistean paper merchant. Have you not wondered why you still walk?”
“I can take care of myself.” Maximilian didn't sound convincing even to himself.
“Oh yes?” Tulgan smiled at him. “And what about your little muse friend? What's her name? Eva? Very pretty girl, that. You can protect her too, can you?”
At the mention of Eva's name, Maximilian felt an unfamiliar twinge, something in his chest. Was it shame? Guilt? Love? The thought of her coming to harm had struck a nerve, which was entirely unexpected.
“I, and I alone, am the reason you live,” Tulgan continued, “because you are worth too much to me. Paint the mural, make it your greatest work, and I will settle your debts. You'll have a clean slate, and fame to boot. Or I can withdraw my protection and see if you make it home alive.”
Tulgan paused for a moment. Then he dropped the poker and walked back to his desk, rubbing his hands together. When he reached the desk, he raised his wine.
“So,” he said, “let us drink to our new partnership.”
Maximilian suddenly realised how stupid he had been. How lucky he was to remain alive. A small part of him thanked the gods for Tulgan's protection. Another part of him hated the man for manipulating him, and for doing it so easily. He tried to act like he wasn't surprised.
“I'll need money for materials,” he said.
“No money,” Tulgan replied sharply. “Everything will be taken care of. Drink!”
Maximilian drained his mug and held it up for more.
3.
The lion was in the prime of life—muscular and rangy and lethally quick. He was also ravenous. His owners had kept him on a diet of yoghurt and mashed vegetables for the past two weeks. The diet had played havoc with the beast’s digestion, made for ingesting raw meat, and put an edge on his already foul temper.
“Any man who steps into the circle with him must be either suicidal or insane,” said the beastmaster, peering through the bars of the gate that led into the arena. “I have made sure of that.”
He suddenly remembered who he was talking to. “Saving your presence, lord,” he said hurriedly, ducking his bald head in deference to the man standing behind him.
“Don’t grovel,” the Dragon said irritably. “I despise grovellers and flatterers. Talk to me like you talk to other men. I am merely flesh and blood.”
The beastmaster was not an intelligent man. Caught between his natural terror of the Dragon and desire to obey orders, he whimpered and wrung his hands.
Satisfied that he had the man in the grip of a vice, the Dragon showed pity.
“Very well, you may call me lord,” he said kindly. “Now,” he added, switching his attention to the gate and the arena beyond, “let me have my sport.”
He shifted his grip on his spear as the beastmaster stammered out an order to the slaves standing by the winch that lifted the gate. They started turning the wheel, and the noise of the crowd packed into the seats of the arena trebled in volume.
The games had been going on all day, and the floor of the arena was liberally splashed with the blood of gladiators and wild beasts that had torn each other apart for public amusement. Now the main event was about to begin.
The Dragon was amused to discover that his hands were trembling. Excitement or fear? Probably both. It did a man good to be afraid—kept him sharp. Which was why he insisted on fighting in the arena against the wishes of his advisors.
He had a horror of ending up like his father, Haresh: soft, fat and pampered, so lost to debauchery and fine living he had lost his survival instinct. The old man hadn’t seen the fatal knife coming until it was too late. The Dragon should know, since he had wielded it.
The Dragon’s real name was Vazul, though no one dared call him anything other than Lord. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and lean and vigorous, with an active and well-muscled body that he took care to keep that way. His head was shaved, and like most men of his race he grew his black beard long and divided into neatly oiled and plaited forks.
When the iron gate had been winched high enough, he stepped lightly into the arena, lithe and nimble as the lion he was going to fight. He paused a moment under the arch, savouring the deafening cheers of his subjects and the feel of sand under his naked feet.
“Conqueror! Conqueror! Conqueror!”
Vazul smiled. “Conqueror,” they called him, and so he was. Conqueror of half a continent and seventeen clans, thirteen of which now called him lord and master. The other four no longer existed. He had smashed them in battle, burned their towns and villages, massacred their people and sold the survivors into slavery. It was the only way to gain respect.
He raised his spear to salute his subjects, which was the signal for another burst of adoration. The lion was padding about uncertainly at the far end of the arena, puzzled by the newcomer. Vazul knew the smell of fresh blood was driving it mad. Fear brushed at him, like the touch of cold fingers. He had often witnessed the effect of a lion’s teeth and claws on the human body.
His fears vanished as he strode confidently into the circle. This was what he was born for, to play the warrior, to show off his talents before lesser mortals.
As a sign of his superiority, he wore no armour, and was clad in nothing but a short black tunic. The tunic bore the symbol of his family, a leaping dragon worked in golden thread. Besides his spear, he carried a long knife stuck into a leather sheath at his hip.
He saw the shift in the lion’s stance, and gauged the moment when hunger overcame its uncertainty. It crouched, ready to spring. For a moment the gazes of man and beast locked. Silence fell over the arena as several thousand people held their breath.
The lion charged. Wasted muscles bunched and flexed under his skin as he galloped towards Vazul, jaws gaping wide, little gold-flecked eyes flaming with animal rage.
Vazul instantly knew he had been betrayed. The lion was supposed to have been secretly drugged beforehand. The drugs and deliberate starvation were designed to render it weak and sluggish enough for Vazul to dispatch with the minimum of risk.
“Treachery,” he hissed through gritted teeth. The thing was galloping towards at him at terrifying speed. He had a second or two to dodge aside before he ended up flat on his back, pinned underneath four hundred pounds of stinking, ravenous feline.
Like all nobles, Vazul was a trained and experienced huntsman. His instincts saved him. Instead of trying to avoid the lion’s charge, he dropped to one knee and lifted his spear at an angle.
The lion was too late to comprehend the danger of the spear. He leaped, claws outstretched to tear out the human’s throat. The gleaming iron spear-point pierced his breast. Unable to stop, he fell forward and impaled himself on several feet of metal and wood.
A moan rippled through the stands as the lion fell on top of Vazul. For a moment he lay crushed under the dying beast’s weight, unable to breathe or move. The lion bellowed and writhed in its death-throes. One of its wildly flailing paws hit Vazul full in the face. Sharp claws scored a bloody trail from brow to chin, mangling his nose and shredding an eyeball.
Vazul was unable to stifle a scream. He kept screaming, almost out of his mind with pain and terror, even when his bodyguards rushed into the arena and butchered the lion with swords and axes.
“Get it off him!” roared their captain. Five of his men dropped their weapons and heaved the carcase off their lord and master. They dumped the dead thing on its side, where it lay bleeding and twitching in its death-throes.<
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The groans and shrieks and doleful prayers of his people echoed in Vazul’s ears, a meaningless jumble of noise, as his body was carefully scraped up from the arena and carried to safety.
Hours of pain followed, sweetened by the narcotics and purges that his doctors poured into him to dull his senses. He screamed and tried to lash out as he felt the cold kiss of metal callipers probing the ruin of his left eye. A fresh film of sweat broke out on Vazul’s body as he realised that he couldn’t move: the doctors had strapped him down onto a hard bed.
“Gently, dread lord,” a kindly old man’s voice kept murmuring, “it will not be long now. Peace, lord. Peace…”
It was the voice of Tyrell, chief of his small army of private physicians. Tyrell had been in the service of Vazul’s family for many years. Decades. He had been great friends with Vazul’s late father.
Friends with his father… Fear and paranoia added their weight to Vazul’s torments. He was at the old swine’s mercy. Tyrell had sensibly kept his mouth shut when it was announced the old Dragon had died of a fever, but was not the kind of man to forget old loyalties. What if he chose this moment to avenge his friend?
“Out, butcher!” Vazul screamed. “Bring me another doctor—one who is loyal to me! Out, I command you…”
A leather gag was stuffed into his mouth.
“Peace, lord,” Tyrell’s sibilant voice whispered in his ear. “You need have no fear. Be still, while we pluck out the debris of your eye.”
Vazul stiffened. There was a definite note of quiet amusement in the old man’s voice.
I will remember, he thought savagely as the doctors got down to their real work. Count on that, Tyrell.
Pain followed. His doctors did their best to kill it with their crude drugs—a cordial or electuary made of distilled poppy juice and alcohol—but the searing agony of the operation could not be entirely quelled. Vazul bore it, as he had borne all the trials of his life, with grim fortitude. Even so, he bit through the wooden gag they stuffed into his mouth, and his body arched and bucked in spasm, held down on a wooden bench by tight leather straps.
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