The City (55 page)

That day he risked sending a message, via an illiterate soldier, to Sami at the Pony, and the following morning went there after sunrise, hoping Evan had got the note and would be there. He told Darius he was to meet an old friend, knowing his aide would think he had a rendezvous with a prostitute.

The squalid inn was almost empty in the dismal light of morning. Its only customer lay on the floor in a dead drunk, a dog licking his
face. The barkeeper leaned stiffly against the stained counter, his face grey, his body motionless. Strangely, without its customers the place smelled even worse. Riis breathed through his mouth and peered around in the gloom for Evan. He saw him in the corner, slouched over a table, his fair hair tucked under a cap.

‘Drink?’ his friend asked as Riis slid into the seat opposite.

Riis looked at the scummy liquid in Evan’s glass. ‘I’d rather hammer nails into my eyes,’ he said.

Evan grinned. ‘For a soldier you’re a bit of a daisy, Riis.’

Riis dumped the leather satchel on the table. He was not in the mood to be mocked. ‘The girl is dead,’ he said curtly. ‘She found these plans. I can’t make head or tail of them, but it seems she could.’

Evan nodded. ‘We heard she died in Mallet’s rebellion. Who killed her?’

Riis shook his head. ‘I don’t …’ Then he said, admitting it to himself for the first time, ‘Marcellus, I think.’

Evan stared at him. ‘Marcellus? Why?’

‘I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know if he did. I got there too late. They were all dead. Except the Vincerii.’ Covered in blood, he thought. Drenched in it.

‘Why would he kill her? Did he find out who she was?’

‘I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. She was just in the opera house. Attending the whore. I don’t even know Marcellus knew her.’ He shook his head. ‘She was just unlucky.’

Relieved, Evan clapped him on the back. ‘Not much of a spy, are you?’

Riis said, ‘She was just a girl.’

‘She was old enough,’ Evan said indifferently. Riis remembered from past battles that Evan Broglanh had few sympathies for the casualties of war. ‘She knew what she was getting into.’

Riis shook his head. ‘No,’ he said with certainty, ‘she didn’t.’ And he added quietly, ‘None of you know what you’re getting into.’

Out on the snow-covered plain Riis pulled on Sunder’s reins and the warhorse dropped into a trot. They were coming up to the line of foothills called the Araby Break, and Riis expected, if Marcellus’ information was correct, to see their target soon. The Araby Gate was the easternmost of the City gates, lying north of the Paradise Gate but within distant sight of it. If Saroyan and her escort were heading for the Paradise Gate they could not have missed them. Riis
waited for the other troopers to catch up, then stopped to address them.

‘On the other side of the Break,’ he told them, his breath puffing out in the frozen air, ‘is a woman rider and her six guards heading for the City. It is our job to stop them and kill them. Take out the escort but leave the woman to me.’

There were whispered comments from some of the men, and a few sniggers, but Riis chose not to hear them. Some of the riders pulled off the knitted caps and felt scarves they were wearing against the cold and replaced them with their new silver helms. Riis saw the pride in their faces and he looked at his own helm, still tied to his saddle horn. He had not even tried it on yet. He pulled his cap off but decided to leave the helm where it was. He was unlikely to need it.

They set off again, bunched in tight formation, and as they reached the crest of the Araby Break Riis could see, as predicted, the tiny dots of riders heading towards them across the flat land between hills and river.

‘No prisoners!’ he bellowed, and the troop thundered down the slope.

Saroyan and her small escort spotted the attackers from far away and they turned and raced for the river Kercheval.

Riis, exhilarated by Sunder’s speed and the frosty air in his face, urged the big horse on. Saroyan and her guard had been in the saddle for some time, and their horses had too little to give. He caught up with the fleeing mounts before they got to the river, and slashed the rear horse across the rump with his sword. The beast slowed, whinnying, and Sunder dodged round it and carried on chasing. It was as if he knew Riis’ mind. He had to reach Saroyan before the others.

The Kercheval was in winter spate and could only be crossed with care, not at full tilt. At a command from the lord lieutenant the bodyguards slowed and turned, spreading out to guard her retreat as she alone urged her mount back into the icy water.

Sunder thundered towards them, and two came forward to meet him, trying to cut him off. Riis felt the horse bunch his muscles to charge to the right and he leaned to his left, slashing his sword through one of the riders’ reins then, on the rise, piercing the other rider’s jaw. Within moments the other Nighthawks had caught up with them and Saroyan’s protectors were fighting a hopeless battle for her life and their own.

Riis guided Sunder round the slaughter and urged him into the river. He could see the woman on the other side already, her horse clambering up the shallow bank. He had no real plan, just to reach her, protect her somehow. Then he heard the swish of a thrown weapon and saw a light spear thud into the fleeing woman’s back, throwing her off the horse and into the snow. He reined in Sunder and turned, glaring at the trooper who was grinning with pride at his accurate aim.

‘Stay there!’ he ordered.

Riis felt the icy water crawl up around his waist as Sunder swam across the deep-flowing river, and his teeth were chattering when they reached the other side. He threw himself off the horse and ran to the woman, who was trying to crawl away through the snow, leaving a bloody trail behind her.

‘Saroyan, it’s me! Riis!’ he said, but she did not hear him and he put his hand on her shoulder, trying to stop her struggle. ‘It’s me, Riis!’

Though the wound was deep and looked mortal, she writhed away from his touch. ‘Take your hand off me!’ she spat, her face contorted with disgust.

Riis sighed. Even in death she was a disagreeable woman, he thought. He sat down in the snow a few paces away.

‘I’ve been ordered to kill you,’ he told her.

‘Who by?’ she asked, turning painfully on her side, blood staining her mouth. ‘Who wants me dead?’

‘The Vincerii.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she spat.

‘Nevertheless,’ Riis said tiredly, ‘it is the truth. The Vincerii …’

‘The Vincerii,’ she mimicked. He was amazed at the depths of her loathing. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, you fool.
I
am Vincerii,’ she said. ‘We do not kill one another in the Family Vincerus.’

He just stared at her. He did not know what to say.

‘You’re a fool, Riis,’ she repeated. ‘I knew it from the start. You could have warned me and let me go.’

Riis, who had thought through every option, said, ‘If I let you flee they would want to know why and eventually, under questioning, I would tell them everything, and our one chance would be gone. This way, I survive and maybe our plan survives too.’

‘You could have fled yourself, saved me and the plan.’

He said nothing.

‘You’ve killed my guards?’

‘They were brave men and I regret their deaths.’ He looked up. The two mounts stood together companionably, blowing and puffing in the frigid air, their bodies screening Riis and Saroyan from the eyes of his men. He peered through their legs. The battle appeared to have ended.

‘I don’t have much time.’

She glared at him still, but he could see the pain and exhaustion in her eyes, the look of failure he had seen so often in a defeated enemy. She muttered to herself. ‘Who gave you the order?’ she asked, still not wanting to believe it.

‘Marcellus.’

‘Then we have all been betrayed,’ she whispered to herself.

Riis had no idea what to say, but he sat with her, casting covert glances across the river. Two of his men had started to cross.

‘Lie down,’ he said finally. ‘Rest. I will say you are dead.’ He knew there was no chance of her surviving, wounded as she was, in icy wet clothes, without shelter.

Obediently, like a child, she laid her head down in the snow.

‘I’m sorry,’ Riis said, and he mounted again, grabbed her horse’s reins and trotted Sunder away. Glancing back, he saw a dark huddle of clothes against the whiteness. Then it started to snow.

On the ride back Riis felt anger rising inside him – anger for Amita’s pointless death, and anger at the conspiracy in which he had so little faith. Of the handful of plotters he knew of, two were already dead. Within five days a small army would invade the palace and his own men would fight to the death to repel them. He had little doubt that Saroyan was right in one thing – if anyone could kill the emperor then Arish could. But Arish knew nothing about the palace and, crucially, he knew nothing of the power of the Vinceri. The slaughter in the Little Opera House haunted his sleep. Did they cause all those people to be … pulverized? Even Marcellus’ own lover? Each time Riis looked hard at it, it seemed insane. Yet in the crystal air he stared at it again and could see no other alternative. The human soup he had witnessed saturating the walls of the building had been real enough.

What is Arish getting into, he thought?

By the time they returned to the Araby Gate Riis had made his
decision. He could not save Amita or Saroyan. But he could save Arish, and Evan Broglanh, and his own men, and perhaps hundreds of soldiers loyal to the City. The assassination attempt could not happen if the emperor was already dead.

So Riis had until the Day of Summoning to kill him.

THE GODS OF
winds and waters were many and various, and capricious in their moods. In the City the ancients had worshipped the deities of the four winds, although modern folk, of a less superstitious bent, prayed only to the god of the northerlies, whose ever-presence could scarcely be doubted. Simpler people worshipped the gods of the seas, the rivers, rain, snow, lightning and thunder. And the country folk, whose every activity was affected by the whims of the weather, prayed to the same gods, as well as the lesser deities of fog, frost, and the kindly morning dew.

Elija lay in the bottom of the boat, helpless in the coils of seasickness, and prayed to them all. At times he hoped he could detect a change in the movement of the craft, a slight lessening of the swell, and he prayed more fervently, imagining his ordeal was coming to an end. But then the seas would surge again, and so would his stomach, empty now except for the small sips of water he had managed to force down.

He had spent the hours of daylight staring at the grey wood of the plank in front of his face. The vessel, once a fishing boat, now promoted to a military landing craft, stank of fish and he imagined he could see the pattern of scales imprinted into the timber. Often they looked like faces.

They had been in the boat for three days and three long nights. The convoy of four vessels travelled under cover of darkness, and in
the daytime hid in the lee of islands and rocks, evading the ships of the City. The boat was wide and low, unlikely to be spotted except from up close, and it wallowed and lurched, and few of the fifty-odd soldiers packed aboard had not suffered. Elija doubted that, when he reached dry land, he would be able to stand, and he wondered how the warriors could possibly fight.

‘Here, lad, have some water.’

Elija shook his head miserably, but he felt a strong hand lift him by his collar, and a water skin was thrust against his mouth.

‘Drink.’ There was no refusing. Elija sipped some of the water, conscious that it tasted of old socks, and tried to hold it down.

‘Good lad.’ Stalker set him back gently, and said, ‘Not much longer.’ It was what he always said. Elija had stopped believing him two days before.

The big northlander had taken it upon himself to look after the boy, urging him at times to take bread or pieces of dried meat. Stalker himself seemed unaffected by the movement of the boat, indeed he seemed to relish it, sitting looking out over the grey waves sniffing the air like an old dog. That morning, as the sun rose and while the boat still rocked at its night berth, Stalker had suddenly thrown off his clothes, clambered over the side and swam in the sea, for no reason. The other soldiers had jeered and shouted, and when the northlander had climbed back into the boat, his braids dripping, his white skin bright red in patches from the icy waves, he had muttered sheepishly, ‘Bit of a wash.’ But Elija thought he had done it for the fun of it, and he was cheered for a while.

‘Look,’ Stalker said, pointing to the east. ‘Land.’

But Elija had seen land before and was not to be fooled.

He dozed for a while, dreaming he was climbing a high cliff. The cliff was made of cake and he had to keep stopping to eat some. Someone below was urging him onwards, but he had to eat the cake, even though his stomach was full, and the roll of plans under his arm kept slipping and slithering out of his grip.

When he awoke again it was pitch dark. He felt a bit better, for the lurch of the boat had lessened. He guessed they had stopped somewhere sheltered for the night. The ship creaked and groaned, and he could hear water slapping on the other side of the planks by his head. It was icy cold. The light snow which had accompanied them when they set off from Adrastto had quickly turned to a steady penetrating
rain. His clothes were soaked. Around him he heard the snores and smelled the smells of too many soldiers packed together in a small space. And he could hear murmured voices.

‘How’s the ankle?’ the woman asked Stalker.

‘All right.’ The man bit off the words, not wanting to talk about his crippled limb.

‘When we go ashore in the morning you must hang behind,’ Indaro told him, for she was in charge of the boat. ‘Three days in this and your ankle will have stiffened up. If we meet opposition straight away I don’t want you in the front ranks.’ The northlander made no reply and his silence spoke loudly. ‘You’ll get your chance,’ Indaro added.