The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (7 page)

‘Will I be accompanying them, mistress?’ asked Kal Varaz. ‘It has been many years since I visited the Freelands... and I have never been to Fjorlan. I hear it is cold there.’ The wind claw was smiling nervously, and Saara realized he was trying to distract himself from the darkwood tree.

‘I will need men I can trust if the lands of Fjorlan are to be subjugated for the glory of Jaa,’ replied the enchantress, stepping closer to the man and biting her lower lip. ‘We have no army there, so the Young will be needed.’ She traced a finger down the tall man’s breastplate and smiled. ‘But that is another day... the campaign in Ranen proceeds well, as does our pursuit of the dark-blood and the old-blood. We need not worry.’

Still, she mused on where Rham Jas Rami might be skulking.

CHAPTER 3

Kale Glenwood had grown up in Ro Leith, a city very different from Ro Tiris. Tiris was largely clean, well policed and undeniably under the charge of the king and his clerics. By contrast, the city of Leith was provincial, untidy and green, with more trees and grass than the rest of the great cities put together. Glenwood missed the open spaces of Leith and the wooded glens that had formed his first art class. He was a skilled artist by the age of fifteen and a talented forger by his twentieth year. With the benefits of a moderately privileged upbringing, he had had ample time in his youth to slide into lawlessness.

He had the golden hair of his family, which he hid under a scarf when among Karesians, and aside from a pair of sparkling blue eyes, Kale Glenwood was easy to overlook. Since coming to the capital he had taken to wearing permanent stubble which gave him a swarthy appearance that fitted in well with his image as a rising mobster.

He didn’t like Tiris, but he was forced to admit that his brand of criminality would be pointless in Ro Leith. Being a forger meant that you needed to have things to forge, and there was little in his home city that needed forging. The duchess of Leith, a distant cousin of King Sebastian called Annabel, was not overly strict with the implementation of the laws of the One, and Glenwood had found it difficult to make a living as a criminal in his home town. Ro Tiris was different. It was a place of strict laws and lethal punishments. However, as was often the case, the stricter the laws, the more opportunities for financial gain.

He lived outside the walls of the capital, so as not to rub the clerics’ noses in his business, but he still received frequent visits from the watch, enquiring about some illegal transaction or other. He stood out for the longsword he carried – the mark of a noble – but he paid his bribes, kept his head down and tried not to rile the establishment, while quietly flouting the law and making as much money as possible.

Things had changed recently, however, and the mysterious death of Prince Christophe had turned Ro Tiris into a more tightly controlled city. With the installation of the king’s cousin, Sir Archibald Tiris, as duke, the criminal underworld was now being watched closely.

The brothel where he made his home was called the Blue Feather and it had, up until recently, been owned by a Karesian mobster. Glenwood had killed the previous owner in his sleep and quickly begun using it as a base of operations. He didn’t yet have a mob or a gang, but he was optimistic that his star was on the rise within the criminal underworld of Tor Funweir. He had begun to assemble a loosely connected group of associates who owed him favours, who would, he hoped, form the base of his mob.

A knock on the door caused the forger to look up from the king’s guard seal he was working on. ‘Busy, come back later.’

Another knock, slower, louder and more insistent than the first. He stood and moved round his table. ‘This had better be good,’ he said with authority.

The door was flung open to reveal the terrified face of Kaur, Glenwood’s chief thug. The Karesian was not carrying his scimitar and he was holding a wounded arm protectively across his chest. He was sweating and a small blade was held across his throat.

‘What the fuck!’ said Glenwood.

A face appeared over Kaur’s shoulder and the forger recognized the grinning face of Rham Jas Rami.

The Kirin assassin looked much as Glenwood remembered him, unremarkable in appearance, with lank black hair and an air of imminent violence. He carried a longbow across his back and a thin-bladed katana at his side. Slight in build, his slender figure made it easy to forget how dangerous he was.

Glenwood could see two of his men unconscious in their seats, knocked out without having been given a chance to stand. Rham Jas had entered silently, coming face to face with the forger with alarming ease.

‘Kale, my old friend,’ the Kirin said with humour. ‘We need a little chat.’

‘Err, okay... I don’t suppose you thought of
not
beating up my men to tell me that,’ the forger said ironically.

Rham Jas considered the comment. ‘You know, actually, I didn’t.’ Emphasizing the point, the Kirin smashed the blunt end of his knife into Kaur’s head, making the Karesian grunt and fall unconscious.

Glenwood considered fetching his sword and threatening the Kirin, but thought better of it and motioned for him to come in. ‘Have a seat, Rham Jas.’

‘Thank you, you’re very polite,’ the assassin replied, placing a small rucksack on the floor before sitting down.

Rham Jas Rami had always hovered around the line between friend and enemy. Glenwood was scared of him, largely as a consequence of his unnatural ability to kill just about anyone and never get wounded or captured or, indeed, lose his grin. He was the kind of man that Glenwood was glad to know, but frequently regretted knowing – a conundrum that led him to try and avoid the assassin whenever possible.

‘Drink?’

Rham Jas nodded, pointing to the bottle of wine on the table. ‘Is that actually Darkwald red or are you sticking the label on the normal piss you sell around here?’ He didn’t take his eyes from the aspiring mobster.

‘It’s genuine. I save the knock-off stuff for the punters. I try only to drink the best,’ Kale replied, trying to cultivate an air of class that failed to impress Rham Jas.

The Kirin poured himself a large glass of wine and drank contentedly. ‘Not bad. I’ve been drinking that white sparkling shit they have in Canarn for the last few weeks. This is a nice treat.’

Glenwood narrowed his eyes. ‘Canarn? I heard things were a little unstable up there at the moment. Is Brom still alive?’ He had picked up rumours about the occupation of the city and a strange attack that had taken place a month ago.

‘Alive and well,’ replied Rham Jas. ‘Though he’s quite busy at the moment.’

The forger smiled. ‘I hope, in some small way, I helped. That Red church seal I sold him probably saved his life, wouldn’t you agree?’ It was a leap of imagination to suggest such a thing, but Glenwood was looking for common ground with the assassin.

Rham Jas raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean that shitty piece of clay you sold him for an inflated price, that he was lucky to get away with?’

‘It did the job,’ replied Glenwood nervously. ‘Got him out of the city.’

‘Relax, Kale, I’m not here to give you hassle about your poor forging skills.’ Rham Jas leant back on his chair and poured himself more wine. ‘I wanted to know why you have been throwing my name around as an associate of yours.’

Glenwood pursed his lips and felt awkward. He’d hoped the assassin would take the job and not enquire as to where it had come from. Evidently, Reginald had a big mouth.

‘Reg needed someone killed and I knew you were in town. You got paid, didn’t you?’ Glenwood was used to talking fast when questioned by the authorities. To employ the skill on someone like Rham Jas was rather different, however. A watchman would be unlikely to execute you summarily, whereas the Kirin assassin was more likely to than not.

Rham Jas nodded and Glenwood found it difficult to tell what he was going to do. His weapons were all stowed and no violence seemed likely to erupt, but the man was unpredictable and had been known to kill for little or no reason.

‘The job was straightforward and I was paid well. That doesn’t excuse you using me like your own personal fucking killer. You want someone dead, you come and ask me. You don’t give my name to a sweaty old pederast and say that I’m a friend of yours.’ His voice was ominously quiet.

‘You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?’ Kale blurted out.

Rham Jas was ice-cold and took a sip of his wine. He kept his eyes locked on the forger, then suddenly straightened up in his chair. Glenwood jumped at the movement, but saw no sign of the assassin drawing a blade.

‘Rham Jas, things are different now,’ the forger said, his hands held out submissively. ‘The prince is dead – killed by a Black cleric, they say – and a Karesian witch is running things in Tiris these days. It’s not safe for me to be seen dealing with you directly... and I fucking hate you.’ He smiled, attempting to convey confidence.

He thought carefully before producing the Wanted poster he’d been given. It showed a likeness of Rham Jas Rami with the words
duty to do harm
emblazoned across his face. The Wanted sign had been posted around dark corners of Tiris in the last month, eliciting interest from plenty of street scum.

‘My eyes are green,’ Rham Jas said, with a cursory look at the picture, ‘not black.’

‘I think the black eyes are intended to make you look evil... or something.’

‘Do you think I’m evil, Kale?’ the Kirin asked. His grin was gone and the question hung in the air for a second as if a turning point had been reached in the encounter.

‘Well, you do kill people for a living.’ The forger had decided that, if he was going to die, he’d at least die without cowering before a Kirin scumbag. ‘But I suppose morality can be fluid.’

Rham Jas smiled again and looked away. ‘This Karesian witch you mentioned...’ The Kirin had a knack of changing the subject. Glenwood had never been sure whether this was a tactic to confuse people or a natural predilection for being an obtuse bastard.

‘What about her?’ the forger replied, narrowing his eyes.

‘Tell me what you know of her.’ His eyes flicked from side to side.

‘I know what everyone knows, I suppose. Why do you give a shit?’ Glenwood was confused as to the assassin’s interest in Katja the Hand of Despair, but as long as the katana stayed sheathed he was prepared to tell Rham Jas pretty much anything.

The Kirin adopted a curiously professional manner. ‘I’m going to kill her and you’re going to help me, Kale. I hope that isn’t a problem.’

It didn’t sound like a joke and the assassin was glaring at Glenwood.

‘Rham Jas, I accept that I’m not yet an actual mobster, and that you just beat up three of my best in two seconds, but I’m not your bitch.’ He tensed, wondering if he’d gone too far. ‘Look,’ he continued, softening his tone, ‘I’m sure you have a perfectly valid reason for wanting to kill an unkillable Karesian witch, but I’d just as soon stay here.’ He knew little about the Seven Sisters, aside from their tendency to wear facial tattoos, to have scary-sounding names, and to be impossible to kill.

The assassin glanced around Glenwood’s roughly decorated room. ‘Do you have any clothes suitable for a noble, or does all your shit look like you rub it in mud each morning?’

Glenwood gritted his teeth.

‘You are a noble, aren’t you, Kale?’ The grin returned. Again Glenwood realized just how much he hated Rham Jas.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ he replied, unsure where the conversation was heading. ‘My grandfather was ward of the glen to the north of Ro Leith.’

Rham Jas screwed up his face. ‘My knowledge of you Ro and your unnecessary titles is minimal. Where does it go in the great Ro hierarchy? Duke, baron, count... where does
ward of the glen
fit in?’

‘At the bottom,’ Glenwood admitted. ‘Most towns and cities don’t have them any more. Leith has always been a bit behind the times. Imagine a noble that no one gives a shit about and you have it.’

The dangerous Kirin nodded his head as if he’d made some kind of decision. ‘Perfect... now, about those noble clothes?’ The smile was broader now and Glenwood felt frustrated that he couldn’t just punch the Kirin in the mouth and shut him up.

‘Mobsters and nobles have very different wardrobes, Rham Jas, and I’ve had little reason to look like a noble recently.’ He had taken to wearing toughened leather armour whenever he ventured out, usually hidden under a nondescript tunic and cloak. Currently, he wore common-spun clothing, chosen for comfort.

‘I suspected as much,’ said Rham Jas, unconcerned with the answer. He picked up his rucksack and emptied the contents on to Glenwood’s desk, revealing a number of pairs of trousers, tunics, cloaks and some gaudy-looking jewellery. ‘This is what Reginald’s ten crowns of gold buy you in the Kasbah.’

‘I acknowledge I may not want to know the answer to this question,’ the forger began hesitantly, ‘but why do I need to look like a noble?’

The grin that appeared on the assassin’s face would have been too wide for a normal man’s features. Rham Jas seemed blessed with more smile muscles than was usual.