The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (8 page)

‘There’s a little gathering at the knight marshal’s barracks tonight and I need you to get me in,’ he said through the maddening smile.

‘
A little gathering
,’ repeated Glenwood. ‘You mean Lord Archibald Tiris’s first address as duke?’

‘If you wish to be formal, yes, I think that is the reason for the little gathering.’ Rham Jas knew what he was asking and he knew how dangerous it would be for Glenwood to help him. ‘You’re a noble and I’m your bound man, couldn’t be simpler. I hear many Ro lords have Kirin as servants. It seems to please your people to formalize your superiority over mine.’

It was traditional for a new duke of the city to address the other lords and clergy when he took charge. The death of the prince had caused a degree of chaos in Ro Tiris and so the address had been delayed. Tonight, at the knight marshal’s barracks, the great and not-so-good of the city would gather to fawn over the family of the king. The enchantress would be there, as would a wealth of important Ro.

‘You can get me in, yes?’ asked the Kirin. ‘You’re a forger and a noble... everything I need.’ Rham Jas threw a handful of clothes across the desk. ‘Pick something classy – whatever the other Ro bastards are wearing at this time of year.’

The Kirin had spent the ten gold crowns wisely and purchased a good amount of genuinely upmarket clothing. The Kasbah of Tiris was notorious for selling expensive-looking items at relatively cheap prices. The clothes would fall apart within a few days, but until then they would do the job.

‘What do I get out of this?’ asked the man of Leith, becoming more resigned to his predicament. If he were to say no, Rham Jas would likely kill him and find someone else.

The Kirin narrowed his grin as if he thought the question a stupid one. ‘My dear Kale, surely helping an old friend is all the payment you need.’ The grin disappeared entirely. ‘And, of course, I’ll kill you if you say no.’

Glenwood puffed out his cheeks and sat back in his chair. ‘Rham Jas, how do you expect me to play this? We both know you could kill me in a second, but I’m not a random whore you picked up in Ro Weir. So stop treating me like an idiot.’

He held his breath as Rham Jas considered his words. The Kirin contorted his face into a number of different expressions, each one more inscrutable than the last, until he turned his head sharply and narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s fair,’ he said, ‘you’re not an idiot... so I’ll pay you the courtesy of being blunt.’ He poured himself another glass of wine and sat back, relaxing into his chair. ‘I plan to kill a number of Karesian enchantresses – all of them if I can – and you’re going to help me. I’m a scumbag... and, to make matters worse, I’m a Kirin scumbag, which means that certain doors are closed to me.’ He took a deep drink of wine and showed a genuine smile. ‘Kale, you can forge the documents I need, and the party invitations, and I can pose as your bound man, making my presence a curiosity at best.’

Glenwood tried to return the smile but it got lost around his eyes and came out as more of a grimace. ‘And I would guess that not all of your marks are in Tiris?’

Rham Jas shook his head. ‘Arnon, Leith, Haran and Weir... it’ll be like a tour of your stupid country. But, don’t worry, Kale, I’ll make sure you get money... from somewhere... if that’s what you care about.’

The aspiring mobster reached for the bottle of wine and took a deep swig, ignoring his glass and gulping down a large measure. Glenwood had often wished for a more interesting life, or for the opportunity to ally himself with a powerful individual, but to be the minion of an insane Kirin assassin as he went on a killing spree around Tor Funweir was not what he had had in mind.

* * *

The knight marshal’s barracks of Ro Tiris was an impressive building. It sat within sight of the king’s palace, next to the empty training grounds of the Red knights. The White Spire of Tiris still flew the banner of the king – a white eagle in flight – despite the fact that the monarch was currently waging a war in the Freelands of Ranen.

The streets in the royal quarter were clean and well maintained. This was only the second time Glenwood had been there and he felt out of place. Despite his current finery, the man of Leith was merely playing at being a noble. He had the longsword, the heritage and the charming banter, but the stink of criminality was difficult to wash off. Looking down at his blue tunic, embroidered waistcoat and leather riding boots, he knew he could look good when he needed to. He had shaved, wore his blonde hair loose to the shoulders, and had buckled on an ornate scabbard for his sword.

‘I think you look splendid, Kale,’ murmured Rham Jas. The Kirin had started walking behind Glenwood as soon as they’d entered the royal quarter. ‘I barely recognize you.’

‘Hopefully the watchmen on the gate won’t recognize me either,’ he replied.

‘I’m not an idiot, Kale. I checked before I came up with this cunning plan. The guards will be king’s men and Purple clerics – no one who’d have dealt with a small-time streak of shit like you.’

He glanced over his shoulder and saw an enormous grin on the assassin’s face. Rham Jas had discarded all his weaponry, leaving it locked in Glenwood’s brothel, and transformed his appearance simply by having a wash. He was still swarthy-looking, but, with his hair clean and tied back, and his face shaved, Rham Jas Rami looked completely different. Standing behind a noble, he’d be regarded as nothing more than a slightly exotic servant.

‘How exactly are you going to kill a woman that can’t be killed?’ Glenwood asked, turning a corner and approaching the knight marshal’s barracks.

‘Don’t know. I suppose I’ll improvise.’ It was not reassuring, but Glenwood knew that Rham Jas was not so reckless as to get himself pointlessly killed.

The streets of the royal quarter were lit by globed lanterns. The bottom level of the barracks was palatial, raised from the dusty training ground and approached by white stone steps. The title of ‘barracks’ was largely ceremonial and instead the building served as the administrative centre of the city, used by senior churchmen, knights and officials for conducting the daily business of Ro Tiris. It was also used for those occasions when formality required a sophisticated gathering of nobles.

Many bound men and servants could be seen swarming dutifully towards the barracks. Glenwood breathed deeply. As they came closer, he slowed his pace and began to sweat. Two Purple clerics were on guard at street level in front of the gates. Behind them, the white steps were flanked by ornately dressed king’s men, standing in gold and silver armour and looking bored.

Glenwood pulled the forged invitation from his waistcoat and puffed out his cheeks, hoping that his forgery skills, coupled with his appearance, would be sufficient to get them inside. The old longsword buckled at his side was the closest thing he owned for proof of his lineage, and as he looked down it appeared dull in comparison with the finely crafted weapons carried by the clerics.

‘Stop fucking worrying,’ whispered Rham Jas from behind, sensing the forger’s anxiety.

‘I’ll stop worrying when I’m back at home next to a warm woman,’ he replied. ‘What do I do while you’re running from the guardsmen?’

Rham Jas chuckled. ‘You just need to get me in, Kale. After that, I’d advise you to go and jump out of a window as quickly as you can.’

Glenwood glanced behind. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that two hours ago? I’ve been thinking this whole time that we’d be running back to the Kasbah together.’

The assassin raised his eyebrows. ‘You need to stay clean, otherwise you’re of no use to me. Just make sure you don’t hang around. Once I kill the bitch, things might get a little... chaotic.’

Without really thinking about it, Glenwood said, ‘Thank you.’

The Kirin’s forehead creased up with confusion. ‘I’m not certain I deserve a
thank you
. I’m sure I’ll find a way to get you killed in Arnon... or Leith.’ The grin flowed back across the assassin’s face. ‘Get your noble face on, Kale.’

Glenwood plastered on his best fake smile and flicked his hair back extravagantly. He’d need confidence as well as a longsword to pull this off. Casually holding the forged invitation in his hand, Kale Glenwood stepped before one of the Purple clerics. ‘A nice evening, brother,’ he said with confidence.

The clerics said nothing, surprised that a guest should speak to them. The forger took the hint and maintained his smile as he walked confidently past. Beyond, guests were making their way up the white steps or milling around the entrance, talking loudly in cultured tones.

He breathed in deeply as he saw the well-dressed nobility on display. Men and women in immaculately tailored outfits glided around the marble floor of the entrance lobby, with fake smiles on their faces. The gathering had an air of well-practised formality that Glenwood knew would be difficult to fake. The men wore fitted jackets and tight trousers and most had ceremonial longswords sheathed at their waists. The occasional noble – from Leith or Haran, rather than Tiris – wore a rapier or other exotic weapon, clearly designed to be a conversation point. Many had body servants or bound men fawning around them.

‘Does he belong to you?’ asked a guardsman, standing at the top of the steps and pointing to Rham Jas.

‘Are you addressing me?’ responded Glenwood, raising his eyebrows and making a show of formality.

‘Indeed, my lord. Is that Kirin yours?’

Glenwood raised a hand as if to wave away the impertinent query and stepped past the guardsman. ‘He is my man, yes.’ He didn’t look at the man as he spoke and pretended to be scanning the lobby for familiar faces. ‘Tell me, sword-master, is Lady Annabel of Leith in attendance?’

The guardsman narrowed his eyes and scanned Rham Jas up and down. The Kirin had his head bowed and was playing his part well. After a moment of suspicion, the man simply shook his head. ‘I don’t believe the Lady Annabel will be here tonight, my lord. I understand that her husband is ill.’

‘Ah, that is a great shame,’ said Glenwood, still not looking at him. ‘We provincial nobles need to stick together.’ He contorted his mouth into a smug grin and chuckled. ‘I suppose I shall have to endure all manner of comments upon my character from these nobles of Tiris. Is that not right, Kirin?’ He turned his smugness on to Rham Jas and hoped that the assassin would think quickly enough to join in.

‘Absolutely, master,’ was his response. He was deliberately speaking with a pronounced accent and Glenwood was impressed at how unthreatening he appeared.

When relieved of his weapons and grimy exterior, Rham Jas Rami was a relatively short, slender man, with no sign of the bizarrely skilled assassin that lay beneath. The bound man averted his eyes both from the guardsman and from his own master, and Glenwood began to feel more confident.

Once through the enormous white arch that led into the lobby, they were confronted with a vista of ostentatious beauty. At least a hundred men and women of Ro stood in loosely clustered groups across the polished stone floor, chatting loudly, drinking wine from crystal goblets, soothed into a high-class trance by harp music. The white eagle of Tiris, woven skilfully into expensive fabric, flew from pillars and rafters. The women wore dark colours, with their hair either tied back or worn high on their heads – a sharp contrast with the rouged pieces of rough with which Glenwood usually consorted.

‘Right, you’re in,’ whispered the forger.

Rham Jas got as close to his companion as he could without arousing suspicion. ‘These are just the lesser nobles, knights and baronets. I need the big sharks, not the little fish.’

Glenwood frowned. ‘Well, I don’t know the layout of the place, so I’ll leave you to it, yes?’ It was a long shot, but worth attempting.

‘No, you will not,’ growled the assassin. ‘You see that staircase?’ He pointed to a set of grand, carpeted stairs leading upwards and arcing around the room to form high balconies that looked down on the lobby.

‘That’s where the high nobles are, we’ll never get close,’ murmured Glenwood.

‘Why did you think I wanted to come here, Kale?’ the assassin asked ironically. ‘The bitch isn’t going to be making small talk with random knights.’ He paused and looked up for the first time since they had entered the barracks. He scanned the lobby and balconies. Little could be seen, but the occasional peal of silvery laughter indicated that the Karesian woman was in attendance. ‘Why is it that her voice carries so?’ Rham Jas asked.

‘She’s an enchantress. I hear that just the sound of her voice can sway men to her will,’ Glenwood responded nervously.

‘Well, let’s shut her up then, shall we?’ said Rham Jas, with the slightest indication of a grin on his swarthy features. ‘When we get to the top of the stairs, you take a right and find a window to jump out of. I’ll get it done and meet you back at the Blue Feather.’ The assassin spoke confidently. ‘Oh, and you’ll be needing that invite to get up the stairs.’ The grin on the Kirin’s face was now back to its usual size and Glenwood glanced nervously down at his forged invitation. It was good work, but rushed, and he had little confidence that it would be accepted by the senior nobles.

Without further discussion, Glenwood strode across the lobby floor, pausing only to make fawning smiles and shallow bows to the assembled lords and ladies. A few regarded him with disdain, but most found the presence of a provincial noble a way of asserting their own superiority, thanking the One they’d been born in Tiris rather than Leith. Few people noticed the Kirin that walked behind him, and Glenwood was thankful that the high-born rarely so much as acknowledge the low-born.

At the base of the stairs stood two more Purple clerics. These were older than the men outside and, as the two intruders approached, Glenwood noticed that several nobles had already been turned away from the stairs. The churchmen stood beneath small banners displaying the purple sceptre of nobility, indicating that their church held almost as much sway in Tiris as the king’s family itself.

‘Show us your clay, my lord,’ said one of the clerics, a look of haughty superiority on his face.

‘Of course.’ Glenwood attempted to look casual as he handed over the counterfeit clay tablet.