The Ragged Man (75 page)

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Authors: Tom Lloyd

BOOK: The Ragged Man
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‘We did,’ Emin agreed calmly, offering his hand to Isak and slowly standing. The white-eye didn’t take the hand, but he followed Emin’s movement. ‘It was an honour to do so,’ the king continued, looking up at Isak.
Isak’s cheek twitched at the word ‘honour’ but he looked Emin in the eye all the same. ‘There is no honour in my shadow,’ he said sadly, ‘only daemons.’
‘We may need daemons soon enough, my friend. There is terrible work ahead of us. I pray you bring us the answers we need.’
‘Prayers,’ Isak agreed mysteriously, ‘I bring prayers - but it’s the prayers you hold that we need.’
Emin frowned. ‘I’m not sure my prayers will be welcome — in fact, I’m quite certain they’re not.’
‘It’s the prayers you hold,’ Isak repeated.
As he straightened a little, his unfastened cloak swung open to reveal the unmistakable hilt of Eolis, tucked through his belt, and a small leather bag, which Isak was holding.
The shape of the bag made Emin hesitate, and almost unconsciously he touched a similarly shaped item hanging from his own belt. He gestured to the open door.
‘Come. We need to speak more, and in private.’
Isak, Mihn, Coran, the witch and Legana followed Emin inside, but Doranei held back. Veil gave him a questioning look, but he ignored it and after a moment his Brother indicated the door be shut behind them.
Doranei didn’t speak, but reached into a pouch and pulled out his leather cigar case. Veil produced an alchemist’s match and held it up. When the initial burst of black smoke had subsided, Doranei put the cigar to the flame and drew on it until it was alight.
‘The presence of great men,’ Doranei said at last, looking at the top of the keep. He’d stayed here once, as part of the king’s retinue.
It was an unlovely construction, built by a local tyrant three hundred years previously, more for practical reasons than for architectural elegance. Once it was open to the elements; now it was partly roofed-over, and there were long banks of shutters on two sides of the square to allow light in.
‘Had enough of it at last?’ Veil said. There was no condemnation in his voice.
Doranei still scowled, even as he agreed. ‘Never meant to get into it in the first place.’
Veil chuckled. ‘Aye, the master-thieves in the Brotherhood always laughed at you for never looking where you put your feet. Sure you can keep out of things so easily?’
Doranei watched the lamp-light in the highest room grow brighter. ‘I got to try.’
The sight of Morghien recovering some of his old passion had sparked an ache in Doranei’s heart. I j
ust want to do my job again, serve my king. All this ‘grand scheme of things’ is beyond me; I’m just a simple Brother. Can’t I leave it to someone else again?
He sighed and puffed away at his cigar, the distraction greatly welcome.
But how do I go back to a time before I called lords ‘friend’ and vampires something more?
he wondered.
Above the keep the clouds raced, indistinct, looming shapes in a darkening sky. The breeze freshened, carrying a scent too faint to recognise, and yet it put him in mind of the peppery smell of a summer storm . . . but left him uneasy, in the way the promise of rain didn’t.
‘What do you think he’s going to say?’ Veil asked after a long while.
‘I don’t even care,’ Doranei said sulkily. ‘They can tell me to kill, or to steal, for the good of the nation, and that’s my duty. They can’t make me
want
to get more involved.’
‘Could be worse,’ Veil said cheerily. ‘Cedei had to spend the day keeping General Daken busy and out of the way. I tell you, that bugger can sniff trouble out better’n a dog after a bitch on heat. The king’s kept this from him, as you might guess - last thing we need is two bloody white-eyes gettin’ under each other’s skin.’ He plucked the cigar from Doranei’s unresisting hands.
The pair stood together for a quarter-hour or more, sharing the cigar as Veil patiently stood guard and his friend, eyes half-closed, stared into the night sky. The sounds of the army camp had returned to normal: the clatter of cooking pots and bellowed orders overlaid by the clump of boots on dry, packed earth. They washed over Doranei without effect as he closed his mind to everything but the clouds overhead, losing himself in their swift, silent passage. He let the breeze sweep away the tangle of his thoughts, dissipating them like smoke.
Then the door to the tower opened again and the Brothers saw Mihn staring fixedly at Doranei.
Mihn had removed his cloak and pack. He wore his customary black linen trousers and tunic. The failed Harlequin was a short, slim man, especially compared with the men of Narkang, and that difference was highlighted by everyone around him wearing armour. It was somehow hard to believe how capable Mihn was - until you saw him moving with purpose, Doranei thought.
‘You want something?’ he said eventually.
‘You,’ Mihn said. ‘We have some questions for you.’
Doranei felt his hand tighten. ‘Of course you do.’ He carefully handed the stub of his cigar to Veil and followed Mihn. ‘Don’t suppose I’d be lucky enough you’d be asking about swords and the like?’ he said dryly.
Mihn hesitated and looked back at Doranei for a few moments. Then, his eyes twinkling in the darkness, he started up the stair again.
‘I am sure King Emin could phrase the question in terms of your sword, if that would help,’ he murmured.
Doranei sighed.
CHAPTER 33
Doranei slept poorly in the humid night air. Words and faces danced on the edges of his consciousness, questions and memories colliding uncomfortably. Some part of him sensed the bedroll underneath him, and the pack he was using as a pillow, but at the same time he could feel the cool, clean sheets of Zhia’s bed in Byora.
The sensations mingled and added to the mess of confusion in his dreams, and everything was dominated by Zhia’s darkly glittering sapphire eyes. The questions continued, voices speaking at once: Mihn’s soft lilt, King Emin’s crisp, aristocratic tone, and they were all asking about those sapphire eyes.
Can she be trusted? Where do her allegiances lie? Will she take sides?
He couldn’t answer any of them. In his dreams his tongue swelled, making speech impossible, but even if he had been able to speak, there was nothing he could say, no assurances he could give.
An unexpected chill shivered down Doranei’s spine and he jolted awake, heart hammering and dread slithering across his skin. The room was dark, and as he sat up his head cracked against the underside of the dining table under which he’d been sleeping. A deep thump reverberated around the room as Doranei fell back onto his bedroll, gasping.
‘Told you,’ whispered someone nearby.
It took Doranei a few moments to focus as he winced and rubbed his stinging head. When the stars cleared he saw Veil, watching him owlishly from the other side of the table.
‘Told me what?’
Veil grinned. ‘That you wake up sudden-like sometimes, so maybe under a table ain’t the best place to sleep.’
Doranei looked around at the rest of the dining room: a long, ancient hall - older even than the keep - that had been incorporated into the newest wing of Moorview Castle. Apart from the huge, empty fireplace there was precious little space not occupied by dozing King’s Men. He opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated, remembering the strange sensation that had woken him.
‘Thought I heard something,’ he said at last.
‘No, you didn’t,’ Veil said. ‘You’d have a sword in hand if you did. You dreamed you did, or some girl with sapphire eyes just reached out and touched you.’
Doranei frowned and tried to order his thoughts. He didn’t remember dreaming of anything that would wake him so abruptly. Zhia’s touch was accompanied by a memory of her perfume; this was neither, it was something unfamiliar.
‘Think I’ll go get some air,’ he muttered.
Veil watched without comment as Doranei picked up his sword; unnatural happenings and strange sensations were familiar to the Brotherhood, as were overactive imaginations in the dark of night. However, the need for caution was ever-present, and confusion hadn’t overridden Doranei’s natural mistrust.
Doranei slipped out of the darkened hall and found himself in a moonlit corridor. He didn’t know what bell it was, but the stillness indicated the depths of night. He looked around and as he shivered involuntarily, his hand closed around the sword grip . . . but nothing happened, so, feeling foolish, he released it again and buckled the scabbard properly to his waist.
He still felt better when he was holding the sword. King Emin’s belief that Lord Styrax would not use subterfuge to win this battle was small comfort in the dark hours of the night.
Magic had always been feared by the common folk; its use in battle was accepted, but few generals made their name off it. Styrax might have the advantage there, with his awesome powers, but his plans extended further than mere victory. Intelligence reports were coming in all the time: four Menin armies of ten to fifteen thousand men were destroying great swathes of the Narkang nation as three of them made their way towards Moorview Castle. Each army comprised soldiers from all his conquered cities, most particularly the remnants of the Chetse élite known as the Ten Thousand.
Part of the reason for bringing them here was to keep the vanquished troops under control - if they were ravaging King Emin’s lands, they would not be fomenting rebellion in their homeland. But that was not the whole of it: Lord Styrax had amassed a larger host than ever before for a more fundamental reason. Forty thousand or more men were marching on Moorview to take part in the battle he wanted every bard to sing of for centuries to come.
Somewhere up ahead Doranei heard the scuff of a shoe on the flagstone floor. He started to draw his sword - and stopped, struck by the sight of the black blade in the darkness. The provenance of the sword he’d taken from Aracnan’s corpse was unknown, but it was certainly old and powerful. In daylight it prickled faintly with tiny sparks of light. Now it was more like the night sky on a clear night, casting a very faint light of its own. He sheathed it again, suppressing his fascination for the time being. When he reached the corner of the corridor he stopped and peered around it. He saw no one, but whispering voices were coming from somewhere at the far end.
This was the opulent part of the castle, away from the servant’s quarters, and there were long, narrow rugs running down the centre of the corridors. A wide variety of paintings, both portraits and landscapes, were displayed on the walls, and ahead of him Doranei could see a large map of the whole area covering one wall. It had been painted by Countess Derenin, the lady of the house, and was accurate enough that the king had consulted it often in the past few days. The local suzerain’s family was an ancient one which had managed to adapt and thrive under King Emin’s rule, unlike many who didn’t understand the art of compromise and had been eclipsed by the king’s ambitious supporters.
Doranei walked silently on the rug until he was almost at the end. There he stopped, feeling horribly exposed, as another deep voice joined in. He heard the words clearly, though there was a thick stone wall between them; the voice echoed in Doranei’s head without hindrance or distortion, though it was quiet and sounded strangely far away. It made his teeth ache, and as he winced at the sensation his bruised head increased its throbbing, sending flashes of pain down across his eyes.
‘
You ask me to put myself in the power of others
.’
Doranei covered his ears, but it made no difference — the voice was not loud, only penetrating, and his hands felt as insubstantial as the walls. He could hear nothing but the words - no cadence or accent to place the speaker.
‘What did you think would happen?’
He recognised that voice; it was Lord Isak, more focused than he had been earlier that day. Whoever -
what
ever, Doranei realised - Isak was talking to, they had made him forget his pain, for a little while at least.
‘
It cannot be permitted
.’
‘It must,’ whispered a third person - Mihn - urgently, ‘there is no other way.’
‘
Find another
.’
‘No,’ said Isak. ‘You cannot command me; that much I know.’
The white-eye sounded strange to Doranei and after a moment he realised it was the lack of antagonism in his voice. The spark of aggression, that fire within all white-eyes, had been extinguished within him.
‘
You invite catastrophe
—
you do not understand the forces you play with.’
Isak laughed, although it was more a strangled wheeze. ‘I have nothing but the scars of understanding. I was born to command, born to change.’
‘This will be done,’ Mihn added, ‘and you
must
play your part.’
There was a long period of silence, and Doranei waited with his fists clenched tight in anticipation of the echoing voice in his head.

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