The Warlord's Domain (24 page)

“What the hell are you doing here?” roared Gibart d’Reth, finding his voice at last. “And who gave you the right to act like—”

The riding-crop of plaited leather that slashed a weal across his cheek was just one more of the several shocks Gibart had suffered in the past few seconds; but it was the first one that really hurt. He clutched his face and flopped back into his chair, too stunned by the impact and the anguish and the suddenness of it all even to protest.

“I told you,” said the man who had spoken before; he was very young. “Official business. That means the
Woydach
himself gives us the right.” He grinned, his teeth very white against his tan and the shadows within his helmet, and reached out to stroke the tip of his crop lightly across the other side of Gibart’s face. “You don’t object to that, now, do you?” Gibart said nothing; only his eyes moved, following the crop as it weaved to and fro before them like a plaited leather snake.

“Wise,” said
Tau-kortagor
Hakarl gently. “Now,” he pulled a crumpled sheet of official-yellow paper from the cuff of his glove, smoothed out the creases more or less and held it up for Gibart to see. “Read this description and then tell me: have you seen this man… ?”

...
the song of the birds who make their mirth resound through all the woods
...

“Broknar” was over-acting just a touch, his gestures too flamboyant and his voice too determinedly thrilling, but at least it cut through the chords of exciting music so that everyone could hear what was after all the best known speech in the entire play.

Just so long as he doesn’t sing
, thought Aldric with a mirthless smile. The smile faded almost as soon as it appeared, for he was beginning to hear something very wrong in the treatment of this crucial speech—something very wrong indeed, and a wrongness that was of a piece with the unsubtle use of colors on the stage.

Tiluan’s colors were the red and gold of the Emperor—that much he had noticed already, and thought no more than some satirical observation; but “Broknar,” leader of the group of lords who seized the country from its prince, not only wore the Grand Warlord’s black and silver but was speaking the words of a hero.

The historical Broknar had been a usurper who with his companions had misruled the land and brought it to the edge of ruin before remorseful suicide had restored order, and had been treated as such in Osmar’s original play. Here he was portrayed as a wise, experienced military man who had
rescued
the land from an immature and willful tyrant. The whole play was a propaganda for the
Woydachul
, and for a policy of war. Just the sort of . thing that would appeal to the young hot-heads amongst the lords and officers of the Warlord’s Domain; they wouldn’t object to a war, no, not at all, for the sake of its drama, its romance, its excitement—and the rapid promotion that comes with filling dead men’s shoes.

Aldric stared at them, actors and audience both. He still remembered—how could he forget?—riding past the battlefield of Radmur Plain, not quite nine months ago.
Righteous Lord God, was it really so short a time
? Enough to begin a new life of his own, but not enough and never enough to restore the tens of hundreds of lives cut short on those bloody pastures.

It had been before the burial parties started work and he had seen a mile-wide meadow strewn with men and horses, all bloating in the warm spring sun. He had smelled them, too. Even the mere memory of that ripe stench was enough to make him wrinkle his nose. A whiff of it here would drown out the scent of
ymeth
and of perfume, and put paid to such nonsense as was being ranted from the stage. Or would it… ?

And it pleases me to see ranged along the field

Bold men and horses armed for war.

And it pleases me to see my foemen run away,

And I feel great joy when I see strong citadels besieged,

The broken ramparts caving in among the flowers of

fire, And I have pleasure in my heart when I behold the

hosts Upon the water’s edge, closed in all around by ditches, With palisades of strong stakes close together …

Kyrin’s mouth quirked in distaste and she turned to look at Aldric to ask if this was really, truly, the rest of the speech she had heard him quote with such good cheer and laughter. Her question was never asked, because the expression on his face provided her with answer enough.

And once entered into battle let every man

Think only of cleaving arms and heads,

For a man is worth more dead than alive and beaten!

I tell you there is not so much savor

In eating or drinking or sleeping

As when I hear them scream …

Aldric stared coldly at the rest of the audience, not feeling superior but just more bitterly experienced. Though most were drinking in the ringing words, several—the more imaginative—were looking apprehensive, and one or two almost queasy.
Oh Light of Heaven I would love to make you sick
, he thought savagely.
All of you. You might be less enthusiastic for this sewage then
. The images were there, rising unbidden from the dark corners of his mind like drowned men in the first thaw: a raven with an eyeball on its pick-axe beak; the putrid seethe of maggots; gray wolves whose pelts were slimy with the juices from some mother’s liquefying son.

” ‘I would speak to thee of all the glory that is war,’ ” quoted Aldric softly.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Kyrin said. “You know what it’s really like.”

“Yes, I’ve seen that
glory
.” He seemed almost to be tasting the flavor of the word. “Duergar Vathach used the Empire’s way to making war; he brought it to Alba with him. Burnt villages, dead children and the sound of women weeping. Crows and buzzing flies and the air so thick with death that you could taste the stink. Sweet, and sickly, and foul.” He knuckled tiredly at his eyesockets, all the warmth of wine and food quite gone and only a leaden coldness left behind. “I know indeed. All too well. Kyrin, when this scene ends, we’re going—back to the Towers, to pack our things. I want to leave the city at first light tomorrow.”

“To go home?”

“Home. Or wherever. I just want away from here.”

“Sir, may I speak privately with you?”

“Not now, Holbrakt.” Hakarl paused on the threshold of The Two Towers, a mink baulked at the door of a chicken-run, and glanced back at his sergeant. The man’s expression—what could be seen of it—was worried. “Or is it as important as you make it look?”

“Yes, sir. I fear it is.”

“Damn you!” Hakarl’s voice was calm, controlled, without animosity in the curse. “All right, then. You, you and you,” Hakarl pointed with his crop, an odd accoutrement for a foot soldier but one he found most useful nonetheless, “get in there. If he’s there, call me
at once
. If he’s not, ask—nicely, at first.” The
Tau-kortagor
smiled so that his men could see it. “But don’t stop asking until you get an answer.”

He left them to their own devices, however inventive and worth watching those might become before the information was obtained, and turned back to Holbrakt. The sergeant still looked like someone with griping in the guts, far from comfortable with whatever it was he had to say.

“What’s the matter, man? Your belly hurt?”

“No sir, my neck. As if there was a headsman’s axe resting across it.” Hakarl watched him but said nothing. “I mean, sir, the Guild Houses and what was done in them.”

“I did wonder…”

“Four Guilds will hold you responsible,
Tau-kortagor
, sir. They will—”

“Do nothing.” Hakarl cocked his head sideways and listened as the thuds and grunts and cries of an impromptu interrogation reached his ears. “Particularly when I bring these criminals before the
Woydach
. That’s the way to be forgiven, Holbrakt; forgiven for anything.” The rhythmic thudding from inside the inn stopped and there was silence; then a sound of breaking glass and an instant afterward a high, shrill scream suddenly cut off.

“But you killed two Guildsmen and tortured three—”

“I sergeant? Why all this
you
that I keep hearing. What about
we
and
us
, or did I merely imagine seeing you and all the others? You didn’t falter when there was a chance of finding gold coins piled up on the shelves. Was that what you expected, sergeant?” Hakarl flexed the whippy crop between his hands and smiled. “Was that why you didn’t make your little speech until now, eh? Well, they don’t keep their cash like that these days, as I could have told you had you asked.”

Holbrakt took a step backward, skidded on the frozen snow beneath his heel and almost fell.
Tau-kortagor
Hakarl laughed at the man’s discomfiture. “That’s right, sergeant. There’s no sure footing anymore, and we are all of us in this together… which some realized before you chose to say it.” He tapped the crop against his boot and looked pleased with himself. “That’s why Meulan needed only a suggestion and not an order before he went back to fire all the Guild Houses that show… ah… signs of interference. Rioters and looters, Holbrakt; they always take advantage of any confusion in the city. Am I not right… ?”

“Yes, sir.” The words came out grudgingly, but they came out nonetheless. “You are, sir.”

“Then remember it. Ah, good.” Hakarl turned to face his three troopers as they emerged from the inn. One of them was flexing his fingers and blowing on bruised knuckles, the others were wiping blood-smears from their truncheons. “What news?”

“Sir, we have him. Both of them. They’re in The Playhouse even now—watching
Tiluan
, if you please.”

“I do please. Very much. Because the play’s no more than halfway done by now, and because we’ve bloody got them… ! Well, come on,
move
!”

And when I hear them fall among the palisades and ditches, Little men and great men all one on the bloodied grass, And I see fixed in the flanks of the corpses. Stumps of spears with silken streamers, Then I have pleasure in the downfall of my enemies! Great Lords and soldiers of this great Empire, Pawn your mansions and your cities and your towers Before you give up making war upon all who oppose you! Swiftly go now to the great Grand Warlord and tell him He has lived in peace too long!

As the scene intensified the stage lights dimmed as tinted shutters were drawn across them; but as the symbolic darkness fell Aldric stiffened in his seat and his eyes went very wide, trying to make use of the remaining glimmer of red light and thus make sense of what they saw. His stare was fixed on one man’s face, an Imperial officer glimpsed in profile just as the stage beyond went black. There had been something about those adze-carved features, a strange familiarity that sent a nervous shivering all over his skin, as if God had spoken his name and not with favor. It was a face which raised questions, the kind of questions that needed urgent answers.

“Up,” he snapped to Kyrin. “Up and out, right now.”

“Now? You said at the end of the—”

“Don’t argue with me. Do it.”

Kyrin’s eyes went wide and her face paled, for though she had heard him use that flat and deadly tone of voice before it had never, ever been directed at her. It was only when she saw how the anger and mild disgust on his face had been replaced with something very close to fear that she began to understand. They got to their feet quickly, quietly and with minimum inconvenience to those around them.

“Play faint,” Aldric whispered, fanning Kyrin with the playbill as he laid a comforting—and concealing—arm across her shoulders to force her head downward and out of sight. “I’ll help you out.” They managed to work their way clear of their own seats and along the row for a few feet—and then the scene ended, and so did their escape.

Neither Aldric nor Kyrin had expected anyone else in the Playhouse to stand up just as they did, clapping their hands and shouting for a reprise of the most raucous part of the speech. Although there was enough applause to cover the movement of a troop of horses, there was also enough movement in the audience itself to prevent that troop of horse from taking more than two steps in any direction. They managed those two steps as the cheering died down a little, only to be trapped again when the actor playing “Broknar” returned to the stage.

The man held up his hands for silence, and waited patiently during the few minutes while the mannerly resumed their seats and went quiet—then for the few minutes further while they shushed their less courteous or more drunken neighbors.

“My lords, my ladies and good people all,” said “Broknar,” making his obeisance to all into a single splendid gesture, “I pray you, let the play continue to its true conclusion; for the company do promise that they shall both reprise and re-enact while yet in costume when all the action’s done, being certain that more will be demanded than just the words of this poor player. Enjoy our play—and of your mercy, make way for the lady that she may recover and return ere we begin again.”

Aldric flinched and felt his stomach give a lurch like something pushed abruptly off a roof; but, trapped too far away to return to their seats, somehow they both contrived to remain within their roles. Kyrin put one hand to her face and forehead again, concealing any expression that might betray her, while Aldric inclined his head to acknowledge the actor’s thoughtfulness—and to conceal his features from whoever might find them of interest. But neither, now the focus of benevolent attention, moved quite fast enough.

The Imperial officer Aldric had spotted as the last scene ended glanced once incuriously in their direction; then again, far more intently, and stood up to see them better. Aldric saw his eyes and his mouth move, and he knew that what the man had said was “
You!
”

Aldric was able to go one better, if “better” meant having a name go howling through his head rather than vague sounds of recognition forming on his lips. Warship commanders needed shore leave as much as lesser mortals, and it was likely that most would try to spend the winter holiday somewhere they could be assured of entertainment—like the capital of whichever region of the Empire had their allegiance. But whatever had brought
Hautmarin
Doern of the battleram
Aalkhorst
to the Playhouse on this night of all nights, Aldric hoped that it was choking on the laughter of its dismal joke.