- -
- 100%
- +
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London SE1 9GF
www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2016
Copyright © Andrew Livingstone 2016
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016.
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
Andrew Livingstone asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ebook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780008106027
Version: 2016-06-09
For Valerie
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also By Andy Livingstone
About the Publisher
Prologue
‘Peacetime has no need for heroes.’
The storyteller swept his arm towards the doorway far above, the evening light of a high-summer evening drifting in a soft haze into the village’s meeting hall. Every face packed into the concentric circles of benches rising from his central stage to ground level high above turned to follow his gesture.
‘Listen to the sound of peace. Hear the sounds of the insects, the birds, the children, the mill wheel turning and the river that drives it. Were this a short while ago, you would have the laughter of casual conversation, the clash of the smith and the shouts of workers and lowing of cattle in the fields.
‘Nowhere are the sounds of war: the screams, the whispers of fear, the moans of terror, the shouts of hate, the silence of despair.
‘The sound of peace is the sound of nature and children, of neighbours and daily life. The sound of war is death.
‘But we have peace. So we need no heroes.’
His piercing gaze swept the benches, every pair of eyes feeling that they locked with his.
‘Or do we?
‘Do you know no ships are beaching on the nearest shore? Or that men are not marching this way already? Or that weapons are not, even now, drawn in eager hands in the very woods that skirt your homes? Or even at that door above you now?’
A nervous shifting shuffled around the hall. A smile of reassurance danced across his lips. ‘They are not. But it is well to remember that they might.
‘War rarely creeps into life. Not for the ordinary people. Kings and generals may see its approach from afar, or they may not, but for the folk of the first village, or town, or city, or trade convoy, or ship that is attacked, it begins in the blink of an eye, the strike of an arrow, the flash of a blade. In an instant, war has arrived.
‘That village, or town, or ship may not have a hero. But war is a monster with an appetite that is as voracious as it is insatiable. It feeds and grows faster than you can imagine, and without our heroes, we will be devoured. But where are our heroes, if in peace we had not need of them? From where will they come to fight our cause, to breed hope and inspiration?
‘We must always have heroes. But we see them only when life is at its worst.’
A long moment passed. With a smile, this time for himself, the storyteller reflected on the irony that, in peace, tales of war and blood were relished, while soldiers in the lull between horrors craved stories of simple peaceful life, of harvests and weddings and trips to the market.
He crouched, drawing their attention to him as if he pulled in their minds on a thousand cords.
‘Last night, you heard how a hero was born. Now listen to how he grew.’
Chapter 1
A soft noise behind was all that it took for him to be on his feet and turn, knife in hand. He only hoped that it was not apparent that his feet took four small steps before he found his balance, nor that his fingers had fumbled in grasping the hilt, nor that his eyes were squinting to adjust from the glare of the view from the window to the shadow of his chambers.
The desert-dry voice, now familiar, started as she moved closer, a tray with a ewer of iced water and two fine goblets borne before her in place of an instrument of assassination.
‘Your steadiness may waver, you may flounder for your weapon, and your eyes may be straining, but they are all better than when I first saw you here. Let us hope, however, that your dagger is sharper than your reactions, and your mind is sharper than both.’
‘If they were half as sharp as your tongue, crone, I would be ruling the world.’ He sank into his chair, slipping the blade back down the side of the cushion, but this time ensuring that the hilt protruded a little more than it had before.
She poured water for him and he took it in silence. She filled the other goblet for herself, and he let her do so. She could do so without rebuke on this occasion, he resolved. Just as he resolved every afternoon at this time.
She stared with him across the training fields to the dusty plains beyond, two pairs of eyes on the same scene but neither mind seeing it. ‘You could.’
‘What?’ Though he knew.
‘Rule again.’
‘A man cannot win a duel without the right strategy to exploit his opponent, the right horse to bear him, the right armour to defend him and the right blade to strike the killing blow.’
Her voice was like the dry sandy wind that blew in from the desert. ‘Your mind is your strategy, your desire will carry you, their blinding contempt will be your armour.’
‘And the sword? This is no ordinary duel, it will be a fight like no other, and to the victor will come the Empire. It will need a blade the like of which we have never seen. What of it?’
‘Fear not, child of fate.’ Old fingers reached out and gently touched his arm. ‘He is here.’
****
The ship cleared the headland, bringing their first glimpse of the city as they began to swing through the entrance of the harbour.
Brann glanced to his right, shorewards, and almost stopped rowing in astonishment. The harbour itself would have been classed a lake in his land, but even it was dwarfed by the city beyond. White buildings reflected the glaring early morning sun over an area larger than he had ever seen covered by man’s constructions, until his eyes wandered and saw the built-up scene replicated time and time again to the limits of his gaze. Scattered like carelessly discarded jewellery, occasional buildings had golden-clad roofs amongst the red of the majority, giving the same effect, as the ship moved their viewpoint, as the sun did when it dropped a thousand flashes on the surface of the sea.
He was jolted from his astonishment by Gerens’s elbow. ‘Just because you haven’t seen the Jewel of the Empire before, it doesn’t mean you can leave the rowing to us.’
Grakk turned slightly without missing a stroke to speak over his shoulder. ‘If you can look and row, young untravelled boys, you should take the opportunity. There is no better view of the largest city in the world than from here, other than from the Royal Palace itself, and you are unlikely to be afforded the latter perspective.’
Cannick strode down the aisle, his boots loud on the wooden planks even above the sound of a galley in full rowing action, accompanied by a familiar warrior.
‘Brann, to the Captain, after you’ve had a scrub. Galen will take your place for the last stretch, now that we are all free men and friends.’
Galen grinned through his shaggy beard. ‘Well, we’re all free men. Let’s not get too hasty with the rest of it.’
As Cannick moved back up the aisle, Hakon managed to stretch a long leg and nudge Grakk in the back. ‘Looks like you were wrong, oh infallible wise one. One of us seems likely to be treated to that other perspective you were talking about.’
Grakk responded by adroitly tripping Brann as he walked past. ‘You still need to work on your awareness of potential danger, I see,’ he observed pleasantly.
As the ship skimmed across the calm of the harbour towards long stone piers that stretched from the shore like tentacles reaching for any craft that came close, Brann washed for the first time since they had stopped to resupply the previous week. A large tub had been filled with fresh water near the stern and he quickly stripped and scrubbed himself, the practicalities of three months at sea having robbed him of his aversion both to public nudity and cold water, neither of which appeared to be an issue among Einarr’s people in any case.
The Captain was leaning, his back to the door, over a sea of papers strewn across his table when Brann was shown into his cabin. He waved a hand at clothes laid on the bed without turning.
‘You’ll need those,’ he said distantly, staring at a sheet of notes. As Brann moved across the room, however, he straightened and turned, running both hands up his face and through his hair. ‘Apologies,’ he sighed. ‘If there’s one thing I hate more than being polite on diplomatic missions to pompous arses, it’s the studying you have to do beforehand.’
He got to the bed before Brann and stopped him, holding him at arm’s length to observe him. ‘You’ve grown,’ he said. ‘Up and across the way. It should help you swing a sword a bit more easily, but hopefully you have not outgrown these clothes. You’re still undersized, though, so they probably will fit.’
Brann smiled. ‘I would think most people are undersized compared with anyone from your land.’
The Captain’s eyes narrowed with amusement. ‘I also think most people would find you undersized. Not that they would think that a dwarf had stepped from the mines of the fables, mind you, you’re just not as tall as some.’ He cocked his head to the side and stepped back to examine Brann from further back. ‘No, definitely not a dwarf.’ He frowned. ‘I think.’
Brann laughed this time. ‘I have missed our ego-boosting chats.’
Einarr grunted. ‘Well, I haven’t missed having a page. No offence intended, but I work better on my own. Too many years working for a living, I suppose. But now, as you’ll have guessed, I have need of a page once more.’
Brann executed a courtly bow. A very poor courtly bow, he knew, but his experience of court etiquette was non-existent. ‘At your service, my lord.’
The Captain sighed and sat on the bed. ‘You don’t have to be, you know. You are a free man now. I can’t order you to do anything other than your duties as a member of the crew of the Blue Dragon. I’m asking if you’ll do it.’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Truthfully?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
Brann grinned. ‘Just as well I was going to say yes, then.’
He started to get changed into the page’s clothing. While typical of anything that came out of Halveka in that the garments were practical and hard-wearing, still they were of a finer material and cut than he was accustomed to and the feel of them helped his head adjust to his more elevated role.
‘So,’ he grunted as he stretched to pull his shoulders into a tunic that seemed slightly tighter than the last time he had worn it, ‘have you met these pompous arses before? Is that how you know what they are like?’
‘Not these particular arses. My previous visits here were as the captain of a contracted ship or, in earlier years, fighting for whatever cause was looking to buy military might. The sort of person I was then didn’t tend to be received in the same royal chambers as a diplomatic envoy. But I know their like. And I know this city, and this empire. You will recognise the truth of my description soon enough.’
Brann shrugged. ‘They can be what they like. You make a page’s role easy, whatever anyone is like: keep my mouth shut, do what I’m told and look respectful.’
The Captain nodded seriously as the slightest of jolts in the ship’s motion told them that Cannick had manoeuvred it into its berth with his familiar skill. ‘I pronounce your lessons in pagery to be complete.’ He swept the papers into a trunk and fixed his clothes, buckling on a finely tooled sword. ‘Right, let us introduce ourselves to Sagia.’
From the moment they stepped from the gangplank, Brann felt the alien nature of a culture far removed from anything he had known. Disorientated, as if he had entered a different world, he scarcely noticed Konall, Hakon and two imposing warriors joining them and Einarr motioning to Grakk to approach as Cannick started to organise the unloading of the cargo. He sucked in a deep breath to try to gather his thoughts and drag his attention back to his surroundings.
Einarr placed a hand on Grakk’s shoulder. ‘I know I owe you a debt already, for the part you played in saving my nephew if for nothing else, and I know you have earned as much time in the taverns as the rest of the crew, but as a native of a part of this empire you are the closest thing we have to expert local knowledge. I would value your presence if you would accompany us.’
Grakk bowed his head, the sun gleaming on the intricate tattoos covering his smooth scalp. ‘It is in the nature of my people to gather knowledge and share it with those deemed worthy. Besides, I do not partake of intoxicating substances by choice, so it will be a diversion of interest. It may also prove useful in providing an extra member of your party who is aware of your young page’s propensity for inadvertently finding himself in trouble.’
Einarr clapped him on the shoulder in acknowledgement and appreciation. ‘Your last point is probably the most relevant.’
An official in a plain white robe was waiting for them where the pier met the dockside, a flat satchel hanging at his hip and a broad hat on his head. As they drew closer, Brann was able to see the way a broad length of cloth had been wound, more draped, around his body and over his shoulders to leave his arms free and to ensure that his body, while covered from head to foot, was loosely clad. Already his own clothing was feeling heavy and stifling and the very air, now bereft of the breeze of open water, was hot and hard to draw in, like the first gasping breath when he had opened his mother’s bread oven and been hit by the blast. The unexpected memory of home stabbed through him and he stumbled.
Konall glanced at him in enquiry and Brann pointed to the ground. ‘Slipped on a loose stone.’ His voice was laboured as he felt the effort of breathing.
‘No surprise there.’ The tall boy appeared as unperturbed as ever, his manner oblivious to the heat despite the hair that was plastered to his face by the sweat that was creeping from every pore.
‘Do you not feel the heat?’ Brann was incredulous. ‘Your land is even colder than mine.’
Konall looked at him in bemusement. ‘Even our coldest areas have warm days. I have actually seen the sun before, you know. It is the same sun. This is just hotter, for longer. We cannot change it. You deal with it or place yourself at a disadvantage, like all in life.’
‘I just don’t know how anyone could function in this,’ Brann grumbled. ‘It’s all right for you, your head is at a higher altitude where it’s obviously cooler. Every movement is an effort down here.’
Konall snorted. ‘Grow up.’
‘I’d love to.’
‘I didn’t mean physically.’
They were interrupted by Einarr. ‘You will get used to it in a day or so, unlikely as your head will be telling you that it could be. But enough of the weather chatter.’ He turned, halting the group out of earshot of the waiting man. ‘Grakk, the welcoming figure on the dock. What can you tell me?’
‘We are honoured guests,’ the tribesman said, his soft tone as even and measured as ever. ‘He is a slave, hence the chain around his neck, though it is a more slender version and more golden than the normal heavy iron chains of the general slave population. Here, power is everything; the most precious commodity is knowledge and the most powerful men are those who use their knowledge with the greatest skill. Their obsession is records. Everything is recorded, all is preserved in paper and ink, and the guardians of this, those who gather, record, store, guard and, in some cases, advise on the records are the Scribes, the slaves prized above all others. They are recognised by their satchels, as much a symbol of their office as a practicality, carrying paper, ink and quill, for a Scribe must always be ready to record what must be recorded.’
Konall frowned. ‘They place all this trust in a slave? Not in the loyalty of a free man?’
‘It is safer in the hands of a slave, young lord. Where you live, the loyalty of a free man, once given, is unquestioned and any loss of trust in that is considered worse than death. Here, every free man lives in competition with every other. Even the purchase of a loaf is a contest to be won. Accordingly, words are to be used, twisted, broken, all in the strategy of outmanoeuvring and winning. Trust is naive and dull-witted. Slaves, however, are ruled by total obedience and cannot leave to serve another unless their master wills it, and so their words are as letters carved in stone and their ambition serves only to enhance their owner’s standing or success.’
Konall was still unhappy. ‘Regardless, they send a slave to meet the son of a Warlord of Halveka. The insult is clear.’
Grakk shook his head. ‘That is what they do, young lord. Would you own a ship but travel here by swimming? They will greet Lord Einarr in the appropriate setting. The honour here is clear: a Scribe is the ultimate level of slave – in fact many consider themselves superior to any free men below the level of the nobility and certainly they have more influence in many ways. Note the second golden chain, the one carrying his satchel: it denotes that he has reached the highest tier of his class. What is more, the royal seal burnt into the leather of the satchel itself tells us that, in all probability, he is owned by a prince, and has his ear.’
Einarr had heard enough. ‘Thank you, Grakk. Let us meet this influential slave.’
The tall Scribe swept his hat to his chest and greeted them with a long inclination of his head that revealed intricate tattoos on his shiny pate of a style similar to Grakk’s and which drew the eye of everyone present. As he raised his head, his eyes fixed on Grakk, but his gaze, emotionless almost to the extent of haughtiness, smoothly settled on Einarr. His hat still pressed to his chest, he spoke in a voice as lacking in expression as his face.
‘Lord Einarr of Yngvarrsharn, may I express the welcome of my master, of his brothers in rule and of the great city of Sagia that sits at the heart of ul-Taratac, the greatest empire the civilised world has witnessed or ever will. If it is your pleasure, I will direct you to your transport to the palace, which awaits just a few paces from this dock.’
‘Thank you,’ Einarr said. ‘And your name is?’
‘I am merely a conduit for my master’s words. My name is not important.’
‘It is to me. Hence my question.’ The lord’s voice was calm, but still managed to exude menace.
‘Of course, noble sir. My master calls me Scribe.’
Konall’s face went white and he stepped towards the slave, whose face had not flickered into a single expression all the while. Without taking his eyes from the man, Einarr shot out his arm and halted his cousin with a hand on his chest. His voice was soft, almost amiable. ‘That is a most interesting fact about your master. But I did not ask what he chooses to call you. I asked your name. And, as a slave being asked a question by a free man, you are obliged to answer.’
Though his face remained frozen, a flush started to creep into the Scribe’s cheeks. He turned his head slowly to look at Grakk. ‘You could ask your own slave. He would be able to furnish the answer.’
Brann glanced at Grakk but the wiry tribesman was impassive.
‘I have no slaves. He is a free man.’ Before he could control himself, the Scribe’s eyes widened in surprise before settling quickly back to his frozen mask. Einarr continued, his voice as reasonable as if he were discussing the sailing conditions for a pleasure cruise. ‘Unlike you. And I asked you. Could I make it clearer, or do I have to interrupt my journey to the palace with a visit to the Guild of Slavers to enquire about the etiquette of a conversation between a free man and a slave? And the consequences of breaching the etiquette? I am curious as to your name. The one your mother bestowed upon you.’
The man hesitated a long moment, his head bowed and his jaw clenching and moving as he fought to maintain control. He lifted his eyes to meet Einarr’s once more, and said coldly, ‘Narut.’
Einarr smiled. ‘Thank you, Narut. Now let us go find this transport of yours.’
He strode past the Scribe and the others followed. As Hakon passed, he clapped the Scribe heartily on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Narut. I knew you could do it. Now we can all be friends.’ Beaming, he patted the man’s shoulder again with enthusiasm. ‘I’m proud of you.’
By the time the startled Scribe had regained his composure, the group was waiting further up the dock. Einarr cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. Brann stifled a giggle. ‘Narut?’ Einarr’s tone was concerned.
‘Of course, noble sir.’ The man hurried to lead them to a wide boulevard leading directly away from the dockside where two wheel-less carriages sat, with large slaves waiting unmoving beside them.
Grakk moved beside Brann. ‘Try not to look so confused, young fellow. They will interpret it as weakness. These carriages have people for wheels. We enter, they lift and carry, they set down, we alight. It is how people of wealth and rank travel about this city.’
Brann frowned. ‘Why don’t they just walk? Can’t they?’
‘When people choose not to do something that they could do and most people must do, some interpret that as power.’
‘I interpret it as stupidity. I’d rather walk.’