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‘Did I speak?’
‘You did little else, though rave might be a better word. But not in any tongue I recognised. You’ve no need to fear you gave away any secrets.’
‘I have few enough, but thank you for that, Kutch.’
‘I’ve never seen anybody the way you were, Reeth. Unless they were ramped or possessed of demons.’
‘Neither covers my situation.’
‘No, that was something else. Is that why you wanted to consult my master?’
‘Part of it.’
‘Part? You nearly uprooted those restraining rings! You frothed, for the gods’ sake! And you have other problems?’
‘Let’s say they are complicating factors.’
Kutch could see he wasn’t going to get any more on that subject. ‘I’d heard you were a savage fighter,’ he said. ‘Is that because of these … fits?’ It was an inadequate word.
‘Sometimes. You’ve seen I don’t control it.’
‘How did you –’
‘Kutch. I ache. I’m soaked and I could use food and something to drink.’ He thrust his manacled wrists at him. ‘Get me out of these.’
Kutch looked wary.
‘The seizure’s passed, you’re in no danger. I have some warning of an onset. If it’s going to happen again I’ll come back here.’
Still the boy hesitated.
‘It’s not as though I’m in a permanent state of derangement,’ Caldason persisted. ‘I’m no Melyobar.’
Despite his apprehension, Kutch had to smile as he reached for the keys.
The royal court of the sovereign state of Bhealfa hadn’t stood still in almost twenty years.
When he gained leadership, though technically not the throne itself, Prince Melyobar was eighteen. Some said he was eccentric even then. Given the unusual constitutional situation he found himself in, with his father, the King, neither dead nor properly living, there were doubts about the Prince’s legitimacy as a ruler. It took an interminable time to sort out the problem. Melyobar distracted himself by consulting seers and prophets, hoping to hear something of his coming, ersatz reign.
It was then that he learned the true nature of death.
Nobody knows which of the numerous mystics he received first put the idea into his head. But the result was that, for Melyobar, death became Death. An animate creature, walking the world as men do, dealing out oblivion. Worse, intent on stalking him.
Backed by the counsel of some of his more pliable soothsayers, the Prince reasoned that if Death walked like a man, he could be outrun. In eluding Death, death could be cheated.
At vast cost, Melyobar ordered the construction of a moveable dwelling, smaller than the present palace but as opulently furnished. It contained hundreds of apartments, including a ballroom and a chamber given over to meetings of his puppet Elders Council.
The new court resembled a ship without sails, its prow and stern squared off. Its motive power was fabulously expensive magic. Steered by hand-picked enchanters, it floated silently above the ground at about the height of a man with his arms raised. It travelled at the pace of a cantering horse, though this could be varied somewhat. The Prince had two lesser versions built to accompany him as escape vessels.
Dozens of courtiers spent fortunes on their own conveyances, vying with each other in size and ornamentation. The Prince’s personal guard, representatives of the sorcerer elite, scholars, lawmakers and servants occupied more land ships. Others carried victuals and provisions. For the lower orders and mere camp followers there was no magical impetus. Their wagons relied on teams of horses, hazardously changed on the move. Everything depended on a complex logistical system, and the administrators who ran it took up yet more vehicles.
As the vast cavalcade journeyed the length and breadth of Bhealfa its route was varied to confound Death. Sometimes that meant the flattening of harvest crops, the fording of swollen rivers, even the destruction of an occasional village if it couldn’t be avoided. The priority was to keep moving at any cost.
This night, the flotilla crossed a relatively unpopulated region of the Princedom. It blazed with light from swaying lanterns and flickering brands. Nor was it quiet. The caravan brought with it the sounds of thundering hooves, squeaking wheels, music, and lookouts hailing each other when collisions threatened.
A carriage arrived at the periphery of the cortege and matched its speed. It was met by outriders who checked the visitor’s credentials. Then they escorted it into the convoy, a chancy undertaking at the best of times. But they reached the gliding palace with a minimum of bumps.
The carriage door opened and an elegantly dressed passenger stepped across onto the rungs of a short ladder. Deck crew assisted him aboard and a uniformed welcoming party saluted.
He was taken to an antechamber and subjected to the indignity of a light search. Not for weapons, but to ascertain that he was who he appeared to be, rather than the entity so much was being done to evade. Familiar with the Prince’s obsession, he suffered it without protest.
At last he was ushered into a lavishly appointed state – room.
‘The Imperial Envoy of Gath Tampoor,’ a flunky announced before discreetly exiting.
The room’s only occupant sat at an exquisite desk, studying a parchment held flat by a pair of silver candlesticks, seemingly unaware of his visitor’s arrival. Containing his impatience, the emissary gave a polite cough.
Prince Melyobar straightened and regarded him. His manner seemed vague, if not actually confused, and recognition took a moment. ‘Ah, Talgorian.’
‘Your Highness.’ The Envoy delivered a small head bow.
They were roughly the same age, but the Gath Tampoorian had worn much better. He was lean and fit, where the Prince was stout and pasty-faced. Talgorian had a neatly trimmed beard; Melyobar’s rotund face was shaved, against the prevailing fashion, and his hair was prematurely white. The Envoy was possessed of diplomatic calm, at least outwardly; Melyobar’s disposition was jumpy.
‘To what do I owe …’ The Prince trailed off, preoccupied.
‘Our regular meeting, Highness,’ Talgorian reminded him firmly, though remaining on the right side of protocol.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And the matter of the provision of additional troops.’ He enunciated this more slowly, in the way a peasant might address an obstinate cow. ‘Bhealfan troops. For our new campaign against Rintarah, Highness, and their troublesome clients.’
The Prince didn’t seem to comprehend. ‘To what purpose?’
‘As I previously explained, my Lord, to protect your sover-eignty and the security of the empire.’ He was having to work to keep his composure, as usual. ‘It wouldn’t do to let Rintarah get the upper hand, would it?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘We need your gracious assent to draw more soldiers from Bhealfa’s ranks to support the cause.’ He slipped a hand into his coat and brought out a rolled document tied with red ribbon. ‘I will trouble you only for your signature, Highness. The details you can leave to me.’
‘You want me to sign something?’
‘It’s all strictly in compliance with the accord that exists between your government and mine,’ Talgorian explained reasonably. ‘A trifling matter of legality.’
There was a hiatus, with the Prince wordless and self-absorbed. At length he said, ‘You may approach.’
The Envoy stepped forward, unfurling the paper. He placed it on the desk and watched as Melyobar added his trembling signature. When the sand shaker had been applied, the Prince dipped his seal ring in hot wax and clumsily impressed the document with it.
When it was done, Talgorian all but snatched away the edict. ‘Thank you, your Highness,’ he cooed smoothly. He was relieved that the Prince hadn’t been awkward about the request. It would be tiresome to have to remind him again where the real power lay.
‘Rintarah, you say?’ Melyobar made it sound as though he’d never heard of the rival empire.
Talgorian bit back exasperation. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, carefully rolling the document. ‘A great threat to us all. Your troops will help keep it in check. Not to mention the warlords in the north. We need defending from them too.’ It was like speaking to a baby.
‘There are always warlords. They come and go. What concern are the barbarous lands to us?’
It was almost an intelligent remark. Talgorian was impressed. ‘True, Highness. But there is some small disquiet about this new one we’ve had reports of. Zerreiss.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Except when I last mentioned him to you,’ the Envoy muttered.
‘What?’
‘I said I must have forgotten to mention him to you. Apologies.’
‘What’s so special about him?’
‘Only that he seems to have accrued some impressive conquests in rather a short time. It’s always as well to keep an eye on such things. We don’t want Rintarah making pacts with these savages and gaining undue influence in that area.’
‘They’ll be doing better than Gath Tampoor if they do,’ Melyobar responded bluntly. ‘What’s known about this …’
‘Zerreiss, Highness.’
‘What do we know about him?’
‘Very little at present. In fact he’s a bit of a mystery.’
For the first time during the audience, a spark of animation came into the Prince’s eyes. ‘Perhaps it’s … him,’ he whispered.
Talgorian was baffled. ‘Highness?’
‘Him. Him! The reaper. The gatherer of life essences.’ His voice dropped to an undertone. ‘Death.’
The Envoy should have guessed. ‘Of course. Tricky customer.’ He knew that sounded feeble.
Melyobar didn’t seem to notice the lack of empathy. He was warming to the subject. ‘It could be him. He’s a shape changer, you know.’
‘Indeed.’
‘And where better to snatch lives than in the barbarous lands?’
‘All the more reason to take precautions.’ Talgorian tried to steer the conversation into more placid waters. ‘Which is why your assignment of the troops will be so very useful in respect of maintaining order and stability.’
The Prince ignored the platitudes. Nodding at the papers on his desk, his tone became conspiratorial. ‘Just between ourselves?’
‘Naturally,’ the Envoy promised, wearing a look of hurt effrontery at the very notion of indiscretion.
‘These are a secret,’ Melyobar confided, laying his hand on the sheets of spidery scrawl. He leaned closer and hissed, ‘They’re part of my plan to kill Death.’
Unusually for a diplomat, Talgorian was lost for a coherent response.
He was spared. A gust of chill wind, somehow penetrating the quarters, rustled a drape. Several candles briefly guttered. The Prince shivered and pulled his ermine cape closer. His uneasy gaze darted about the chamber.
‘Then best that the scheme be kept a secret,’ Talgorian said, stroking Melyobar’s paranoia.
‘You’re probably right.’ The Prince hastily turned over the papers and anchored them with a regally engraved inkpot. Fresh anxiety etched his features.
‘There is just one more matter I would like to discuss, Highness,’ the Envoy continued. ‘A topic of some importance.’
The Prince paid heed to Talgorian’s graver countenance. ‘What is it?’
‘Your Royal Highness, have you ever heard of a man called Reeth Caldason?’
4
The city stood in a wide valley between low, black hills. A pewter river wormed through it. Towers and spires marked its heart, with villas, lodges and houses radiating from the core. Huts, shanties and lean-tos, many clinging to the slopes, formed a crusty halo. To the passing birds it demonstrated all that needed to be known about the seep of power. Not that everything flying above was a bird.
Merakasa, capital of Gath Tampoor and hub of its empire, was never entirely dark. The lights being kindled as night fell, of wax and oil, were rivalled by constant eruptions of magical energies, making for a continuous, shimmering glow. But this glow was uneven, with feeble emissions in the poor quarters, gleaming splendour around the mansions of the rich.
The streets teemed. Costers and tradesmen jostled artisans and itinerants. Merchants led mules weighed down with cloth bolts and sacks of spices. Laden carts vied with horse riders. Pavement sellers hawked fruit and bread from makeshift stalls as tattered, thieving boys eyed their wares. Wagons bobbed in the flow of humanity.
And non-humanity.
Falsities walked the streets too. Or padded, slithered or floated over them. Some were fantastical, mythic, grotesque, designed to entertain or threaten. Others were indistin-guishable from the everyday, mimicking pets or trophy mistresses. Some were wholly credible, others less so, depending on their price.
Every so often a glamour vanished in silent pyrotechnics as it expired or was voided. New ones appeared with about the same frequency, disgorging from thin air in bursts of radiance. The supply was plentiful. Licensed magic vendors worked the crowds, dispensing spells and potions while their bodyguards kept watch.
The bustle washed against the walls of the palace Merakasa suckled; thick, high ramparts surrounding a city within a city, immense and rambling. By contrast to the streets, its grounds seemed deserted, and somehow the din from outside was muted.
Its innermost buildings were grand and had the magical lustre of conspicuous wealth. Outlying utilitarian structures were in a colder style. One particularly bleak example was set apart. It was squat and windowless. Its function had to do with state security and the maintenance of order, so naturally it was very large. But all it showed the world was a modest two storeys. Only someone luckless enough to be dragged inside would learn that it burrowed well below ground, through sub-levels, cellars and vaults.
Its deepest reaches contained the holding areas; a honeycomb of stone passageways, lined with featureless, barred doors. Behind one, at the far end of an especially remote corridor, was a cell much like all the rest. Its sole furnishings were a hard bed and a wooden bucket. Faint light was supplied by a paltry glamour.
A woman sat on the cot. She had been given nothing to eat or drink. Her boots, belt, anything that could do harm, had been taken from her and a drab ankle-length smock replaced her normal clothes. She had a distaste for confined spaces that bordered on dread, and that added to her anguish.
They had interrogated her incessantly. Her answers weren’t what they wanted to hear, but they hadn’t laid hands on her. She wondered how long that would last. Exhausted, confused, her anger at the way she was being treated, at the inequity of it, had abated to churning resentment.
She had been left alone for some hours now. Or so it seemed – her unvarying surroundings made it hard to judge. She thought it might be evening, but wouldn’t swear to it. Already she had grown used to the silence.
Which made her start all the more when it was broken.
Distant doors slammed. There were voices and echoing footfalls. The sounds grew nearer. Some kind of procession turned into her corridor. She heard muffled conversation and boots scuffing on stone. They stopped at her cell.
After a second’s quiet, the lock was turned, then the door creaked open. She tensed.
Someone was framed for a moment, outlined by the greater light outside; greater than the gloom of her cell, but still petty. The figure was tall, cadaverously thin, slightly hunched at the shoulders. It took a step towards her. She saw others in the passage, holding back.
Her visitor was completely bald and his features were angular, like a carrion bird’s. His china blue eyes were quick, his mouth thin lipped. It was hard to tell his age, but he was probably around sixty. He wore the discreetly affluent garb of a high-ranking servant of the state.
She recognised him instantly. Perhaps her astonishment showed on her face.
He came in and closed the door, leaving his escort outside. He was the kind of man who always had an escort.
They had never met. In her position you didn’t get to meet someone so illustrious unless you excelled or fouled up badly. But she had seen him from afar several times, as well as his likeness in paintings and the odd statue. She thought, absurdly, of standing and making a show of obeisance. Before she could move, he spoke.
‘Captain Ardacris.’ He was smiling.
She stared at him, and although it was a greeting, not a question, nodded.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied distantly, then got a hold on herself. ‘Yes, sir. Commissioner Laffon, Council for Internal Security, sir.’
‘Good.’ The smile remained fixed. He indicated the bed. ‘May I?’
She nodded again and shifted for him. Laffon perched.
He regarded her, then said, ‘Serrah, you need my help.’
‘I do?’
‘Wouldn’t you say so? To get this business cleared up and put behind us?’ His manner was kindly, avuncular.
‘Well … yes, of course. But what more can I do than tell the truth?’
‘Perhaps something more.’
His presence emphasised the seriousness of her situation, and she felt a little overawed. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘Explain what happened. About the Principal-Elect’s son.’
‘I’ve already told the story so many times, Commissioner. Why do I –’
‘Indulge me. You can summarise.’
Serrah took a breath. ‘My unit was on to a gang of ramp dealers. We watched their hideaway for nearly a month. Last night, we went in.’ It felt a lot longer ago than just last night, she reflected, but went on, ‘Phosian acted like a hothead. He stepped out of line and they killed him for it. I might add that it wasn’t the first time he’d disobeyed orders, sir. He made a habit of it.’
Laffon considered her words, then stated, ‘No, it didn’t happen like that.’
She was dumbfounded. ‘Sir?’
‘That isn’t an approved version.’
‘Approved? I thought there was only one version of the truth.’
‘Not for official purposes,’ the Commissioner informed her softly.
‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me how it did happen, sir.’ Her fury was creeping back.
‘Phosian died a hero.’
Ice fragments swirled in the pit of her stomach. All she could think to say was, ‘Is that so?’ It was meant bitingly, it sounded weak.
‘It is, Captain. Moreover, it will be said that he bravely gave his life as the result of bad leadership.’
‘With respect, sir, that isn’t how it was.’
‘The Council has appraised it otherwise.’ He maintained the sympathetic air.
‘My unit. They’ll confirm what I’ve said. Ask them.’
‘Ah, yes, a devoted band. Nothing but respect for you. I’m afraid they all said your behaviour fell below acceptable standards.’
She couldn’t believe they had, willingly. ‘This is wrong, Commissioner. Everything’s been twisted, just because of Phosian’s family connections.’
‘I know this is difficult for you. But you can make things so much easier. Simply confess to what happened and –’
‘To what you say happened, sir.’
‘Confess to it and I promise I’ll do my best to get you a lenient sentence.’
‘You’re asking me to lie. Not to mention condemning myself.’
‘I’m asking you not to give succour to the empire’s enemies.’
‘You’re what?’
‘Rintarah, and their fellow travellers here, the insurgents. It would only strengthen their cause if it got out that the scion of one of our ruling houses was … less than perfect.’
Serrah gave a hollow laugh. ‘That, sir, if you’ll pardon the expression, is horse shit. Phosian was a spoilt, reckless brat. Any Rintarahian spy worth their salt would already know that. It took his fancy to play at being a militiaman, and because of who he was, that meant an elite unit, despite my objections. Now I’m supposed to pay for his stupidity.’
‘You would do well to refrain from speaking that way about your betters, Captain.’
Did she detect a slip in his benevolent pose? A slight tension in that turkey neck?
‘I’ve always been loyal,’ she argued, playing what felt like her last card.
‘You will best demonstrate your loyalty by doing as I ask.’
‘Does it matter what I say? I can’t stop you putting out any version you want, so why this charade? Sir.’
He ignored the mild insubordination. ‘It’s a question of credibility. It has to come from you. If you confess to your failings publicly there will be no doubts, no void to be filled with rumours by the dissidents and troublemakers. And as far as Phosian’s family is concerned, honour will be satisfied.’
‘Then I demand an open trial. Let my peers judge me.’
‘That’s out of the question.’
‘As a citizen of Gath Tampoor I have rights.’
‘You have only as many rights as we allow you.’ Laffon’s tone was distinctly flintier. ‘When it comes to state security we don’t wash our soiled linen in public, you know that.’
‘If I agree to this … declaration, what happens to me afterwards?’
‘As I said, I’ll use my influence to ensure your punishment is light.’ He held her gaze. ‘That’s a pledge.’
Serrah couldn’t help thinking how convenient it would be for them if she simply disappeared after her confession. No possibility of her reneging. No loose ends. She looked at Laffon and for the first time in her life doubted the word of a superior. It was a frightening, heady notion. ‘And if I refuse?’
‘I can make no promises in that eventuality.’
Heads or tails I lose, she thought. ‘I don’t deserve to be treated this way, Commissioner.’
‘Nobody said the world was fair. We all have to make sacrifices for the greater good.’
Whose greater good? she wondered.
He pressed her. ‘Will you do it? Confess?’
‘I … I can’t.’
Laffon sighed. A moment passed in silence. Finally, he said, ‘Consider this. Perhaps my truth is the truth.’
Serrah raised her bowed head. ‘I don’t understand.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Your daughter. Eithne, wasn’t it?’
‘What about her? What’s she got to do with this?’
‘I believe she was fifteen when it happened, isn’t that so?’
‘Why are you bringing this up?’ His course rattled her. She didn’t want to go there.
‘Tragic,’ he tutted, slowly shaking his head. ‘Such a waste.’
‘That has nothing to do –’
‘Think about it, Serrah. Your daughter. The ramp. Isn’t it possible …’
‘No.’
‘… given the circumstances of Eithne’s death, seeing the drug there, faced with the traffickers …’
‘No.’
‘… that your judgement was clouded? That, understandably, you reacted emotionally and –’
‘No! I’m a professional! I work on facts, not emotions!’
‘Really? The way you’re behaving now hardly bears that out.’
That struck home. With an effort of will she calmed herself. ‘My daughter has nothing to do with any of this. Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve been up against ramp dealers. I hate them, yes, but that’s never affected the way I do my job. But this isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you needing a sacrifice.’
‘You still don’t understand the extent of this thing, do you, Ardacris?’ There was no vestige of sympathy now. ‘What you allowed to happen has repercussions, and they go all the way up to the Empress herself.’
‘I’m flattered,’ Serrah replied cynically.
‘Enough,’ Laffon decided. ‘There’s no more to be said on the subject.’ He delved in his pocket and brought out a folded parchment. With an irritated flick, he shook it open. ‘You can make a start at rehabilitating yourself by signing this.’ He held out the confession to her.
Everything crystallised in Serrah’s mind. She abandoned hope of justice. All that kept her alive was that scrap of paper remaining unsigned. The only choice was to be defiant.
‘Well?’ Laffon demanded.
‘No,’ she said.