Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North (24 page)

After the city-wide mageocide known as the Culling and the loss of his legs, any lingering desire for intimacy he may have possessed withered and died. Hatred became the only companion he needed; vengeance the singular passion that stirred his bitter heart.

Eremul smiled ruefully. It felt strange, sliding into something approaching normality. Doing what
other
people did. Almost as if he were an imposter. He wasn’t sure this was what he wanted, and yet he was curiously reluctant to disappoint Monique. Despite the fact the trek to Artifice Street would be exhausting and he would rather spend the evening with a good book and Tyro on his lap.

Where are you, boy?
He hadn’t seen the scruffy little mongrel in a while. He wheeled his chair around the depository and eventually found Tyro curled up in the corner, apparently asleep.

The Halfmage selected a clean robe and laid it out on his bed. Then he wheeled himself to the washroom. It was always a trial to bathe, a complicated process it had taken many attempts to get right. He crawled into the chair Isaac had designed for him, and then positioned himself above the drainage hole that fed directly into the sewers beneath the harbour. He yanked on a rope connected to a simple pulley system and the bucket suspended just above his head upended, showering him with cold water. Once he had finished scrubbing himself clean, he unhooked the bucket and placed it near the door to be refilled for the next time.

Eremul returned to his room and spent a couple of minutes pulling on the robes. He was worried they might appear ostentatious, but then he cursed himself for a fool.

Fussing over my appearance is akin to a leper worrying if his breath is fresh. Any woman that loves me will do so for my other qualities. Whatever they may be.

Now that he thought about it, perhaps this ‘date’ wasn’t such a good idea after all. Still, he had a letter that needed to be delivered. He’d be damned if he’d gone to the considerable effort of taking a bath only to hand a grubby urchin a piece of parchment.

He applied a dash of perfume, feeling like an utter cretin. Then he returned to his study to retrieve the letter, casting a quick glance to where Tyro lay to see if he was awake.

Blood-red orbs stared back at him, as sinister as infanticide.

He jolted back in his chair. ‘T-Tyro?’ he gasped, his heart hammering in his chest.

The dog padded over and sniffed around his robes, then looked up at him with adoring brown eyes. Eremul reached down a trembling hand. Tyro licked his fingers with his warm, wet tongue and made a whining sound, begging for food. Just as he always did.

‘Tyro… what’s happening to me, boy?’

I really ought to have had that sleep this afternoon.

Though he was certain the sinister vision was a result of tiredness and pre-date nerves and maybe a lingering paranoia from Isaac’s betrayal, the Halfmage still found himself shaking a little as he left the depository.

‘Deliver this to the Grand Council building. I want it to go directly to the Office of Civic Relations. If anyone asks, you never saw me.’

The boy nodded. He was wafer-thin, so underfed that a strong wind might blow him away, or so it seemed. ‘One silver sceptre,’ the orphan mumbled.

‘A whole silver?
’
Eremul shook his head in mock outrage. ‘That’s daylight robbery! But it seems I have little choice. Be sure to give your friends some food as well, you understand me?’

He tossed the coin at the kid, who pocketed it and ran off. In truth, with prices rising at an alarming rate, a silver would not buy much beyond a couple of loaves of bread. With each passing day more of the city’s poor seemed to be begging on street corners or rooting through piles of refuse looking for something to eat. There was a sense of desperation in the air: an increasingly volatile mix of hopelessness and fury that threatened to ignite at any moment. Only the dubious promise of the Pioneer’s Deal was postponing a city-wide uprising.

And with the notable exception of Lorganna, it seemed no one on the Grand Council gave a rat’s ass.

The new Civic Relations Minister had contacted Eremul three days after he had been banished from the Council Chamber. In her letter she had expressed a desire to help his investigations into a possible connection between the rebels and the Fade. Though their correspondence did not strictly break any laws, the fact Eremul was
persona non grata
with Dorminia’s Grand Regent made the situation delicate. Eremul suspected it was only his hero status keeping him out of the Obelisk’s dungeons.

He pushed his chair through Artifice Street, noting the absence of customers in the more expensive shops. The new taxes the White Lady had imposed were sucking the city dry.

The faces change, but the fist stays the same. Always squeezing. Crushing the life from the poor. Grinding them down while their labour feeds the insatiable appetites of the lucky few.

Eremul realized he himself fell into the latter category, at least in a broader sense. He felt guilty at having agreed to meet Monique in one of the city’s more expensive taverns. The Rose and Sceptre was a large building situated between a jeweller’s and a locksmith. Monique was waiting for him when he arrived. She was dressed as before in a long black skirt and tight top. Her glossy hair fell perfectly to the nape of her neck. Her lips and the base of her eyes were painted violet, accentuating her flawless skin.

The squeak of his chair’s wheels on the wooden floor drew the attention of just about everyone else sitting in the tavern, much to his annoyance. Monique smiled when she saw him, and that helped soothe his irritation.

‘You look dashing,’ she greeted him, her voice carrying the sensual quality that had kept both his imagination and his trusty right hand so busy over the past couple of weeks.

The Halfmage glanced down at his sweaty robes, at the bottom hem hanging limply over the stumps of his legs. ‘You may wish to get those glasses checked.’

Monique laughed. He tried to remember the last time he had made a woman laugh, but drew a blank.

‘The custom in Tarbonne is for the man to choose wine before dinner is ordered.’

‘I thought I recognized that accent,’ he said, eager to impress. ‘Tarbonne. Once the brightest jewel of the Nine Kingdoms – as they were once known.’

Monique adjusted her glasses. ‘Not so bright now, it is true. They are beset by war. Bands of mercenaries travel the Shattered Realms, fighting for any false lord with gold to spare. I fled north to escape it all.’

‘You fled here, of all places? I suppose the grass is always greener from afar. How long have you been in the city?’

‘Two years. Did you wish to order wine?’

Shit. Idiot.
He’d forgotten about the wine. ‘You choose,’ he offered gallantly. ‘I’ll pay.’

‘You don’t think I can afford it?’

‘Er…’
Shit! I’ve done it now!

Monique smiled, a wry twist of the mouth that made him feel all kinds of things. ‘I’m just playing, silly!’

‘Ah.’ Eremul wiped the sweat from his brow and gurned a smile. ‘Sorry. It’s been a busy day and I haven’t been sleeping well recently.’

‘We all need our beauty sleep, yes?’

‘People like me don’t get beauty sleep.’

The server arrived and Monique ordered a bottle of white. ‘The best wine in Tarbonne,’ she said happily. ‘Produced in the capital itself. Men have died to protect the vineyards of Carhein.’

‘Men have died for less than that here.’

Monique looked embarrassed, almost as if she had said something wrong. Eremul cursed himself again.

Why can’t I talk to women? What the hell is wrong with me? Quick, make conversation. Something that won’t make you look like either an arsehole or a complete fuckwit.

‘I have a dog,’ he said.
Shit!

‘Really? I like animals!’

‘You do?’

‘Yes. Especially horses. I’m riding to Westrock soon, for the flower show. Maybe you would like to come with me?’

‘I… ah…’
I can’t sit a bloody horse
, he thought bitterly, but what he said was, ‘I would love to.’

‘Excellent! Shall we eat? All this talk is making me hungry.’

They were about to order when there was a sudden commotion near the door. A man and a woman stumbled in, two children trailing behind. The four of them looked half-starved. The children stared longingly at the plates of food, eyes fevered with desperation.

‘Please!’ the father pleaded. ‘We need food. Anything! Just the scraps if you can spare them. I beg you.’

‘If you have no coin to spend then get out!’ The server stormed over and shook his fist right in the man’s face.

‘But my children are dying! Please—’

‘Get out. Out, you rat bastard! Take your ugly wife and kids with you. Now, before I call the Watch!’

Trembling, dragging his sobbing wife with him, the man left the tavern. The children followed behind them like lost souls.

The server walked back to where Eremul and Monique were seated and shook his head ruefully. ‘My apologies. Some people think the world owes them a living. They don’t seem to realize we’re all in this together.’ He flicked some imaginary dirt from his gold-embroidered jacket in distaste. ‘Now, what can I get you?’

‘Soup,’ Eremul said flatly.

The server’s mouth twisted in disapproval. ‘And you, madam?’

‘Soup,’ said Monique. ‘The cheapest you have.’

The server stormed off, muttering under his breath about rat bastards, and Eremul made a mental note to check his soup when it arrived for anything untoward. He doubted the man would dare spit into the victuals of the city’s sole surviving wizard – but if he did, unpleasantness was certain to follow.

Fortunately for all concerned, their soup when it arrived appeared free of bodily fluids. They finished their bowls and decided to go for a walk, or in Eremul’s case a trundle. Deep in conversation, they accidentally bumped into the family that had been begging in the Rose and Sceptre earlier. The children were staring dully into space while their parents scavenged spoiled food from stinking piles of refuse at the side of the road.

The Halfmage reached into his robes. He withdrew the golden spire with which he had intended to treat both Monique and himself to a three-course meal and gave it to the disbelieving father. He also handed him stern instructions to take the Pioneer’s Deal once he and his family had filled their bellies.

The sun eventually fell, and Eremul prepared to say goodbye to Monique. He’d made peace with the fact the date was an unmitigated disaster.

I tried
, he thought pathetically.
At least I tried.

But before she left, Monique kissed him on the cheek and wished him a good night, saying she was very much looking forward to seeing him again.

The horn sounded across Heartstone. Yllandris quickened her pace, hurrying down dirt roads riven with cracks in the heat of high summer. Dust flew up from her boots, making her sneeze. Warriors jostled her on their way to the Great Lodge. As Yllandris hurried past the huge structure, she glimpsed the King pacing back and forth while the town’s defenders assembled in the great clearing. The Six stood guard nearby.

The streets had long ago emptied of women and children; the town’s non-combatants had taken shelter in their homes. If it came to it, the womenfolk had demonstrated in the past that they would take up arms and fight just as viciously as the men. It just wasn’t clear which side they would fight
for
.

‘Sister!’

A woman’s voice hailed Yllandris as she passed the bakery old Mother Marta had run for years. Marta might be as fat as a hut but she was a kindly woman who would often hand out free pastries to the town’s foundlings.

Yllandris turned her head and saw Rana hurrying towards her. Rana owned the apothecary shop just opposite the bakery. She was a senior member of Heartstone’s circle, a middle-aged woman of stern countenance whose wares were said to be inferior to Walda’s on the opposite side of town, despite the fact the other woman possessed not a magical bone in her body.

‘Walk with me,’ Rana said. It was more an order than a suggestion. Yllandris had never been popular among her peers, and Shranree’s open hostility had done little to discourage a similar attitude from the other sorceresses.

They continued together to the north gate, walking in silence. The horn sounded again, another call to arms. A stream of warriors filed down the road, many of them the wrong side of forty and wearing forlorn looks that suggested they thought they wouldn’t live out the day. The news had spread. The Shaman was coming to reclaim his domain, and this time there would be no Herald to oppose him.

Shortly after seizing control of Heartstone, Krazka had made an example of the greybeards who refused to accept him as their new king. The two sorceresses held their noses as they passed the gallows that had been erected in the centre of town. After weeks of exposure to the predations of insects and hungry carrion birds the corpses had been all but stripped bare, and the stench wasn’t as bad as Yllandris had feared. Still, a glance at the remains of intestines hanging down over half-eaten genitalia was almost enough to trigger another shaking fit.

In an unexpected moment of empathy, Rana hooked an arm under Yllandris’s and guided her down a side street in order to avoid the worst of the gruesome spectacle. ‘Things will get better,’ the woman said, though her voice lacked conviction. ‘Shranree believes our people are on the verge of greatness.’

‘Greatness?’ Yllandris echoed, trying to sound respectful, to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

‘Our new king will lead us to the prize that was always meant for us. Even in this Age of Ruin, the Lowlands are a veritable paradise. No Highlander need ever starve again once we claim them as our own.’