The Awakening (9 page)

‘Fast and light’ was a literal description. Shanek had time to wash off the blood and grab a few things before he was interrupted by a knock on his door. With a snarl he wrenched it open, expecting to see Coerl Leone.

Instead he saw Caldorman Muttiah.

‘We are leaving, First Son,’ the ageing soldier pronounced. ‘If you would come with me please.’ He stepped aside and gestured for Shanek to precede him into the corridor beyond.

‘Where’s Leone?’ Shanek snapped as he stalked out of his room.

Caldorman Muttiah followed Shanek, one pace behind and to the left. ‘Coerl Leone is waiting for us outside the Palace, First Son.’

The presence of Muttiah added to Shanek’s feelings of confusion. Not only was Ettan the most unlikely of provinces to need a diplomatic mission, but the Caldorman was a near-legend of the army, not the man the Thane would use for a discussion. Muttiah’s methods lay just the other side of brutal. When he went into an area to put down a rebellion
or drive back incursions, he left nothing behind that could breathe.

‘Who is leading this mission, Muttiah?’ Shanek asked.

‘Diplomat Cherise.’

‘Cherise? I thought he was dead.’

‘Not yet, First Son.’

Shanek led Muttiah through the ornate Palace of the Counsellor. As he went servants bowed and guards saluted, but he ignored them all, pondering this development. Diplomat Cherise was as much a legend in his own way as Muttiah. He’d negotiated the Matrin Settlement, convinced the Oscran Rebels to surrender, and set up the trade agreement with Eysteinn, the continent that lay across the Gudrun Sea. To link two such disparate and important characters on one mission was perplexing at best. The only things the two had in common were their hero status and their age.

If Shanek was perplexed at the choice of personnel, he was stunned at the size of the party. Waiting outside were Coerl Leone and her Fyrd, the Fyrd under the command of Muttiah, and the men Shanek had sensed killing the Skrinnie. There were eight men, not seven, as he had thought. He hesitated when he saw them, wondering for a moment what to do with them, then shrugged. They could come along too and consider themselves lucky not to be in the Arena. Maybe when they got back to Ajyne he would consider their time to have been slavery and let them go.

His decision made, he looked again at the two Fyrds. Even given that his Fyrd was culled from the
finest soldiers in the Army of the World, to be travelling into the Great Fastness with only this escort was an insult. Shanek stalked towards where Diplomat Cherise stood watching the preparations.

‘Cherise!’ he called. ‘What is this all about?’

The elderly Diplomat broke off his conversation to bow to Shanek. ‘First Son,’ he said. ‘The Thane has given me strict instructions to share the details of our mission with you once we are four days’ march north of the city.’

Shanek seethed. A scathing retort sprang to his mind but he thought better of it. His problem was with the Thane, not this old man. Instead he nodded curtly to Cherise and turned on his heel.

The Fyrd was mounted, with Leone standing holding the reins to two horses, her own and a magnificent black stallion that Shanek presumed was to be his. Leone was watching him with a guarded expression. He nodded at her.

‘Coerl,’ he said curtly. ‘Are you ready?’

Leone nodded. ‘Yes, First Son. We are ready to ride whenever Diplomat Cherise wishes.’

‘Well, I’m ready, let’s go,’ Shanek said. He tossed his small bag to a soldier and swung himself onto the stallion. With a clatter of hooves the horse responded to his urging and leaped forward. The Fyrd eased into formation around him as he rode out of the Palace grounds.

Ajyne was a huge, sprawling city. Most of its inhabitants had never left its environs. Many had lived their whole lives within their own sector, defined by the main roads that crossed the city. Shanek had once spent a week poring over a map,
trying to discern any pattern or structure. He concluded that the city had never been planned, it had grown. With that in mind it was a simple matter to track the gradual expansion, first along the streams, and then along roads linking the streams. Over the centuries, the streams had dried up, been dammed or channelled into underground pipelines. The buildings along the ancient streams formed the unofficial boundaries between sectors.

One of Domovoi’s more innovative lessons was to send Shanek out into the city dressed in peasant garb with no money or food for a month. He was accompanied by Coerl Leone and three members of the Fyrd, who were given strict instructions to intervene only if the First Son’s life was in danger. At the end of the second day, Shanek was beaten and robbed of everything except his loincloth. He spent the night in a ditch, troubled by rats and disturbing dreams of sweaty, unwashed peasants, but as the sun rose he was aided by a pretty girl who took him home to meet her widowed mother.

They fed him and gave him clothes. When his wounds healed, they introduced him to Hashan, a local merchant who offered him work. For the rest of his time in the Poor Quarter, he alternated between serving in a small booth in the crowded, stinking market and acting as an enforcer for Hashan’s thriving protection racket. At night, after breaking legs for Hashan, he would make his way home through the filthy alleyways to where both women awaited his arrival keenly.

He thanked them by leaving them both pregnant. After returning to the Palace, he sent a discreet
messenger to their home with money and a letter allowing them to move into a prestigious area of the city, where he believed they still lived.

His memories of the Poor Quarter were therefore mixed.

Now, however, he left the Palace and headed north, through the Rich Quarter, past the fabulously beautiful Gardens of the Counsellors, to the grand Path of the Thane.

The Path was paved in pure, polished basalt, brought at unimaginable expense from the great mines on the southern coast. No one not of noble blood could set foot upon its pristine beauty. Once on the great Path, Shanek slowed to allow the rest of his entourage to catch up. He had ridden as hard as he could through the city, anger and confusion driving him. Too much had happened today to allow him to settle or focus. His mind was awash with conflicting images—his sudden knowledge of Leone’s plan in the battle ring, the incomprehensible setting apart for this mission—but the one that affected him the most was his startling identification with the dying Skrin Tia’k slave. He saw the attackers through Skrinnie eyes. He felt the blades.

He had felt death.

The memory of the Skrinnie’s final moments still shocked him. The pain, the anguish, the utter hopelessness of the slave’s dying gasp was like an open wound in his mind. Yet somewhere, almost on an instinctive level, he revelled in the death of an enemy. The dichotomy of emotion, the raw agony of death and the sheer exultation of victory left him battered and reeling.

It was no surprise that he was unaware for several minutes that he was alone on the great Path. He reined in his horse and wheeled around, looking for the others. The rest of the party, such as it was, was still at the beginning of the Path.

Muttering a curse he pushed his mount into a gallop. The stallion, given its head, leaped forward, its hooves pounding on the basalt. Shanek realised from the powerful flow of muscle and the even drumbeat of the gallop that he had a very special horse. He was determined to enjoy the stallion’s power at every opportunity.

When he arrived, the soldiers guarding the entrance to the Path saluted him.

‘What’s this all about?’ he snapped.

‘First Son,’ the Coerl started.

‘These officious upstarts will not allow us onto the great Path,’ interrupted Caldorman Muttiah.

‘Why?’ asked Shanek.

‘First Son,’ the soldier continued, ‘these men,’ he indicated the men in chains, ‘are not of noble blood. They may not travel the great Path of the Thane.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Shanek.

‘First Son?’ queried the Coerl.

‘How do you know they are not of noble blood?’

The soldier looked perplexed.

Diplomat Cherise regarded Shanek with a quizzical eye. ‘Perhaps I can help,’ he suggested. ‘The ancient rule of nobility, one that has fallen into disuse but has never been repealed, states that nobility can be bestowed or acknowledged by the vouchsafing of a person or persons of sufficient
rank.’ He turned to Shanek. ‘Are you vouchsafing these persons of unknown rank, First Son?’

Shanek nodded curtly.

‘Very well then,’ the Diplomat continued. ‘Our way is clear. Let us continue on our way.’

Caldorman Muttiah shot the Coerl a look of pure venom as he passed.

Shanek dismounted and tossed his reins to a soldier in his Fyrd. ‘Lead him for me, I need to talk with these noble men,’ he said with a grin. Once Muttiah and Cherise were satisfied that all was well, they set out along the Path. Shanek walked alongside the prisoners, encircled by his Fyrd.

The basalt Path took them north out of the city. It ran straight as an arrow’s flight as it cut through districts. When it was built, barely a hundred years before, it followed a line ruled on a map by the then Thane, Kasimar III. So literally did the builders follow the line that it separated families who happened to live on opposite sides of the Path. As no commoner could set foot on the shiny smooth basalt, it meant that, until bridges were built, mothers had to walk for hours to go around the Path to visit their children.

Now there were guarded bridges at regular intervals over the raised Path. The armed soldiers at either end had orders to shoot to kill anyone who dropped anything onto the pristine surface. It was not uncommon for the best archers in the army to request posting on the bridges in order to practise on live targets.

Shanek’s grin vanished as he turned to regard the chained men who had killed the Skrin Tia’k slave. ‘You,’ he snapped at the closest. ‘Who are you?’

He was a small man with a heavy black beard and a sallow complexion. There was a wiry strength in his arms and he was well dressed.
Probably worked for Hashan
, thought Shanek.

The man swallowed hard. ‘I am Virender, son of Tillekeratne. A merchant of the Mishtal House, First Son.’

‘Merchant? What do you trade in?’

‘Fine cloth, First Son.’

‘Own any slaves?’

Virender nodded.

‘Any Skrin Tia’k?’ asked Shanek

Virender nodded again.

‘The slave you butchered. One of yours?’

Virender shook his head.

‘Theft, then. As well as the illegal killing of another’s property.’ Shanek looked at Coerl Leone. ‘Death by torment, don’t you think?’

The Coerl shook her head. ‘Death by impaling, First Son. The law doesn’t regard the death of a Skrin Tia’k slave as seriously as killing a human slave.’

‘Of course, how could I forget that?’ He faced Virender with an open, ingenuous look on his face. ‘Well, there you are, then. Only impaling. It’s your lucky day.’

The merchant had gone pale beneath his beard. His eyes were wide with terror and sweat was running down his cheeks. ‘First Son, I, I…’ he stammered.

‘Was there something?’ Shanek asked, all trace of lightness vanishing from his face.

‘The slave—’

‘It was mine,’ interrupted another of the chained prisoners. Virender looked at the big man who had
spoken. The expression on the merchant’s face was puzzled.

Shanek ignored it. He stared at the man who spoke. ‘And who are you?’

‘I am Tapash, son of Hasibul,’ the man intoned. Despite his chains, he carried himself with pride. Shanek regarded him closely. He was tall and deathly pale, with heavy white-blond hair pulled back into a plait that reached to his waist. Standing a head taller than those around him, he was a massive, powerfully built man.

‘A Tribesman from the far north,’ mused Shanek. ‘You are a long way from the foothills of Ettan. What brings you to Ajyne?’

‘Trade,’ he said curtly.

Shanek raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘Is there anything else?’ he asked softly.

Tapash shook his head. ‘I would not come down here for any other reason.’

Coerl Leone dismounted. ‘I think the First Son was asking if there was anything else you wanted to add to your answer,’ she said.

Tapash glared at her. ‘I understand his speech clearly enough, woman. I speak my mind and answer as needed.’

Leone had her sword drawn with its edge resting along Tapash’s throat inside a heartbeat. ‘You are addressing the First Son of the Empire. You will speak with due respect or die where you stand.’

The northern Tribesman returned Leone’s gaze evenly. ‘Then kill me, woman. We do not pay homage to titles. Only deeds.’

As he spoke, Coerl Leone tensed for the whiplike slash that would slice this man’s head from his neck. Shanek held up his hand to stall Leone’s killing slash. ‘Hold, Coerl,’ he said. ‘I think Tapash might be useful.’ He stared at the arrogant Tribesman, one of Domovoi’s lessons coming to memory. ‘You are dead, Tapash, son of Hasibul. There only remains the timing of your death. Coerl Leone is not easily put off and she will finish her job. But until then, you are mine.’

Tapash glared at Shanek with hatred. ‘How do you, an Asan noble, know our ways?’

Shanek struck Tapash in the throat with a straight-fingered jab. The northerner went down with a gurgle, his chains clattering as he tried to raise his hands to his damaged throat. His bulk was sufficient to drag down the prisoner either side of him. Before he could draw a breath, Shanek kicked him in the chest, causing him to fall heavily back onto the basalt surface. He stood over the gasping Tapash. ‘I know your ways,’ he said, ‘because they are facile and trivial, made for small-minded simpletons. I am unimpressed by your posturing and provincial arrogance.’

‘You…cannot…force…respect,’ Tapash gasped. ‘It…must…be…earned.’

Shanek turned on his heel and walked away. ‘What makes you think I would want your respect?’ he snarled.

Even with an unimpeded route it took several hours to leave Ajyne. Shanek rode within his Fyrd, lost in his thoughts. His attack on the chained northern Tribesman, whilst briefly enjoyable, left him feeling
uncomfortable and oddly empty. Normally he would have revelled in his power, enjoying the expression of his authority, but today it lacked its appeal.