The City (54 page)

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Do you know the Lord Lieutenant Saroyan?’

A great hollow opened up in Riis’ chest and he found he had stopped breathing. Is this it, he thought? Does our plan to kill the emperor end here? And he wondered who had betrayed them.

Marcellus was looking at him enquiringly. Riis tried to think what the right answer would be. He furrowed his brow.

‘I know her by sight,’ he admitted uncertainly.

‘Saroyan is on her way back from the east, attended by six of her private guard. By noon they should be at the Paradise Gate. I want you to take a troop of your most trusted men and intercept them before they are within sight of the City. Kill them all.’

Riis nodded and said, ‘Yes, lord.’ He turned towards the door, trying not to think.

‘Do you want to know why?’ Marcellus asked his back.

‘I do not question your orders, lord.’

‘That is what this room is for, Riis, so the commanders can question my orders. We have information that Saroyan was involved with Mallet in his rebellion. I found it hard to believe; I have known her for a long time and would have wagered my life on her loyalty. It seems I very nearly did.’ He shook his head with regret. ‘I was fooled. Saroyan is unpopular with her peers and is something of a martinet, and I confused that with loyalty. It is always the wild cards we watch with suspicion.

‘I could bring her in and put her on trial, but that would cause unrest in the palace, perhaps throughout the City. She is not loved, but she is respected. It is more practical to have her killed by marauding Blues, her body found in a few days’ time. A tragedy for the City. Another funeral. Her fellow conspirators, whoever they are, will know what caused her death.’

Riis nodded. Dismissed, he wandered out of the Keep and found Darius waiting for him. His aide cocked an eyebrow. Riis shook his head repressively and they walked in silence back to the barracks.

As one of those fellow conspirators, he had no idea what he was going to do.

IN THE END
, all eighty-one remaining warriors of the Leopard century were executed. It was considered impossible, Dol Salida was told, to distinguish between those who had actively plotted against the Vincerii, those who had known about the rebellion and done nothing, and those who were innocent, if any warrior can be called innocent. So they all had to die. Each was killed with a clean sword-thrust to the heart.

One of Dol’s informants was in the execution squad, and when Dol questioned him days later his sword arm was still weary and he was heartsick at the slaughter of veterans who had fought for the City without stinting, without hesitation, and now without honour. He told Dol that after the men were executed their bodies were stripped and examined for brand marks.

‘Brand marks?’ Dol asked, suddenly interested. ‘And did you find any?’

The soldier grinned mirthlessly. ‘Veterans, some of them in for over twenty years? What do you think? These men have scars on their scars. Yes, and burns aplenty. No, we didn’t find any S-shaped brands but then, between you and me, sir, we weren’t really looking very hard.’

It was around eight years ago that the rumour came to Dol’s ears that the Vincerii were interested in a man with a brand shaped like an S. This was all Dol could glean, despite discreetly targeted questions,
and he tucked the information away for when it might become useful. So he was doubly interested when, one day that summer at the Shining Stars inn, Creggan had told him of the man at the bar with a similar brand and Bartellus, remarkably, had pricked up his ears and asked Creggan about him.

Bartellus had asked, ‘Do you know of this brand, Dol?’

Dol had shrugged. ‘Slave mark, I expect. Why, are you interested?’

‘How could a man have both the honourable tattoo of the Second Adamantine and a slave mark?’

‘I couldn’t care less.’

Then, unusually for a man who generally kept his own counsel, Bartellus had volunteered, ‘I saw its fellow a long time ago. On a corpse.’

‘Blueskin?’

‘No. At least, I don’t think so. He had many tattoos on his body and head. This single burn mark was on his shoulder.’

Bartellus was a mystery, an enigma far more significant than just a man hiding his daughter’s age, Dol Salida had decided. An intelligent man, and, Dol had noticed, one who was inclined to hide that intelligence, Bart kept his own counsel on most matters, but he could not hide his interest in the architecture of the City, a subject he could always be drawn on, particularly with regard to the tunnels and sewers and dungeons. This was hardly suspicious in itself. And having a truant daughter was disappointing but scarcely astonishing. But now someone had seen fit to burn down the House of Glass with Bartellus in it, and he and his daughter had disappeared. In the last weeks Dol had used all his network of contacts, informants, friends and colleagues to seek out the old soldier. The name Sami given to him by the urchin in Blue Duck Alley had proved a dead end; there were a thousand Samis in the army, it turned out.

The urquat master had decided the only way to find the old fox was through his cub. The man would hardly permit the girl to continue her profession, if they were being hunted, but the daughter could still give him away. Dol stumped the streets visiting the few remaining suppliers of materials for glassmaking, until he found the maker of dyes Emly had once patronized. The old woman, with long grey hair in several braids, badly crippled in both feet, was reluctant to talk about her customers until he mentioned his niece Emly, when the old girl’s face brightened and she became positively garrulous about the
talented child. She had not seen her recently, and had no idea where the girl dwelled now the House of Glass was gone. But she helpfully told Dol the name of a craftsman who made Emly a special gold paint. And it was that man who told Dol he had not seen the girl in his shop, but had only five days before spotted her in the marketplace in front of the temple of Ascarides, the god of widows and orphans, admiring her own small window on a side wall.

Of course! Bartellus betrayed by the vanity of his daughter. With some reluctance he had reported the girl to Dashoul, so he could set his hounds on her, with the order that, once spotted, she be left alone and followed, for the father who had kept her out of the army for more than a year was as culpable under the emperor’s law as the girl herself.

Dol sat in his study early one morning watching the shapes of chimneys and rooftops slowly emerge from the dark. The grey sky turned to silver and now he could see that the roofs were covered with a thick layer of new snow. Ice-stars had formed in the corners of the window overnight.

The Feast of Summoning was only five days away. He shivered. Petalina, his first love, was to be interred today, her cold body embalmed with oils and unguents then placed in the imperial vaults, a signal honour for the child of a merchant. Dol would not be going to the rites. He had sent his excuses to Fiorentina, who understood his reasons better than anyone. Petalina’s death at the hands of Mallet and his men had shocked and grieved him. Her liaison with Marcellus should have kept her safe,
had
kept her safe. And Dol’s world, the City, would be a lacklustre place without Petalina in it.

He sighed and shifted his slippered feet, feeling a cool draught around his ankles. He listened, hearing the door to the side alley beneath him closing quietly. He could not hear footsteps, but he stood and limped over to the inner door. Seconds later there was a quiet triple-tap on the wood. He waited. After a few moments there were two more taps. Dol unbolted the door.

The visitor was called Sully. He was small, thin and clean-shaven, a precise man with the demeanour of a bookkeeper rather than a veteran warrior of thirty years. Dol had known him for all that time. He had rare qualities for an old soldier, in that he listened and watched, and spoke only when he was certain of his words. He was quick-witted, and Dol valued him more highly than any of his associates.

Sully sat in his habitual chair. He rubbed his hands together to take the chill off them, and took a sip of the tisane Dol had ready. ‘It is said,’ he began without preamble, ‘that the emperor is planning a root-and-branch purge of the Thousand, that none of the centuries are safe, except perhaps the new one, the Nighthawks.’

‘Said by whom?’

Sully shrugged, as he always did when his source was only rumour and speculation, bar gossip and soldiers’ tittle-tattle.

‘But what do you think, my friend?’

The little man was silent for a while. Finally he said, ‘Despite the events of the last few days, the emperor and Marcellus rely on the loyalty of the bodyguard and history has shown they are right to do so. The warriors of the Thousand are well rewarded. They have prestige, fame and wealth. After such a plot you have to look at who would benefit from Marcellus’ death. It would not be the bodyguard.’

‘Who would benefit? Who were Mallet and his men acting for, if not for themselves?’

Who would take Marcellus’ place if both Vincerii were dead? Who knew what the emperor would do? It was a subject the two men had discussed many times over the years. It was always the sticking point. Who knew what a man would do when he kept himself secluded, spoke only to Boaz and the Vincerii, some servants, and a select few of his bodyguard? What went on in the Keep was the deepest of the City’s secrets.

Dol sat back. ‘What is known of this new commander, the Nighthawk?’

‘Riis, his name is. He and his brother were hostages of the palace, two of the last, sons of some northern lord. Otherwise nothing is known against him. He fought for three years in the Blue Ridge campaign, and he’s still alive. A survivor.’

‘The brother?’

‘Not a survivor. Riis is said to have a reputation with women.’

‘No women in the First Adamantine. Can’t keep it in the company.’

‘Old values,’ said Sully approvingly. He added, ‘He is much hated.’

‘Inevitably,’ Dol replied. ‘Keep a close eye on him. Anyone new is a person of interest. There is …’ he searched for the words, ‘a pregnant atmosphere in the palace at the moment, a feeling of impending danger.’

‘No one seems to know why Mallet acted as he did,’ Sully offered. ‘It was quite out of character. He had served the Vincerii for more than twenty years. The Thousand have always been loyal to them. None more so. Perhaps that is why there is a feeling of uncertainty.’

He drank his tisane in silence for a while, glancing at Dol over the edge. He had something more to say. Dol raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

‘I have some good news for you,’ Sully told him.

‘Oh?’

‘You were right, the girl could not resist going to look at her own work. She was seen at the Old Observatory in Gervain, admiring her window. She was followed home to her bolthole. Bartellus was not there, so they plan to seize him this morning.’

Dol rubbed his hands. ‘Excellent,’ he said. There was a twinkle in Sully’s small dark eyes. ‘Something else?’ Dol asked.

The little man nodded. ‘I waited out of sight until I saw him return late at night. To ensure his presence when the palace’s men came calling.’

‘Yes?’ said Dol.

‘I have met him before,’ Sully told him.

The horses and riders pounded through the Araby Gate and out on to the snowy plain. The snow was almost hock-deep, covered with a night-time crust of ice, and the hooves threw up showers of crystals into the frozen sky. Riis heard whoops of delight from the men behind him, exhilarated to be released from the City and to be back on horseback. Despite the turmoil in his mind, his spirits lifted as he breathed in; the air was sharp as diamond. Ahead of them their path crossed virgin snow all the way to the distant crest of hills, and the sky above shone silver.

Leaving Marcellus and the Keep, Riis had chosen twenty troopers and hurried to the stables of the Thousand. For the first time he exercised his full authority as commander to requisition horses from the stable master, apparently the only man in the City who did not know, or chose not to believe, of the Leopards’ demise. For himself Riis had picked a huge grey stallion which the stable master eventually conceded was called Sunder.

Sunder had clearly not been exercised for several days for he frisked and danced, also thrilled by the clear air and sparkling snow. Riis,
who had been riding since he was at his mother’s tit, allowed the big horse to have his way, and when the beast suddenly set off at a gallop towards the rising sun he leaned low over his neck and let him go. Sunder was not a young horse, but he was game and powerful, and within moments they had pulled away from the rest of the troop. Riis tried to form a plan.

His promotion to commander of the Thousand had been a box of mixed gifts. It had hugely increased his chances as an assassin, but decreased his role as a conspirator. He could scarcely creep the halls of the palace at night; he was far too visible. Every member of the Thousand knew his face, and hated him.

So it was some time after the women’s death before he took the risk of returning to Petalina’s garden. Hooded and caped, he had climbed the palace wall once more on a bright moonlit night. He knew the rota of wall guards – who better? – and within an hour he was under the fig tree and groping in the darkness for a message hidden in the bricks. His fingers found a piece of paper but he could not read it in the shadowy garden. He climbed to the top of the wall again and in the light of the moon he could make out Amita’s neat lettering, telling him how to find a package she had left for him. Frowning, he followed her words, letting himself into the room to the rear of Petalina’s suite. He took the chance of lighting a phosphorus stick and held it up. He was surrounded by the soft grey shapes of crowded dresses hanging on the walls like corpses. The musty air, laced with stale perfume, smelled like death to him, and in the sputtering light he imagined Amita’s narrow ghost moving across the room, a dead woman’s dress draped over her arm.

He went through into the second room. As instructed he looked under the piles of shoe bags and found an old leather satchel shoved out of sight. He pulled it out and glanced inside. It was full of folded papers. He left the rooms gratefully and went back out into the clean night.