The City (67 page)

‘How long ago?’

The scout seemed baffled by the question. Hayden wondered if this was the best the Odrysians had left.

‘Before I left, sir.’

Hayden suppressed his irritation. ‘Did you leave immediately?’

The boy nodded, sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

‘And you rode post-haste?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thank you, Adelmus.’ To the aide he said, ‘See he has food and returns safely to his people. And Tyler?’

‘Sir?’ The aide paused.

‘Why has an Odrysian reached us with this news before one of our own?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Tyler seemed about to shrug, then stifled the gesture. ‘Perhaps our own scouts have been captured.’

‘Do we trust this boy? He seems simple.’

This time Tyler did shrug. ‘He is who he says he is, sir. Perhaps the Odrysians choose their scouts for their speed in the saddle rather than their speed of thought.’

Hayden grunted and glanced at Mason, who glanced at the timepiece on the desk and said, ‘It is still well before noon. We can afford to wait for confirmation.’

The general shook his head. He stood and grabbed his sword-belt again. He slung it round his hips, then stepped out of the tent into the thick drizzle. Pieter Arendt and his brothers and aides and followers turned to watch him from under their rain shelter. He saw their heads come up and their shoulders straighten. The murmured buzz of conversation all around slowed and stopped as soldiers noticed him and realized it was time. Unit commanders appeared suddenly out of the greyness, watching him expectantly. Some held the reins of fresh horses, saddled and ready.

Hayden looked around. Weak sunlight shone through the rain clouds, the first they had seen for days. Was that a good omen? On a
clear day they would have a view three ways, once one of the loveliest on earth: to the west across the sea, silver as slate in winter, dark like wine in the heat of summer; to the east across plains that had been rich with grasses and the horses which thrived on them; and northwards to the greatest city on earth. Hayden looked to the north. It was just possible to see the outline of the City. It lay on its desolate plain like a dried scab, the general thought.

‘Tyler.’

‘Sir.’

‘Give the order to demolish the lower dam.’

The aide nodded and moved off into the greyness. There was a long silence as men waited, horses neighed and shifted, snorting. Then a flare burst suddenly into the sky, climbing through the rain, spluttering and hissing. Its baleful yellow glow turned the warriors’ upturned faces to death’s heads.

‘Prepare to march,’ ordered the general.

Fell Aron Lee had been in the City for two long nights. He had entered with some difficulty. All the great gates were locked, bolted and barred in a surge of vigilance after the deaths in the Little Opera House. Traders, foreigners and even ordinary citizens had to wait, sometimes for days, before they were reluctantly let in, or out, by surly and suspicious guards. Fell had left Indaro and Gil and the others a league or so from the wall, and rode in alone. He was amazed to find a tent city had sprung up outside the gate. Many thousands were camped in the pouring rain waiting to get in. He had presented the special papers provided by Saroyan to the guards, who left him kicking his heels for hours under a leaking awning while they checked he was who he said he was, then let him through without apology.

He stayed at a small clean inn in Gervain, where he was a stranger. He kept to his room by day, sleeping away the hours, then walking the streets of the Paradise quarter at night, once unknowingly tracing Indaro’s steps to the square in front of the white temple and its unparalleled view of the Shield.

At dawn on his second morning in the inn there was a light tap on his door.

‘Yes?’

‘Sami,’ said a low voice.

Fell flung open the door. He and Broglanh grinned at each other,
uncertain what to say for there was so much to be said. Fell felt tension easing from his chest for the first time in days. With Evan Quin Broglanh at his side, his chances were increased many-fold.

He realized the soldier still thought of him as his commander, and thus it was Fell’s place to ask the questions. ‘Did you know me when you joined the Wildcats?’ he asked.

Broglanh grunted. ‘No, you bastard, you’d changed a lot. It was later. We were at Copperburn, remember, with those trees? I was on guard duty. You and the general, the one with the ears, you walked past me, ignored me of course, just a peasant, talking about the next day’s action. I knew your voice. Then afterwards, next time we met, I could see Arish looking out of your eyes. It was creepy. Did you know me, just a grunt?’

‘I saw your name on the roster of incomers.’ He felt a little sheepish. Why had he never spoken to him about their days as hostages together, after all they went through? Why did he not trust him with his new identity – Evan of all people? ‘When did you take the name Broglanh?’

‘I was adopted. I was ten.’

‘What happened to the others?’

‘Parr and Ranul died,’ Broglanh said shortly. ‘Riis is our man in the palace. He commands a century of the Thousand.’ He shook his head, marvelling. ‘He has Marcellus’ ear – or so he claims.’

Fell looked sharply at him. ‘Does he indeed? Do you doubt him?’

‘I don’t doubt his bravery,’ Broglanh replied, ‘or his commitment.’

‘But?’

‘But he resents his minor role. He’s itching to be the hero.’

‘What
is
his role?’

‘Misdirection. Diverting the Thousand. Keeping them busy, away from the emperor. If we fail, turning his Nighthawks against the emperor and killing him themselves.’

‘Hardly minor.’

Broglanh sniffed. ‘He’s jealous of you. Always was.’

Fell was astonished. ‘Jealous of
me
?’

Broglanh grinned. ‘All of us, all the hostages, wanted to be like Arish, so damned confident, so good at everything. Ranul hated you for it, at least at first he did. Before the dogs. And Riis and Parr were always coming up with plans to undermine you, but you were always so pigging lucky too.’

‘And you?’

Broglanh shook his head. ‘I was just a brat. What was I, eight? You were my hero. Then you disappeared. We all thought you were dead in an alley somewhere.’ He frowned. ‘You should have told us.’

‘I couldn’t. Shuskara took a great risk, taking me away, hiding who I was.’

‘He took a risk getting involved in our defence.’

‘He paid for that in the end. They killed his family. The Immortal never forgets an injury.’

‘Yes, well,’ said Broglanh grimly. ‘He’s not the only one.’

Not for the first time, Fell felt a flush of shame that for so long he had abandoned his vow as a youngster. While Broglanh, the youngest of them, had never forgotten, but apparently nursed his anger and determination down the years.

‘That’s why you sent me away, with Indaro,’ his old friend said. ‘To take the chance. To kill the emperor then. But it was just another decoy.’

Even that wasn’t true. Fell had sent him away for sentimental reasons, because part of him still saw the man as a boy, to be protected as he wanted to protect Indaro. He asked, ‘What happened to you after Indaro left you with a broken arm?’

Broglanh shrugged as though it wasn’t important, and grinned. ‘How is she?’

‘The same.’ A shadow passed over Fell’s heart as he thought of the dangers she would be facing.

As if he understood, Broglanh said, ‘She’ll get through, her and Garret. She’ll probably get to the emperor before we do. In fact,’ he said cheerfully, ‘bastard’s probably dead already. And we can just go and get drunk.’

Hours later Fell was sitting on a wooden bench in the courtyard of the Northmen, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, his arms folded. He yawned, then sighed. He and Broglanh had been waiting in the courtyard, inside the Gate of Peace, since sun-up. They had run out of light conversation, and were both conscious of a metal grille let into the white stone wall behind them, which stopped any discussion which might get them arrested and executed. There wasn’t a lot to discuss – get as close to the emperor as possible and kill him with whatever came to hand. Not much of a plan. But good enough.

At the gates of the Red Palace their papers had been taken away and scrutinized and they had been searched for weapons. Fell had a slender stiletto sewn into his stiff leather jerkin, and a knife in his boot. They were ordered to shake out their boots, but the knife was pinned into a specially built recess in the leather and it stayed undiscovered. Broglanh had poison pellets, supplied by Gil’s allies among the Buldekki tribesmen, concealed in the hem of his faded red jacket.

The tree-shaded courtyard was one of Fell’s favourite parts of the City, with its white stone carvings of wolves and werewomen leaping along one wall. Broglanh had never been there before and he had gazed up at them incredulously. The women had fangs, and fur on their backs, and tails, but also creamy white breasts, and they bounded through a carved jungle towards the pack of snarling wolves, and it was unclear whether they would mate or kill.

Fell stood. He had spent the last many days, while not in the saddle, going through rigorous exercises aimed at keeping his body strong and his mind calm and focused. Now he could feel his muscles stiffening as he sat. He swung his arms and paced the courtyard in the thick drizzle, resisting the temptation to run on the spot. He forced frustration and boredom from his mind, concentrating on relaxing the muscles of his shoulders and neck. He might get only one chance, and he had to be ready.

He saw Broglanh look up. A palace servant was crossing the courtyard, beckoning to them. Broglanh stood and they followed the man into the dark of the palace. He led them through a warren of corridors, and down two flights of stairs to where the halls were lit by torches and the air smelled damp and musty. Fell felt Broglanh glance at him, but he did not respond. His focus was taking in everything, the width of the corridor, the height of the torch brackets, and whether the bald servant, dressed in white robes, was armed or not.

They came to a high wooden door barred with iron. The servant opened it and walked in. The two warriors glanced at each other, then followed him, alert for confrontation. They found themselves in a square white room furnished with a desk and several wooden chairs. The desk was covered with papers. It was so clearly an office, part of the ponderous palace bureaucracy, that Fell smiled.

Another door opened to admit a tall man whom Fell recognized as Boaz, commander of the Thousand. Fell had marked him as the first
person to kill after the Immortal, for he was the only serious opposition to the Vincerii as emperor. He was flanked by two soldiers with swords sheathed.

Boaz looked at them both, then nodded to Fell.

‘Fell Aron Lee?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Who is this?’ He gestured to Broglanh.

‘My aide, Garvy.’

‘You will not need an aide. He will be escorted out.’

They had expected that, of course. Broglanh’s brief was to linger in the palace for as long as possible, in the hope of being of help. Fell nodded curtly at him and Broglanh turned to go.

‘A moment, soldier,’ said Boaz. ‘First take off your shirts, both of you.’

Fell avoided looking at Broglanh. He shrugged off his jerkin and dropped it on the floor, then took off his shirt. Broglanh did the same. The servant who had brought them there peered closely at their chests and backs, searching the many injuries on their skin. He looked at Boaz and shook his head.

‘You have many honourable scars,’ Boaz said, and Fell thought there was respect in his voice. He was a soldier himself, after all. They put their shirts on again, and Boaz nodded to the servant, who led Broglanh from the room.

‘Our sources say you claim to be the son of the Immortal,’ Boaz commented. His eyes hardened.

‘No, sir!’ Fell contrived to look embarrassed, slipping into his old jerkin, feeling the solidity of the hidden knife. ‘I’m the son of the Lion of the East, at least that was what I was told. I don’t speak of it, sir. Now I’m a loyal son of the City. I don’t care about the past. But,’ he lowered his eyes as if to hide shame, but really hiding the lack of it, ‘I was in my cups in an inn, after the defeat of the Maritime, I said I would go back to my real home as the City was doomed. I didn’t mean it, sir, I was just mouthing off. I was asked if I remembered my father. I said not – I was born after the Immortal’s attack on the Lion’s Palace. Someone laughed and said I must be the Immortal’s bastard.’ He shrugged. ‘It was just the ale talking, sir.’

Boaz was staring at him, his face clean of emotion.

‘And,’ Fell rattled on, ‘I forgot about it, but someone must have reported the incident to the palace …’ He trailed off. ‘I make no
claim, sir. Who my father was is not important. I’m loyal to the City. I believe I’ve proved that.’

‘Yet you changed your name, concealing from the City that the child Arish became Fell Aron Lee.’

Hating himself, Fell said, ‘That was Shuskara’s idea.’ In his head he vowed to make up the disloyalty to Shuskara if it was in his power. ‘He believed he was protecting me.’

‘Son of an enemy of the City. Friend of a traitor to the City.’ Boaz mused. ‘You cannot choose your sire, soldier, but you can choose your friends. You chose unwisely.’

‘Shuskara’s treachery came many years after we parted.’

‘Do you have anything to prove you are Arish?’

Fell shook his head.

‘No birthmarks? No mementos of your dead mother?’

‘I don’t care about the past,’ Fell repeated.

Boaz considered. He was a dark-eyed, dark-complected cadaverous man, with deeply pox-marked skin and, Fell noticed, unusually long fingers, which were permanently clenched and twisted, as if by disease or torture. He was a legendary warrior, although he had not taken the field in thirty years.

‘Your reputation precedes you,’ the general said, after a long moment. ‘Where do you wish to be assigned now the Maritime is no more?’

Fell was stumped. He had not given the matter a moment’s thought, for he did not expect to survive.