The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (12 page)

“I believe he is concerned about the confiscation of merchant wares,” said Madam Lirayen, “though I appreciate your disinterest in persecuting us.”

Sarovy inclined his head to her.  Unlike the men, he could look at her for more than a moment without being dazzled by reflections.  Not to say that she was unlovely; for a woman of late middle age, she had weathered the years well, sweet-faced and with less paint and corsetry than the Guildsman or the Governor.  Her gown, a deep brown that matched her eyes and dyed hair, seemed almost aggressively plain against the men's attire, her only accessory a bronze marriage band on her ring-finger.

“We will not confiscate wares belonging to anyone other than the Shadow Cult,” said Sarovy.  “With that said, if we discover that someone is hiding cult property, or supplying or being supplied by them, we will do what is necessary to break that chain.  The Crimson Claw has no interest in disrupting your businesses, but if you aid our enemy, you become our enemy.”

“And if a civilian aids a...cultist?” said Madam Lirayen.

“Any who aid the cult are enemies of the Empire, Madam.  But if they do not fight, they will not be harmed.”

“Only incarcerated.”

“Yes.”

“And their kin?  And the kin of the supposed cultists?  How many Bahlaerans do you intend to lock away, captain?”

All of them, if necessary.
  But that was wishful thinking; he had neither the manpower nor the space for a mass incarceration, and no interest in taking control of the debtor's jail to expand his options.  “I do not intend to lock away anyone.  The choice to misbehave is in their hands, but I would rather they stay out of our business so that we can stay out of theirs.  As for the Shadow Cultists, we will not be incarcerating them.  We have other orders.”

“Executions?” said Guildsman Narreth.  “That is completely uncivilized.“

“They are the sworn enemies of the Imperial Light, and so the Light will scour them of their misdeeds.  Either by the axe or at the Palace.”

“But to persecute them simply because of their faith—“

“For the greater part of two years, we have restrained ourselves,” said Sarovy.  “But the situation has changed.  I warn you, here and now, to cut your ties with the Shadow Cult.  If you do so, we shall have no reason to target you.  It is in all of our interests to cooperate, so that your Dark-touched ways may transition to those of the Light in peace.”

“And if that is not possible?” said Madam Lirayen.

“Then I imagine we will all do as we must.”

Lips thinned, eyes narrowed.  Sarovy's skin prickled; he knew it was dangerous to make such threats, but if they pushed him, he would follow through.  Two hundred and thirteen men under his command, and he would take on the whole city with them.

“You're a fool, captain,” said the Lord Governor.  “You were a fool when first we met, and you seem determined to top that now.  But so be it; if that is the Crimson Claw's new policy, we will act accordingly.  I expect to see your papers as soon as they arrive.”

“Of course,” said Sarovy, setting his cup down and pushing to his feet.  Though this had been far more civil than usual, he had no desire to stay.  He had too much work ahead.

Drafting his own orders not the least of it.

“If you will excuse me then, sirs, madam.  I assume you will send for me as needed.”

“Indeed,” said the Lord Governor.

And just like that, the four councilors turned away to bicker amongst themselves.  The cold shoulder could not have been more obvious.  Only the militiamen and Houndmaster Chelaith still watched him, the latter with a smirk on his lips.

Sarovy took a moment to adjust his uniform coat, then tugged the winged star pendant to the fore.  Brushing it into place atop the coat, he stared at Chelaith and saw the illusion peel away, the man's mouth becoming a slice in white chitin, his eyes dark beads, his hair a crest of spikes.

As if sensing Sarovy's perception, Chelaith closed one eye in a slow, insolent wink.

Irritated, Sarovy let the vision fade, but left the pendant out.  He had no need to hide.

At his gesture, one of his bodyguards opened the door, and he strode out with Scryer Mako on his heels and the bodyguards stepping swiftly in his wake.  Beyond, the council house seemed almost palatial: Thundercloak marble floors, stained glass windows and chandeliers, imported rainbowwood furniture and copious amounts of gilt, all burnished by the morning glow.  Its luxury made his jaw clench.

Two militiamen lurked at the bottom of the main staircase, and Sarovy cast them an evaluating glance as he descended with his escorts.  They seemed uneasy, and from the way their eyes flicked from each other then up to him, he felt a sudden regret for not pulling on his chainmail this morning.

“Sir, uh, captain sir?” said one of them as he set foot on the main floor.

He paused, and immediately his lancer-bodyguards bracketed him, Scryer Mako at his back.  “Yes?” he said, considering their faces.  There was something familiar...

“Uh, I'm Ven Rynher,” said the first, “and this is Jouni Beltras.  You...  We were down in the tunnels with you lot when you fought those metal things, sir.  You dragged us into the room.  I dunno if you remember...”

Staring at their anxious, earth-dark faces, Sarovy saw again the metal plate dropping to seal off the exit, saw the copper and iron statues come to life.  Saw the gore that shellacked the hallway when they finally raised the barrier again.

Two militiamen out of the nearly twenty that had followed him down.

“I remember,” he said tightly.

“We just...  That is, we saw you lot were back in town but there wasn't time before now to come and, y'know...”  He trailed off awkwardly, then stuck his hand out.  “We just wanted to say thank you, sir.”

'Caution,'
came Scryer Mako's thought-whisper, but he already knew what this was.  Beltras hovered at his comrade's shoulder, hands hidden, and Rynher himself had half-turned when he offered his hand, his left concealed behind his back.  Even the offering—a shake instead of a soldier's fist-bump—spelled deception.  Rynher meant to clasp his right arm and hold him while one or both of them stabbed.

With two lancers beside him and a mage at his back.  It was suicide.

He had a better idea, and offered his fist.

For a moment, Rynher just stared at it as if unable to comprehend a change of plan.  Then his fingers curled, and he reached to knock knuckles, something in his eyes so hollow that it pained Sarovy not to kill him and end the suffering that had apparently brought him here.

Beltras made a dismayed sound and stepped forward, blade slipping past Rynher's side to come at Sarovy's chest.  Sarovy back-fisted him across the jaw before he could get close, and the man staggered and nearly fell on the polished floor.

“What the—“ said Lancer Garrenson, but Lancer Serinel—the sharper of the bodyguards—was already in motion, breezing past Sarovy's shoulder to slam Beltras off his feet.  The militiaman went down and Serinel dropped on top of him, one plated knee flattening his knife-hand to the floor while the other hit his solar plexus and both hands clamped on his neck.

A moment later, Lancer Garrenson tackled the still-staring Rynher, evidently not wanting to be left out.

Sarovy watched them long enough to determine that Serinel was not actively strangling Beltras—just threatening in a low tone—and that Garrenson had stopped punching Rynher when the militiaman dropped his own knife.  Then he looked up the stairs to where the Bahlaeran councilors stood aghast.

“Sirs, madam, I apologize,” he told them, “but it seems I have an incident report to write.  If you will excuse us.”

On cue, both lancers hauled both militiamen to their feet, and Sarovy turned to lead them onward.  No objections followed.

'Well, that was interesting,'
murmured Scryer Mako in his mind as servants dragged the main doors open.

“You could have halted them,” said Sarovy aloud.

'Yes, but you ignored my warning.  Therefore you deserved it.'

Emerging into the light, Sarovy exhaled heavily.  If this was what he had to look forward to, he almost wished he had let the guards stab him.

*****

“Giving you 'a look' is not a fight-worthy offense,” said Linciard.  “Nothing is a fight-worthy offense.”

“My honor—“

“
Your honor is not a fight-worthy offense!
”

Lancer Stormfollower glared at him.  Short for a Jernizen, he nevertheless bore all the hallmarks of that proud people: the fair hair, the tawny-leather skin, the bullheaded domineering arrogance.  If they hadn't been the best horsemen in the company, Linciard would gladly have pitched all the Jernizen off a cliff, Stormfollower first.

“My honor is all I have,” Stormfollower said darkly.

“Hog-crap.”  Linciard slapped the pile of incident reports on his desk, where he stood because he couldn't be angry and sit still at the same time.  “You still have all your teeth, though Light knows why.  You still have most of the skin on your back, though not for long!  You still have your piking fingers!  Do you want to lose some of those?”

The Jernizen ringleader's eyes narrowed, as did those of the three men behind him.  Linciard switched tactics.  “Your fight is not with your fellow Blazes.  Lieutenant Arlin will investigate the supposed provocation—“

“Feh.”

“—and handle the Drixi, but it's your responsibility to handle yourself.  If you can't, then it's Corporal Vyslin's job.  If he can't, then it's mine.”

One of the Jernizen at the wall murmured something disparaging to his neighbor, and they both sneered.  Linciard lost his cool.

“Setter!” he snapped.  “Tycaid!  You have given your allegiance to the Empire, and we do not tolerate infighting!  I don't know how they do it in Jernizan, but I don't have to flog you; I can just send for the Scryer and she'll twist your minds into nice obedient knots.  Believe me, you don't want her in there.”

They fell silent at that, and Stormfollower flushed red, not from anger but from—

Ugh
, though Linciard.

“Corporal Vyslin,” he said slowly, looking to the dark-haired man who stood a few paces from the lancers, “this altercation took place where?”

“Outside the Velvet Sheath,” said the corporal, plainly amused.

Linciard rubbed his temples with his fingers.  “So when you say your honor, Stormfollower, you mean the Drixi insulted you in front of the Velvet Sheath women?”

“They said—“

“I don't want the details, lancer.  Was it in front of the women or not?”

Stormfollower fidgeted, arrogance punctured.  He was young, Linciard reminded himself.  Barely past his majority.  “Yeah.  The place was closing up.  They don't allow morning visits.  The Drixi were coming out, and they said—“

“I don't care.  Why were you there?”

“There's this one girl, Dhalyar—she's southern—she asked me to come back after the first courting, right, but we had the dawn shift so we were just gonna swing by—“

“During patrol time.”

“It was on the ride-out.  I was just gonna say hoi, y'know, holler up at her window...”

“Because you're...courting.”  Linciard scanned the other Jernizen.  “I suppose you all think you have girlfriends now.”

One of them, Janison Setter, flushed.  The other two looked awkward.  Off to the side, Corporal Vyslin was twitching with the effort not to laugh.  Cautiously, Linciard continued, “So...do you not know what a prostitute is?”

Stormfollower leaned forward, suddenly intense.  “The corporal says they're loose women.  Y'know, unattached.  We don't have any unattached women in Jernizan.  Soon as a girl hits marriageable age, one of the lords buys her up and no one else can touch her.  Sir, we came here and signed on with your Empire because you've got women all over the place, running free.  And so now, since we've got some money, we're gonna use it.”

“You paid them, then.”

“Of course.  Dowries are essential.”

Corporal Vyslin made a choking sound and covered his mouth.

In any other place, Linciard would have laughed too, but these were his men now and all he felt was aggravation.  “All right, I see the problem,” he said, “and we're going to have a long talk, but not at this moment.  The four of you are still getting a whipping, do you understand?  That's what you get when you fight.  And you are not betrothed.  We're gonna get your...dowries back, minus whatever costs you incurred, and then you're gonna have to demonstrate to me that you understand eastern ways before I let you visit them again.”

Sneering, Lancer Tycaid said, “Eastern ways, like men fucking each—“

“Don't make me call the Scryer.  Now get out.”

The lancers saluted desultorily and slunk off.  Linciard waited five heartbeats after the door clicked shut, then looked to Vyslin, who was braced against the wall and shaking like a leaf.

“They don't know about prostitutes?” he said wearily.

Corporal Vyslin burst into guffaws, barely able to hold himself upright.  A few times, he tried to speak through them, but never managed more than a word before the snickers took hold, doubling him over and eventually forcing him to the ground.