The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (27 page)

‘The three lords,’ he replied ambiguously. ‘One Gold, one Red, one Purple... though I’m pretty sure Cardinal Mobius is not currently in residence. That leaves the knight general of the Red, and the Gold cardinal.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘I think the general is called Malaki Frith. I have no idea who the chief Gold cleric is.’

Rham Jas shuffled his position and sat up on his bedroll. The sun was now just a sliver on the horizon and their campfire’s light was taking full effect as the two men sat in a well-hidden forest clearing. Glenwood thought that they’d sight the city the following morning, and he’d already begun forming plans to get them secretly into Ro Arnon and to find a Purple cleric to whom he could betray Rham Jas. Obviously, he’d only confided the first part of his plan to his companion, but he hoped to be well on his way to a sizeable reward by midday.

‘The Gold cardinal is called Animustus of Voy,’ murmured Rham Jas, not quite getting the pronunciation right. His accent wasn’t as strong now that he was not deliberately trying to be misunderstood, but Glenwood was again reminded of how much he’d come to hate the obtuse little bastard.

‘Ah, yes,’ replied the forger, vaguely remembering the name. ‘He ascended after his acquisition work in Ro Canarn as I recall.’

‘He plundered all of Lord Bromvy’s vaults and stole Duke Hector’s family wealth,’ reinterpreted the assassin. ‘The Gold gain status from theft, it would seem.’

Glenwood snorted. ‘Which is so much worse than gaining it through killing people?’ he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Rham Jas glared quizzically at his sarcastic companion. ‘You know, Kale, I liked you better when you were terrified of me.’

‘Those days are gone, my dear Rham Jas,’ he responded casually. ‘You need me, apparently... and, if you plan to sneak into Arnon, you
really
need me.’

Rham Jas sat forward and half-smiled. ‘Look me in the eye, Kale,’ he said quietly. ‘Look me in the eye and tell me that you’re not still afraid of me.’

Glenwood tried to maintain his casual demeanour as he, too, leant forward, trying to match Rham Jas for arrogance. He managed it for a moment, before the eyes of the Kirin assassin started to erode his confidence. Rham Jas Rami was not a large man and his style of dress could best be described as common or even shoddy, but something about his movements – the slight, measured twitch of his hands and the way his eyes never seemed to move – made Glenwood involuntarily turn away. ‘Okay, I’m still afraid of you,’ the forger reluctantly conceded.

‘Excellent,’ replied Rham Jas, with a wide grin. ‘All is right with the world again.’

‘Fuck you, Rham Jas,’ spat the man of Leith. ‘I’m going to sleep. Wake me up when you’re less of an arsehole.’

‘You’ll be an old man, Kale,’ replied Rham Jas, with a boyish chuckle.

* * *

The City of Black Spires was well named. Glenwood had not been there for years, but the sight of the various church towers looming over the landscape was every bit as awe-inspiring as he remembered.

All three of the largest cathedrals in Tor Funweir could be found in Ro Arnon: the Stone Cloisters of the Purple, the tallest by far, and surmounted with an ugly-looking black sceptre; the Red High Command, more a barracks than a church, which nevertheless displayed a single high spire bearing a stylized clenched fist at its summit; and Merrin’s Cathedral, otherwise known as the Gold Bank, a jewelled spectacle of grandeur, easily identifiable by the massive diamond that shone over the skyline. It was not an easy city in which to be a criminal and, as a result, Glenwood had always avoided it. Slightly more than half of Arnon was given over to the One God in his various forms and, though it was smaller than both Weir and Tiris, it dominated the eastern landscape.

They had risen early and within a few hours had crested a hill and seen their destination. The roads were now full of travellers, churchmen and common folk, and Rham Jas had insisted that they stick to the woods as long as the cover lasted. The last few miles would have to be spent in the open, but Glenwood agreed that the assassin’s caution was necessary. Stories of the treatment suffered by the godless Kirin were common, and there was a time when they had been hung from high posts outside the city. The Purple clerics were more bigoted and violent when they were within sight of Ro Arnon, making it well-nigh impossible for Kirin to live in the duchy.

Rham Jas had made no effort to hide his appearance short of keeping his hood up. His weaponry was distinctive, too. The longbow and the katana were rarely used in Tor Funweir and would attract unnecessary attention from men used to seeing longswords and crossbows. ‘Can’t you stow your weapons? They’ll get you killed more surely than your swarthy face,’ murmured Glenwood, as they turned from the tree line and made to join the travellers moving towards the purple gate of Ro Arnon.

Rham Jas glanced at the longbow across his back and the katana at his side. Then he frowned and removed his bow. ‘I’ll have to find another one somewhere,’ he grumbled, throwing it into the trees. The katana remained at his side, but he pulled his travelling cloak over the scabbard and did a decent job of hiding the distinctive weapon.

‘How long have you had that bow?’ asked Glenwood, surprised that the assassin would so casually discard his weapon.

‘A few months maybe. My other one got burned in Canarn. Longbows aren’t really designed to fire Dokkalfar black wart.’ Rham Jas showed no particular attachment to his bow and marched away from the trees without glancing back.

‘And the sword?’ continued Glenwood, fairly certain that the Kirin had always had the same katana.

‘My wife,’ said Rham Jas simply. ‘And that’s the most bonding we’re going to do today.’

The man of Leith shook his head and walked after his companion towards Arnon. The Kirin looked less distinctive without his bow, and Glenwood thought they might even get into the city without being arrested, or killed.

An array of Red and Purple churchmen travelled the road, strolling or sitting astride horses, discussing whatever it is that clerics discuss. The watchmen of Arnon, much more formally dressed than those of Ro Tiris, stood on guard with tabards displaying the Grey Roc of Arnon worn proudly over well-made chain mail. There were merchants and common folk, but most of the inhabitants were well dressed. Arnon was not a city for the destitute, and most of those who lived there either owned businesses that catered to the church or were from the lesser noble families allied to the Purple or Gold.

Ro Arnon was the seat of the One God and sat, as a monument to the Stone Giants, across a wide and free-flowing river. The city was built on a natural rocky arch that formed part of the foothills of the Claws, so that Ro Arnon looked as if it had always been a part of the landscape. The three church spires had come into view long before the purple gate or the colossus of Arnon – the huge statue of a Red knight, standing with his sword drawn, under which travellers had to pass in order to enter the city.

Glenwood had always thought the gate security of the church city was lax, considering the wealth and power within. He knew, however, that the resident clerics were enough of a deterrent for most criminals. ‘So, we just walk in?’ asked Rham Jas with a grin. ‘I like it... more Ro cities could do with being so relaxed.’

‘It’s hardly relaxed. They’re just confident enough to think that a Kirin assassin would be an idiot to try and kill someone in their city,’ replied Glenwood, keeping his back straight and trying to appear as noble as he could.

‘Then they clearly underestimate the towering heights of my idiocy,’ replied the Kirin, with a beaming grin that made Glenwood want to kick him in the crotch.

They joined a line of travellers that was sufficiently closely packed for them not to stand out amongst the citizens of the duchy. Rham Jas kept his head down and returned to his role as Glenwood’s bound man – a role he played disturbingly well. The forger was not sure what he would do once they were in the city, or whether his friend Mirabel was even still in residence. She was their only real avenue of enquiry into the whereabouts of Lillian the Lady of Death, so he hoped her brothel still catered for the occasional wayward cleric.

Glenwood found himself walking next to a fat Gold cleric, carried on a jewelled litter by four bound men and grunting insults at anyone he thought less important than himself. His main gripe was the state of the road and the rubbish and dust that covered the cobblestones. It was much cleaner than Ro Tiris, but he was obviously happiest when complaining.

Glenwood noticed Rham Jas shoot an annoyed glance at the Gold cleric, before the Kirin subtly tripped up one of the bound men, sending all four servants and their passenger down on to the street. The cleric roared indignantly as he ended up in a bulbous lump of gold and jewels, spreadeagled on top of his servants.

Glenwood, and several dozen others, laughed out loud at the spectacle. Even a few Purple clerics stifled a guilty chuckle. Rham Jas disappeared into the crowd, and the forger was again impressed at his companion’s stealth. The first indication that he was still there was when he appeared on the far side of the colossus of Arnon, casually leaning against one of the statue’s feet. Despite his deep loathing for him, the man of Leith smiled and, once again, found common ground with Rham Jas Rami.

‘Fuck you, Rham Jas,’ said the forger with a smile.

The Kirin assassin returned the expression and bowed theatrically, as watchmen stifling their laughter ran to assist the furious Gold cleric. The two of them walked away from the colossus, leaving behind them an unusually jovial scene as they entered the City of Black Spires.

‘Where to?’ asked Rham Jas, strolling towards the first circle of the church city.

Glenwood took a quick look around to get his bearings. Ro Arnon was arranged in five circles, indicating closeness to the One God, with the Purple cathedral at the centre and the Arnon pits around the outside. The name did not describe any particular poverty or lower class of citizenry, merely that this area was not devoted to the worship of the Stone Giant – and that, if a man required illicit pleasures, that was where they could be found.

‘Last time I was here,’ said the sardonic man of Leith, suddenly feeling the need for a drink or two, ‘there was a lovely little fuck shop called the Feather Bed, run by a dear old bird called Mirabel. If she’s still here, she’s our best bet for information. You know – how we’d go about finding a Karesian enchantress and getting ourselves killed.’

‘Don’t you trust me yet, Kale?’ replied Rham Jas, grinning under his black hood.

‘I wasn’t aware that trust was required.’ Glenwood pointed to a road that led into a natural depression in the ground. ‘That’s the way,’ he said, motioning for the Kirin to follow. ‘They keep the dirty stuff in the pits... clerics don’t like to admit that they need to drink and whore like the rest of us.’

‘Your god favours hypocrisy over pent-up churchmen,’ said the Kirin, again showing his disdain for the people of Ro and their god.

‘My god?’ snapped Glenwood. ‘Do I look like I’m kneeling before any altar?’

‘No, but it’s in your blood... you know, being an arrogant warmonger,’ said the obtuse assassin, chuckling slightly to maintain the light-hearted mood between them.

‘Well, if you give me some of what’s in your blood, I’ll gladly swap the One for an ability to dodge swords.’ Glenwood was only joking, but something in what he said made the assassin become suddenly guarded.

‘Leave my blood out of it, you don’t want it... trust me on that,’ Rham Jas said in a whisper.

Glenwood puffed out his cheeks and stopped talking. There were moments when he thought the assassin had not just been put here to make his life difficult. Those moments were generally fleeting and, once they’d gone, Glenwood usually thought about surrendering his companion to a Purple cleric.

‘The Lady of Death will likely be close to one of the lords, yes?’ asked Rham Jas, with no more humour in his voice.

At least he wasn’t grinning. ‘Knight General Malaki Frith or Animustus Voy. Probably the two most protected men in the city. Some would say that killing them is impossible,’ replied the forger, scratching his neck and trying to remember the way to the Feather Bed.

Rham Jas snorted. ‘If they catch me, they kill me... and you can go back to Tiris and be a mobster. Let me handle the killing, you handle the information.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Glenwood replied with a sarcastic salute. ‘As long as you don’t mind me waiting in the brothel with a cold drink and a warm woman while you go and do your killing.’

‘But how will I keep an eye on you if you’re not with me?’ The grin returned and Glenwood fought the urge to shout
rape
, or something equally alarming.

‘Fuck you, Rham Jas.’ He didn’t care that it wasn’t a witty or clever response; he just wanted a moment’s peace from the insufferable Kirin. ‘Let’s just get this done so we can move on to... actually, where are we going next?’

‘Leith. Your home city,’ replied the assassin. ‘There’s a lovely young enchantress there called Isabel the Seductress. She needs a good bit of killing.’

‘There are seven of them, right?’ asked Glenwood, as they dropped below street level and entered the less austere part of Ro Arnon. Still, even the taverns and bars had a lick of polish that made them look opulent compared with their counterparts in Tiris and Weir.

‘There are five left,’ replied Rham Jas. ‘I need to kill the others before they kill me or the whole world is fucked – something like that.’

The words were not spoken as a joke and Glenwood frowned. ‘Do you ever make sense?’ he asked, as the sun disappeared over the walls of Arnon and they entered the shadowy pits.

The Kirin bowed his head and adjusted his hood the better to conceal his swarthy features. ‘I make sense if you are me... probably not if you are you.’

Glenwood didn’t even bother to reply. He noticed a familiar landmark and took a sharp left into a particularly dark section of the pits. The structure of Arnon meant that a good portion of the outer circle was significantly lower than the purple gate and, as a result, saw much less sun than the rest of the church city. Darkness tended to imply the illicit and, even in Ro Arnon, a man looking for debauchery was well catered for. Nevertheless, street crime was minimal and the watchmen that patrolled the area enforced the law of the One with brutality – all of which made the pits the nicest shit-hole Glenwood had ever visited.