When the Heavens Fall (14 page)

“I've heard enough,” Rosel said.

Janir rounded on her. “I'm not finished! So what if the boy seems himself
now
? How do we
know
his mind is his own? Maybe the spirits have been waiting for a moment such as this to take control.”

“You have a suggestion, Domen?” the chancellor asked.

“Perhaps a steward should assume command until we can be sure of the boy's reason.”

“And you are volunteering yourself, I take it?”

“Who else has a better claim?”

“And how long,” the queen said, “before you are satisfied the risk has passed? Five years? Ten? You're a fool if you expect us to believe you would ever relinquish power.”

“You question my honor? Isanovir, hear me. The boy is untried.”

The chancellor spoke. “And is there not experience enough in this room to guide him, Domen?”

Ebon's eyebrows lifted. He had not expected support from that particular quarter, but the chancellor's motives would be colored, as ever, by self-interest. Not that Ebon needed Tamarin's backing. The kingship was his right, his burden, and no one was going to take it from him. “I am tired of people talking about me as if I were not here,” he said, meeting Janir's gaze. “Tell me, Uncle, you have heard the news about Consel Garat Hallon's visit?”

Janir was stunned silent for a few heartbeats. “He's coming here? The snake would deliver himself into my hands?”

“He comes to talk.”

“And you would treat with him? Then you are more of a fool than he is. He comes to start a war!”

“And if you are wrong?” Ebon looked about him. “What if we are all wrong? What if the consel comes to petition for peace?” He swung back to Janir. “Would you refuse him? I was there when Irrella died, remember. You swore—”

“I know what I said!”

“Then explain to us, Uncle, how the consel is to speak with his head on the end of your spear. If Garat Hallon wants peace, can you put aside your enmity and parley with him?”

A slow smile crept over Janir's face. “Save your pretty words for that wench of yours.” He looked round. “Let the King's Council select Isanovir's successor.”

“The Council has no standing on matters—”

“Then perhaps it is time that it
did
!”

Ebon eyed him skeptically. Not even his uncle was deluded enough to believe he would command the support of the domens, but there was more at stake here than who had the larger following. A king did not rule by council. “Enough. Centuries of convention cannot be disregarded simply because it serves your—”

“Nor sheltered behind because it serves
yours
!”

“Interrupt me again, and I will have you put in irons.”

Janir gave a strangled choke. “You threaten
me
!”

“I am your king,” Ebon said. “Whether you approve or not means nothing to me. Now, I am done talking with you. I want your oath. Here, before these witnesses. Kneel and swear allegiance.”

His uncle barked a laugh, then spun round and took a step toward the door.

“Mottle,” Ebon said. “If you please.”

The door slammed shut.

Janir stumbled to a halt, before turning to face Ebon again, his hands clenched into fists.

Transferring the Serrate Crown to his left hand, Ebon drew his saber in his right. “What is to be, Uncle? I trust I do not have to spell out the options for you. Choose, or I will choose for you.”

“You wouldn't dare—”

“Choose!”

His uncle's chest was heaving, and his shirt showed sweat patches beneath his arms. Again, he looked round the chamber for support, his expression darkening all the while.

Ebon's gaze flickered to his father. In all likelihood Isanovir had arranged this gathering of key players not just to discuss Garat Hallon, but also to firm up support for Ebon's claim to the throne. And while Janir had unquestionably complicated matters with his unscheduled appearance, in this company his uncle remained isolated from those who might have backed him. Isolated, and now trapped. Janir knew it too. His frustration showed in his look, and for a heartbeat his right hand strayed to the hilt of his sword.
Do it,
Ebon silently urged him. At least then this would be finished now. For even if Janir
did
pledge his support here, his backing would last only as long as it took him to return to Linnar.

Instead, Janir gave a wordless growl and dropped to one knee. He would not look at Ebon, but he spoke his oath clearly enough to carry to those present.

From the corner of his eye, Ebon saw movement. Glancing across, he watched Mottle kneel as well, a hint of a smile on the old man's face. After a pause, Rendale, General Reynes, Rosel, and finally the chancellor followed suit.

Isanovir remained seated in his chair, staring at the fire.

With a grunt, Janir pushed himself to his feet and stalked from the room.

*   *   *

From the shadows of an alley, Luker kept watch on the gates to the Imperial Stables. His mood was as black as the storm clouds overhead. After leaving Jenna he had returned to the Sacrosanct to find his old room filled with dust and memories that were better left undisturbed. Sitting on the floor, he'd closed his eyes and spirit-walked in an attempt to locate Kanon, but the distance to Arandas was too great, as he had known it would be. Hadn't stopped him trying, though, had it? What had he expected to find, Kanon sitting next to a Shroud-cursed bonfire, just waiting to guide him in? Instead, Luker had stumbled across some alien presence abroad in the dark emptiness, and he'd been forced to flee back to his body. The experience had left him on edge, and he'd paced the Sacrosanct's cold corridors until the tenth bell roused him.

Where the hell are you, Kanon?

There was a creak as a window opened behind him, then a splash as something was emptied onto the cobbles. Ahead a cart rumbled by, a pack of skeletal dogs trailing in its wake. Luker rubbed his gritty eyes. To his right the North Gate and the battlements of the city walls were just visible through the curtain of rain. A handful of figures huddled in the shadows of the gatehouse. Luker wondered if Gill had assigned any Guardians to watch the exits from the city, and whether they would be foolish enough to stand in his way if he tried to leave.
Wish I could.
First, though, he needed to find out what this Merin Gray knew about Kanon.

There was no sign of Jenna yet, but that didn't mean she wasn't here—he would only see her if she wanted to be seen. No one had entered or left the stables in the time he'd been watching. Two Bratbaks carrying spears stood by the gates, their hooded heads bowed. One of the figures carried a lantern that the other was using to light a blackweed stick.

This meeting with Merin was supposed to have started at the tenth bell, but it was closer to the eleventh now. Late enough, he reckoned.

Let's get this over with.

Striding from the alley, he approached the soldiers. The smoker saw him first. He tossed his blackweed stick on the ground and nudged his companion. They came to attention, crossing their spears to block Luker's path. The smoker was the shorter of the two, the top half of his face all but hidden by a mop of hair. The other soldier—a Kerinec tribeswoman wearing the same patchwork cloak as Jenna's minder, Gol—wore a battered helmet that was missing its feathered crest.

Luker halted in front of them. “I'm here to see Merin Gray.”

The woman's eyes narrowed. “Guardian, yes? You're late.”

“And you're in my way.”

The Kerinec muttered something, then gestured over her shoulder. “Tyrin's waiting for you in the main building.”

The Bratbaks raised their spears to let Luker pass, and he walked between them. The smoker was already crouching to search for the discarded blackweed stick.

Gravel crunched beneath Luker's boots as he followed the path to the stables. He came to a semicircular forecourt, in the center of which was a statue of a rearing horse. Beyond was a squat, black-stoned structure. The only light came from the main door, which stood ajar. The Guardian ignored it and walked round the side of the building. He entered a yard with stalls on three sides that stank of manure and wet straw. A balding, one-armed man stood beside one of the stable doors, bathed in the light of a lantern that hung from the eaves. He was feeding a horse from his hand. The animal must have been eighteen hands tall, and its coat was the color of bone.

“Impressive,” Luker said. “A palimar, right?”

One-Arm inclined his head. “You're the first who's ever known her.”

“Seen herds of them on the steppes north of the White Mountains. Never been this close to one, though.”

“You wouldn't be standing here if you had.” He showed Luker the remains of the bloody carcass he was feeding to the horse. “They're specially fond of human flesh.”

“Best watch your hand, then. She might confuse it for her next meal.”

One-Arm gave no response.

“You the stableman?”

“Yeah. And you're with Merin Gray.”

Luker blinked. “Word gets round quickly.”

“I was told to expect visitors. He's inside.”

“Let him wait.”

One-Arm spat on the ground. “The tyrin won't like that. Keen on his discipline, is Merin Gray.”

“You know him?”

“Served under him at Helin, fifth Kalanese campaign. Many years ago now, before I lost the arm. Tyrin's a hard man, but fair. Popular with the lads. Has a knack of keeping them that's serving under him alive. Don't like to lose.”

One thing, at least, we've got in common.
“I'll remember that.”

One-Arm tossed the remains of the carcass to the palimar and crouched to wash his hand in a bucket of water. “You looking for a ride?”

“Aye.”

“Seen anything you like?”

“Was hoping you might be able to help me there.”

“What do you want? Speed or stamina?”

“Both.”

The stableman chuckled. “Figures.”

“And a good temperament too.”
The thing will need it to get along with me.

“I'll see what I can do. You got your own tack?”

Luker spread his hands. “I am as you see me.”

“I'll get you kitted out.”

“Appreciate it.” The Guardian made to leave, then remembered Jenna. “Oh, and I've got a friend coming along for the ride. Think you can sort her out too?”

One-Arm straightened. “Merin Gray didn't mention nothing to me.”

“That's because he doesn't know yet.”

The stableman chuckled again. “I can see you two are gonna get on real well.”

“We'll get on fine as long as he does what he's told.”

One-Arm grinned.

Luker retraced his steps to the front of the building and passed through the main doorway. In the entrance hall a uniformed clerk sat hunched over a desk writing in a leather-bound book. Without looking up, he jabbed his quill pen toward a door across from him. Luker heard voices on the other side and entered without knocking. The conversation died away. He found himself in an office. Light came from lanterns set on stands in each corner, and an assortment of battered armchairs surrounded a desk across which a map had been rolled out.

A young man was curled up in one of the armchairs, a wooden staff resting on his lap. He wore black robes, and his chin was covered by a wispy beard.

An older man—in his early fifties, perhaps—sat on the edge of the desk. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbows. His face and forearms were tanned leather, and his short-cropped hair was the color of steel. The top of his left ear was missing. He held Luker's gaze for a moment, then stepped across to shake hands. His grip was iron. “Luker Essendar, I presume. I'm Merin Gray.” He gestured to the seated figure. “This is Don Chamery Pelk of the Black Tower. Good of you to join us.”

Luker couldn't decide whether that was meant as a rebuke for his tardiness. “I thought so,” he said, sitting down in the chair closest to the door.

Merin exchanged a glance with Chamery. “We were discussing the siege at Cenan,” he said to Luker. “It seems Chamery and I have met before, though I confess I have no memory of it.”

The Guardian stared at the mage. Cenan was ten years ago, yet the boy looked barely old enough for the beard he was sporting.

Chamery must have guessed his thoughts for he said, “I was only an apprentice at the time.” His voice was a soft lisp. “My master was called Laon Kaltin. Perhaps you've heard of him.”

“Can't say I have.”

“Well, you should have,” the mage snapped. “He was one of the Conclave killed by the Guardians on the night of the Betrayal.”

“That supposed to narrow it down for me?”

Merin cleared his throat. “You were at Cenan too, I hear,” he said to Luker.

Someone's done their homework.
“Not the siege itself. I drew the short straw and ended up hunting down the sacristens who fled the city when it fell.”

“And you found them?”

“Aye, at a watering hole to the north. Three days it would've taken them to reach the oasis. Bastards came stumbling out of the desert like younglings to the slaughter. Must've thought they'd made it to safety. Instead they found me there waiting for them.”

Merin looked out a window, arms behind his back. “I remember the place. I was a day behind the sacristens, with a troop thrown together from what remained of the Second. When we got there we found nothing but bones, picked clean.”

“You tracked them across the Waste? How?”

“We had an air-mage with us. One of the emperor's Circle. Tough woman—one of the few to survive. Even with her, though, we struggled to follow their trail.” He looked at Luker again. “And yet somehow you knew exactly where they'd be.” The tyrin made it sound like an accusation.