The Cold Commands

CHAPTER 39

“Are you fucking serious?”

Jhiral came fully upright off the ornate sandalwood chair, glaring, as if launched by some catapult mechanism below. The whole silk-tented coracle tilted on the water with the sudden force of his movement. Around him, in the tinted light falling through the silks, people grabbed at tent-pole supports to stop themselves stumbling. The Chamber of Confidences’ floating inner sanctum was not made for violent motion.

Ringil stood like stone. He might have been in a marble-floored ballroom for all the notice he took of the swaying. He was not armed, but you wouldn’t have known it to look in his eyes.

“Do you see me laughing?” he asked quietly.

Archeth stepped forward. “My lord—”

“Shut up, Archeth!” The Emperor, not looking at her, stabbing a finger in her direction. “I’ve taken about all the advice I’m going to from you this year. You—northman—you really expect me to do this? A full and free pardon for your barbarian friend?”

“Yes, I do.”

“A pardon—after the murder of an imperial knight in his own bedchamber and the rape of his wife, the death of three City Guardsmen last night, an imperial man-at-arms just this morning, and now six others I’m told may never be sane again?”

Ringil shifted impatiently. “Yes.”

“Do you really think imperial justice can be bought and sold in this fashion?”

“I think imperial justice will take it up the arse from Your Radiance for a clutched fistful of small change.” Sharp, indrawn breaths from the courtiers in attendance. Ringil ignored them. “I think imperial justice is exactly what you say it is on any given day of the week, and I think the court and wider nobility will get in line behind that like the whipped dogs they are.”

Outraged propriety held the company rigid. Taran Alman, King’s Reach commander, fingered the pommel of his court sword. Noyal Rakan spotted the move and stiffened. The King’s man who’d brought Egar and Ringil in leaned to his commander’s ear and whispered urgently. Alman seemed to shake his head fractionally, disbelieving, but he relinquished the grip on his weapon and folded his arms. His stare stayed hard on Ringil.

Archeth put a weary hand across her eyes.

The silk-tented coracle’s rocking settled back toward stability.

Oddly, the first person in the room to recover seemed to be the Emperor. Jhiral inclined his head gravely, as if told some interesting piece of court intelligence. He lowered himself back into his chair. Fixed Archeth with a look.

“So,” he said, mock-genial. “This is still the man you intend to entrust with diplomatic relations on your quest to the north. Is that correct?”

Archeth grimaced and bowed her head. “Yes, my lord.”

Jhiral brooded on the figure in front of him. Black-cloaked, hollow-eyed, and not recently shaven, Ringil stood out in the colored silk surroundings like death in a harem.

“Somehow,” the Emperor said finally, “despite my lady Archeth’s confidence, I don’t imagine diplomacy as your principal skill.”

Ringil smiled thinly. “No, my lord.”

“But according to my inquiries, you’re a very useful hand at butchery. You rallied the Throne Eternal at Beksanara, you turned back the dwenda advance. My witnesses all seem very definite on that point.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And you say you can do the same here? Simply by murdering Pashla Menkarak?”

Ringil shook his head. “I can’t promise that killing the invigilator will drive the dwenda away. They are not a unified race; their incursions into our world seem to lack any overall campaign plan. And four thousand years in exile has rusted their facility in dealing with humans. They are uncertain, working from ancient memories, relearning what they need to know only as they encounter it. But this much I do know—they depend upon human allies at every turn. Destroy those allies, and you cripple whatever plans they may have.”

His Imperial Radiance sat back in the sandalwood chair, rested his chin on one fist, and stared at Ringil some more. “You do know that we’ve already sent several highly skilled assassins into the Citadel after Menkarak. Not one of them came back.”

“So I hear.” Ringil gestured, as if Egar stood beside him in the company. “And if evidence were needed to support the Dragonbane’s word, then I submit that this is it.”

“Yes, well. Be that as it may, the men we sent failed, and in the meantime Menkarak is still strutting around, making inflammatory speeches about the suffering faithful in Demlarashan.” Jhiral leaned forward again, intent. “Can you get this done for me, Eskiath?”

“For the right price, I can.”

“Which we’ve already been over, yes, thank you.” The Emperor’s lip curled. “I pay out a mercenary cutthroat by forgiving the murder of an imperial war hero at the hands of a steppe barbarian who can’t keep his dick in his breeches. Hardly the stuff of heroic legend, is it?”

Ringil shrugged. “I don’t doubt the palace has poets on staff who could embellish the tale to suit, my lord. If a more inspiring account is ever required, for more public consumption.”

More silence.

Then the Emperor laughed.

Coughed it out at first, startled, disbelieving. Sat back again, laughed longer, louder. Gave himself over to it while those around him exchanged wary, mystified glances. Ringil watched him, impassive. A stiff pause hung over the rest of the company, until, finally, Jhiral’s laughter slowed to a halt. He cleared his throat and shook his head, a man apparently bemused by what was before him.

“You know the real problem here? Hmm?” Jhiral looked around at the assembly, inviting guesses no one was inclined to venture. “I like this guy. That’s the problem. I can’t help it, Archeth, I like him. You chose well.”

He turned his attention back to Gil.

“I like you, Ringil Eskiath, Prophet take me up the arse if I don’t. You’re an arrogant little northern thug, you’re trading on not much more than old war stories, a belly for violence, and a few family connections.” Thin, grim slice of a smile on his lips now. “And from what I hear, your bedroom practices wouldn’t bear much scrutiny, either. But there it is—I like you. What am I to do?”

Ringil inclined his head gravely. Hid his own smile in the corner of his mouth. Jhiral looked around at the others again, humor fading out to something colder.

“Give me a hundred men like this one,” he said, slow-gathering weight on the words. “And we could crush Demlarashan overnight—just the way my father crushed Vanbyr. If ever I saw a tool suited to purpose, it stands before me now. Very well.” Nodding grimly. “Yes. I will meet these terms. Prophet knows it’s going to cost me the Ashant clan’s allegiance, but if it rids me of Menkarak, I’ll count that a minor inconvenience. Archeth, you will need to make arrangements for the Dragonbane’s discreet disappearance from the city.”

“Immediately, my lord.”

“No, not immediately.” The Emperor’s gaze settled speculatively on Ringil’s face. “The Dragonbane will remain a guest of the palace until such time as our new royal assassin here returns victorious. Payment upon completion of contract, I think we’d all agree, is the best way forward.”

They all agreed, in silence.

Ringil nodded. “And if I don’t make it back?”

“Well, that would be a shame. But if news of Pashla Menkarak’s demise reaches our ears and is confirmed by other sources, say within three days, then I will likewise judge our pact completed. Your terms will be honored, posthumously. You have my word.”

“Three days.”

“Yes. It’s a holy number among the horse tribes down here.” Jhiral smiled bleakly. “Appropriate, wouldn’t you say.”

“There’s a certain resonance.” Ringil examined the nails of his right hand. “And—just to be clear—if at the end of these three days, no news of myself or Menkarak’s demise is forthcoming?”

The Emperor lost his smile.

“Well, then matters will become very simple indeed. I’ll assume you to have failed as the others all did. And I will not, after all, need to forgo the good offices of clan Ashant.”

He leaned forward, eyes locked with Gil’s.

“Is that clear enough for you, my cutthroat northern friend?”

THEY PUT HIM BACK IN THE CELL WITH EGAR AFTER THAT.

He didn’t much mind. In Yhelteth, as in Trelayne, nobility sat in prisons a lot classier than those built for commoners, at least until their longer-term fate was decided. They had tower views of the estuary, albeit through solid bars, regular meals from the palace kitchen, albeit cold by the time they arrived, and well-made room fittings, albeit somewhat worn with use. The purges had seen a steady stream of high-born offenders and their families brought through since the accession, and the traffic was beginning to take its toll on the soft furnishings.

So the mattresses on the two narrow cots were rather lumpy, the plush on the desk chair was threadbare in places, and the once softly pristine desk leather was specked and stained with ink from myriad appeals, confessions, and lawyers’ instructions written out upon it.

“You’re sure you can trust them on this, Gil?”

“Yeah, I told you.” Ringil sat slumped in the chair, staring at the spills and stains as if at some obscure map of where he was going next. “He likes me.”

Egar grunted. “Neat trick. How’d you pull that off?”

“I don’t know.”

The Dragonbane shifted his back against the lumps in the mattress. Watched the bars of orange evening light retreating inch by inch across the ceiling over his head. He hauled himself to his feet, wincing at the stiff pain in his wounded leg, and limped to the window. If you leaned hard against the bars and peered left, you could just make out the rise of the Citadel, like a jagged canine tooth against the southside sky. He stared at it for a while.

“Can’t believe they’re not going to let me go with you.”

“I can’t believe you ever thought they would.”

“What?” Egar left the window and came and stood over him. “I found the fucking dwenda, didn’t I? Weren’t for me, no one in this city would be any the wiser, we’d all just be sitting on our hands and looking the wrong fucking way when Menkarak rolls out his angel horde.”

“If that’s what he plans to do.”

“Well—” The Dragonbane, momentarily taken aback. “What else would it be?”

“I don’t know.” Ringil heaved himself to his feet and squeezed past on his way to the other bed. His boot caught on a small child’s rag doll dropped at the desk by some previous occupant—sent it skidding across the cold stone floor. “The dwenda aren’t human, Eg. It probably doesn’t pay to reason as if they were. And whatever they want, they’re the ones using Menkarak, not the other way around.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Menkarak may think he’s assembling an angelic guard to storm the palace and take back the Empire for God and the Revelation.” Gil seated himself on the edge of the bed, stared at the discarded doll for a moment. He rolled his neck, trying to work out a crick. “Or whatever. But that doesn’t necessarily make it so.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I mean…” Egar gestured helplessly. “Is killing Menkarak going to do any good?”

Ringil looked up and flashed him a smile. “I have no idea.”

Egar stared at him. Went and sat opposite on the other bed, shoulders slumped. “I thought you’d know what to do.”

“I do know what to do.” Gil swiveled and swung his legs onto the bed, lay full-length, and studied the ceiling. “I’m going to get into the Citadel, open Menkarak’s throat, and get you pardoned. The rest of it, I’ll make up as I go along.”

“But the dwenda have to be protecting him.”

Gil yawned. “Judging by the dismal failure of Jhiral’s other assassins, yeah, I’d say so.”

“Then you can’t go in there alone!”

“Why not?” He turned his head on the pillow and looked across at the Dragonbane. “They fall down just like men, remember. I’ve killed dwenda before.”

“Not alone!”

“Eg, look.” Ringil sighed. Propped himself up on his elbows. “Be reasonable. Even if they would let you out of here, there’s a hole in your leg the size of a tent flap, the rest of you looks like it got chewed up and spat out by steppe ghouls. You’re in no condition to get in a fight with anyone right now.”

“I was managing pretty fucking well before you came along.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

“Nearly took two of those fuckers at the same time up at Afa’marag.”

“So you said.”

“Killed one with my bare hands at Ennishmin.”

“Eg!” He propped himself up farther, met the Dragonbane’s eyes. Held his gaze. “I’ll be fine. All right? Appreciate the sentiment, but I’ll be fine.”

They lay there, together, apart. The bars of warm orange light over their heads went on retreating, sliding away. The breeze coming in through the window turned cool.

“And if you don’t make it back?”

“Hoiran’s fucking balls, Eg! I’ll be fine! You just sit tight. Couple of days at worst. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He heard how the Dragonbane wrestled with what he wanted to say, could almost hear it caught in his throat. He sighed. Closed his eyes.

“What is it, Eg?”

He heard the long breath come out of the other man. “I’ve seen my death, Gil.” Ringil’s eyes snapped open. “You’ve seen what?”

“You heard me. The hand of the Dwellers is on me. Death is coming for me, I’ve seen it.”

“Oh, give me a fucking break!” Ringil gestured helplessly at the cell wall. “That’s… that’s a bunch of superstitious Majak horseshit. Seen your death. Take another fucking dragon to kill you, Dragonbane.”

Egar chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “That’d be nice.”

“Not as I recall.”

“I mean it, Gil. I saw my death. I stood on the Black Folk Span and watched it rumble past me. Ast’naha, carting my ale to Urann’s feast.”

Ringil said nothing.

“Thing is—that’s fine. Dying’s fine. Got to do it sooner or later, and I’ve lived longer than most Majak do. Seen more than I ever dreamed I would.” Egar sat up and faced him. “But I don’t want a shit death, Gil. I don’t want to go murdered by inches by these southern assholes, cabled into the chair in some dungeon, or strapped out for torturers and fucking squid. I got to die, I want to die with steel in my fist, with the sun and wind on my face.”

“You get killed going after Menkarak with me, it’ll be at night,” Ringil pointed out.

“You know what I fucking mean.”

“Yeah. And you’re not going to fucking die.” Ringil rolled to face him. “All right? I don’t know what you saw on the Span, but it means nothing. I’m going out to slit Menkarak’s throat and I’ll be right back. After that, we’re both getting out of this fucking city. Soon. All right?”

But the Dragonbane made no reply, and Ringil’s words sank into the gathering evening gloom like stones into dark water.

Over their heads, the last of the sunset’s rays slipped away.