Swords of the Imperium (Dark Fantasy Novel) (The Polaris Chronicles Book 2) (18 page)

“Though I might share your opinion, you should keep any mention of that to yourself,” Lotte said. “We’ve made it this far, and we’re not about to get strung up for treason or blasphemy.” She grasped Taki’s arm and yanked him up. “And you, stop sulking. Go get your reward and buy us some fried treats. If we’re in Sevastopol, we’re going to try all the terrible food.”

Sir Ringo Trevelyan lazily yawned and flicked the pommel of his dagger. It spun haltingly on its crossguard atop the oaken table. He had not touched the salted bread and greasy brisket or the spiced ale in front of him, though the smell of rendered fat and alcohol was sheer ambrosia. Partaking of the meal would render him beholden to the one who offered it, and that was simply unacceptable. He gazed disdainfully at his peers. Sir Janus Eicke had already helped himself to a copious amount of beer like the besotted Teuton he was and was practically eating from—Ringo shuddered—
that woman’s
hand.

It was one thing for the primate to summon them to gather but another entirely to expect them to serve a commoner, a foreigner, and especially a wench. And especially Hecaton Kheiris Mezeta. In addition to being a common, foreign wench, she was also the sworn enemy of every chivalric order in the Serene Kingdom. Had the others forgotten that basic fact?

In a show of the extreme cruelty of fate, what the horrid woman proposed was actually the solution to all of Ringo’s problems. Like the others, he had deserted his order to seek fortune amid the excitement of the divine city’s court, but he only found poverty outside the cloistered world of the barracks. Parasitic courtiers and amoral courtesans were always scheming to swindle him, and it was not long before he had fallen into destitution. He could not return and beg forgiveness from the master. The fate of those who did involved a lot of screaming and roasting flesh. With horror, Ringo realized that the memories of burning human fat were making him salivate. He could take no more. Hunger was driving him to insanity. What Hecaton was saying seemed to make sense. He only needed to listen to her and he’d be rich, not to mention satiated.

“Unacceptable!” he screamed, and slammed the point of his dagger into the table top with a resounding thunk.

“Oy, Ringo, what happened? You catch a bug?” Hecaton said, followed by laughter from the others.

Ringo rose from his chair and tipped it over. “Shut your mouth, witch, or I’ll put it to better use.”

“My friend, that is no way to address a
patrón
,” said Sir Juan Diaz de Villavilla. He extended a hand.

“Quiet, Espinard, and if you lay a hand on me, by Jove, I’ll gut you.” Ringo focused a wrathful gaze on the assembled. “Lest you all forget, we are right honorable chevaliers. We’re not slaves of the primate, and we don’t serve some Dominion hag just because His Holiness has a hair up his arse! Stay and be her puppets if you wish. I’m leaving.”

Hecaton laughed and glanced at his plate. “You want yours to go?”

Ringo gritted his teeth and wrenched the dagger out of the table. His gut ulcers throbbed painfully. “Fuck off.”

“Guess I’ll feed it to the dogs, then,” Hecaton shrugged. “A pity. I heard you haven’t had a decent meal for months. I bet it came as a shock that, despite your skills as a cartographer, there was no employment in Astarte. Was it hard on your manly pride to subsist on charity and the occasional bout of hired thuggery? Looks like that’s your future now. I’ll find someone else to take the God Hand and someone else to share in the rewards. Now, who wants seconds?”

Ringo wished more than anything that he had the strength and the pride to march out the door and return to his hovel outside the castle walls. Later, he’d have to bribe the guard to return to the court, where he would scrape and grovel before sneering dandies and lower himself to beating shopkeeps for protection money. This would be his life until he perished, and that time was coming soon.

He smashed a fist into the wooden doorframe and turned around. He silently righted his chair, sat, and tore into the bread and meat like an animal. Tears of self-loathing coursed down his face. He’d serve Hecaton Mezeta…for now. Later, he’d torture her to death.

“And that makes four. Back to business,” Hecaton said. Janus raised a hand. “Yes?”

“
Frau
Mezeta, your plan does not lack for audacity, and yet I can see a problem.”

“Go on,” she said.

“Let us say that we are successful in raiding the Sepulchre and opening the
Ooss
inside. How are we expected to take the God Hand back here? From what you describe, it is at least ten meters long and weighs
thirty thousand kilograms.
Four men and a grandam cannot simply strap it to their backs and make the walk. How would we even move it out in the first place?”

“
Si,
” Juan said. “And that assumes,
amigos,
that we even have the time to think about such engineering feats. I promise you that the Argeads will be on us with full force of arms the second we defile their holy ground. And if not them, certainly their Imperial masters.”

Hecaton cracked a smile. “Sir Janus, you are an engineer with a talent for the repair of ancient artifacts, are you not?”

He nodded.

“And Sir Juan, you are a master navigator of the seas, correct?”

“
El mejor.
”

“And Ringo is supposedly one of the best mapmakers in the kingdom.”

Ringo seethed but remained silent. He still felt starved but did not wish to give Hecaton the pleasure of seeing him ask for more food.

Hecaton smirked. “There’s a reason I asked Primate Alesso for you three in particular. You are all skilled fighters but more importantly, you have the collective means to bring a ship across the sea without sinking it. What do you all think the
Ooss
really is?”

“I think I know what you imply. But even if so, it has no sail, no rigging, and no cannon,” Juan said.

“It’s a special sort of boat that doesn’t need sails or masts. A rare type made to sail both on and
under
water. It not only houses the God Hand but also serves as a means to launch the Hand. The Basileoi of the Dominion are a direct line from the original crew of the Ooss
,
and that is why one of their many pointless dictums is to make sure that the Hand can be made ready to fire at any time. The holy
Ooss
must always be kept in good repair for the day when they make their final journey back home. I aim to exploit their tradition. We are going to steal not only the God Hand but also the holiest relic of the Argead Dominion.”

Despite how much he wished to disembowel Hecaton, it was not without some satisfaction that Ringo departed his dingy hovel for what he knew would be the last time. It was a miserable existence, shivering night after night under a holey plastic roof propped up against the walls of the gatehouse. The closest place to shit was a horrific-smelling ditch on the side of the road that always overflowed and left indescribable filth where he should have slept. His belongings were constantly subject to theft by packs of feral children who populated the ghetto. Once, he had caught one in his grasp and was about to cut its throat when the other hovel dwellers suddenly surrounded him with cudgels in hand. One day, when he was a rich man, he would return and kill them all.

It was a half bell’s walk to the docks, where Hecaton had told the crew to assemble in the morning. His remaining possessions all fit on his person, for they were the only things he absolutely could never sell. Besides the brigandine, coif, greaves, and boots, he had a steel dagger. Two reloaded rounds were all else he had to his name. In the service of the Ordo Anglia, he had carried a rifle, but the gun had been pawned a long time ago.

“Sir Ringo, I beg a moment,” muttered someone at his right.

“Not interested,” Ringo murmured back and kept his eyes ahead.

“An Old Nayto Standard for your time.”

Ringo edged closer to a nearby tavern and crouched as if to tighten his lacings. His stalker dawdled nearby. He pressed his back to the wall and peeled back the lip of his right boot to further expose the hilt of his dagger. He would not be caught unawares by some wretched plot. Imbecilic Hecaton had of course announced her plan to steal from the Dominion in front of the entire court. Now, there were hundreds of swirling schemes centered around that fact. Ringo knew he was a target in at least a few of them.

“Drop the grad where I can see it,” he said. “Regardless of what you say, I take it and leave. If you follow me, I’ll tear your head off.”

A cartridge plinked onto the cobbles. Ringo picked it up. It seemed to be true milligrad, but even if it was a gilded reload, it would still represent more wealth than he had possessed in a long time. The headstamp was marked with the circled cross of Old Nayto, and the primer seemed to be original brass. Ringo shoved the round into his leggings for safekeeping. He glanced to his side to make sure the stalker wasn’t edging closer; that would earn him a gutting.

“I speak for the primate alone,” the stalker said. “Mezeta has no intention of delivering the God Hand to His Holiness as promised. Once the Hand is secured, eliminate her. His Holiness will pay a hundred thousand rounds of Old Nayto for this, divided between survivors.”

Ringo’s lips thinned into a smile. “And if there is only one survivor?”

“He would gain the full sum.”

Ringo stood without another word and walked away.
I’d have done her in for free, but if I can off Eicke and Diaz, I’ll be a wealthy man indeed.
He turned to assure himself that he wasn’t being followed. The stalker had disappeared. The milligrad had not. Ringo made his way to the docks.

Cobblestones gave way to wooden planks, and the omnipresent odor of human excrement was quickly replaced by that of decomposing fish. According to the old hag, they were to board a trade ship to Korinthos and from there would travel through Dominion territory to the outskirts of Athenaeum, where the Sepulchre waited. Ringo quickened his pace when he saw the masts of the trade ship. He would not suffer the humiliation of being tardy.

Ringo grunted when he collided head on with something heavy. Fortunately, he slightly outweighed whatever or whoever it was, and he did not pitch backward into a pool of oily filth. He tensed in indignation and glared at a boy—actually, a girl—sprawled out in front of him. She was of middling height and plainly featured, wearing a servant’s attire, her hair drawn tightly into a small bun. Around her were scattered what appeared to be metal tools, both new and ancient. She raised her eyebrows in alarm and scrambled to her knees in supplication.

“Damned wench, are you blind?” Ringo drew back a hand to slap her.

“Stay your hand, good sir!” Janus, fat and out of breath, bounded up to them and stood in front of the servant girl. “I shall recompense you for the inconvenience, of course, but she is
mein
servant alone, and thus I demand you not to beat her.”

“
You
have a wench?” Ringo had to chuckle. He dropped his hand. “And I thought you weren’t into rutting, Sir Janus.”

“She carries my bags and helps with calibrations. More like a squire, really.”

Ringo rolled his eyes. “A
squire
. Right. You into boys?”

Janus glared at Ringo and turned to the servant. “Come, Samara, pick this up, and we’ll head to the boat.”

Ringo left the embarrassing spectacle behind and walked up the gangway to the
Cuenta Cuesta
. Hecaton leaned against the mainmast and winked at him. Juan was busy schmoozing with the captain at the helm. He ignored them in favor of laying claim to a comfortable spot below decks. It would take at least a fortnight to reach their destination, and though seafaring usually meant intolerable boredom for a passenger, he could use the time to think about how to eliminate Hecaton once and for all. And how to obtain the full hundred-thousand-round prize.

“You never realize that you smell like a million unwashed assholes until you actually get clean again,” Draco said. He raised his right arm and pressed his nose to the pit and inhaled deeply. “Like a rose, I am.”

“Roses smell like dogshit,” Hadassah said. “And do you really need to sniff yourself in public?”

“How else would I know? Not like I can ask anyone else to smell me.”

Lotte clamped her hands on Draco’s shoulders and sniffed at the nape of his neck. “Yes, like farts.”

“Am I the handsomest of roses, Captain?”

“Definitely the stinkiest,” Hadassah said.

They grouped together while they walked down the busy corridors of Sevastopol Fortress. Around them flowed a current of Imperial troopers and pages laden with dispatches. The distant thumping of artillery practice made the less acclimated wince with every discharge. A sense of frenetic foreboding stirred the air. Battle was imminent.

“I’m just glad for the pumphouse,” Karma remarked. “I never imagined I’d have my own little rainstorm to wag my manhood around in.”