The City (53 page)

The last thing Petalina saw in life was the soldier exploding in a fountain of blood, his limbs and head flying apart, his blood cascading over the floor and walls and the two men in front of him. Mouth wide, eyes huge in their sockets, Petalina felt the awful pressure building up inside her, and prayed for relief.

Outside Riis slammed his hands on the solid doors in frustration. He had sent three of his men to find something to use as a battering ram, and two more climbing round the outside of the opera house, above the lake, to seek a way in. These two came back to report that the white walls were slippery and offered no purchase. Riis gazed up at the high filigree roof, wondering if he could get in that way.

Then, from inside, he heard the grate of the locking bar being raised and he stepped back as the doors were flung wide. The stench of bloody death blew out like a gale, and Riis felt a sickening dread deep in his stomach. Yet in a heartbeat the dread was replaced with elation as Marcellus calmly walked out, followed by Rafe. They looked strange and sinister, for the moonlight made it appear as if they were soaked in black paint, the whites of their eyes shining eerily. Then Riis realized they were both drenched in blood, as if they had been
swimming in it. What has happened here, he wondered? He felt the hairs on his neck rise in the breeze across the water.

Marcellus was silent, looking around him. But Rafe said, ‘Captain Riis, isn’t it?’

Riis, awed and flattered that his name had been remembered, replied, ‘Yes, lord.’

‘What happened here?’

‘We heard the sounds of battle inside, lord. But the men of the Thousand refused us entry. We killed them,’ he said simply. He wanted to ask questions but was afraid to.

Marcellus seemed to rouse himself. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Give me your knife.’

Riis swiftly unsheathed the dagger at his side, reversed it and handed it to his lord. ‘It is stained,’ he said apologetically, for he had wiped it roughly on the clothes of one of the dead bodyguards. Then he realized how foolish he sounded, for the hand he gave it to was covered in blood already. Marcellus spun the knife, then turned and threw it into the lake. It thunked into the neck of a rebel soldier who was feebly trying to swim to the shore under cover of darkness.

‘See that these bodies are cleared away, captain,’ Marcellus ordered. ‘Your dead comrade will be treated with great honour. The bodies of the rebels will be burned.’

‘Yes, lord.’ Riis glanced into the silent darkness of the opera hall. ‘Are surgeons needed?’ he asked uncertainly.

‘No. They are all dead. Including the Lady Petalina.’

Riis said nothing. It was not his place to commiserate with the man. What happened in there, he thought again?

‘The rest of the Leopards must be rounded up,’ Marcellus went on. ‘It may be that they are innocent of this plot, but we cannot take the risk.’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘So.’ Marcellus looked directly at him for the first time. Riis resisted stepping back, compelled by the power of the man. ‘I find myself in need of a new century. Choose ninety-nine warriors of the First Adamantine, of any rank. You have full authority. You are now their commander. It will be known as the Nighthawk century. The name of the Leopards will be expunged from history.’

Riis bowed his head and said, ‘It is an honour, lord. Do you want the Nighthawks to question the Leopards?’

‘No. That will be done by others. We will find out who is responsible for this night.’

Then the two men walked away, back along the white causeway, their bodies glistening with drying blood, their bloody bootprints stretching back after them.

Riis took a deep breath and stepped into the opera house. He looked around, uncertain of what he was seeing. There were no bodies. Instead, every surface – the walls, the floor, even the high ceiling of the round hall – were drenched with blood. The air was thick with it. Riis breathed in through his mouth and felt, with a tremor of panic, that his lungs were filling with blood. As his eyes accustomed to the torchlit carnage, he started to see bits of bodies, gobs of brain and flesh, shards of bone, the occasional larger piece of flesh strewn across the hall. On one wall half a hand was slowly sliding downwards in the sticky blood. It stopped, then started again. Riis stared at it, mesmerized. Then he shook his head, looking away.

He turned to his comrades, standing pale and silent beside him. ‘Get a clean-up crew,’ he ordered. ‘There is nothing left here to bury.’

THE FIRST SNOWS
arrived early that year, piling on the pain for the besieged City. It was said by the superstitious that if snow fell before the Feast of Summoning then a hard winter would follow, and old crones looked to the sky and shook their heads and forecast bitter days ahead. In the daytime the snow lay slushy in the streets and alleys, muffling the City in silence. It melted slowly on roof tiles and forced its way into attics and window frames. Then, as the thin sunlight dwindled away, it hardened to ice. The streets of the Armoury, and parts of Barenna and Burman Far, already dangerous at night, became impassable by ordinary folk in the hours of darkness.

The poorest of the City’s people, those existing on the margin between life and death, already stalked by hunger and disease, and by the human predators who fed off the unfortunate, died quietly in their hundreds each night. Those with a will to stay alive descended into the sewers, becoming Dwellers, for it was warmer underground. Ferocious winter weather had always been the Halls’ best recruiting sergeant. So the population of the City diminished further, and the demand on supplies slackened, and the administrators dealing with food distribution congratulated themselves on their skilful allocation of resources. Those same administrators had nominal responsibility for fuel distribution, but supplies of coal and oil had long since
diminished to a point where only the palace, and only parts of the palace, could be warmed in winter.

It was five days before the Feast of Summoning, the day marked for Lady Petalina’s funeral, and at first light Riis wrapped a greatcoat over his new uniform and hurried through the chilly corridors of the palace. He could see his breath in front of him and his hands were rammed into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He was aware he looked nothing like a commander of the Thousand, and self-consciously straightened his posture as he neared the Keep. He glanced at his new aide and grinned. Darius shook his head. Riis had been told to attend a meeting of the Thousand’s commanders in the Keep. He had never entered the Keep before. Today he would be walking into the emperor’s lair, something that only a few weeks ago would have been impossible. He was anticipating it with trepidation and excitement, and he guessed Darius, though innocent of Riis’ ambition, felt the same.

A veteran rider, Riis had found himself suddenly, unexpectedly, a commander of the Thousand, and he had no idea how such a creature carried himself, what his daily duties were, or how he treated his men. Like most soldiers before him, each time he had been promoted he had merely mimicked the behaviour of the man he had replaced until he had his feet under him and could make the role his own. Here he was adrift. He had never been a part of the imperial bodyguard, and his only dealings with them had been competitive, at best grudgingly cooperative. And he could get no help from his new peers, for the other century commanders clearly despised him for the route he had taken to promotion.

Darius, normally laconic to the point of terseness, followed him without question until they reached the green walls of the Keep, when he asked, ‘Is this a briefing?’

Riis shrugged elaborately. ‘How would I know? I was told last night by an aide to General Boaz to be at the Keep today at dawn, on the orders of Marcellus.’

Darius grunted.

Riis spread his hands. ‘I know. But what can I do? I can scarcely refuse to go.’

‘Watch your back.’

‘That’s why you’re here.’

The two men walked up to the main entrance to the Keep. The bronze doors, deeply inset into curved walls of sage green, were decorated in relief with epic scenes from the Immortal’s life. The doorway was flanked by soldiers in black and silver livery. Riis recognized that they were of the Black-tailed Eagle century. He was about to identify himself when one of the soldiers sprang to open a small door set in the bronze. Bristling with insecurity, Riis wondered if this was a studied insult. The soldiers did not salute him. Should they? Riis didn’t know the etiquette of the Thousand yet.

He stepped into the Keep, Darius at his shoulder. They were in a broad foyer with a wide staircase winding up at each end, and several doorways in front of them. Riis had expected something remarkable, for he was at last in the emperor’s territory. But this was just an empty room, cold as a widow’s tit. Riis and his aide looked at each other.

Then a tall figure stepped from an open doorway and a rough voice demanded, ‘Commander Riis. In here. You were not told to bring an aide.’ General Boaz glared at Darius, who coolly returned his stare.

‘I was not told not to,’ Riis replied pleasantly, staring up into the man’s eyes. It was rare for him to meet someone taller than himself. ‘I have yet to be informed of the protocols of the Thousand.’

‘The convention,’ a voice said as they stepped into the meeting room, ‘is that members of the Thousand, even the commanders, are just simple warriors serving their City, and as such it would be inappropriate for them to have aides. It is, of course, nonsense,’ said Marcellus, holding out a hand to beckon Riis into the room. ‘The commanders of the Thousand are important officers with many layers of responsibility. They have armies of servants in their homes, and many of them have several aides. They just do not normally bring them to commanders’ briefings.’

‘I was not told this was a commanders’ briefing,’ Riis answered. ‘I was merely told to be here.’ He was aware he sounded defensive.

The First Lord nodded. ‘Your aide can stay. Your name, soldier?’

‘Darius Hex, lord.’

Marcellus nodded. ‘Was your father also named Darius, although they called him Socks?’

Darius stared stolidly at a point on Marcellus’ forehead, determined not to be awed. ‘Yes, lord.’ For the first time since Riis had known him, he felt annoyed by the man’s taciturnity. He felt like saying,
It’s all right to be impressed by Marcellus Vincerus. He is worthy of our respect. A vision of two men clothed in blood fluttered on the edge of his mind, but he pushed it away.

He looked about him. It was a round chamber, faced with white marble. Around the walls were carved the ten insignia of the bodyguard. One was covered over, and Riis felt pride in his heart to know the symbol of the Nighthawks was destined to appear there. There were more than a dozen soldiers in the room, seated and standing. Boaz, stooping like a heron, loomed over Rafe Vincerus, a slender figure dressed in black, who leaned idly against a wall.

‘For those of you who have not been here before,’ Marcellus explained courteously, ‘this room is called the Black Room, not because it is black, but because it was built by the architect Tomas Black as an example for the emperor of a perfectly round room with a perfectly round dome. Architects tell me there is a word for such things, but I confess I cannot remember it. It is here that the commanders of the Thousand meet, and here that the emperor addresses us all when he sees fit.’ Riis felt his heart racing. If he kept his position as commander, if he lived long enough, then without doubt he would be face to face with the emperor in this room some time in the future.

Marcellus’ expression became grave. ‘Today we will mark the funeral of the Lady Petalina, killed by treachery. Her only living relative is the Lady Fiorentina, who has arranged the rites and interment. It will be a private affair. Because of the revolt of the Leopards, security will be higher than we would normally see at a funeral. You all have your orders.’ He paused, then said, ‘It is easy to overstate the importance of events such as those in the opera house. Although innocent people died, the rebellion was a failure. Mallet’s intent was to kill me and my brother. We will probably never know why, although we must assume the plot was hatched far from the City. But he did not succeed. He will have some success, however, if we lose our focus.’ He paused for emphasis. ‘The Thousand exists to protect the emperor, not the Vincerii. Increasing security around us inevitably risks compromising the guard on the Immortal. You need to be aware of this and ensure it does not happen.’

One soldier spoke up, his voice casual as if chatting with a friend. ‘It would make our task easier if you and Rafe presented separate targets. The fact that you are so often together is a problem for the Thousand. We have discussed this before.’ Riis looked with interest
at the bushy-bearded, gravel-voiced man. He was clearly relaxed in the company of Marcellus to speak so openly to him.

‘Are you suggesting we not attend the lady’s funeral rites?’

The soldier seemed unperturbed by the edge in Marcellus’ voice. ‘I would suggest it if I thought that would do any good, lord. No, I’m saying you should be more conscious about presenting an easy target.’

‘We are soldiers. We can take care of ourselves,’ said Rafe.

‘No one doubts that, lord.’ Riis swung round. The speaker was a woman, seated on a couch behind him. She flicked a glance at him as he turned. She was of medium height and middle age, with unkempt ginger hair, and big breasts beneath the leather uniform. Is she a commander, he thought? He had no idea there were female commanders of the Thousand.

‘But Fortance is right,’ the woman said. ‘We are only suggesting the two of you attend scheduled events separately.’

Marcellus sighed. ‘All our lives are scheduled, Leona,’ he said. ‘But we will think on what you say.’ He waved a hand and the warriors started filing out of the room. Riis glanced at Darius and they made for the door too.

‘Riis.’ The word was said quietly. Riis turned back to Marcellus. ‘Stay a moment.’ Riis nodded to Darius, who followed the others.

Marcellus watched the door close. ‘I have a mission today for your Nighthawks, far from the funeral.’