The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (102 page)

He did not appreciate temptation.  Something in his heart balked any time he was offered something he hadn't asked for, hadn't earned.  And even though it seemed he did not actually have a heart, he still felt that way when he thought about the sarisigi abilities he had discovered.  Shape-stealing, body control, no need for food or sleep or drink.  Practical invulnerability.

The tactician in him ticked over everything he could do with such resources.  The moralist contemplated everything he could lose.  But the truth was that he had already lost those things thirteen years ago, along with his life, his family and his flesh.

All he had now was Enkhaelen's reassurance that his soul was real.  That he was not just another set of decaying memories trapped in clay, slowly being kneaded into the whole.

With effort, he focused on the road again.  Tomorrow was the start of the Midwinter Festival and yet there was no sign of it: no bunting on the shopfronts, no banners at upstairs balconies or windows.  Perhaps Bahlaer celebrated differently, and it did not surprise him that the city would be hunkered down, but he worried that it heralded an attack.

After all, Darkness Day was when the Shadows were strongest.

He hated this.  After the Old Crown attack, he had pulled out his maps and sent his mages into the hollows below the garrison: the cellars, the sewers and the remnants of the ancient city Bahlaer had been built upon.  Anywhere that could host a shadow.  Some had long since collapsed and been filled in by earth and stone, but others stood strong despite the centuries, and the mages had done their best to fill those places with light.

But they could not illuminate the entire city.  Mounting even this much of a defense drained them; according to Scryer Mako, every ward stayed attached to its maker, sipping energy for its duration.  Warder Tanvolthene bore the brunt of the burden and now spent most of his time either sleeping or shambling through the underground to fix damaged wards.

At least that kept him out of trouble, Colonel Wreth's man that he was.

Sarovy had never hated the colonel.  In fact, he'd thought him more sensible than the Crimson General back when Kelturin Aradysson held the post.  But the colonels order's now put his hackles up, and the revelation that he was a ruengriin—confirmed by Houndmaster Vrallek—shed new light on their clashes at the Crimson camp.  Wreth had known about the sarisigi that had chased Weshker into their path, had perhaps known about Sarovy himself, had opposed giving Sarovy command over an integrated company.  Why?  Was it truly for his shaky performance in pursuit of the spiritist slave, or something to do with his sarisigi self?

Something to do with Enkhaelen?

He had not obeyed the Maker's order.  Messenger Cortine still ministered to the specialists, though Sarovy refused the man's blessings himself.  It made him feel heretical, but after the incident in the training yard and his perplexing vision of his conversion, he did not want the touch of the Imperial Light.  Not yet.

Not while he had more physical matters to deal with.

The clack of the horses' hooves and claws echoed on the pavings as they reined in before a half-block of rowhouses fronted by low mosaic walls.  Bright murals and glass windows bespoke prosperity, but more than one door had been marked with the red slash of inoccupancy—including the one Sarovy had come to see.  A tile painted with the family name Beltras hung crooked beside it, one nail pulled free of the mortar.

Sarovy squinted at the house.  He wanted to enter, to search the rooms and be sure, but there was the Shadow threat and also the presence of another Seething team on the road nearby.  He thought certain people were allowing their homes to be looted to evade the census, either for nefarious or safety-based reasons, and he did not care to tread on the toes of either.

“Next,” he told his bodyguards, and turned Havoc onward.

Despite the weather and the curtness, the men did not complain.  They made their way down narrowing streets, past changing architecture: the rowhouses losing glass and gaining shutters, becoming shabbier, then being replaced by apartment-blocks with no frontage land and no decorations, the ground floor populated by shops and the upstairs by small apartments.  This was Lower Hook, and here too were the red slashes of the inspections, painted alongside broken-down doors that gaped like toothless mouths.

They were a few streets over from the trade-road, yet there was more life here than in Upper Hook.  Small tight flocks of pedestrians skittered out of their way, heads down and baskets covered from the weather: mostly older women in dark dresses and broad hats.  Shops were open with awnings propped out, their proprietors as still as hares while the horses passed.  Empty clotheslines filled the air between apartment-blocks like sutures trying to close up the alleys.  A cluster of children fled, leaving their kickball behind, but others lingered on balconies or doorsteps to watch with dark-eyed insolence.

Sarovy counted down the numbers painted beside the windows and reined in at the one listed on the ledger.  No name-tile hung at the balcony, but neither was there a red mark, and pots of herbs had been set out to catch the drizzle.  The archway that led from the balcony into the interior held only a curtain, but it was a nice one, woven in an intricate pattern of reds and blues.

The apartment-block had no external doors, just a gated corridor that led into an internal courtyard.  With only two men at his back, Sarovy knew better than to seek entry.

Instead, he called up to the balcony, “Mistress Rynher!”

It took a few tries.  His bodyguards shifted restlessly as shutters and curtains on other apartments stirred, and he second-guessed having brought them.  He might be invulnerable, but they were not.  Finally, after the fifth call, the curtain above him twitched and a woman's weary face peeked out, then flinched at the sight of him.

“Mistress Rynher,” he said, “I'm Captain Sarovy of Blaze Company.  You remember me...”

He could see in her hard eyes that she did, but she gave no answer, only eased into the archway.  Her dress and shawl were black, and Sarovy realized with an internal curse that it was a widow's garb—and so were those of the women on the street.  In the east, mourners wore grey.  Here it was different.

“I apologize for disturbing you,” he said, “but I owe you my condolences.  According to the records, your husband Ven Rynher was a respected guardsman, and I regret the necessity of his end.  I've brought you his blood price.”

He could sense the confusion from his bodyguards as he untied one of the two small pouches from his belt.  Blood price was only paid for those unlawfully killed—usually civilians caught in the crossfire.  Under Prince Kelturin, it had also been paid to mollify the Shadow Cult after the mayhem in the Shadowland tavern, but Field Marshal Rackmar and Colonel Wreth had banned any new payouts.  The blood of Bahlaer was now worthless.

Sarovy knew he'd had a good reason to imprison the two men.  He knew he'd been within his rights to execute them, though it had been more to hide his Shadow-fishing than for their crime.  But he could not think that they had been worthless.  Their names were engraved upon his mind like all the other men he had led and lost.  Like all the lives within him.

He tossed the pouch in a high, easy arc and heard it hit the balcony floor with a chime of coinage.  Mistress Rynher did not stir.

“The Crimson Claw—“ he started, then thought twice and pulled his helmet off.  Squinting into the continued rain, he tried again.  “The army did not authorize this payment; it is mine alone.  I will not return.  Should you wish to discuss the issue, though, you know where to find me.”

She did not move.  He wasn't sure if she even blinked.  But the other side of the curtain drew away slightly, revealing a smaller face, and he inclined his head to that one as well before turning Havoc up the street.

No missiles pursued him, only the hoofbeats of his bodyguards.  He fitted his helm back on and looked north, uphill, to where the garrison hid behind the stony prominence that cupped it.  Closer and higher, the banners of the Crimson Claw waved above the Old Crown manors, and speck-sized crossbowmen patrolled the ledges, looking down on the city below.

“What was that, captain?” said Lancer Garrenson, usually the more stolid of the pair.

“A chance meeting,” said Sarovy.  “The horses needed to stretch their legs.”

Lancer Serinel snorted but said nothing.  Garrenson made a grumbling noise but did the same.  Not for the first time, Sarovy mentally thanked them for it—thanked all his men for bearing with him.

How much longer they would do so, he dared not ask.

*****

“What do you mean, 'he's gone out'?”

The lancer tasked with minding the stables shrugged apologetically.  “He didn't tell me anything, sir.  Him and Garrenson and Serinel just mounted up and went.”

Lieutenant Linciard cursed under his breath.  He'd let the captain out of his sight for half a mark and the accursed man had ridden off into the city.  “Thanks,” he said grudgingly, then stomped back into the garrison.

Immediately Sergeant Benson was at his side.  “He's gone,” Linciard told the shorter, stouter man, whose bearded face knotted up with concern.

“I'm sure he'll be fine, lieutenant,” Benson said in his perpetually doubtful voice, “but with the matter of the money...”

Linciard grimaced.  Everyone know the captain cared nothing for his pay; he lived like an ascetic and often covered his men's debts when they weren't about gambling or fines.  He also sent money home, though unlike others he seemed to receive no response.  That he would dip into his own funds and vanish into the city was startling enough to bring Benson to Linciard despite their issues.

“It's his own money,” he said.  “He can do what he wants.”

“Yes, but don't you think he's been acting strangely?”

“A bit.”  He couldn't talk about what he'd seen; in fact, he wished he could convince himself he'd hallucinated it.  Life would be easier that way.

“A bit,” Benson echoed, then gave a tragic sigh.  “This city is a bad influence.  First you, now him.  Who's third-in-command?”

“Lieutenant Arlin.  Then Sengith, then...Rallant or Vrallek, not sure which.”

“Light forbid we ever get that far.”

“You haven't lost either of us,” Linciard gritted out.

Benson made a noncommittal sound and offered his writing board.  “If he's not here, I suppose you can approve my requisitions list just as well.”

Taking it, Linciard steered to the stairs and sat down on the third step to pore over the list.  Benson had a firm legible hand, and Linciard was pleased to find that the practice of writing his own reports and reading the captain's book of military morals had paid off.  He only had to sound out a few words.

“When are we replacing the lost horses?” he said.

“We...might not be.”

“What?”

“Normally we get supplemental funds for that purpose, because it's not in our monthly budget.  But my request was denied.  I had the Scryer contact the Crimson bursar and he said that staffing levels are being adjusted, so they won't be filling certain requests.  He recommended that we put any horseless lancers in the infantry while we wait.”

Linciard sucked down his first instinct of yelling.  There was no point, and honestly he wasn't surprised.  The higher-ups had been piking with Blaze Company since its inception, and withholding funds was no new trick.

“So we're footsoldiers,” he grumbled.  “I'll have to talk with Arlin and the men...and ask someone to volunteer their horse to me.  Can't be the Lancer-Lieutenant without one.”

“That is true, sir,” said Benson flatly.

Can we not fight?
Linciard wanted to ask, but he knew that Benson had not ceded the lieutenancy to him out of forgiveness.  In the man's eyes, he had assaulted a comrade then gone full reprobate, and that was more than enough to condemn him.

Everyone kept telling Linciard to mend fences, but he didn't know how.  Apologize?  It hadn't been Benson that he'd hit, and he doubted the sergeant and the Corvishman had been friends.  No, Benson just detested bad behavior of any kind, and Linciard's life was full of it.

“Look, I'm sorry I've been unprofessional,” he said.  “I'm not used to having any sort of responsibility.  But with the captain going off like this, I get it, and I won't do it again.  It's not fair to you or the rest of the company.”

Benson favored him with a look, then held out a hand.  When Linciard moved to shake it, though, he pulled away and said, “No, the writing board, sir.”

“Oh.  Sorry.”

“Nothing you want to add?”

“Uh, no.  Guess not.”

Another long look, then Benson inclined his head curtly.  “I'll see it done then, sir.  And I recommend Tethrick's horse.  Man's been a wreck since the incident, I don't think he'll mind.”

Linciard's brows rose, but Benson just walked off, ostensibly skimming the list.

Well.  One patch applied, more or less.

What next?

“Moping?” said Rallant behind him.

Linciard glanced back, startled.  “What?  Oh.”  He stood, straightening his surcoat over his armor.  It felt like he hadn't taken the stuff off for days.  Even inside the garrison he didn't feel safe.  “No, I'm fine, I was just going over things with Benson.”