Old Man's Ghosts (31 page)

Hentern hesitated a moment then stepped back, recognising the cold certainty in the warrior’s voice. ‘Of course, Siresse. Please, enter, and ensure my Lady Wyvern is comfortable.’

Kesh and Narin stepped aside while Kine shuffled forward and, assisted by Myken, eased herself down into the nearest armchair. The room was chilly and dim – the building’s high windows admitted precious little of the winter sun while the stove was clearly recently lit. There was no one else in the room, but one of the reinforced cellar doors that stood at an angle on the far wall was open. Weak lamplight shone up the steep steps, illuminating only a turning flight that led underground.

There was an uncomfortable expression on Hentern’s face as the door closed behind Narin and he pulled a chair over to beside Kine’s, sitting as gently as he could. All Kesh could see of Dov was the top of the baby’s head, but from the complete silence it seemed as if she was happily asleep.

‘I … Might I offer you refreshment, my Lady?’

‘Don’t you have to fetch your master?’ Myken demanded.

‘He is coming, he sent me ahead to light the stove.’

‘But still you were about to fetch him,’ Myken pressed, ‘with the door shut too. He’s downstairs somewhere? Just how far do the cellars extend here? Is there a tunnel all the way from Prince Sorote’s palazzo?’

‘I am not permitted to leave outsiders alone in here, Siresse.’

Myken took a step towards one of the nearer desks then looked up at the mezzanine above the cellar doors, where a beautifully crafted desk stood beneath a pile of papers and books. ‘Nor are you able to prevent a warrior caste from investigating anything she chooses,’ she pointed out, indicating Sorote’s desk, ‘so perhaps fetching your master would still be the best use of your time.’

Hentern’s anxiety deepened, but he only spoke when she took a pointed step towards the stairs leading up to the mezzanine. ‘Siresse, I beg you …’

‘Don’t worry,’ Myken said, turning back towards Kine, ‘I only read when I am bored. Be back soon and these papers will remain untouched – on my
honour
.’

At Myken’s emphasis on the final word, Hentern’s expression turned pathetically grateful and he bobbed a small bow before heading back towards the cellar. The scuff of his feet on stone steps echoed up to them for a surprisingly long time and then there was only quiet. Keen to evict the cold, Kesh went to feed more coal into the stove and stoke the flames, but once that was done she found herself in the middle of the room, eyes drawn to the open works on the nearest desk.

‘Kesh, I have given my word,’ Myken warned.

‘I know, I know,’ Kesh grumbled, glancing over to the cellar door. ‘You didn’t say anything about what’s down there, though.’

‘For pity’s sake, Kesh,’ Narin said, ‘now isn’t the time to anger Prince Sorote!’

‘When you’re the lord of me,’ she replied, ‘you get to give orders like that. I’ve been the good little servant caste enough recently, but your friend’s been holding out on you more than a little.’

‘Not my friend,’ Narin said. ‘Just a relation of the Emperor’s with the power to destroy my life.’

She shrugged. ‘Just want to see what’s down there, whether it leads to a tunnel or something more.’

‘Please, Kesh!’

She ignored him, suddenly gripped by a fierce desire to see past the few steps she could make out. Narin hissed angrily after her but she padded forward and peered through the open door at the stairway beyond it. There was little of anything to see, just well-worn cut stone with a groove hacked into the inside wall for a handhold.

Feeling like a child, Kesh took a tentative few steps down, moving as quietly as she could manage. The stair turned back on itself before opening out on to an empty room that bore only a lantern hanging over a high peaked doorway. She crept through that and found more steps that branched left and right. It was darker down there, the only light coming from the lantern above her head, but the left-hand path seemed to continue down and open out into some larger space while the right levelled out into a tunnel of some sort.

She took a step forward, craning her head to peer over a short balustrade that the left-hand stair stretched around. Kesh blinked once, twice, to try and make out anything in the not-quite blackness below, but before she could a hand grabbed her by the bicep and hauled her back.

On instinct Kesh twisted and punched up at the arm holding her. She felt a lurch sideways as she was dragged off-balance, but delivered a second blow with greater intent and managed to dislodge her attacker’s grip. In the gloom she couldn’t make out who she’d struck before a heavy kick to her ribs slammed Kesh into the smooth stone wall. She dropped down, ignoring the pain, and stamped back towards her attacker’s shin, catching them a glancing blow. Throwing herself sideways she avoided a second kick and came up with dagger in hand, but before she could find a target a stinging blow smashed it from her hand and in the next moment she’d been slammed against another wall, cracking her head against the stone.

As the stars before her eyes slowly cleared, Kesh realised there was a sword-edge at her throat and she froze. Eventually the rest came into focus and she realised it was Prince Kashte holding the weapon. The Imperial’s face was more alive than she’d seen it before, a dangerous glitter to his eyes that told her his blood was up.

‘So we meet again,’ Kashte said in a husky growl. ‘I should kill you for striking an Imperial caste.’

‘But you would die in the next moment,’ called a voice from behind him.

Kesh saw his jaw tense before sense took over and Kashte eased the pair of them slowly around enough to see Myken standing on the stairs with a levelled pistol.

‘You sure you’d make that shot before I opened her throat, Siresse?’ Kashte said, voice tight as he tried to restrain his fighting instincts.

‘No,’ she replied simply, ‘but I would not fire unless you harmed her. She struck an Imperial caste, yes, but she believed she was being attacked and did not hesitate to defend herself. That instinct I honour as a warrior.’

‘She’s just a servant caste.’

‘Nonetheless – she has a warrior’s soul,’ Myken continued, much to Kesh’s surprise. ‘She stands beside her friend Narin despite knowing all those she faces will have either superior weapons or training, mostly likely outmatching her in every way. Still she has shown no fear at the prospect and so I stand at her side as any warrior should.’

Kashte grinned wolfishly. ‘Then I should honour it too,’ he said in a slightly forced way, releasing Kesh and stepping back. ‘Mistress Kesh, best you take greater care in future. It is most unsafe in these tunnels.’

Kesh stepped back and waited until Myken had holstered her gun again. ‘So it seems,’ she said quietly. ‘Is that why the door’s reinforced from the outside? Because of what lurks down here in the darkness?’

‘I mean there are disused tunnels and crumbling stairs,’ Kashte said, ‘all unsafe in the darkness. You don’t believe in children’s tales, do you?’

‘Which ones? The ones I was told growing up in the Harbour Warrant were about ancient gods and demons living in the deepest parts of the sea. You might say those got confirmed by the highest authority, so I’d believe anything you had to tell me about this place.’

‘Growing up in the palace, I heard different stories,’ Kashte said dismissively. ‘I had thought they were better known than they clearly are.’

‘Something about your catacombs?’

‘Something, yes.’

Before Kesh could ask him anything more a voice came echoing from the tunnel. ‘Telling tales of horror, Kashte?’

The three of them turned to see the faintly smiling Prince Sorote emerge from the gloom, dressed as soberly as ever with a strangely academic-looking cape over plain tailored clothes. Close on his heel was Hentern, doing his best to contain his anxiety, but if Sorote was angry at any of them he betrayed no trace of it. What did strike Kesh as surprising, however, was the fact that while his clothing was far less expensive and flamboyant than Kashte’s – who was the perfect image of the rakish noble warrior – both carried a pair of pistols in ornate sheaths.

When she had first encountered Sorote back in the summer, he had obviously been a high caste from the House of the Sun and, following tradition, had carried only a rapier on the streets of the city. The rapier remained on his hip; she could see the gold detailing on pommel and guard glinting in the lamplight.

What’s changed since then?
she wondered as she knelt to the high caste, hands folded over her chest.
Are more Imperials flouting tradition these days the way Kashte does, or do you prefer a gun to hand in these tunnels?

Neither possibility was comforting, but as Prince Sorote joined them he seemed in no great hurry to escape up to the surface.

‘I was just delivering a warning,’ Kashte replied as Myken bowed to the Imperial and received a nod in reply. ‘These ancient parts of the palace are not for the idly curious.’

‘Indeed not, as treacherous as they are convenient,’ Sorote said, looking fixedly at Kesh. ‘Now your curiosity regarding our cellar has been sated, however, shall we return to the plane of the living?’

Kesh frowned at his choice of phrasing, but didn’t hesitate to follow the man’s directions. She trooped up the stairs after Myken, ignoring Narin’s furious look and moving well to the side to let the high castes perform their own greetings.

‘Prince Sorote,’ Narin began, ‘I apologise for—’

The Imperial held up a hand to stop him. ‘It is done and it was not your fault, Investigator. The tunnel is no great secret; I merely choose not to advertise something that might one day be useful if it is unknown.’

Ignoring the hands reaching for her, Kine pushed herself up out of her seat and curtseyed as best she could. ‘My Lord Sun,’ she said in a breathless voice, ‘I am honoured to be in your debt.’

‘My Lady Wyvern,’ Sorote replied formally, ‘please, do not rise – sit. I realise you must be in discomfort so soon after giving birth. This is the child, I assume?’

‘Indeed, my Lord,’ she said as Narin turned slightly to afford him a view of Dov’s face. ‘Dov Deshar, born of the House of the Sun.’

‘Certainly by the time we are finished with her,’ Sorote added. ‘She is healthy?’

‘She is, my Lord.’

Sorote gave a curt nod of approval, one that made Kesh think he cared nothing for Dov but wanted to be sure his own efforts were not wasted on a sickly child.

‘In that case, let us be off.’

‘Off?’ Narin echoed.

‘Lord Vanden will not be gracing us with his presence,’ Sorote explained. ‘His steward shall serve witness in his place. The Lord Vanden feels attending will be a waste of his valuable time and has important matters of betrothal to attend to. Matters await us at the Glass Tower.’

‘Steward Breven is at the Glass Tower already?’ Narin shared a puzzled glance with Kine.

Sorote hesitated. ‘I see you didn’t, in fact, receive the message sent to you at the Palace of Law. I had wondered at your alacrity given your suspension.’

‘I’ve not been back yet,’ Narin confirmed, ‘nor home, but Kine wanted to wait upon your leisure.’

‘Of course she did,’ Sorote said with a small bow to Kine. ‘Please ensure, my Lady, that your daughter learns a sense of propriety from your good self. Her father occasionally displays a certain lack.’

Narin scowled. ‘Have you been comparing notes with Lawbringer Rhe, my Lord?’

The twitch of a smile on Sorote’s lips was the only response he received, but it was enough.

‘In any case, Steward Breven waits upon my leisure with a sanctioned tattooist close to the Glass Tower. If you are able, my Lady, we will go directly there and ensure this matter is put to a close as swiftly as possible.’

‘I am,’ Kine confirmed.

‘Excellent. Given the events I hear took place on the bridge last night, I’m sure the next few days will bring some measure of excitement to the city. By star’s turn I’m sure this whole situation will be forgotten and we can all go about our lives in peace.’

Kesh watched the man with a mounting level of distrust. She expected high castes such as Sorote to be dispassionate, but he seemed to be enjoying the play of events just a little too much for her liking. But if anyone else felt the same, they had the sense to keep quiet and as a group they headed back out into the chill morning air for the short walk to the looming Glass Tower.

Lawbringer Rhe nudged what had once been a wooden beam with his boot. Now it was merely a sculpture in ash. The fire that had consumed it had been so quick and hot that there had been no time for it to crumble. Under his touch the ash fell away and collapsed into nothing, merging with the heaps that were slowly being carried away by the sea wind.

‘How did it burn so hot?’ Law Master Sheven commented from nearby, joining Rhe within the shattered remains of a house. ‘In the freezing cold of winter?’

‘The wind drove it,’ Rhe said, looking out through the curved, soot-scarred struts of the bridge to the white peaks of the sea beyond, ‘but this wasn’t natural. Remember the goshe firepowder?’

‘I wish I could forget,’ the aging Law Master said sourly. ‘Barrels of the stuff?’

Though his head was bald and his long beard white, the burly senior Lawbringer was an able fighter still. He and his brutal scimitar had led the assault on the goshe island alongside Rhe in the summer, and Sheven himself had been scorched by the goshe weapons.

‘There were explosions reported,’ Rhe said by way of agreement, ‘and the goshe used their firepowder to burn the bodies of their dead in the days beforehand. It burned hot enough to hide the enhancements they had made to the bodies of their soldiers, the Blessings they had granted themselves.’

He gestured around at the scene of utter devastation; that entire end of the upper tier a flattened wasteland. Some part of Rhe wanted to see movement, some phoenix rising from these ashes and shaking off the horror done there, but none did. The Dragon soldiers had picked it through and removed some bodies, but no survivors. Not even their Astaren remained. Some perhaps had escaped – if anyone could survive a fall of hundreds of feet it was an Astaren warrior-mage in battle armour – but Rhe had heard no reports of anyone rising from the shores of the Crescent.

‘How many died here?’ Sheven asked, aghast at the idea.

Rhe shook his head. ‘We may never know. Scores of innocents I’m sure, but I doubt even the Imperial rent collectors have much more than an idea of how many people lived in these houses. Witnesses speak of a dozen Stone Dragons and beings of flame too. Whether those were allies of the Dragons or hellhounds I cannot say, but no living were taken from this place. The remains of the Astaren have been removed by Dragon soldiers, battered and burned beyond recognition. I doubt there will be remains of anyone not in armour left, after this heat.’

A gust of wind spun up around them and a funnel of ash rose from the uneven ground. Rhe closed his eyes as the still-warm ashes swept over his face, coating his white Lawbringer’s coat in all that was left of the homes and bodies. Once it had subsided he looked down at himself.

‘I am become an Investigator again,’ he said without humour.

Sheven grunted, rusty-red skin tinted grey, and brushed at his clothes. ‘And I am become Ghost,’ said the man of House Salamander. ‘We are both brought low by this.’

Rhe found himself unable to reply.
Only one of us is brought low,
he thought.
Your skin can be brushed clean. I am not so sure of my soul.

‘Is this an end to it?’ Sheven continued after a while.

‘I suspect not,’ Rhe said. ‘This was a deliberate act. To scour this place so utterly, the master of these hellhounds must have known the Dragons were coming – must have gathered the weapons to deal with them. In that case the attacks will continue unfettered until this city becomes overrun with Dragon Astaren and then …’

Sheven sighed, knowing only too well how the sentence ended. ‘And then we shall witness savagery not seen on the streets of the Imperial City for five hundred years.’

‘Unless this is the first blow of war.’

Sheven looked startled at the idea. ‘You think this might have been engineered by your kin?’

‘There is no trace of them that I have seen, and yet I still wonder,’ Rhe admitted. ‘We all know war is looming – why not prelude that with atrocities to diminish the numbers of your enemy’s Astaren?’

‘And the deaths until now were merely senseless killings designed to draw the Dragons out?’

Rhe thought of Administrator Serril, dead in his office, and shook his head.

Enchei Jen, where do you fit in here? Are you the phoenix that rises from these ashes? Is this part of some long-running plot of yours, a plot of many threads and planned over years? House Dragon and House Wyvern, what have you involved yourself in and why? Or have your masters truly come for you and simply knew they would come into conflict with House Dragon in the process?

‘Perhaps not,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps it is another House and a different agenda entirely. I doubt we’ll ever know.’

‘What will you do, then?’ Sheven asked. ‘How do we investigate crimes we’re not permitted to even understand? If this is all an Astaren game, how do we track down this summoner of hellhounds?’

‘I don’t know, but I must try. This is the Emperor’s city and
his
law will rule its streets.
His
citizens have been murdered and if there is anyone to answer for it, they must.’

‘And now you do it alone, with Narin demoted and suspended.’ Sheven shook his head. ‘A Wyvern noblewoman of all things? What was he thinking? He’s lucky to be alive.’

‘Narin is fortunate in his friends,’ Rhe said coldly. ‘How far he chooses to stretch that remains to be seen.’

Inside the Glass Tower, the passage of a cloud across the low sun was a strange, elusive thing. Light and shade seemed to slip at random across every surface, cracked walls running contrary to the million fractures of ceiling. Narin had not been the only one to gape as they entered the lowest level of the tower and from there it had only got more astonishing.

They ascended in a brass cage operated by four burly labourers turning a massive crank on the ground floor, glimpsing a different sight through the tall, narrow doorways at each level. Long banks of copyists and clerks laboured on several levels, while one was mostly filled by an incomprehensible intertwining sculpture made of the same fractured glass as the floors and walls.

Slowly they arrived at their destination where a tall, shaven-headed young Imperial stood on guard at the doorway. Dressed immaculately in white and gold, he would not have looked out of place at a formal ball, but he carried a broadsword on his hip and pistols across his stomach. Even more telling, as the man stepped aside for them, Narin saw a pair of long, ragged scars down the side of his head – signs of an injury that must have come close to killing the man.

There was something of a delay as the newcomers were forced to bow or kneel to the man, despite the fact he was clearly there to serve as a guard, but eventually they found themselves in a large barely-furnished room, just a single table – where a tattooist’s tools were laid out – and a pair of chairs made for giants out of the fractured glass. Narin found himself reluctant to even walk on the cracked glass that comprised the tower interior, but he kept dutifully close to Kine as she made her way in.

From somewhere a pair of stools were produced for Kine and the tattooist, a hawk-faced local woman with a carefully blank expression. Narin guessed someone like Prince Kashte had explained her job that day and made it clear she was neither to notice nor repeat anything she witnessed. She barely looked any of them in the face despite the fact that her caste scarf was blue, signifying a higher rank than Narin or his friends, but for once he found himself grateful for the effect of Sorote’s inherited authority.

Kine sat and there they waited while the tattooist made ready, Hentern having been sent to fetch Steward Breven, and before long they were joined by the two men. Narin found himself tense at the sight of Breven, a man he had come to know well enough in the last year and a half, but the steward was his usual efficient, reserved self. If the man possessed any opinion on the subject he betrayed no trace of it and he was carefully respectful of all he was obliged to greet, taking care to offer the correct level of deference to Kine.

‘My Lady Wyvern,’ Breven said as he bowed to her. ‘I am pleased to see you in good health.’

‘Thank you, Breven,’ Kine replied in a faint voice that told Narin she had been somewhat dreading the encounter still. ‘It seems I will be bowing to you before the morning is out, though.’

Breven might have been a servant caste, but he ran the Vanden palazzo around his master with an unquestioned authority and skill. He was perfectly capable of humiliating her within the bounds of protocol, but his expression didn’t change at Kine’s self-deprecating words. Narin guessed that loyalty to his lord was one thing, but he disliked his master’s desire for retribution.

‘I would not ask such a thing, my Lady,’ Breven said in a short tone. ‘I am here solely to witness what is done, nothing more.’

‘Then I thank you for that – and all that you have done for me these past few years. I am glad my … Lord Vanden has a man of your quality at his side.’

Breven pursed his lips and nodded, but if he had anything to add it was precluded by a clap of the hands by Prince Sorote.

‘Let us be under way, then,’ he said briskly, ‘Tattooist Evresh, you are clear in what you are to do?’

‘Yes, my Lord Sun,’ the woman said, bowing. ‘The mark of noble marriage to be struck through, the caste mark to be corrected to that of servant caste, the House mark to be struck and made an Imperial sun.’

‘Just so.’

Evresh set to work as briskly as she could, her inks and a variety of bone needles arranged neatly on the table. Kine endured it without making a sound, while Narin found himself biting his own lip as he watched Evresh deftly prick at Kine’s dark skin. All those assembled found themselves watching in uncomfortable silence, Breven and Myken staring down at the tattooist with stony expressions that she felt were hostile, by her wariness every time she looked up.

Dov woke and it was with some relief that Narin was forced to walk around the room, trying to let the movement settle her. Her cries were insistent, however, and at last Kine called him over, her voice sounding strangely loud after the long, tense silence.

‘Bring her here.’ With a small gesture she got Evresh to stop and rearranged her clothes so that she might begin to feed the squalling child as the tattooist continued to work on her shoulder. Myken stepped forward at that point and turned her back on Kine, one look at the princes and Breven enough to ensure they retreated to a safe distance. Once Narin had eased Dov out of the sling on his chest, Myken’s expression was enough to make him retreat with the others as soon as she was settled in her mother’s arms.

Kashte grinned at him as he joined them, Kesh taking up a position at Myken’s side to further obscure the view so only Kine’s bare shoulder was visible as Evresh recommenced her work.

‘You’re just marrying one of them, right?’ Kashte muttered to Narin.

‘He has yet to ask any such thing,’ Kine called from behind the screen of attendants. ‘But I think three wives might be too much for him and their prospects are somewhat brighter than my own, so they may prove more discerning. However, it looks as though I
am
at least now unmarried. Mistress Evresh, I commend your work.’

Kashte’s grin only widened at Narin’s startled expression, but it was Sorote who replied and in less jovial tones. ‘Perhaps not today, Mistress Kine, given the ink of your annulment remains wet.’

‘You are right of course, Prince Sorote, my apologies. I should not have spoken of it in such careless tones.’

Silence again reigned for the remaining time Evresh was at work, the only interruption being a briefly renewed burst of wails from Dov. The nature of caste tattoos was such that they followed a single form with the curved Imperial caste mark as the basis for all of them – each additional curve downgrading the caste a further step. An upgrading was impossible except by notation of marriage or Imperial decree.

At long last they were done and Dov was happily sated, asleep at the breast. Evresh took up a different bottle and her smallest bone needle at that point and, with Kine’s assistance, scraped a red mark on the baby’s shoulder with the needle’s edge. Once the marks of the House of the Sun and the craftsman caste, to match her father’s, were traced out on the flesh Evresh rubbed a rag soaked in the bottle’s contents over the mark. The mark would be renewed every few months for several years, staining the broken skin until Dov turned six and was deemed old enough to be tattooed properly.

Once that final piece was complete Kashte began to unbutton his braided jacket, beckoning Kesh forward to hold it for him while he rolled white silk sleeves up in preparation for the final indignity of Kine’s failed marriage.

Narin found himself gritting his teeth at the sight, more so when Kashte pulled a long bullwhip from inside his coat and let it uncoil at his feet. He looked away, knowing he could make no objection now, but as he did so there came an uncomfortable cough from Steward Breven.

‘I … I must apologise, Prince Sorote – and to you, my— Mistress Kine.’

He opened his own coat and from inside brought out a second whip – a different one. Narin couldn’t restrain a growl of anger when he saw what it was. The bullwhip would leave Kine bloodied and bruised, but Lord Vanden had clearly decided that was not sufficient for him. Breven carried a scourge, a lash used for the punishment of low caste soldiers serving a military term. A fat handle with seven leather thongs attached, the tip of each tapered and threaded through a hole in a flattened metal teardrop. It was a brutal weapon, even one stroke of which would prove agonising, and imagining it tearing down Kine’s slender back took Narin’s breath away.

‘You cannot be serious, Breven?’

‘I perhaps would not choose it this way,’ Breven said, not meeting Narin’s eyes, ‘but my master has instructed me thus.’

‘This was not what I had agreed with him,’ Sorote added, lacking Narin’s anger but his cold tone having a greater still effect on Breven’s manner.

‘My master feels it is within the bounds of your agreement, my Lord Sun,’ Breven said, ducking his head in some sort of makeshift bow as he spoke. ‘One stroke of a lash, the nature of which was not discussed, but Lord Vanden feels it only right the lash belongs to him.’