The Cold Commands (21 page)

“Anyone tells you I started that fight, they’re a fucking liar.”

Egar nodded. “Why I came to ask your side. Want to let me in?”

The younger man shrugged gracelessly and shoved the door wide. Backed up a couple of paces and held out both arms like a seller displaying his wares—or a man as he submits to being frisked by the City Guard.

“Sure. Mind your head.”

The room behind the door was hot and cramped, jammed under the eaves as it was. Stoop height only except in the very center. Harath filled the space simply by virtue of standing up in it—he was a big lad, still slim with youth but built in the shoulders and thighs from a lifetime of horsemanship and staff lance practice. Behind him, Egar saw a low cot under a tiny window, stained and tangled sheets, a threadbare cloth curtain that did little more than strain the sunlight blasting into the room. A chamber pot sat in one corner, but the bearish reek of the room was general.

“Share hearth and heart’s truth, break bread and sup under a shared sky.” The ritual disarming welcome phrases didn’t really work once you got down off the steppe and into a city, but Harath mumbled through them nonetheless. “The warmth of my fire is yours.”

“As grateful kin, I take my place.”

“Yeah, well …” Harath showed the skinning knife he’d been holding at his back. Made an apologetic gesture with it. He stuffed the blade into the sheath on his belt and stood there yawning—slept-in shirt and breeches, hair a tangled mess even by Majak standards. Night-before breath that Egar could smell on the yawn from a yard away. “Can’t be too careful, you know. Can’t even trust the brothers in this fucking place. And I don’t mean Majak across the board, guys like you—cuz that’s always been a bit iffy, right? I’m talking my own fucking Ishlinak blood-bond kin here.”

Egar pulled a face he hoped was sympathetic. Mostly, he was trying not to breathe too much of Harath’s secondhand air.

“Hard to believe, something like that. Yeah.”

“Believe it, old-timer.” Harath wandered back to the cot and sat
down hard enough to make the timbers crack. “This fucking city. Gets its teeth into you, you know. Sometimes wish I’d never set eyes on the place. Fucking Alnarh, I knew him back in Ishlin-ichan. Knew his kin out on the steppe. Sure, he was a bit of a mouthy prick, even then, but you could always trust him in a scrap. Trust him to get a brother’s back.”

“I hear he’s a convert now,” Egar hazarded. “What’s that about?”

“Yeah, it’s fucked up.” Harath scratched at his belly through the shirt. “I mean, we all did it, the cash was too good to turn down. No conversion, no commission, so we figure what the fuck, it’s only like marrying some Voronak tart or something; you got to make libations to all their pointy-faced little ice gods, else you’re never going to hear the end of it from her family, right? Same thing here. There’s this number you do, offering up your blade to that book they’ve got. Bunch of reciting, some incense, and you’re in.”

“So what went wrong?”

“Fuck knows. We had this squabble a few months back over a slave girl. Waggle-arsed little package from up in the League, you know what they’re like, right?”

Egar nodded absently—lurid images of Ishgrim dancing behind his eyes.

The Ishlinak mustered a weary grin. “Had udders on her like you wouldn’t believe, brother. And when I jumped her, well, Alnarh took that hard. He’s a jealous fuck at the best of times. But, nah …” Harath sank fists in his own hair, dragged the heels of his hands down his face. Shook his head. “He was acting weird way before that. It’s like he was buying into the Revelation for real. When he talked about it, he got this look in his eye. Starts telling us to stop using Dweller names around him when we curse. Some shit about offending the angels. I mean, come on. I expected the others to call him on it, couple of them are way closer kin than I can lay claim to, I think Larg’s a full cousin or something. But they just let it go. And then when Menkarak comes calling, it’s a whole—”

“Menkarak?” A moment too late, the words already out of his mouth, Egar realized the way he’d jumped. “Pashla Menkarak, you talking about?”

“That’s right.” Harath looked up. “Listen, Skaranak, don’t take this the wrong way, but what the fuck’s your interest here?”

“Ahh, the usual.” Trying belatedly for mercenary nonchalance. “Took blade pay from a court noble and now she’s into it with the Citadel. Fine as far as that goes, but then I hear they’ve been hiring brothers, and that’s new. Never figured I might end up fighting my own kind when I took the purse.”

Harath shrugged morosely. “Coin is coin.”

“Yeah—speaking of which, the old guy downstairs told me to tell you he needs you tonight. If that makes sense.”

A grimace. “Sense enough.”

“He got you strong-arming for him?”

“Debt collection.” Harath yawned and gestured. “This fucking city. Got to cover the rent somehow, you know how it is.”

“Been there once or twice when I was your age, yeah.”

“Not going to pretend I like it much.” The young Ishlinak picked up the chamber pot and peered into it, grimaced again and put it down. “Thumping some poor kid about to get money back he borrowed to buy a ring or impress his friends. Or—like last week—some war widow trying to feed her kids when they just doubled the rice tax. Lot of the time, I’ll just stand there behind the old fuck with my arms folded. With the widows, that’s usually enough. They don’t have the money, they’ll take him behind the curtain, or get the daughter to do it. He’s good like that, most times he’ll let it slide, you know. But fuck, man, if I’d known back in Ishlin-ichan I was going to be making my bread like this …”

“Coin is coin,” Egar reminded him.

“Yeah, well it’s a pretty small fistful. By the time he writes off the rent, lucky if I’m eating two squares a day.” Harath’s face changed, seemed abruptly younger. “You really a Dragonbane like you said?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“Takes some balls, huh?”

“And some luck.” Egar chopped down the subject. “You didn’t think about going up the hill, then? Sign up for Demlarashan, get some coin that way?”

Harath stared at him. “I did two tours down there last year. That was enough for me. Fucking shit-hole. You ever been?”

“In the war, yeah.” Egar shrugged. “Different then.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that. But I’ll tell you something for
nothing, Dragonbane—they’re all fucking nuts down there now. I reckon it’s the heat.”

Egar remembered the heat, like some solid bronze idol of a fat man he had to carry around everywhere, seated weightily on his shoulders, fat burnished thighs wrapping around his neck, pressing down on his chest. The steppes in summer could be sweltering—but it was nothing compared with Demlarashan heat. And Harath was right, the locals were mostly barking mad. He didn’t blame the Ishlinak. He wouldn’t go back himself if he could possibly avoid it.

Not even to look at the bones of that fucking dragon.

“Tell you,” the young Ishlinak muttered. “Demlarashan, it’s a waste of fucking time. The Empire’s never going to rein them in, doesn’t matter how many men they spend. Those guys got nothing better to do down there than string each other up over spelling mistakes in the fucking Revelation. Might as well give it up now and go home. I mean, it’s not like there’s anything down there worth having anyway. It really is a shit-hole. Nothing grows, you’re lucky if you can keep goats. So let them keep their goats and their fucking rock temples and gibberish texts and acres of fucking sand. Who gives a shit?”

Egar looked around for somewhere to sit down, but there was only the cot. The room was growing oppressive.

“Well, next time I’m up at court, I’ll be sure and pass on your strategic advice.”

Harath shot him a hungry look. “You really gigging for a noble, huh?”

“Yep. Like I said.”

“Good purse, yeah?”

Egar nodded. “Very good. You want to get some lunch?”

THEY FOUND A TAVERN IN A STEEP BACKSTREET WITH VIEWS OUT ACROSS
the Span and the estuary. Harath apparently knew it from his high-rolling days before Menkarak fired him. They took a table out on the balcony. Ordered some hair-of-dog to blunt the edge of the Ishlinak’s hangover.

“Wasn’t him personally, mind you.” Harath, surfacing from the suds
of his ale. “They got Alnarh to tell me. Which he did with a big fucking grin on his face, the cunt. Said if I couldn’t
comport myself like a man of faith
, I had no business standing guard over Citadel property. Like
he
wouldn’t have jumped that bitch if she’d given him half a look.”

“So it was about this girl then?”

Harath stared off across the water. “Oh, I guess. Like I said, Alnarh was acting twitchy well before that, but yeah, that seemed to send him over the edge. Fucking nuts, it’s not like he couldn’t have had his pick from the others.”

“The others?”

“Sure, they’re keeping a whole gaggle of them up there. Some boys, too, if that’s your thing.”

Egar frowned. “Up there? At the Citadel?”

“No, man—Afa’marag.” Harath jerked a thumb over his shoulder, upriver. “The old horse stringer’s temple, up by the locks. Menkarak had it opened up again in the spring. Creepy fucking place. You didn’t know that?”

“No. And what are they doing up at Afa’marag? Aside from corralling slaves?”

“Fuck knows. I never bothered getting that close, they were paying me well enough just to keep an eye on the gate and take food into the slave pen. Alnarh and Larg volunteered for sanctum duty, arse-licking around Menkarak as usual.” The young Ishlinak shook his head. “Way too much purifying prayer and memorizing bollocks in it for me. Who needs that shit?”

The food came. Harath plunged in. Egar watched him eat, picked at his own plate for appearances. Mostly, he was thinking it through. Shuffling Harath’s grumblings together with what he already knew from Archeth’s briefing the previous year, and Imrana’s court gossip since. Trying to assemble it all into a hand you could bet something on.

Invigilator Pashla Menkarak—son of Grand Invigilator Envar Menkarak, and a big noise now in his own right, it seemed. A loud voice among the new crop of humorless asshole invigilators they were apparently cultivating up at the Citadel these days.
Renowned writer of clerical opinions and interpreter of holy text
—Imrana read that one out to him from a court communiqué she had secondhand a couple of months
back. She reckoned he’d once been a pretty canny political animal, but now he was openly critical of the Empire’s failure to properly consolidate conquests of infidel territory in the north after the war. The King’s Reach suspected direct links with the Demlarashan tendency, but it seemed they couldn’t prove it yet, and with the way things were between palace and Citadel right now, that kept Menkarak safe.

Archeth had gone head-to-head with the fucker last year at court, and the Emperor backed her play. Teetering moments when it looked like the tensions between palace and Citadel might crack wide open. But cooler heads from the Citadel forced an apology, and Menkarak skulked off into the tall grass. There’d been no further direct clashes, but behind every shot the Citadel had taken at intimidation since, Archeth reckoned you could count Menkarak’s hand, or the hand of invigilators who shared his dickhead views.

Whatever the little turd was doing upriver would bear a look.

“You reckon you could get me in?” he asked.

Harath looked up over a laden fork. “In where? Afa’marag? Doubt it. Alnarh told the others not to have anything to do with me after I got thrown out.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t really thinking about going in the front door.”

“Ohh.” A slow nod. The Ishlinak shoveled the forkful of food in and grinned through it as he chewed. “All right, I got you. Yeah, that’s doable. Place is ancient, it’s falling apart. Got a whole stack of places you could break in with not much more than a bent pin. Show you that if you like, sure.”

“What about coming in with me?”

Harath hesitated. Swallowed his food and sat back. “What is this, Skaranak? What you want to get in there for? Come on, really. Man, if you’re looking for some cheap League pussy, I can take you to a couple of—”

“It’s not about the girls.” Hurriedly. “The boys, either. Like I said, this Menkarak’s on the other side of a blade gig from me, and I’m just looking for an edge. All I want to do is get in there, poke around for a bit, see what I find. Get out again without making any noise.”

“I don’t want to get in a fight with any of these guys. Not with steel.”

“We won’t.”

“ ’Cause they used to be my friends, right? Wasn’t for Alnarh, they probably still would be. All that shit down at the Lizard’s Head? That only kicked off because I bought Elkret a drink and Alnarh told him to pour it away. Fucking prick.”

Egar sat forward. “Son, look at me. We won’t get in a fight with your friends. We won’t get in a fight with anyone. We get in, we have a look around, maybe ask a couple of questions to some of these slaves, then we get out. Do it right, no one has to even know we were there. But I need you to show me the way in, and I need you to watch my back for me while I’m inside. You do that, I’ll see your rent covered for the rest of the month, and top you up fifty elementals in cash into the bargain. Save you having to go out on widow-battering duty for a while.”

Harath settled back to his meal again. Shrugged. Chuckled as he broke bread. “Okay, man, what am I going to say to that? You got me. Coin is coin.”

“Coin is coin,” Egar agreed. “And I’m going to throw in another twenty when we’re done. You want to know what that’s for?”

“Sure.” Throwaway gesture—the younger man’s attention didn’t come up off his plate. “Hit me with it.”

“That’s to keep your mouth shut. No drinking down the Lizard’s Head, yarning about how you broke into a Citadel temple with a Dragonbane for company.”

A noncommittal grunt. “Does sound like a good yarn, that. Worth a few beers.”

“Hey.” Egar snapped his fingers under Harath’s nose. Got him eye-to-eye. “You listen to what I’m telling you, Ishlinak. Twenty. On top. Mouth shut. I’ll want your blood oath on that.”