The Cold Commands (68 page)

Miraculously enough, it worked the first time.

The flask kicked in his hand, raged glaring white fire that soaked slowly out to deeper colors and left dancing blotches across his vision. Smoke traced a perfect rising arc from the flare’s kick, upward through the warming air, then broke and hung, and drifted eastward on the wind. Over Ringil’s head, a chemical green light hung in the sky, staining the morning uncanny.

Out in the river, farther down, something big flopped and splashed and sank again.

ARCHETH FOUND HIM SITTING ON THE RIVERBANK, STARING OUT OVER
the water as if wondering how he might get across. The Ravensfriend lay across his lap; Pashla Menkarak’s severed head was bedded down in the dirt at his side, dead eyes gazing emptily at the same far shore.

Under the inch-deep wavelets the water made at its edge, Ringil’s dragon-tooth dagger stuck up out of the sandy mud, buried there to the hilt.

She stopped a couple of yards behind him, quelling the ache of relief in her throat. She swallowed. Put hands on hips.

“Gil? You mind telling me just what the fuck
wards of the palace
is supposed to mean?”

He glanced up. “There you are.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Can’t move a fucking horse faster than a walk this time of the morning. Got here fast as we could.” She looked at Menkarak’s head, prodded it with a toe so it fell over on its face in the riverbank dirt. “We’d better get that out of sight before someone sees it.”

“They’ve already seen it, Archidi.” He set the Ravensfriend aside and levered himself to his feet. Grinned at her—she held down a flinch. “No one’s given me any trouble.”

She nodded down at the dragon-tooth dagger. “What’s that doing there?”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Long story. Washed up there, I think.”

“Washed up?” She stared at the neatly pegged blade, the hilt jutting out of the wavelets, then back at his blood-painted face and the haggard eyes that stared out of it. “Gil, are you feeling okay? You’re not hurt?”

He gave her the grin again. “Couple of scratches. Nothing that won’t heal behind a bath and some sleep. You get the Dragonbane out yet?”

“Yeah. Bit of a story to that, actually.”

Behind them, something rumbled. Birds startled out of reeds all along the river. Ringil and Archeth both looked around in time to see a section of the temple’s front façade belly inward and collapse. Dust boiled outward from the impact. Excited yelling. Uniforms ran about, keeping people back.

“Been doing that all morning,” Ringil said inconsequentially. He
bent and retrieved the dragon knife, wiped it carefully on his bloodied and mud-clogged breeches. He held it up to the light, as if to be sure of some aspect in its carving.

“It’s a good knife, that,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to lose it.”

Noyal Rakan came hurrying down the bank toward them. His face was suffused with joy, but it faded a little when he saw Gil’s face.

“My lord Ringil.” He stopped short. “Are you … hale?”

Gil nodded and stowed the knife. “Hale enough.”

“Well, then.” The Throne Eternal captain looked at Archeth. “We must get him up to the palace at once. The, uh, the Emperor requests your immediate presence.”

“Really?”

“Really,” said Archeth drily.

More of the temple fell in behind them. Ringil gazed at it for a long moment, then looked back to his companions.

“Right, then. I’d better get cleaned up. Either of you got any idea what His Imperial Radiance wants so urgently?”

Archeth and Rakan exchanged glances. Archeth shrugged. Gestured with an open palm.

“I think he’s going to give you a medal,” she said.

RINGIL LAUGHED ALL THE WAY TO THE HORSES. IT WASN’T AN ENTIRELY
pleasant sound.

He was still making the same harsh, mirthless noise to himself, quietly, on and off, as the three of them rode westward along the river with the rising sun at their backs and their faces cast in shadow. His companions stole uneasy glances at him, but could think of nothing to say. They clucked to the horses instead, and their mounts picked up a little speed. Their shadows leaned on ahead of them, as if anxious to leave something behind.

Later, they would say only that he rode wordless and corpse-stiff in the saddle, that tear tracks from the laughter cut down his blood-caked face like the mark of claws, and that he never wiped them away.

In addition to the previously named giants whose shoulders I stood on for
The Steel Remains
, I now realize belatedly that both that novel and this also owe the following debts of inspiration:

To M. John Harrison for Viriconium and its denizens, in all their grubby glory.

To Steph Swainston for Comet Jant Shira (and his ice ax!).

To Glen Cook for the war-weary world-weary Black Company.

In the Realm of Editors, heartfelt thanks go to Simon Spanton, who waited patiently and graciously for
The Cold Commands
to take shape, longer than most editors would have without picking up an ax, and who never ground his teeth in my company even once that whole time (or at least not audibly).

Thanks also to Chris Schluep, Alain Nevant, Sascha Mamzcak, and all the other foreign editors who camped out with Simon under a sky full of deadlines burning up on reentry, and never flinched. And to my agent Carolyn Whitaker for her calm aplomb in helping me navigate some fairly choppy waters over the last year or two.

For hands-on cartographical help, rendered completely gratis, I’m very grateful to Ravi Shankar for lending gravitas to a geography I’d only ever considered in the vaguest of terms. The map he created has proved a major inspiration in building some of the fine detail in
The Cold Commands
.

Thanks also to JW and to MD for helping me keep it real.

Thanks to Virginia for keeping me real.

And thanks, finally, to all of you who waited so patiently for Ringil, Egar, and Archeth to return. Hope it’s been as worthwhile for you as it has for me.