Dark Legion (34 page)

“Sometimes,” Leon said. “It's just a job, really, and it can get a bit boring at times. I'm always at the palace, so one day is much the same as the next. I come from a noble house, and my father has made sure I'll never go to the front lines.”

“You wanted front-line duty?” Marcus asked.

“I did, when I was younger. Now, I am not sure I would be cut out for it. The legion is expected to be brutal, and I don't think I can do the things they would expect of me.”

It always surprised me how open people were with Marcus. Complete strangers often spilled their life story at a mere prodding, unsavory parts and all. I wondered if he knew a naming of sorts. I would murder him if he used something like that on me after all the grief he had given me.

“Will you stay in the legion?” Marcus asked.

“Not sure,” Leon said. “I have been thinking about trying my hand at something else. I doubt I'll be a lifer, but… I also hate to prove my father right.”

“He did not approve of your joining?”

“No, no he did not,” Leon said. “He wanted me to become a diplomat, like he is. Truth be told I think I would be good at it. It would be nice to settle things with our neighbors with less bloodshed.”

“Perhaps you should give it a try,” Marcus said. “If that's what you want to do, why wait?”

Leon walked along in silence for a short time, deep in thought. “I think you're right. I might speak to my father this evening. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Marcus said.

We walked another minute before Leon spoke again. “He does lie with men, by the way.”

“Eh?” Marcus asked.

“The centurion at the gate. He has been seeing another man, another centurion, for some years now. No one cares, but… being against the law, we all pretend not to know.”

Marcus laughed. “I thought it a odd exchange.”

 

Leon led us to the cellar door. We followed him through a maze of wooden racks full of dusty wine bottles, until we came to a large open area filled with our barrels, and perhaps a few others. My breath caught in my throat when I saw three men sprawled on the floor. Their pewter tankards lay scattered nearby, and one looked to have pissed himself.
Shit
. The thieving bastards had sampled our poisoned ale.

“Drunk on the job. There will be hell to pay,” Leon said.

“Yes… yes, very bad form,” I said. My heart was thumping in my chest.

Leon walked up a ramp leading from the far wall and called for more guards. Two men soon arrived, and Leon pointed to the keepers of the cellar. They shook their heads and proceeded to drag the men away. They took little care with the men, a small revenge for having to drag them away.

“Check your barrels,” Leon said. “I'll be back in a few minutes. Please don't leave here until I return. The palace guards have been commanded to kill trespassers before asking questions. The emperor gets a bit more… cautious during the festival.”

He made his way up the ramp, dragging the third man behind him. When he was gone, Marcus turned to me with his eyebrows raised. Fortunately, Leon did not suspect the ale itself was worthy of further investigation.

“That was close,” Marcus said.

“Too close.”

 

Having seen as much of the palace as we were likely to before the festival, we made our way back to the station. We found the building mostly deserted, with just a few slaves at work. They nodded or bowed to me as we entered, though I did not recall these particular men. All the bowing made me very uncomfortable. We walked to the edge of the stone platform, and I retrieved the copies I'd made. They fit nicely in my boot.

“What are you looking for?” Marcus asked.

“There used to be a tunnel that led from here into the hills, but I'm having a hard time trying to match what was to what is.”

“Let me see that,” Marcus said, snatching the plan from my hands. “Hmm. I think that stained wall over there was previously an external wall.”

I took it back and looked from wall, to plan, and back again. “I think you may be right.” We made our way to the wall, and I walked along it until I came to a timber door. It was locked. One of the slaves stopped what he was doing and came to join us.

“Can I assist you, my prince,” the man asked.

“What's behind this door?” I asked.

“A waterwheel, my prince.”

“A waterwheel?”

“Let me show you,” the slave said. He retrieved a key ring from his belt and sorted through it until he found the one he was looking for. He pushed the door open, and I found the room more brightly lit than I'd expected. Half of the room stood open to the sky, and the sun was bright. A large timber wheel spun in the middle of the room, taller than the ceiling. A channel, maybe two meters wide, cut the room in two, and the wheel sat within it. It had long buckets fixed to its spokes. I walked onto the metal grate that covered the channel, and looked down on a fast-flowing stream. The buckets picked up water as the wheel spun and dumped the water onto the roof before returning empty. I had wondered how water was supplied to the roof for the decorative waterfall, and while the wheel provided a simple solution, it still seemed excessive. My father would have fought his way back from the hells if he could see how much effort and water were wasted for the sake of an oversized water ornament. Water was a constant concern for him, as it was for all my people, and not even a drop went wasted.

“This does not help me much,” I said.

“Explain,” Marcus said.

“Behold,” I said, pointing down at the channel. “My escape tunnel is now a river.”

“Oh,” Marcus said. “Well, that sucks.”

“Quite,” I said. I turned to the slave who kept watch at the door. “Tell me, where does this water come from?”

“There is an inlet from a pond at the city center,” the man said.

“Thank you. Marcus, let's go for a walk.”

 

When we came to the city center, I found that what a resident of Morwynne might call a pond looked to my eyes an awful lot like a lake. A river flowed straight through the city to feed the decorative lake, which discharged along a canal on the far side. Several islands stuck out from the clear water, with flowers planted in decorative patterns. While the lake was wide, it also looked shallow. I suspected a grown man could keep his head above the water without swimming.

The lake sat at the center of the large open space. People wedged together on the benches around its edge while pairs and groups were scattered around the grass, drinking, eating, and talking while basking in the autumn sun. I was surprised that although many children played around the water, none were playing in it.

“It's beautiful, isn't it,” a foppish man said as he walked over to us. He had a small paint brush stuck behind his ear, and an apron hung around his neck, covered in a rainbow of colors. “If you'd like, I could paint a portrait of you. It really does make a fabulous backdrop.”

“Wouldn't kill them to plant a few trees,” I said.

“There were trees once. But the leaves kept clogging the drain to the new train station, and sadly they had to go.”

“I don't see a drain,” Marcus said.

“If you look just over there,” the man said, pointing at a spot between two islands. “You can make out the grate that covers the opening.”

“Couldn't they just rake it clean?” I asked.

“Well, of course they could,” the man said. “But volunteers were few and far between. Even those filthy slaves took some persuading. One even chose public execution over going in there,” the man said between laughs. “No great loss, but it became a nuisance, so the trees went.”

I stared daggers into the man, and anger boiled within me. Marcus stepped forward, blocking my way with his shoulder. “What's wrong with the water? Too cold?” Marcus asked.

“Oh, heavens no,” the man said, still laughing. “It's filled with those dreadful red-bellied fish. Why, they have become quite at home, and I suppose I can't blame them. People keep feeding them. If you'd like, you can buy some overpriced meat from that gentleman over there and feed them yourselves. Or push one of the slaves in, which would provide more sport and save you a silver coin. They do fleece the tourists so.”

Marcus dragged me away toward a small stall. A stocky man with a red beard stood behind it, and he too had an apron spattered with color—the uniform dark red of dried blood. He had several large bowls in front of him, each filled with large chunks of meat. “Can we have one of those, please?” Marcus said.

“One silver,” the man said, handing over a bowl. I fished out a silver coin and handed it to him. “Bring the bowl back when you're done.”

We walked to the water's edge, and Marcus looked back at the man over his shoulder. “Well, he's not exactly the talkative type.”

“I like him better than that painter,” I said, picking up a chunk of meat. I threw it deep into the lake and waited. Just as I'd begun to think nothing was going to happen, there was a splash. It was quickly followed by another, then another. Then there was such activity that the water looked to boil. The water became darker, tainted with blood. I took another chunk and heaved it some distance from the first. In seconds, a flurry of activity erupted there as well. “Wow,” Marcus said. “That's something.”

“I was wondering why none of the kids were swimming in there. That would answer it. Let's go back to the Eagle's Perch. My legs have had enough of standing.” We walked back to the vendor to return his bowl, still mostly full, and I saw the painter was now busy at his easel. “Mind getting us some treacle apples?” I asked, pointing at a merchant. Marcus nodded and walked ahead. “One for Neysa, too.”

When there was some distance between us, I walked to the painter, picking up my pace. As I walked past, I pulled a poisoned pin from my sleeve and pricked the painter on the back of his arm. “I beg your pardon,” the painter said. “What are you about?” I did not turn to him but kept walking as I returned the pin to my sleeve. I did stop when I looked down, though. The pinhead between my finger and thumb was red. I had meant to use a blue one. Things would not go well for him. Too bad, I thought. But there was an odd hollow feeling in the space just below my ribs. Guilt? It was unusual, at any rate. Perhaps I was just hungry.

 

Back at the Eagle's Perch, we found Neysa sprawled on her bed. “Shopping was hard, then?” Marcus asked.

She lifted her head and smiled. “Hells yes, my legs are killing me. You would not believe how many shops there are. And huge.”

“Got what you wanted?” Marcus asked. She nodded, her smile even wider. “Do show,” Marcus said.

She shook her head. “It's a surprise,” she said, and winked at me. At least, I thought it was at me.

“We got you a treacle apple if you want one,” I said.

“Ooh,” she said, jumping to her feet, and taking it from my hand. “These were my favorite when I was a little girl. A traveling troupe of jesters came through our village once or twice a year. There were always a few merchants that accompanied them, and sometimes they sold these. Thank you,” she said smiling at me. “A letter came for you,” Neysa said. “It's on the table.”

I unfolded it. “It's from Hobart,” I said. “He has invited us to his father-in-law's estate tomorrow for dinner.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTY

Coming Together

 

As much as I usually enjoyed breakfast, the next morning I went without. I didn't even have coffee, as I felt like boiled shit. On the upside, I wasn't dead. Turns out, immunity to poison was not something you kept for long. At least not when you became lax at self-administering the stuff. I thought I would die. I probably deserved to. There were, however, some very angry people in the streets below my balcony, now covered in whatever had been in my stomach. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and sat back down at the table.

Marcus looked at me as he ate, making all kinds of appreciative noises. He was trying to piss me off, and he had succeeded swimmingly. I was tempted to poison the bastard and see how he liked it. Nothing fatal, mind you; just something unpleasant. He was angry at me for threatening to bind him again. When he arrived and I told him I was sick, he decided to wave all manner of food at me. I'd felt ill and pissed off, so I'd threatened to bind him and command him to jump from the balcony. I wasn't serious of course, but he took it poorly.

I held my sleeve to my mouth as I belched, relieved it was only gas. In retrospect, I should have taken a smaller sample of poisons, staggered over two or more days. Just a week had passed since my last dosage, but that was a lot in the world of an assassin—at least, one who used poison when the opportunity presented itself. Too many would-be assassins had died from their own poisons, and I would not be hoist with my own petard, as the saying went.

 

“I am going to the library today,” Neysa said. “Morwynne's imperial library has more books than any other.”