Dark Legion (39 page)

I took all that and forged it into a true name with my blood and pain. “Marcus,” I said, and cold surged down my back like I had never felt. His face told me he felt something too. He drew his blade and came at me. “Stop,” I commanded, and he stopped mid-motion. “Marcus, I bind you to my will. You will help me when you can, advise me when needed, protect me and my interests. When Ubrain is free and a kingdom once more, this binding will lift from you.” I took a deep breath. The cold continued to spill down my spine, which was new to me, and I drank it in. His face was the picture of rage, and I saw murder in his eyes. “Marcus, when I punch you in the face, you will forget everything that happened since Neysa left the room. You will forgive me for binding you. You will be happy and know that you are loved.”

I did love the man. I loved him as a brother, but I smiled as I stood, clenched my fist, and punched him in the face with all my strength. He fell to his arse, which was satisfying, and partly made up for my aching fist and bleeding hand.

The look on his face was priceless as it wavered between smiling and frowning. Like the sudden happiness he felt was at odds with his memory. I held a hand out to him, and he took it but looked unsure.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I shouldn't have punched you. Your face is like a granite cliff.”

“I'm sorry, too,” he said, but his brow furrowed. “I won't bring it up again.”

I felt no guilt for what I did to him—not this time, not armed with the knowledge of the alternative. If he had been willing to just leave, then that would have sufficed, but the constant bitching and moaning was unbearable.

 

Marcus offered to accompany me on my errands that day, which was new, as he had been distant since we arrived in Morwynne. Really, since the incident in the tavern so many months ago. Increasingly, he chose isolation, which was quite unlike the man I knew him to be. I'd encouraged it to begin with, alas, being a man that loved my peace, but the mutual isolation only divided us further.

Well, the chasm between us had been bridged by my betrayal, and I was quite sure that I would burn that bridge to ashes one day. If it cost me a friend to restore my kingdom, so be it. Not that he had been much of a friend recently.

 

I left him at the Eagle's Perch, opening and closing my bandaged hand, feeling the stitches tug at my skin. Marcus may have forgiven me, but I was still bitter with him, with the constant reminders of my failures, those I'd murdered, and those I'd killed more indirectly. So I walked alone once more, like a lion in the desert.

 

Harvest Festival was looking to be a shit day. It had started poorly and continued on that track as I made my way to the lake. Up until that point, I had considered the avenues wide beyond reason. However, I had to barge my way through the mass of people clogging the streets. It was in all ways the opposite of the day preceding it. All of Morwynne, and probably more besides, cluttered the streets. These people just stood there, in circles and pairs, men, woman and children, chattering, eating, laughing and drinking. They did everything except move out of my Gods-damned way!

The drone of the voices, the bodies—their sweat, filth and stink, all pressed on me and made me want to scream. Scream, and cut a bloody path through them. If ever there was a thing that would push me over the edge of sanity, this was it.

So it was that I shoved and barged my way through the mass of filth, becoming increasingly forceful with every passing moment. With every moment, too, the smell of them intensified. Not to be overdramatic, but it was bad enough to make me gag.

I shoved a big fat man, filthier than the rest, with food stuck through his beard and smelling of drink. He tripped over another, and an open space appeared before my eyes. The man, and the lady he tripped over, fell with a splash. The crowd was so tightly packed that I had not realized how close to the lake I was.

And the smell… I held a sleeve to my nose, but it did little to help. The smell that I'd assumed came from the people was actually from the rotting fish. While some had floated the night before, the lake was now white with the bodies of decaying fish.

Those around me laughed at the fat man's misfortune and yelled jibes as he struggled to get to his feet. The lady who had joined him in the water got to hers first and gave him a savage kick to the guts.

“You oaf! You ruined my dress. And my hair…” she said, wringing water from it.

He finally stood, still swaying with the drink, and pulled his arm back to show her the back of his hand. He stopped when he noticed the crowd of faces, dropping it to his side. Scowling, he looked over his shoulder at the water, perhaps fearing that some fish were still alive out there. “This bastard pushed me in,” the man shouted, pointing at me.

A few turned my way, and I shrugged. “I thought you needed a bath.” Many laughed, and a few agreed that it was indeed long overdue.

The man stumbled forward and swung a fist at me. I did not need Marcus's years of experience to see it coming, and I moved aside with time to spare. With his weight behind it, and too much drink to compensate, his fist continued on. It connected with the man behind me. He was bigger than the drunk, perhaps even than Marcus, and head-butted the man. Soon, they wrestled on the ground, a tangle of limbs, sneaking punches where they could. Drunk men wrestling—people would pay for the sport, but those around me got a free show.

I turned and looked out over the lake. I had come with the intention of seeing how my glass was holding up, but the surface was so covered in dead fish that this was an impossibility. I took heart in the fact that the fish were yet to be cleaned up, making it unlikely that anyone would have looked at the grate covering the opening. Besides, that number of dead fish were sure to do the job anyway, and I wished that this had occurred to me before. Well, had I known how many of the damned things there were, it might have.

 

I left the pond and made for the train station, but it was not a day for getting things done quickly. What would have been a short walk on any other day took close to an hour. I half expected the station to be packed as well, but it was as empty as every other time I'd been there. The slaves were there, of course—more of them than usual. But the quiet, cavernous building, even with the slaves, was like an oasis, and I took a long slow breath.

Ferran came to meet me, bowing. I nodded in return, then looked over to where the waterfall had once cascaded. Now it looked like a light rain, and I smiled.

“My prince,” Ferran said.

“Did you spread the word?” I asked.

“I did, my prince.”

“How many will come?”

“Not all, but many. It's hard to know exactly how many, but at a guess… a thousand? Maybe two.”

My eyes widened, and my breath caught in my throat. I was expecting perhaps a hundred. A thousand or more was good—great, really—but that was a large number to sneak out. Especially if the tunnel was blocked.

“Good work. Can you take me to the waterwheel? I want to check on something.”

We passed the lone wagon on the tracks, still sitting and waiting with Malakai's rockets strapped tight. Ferran led me through the door to the room where the waterwheel sat in the channel. The room was quieter than at my last visit, and the wheel turned slowly, barely at all. I stood on the metal grate that covered the channel and looked down at my escape tunnel. It was still filled with water, but perhaps only knee-deep. Dead fish floated here, too. It had not occurred to me that some would find their way down, though it should have. That could have been a nasty surprise.

“Has anyone been here to check on why the waterfall stopped flowing?”

“Yes, my prince. Several men came to check and wrote reports. They looked at the wheel but left soon after. Everyone is so busy preparing for the festival that no one has time to look at it right now. One said it won't be till next week.”

“Good,” I said. “I have an important job for you. I want you to lift the grate and make your way along the tunnel to see if it's clear. Take several torches—it might be a long walk, but you have a few hours, and you should be able to check the length of it and return before I do. If it's clear, mark the wall beside the door with a circle; if it's blocked, a cross. If that's the case we will need to postpone the escape. Understood?” He nodded. “Tonight, when the rest of your men arrive, make your way up the tunnel. I should be along shortly after.”

“We will wait for you, my prince,” Ferran said.

“No, you won't. When we arrive, it's likely to be with the force of the hells on our heels. You best be off before that. Best of luck, Ferran. Pray we meet again soon.”

 

Back at the Eagle's Perch, Marcus, Neysa and I sat in my sitting room, drinking coffee. Well, Neysa had an odd-smelling tea she called chai, but she was never one to conform. I was utterly exhausted and slumped in the settee. The first thing I did when I returned was have a bath and wash the filth and the sweat of the people from me. It helped settle my nerves, too.

“Are we ready? For tonight?” Neysa asked.

“As ready as we will be,” I said.

“It's a pity Malakai isn't here with us,” Neysa said.

I narrowed my eyes at her.

“What?” Neysa asked. “The man knows stuff! He probably has some idea of how tonight will pan out. If he was here…”

“You've become awfully fixated on that old bastard,” I said. “Just marry him and be done with it.”

“Don't be sick,” Neysa said.

“I have to admit, I'm surprised he hasn't shown up,” Marcus said. “Or his raven. Though he may surprise us yet.”

“I won't hold my breath,” I said. “If we need a fortune-teller, we have you.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Neysa said. “He doesn't know his face from his arse—what in the hells does he know of the future?”

“Little do you know Neysa,” I said. “Our Marcus is an expert at reading tea leaves. Or coffee grains, same difference. He did it once before, and pretty much everything came true.”

“Piss off,” Neysa said.

“No, really.”

Neysa looked at Marcus, and he nodded sheepishly. “Then why the hells has he not done it since, may I ask?”

Marcus looked at me, and we shrugged. “Kinda forgot about it, I suppose,” Marcus said.

“You just forgot about it? Do it now then—here you go. We'll see about this.” Neysa drained her cup and handed it to Marcus. Marcus shrugged and took it, swirling the cup, tilting it this way and that, and gazing into the tea leaves for a long time before speaking.

“Enough with the dramatic tension,” Neysa said. “I'm an actor, remember? I know the tricks.”

Marcus scowled at her and looked back at the cup. “I see… two doors, one open, one closed. Could mean many things, like options opening or closing to us. Or you know… a door.”

“You're right,” Neysa said. “This guy is a genius.”

“I see a fox, meaning treachery, often by a friend,” Marcus said, narrowing his eyes at Neysa. I nearly choked on my coffee. “Or it could indicate an unseen enemy. I see a thumb, I think. Which shows an opportunity to prove oneself. I see a boat, or a ship, which could mean news from distant lands. Though, if we survive this night, I bet we'll be going on a long journey. Lastly, I see a wagon? Something like that. We'll go with wagon. A wagon is usually given to mean approaching poverty. Maybe I should change that one…”

“I see why you didn't do this more than once,” Neysa said. “Bunch of crap. A door? I see several from where I sit. We have no choice but to use one unless you grow some wings.”

“You know,” Marcus said. “The last person I did a reading for wasn't nearly as much of a bitch.”

Neysa gasped. “Sir! You wound me.” She made a rude gesture.

“Problem is,” I said. “Marcus's readings only show themselves to be true after the fact.”

“Well, isn't
that
convenient?” Neysa said and got to her feet. “I'm getting dressed. I suggest you do the same.” She stormed through the door and called back. “Oh, look, I used a door. Prophesies are coming true before our eyes.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Reception

 

We arrived at the palace fashionably late. That is to say that we were fashionable, and extremely late. As we walked through the door, I saw Hobart standing, waving frantically. He looked relieved to see us. The rest of the room paid us little attention, though some ignored us with purpose, and a few raised their noses. The stuck-up bastards had no idea who we were, but perhaps that was reason enough.

The banquet hall was enormous, the ceiling hidden in shadow far above the chandeliers, and the room long enough to fit the ship I had burned with room to spare. Pillars, carved with all manner of leaf, bird and vine, lined the walls, and the red and gold banners of the empire only served to detract from their beauty.

I puzzled over that. The pillars were absent from the plans I had of the palace. They were too decorated to serve such an ordinary task as supporting a roof, and I decided they had been added more recently, just for show.