Dark Legion (40 page)

At the center of the hall sat a large horseshoe-shaped table, filling most of the room, and around it sat a couple of hundred finely dressed arseholes. You could put makeup on an arsehole, but it would still be an arsehole. My father had taught me that. Well, I'd overheard him tell it to an adviser once; almost the same.

At the far side of the hall was a dais, on top of which rested a massive skull, sharp teeth sticking from it. The huge jaws were open, as if ready to snap up the throne that sat inside. I was sure it had come from the kronos that was beached near the tavern.

A wiry old man approached us, his long coat streaming behind him as he walked our way with purpose, one arm held to his chest, his other hand holding a scroll. He unrolled the scroll with a flurry and pushed his spectacles back up his nose. “Names?”

“Owners and employees of the Bleeding Wolf,” I said.

He ran his finger down the scroll, and when he found our names listed, gestured to the table. I got the impression that, had we been more noteworthy, he would have announced us and probably led us to our seats.

No matter. I was happy to remain as anonymous as possible, though I doubted it would be for long if we succeeded that night. Besides, Hobart still stood beside our empty seats. He rocked on his feet, looking nervous as all hells. I felt much the same. We walked to him, and I noticed that two guards stood between each of the pillars. There were a lot of pillars. I pulled out Neysa's chair for her and found my own. I noticed that ours were the last empty chairs left around the table.

“A bit late, aren't we?” Hobart asked.

“Have you seen how many people there are out there?” I asked. “It took forever to get here, and it's not like it's a long walk. Some even have tables and chairs in the avenues. What in the hells?”

“I guess I should have warned you,” Hobart said. “Harvest Festival is kind of a big deal in Morwynne. Some hold parties at their homes, but most take to the streets.”

“Evidently so,” I said.

Hobart waved at one of the men standing behind the table. The man, one of the slaves, was dressed all in red. He bowed and scampered off to pour us a tankard each. I noted that it was from one of our blue barrels, those without poison. When we had a tankard each in hand, Hobart held his up. “Cheers.” To my relief, the ale tasted great. I knew it would, but a part of me still worried that the ale would turn, throwing a year's work into the privy.

“Are we clear on how the night proceeds?” Hobart asked. I had a few ideas but thought better than to share them with him.

“Please enlighten us,” Marcus said.

“First, the emperor and the princess will come out. He'll make a speech, and then they'll leave to a separate dining hall.”

“They don't stay?” I asked.

“They used to,” Hobart said. “But the emperor has become increasingly paranoid… or, I should say cautious. More so now with the princes dead.” Hobart looked around, checking if anyone had overheard him. “Then, the mayor of Morwynne comes out and makes the toasts. This continues until either he or the guests are too drunk to continue. Then we eat. Frankly, there is not a lot of eating. Most here know that and come with full stomachs. I hope you did the same?”

“We did,” Marcus said, rubbing his gut.

“Now, when the toasting starts, it helps to pace yourself. If a toast applies to you in some way, it is customary to take a generous sip. If you are named directly, you have to finish your drink in one go, and slam your tankard upside down to show you have finished. Please… do keep with the traditions. It is considered rude not to. Unthinkable, even.”

“How about the guards?” Marcus asked. “Do they drink too?”

“No, they do not.”

Marcus looked at me. That would mean trouble. Marcus was a great fighter, but there were an awful lot of guards. And more beyond the hall—that was certain.

 

A hush fell across the room, and we all stood as a dozen men came walking into the room from a door beside the dais. The sight of the men sent a chill up my spine. They wore the red robes of the Inquisition, but black armor covered them where tattoos usually showed. They were Dark Legion, but not as I knew them. As time stretched, the cold down my spine continued. I realized then that it wasn't just the sight of the men; there was magic at work.

“By the Gods,” Marcus whispered. “What is this?”

The Inquisition were known for their fighting prowess. They were veterans before being selected and had been trained by the best weapon masters for hours each day since their acceptance. But they never wore armor. They also never used crossbows, and yet four of them held them now. The crossbows were unusual in appearance, and though I had seen many designs, I could not see the string on these, nor the bolts. Still, these men carried them as though they were loaded, and I was inclined to treat them as such.

The four crossbowmen climbed the dais and kneeled at the edge, facing the table. The remaining eight Inquisitors lined up in front of the dais, drew their swords, and took a knee, dipping the tip of their blades to the floor. Their blades shone even though the room was dimly lit. These were not their traditional swords. The Inquisition were known to use rapiers exclusively, but these blades were wider, heavier. Short swords.

A hushed whisper sounded through the room as two more figures came through the door. Emperor Solas and princess Milliandra walked in. They walked like they owned the place, which of course they did. As they stepped onto the dais, the Dark Legion lifted their blades, the tips of their swords sparking as they scratched the stone. They leveled their blades at the crowd. I couldn't help but jump, and many around the table did the same. The emperor stood in front of the throne, inside the jaw of the massive creature. How I wished it would slam shut. The princess stood to the side, where an empty chair, just short of a throne itself, awaited her evil arse.

Solas gestured for the room to sit, and he did the same. Those Inquisitor blades did not drop, however, the gleaming edges pointing straight at us, almost accusingly. It was as though the emperor knew something was afoot. Solas spoke to his daughter for a while, and the hall was quiet in anticipation.

The emperor stood and looked out across the sea of faces for a long moment. I hoped that I would look that good at the age of sixty. He barely looked older than his daughter, and had I not known better, I would have assumed them to be husband and wife.

“Greetings,” Solas said. “It is an honor to stand before you again. This time of harvest is a time to rejoice, a time to celebrate, a time to reap that which we have sowed, and it pleases me that this great empire reaps far more than it sows.” A few in the crowd cheered at this, taking the opportunity to clink tankards and drink. Their enthusiasm rang false, like a few had been chosen to act a part. Solas waited for them to quiet down before continuing on.

“It's not always easy to be great… and we are great. To stand tall among our lessers, to unify the scattered, to lead the way. And I alone cannot do all that is required to make this great empire all that it can be. Though this is a time of celebration, I wish to take a moment to remember my sons, taken too early by the scum of the Serpent Isles—the scourge of White Lake.” I believe I was the only one in the crowd who smiled. I might be scum, but I had as little as possible to do with that vast stretch of water. “A moment of silence, please,” Solas said.

Most bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Marcus was one of them. I was not. Perhaps it was unfortunate that so many had died on that ship, but for the princes, I had no remorse. Solas had killed my mother and father in front of my eyes, and I was happy to return the favor. I'd rather he had been there to see it, but you couldn't have everything.

“It pleases me that I have a daughter who eases my burden, and who will one day step into my shoes to continue this difficult work.” That was not as well received. The sound that flowed through the chamber was like the rumbling in a giant's belly. Even there, right in front of their emperor, the nobles made it clear how they felt about being ruled by an empress. Not all, mind you, but a decent portion. The more old and gray, the louder the dissent.

“And it pleases me that you, loyal men and women, do your own part for this empire. Because it is
our
empire, and it is our
children's
empire. May its days never be numbered. May it stretch across time as it does across this continent, ever onward. So tonight, celebrate, for we have much to be thankful for. To the empire!”

The crowd cheered and stood to their feet, lifting tankards and draining them. Solas rose, nodding to himself. The emperor and princess stepped from the dais and walked back through the door. The Dark Legion stood suddenly, in concert, the clank of armor resonating through the quiet room. The Inquisitors at the front sheathed their blades in a showy arc, stomped the ground once with a loud thump, then turned and marched out behind their emperor. The crossbowmen followed last.

No one dared move or make a sound. The crowd watched the door for a long minute, watching to see if the Dark Legion would return. When it became clear that they would not, a short pudgy man leapt to his feet and walked to the dais. The people cheered, and it seemed as though the mood of the room changed in an instant, the tension evaporating. This was real cheering, not the show that had just been put on for the emperor's sake.

I had no idea who this man was but presumed that he was a jester. His patterned pants looked as though a rainbow had thrown up on them, while the shirt he wore could only be described as pink, with more than half of it consisting of a mass of frilly collars. The man soaked in the admiration, nodding to the crowd, but made no move to quiet them down. It was clear that he loved it, and as he nodded, light glistened from his oiled hair and mustaches.

“That's the mayor of Morwynne,” Hobart said.

“I thought the emperor was in charge here.” Neysa said. “Why do you need a mayor as well?”

“Well,” Hobart said, “in theory, the emperor oversees the empire and leaves the running of the cities and towns to the mayors, who of course report to him. In reality, yes, he does do his share of running this city. The mayor has a cushy job, but it pays very well. He dotes on the nobility as well as the merchant class—the rich ones, in any case. And they love him for it. Why wouldn't they? He greases their path to further riches, bending the rules as necessary. In turn, they keep voting for him. He has been mayor for two decades.”

 

The crowd eventually settled down, and the mayor smiled out at those around the table. Behind us, slaves emerged from a side room and pushed the green barrels into place, ready for the heavy drinking that would shortly follow. They contained our poisoned ale. As soon as they were ready, a tankard was filled and brought to the mayor, then to each of those around the table. The man sniffed it and smiled at the people.

“To ale!” he toasted. The crowd laughed and clinked tankards, and many finished theirs in one go. I felt a twitch in my guts. This could go down very quickly indeed. Marcus, Neysa and I did not drink. When the noise of the crowd died down enough, the mayor cleared his throat. “To the Bleeding Wolf!”

Hobart elbowed me in the ribs. “Remember what I told you.” While
I
was immune to the poison, as I was with most, my friends were not. Full tankards were brought to us in case ours were empty. I held mine and cast a nervous glance at my friends. Neysa nodded. The ale was cold in the tankard. Much colder than I would have expected, and it numbed my hands. Beads of water formed on the side, ran to the bottom, and dropped to the table.

I sighed, lifted my tankard in the toast, and then tipped it to my mouth. Something slammed into my lip, and I could taste blood. I held the tankard high, but my mouth remained dry. I heard Marcus, then Neysa slam their tankards upside down on the table. I did the same, and when I did, the crowd cheered.

The mayor smiled. “As is tradition, the tavern that supplies the ale gets to make a toast. So, let's hear from the Bleeding Wolf…” I looked at my friends, eyebrows raised.

“You left this part out,” I said to Hobart.

Marcus leapt to his feet, which was followed by more cheering. “Well… I was going to toast the Beloved… but seeing as he is otherwise occupied… here is to the legion!” Marcus held his tankard up and looked over his shoulder at the guards lined up against the wall. “They dedicate their lives to protecting us, to serving us, to dying for our sakes. And yet they stand there with their mouths dry and their stomachs empty. So I say cheers to the legion!” Everyone looked surprised, and some outraged. I was one of the former. The guards looked at each other, then at the mayor, a hopeful look in their eyes.

The mayor contemplated it for a moment, then shrugged, beaming a smile across the room. “And why not? Fetch the guards some ale.” When they each had a tankard in hand, he raised his own. “To the legion!” The guards smiled, then downed their ale. I shot Marcus a vicious grin, and he winked in return. I cast a glance over my shoulder, and the two guards behind me nodded their thanks, their tankards empty and upside-down at their feet. Little did they know.

The mayor was handed another tankard, which he lifted once more. “Here is to the nobility!” The vast majority of the room erupted at that. In fact, many thought the toast worthy of more than one tankard, and the table grew cluttered with upside-down drinking vessels. “To the merchants!” The mayor went on. “For we do love your money.” A small group cheered wildly, but most had a chuckle, and also drank.