Interregnum (14 page)

He looked up at Mercurias and nodded. The medic wandered over to the boy and put his hands on Quintillian’s shoulders as Kiva stood, slightly woozily. The captain smiled wearily at Marco, who wandered forward.

“Sir?” he responded.

“The boy’s got both guts and strength, but he lacks expertise” Kiva said. “Train him.”

Marco nodded and crouched down beside Quintillian and Mercurias.

Kiva wandered back across the grass to the milestone, where he sat, heavily. He glanced around for the others and spotted Athas and Bors, who were rummaging in the grass.

“Where are the rest?” he called.

Athas stood, cradling something in his large hand, his brow furrowed. He realised the Captain was speaking and raised an eyebrow.

“Hmm?”

“The others?” Kiva rolled his eyes. “Where are they?”

Athas sighed. “They’re all accounted for. Pirus has gone to look for Clovis. He never warned us and that bodes a bit. I hope he just got hit with darts and nothing worse. The other two never really got into the fight. Mercurias said they’d been hit heavily with the darts straight off and they’ll be out for a few hours. You will be soon too. You must have the constitution of an ox to take that and still fight.”

Kiva smiled and waved his flask at the Sergeant.

“Mare’s Mead has its benefits” he explained. “It’s a hell of a lot more powerful than this shit and I’ve been taking that for years.”

Athas had returned his attention to the object in his hand and merely nodded. Kiva sighed.

“Well before I finally pass out,” he said, “we’d best get the men out searching for those lunatics and their amazing vanishing corpses.”

Athas turned and tossed the thing he’d been holding to his Captain.

“They won’t find anything” the big man said.

Kiva looked down at the black dagger hilt in his hand, with the blade sheared off just below the guard. On the pommel, the embossed golden figure of a winged horse constituted the weapon’s only decoration. Kiva’s brows furrowed.

On a hill above the road, a tall figure, wrapped head to foot in black silks with a huge curved blade slung across his back, laughed lightly as he compacted his telescope and placed it in a large thigh pocket. He watched with keen eyes as the small figures moved around near the road and the big dark-skinned man was among them. He laughed again; a rich, velvety laugh, and scanned the valley until he saw the black-clad figures converging on their prearranged spot. With a last glance in the direction of the Wolves, he mounted his magnificent mare, saddle-less, with only a surcoat; black and decorated with a golden winged horse.

Part Two: Swords and Ploughshares

Chapter VII.

           
The small vessel rocked and shook as it rode the troughs and crests of waves in the narrow channel that led to Isera. The island had been a place of fortification and safety long before the days of Imperial power due to the treacherous system of reefs and rocks that formed a horseshoe around it. The only safe route for a vessel was through a narrow channel that led from the main dock on the island to the Livia Port in the city of Velutio, once the Imperial capital. Even in that channel the journey was hazardous enough that only the most stout-hearted sailor would attempt the journey in anything but the calmest of seas. At the height of its power, the Empire’s engineers had created sea-walls that calmed this single passage with a complex system of rest stops and windbreaks. In those days the Emperor’s pleasure barge would ply the channel with no fear. The days of Imperial surety were long gone, as were the sea defences. Now only a madman would make the journey.

Or a man with a job to do. Commander Sabian stood at the prow of the boat, his crimson cloak speckled and bleached by the salt in the constant spray. His red military scarf was wound tightly beneath his helm’s neck guard and pulled up to his eyes, covering the majority of his face. His eyes stung and watered with the effort, but he couldn’t trust anyone else on the boat to keep an adequate watch. Despite his position as senior officer in the army of Velutio, he had travelled this evil heaving channel more often than any sailor in the port. Realistically, very few sailors who had made this trip would be able to speak of it. Secrets were important to Velutio, and those sailors who’d shown more than the slightest curiosity over the island’s contents had been blinded and had their tongue and hands removed. Sabian grimaced at the memory of the last poor seaman who’d asked questions. He could see the necessity for the preservation of secrecy but, had it been his decision, he would have at worst executed the men swiftly and efficiently, not left them to starve and eke out a beggar’s existence, crippled on the dank streets of Velutio. That was no way for a man to go.

Sabian cursed himself for his wandering mind as the ship lurched sharply and he slammed into the rail. His hand was bound in a leather strap attached to the rail and his foot wedged beneath a solid plank for safety. He’d seen too many people go overboard here and should be paying attention to the rocks, even though the journey was almost over. Any time now. He blinked away the salty discomfort once more and turned gratefully to bellow toward the helm.

“Land!” he informed the helmsman. “Bring us to starboard a fraction. The channel opens up into the bay in a hundred yards and you’re clear then.”

The sailor bellowed something unintelligible back, a comment lost in the teeth of the gale, and the vessel jogged slightly to starboard. The last formation of rocks on the right passed almost within arms’ reach of the boat; Sabian recognised that collection of jutting spikes that reminded him so much of a pleading hand raised in supplication. As the rock passed the waves died down almost instantly, the calmness of the bay as much a shock as a relief.

The clouds of stinging spray gone, the commander allowed his cloak to fall back behind his shoulders and pulled his scarf down to his neck. Briefly, he removed his helmet and examined the cranium. The salt had wreaked havoc on the polished steel. He would have to have one of his men spend a few hours tonight working on it. Replacing the helm, he glanced up at the shore. The dock stood deserted and dilapidated, a wooden platform covered with rot and rubble, jutting out into the water. No matter how much work the island’s inhabitants put into their own accommodation, none of them had ever dealt with the dock. What would be the point? They’d not be leaving anyway.

A tall figure in a grey robe stood by one of the orchard’s plum trees not far from the shore, reaching high and plucking ripe fruit from the branches and placing them into the large basket on his other arm. As the commander watched, the grey-clad figure finally noticed the vessel cutting through the waters of the bay. It stopped for a long moment, staring out across the intervening distance and then turned with an unconcerned gait and ambled up the path to the large gatehouse building.

By the time the boat was finally nearing the dock and the sailors were coming afore to work the ropes and boarding plank, the grey figure had reappeared from the huge gate with two others and began the stroll down the gravel path to the jetty. Sabian watched as they approached. With a crunch the boat bumped up against the dock, the beams and planks making alarming noises as they groaned under the pressure. Without waiting for the sailors to finish tying off the boat and extend the plank, he hopped over the rail and onto the slimy jetty. Taking a deep breath, he strode purposefully forward to meet the three as they neared the shore and nodded at the central figure.

“Minister Sarios” he said loudly. “It’s been a while. May I request your hospitality for a few days?” The phraseology was formulaic. The inhabitants had little choice in the matter and Sabian held all power on the island at that moment. Even addressing the ageing Cleric as Minister was an unnecessary courtesy, the man having held no real power since the fall twenty years ago. Sarios narrowed his eyes and Sabian had to remind himself once more just how shrewd the old man really was. Idle courtesy was unlikely to hold any real weight with him.

“Commander Sabian” the man replied quietly. “It’s been six months since we’ve even heard from the mainland. I hope you’ve come alone this time. The troops you brought with you last time demolished our food stores in short order.”

Business-like and cold. What else could he expect?

“Minister” the commander replied, “I am alone. I’m not here to cause you any trouble, just to make my bi-annual report. I’ll need to be here two days; three at most. I’ve brought some extra supplies; some luxuries for you. I know you’re a bit cut-off here.”

He regretted the last, an opening for a jibe from the island’s leader, but Sarios merely smiled humourlessly; sarcastically even.

“Commander,” he said, “I’ll have a room prepared for you in the Peacock Palace. We’ve done some work there these past months and it’s quite habitable again now. I’ll have one of the brothers show you to the place immediately.”

Sabian smiled. “Not necessary. I remember where it is and I can make my own bed. I’ll wait until my gear’s unloaded and the things for you. I’ve got two sergeants on the boat. They’ll stay on board, but I’ll get them to bring your supplies to the Ibis Courtyard first.”

“Very well.” Sarios nodded once, his only gesture of respect, before turning and making his slow, ambling way back up the path towards the gatehouse.

Sabian stood for a moment gritting his teeth as his sergeants unloaded gear onto a pallet. He hated having to deal with the island. He knew they were helpless; prisoners even; but he still felt admiration for the Minister and what he’d achieved with his prison. He still felt compassion. He sighed and gestured to his men to take the goods up the path as he set off.

The Gorgon Gate had been designed by the great architect Himistes in the reign of the Emperor Elander; a pleasing mixture of stout defence and imperial grandeur. The building stood three stories high with thick walls softened by arcading of marble, many of the alcoves still retaining their original artworks: Osos and the Victory Bull, the winged Harpies, the Gorgon of Germalla. To either side of the gateway itself, the gatehouse stood proud in the form of drum towers, again punctuated by arches and columns. Beyond that high walls with a wide walkway stretched away, encircling the palace proper. Sabian glanced upwards involuntarily as he passed beneath the threshold, taking in the murder holes for pouring hot metal or oil on attackers and the huge, defensive bronze plated doors fastened back against the walls. They’d not been closed in more than ten years, though they appeared to still be polished regularly.

Sabian pointed ahead to the courtyard and the two sergeants strode on ahead, carrying the pallet of goods. The commander stopped inside the gatehouse as he noticed in the shadows an old man in a green-grey robe sitting on a boulder and carving a piece of wood. He cleared his throat and the old man looked up, a far away look on his face.

“I see someone’s keeping the gatehouse in good order” the commander said jovially. “Not intending to keep me out, I hope?” He smiled. The old man lowered his eyes to his work again and spoke quietly.

“Jobs don’t just go away” he said absently. “Gotta keep ‘em polished or they gets knackered.”

Sabian frowned and, biting back a retort, walked back out into the brightly-lit Ibis Courtyard. The bird carvings that adorned the stone seats and fountains were now long gone, but someone had evidently mastered the science of hydraulics. Two of the four fountains poured their sapphire blue water into the wide, alabaster bowls and the yard filled with splashes. The commander was never sure whether he should relax on one of these visits but every time the palace was a little more revived, a little less shabby. There seemed to have been serious work going on this past half year, though, beyond the level achieved in previous years. The two sergeants stood at attention by the pallet of supplies. Sabian returned the salute and then gestured back through the gate with his thumb.

“Off duty unless I need you” he said easily.

The two men fell into a more relaxed pose and sauntered off down the path towards the dock. Sabian gestured at a middle aged man reading a scroll on a stone bench. The man raised his head and wandered unhurriedly over to the commander. Sabian tried to contain his frustration at the obvious tutting sound that had issued from the man when he stood. As the cleric stood before him rolling the scroll back tight, Sabian reached down into the pallet of goods and pulled his pack from the pile, shouldering it.