The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (49 page)

‘Was that you who came earlier?’ Randur asked. ‘We saw some similar things a while ago.’

‘No.’ Brynd’s confusion gave way to a private realization that Randur must mean Jeza and her friends.

Randur looked over to the wasps, which seemed inert, hardly moving at all. He quite fancied having a go on one.

‘The battle – it went well, did it?’ Eir asked. ‘As well as these things can go.’

‘You know the cost of war as well as I do, having seen the remnants in the hospital. Artemisia’s people lost more than we did, since our lines were far behind her own, protecting our
towns and our people. But the loss of life was many times what we saw in Villiren. Half the Night Guard has gone.’

Eir opened her mouth to say something, but then thought better of it.

‘What’re you going to do with that head?’ Randur asked, pointing to it.

‘There are still a few dozen gang types in the Citadel. I’m going to round them all up, show them this head, then place it on a spike by the entrance for everyone to see.’

‘Good advertisement, that,’ Randur admitted.

‘Senior members of the gangs will be executed also. Another warning, another lesson to be given to the people. If we’re to move our culture on, and live side by side with one
another, we damn well need to have some respect for the operations of this Citadel or we’ll have riots every day.’

Eir cringed, but nodded. ‘I understand.’

Who exactly was ruling here?
Randur reflected.

‘Besides, the man whose head I hold made his trade before the war by putting fear into the lives of the citizens of this city. Good, honest people will want to see his head on a spike.
They’ll sleep easily knowing the gangs have been dealt such a blow.’

‘Where’s Artemisia?’ Eir asked.

‘She’s still with her people,’ Brynd replied. ‘They have much grieving to do. We’ll grieve with them also, when the time is right. They gave so many lives in order
to save their future – and ours – here, on this Archipelago.’

‘What next?’ Randur asked. ‘Clean up the Citadel, start getting things back in shape in Villiren, help Artemisia’s culture with cleaning up the dead?’

‘All of those things,’ Brynd replied. As he turned away, still clutching Malum’s severed head, he called over his shoulder, ‘And then, we plan for peace.’

There was a knock on the door and Brynd looked up from his desk. Warm morning sunlight fell across legal papers.

‘Come in,’ Brynd called out.

Randur poked his head around the door and sauntered to the chair next to Brynd. He slouched into it and put his feet up on the table. ‘Guess what?’

‘What?’

‘One of the servants downstairs suggested that they’d seen some woman hunched over a corpse near the edge of Saltwater and the Wastelands.’

‘And?’ Brynd asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘You think it’s Rika?’ Randur asked.

‘I don’t know. No one’s spotted her since you unleashed her.’

‘It was a sensible option,’ Randur replied coolly. ‘The gangs would have killed her if they found her – at least she took some of them down on her way out.’

‘Anyway, it’s too early to tell if it’s Rika. There are a lot of strange things in this city. I’ll send out a patrol around the southern rim of Saltwater, just in
case.’

Randur nodded his approval. ‘Up to much then?’

‘I’m checking the laws that have been passed recently; copies have been made and I’m seeing there are no errors. Just one rogue scribe and we’ll get all sorts of
problems.’

‘Nice clothes by the way.’

Brynd was wearing an ornate uniform, similar to the Night Guard clothing of old, but a paler shade of grey, with greater details and a new emblem on the chest: two overlapping stars. It had
taken a few weeks for him to decide on this, but the Night Guard wasn’t the same now it was so depleted. He needed change, for himself as well as the others.

‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready yourself?’ Brynd asked.

‘Probably.’

‘Cold feet?’ Brynd pressed, largely to amuse himself.

‘Nah. Well, yes. I’m not the marrying type – or at least I never thought I would be. And it doesn’t seem right, does it? To be having some posh party after all
that’s gone on?’

‘We’re not doing it for the party,’ Brynd said.

‘You don’t strike me as the partying kind of guy.’

‘I know how to enjoy myself.’

‘Sure you do. Anyway, so why are we doing this?’

‘Apart from your love for Eir, obviously . . .’

‘Obviously . . .’

‘People want to know who’s in charge now, they’re looking up to us, and it’s better they see a pretty young couple holding a massive celebration, with free food for
everyone and land to dispense to deserving families. It’s a focal point and people deserve a little good news in their lives. And it looks like you’ve picked a good day for
it.’

‘Huh,’ Randur said. Then, looking at the papers, ‘So what’s new?’

‘Nearly everything. We’re starting all over again. We’ve had to encourage new equality laws so that the Newlanders—’

‘Is that what they’re being called?’

‘What, you don’t like it?’

‘A bit bland for such exotics, don’t you think?’

‘The more familiar their name, the better. Anyway, the rights of the average citizen have changed. No matter if you’re rumel or human, or indeed one of the many races that are now to
live alongside us, everyone has individual rights unless they surrender those by committing certain crimes. It’s the only way to ensure people don’t start hurting each other. People may
cross borders freely. People will be given free land to farm, in order to restock our grain supplies. What’s more, people are free to worship more than one god – Artemisia’s
people have many, it seems. People are even free to take sexual partners from the new races, if that’s their wish.’

‘There’s a niche for everyone,’ Randur declared.

‘As long as it is not abusive – rape laws have had to change accordingly. And due to accommodating the new cultures, men may bed with men, women with women. There are permits for
those who wish to take more than one husband or wife, but that will be examined carefully.’

‘More than one? Why would you want extra grief every day?’

‘As you so often say,’ Brynd continued, ‘everyone has their niche. Now, go on, get ready. The priests are coming soon. Put some decent clothes on – if you’ve got
any.’

‘Just because you’ve got yourself some fancy new kit, don’t go getting ideas above your station. If anyone does fashion well, it’s Randur Estevu.’

*

A phenomenal number of species gathered at the ceremony, which was held on an enormous stage in front of the Citadel. Brynd had ensured the setting was as resplendent as could
be, without being too ostentatious. Most of the money would be spent on the thousands of tables of free food and drink that would be laid on throughout the city. It had taken a while to stockpile,
and wasn’t as perfect as he would have liked, but it was a bold and important gesture, and the city responded positively. The stage was decorated in red and gold cloth, with elaborate yet
humble craft items and ornaments gathered about the stage. Brynd had even taken down Malum’s rotting head from the spike so it wouldn’t make the place stink or put people off their
food.

It would be another hour before the event started properly, but people were relaxing, drinking and singing already. A band struck up under a bright yellow awning.

Artemisia’s elders were present, as well as some of her more exotic kin but, pleasingly, there were also a good number of humans and rumels too. There were only a handful of people to
bring across from her world now; very little remained there, apart from the last skirmishes of the long-fought war. Any remaining Realm Gates were being sealed off by their agents, and should be
little for anyone to worry about and given the passage of time anything beyond the gates would be uninhabitable. Of course, when the last of the gates closed, there would be a gradual warming to
come. Artemisia’s elders had given specific instructions that they never be opened again.

Jokull was still an island to be healed: the enemy had established a few minor settlements around the coast and inland, so Brynd had dispatched several regiments of Dragoons along with some
alien military units to eliminate the threat. Soon they should begin sifting through the rubble of Villjamur. One day, Brynd thought, they might even start rebuilding it.

*

There was still some time to kill, and everything seemed to be proceeding well enough. Brynd walked through the warm sunlight before he grabbed a lager from a stand in the
shadows of the Citadel.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Jeza dancing with one of the kids that she had been staying with at the factory, not the blond one but the one with all the wisecracks. Brynd never could
remember their names.

Jeza was now living at the Citadel – it seemed the least he could do in her desperate situation and, besides, he could now keep an eye on all her crazy inventions and ideas. He felt
vaguely paternal towards her – a quality he merely dismissed as a sign that he wasn’t getting any younger.

After a refreshing sip, he approached Artemisia at a table near the front of the crowds. She was seated alongside some humans from her world, people old and young. They were wearing green,
fitted tunics with bold sashes across their chests. Artemisia appeared much more approachable now she wasn’t wearing her swords, garbed instead in a garish yellow and brown patterned uniform.
In the rows behind them were businessmen and businesswomen that Brynd recognized. There were bankers here, too, never ones to shy away from a free meal. He didn’t tell them it was their money
paying for all of this.

‘A good offering, by the look of it thus far,’ Artemisia muttered.

‘Thanks,’ Brynd replied, standing behind her. ‘Who are these people?’ He gestured to the two rows nearby, facing each other and divided only by the banquet.

Overhead a garuda swept by, causing a gentle downdraught before coasting up above the nearest row of timber-framed buildings.

‘They are not so much soldiers but dignitaries or ambassadors or organizers,’ Artemisia said, ‘not unlike me, but skilled in dealing rather than the arts of war. I hope you
will speak to many of them in the coming days, for they are important people, representing many of our business houses. Though they still aim to keep fighting-ready, as we say. Be cautious,
however, for dignitaries in our world are educated in the arts of seduction – of both sexes, they are not picky when the urge strikes them. I tell you this now, to give you an advantage in
bargaining with them, should you find yourself in a tricky spot.’

One of the men caught Brynd’s eye, a muscular man about his own age, dark-haired and with a fine jaw. They exchanged smiles. ‘I think I can handle myself.’

Brynd took a sip of lager, before he decided to head through the throng and introduce himself.

*

The garuda followed the line of the streets before drifting up and over towards the Onyx Wings that guided her like a beacon in the daylight. She soared above the rooftops,
looking down on the activities below. Every street was rammed with festivities; even the poorer districts were making the most of their allocations of food and drink.

Low sunlight forced harsh shadows between buildings, and there were clear patches of dark and light across the cityscape. She turned to bank higher, arcing away from the sea and briefly towards
the south of the city. Further beyond Villiren’s borders, the Newlanders’ encampments were growing daily, big but tidy sprawls that stretched beyond the forest. A few dragons circled in
the sky high above her, enjoying the benefits of a thermal or two; she reflected that it would take a while to grow used to the presence of others. These skies were once the domain of the garuda,
and now they would have to share the freedoms that flight offered.

But that was better than having no freedoms at all.

The garuda spun in a slow arc and headed north, back in a straight line over Villiren, suddenly eager to catch the start of the official ceremonies.

She didn’t want to miss out on what might happen next.

By Mark Charan Newton

City of Ruin

The Book of Transformations

The Broken Isles

Every book in this series comes with a huge amount of help from my editor, Julie Crisp, my agent, John Jarrold, as well as the fantastic team at Tor UK, who all do sterling
work behind the scenes enabling me to continue writing.

For this novel in particular, I’d like to thank China Mie´ville for his palaeomantic role in creating the aesthetics of the Mourning Wasp. This was part of a challenge: he would draw
a monster, I would have to write it into a novel. I think it worked out pretty well, but you’ll have to decide for yourself.

In addition to this, I’d like to thank Den Patrick for naming the Mourning Wasp, as well as providing a source from Sebastian Venghaus, Scholar Vespidae. Thanks to Eric Edwards, too, for
his neat historical references on
Vespa imperator khloros.