The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign (44 page)

She raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Don’t think you know our friend so well after all. He doesn’t tend to take kindly to that sort of thing.’

Grisat shrugged. ‘Special case, this one. He knows the value – ’less they ask for something stupid, he’ll be good for it.’

‘That should prove an incentive. I’ll get to work,’ the woman said, smiling. ‘Do I tell them as soon as possible, or a particular day?’

‘They take the opportunities they find.’ With that Grisat rose to leave, the package slipped under his own coat. Before he walked away he hesitated. The woman looked up warily, her hand again on her dagger.

‘Those who get in too deep without noticing – you ever seen one get out alive?’ he asked in a quiet voice.

She gave a cough of surprise, pity and wonder mingling on her face. ‘The reluctant ones? No. That might change with the end in sight, but my advice is to accept it. You look like a mercenary, right? Well embrace the cause and enjoy your pay – there’s no quitting and our
friend
prefers an agent who needs him, not just fears him. Expensive whores, drugs, jewels – doesn’t matter what, if you’re his all the way and you lose the hangdog face, he’ll not piss you away so easily.’

She looked down and flicked her empty glass with her finger nail. ‘Send the barman over on your way out.’

CHAPTER 20

Lord Fernal sat alone in a dim study, picking at the plate of cold meat and cheese sitting on a table beside him. The window shutters were open and he watched the last of the daylight recede in the east, slivers of light gleaming on the drifting river that cut across his view. The fields and hedgerows were already dark, but his predator’s eyes caught the small movements of rabbits on the fringes of the human domain. He watched them moving warily, ears twitching at each shout and laugh from the banquet hall nearby, but not driven from their grazing by the clamour.

A knock came on the door. Fernal sighed and called for them to enter. A liveried guardsman announced Duke Lomin, but the nobleman was already inside the room before Fernal nodded his assent.

‘My Lord,’ Duke Lomin said, ‘your absence has been noticed at the banquet.’

Fernal turned in his seat to face the bearded soldier. ‘Noticed? I would hope so; I am their lord after all.’

‘The new arrivals were all keen to toast your health.’

‘Really?’ Fernal asked wearily, ‘and after that I’m sure they’d be commending your lineage, Duke Lomin.’ The man coloured and Fernal held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry. The insult was not aimed at you but your peers.’

‘Whatever their feelings, you should come down. You have called them here, after all, and have given little reason for so many to assemble.’

‘Is their lord’s will not enough?’

‘Not for long,’ Lomin said. ‘My Lord, why
are
we all here? There’s no insurrection to put down, no threat of invasion from the south – if anything, the army should be heading north to the coast to face down the Yeetatchen raids.’

‘The fact that you don’t believe Ruhen is a threat does not alter my policy, Duke Lomin,’ Fernal said with a growl.

‘Yes, my Lord, and we are bound to follow you to war – this we know, but some of us have been beyond the Farlan borders for months now. If there is no enemy to fight, well – it is testing the limits of obedience.’

‘Chief Steward Lesarl has more than a few things to say about Farlan obedience,’ Fernal said with a gesture of one taloned hand to the letters on another table, ‘but call it what you will, I realise they are chafing under my authority.’

‘My Lord, you’ve gathered the rulers of fourteen Farlan domains, along with their troops, here in this pitiful little border town, with no enemy to fight and many concerned they will have to refuse you outright if you press to take the fight to the child, Ruhen.’

Fernal rose and went to face Duke Lomin; the massive, midnight-blue Demi-God loomed over him. ‘Do they send you as their emissary?’

‘I am the highest-ranked among them, it is my place to speak to you. They seek assurances that you will not drag the Farlan into another nation’s war.’

‘You mean a war that concerns us just as much as it does our ally fighting it?’ Fernal shook his head sadly. ‘I will never understand your people, Duke Lomin. However, I understand there are formalities to adhere to. Lead on to the banquet.’

As they went out into the torch-lit street and headed for the banquet hall Fernal’s liveried guards fell in around them. A pair of Lomin’s own hurscals kept to the fringes. Before they reached the hall, however, Duke Lomin stopped and pointed ahead.

‘Suzerains Amah and Danva were the most anxious to speak to you themselves, rather than be represented by me.’

‘Both recently come into their titles, no? Their fathers lying among the dead on the Chir Plains?’

‘Danva’s father was suzerain-in-regent for his infant nephew, now dead of scarlet fever, but Amah was uncle to the previous suzerain.’

Fernal nodded and moved forward to greet the two recently arrived noblemen. Both knelt and offered him their swords as tradition demanded.

‘My Lords,’ Fernal said in his deep, rumbling voice, ‘I am glad to see you both here.’

‘Thank you, your Grace,’ Amah replied quickly, a burly man with greying hair and cheeks scarred by some childhood illness. ‘Might we now know why we are here?’

‘Because I command it,’ Fernal said.

‘The situation here requires so many soldiers?’ he countered, barely keeping the anger from his voice. ‘Is the concern rebellion or invasion?’

‘Rebellion is always a concern of mine,’ Fernal said pointedly. ‘I am newer to my title than even you both. However, the greater threat remains in the Circle City.’

‘The child, Ruhen? My Lord, have I missed some piece of intelligence? All I hear is that he preaches a message of peace and denounces the corruption of the priesthoods.’ Amah frowned. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but did not the Farlan nobility mobilise specifically to face down the cults and prevent civil war?’

‘For which you have my gratitude. But it does not override other matters.’

Amah shared a look with Danva. ‘My Lord, the child’s threat is surely to the cults? Since we have broken their power and now formally limit it, why are we not allied with Ruhen? Our goals coincide; the enemy is a common one, yet I’m told we have slaughtered two parties of missionaries and turned back others. Why do you seek war, my Lord?’

‘They have had their warnings; they refuse to heed them. As for the missionaries slaughtered, they came with several regiments of Devoted as escort and preferred to fight rather than return to their own lands. You would prefer foreign powers be allowed to march troops into Farlan territory?’

‘Of course not – but I still do not understand your antipathy, the preference of provoking war over building links with our new neighbours.’

‘You would have me welcome messengers of
peace
who come accompanied by
hundreds
of fighting men?’ Fernal asked, taking a step towards the suzerain.

Unlike Duke Lomin, the suzerain could not help but edge back from the Demi-God’s size and brutal appearance. He didn’t even notice Fernal’s guards putting their hands on their weapons.

‘There is a specific agreement between myself and the suzerains of the Farlan. You have received a copy of it?’

Suzerain Amah nodded.

‘Good, so you know the terms already then. Nowhere does it say I must explain myself to you, only that I will not lead you into a war on foreign soil without recognised justification. I choose not to dwell on reasons or explanations; otherwise I might require a few of my own, and point out our finest are already fighting in such a war.’

‘My Lord,’ Lomin interceded, stepping forward, ‘we are all aware of the terms, and we shall abide by them. The question remains: what threat exists on our border? The expense of maintaining such a large force here is significant, and we all have matters to attend to at home, in addition to the new lands we are now administering here in Helrect and Scree.’

‘You are telling me I must release the nobility to be about their own affairs?’

Lomin bowed. ‘It would seem time for that, my Lord. All intelligence suggests the Devoted troops are heading for the Narkang border – they pose us no threat. The purpose of this show of strength is achieved, to my mind.’

And there you have it,
Fernal thought as he looked around at the faces watching him, emotion showing even on the faces of Lomin’s hurscals, hovering behind their lord.
They offer me a way out, a way to save face and move on. The question is – do I take it? Where does my duty lie? I gave my oath to serve the Farlan, to ensure they do not fall into civil war, but what of the Land itself, the friendships I bear and the war they are engaged in?

He lingered a moment on the elder of the two hurscals, a man whose much-broken nose and weathered face told its own story.

He was balding and had cropped short what little of his hair remained, making it easy for Fernal to see the tattoos of knighthood on his neck. The blue markings showed he had been ennobled on the battlefield, and Fernal could see in his grey-brown eyes what he thought of not marching to support the Ghosts, the tribe’s proudest legions.

‘My duty is clear,’ Fernal said, staring straight into the hurscal’s eyes, ‘and this show of strength is indeed done. The nobility are released to return home. Duke Lomin, please convey my words to those attending the banquet.’

‘I will do so,’ the duke replied, sweeping up the suzerains as he moved past – his powerful arms taking them by the shoulders before they could object and dragging them both with him. The hurscal however didn’t move.

‘My duty is clear,’ Fernal repeated.

‘Is it just me,’ Suzerain Torl asked quietly, ‘or do they prefer to preach at dusk, when the shadows are longest?’ He indicated the white-robed Children of Ruhen holding court in the town square. They were less than twenty miles from Byora now, deep in the heartland of Ruhen’s powerbase.

Count Macove nodded, careful not to stare at the group of preachers. There were only four of them, but a score of wide-eyed followers lingered at a reverent distance and at least one squad of Devoted soldiers kept a close eye on events. From what Torl could see, that was unnecessary; there were no dissenting voices, no expressions of disapproval. Most of the people here were converts already, accepting Ruhen’s promised peace with the fervour of those scared of living in uncertain times.

‘They can’t all be touched by the shadow,’ Macove muttered in response, ‘there’s too many of them now – unless the shadow’s power has grown vastly. Theatricality perhaps?’

Cedei, the Brotherhood veteran, hawked and spat on the cobbled ground. ‘Sounds about right. Bastard’s always loved a show.’

Cedei was typical of the Brotherhood in Torl’s eyes: an unremarkable man with a weathered face, speckled grey hair and cold, intense eyes.
A born street-fighter, that one,
Torl thought.
Macove’s the nobleman, the knight with height and muscle on his side, but I’d never bet against Emin’s bloody hands of history if it came to a fight.

‘Tell the others to hang back,’ he said out loud. ‘We’re not looking for a fight here, just getting the lie of the Land.’

Cedei nodded and fished out a pipe and tobacco pouch. He filled the bowl and made a show of casting around for a light, checking for their escort of Dark Monks, the religious order both Torl and Macove belonged to. He caught no one’s eye and made no additional gestures, but once the pipe was lit he looked satisfied enough.

‘Shall we then?’

The three men edged a little closer to the preachers, careful to act as they looked: interested merchants who posed no threat to order or the safety of the preachers. Only Torl wore a cloak, and that was pushed back off his shoulders despite the chilly weather and heavy grey clouds – all the better for the Devoted to see they carried only knives for their own protection. His three gold earrings of rank had been removed now they were in enemy territory, as had Macove’s two, though both men found themselves touching a finger to their ear from time to time, then checking the cords around their necks from which the family relics hung.

‘Brothers!’ exclaimed a voice from their left, and Torl almost jumped as a man appeared from the crowd, not dressed as a preacher, but with the exact same expression as those in white. He’d been tasked with rooting out potential dissent in the crowd, Torl realised, meeting the naysayers head on before the white-clad preachers could be dragged into a shouting match.

‘Do you come to hear the peace of Ruhen?’

Cedei nodded enthusiastically, immediately deferential. ‘We do, sir. Passed a good few preachers on the road – and more’n enough signs o’ what war’s done to this Land besides.’

The man inclined his head benevolently and Torl forced himself to respond in respectful kind, Macove following his lead. The ageing suzerain felt his fists tighten as he bent his back to the man; he was unused to considering any commoner his equal, let alone his superior.

‘You are come from Narkang lands?’ he asked with a studied expression of guileless interest.

‘That I am, sir,’ Cedei agreed with a bob of the head, ‘my friends from the north.’

‘Scree,’ Torl said hoarsely, ‘what once was, anyway.’

‘So you have all suffered by the cruelty of avaricious men,’ he intoned. ‘Yours is a common story, brothers.’

‘We’ve seen enough fighting, aye, ta know the horrors of it,’

Cedei said. He looked askance at Torl. ‘Some witnessing more’n others.’

‘Your family?’

Torl bowed his head, trusting Cedei’s instincts for spinning a plausible story. ‘My wife and children,’ he confirmed, ‘we were separated in the rush to escape the firestorm.’

‘And they were murdered by men claiming divine inspiration,’ the man finished for him. ‘The King of Narkang let his army run riot on the defenceless refugees.’

‘Bastard did nothing when the Menin came either,’ Cedei added with venom. ‘Could’ve used some righteous fury when my town was burning.’