The Fell Sword (2 page)

She sighed. ‘What’s complicated? I’m not in a hurry, especially not if you continue to serve me Candian wine and malmsey.’ The fan flickered. It seemed to flick at a different rhythm, so that, although she ended hidden, he saw the whole of her face for a moment. He was thrilled.

I’m talking to a Morean noblewoman!
he thought.

He tried to shrug off his excitement because he was determined on self-destruction. But few things interested him more than talking about himself, and wine did not inhibit him in any way. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m bastard born, but my father had no other children, so even though he never married my mother I’m probably his heir.’ He sat back. ‘He wasn’t a great noble, but there’s a castle and a town house in Harndon. My mother lives in the town house.’ He shrugged.

The girl laughed. ‘It sounds just like our court. You are not in the Church, I guess?’

He spread his hands. ‘No – I’m a private scholar.’ He said it with too much pride. He saw that she was amused and he resented her superiority and his own inability to make conversation without arrogance.

‘And you are rich?’ she asked. She poured more wine into his cup.

‘Oh, no,’ he said.

‘In that case, she’ll have nothing more to do with you,’ said a deep, scratchy voice. The Morean noblewoman turned, and Morgan raised his head – surprised at the effort – to confront the palest blue eyes he’d ever seen, in a moon-shaped face as big as a soldier’s breastplate. ‘Eh, Anna?’

She whirled and spat, fan flying. ‘Go away! You son of a mongrel dog and plague-stricken streetwalker, go swim in a sewer!’

Mortirmir rose unsteadily. ‘Is this man—’

The giant beamed. ‘Oh, Anna, only a crack as well travelled as your own is big enough for my member—’

Her fan slammed into his temple with the sound of lightning flashing close by. The giant didn’t even flinch.

‘—troubling you?’ Mortirmir managed, unreasonably proud to have dragged the routine phrase out of his pickled noggin. He reached for his sword.

He wore a sword. He was much mocked for it at the University, because student philosophers didn’t need swords, and by wearing one he made himself seem even more barbaric. But his failure to perform the least spell, the slightest
phantasm
, combined with a strong sense of adolescent stubbornness and some pride in his training at the art of arms left him with the most important sign of his noble status – in Alba – strapped to his side despite many warnings, some threats, and a great deal of ridicule.

He drew it.

The giant stepped away from the Morean lady and examined him with the kind of rigour usually given by the magisters to a corpse they were dissecting, when the religious authorities allowed such a thing.

‘You seem to know how to draw that,’ said the giant.

Mortirmir shrugged. ‘Leave the lady alone,’ he said.

The taverna had fallen silent. Every eye was on him, and he felt a fool – the more so as the giant was a head taller than he and would probably have his guts for garters, and he knew – with bitter remonstrance – that he was too stubborn to back down now.

‘Whore,’ said the giant. He shrugged. ‘If you want to fight me – I like a fight. Outside, though. Inside, we’ll be arrested.’

Mortirmir had never been called a whore before, but he knew it meant a fight. He wasn’t walking too well, but the jolt of pure spirit that came to him as he rounded the table steadied him. With his left hand he reached ino his purse and scattered coins on the table – any gentleman would do as much.

That jolt of the spirit – was it fear? It was like the levin-power that the natural philosophy magisters produced out of the metal globes, and his fingers tingled.

The giant backed steadily away from him. ‘Put the sword away, and we’ll have a proper fight,’ he said. ‘If you insist on using it I’ll probably kill you.
She’s
a whore, younker. Wake up.’

Mortirmir had the sense, just, to slide the sword back into the scabbard, and he did it without much fumbling. He felt as if the giant nodded at him in approval. He looked back and saw that the Morean lady was scooping his coins off the table.

He took his time out in the yard, unbuckling his sword belt. The giant was huge. He sounded like a Nordikan, the foreigners that the Emperor kept for his bodyguard.

Dozens of men poured out of the taverna’s open doors into the hot summer night, and a few women with them. The giant pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a body that seemed to be composed of sharply angled slabs of flesh-coloured rock. He had muscles on top of his muscles.

Mortirmir was wearing his best jupon, and he took it off carefully, folded it, and wished he had a friend to hold his purse. He wished, in fact, that he had a friend at all.

‘I just want so say you’re a brave little shit to take me on, and I intend to make you look good before I put you down,’ the giant said. ‘And you need to know that she’s a prostitute, and even now she’s watching your purse like a drunk watches a new vase of wine.’ His Archaic had a strange accent. ‘I like her – she’s my favourite.’ The huge man shrugged. ‘I’d even share her with you if we were sword brothers.’

Mortirmir laughed. It was insane, but he was suddenly
released
. He was happy. His laugh rang out, and men betting in the doorway listened and bets changed a little – not much, but a little. He wanted death – no suicide required.

‘I’m ready,’ he said.

The big man bowed. ‘Harald Derkensun,’ he said. ‘Of the Guard.’

Mortirmir returned the bow. ‘Morgan Mortirmir,’ he said. ‘Of the University.’

At that, men in the crowd roared. The Academy was loved and hated in the city – a bastion of brilliance and a nest of heretics, all in one.

Mortirmir was not untrained. He began to move on his toes as his father’s master-at-arms had taught him, and, with nothing to lose, his first attack was all-out. He stepped forward in mock hesitancy and kicked – hard – at his opponent’s knee.

He connected – not with the giant’s knee, but lower, and the giant hopped, off balance, and Morgan moved in, suddenly sober enough to do this, and landed a strong right with a right foot lunge, actually rocking the giant back half a step when he connected with the man’s gut.

Mortirmir felt as if he’d punched a barn. But he changed feet and tried another kick—

And had to pick himself out of the manure heap. He’d missed the move that flung him a body length across the torchlit night, but while he was more odiferous for his fall he was uninjured, and he bounced back at his opponent, who seemed to be made of iron.

‘That’s one fall,’ said the giant. ‘Good kick. Very good, really.’ The huge man grinned. ‘In fact, I think we’re going to have real fun. I thought I’d have to do both sides of this fight, but apparently—’

Mortirmir was thin and stringy, and his only real physical advantage was that his arms and legs were abnormally long. While the giant rattled on, he feinted another cross-body punch and kicked under it – caught the giant’s arm as it shot forward defensively—

It was a near-perfect arm-lock . . . right until he was flying through the air again. This time, his buttocks hit the stable wall before he slid into the manure heap.

The pain was intense, and the laughter of the crowd lit him up like a lantern. He rolled off the manure, and ran at the big man.

Derkensun waited for him with stoic resignation, obviously disappointed with his adolescent rage. But just as he entered the giant’s measure, Mortirmir swayed his hips, trusting to wine and luck, and then planted his foot and passed
under
the Nordikan’s fight-ending blow, planted his leg firmly behind the bigger man’s knee, put his head under the man’s arm and threw him to the ground. It took an incredible wrenching of his body to do it – it was like throwing a house.

But Derkensun crashed to earth.

He was only there long enough to shout something, and then he rolled heels over head faster than such a big man had any right to do, and he was on his feet, rubbing his left shoulder. He grinned from ear to ear. ‘Well struck, younker!’ he roared. His left leg shot out and Mortirmir jumped it – more by luck than training.

Mortirmir was breathing like a bull. The giant was smiling.

‘I guess that’s not going to work again,’ muttered Mortirmir.

The giant shook his head.

Mortirmir grinned. The sense of release was wonderful – the physical exhilaration was a novelty. And the lightness of heart couldn’t all be wine.

He stepped forward intending to feint a head punch, but he never got there. As soon as his weight shifted he was on the ground, gasping, and his back hurt.

The pain flowed into something in his head, and he rolled to his feet and grappled, perhaps the stupidest thing he could have done. The man was so large that he simply bent Mortirmir’s hands back until he freed them of their lock, and then crossed his hands involuntarily. The ease of the giant’s victory angered Mortirmir further, and he changed his stance and put his knee – quite viciously – into the other man’s balls.

The Nordikan stumbled back, and Mortirmir kicked him hard in the middle of the gut – the man folded at the waist, and Mortirmir’s right hand shot out—

The giant took it in one great paw, rolled to his left and threw the student like a trebuchet throws a stone.

Mortirmir hit the inn wall. He had time to think that he was surprised at the colour of the whole thing, and had to tell the magisters, and then . . .

‘Damn Christ, you hurt me!’ said a scratchy deep voice by his ear. ‘But I never meant to hurt you so badly.’ He felt something cold touch his head, and it hurt. But everything hurt.

‘You are a very great fool,’ purred a woman’s voice.

‘You’re a big help,’ said the scratchy voice.

‘We could at least split his money. It is many months since you have been paid.’

‘That would be dishonourable, and I would never do such a thing. Besides, when he recovers, we will be great friends. The witch woman has told me this.’ The scratchy voice chuckled. ‘If I didn’t kill him. She said I might kill him. I tried to be careful, and then he hurt me and I lost it, as usual.’

Mortirmir tested his body, as if he was an experiment in school. His left leg moved, his left knee was full of pain, his right leg moved, his left arm moved, his left hand moved – his right hand and arm hurt like—

‘
Holy
Saint Eustachios and all the venerated saints and martyrs!’ he ripped off. He sat up a little, and found that he was lying on a bed – quite a high bed.

‘Holy mother of God he’s awake!’ the woman gave a scream and leaped from the floor, where she’d been lying naked. She had long legs and a muscular midsection and he had the impression of fine breasts high above a slightly bony ribcage and wonderful hips. The sight of her body rose above the pain of his broken hand and arm.

The giant leaned over the bed. ‘You are alive! By the gods!’

Mortirmir had a pain in his head like a spike in his temple. He put his left hand to his forehead, and the whole right front of his head was spongy. ‘Oh, my God, you’ve broken my skull.’

‘Oh, I’ve had worse fighting with my brothers,’ said the big man. ‘There is a lot of blood,’ he admitted.

Mortirmir forced his head back onto the pillow and the pain abated by the breadth of a hair. ‘How long was I out?’ he asked, trying to remember anything the medical magister had told him about head wounds.

‘Almost a day – Anna? How long was he out?’ cried the giant.

The woman spat something that sounded unkind. She appeared, pulling a gown over her head. Before her hair emerged, she spat, ‘I suppose you don’t care that I haven’t eaten in two days, you Christ-cursed barbarian! And now I must be seen naked by
another
barbarian. And I’m sure you can’t even pay me – Holy Mother, I open and shut for you for nothing and why? I have no idea, when you repel me so much! The ugliest man I’ve ever seen and I the very pearl of this city – the finest Hetaera – it’s like a fine mare lying with a boar. Oh – I hate myself! Why do I do this? Perhaps it is punishment for my many sins – God curses me to rut with the very lowest form of life in the gutters. Perhaps next it will be a leper.’

Derkensun watched her with a small smile on his broad face. ‘Are you finished?’ he asked. ‘I hate to interrupt.’

She slapped him as hard as she was able, cocking back her arm and her hand moving like the arm on a catapult. The slap echoed around the room and she clutched her hand as if the giant had struck it, when all he’d done was to stand perfectly still, a slight smile still curled comfortably in the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward very gradually, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. ‘But,’ he said slowly, ‘I love you.’

‘I will never come here again,’ she said.

Derkensun laughed aloud. ‘If you insist,’ he said.

‘I hate you!’ she shrieked.

‘Of course,’ said the Nordikan.

When she was gone, the giant watched the door for a long moment, and then came back to his patient. ‘Wine?’ he asked.

‘Never again,’ Mortirmir said. There was something odd about his right hand. Flames seemed to lick at it. When he looked, there was nothing there but the warm sun coming in the room’s single open window – it was still hot as hell – and falling on his hand and arm. But it felt pleasant, and it was a long chalk better than the pain. Mortirmir lay back.

His assailant came and brought him some nice water – bubbly from some underground spring. ‘This will make you better. The witch woman says so. Listen – I have to go on guard. I’m on the gate of Ares today. I will be all week. I’ll be back.’

Morgan nodded. ‘I thought you Nordikans guarded the Emperor?’ he asked.

Derkensun shrugged. ‘Something must be up, for me to be on a gate. Now sleep.’

Mortirmir had the strangest sensation in his hands and his head – like flying, like finding he could read a new language. It was all—

He shrugged it off, waved at the Nordikan, and fell back into sleep.

Chapter Two

Liviapolis, the City – Aeskepiles and the Emperor

A
eskepiles, the Emperor’s magister, preceded him through the reception halls of the palace with two of the axe-bearing Nordikan Guard. Their scarlet surcoats heavily embroidered in real gold showed their rank, and their great axes and heavy full-length chain proclaimed their roles. The man on the left had a scar that ran from his right eye to the left edge of his mouth and made him look like a daemon from hell. The man on the right had tattoos that ran from his brow to his neck and vanished into the hem of his fine linen shirt, just visible at the collar of his hauberk. Pages followed with their helmets, aventails and heavy riding spears.

The Emperor himself was unarmoured. He wore a purple velvet jupon over scarlet hose, and on his feet were the scarlet shoes that only he could wear. Every buckle on his shoes and belt, every lace point, every button was solid gold. Double-headed eagles were embroidered on his jupon and his shoes in gold thread as well. A page, one of the palace Ordinaries, held his great robe of purple silk embroidered with eagles and lined in tawny-gold fur.

Behind the Emperor were two more Nordikans, each with their pages, and a dozen more Ordinaries. Two carried a saddle, one carried a sword, and a pair of secretaries followed the Emperor closely, writing down his comments on the matters of state and domestic economy as read from a leather bound agenda by the Mayor of the Palace and the Grand Chamberlain. The two men took turns to mention their issues. Behind them stood the Emperor’s daughter, Irene, walking with the Logothete of the Drum, a slight man with the ascetic look of a monk.

‘Item thirteen, Majesty. Arrears of pay among the palace staff and most especially the Guard.’ The Mayor cleared his throat.

Emperor Andronicus had the blood of the Paleologs in his veins. He was widely accounted the handsomest man in the Empire, and perhaps the world, with darkly tanned skin and smooth blue-black hair, piercing dark eyes under arched and expressive brows, and a long, strong beard that was the envy even of the Nordikans who served him. A thousand years of breeding the most beautiful princes and princesses from all over the known world had mixed his skin to a perfect tone, and given his features the look of near perfect beauty usually saved for idealised immortals. He appeared to have been carved from old gold, or bronze.

His beauty was reflected in his daughter, who put her hand on the Logothete’s arm, making the thin man flush and bow, and went to stand by her father. Irene resembled one of the pagan goddesses.

‘Pay them, then,’ he said, mildly.

The Mayor of the Palace bowed deeply. ‘Imperator – we have no money.’

The Emperor nodded.

His daughter raised an eyebrow. ‘Pater, we must find some,’ she said. ‘Unpaid soldiers are the bane of emperors and empires; they are to us as horseflies are to horses.’

The magister flicked a glance at the two killers who lead the procession. The Guard’s loyalty was legendary. But unpaid soldiers
were
the devil incarnate.

The magister had his own reasons to hate the Guard – not least of which was that they scared him. He schooled his features carefully, hiding his thoughts.

I am the greatest magister in the world, and I am trapped here in this fading, decadent court when I could be anywhere – I could be anything.

Hah! And I will be.

He caged his eyes and didn’t look at the Emperor. Or at his co-conspirators.

‘How many of this morning’s questions hinge on money?’ the Emperor asked.

The Grand Chamberlain chuckled. He was a large man – he looked like a bruiser, and his intellect was hidden behind his laughter. ‘All questions turn on money,’ he said. ‘Except those about God.’

Any laughter was chilled by the Emperor’s pained expression.

Irene turned her cold indifference on the Chamberlain. ‘You presume too much,’ she said.

They walked on in silence, their steps soft in the vast caverns of marble that were the outer halls of the Great Palace. Once, these halls had been packed with envoys and eager visitors. Above them, vast mosaics recorded the deeds of the Emperor’s ancestors. There was Saint Aetius defeating the Wild in a battle that covered almost fifty paces of perfect mosaic tesserae. The polished stones glittered far above them, and the solid gold in the hilt of Aetius’s sword gleamed like a rising sun in the near dark of early morning.

The Emperor paused and looked up at his distant ancestor, a thousand years before. The saint’s gladius was stuck to the hilt in Amohkhan’s breast, and the great daemon towered over him with a flint axe ready to fall. The torches of the Ordinaries at the back of their procession lit the scene fitfully, and the permanent breeze that passed through the halls of stone made the flames ripple and brought the scene to life.

‘He murdered all of the old Emperor’s family,’ the Emperor said. ‘Saint Aetius. He murdered Valens and his wife and all their children and grandchildren. He thought he would prevent civil war. Instead, he cut the head off the Empire.’ He looked around him. ‘He stopped the Wild at Galuns. But he destroyed the Empire. There’s a lesson there.’

The Grand Chamberlain nodded sagely. The Mayor waited patiently.

Irene looked at her father with a slightly horrified expression. Aeskepiles caught it.

As soon as the Emperor started walking again, the Mayor said, ‘So it seems to us, Majesty, that the solution is to implement some economies.’

The magister wanted to choke the life out of the Mayor. He glared at the man, who looked surprised – and hurt.

Why now? Today? Why not ten years ago – when we still controlled enough territory and enough taxes to rebuild?
The magister’s eye caught high above him in the tesserae of history.
The die is cast, indeed.

The Emperor’s eyes met the Mayor’s. He nodded ruefully. ‘I agree,’ he said.

The two scribes wrote quickly on their wax tablets.

The Emperor held up his hand as if he’d had enough of business, which he probably had. He strode through the main doors of the outer hall, and found two Easterner servants waiting with a dozen horses.

The horses were tethered to the columns of the great portico. They looked incongruous, to say the least, and their fretting emphasised the emptiness of the massive courtyard and the two columned stoas that ran away into the distance.

‘Perhaps we could invite the Etruscans to come and quarry our marble,’ the Emperor said. He raised his too-perfect eyebrows. ‘They own everything else.’

One of the scribes began to write. The other poked him.

An Easterner held the Emperor’s stirrup and he mounted with the trained elegance of a skilled horseman. As soon as the white gelding felt the man on his back he stilled, and the Emperor backed the horse a few steps and accepted his robe for riding from an Ordinary. The morning air held a chill.

The Grand Chamberlain handed the Emperor his sword. ‘Still time for me to get you a proper escort, Majesty.’

The Emperor shrugged. ‘The Duke asked me to come without one. Is it time to start distrusting my officers?’

Aeskepiles hated him just then. Hated his feckless, useless optimism and his endless trust and good will.

The Emperor turned to his magister. ‘You seem out of sorts this morning, scholar.’

‘Your concern is gratifying, Majesty,’ said the magister. ‘I’m sure it is simply something I am having trouble digesting.’

The Emperor nodded. ‘You have our permission to withdraw, if that seems best to you, my friend.’

The words ‘my friend’ struck Aeskepiles like a mace. He set his face. ‘I’ll manage,’ he said in a harsh croak.

The Emperor looked at his daughter. ‘And you, my child, seem bitten by the same fangs.’

The Princess Irene inclined her head in submission to her father. ‘I
am
out of sorts,’ she confessed. ‘Pater, I am disturbed by a report—’ She paused and the Emperor smiled benignly.

‘My dear child,’ he said. ‘You are a princess of an ancient house and estate.’

She cast her eyes down.

At her movement, the Mayor and Chamberlain bowed deeply. Most of the servants fell on their faces. The effect was a little ruined by the steward, who unrolled a sheet of linen canvas and threw it on the ground before throwing himself on top of it.

The Emperor’s daughter curtsied deep, so that her skirts spread about her like the blossoming of a silken flower.

‘My dear!’ the Emperor said. ‘I thought you were coming with me.’

The magister had thought so, too.

‘I’m most sorry, Majesty.’ She remained in her full curtsey.

The magister thought
she must have magnificent legs to bear the strain. Why isn’t she going with him? Does she suspect?

The Emperor smiled beneficently at them all. ‘See you at dinner,’ he said, and put his heels to his mount.

Five miles away outside the walls of the city, Andronicus, the Duke of Thrake and the Emperor’s cousin, was also a handsome man. He was in his mid-forties, wore his age with dignity, and while he had grey in his beard and on his chest, he clearly came from the same stock as the Emperor. He was dressed in plain blue, his favourite colour. He wore the knight’s belt of an Alban – not an affectation, but the sign of his office as Megas Ducas, the commander of the Emperor’s armies.

He waited for his Emperor on the Field of Ares, an enormous grass arena where sixty thousand men could be mustered. Had, in fact, been mustered, many times. He loved to be on the field – to feel the grass where Aetius might have walked – where Livia certainly walked. Where Basil II, Hammer of the Irks, had formed his great armies up and reviewed them.

Today, despite the snappish late spring weather, the sun shone on armour and colourful banners. The Duke had an army on the field – almost three thousand men. The field dwarfed them. They didn’t make a brave display, but instead, seemed to suggest the opposite.

Andronicus reviewed them from habit. He always made sure the turnout was the best possible before his men were inspected by the Emperor. He rode along the front of the Latinikon – mostly Alban mercenaries, with a scattering of Galles and Etruscans.

He turned his horse and rode down a file. ‘What’s this man’s name?’ he asked in Archaic.

Ser Bescanon, an old and very tough Occitan from south of Alba who served as commander of the Latinikon, smiled. ‘Ah, m’lord Duke, I’ll see to this.’

The man in question had a mail hauberk and no more – no helmet, no body armour, and no shield. In fact, he had no saddle. He was sitting bareback on a warhorse.

The Duke leaned over and gave the animal a sharp poke. It backed a step.

‘That is a cart horse,’ he said.

‘I believe Ser Raoul has had a disagreement with his landlord. His armour and horse are not, I think, currently available. I’ll see to it he’s ready for the next muster.’

‘Dismiss him,’ said the Duke.

The mercenary shook his head. ‘Nah – m’lord, that would be hasty. We’re not fighting anyone today – no? No need to make an example, mmm?’

The Duke raised his eyebrows.

Bescanon flinched from his gaze. ‘As you wish. Ser Raoul, you are dismissed.’

Ser Raoul laughed. It was not a normal laugh. ‘Pay me and I’ll go, you useless sack of shit.’

The Duke backed his horse away from the man.

Bescanon nodded. ‘My friend Raoul has a point, messire. None of us have been paid.’ Bescanon smiled softly. ‘In a very long time, messire.’

The Duke’s son, Demetrius, Despot of the North, interposed his horse between the knight and his father. ‘You’ll be paid at the end of this parade. Ser Raoul, you are dismissed without pay. If you don’t like it, I will have the skin stripped from your back and I’ll sell your useless carcass into slavery.’ The younger man’s voice cut like a whip. He had the over-eager aggression of a young man who likes to throw his weight at obstacles.

Ser Raoul’s breathing came very fast. His hair was wild – he was missing teeth and his nose had been broken many times. It was the bulbous red nose of a heavy drinker which suggested where his pay would go if he were given any.

He reached for his sword.

‘Raoul!’ Bescanon snapped ‘Don’t do it!’

Behind the Despot, two blank-faced Easterners had their horn bows at full draw. The Despot never went anywhere without his bodyguard of blood-sworn foreigners.

Horses’ tails swished, and spring flies droned.

Raoul sighed. He reached behind himself and very carefully scratched his arse. Turned his horse. And rode off the grounds.

Half a mile to the east of Ser Raoul, Harald Derkensun stood tall in the sentry box at the gate of the city.

Nordikans almost
never
served as gate guards. They were far above such things. But the Logothete of the Drum had ordered that the gate guards be changed a week ago.

He had further ordered that the Nordikans stand guard in the plain tunics and cloaks of the City Militia.

Derkensun thought it was all foolishness. He was head and shoulders taller than almost any Morean and he suspected that every man passing the gate knew him for what he was, but that was the way with Morea. Wheels turned, sometimes inside wheels, and sometimes for no other reason than the turning. There were plots, and plots to cover plots, and some men, Derkensun had discovered, would plot merely to hear themselves talk.