The Iron Ship (47 page)

“You are destitute now. You offer me this service for payment, for money?”

Holdean’s face twisted. “Revenge! I want that bitch to suffer the way she has made me suffer. All I did was take my due.”

“Vengeance is a better motivator. Perhaps we can do business. So tell me again, can you effect what you say, if we can put you back into your place of former employment?”

“I... I believe so sir, I will have to be careful. My face is well known. But given time, I could place agents within—”

“Time we do not have. The Karsans do love their legislation so, but their courts are moving quickly. It will not be long before Trassan Kressind and his master, Vand,” he could not help but snarl around the second name, “will have their documentation of passage through the Drowning Sea, and the way will be open to the Southern Ocean. Fortunately for us I have Shrane.”

He plucked a small bell from his desk, fussily decorated in the Maceriyan style, and rang it. The doors were opened smoothly by an impeccably dressed footmen. A robed woman came in, the tall staff in her hand lightly tapping on the floor.

“This is my mage, Adamanka Shrane. Now, Medame Shrane, can you change him?”

The woman gripped Holdean’s face in cool fingers and turned it this way and that. She was beautiful, but strangely so. She had feline eyes sat very high in her face, sharp cheekbones that rose over flat-planed cheeks. There was a faint ridge between her eyebrows, and an odd sheen to her eyes. She was like no woman he had ever seen in all the variety of the Hundred Kingdoms.

“So his own mother would not know him,” she said. Her breath was metallic.

“There you have it, Messire Morthrock. We can, through the agency of Medame’s magic here, alter your appearance thoroughly. Do you acquiesce?”

“I...” said Holdean, no longer comfortable with the direction of the meeting.

“This will be no glamour. I shall perform a deep altering. Irreversible.” She breathed huskily. Her tongue, he noticed, was uncommonly pink and sharply pointed.

“Will it hurt?”

“Very much.”

“Do not scare him away, Shrane!” scolded Persin. She released him and took a step back, to Holdean’s relief.

To Morthrock, Persin said, “For the pain, I shall recompense you to the tune of, say, twelve thousand thalers? To be paid upon my satisfaction. Clear?”

Holdean stammered. “I... I... That is—”

“I thought so. Shrane, proceed.”

Holdean Morthrock had never seen true magic worked before. His world was full of devices and marvels powered by otherworldly energies, but reality bent by will alone he had never witnessed.

There was no incantation, no incense, candles or anything of that ilk. Shrane breathed deeply through her nose, narrowed her eyes, and stared intently at him.

The next instant he was in indescribable pain. He clutched at his face, trying to swipe away the molten metal he was sure was running over his features. He was dimly aware of Persin shouting for his people, and his hands being wrestled down to his side by strong arms. In the tight grip of two men, he thrashed and howled. The excruciating sensation burned through his skin, taking hold of his skull. He felt the very bones of his face soften and move under invisible influences to a new shape. Pressure squeezed his eyeballs almost to bursting. He howled and begged for mercy. His words bubbled from the lipless hole his mouth had become.

“Hold him tighter!” hissed Shrane.

Something broke in his mind, some tender psychic tissue that connected the image he held of himself internally with his external morphology. He sank to the floor sobbing, pulling the two men after him. The pain receded from his bone, the muscles of his face spasmed as they were tuned to Shrane’s design. His skin ceased to writhe, and the heat went from it. It stiffened, hair sprouted unnaturally quickly from his chin and eyebrows. A coarseness crept into his face, his skin rough where before it had been smooth.

“It is done,” said Shrane.

The footmen hauled Morthrock up to his feet. His legs shook with the shock of his experience. Tears streamed from eyes that felt pierced by heated needles, but he blinked and could see again.

He pushed the men aside, staggered about the room for a mirror. His sight was subtly different, yellower, the field of vision wider but of lesser height. Persin smiled thinly and pointed behind Holdean.

There was a mirror above a mantelpiece. Holdean walked forward. In the mirror, an unknown man approached him. He wore Holdean’s clothes and was of a size and build that matched his own, but the face was entirely different.

Holdean had had aesthetic features; somewhat sickly looking, thin-headed, but handsome in his way. This stranger’s head was rounder, his features thicker. Prominent lips surrounded by coarse black beard, a nose above that was squashed and pocked by some disease Holdean had never suffered. The eyebrows were wild and long. He was ugly.

“Is it permanent?” he asked. He reached up to press his new flesh. It yielded like flesh should, was warm as flesh is. The sensations registered as his own.

“It cannot be undone,” said Shrane.

“To do great things, a man must make great sacrifices,” said Persin. “You will grow accustomed to the change.”

“Gods...” he whispered. Only his eyes, the whites pink with broken blood vessels, remained his own.

“You are far from an honest man, Holdean Morthrock, but you are desperate,” said Persin, “and that is a far more valuable characteristic in games such as these. Go now and prepare. You leave for Karsa City in the afternoon.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Company of the Dead

“W
AKEY TIME
! U
P
up up little merchant boy!” Zhinsky’s voice shattered Rel’s dreams and propelled him rudely out of sleep. Cold air blew into his room as the major pulled the rags from the slot window. Rel put his arm over his eyes.

“What time is it?”

“We go to Alu-mal. Now.”

Rel squinted at the slot in the wall. He groaned and flopped back into his bed. “It’s still dark!”

“Commander’s condition, we go now, first light. Colonel’s orders, merchant boy.”

“Bastard.”

“Estabanado or me?” said Zhinsky. He was dressed in some robe thing, including headgear from which hung a number of scarves. He wore his ridiculous Khusiak hat, and his goatskin jerkin, to which ensemble he’d added thick wool trousers, these only modestly ballooned. The links of a short-sleeved mail shirt peeked out between the layers. Strapped over his boots were boiled leather greaves, matching vambraces on his arms.

“Both,” said Rel. “Ow!” he shouted, as Zhinsky tipped the bed over, depositing him upon the floor.

“We go now, come along! I not wait all day for slug-a-bed Rel!” He laughed uproariously. “This funny phrase! Slug-a-bed. You like?” He stopped laughing abruptly.

“Not particularly, sir.”

“I say incorrectly?”

“No,” said Rel grumpily. “Your Karsarin is astounding, sir. As good as your Low Maceriyan.”

Zhinsky beamed. “Oh, so you just thin of skin.”

“Something like that, sir.”

“I knew it! Now put these on.”

The major threw a bundle of clothes at Rel. They hit him in the face.

“You as bad catch as you are bad at everything, merchant’s boy.”

“What is this?”

“Sukniar Khusiachka. Khushashian riding clothes. You put on, put your fur on top. You will need them, it is very cold. We go soon! You hurry! Zhinsky not your servant, merchant’s boy, rather you are mine! Go fetch your men, six. Bring Veremond, Deamaathani, and four others. You have chosen?”

“Yes, yes. They should be getting ready.” He glanced at the window. “If it actually is first light. I told the rest to report to Lieutenant Helaska while we are gone.”

“She will like that! They will not!” he laughed again. “Downstairs. Three minutes.”

R
EL CAME OUT
into the yard tugging self-consciously at his clothes. They were outlandish, and uncomfortable under his breastplate. The wool pantaloons itched, and the robes rode up under the shoulder strap of his ironlock carbine. Zhinsky was already in the yard of the fort with two dracons. They had Khusiak style saddles with high cantles and pommels, double lance tubes either side. Rel’s embarrassment was not helped by Zhinsky doubling over with howls of laughter when he saw Rel. The Khusiak tried to talk, but could not manage it, erupting into giggles each time.

“What’s so funny?” snapped Rel. When Zhinsky was behaving like that it was easy to forget he was a major.

“You... you have it on wrong way!” he laughed. Tears ran down his face in such streams he had to flick them away from his moustache beads.

Rel held up his arms. He could not tell front from back.

Zhinsky mastered himself, and came over. “Take your arms from the sleeves. Lift up the top robe. Here, I help. Get this breastplate off! Foolish boy.”

Zhinsky span the robe around on Rel’s neck, sniggering softly and shaking his head. He giggled even more when he discovered Rel was wearing his uniform jacket under the robes.

“It’s cold out here,” he protested.

“Yes, this is why I have this.” Zhinsky tugged at his goatskin jerkin. “And wool underneath, silk underneath that. Keeps the sweat from your skin. This jacket good for parade, not good for cold steppe nights. Take it all off!” He whistled, sending a boy for the items described. He returned quickly, and Zhinsky helped Rel redress.

“I have never worn one of these before,” said Rel, his feelings bruised.

“No, you have not!” He reached behind Rel’s neck. “Now, this go here. This here,” he said as he arranged the strange nest of scarves around his neck and face.

“Will I be warm enough? Ow!” he said, as Zhinsky pinched him.

“Pathetic girl. Merchant’s daughter, not boy. Zhinsky wrong. Yes, yes! You be fine, not too cold. Now, let us put your armour back on over, then fur on that.”

He tightened the straps of Rel’s breast and backplate while Rel held them against his body.

Zhinsky smoothed his beard, opening his mouth wide as was his habit. “This good quality, thick.” He rapped the steel with a knuckle. “But only good when facing men, or guns. Here, you need more. We find you some.” He looked Rel up and down critically. He smiled. “Now, you look more like a Khusiak and less like an idiot.”

Zhinsky gave more instructions to the fort servants in his guttural language before hurrying off somewhere, leaving Rel with the dracons. One was a pale green, the other a light mauve. They were of a different sub-breed to those he was used to in Karsa, being stockier and heavier in limb and having far more feathers than Karsan dracons. Like those he had ridden before, they possessed the long, spatulate feathers upon their grasping forearms and a crest of four long plumes on the tops of their heads. But whereas the dracons of Karsa were otherwise naked, these were covered all over with downy, hollow spike feathers, leaving only the head, secondary arms and lower legs bare. They preened themselves with their foreclaws and middle limbs as they waited. Neither of them wore muzzles, tail brakes or claw sheathes, and this gave him pause. Never had he ridden one without. The mauve gave him a long, yellow-eyed reptilian stare. Nictating membranes slid back and forth over the eye. Rel backed away a pace.

His men came out of the central stable block leading their own mounts, Veremond first. Five others followed him: the Khusiaks, Zorolotsev and Wiatra—the first tall and bearded, the second short and extravagantly moustachioed—a Karsan from near Stoncastrum named Dramion, then the Correndian, Merreas. Last was an Olberlander whose name no one could pronounce to his satisfaction, so everyone called him Olb. Deamaathani came out of a lesser block and fell in to join them. He nodded at Rel in acknowledgement. All of them had adopted at least some elements of Khushashian riding dress. The odd mismatch of uniforms that characterised the army of the Glass Fort was less pronounced than it ordinarily was. There was a patchwork uniformity to the patrol, excepting Deamaathani, who wore his own outlandish garb in many shades of blue. With it he wore a bronze breastplate, spalders, greaves and vambraces. The warlock rapped his chest with his bare knuckles. “Iron interferes with magic. Bronze serves well.”

“Sir,” said Veremond. The others greeted him. Wiatra spoke little Low Maceriyan, and Zorolotsev was close-mouthed by inclination. The others spoke quietly to each other as they checked their mounts over.

The servants, a mix of local tribesmen, Khusiaks and fortune hunters from the Hundred, returned in greater number, carrying heavily laden saddlebags and blanket rolls. They dumped them near the dracons before going back for more. An army groom led Deamaathani’s mount to him; a handsome, jet black monster that rattled happily when it saw its master. Another brought canteens from the well house slung about his shoulder in threes and fours. Zhinsky came back, carrying additional armour similar to his own. He tossed it to Rel. Once the supplies were all delivered, Zhinsky dismissed the servants and the soldiers set about loading up their mounts while Rel buckled on the armour. The dracons clicked in annoyance. Zhinsky calmed them with words in his own tongue.

Rel approached his own dracon carefully.

Zhinsky fetched a pair of slender lances from a rack near the hitching post. “So, I finally see you ride today. If you as good at this as you are with your sabre, maybe I only mock you a little. This is Aramaz.” He indicated the mauve dracon. “He is named after a famous Khusiak. Very good dracon, I choose him for you myself. Load him. He is waiting you. You do know how to ride, yes?”

“Yes,” said Rel. “It’s just...” Aramaz cocked his head to one side and let out a series of clicks from its pulsing throat.

“Just what, little rich man?” Zhinsky slotted his lances upright into their holders.

“I’ve never ridden one without the muzzle and claw sheaths on.” He grabbed the reins.

“Pah! They have eaten, why are you so scared?” Zhinsky spat. Rel picked up his saddlebags and slung them over the dracon’s thin neck in front of the saddle. Zhinsky tutted impatiently.