The Twilight Herald: Book Two Of The Twilight Reign (39 page)

‘Oh Princess,’ said Rojak, almost apologetically, ‘we did warn you to keep your nose out of our affairs.’

Jackdaw glanced at Ilumene, who looked as confused as he was. Before either could speak a snarl broke the silence in the shadowy alley below. It was swiftly followed by the rasp of swords being drawn. As Jackdaw craned to see, he was rewarded by a sudden flash of movement, a glimpse of metal and a bone-white mask.

The spy slashed behind him as he ran, catching nothing but not waiting to look back as he jumped up onto a wall and crouched to leap again. Before he could move, a pale limb flashed out and pushed him backwards off the wall. The spy rolled as he hit the ground, cutting up again with twin swords. One caught in a wooden ladder and stuck fast; he didn’t wait to try to pull it out but immediately abandoned the weapon and darted away, heading for the mouth of the alley. From the shadows one of the Hounds appeared, kicked away the spy’s legs and disappeared back into darkness again. The man crashed down, hitting the floor hard and taking a moment to recover before he scrambled to his feet. He’d lost his other sword now and was in the process of drawing a long dagger from his belt when a muscular hand reached out from beyond Jackdaw’s sight and dragged the spy away.

The man shrieked, and Jackdaw flinched. The snarling that followed told its own story and he could not help but picture the long, sharp teeth tearing the spy apart -but somehow the spy managed to pull free, and it was the Hound that staggered back, blood running from a long gash across its chest, ripping open both leather coat and flesh. Jackdaw could see blood on the Hound’s muzzle, but it was the spy who darted forward to press the advantage, a curved dagger raised high and threatening.

He didn’t get more than two steps before a blurring shape hit him in the shoulder and bore him to the ground. Jackdaw saw him turn and try to stab his new attacker, but a third Hound fell upon him at that moment and clamped its jaws around his forearm. The man howled in pain as one slashed down with its claws and lunged forward to snap at his throat. The screams stopped, though the spy fought on for a few more seconds, beating at the Hounds with his free hand, kicking wildly, like a panicked deer.

And then it was over. The Hounds bent low over their kill, rending the spy’s flesh from his bones, and Jackdaw could bear to watch no longer.

As he turned away, he realised Rojak hadn’t noticed - normally the minstrel took inordinate delight in death, but for some reason he was still looking out over the empty rooftops, a satisfied smile on his face.

‘Perhaps you will heed the warning a little better next time, Princess,’ he said to the night.

Without warning, a great flurry of movement appeared beside Jackdaw, fat trails of shadow suddenly rippling away like leaves caught in a whirlwind. Jackdaw and Ilumene both jumped back, the latter drawing his sword in the same movement. Rojak stayed still, betraying no surprise at the darkness coming to life a foot or two from where Jackdaw had been standing.

‘That was a poor lesson, then,’ snarled Zhia Vukotic as the movement coalesced to reveal the vampire, clad in a white fur-trimmed evening gown that accentuated the rusty stained skin of her neck and shoulders. She stepped forward, sparing a withering look for Ilumene, who had been advancing to meet her until Rojak raised a hand to stop the man.

‘I sent the man to gather information and information is what I have gained,’ she told the minstrel. ‘Anything else is no great consideration.’

For a moment it looked as if she would storm past the three men towards the stair that led to the ground, then something stopped her.

She leaned close to Rojak, her delicate nose screwed up in disgust at the smell, and spoke softly, calmly. ‘You think to issue me with warnings? Perhaps you don’t quite understand the balance of power in this city. Your theatre may have official sanction from Siala and protection from the Spider, but if you are determined to see unfortunate accidents happen to all your players, I will grant that wish. No patron, however powerful they may consider themselves, can protect you from me.’

‘Of course, Princess,’ Rojak replied in his usual tone, quite unfazed by the immortal vampire standing close enough to pluck his heart out. Jackdaw shivered at the man’s lack of fear, his absence of any real emotions. If Zhia did pluck his heart out right now, what would she find in her hand? A healthy organ, still beating, or a rotten piece of carrion? Was there anything Rojak had left to fear?

Rojak gave a small sigh. ‘But in the service of my art, what sacrifice would be too great?’

 

‘There’s your tavern, sir.’ Major Amber pointed. ‘Almost there now.’

Mikiss followed the soldier’s outstretched finger and tried to summon up a smile, but in the blistering sunshine, labouring under the weight of his pack, he couldn’t find the strength for anything more than a grunt. He began to tramp towards the tavern. The crumbling bricks of these buildings seemed to have been burnt red by the unholy summer sun. Everything he’d seen in Scree told of a careless neglect; even the larger buildings looked dirty and battered when they closed on them.

‘What a shithole of a city,’ muttered one of the men behind them. The two soldiers acting as bodyguards were brothers, Keneg and Shart. They didn’t look particularly similar, Shart being a few inches taller than his older, broader brother, yet their voices were almost identical. Mikiss could never be sure who was speaking -although Shart was always the more talkative -unless he was looking at them.

‘That’s saying something,’ Major Amber replied. He smiled back at the two behind, the strange eyes that gave him his nickname glinting in the light. ‘Don’t you two come from Dorin? I was there in the summer, after the snows had gone; never seen such a festering rat-pit in all my life.’

‘We can’t all be brought up in the lap of luxury, Major.’

Amber gave a snort. It was an old joke, repeated interminably during the journey. Mikiss had come to the conclusion that all soldiers sniped and teased each other, however absurd the reason. Whenever the mood fell sombre, there was always a piece of foolishness to fall back on, a welcome distraction to Death’s hand forever resting on their shoulders.

Amber had been born into minor nobility and was thus accused of being pampered and indulged, while Shart spoke too much and Keneg not enough. It was as simple as that, but none of them ever tired of the same old jokes. When they had been hiding from a group of soldiers one night, Mikiss had found himself glad of their idiotic levity.

Now the major stopped his small party, stepped into the shadow of a building and let his pack fall to the dusty ground. The others followed him, and Mikiss gave a heartfelt groan as he dropped his pack, already thankful for the ease of his torment, however brief.

‘Now boys,’ Amber said, looking warily at the passers-by, ‘just because the end’s in sight, doesn’t mean we’re going to relax. Sir, you’ll be staying here with Shart and the packs. Keneg and I will go and give some names to the barkeep. I’ve no reason to think there’s going to be a problem, but we don’t take risks and I’m buggered if I’m running from the City Watch carrying that pack if I don’t have to.’ He had decided at the start that the timid army messenger would be a clerk to anyone they met, rather than the leader of their group. That left him in charge, at least in public, and mostly Mikiss preferred it that way.

Major Amber took a moment to pull his scimitars from his pack and slide the holster straps over his shoulders. He unwrapped the bleached leather from around the hilts and settled them into their sheaths, giving each a tug to ensure he could draw them without restriction. He straightened his shirt, rubbing a hand distractedly over his belly. He was a professional soldier and disliked being without his armour, but this heat made it impossible to wear even the lightest of mail. All three found themselves unconsciously checking for armour that was no longer there.

Keneg slapped the scabbard of his broadsword, a thick weapon Mikiss thought of as an unholy cross between sword and axe. He nodded at his brother and stepped up beside Major Amber.

‘If there’s no reception to speak of, I’ll send Keneg out and have the beer waiting for you.’

Shart whispered urgently, ‘See if there’s anything better than that piss we got in the last place. Bloody westerners and their poor excuse for beer; that stuff was halfway to water!’

‘You’ll get what you’re given,’ Amber growled goodnaturedly, ‘but if it’ll shut you up for half a minute I’ll see what I can do.’

The pair strode off, Keneg half a pace behind the major, continually scanning the street as befitted his role of bodyguard -though any local thug would have to be brave to the point of madness to tangle with Major Amber. There was nothing noble or gentle about the tall Menin officer. His weathered face bore a number of scars, one of which was obviously a sword cut, and his shaved head added to the brutal façade. That Amber was dressed in fine clothes was a minor point, and of no importance once one had taken in the size of his scimitars and the brutal lines of his face.

Mikiss watched them walk away, then realised he didn’t have to be on his feet any longer. He sat down heavily on his pack and gave a sigh. For a few minutes he just watched his feet, unrecognisable to him without the elegant cavalry boots he normally wore. Eventually his attention wandered to the building sheltering them. The brick looked old. It was crumbling at the edges, and dark streaks showed years of run-off from the neighbouring building. Five yards on, the ground dropped away a little, though Mikiss could see no reason for it; whatever function the drop had served was long-forgotten. Now all it contained was the shrunken corpse of a small dog, little more than a bag of bones and scrappy fur, curled awkwardly in the corner. It was attended by half a dozen lacklustre flies. Mikiss frowned. Something about the corpse looked odd.

He leaned forward to look a little closer. It was the dog’s legs -it wasn’t the angle of its body that was strange, but the length of the rear legs, which were too short. With a start Mikiss understood and turned away, revolted: the little dog’s hind feet had been cut off. ‘Gods,’ he muttered, ‘is that what they do for sport in this city?’

He pulled off a sandal and rubbed the dry, blistered skin on the ball of his foot. The sandal was Chetse Army-issue, with three straps winding around the ankle to hold it secure. He was glad not to be wearing the heavy fur-lined boots reaching halfway up his thigh favoured by the Menin cavalry, but the grit of Scree’s baked roads had worked its way between every toe and under every nail.

‘Good soldier’s foot you’ve got there,’ Shart commented, leaning over to look at the underside.

‘Filthy, you mean?’

The soldier chuckled, knelt down and grabbed the foot, much to Mikiss’ alarm. He twisted it slightly and pointed down at the rough surface underneath. Once Mikiss was paying attention, Shart gave the foot a firm slap with his massively strong sword-arm. Mikiss gave a yelp of surprise and snatched his foot back.

‘That’s what I meant,’ Shart said with a knowing glint. ‘They may be ugly and filthy, but you don’t get much tougher than a soldier’s foot. Trust me; if I’d done that before we set out, you’d be crying like a girl.’ He stood up with a satisfied smile, and stuck his thumb into the thick leather belt that held his daggers and the long-handled axe he was so proficient with.

Mikiss stared at his foot, then back at Shart. ‘I think you meant to say “crying like a girl,
sir”
, didn’t you?’

‘That I did, sir. Apologies for the slip, but I hope you’ll let me blame it on the weather.’ Shart grinned. The army messenger was not one to take his rank seriously.

‘That I will,’ Mikiss replied, wiping an already-sodden sleeve over his face. ‘Gods, I didn’t expect it to be so hot here.’

‘None of us did. Don’t feel natural if you ask me, sir. The way folk have been walking past with their eyes glazed over, and how they’re dressed, I don’t reckon it’s normally so hot this far north.’

‘I think you’re right,’ Mikiss replied, squinting at the handful of people in the street. ‘Those soldiers on the Gate obviously didn’t have the uniform for this sort of weather.’

‘Not soldiers, sir,’ Shart said with a reproachful tone. ‘Those buggers are only city guards, useless bastards who couldn’t make it into the army.’

‘I thought the army took anyone?’

‘Aye, it does.’ Shart broke off to squint towards the tavern. Mikiss turned to look too, but it was only a well-built man leaving the building, not Keneg. ‘But there are always some who don’t have the stomach for it. Watchmen still get weapons, but they have a bed to sleep in every night and they never face real enemies. Give me any twenty regular troops and I’ll cut through a hundred city guards like they were made of butter.’

He cocked his head at Shart. ‘But if they’ve got eighty more weapons than you do—’

‘Hah! Don’t mean nothing -a hundred men is just a confused crowd till they’re trained. If we get in a fight here, you’ll see what I mean. The city guards won’t know where each other are, so they’ll just get in each other’s way. Keneg and Amber know where I’m going to be, what I’m going to do next. I don’t do things to surprise them, so they’re watching my back at every step.’ Shart smacked a hand against the head of his axe, tied to his belt with leather thongs, and pointed towards the tavern. ‘There’s the little one,’ he said, reaching for the packs at his feet.

Mikiss sighed and hoisted his own onto his back, then realised he was going to have to carry Amber’s as well. ‘It seems a bit rich to call him “the little one” - Keneg’s twice as broad as you are.’

‘Ah true, the boy does like his beer.’ Shart gave Mikiss a comradely slap on the shoulder and chuckled as he bounced against the wall. ‘But he don’t like it when people call him the ugly one.’

 

A wave of mixed odours hit Mikiss as he stepped over the threshold: sweat and straw, mildew and spilt beer. The tavern stank. It might be no dirtier than any other he’d been in, but the unnatural weather had produced a stench that had an almost tangible presence, one that Mikiss could feel even in the back of his throat. It made him gag, and even Shart grimaced.