Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

It gave him time for thinking he would rather not have had.

In the back of his mind, the leaf spiraled downward again, to join its myriad dried-out and curling cousins on the footpath through the garden. The woody light around him shifted, and he heard the crunch of footfalls over parched leaf remains, coming closer behind him.

He knew what he would see if he turned. Had somehow seen it already, though he didn’t know what it meant.

A woman, face shrouded, head bowed, the lap of her plain white robe blotched and stained with blood. Something small and bundled and bloody cradled in her arms.

The cold legions wrap around you…

He shook it off. Urged his horse forward with his thighs, fighting a cool sense of dread that he was running much too late.

The street he was on finally gave out onto the main estuary wharf road, and here there were at least cargo marshals and dockmasters to ensure that the thoroughfare did not become too clogged for freight to pass. They saw him coming, made him for some merchant or merchant’s agent, and did their best to open easy passage for him. Closer in, his scar and the Ravensfriend sent a different sort of message, but achieved a similar result. A good many of the berthed vessels along the estuary were heading for Demlarashan, hauling troops or supplies or both, and there were enough mercenaries mixed in with the levy that he would pass for a freebooter captain in a hurry to confirm some detail of passage for his men.

Pass for a freebooter captain, Gil? Pass for? Freebooter captain is pretty much what you are these days .

Thought I was long-lost imperial nobility, welcomed home after long absence. You heard Shanta last night. Undeserving Victims of the Ashnal Schism, Exiles of Conscience in a Time of Great Turmoil, carrying the Flame of Faith to Safer Lands .

Despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth quirk. Shanta had done a superb job, rolling out the tale with all due ponderous, lachrymose formality of idiom and salute—for a man so well versed in the practicalities of building ships, he certainly had a very flowery turn of phrase when he chose to deploy it. Gil was pretty sure he’d caught the aged Shab Nyanar dabbing delicately at the corner of one eye with his napkin at one point.

He thought his mother, had she been in attendance at the banquet, would have enjoyed that speech. Not so much for its leaky sentiments—Ishil was never one for tears or romance—as for its blunt manipulation, for its masterful twisting of messy, mundane events into some refined poetry of significance, into a narrative built to tug at the heartstrings of those who lived desperate for validation of the codified ways they saw the world.

No one will like the truth of who you are , she’d told him once, when he was barely into his teens. But if they can once be sold a gilded nobility that covers for the truth, well, then —that they may be taught to love more than any real aspect of their own grubby little lives. And by such ruses, we live and prosper .

Just don’t tell your father that .

Sampling his own early drafts of youthful cynicism at the time, he’d believed she was talking about social standing and how it was maintained. It was only much later, recalling the sadness of her smile, that he understood she had seen in him what he was becoming, and was offering him a survival strategy.

Yeah. Fumbled that catch, though, didn’t you?

Sometimes—it surprised him abruptly to realize—he missed Ishil. Missed that eyebrow-arching appreciation of artifice and life’s attendant irony that seemed to serve her so well as armor. Missed her haughty, witch queen poise.

He thought she would have done rather well in Yhelteth.

Shade falling across his face made him look up. The Black Folk Span had crept up on him while he brooded; the shadow it cast downriver at this time of the morning was cool around him, as if he’d ridden into the fringes of a wood. The estuary road had become a sparsely trafficked towpath, and the Good Luck Dead Lizard, or whatever they were calling it these days, was just up ahead. He nudged the horse into a trot.

Outside the tavern, a small boy was swabbing down the trestle tables, answering occasionally to a grizzled old man who sat at one already cleaned. There was an untouched pint of beer in front of this solitary customer, and horse tackle dumped at his side. He glanced up at the sound of Ringil’s horse’s hooves; he seemed to be waiting for someone. Ringil dismounted and tethered his horse to a convenient trestle leg. The old man watched him steadily as he approached, and for just a moment Gil thought there might be something vaguely familiar about the face.

He shrugged it off. “This where the fight was last night?”

“Over there.” The old man nodded at the riverbank. There were blackened patches on the thin grass and bald patches of earth. It looked as if someone had knocked a torch or lamp over and left it there to burn into the ground.

“Did you see it?” Ringil asked him.

“No, I was not here.” The old man picked up his pint and sipped at it. He seemed to be enjoying a private joke.

“Anybody around who did see it?”

“You might try inside. There are those who claim witness.” The old man shrugged. “But who can tell for sure? Tales are already being spun around whatever truth there once was.”

Ringil grunted.

“Some never left, my lord,” the boy piped up, pausing for a moment in his wiping. “They stayed the whole night and are talking of it still.”

Someone had blacked his eye for him a while back; there were fading blue-and-yellow bruises still in evidence, and scabbing on a swollen lower lip. But youthful enthusiasm shone through the damage like sunrise through marsh-weather cloud.

“They say the Dragonbane tore free of his bonds in a berserk rage, sir. They say he magicked a sword from the air, then called up fire spirits to scorch his attackers.”

“I see,” said Ringil gravely.

“Maybe his victory over the dragon gave him powers, sir.”

Gil nodded, ignored the knowing look the old man was giving him. “That’s very possible. I have heard similar stories before.”

“My father died fighting dragons,” said the boy hopefully.

Ringil held back a grimace. Mouthed the rancid words. “Then your father was a… great… hero. And I’m sure… I’m sure his spirit is watching over you from, uh, from a high place of honor and peace.”

“And my mother, sir.”

“Yes. And your mother.”

The old man was still watching him, keenly. As Ringil turned to go inside, he called out. “You carry a Kiriath blade, sir.”

Ringil stopped, did not turn back. “Expert in swords, are you?”

“No, sir. A humble barber only. But I work with blades of my own, after a fashion, and I know their strengths and weaknesses. I know steel. And that is Kiriath steel upon your back.”

“And if it is?”

“Well, then perhaps you are some sort of hero as well?”

Still without turning, Gil closed his eyes for a moment. But what he found there on the inside of his eyelids gave him no respite.

Some sort of hero .

He opened his eyes again, found himself turning unwillingly back to face his accuser.

“Appearances are deceptive, old man,” he said shortly. “You’d do better not to judge a man by the steel he carries on his back.”

“Gracious advice.” The old man bowed his head. Still that maddening familiarity about him. “I am indebted. Should you ever wish for a shave, I am at your disposal. Finest barbering in the city. I am in the Palace Quarter. Ask for Old Ran’s place.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Ringil saw the way the boy was watching him, the enthralled look in his eyes again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”