Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

The Dragonbane shows up at Harath’s door with a blade contract, he knows about some prior falling-out between Harath and another Majak, name of Alnarh, faithless piece of shit, like I said, wouldn’t believe he was Ishlinak blood , while they were both working for a high-level invigilator out of the Citadel called Pashla Menkarak—Ringil frowned, the name was vaguely familiar, something Archeth had talked about—who got Harath cut loose from his job for messing about with a temple maiden, slave girl, whatever, something like that, anyway, the Dragonbane has a grudge of his own against the Citadel so they plan a burglary together, some disused temple upriver, Ringil’s never heard of it, but all the time this Dragonbane, man, he’s like, fucking obsessed with this slave girl, but he’s never even fucking met her, right . But coin is coin, and another tour in Demlarashan is just no sane option for anyone who’s seen what’s going on down there, done two fucking tours, mate, believe me, I know what I’m talking about , so Harath’s in—they hit the temple by night, mix it up with Harath’s old Ishlinak pals, which he said we wouldn’t fucking get into, right, I mean, I had to kill a brother that night , and get into some kind of secret harem, where the Dragonbane apparently finds what he’s looking for, some whining bitch, no, not that one, a different one, don’t ask me why and then, on the way out, they’re attacked by this angel, yeah, that’s right, you heard me, a fucking angel , which glows with blue fire and—

“Stop.”

“I am not fucking making this up,” Harath said heatedly. “It was—”

“I didn’t say you were.” There was a sudden spike of ice down his spine, and his hangover seemed to have acquired a new, cold-clamping focus at his temples and in his guts. Scenes from the fight at Ennishmin danced through his head, flicker-lit in that same unearthly blue.

Here? In Yhelteth? It was a shuddering, dithering voice in his head. Can’t be, can’t fucking be…

He saw the figures, emerging from the core of their own radiance.

He saw Seethlaw, smile like a wolf…

“Here—you going to puke or something?”

He blinked at Harath’s voice. Looked up and saw the Ishlinak’s whore watching him with a sneer on her paint- and powder-clogged face. Curled red lip over teeth turning gray, probably with too much bad krinzanz or just—

Memory of the girl on the wharf leapt in. Propped against the barrel, accosting him with the same gray grin. I have a message for you, Dragonbane…

You are awaited at the Temple of Red Joy. Do not delay. All things will become clear .

He shook off a shiver. Cleared his throat. “This place you cracked upriver. The temple. Did it have a name?”

Harath shrugged. “Afa’marag, I guess, like the neighborhood. Called it after some water demon, the maraghan or something. That’s what the boatman said, anyway. Though he was a lying little—”

“Not Red Joy? Not the Temple of Red Joy?”

The Ishlinak looked at him blankly. “No. Never heard of that, it’s—”

The whore’s cackle shut him up. Both men looked at her irritably.

“Temple of Red Joy?” She grinned at Ringil, widely now. Leaned in toward him, mock-affectionate, then let her grin freeze out. “I know where that is, scar-face. Question is, what’s it worth to you?”

“I don’t know,” said Ringil mildly. “How about it’s worth I don’t tell the King’s Reach you’re holding out on where I can find the Dragonbane.”

The color fled her face. She tried to shrink back to her side of the table, but his hand whipped out and grabbed her wrist.

“Or would you prefer to talk to them about it directly?”

“Southside.” The words blurted out of her. “It’s on the southside. Across the Span and down into the old ferry quarter. Back of Keelmakers’ Row.”

“Thank you.”

It wasn’t red, and it didn’t look particularly joyous. It looked, in fact, like every derelict imperial temple Ringil had ever seen—butter-colored stone buttresses squeezed between the newer buildings on either side, scoured and scarred by centuries of sun and wind and war, and then by the more recent scourges of the city that had grown up around it. Up close, he saw Tethanne graffiti chiseled into the stonework wherever the elements had left the facing intact—names and insults and crudely approximated clan brand marks, fragments of toilet verse. At the entrance, the shadows he stepped into stank of piss.

He looked down at the urchin who’d led him here. “You ever been inside?”

“No, my lord.” The boy knuckled at a snot-crusted nose. “ ’S haunted. The coastlanders’ demons live in there.”

The two of them stood there for a moment, both looking at the door and the thin slice of doorway it was jammed ajar on.

Deeper shadow within.

Ringil looked back at the sunstruck street, where the boy’s elder brother stood watching, holding the reins of his horse and glaring at anyone who passed too close. It was mostly unnecessary. Keelmakers’ Row was a quiet, narrow thoroughfare, not a lot of passersby, and those there were seemed well schooled in neighborly discretion—aside from the odd glance, they studiously ignored the gaunt, black-cloaked figure and his two urchin companions. Ringil shrugged, produced the promised coin, held it up out of reach.

“All right. This is for showing me. You get another three of these when I come out, and you’re still here, and my mount still has all its legs. Got it?”

The boy’s face went almost luminous with joy. “Yes, my lord.”

Ringil leaned down, nose-to-nose with him. “And if you’re not here, or anything bad’s happened to that horse, then the Revelation help your immortal little souls. Because nothing else this side of hell will. Got that as well?”

The urchin drew himself up to his full six- or seven-year-old height. “Course, my lord. Word’s my bond, my lord. Horse’ll be safer with us than if you put it in the Emperor’s harem.”

Questionable kind of safety, that , his hangover grumbled. Wouldn’t trust that fuck Jhiral out of sight with anything much that has an orifice .

But he straightened up and tossed the boy the coin, and the boy took it out of the air like a fish snapping up a fly. Then he stood, urchin hands on hips, and watched for a moment as Ringil pressed splayed fingers against the door, leaned to test its weight, and that was evidently about all he wanted to see. He scurried back out into the sun and to his brother, leaving the scar-faced swordsman alone in the shadows.

The door was heavy caldera oakwood; it took the full weight of Ringil’s shoulder to shift it more than a couple of inches on the uneven, detritus-strewn flagstones. But it gave with an awful grating sound on the second blow, and opened up a couple of feet. Ringil gave it a final, full-bodied kick for more clearance, then slipped through the gap. A scant couple of rays of sunlight followed him inside, touched his cloak at the shoulder, and then let him go.

Inside the temple, it was more worn-down flagstones and slim pillars holding up a cracked and sagging roof. No furnishings or fabrics that he could see, just cool stone silence over everything like a dust sheet. The sun got in here and there, through roof-level latticed skylights or the chinks in the damaged roof—where it touched the dusty ground, it seared small patches so bright they seemed to smolder. Look at them for too long and it made peering for detail in the gloom a lot harder. He stopped doing it. He let his eyes adjust.