Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

His Imperial Radiance sat back in the sandalwood chair, rested his chin on one fist, and stared at Ringil some more. “You do know that we’ve already sent several highly skilled assassins into the Citadel after Menkarak. Not one of them came back.”

“So I hear.” Ringil gestured, as if Egar stood beside him in the company. “And if evidence were needed to support the Dragonbane’s word, then I submit that this is it.”

“Yes, well. Be that as it may, the men we sent failed, and in the meantime Menkarak is still strutting around, making inflammatory speeches about the suffering faithful in Demlarashan.” Jhiral leaned forward again, intent. “Can you get this done for me, Eskiath?”

“For the right price, I can.”

“Which we’ve already been over, yes, thank you.” The Emperor’s lip curled. “I pay out a mercenary cutthroat by forgiving the murder of an imperial war hero at the hands of a steppe barbarian who can’t keep his dick in his breeches. Hardly the stuff of heroic legend, is it?”

Ringil shrugged. “I don’t doubt the palace has poets on staff who could embellish the tale to suit, my lord. If a more inspiring account is ever required, for more public consumption.”

More silence.

Then the Emperor laughed.

Coughed it out at first, startled, disbelieving. Sat back again, laughed longer, louder. Gave himself over to it while those around him exchanged wary, mystified glances. Ringil watched him, impassive. A stiff pause hung over the rest of the company, until, finally, Jhiral’s laughter slowed to a halt. He cleared his throat and shook his head, a man apparently bemused by what was before him.

“You know the real problem here? Hmm?” Jhiral looked around at the assembly, inviting guesses no one was inclined to venture. “I like this guy. That’s the problem. I can’t help it, Archeth, I like him. You chose well.”

He turned his attention back to Gil.

“I like you, Ringil Eskiath, Prophet take me up the arse if I don’t. You’re an arrogant little northern thug, you’re trading on not much more than old war stories, a belly for violence, and a few family connections.” Thin, grim slice of a smile on his lips now. “And from what I hear, your bedroom practices wouldn’t bear much scrutiny, either. But there it is—I like you. What am I to do?”

Ringil inclined his head gravely. Hid his own smile in the corner of his mouth. Jhiral looked around at the others again, humor fading out to something colder.

“Give me a hundred men like this one,” he said, slow-gathering weight on the words. “And we could crush Demlarashan overnight—just the way my father crushed Vanbyr. If ever I saw a tool suited to purpose, it stands before me now. Very well.” Nodding grimly. “Yes. I will meet these terms. Prophet knows it’s going to cost me the Ashant clan’s allegiance, but if it rids me of Menkarak, I’ll count that a minor inconvenience. Archeth, you will need to make arrangements for the Dragonbane’s discreet disappearance from the city.”

“Immediately, my lord.”

“No, not immediately. ” The Emperor’s gaze settled speculatively on Ringil’s face. “The Dragonbane will remain a guest of the palace until such time as our new royal assassin here returns victorious. Payment upon completion of contract, I think we’d all agree, is the best way forward.”

They all agreed, in silence.

Ringil nodded. “And if I don’t make it back?”

“Well, that would be a shame. But if news of Pashla Menkarak’s demise reaches our ears and is confirmed by other sources, say within three days, then I will likewise judge our pact completed. Your terms will be honored, posthumously. You have my word.”

“Three days.”

“Yes. It’s a holy number among the horse tribes down here.” Jhiral smiled bleakly. “Appropriate, wouldn’t you say.”

“There’s a certain resonance.” Ringil examined the nails of his right hand. “And—just to be clear—if at the end of these three days, no news of myself or Menkarak’s demise is forthcoming?”

The Emperor lost his smile.

“Well, then matters will become very simple indeed. I’ll assume you to have failed as the others all did. And I will not, after all, need to forgo the good offices of clan Ashant.”

He leaned forward, eyes locked with Gil’s.

“Is that clear enough for you, my cutthroat northern friend?”

THEY PUT HIM BACK IN THE CELL WITH EGAR AFTER THAT.

He didn’t much mind. In Yhelteth, as in Trelayne, nobility sat in prisons a lot classier than those built for commoners, at least until their longer-term fate was decided. They had tower views of the estuary, albeit through solid bars, regular meals from the palace kitchen, albeit cold by the time they arrived, and well-made room fittings, albeit somewhat worn with use. The purges had seen a steady stream of high-born offenders and their families brought through since the accession, and the traffic was beginning to take its toll on the soft furnishings.

So the mattresses on the two narrow cots were rather lumpy, the plush on the desk chair was threadbare in places, and the once softly pristine desk leather was specked and stained with ink from myriad appeals, confessions, and lawyers’ instructions written out upon it.

“You’re sure you can trust them on this, Gil?”

“Yeah, I told you.” Ringil sat slumped in the chair, staring at the spills and stains as if at some obscure map of where he was going next. “He likes me.”

Egar grunted. “Neat trick. How’d you pull that off?”

“I don’t know.”

The Dragonbane shifted his back against the lumps in the mattress. Watched the bars of orange evening light retreating inch by inch across the ceiling over his head. He hauled himself to his feet, wincing at the stiff pain in his wounded leg, and limped to the window. If you leaned hard against the bars and peered left, you could just make out the rise of the Citadel, like a jagged canine tooth against the southside sky. He stared at it for a while.

“Can’t believe they’re not going to let me go with you.”

“I can’t believe you ever thought they would.”

“What?” Egar left the window and came and stood over him. “I found the fucking dwenda, didn’t I? Weren’t for me, no one in this city would be any the wiser, we’d all just be sitting on our hands and looking the wrong fucking way when Menkarak rolls out his angel horde.”

“If that’s what he plans to do.”

“Well—” The Dragonbane, momentarily taken aback. “What else would it be?”

“I don’t know.” Ringil heaved himself to his feet and squeezed past on his way to the other bed. His boot caught on a small child’s rag doll dropped at the desk by some previous occupant—sent it skidding across the cold stone floor. “The dwenda aren’t human, Eg. It probably doesn’t pay to reason as if they were. And whatever they want, they’re the ones using Menkarak, not the other way around.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Menkarak may think he’s assembling an angelic guard to storm the palace and take back the Empire for God and the Revelation.” Gil seated himself on the edge of the bed, stared at the discarded doll for a moment. He rolled his neck, trying to work out a crick. “Or whatever. But that doesn’t necessarily make it so.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I mean…” Egar gestured helplessly. “Is killing Menkarak going to do any good?”

Ringil looked up and flashed him a smile. “I have no idea.”

Egar stared at him. Went and sat opposite on the other bed, shoulders slumped. “I thought you’d know what to do.”

“I do know what to do.” Gil swiveled and swung his legs onto the bed, lay full-length, and studied the ceiling. “I’m going to get into the Citadel, open Menkarak’s throat, and get you pardoned. The rest of it, I’ll make up as I go along.”