Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

Like that.

He grimaced. You could already hear the pleading tone of it all.

He walked away.

Got about three paces before Eril called after him.

“Sire?”

He stopped. Blinked at the honorific. In the best part of eight months, he’d never heard Eril use it to anyone. He turned back.

“Yeah?”

“I, uh, wanted to say. All that shit they say about you? The corruptor-of-youth stuff, the queer thing. Just wanted to say. I always knew they were a bunch of lying fucks. Knew it wasn’t true. You’re no faggot.” He swallowed. “Sire.”

Ringil remembered the times he’d caught himself staring with something worse than longing at Eril’s exposed arse and shanks when they bathed in rivers on the way south. The hollow ache that stalked behind the lust.

He found the smile once more. Put it on.

“You neither, Eril. You neither. We’re true men, the both of us. Now get out of here while you can. Go home. Fare well.”

He put the gangplank and the Marsh Queen’s Favor at his back again, and this time he kept walking.

When they got up close to the black looming mass of the lock gates, the boatman shipped oars and threw out the anchor. It made a soft, swallowing plop as it went down. The boat tugged about silently on the dark flow of the river; the anchor cord went taut and held them.

“That’s it, gents. ’S as far as I go.”

“You could get us a bit closer to the shore,” Egar suggested.

The boatman shook his head. “More than my hull’s worth. The Citadel posted guards around the temple on that side months ago. See the torches? They catch me at this time of night with you two muffled up like that, well… Folk are liable to draw conclusions, aren’t they?”

He gave them an amiable grin to show he’d already drawn his own conclusions but hey, no hard feelings, we all got to make a living somehow.

“So,” Harath hissed at him. “You saying we gotta fucking swim across there?”

“Well, if you really want to, I suppose you could, yes.” The boatman jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “But there’s a ladder, back there on the lock gate. It’s a bit of a jump, but you should make it all right.”

Egar waited to see if Harath could make the leap—turned out he could, and with wiry, youthful poise now he’d shrugged off his hangover—then paid the boatman out.

“Couple of hours,” he said. “If we’re not here, then wait. It’ll be worth your while.”

“Understood, my lord.” The man stowed the coin beneath his jerkin and leaned aside to let Egar get up the sharp end of the boat. “Have a profitable evening.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

He took the leap—it was awkward, the unaccustomed weight of the knotted rope he was carrying slung tight across his body putting him off. He missed the ladder with one hand. But the other found a grip and he hung on, harsh grunt with the effort, beat the barn-door pivot of his body to the side, and got his feet on a rung. He grabbed a couple of breaths—dank, pitch-smelling air—then went stealthily up to where Harath crouched atop the lock gate in his black burglar’s garb and charcoal smear. The Ishlinak nodded minimally toward the shore.

“Four guys,” he murmured. “Same as before. They do paired perimeter in turns, the other two hold the gate. That puts all the blind spots exactly where they always were. I told Alnarh about that, but he didn’t want to hear it. He’s all We are Majak, no one will dare . Twat.”

Egar stared at the crenellated bulk of the temple, the scrubby, cleared ground it stood on, the flicker and gust of a night guard brazier out front and the two figures gathered to its flames. Forty yards, fifty at most. He watched the bright yellow dapple of torches go along the darkened walls on the left and around the corner to the front, two vague forms beneath. He checked his knives and hoped he wouldn’t have to use them. Killing other Majak wasn’t something he’d ever really gotten used to—even if they were Ishlinak.

“Right then, you call it. Let’s go.”

They skulked along the top of the lock gate like rats, quick, purposeful spurts, cautious of balance on the foot-and-a-half width. Egar’s pulse picked up with the nighttime slide of it all. He caught himself grinning. The torches paused partway along the riverward façade of the temple block, and Harath locked to a sudden halt in front of him. Ten feet to the ground, no time to do it and not be seen or heard. They crouched, waiting.

“Soon as the other two start moving,” the Ishlinak warned him. “They’ll be nattering back and forth, all four of them, like chucking-out time down at the Lizard’s Head. No eyes to the left side at all. There—see that bush at the corner they’ve just passed? King’s thorn—can’t see a thing through it, even during the day. Sprint for it, hold there.”

The torches reached the gate. The two new arrivals became clear silhouettes in the brazier’s flare. Faint bass of voices, some laughter—indistinct echo off the temple walls and floating out over the water. The rhythm of it was Majak. Some jiggling with the torches, and then—

“Now!” snapped Harath. “Go!”

Off the lock, dark, sudden drop, soft crunch of impact on the ground below, spring up out of it running. Forty yards— easy ground, Dragonbane, come on . Behind him, he heard the swift brush of Harath’s footfalls, following. The torches wavered away along the wall to the right of the gate. Darkness held the left side. Egar reached the king’s thorn scraggle and crunched himself down into cover, trying not to breathe too hard. Harath piled in behind him.

The float of voices stopped.

Taut silence.

Harath put his lips to Egar’s ear. “They spot us?”

Egar shook his head minimally, raised a warning finger. No idea—shut the fuck up . Eyes slitted against the gloom and glare for detail. Hand to knife hilt at his waist.

Soft mutter of another voice. The figures around the brazier shifted. A long laugh drifted out. Egar relaxed, eased his hand off his knife. Harath got back into a poised crouch.

“Along the left wall,” he whispered. “Follow my lead, look for that crack.”

And off again, like ghosts into the gloom. They hit the shadowed edge of the wall, scuttled along its darkened length. Ahead of him, Harath found the crack, reached up and swung effortlessly off the ground. Little fucker was good. Egar was only seconds behind him, but by the time he arrived the younger man was already eight feet up the wall above him.

That envy, Dragonbane?

He shook it off, checked the crack with his hands. Snaking jaggedly upward, a clean shear through the stonework, about four fingers wide, once-ragged edges worn smooth with time. It was pretty much what you’d expect from a building this old. There were fractures like it all over the city, anywhere a structure still stood that had been around back when the Drowned Daughters of Hanliahg vented their volcanic spleen and the Earth shook and the sky over Yhelteth turned black. Not what you’d call comfy was Harath’s considered opinion. Nowhere to rest, but you can hand-jam if you need to…

Torch glow at the far end of the wall.

Egar hooked both hands into the crack, jammed his feet in below, made a braced sideways V with his body, and hauled himself up the crack. Sharp pinch of the stonework against his toes—the soft-sole boots he’d worn for the occasion were thin, and he had to angle his feet downward almost vertically to fit the confines of the crack. The torches rounded the corner and the two watchmen came ambling along the wall in companionable quiet. Apparently they’d run out of banter. And he was still less than ten feet off the ground. If either of them took the trouble to glance upward…