Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

Ringil chewed steadily for a couple of moments. Swallowed and wiped the corners of his mouth with care.

“Black Sail gang, eh?”

“Yeah, Hjel’s down there talking to them now…”

Cortin’s voice ebbed to a halt as he finally caught the looks the others were throwing at him. An awkward quiet set in around the fire.

Ringil put together a smile, put down his plate, and brushed his fingers vigorously together, knife-sharpening style, to clean off the grease.

“Well,” he said. “Better go down and see them myself, I guess. Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

Which was actually a lot less like bravado than he initially feared. Along with the cold, scrubbed feel of things this morning, he’d woken, he now discovered, with a fresh sense of momentum, a will to take the next step that didn’t need much prompting. Boots and cloak on, the Ravensfriend slung across his shoulders once more, he let the pulse in his veins and the weight of the killing steel on his back carry him forward. The same woman who’d served him breakfast gave him gestured directions. He went down off the ruined plaza, through the scattering of tumbled walls and columns to where a steeply sloping path wound down the side of a promontory that hadn’t been there the night before. A clean ocean wind came in and ruffled the long grass, hooted around rock outcrops and scudded off the silvery gray glint of the fjord below. He narrowed his eyes against the brightness. Made out some kind of jetty down there, and a black-rigged caravel at anchor fifty yards out.

All right, then .

He made his way steadily downward, curiously at peace. The landscape was a pretty close match for parts of the Gergis Peninsula he knew, and while he wasn’t kidding himself he was in any way home, the half familiarity was cheering, like knowledge of an opponent’s fighting style prior to a duel. He saw figures standing about on the jetty as he got lower, and a dory moored there. Reflexive combat instinct made the count—six or seven, including Hjel. They had spotted him, it seemed, and were watching him make his way down toward them.

Even at this distance, there was something odd about their attire, about the stiff, upright way they held themselves.

Hjel hurried up and met him, a few yards along the path from the jetty’s age-bleached planks. Tight smile, an offered clasp. “You’re awake.”

“Very much so.” Looking past the young sorcerer’s shoulder at the others. He didn’t take the offered hand. “These friends of yours?”

They were corpses—the corpses of large men, wrapped head-to-foot in grave swaddling, no inch of flesh visible. Tiny loose lengths of the bandaging fluttered gaily from their bodies in the wind. It was as if a small cemetery had been exhumed and its inhabitants pinned about with mottled gray-and-cream pennants.

Hjel cleared his throat. “They are… agents. I’ve had dealings with them in the past. They can be trusted.”

“Well, if you say so.”

The dispossessed prince took his hand urgently. “They’ll take you where you need to go, Gil. Believe me, I sailed with them once myself. There’s nothing to fear.”

“You trying to get rid of me?” Ringil worked up a small grin. “Was it so bad last night?”

Hjel’s grip tightened. “I would keep you with us if I could. You must know that. But there are forces unsheathed here that I have no power to command.”

“Unsheathed, yes. Rather like my sword this morning—the steel one, I’m talking about now. See anything you liked, did you?”

Hjel let go of his hand. Took a step back. “I am not your enemy.”

“You aren’t behaving very much like my friend.”

“Gil, you haven’t understood . Something brought you here. I can see it, it breathes through you. The cold legions wrap around you already. There is power engraved and tempered in the blade you carry. I can’t read what’s written there, but—”

“I am Welcomed in the Home of Ravens and Other Scavengers in the Wake of Warriors,” Ringil recited for him, hollowly. “I am Friend to Carrion Crows and Wolves. I am Carry Me and Kill with Me, and Die with Me Where the Road Ends. I am not the Honeyed Promise of Length of Life in Years to Come, I am the Iron Promise of Never Being a Slave.”

It was a rough, clunky translation, according to Archeth, and clunkier still here and now, glossed across into the archaic marsh Naomic so that Hjel would understand. But still the words awoke a faint chill in Ringil’s veins as he spoke them.

He guessed from Hjel’s face that the sorcerer prince was having a similar reaction.

“That’s its dedication?”

“That’s its name,” Ringil told him flatly.

Hjel swallowed. “You must go. I can’t help you here. I will help you, that’s coming, I see it clearly enough. But not here. Not now. It’s too much. If the Black Sail has come in like this, then the storm is building, and it’s all we can do to ride it out. I can no more refuse this than a gull can fly in the face of a hurricane.”

Behind him, one of the cerement-wrapped figures moved silently up onto the path, closing in. Hjel either caught the flicker of Ringil’s gaze or sensed the motion at some other level. He half turned, turned back, took Gil’s hand in both of his, raised it to his lips.

“You will come back. We will have time. I’ll teach you the ikinri ’ska. ”

“I know you will.”

The wrapped corpse was at Hjel’s shoulder now, looming. The breeze picked at its windings, set up rippling patterns in the loose cloth tongues. Ringil thought he saw the mica glint of eyes somewhere deep in the gap between bandages across the face, but he could have been mistaken. Where the mouth should have been, a single gauze binding was pulled broad and tight, and something flickered behind it as the thing speaks.

“Is this going to take long?”

Impossible to say what the voice sounds like. It cuts across the wind with iron force, but there are hinted textures to it as well—amusement seems uppermost, and a certain weary patience, but Ringil knows his grip on those salients will slip away just as his image of the creature at the crossroads is already dream-dim and fading. He will be left with the same fumbling sense of detail lost.

“We’re done,” he said curtly, freeing his hand from Hjel’s. “We can go.”

“Gil, I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Good.”

He looks away along the wind-plucked fjord waters. He held down a spike of unreasonable jealousy. That what was for him a dead memory, Hjel had yet to look forward to.

The grave-clad thing makes a diplomatic noise in its throat. “There is a tide to catch.”

Ringil nodded, eyes still on the water. “Then get me to my berth.”

He still doesn’t know what a tide is, except that it presages change.

But change will be enough for now.

In the dory, watching the wrapped figures bend silently over their oars, he felt it begin—the creeping shift of the Margins, Seethlaw’s Gray Places, call them what you will, the seeping through like cold marsh water, washing away anything fixed that could be told out like a tale, bringing instead the endless expanse of untold possibilities, scuttling like spiders, beckoning for attention, for momentary existence at the corners of his gaze. He turned and looked back to the shore, where Hjel stands—or does not, the strand is empty—on the aged jetty boards.

He sees others, standing there, too.

Three more figures, one slight, one broad and bulky, one gaunt and tall. Flickery and gray, like Hjel, but where the dispossessed prince stands erect and motionless as he fades, these seem to dart about as if tethered and anxious to be free.