Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

Forget it, Dragonbane. Worse idea than Archeth’s place .

He wondered for a moment about Darhan, maybe some comrade of Darhan’s from the Combined Irregulars…

You don’t want to lean too much on that tribal thing .

His old trainer’s own words, against the early-morning rattle of staff practice. And a speculative look in his eye.

You’re a fucking idiot, Dragonbane, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. You, and your loyalties. Going to get you killed one of these days .

He realized, with a slow seeping chill, that he didn’t really know Darhan anymore—perhaps had never known the man, save as a gruff elder-brother substitute when he pitched up in the city, callow and gawking, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

You’ve been gone too long, Dragonbane . He knew it for the truth—it had that solid, marrow-deep ring to it, like a clean ax blow going home. Times change, and men change with them. This isn’t the city you remember .

You are alone here .

Suddenly, trusting Darhan with the girl and her story didn’t seem like such a good idea.

WHICH LEFT JUST THE ONE OPTION, REALLY.

HE SENT HARATH HOME. SIT TIGHT, WAIT FOR WORD . HE DOUBTED THE younger man would be able to do either for more than a couple of days, but maybe that’d be enough.

“What will you do with me now?” the girl asked him, when the tavern door had swung shut on the Ishlinak.

“I’m taking you to see a friend,” he told her.

Outside, the night was starting to wear thin and gray—but dawn was still a good few hours off, and the streets were as empty as before. Egar stood for a moment, checked for unwanted witnesses in doorways or at windows. Saw none, and beckoned for the girl to come out and join him. She limped to his side, favoring her left foot. He noticed her unshod feet for the first time since they’d gotten out of the temple—legs still mud-splattered and streaked from the river. Hard to see if there was blood. Her lips pressed together as she saw him looking. Panic in her eyes once more.

“I’m fine ,” she jittered. “I can walk, I’m fine.”

“What’s your name?” he asked her gently.

“They call me Nil.”

“Good enough.” He glanced up at the sky. “Well listen, Nil, we have to hurry here. I want to get you off the street before daybreak. Last stretch, just stay with me. Can you do that?”

A tight nod.

“Let’s go, then.”

Up through the gently shelving streets toward the Palace Quarter, and despite her limp, Nil was as good as her word. She kept to his pace better than some imperial levy recruits he’d been saddled with in the past. He felt the tension in him begin to ease as they climbed. The higher up the hill you got, the better the neighborhood and the less chance you’d end up in any kind of trouble. Up here, the militia patrols were frequent and well disciplined, not likely to be hitting you up for bribes or favors. Citizens and slaves went about their business with assurance. And any criminals on the prowl would be smart, would have well-planned agendas that didn’t include getting into random street squabbles.

Long and short of it—anyone they met on these immaculately maintained thoroughfares was going to have better things to do than gawk at or otherwise involve themselves with some passing Majak freebooter and his concubine.

So they hit Harbor Hill Rise without incident. Made it all the way to the mansion with the mosaic dome cupola, having seen no more than half a dozen hurrying servants and a couple of doorway-hugging war-wounded beggars who’d somehow avoided being shooed and shoved back down the hill the night before. They found the mansion’s servant entry, and Egar took a moment to square away the last of his vague misgivings.

Then he reached up and tugged at the bellpull.

The chimes chased each other away. Long delay, while voices and footfalls went back and forth behind the wall. He was half tempted to smear a couple of leaping steps up the white stone, grab the black iron spikes at the top, and vault over, wounds or no wounds. It wouldn’t have been the first time—but under the circumstances…

He waited.

Finally, a slat opened at head height in the dark wood paneling of the door. Eyes peered out.

“Yes?”

“Brinag?”

“He’s busy in the cellar. And we don’t pay anyone till end of month, so if you’re here to settle accounts, forget it. What do you want?”

Egar gave the watching eyes a grim smile. “What I want is for you to tell Brinag that Egar the Dragonbane is outside, and he’d better get this door open before I kick it in for you.”

Shocked silence. A pair of heartbeats.

“Uhm—yes, my lord. Yes, I’ll… There is, my lord, the main gate. If you had only—”

“Just go and get him.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The slave hurried off, forgot to close the slat before he went. Egar glanced at Nil, who was sagging at his side.

“Not long now,” he murmured.

Brinag came bustling up, checked Egar through the slat, and unbolted the door. He ushered them inside, cupping a candle aside with one hand. Checked the street and closed the door, leaned his back against it. Cleared his throat with mannered eunuch delicacy.

“My lord, this is really not an ideal time to be calling. As you’re no doubt aware—”

“Is he in, though?”

“No, my lord.”

“And she is?”

Brinag sighed. “Yes, my lord.”

“What I thought. You’d better take me to her, then.”

“Very well.” The eunuch cast a cold eye over Nil. “And this is?”

“A gift,” Egar told him succinctly. “Brin, we’re wasting time.”

In the glow from the candle, the look on the eunuch’s face said he thought that was the least of their problems. But he made no further comment. He led them through the ornamental herb garden and up the decorative iron spiral staircase into the kitchens. Through the high-ceilinged spaces within, up more stairs and along the tastefully tapes-tried and carpeted corridors of the upper levels, toward the seaward wing of the house. Brinag nodding curtly at slaves and servants along the way, trading at one point his candle for a lantern.

“If this visit comes to light,” he muttered, “then—”

“Then I got in over the wall somehow. Just another Majak harem marauder, and you don’t know anything about it. Same as it ever was. Can you trust these people?”

“I can trust them not to want whipping within an inch of their lives,” Brinag said sourly. “I suppose that will have to do.”

He led them to the chief bedchamber. No surprises there, Imrana wasn’t an early riser at the best of times, and dawn was still a way off. Back in the tavern, Egar would have put his whole purse on her being right here in this room. He wouldn’t have bet quite as much on Knight Commander Saril Ashant’s whereabouts, but he knew enough of the relationship to spit and hope for marital absence. It wasn’t exactly the worst risk he’d ever taken.

Brinag knocked apologetically at the chamber doors, held up a hand for quiet, waited, knocked again. Waited. Knocked louder.

A muffled, moaning volley of curses from within the chamber. The eunuch tipped a bleak glance at Egar. He eased one door open a crack and slipped through the gap. Twisted about, held up a forbidding finger.

“Wait here.”

The door closed with a tight snap , leaving them in the gloom. Murmur of voices beyond, first Brin’s and then the sleepy-toned responses, growing louder and less sleepy by the word. Egar grimaced. Then conversation stopped, caught up on some jag of angry disbelief. Long quiet, then another murmur. Brin’s footfalls back to the door. The door opened and the eunuch slipped back out. He surveyed the two of them, deadpan.