Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

“Captain Rakan.” Ringil made the clasp, and tried to read the younger man’s sun-striped face for clues. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“The honor is mine.” Rakan produced a smile that had most of the characteristics of a wince. “To serve under such a commander is…”

The words trailed off.

“Difficult?” Ringil hazarded. “Irritating? Don’t worry about it. Been upstaged the same way myself a couple of times, and once by a real king-sized asshole. Stings a bit at first, but after a while you’ll see I’m doing you a favor.”

The Throne Eternal’s eyes widened. “No, my lord, I have only respect for your record and reputation.”

The words lay drying in the sunlit air. Ringil blinked. Groped for his composure.

“Well, that… suggests, Captain”—he licked the lips of a smile he found he’d suddenly grown—“that you’ve heard very little about me.”

“I’ll bring lemonade,” said Kefanin hastily, and left.

“I have heard of Gallows Gap,” said Rakan with an odd, quiet fervor. “And I have heard of Beksanara, too. I know and have spoken with men who were in my brother’s command, who saw what you did there.”

Gallows Gap. Beksanara. The siege of Trelayne. You gather the names like dirt under your fingernails, no way to scrub it out .

And all the young men line up, to admire the fucking manicure .

Ringil mastered his smile. He cleared his throat, gestured at the nearest bench. “Shall we, uh, sit down?”

“Yes. Gladly.”

They took station at opposite ends of the bench. Rakan stretched out long, slim legs in cavalry boots and leaned back. Gil felt a suddenly risen pulse tripping in his throat. He’d missed the cues before, registered them, if at all, for that mannered laxness that the Yhelteth upper class were wont to deploy as proof of their better-than-peasant standing. But now, belatedly, it was dawning on him that Throne Eternal captain Noyal Rakan was, in at least one fashion, very different from his elder sibling.

“I’m very sorry about your brother,” he said awkwardly. “He was a fine soldier.”

“And you led him to a”—the younger Rakan swallowed. “A fine and honorable death. Defending the Empire against a great evil. He would not have had it any other way.”

Actually, I more or less embarrassed him into it , Ringil recalled silently. I dared him to stand and die at Beksanara, and he did it because there was no way he could let a degenerate northerner make him look bad in front of his men .

“So,” he said, for something to say. “They have given you his command.”

Rakan shook his head quickly. “His rank only. Throne Eternal service is in our family, we have provided the Khimrans with three generations of bodyguards and retainers. On my father’s death, Faileh rose to the post. Now I…” A brief, fluttered gesture. “Well, it is traditional.”

“Tradition, eh. How’s that working out for you?”

The young captain met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. “I, well… it’s difficult. You are measured against the other man, always.”

“Yeah, that can be tough.”

“I wanted,” Rakan blurted, “to thank you. For your intervention the other day. I am accustomed to dealing with soldiers. I have little experience of this kind of thing—merchants and entrepreneurs, men with power and wealth but no ethic of service to either Holy Revelation or Empire. It is not… That is, I would not have believed it could be so…”

“My pleasure.” Ringil lifted a languid, dismissive arm. “We’re a whole city of merchants up in Trelayne, even those who work hard at pretending otherwise. The League is built on trade these days, not conquest. I’m used to it.”

The Throne Eternal captain blushed. “I did not mean to—”

“Insult me?” Gil grinned. “Didn’t you hear the Lady kir-Archeth at dinner the other night? I’m of noble imperial stock on my mother’s side. Besides.” He slouched a little, dropped that languid hand to his thigh and left it there. “I don’t exactly fit in, back in Trelayne. I am not what you’d call a pillar of mainstream society there. If you catch my meaning.”

“I—yes.” Hurriedly: “My lord Ringil, I have been considering some of the logistical issues for the coming expedition. Now, with plague and slave rebellion rumored around Hinerion, we will most likely need to avoid the northern march coast. Which means, of course, a lengthier initial voyage, and landfall in Gergis may be much farther west.”

“Yes, quite.” He fought for a detached curiosity of tone. “Slave rebellion, you say?”

“So it appears. Reports from the Tlanmar garrison are garbled, but the garrison commander seems certain that at least one slave caravan has risen up against its chains and slaughtered its masters. There may be others. And with the plague rampant, the Tlanmar commander is not prepared to risk sending a force into Hinerion, so we really have very little idea what’s happening. Of course, we have until next spring, but everything seems to indicate we should bypass Hinerion if we can.”

Ringil put together a fresh smile. “Well, it’s not much of a town, Hinerion. No loss there.”

“Uh, yes. I’ve heard that.”

“Though, of course, every town has its less conventional side. Every city is possessed of streets that its more mannered citizens might not like to talk about. Even Yhelteth, unless it’s much changed since my last visit.”

Rakan held his eye this time.

“It is not much changed,” he said.

There was a wolf out there in the dark, he knew, and it was watching him. It was waiting for him to move.

Oddly, the thought didn’t bother him at all.

He stood alone, head tipped exhilaratingly back, on the tilting, turning surface of the Earth, felt the massy weight of its whirl behind his eyes. The steppe sky spun by overhead, darkened purplish masses of cloud fracturing apart on the wind and letting in a golden orange light. He heard the hurrying of the breeze, felt the deep chill on his face that seemed to distance him from his own flesh…

Campfire smoke, drifting across his eyes, fragrant with—

No, wait…

Somewhere distant, someone coughed. He blinked at the sound, and it was as if the world turned slowly, majestically upside down and let him fall. The steppe washed away, the smoke remained. It hung in the air, thick and sweet, the unmistakable catch of flandrijn at the back of his throat. The cough came again, from somewhere behind him, and this time he joined in. He propped himself up on one elbow and rubbed at his eyes.

Drapes of muslin, the hue of dirty honey in the low flickering lamplight. A dimly seen jumble of reclining figures beyond, and the odd upright form, bending to minister to them. He felt a body at his back, felt someone mutter grumpily at his sudden movement. Memory swam up into view, like a big ugly fish on a line.

I’m in the pipe house .

He was indeed. The long, smooth barrel of the flandrijn pipe was cupped loosely in his left hand, but the ember was long out. He set it aside and sat up fully. No pain in his leg, though he could feel the tug of the stitches the doctor had put in. And his clothes smelled faintly of liniment. He had no idea what time of day or night it was. He had no idea how long he’d been here. On closer examination, along with the whiff of liniment, he detected less pleasant odors. Then again, his clothes hadn’t been exactly clean when he stumbled in here, however long ago that was. Blood, sweat, drenching with river water, and, he now remembered, somewhere in the long run of pipes they’d brought him, he’d lain there and pissed himself with the gentle disregard of a baby.