Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

Ringil nodded amiably. “As we always have done when the work of rescuing the Empire is completed. But my lord would be wiser not to put so much trust in tales. They are no substitute for getting out and about as your father did.”

Stunned silence rippled outward from the words—spreading rings from the splash of a raw building block dumped into some ornamental pond. The air seemed to rock with it. The two men stared each other down. The Throne Eternal stirred. Ringil smiled…

Archeth stepped forward, put herself physically between the two of them.

“I have commissioned Lord Ringil to lead our expedition to An-Kirilnar. It’s a role in which he will be invaluable.” Leaning on the last word. “He is helping us with route planning, and will conduct the bulk of the diplomacy when we reach League territory.”

Jhiral relaxed a muscle at a time. He arched an imperial brow. “Diplomacy, you say?”

“Yes, my lord. As a member of the Glades aristocracy, he will have a level of access ideal for our purposes.”

Elaborately raised brows again— Well, if you say so . The Emperor tossed his gnawed chicken bone back onto the trestle, still chewing, and held up one languid hand. A slave hurried forward with a napkin. Jhiral took it and wiped his hands with thoughtful care.

“This meeting,” he said. “Is not about the An-Kirilnar expedition, Archeth.”

“Yes, my lord. I have been made aware of that.”

Jhiral tossed the napkin after the chicken bone. Spared a gesture for Ringil. “So what’s he doing here?”

Just keep your fucking mouth shut, Gil . She rushed in. “Lord Ringil is, uh, acquainted with Egar Dragonbane. Well acquainted.”

“How convenient. We seem to be up to our eyes in war heroes at the moment. Let’s just hope this one knows better how to behave in the absence of war than your dragon-slaying barbarian houseguest.” The imperial gaze flickered back across to Ringil. “You were, I suppose, comrades-in-arms, something like that?”

“Something like that,” Ringil agreed softly.

Jhiral got up. “Well, your comrade-in-arms has managed to set himself a course for the executioner’s block, I’m afraid. That’s if I can talk Saril Ashant’s grieving family down from their demands for death by the chair or in the Chamber of Confidences. There it is. War hero honor doesn’t cut much cloth, I’m afraid, when you’ve slaughtered another war hero in his own bedchamber. Oh, and, uhm, outraged the virtue of his good lady wife into the bargain—apparently. There’s really no coming back from something quite that monumentally stupid. The death warrant is already drawn and signed.”

“That’s unfortunate.” A cold edge creeping into Ringil’s voice now. Archeth shot him a warning glance.

“Isn’t it.” The Emperor had given them his back. He browsed the food on his table, voice elaborately conversational. “Three Guardsmen dead, Archeth. Another two crippled, one probably for life. And this in front of a tavern stuffed with outlander sellswords. It really isn’t what I need right now. I have the Guard Provost screaming for palace support, and I have Kadral Ashant muttering around the court about ungrateful leadership. All because you would not have me deploy the Reach.”

“I am sorry, my lord. It seems I underestimated the—”

“Oh, horseshit , Archeth!” Fists slammed down on the tabletop. Platters jumped with the force of it. Jhiral spun about, face staining dark, strode at her as if to deal her a blow. “ Horse, Shit! Do you really think I’m that much of a fool? You didn’t want him caught . You thought he’d quit the city, and you wanted him to get a good head start. Well, he hasn’t quit the city, has he? Has he? ”

He hung three feet away, as if tugged to a halt there on some invisible cable, glaring at her. Down at his side, the ringed fingers of his right hand twitched with suppressed violence.

On her left, Ringil moved—a fractional, indefinable shift of stance, caught in the corner of her eye, more sensed than seen. He was, she knew without needing to see it, watching Jhiral, watching that twitching, imperial hand as it struggled not to curl into a fist. He was gone with it, into the awful, gently amused detachment that presaged the steel song, the only one the Ravensfriend knew how to sing.

She felt the air thicken with implication, felt the balance in the balcony space teeter with it, and begin to tip. If Jhiral made that fist and raised it…

Gil would kill him—she knew it as clearly as if it was already done.

She raised her arms, open admission of guilt, and her left arm hanging just a moment longer than the right, blocking out Ringil and the Ravensfriend’s flow. She hoped it would be enough. She bowed her head to her Emperor.

“You are correct, my lord. The fault here is mine.”

“It most certainly fucking is, Archeth.” A rancid satisfaction in his face and tone, there and just as quickly bleeding away. He cleared his throat, gestured carefully with the hand that had so recently longed toward a fist. “Well, then. No point dwelling on your manifest failings in this, I suppose. It’s left to me, once more, to make the difficult decisions and do the right thing. The King’s Reach are out, Archeth. It’s done. I signed the order an hour ago. They will bring this Dragonbane down, dead or alive, and justice will be done. In the—”

“My lord, if I—”

“ In, the, meantime , my lady.” He waited to see if she would dare interrupt again, saw she would not, and went on in brisker tones. “The Reach commander will want to interview you for clues as to their quarry’s habits and haunts. Your northern friend here, too, I imagine. Rakan?”

Noyal Rakan jumped. “My lord?”

“Convey the Lady kir -Archeth and her noble companion to the King’s Reach barracks wing, with all haste. Taran Alman is waiting for them there.”

“Yes, my lord. At once.”

They turned to go. Archeth at speed, to hide what was in her eyes and the seething urge to speak what boiled behind her gritted teeth. Ringil took a little longer, and his gaze measured the Emperor with speculative calm.

Jhiral saw the look and bristled. “Was there something you wanted to say to me, Ringil Eskiath? Some suit or request, perhaps?”

“No.” Ringil did not move. “None. I believe Your Imperial Shininess has said everything worth saying here. It falls now only to execution.”

Jhiral laughed, but there was an uncertain rising tremor at the edge of it that he could not disguise. Archeth and Rakan both heard it, and both stopped dead in their tracks. The Throne Eternal honor guard heard it, and grew intent.

Ringil spared their stirring a flickered glance, a swift calculation, then he fixed Jhiral again with his gaze.

“Have I amused Your Shininess in some way?”

Jhiral cleared his throat, turned a little to his slaves and soldiers, playing for the gallery. “Well, your facility with our tongue is to be commended, my lord. Quite remarkable in a northerner, truly. But it seems your range in Tethanne is somewhat limited after all. You mean Radiance. ”

“Do I?” said Ringil tonelessly.

He held the Emperor’s eye a moment longer, as if fixing the imperial countenance in some special place of memory. His lips twisted in a smile as thin as the scar across his cheek. He nodded as if told something by a voice that others could not hear.

Then he turned and walked away.

“SO THAT’S WHAT YOU’VE BEEN DOING FOR A LIVING THE LAST TEN years, is it?”

“If you mean serving the Burnished Throne and its people to the best of my ability,” hissed Archeth, “then yes, it is. I saw it as somehow more productive than hiding in a mountain backwater, spinning yarns about my heroic exploits for pocket money, and paying the stable boys to fuck me.”