Ричард Морган: The Dark Defiles

The Emperor Jhiral Khimran II sat at breakfast by the window, chewing an apple down to its core and reading a death warrant. Sunlight flooded in through the bedchamber’s stained glass windows and painted him a motley of warm pastel shades. He shifted in his seat and his silk robe fell open to below the waist. The chamberlain cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably, and averted his eyes. The Emperor looked up from the warrant, noticed.

“Oh, come off it Yaresh. I know you haven’t got the tackle anymore, but you’ve seen the like enough times, surely.”

“Yes, my lord.” Still looking pointedly out the window.

Jhiral sighed, tossed the apple core back onto his breakfast table, and pulled the robe across himself with his freed hand. He gestured with the parchment.

“You know, I hold cowardice pretty high on the list of unacceptable failings in a man. But as I understand it, this Commander Karsh only suggested a tactical withdrawal from the Hin valley, not a full retreat. And the kicking our forces got subsequently seems to suggest he might have had a point.”

“The report was signed by Admiral Sang and General Henark both, my lord.”

“Yes… No love lost between the Karsh and Henark clans, of course.” Jhiral brooded for a moment. “You know what? I’m commuting this. Have an order drawn up—Karsh to be, let’s see… dishonorably discharged, or broken back to the ranks if he prefers. His choice. Oh, and let’s say fifteen lashes for disobedience. That, and time served. I’ll sign it after lunch.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The Emperor tore the warrant across, doubled it, and tore it again. Handed the quarters to Yaresh, who bowed, impassive as ever. Jhiral stifled a yawn.

“Right, that’s all. You can get out.”

The chamberlain went. The Emperor got up and stretched. Glanced at the vast rumpled bed, the tangle-haired figure that lay there under the sheets at its center. He grinned.

“Did you hear that? Got me in a good mood this morning.”

No response. Jhiral’s grin curdled to a grimace. He prowled to the edge of the bed, grabbed a double handful of sheet, and yanked the covers right off the girl who lay there. Stared down at the motionless, voluptuous curves. The marks of his hands still on her flesh, dull blue and angry red. The face turned away.

She curled into herself the faintest fraction, but otherwise didn’t move.

“You know,” he said somberly. “I like a wench who fights back a bit, as much as the next man. The sweet, hot taste of stolen virtue and all that. But don’t push your luck with me. I can do without the sulking.”

Still no response. Jhiral growled impatiently, grabbed an ankle, and dragged the girl brusquely toward him.

Like a war-cat at bay, she turned on him. Slapping and screaming, kicking savagely with the leg he hadn’t gotten hold of, clawing with the lovingly manicured harem nails they’d given her. He weathered it— had worse from tutors and my own fucking sister as a boy —snagged a wrist to match the ankle, yanked her violently forward, to the edge of the bed. She went after his face with her free hand, scored furrows across his cheek. Fuck this shit. He let go the ankle, belted her backhanded in the face, full force. She yelped and recoiled. He pursed his lips, hit her again, slower and more deliberate this time, flat of his open hand across her cheek, once, twice, all right, enough. She whimpered and sagged from the grip he still had on her wrist. He took her firmly by the throat, lifted her to face him again.

Breathing a little heavily—he mastered it before he spoke.

“You know, I’m sorry about Kefanin. I like him well enough, for a eunuch. But the lady Archeth has given him a very exaggerated sense of his importance in the grand scheme of things. I’m afraid that’s what manumission does sometimes. Not in favor of it myself, whatever the Revelation says.”

“He was,” forcing the words hoarsely past his clamped grip on her throat, “trying to protect me.”

“Oh, I’m sure he was. But you see, my men had orders to get you. And they don’t take it kindly when anyone gets in their way. They have to answer to me for any failure, after all. Kefanin’s very lucky they stopped at a couple of broken bones.”

She stared back at him, trembling. Made no attempt to prise his fingers from her throat, just stared. Split and bloodied lip, fresh tear tracks through her makeup, on top of those from last night, and looked like that cursed eye was going to bruise now, too. Looked a real state, was going to look worse.

Not what he wanted at all.

Jhiral sighed. Loosened his grip a little. “Listen to me, Ishgrim. You are a slave. I own you. Now suppose you start behaving like you understand that.”

“I am… Archeth’s,” she wheezed creakily.

“No, you were Archeth’s. My gift to her, and good luck with it. But now she’s warmed you up a little, I’m claiming you back. As is my privilege. Got a big muscly dark girl from down south to pair you with, just so you can show me some of the tricks you two got up to.” He let go of her wrist. Stroked the hair out of her eyes, thumbed the tears off her face. “I don’t want to hurt you, Ishgrim. In fact, I want you to have fun. I want you to come like a screaming bitch when that black girl sinks her mouth into you. Now—is that so bad?”

She stared back at him, unblinking as a cobra.

“She’ll come for me,” she husked.

He chuckled, genuinely amused. “I seriously doubt that. Archeth’s currently several thousand miles the wrong side of the battle lines in an all-out war we’re having with your homeland. Perhaps you’ve heard about it.”

He let go of her throat and turned away. Went back to the breakfast spread and scanned it, talking absently to her over his shoulder.

“Of course, I’ll ransom her home if she’s managed not to get herself killed in the interim. She’s really far too useful not to have around, and—you may not believe this—I have a very real affection for her. But ransoming captives takes time. It can take years, Ishgrim.”

“She will come for me. And the Dark Court will see her home. I’ve prayed for it.”

“Yes, well you see that’s heresy.” He gave her a smile over his shoulder, to show he didn’t mean it. Picked up a slice of melon and bit into it, nodded appreciatively, talked through the mouthful. “Your dark gods are in fact petty demons, or more likely do not exist at all. In any case, no match for the power of the Revelation and the Empire.”

He turned and winked at her.

She crouched on the bed where he’d left her. Thighs spread—rather prettily, he thought—under her, hands in her lap, head unbent. You had to give her credit for that much, even if she was acting like some unbroken fucking village halfwit. And that loaded fruit-stall body of hers…

Wasted on a brush muncher like Archeth, really.

“You want some breakfast, Ishgrim? Want some fruit?”

She shook her head vehemently. “She will come for me.”

He sighed again. “What are you, a fucking parrot? Look, even if she does come home, and soon, you’re missing the point. The lady Archeth and I go way back. She’s been my retainer since I was born, and my family’s retainer for a couple of centuries before that. She believes in this Empire. In what it stands for. You really think she’s going throw over all of that for a casual slave fuck she’s known less than two years? Really, Ishgrim. Let it go. Come on, you want some fruit?”