Ричард Морган: The Dark Defiles

“Daughter of Flaradnam. You cannot believe any of this is my fault. ”

“No?” Haul-l-l —and suddenly the Helmsman’s carapace cleared the top of the companionway. Anasharal hung and swung there like some big, misshapen ship’s bell. A couple of its legs reached halfheartedly for purchase on the rail, but as always, the effort of motion alone seemed to defeat them. Archeth felt a vicious surge of satisfaction jolt through her at the sight. “So who dragged us the fuck up here in the first place? Whose idea was this fucking quest? Who told us we’d find a Kiriath city in the ocean up here?”

“I had no reason not to believe—”

“Or wait—what about a phantom island that comes and goes like the weather? Ring any mother-fucking bells, does it?”

“I understand that you may be disappointed, Archeth.”

“Oh, you do?” Leaning back into the tension on the rope, getting some breath back. “That’s good, then.”

She began to track an arc sideways across the deck, opening the angle on the taut rope and hauling herself back in closer, leaning steeply backward the whole way. Another couple of steps and the rope should snap free of the rail end, yanking the Helmsman over the edge of the companionway hatch and out onto the deck…

“But what exactly do you think this will achieve?” She thought there might be the faintest trace of panic in the Helmsman’s voice now. “Do you expect me to confess some secret I’ve been keeping from you?”

“Nope.” Shortening rope, hand over hand. “I expect you to sink.”

“Daughter of Flaradnam, you cannot —”

“Just watch me.”

Footfalls on wood. Off to her left, where the ship’s gangplank lay lowered, a figure came hurriedly aboard. She spared a glance, saw one of Rakan’s Throne Eternal approaching. Nodded breathless acknowledgment at him and went back to hauling on the rope.

“My lady, I am sent to—”

“Not!” Through gritted teeth. “Now!”

The rope twanged free of its wrap on the rail. Anasharal tumbled to the decking, tipped over on its back with the momentum, legs flailing. Slack leapt through the rope, and Archeth went over on her arse. The Throne Eternal sprang forward.

“My lady—”

“I’m fine,” she snarled, and the sheer force of it drove him back a step. She scrambled to her feet, gathered the rope in burning palms. Anasharal looked pretty helpless upended like that but she wouldn’t have put it past the Helmsman to somehow right itself, drag itself back to the edge of the hatch, and fall to the relative safety at the bottom of the companionway; safe because—and she suspected that Anasharal would somehow know this—she was pretty sure she wouldn’t have the focal strength to do all this a second time today, krinzanz or no krinzanz. She was in fact, already starting to feel that maybe—

“Help me,” she snapped at the confused soldier. “Don’t just stand there with your prick in your hand! Grab the rope!”

“My lady?”

But he was Throne Eternal, and she, here in this godforsaken miserable place, was the throne, or its closest representative at least. He was charged with obeying her to the death if need be. He did as he was told. He took up station behind her, and she felt the easing on her own scorched-palm grip as he added his strength to hers. They hauled in unison, and the upended Helmsman skated a couple of feet across the greasy timbers, rocking gently. The Throne Eternal tried again, panting somewhat now. “My lady. What is. Your intention?”

“Intention?” She twisted her head to look back at him, treated him to a gritted krinzanz grin. “Dump this fucker in the harbor, why?”

She caught the look of dismay on his face. Turned herself back to face front.

“Just pull,” she told him.

“That would be ill-advised, Selak Chan, as I’m sure you already realize. The lady Archeth has ingested—”

“You shut up!” she screamed jaggedly. “You shut the fuck up!”

And abruptly, as if the scream had punctured some inner chamber in the workings of her anger, she was done. She felt the precious load of her fury leaking away, turning into tears. Suddenly, her muscles were no longer on fire, they only ached. Her palms stung, her mouth tasted sour and dry; every one of her 209 years fell on her like stones.

She dropped the rope and stood there in the rain, head down.

“Shut the fuck up,” she murmured to herself.

“My lady? Are you hale, my lady?”

Archeth shook herself like a wet dog. She turned to face the man properly for the first time since he’d come aboard.

“What do you want?”

“It’s the Dragonbane, my lady. And Shendanak’s men. Well, and my lord Tand as well. There’s been fighting. At the inn on League street. Commander Rakan requests your presence.”

“Wait, fighting? Who’s fighting, who—” She drew a breath deep enough to shake her whole body. “All right, never mind. Go back, tell them I’m on my way.”

“Yes, my lady.” Relief flooded the young face. He saluted, fist to heart, turned and hurried away. She watched him cross the gangplank and head off into the drizzle. She wiped some of the rain off her face.

Fighting.

Just what we needed.

Better get strapped, then.

“Not one fucking word,” she told the Helmsman as she passed its upended carapace on her way to her cabin and her knives.

For once, Anasharal was silent.

THEY HAD SHENDANAK LAID OUT ON THE BED IN HIS ROOMS. GRIM-FACED Majak cousins lined the narrow corridor outside and took up space on the stairs, bulky and damp-smelling in their felt coats and boots. Shouldering her way up past them, Archeth caught impassive stares and muttered snatches of conversation in the steppe tongue. Covert warding gestures forked in her direction, hands touched to talisman purses. Here and there, she saw the glint of a knife being used—for now—to pick at nails or teeth.

There was an ugly, purposeful quiet to it all, and it kicked her straight back to the war. Armed men, waiting for violence to ensue.

At the top of the stairs, one of the cousins rocked to his feet and got in her face, berating her loudly until two of his companions forced him to sit back down. She couldn’t decipher any of what he said; her understanding of the various Majak dialects was limited to a handful of Skaranak phrases Egar had taught her over the years. But she didn’t really need a translator.

She masked her misgivings, kept her hands well away from the hilts of her own knives, and rapped sharply at the door. Rakan opened for her.

“Got your message,” she said.

“I would not have disturbed you, my lady, but—”

“Skip it.” She slid through the meager gap he’d opened, let him close up again after her. Saw two brace of Throne Eternal at his back with hands on sword hilts. “That really necessary?”

Rakan’s young face was grim. “We had to break a couple of heads just to calm things down. I think if Tand’s crew hadn’t shown up when they did, it might actually have been worse. It might have come down to steel.”

“Wait a minute.” Archeth frowned. “If this wasn’t Tand and Shendanak going at it, who the fuck started the fight?”

“I did.” Egar, in from the next room, pressing a wet cloth to the right side of his head. His face was a mess, one eye bruising up, a fresh gouge on the cheek. He grinned at her. “Afternoon, Archidi.”

“Yeah.” She was in no mood. “What happened to you?”

The Dragonbane lowered the cloth and peered into its bloodstained folds. “Bit my ear,” he said apologetically. “Still bleeding a bit, look. I kind of lost it when he did that. Wouldn’t have hurt him nearly as bad otherwise.”