Brian Staveley - The Last Mortal Bond

“Then kill Van. I don’t give a pickled shit if you’re angry when you do it, just make him dead .”

“The one-footed general,” Nira snapped, turning from the ranks of bottles, “is not the problem.”

Adare raised her brows. “He’s commanding the soldiers occupying the palace.”

Nira snorted. “He’s il Tornja’s dog. You could kill the son of a bitch, and another son of a bitch would just take his place. That’s the way an army works-chain a’ command, and all.”

“So we kill the next one,” Adare said. “I’m sure Kegellen can manage more than one murder per month.”

The Queen of the Streets opened her eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Now it is just me doing this hypothetical killing? What happened to our happy triumvirate of high-minded murderers?”

“What do ya keep between those ears?” Nira demanded, raising her cane as though preparing to rap Adare on the skull. “A pair a’ very small, very stupid worms? An army doesn’t run outta commanders until ya kill the last man, and I don’t think I need ta point out that you might need some a’ those bastards on your walls when the Urghul arrive.”

Adare blew out an angry breath. “They’re not all part of il Tornja’s plan.…”

“I wager shit against silver even Wobbly Van himself isn’t part of il Tornja’s plan. He has orders ta hold the palace, and so he’s holdin’ it. It’s not him you have ta go after.”

Kegellen nodded slowly. “Though your councillor and I don’t always see eye to eye on matters, in this case, I have to agree.” She tapped a finger against her generous chin. “Is there any word from that spirited young woman you sent north with all those birds?”

“Do you think,” Adare asked, staring at the other woman, “that if the Kettral had returned, if they had word of il Tornja, that I would have forgotten to mention it?”

Kegellen heaved her shoulders into a shrug. “There is so much going on, and I find I grow more forgetful with each passing year.”

“Well, I don’t. The Kettral are still gone. Il Tornja is still missing. And Horonius Van still has his booted heel on the throat of this fucking city.”

“Perhaps,” Kegellen suggested, “you should let him leave it there. At least until after this … war.” She frowned, as though that final word were unpleasant even to pronounce. “He will be weaker then and you might need him a little less.”

That, in fact, was exactly what Adare would have preferred to do. Much as she loathed the military takeover of Annur, there was no way around the fact that Van would make a better commander for the coming battle than Adare herself, probably better than Lehav. Certainly, the addition of the Army of the North gave the entire city a fighting chance against the coming horde. The Urghul, however, were not the only foe; not even, if Kaden was to be believed, the greatest foe. Il Tornja’s absence from the front was evidence enough that there was another struggle going on, a quiet war invisible to almost everyone, a battle that might decide far more than the fate of a couple of continents. Adare had no idea why il Tornja would want the Dawn Palace or the Spear, but the fact that he wanted them was reason enough to try to deny him those very things. Not that she could tell Kegellen that. Despite their alliance, she didn’t trust the woman much more than she would a half-rabid dog.

“It ought to be possible-” Adare began again.

A sharp rap on the door cut her off.

Kegellen frowned. “I try to give the clearest instructions to my staff, and still they will disturb me when I have asked not to be disturbed.” She shook her head as she set down her wine, then levered herself up from the chair. “If this is not a pair of naked young men-preferably beautiful but dumb, between the ages of twenty and twenty-five-I will be quite displeased.”

Despite the woman’s levity, Adare’s stomach had knotted up suddenly, viciously at the sound of the knock. It had been a long time since unexpected tidings meant anything but death or disaster. All over again she saw her son’s eyes, burning, terrified. She was clutching her wineglass, she realized, clutching it so tightly she was amazed it had not already shattered. Deliberately, she set it down as Kegellen swung open the door.

“What is it, Serise?” the woman asked.

Adare exhaled slowly. No stranger come calling after all. Just one of the household slaves.

“Apologies, my lady,” a meek voice from beyond the door replied. “A note. It was delivered with some urgency.”

“And did the bearer of this note speak the crucial words?” Kegellen asked.

“No, my lady, but-”

“Then it cannot be so urgent, can it?”

“Pardon, my lady, but the note is not for you.”

Adare felt sick all over again.

“Ah,” Kegellen said, extending her hand. “How interesting.”

By the time the woman had closed the door, crossed the room, and passed the note across the table, Adare found she was trembling. There was no seal on the paper-it was folded over twice and tied with a length of rough twine. Hardly a terrifying epistle, and yet Adare eyed it as though it were a viper, and instead of reaching for the note, she raised her goblet, swirled the liquid around the glass, then drained it.

“And just what kinda lump-brained ritual is this?” Nira demanded finally. “Ya gonna look at the ’Kent-kissing thing or are we all gonna sit here guessin’?”

Adare ignored the woman, took up the paper, opened it. It didn’t take long to read the hastily scrawled lines, and only a moment more to understand them. She looked up from the message, relief welling up inside her. There was no word of Sanlitun. It had nothing to do with her son. Which meant she could believe, if only for another day, that he was still alive.

Kegellen cocked her head to the side. “Good news?”

“Good news doesn’t come creepin’ in like a kicked dog,” Nira said, watching Adare warily. “Out with it, woman.”

Slowly, Adare dragged her eyes back to the text. Already, the relief was seeping away, replaced by something colder, more dangerous-some feeling balanced on the knife’s edge between hope and horror.

“He has returned,” she said.

Nira leaned forward, suddenly hungry, predatory. “Il Tornja?”

Adare shook her head. “Kaden. My brother. And he has Triste with him.”

The Kettral returned to Annur a little after midnight, when the moon’s blade had lodged itself in the dark horizon. Gwenna put the birds down in a quiet square just south of the city’s northern wall. A couple of empty plinths flanked a fountain at the center of the open space. Someone had already toppled and hauled off whatever statuary had stood atop them, but the fountain still ran, water gushing up from the pipe’s mouth, tracing a glittering arc through the night air, then splashing into the open sandstone bowl. The huge birds, free of their soldiers, gathered around the fountain, dipped their beaks into the water over and over. The motion was strange, almost mechanical, but delicate.

“Our staging area,” Gwenna said. “Compliments of the Emperor.” She gestured to a series of buildings fronting the square. “Barracks. Command. Livery. Infirmary. Supply. Our little slice of the Eyrie right here in Annur.”

Valyn studied the silent structures. There were no lamps or candles in the windows. No smoke issued from the chimneys. He closed his eyes, listening for the rustle and murmur of sleeping men and women. Nothing.

“Where are the people?” he asked. “Who lived here?”

Gwenna shook her head. “Fuck if I know. I told your sister I needed a staging area, and she gave us this.”