Anna Spark - The Court of Broken Knives

It surprised Marith more than he had realized how cheerfully the men accepted the new regime. Where the previous night they had been an unruly huddle, grousing about the size of their portions of beer, singing and joking, then shouting and whooping in the fresh cold water that morning, cheerfully ignoring Skie’s angry shouts that it was potential suicide to swim in a storm channel, now they were silent, disciplined, uncomplaining. He understood for the first time that they truly were hardened soldiers, men who would follow Skie’s command to the letter unthinkingly, men who would kill at Skie’s word.

Strange, it felt, to see that in them. To understand that. The power something held over them, that Skie could lead them to that and they would obey.

They ate a dinner of raw oats soaked in cold water, augmented with scraps of meat and cheese. Neither exactly improved by having got soaking wet and then dried out again. Drank cold water with a few tea leaves floating in it ‘for flavour’. Amazing how quickly you could miss rancid goat and vile beer. There was only a sliver of moon, thin clouds obscuring the stars: they crawled into their tents in silence by feel and memory, blind like birds in the dark. Marith simply lay down to sleep fully dressed rather than struggle out of his clothing. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had plenty of practice sleeping in his clothes.

It took him a long time to fall asleep, staring into the night through the rent in the canvas. He could hear Alxine breathing hoarsely, the sound hypnotic and loud as a heartbeat. Other than that there was silence, an awful empty silence broken by the occasional cry of some night creature, sad and angry and wild. Marith shivered. His skin and eyes itched. When we get there, he thought suddenly, when we get there, I have six iron pennies to spend. There would be things there that would interest him. The thought comforted him, some of the fear drained out of him. He lay awake trying to force himself to sleep before he had to wake up. He would probably be dead in a few days. It would be nice to get some sleep in first.

He must have slept, because suddenly Tobias was in the tent, waking him for the dawn watch. It was utter, pitch black. The stars had disappeared completely, hidden by thicker clouds. Marith flailed around trying to collect himself and scramble out of the tent, tripped over Alxine who cursed him. They crawled out into the cold air, trying to see in the dark. It reminded Marith of playing blind man’s catch as a child, a thick velvet scarf bound over his face. The claustrophobia of seeing nothing, like being dead – he had screamed once, playing it, and his brother had laughed at him. The stars frightened him but he wished they would come back, so that he could see something. Pretend something was there. He put his hand to his pocket, trying to cling to the feeling of security he had felt. Six iron pennies to spend. But it was so dark now. The darkness pressed on his shoulders, smothering him. Calling him. Knowing him. His eyes itched so much that his hands shook and he clawed at the skin of his face.

And then finally he saw the light coming up in the east, the sun rising, the sky changing from black to soft deep blue. In the west the clouds blew over so that stars appeared, the last stars of the early morning, the Maiden, the Dog, the Tree; the Fire Star that burned even in the full light of day. A soft pink sun blossomed in the sky like the delft grass flowers unfolding. He turned his face to it, tears running down his face, because it was beautiful and alive.

After breakfast, they lined up for orders, Skie standing to address them. ‘We’re approaching the city now.’ He had the trick of keeping his voice low but clearly audible, a good voice for battle commands. It was deep, rather pleasant, a nice low bass. Marith thought: I wonder if he can sing. ‘Another two days or so now. As I said last night, from now on it gets serious. The desert’s safe: it’s virtually uninhabited—’

‘Except for a bloody dragon,’ Rate muttered.

‘—not well travelled; anyone coming, we can see them. The desert stops, now. We get to good-sized villages, towns, farmlands. Soldiers on manoeuvres, local watches. People. Thirty armed men aren’t exactly inconspicuous. You know all this.’ Skie nodded at them. ‘You’ve done this kind of thing before. We’ve done this kind of thing before.

‘We’ll be splitting into the different squadrons, taking different routes in. We leave the tents here.’ There was a chorus of half-ironic cheers. ‘If we can come back for them, we will. I’d like to come out the way we came in to pick them up. But the payment includes money for new.

‘If anyone is caught, you’re on your own. You’re a small band of labourers looking for work in the city. Villagers turfed off your land by your local bigwig and thinking the streets of the Golden Empire are still paved with gold. Thieves. Murderers. Wandering bloody musicians for all I care. What matters is that you’re alone, and know nothing about any other groups of men on the roads. Got it?’

The men nodded, rumbled acknowledgement. Skie dismissed them and tramped back to his tent, signalling to the squadron leaders to join him. The men fell to sorting and stowing the gear, organizing small travel packs, engaging in a final buying, selling and bartering of oddments and goods. A large pit was dug in the sand. It was carefully lined with the tent cloths, then the tent poles were carefully arranged above. Skie’s tent and its meagre contents went in last, before another layer of tent cloth and a final covering of sand. A stone was placed on top as a marker.

Marith thought: it looks like a grave.

‘We’ll never come back here to get it, of course,’ said Alxine cheerfully. ‘And even if we do, some bastard will be bound to have moved the stone. But it keeps you hopeful, pretending we’ll be picking them up again anytime soon.’

They began moving out, very small against the great expanse of desert. Heading down into the farmlands, the townlands, the fields and houses, the human world.

Heading down into the great city, the undying, the eternal, the city of dreams, Sorlost the Golden, the most beautiful, the unconquered, the unconquerable, the decaying capital of the decayed remnant of the richest empire the world had ever known.

Marith rubbed his eyes, and sighed, and walked slowly. Tobias walked slowly beside him, watching his face.

Somewhere far off in the distance, something that might have been a hawk screamed.

The Imperial Palace of the Asekemlene Emperor of the Sekemleth Empire of the eternal city of Sorlost the Golden is clad in white porcelain. Its towers are gilt in silver, its great central dome in gold. Its windows are mage glass, shining like sunrise. Its courtyards are hung with yellow satin, its balconies are carved of gems. Its gates are ivory and whalebone and onyx and red pearl. Its walls enclose lush silent gardens of lilac trees where green flightless birds dart and sing. Tall marble columns create cool loggias, opening onto perfumed lakes to form shaded bathing places of pale sand and dark water, purple irises and silver fish. Lawns run down to tangled bushes with flowers that smell like human skin. Apples and apricots and cimma fruit grow in profusion, perfect and uneaten; when the trees are not in season, servants in black turbans hang brightly painted wooden fruits from their boughs. The fruits were jewelled, once, but these were sold or stolen long ago. It is commonly known as the Summer Palace, though there is no Winter Palace and never has been one. Sorlost is a city without seasons: perhaps some ancient incarnation of the Emperor in the youth of empire once thought it fitting of his status to make a differentiation that is not needed and cannot indeed exist. Perhaps a Winter Palace was planned, once, before time passed too quickly and money was borrowed that could not be repaid and building works were delayed and abandoned and forgotten, in the richest empire the world has ever known.