Daniel Abraham - The Tyrant's Law

“We have to find shelter,” Marcus shouted over the voice of the weather.

“Yes,” the snowball-lump that was Kit shouted back.

“Are you sure we’re still on the road?”

“No.”

Marcus paused for a moment, trying to think what he could do about that.

“All right,” he said. “I’m going to rest.”

“You should.”

Marcus turned back. A gust of wind shook the cart, and he felt the jarring when the wheel fell back to the ground. The tiny glass lamp that hung from the top of the folded stage didn’t go out, and he cupped it in his hands, letting the warmth of the little flame thaw his fingers. They were all taking turns resting in the cart except for Kit with the team and Smit who wouldn’t stop leading the two riding horses. It was only their second week out of Rukkyupal, and the fantasy Marcus had built of going from town to town putting plays on for the Haaverkin and uncovering hints about the whereabouts of Dar Cinlama was dead.

Someone shouted. Charlit Soon, Marcus thought, but it could have been Cary. He had the image of someone fallen in the snow and unable to rise. He fought the weariness, focusing his eyes, then went out to help them back up.

Only no one had fallen.

Charlit Soon was standing off to the side of the road, pointing out into the grey-white gloom of the world. Marcus fought his way toward her, slipped on the ice, and rose again. When he came close enough to hear individual words, she was shouting, “Light! There’s a light.”

And to Marcus’s amazement, there was. It was faint and inconsistent, but somewhere close, a fire was burning brightly enough to penetrate the storm. And Charlit was standing on a side track that seemed to lead toward it. They had very nearly walked right by it.

“Stay here,” he shouted. “I’ll get the others.”

It seemed to take hours to stop them all, to turn them, then find Charlit again and start off. The wind blew against their backs now, shoving them forward. And slowly, a darkness rose up before them: a massive structure of black wood logs woven one atop the other into a wall. More trees were laid over the top, and a load of snow as tall as all the rest towered above it, higher than clouds. A great pitch-stinking torch fluttered in the wind like a lighthouse in fog, and a thick wooden door stood beside it.

Marcus struggled forward and slammed a numb fist against the door, hoping that someone would answer him and planning how to break it down when they didn’t. The door swung open on a Haaverkin woman. Her vast body was covered in light wool and fur. Her face was complicated by swirling tattoos in red and blue, and her expression was like a mother whose child has just hauled home a basket of puppies.

“Who in hell are you people?” she asked.

“Marcus,” Marcus said. “Kit over there. Some others. Make plays. Wondering if we could come in.”

The woman sighed, shook her head, and turned to call over her shoulder.

“Kirot! We’ve got more idiots.” She turned back to Marcus. “I’m Ama of Order Murro. This is our lodge house. You there. Just leave the horses. We’ll get them. You’ll only cock it up.”

Marcus nodded, then stumbled past her into the warmth.

The lodge house was a single massive room with a fire burning in a stone grate at the far end. The air was sooty and thick. Great tables ran along the walls with benches made from split trees. The Haaverkin at the tables—twenty, perhaps thirty of them—turned to watch him with amusement and curiosity. Marcus raised a hand in greeting, but kept stumbling forward toward the light and the promise of warmth. As he drew near the flames, he saw thinner figures at the hearth. A half dozen Firstblood men, and a leather-skinned Dartinae man with eyes so bright it seemed like his head was hollow with firelight blazing through empty sockets.

Oh , Marcus thought, then collapsed on the furs and blankets before the fire, his body trembling from the cold and burning from the mild heat that radiated out from the flames. Sandr crawled up beside him, and then Kit and Cary and Hornet. Charlit Soon and Smit and Mikel. They curled together like animals in some deep winter den. Marcus heard someone weeping, but was fairly certain it wasn’t him.

A massive old Haaverkin loomed above him. The ink of his tattoos and the lines of his face swam together in a complexity that Marcus couldn’t follow. His teeth were the grey of stone, and the rolls of fat that enveloped his body made him seem larger than he was. And strong. A bone pipe appeared in his hand.

“What’s your name, then?”

Marcus didn’t have the wits left to lie. “Marcus Wester.”

“And these others? They’re yours?”

“They’re mine,” Marcus agreed.

“Well, then, Marcus Wester and his brood. Kirot of Order Murro is my name, and this is the lodge house of Order Murro. We extend you our hospitality because if we didn’t, you’d die out in the weather like a bunch of fucking half-wits.”

“Thank you for that.”

“Don’t mention it,” the old Haaverkin said sourly and marched off into the gloom shaking his head at the fragility and dim wits of southern races.

“You know there’s a mercenary captain with that same name,” a pleasantly raspy voice said. Marcus levered himself up to sitting. The Dartinae man had come to sit near to him, legs more tied together than crossed. If Marcus had taken the same pose, he’d have popped his knees loose, but Dartinae were usually a bit more supple than the other races.

“Did, actually,” Marcus said.

“You get mistaken for him?”

The man wore a leather vest with a dragon on it in faded and cracking paint.

“Almost constantly,” Marcus said. His senses were almost back, but not quite. He felt drunk from the cold and his toes were still numb. Soon he’d have to pull his boots off and check for frostbite, but his fingers hadn’t blackened, so maybe he’d avoided the worst of it. “And you, cousin? What’s your story?”

“Dar Cinlama,” the man said, dispelling the last remnant of doubt. “Citizen of the world, but lately from the court of the Lord Regent in Camnipol.”

“You must have pissed him off badly for him to send you out here.”

Dar laughed. “No, this is where I picked to be. Searching for hidden things in the lost corners of the world.”

“Seems you’ve come to the right place.” Marcus looked over at the Firstblood men sitting apart at the near table. There was no mistaking them for anything but Firstblood, but though their skins were the full range from pale to dark, none had the wiry hair or brown robes of a spider priest. “Those yours?” he asked, nodding to them.

“I have the loan of them. Not a bad bunch. More than I’ve usually had for company.”

Cary groaned and curled away from their voices. Sandr appeared to be asleep, snoring lightly, his face as slack as a child’s. Marcus’s awareness was still broadening slowly. Along the walls, he saw the Haaverkin shields and spears interspersed with images of dragons and the skeleton of a monstrous fish, its head twice as wide as a man’s shoulders, with three rows of viciously curved teeth. The Haaverkin in the room were ignoring them, talking among themselves, laughing or scowling. Even though Marcus couldn’t feel the wind, and the fire in the grate drew steady and calm, the rage of the storm outside was oppressive as a hand on his shoulder.

Kit stirred, rising from the rugs. His expression was mild and amazed, as if he thought perhaps he’d died and this was where souls went to wait for judgment.

“Kit,” Marcus said. “This is our new friend. His name’s Dar Cinlama.”

Kit’s eyes took a moment to focus, but then comprehension slipped into them.