Читать книгу Hero Grown - Andy Livingstone - Страница 7

A soft noise behind was all that it took for him to be on his feet and turn, knife in hand. He only hoped that it was not apparent that his feet took four small steps before he found his balance, nor that his fingers had fumbled in grasping the hilt, nor that his eyes were squinting to adjust from the glare of the view from the window to the shadow of his chambers.

The desert-dry voice, now familiar, started as she moved closer, a tray with a ewer of iced water and two fine goblets borne before her in place of an instrument of assassination.

‘Your steadiness may waver, you may flounder for your weapon, and your eyes may be straining, but they are all better than when I first saw you here. Let us hope, however, that your dagger is sharper than your reactions, and your mind is sharper than both.’

‘If they were half as sharp as your tongue, crone, I would be ruling the world.’ He sank into his chair, slipping the blade back down the side of the cushion, but this time ensuring that the hilt protruded a little more than it had before.

She poured water for him and he took it in silence. She filled the other goblet for herself, and he let her do so. She could do so without rebuke on this occasion, he resolved. Just as he resolved every afternoon at this time.

She stared with him across the training fields to the dusty plains beyond, two pairs of eyes on the same scene but neither mind seeing it. ‘You could.’

‘What?’ Though he knew.

‘Rule again.’

‘A man cannot win a duel without the right strategy to exploit his opponent, the right horse to bear him, the right armour to defend him and the right blade to strike the killing blow.’

Her voice was like the dry sandy wind that blew in from the desert. ‘Your mind is your strategy, your desire will carry you, their blinding contempt will be your armour.’

‘And the sword? This is no ordinary duel, it will be a fight like no other, and to the victor will come the Empire. It will need a blade the like of which we have never seen. What of it?’

‘Fear not, child of fate.’ Old fingers reached out and gently touched his arm. ‘He is here.’

****

The ship cleared the headland, bringing their first glimpse of the city as they began to swing through the entrance of the harbour.

Brann glanced to his right, shorewards, and almost stopped rowing in astonishment. The harbour itself would have been classed a lake in his land, but even it was dwarfed by the city beyond. White buildings reflected the glaring early morning sun over an area larger than he had ever seen covered by man’s constructions, until his eyes wandered and saw the built-up scene replicated time and time again to the limits of his gaze. Scattered like carelessly discarded jewellery, occasional buildings had golden-clad roofs amongst the red of the majority, giving the same effect, as the ship moved their viewpoint, as the sun did when it dropped a thousand flashes on the surface of the sea.

He was jolted from his astonishment by Gerens’s elbow. ‘Just because you haven’t seen the Jewel of the Empire before, it doesn’t mean you can leave the rowing to us.’

Grakk turned slightly without missing a stroke to speak over his shoulder. ‘If you can look and row, young untravelled boys, you should take the opportunity. There is no better view of the largest city in the world than from here, other than from the Royal Palace itself, and you are unlikely to be afforded the latter perspective.’

Cannick strode down the aisle, his boots loud on the wooden planks even above the sound of a galley in full rowing action, accompanied by a familiar warrior.

‘Brann, to the Captain, after you’ve had a scrub. Galen will take your place for the last stretch, now that we are all free men and friends.’

Galen grinned through his shaggy beard. ‘Well, we’re all free men. Let’s not get too hasty with the rest of it.’

As Cannick moved back up the aisle, Hakon managed to stretch a long leg and nudge Grakk in the back. ‘Looks like you were wrong, oh infallible wise one. One of us seems likely to be treated to that other perspective you were talking about.’

Grakk responded by adroitly tripping Brann as he walked past. ‘You still need to work on your awareness of potential danger, I see,’ he observed pleasantly.

As the ship skimmed across the calm of the harbour towards long stone piers that stretched from the shore like tentacles reaching for any craft that came close, Brann washed for the first time since they had stopped to resupply the previous week. A large tub had been filled with fresh water near the stern and he quickly stripped and scrubbed himself, the practicalities of three months at sea having robbed him of his aversion both to public nudity and cold water, neither of which appeared to be an issue among Einarr’s people in any case.

The Captain was leaning, his back to the door, over a sea of papers strewn across his table when Brann was shown into his cabin. He waved a hand at clothes laid on the bed without turning.

‘You’ll need those,’ he said distantly, staring at a sheet of notes. As Brann moved across the room, however, he straightened and turned, running both hands up his face and through his hair. ‘Apologies,’ he sighed. ‘If there’s one thing I hate more than being polite on diplomatic missions to pompous arses, it’s the studying you have to do beforehand.’

He got to the bed before Brann and stopped him, holding him at arm’s length to observe him. ‘You’ve grown,’ he said. ‘Up and across the way. It should help you swing a sword a bit more easily, but hopefully you have not outgrown these clothes. You’re still undersized, though, so they probably will fit.’

Brann smiled. ‘I would think most people are undersized compared with anyone from your land.’

The Captain’s eyes narrowed with amusement. ‘I also think most people would find you undersized. Not that they would think that a dwarf had stepped from the mines of the fables, mind you, you’re just not as tall as some.’ He cocked his head to the side and stepped back to examine Brann from further back. ‘No, definitely not a dwarf.’ He frowned. ‘I think.’

Brann laughed this time. ‘I have missed our ego-boosting chats.’

Einarr grunted. ‘Well, I haven’t missed having a page. No offence intended, but I work better on my own. Too many years working for a living, I suppose. But now, as you’ll have guessed, I have need of a page once more.’

Brann executed a courtly bow. A very poor courtly bow, he knew, but his experience of court etiquette was non-existent. ‘At your service, my lord.’

The Captain sighed and sat on the bed. ‘You don’t have to be, you know. You are a free man now. I can’t order you to do anything other than your duties as a member of the crew of the Blue Dragon. I’m asking if you’ll do it.’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Truthfully?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

Brann grinned. ‘Just as well I was going to say yes, then.’

He started to get changed into the page’s clothing. While typical of anything that came out of Halveka in that the garments were practical and hard-wearing, still they were of a finer material and cut than he was accustomed to and the feel of them helped his head adjust to his more elevated role.

‘So,’ he grunted as he stretched to pull his shoulders into a tunic that seemed slightly tighter than the last time he had worn it, ‘have you met these pompous arses before? Is that how you know what they are like?’

‘Not these particular arses. My previous visits here were as the captain of a contracted ship or, in earlier years, fighting for whatever cause was looking to buy military might. The sort of person I was then didn’t tend to be received in the same royal chambers as a diplomatic envoy. But I know their like. And I know this city, and this empire. You will recognise the truth of my description soon enough.’

Brann shrugged. ‘They can be what they like. You make a page’s role easy, whatever anyone is like: keep my mouth shut, do what I’m told and look respectful.’

The Captain nodded seriously as the slightest of jolts in the ship’s motion told them that Cannick had manoeuvred it into its berth with his familiar skill. ‘I pronounce your lessons in pagery to be complete.’ He swept the papers into a trunk and fixed his clothes, buckling on a finely tooled sword. ‘Right, let us introduce ourselves to Sagia.’

From the moment they stepped from the gangplank, Brann felt the alien nature of a culture far removed from anything he had known. Disorientated, as if he had entered a different world, he scarcely noticed Konall, Hakon and two imposing warriors joining them and Einarr motioning to Grakk to approach as Cannick started to organise the unloading of the cargo. He sucked in a deep breath to try to gather his thoughts and drag his attention back to his surroundings.

Einarr placed a hand on Grakk’s shoulder. ‘I know I owe you a debt already, for the part you played in saving my nephew if for nothing else, and I know you have earned as much time in the taverns as the rest of the crew, but as a native of a part of this empire you are the closest thing we have to expert local knowledge. I would value your presence if you would accompany us.’

Grakk bowed his head, the sun gleaming on the intricate tattoos covering his smooth scalp. ‘It is in the nature of my people to gather knowledge and share it with those deemed worthy. Besides, I do not partake of intoxicating substances by choice, so it will be a diversion of interest. It may also prove useful in providing an extra member of your party who is aware of your young page’s propensity for inadvertently finding himself in trouble.’

Einarr clapped him on the shoulder in acknowledgement and appreciation. ‘Your last point is probably the most relevant.’

An official in a plain white robe was waiting for them where the pier met the dockside, a flat satchel hanging at his hip and a broad hat on his head. As they drew closer, Brann was able to see the way a broad length of cloth had been wound, more draped, around his body and over his shoulders to leave his arms free and to ensure that his body, while covered from head to foot, was loosely clad. Already his own clothing was feeling heavy and stifling and the very air, now bereft of the breeze of open water, was hot and hard to draw in, like the first gasping breath when he had opened his mother’s bread oven and been hit by the blast. The unexpected memory of home stabbed through him and he stumbled.

Konall glanced at him in enquiry and Brann pointed to the ground. ‘Slipped on a loose stone.’ His voice was laboured as he felt the effort of breathing.

‘No surprise there.’ The tall boy appeared as unperturbed as ever, his manner oblivious to the heat despite the hair that was plastered to his face by the sweat that was creeping from every pore.

‘Do you not feel the heat?’ Brann was incredulous. ‘Your land is even colder than mine.’

Konall looked at him in bemusement. ‘Even our coldest areas have warm days. I have actually seen the sun before, you know. It is the same sun. This is just hotter, for longer. We cannot change it. You deal with it or place yourself at a disadvantage, like all in life.’

‘I just don’t know how anyone could function in this,’ Brann grumbled. ‘It’s all right for you, your head is at a higher altitude where it’s obviously cooler. Every movement is an effort down here.’

Konall snorted. ‘Grow up.’

‘I’d love to.’

‘I didn’t mean physically.’

They were interrupted by Einarr. ‘You will get used to it in a day or so, unlikely as your head will be telling you that it could be. But enough of the weather chatter.’ He turned, halting the group out of earshot of the waiting man. ‘Grakk, the welcoming figure on the dock. What can you tell me?’

‘We are honoured guests,’ the tribesman said, his soft tone as even and measured as ever. ‘He is a slave, hence the chain around his neck, though it is a more slender version and more golden than the normal heavy iron chains of the general slave population. Here, power is everything; the most precious commodity is knowledge and the most powerful men are those who use their knowledge with the greatest skill. Their obsession is records. Everything is recorded, all is preserved in paper and ink, and the guardians of this, those who gather, record, store, guard and, in some cases, advise on the records are the Scribes, the slaves prized above all others. They are recognised by their satchels, as much a symbol of their office as a practicality, carrying paper, ink and quill, for a Scribe must always be ready to record what must be recorded.’

Konall frowned. ‘They place all this trust in a slave? Not in the loyalty of a free man?’

‘It is safer in the hands of a slave, young lord. Where you live, the loyalty of a free man, once given, is unquestioned and any loss of trust in that is considered worse than death. Here, every free man lives in competition with every other. Even the purchase of a loaf is a contest to be won. Accordingly, words are to be used, twisted, broken, all in the strategy of outmanoeuvring and winning. Trust is naive and dull-witted. Slaves, however, are ruled by total obedience and cannot leave to serve another unless their master wills it, and so their words are as letters carved in stone and their ambition serves only to enhance their owner’s standing or success.’

Konall was still unhappy. ‘Regardless, they send a slave to meet the son of a Warlord of Halveka. The insult is clear.’

Grakk shook his head. ‘That is what they do, young lord. Would you own a ship but travel here by swimming? They will greet Lord Einarr in the appropriate setting. The honour here is clear: a Scribe is the ultimate level of slave – in fact many consider themselves superior to any free men below the level of the nobility and certainly they have more influence in many ways. Note the second golden chain, the one carrying his satchel: it denotes that he has reached the highest tier of his class. What is more, the royal seal burnt into the leather of the satchel itself tells us that, in all probability, he is owned by a prince, and has his ear.’

Einarr had heard enough. ‘Thank you, Grakk. Let us meet this influential slave.’

The tall Scribe swept his hat to his chest and greeted them with a long inclination of his head that revealed intricate tattoos on his shiny pate of a style similar to Grakk’s and which drew the eye of everyone present. As he raised his head, his eyes fixed on Grakk, but his gaze, emotionless almost to the extent of haughtiness, smoothly settled on Einarr. His hat still pressed to his chest, he spoke in a voice as lacking in expression as his face.

‘Lord Einarr of Yngvarrsharn, may I express the welcome of my master, of his brothers in rule and of the great city of Sagia that sits at the heart of ul-Taratac, the greatest empire the civilised world has witnessed or ever will. If it is your pleasure, I will direct you to your transport to the palace, which awaits just a few paces from this dock.’

‘Thank you,’ Einarr said. ‘And your name is?’

‘I am merely a conduit for my master’s words. My name is not important.’

‘It is to me. Hence my question.’ The lord’s voice was calm, but still managed to exude menace.

‘Of course, noble sir. My master calls me Scribe.’

Konall’s face went white and he stepped towards the slave, whose face had not flickered into a single expression all the while. Without taking his eyes from the man, Einarr shot out his arm and halted his cousin with a hand on his chest. His voice was soft, almost amiable. ‘That is a most interesting fact about your master. But I did not ask what he chooses to call you. I asked your name. And, as a slave being asked a question by a free man, you are obliged to answer.’

Though his face remained frozen, a flush started to creep into the Scribe’s cheeks. He turned his head slowly to look at Grakk. ‘You could ask your own slave. He would be able to furnish the answer.’

Brann glanced at Grakk but the wiry tribesman was impassive.

‘I have no slaves. He is a free man.’ Before he could control himself, the Scribe’s eyes widened in surprise before settling quickly back to his frozen mask. Einarr continued, his voice as reasonable as if he were discussing the sailing conditions for a pleasure cruise. ‘Unlike you. And I asked you. Could I make it clearer, or do I have to interrupt my journey to the palace with a visit to the Guild of Slavers to enquire about the etiquette of a conversation between a free man and a slave? And the consequences of breaching the etiquette? I am curious as to your name. The one your mother bestowed upon you.’

The man hesitated a long moment, his head bowed and his jaw clenching and moving as he fought to maintain control. He lifted his eyes to meet Einarr’s once more, and said coldly, ‘Narut.’

Einarr smiled. ‘Thank you, Narut. Now let us go find this transport of yours.’

He strode past the Scribe and the others followed. As Hakon passed, he clapped the Scribe heartily on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Narut. I knew you could do it. Now we can all be friends.’ Beaming, he patted the man’s shoulder again with enthusiasm. ‘I’m proud of you.’

By the time the startled Scribe had regained his composure, the group was waiting further up the dock. Einarr cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. Brann stifled a giggle. ‘Narut?’ Einarr’s tone was concerned.

‘Of course, noble sir.’ The man hurried to lead them to a wide boulevard leading directly away from the dockside where two wheel-less carriages sat, with large slaves waiting unmoving beside them.

Grakk moved beside Brann. ‘Try not to look so confused, young fellow. They will interpret it as weakness. These carriages have people for wheels. We enter, they lift and carry, they set down, we alight. It is how people of wealth and rank travel about this city.’

Brann frowned. ‘Why don’t they just walk? Can’t they?’

‘When people choose not to do something that they could do and most people must do, some interpret that as power.’

‘I interpret it as stupidity. I’d rather walk.’

‘You may be right, but there are many things done by people in all societies to impress each other that could be interpreted as such. On this occasion, however, walking when transport has been provided by the highest of the high would be deemed an insult. And also, to speak on equal terms with the rulers, Lord Einarr must act as they would expect a noble to act.’

Konall frowned. ‘Insult or not, should we not be making all haste to reach the Emperor with our news? It is the reason we have travelled here, cousin, and to be carried by ambling slaves would not befit the urgency of our mission.’

Einarr wiped his sleeve across his glistening brow and laid a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘We are seeking audience with the most powerful man alive, and I have seen kings kick their heels for a week or more while they await that privilege. The Emperor does not know the importance of our message, or we would not need to bring it. To be admitted to his court the day we arrive may, I can only guess, stem from his curiosity or may just be our good fortune but, whatever the reason, we must fret not at the pace of our final approach but be thankful for the day it is taking place.’ He smiled. ‘And, believe me, these slaves do not amble.’

He stopped his party. ‘I’ll take my cousin and my page with me.’ He turned to the Scribe. ‘Narut, will you be travelling with us?’

He coloured at the use of his name in front of the carriage bearers, but his tone was as haughty as ever. ‘I shall lead the way afoot. A mere slave does not raise his station above that of other slaves.’

Hakon snorted. ‘If he actually believes that, I’m a mermaid.’

‘Good,’ said Einarr. ‘That leaves room for my local expert.’ He looked over to Hakon and the two guards. ‘You three can spread yourselves about the second one, but given the size of you, it’s probably for the best.’

They approached what was effectively a wooden box – albeit an ornately crafted wooden box – filled with cushions and with long handles protruding fore and aft to enable it to be lifted. A slender pole at each corner supported a canopy that afforded them protection from the sun’s glare if not from its heat, and a slave moved to open a door in the side. Einarr waved him away with a smile and instead stepped over the low side and seated himself facing forward. Konall took his place beside him, leaving the opposite space for the other two. The others were already lounging in the other carriage, grinning like small boys. Brann could understand Einarr’s choice in the two warriors he had brought: Magnus, wiry and quick, and tall Torstein were as skilled with their weapons as any of the other Northmen, but both were also considered enough of thought to carry themselves appropriately in any company. And, no mean accomplishment, they were almost as relentless in their good cheer as Hakon, so while the news they bore was grim, the mood in the party was lifted. Typical of his people, Einarr was practical in his outlook, and it achieved nothing to look constantly at the world through eyes fogged by the gloom of foreboding.

At a nod from the Scribe, the slaves hoisted them aloft, resting the handles on their broad shoulders. Smooth as the action was, Brann grabbed at the side, clearly uncomfortable and disconcerted.

Konall almost smiled. ‘Try not to fall out. It would probably cost a slave his life.’

Brann wasn’t amused. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you to push me, just for the entertainment.’

The tall boy pushed his sweat-soaked hair away from his brow as the slaves set off at a fast trot. ‘Talking of entertainment, cousin, I couldn’t help but notice you enjoying yourself baiting that Scribe.’

His elbow resting on the broad wooden rail at the side of the carriage, Einarr shrugged slightly. ‘I hate pompous arseholes. He is just the first of many we will meet. Unfortunately, I am denied by diplomatic necessity the chance to bait the rest of them, so I take the chance when I can.’

‘Some would call that bullying, cousin.’

‘Given his attitude, others would call it a moral obligation.’

Konall looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose he does repress his emotions, somewhat. To a ridiculous extent, in fact.’

Grakk coughed and Einarr looked across just in time to stop Brann’s words with a stare. ‘Anyway, what is more important is what Grakk can tell us.’

Grakk grew serious. ‘You will see that the buildings here are several stories high and closely built, from the necessity of the area. The city started as a small port but the large and deep natural harbour attracted trade enough for it to grow quickly. With residential accommodation surrounding the original dock buildings and roadways wide to facilitate large amounts of traffic from warehouse to docks and docks to the great selling halls, there was little room to expand further inland, so once they had spread right across the harbour edge they built upwards instead. As we progress, we will enter more and more affluent areas, where the houses become bigger and with more space around them, and subsequently where the houses become villas and the space around becomes space within, for they are built to enclose central areas where nature is brought into the stone of the city.

‘This is not a city planned for defence, such as in your land, Lord, nor is it,’ he nodded at Brann, ‘a random arrangement that has grown according to opportunity and fancy, as often is the case where you were born. This is a city planned by wealth, prosperity, trade and social standing. Everything here is meticulous: the colour of the buildings to reflect the heat of the sun, the width of each road for its purpose, the area where each class lives according to purpose and logical placement for that purpose. For example, bakers near to the grain-storage houses, tanners near the beast pens and leatherworkers near to them. They love thinking everything out, hence the prominence of the Scribes. Even their army is created and operated with pre-planned purpose in every aspect: every free man must learn a trade from their fifteenth winter to their twentieth, and then serve the following five years as soldiers. Those proving to have most military value are retained as leaders and the rest return to their trade unless they choose to remain as soldiers. Those leaders help to train those who come after. They are drilled to work as one, to fight in formation, to fight identically, with identical weapons, to operate on the battlefield according to commands and not individual thought.’

Konall was confused. ‘Then they have no great warriors? No feats of valour and legend?’

Grakk smiled, ‘They do not, young lord, although they do have the tournament field where young nobles can prove their skill. No, they do not have great warriors. But they do have an empire.’

Einarr nodded, thoughtfully. ‘That’s interesting, Grakk, many thanks. But now I must think on this, if you don’t mind.’

Grakk looked at him. ‘It is the prerogative of a lord that my minding is immaterial.’

Einarr’s eyes narrowed in amusement. ‘But it is good sense for a lord to mind whether you mind or not, if I would like to increase my chances of the fullest of information in the future.’

‘Your logic is sound,’ Grakk acknowledged. ‘And I do not mind.’

Einarr nodded and they rode in silence, and Brann’s eyes drank in a world that could never have been successfully described to him had he not beheld it at first hand. Strange as the trade area around the docks had seemed, still the mix of nationalities bustling around the streets had lent it a recognisable feel and diluted the air of unreality. Here, though, in the heart of pure Sagia, everything was of this land and nothing of his own. Overwhelmed by the unfamiliar, he seemed to be floating through a dream.

Einarr’s voice cut so suddenly that he jumped, something that nearly amused Konall.

‘Pardon me, Grakk, but you covered but one aspect of the two that I had in mind.’

‘Of course, lord. You would know of the rulers. The court and the nobility. They are…’

The lord held up a hand. ‘Thank you, but no. I have knowledge of their court workings more than enough from the papers and documents I had to endure on the voyage. I would know of your friend Narut. You and he would seem acquainted beyond just a similar penchant for scalp decoration.’

There was a long silence, which served not only to make real the tension that Einarr’s words had created but also to let Brann realise that he had become accustomed to the awkward sensation of being carried shoulder-height in a box.

With hard eyes, Grakk said, ‘I have those few who I would consider friends but he is not, nor ever has been, counted among them.’

‘But you know him.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Grakk nodded. ‘I do.’

‘And your time with him is not remembered fondly.’

‘There was wrongdoing.’

‘By you or by him?’

Grakk’s piercing eyes gazed at the passing buildings, but appeared to see scenes distant in location and time. ‘By both. But though he has position, he is a slave and I now am not. So I cannot bear animosity towards one whose life has led him to greater suffering than mine has.’

‘That’s very noble of you, but that is what fate decreed for him and I am less interested in prying into your personal differences and more in the nature of the man. If he has the ear of a member of the royal family, I would know what he is like and if he can be trusted.’

Grakk’s head snapped to look right into the eyes of Einarr. ‘Lord, if there is one thing you remember always when you are in this city, it is that few you will meet can be trusted. I can only speak of the man I knew many years ago, but then he was arrogant, unfeeling and remorseless, and just as punctilious as a Sagian. He may have changed his nature, but I can imagine nothing in the Sagian way of life that would not encourage those traits rather than mollify them, which has in all likelihood been behind his rise to his current position. Be that as it may, his lack of emotion would ensure that he did nothing from a position of spite, anger or vengeance. Even when he did wrong, he always believed he was doing what was right. He is a man of obsessive duty, and probably more at home here than in the place of his birth, despite his slavery.’

A sound of disdain came from Einarr. ‘Arrogant, unfeeling, remorseless and punctilious? He has indeed found his spiritual home.’

Konall looked at him appraisingly. ‘You don’t much like these people, do you?’

Einarr sighed. ‘The ordinary people are fine, much like anywhere you will go. But my experience of anyone in authority here has not been good. I’m sure there will be exceptions, but I have not found them any time I have visited. And the higher the rank, the worse it tends to get.’

Brann groaned. ‘And we are about to meet the highest rank there is.’

‘It may be imminent.’ Konall pointed over Brann’s shoulder, and he turned to see a gateway taller and broader than he could have imagined possible, leaving the two pairs of stock-still guards looking as large as the toy warriors his grandfather had whittled for him what seemed like a lifetime ago. Intricate geometric shapes were carved with consummate care and skill into the stone that framed the opening, and just craning his head to squint at the lintel twice as high above them as the top of the Blue Dragon’s mast made Brann’s head swim.

‘Imminent may be a premature expression, young lord,’ said Grakk. ‘The castle, and the palace within, are what you might term extensive.’

Brann soon learnt how far the definition of the word ‘extensive’ could stretch. The massive wooden doors of the gate – bound for strength in metal unknown, for they were clad in more sheet gold than several Blue Dragons could carry – lay open, with the grim eyes and naked blades of the four guards enough to discourage entry by any but those already permitted. A tunnel, arched even higher than the gateway, stretched twice the length of their ship, testifying to the thickness of the walls. It is a mighty structure indeed, Brann mused, that you measure in terms of a ship. If the city had been built for trade, the citadel had quite obviously been built for war.

Grakk leant over to him. ‘And this is just the beginning, young Brann.’

It was. They passed through four curtain walls in all, each one higher than the last. Einarr was appreciative. ‘You would lose an entire army before you came face to face with a defender,’ he murmured.

Opulence and pleasure were everywhere, too, however. Between each pair of walls, ornate gardens were a picture of nature with shrubbery, winding streams and carefully arranged rocks. The noise and bustle of the city streets soon seemed distant as the occasional figure could be glimpsed strolling or resting in the calm.

A foot nudged Brann’s knee. ‘Don’t be misled by the look of it, mill boy,’ Konall said. ‘There is not a bush above knee height and the walls are high. This is a killing zone as much as the streets of our towns.’

Brann’s eyes narrowed as he looked around with new perspective. ‘Of course, there is no cover. And what bushes there are would impede movement, as would the streams. In a climate as dry as this, the shrubbery would also burn easily, I would think.’ He looked up. ‘And the battlements are on the inside of the walls as well as the outer side, so defenders on both walls are protected from below as they send down arrows, spears and anything else on the attackers from behind as well as in front. And,’ he finished triumphantly, ‘each inner wall is higher than the outer, so if a wall is taken, the height renders those on the outer one vulnerable to those on the inner one.’ He beamed proudly.

Einarr turned a hard stare at him. ‘I’m glad to see you are thinking again at last, rather than being lost in wonder. We may be here on a friendly visit, but never relax your guard.’

Made surly by his deflated ego, Brann stared to the side. ‘It seems we cannot relax our guard anywhere these days,’ he grumbled.

‘Correct.’ Einarr’s tone was hard. ‘Be made wary by the unfamiliar, not distracted.’

The instruction was hard to follow, though. As they passed through the fourth wall, which had already dumbfounded the senses with a height and thickness that surpassed the unimaginable dimensions of the three that had preceded it, the vista opened to reveal row upon row of villas that rivalled those of the most affluent area they had seen before entering the citadel. Beyond them, a massive keep rose like the bluffs of a great cliff, shining as white as the curtain walls, the houses and every other vertical surface they had passed.

Despite Einarr’s warning still hanging in the air, the words were out of Brann before he knew they were coming. ‘It’s like a whole town within a city,’ he gasped.

Einarr sighed, and Grakk nudged Brann in amusement. ‘These buildings furthest from the keep are the servants’ quarters, while the more affluent properties belong to nobles of the highest order who are permitted to have a second home close to the centre of power.’ He seemed to particularly enjoy the boy’s desperate attempts not to react.

The Scribe led them to a wide and intricately decorated wooden ramp that rose at a shallow gradient and doubled back on itself over and over until it reached a yawning doorway around two-thirds of the way up the front of the keep. A few levels above the door, the wall facing them dropped back to form a massive terrace the full width of the building.

‘We have roads of this shape cut into our mountains,’ mused Einarr. He looked at Grakk. ‘I assume this will be for defence? They can burn it easily if they want to cut off this entrance. But what is the reason, when these lower doorways exist?’ He indicated a series of wide entrances at ground level.

‘The ground-level portals give access for the supplies and serving-slaves in peacetime,’ Grakk explained. ‘The lower levels are for storage and for the work of the slaves and have narrow passages that are easy to defend and hard to attack, and with lanterns rather than windows supplying light, while the doorways themselves have suspended above them slabs of stone, ready to be released were the keep requiring to be sealed. Furthermore, concreted bins above and behind the doorways hold rocks ready to be let pour into the alcoves of the doors to shore up the stone slabs.’

‘And the levels upwards from this door that seem to be our destination?’ said Einarr.

‘The province of the Emperor’s extended family and those they choose to accompany them. From that terrace upwards, they live a life like none other. There the corridors are wide, windows draw in light and air, and opulence serves both to enrich the lives of the ruling class to the extreme that they desire and to diminish the importance of those who visit. This is the heart of an empire, after all.’

Konall was unimpressed. ‘Not so easy to defend, then.’

‘They feel, young lord,’ Grakk said with a grin, ‘that if an enemy host has battled past four huge walls and the areas of massacre between, broken through to the lowest level of this keep while under attack from above and fought through several levels of narrow passages to reach this stage, they will be either too depleted in numbers and energy to resist the defenders or will be indomitable. Either way, one more stage of defence will not alter the outcome. And they like their opulent living.’

Brann looked at the tribesman, who had the appearance of a creature of the wilds but the words to rival a Scribe. ‘How do you know this, Grakk? Have you visited here often?’

Grakk smiled. ‘Never, young curious fellow. But there exists a place where all the knowledge of mankind is written and stored, and there I have been. Not recently, nor even as recently as long ago, but often.’

Any further questions were cut short by their arrival at the doorway, where a large platform afforded more than enough room for the bearers to lower their burdens onto broad boards that shone with the evidence of constant care. The eight slaves who had carried the party hardly seemed out of breath and, although impressed, Brann couldn’t help wondering if such impressive strength could not be put to better use than carrying people around a city.

Grakk seemed to read his mind. ‘It’s a better fate than finding themselves in the mines, quarries or war galleys,’ he said quietly. ‘There is always someone in a worse position than you, and someone in a better. It is life.’

The Scribe was waiting at the doorway and, on their approach, he turned without a word and led them into a world that drew a gasp of astonishment even from Einarr.

Grakk grinned. ‘The desired effect of the first impression has been achieved!’ But even so, his face showed his own admiration for the sight that greeted them.

The doorway opened onto a hallway the size of a town square, and extending above what looked like three full storeys. Two statues, each the size of a two-storey house, depicted in smooth white stone a lightly armoured warrior on a rearing horse, caught in the moment of thrusting a lance the size of a young tree, and his foe, a six-headed monster with each of the snake-like necks coiled to strike forward with massively fanged mouths. A large smooth black rock formed the boss on the warrior’s shield and gold gleamed on his helmet, bracers and greaves, sword hilt and the trappings of his steed, matched on the fangs and claws of the beast, while its many-faceted eyes were jewels of the deepest red.

‘So the fables are true,’ Grakk breathed. ‘Sometimes words on parchment cannot do justice to the wonder of reality.’

Hakon clapped him jovially on the shoulder. ‘The desired effect of the first impression indeed, oh wise one.’

Grakk still looked dazed. ‘I have a feeling it will not be the last impression we will have.’

They paced the length of the hall between the looming might of the statues, their boots clacking against tiles of alternate squares of white and pale yellow and the noise echoing off walls of a shiny white stone that, Brann saw on closer inspection as they neared the far end of the room, was streaked with veins, much like the strong cheese made in the southern parts of his homeland, though far more impressive.

A stairway the width of the Blue Dragon (again, he was measuring in units of ships, Brann realised) took them a third of the height of the chamber before it split right and left, the two arms sweeping round on themselves and meeting close to the ceiling where a golden balustrade edged a broad balcony that encircled the room, murals stretching the length of each wall in myriad colours.

Closer examination of the murals proved impossible at the summit of their climb as the Scribe took them straight forward through a wide opening into a wider corridor, rising at a gentle angle. Closely spaced windows, tall and slender and high-set, cast beams of sunlight onto a row of alcoves in the inner wall, each bearing a statue a little taller than a man. As they passed, Brann saw that many of them were actually carved in the likeness of men or women, while others were animals or even small trees or ornate flowers. All were in the same white stone as the two in frozen conflict in the hallway, and all were crafted to the same impeccable standard, down to the last crease at the corner of an eye or insect on a leaf.

The passage stretched for what seemed an eternity before turning abruptly, repeating the pattern. Each turn, sometimes taking them into the interior, sometimes back to the outer walls of the building, revealed more artistic treasures: statues, murals, tapestries the length of a bowshot, ornate weapons and armour, stuffed exotic animals – many of which Brann and, from their expressions, several of the others, had never imagined as existing – and carvings etched into the white veined stone of every wall.

Einarr spoke, directing his words at the back of the Scribe’s tattooed head. ‘We must have climbed a fair part of the building by now, Narut.’

‘The noble sir is correct,’ the man said, his neck colouring at the use of his name. ‘We shall in time reach the highest levels, where the royal residences are located, though we will not, of course, enter that area, but pass it by.’

‘Of course not,’ Einarr agreed.

‘Immediately above the royal chambers are the rooms of state.’

‘Thank you, Narut.’ Einarr’s voice was amiable. ‘That is very helpful.’

‘As the noble lord commands.’

The royal floor was evident both from the huge doors – gold plate beaten into similar geometric intricacy as the frame of the first gate they had encountered – and the ten fully armoured warriors, as impassive as the statues they had passed, lined in front of them. Only their eyes moved, every movement noted as the small party passed across in front of them until they left the open hallway before the entrance. Their watchfulness was matched every step across the chamber by Torstein and Magnus, warriors’ instincts drifting their hands onto sword hilts and setting their shoulders with tension.

The Scribe’s cold voice drifted back to them. ‘We approach the Throne Room of the Empire.’

The passage abruptly angled upwards towards another hall, this one with the carvings on the doors cut directly into the dark wood and inlaid with silver, the contrast startling. One guard stood each side but the doors lay open and the soldiers didn’t even twitch as the Scribe led them directly through.

The room was vast, the omnipresent white statues lining the left side in front of murals that populated the length of the wall, from floor to ceiling, with images of the tiniest detail and finished in gold leaf. A row of wide windows ran opposite, more like doorways as they stretched to the floor and appeared to give access to a series of balconies, and the ceiling bore from the near end to the far a map that seemed to show every stream and hillock of what Brann assumed was the Empire as it stood.

And the room lay empty.

They walked in at one end, facing in the distance a great throne of plain unadorned stone, with a simple white ceremonial canopy above it and two smaller replicas either side of it, their footsteps echoing in the silence. They stopped, forcing the Scribe to turn.

‘Narut?’ Einarr said. ‘Why is there no one here?’

The Scribe looked as if only his professional pride prevented him from sighing in disdain. ‘There are three throne rooms: the Throne Room of the Empire, where you now stand; the Throne Room of Sagia, which affords a more intimate setting; and the Throne Room of the Heavens, which we would now be approaching had you not halted our progress. I am surprised that your free man has not prepared you with this information. Now, if we may proceed…’

The last was too close to an instruction and too far from a request for Einarr’s liking. He casually turned to Grakk. ‘Indeed, Narut. Did you know of this, Grakk?’

The tribesman’s face was solemn. ‘I regret to say that I did not. My learnings have leant more towards the external aspects than the internal.’ Grakk nodded towards the outlook beyond the balconies where open dry land, cleared flat initially, turned to a scrubland of bushes and trees, all dry twisted wood and dry dark-green leaves, that stretched to the horizon.

Einarr raised his eyebrows at the sight. ‘I have never seen this side of the city in the past. The seat of the most powerful man in the world is directly exposed to that outside world?’

Grakk nodded. ‘The four great walls meet at the back wall of the keep, and that back wall does, as you say, face onto the ground beyond. However, the city fills the top of a bluff that is a long and gentle slope to the shore but which, on its landward side, drops sheer to the flat ground beyond. The rock of this feature raises the defences high above the reach of siege engines, ladders or towers and extends the range of the catapults of the defenders and is impenetrable to siege mining. It was a feat of magnificent and long-forgotten engineering skills merely to sink foundations into it. There are natural caverns beneath the citadel and city alike that were linked by tunnels cut in the time of the grandfather’s grandfather of the current Emperor’s grandfather’s grandfather, but not one tunnel leads to the land beyond.

‘Were an army to attempt to cross that desert, in their desperate state they would face the massed ranks of the Imperial Host on the cleared plain of the Tournament Grounds you see before you. That is why not only has no foe ever taken this citadel, but no foe has ever even attempted to do so.’

Einarr nodded. ‘Indeed. I can understand why. And if I am to request the aid of the Emperor, it is comforting to know his people have such an eye for military matters other than merely weight of numbers. So Narut, if you would care to lead us to the Throne Room of the Heavens, I would be most grateful.’

The tall man’s robes swirled as he whirled and stalked down the hall without further ado.

A wide opening in the left wall, slightly higher than a tall man but previously hidden by two statues of curious creatures that were men from the waist up but had the body and legs of huge cat-like beasts, became obvious as they drew closer. A broad and shallow stairway rose before them and turned right halfway up, blazing bright sunlight across their path as they started to climb. On reaching the second flight, the deep blue of the mid-afternoon sky filled the opening ahead.

They emerged on the rooftop of the keep. Exposed without mercy to the full force of the sun, the heat of the air struck as if they had walked into the brick wall of an oven and Brann’s eyes stung from the harsh brightness. It took a wipe of his sleeve before he could take in the view but, when he did, it took away his breath more than even the searing heat had done just seconds before.

They had stepped out onto the precise centre of the roof area. Directly ahead of them, far ahead and almost at the edge of the roof, sat five thrones on a raised dais, one large, the rest uniformly smaller and all replicas of those in the room below. But, this time, they were occupied.

The Scribe led them into the space between them and the thrones. While it lay empty but for a line of warriors standing before the dais, to either side a throng, garbed in a multitude of colours that reminded Brann of the meadow of wildflowers that sat behind his village, stood silently behind a further row of warriors. All in the crowd wore fine robes similar to those of the Scribe, some with long, loose sleeves and others that ended at the shoulders; on closer inspection, he saw that the lack of sleeves matched the presence of a slave chain around their necks. Some of the free men and women wore tall, slender, brimless hats; some had a soft fabric wound intricately around their heads and ending in a veil-like gauze that hung across their faces; some were bare-headed. All appeared to follow one fashion or another, with no style of clothing seeming to attach to one gender or the other, and every one of them exuded wealth.

The soldiers were identical to each other in garb. Over light, pale-coloured tunics, sleeveless vests formed of overlapping horizontal strips of shining metal encased their torsos, while identical metal strips hung loosely from their waists almost to their knees. Each rounded helmet, extending down their cheeks and over the back of their necks and with a grill across the mouth and nose to leave only the eyes clearly exposed, was topped by a plume of green bristles. Each held a tall shield that was rounded at the top and arched at the bottom and a stabbing spear roughly his own height, much like Brann’s people had used to hunt boar but with a narrower head. A broad shortsword and a long slender knife were strapped at either hip. Short or tall, broad or narrow, each was clad the same as his neighbour. Behind the dais, a row of archers stood, their armour identical to the other soldiers and one arrow held ready should the occasion demand it.

‘The statues!’ Brann gasped. Despite the imaginative range of beasts, plants and people at leisure, and other than the giant statue in the first hallway, every stone soldier he had seen had been identical to those he saw before him in the flesh.

Exasperation filled Konall’s sigh, but his voice was quiet. ‘It has taken until now to see it? Did you not listen to your friend the tribesman? They do not have warriors. They have soldiers. All are part of the whole, and must act as one. There is no scope for exploiting opportunities. That is their way. All is ordered. All is for the Empire.’

Grakk coughed pointedly behind them, and their conversation ceased.

The silence as they walked towards the thrones was overpowering, the oppressive atmosphere heightened when the first soldiers they passed moved to close off the rectangle behind them, with the crowd pressing in behind. Those to the sides were unmoving, so when Brann’s attention was caught by a figure keeping pace with them, he was intrigued. Reminded of the first time he had clapped eyes on Konall what seemed a lifetime ago, he watched but, wary of alerting the person to their discovery, he let his gaze wander over the crowd in general. He caught sight briefly of someone around his height but with a slightness and grace of movement that indicated a woman beneath the dark-blue robes and matching veil.

Unable to watch more closely without staring, he returned his attention to the way ahead. Their steps quickened as, with their goal in sight, the dire memories of the events brought about by Loku in the North seemed to sweep over the group. Exposed to the watching crowd and staring at the line of thrones, the ground was taking an eternity of frustration to cover. Frustration, but also mounting excitement, as the opportunity to enlist the help of such power drew closer with each rapid step. The exotic alien sights that had met his eyes since he had stepped from the ship, and which had built to this crescendo, filled him with a burning and breathless anticipation. He may have had to endure horrors and terrors to reach this point, but there was no denying that his fate had brought him to an experience that he could never have imagined, were a whole tribe of storytellers to try to describe it to him. Here was he, an apprentice miller from a small village on what seemed like the other side of the world, walking into the court of the fabled Emperor of the mightiest Empire their world had ever seen. Forcing himself to breath, he dared to look at the ruler himself as they approached.

The man was more normal than he had expected. His clean-shaven face was coloured by the sun to a hue that matched the dark sand of the land they had spied from the windows and creased by smile lines that lent amusement to his eyes and cheeks. Black hair was cropped efficiently short and cut straight across his brow, just above calm brown eyes and, as his head turned, a circlet flashed golden as it caught the sunlight. Clad in robes of pale blue, edged in gold and with a heavy chain of thick links of gold, he sat as easily on his massive throne of stone as though it were filled with cushions.

The four who sat to either side were of such similar appearance to the Emperor that the family resemblance was unmistakable. Their white robes were also edged in gold, and while they lacked the chain and circlet, they exuded the same air of easy authority. A Scribe stood at the shoulder of each of the five and a portly man, lavishly dressed in blue and crimson, was demonstrably stating a case to the Emperor but, on their approach, a slight flick of the Emperor’s fingers was all it took for the man to be ushered to one side. As their eyes followed the man’s movement, Brann saw an elderly man, his beard long, wispy and white but his back straight and his dark eyes keen, sitting to the side of the dais.

Shock hit him like a hammer between the eyes. Standing beside the old man, one hand resting casually on the high back of the chair, was a man Brann had last seen leaping from a window to his escape, a man who had engineered a plan that had come close to wiping out the rulers of Einarr’s people, a man who bore a scar the height of his left check given by Brann on their last meeting. Loku had somehow travelled to Sagia before them and, more astonishingly, he had inveigled his way into the court of the Emperor.

Einarr noticed the man a moment after Brann and, without a hint of recognition in his expression, immediately extended a hand back in Konall’s direction, a clear sign to his young cousin to hold himself in check. Brann glanced anxiously at the tall boy, but years of training ensured that, while his face had drained deadly white and his jaw was clenched with the effort of containing his fighting rage, his step never faltered and he made not a sound.

Grakk moved close to Konall and spoke so quietly that even Brann, walking beside the boy, barely heard the words. ‘Patience, young lord. This is to Lord Einarr’s advantage: he can discuss the matters in the North with the Emperor and at the same time expose the man who is linked with them. And it saves us the time and effort of hunting down the dog for vengeance.’

They halted in front of the dais. The Scribe held his right hand in front of his heart before sweeping it forward towards the Emperor, turning his palm to face upwards. He held the pose until the Emperor nodded, then intoned, ‘Heart and Head of ul-Taratac, Ruler of the Civilised World, His Majesty the Emperor Kalos, Fifth of that Name, may I present Lord Einarr Sigurrson, Heir to the Territories of Halveka and the Seat of Yngvarrsharn, his cousin Lord Konall Ragnarrson, Heir to the Seat of Ravensrest, and their party.’ He inclined his head to the Emperor and Einarr in turn, and walked smoothly around the end of the line of soldiers and behind the dais to appear behind the Emperor’s right shoulder. The Scribe who had held that place moved quietly away and stood to one side.

Einarr, who had stopped a few paces ahead of the rest of the group, stood still, head bowed. He only lifted his eyes when the Emperor spoke, his voice warm and full of welcome.

‘Lord Einarr, it is good to see you here. I have heard much about you.’ He waved a hand in an arc above his head. ‘Welcome to my Throne Room of the Heavens, where all are reminded of the vastness that is the one ceiling for all citizens of the Empire.’

Einarr was respectful. ‘Your Imperial Majesty, I am grateful for your prompt granting of our request for an audience. My only sadness is that the purpose of my visit to your court is to bear grave tidings from the North.’

Inwardly, Brann smiled as glee coursed through him. Loku was to be revealed for what he was at the first opportunity. The man must feel desperate to flee, were an escape route possible. Which there wasn’t. Which made it all the more enjoyable.

The Emperor smiled, his eyes creasing in friendship. ‘Be not sad, Lord of the North. I know exactly why you are here. I like your directness, and feel I already like you also.

‘Which makes me, in turn, sad. Sad that you should die.’

At the last word, the weapons of the soldiers around them snapped down, caging them in a box of spear points. Instinctively, the hands of Einarr, Konall and their two warriors dropped to their weapons, while the other three, unarmed, felt helplessness join the shock slamming against them. Spears plunged into the two Northern warriors from behind, Magnus dying instantly and Torstein suffering a further thrust to the chest before his gasping croaks of rage and swinging sword were stopped. Scattered shrieks from the gathered throng were surprisingly sparse, and there was none of the scrambling for safety that Brann would have expected from such a gathering of affluent citizenry, people whose self-regard generally equates with overwhelming self-preservation. Instead, an excited curiosity seemed to suffuse them.

‘I find that I like you, Lord Einarr, so I would advise you and your young cousin to remove your hands from your weapons, otherwise you shall, indeed, share the fate of your two men. Had you listened properly, I said that you “should” die. I have yet to decide if you will.’

The battle-experience Einarr had gathered over the years had kept him focused. His eyes fixed on those of the Emperor, he eased back to beside Konall and rested a hand on the boy’s right arm, gently easing it away from his sword hilt.

His voice remained calm and controlled. ‘Can I ask your thinking, Emperor? Two good men have just bled out their lives over what I can only imagine is a misunderstanding.’

‘There is no misunderstanding, Lord Einarr. I would invite you to walk with me. Your party may accompany you.’

He stood, the Scribe following his every pace as he moved towards the edge of the roof. Soldiers moved in around them and expertly and quickly divested them of weapons. They were allowed to walk to beside where the Emperor stood facing the view, kept by a row of gleaming metal several paces from his right side. Such had been Brann’s fixation on the people until this moment that it was only now that he became aware that the rooftop was exactly that, and no more: a perfectly flat surface, unadorned with any protuberance and, most significantly, no wall around its edge. The sides dropped abruptly away to the ground far below, escalating the impression of height and overwhelming him with vulnerability. He was acutely aware of the hot wind that plucked at his tunic but felt like a gale, and of the grainy surface that now seemed as treacherous as an icy slope. Born in a country of hills and dales, he had never been one to be nervous while standing at the edge of a drop. Until now.

The Emperor was unperturbed. His voice was calm. ‘The city you passed through, that lies below us, is the greatest in the world. The land you see stretching before you, as far as your eyes can see from this loftiest of viewpoints, is but a grain of sand to the expanse of my Empire. Your mind cannot comprehend the number of people who fall under my control, who rely on my will. This,’ he touched the circlet nestling among his thick hair and which Brann now saw was wrought to resemble a twisted branch that almost met at the front, ‘reminds me of the first olive tree our forebears planted here when they ceased to wander these lands and settled this spot.’ Brann had no idea what an olive tree was, but the meaning was clear. The Emperor lifted the links of the heavy gold around his neck. ‘And this reminds me of the fact that I may have been elevated to be the first of all in this Empire, but in doing so I am in thrall to the Empire, a slave in service to the survival and flourishing of ul-Taratac.’

He turned slowly to face them, still toying with the chain. His smile was genial, disarming. ‘And in all this expanse of land, in all these teeming hordes of people near and far, do you not think that there will be some who will wish me ill, for whatever reason? Every day, there are attempts planned on my life, but few have made it as close as you did.’

Einarr’s composure slipped at the implication, and his tone was aghast. ‘An attempt on your life? On the contrary, Your Imperial Majesty, as well as the events in the North, I would tell you of a viper in your midst.’ He pointed directly at Loku, who looked worryingly unconcerned. ‘That man is the danger to you. That treacherous dog is one of the reasons we are here.’

The Emperor laughed. ‘That treacherous dog, as you describe him, is the reason I stay alive. How do you think I avoid these many and ofttimes highly ingenious attempts to kill me? Because I know of them. And how do I know? Because this treacherous dog, or Taraloku-Bana, to afford him his real name, operates for me a wonderfully efficient and effective network that gathers information from every conceivable source. His people bring me the real news of my Empire and, when the situation warrants it, he will gather the information for me personally, as he did in this case. I have him to thank for knowing of the discord you and your family have sown in the North, to try to lure my millens northwards to restore the order necessary for trade, whereupon, claiming invasion, you would seek to weaken my forces. On finding that my man had discovered your purpose, you tried to kill him and instead came here to seek to kill me directly. It is not complicated.’

‘Why in the name of all the gods would we want to do that?’ Einarr was incredulous. ‘What could we gain from it?’

The Emperor looked puzzled. ‘Ah yes, of course. We Southerners are slow of thought. We could not see your purpose. We could not envisage that, were the Empire to be destabilised, even short-term chaos would open up trade routes to your people currently controlled, carefully and for the benefit of all, by Sagia. The more you profited, the more powerful you would become, and the more you could work to establish your trade in the South. And so on, and so on. You would never rise to rival the might of the Empire, but you would have become strong enough to hold an influential bargaining position when the Empire settled back to normality.’ His hand fluttered on high, as if scattering thoughts to the wind. ‘But of course, we Southerners could never have divined that. Our arrogance would have convinced us that nothing could affect the Empire.’

Einarr’s eyes blazed with cold fury. ‘Emperor, you have been duped.’

There was an angry growl and the spear points surged forward. Kalos raised a hand and they stopped in an instant, but still the tension hung heavy. The smile remained, as easy and warm as ever. ‘Have a care, Lord Einarr. Speak like that to an Emperor and you risk your life being measured in seconds.’

‘Are we not dead men regardless, Majesty?’ This time the title was spat out.

‘Not you, nor your cousin. To put to death such high-ranking nobles as yourselves would be as much an act of war as anything else. I would be forced to acknowledge the attempt on my life and would be expected to send my soldiers north as a result, thereby allowing your people to achieve their original objective.’ He sighed. ‘Much as I would relish your death, I must place the good of the Empire ahead of my personal enjoyment. Far better to hold you and your cousin here as our, shall we say, guests until your father confirms in writing what your plans had been, then you can be ransomed back with certain conditions attached. So you two can be taken below to your chambers. The others can travel down by quicker means.’

He waved a nonchalant hand at the roof’s edge as he turned back towards his throne. Brann’s knees almost buckled at the horror and he fought to prevent his stomach from heaving, determined not to disgrace his people in the face of such injustice. Levelled spears prompted a shouting Einarr and Konall in one direction and Brann, Hakon and Grakk on a very different path.

A scream rent the air, followed by horrified shouts from several directions. Every second spear switched in unison towards the sound, the remainder staying with their original orders. More anguish filled the air. Unperturbed by blood and potential execution, members of the watching crowd were apparently able to be shocked by other means.

‘My purse!’

‘My gems!’

‘My Scribe’s satchel!’

‘My purse, too!’

Similar cries came from at least a dozen sources, and Brann saw the blue-clad figure he had earlier noticed moving through the throng slipping quietly towards the edge of the roof. She was spotted and shouts alerted all to her presence. A man of astounding obesity was closest to her, and she slipped, encouraging him to lumber towards her. When he was almost upon her, she spun, her hands a blur and her robes whirling as they unwound around her. She stopped, clad in a close-fitting black outfit, a well-filled bag attached to her waist and her hands filled with the full length of the strip of fabric that had formed the robes. She looped the strip around the fat man and ran backwards, the loose ends of the strip feeding through either hand. She reached the edge and without hesitation dropped from sight, the fabric still running through her hands, leaving Brann with a fleeting impression of dark hair tied back to hang to the nape of her neck and even darker eyes flashing with triumph. The fat Sagian fought in a panic to avoid the drop and used his considerable bulk to resist being pulled by the slight girl towards the edge.

Hakon was the only one who reacted to the commotion. Knocking one spear aside with his right hand, he threw himself past it and barged the soldier’s unsuspecting neighbour in the back with his shoulder, his weight and strength combining to knock the man to the ground and his momentum carrying him clear of the guards. He raced the short distance to the point of the girl’s exit, arriving a moment after she had dropped from sight.

The archers drew, but with the primary function of protecting the Emperor, they were stationed behind him to have a target area covering any who would come straight at him, and their view of Hakon was blocked by scores of people.

With the briefest of glances back, he shouted, ‘I’ll alert our crew,’ and dropped over the edge, grabbing at the strips of cloth that had, a breath before, slowed the thief’s descent. His large frame was, however, more of a challenge for the bulk of the fat man who had been used by the girl. His eyes wide and his face the same crimson as the sleeves of his robes, his feet scrabbled desperately at the treacherous purchase on the sand-strewn smooth stone of the roof, but it was a battle he was fast losing. As Hakon disappeared from sight, the man abruptly shot forward and was cast, like a boulder from a giant’s sling, into the void beyond the edge of the roof.

As his howl receded with him, Brann had rushed to the side of the building, his terror of the emptiness beyond forgotten as he saw his friend disappear. On hands and knees, he craned his neck to see the girl thief on one of the balconies of the Throne Room below them, black rope in hand, astonishment written clear on her face as she didn’t know whether to look first at the fat man in billowing robes, screaming and grasping at air, who was plummeting past her, or the large Northerner who had landed beside her. The disappearance of the former and the continuing presence of the latter, who grinned cheerfully, clapped her on the back and pointed helpfully at the rope, returned her attention to the task at hand and, with the quick hands of the skilled thief she had already proved to be, the rope was looped around the balustrade and secured to itself with a metal hook at one end. Before it had even finished uncoiling, she was already sliding down it, swinging inwards as she neared its end to land on a similar balcony two floors below the one they had started from. She was followed closely, but rather less gracefully, by her new companion and, as soon as Hakon landed, a practised snap of her wrist set the rope to snaking above her until the hook flicked free and the line dropped. She was already using a hook at the other end to secure the rope to that balustrade and, in seconds, the pair of escapees was five balconies below the rooftop.

The girl repeated her trick with the rope and, as she gathered it in, Hakon leant into view and waved happily, with all the demeanour of a farm lad leaving for a weekly trip to market. The pair disappeared from view, and Brann realised that the whole episode had probably taken less than a minute. Soldiers, who had received orders and had been racing along the roof, had reached the stairs to the level below.

‘Well, that was entertaining.’ The Emperor’s amused voice was so close to Brann’s left that it was easy to forget that there was a line of spearmen between them. ‘A merchant whose financial success raises him to a form of nobility is usually more of an onlooker in my court than an integral part of such excitement, and his children will be delighted with their inheritance, I am sure. And I suppose it is nice for you to have a thrilling distraction to take your mind off your execution.’

‘It is more than a distraction,’ Brann blurted. ‘Whatever happens to me, at least I know that my friend will live and our ship will carry news of this atrocity to our people.’

‘Oh dear boy, your naive optimism is endearing. Under other circumstances, I might have been minded to let you live merely to watch how long you could maintain it in the face of reality.’ The Emperor sounded as if he would have ruffled Brann’s hair. He sighed deeply. ‘These are not, however, other circumstances. And my men will capture those two before long.’

Brann was defiant. With his fate decided, he found he had strength to snarl at an Emperor. He stood. ‘Those two have a head start on your men.’

He received a shrug in reply. ‘Fine. Say they evade all and somehow escape to the city. Say they reach the ship before the units I have already marching on the docks. Say they somehow gather the crew, still before the soldiers arrive. They will not clear the harbour, and will be forced to settle in the city. What matter to me another few foreigners added to those from throughout the world who have made a home in the districts of this city of a thousand thousand souls? Another few dozen who want me dead? Most here are content to live their lives, and the malcontents either are lost in the crowd or rooted out by my good servant Taraloku-Bana and his excellent people.’

Unconcerned about the drop, the Emperor peered over the edge. ‘That unfortunate man has scattered his blood over quite an area. If you are bored on the way down, you could always see if you could manage to land in it.’ He nodded, and the spears moved forward to force him and Grakk over the edge. Brann found himself considering the irony of the prospect. While never having any fear of heights, he had always suffered from a morbid terror of the feeling of dropping, of the helplessness of the fall. When his friends had spent summer afternoons jumping from a rocky ledge above the river that ran through their valley, he had splashed in the water below encouraging them. Now he was being forced from the top of a building higher than he could have imagined was possible to build.

He eyed the spear points. Throwing himself forward at the right moment would be a quicker death and wouldn’t involve the drop. Bracing his legs to lunge, he found an overpowering self-preservation freezing his muscles. Whatever the logic of his head, his instinct was to fight to survive at all costs, and he cast about instead for an opening, a chance to pass the metal points and inflict any damage he could before they put an end to it. But the spears came on. His mind whirled and his body took over, his legs tensing for movement born of panic.

An order barked out and the soldiers stopped. Brann froze, then glanced across. The Emperor was standing with his arm aloft.

The Scribe was standing behind him, as was Loku, though a respectful distance further back than the slave. The Emperor seemed delighted. ‘My Source of Information has just offered a suggestion through my Chief Scribe, my Recorder of Information. It seems an excellent idea to me, a fact that has a bearing somewhat on the likelihood of it coming to fruition. You see, we have a fine tradition of gladiatorial contests here in Sagia, occasions that provide much-loved entertainment for the citizens of this city. There is one such occasion tomorrow, and I would be most grateful if you two would be a part of it. My friend Taraloku-Bana feels that it would be most entertaining to see the bald native fight, and even more entertaining to see you, the talkative one, die. You will both, of course, still die, but,’ he smiled warmly, ‘you have another whole day of life ahead of you. Is that not a wonderful gift?’

‘Why do you want so much for us to be dead?’ Brann’s voice was almost a hoarse whisper. ‘You didn’t care when my friend escaped. You don’t care if the crew are captured or not. Why are you so set on seeing us die?’

The Emperor’s smile remained, but his brow creased in puzzlement. ‘Oh, you don’t actually understand, do you? I have no interest at all in whether you live or die. Your existence is a thousand levels lower than mine.’ He smiled. ‘You see, you were only going over the edge as a matter of convenience. You were unnecessary, and someone would have tidied you away at the bottom. But now it is time for you to leave in a different manner, and we are promised some entertainment. This day has proved far more pleasant than I had anticipated.’

Without another word, he walked away, conferring briefly with his Scribe and pointing at the soldier whose spear had been knocked aside by Hakon. A squad surrounded Brann and Grakk, escorting them away without fuss, walking behind the crowds. Before the Emperor had retaken his seat, the soldier had been flung from the roof.