Читать книгу To Ride Hell’s Chasm - Janny Wurts, Janny Wurts - Страница 17

AS THE ARMOURY SERGEANT STAMPED OFF TO MIND ORDERS IN SELFRIGHTEOUS DISAPPROVAL, COMMANDER TASKIN INSTRUCTED THE GATE watch to handle the fracas outside by routine procedure. The brute effort became theirs, to unsnarl the bunched wagons that obstructed the royal roadway. Crown men-at-arms lent their muscle to unlock jammed wheels, redirect the stalled traffic, and to round up the runaway horse.

The residual chaos was sorted with dispatch. While the recaptured mount was tied to a hitching rail, the most vocal dissenter passed under Taskin’s critical review. ‘Tell that benighted vendor to stop howling! At my word of surety, the crown treasury will bear the cost to repair his smashed handcart. If he’s going to miss supper, the gatehouse strongbox can settle the loss of his fruit.’

The Highgate petty officer knew that tone too well, and jumped forthwith to comply.

The upset was contained, and the ale dray’s riled team coaxed to work its way clear of the thoroughfare. Guardsmen remained to steady their bits, while the driver jumped down to make stopgap repairs to torn harness. The inevitable bystanders paused to assist. Laughter lightened the atmosphere of chagrined frustration. Like the shine of a jewel, casually dropped, Taskin saw the qualities that made Sessalie flourish set into brilliant display. Simple gifts, born of an abiding deep peace, where life was not required to pass in a rush; where taxed tempers could be vented through teasing and jibes, and lost time was unlikely to harm anyone’s long-term prosperity.

Set under the shadow of unknown threat, Taskin bore the burdensome charge of his office as never before. If he failed to uphold crown security, these trusting folk would be shattered. An open-handed generosity instilled over thousands of years would be undone by fear and the horrors of bloodletting strife.

While the lowering sun burnished the gate spire’s brick belfry, the carriages with locked wheels were untangled, and set rolling back on their way. Foot traffic resumed. The strutting pigeons that fed on squashed melons wheeled aloft as the carters behind whipped up their idle draught teams.

Taskin held firm, lightly sweating, in the masking shade of the sentry’s box. His tense inspection measured the servants, returning uptown from market, and the bakers’ women with their wicker baskets, who sold scones in the palace precinct. He scrutinized each of the lampblacks’ boys, and made sure of their pale skin and fair hair. He eavesdropped upon conversations, as well, until the first team and vehicle rolled past. The grinding barrage of iron-rimmed wheels raised deafening echoes in the stone passage that pierced through the gatehouse battlement.

Throughout, the errant Captain of the Garrison failed to make an appearance.

The palace commander wrestled his unsettled disappointment. The staked risk was unthinkable, if he should allow his intuitive judgement to lead him too far. A realist to the bone, Taskin faced his self-made disaster. He had no bird in hand. Nothing remained but to bow to defeat, and shoulder the round of rough consequence. Once the dray passed, he must take direct action: order his archers to hunt down a fugitive whose motives were now highly suspect.

‘Merciful bright powers!’ he swore, pitched to anguish. He would have to weigh the ugly choice quickly, whether to spend lives and attempt to bring in the desertman living; or if he should cut losses and have the guard shoot to kill on first sight.

The dray rattled clear of the uptown archway, admitting the blued haze of the late day. Braced by the clarity of mountain air that seemed strangely unsullied by peril, Taskin gave in and retreated through the Highgate. He entered the icy shade of the passage, hardened to bitter resolve.

‘Commander Taskin,’ said a quiet voice by his ear. A ghost-light hand tapped his shoulder.

Taskin whirled, sun-blind, and peered into the gloom.

There, Mykkael stood, close as shadow itself, his features veiled under darkness.

Surprise snapped all poise. Taskin clamped a fast hand to his sword hilt. Shocked reflex had the blade halfway cleared from the scabbard before he recovered control.

‘Peace,’ said Mykkael. ‘I had requested a scheduled appointment?’ Palms turned outwards, he added, ‘If I’d wanted you down, you’d be dead. My knife would have just cut your throat.’

Bristled like a hazed hornet, Taskin relinquished his grip on his weapon. The well-oiled blade slid home in its sheath, ringing counterpoint to his dry speech. ‘You’re past two hours late, soldier! That’s slipshod timing. Better bless your freak luck that I am still here to receive you.’

‘Evidently not without a few righteous doubts,’ Mykkael stung back. The spring-wound alertness instilled by the placed archers did not fade through the first flare of contact. In bald-faced disregard of his senior officer’s antagonism, he dared to lower his hands. His nonchalance remained too dreadfully crisp as he rubbed a film of greased grit off his knuckles, then assessed the pith stains splashed on his shirt.

Taskin watched, not amused. ‘You clung all this time to the jackknifed dray’s undercarriage?’

‘Not without penalty. Yes.’ Mykkael scrubbed a scraped knuckle on his breeches, then fixed his raptor’s regard on the immaculate crown officer before him. ‘We need to talk. Somewhere in strict privacy. Where? Choose quickly. I haven’t much time.’

Taskin’s strained equanimity recoiled. ‘Soldier, your nerve is past tolerance! Just what gives you the right to dictate your meaningless preference to me?’

Mykkael stared back, unsmiling also. If he had the urge to slash back with argument, no such heated blood moved him. ‘You’ve trusted me this far. I thank you for that.’ Then he waited, hands empty, in silence.

‘Damned well, you know I need information,’ Commander Taskin relented. ‘I will grant what you ask, with conditions.’ He signalled for the captain to march ahead through a sallyport. Beyond lay an arch with a strapped wooden door, and the steep spiralled stairway that mounted the Highgate belltower. ‘Go up to the top. I’ll join you there, shortly’

Mykkael’s piercing quiet showed he was not fooled to complacence. Nonetheless he went willingly. As his gimping stride assayed the steep stair, Taskin redressed his near failure, and tightened his iron-clad sureties.

He set a sentry on guard by the sallyport, then halted the traffic that flowed through the gate. After, he crossed back through to the bailey, where he collared his waiting sergeant.

The huge man was dispatched to stand watch with the sentry, alongside a quartet of the troop’s most accomplished bowmen. Though night had not fallen, Taskin had torches set alight in the wall brackets. He asked to take charge of the shackles and whip. Then he laid final emphasis on his precautions. ‘I’m going up alone to speak with the captain and to mete out his sentence in punishment. If I call you by name, you will join me directly. No one breaks that instruction. The stair won’t be climbed without my express order. I expect to return with Mysh kael in my company. If he comes down alone, have these men loose to kill. No mistakes! Drop him fast, with a heart shot. You’ll have no second chance. If he’s alive, and inside arm’s reach, believe this, you’re going to be dead men.’

‘What if the sly lizard scales the stone of the belltower?’ the sergeant objected, taken aback.

But Taskin had already matched that contingency with a shocking array of brute force. ‘I have the remainder of your company of archers posted outside to prevent him. If Mysh kael bids for escape down the wall, he’ll hit the ground as a riddled corpse.’

‘What does that leave you?’ the squad sergeant pressed.

‘Your duty comes first,’ the king’s commander declared. Then he set off through the belltower’s entry without second thoughts, or a pause to look back.

Taskin mounted the winding stair, careful to measure his pace and arrive without being winded. He had cut off the bell ropes, two storeys up, the foresight an act of solid good sense, or a move made in rampant paranoia. The debate was moot: the desert-bred he proposed to meet on equal footing posed too dangerous a cipher. Even a minor misjudgement might trigger a deadly reaction in consequence. If the crown’s first commander chose to risk his own person, he would not hazard the wellbeing of the realm. He backed his position. No man set to flight could jam the rope and climb down. If he tried, he would find himself stranded.

Yet even the most stringent set of precautions failed to ease Taskin’s nerves. Like a cat caught mincing across a hot roof, he wrung small assurance from logic: that if the war-hardened creature Sessalie’s need must put to the test had not asked in good faith for this conference, he would scarcely have consented to be trapped like a rat inside a cordoned keep.

The closed granite gloom of the stairwell gave way at due length to the airy, gold slant of the westering sunbeams that pierced through the tower’s cupola. Taskin emerged on the landing beneath the last risers that accessed the trapdoor to the belfry. Ruled by ruthless caution, he stashed the shackles and whip. Then he squinted upwards, letting his eyesight adjust to the flood of the outdoor light. No sound came from above, where Mykkael awaited. Taskin surveyed the gaps in the planked platform tied into the brick walls by hewn beams. The lit cracks showed no telltale shadow to reveal where the desertman might stand to meet him.

Warning gooseflesh prickled across Taskin’s skin. The hitched breath caused by smoke touched his senses that half instant too late. Before he could react, a blazing frond of evergreen plummeted downwards and landed, shedding sparks at his feet.

He yelled, leaped forward, and stamped out the blaze before the dry boards ignited.

Coughing through clouded fumes, he scrambled up the last steps and snapped hoarsely, ‘What damn fool act of idiocy was that?’

Mykkael was seated above, on the brick sill of one of the arches. His back to the sheer drop outside, and an insolent foot dangling over the beams that hung the brute weight of the bells, he answered, ‘I don’t trifle with foolery. Forgive me. There’s a sorcerer’s minion at large, and no space left for mistakes. That sprig of lit cedar was my act of surety, to test beyond doubt you’re not one of them.’

‘And are you quite done?’ Taskin grated, irritably slapping out the live cinders that seared holes through the hem of his surcoat.

‘You still have your archers,’ said the desert-bred, reasonable. ‘Call out the order to shoot, as you wish. But I had to be certain the commander who can order me killed is one I can trust, and not tainted.’

Taskin rubbed at his neck, found the muscles strained rock-hard with tension. ‘You realize you’re treading on dangerous ground, soldier.’ Irate enough to attack out of hand, he planted his stance on the platform and regarded the deadly creature above him. ‘Nor have I posted my bowmen at whim. Jussoud warned straight out you could drop me.’

Mykkael faced him, not arguing. His defenceless back stayed presented towards the open arch of the belfry. An archer’s prime target, in his sunlit white shirt: the only assurance in his power to offer, to back the credential of Taskin’s security. One that, even still, fell woefully short. Keen hearing would warn if a shaft launched to take him. The steep arc as it flew would grant time for evasion, long before its flanged point could strike home.

His dark face turned downwards, unreadable, Mykkael stated, ‘We all tread upon dangerous ground.’

‘Then are you the snake set into our midst?’ Taskin ripped back in blunt challenge. ‘Have you failed to notice that’s what the court factions are claiming? No one holds any scrap of hard evidence against you. But you realize, at this point, that’s not a clear-cut reason for me to stand down the outcry for your arrest.’

Mykkael snapped an oath in some guttural dialect that ground on the ear like scraped gravel. ‘Let me say what I know. Your princess is in dire peril this moment. For her sake, hear me through. As we go, you can ask me whatever you wish. I will answer as your subordinate.’

‘You can spare me my reasonable doubts on that score!’ Yet Taskin stepped back. He braced his squared shoulders against the brick wall, still flushed with fury. Only his gesture suggested the chance he might balance his options by listening.

‘All right.’ Mykkael expelled a stiff breath. ‘Protections, first.’ He shut his eyes, turned his face away to disarm any inference of threat. With placating, slow movement, he untied a wash-leather bag from his belt, then removed something strung on a stained rawhide tie. He dropped the object with a metallic clink on the platform at Taskin’s feet.

The commander dragged the thong close with his boot toe. Still without touching, he examined the queer pattern of geometry etched into the green copper disc. ‘What’s this?’

‘A talisman,’ Mykkael answered. ‘You’ll wear it next to your skin night and day, do you hear? Ignore what I’ve said at your peril.’

Taskin looked up, his eyes like forged steel. ‘Where did you get such a thing? Whose hand made it?’

‘That’s the vizier Perincar’s working.’ Mykkael swallowed. As though the words burned him to undying bitterness, he answered as he had promised. ‘The artefact came from the wars with Rathtet.’

Taskin raised startled eyebrows. ‘But I thought no survivors—’ His breathing hitched through a disastrous pause, as the most likely bent of plausibility ran a grue of dread straight through him.

‘No!’ Mykkael shook his head, looking anguished. ‘I never fought for Rathtet! No mercenaries did.’ Again, he closed his eyes; not to blunt hair-trigger reflexes, this time, but visibly wrestling an unutterable weariness. As though the forced explanation seared him to inward pain, he met Taskin’s bidding and qualified. ‘Eighteen of us lived. I fought at the side of Prince Al-Syn-Efandi. He died with his head in my lap.’

Merciless, the commander snatched the opening to interrogate. ‘If that’s the truth, then what were his last words?’