Emperor of Thorns (The Broken Empire, Book 3)

‘You didn’t have to kill him.’ Katherine looked up with murder in her eyes. I like people who have the grace to show their anger.

‘Captain Devers killed him,’ I said, and took my bow back from the man in question and slung it over a shoulder.

‘My apologies, Brother Rike.’ I handed him Brath’s reins and slid from the saddle. A few strands of cut hair floated down with me.

I scooped Gog from the dirt and wiped the blade clean on Rosson’s cloak. He watched me from a white face.

‘Did anyone ever once tell you I was a nice man, Rosson?’

He didn’t answer. Dead at last perhaps.

Gorgoth loomed over me, silent, watching.

I looked up. ‘I might have grown past the killing of men on a whim, Gorgoth, but be damned sure I consider the safety of my son more than a whim.’

I sheathed Gog then climbed back into the carriage. Miana waited with William, Osser with his ledgers, Gomst with God’s judgment. I spoke to Katherine instead, down in the mud with Jarco.

‘You know he had to die. Or at least you will know it in an hour, or a day. What makes us different is that I knew it from the moment you spoke. And in the end, my way is quicker, cleaner, and fewer people get hurt.’





33


Five years earlier

‘Very funny.’ I wiped the camel spit from my leg.

My unnamed steed curled its lip, showing narrow and uneven teeth, then turned to face the backside of the camel ahead.

‘When we’re through with this journey I plan to buy you and eat your liver,’ I told it.

Riding a camel is nothing like horse riding. You’re a yard higher in the air and perched on a creature that regards you as an unforgivable insult. The beast’s natural gait is designed to throw a passenger off at each stride, lurching you first forward and to the left, backward to the right, forward to the right, backward to the left, in endless repetition.

Omal, one of the drovers for the camel-train, came alongside. ‘Sail him, Jorg. You came by sea, no? Sail him. Not horse – camel.’

Michael promised me a ship. The drovers’ agents who came to our lodging to collect us for the ‘train’ had laughed at that. ‘Camel! Camel! Ship of the desert, effendi.’ And grinning like loons, as if to humour us, they had loaded Marco’s trunk onto one of the beasts then led us away to join the caravan.

How Michael arranged to have us travel with the caravan I didn’t know, but it seemed clear that whilst Hamada might be blocked to the Builder-ghosts, they still had ways into Kutta at times of need. I hadn’t asked him. Instead I had seated myself in a wicker chair that looked too frail for the task and said, ‘I would guess you’re one of the ghosts that wants the Prince of Arrow for emperor so he can earn us the peace we need if we’re to school ourselves for service to your machines.’

Marco’s tight little mouth dropped open at that. Despite the common saying, there are few men whose jaws actually do drop in surprise. Marco’s did, dry lips parting with an audible pop. I could have held tight to my knowledge, for such snippets can be a valuable commodity and the banking clans do so love to trade. However, Fexler had left me such meagre scraps I thought it better to spend them carelessly in the hope that scattering my crumbs might convince others I had reserves of such lore and should be treated with respect.

I added, ‘If you stood with those that want to burn all life from the world, well I’m sure you know of other places like the vaults in Gelleth where you could find enough fire and enough poison for the job?’

Marco’s open mouth snapped closed and he turned to Michael, eyes blazing. It didn’t seem to occur to him that I could be lying. An observation that I tucked away for future need.

I continued, ‘In fact I’d like to know what stops them, these scorched-earthers, from wiping the slate clean? Does a war rage in all the Builder relics, humming to themselves in the dusts of the promised lands, scattered and hidden in cellars, secreted in luggage … ?’

Michael’s eyes were the least convincing part of his illusion, as though something wholly alien watched me through two holes punched into a man’s face. I wondered what the real Michael had been like, and how far a thousand years had moved this creature from its starting template.

‘It’s very easy to kill most of the people,’ Michael said. ‘And very hard to kill absolutely all of them. To do so would require a consensus, cooperation between all, or almost all, of my people. Rather like Congression. Perhaps on the day you finally elect a replacement for your dead emperor you should start to worry that my kind might find a similar unity of purpose.’