The Fell Sword

Chapter Sixteen





Liviapolis – Assassin and Kronmir

He sat on the edge of the privy shelf, reassembling his weapon. The crossbow could be taken down into eighteen parts, all made of steel, which he laid on the dirty white wool of his hood. He could wind it by turning a screw built into the stock; he could wield it one-handed, and loose it with a thumb catch mounted atop the weapon. It had been made by a master in Etrusca, and the bolts it shot were tipped in steel. The bow itself was a length of steel spring as big as two spread hands, and it had, in addition to masterful construction, a hermetical device that assisted the user in turning the loading screw.

He cleaned the water and the mud from every bit of the shining steel and oiled it with fine whale oil.

When he was done, he cocked it carefully and engaged the safety on the massive nut that held the string, and then placed it in the tinker’s basket on his back. Despite a year of training to use it, he felt real fear in carrying it cocked and loaded, against his back.

But his whole life was about managing fear, so he unbolted the door to the privy in which he was hiding, pulled heavy oiled-wool mittens over the chamois gloves on his hands and settled his basket on his back.

He was very cold, and he knew he was being hunted.

Kronmir was waiting, exactly where he said he’d be, under the arch of the ancient aqueduct just as the bells rang for five o’clock. The assassin was a little surprised to hear the sounds of cheering from the Great Square – so loud that they easily carried the mile and more to where he stood.

Kronmir wore a festive Christmas hood and a long robe like a merchant, but the wreath of berries on his head was the safety signal and the assassin approached him with confidence.

‘Christos Anneste!’ he said. It was the greeting for Easter, not Christmas – a final signal that guaranteed that all was well.

‘Christos Anneste!’ echoed his contact. ‘You missed.’

The assassin paused. ‘I beg to disagree. I shot him from very close, and I saw the bolt strike home.’

Kronmir rubbed his chin. ‘He’s jousting. He appeared and bowed to the princess not half an hour past. I gave up on his death and left the square.’

The assassin bit his lip. ‘I suppose you want me to try again? But I have used my contact and my plan. The next attempt will be amateurish by comparison.’ He fingered the amulet that Kronmir had given him. ‘You will get me out?’

‘The best magister in all of the Empire made that amulet. We’ll get you out.’ Kronmir nodded. ‘He has to dance in public. With the princess.’

The assassin shook his head. ‘His men are everywhere. And they’re looking for me. You think he won’t be covered like a blanket? Crowds only protect you when no one is looking for you. And I don’t have a second persona – this tinker is all I have.’ He coughed. ‘I’m sorry. I do not mean to make excuses, but everything about this job has been wrong from the attack on the palace. We shouldn’t have failed then, and I shouldn’t have failed tonight. It is as if God is against us.’

Kronmir nodded. ‘I agree. But I generally do what I say I will.’

‘Aye. As do I.’

The two men allowed their eyes to meet. The assassin shrugged. ‘Very well. If you can get me out, I’ll have another go.’

‘Our next rendezvous is at the Silver Stag Inn on Saint Katherine Street. I have a system prepared to extract you from the city. It may not be me meeting you at the inn, so your sign will be a wreath of golden laurels and the password is “stasis”.’

The assassin frowned. ‘He must have a hermetical aid. My bolts should have dealt with that. Any thoughts?’

‘Most hermetical aids take time. Shoot him from much closer.’ Kronmir shrugged. ‘I am like a student lecturing a master.’


The assassin shook his head. ‘I am murdering a man who seems for the most part good – and doing it at Christmas. And I have already failed. I’m not happy; I much preferred slaying tyrants in Etrusca.’ He handed Kronmir a small tube. ‘This is for my partner, in the event of the worst. Listen – you have been a fair employer, protecting me all that time while I healed up. We will be grateful, however this comes out.’

‘That’s good,’ Kronmir said. ‘Because if this goes badly, I’ll have to move to Etrusca.’ He slapped the assassin on the shoulder. ‘Go and get him, and all this will seem like nerves tomorrow.’

The assassin shrugged. ‘If it is so easy, why not deal with him yourself?’

Kronmir bowed. ‘It is a fair point. If you wish to withdraw, I will not feel you have broken our condotta.’

For the first time, the assassin smiled. ‘Now that was fairly said.’ He stretched his back and patted the side of his basket. ‘I’ll get him. I always feel this way before I drop a man. Some feel the sag after the kill – for me, it’s before. Bah, I talk too much.’ He inclined his head. ‘Be well, whoever you are.’

‘And you,’ Kronmir said, and walked off into the snow.

Liviapolis – The Red Knight

When the snow was swept away, the citizens of Liviapolis began to dance. They turned and swept around, with many a leap, and many a fine ankle displayed under a richly embroidered hem. Women wore hoods, here, in winter, and the men wore fur hats very different from those the Albans wore, and the dancing was different – more athletic. Women leaped while they turned, and landed on one foot. Men jumped, feet slashing high to touch their hands and back down in time to land.

Ser Michael watched it, hand in hand with his Kaitlin whose belly was very big and who still wanted to dance. At her shoulder was Ser Giorgios and his bride. The two Moreans had taught them all the figures.

It was like Alba, and yet very unlike, and Michael was lost in a torrent of thoughts – lost, and yet very much in the present. He leaned over and kissed his wife.

‘Is the Captain very much hurt?’ she asked.

Michael grimaced. ‘I think he’s badly hurt and hiding it,’ he said, and gnawed on his glove a little.

‘They’re coming back to the starting figure,’ Helena said. She put a gloved hand on Kaitlin’s back. ‘I hope that I carry mine as well as you carry yours,’ she whispered.

Kaitlin laughed. ‘Lanthorn’s are built for making babies,’ she said.

Her husband laughed in his glove and turned away. ‘In so many ways,’ he whispered to her, and she slammed an elbow into him so he slipped on the ice.

The Red Knight appeared among them while they were laughing. He beamed at Kaitlin and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘The very image of fecundity,’ he said.

She curtsied. ‘I’ll assume you are trying to be nice,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you go and dance with the princess? Look! She’s waiting for you.’

Ser Michael met his Captain’s eye.

‘Just so,’ he said, and went to face the princess.

‘He’s not very nice to her,’ Kaitlin said. ‘Yet she’s mad for him. Look at her. Will he wed her, do you think?’

Michael pulled her by the hand. ‘I don’t think so, love. There’s things you don’t know. I admit I don’t know much either.’

‘He doesn’t exactly have anyone else,’ Kaitlin said, and laughed. ‘I’m a terrible gossip. But laundresses know these things.’

Michael led her down the steps from the lady’s pavilion to the dancing in the square. ‘It’s politics. There’s always more to it – but she isn’t mad for him. Far from it.’

‘Oh,’ said Kaitlin. ‘How sad. I’m in love, and I’d like everyone else to be in love, too.’

Michael grabbed her and lifted her in the first figure of the Morean Christmas dance, and she let out a squeal. ‘You’ll injure yourself – I weigh the earth!’

He smiled and kissed her and she turned and was off into the dance.

The Red Knight faced the princess. She stood in the midst of her court, with the Lady Maria at her shoulder, her face framed in a purple silk hood lined in white fur. Her overgown was edged and lined in ermine and the cloth was silk brocade with gold thread embroidery.

She seemed impossibly beautiful. Her pale skin had a gentle flush at her cheeks and her eyes sparkled.

He walked into the torchlight, to the empty space in the snow in front of her, and he lay full length in the snow. His scarlet deerskin looked like a pool of blood in the torchlight and the snow was very cold. He wondered if she would kill him while he lay at her feet, but there was no avoiding this display of loyalty with twenty thousand people watching him.

Lady Maria raised her voice. ‘The Imperial princess bids you rise!’ she said.

The princess made the motion for him to rise, and he did – first to his knees, where he kissed the hem of her gown, and then to one knee, where he kissed her hand.

He left three spots of scarlet in the snow.

Her right hand was bare, and she gripped his hand hard. And then leaned down to him. ‘It wasn’t me,’ she hissed.

He was warmed by her assertion. He liked her better than he wanted to and while he didn’t believe her, he was glad she would go through the motions for him.

He returned the pressure of her hand. ‘What wasn’t you, Majesty?’ he asked. Somewhere in his secret heart he had feared her open hatred, even while his intellect had sought to understand it.

But there were no easy answers. Toby came and dusted him off, and he was handed some hot wine which he traded off with Toby while he hoped no one was looking. They were going to try and kill him. The public dancing was a perfect venue for such an attempt, and yet he had to be present.

He was also bleeding through his bandages and the blood was very cold on his skin.

He wished he had Tom Lachlan at his side.

But he had Gavin, and Gavin’s presence warmed him like a hot fire. He bowed again to the princess and turned to his brother. ‘Everyone in place?’ he asked.

‘Ready as we’ll ever be,’ Gavin answered. ‘Master Mortirmir is standing by, as well.’

He was aware of the absence of Harmodius the way a man is aware of the loss of a painful tooth, and he kept visiting his palace and looking about, as if expecting an interloper. And well down in his list of priorities, he was also aware that if Harmodius had possessed the young Mortirmir, something would have to be done about it.

He marked the command post – the invisible place from which the night’s activities were being conducted. Mortirmir seemed to have a very slight stoop and wore a cynical smile, and the Red Knight knew him immediately.

I am weak enough to be glad to be rid of him at almost any price, he thought. He sneaked a second glance at young Mortirmir, who stood with a dozen other students of the Academy and with Long Paw, who had his own contingent out there in the dark and his own orders about Master Mortirmir, if things became ugly.

He backed away from the princess and noted that his people were standing well clear of the princess’s attendants – and the fissure between them showed. Ser Alcaeus stood between his mother and Ser Gavin, like one fragile link in a damaged chain.

‘Gavin – make sure every one of ours picks one of hers and stays close. I mean it.’ He nodded. ‘Not a breath of suspicion should reach the enemy. They have to think the whole thing went awry. Or better yet, that she’s deserted them.’


Gavin’s face registered a dark anger, but he nodded assent and smiled a thin-lipped smile at Lady Maria. Before he left his brother’s side, he said, ‘You know this is all a punishment for how much I loved the court at Harndon, isn’t it? This is court life with a vengeance.’

The Red Knight shrugged. ‘Trust Alcaeus,’ he said. He backed another step into his own men and women and walked briskly to where Mortirmir stood in the snow, handing cups of hot hippocras to revellers.

The young face wore a wry expression. ‘Bleeding? My lord?’ He made a face. ‘Solstice, you know. No hermetical working does what you expect.’

The Red Knight leaned in close. ‘It’s against the law, Harmodius. And you know what law.’

Mortirmir shrugged. ‘I’m bending the rules, not breaking them. Master Mortirmir has the switch in his hand. He can dump me whenever he likes. You are bleeding. Here.’

He made a sign and said a word, and the Red Knight felt the wounds close. Again.

Long Paw leaned in over the fire. ‘My lord. Any orders?’

The Red Knight shrugged. ‘He’s out there. Do your best.’

Michael and Kaitlin whirled by him. He turned back to the princess and bowed. ‘Your Majesty, is it fitting that we join these revellers? And if so, will you do me the honour, unworthy as I am?’

She nodded. ‘Let us dance. Is it not this for which we were made?’

He took her hand and they were away.

Moreans regarded their royalty as sacred – almost literally the stuff of saints and God himself, and there was some reluctance to take the princess’s hand at first, but the horror of breaking the huge circle – a circle of ten thousand couples or more that filled the whole circuit of the Great Square – overcame the awe and, after some skirmishing, Count Darkhair put himself at the princess’s left hand and seemed perfectly willing to hold it against all comers, regardless what the figures of the dance decreed.

They circled for far longer than Albans did, and then they began a hymn – a regiment of monks and another of nuns processed out of the cathedral and the scent of incense filled the square as a hundred censors whirled sacred smoke into the still cold air. The first hymn rose from fifteen thousand throats, and even the ancient statues seemed to raise their voices in hymn to their creator.

And then the dance began again. A snow squall hit – the fine-powdered snow came down hard enough to fill his eyebrows, and he laughed because it was so beautiful. The nuns and the monks exchanged volleys of song. A pair of drummers played back and forth, on horseback, and a single woman’s voice rose in a polyphonic descant above the nuns and monks like a personification of ecstasy.

The princess’s hand tightened on his. And then she was gone into the snow, as the women formed an inner circle. Most of the other women were as plain as nuns, so that the princess seemed to burn like a star in a dark firmament.

He wondered if she had given the order to have him killed. Gelfred had intercepted the message from Lonika two days before. But spy networks were so convoluted that the order could have originated in the palace. Certainly he had a lot of evidence proving how regularly she communicated with Andronicus by Imperial messenger.

He had plenty of time to think about it as the great outer circle of men moved around the tighter inner circle of women.

The hymns went on, and when he knew the words, he joined in, and sang. Despite the wound in his side and the creeping flow of blood, he was angry.

If I live through this . . .

If I live through this, I must deal with Andronicus, whose army is three times the size of mine. And then I must do what I can for Michael’s father and for the Queen, all the while protecting the north against Thorn and dealing, if I must, with Harmodius. If he is turning against us.

By God, if there is a God, I’ve made so many mistakes I’m losing the thread of my plan. If I ever had a plan. It’s more like riding a wild horse than planning a campaign.

I’m a fool. But what a ride!

The man at his right hand broke in on his thoughts. His voice was strangely familiar and sounded clear as bell. ‘Do you believe in fate, Gabriel?’ he asked.

The Duke’s head shot round. He recognised Master Smythe easily enough, and he grinned. ‘Haven’t we already had this chat?’ he managed.

‘And we will again,’ Master Smythe promised. ‘I love the way humans think about time.’

‘This is more help than I ever expected,’ the Duke said. ‘The food – the logistika.’

‘Not to mention a slight deflection of a certain crossbow bolt. From which you may assume that things are worse than you imagined.’ Master Smythe inclined his head pleasantly, and flashed a flirtatious smile at a woman in the inner circle.

The Duke winced. ‘And I thought I was doing so well,’ he said with a certain sarcasm.

His partner turned his head. ‘You are, but our adversary is – beneath his arrogance and pride – very able. Are you ready to be King of Alba?’ he asked.

‘No,’ the Duke said. ‘I had planned to build myself a place here. And stay away from there. For ever.’ He shrugged and danced a few steps, turned back towards the dragon and nodded to the music. ‘As you must already know.’

‘But you’ll throw all that over to rescue Michael’s father and the Queen?’ Smythe asked.

The Duke set his face. ‘Yes.’

‘Even if it means you must go sword to sword with your father?’

The Duke danced a few steps. ‘Don’t you find it tiresome to ask questions to which you already know all the answers?’

Master Smythe’s dancing was a little too graceful. But he nodded. ‘Free will generally trumps foreknowledge,’ he said.

The Duke flashed a smile as the chorus to a hymn burst from the monks and nuns. ‘That is, I think, the best news I’ve ever heard. I hope you tell the truth.’

‘Me, too,’ said the dragon. ‘Andronicus must go, before Thorn joins hands with Aeskepiles.’

‘I agree,’ the Duke said.

The dance gathered speed. ‘Do you know that everywhere that good men live – and irks and other creatures – they perform this dance at the winter and the summer solstice? Whatever they believe, whatever god they worship, this is the night when the walls are down, and anything may happen?’

‘So my mother always said,’ the Duke muttered.

‘Do you know that there is an infinity of spheres? Of which this one is but one?’ Master Smythe asked.

‘I try not to think about it,’ the Duke said.

‘I will leave you in a few moments. Before I do: the Queen’s tournament. You know of it?’

The Red Knight nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, in case a being with godlike powers couldn’t see in the torchlit darkness. Off to his left, the princess was a golden sun of splendour.

‘It is a node. So many lines come together there that I cannot see past it, or what is immediately around it. Thorn and his master have their own plans and I cannot see them.’ Master Smythe stopped dancing. ‘There,’ he said, with uncharacteristic satisfaction. ‘Time and place. And undetected. My solstice gift to you.’

‘Would you tell me if this tournament ends with my death?’ the Duke asked.

The dragon paused for a moment. ‘It may,’ he said. ‘Which I would regret. Even to tell you that much is to trespass beyond the borders of the game.’ Master Smythe shrugged. ‘To be fair, I missed your assassin until he struck. By the way, he’s quite close now, and I am not allowed to take action. You seem to understand all this well enough.’


The Red Knight nodded. ‘I was born to it,’ he said with unfeigned bitterness.

‘I know,’ said the Wyrm of Erch. He flexed his hands. ‘It is so long since I took a direct part in the affairs of men,’ he said wistfully. ‘What if it proves addictive?’

‘Sod off,’ said the Red Knight, but he said it very, very quietly.

The men were closing in on the women, and another snow shower hit them – a flurry of flakes all around him, so that, despite the hands on his right and left, he seemed all alone. The snow muffled sound, as well.

He reached out a hand for the princess, and felt a warm hand in his. But to his utter shock – and he was not a man easily surprised – he took the Queen’s hand instead.

She paused as he raised her hand. ‘You!’ she said.

They turned as the music – a polyphony of musics – rose around them, and the snow fell harder. Her hand was light as air. She was obviously pregnant, but she danced with angelic grace. He smiled, and she smiled too.

‘Have you come to see my husband?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said. And he moved on, relinquishing her with a backward glance that met her serene smile over her shoulder.

He turned his head, raising his hand for his next partner, and there was Amicia. He was a beat too late, and she was biting her lip in annoyance, lost in the music, a nun who loved to dance.

Their eyes met. Hers widened, and she caught her breath.

The ring on her finger sparkled.

‘You are wounded,’ she said. ‘Is it you who has been drawing from me all day?’ She smiled like the rising of a summer sun and he was flooded with warmth.

He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he turned, her hand in his. She wore the plainest brown overgown with a blue kirtle under it – on her shoulder was the eight-pointed star of her order.

‘Oh!’ she said in delight. ‘My handkerchief!’

He opened his mouth, and she danced away into the snow.

His third partner was his mother.

She took his hand and took a graceful, gliding step. ‘The walls are truly down tonight,’ she said.

He grunted, and looked back over his shoulder.

She laughed. ‘You’ll have her in the end, I have no doubt,’ she said. ‘Look at you! The very lord of this world.’ She took another pavane step and laughed. ‘You are everything I hoped you would be, Gabriel.’

And having sliced him with the razor of her words, she stepped away into the snow.

He might have sagged, but Amicia’s touch still burned on his hand, and he took the next three steps the way a trained swordsman will keep fighting when hurt.

Another queen took his hand – not one he knew, but a slight figure in white, embroidered in gold with red berries with her pale hair piled atop her head – a Snow Queen.

‘You must be the Red Knight,’ she said. ‘Ah! We have done it. All the chains are joined this night.’ She smiled at him, and whirled in a spray of snow, doubling to the time of the music. ‘May light triumph over dark,’ Tamsin said, and turned away. ‘Let this be a dagger in his black heart!’

He turned outside her and stepped away, wondering and dreading who might emerge next from the snow, but the hand that grasped his was a familiar one, and he found himself turning with Sauce. She grinned. ‘Surprised?’ she asked. ‘I never know which circle I should be—’ As she spoke, her face changed, and she stepped past him and threw him to the ground as if they had been wrestling, not dancing. It was all done in time to the music and, surprised, he fell hard.

The assassin was frustrated at the snow and doubly frustrated at the attentiveness of the soldiers, who were, indeed, everywhere in the crowd. After two passes that didn’t bring him close enough to his target, he knew that his one chance would be to press straight in. The hymn told him where the dancers ought to be – in a few measures, the men would leave their fifth female partner and come out to the outer circle and turn again with the men.

If he wormed to the edge of the non-dancing crowd, he’d have to be lucky – but if he was, he’d have his shot at arm’s length or less. He paused, counted the beats, and burrowed past a clump of goodwives like a mole in the dirt.

But his basket and his relative movement drew the attention of a clump of mercenary archers. He saw them move – saw the change of the glint of their helmets.

If he turned away now, he’d never have another chance.

He pushed harder.

Long Paw saw the man with the basket at the same time as Ser Gavin, and the two moved into the crowd like mastiffs, Ser Gavin leaving Lady Maria standing alone and breaking the circle while Long Paw, half a bowshot away, had the harder journey through a thousand people.

There was a cracking sound, and the snowbound sky was lit by a bolt of lightning. And a sudden play of colours, like a localised aurora.

Morgan Mortirmir grabbed his head as if he’d taken a blow. Then, after a moment’s disorientation, he turned on his heel and ran towards the Megas Ducas, dancing with Ser Alison.

The crack of thunder frightened people and they shrank aside. And left a path for the assassin, who strode along the alley so created as if it had been ordained since the dawn of time.

But it was too easy, and he was ahead of his time – the Megas Ducas was still turning with a woman, fifteen paces away through the snow.

The assassin threw caution to the winds and burst through the cordon around the dancers and ran for the Duke.

The woman with whom he was dancing saw him and seemed to nod, turning her partner even as the assassin stripped the mitten off his right hand, reached back and caught the handle of his crossbow. He ran at the Duke.

She put her leg behind the Duke’s in time to the music.

He was three paces away and it was too late for everyone as he raised his bow and then—

She threw the Duke to the ground.

A great gout of fire struck the assassin’s ward, making him stumble.

He whirled and shot his attacker, and the bolt went clean through the young man’s hermetical defence and blew him from his feet.

The woman produced a short sword from her skirts and cut at him.

He caught the blow on the arm guard under his peasant tunic and grappled her, expecting an easy conquest and instead getting a knee in his groin and a turn of his own elbow, but he had armour under his clothes and she was hampered by skirts and after a flurry of blows he kicked her – hard enough to snap her knee, but the same petticoats that had saved him now deflected some of his blow.

She fell all the same.

He hit her in the head with his spent crossbow and ran.

He passed the princess, gaping open-mouthed, and then he was in among the statues in the centre of the square.

He stripped the peasant smock over his head, and under it he had the armour and scarlet surcoat of a mercenary archer, complete with sword and buckler. He ran, altered direction by ninety degrees and ran harder, due south, passing through a clump of peasant women and vanishing into the crowd.

Long Paw was fooled, but only for as long as it took him to look at the peasant smock. Then he made a clicking sound with his tongue and followed the tracks through the new snow. He didn’t need the peasant women to tell him where the man had gone, and he only paused for three strides to scan the crowd. Even in the flickering torchlight, he could follow the helmet – the one helmet headed away from the circle of dancers.

Thunder rumbled overhead like laughter.

Harndon – The Queen

Out in the darkness, a woman screamed.

The Queen had the King by the hand and she froze, her senses a-whirl – for a moment, she had danced with the Red Knight, and with a man like an Elvin prince – she had to ground herself.

Emota was missing.

The King left her side, with a dozen knights at his heels, headed towards the sound of a woman screaming, and the circle was broken while the screams cut through the music.

The power of the circle was shredding away like ice melting on a spring pond. The Queen reached out—

A woman in green and gold took her hand and spat, and she felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach, and she fell to her knees.

The older woman looked over her shoulder and vanished to be replaced by the same young nun who had healed her on the battlefield at Lissen Carrak. The Queen’s head rose.

A woman clad in white leaned over them. ‘We cannot let the circle dissolve so early,’ she said. Or perhaps she cast her thoughts – it was all so fast that the Queen was suddenly standing with Lady Sylvia’s hand in her right and Lady Almspend’s in her left, and the three formed a tiny circle and began to turn – and the carollers steadied into their Gloria.

A bowshot away, the King found Lady Emota lying dead in a pool of blood that made the snow look black around her. Her throat had been slashed from side to side the way a deer was ended, or a sacrifice made in ancient times, and then the dagger had been plunged into her.

The dagger bore the arms of the Count d’Eu.

‘Why is the Queen still dancing?’ the King asked angrily.

The Duke got to his feet, aided by Toby, and extended a hand to Sauce, who was rubbing snow on her exposed knee to the delight of many men.

He looked around. The music hadn’t faltered, but the dancers were slowing. Some of the women had stopped and were gathering for protection.

At his shoulder a woman’s voice said, ‘We cannot let the circle dissolve so early,’ and he turned, but there was only the trace of a fragrance of peppermint in the air. But his grasp of the principle was sound enough, and he took Sauce’s hand. ‘Dance!’ he shouted. ‘Close the circle and dance.’

The habit of obedience is hard to break. Sauce ignored the pain in her knee and grabbed the hands of the surprised princess and turned her – Lady Maria joined them, and in a moment the women were reforming the inner circle.

Gavin skidded to a halt, and the Duke pushed him into the men’s circle. ‘Dance,’ he ordered. ‘Someone is trying to cast a huge working. Breaking the dance is one part of it. Dance, damn it!’

As soon as they stepped away, he dropped to one knee by Mortirmir, who was thrashing, his feet drumming the packed snow, his blood as black as pitch.

The Duke put his hands on Mortirmir’s shoulders.

Come on, Harmodius, he said.

And the old magister was there. He reached out in the aethereal and his hand reached for the Red Knight’s hand – the Red Knight stretched, and was led a step closer to the open door – a door that seemed to open on the blackest night, unshot with stars. A blast of cold, a sort of ultimate cold, hit him from the open door.

The Red Knight stood his ground and leaned forward, straining, into the black-shot aethereal and got his fingertips onto those of the slim young man in blue velvet—

There was a sound as of mortal combat—

—and the rising strains of a Christmas carol

a woman’s scream

a ship tossed on a storm-wracked sea

an old man in a long beard lying under a quilt

Harmodius shot through the door as if propelled by some outside force, and the door slammed shut behind him. Harmodius lay on the tiled floor of the Red Knight’s palace for a moment. He shook his head.

‘What the f*ck was that?’ he muttered.

Gabriel was already up and moving. He pointed at Mortirmir, at the edge of death in the real.

Can we save him?

Absolutely. Bastard thinks he can kill me that easily—

I think I was the target.

Think whatever you like, boy. Christ that was close. Give me . . . ?

Gabriel gave Harmodius his store of ops, yet again.

Take that, you bastard, Harmodius said. He opened a link, and cast – the sigils of his palace flashed like the lights of a distant city as he cast five complete workings in a single breath.

The blood vanished out of the snow, leaving the snow white.

Mortirmir’s eyes opened.

The crossbow bolt protruding from his back flowed away like melted ice.

And something burst in the sky above them, like a firework – a thousand tiny stars lit for a moment and then were dark.

Uh oh, muttered Harmodius. I just kicked a god in the nuts.

The Sacred Isle – Thorn

Thorn watched the night play out like a drama. The solstices were always a dreadful time for serious work – neither the real nor the aethereal were solid in their spheres at such times, and the simplest workings could miscarry.

His own webs of sorcery hung limp. He feared that the storms of the solstices in the aethereal would do them damage without his attempting even the simplest work, and he stood in the snow, dark and silent, contemplating.

If he was silent, others were very loud. Nor did he require nets of spies to see them. The power of their efforts was so great, so vast the expenditure of ops, that he felt it from his well of power in the north, where fits and gouts of snow fell into his arms as if he had truly been an old oak tree.

At every pulse of power from the south, the egg at his side burned and chittered.

Something rude, struggling to be born.

A scrap of an old poem, or a prophecy.

To the west, a circle unbroken, and a mighty power proclaimed itself into the heavens like a ring of white fire. Other rings of similar power leaped into the air from many places – from the rude huts of Outwallers, and from the courts of kings and emirs and khans.

But two were flawed, and began to pull themselves apart in the aethereal. And something was pulling at them.

Thorn watched with interest, as one predator might watch another stalking its prey.

And then they steadied – both of them together, as if caught in a dance of their own. The white fire died away to a spark, and then leaped again, and the rings flared – there was a burst of power from the east.

Ah, thought Thorn, and the being who rode him said, Harmodius yet lives. And has grown stronger. He will make a perfect ally.

Thorn shuddered in surprise. ‘Why? ’ he asked. ‘And who exactly are you, sir? ’

‘Any being who achieves sufficient power ceases to be one of them,’ Ash said. ‘And becomes one of us.’ The voice rolled on inexorably. ‘You have chosen. I have chosen. Now Harmodius has chosen.’

Thorn shuddered. And wondered – not for the first or last time – what, exactly, he had chosen.

‘I am Ash,’ whispered the voice.

Thorn – who had once been Richard Plangere – knew the name all too well. ‘You are Satan’s serpent,’ he said.

But Ash said, ‘I am in no relation to anything, mortal. I merely am.’

Liviapolis – Assassin, Long Paw, Kronmir

The assassin emerged from the back of the crowd near the Academy, and he crossed their streets fearlessly, his alumni badge flashed at the portals. As it wasn’t actually his badge, there would be no consequence, and he doubted that any of his pursuers had such an item. He had gained himself an hour.

He plunged into the alleys behind the University and moved from alley to alley, pausing only to shed his red surcoat and archer’s breastplate. He left them under the eaves of a brothel and ran on into the darkness.

Long Paw came to the wards at the edge of the Academy and cursed. He couldn’t pass them, and it was clear from the tracks that his adversary had. He turned back, wasting precious minutes running first north, and then west, where he found Gelfred and Daniel Favour. The two were kneeling in the snow.


‘He’s cut through the Academy and I cannot follow him,’ Long Paw panted.

Favour whistled and a brace of hounds appeared, running over the snow.

‘We’re casting for a scent,’ Gelfred said. ‘Let’s move south and try again. There’s so many people—’ He shook his head.

The three men ran south along the avenue that flanked the University. It was well lit with torches on this night, and there were hundreds of people to turn and stare as three armed men ran past them. At the southern end of the University they stopped and cast west, but any hope of crossing fresh tracks was lost in the back streets of the student warrens behind the University.

But a third of the way along Saint Nicholas, the older dog began to keen and whine, and Gelfred let her slip.

‘Get him, Luadhas!’ he said, and let the animal go. He knelt in the snow and prayed, and then loosed the other animal. The younger male barked, turned in a full circle and ran off in a different direction. The older sprang away towards a low-roofed building with dirty white plaster across the street. He stopped while the three men were in sight, and Gelfred ran to his side and retrieved a soldier’s cloak, a surcoat, and a breastplate.

He knelt again, heedless of the weather, and prayed fervently, and then raised his wand and cast, and a silvery fire ran over the brach’s limbs and into its nose. It breathed deep the scent on the cloak, and gave a bark of joy, and ran off – into the knotwork of alleys.

The three men followed.

The assassin slowed to a walk well before he reached his haven. He knew the inn, and he didn’t intend to blow his new disguise by running in the packed streets, so he emerged into Saint Katherine at a brisk walk, a householder out for a breath of cold air and perhaps a cup of hot wine. He bounced up the steps of the inn like an eager suitor and pushed open the doors.

He scanned the room. There was no one he knew – and so much the better. He crossed the common room and fetched up against a wall – at Christmas there was no place to sit in the whole of the place.

He waited for a contact. For the first time, he let himself think, and he was deeply dissatisfied – what on earth had moved him to shoot the boy when his target was prone at his feet?

But what was done was done.

A middle-aged woman appeared and offered him a steaming cup, which he took with a nod of gratitude. She mimed signing a tab – he nodded. Men in the city were far more trusting then men in Etrusca, but he would honour his payment – it was, after all, Christmas. He closed his eyes and said a prayer for the young man he’d killed.

And opened them when he heard a dog bark.

Dogs. He hadn’t considered dogs. Of course, in the snow—

He took a deep breath. A second dog barked.

He took a sip of his hot wine, and reached into his basket, where his short sword rested against the wicker. He took it out as carefully as he could. And began to edge towards the kitchen.

They weren’t amateurs. At most he had a few minutes while they gathered their forces.

He looked around for his contact – a wreath of gold laurel – and he saw no one with any wreath at all.

Damning his luck, he put his hand on the amulet, and imaged the sigil of summoning.

Kronmir was two streets west of the inn on Saint Katherine when he saw the men in scarlet surcoats – and the dogs.

He turned away immediately and headed north into the maze of the student quarter. If they had dogs, they’d followed his man to the rendezvous. He didn’t even have a backup messenger yet – the whole thing was hopelessly ahead of time, and the soldiers already had the inn surrounded.

He thought some dark thoughts.

Behind him, a dog barked.

Suddenly, the alley in front of him was lit by a rising sun of red fire – Kronmir stopped in his tracks, and the blast made him clap his hands to his ears and stumble.

All that saved their lives was Wilful Murder’s shrill insistence that they should retreat into the alleys until they had more troops.

‘F*cking dogs!’ he’d snapped. ‘Every bastard in the quarter knows we’re here.’

Gelfred knew he was right, and the four of them – five when Bent appeared, and a dozen when his men came at his heels – had retreated into the mouth of the alley known as The Rookery. Favour got his hand on the brach’s collar and he silenced her. The younger dog barked again—

And the top blew off the inn.

A wave of fire rippled out from the epicentre like a hermetical tide and burst against the buildings on the other side of the street, and nothing but sheer luck kept the archers in the shadow of the malevolent potentia. Gelfred had his ribs broken and was badly burned on his face and hands. Favour was covered by his officer and was merely singed, and Wilful Murder was knocked flat with a broken arm where he’d been pointing. The brach was killed outright.

A hundred and fifty revellers in the inn died instantly.

A dozen houses caught fire. Wilful Murder scrabbled to his feet and ran for the fire company.

Two alleys away, Kronmir leaned against a building and watched the red firelight in the sky.

His mind rattled on with the problem for less than three heartbeats before he drew the obvious conclusion. He tore the amulet from his neck . . . and paused.

And then ran for the Academy. If the thing went off in the alleys then a thousand people would die.

Kronmir ran all the way to the main entrance to the Academy, where the iron maw of Cerberus was a black hole in the night. He sprinted up to the three-headed dog and cast the thing, chain and all, into the open mouth of the nearest head.

The dog gave a cough, like a sick child.

Kronmir stood by it and panted, his elbows folded against his chest. Revellers passed him on either side – across the street, a man stopped and pointed at the red sky. Other people paused, and in the distance he could hear a hymn being sung.

People in the Great Square were still dancing.

He ran the whole strand of logic through in his head – once again. Just to be sure of his chain of causality.

His assassin had been surrounded.

The inn had exploded.

Aeskepiles had expressed surprise that the assassin and the survivors of his team were still alive.

Aeskepiles had made the amulets.

The young man – the young scholar from the Academy – had said that the amulets were surprisingly powerful.

QED.

Aeskepiles had given him devices to kill his agents.

Kronmir stood by the great iron statue of Cerberus for as long as it would take for a nun to say a pater noster.

And then he started across the square.

Gabriel Muriens lay on a cot in the pavilion that had been arranged for him on the jousting field. There were six braziers and a turf hearth struggling to keep the bitter cold at bay, and a closed bed had been moved in.

Ser Michael, in consultation with Ser Alcaeus and Lady Maria, had determined that the Megas Ducas was easier to defend in the middle of the hippodrome.

The Red Knight was sitting up on a dozen heavy pillows, his chest tightly bandaged. Messengers came and went, checked by a series of sentries who were company veterans with orders that only well-known company men could pass. It wasn’t fair to the Moreans who were loyal, but it functioned.

‘How bad?’ the Duke asked a shaken Long Paw.

‘Christ on the cross, my lord, it was like—’ He shook his head. ‘Like the heart of a forge fire, for a moment.’

Young Morgan Mortirmir, standing at the Red Knight’s shoulder, gave a slight bow. ‘My lord, if you are feeling stable then I’d like to have a look. Any of my fellow scholars could support you in a crisis.’


The Duke frowned. ‘What’s the Academy doing?’

‘Nothing, my lord.’ Morgan looked down, as if embarrassed. Perhaps he was. ‘They have taken no action.’

The Duke turned his head back to Long Paw. ‘What else?’

‘We followed the tracks – physical, and hermetical – to the tavern. Wilful got there with some troops, I wasn’t keen to take the bastard by myself.’

The Duke reached out and touched Long Paw. ‘You did right. Force, especially overwhelming force, saves lives.’

Long Paw looked miserable. ‘Tell that to Gelfred – he lost both his dogs and he’s like to lose his left arm, too. Or to Kanny – he’s dead. Three dead and three more badly burned.’ The older man shook his head. ‘I’m not cut out for this. I’ll cut a throat, but I don’t like giving orders. Making the call.’

Ser Jehan held out a cup of wine. ‘You did well to come away with anyone alive. But my lord, have you thought this through – militarily? If they have these explosives what else can they do? Can they knock down buildings?’

The Duke gave his mentor a mirthless smile. ‘Jehan, a master hermeticist can knock down a city wall in one stroke. They just don’t, mostly. It takes time and effort to do, and most of them are playing other games.’ He shook his head. ‘But this one isn’t.’

Jehan drank some wine. ‘My lord, I’m always the naysayer – I realise it robs me of – of—’ He smiled. ‘Of something. But listen – we’re on a battlefield of the enemy’s choosing, and he’s got a new set of weapons and tactics. This is like Etrusca – assassins. Magic. Can we go back to killing monsters?’

‘We can’t just retreat and regroup,’ the Duke said. He grunted as pain hit him afresh. ‘Morgan, go see the ruins of the taverna. See what there is to be seen. I’d like to know how it was done so that when I panic, I panic for a reason.’ He put his head back slowly. ‘Gentlemen, we’re building something here. If we beat Andronicus, we’ll have plenty of time. We’ll have an income base and a series of fortified towns and castles. And allies.’

‘Allies?’ Jehan spat.

Alcaeus had been sitting on a stool, but now he sat up. ‘Yes, ser knight. Allies. Many Moreans are in favour of what you have been doing. Peace – a strong peace, and a fair one, means that our merchants can compete with the Etruscans and Galles, and even the Albans and the Occitans.’

Ser Jehan shrugged. ‘While the princess pays Etruscan master assassins to kill us?’

Alcaeus met him, shrug for shrug. ‘My mother is doing her best to curb the princess,’ he said. ‘We don’t think she knew anything about the assassin.’

The Duke shook his head. ‘It makes no sense. I’m no fool, and I can’t even see exactly who we’re fighting. Why? Why is the princess sending messages to Andronicus? Why did the court mage betray the Emperor? Why is the Academy standing by and letting people die from a use of the hermetical that – at least in Alba – would get you burned at the stake?’

Alcaeus stroked his beard. ‘My lord I grew up here, and I don’t understand all the factions. Sometimes every man and every woman is their own faction. As for the Patriarch – who knows what he really thinks – eh? About you as an Alban? About your confessor here?’ Alcaeus shook his head. ‘I mean no offence, Father, but the Patriarch believes that priests should not fight. Many of our monks and priests are against that, and there has been trouble over it for years – and then an Alban comes with a member of the fighting orders as his confessor—’

‘He’s not my confessor,’ the Duke said. ‘I like to keep it all between me and God.’

Father Arnaud was sitting behind the canopy, almost invisible. Now he rose. ‘Would it kill you to talk about it? And have you considered that your private quarrel with God may in the end hurt your company? Perhaps it is our business.’

‘Perhaps,’ the Duke said. ‘But you know what? I’m really quite fond of you all – even Wilful Murder. And I’m quite sure that when my little problem with God finally comes to light, you’ll all—’

There was a stir, and some shouting out beyond the cloth and the torchlight.

The Duke sat up. ‘Michael – see to that,’ he said. The Duke had a roundel dagger in his fist.

Michael was in full harness. He and Jehan went out together, and Toby, also in harness, drew his sword. So did Father Arnaud. Long Paw eased his in its scabbard.

Ser Michael reappeared. ‘My lord. It is—’ His face was white in the torchlight and his mouth looked stretched tight. ‘It’s a man who claims to be the head of Andronicus’s spy service. He begs an audience with you immediately.’

The Duke’s right hand moved, and a glowing green shield came up, a bubble that passed with some attenuation through the cloth of the hangings.

‘Michael – strip him absolutely naked. Give him my robe to wear, but take every jewel, every ring – everything. Long Paw—’

The swordsman nodded. ‘I’ll do it. I’ve searched a few bastards in my time.’

‘If he does anything that seems remotely like an attack, kill him. And until he’s stripped, don’t bring him within a hundred yards of this tent.’ The Duke put his dagger away.

Jehan stood with his sword drawn. ‘What if – he himself—’

The Duke’s eyes were glowing. ‘I can deal with that,’ he said.

‘Jules Kronmir, my lord,’ Ser Michael reported.

Kronmir was brought in. He was surrounded by naked swords, and yet he had a certain dignity. He bowed, very slowly – almost like a pantomime of a bow.

Morgan Mortirmir’s eyes widened. ‘I know you!’ he said.

Kronmir nodded his head, again, very slowly.

‘The amulet!’ Mortirmir said. ‘My lord, I know what exploded. Damn me to hell, I held it in my hand.’

‘Not that one, but another,’ Kronmir said. ‘But yes. You warned me, and I didn’t heed you.’

Father Arnaud’s sword wavered and then moved to cover Mortirmir’s back.

‘You two know each other?’ Jehan asked.

Mortirmir, apparently too young to understand where this was going, nodded. ‘Yes – we met at the ancient temple of Minerva on the hillside, and then later, in an inn. He showed me an amulet.’

He’s telling the truth, Harmodius said. Christ on the cross, I didn’t look into his memories. But there he is.

Kronmir looked back and forth. ‘You needn’t guess,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you. But only if you will protect me.’

‘You are here to change sides?’ the Duke asked.

‘This would be an odd method of committing suicide otherwise, so yes,’ Kronmir said.

‘You’ll tell us everything – names, places, dates.’ The Duke leaned forward.

‘Anything about Duke Andronicus and his plot – yes.’ Kronmir bowed his head. ‘He has betrayed me. But I will say nothing about any former employers.’

‘He’s not exactly in a position to bargain,’ Long Paw said.

‘But you see, my lord, I am,’ Kronmir said. ‘After all, I know where the Emperor is.’

The Duke allowed himself to sink back into his pillows. He caught Father Arnaud’s eye. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘sometimes I have to wonder whether God is really against me.’ He turned his head back to Kronmir. ‘Put your hands between mine and swear.’


Kronmir knelt. He swore a simple oath, like any man-at-arms joining the company.

‘You’ll take the word of an assassin?’ Long Paw spat.

‘Sworn to a mercenary. Are we all not honourable men?’ The Duke laughed weakly. ‘I need to sleep. Protect Master Kronmir, who I expect will be our most valuable asset. Hide him – most especially from the palace. Long Paw, he’s yours. If Gelfred’s wounded, who has the scouts?’

‘I’d like to try Favour,’ Jehan said. ‘But he has an arrow in his gut. It’s healed, but he’ll be as long as – well, as long as you in recovering.’

‘Has to be Starling,’ Ser Michael said. ‘Man’s a prick, but he’s a competent prick.’

‘Make it so,’ the Duke said. ‘Oh, my God.’ He lay back. ‘The Emperor. Kronmir – don’t get killed.’

Kronmir smiled. ‘I don’t intend to,’ he said.

The Duke’s eyes closed, and then sprang open. ‘Wait!’ he said. ‘I have a plan.’

Jehan groaned. ‘Here it comes,’ he said.