People came creeping back into the street, staring with awestruck faces at the burnt stone. At the bodies. The owner of the house that had been hit came out and wept, cursing man and God. Blood trickled from a wound to his face where he had been hit by flying glass. Lucky to be alive. The bookseller brought Orhan water and wine and a cloth to bind his arm.
‘My man,’ Orhan whispered. ‘My servant – the one who fought … The one there … Help him.’ The bookseller stared at him dumbly. Backed away, muttering a prayer. Orhan drank the water. His arm was burned. His hands shook too much to be able to bind up the wound. The guard lay in the street, still jerking a little now and again. ‘Help him,’ Orhan said to the two men by his side. They too stared at him dumbly. They were paid to guard him. So would not leave him. So sat and watched their comrade die.
A group of Imperial soldiers arrived, terrified, no idea what to do or why. Orhan spoke to them haltingly, his voice distant in his head. A mage. Yes, a mage. Yes, mage fire. Yes, he was certain. They gathered up the bodies. The guard who’d attacked the mage was now dead. One of the soldiers cut the dead men’s throats just to be sure. They’d sew up their mouths and sew up their eyes and bury them in the shadow of the city walls with wreaths of copperstem around their necks. And still they’d be afraid of them. Orhan was a rational man. But he shuddered, looking at the crumpled bodies. A bad death. Unnatural and wrong.
The new litter was fetched: Orhan shook so much he was unable to walk. Fortunately the litter hadn’t been made by the man who’d just tried to kill him. Orhan gave a couple of gold talents to the bookseller and the man with the ruined house. Then he crawled into his litter, feeling horribly exposed and imprisoned behind its curtains. The journey home seemed to take an eternity. His arm hurt. His whole body hurt. His head ached. He could still see lights dancing in his vision, burned onto his eyes. Janush his doctor bound his arm with feverfew and calendula flowers and muttered a prayer. Finally he collapsed into bed, smoke-stained and exhausted and shaking.
It all just went on and on and on. Never ending. What have I done? he kept thinking. How could it possibly have been worth it? What have I done? What have I done?
Chapter Fifty-Three
Woke the next morning to find Darath sitting at the end of his bed.
‘I don’t think much of your security arrangements,’ said Darath. He was munching candied apricots, held out the dish to Orhan. ‘I could have cut your throat a dozen times while you snored. Didn’t even bother to take my dagger. Want one?’
Orhan sat up and rubbed his face. ‘I think they make a special dispensation for you. You’d probably persuade me to flog them if they tried to strip-search you on the way in here.’
‘Such tender signs of affection.’ Darath leaned over and kissed him, bits of apricot stuck to his lips and getting into Orhan’s mouth.
‘So …’ Darath shuffled up, lay down beside Orhan, who curled himself gratefully into his lover’s shoulder, closing his eyes. So good, having him here like this. They should live together properly. He’d suggest it. Yes.
‘So,’ said Darath. ‘Someone tried to kill you last night. Does nobody in Sorlost have the decency just to die when someone tries to kill them any more? If you’d come drinking with me, you’d have escaped completely, you realize?’
‘If I’d come drinking with you, we’d both have been burnt to pieces. It was a pretty close thing as it was.’
‘No, you’d have woken hung-over in my bedroom, wrapped in my ardent arms and in a considerably better mood than you seem to be. Understandably so, I grant you. Anyway.’ Darath chewed another apricot. ‘March, I assume?’
‘I’d think it most likely.’ Orhan raided the plate, realizing he was starving. ‘It was painfully crude. And stupid.’ He shuddered. ‘I don’t want to think about it.’
Darath wrapped his arms around him, kissed him again. Kisses literally sweet as honey. ‘Thank Great Tanis for stupidity.’
‘Oh, I intend to. A big show of thanks, a thaler’s worth of candles, rub March’s nose in his failure. Come with me?’
Darath sighed. ‘If I must. No, no, of course, I’ll come. A thaler’s worth of candles burning will be quite a wonderful sight with an aching head and not enough sleep. Your assassin had consummate timing: I’d only just got off after a night of pitifully mild debauchery when one of my servants woke me up again to let me know you weren’t dead. God’s knives, Orhan.’
Orhan bathed and dressed slowly. His body hurt as though he was a thousand years old. He was bruised and battered, thick red burns on his arm. But surprisingly unharmed otherwise. Or not surprising: he was beginning to suspect that March hadn’t actually wanted him to have died. He came back to his bedroom to find Darath sprawled on his bed still eating apricots and reading one of the Treasury ledgers he’d brought home.
‘Fascinating stuff,’ Darath said. ‘You cut my stipend as Lord of the Golden Mask of the Furthest West, I see. My great-great-great-great uncle bribed and blackmailed one of the under-secretaries for months to get that. Five thalers a month, it pays.’
‘You’re not supposed to be reading that. And you’ve still got the title, so don’t complain.’
‘I’m not complaining. I’m just observing. But don’t be surprised if I can’t afford to buy you a gift on your birthday this year. So.’ Darath sat up cross-legged, shoving the book away. He’d got honey smears on the cover. Honey and human skin: Lord of Living and Dying have mercy. Orhan felt nauseous looking at it. ‘So. What the fuck do we do about March, then?’
Orhan sighed wearily. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Really. Not now.’
‘You know why he’s doing it like this, of course?’
‘We discussed this, I thought. Because he’s an idiot.’
‘Because it makes you look an idiot, Orhan.’
That stung. ‘And why is that, exactly?’
‘Why? You know why. Your big triumph, your enemies dead and your power displayed, and you can’t manage to walk home without someone trying to burn you to a crisp with mage fire. Do you know how long it’s been since anyone was assassinated using magery? It’s so dramatically overblown it stops even being frightening. Just goes straight to utterly and totally absurd.’
‘But it failed.’
‘But that hardly matters. You think you can keep a grip on the city with this going on around you? People will start to laugh. You can’t ignore it.’