Rate said suddenly, ‘Remind me never, ever to get into any kind of drinking contest with you, Marith, boy.’
It broke some of the tension. The others laughed. Marith laughed too. A sense of peace spread over him, sitting here in this pretty garden, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle, the other things seemed far away from him. He ate a little more bread and drank some water.
‘We need to go out,’ Tobias said. ‘Get a few things. Think you can manage that without throwing up in the street?’
Marith nodded. Lines of fire flickering painfully across his vision. Probably. If he didn’t have to think too hard or speak too much. ‘A drink would help’, he almost said, then shut his mouth on it.
‘You may not be surprised to hear we are all coming with you,’ Tobias went on.
Oh yes. Obviously. The cage door closing, so loud it rang in his head.
Alxine said, ‘What about Emit? Someone ought to stay here, case he comes back.’
Three faces looked embarrassed. Alxine was simply too nice for his own good in some ways. A rather sad attribute in a professional killer.
Alxine scowled at them: ‘What? What?’
‘If he comes back, he can cope on his own for a while,’ Tobias said carefully. ‘But I wouldn’t pin my hopes on it, you get me, Alxine?’
‘It’s not hopes,’ said Alxine with a flush. ‘I never even really liked him. I just can’t believe he’d just disappear. He’s been with the Company for years. Where else has he got to go?’
‘Where else have any of us got to go?’ said Rate loudly. Marith almost choked on his cup of water.
‘That’s two of the men I shared a tent with,’ Alxine went on mournfully. ‘First Newlin gets flame-grilled by a dragon, now Emit just vanishes into thin air. It’s like some bloody curse.’ He looked at Marith. ‘You’d better look out, you know.’ Marith almost choked again and Rate kicked him under the table. Tobias coughed loudly.
‘It’s like having a particularly dangerous job, is what it is,’ said Rate. ‘You want a profound and total lack of people violently dying on you, try dairy farming instead.’
‘You can’t just assume he’s dead.’
‘If he turns up, he turns up,’ said Tobias firmly. ‘If he doesn’t, he doesn’t. But we can’t waste any more time looking for him. And if everyone’s ready, we’ll go out now.’
Swords. The crucial thing to buy was swords. One for Marith, one for Tobias, the blades they had had having been ruined by the dragon’s blood, the metal corroded and desiccated, felt both too light and too heavy at the same time. Brittle like burnt bone. The armourer’s shop recommended to them was a long walk through prosperous, tree-lined streets busy with plump merchants and pretty women in fine silk. The stink of hot metal was crisp in the sunshine as they approached. Marith took a deep breath. Always liked the smell, scorched and sweet, a smell of his childhood, watching the forge at Malth Elelane, the leaping sparks, the crash of iron, the master smith drawing shapes in the molten bronze. Dragon smell. Closest thing to dragons, smiths and metal workers and bellows boys. Still worshipped, smiths, in some parts of the White Isles.
The goods on display here were plain and simply made but high quality. Lots of money involved in this thing. The whole company had strong suspicions of what they were likely to be doing, and the more money involved, the more obvious it was. Imperial assassination, thought Marith: his father would laugh until his sides ached if he knew what he was about.
Tobias nudged him in the small of his back. ‘Go on then, boy. Here we are. Just be yourself, yeah?’
Ah, ha-ha. Marith shot him a dark look and stepped into the armourer’s. The other three followed him in. It was very gloomy inside, after the sunlight, and he blinked, his vision fading and twisting for a moment, his head spinning. He clutched at the doorframe to steady himself. Walked slowly forward. The armourer strode up to him, wiping his hands on his thick leather apron, taking in his fine coat, his face, his tired eyes.
‘Can I help you, My Lord?’ Respectful, head bowed in greeting. It seemed a long time since he had been addressed properly like this. Seen at once for what he was. He’d almost forgotten, already, the bright power of it.
‘I need swords for my men. Something for myself, as well.’ Marith looked around haughtily, gazing with disdain at the merchandise on offer. He spoke in Literan, carefully better than the armourer’s own. ‘I have been told that your products are not entirely badly made.’
He’d had a sword, once, of course. A beautiful sword. Silver tracery on the hilt, and a single ruby the same black-red as his hair. A fine, thin blade, light as water, cruel as tears, the metal so dark it seemed to eat the light. A gift from his mother’s kin. In a fit of intense, wine-sodden melancholy, he’d named it ‘Sorrow’. Carin had laughed at him for days, but even after the drink had worn off the name had stuck irreparably. It just seemed to fit. The sword, and the way it felt in his hand.
Which was something of a joke in itself, given what he’d eventually done with it.
‘If My Lord will see here, the grip?’ the armourer was saying. Marith pulled his attention back to the shop. The man held a short sword out to him. The hilt was plain metal, worked at the pommel with the design of a star. The blade was long for its type, tapered, a ribbon of brilliant white bronze. The grip, on which the armourer’s attention was focused, was bound round with red leather, cunningly wrought into the metal. A good sword. Marith took it and made a few strokes. It was bright in his hand. The blade made a very slight hiss as it moved through the air. A very good sword.
Also a very expensive sword. He looked quickly at Tobias, who looked back at him and made a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Marith sighed. He sheathed the sword lovingly and handed it back. ‘It is a beautiful thing. But I’m afraid to say I am in need of something a little cheaper.’ Tobias’s hand flickered. ‘Quite a lot cheaper.’ Tight bastard, Marith thought.
The armourer looked disappointed. The sword was whipped away and replaced in Marith’s hands with a more standard piece. Marith made a few experimental strokes again. Much less interesting. The other had been special, this was just a bit of metal you might use to kill someone. A good metaphor for his own change of status, then. So perhaps fitting after all. He could call it ‘Ruin’.
Tobias got one too, and a long thin-bladed knife. They bought half-helms as well, light smooth things like eggshell that pressed on the scalp. His father had a great helm, the metal tempered black, surmounted by a leather plume in the shape of a dragon. It looked like a diseased face. He’d been frightened of it, as a child, until he realized that it was just metal and cow skin shaped to the skull. His father was still his father inside it, hot with sweat dripping down his forehead. No magic in it. No horror. Just a lump of hammered bronze. But he hated it. The idea of being enclosed in it. Trapped.