He could not suppress a shiver of unease. ‘What do you mean?’ He could have sworn the old man cocked a brow behind the bandage across his eyes.
‘Why… she sought you out, of course. And now you have found your way here among us. Surely you do not think this mere coincidence?’
And why did the tree fall on my house? Because the hundred other ones that fell did not, old man. We invent patterns when we look back on what has brought us to wherever we happen to be. This particular choice, or that particular turn. All in hindsight… when in truth all was mere chance. This is where people go to flee the carnage below and so — wonders of wonders — here we have all congregated. That is all there is to it, old man. Nothing more. Ivanr finished his goat’s milk. ‘Well, we simply disagree there.’
Again, the knowing, indulgent smile. ‘So you say. But it is late. I must sleep. A guard will show you a billet. Good night.’
Ivanr nodded his assent. ‘Good night. It is an honour to meet you, none the less.’
‘The honour is mine, Ivanr.’
Once the Thel had quit the tent, the Jourilan aristocrat cleared his throat.
‘Yes, Hegil,’ Beneth said, somehow conveying an exact knowledge of what the man would say.
‘You did not tell him.’
The old man shook his head. ‘That would have been too cruel.’
‘He will find out eventually — perhaps in a worse way,’ Martal warned, her voice rough and flat, perhaps from her mashed nose.
‘Perhaps,’ the old man allowed. ‘Yet he will hardly bandy his name about, nor will we. And few of the cult have reached us as yet.’
Hegil snorted. ‘The cult of Ivanr. A pacifist cult in the name of a bloodthirsty Grand Champion! Surely things have gone too far in this proliferation of schisms and sects, Beneth.’
‘Hundreds have been inspired to refuse service. How many more have been imprisoned, or tortured to death? All in his name.’ The old man shook his head in rigid finality. ‘No. I would spare him that burden. At least for as long as we dare.’
When frost glittered on the hinges of his cell door, Corlo knew it was time for them to come for him. This season the wait was not long. He was meditating. Though the otataral torc at his neck precluded all access to the Warrens, as did the malign watchful presence of the Lady, he could still practise the mental disciplines that facilitated and deepened his reach.
The lock clattered and the door grated open to reveal the usual Chosen guard, backed by crossbowmen. The man motioned him up. ‘Time to go.’
Corlo eased himself from the cold stone floor, straightened his jerkin. ‘Time to move him?’
As usual, the Korelri did not answer. They marched him through the rambling tunnels of cells and storerooms; this time they passed many open doors, doors normally shut and locked at any other time of the year. What he saw puzzled him greatly: empty… so many empty rooms!
Outside, the cold clasped his throat like an enemy and Corlo gasped. Hood take them, but the Riders were upon them with a vengeance. His guards pushed him on to the stone stairs up to the barracks behind the jumbled rock slope at the wall’s base. It was a familiar path, the way to Bars’ chambers, and Corlo dragged his heels to enjoy the too brief period of relative freedom.
A troop of impressed guardsmen — shackled veterans of the wall — was coming down. A man came abreast and Corlo’s breath caught in recognition even as the man’s mouth opened in shocked mute surprise. Halfpeck! Corlo craned his neck to watch the man descend. Shackled at the ankles, the fellow Crimson Guardsman thrust up a fist, defiant, waving.
Corlo answered that fist with his own. The stock of a crossbow struck his head, sending him stumbling on. Halfpeck living! How many more might there still be? Last he’d been sure there were seven including him and Bars. All of the Blade alone. Of the fate of the crew, he knew little. Bars insisted on treating the surviving crew of their ship, the Ardent, as part of his command. But for his part, Corlo really only counted the Blade. Perhaps Halfpeck knew of others… where was that contingent headed?
Corlo climbed the stairs, his mind seething. And where might each survivor be? Where among the thousands of bodies and leagues of wall could they be hidden? Should he slip free of the otataral he might know in an instant — but so too would the Lady become aware of him. And he’d seen too much of the cruel insanity that resulted from her touch to risk that.
At the door to Bars’ quarters the Chosen ordered the crossbow be pressed against Corlo’s head, then banged the pommel of his sword to the boards. No one answered.
After a time the Chosen motioned for Corlo to speak. ‘It’s me, Corlo. They’re here to move you.’
Nothing from the other side. The Chosen unlatched the bar that crossed the door, lowered it, and stepped back. The door swung open, pushed from within.
Corlo stared, appalled. His commander’s hair hung in a ropy unwashed tangle. His eyes glared beneath, red- rimmed and bleary. A grey beard added decades to his appearance, not to mention the stained and torn linen shirt hanging loose. He held an earthenware jug in one fist. This he threw over a shoulder to fall somewhere with a crash. ‘Off to winter quarters, are we?’
The crossbow rammed its warning hard against the back of Corlo’s head. Corlo raised his hands. ‘Take it easy, Commander. Just a short walk.’
Weaving, Bars waved his reassurances. ‘Yes, yes. A nice ocean view for me, hey?’
The Chosen pointed the way with his naked blade.
The entire march up to the main walk of the wall Corlo wrestled with the decision whether to tell or not. He’d seen Halfpeck! How many more survivors might there be? Yet how much of a favour would the news be?
They walked a stretch of the main marshalling pavement, the top of the wall proper, just behind the raised walkways of the outer machicolations. Corlo felt the waves pounding up through his boots and icy drops burned his cheeks. Pennants hung heavy and stiff, already sheathed in frozen spray. Soldiers from all parts of the subcontinent came and went: Jourilan, Dourkan, Styggian, and others. These were honoured veterans, but not true Korelri Chosen of the Stormguard. Those could be seen up on the walls. Every twenty paces stood an erect figure wrapped in its deep-blue cloak, tall silver-chased spear held upright, facing the sea.
The Chosen assigned to lead their party directed them along the curve of the curtain wall to the nearby tower, the Tower of Stars, the main garrison of this section of the Stormwall.
As they entered its narrow stone passages and stairways, again Corlo was stricken. Should he tell? Opportunities were rapidly dwindling. Soon they would reach Bars’ holding cell. Indeed, it was not long before the Chosen called a halt and unlatched an ironbound door.
Bars stood eyeing the man, a crooked, almost fey grin on his lips. Corlo’s breath caught. Gods, no — don’t do it! The Chosen stepped away, gestured him in with his blade. Bars’ glacier-blue eyes shifted to Corlo and the mage winced to see seething rage, yes, and a bright fevered tinge of madness, but no despair. No flat resignation. He made his decision then.
Bars entered and the door was pushed shut behind him.
Corlo would wait for despair.
As he and Captain Peles rode through Unta’s yawning north gate, Rillish had to admit that the capital’s rebuilding was coming along well. One had to give this new Emperor his due. In the wake of the emergencies and chaos of the Insurrection — as it had come to be known — the plenipotentiary authorities the man so generously granted himself had allowed him to brush aside any resistance to his plans. He probably now had more personal authority than the old Emperor ever did.
And the capital’s old attitude of arrogant superiority was, if anything, even greater now. Captain Peles and he at the van of their troop had to press their way forward through an indifferent — even dismissive — mass of foot traffic and general cartage. It was an experience of the capital new to Rillish, who most recently had been a member of the Wickan delegation to the throne. Then, he had travelled with an honour guard of the Clans. Then, much scowling and moustache-brushing from his escort had met the harsh stares and glowers of the citizens. The veterans assigned as his bodyguard had savoured it. But Rillish had been disheartened. Was there to be no accord between these mistrusting neighbours?
