Caine Black Knife

outlet of the Fist of God reservoir, far upland on the plateau. The Fist of God is a vast crater-meteor impact, maybe, or some ancient volcanic hiccup-that went deep enough to penetrate the bedrock water table that fed the river. My river. Now it’s a great big pool, because Ma’elKoth corked the entire fucking river down here with this immense goddamn fortress.

Those sally bridges-light and graceful as they looked from down here-were actually immense high-pressure enclosed aqueducts. The highest joined the escarpment where the river used to be a waterfall. The lower five channeled some of the water back to the face of Hell, making five little rivers that spilled down through the vertical city for the grills to drink from and crap in; most of the river’s water churned down through the center of the Spire in a series of columns that hydraulically powered all manner of the vast fortress’s inner workings, from internal gates and portcullises to water cannon on the sally bridges to elevators big enough to shift entire companies of armored cavalry.

And then the river was graciously allowed to boil out from beneath the fortress and wind its way through the canal system into the city and the estates beyond, and frankly, the whole thing made me a little sick to my stomach.

Because that was where we were going. I knew it from the very steps of the vigilry. “Straight to the Spire, huh?”

“The Eternal Vaunt of the Order of Khryl is our destination,” Markham affirmed stiffly. “Only the vulgar name it the Spire.”

“The vulgar name it some other shit too.”

Markham’s selective deafness still seemed to be working just fine. “It would serve you, as an Ankhanan, to show reverence; you may not be aware that the Eternal Vaunt was created for us by your own patron god Ma’elKoth, after our Glory at Ceraeno-”

“Before he was a god, even. Yeah, I know.” I couldn’t help but know: the story bubbled to the surface of my mind like a fart in a bathtub. “ToaPhelathon had him build it for the Order to keep you out of the Plains War. Biggest bribe in the bistory of Home.”

Markham’s nearside eyebrow arched a millimeter. “The Prince-Regent gifted the Order with the Eternal Vaunt out of gratitude for the Order’s role in crushing the Khulan Horde-”

“Yeah. Sure. Toa-Phelathon gets Jheled-Kaarn, Harrakha, and Ironhold, and the Order gets the most spectacular fortress on Home. Smartest thing the old bastard ever did; probably won the war for him.”

“If so,” Markham murmured with a sidelong glance, “it is a pity he did not live to enjoy it.”

“Yeah. Pity.”

“There is a persistent rumor,” he said consideringly, “that the Prince-Regent’s death did not come at the hands of agents of the disaffected nobility hoping to control Tel-Tamarantha-that he was, in fact, assassinated by a Monastic Esoteric.”

My voice went as empty as Markham’s eyes. “I wouldn’t know.”

“The rumor goes that the First Ankhanan Succession War was actually engineered by the Council of Brothers for the express purpose of placing the Incarnate Ma’elKoth on the Oaken Throne.”

Behind my blandly disbelieving smile, I monologued to my audience of one, *Somehow it’s always about you and me, huh?*

An edge of uneasiness shaved away the irony. I don’t often let myself think about the fractal web of destiny that interweaves my life with Ma’elKoth’s. Examining it too closely only makes me queasy. And fucking pissed. There’s a reckoning I owe, there.

One of these days. .

“For my part, I find it an unlikely tale,” Markham said. “The Monasteries would hardly be interested in increasing the power of a god.”

“He wasn’t exactly a god at the time.” Which is part of what made me a little sick. Still does. He’d built the fucking Spire while he was still human. More or less.

“A god is a god, always and entire, incarnate or no. To the gods, time is a dream.”

“It’s a swell theory.”

Markham sniffed. “I will not debate theogony with an Ankhanan.”

“Good thing, too. On this subject I can kick anybody’s ass.”

The sinking sun cast bloody shadows across half-empty streets. Humans made way for us with inclined heads and tugged forelocks. Ogrilloi crumpled into instant submission and kept to their knees until the regard of the Lord Righteous had passed them by.

The whitestone approach to the Spire’s main gate was a maze of interleaved sandbag berms, piled chest- high; every fold of the long winding queue was exposed to the silver-chased barrels of rifles that made sunset flames along the first rung of battlements, and to the black gapes of cannon above. Mounted armsmen paced their snorting horses around sandbag-walled paddocks, long guns propped on hauberked hipbones. Wagons and carts drawn by yoked teams of ogrilloi inched through inspection at a single checkpoint staffed by two Knights and a scurrying crew of examiners who wore metal-framed goggles that looked like simplified versions of the customs officers’ loupes. Wagons passed through by the inspectors were walked to a broad parking area. Gangs of ogrilloi unloaded them case by case and barrel by barrel and box by box, hand-carrying each piece into the Spire.

I got it when I finally caught sight of the main gate. What was left of the main gate.

A shattered gape in the Spire’s face. Blackened and empty.

Desk-size blocks of dressed stone stood in huge stacks to one side. Some had been fitted already to mend the walls and build again the missing archway. The join of new stone and old was clearly visible, despite what must have been a week or two of scrubbing; the older stone bore brownish ghosts of scorchmarks.

Must have been one serious bomb.

I sidled close to Markham and nodded at the gate. “A wagon, right? Maybe a carriage. No driver. Just horses. A runaway, right up the street-”

“Freeman Shade-”

“That why ogrilloi haul your wagons?” I admired the efficiency: hostages as draft animals. And the reverse.

“Freeman, the Champion awaits.”

I was still looking at the shattered gate. “What’re you gonna do once they decide it’s worth dying to take a chunk out of you?”

The Lord Righteous squinted down at me as though something had unexpectedly come into focus, but he made no reply.

That was answer enough.

Berms and bunkers. Checkpoints and sharpshooters.

More than enough.

Fading echoes, inside my head-

a good death.

honor on my clan.

“All right, shit. I am a dumbass.” My wave took in the desperately screweddown antiterror fortifications. “Orbek figures into this somewhere, doesn’t he?”

Markham didn’t answer.

My mouth had gone dry, and the fist in my guts had turned to brick. “Markham?”

Markham only kept walking.

“Hey, goddammit, I’m talking to you-”

“And I am not answering, Freeman Shade. I am tasked to see to your wounds and deliver your person unto the Champion. And no more.” The unsubtle emphasis was accompanied by a quickening of his already brisk pace.

“Come on, give me a hint, huh?”

Markham stopped. His oiled-steel stare followed his long Lipkan nose. “Why should I?”

“Maybe to not be an asshole one day of your life?”

“Freeman, you are rude, disrespectful, and vulgar. Not to mention foulmouthed. Where in your manner will I find an inclination to do you a favor?”

“Shit, if I said something like that to you, we’d have to fight now-”