Fiddler shook his head. ‘No, this is even better. He looses his quarrel, the man goes down. We rush out, throw five or six sharpers, then wheel and back into the alley-away as fast as we can. The survivors rush up, crowd the alley mouth, and Gesler hits ‘em from behind with another five or six sharpers.’
‘Beautiful, Fid. But how’s Gesler gonna know-’
‘He’ll work it out.’ Fiddler turned and gestured Corabb forward.
A freshly appointed Finadd of the Main Garrison, standing five paces from Atri-Preda Beshur, turned from reviewing his squads to see an aide’s head twitch, sparks flying from his helm, and then Finadd Gart, who was beside the Atri-Preda, shrieked. He was holding up one hand, seemingly right in Beshur’s face, and there was a quarrel stub jutting from that hand, and blood was gushing down Beshur’s face-as the Atri-Preda staggered back, the motion pulling Gart’s hand with him. For the quarrel was buried in Beshur’s forehead.
The new Finadd, nineteen years of age and now the ranking officer of this full-strength unit, stared in disbelief.
Shouts, and he saw figures appearing at the mouth of an alley a ways down the street. Five, six in all, rushing forward with rocks in their hands-
Pointing, the Finadd screamed the order to countercharge, and then he was running at the very head of. his soldiers, waving his sword in the air.
Thirty paces.
Twenty.
The rocks flew out, arced towards them. He ducked one that sailed close past his right shoulder and then, suddenly deaf, eyes filled with grit, he was lying on the cobbles and there was blood everywhere. Someone stumbled into his line of sight, one of his soldiers. The woman’s right arm dangled from a single thin strip of meat, and the appendage swung wildly about as the woman did a strange pirouette before promptly sitting down.
She looked across at him, and screamed.
The Finadd sought to climb to his feet, but something was wrong. His limbs weren’t working, and now there was a fire in his back-someone had lit a damned fire there-. why would they do that? Searing heat reaching down, through a strange numbness, and the back of his head was wet.
Struggling with all his will, he brought one hand up behind, to settle the palm on the back of his head.
And found his skull entirely gone.
Probing, trembling fingers pushed into some kind of pulped matter and all at once the burning pain in his back vanished.
He could make things work again, he realized, and pushed some more, deeper.
Whatever he then touched killed him.
As Fiddler led his squad into a seeming rout, with fifty or sixty Letherii soldiers charging after them, Gesler raised his hand, which held a burner. Aye, messy, but there were a lot of them, weren’t there?
Fiddler and his marines made it into the alley, tore off down it.
A crowd of Letherii reached the mouth, others pushing up behind them.
And munitions flew, and suddenly the street was a conflagration.
Without waiting, and as a gust of fierce heat swept over them, Gesler turned and pushed Stormy to lead the retreat.
Running, running hard.
They’d find the next street and swing right, come up round the other side of the walled compound. Expecting to see Fiddler and his own soldiers waiting opposite them again. More alley mouths, and just that much closer to the palace.
‘We got gold, damn you!’
‘Everybody’s got that,’ replied the barkeep, laconic as ever.
Hellian glared at him. ‘What kinda accent is that?’
‘The proper kind for the trader’s tongue, which makes one of us sound educated and I suppose that’s something.’
‘Oh, I’ll show you something!’ She drew out her corporal’s sword, giving him a hard push on the chest to clear the weapon, then hammered the pommel down on the bartop. The weapon bounced up from her hand, the edge scoring deep across Hellian’s right ear. She swore, reached up and saw her hand come away red with blood. ‘Now look what you made me do!’
‘And I suppose I also made you invade our empire, and this city, and-’
‘Don’t be an idiot, you ain’t that important. It was the winged monkeys did that.’
The barkeep’s thin, overlong face twisted slightly as he arched a single brow.
Hellian turned to her corporal. ‘What kinda sword you using, fool? One that don’t work right, that’s what kind, I’d say.’
‘Aye, Sergeant.
‘Sorry, Sergeant.’
‘Aye and sorry don’t cut it with me, Corporal. Now get that sword outa my sight.’
‘Did you hear it coming?’ another one of her soldiers asked.
‘What? What’s that supposed to mean, Boatsnort?’
‘Uh, my name’s-’
‘I just told you your name!’
‘Nothing, Sergeant. I didn’t mean nothing.’
The barkeep cleared his throat. ‘Now, if you are done with jabbering amongst yourselves, you can kindly leave. As I said before, this tavern is dry-’,
‘They don’t make taverns dry,’ Hellian said.
‘I’m sure you didn’t say that quite right-’
‘Corporal, you hearing all this?’
‘Yes.
‘Aye.’
‘Good. String this fool up. By his nostrils. From that beam right there.’
‘By his nostrils, Sergeant?’
‘That you again, Snortface?’
Hellian smiled as the corporal used four arms to grab the barkeep and drag him across the counter. The man was suddenly nowhere near as laconic as he was a moment ago. Sputtering, clawing at the hands gripping him, he shouted, ‘Wait! Wait!’
Everyone halted.
‘In the cellar,’ the man gasped.
‘Give my corporal directions and proper ones,’ Hellian said, so very satisfied now, except for her dribbling ear, but oh, if any of her soldiers got out of line she could pick the scab and bleed all over them and wouldn’t they feel just awful about it and then do exactly what she wanted them to do, ‘which is guard the door.’
‘Sergeant?’
‘You heard me, guard the door, so we’re not disturbed.’
‘Who are we on the lookout for?’ Snivelnose asked. Ain’t nobody-’
‘The captain, who else? She’s probably still after us, damn her.’
Memories, Icarium now understood, were not isolated things. They did not exist within high-walled compartments in a mind. Instead, they were like the branches of a tree, or perhaps a continuous mosaic on a floor that one could play light over, illuminating patches here and there.
Yet, and he knew this as well, for others that patch of light was vast and bright, encompassing most of a life, and although details might be blurred, scenes made hazy and uncertain with time, it was, nevertheless, a virtual entirety. And from this was born a sense of a self.
Which he did not possess and perhaps had never possessed. And in the grip of such ignorance, he was as malleable as a child. To be used; to be, indeed, abused. And many had done so, for there was power in Icarium, far too much power.
Such exploitation was now at an end. All of Taralack Veed’s exhortations were as wind in the distance, and he was not swayed. The Gral would be Icarium’s last companion.
He stood in the street, all of his senses awakened to the realization that he knew this place, this modest
