Above the outlying spread of Vyenese houses, neat little homes with wooden shingles and log piles stacked to the eaves against the coming of winter, came the stink of burning. In many places hearth-smoke rose white from stone chimneys, but in others the smoke lifted in black and angry clouds. Horror stalked the streets, rose earth-covered from family graves, crept in from field and forest. The Dead King’s tide swept in from the west, true enough, from the Drowned Isles, through Ancrath and Gelleth, through Attar, Charland and the Reichs, but it also rose from the very ground, as if a dark ocean waited below the soil, fathoms deep, and now swelled from the depths at the Dead King’s call, lifting the fallen from their tombs.
At Vyene’s gates guard units in their golds thundered past in both directions. News came from west to east. Reinforcements, regular army units from Conquence in the main, made the march east to west. More Gilden Guard manned the gate than would be necessary even at Congression. Additional troops lined the walls, archers with an even mix of longbow and crossbow. They’d clearly had little experience if they thought arrows would stop the dead.
‘Hurry through, madam, you’re the last and we’re to seal the gates.’ The gate captain waved the column on, with no concern for any report from the captains of the escort, no demand that they explain their thinned number or ragged formation. Not even the lack of followers sparked his interest: perhaps he thought they had sought shelter along the way or hurried to arrive ahead of the guard.
Thantos’s carriage rumbled through without remark, though the men closest to it paled, despair soaking into them through their skins.
On through the broad streets of Vyene, onto the wideness of West Street beneath the Western Arch. The grandeur on all sides worked its own magic on Chella. For all her long life she had seen nothing close. Hers were the graveyards and the mire, the bones of forgotten men and the tombs erected to their memory. In the face of such works of men as these she knew herself dirty and small, a bone-picker, a thing of nightmare and of the dark.
‘The Dead King will make a necropolis here.’ It made her feel better to speak the words. Not that she wanted to live always amongst the returned – with life pulsing through her the thought made her stomach roil – but the sheer wonder of Vyene insulted her existence in ways beyond explanation and she would rather see it dust than endure the judgment of its empty windows.
Another contingent of guards passed them as they neared the end of West Street where it opened onto a vast square. Several hundred men, a thousand maybe, riding hard, with the Lord Commander at their head. The Dead King had mentioned Lord Commander Hemmet, spoken of the cloak and staff that would mark him out. A man to watch.
Riding to the palace it seemed that the dome would never grow closer, that its size went from incredible to impossible as they advanced. At one point, perhaps halfway between the distant mansions and the greatness of the palace, the flagstones lay stained with blood. Some effort had been taken to clean the area but the smell of slaughter is hard to disguise. A pulse of dark joy broke from the carriage, brief and then gone, but enough to set the horses pitching and jumping in fear. These deaths pleased the lichkin. A potential foe erased. The wind still carried fortune with it from the west.
Chella’s troop closed on their station, the last to be filled, just to the left of the Empire Gate. They turned from their allotted path only at the final moment, and rode at a walk into the grand entrance before the gate. The thin gold line of duty-guards fell into disarray, confused at their comrades from the road dismounting in the grand entrance. Before they had much to say about it the lichkin stepped from his carriage and all the men’s attention became drawn to him as a man will stare at the bloody stump where his thumb was before he cut it off.
50
‘This has to be fast.’
‘It’s been a hundred and twenty-eight years so far, King Jorg,’ Taproot said. ‘And we’ve not come close to selecting an emperor. Whatever this Congression throws up, fast is the one thing you can count on it not being.’
‘We’ve no time. Can’t you feel it?’ It beat in me like a drum, the threat, the danger, drawing closer.
Taproot offered only wide eyes and blank incomprehension. ‘The guard surround us …’
‘It has to be done fast.’ I ran my eye over the throng, the high and the mighty. ‘Who leads the biggest faction?’
‘I would say you do,’ Taproot said. ‘Watch me.’ An afterthought.
‘Well that’s good. And then?’
‘Czar Moljon, the Queen of Red, and Costos of the Port Kingdoms. Your father also commanded considerable support.’
I spotted my grandfather amongst the crowd, Miana at his side. ‘Moljon is broken – his followers will be looking for new alliances. The queen is outside … Costos it is then. Point him out for me.’
For some reason I had expected a peacock but Costos stood taller than me, with a warrior’s build, clad neck to toe in burnished steel mail, enamelled across the breastplate with a sunburst behind a black ship, the detail exquisite.
‘Are there laws about approaching the throne?’ I asked.
‘What? Yes – no, I don’t think so. Any fool knows not to.’ Taproot’s unease lived in his fingertips, pulling at hair, buttons, ties.
I walked over to the dais, slow enough, with Taproot flustering behind. Up the steps in two skips and I stood before the throne. ‘I hope you can hear me, Fexler. I want to know if you can work the
