Gil yawned. Judging by the dismal failure of Jhiral s other assassins, yeah, I d say so.
Then you can t go in there alone!
Why not? He turned his head on the pillow and looked across at the Dragonbane. They fall down just like men, remember. I ve killed dwenda before.
Not alone!
Eg, look. Ringil sighed. Propped himself up on his elbows. Be reasonable. Even if they would let you out of here, there s a hole in your leg the size of a tent flap, the rest of you looks like it got chewed up and spat out by steppe ghouls. You re in no condition to get in a fight with anyone right now.
I was managing pretty fucking well before you came along.
Yeah, I noticed that.
Nearly took two of those fuckers at the same time up at Afa marag.
So you said.
Killed one with my bare hands at Ennishmin.
Eg! He propped himself up farther, met the Dragonbane s eyes. Held his gaze. I ll be fine. All right? Appreciate the sentiment, but I ll be fine.
They lay there, together, apart. The bars of warm orange light over their heads went on retreating, sliding away. The breeze coming in through the window turned cool.
And if you don t make it back?
Hoiran s fucking balls, Eg! I ll be fine! You just sit tight. Couple of days at worst. I ll be back before you know it.
He heard how the Dragonbane wrestled with what he wanted to say, could almost hear it caught in his throat. He sighed. Closed his eyes.
What is it, Eg?
He heard the long breath come out of the other man. I ve seen my death, Gil. Ringil s eyes snapped open. You ve seen what?
You heard me. The hand of the Dwellers is on me. Death is coming for me, I ve seen it.
Oh, give me a fucking break! Ringil gestured helplessly at the cell wall. That s that s a bunch of superstitious Majak horseshit. Seen your death. Take another fucking dragon to kill you, Dragonbane.
Egar chuckled, but there wasn t much humor in it. That d be nice.
Not as I recall.
I mean it, Gil. I saw my death. I stood on the Black Folk Span and watched it rumble past me. Ast naha, carting my ale to Urann s feast.
Ringil said nothing.
Thing is that s fine. Dying s fine. Got to do it sooner or later, and I ve lived longer than most Majak do. Seen more than I ever dreamed I would. Egar sat up and faced him. But I don t want a shit death, Gil. I don t want to go murdered by inches by these southern assholes, cabled into the chair in some dungeon, or strapped out for torturers and fucking squid. I got to die, I want to die with steel in my fist, with the sun and wind on my face.
You get killed going after Menkarak with me, it ll be at night, Ringil pointed out.
You know what I fucking mean.
Yeah. And you re not going to fucking die. Ringil rolled to face him. All right? I don t know what you saw on the Span, but it means nothing. I m going out to slit Menkarak s throat and I ll be right back. After that, we re both getting out of this fucking city. Soon. All right?
But the Dragonbane made no reply, and Ringil s words sank into the gathering evening gloom like stones into dark water.
Over their heads, the last of the sunset s rays slipped away.
CHAPTER 40
Half a mile south and east of the Boulevard of the Ineffable Divine, the Citadel s nighttime influence was a palpable thing, falling over the dourly named streets as solidly as the sweep of its sundial shadow did by day. There were no brothels, taverns, or pipe houses advertising themselves as such, and carvings of opened scriptural tomes stood in every public space, lit by guttering torches bracketed in black iron. Those few women you saw out of doors were wrapped in muddy, monochrome robes that draped them like tents and covered their faces as if they were corpses. The mood in the street was somber and watchful; you didn t see much violence or laughter. Surly-looking bearded men went about in pairs with Revelation insignia pinned on their tunics and short wooden clubs swinging from their belts, making sure no one was having a good time.
All since the war, Taran Alman muttered, apparently feeling the need to apologize. Ten years back, you didn t have any of this.
He might well have been telling the truth Noyal Rakan certainly nodded agreement, but then again, ten years ago Rakan would scarcely have been shaving. Ringil really couldn t say either way, nor did he much care. He d passed through the southside a few times during the war, on the way back and forth from one deployment or another, or out to visit the Kiriath at An-Monal; but he d always ridden, had never had occasion to dismount. And on broader furlough in the city, he d never strayed farther south than Archeth s place on the Boulevard.
It didn t look as if he d missed much.
Up ahead. The other King s man, the local expert, nodded forward to where a pair of Citadel enforcers swaggered in the splashes of light from torches and shop frontages. Alley on the right, after the chandler s. Let the prick patrol get well ahead first.
They dawdled about, affecting interest in an ironmonger s wares spread out on blankets in the street. Four men in dark, unremarkable garb, faces grimed and stubbled, not rich, not poor, not anything you d think out of the ordinary unless you were looking for it closely. They d been on foot since the river a King s Reach agent there had taken their horses, provided them with nondescript cloaks, and advised Ringil to wear his over the jut of the Ravensfriend. It gave him the look of an unusually tall hunchback, and if anyone stopped to actually think about it, they d know well enough what was shrouded under the garment Rakan, Alman, and the other King s man all wore visible swords at their hip anyway but chances were no one would bother. The main thing was to cover the gleaming iridescent Kiriath alloys worked into the Ravensfriend s scabbard and hilt.
The Citadel men forged ahead of them, glowering about and occasionally accosting startled citizens. They stopped to upbraid a woman carrying water canisters with naked hands and the cuffs of her robe rolled up. Rakan crouched to examine a pair of ornate battle-axes laid out separately from the pots and pans and yard tools that made up most of the ironmonger s display.
Blessed weapons, my lord. The ironmonger moved in, sensing a sale. Consecrated for the war against the Scaled Folk by Grand Invigilator Envar Menkarak himself. See his sigil, carved here upon the shafts. It gives protection to the wielder against dragon venom, the plague, and arrow shafts dipped in filth. Sold me by a veteran of Shenshenath and Rajal Beach fallen on hard times. And if he survived Rajal, what must that say?
Ringil, who d survived Rajal Beach himself, rolled his eyes and touched Rakan lightly on the shoulder. Up the street, the Citadel men had tired of barracking the woman and were making their way into a press of street sellers farther along. Time to move.
Rakan straightened up and murmured some demurral about price.
But you have yet to make me a price, my lord, the ironmonger yelped, offended. What is fair and just? What is the holy shield of the Revelation worth to you?
Ringil leaned in. I was at Rajal, my friend. I was there. I saw Akal s Ninth Holy Scourge meet the dragons at the end breakwater. He smiled unpleasantly at the man. They melted. All of them, blessed or not.
The ironmonger wet his lips, preparing some reply. His eyes darted to the scar on Ringil s face, the hump of the sword pommel under his cloak.
I don t want any trouble, my lord, he decided.
No, you don t.
I honor the service you gave to Revelation and Empire. I repeat only what the weapons owner told me. And the sigil is genuine, vouched for.
