‘And you think…’
Illata tossed back his wine. ‘Dammit, man, isn't it obvious. The Claws! She goes too far!’
‘Illata!’ This from several of the men.
A raised bare arm from Quail brought silence. ‘Regardless of who – ’ he eyed Mallick ‘- or how… we need men and materiel to guard our lands. If we cannot push emergency measures through the Assembly to gain them then we are forced to act independently.’
‘The emperor forbade all private armies,’ Mallick observed, setting down his empty glass.
‘Nonetheless, Grisan nobles are massing on our eastern border. Our intelligence has it they command a “bodyguard” of over four thousand men. And she has done nothing.’
‘We need the Imperial Arsenal,’ said Illata. ‘And we are prepared to take it.’
‘Much we have speculated on this in our confidence, of course, yet-’
‘No more talk,’ cut in Illata. ‘The plan is in motion. We will hold the arsenal by dawn.’
Mallick regarded the tense gleaming faces arrayed before him. ‘I see. And I, like a goat to the slaughter, shall be the one you would push forward?’ His sibilant voice fell even further, ‘Are you all still so terrified?’
‘Your, ah, influence, is known. You will speak for us. We mean no disloyalty. We merely wish to defend our own. All costs to Imperial coffers will be redeemed.’
‘Very well. I shall humbly bow before her as spokesman and beg our case. There may be complications though, you understand. The arsenal is guarded.’
Illata swept his cloak over his shoulder. ‘We understand. It is to be regretted, yet it is unavoidable.’
Mallick gave the slightest of bows. ‘Then the chaff is cast upon the waters. We each have our assigned fates. Let us go see what the currents may bring.’
After the men had left the chamber a woman in a dark plain tunic and leggings entered by a side-door. ‘Your orders?’ she asked. Mallick refilled his glass then turned. At the woman's chest the small silver sigil of a bird's foot grasping a pearl glimmered in the lamplight; Mallick studied that one bright point of light.
‘Send word to all the – well, the glove has become the hand now, has it not? Send word to our Hands. Corrupt officials will be attempting to steal munitions from the arsenal this night. Assassinate them all, enslave their families and confiscate all assets and possessions to the Throne. All in the name of the Empress, of course.’
‘And the Empress?’
‘The matter is too small to concern her.’
The woman inclined her head. ‘So it shall be.’ At the door, she turned. ‘Strange that none of us visited Imry on any night. What make you of that, Mallick?’
The priest's thick lips turned down as he examined the liquid gold in his glass. ‘Laseen must still have her loyal followers among the Claw, Coil. They must be rooted out.’
‘Yes. We have our suspicions.’
Mallick's gaze rose, his round face bright in the lantern light. ‘Oh? Who?’
‘Possum, among others.’
Smiling, Mallick set the glass down. ‘Ah, yes. Possum. Your superior now that Pearl is gone. He remains.’
The woman stood motionless while the lanterns sputtered and flickered at the centre of the room. Finally, she allowed herself a stiff half bow. ‘So be it – for the time.’ Yet she did not leave; Mallick pushed his hands into the sash across his wide stomach. ‘Yes, Coil?’
‘It occurs to us, Mallick, that with this night you will be in control of the Imperial Assembly. You perforce command the Claw. Therefore, there are those among us who wonder – when will you… act?’
‘Past failures in Seven Cities and elsewhere have impressed upon me the harsh lesson of patience, Coil. Instruction I, more than any, ought to have appreciated long ago. But, as you say, I command already. Why then act at all?’
‘She would not show such restraint.’
He waved Coil away. ‘Her chance missed. Now none remain. Go!’
In the doldrums of the Southern Rust Sea, a slave galley, the Ardent, came across a sodden raft. The galley's master, Hesalt, ordered the lashed fragments brought alongside. A sailor searched among the sprawled bodies.
‘How many live?’ Hesalt called down.
The sailor straightened and even from far to the bow Hesalt could see the wonder on his upturned face. ‘The God of the Deep's mercy. Every one! Eleven living souls!’
The Twins smiled upon them, whoever they are, Hesalt reflected. But he considered himself lucky as well – eleven warm bodies for the shackles. ‘Give them water and food then throw them below.’
‘Aye, Master.’
The nine men and two women, whoever they were, recovered with amazing speed. One, a burly scarred fellow – a veteran obviously – even pulled himself upright when a sailor came with a ladle of sweet water. ‘I demand to see the captain,’ he rasped in a passable north Genabackan dialect of the East Coast.
‘The captain is nothing to you now, friend,’ whispered the sailor. ‘You live, but the price is your freedom.’
The man knew to take only a small sip to wet his throat. ‘Tell your captain I demand that he set sail for Stratem at once.’
Those nearby laughed. The sailor took in the castaway's cracked and oozing skin, burnt almost black across his shoulders. How many weeks marooned under this pitiless sun! Amazing the fellow was even conscious. No wonder he was delirious. ‘Lay back, heal. Thank Oponn for your life.’
‘What is your name, sailor?’
‘Jemain.’
‘You are a compassionate man, Jemain. Therefore, I warn you – stand aside.’
Something in the man's eyes quelled Jemain's laugh. The castaway pushed himself to his feet, staggered but, with a groan, righted himself. ‘See to my men,’ he croaked.
The crew watched amused while the castaway made his laborious way to the stern. There, he stopped and stood swaying before the gaze of an old man at the tiller flanked by guards in leather armour who watched him, arms crossed, mouths downturned. ‘Who is the captain of this slave-scow?’ he asked of the old man.
‘That would be Master Hesalt of the Southern Confederacies.’
‘That's enough from you,’ said one of the guards. ‘Turn around or we'll whip the burnt flesh off your back.’
‘How many guards does he travel with?’
Brows rising, the tillerman replied, ‘Eight.’
The guards pulled truncheons from their belts – no edged weapons that might damage the merchandise. The first to swing had his head grasped in both of the castaway's hands and twisted until a wet noise announced the neck breaking. The second guard beat the man about his shoulders, tearing the burnt skin and raising a sluggish flow of dark blood. But the man ignored the blows until he managed to grasp one forearm, which he twisted, snapping. Then he drove his fingers up under the guard's chin to crush his throat. The guard fell to the deck gagging and thrashing.
All this the tillerman watched without shifting his stance. ‘There's six more,’ he observed, laconically.
‘Think they'll surrender?’ the castaway gasped, drawing in great shuddering breaths.
‘Don't think that's likely.’
‘I fear you're right.’
The yells brought the remaining six stamping up the deck. They surrounded the man, beat him down to the blood-slick timbers. Yet somehow he would not stop struggling. One by one he dragged the guards down. He bashed heads to the decking, throttled necks, clawed eyes from sockets, until the last one flinched away, his face pale with superstitious dread.
‘Back off!’ shouted a new voice.
The man pulled himself to his feet. Blood ran from him, his skin hung in cracked ribbons down his back and shoulders. Master Hesalt stood covering him with a levelled crossbow. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
The man felt about in his mouth, pulled out a bloodied tooth. ‘My name wouldn't mean a damn thing to you. You going to shoot that, or not?’