‘They want us to hand over our weapons,’ Regulus said in the Zatani tongue.
‘Never,’ Janto growled, eyeing the nearest green-coated guard. The man took a step back, gripping his spear the tighter.
‘It could be a trick,’ said Leandran.
Regulus nodded. ‘I know. But we have come so far. We cannot turn back now.’
Though it pained him to do it, he slowly took his sheathed sword from his belt and handed it to Seneschal Rogan. Leandran then handed over his spear, quickly followed by Akkula. Hagama and Kazul were next. Only Janto remained, his hands on the handles of his axes. All eyes were on him now, and Regulus knew any future glory hung on whether this unpredictable warrior would allow himself to be cowed by these lowly Coldlanders.
Silently, the warrior took the axes from his belt. For a fleeting moment it looked as if he would bury one of them in the head of the nearest guard, but instead he spun them in his hands, offering the handles.
As they were taken from him, Rogan bowed. ‘The queen thanks you. I can assure you she is grateful for your pledge of allegiance. Now, please eat. You said that to come here you have travelled far.’
Regulus saw that food was being brought into the hall. His men looked on hungrily; slaver dripping down Akkula’s chin as he eyed the meagre offering.
When Regulus signalled permission the Zatani moved swiftly to fall upon the food. Regulus looked back to Seneschal Rogan.
‘Take care of those weapons. We’ll want them back soon,’ he said.
‘You will have them back,’ Rogan replied, still bearing that smile. ‘The enemy is close.’ With that he smiled once more and left.
Regulus watched him go. Encompassed by dark walls and foreign warriors, he wondered which enemy Rogan was referring to.
TWENTY-THREE
It wasn’t often Merrick found himself frequenting Crown District taverns. He was more used to the hovels of Northgate where you needed to wipe your feet on the way out, or the earthy, musky, fishy dens of Dockside, where the whores had thicker beards than the men. This place was like a sweet breath of air — all polished wood and crackling fire, with the stuffed heads of assorted game glaring down at him as he drank. Merrick might even have gone so far as to say that this was the best tavern he’d ever been in — if only the wine hadn’t been so bloody expensive.
Of course, the company wasn’t too great either; Merrick was all alone at the bar. He’d never been able to stand his own company that much. Being on your own wasn’t healthy; it made you think. And Merrick was in no mood for thinking.
He’d made a fool of himself in front of his father, though that was hardly surprising; he made a fool of himself on a daily basis. But he’d so wanted old Tannick to be proud of him.
Who are you kidding, Ryder. You’re a drunken ass. You’re selfish and vain and you’d stick it in anything that flashed you a smile. Hells, you’d fuck the crack of dawn if you could get up early enough. Why would anyone show you anything but contempt?
Merrick stared down at the goblet in front of him, then drained the dregs and slammed it down on the bar. He looked across the tavern, his vision starting to go a little fuzzy round the edges. This was the best kind of drunk — enough to take the edge off, but not too much to have him reeling around spewing vomit everywhere.
He knew he’d fucked up. He was supposed to be on duty, supposed to be protecting his queen, but here he was, back to his old tricks. He’d tried to stay sober, tried to do the right thing, but it simply wasn’t working. Now he’d let Garret down, let Kaira down … he’d let the bloody queen down. Just one big, long list of failures. Why would anyone think well of him?
What bloody good was he, after all? He could barely look after himself, let alone the queen of the Free States. Garret should have put him on latrine duty, not safeguarding the most important woman in Steelhaven. Then again, he’d probably have fucked that up too; covered himself in shit and piss most likely.
What was he good at anyway? What could he do better than anyone else? That wouldn’t involve people criticising him, or judging him, or looking down on him?
‘Drink?’
Yes, that was probably about it.
Merrick looked up to see the barkeep staring at him. He had a half empty bottle of wine in his hand.
‘Why not,’ Merrick replied and slid his goblet across the bar. The barman filled it almost to the brim. ‘Why don’t you have one yourself?’
The barman looked sheepish. ‘I probably shouldn’t.’
Merrick glanced around the empty tavern. ‘Why not? Expecting a rush?’
The barman looked across the empty tavern and shrugged. He took another goblet from a shelf and filled it with what remained in the bottle. Merrick held his up and they clinked them together before taking a swig.
‘Here’s to quiet days,’ he said.
‘To quiet days,’ the barman replied. ‘Though I’m not sure how many of those we have left.’
‘Not many, I’ll wager. So we may as well make the best of it.’
The barman nodded in agreement, though he didn’t seem entirely sure. ‘I should have left this place when I had the chance,’ he confided.
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I have responsibilities,’ he replied. ‘People that rely on me.’
Responsibilities? Merrick knew about those all right and he was beginning to realise what a total pain in the arse they were. He had responsibilities that required his attention right now, but they somehow seemed unimportant next to his current woes.
There you go again, Ryder — always thinking about yourself. But then you’re the most important man in Steelhaven. Nobody else has as much on his shoulders as you, do they?
‘You’ve got family here?’ Merrick asked quickly, keen to clear his head of the daemons of his conscience. ‘Wife? Pups?’
The barman shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. But my old man’s frail and can’t travel. I have to stay and look after him.’
His old man? Bet he was a kindly old duffer too. Bet he’d always been there — a mentor, a confidante, a shoulder to cry on.
‘You two must be close then, if he’s the reason you’ve stuck around here for the Khurtas to arrive. That must be nice for you.’
The barman shot him a quizzical look. ‘Close? You must be fucking joking. The old bastard’s a millstone around my neck. I’m only hanging around for my inheritance. If I leave now I’ve got no chance of getting my hands on it.’
A smile of understanding spread across Merrick’s face. ‘I’ll drink to that, friend,’ he said, raising his cup before realising it was already empty. The barman grabbed another bottle and opened it, filling both goblets.
‘What about you then? What’s your problem?’ asked the barman.
‘What makes you think I’ve got a problem?’ Merrick replied.
The barman looked at him knowingly. ‘I’ve seen your kind a hundred times — drinking alone, when the rest of the city is going to the hells in a handcart. It’s like you don’t care. I’m guessing a woman.’
‘As much as I’ve had woman trouble aplenty — and you could say I’ve still got it — that’s not why I’m here.’ He looked at the barman, wondering whether or not it was worth the trouble of unburdening himself. But sometimes strangers were as good as priests for letting out your inner daemons — and they made you feel less guilty afterwards. ‘Let’s just say I’ve got troubles with my father too.’
‘Really? I bet mine are worse,’ said the barman.
‘I’ll take that bet,’ Merrick replied.
‘All right then. Ten coppers says the troubles I’ve got with my father are worse than yours.’
‘You’re on,’ said Merrick, offering his hand, which the barman keenly shook. ‘You first.’
‘Well, let’s see,’ said the barman thoughtfully. ‘He can’t shit nor piss on his own and he can barely feed himself. He pretends to be getting forgetful but he remembers where his coin’s hid, all right, and he’s got no intention of letting me in on that. All his assets — the house, the furniture, his stake in his business — are all tied up and if I don’t do exactly as he wants I’ll get nothing. How’s that sound?’