She frowned sideways. ‘A man who could tell more truth and eat fewer pies.’
‘Ah.’ And he rested one broad hand on his belly. ‘Profound revelations indeed.’
Rikke grinned. Had to admit she was starting to like him, even if she had no idea whether to believe a word he said. ‘What brings the First of the Magi to Adua?’
‘I have been detained far too long in the ruined West of the world by the demands of some most unreasonable siblings. They are mired in the past. Blinkered to the future. But I like to stop off in Adua whenever I can. Try to make sure no one is destroying what I have built.’ He narrowed his eyes across the bay, crammed with vessels of every shape, size and design. ‘People’s capacity for self-harm never ceases to amaze me. They love to find their own path, even if it clearly leads off a cliff. And the Union has many enemies.’
Rikke raised her brows at the endless city. ‘Who’d be fool enough to make war on this?’
‘The Gurkish, before their empire collapsed like an undercooked meringue. And Bethod, against my advice. Then Black Dow, against my advice. Then Black Calder. Against my advice.’
‘Seems your advice ain’t as popular as you’d like,’ said Rikke, glancing sideways.
Bayaz gave a disappointed sigh, like the governess in Ostenhorm when she tried to explain to Rikke what deportment was. ‘People must sometimes be allowed to make their own mistakes.’
She shielded her eyes against the spray as they cut through the mad confusion of shipping towards the swarming docks. She could hear the faint din of voices bellowing and wagons rumbling and cargo hitting the wharves.
‘How many live here?’ she whispered.
‘Thousands.’ The First of the Magi shrugged. ‘Millions maybe, now, building upwards and bloating outwards every day. Eclipsing even the great cities of old for scale, if not for splendour. People from every land within the Circle of the World. Dark-skinned Kantics fleeing the chaos in Gurkhul, pale Northmen seeking work and people of the Old Empire seeking new beginnings. Adventurers from the new kingdom of Styria, traders from the Thousand Isles, people of Suljuk, and Thond, where they worship the sun. More than can be counted – living, dying, working, breeding, climbing one upon the other. Welcome,’ and Bayaz spread his arms wide to encompass the monstrous, the beautiful, the endless city, ‘to civilisation!’
Jurand stared towards Adua, eyes narrowed against the spray. ‘By the Fates, the city’s grown.’
‘Hugely,’ said Leo. Yet it somehow looked smaller than the last time he visited. Then he’d been just the rural-mannered young son of a lord governor. Now he was a lord governor himself, who’d beaten a great warrior in single combat, saved the Protectorate and won a famous victory for the king single-handed.
No doubt Adua had grown. But Leo dan Brock had grown more.
He found himself glancing sideways. Where he was always glancing, against his better judgement. Towards Rikke. If she’d been beside him, he could’ve pointed out all the great sights of the city. Casamir’s Wall, and Arnault’s. The House of the Maker, the dome of the Lords’ Round. The Three Farms with the plumes of smoke from its new manufactories. They could’ve been enjoying this together, if she hadn’t been such a sulky, stubborn bitch. He’d nearly died in the Circle for her. And she treated him like a traitor.
He was cranking himself up to bitter outrage when he caught sight of her, waving her arms in that mad way she had while she talked to some bald old man, and all he felt was sad, and guilty, as if he’d wandered off the right path and couldn’t find his way back. The truth was, he bloody missed her. Wasn’t long ago he’d said he loved her, and he’d at least half meant it. But he was damned if he was apologising. It should be her begging forgiveness—
She glanced over and he only just looked away in time. If she saw him looking, she’d treat it like a petty victory. Everything was so petty with her. Why couldn’t she just forgive him so they could go back to how things were?
‘Looks like they’ve sent a welcoming committee,’ said Glaward, pointing towards the thronging wharves.
Leo perked up at that. A decent crowd had gathered on the quay under a great banner marked with the golden sun of the Union and another with the crossed hammers of Angland. Armoured men sat on horseback in a perfect row, wearing the purple cloaks of Knights of the Body. An honour guard from the king! At the front was a man with monstrous shoulders and an even more monstrous neck, his hair clipped to grey stubble.
Jurand was leaning dangerously far over the rail to see. ‘Is that … Bremer dan Gorst?’
Leo squinted towards him as the ship slid in closer to the harbour, captain squawking out commands and the sailors swarming to obey. ‘Do you know,’ he said, perking up further, ‘I think it is!’
When the gangplank scraped to dry land, Leo made sure he was first across, still walking with a stick, if only to remind everyone he’d been heroically wounded in a noble cause. A man with a balding pink head and a heavy chain of office started towards him. One weak chin had clearly not been weak enough, and he had opted for several spread across his fur-trimmed collar.
‘Your Grace, I am Lord Chamberlain Hoff, son of Lord Chamberlain Hoff.’ He paused, as though expecting gales of laughter. None came. No doubt bureaucrats were a regrettable necessity, like latrines, but Leo didn’t have to like them. Especially when bureaucracy became a family business. ‘And this is—’
‘Bremer dan Gorst!’ He would encounter important people now, of course, but there’s something special about meeting a boyhood hero. Leo had listened for hours to his father’s stories about the man’s exploits at the Battle of Osrung, hanging on every word. How he turned the tide on the bridge single-handed and led the final assault on the Heroes, hacking through Northmen like a butcher through sheep. ‘I once saw you fight three men in an exhibition!’ Leo brushed the lord chamberlain aside to seize the big man’s hand and got a nasty surprise. You can tell a lot about a man from his grip, Leo’s father always said, and Gorst’s was shockingly limp and clammy.
‘Not something I would advise on the battlefield.’ Gorst’s voice was even more shocking than his handshake. Leo wouldn’t have believed so mighty a neck could produce so womanly a tone.
‘I think I once heard we’re related?’ he said as they began to mount up. ‘Fifth cousins or some such.’ Leo tossed his stick to Jurand. He was damned if he’d look like a cripple in front of a man he so much admired. He insisted on dragging himself into the saddle in spite of the pain in his leg, stomach, side, shoulder.
‘How is … your mother?’ came Gorst’s odd squeak.
‘She’s well,’ said Leo, surprised. ‘Happy the war’s over. She was leading the fight when the Northmen first attacked.’ He thought about the light that put him in. ‘Giving me some excellent advice, at least.’
‘She was always highly perceptive.’
‘I knew you saved my father’s life at Osrung. He used to love to tell that story. But I’d no idea you knew my mother.’
Gorst looked a little pained. ‘We were good friends … at one time.’
‘Huh.’ Leo had spent more than enough of his life worrying about his mother’s feelings. He abruptly changed the subject. ‘I would’ve loved to train with you while I’m here, but … I fear I’m in no fit state. Maybe I could observe?’
‘Alas, there will be so many demands on Your Grace’s time,’ said the lord chamberlain, oozing uninvited into their conversation. ‘His Majesty is keen to greet you.’
‘Well … I’m at His Majesty’s disposal, of course.’ Leo gave his horse a nudge and set off at a walk after the two standard-bearers.
‘As are we all, Your Grace. But first His Eminence the Arch Lector wishes to discuss your triumph.’
‘Since when do Inquisitors arrange parades?’