At the top is a study, with an oil lamp already lit on the desk.
It’s a man’s study, because a hunting rifle hangs above the fireplace and a ferox skull stares from a vast shield on a wall behind me. The heavy brow ridge and skull crest show it to be a fully grown male.
Never knew a woman who collected trophies.
Not that kind.
‘This could be dangerous . . .’
Simone abandons her pep-talk. Probably because I grin. People like her don’t know how addictive danger is. Except I’m wrong and she does. It’s in her eyes and the swiftness of her pulse and the way her mouth opens slightly when I steer her towards the desk. She keeps glancing at the door as if she expects someone to enter.
I can’t tell if she hopes someone will.
Or fears they might.
She says nothing when I lift her onto the desk. And nothing when I hook that expensive silk round her hips. It takes me a second to free her breasts.
‘Don’t tear my top,’ she says.
Too late.
Having got her breath back, Lady Simone Kama reaches into a drawer of the desk and produces a small box, flipping it open. Inside is a silver ring, showing a ferox skull in an enamel circle. The circle contains a motto.
Senatus Populusque Farlightus.
I’ve no idea what it means. But I’ve seen a hundred like it. Every Senate officer and NCO wears one. As do a thousand others, who cadge drinks in scuzzy bars, based on having been something they never were.
I take it to the lamp.
That’s the second time she’s proved me wrong.
The ring is platinum. Its enamel a mosaic of rubies. And the skull is not yellow and black, as I expect, but two shades of purple used only by OctoV and the members of his Senate.
Not here, not now . . .
That’s something a fully grown ferox said to me once. I’ve been waiting for Death to catch me up ever since. So far he hasn’t dared.
‘Use it wisely,’ she says. ‘And take this . . .’
Simone scrawls three lines on a piece of paper from a different drawer, and signs it with a flourish. Safe conduct through the city. Signed by Augustus, Archbishop of Farlight.
At least that’s what the signature says.
She grins, eyes glittering. ‘He won’t mind.’
Finally, she rips her scarf in two, pulls a jewelled bottle from her pocket and splashes several drops on one half. She ties that half round my arm. ‘Once you find Vijay,’ she says, ‘remove the ring and lose the band. Your lives depend on it.’
‘What-?’
‘Don’t ask questions.’
She kisses me on the lips and steps back, adjusting her top.
‘Go,’ she says.
So I turn for the stairs.
‘One last thing. I don’t know your name.’
‘I’m Sven.’ Habit almost makes me add the rest. Sven Tveskoeg, lieutenant, Death’s Head, Obsidian Cross, second class.
‘Just Sven?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Just that.’
‘Take my sister with you then, Sven. Keep her safe.’
Chapter 26
There is an ornate bridge half a mile to our left. Another, much simpler, roughly the same distance to our right. The first is gilded, made from cast iron, and decorated with underage nymphs and naked boys holding tridents.
The second is built from slabs of basalt, and has OctoV’s crest carved into its sides. Different eras. Different tastes. Although not that different. Each nymph and boy stares out with wide eyes, a sweet smile and perfect cheeks. Our glorious leader’s face is the model for every one.
‘Well?’ says Anton. ‘Which bridge?’
‘Neither.’
Anton, Sef and Leona follow me down a flight of steps to a jetty that has three boats tied to its end. Only one boat is big enough for all of us. The problem is that five militia stand between us and its rope. All are armed, and their sergeant is already raising his rifle. It’s a Kemzin, obviously enough.
‘Recognize the regiment?’ I ask Leona.
She mutters the name of a high clan that means nothing to me. Five of them, three of us. Plus Sef, of course. Although there’s little point relying on her for anything. Unless . . .
‘Tell them we’re taking the boat.’
‘We’re taking your boat,’ Sef says. ‘If you don’t mind.’
The sergeant with the gun looks worried. It’s Sef’s voice. So obviously high clan. The rest of us look like rabble. But she’s trouble.
‘Madame,’ he says, ‘my orders-’
‘Are of no interest to us,’ I tell him.
The NCO thinks dealing with me is going to be less grief than dealing with Sef. Shows what he knows. Particularly as he’s let us get too close.
‘Listen-’ he says.
And then says nothing. Instead we get muted gurgling. Must be my hand gripping his throat.
‘Sven . . .’
For fuck sake.
How many times do I have to tell Anton not to use my name?
‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘but I think . . .’
A corporal next to the sergeant has the muzzle of his rifle under Leona’s chin. ‘Let go,’ he says. ‘Or I’ll shoot him.’
‘It’s a her, fuckwit. And you think I care?’
Leona’s face goes blank.
Guess the corporal doesn’t see her fingers edge towards a kitchen knife in her belt. She’s going down fighting. The other militia stand there, undecided. We’ve got their sergeant and corporal on our case. So they’re going to sit tight, and see what happens. That’s militia for you. Being cannon fodder doesn’t mean you have to like it.
‘I said . . .’
‘Yeah,’ says Anton. ‘He heard you.’
My fingers close a little, and the sergeant starts struggling. ‘Drop your weapon,’ I tell the corporal. ‘Or he dies.’
The idiot obeys.
And I know they’re amateurs.
Getting your sergeant killed should be every junior NCO’s dream. Instant promotion, plus you haven’t broken a basic rule: never surrender your weapon. It’s a good rule, since the pain OctoV is likely to inflict if you do is infinitely worse than anything an enemy can threaten . . .
I let their sergeant drop. He hits the deck of the jetty and we rock a little. Stepping over his body, I begin untying the boat. When Leona dips to grab the sergeant’s rifle and I hear a snap as she clicks its slide, I know it’s going to be one of those nights.
‘Boss,’ she says. ‘We’ve got company.’
There’s a tightness to her voice. Now, Leona is not a trooper to get jumpy without good reason.
Very slowly, I turn.
Although I retie the boat first.
Don’t want the bloody thing floating off while I sort out our latest shitstorm. A dozen rifles point at me. Make that two dozen. A handful of seconds later the number is up to three dozen and militia are jostling each other in their eagerness to take aim.
‘Sven . . .’ says Anton.
He looks at me.
‘It’s OK? I mean, if I call you Sven?’ Anton nods at the soldiers. ‘You don’t think it’s going to make matters worse?’
Not sure what’s got into him lately.
A captain stands at the top of the stairs.
Two militia NCOs grab me before I can reach him. One goes down in silence. Don’t imagine he’ll get up for a while. The other sits on his arse whining that I’ve broken his arm. If it was smashed he’d have shards of bone sticking through his skin.
‘Dislocated, moron.’
Yanking him to his feet, I fix his shoulder. OK, I do it by bouncing him off a stone wall, but the joint pops back into place and he’s able to move his arm again.
‘Enough,’ the captain says. He’s got his Colt to my head.
I can take him, and the corporal with the light machine gun behind that. It’s the sergeant beyond who worries me. When I glance back, I see Anton and the others on the jetty. Leona, at least, holds the Kemzin she took.
‘Your ID,’ demands the captain.
‘Not carrying them.’
Since this is a crime he’s surprised I’d volunteer that information.
Most people in my situation would be patting themselves down and protesting that they’d had their papers a moment ago. I’m not most people.