“There’s no need to be so bloody sarcastic.”
Weasel merely smiled his annoying smile. “The Quartermaster gave us a special job. We’re to get in touch with the right people.” He made the peculiar wriggling motion of his fingers that let Rik know he was talking about the local underworld.
“Business as usual,” Rik said.
“If you’re not too busy with your new ladylove,” said Weasel
“Lucky bastard,” said the Barbarian. Rik said nothing to disabuse them of the notion that he was Asea’s fancy boy. It was a lot better than telling them the truth.
Why was it, he thought, that he always seemed to end up lying to his friends? He had not told them the real reason he had wanted Zarahel’s book back before Achenar. Now he could not tell them the real reason Asea was interested in him. He was destined always to walk apart even from the people who knew him best. He shrugged. What of it? He had always been set apart. His unknown father had seen to that.
They started to march again, passing over the cobbled bridge. It was a hundred strides long and lined with statues of saints and knights. As they came out from among the buildings he caught sight of the Serpent Tower again, looming above them like the spear of God. It was awesome. He had never imagined anything so large or so beautiful could exist. He saw no way any force on this earth could take it. It was just too old and too strong.
They crossed the bridge and entered another twisting, narrow cobbled street. Rik returned to his brooding. He had often wondered about his parents. He had often hated them and just as often fantasised about finding them, particularly his father. In his wildest and most unrealistic dreams he had thought about being acknowledged and taken in by some Terrarch clan. Now it seemed that even that was forbidden him. He came from bad blood. His father was a demon clad in flesh, and Asea believed some aspect of that had been passed on to him.
He wondered if it was true. The priests at the orphanage had always told him he was deep down bad, and perhaps they had been right. After he had escaped from their clutches he had done nothing but cheat and lie and steal and kill. He had done it to keep himself alive but he doubted the clergy would think that a satisfactory excuse.
Perhaps he had always been destined to turn out the way he had. Perhaps his destiny had been fixed before ever he was born, by the Terrarch who had sired him and the woman who had died. Perhaps it went deeper than that. Perhaps, as some of the preachers claimed, God had already decided who was damned and who was not. After all, if he was infinite and omniscient, surely he must have known how things were going to turn out when he created the universe. All life was part of his vast incomprehensible design.
Such thoughts made his head spin. What sort of god would create a universe in which people were damned before they first drew breath? It was the sort of logic that almost made you believe those that claimed that the Shadow had made the universe in defiance of God’s will. For himself, he was inclined to side with those who claimed that God had made the universe and then abandoned it as a botched job and left everybody to their own devices. That seemed to fit the facts better.
He shook his head. He took responsibility for his own actions. There was no sense in blaming any God, good or bad, for anything he had done. If ever he was called to account for those actions by God, he would ask him why he had created such a crazy, fucked-up universe in the first place.
“What are you frowning at, Halfbreed?” The Barbarian asked. “A man in your position should look happy. I would.”
He made an envious face, and then laughed. “I guess I will be drowning my sorrows elsewhere tonight.”
The streets had widened out into a square. In the centre was a statue of a tall Terrarch man in a military uniform. He was striking a heroic pose, sword in hand, leading an invisible army towards victory. Who was he, Rik wondered? In Sorrow he would have known the answer but this was some local hero or noble, and as such a stranger.
“Who are those bastards?” the Barbarian asked. Rik looked in the direction he indicated. A group of Terrarchs lounged against a street corner. They all wore long coats with silver buttons. They coats were coloured with a purple so deep and dark it was almost black. Their boots were high. Near them were squads of large, blond-haired men. All of them were big, with the brutal, brutalised faces of eastern peasants.
“Those, my friend, are part of the Legion of Exiles,” said Weasel.
“Khaldarus’s elite guard?” Rik asked. The Legion had an evil reputation. They were rogues and killers so bad they had been banished from the Dark Empire. Or so it was claimed. Others said they were a secret Dark Empire army in the service of Prince Khaldarus sent to infiltrate Kharadrea in a way that did not break the terms of the Treaty of Oslande. The refugees from the civil war had spoken of their cruelty and their efficiency.
“What the hell are they doing here?” asked the Barbarian.
An exceedingly tall, exceedingly thin Terrarch strode towards them. His skin was so pale he seemed almost albino. His long hair was so blond it could have been bleached. At his side hung a long sword in a black, rune-encrusted scabbard.
“Looks like we are just about to find out,” murmured Weasel.
Chapter Eleven
“Lady Asea,” said the stranger, completely ignoring Sardec. “This is a pleasure.”
Asea responded with admirable calmness. “Lord Jaderac! I had not expected to meet you here. Particularly not in that uniform.”
If the barbed allusion affected Jaderac, he gave no sign of it. He was the very model of the eastern aristocrat: superbly arrogant, totally at ease, poised and charming. Sardec hated him immediately, the more so because Jaderac possessed many qualities he wished he had himself.
“I regret there was a misunderstanding back at the Queen-Empress’s court- an insult, a duel, a death, a scandal. You know how these things go. I was forced to take leave of civilisation for a while, and seek refuge in these exceedingly dull lands. Fortunately you are here to illuminate the place with your presence and so I can now count my exile a blessing rather than a misfortune.”
“May I present to you, Prince Sardec of House Harke,” said Asea, cutting through the flow of easy flattery.
“Charmed,” said Jaderac, executing an intricate formal bow. It should have looked effete and foppish, but it was performed with such gusto and precision that it was impressive instead.
Sardec inclined his head and kept his gaze fixed on Jaderac. The easterner met his eyes briefly then turned the full force of his charm back on the Lady Asea. “You are here to speak with Lord Ilmarec?”
“You presume correctly. I represent Lord Azaar. And you?”
“King Khaldarus sent me to demand the release of his sister. I fear Lord Ilmarec holds her against her will.”
“Khaldarus’s timing is astonishing. We only just learned of Lord Ilmarec’s decision, and yet you, it seems, have somehow contrived to be here before us although you came all the way from the East.”
“I was in these parts performing other duties. I have just received a messenger from King Khaldarus. He fears for his sister’s safety.”
“It is pleasant to see such fine family feeling,” said Asea. “The Prince’s concern is touching.”
“I can assure you that the King intends that no harm come to his beloved sister. I am here to ensure to it.”
“I doubt your force, formidable as it undoubtedly is, can storm the Tower of the Serpent.”
“I am sure no one intends to try such a foolish thing.” An airy wave of Jaderac’s hand took in their surroundings. “These kennels are not the place to discuss such matters. Can I ask permission to call upon you, and we can talk at our leisure?”
“Of course,” said Asea. “I look forward to the pleasure of your company.”
“And I yours, dear Lady. I will present my card this evening then. I presume you will be staying at the mansion of the merchant Fharog, the so called House of Three Swans.”