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‘Why do you want so much for us to be dead?’ Brann’s voice was almost a hoarse whisper. ‘You didn’t care when my friend escaped. You don’t care if the crew are captured or not. Why are you so set on seeing us die?’
The Emperor’s smile remained, but his brow creased in puzzlement. ‘Oh, you don’t actually understand, do you? I have no interest at all in whether you live or die. Your existence is a thousand levels lower than mine.’ He smiled. ‘You see, you were only going over the edge as a matter of convenience. You were unnecessary, and someone would have tidied you away at the bottom. But now it is time for you to leave in a different manner, and we are promised some entertainment. This day has proved far more pleasant than I had anticipated.’
Without another word, he walked away, conferring briefly with his Scribe and pointing at the soldier whose spear had been knocked aside by Hakon. A squad surrounded Brann and Grakk, escorting them away without fuss, walking behind the crowds. Before the Emperor had retaken his seat, the soldier had been flung from the roof.
Chapter 2 (#uabd584a2-3430-5676-a1d4-166079a16ccd)
The two slaves gestured from their hearts to him before leaving him at his door. He wondered if they really did extend their hearts to him; whether they cared at all for him beyond the orders they were given. He wondered if those orders were to provide the escort to his chambers that his status demanded, or to ensure he didn’t wander the passages aimlessly on a path formed by mindless old age.
She waited by his chair, water ready for his return.
‘You saw him?’ Her voice whispered across the room.
His feet scuffed the dust into a dance as he shuffled to his chair. ‘I saw him.’
‘As did I. Will you visit him? Or have him brought here?’
‘Are you mad, woman?’ He was torn between incredulity and anger at such stupidity. ‘When did I last travel into the city?’
For the first time since she had entered his life, there was uncertainty in her voice. ‘It is not the lordling? The one held in this building? But you said you had seen the one we await.’
‘I did. And I will see him tomorrow. At the Arena.’
‘So you will travel to the city after all?’ Her feeble attempt at scoring a point betrayed her disconcertion.
‘You know as well as I that it is hardly a trip to the Pleasure Quarter or the market. Being borne across the Bridge of the Sky into the Emperor’s section in the Arena will not even see me leave the Royal precincts.’
She poured water for him, the time she took appearing less due to care and more to the need to gather her thoughts. ‘You seem sure about this, but I cannot see the one we await being a native of the Tribe of the Desert. It has nothing of the right feel.’
‘Your feeling is correct. It is not of the tribesman that I speak.’
‘The boy? Are you succumbing to your years after all?’
His voice was calm. He was enjoying this. ‘My sword arm may be weak, but my mind is still sharper than those who think they are rulers and, it seems, than yours. You see the whole tapestry, crone, but you do not focus on the individual stitches that form the images. I saw, today. I noticed. He is the one.’
The ewer shattered on the stone floor. ‘A wind stirs the mist of my vision,’ she gasped. ‘I see the face. You are right.’
He smiled.
****
The walk through the streets was longer than their travel to the citadel had been, and was considerably less salubrious. The soldiers encased them in a shell of armour and sharp edges, with no option but to tramp along between them on a journey where time was stretched by never knowing when the end would be reached but always knowing that misery waited at that destination.
He was a slave again. He waited for despair that never came. He steeled himself to suppress an anger, futile anger, anger that never rose. He prepared to resist a wave of injustice that never washed over him. He wondered at their absence, but all he felt was relief.
He was still alive.
Right now, at this moment, he walked in captivity, but he walked feeling the ground beneath his feet and the sun on his head. He lifted his face to feel the heat, to catch the slightest breeze on his skin, to see the endless blue of the sky. Movement caught his eye and he saw Grakk looking at him in question.
‘Better a slave who breathes than a corpse who is free,’ Brann said.
‘Some would differ.’
Brann shrugged. ‘There is no freedom in death, only a certainty of no more life. Death steals the chance of change. To choose to die nobly rather than live to seize an opportunity to make things better, well…’ He shrugged. ‘I can only think that those who make such a choice would think otherwise should they consider it longer than the impetuous moment. I fear stepping from a great height in despair and finding halfway down that I wished I could fly.’
Grakk grunted. ‘You are quite the philosopher today. That is good, I was preparing my words to drag you back from despair and let you use all available time to prepare for tomorrow, but you have spared me that.’
The thought of tomorrow settled both into silence. Brann turned his face to the sky again. While I live, I will fight to live. What other way is there?
He was unable to see much of the city past the bulk of their escort, but it was clear that the more they travelled, the more the affluence melted away. The areas they began to pass through became dustier, the white of the walls was more cracked, the footing was increasingly uneven. They passed through a great old gate in the city wall, one not frequented by merchants and in fact, if the current level of activity was typical, not frequented by many people at all other than a couple of bored guards who pretended not to be close to dozing when they noticed the approach of the soldiers. They descended a wide ramp, its surface weathered and flaking in places, carved into the face of the bluff that Sagia sat upon and, a short distance after they had left the city proper, the houses started again, some with a small untended garden area, some crammed against each other, and all little more than shacks. A length of empty land had wild shrubbery, gnarled, twisted and fighting the dry ground, growing alongside the road where it was fed by the occasional use of the gutter, before they passed in front of a long wall, around the height of a man and a half as much again, its top a series of curving dips that was itself topped with railings cut to set the spiked tips at a uniform level. While dry grasses and wild plants gathered at its foot, matching the determined but sparse plant life of the scrubland that stretched into the distance opposite, the metal of the railings was well tended and the wall looked solid.
They stopped at an arched gateway midway along the wall’s length, and one of the soldiers banged on a door cut into the wood of the gate. A symbol was burnt into the smaller door, two short horizontal lines crossing close to the end of one longer vertical one, forming the simplistic shape of a sword with a flat pommel, with that symbol beside an inverted version of itself. Above it a grill was filled with the glower of a guard’s face as he checked the source of the knocking. With an unimpressed grunt, he opened the door and was passed a note. Spear points were levelled and Brann and Grakk were prompted through the doorway, where three more guards waited, all in identical red tunics with the same symbol on the front and back as was on the gate. Shields, both round and squared, lay carelessly to the side but swords of simple quality were strapped to their hips. Without a word or a glance, the soldiers marched back the way they had come, their feet beating an even beat on the hard track.
The guard, as tall as Hakon but even broader of shoulder and chest, looked them up and down. ‘Not the most impressive arrivals we’ve ever had, I must admit. Still, you’re here, so I’d as well introduce you to the boss.’ He glanced at the note in his hand, and grinned cheerfully. ‘I see you are fighting death bouts tomorrow, so you could probably get away with not bothering to have to try to remember everybody’s names until after that, if you see what I mean.’ He slapped Brann on the back. ‘Every cloud, and all that, eh? But if you can remember one name, you might as well make it Cassian’s. He’s the boss. Hence the name of this place: the School of Cassian. Makes sense, eh? Why not? If you can remember another name, I’m Salus. Salus the Silent, on account that I’m not. I like to remind the world that I’m alive. Especially myself.’
He steered them up a wide straight pathway of white loose stones that crunched with every step. It ran a short way to a wide, two-storey building, as white-walled and red-roofed as every other structure in the city. The path widened at the building and, to one side, a cart of provisions was being unloaded. Brann looked appreciatively at the two horses in the traces, their heads bowed into buckets of water and the tail of one lifting to drop shit on the carefully maintained path.
After coming so close to death, giddiness was coursing through him and he laughed as he nudged Grakk and nodded at the scene. ‘So much for order everywhere and everything being controlled!’
Grakk looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘You forget you will most probably die tomorrow?’
Brann shrugged. ‘I just can’t forget that I should be dead just now. But I’m not.’
Grakk was unconvinced.
Salus, however, was more appreciative. ‘That’s the spirit, lad. Take each moment as it comes, and don’t plan too far ahead. Cassian likes a happy place, that he does. Uncle Cass, we often call him, as he’s like the favourite uncle you hear about other people having and wish you had yourself. Well, you do now. For a day at least. Come and let’s find him.’
They entered the cool of the building and were directed by a servant along a side corridor. ‘Down here we go,’ Salus informed them. ‘I forgot the time of day. The boss is bathing.’
‘He’s what?’ Brann thought the word sounded a bit rude.
Amusement had started to break through the melancholy in Grakk’s eyes. ‘It is similar to washing.’
‘Well why didn’t he say that?’
Grakk did actually smile this time. ‘You will see.’
A guard stood before a heavy door. Salus nodded to him and entered, motioning for Brann and Grakk to wait where they were as a cloud of steam drifted past. Moments later, he reappeared, affable as ever. Wary as he was after the encounter with the Emperor of words delivered with a smile, still Brann couldn’t help but warm to the man. He frowned slightly at that before his thoughts were interrupted by their subject. ‘You can come now,’ Salus said, beckoning.
The steam swirled as they entered but was filtering quickly out through vents in the ceiling, allowing Brann to see a tiled antechamber, the walls on either side stepped back in two stages to allow wooden benches to run the length of the room and then, higher, a shelf that bore a pile of towels at one end. A pile of clothing lay strewn on one bench.
Salus strode across slatted wooden flooring that kept their feet raised above the treacherous-looking slippery tiles of the floor beneath. An opening at the far end saw them descend two steps into a much bigger room, the source of the steam with three large water-filled tanks producing more swirling clouds that rose to similar vents in this ceiling, every inch of the space around them covered in more of the wooden flooring. High-set windows, long and narrow, let further steam out and dazzling beams of sunlight in, sparkling the water in the tanks that were square, set in line and each around the size of the Captain’s cabin back on the Blue Dragon. Brann resolved to find a new unit of measurement – the thought of the excited anticipation of the voyage to this city had stabbed a pain in the heart of his chest. He clenched his fists to steady his thoughts.
The centre tank held a man. Sitting on what must have been a ledge and arms spread to either side as they rested on the edge of the pool, his face split into a huge toothy grin as he saw them enter. ‘Welcome to my school, however long or, I suppose, short your stay may be. Your presence here may be enforced, but is no less appreciated for it.’ He looked through narrowed eyes. ‘You know, do you not, that the Empire intends you to die tomorrow.’ The matter-of fact delivery from a stranger cut to where Grakk’s words had not and Brann’s spirit was sucked from him in the instant. His knees buckled and only the reactions of Grakk and Salus allowed them to grab his arms in time to keep him upright. The older man smiled gently. ‘It therefore, of course, becomes our greatest desire to see the Empire disappointed. Many of our guests here arrived as a result of the will of the Empire, but you two are the first to face a death match.’ His smile faded slightly. ‘In your case, we are not allowed over-much time to assist you with this, but should you return tomorrow, you will be afforded our full hospitality.’ He smiled broadly again, and Brann began to wonder if he and Salus were related or even if everyone in this compound had been partaking of the sort of fungi that grew in certain areas of the woods near his village. ‘I trust Salus the Silent has taken good care of you?’
They nodded, and he beamed in return. ‘Good, good.’ He slapped the water in delight and stood, climbing from the pool as he spoke. Brann heard the noise but was oblivious to the words. Completely naked and puce from the heat of the water, Cassian eased himself out of the tank and trotted over to the third pool, launching himself without pause or shred of elegance into it with a resounding crash of splashing water. He emerged like a sea monster of legend, drops flying in all directions, whipping water from his face with both hands and gasping for breath. Brann watched the man, mouth agape and eyes wide. Grakk watched Brann, mirth creasing his face. ‘Oh, that’s good!’ the man exulted. ‘There’s absolutely nothing like a cold plunge to get the blood flowing.’
He walked up steps at the far end of the pool and came towards them. The boy’s despairing panic from just moments before was overwhelmed by a very different horror. Brann eased back against the wall to give him as much space to pass as possible, a move that almost caused Grakk to double up with suppressed laughter.
The elderly man beckoned with a finger as he headed towards the door to the antechamber. They followed, Brann fixing his eyes on the pelt of curled grey hair covering a latticework of old scar lines on his broad shoulders and trying desperately to avoid letting his gaze drop to the sagging and jiggling parts lower down. Cassian took a towel from the shelf and started vigorously drying himself, causing far more jiggling than Brann was prepared to endure. He stared determinedly at the man’s face as he spoke, hoping it would appear courteous rather than an attempt to avoid noticing anything he would really rather not see.
‘Now, you have this fight tomorrow, each of you, don’t you?’ He sounded as if he was discussing a polite gathering of old friends in a tavern, and Brann’s spinning brain was so overwhelmed by the sight, and the potential but so far avoided sight, before him that he was able to listen to the words this time without terror paralysing his mind. ‘It is not much time, not much time at all. So we must prepare you as we can, and hope to see you again afterwards, should Barollon will it.’ He noticed Brann’s puzzled look. ‘You are from the Islands in the Cold Sea, yes?’ The description was apt enough for Brann to assume he was talking about his homeland, and nodding seemed the easiest response. ‘Yes, of course you are. Your god of war Arlod, is our god Barollon, though we see him chiefly as the god of good fortune, for in the chaos of every battle, that is the biggest factor in whether or not a man will be there to face the next day. But without good preparation, you won’t be around to benefit from any good fortune that comes your way, so we will prepare as we can, won’t we?’
Brann at last found his voice. ‘You mean you are going to teach me to fight?’
Cassian had pulled a tunic – identical to those of the other men he had seen here, but white where theirs were red and with the symbol in red where theirs were white – over his head and was securing a broad belt around it that bore a scabbarded short broadsword, similar to the weapons carried by the soldiers they had seen at the citadel. He laughed. ‘No, no, no, my boy, in the time we have, we could teach you nothing to the standard needed for it to be of use in the situation you face. You would forget all of it as soon as the first blade swings and any that you did somehow remember would not be natural. No, we must try to remove the unfamiliar. Then the rest is up to you, the gods, and your fate. But mainly you.’ He smiled happily yet again. ‘The good news is that in this sort of fight, you will be free to choose your own weapons.’
He walked over to Grakk, studying the tattoos. ‘You are of the Tribe of the Desert?’ Grakk nodded. ‘Scholar?’ Another nod. He took Grakk’s hands in his, turning them palm up, looking them over and rubbing the area between thumb and forefinger on each hand with his own thumb. ‘And your preference is to fight with dual swords?’ Another nod. ‘Though you are trained in many weapons.’ Before Grakk could answer, he clapped him cheerily on the arm. ‘You need not answer that one. You are a Scholar of the Tribe of the Desert. I expect I will see you here for dinner tomorrow. I have no worries about you. Should you need a practice partner, let my friend Salus know.’ Grakk nodded his thanks.
He turned to Brann and examined his hands. ‘You are not trained in arms.’
‘I am a miller’s son. I did not choose this.’
‘Oh, dear boy, few in this city chose the life they live. It was an observation, not a criticism. You are what you are. I am merely trying to determine what it is that you are.’ His fingers traced the thick line of hardened scar tissue under the boy’s hair. ‘And what you are is someone who has survived some sort of action, I see.’ He pulled the neckline of Brann’s tunic to one side to peer down inside at his upper arm. He whistled softly as he saw a portion of the tattoo. ‘Oh my.’ He looked at Grakk. ‘Survived with some distinction, I see.’
The tribesman’s voice was even. ‘He has his moments.’
‘Let us hope he has one tomorrow.’ He turned back to the boy. ‘You have a weapon of choice?’
Brann shrugged. ‘A sword, I suppose. I don’t know anything else. To be honest, I don’t really know how to use a sword either.’
‘Hit with the sharp edge, stick with the pointy bit, that’s a sword for you. You should indeed choose sword and shield then, they are simple solid basics. Good.’ He looked at Salus. ‘Would you mind, good Salus? Make the unfamiliar familiar?’
‘Of course, boss. Now?’
‘The sooner we start, the better. Then we must attend to their jewellery, or the authorities will be most displeased with us. Thank you all.’
And with that, he wandered out of the room.
Brann looked at the other two. ‘What in the darkest depth of hell was that?’
Salus was beaming as always. ‘That was your welcome.’
Brann shook his head. ‘Is my land the only place that exists where people don’t wander around bollock naked without a care in the world?’
Grakk wiped a tear from the corner of one eye. ‘No, young sheltered one, customs and sensibilities vary around the known world more than you can imagine, and I expect they vary even more in the unknown world. In this city, it was the fashion not long ago for the well-to-do ladies to wear robes that left their right breasts exposed, in other countries within the Empire men and women cannot show their faces in public once wed, in yet others a woman will take many husbands, and in another men and women are clothed from the waist down only.’
Brann’s jaw dropped as images took hold. Salus also had a faraway look in his eyes. ‘Ah, yes, Posamia. I dream of retiring there.’ He shook his head, as if flinging away images. ‘Anyway, things must be attended to. Come with me and we shall attend to them.’
Brann frowned. ‘It seems that much of the public nudity involves women. Are there not places where men show off their… bits… as well?’
Grakk shrugged. ‘Some, but very few.’ He looked pointedly at Brann, stopping his next question. ‘You have just witnessed the sight you did, and yet you are about to ask why so few? And you refer to it as showing off? You do realise, do you not, that there is an extent where the ridiculous and the ungraceful aspects outweigh all others?’ Brann shuddered. ‘Precisely, young Brann.’
Salus coughed, though it was hard to tell if it was to attract attention or cover a laugh. ‘Anyway, if you wouldn’t mind coming this way? I think we have exhausted the necessity for this conversation.’
He led them out of the back of the building into an open-ended courtyard formed by two long wings that extended back from either end of the main building. Boulders and rocks, paths and small bridges, streams and ponds, bushes and trees whose branches dipped down to the ground under their own weight combined to create an area of such unexpected beauty and tranquillity that Brann stopped dead in wonder, the second unexpected vision of the past half hour driving all other thoughts from his mind as much as the previous one had done.
‘Does Cassian have a wife, then? Is this her doing?’
‘He does,’ Salus admitted, ‘but this is his doing. It is his passion, a world he has created from his own head. Lady Tyrala has other talents. Important and useful, but not this.’
A winding path took them through to the far end, where they emerged through a green arch of leafy vines to see a collection of low buildings and, beyond, hillocks and walls that prevented a view of the full area. Low hills on the horizon were far on the other side of the surrounding arid scrubland that lay beyond the unseen far wall of the compound, though it was clear Cassian’s school extended over an impressive area. To the right, the buildings on the outskirts of the city showed where civilisation began its mass existence.
Brann became aware of sounds as his mind adjusted to the overwhelming sights that had swamped him. The clash and bang as metal met metal or wood beyond the buildings – and presumably, from Salus’s lack of concern, from practice rather than assault; the shouts of people going about their daily routine; the clang of the smith at work; the high-pitched noise of the insects that were unseen but omnipresent and seemed creatures of the oppressive heat. Other than the insects, it was the sound of village life. Brann felt a pang for home but the memory seemed now so much like that of a different life, almost as if he had dreamt it, that the pain failed to stab through him as it had before. There was a sadness to that realisation, but also a hardness in his mind’s response to the sadness: deal with now, or the past will weaken your ability to do so. Especially when the only now that was left to him would probably be measured in hours.
A stout building with a stouter door and thick iron grilles over its small windows sat beside the smith’s workshop. Salus waved, cheerily of course, at the squat man in the leather apron who hammered relentlessly at the anvil and unlocked the iron-studded door with a key on a large jangling ring that he unhooked from his belt. They entered a cool, dim, treasure trove of weaponry. Every variation or combination of edge, point or club that could be invented to do harm to man, and still more that Brann could never have imagined, lay on or stood in racks in orderly rows of metal and wood. Salus told Grakk to select whatever he wanted to practise with and the tribesman immediately selected a pair of long, slim, gently curved swords.
Brann headed for a rack of broadswords, oiled and gleaming from obvious care. Salus’s large hand landed on his shoulder and steered him to a separate area. He eyed the boy’s height and felt his shoulders, arms and chest with an expert touch. Brann felt like a horse at market.
Lined in front of them was a row of practice swords fashioned from dark wood. Salus tried a few for weight before selecting one. He walked over to a selection of round wooden shields and plucked one as he passed with less consideration, then took the boy to the other side of the room to pull a heavy, padded, sleeveless tunic from a shelf. Metal clips were set into the front and back and, after pulling it over Brann’s head, Salus used the clips to fasten lead weights onto it at several points.
Brann looked at him incredulously. ‘Have you felt the heat out there? Are you trying to kill me today instead of tomorrow?’
Salus smiled, quietly for once, and drew a couple of leather thongs from another shelf. He held up the shield to allow Brann to slip his hands through the straps and handed him the sword.
The weapon dipped and almost hit the floor before Brann caught its movement. ‘This isn’t the right weight,’ he pointed out. ‘I’ll never be able to practise properly with this.’ He tried swinging it from side to side, his movements slow and awkward. ‘I can’t even control it properly.’
With a few deft movements, Salus used the strips of leather to bind Brann’s hands to the sword and shield.
Brann stared at him. ‘What are you doing? How is that…?’ Salus placed a large finger on the boy’s lips.
‘This. This. And this.’ He touched the sword, shield and tunic in turn. ‘These are your best friends right now if you want to have any chance of living through tomorrow. These, and water. Plenty of water.’
Brann just looked at him. The big man continued as he led Brann back to Grakk, took Grakk’s selected swords from him and then led the pair out the door, locking it behind him. ‘Make the unfamiliar familiar, remember? You will wear less in the Arena, even if armoured, so if you can become used to the heat and weight of that tunic, you will benefit. Likewise the sword and shield you have now are heavier than you will be armed with tomorrow, so you will carry these, whatever you are doing, between now and then. You will feel their weight, you will feel the way they try to drag you, and you will start to adjust to control them.’
Brann held up his hands and the weight trying to drag them down left him doubting he would become used to the feeling in a month, never mind less than a day. His stomach lurched at the thought.
Salus turned and whistled sharply through his teeth. A skinny boy detached himself from a group of three youths who were sweeping the area between the buildings and ran over, all tanned skin, white teeth and enthusiasm. ‘Yes boss?’ He swept his hair away from his eyes.
‘Young, er…’ He looked at Brann. ‘I didn’t ask your name, did I?’
‘Brann.’
‘Yes, young Brann here requires an assistant. You know what to do.’ The boy nodded and fell in behind Brann. Salus spoke again to Brann. ‘Marlo here will be your hands. When you need to eat, he will feed you. When you are thirsty, and it will be often, he will lift the drink to your lips. When you approach a door, he will open it. When you need to piss…’
‘I’ll manage that one,’ Brann growled. ‘However I have to, I’ll manage.’
‘Very well,’ Salus beamed. ‘That’s that sorted, then. Your arms will learn to feel the weapons. Your legs will learn to bear your clothing. Your head will learn to forget the heat. Now for your jewellery.’
They were standing in front of the forge and the heat within stunned Brann beyond even what the sun had already managed. How the smith could breathe, let alone work metal, Brann couldn’t fathom. Even just from standing, sweat was already running down every surface on his body. His eyes started to sting and he twisted one way then the other to wipe the shoulders of his tunic against them, almost battering Marlo’s face with the wooden sword in the process.
‘Sorry,’ he blurted. He had only just met the boy and he was nearly braining him already.
The boy’s teeth flashed. ‘Good training for me.’
Brann wondered if everyone at this compound was relentlessly cheerful. It didn’t take long to find an answer.
The smith looked up from pounding a battered sword-blade flat. ‘What?’ More a grunt of irritation than a question.
