The Court of Broken Knives

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‘I’m slightly disappointed, to be honest. All you hear about it, I kind of expected it to be taller.’

The bronze walls of Sorlost loomed before them. Five times the height of a man, shining in the morning sun. They had no seams or joins, a perfect ribbon of metal twisting around the city, punctuated only by the five great gates. The Maskers’ Gate, the Gate of the Evening, the Gate of Dust, the Gate of Laughter, the Gate of the Poor. It was impossible to conceive who had built them, or how. They had never been breached: even Amrath Himself had dashed His armies to pieces against them to no avail and given up in despair.

Marith stood and gazed up at them in awe. It was still early, only a short while past dawn, and he could feel the cold radiating off them. In the heat of the afternoon, the sun beating down upon them, they must be hot as coals to the touch. The morning light flashed off them blindingly bright. Approaching from the east as the sun rose had been wondrous, the metal turning from inky dark to blazing fire, more beautiful and vivid than the dawn itself. The moment the light hit them had been like watching someone thrust a torch into a bowl of pitch. An explosion of light. Dragon fire. Joy. Hope.

There were no villages immediately outside of the city. No houses at all. The town where they had spent the previous night had been the last place before the gates, after that there was an hour’s walk through empty country, barren grassland and scrubby thorns. No wealthy villas or shanty towns of starving untouchables, just bare ground as though they were in the remotest part of some abandoned kingdom, and, rising before them, the great walls.

A stillness, too, very few animals or birds to be seen. The air smelled of metal. The land around was a vast graveyard, for the people of Sorlost buried their dead in this silent place outside their walls. Most were unmarked. Once, they had passed a fresh grave, the earth still dark, a few flowers scattered on the hump of soil. Someone especially beloved: the people of Sorlost did not as a rule concern themselves with such things. To bury someone so close to the road, to offer flowers … Perhaps an only child, a new married wife, a beloved parent. The one joy of the mourner’s heart. Marith looked, and then looked away.

He had studied Sorlost’s history and culture, her language, her poetry and art. Well educated indeed. You need to know your enemy, his tutor had told him as he groaned over the complexities of Literan grammar, the tedious list of the Emperor’s thousand tedious little lives. To be walking here before her walls was strange as dreaming. The others felt it too, he could tell from their laughter, their dedicated attempts at nonchalance. As long ago as tomorrow, beneath the brazen walls of Sorlost.

Within sight of the gatehouse, Tobias drew them to a halt.

‘Everyone know what they’re doing and saying?’ he asked briskly. ‘Any last questions? No? Fine. Good.’ He gestured to Marith with a flourish. ‘Over to you then, boy. Your Lordship. Lead on.’

Marith took a deep breath. Again, strange how unnerving having to act himself was. Far more frightening than acting someone else.

Four soldiers stood to attention outside a brick building straddling the road before the open gates. Two storeys with a portcullis and towers, but it looked absurd beneath the vast bronze walls. A toy fort with toy soldiers. Old wooden gates, splintered and worm-eaten, carved with blank-eyed faces. Behind it, the great mass of the Maskers’ Gate like a roaring mouth. They know, Marith thought madly. They see it. Help me. Help me. What would Tobias do, he wondered, if I stopped in the road and screamed? The soldiers stared at them, asked them a few bored questions, waved them on. Past the gatehouse they stepped into the great cavern of the wall. The air stank of metal. Their footsteps echoed, a ringing sound that was unpleasant to the ear. None of them spoke.

It took perhaps ten paces to walk through. A very long ten paces. Almost a death, or a rebirth. Then suddenly they were out in a great square, the Court of Faces, blinking in the light, surrounded by people and sound and noise and stink. Like a magic trick. More soldiers gave them cold glances. Traders and hustlers surged forward, offering guides and recommendations for a good lodging house. A crowd of thousands, hair and skin every possible colour, clothing bright and dark and pale as water, glittering with gold. Colour and texture and beauty roaring in the eyes. Shouts in every language, birdsong and music, dogs barking, bray of asses, buzz of flies, bleating of goats. Sweat and incense, spice and honey, wood smoke and rot and shit and vomit and piss. Vast buildings, white marble, yellow brickwork, gilt wood, red paint. Carved porticoes and stone columns and velvet awnings and jewelled domes. Clockwork toys and paper flowers and silk carpets and caged birds and silver jewellery and roast meat.

The decaying heart of a decayed empire.

Sorlost.

‘Right.’ Tobias smiled at them warily. ‘We’re in. Just got to find everyone else now.’

‘Friendly bunch, aren’t they?’ muttered Emit, glancing back at the soldiers. ‘Or maybe they just don’t like His Lordship here.’ Can’t say I blame them, his eyes continued.

What have I ever done to you? Marith thought bitterly. He felt again a vague desire to kill the man.

His eyes were itching, the skin of his face raw. He found he was rubbing at his mouth and forced his hands to drop to his sides. His body felt heavy, the armour he wore hot and awkward hidden under his shirt. The noise and the confusion was almost too much for him, after the long days of silence in the desert sand. He had liked the emptiness, the feeling of it like a pain in his body, fear and yearning and sorrow that cut like great claws. Dragon’s claws, he thought with a bitter laugh. Everything had seemed briefly easier, with nothing between himself and his shadows, nothing to think about but walking onwards in the dust. Calm. Clean. Empty. This clamour and bustle of life made him uneasy, as though he were walking a high tightrope and might easily fall.

But there should be things here … He gazed around the square with nervous interest. Street sellers offered skewers of meat, thin cakes of sweet bread, flowers, drinks of lemon water, sherbet ice. Even this early in the day a few whores touted for business, worn and raddled in the fresh light. Two beggars with withered limbs and running sores jangled alms bowls. A drunk lay slumped against the base of a statue, sleeping in a puddle of vomit beneath rearing stone hooves. Almost nostalgic.