<Almost there,> he told Eofar. <The Red Tower’s around that corner.>
They left the square and climbed yet another set of steps, then turned the corner and there was the black door with the red tower painted over it, right where it was supposed to be.
“Dramash,” said Rho, crouching down in front of the boy until he could see his eyes, “you can’t talk in there. Do you understand? We don’t want anyone to know you’re from the Shadar. Not yet.”
Whatever Dramash said in reply was unintelligible but at least he nodded. Eofar pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold before Rho could add anything else from the long list of warnings he had been compiling.
The elapsing of three years had not touched the Red Tower. The heavy beams overhead, the pitted stone floor underfoot and the surrounding walls hung with ancient furs were all just the same. The ursa head over the mantle still glared down through lifeless glass eyes. Barrels of cheap wine were piled up in the dark corners and the tavern’s unique aroma of sour wine, resin, salt, grease and damp fur hung in the air.
The place boasted a decent crowd for the time of day, but no one did anything more than look up briefly before turning their attention back to their companions. Five mid-clan merchants were crowded around a corner table, and eight soldiers in a mix of Aelbar and Eotan colors had pushed two more closer to the fire. Two women sat by the wall with their heads close together, talking earnestly and pushing a scrap of paper back and forth between them. The general attitude was unusually somber for friends drinking together in a tavern, and Rho thought he detected an undercurrent of tension. He also counted at least eight imperial swords, not including Strife’s Bane.
Then Old Peel came out from the little storeroom in that same leather coat, just a little more worn down at the elbows. His hair still brushed his shoulders in the fashion of a decade ago, only a little grayer now. Rho relaxed a little for the first time since they came into the harbor.
<Don’t I know you, my Lord?> Peel asked, coming forward to wipe the table down for them as Rho lowered his cowl and took off his hood. <You used to come here, years back, didn’t you? Called back from campaigning, like everyone else?>
<That’s right,> Eofar answered, before Rho could get a word in. Rho pulled out a stool for Dramash and lifted him onto it.
<Well, this should help you get used to the cold again,> said Peel, taking a jug from the shelf on the wall and two cups, then adding a third after an uncertain look at Dramash, keeping his questions to himself.
“I’m hungry,” said the boy through the layers of fur.
Rho put his finger to his lips, but not before Peel had stepped back in surprise. <And a couple of goat sausages,> Rho said to the innkeeper, who had composed himself almost immediately. <The spiced ones.>
<More soldiers coming back every day,> said Peel, transferring two sausages to one of the Red Tower’s battered metal plates. <Castle warden says he might have to start billeting down here—we all have to be ready. It’s for our own protection, he says.>
<Protection?> asked Eofar, as he pulled the jug over and began pouring out the wine while Rho helped Dramash take off his gloves and hood so he could eat. Peel watched as the boy began tearing at the meat with his small teeth, his growing curiosity giving Rho another reason not to stay any longer than necessary. <Protection from whom?>
<What, you mean no one’s told you?> asked Peel. The attention of the merchants in the corner shifted over their way at his raised tone. <The cursed are about to rise—Lord Valrig’s army, just like it says in the Book. That’s why Emperor Gannon’s called everyone back. We’re getting ready for war.>
The little warmth Rho had absorbed since coming inside drained out of him all at once, leaving him as cold as the green-glass statues outside. Eofar downed his wine and poured another one, ignoring Rho’s silent growl of warning.
<The cursed?> asked Rho, forcing some jocularity into his mood as he lifted his own cup and leaned back on his stool. <This some new joke you’re playing on folks who’ve been away? The army of the cursed? Really? Do we look that gullible?>
<Not a joke, my Lords. Not a funny one, anyway,> said Peel. <Emperor Gannon knows all about it.> He pitched his voice lower so only they would hear, and his words bubbled with relish. <No one’s supposed to know, but it’s that witch he’s got up there, the Shadari witch, up in the tower. She can see the future—they say she’s never wrong. Old Emperor Eoban swore by her. No one can stop it now, they say. And not just that, but you’ll never guess who’s going to be leading the army of the cursed.>
<Who?> asked Eofar.
Peel’s relish rose to new heights, but he spoke with solemn reverence. <The Mongrel.>
Another customer summoned Peel away before they could ask him any more questions, and as he left Rho felt Eofar’s anxiety rising like bile in his throat. <This can’t be happening,> Rho said, setting down his untouched wine. <Is there some other magical elixir that curses you with bad timing? Because if there is, then someone’s been dosing my drinks.>
<Lahlil is supposed to be with my son.> Eofar was worried.
<And she is,> Rho assured him, watching Dramash. He had finished one sausage and was working on the other; he wouldn’t sit there quietly much longer. <Trust me, more people have claimed they’ve killed the Mongrel than I’ve had hot baths, and this time is no different from all the others.>
Eofar’s silver-gray eyes grew a little brighter behind his white lashes. <What do you know about this witch?>
<Nothing, really,> said Rho. He flinched, remembering Frea’s strong, cold fingers wrapped around his wrist as she asked him the same thing, that night in the Shadar. <Just rumors.>
<The innkeeper said the Shadari witch could see the future,> Eofar reminded him. <Do you think she has divining elixir?>
<I don’t know. Maybe. Sounds like it.>
<And she predicted the army of the cursed would rise.>
<If it is the elixir, then you know those visions could mean anything,> Rho said. <So what does it matter?>
Eofar turned his attention back to his wine. <The cursed. Monsters under the ground; child-eaters; something good, brave Norlanders like your brother would die rather than become. And then there’s my family. First Lahlil and now Isa.>
<Isa is no monster,> Rho shot back, trying very hard to keep his temper. <And in case you forgot, you’re the one who cut off her arm. If you really believed the Book, you would have killed her instead.>
<Daryan convinced me to save her. If he hadn’t been there, I would have put my sword right through her heart.>
A chill ran down the back of Rho’s neck, even though the tavern was starting to feel uncomfortably warm. Eofar said nothing more, and when Rho reached out to his mind, found only the darkness.
<Eofar, what are you thinking?>
<Only that our timing might not be so bad after all.>
Dramash pushed his empty plate across the table. “I’m still hungry,” he said, and every single person in the tavern turned at the sound of his voice.
Rho bent down to him so he could speak as quietly as possible. “We’ll find something for you,” he said, before turning to Eofar. <Let’s get out of here. We got what we came for.>
Eofar lurched up and reached into his coat. <Can’t leave without paying the bill,> he said, drawing out a single imperial eagle—at least ten times what they owed—and tossing it down on the table. Rho watched it land on its edge and spin, flashing in the firelight with each revolution until it slowed, wobbled, then fell over with the eagle side up. The gold took on a ruddy hue in the firelight, like—
Rho slapped his hand down over the coin, but not soon enough. Dramash had already locked his eyes on it. The hilt of Eofar’s sword rattled against the top of its scabbard.
“Dramash,” said Rho slowly, sliding the coin from the table with his hand still covering it. “It’s all right.” The last golden eagle Dramash had seen had been the one covered in his mother’s blood. That coin—retrieved, kept se
cret, held back like a notched arrow—had triggered the temple collapse and all of the death that had followed.
The soldiers around the table jumped up, reaching for their quivering weapons, reading the build-up of emotion at the other end of the room.
“Dramash!” Rho said again.
Then the front door flew open and startled Dramash out of his distress. A soldier in an Arregador tabard straddled the threshold, yellow flares of excitement shooting out of him. <He’s here!> called the soldier, addressing his friends by the fire. <Josten Drey. They’re bringing her up to Ravindal right now!>
He’d barely finished speaking before everyone else in the tavern was grabbing their outerwear and rushing for the door. Eofar snatched at the coat of one of the women before she got away.
<Wait!> he cried. <What’s going on?>
The woman’s incredulousness hit them like a punch. <It’s the Mongrel—Josten Drey’s brought her body here to collect the bounty. He’s taking it up to the emperor.>
Eofar dropped her sleeve.
<The Mongrel isn’t dead,> said Rho.
<The emperor won’t be pleased if she is,> said the woman. <She can’t lead the army of the cursed if she’s dead, now, can she? If that’s her body, then the witch’s prophecies are wrong.> She ran after her friend, slamming the door behind her. Rho stepped in front of Eofar to stop him from running out after the others. <You need to stay calm. It’s not her. It can’t be.>
But Eofar walked around him and out the door. Rho helped Dramash back into his mittens and hood and followed after him, pausing briefly to place the coin on the bar.
Night had fallen in the short time they’d been inside. People were running through the streets, many of them still pulling on cloaks or hoods or gloves, all heading toward Dock Road. The excitement of the whole city pulsed around them.
<Where are you going?> Rho called after Eofar.
<To the emperor.>
<Are you insane?> asked Rho, picking up Dramash and carrying him in order to keep up.
<This is our chance to get the emperor on our side,> said Eofar without waiting. <We might be the only two people in Ravindal who can swear to him that whatever body they’re bringing him is not genuine.>
Having just convinced Eofar that the body could not possibly belong to Lahlil, Rho found himself in no position to object.
“What’s happening?” asked Dramash. “Where’s everybody going?”
“To Ravindal,” Rho told him, “and so are we, apparently.”
Chapter 13
Rho kept a firm hold on the back of Dramash’s coat like he was carrying a kitten by the scruff of the neck as they joined in the unruly procession heading up the wide road. Everyone was pushing to get a closer look, and one enterprising youth even climbed up onto the back of the bulky, slow-moving marmont pulling the cart before the guards plucked him off and tossed him back into the crowd. Through all of the excitement Rho could feel the same undercurrent of anger he had felt in the tavern. He and Eofar might be the only people in Ravindal besides the emperor hoping that whatever was frozen in that block of ice was not the Mongrel’s dead body.
“There’s a dereshadi,” said Dramash excitedly, “no, look! Two, no, four!” The triffons swept low over the crowd, then met up with two others. A full wing, thought Rho; someone must have been worried about the crowd getting out of hand. The cart and its frozen trophy bounced up the last steep rise to the South Gate and was immediately admitted by the guards. Everyone else was kept back, and the crowd, muttering, spread out across the ledge. Rho stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He couldn’t decide if the pain in his side was real or imaginary.
<Oh, look. They’ve run out of spikes,> he said to Eofar, looking at the line of severed heads above the gate in Traitors’ Row. <Traitors must be thick on the ground in Norland these days.>
“Why are we stopping here?” asked Dramash.
“No reason,” said Rho, pulling his eyes away from the blood-and-frost-stiffened hair and gaping, snow-filled mouths. “I just thought I saw someone I knew.”
<How do we get in?> asked Eofar.
<You’re an Eotan and I’m an Arregador,> said Rho. <We walk in.>
They forced their way through the crowd without apology, hardly slowing when the guards moved out to block their way. The bejeweled hilt of Strife’s Bane was enough to open a channel toward the small side gate and they walked straight through.
“That’s Arregador House, where I used to live,” he told the boy, walking a little faster. “Each clan built its own house here after the Clan Wars ended. See that bridge up there? Someone dared my little brother Trey to climb it when he wasn’t much older than you, and he did.” And then, “Through there, all the way back, that’s where the triffons—the dereshadi—sleep.” He regretted this last one, because of course Dramash immediately grabbed his sleeve and tried to pull him in that direction, but luckily, the crowd blocked their way and he was able to pull Dramash past, saying, “We can’t see them now because they’re all going to sleep soon.”
Rho had assumed the cart would be unloaded once it reached the Front, but instead they unhitched the marmont and pulled the cart straight through the gates and into the castle. Rho kept Dramash as close against his side as he could as they followed the cart bumping up the shallow steps toward the throne room. He found himself looking for Kira in spite of himself, but there was no sign of her—but of course, she had probably left Ravindal altogether by now, especially if she thought war was coming. She was barely competent with a sword, and he remembered joking with her that if she ever went to war, she should go as a spy. She had taken the remark more seriously than he had intended, assuring him that she would have made a very good spy.
<Get out of the way,> Eofar called out, pushing closer and closer to the cart. <Make way. We need to get through. Make way!>
By the time they entered the throne room, they were right behind the cart. A woman in the uniform of captain of the Eotan guards led a phalanx of her command toward it. Rho briefly wondered what had happened to old Kurt, the nemesis of Ravindal’s children for as long as he could recall—he and his friends had victimized the man by throwing nuts at him, trying to make them ping off his helmet.
He could feel the presence of several people at the back of the room, back by the throne, but the torches had not been lit at that end and all he could make out were a few glowing shapes.
<You need to let us see that body,> Eofar told the new captain as the guards tried to herd the crowd back with limited success.
<Why is that?> she asked. Her gritty presence scraped like the bottom of a boot. He couldn’t imagine anyone throwing nuts down on her.
<Because we’ve stood as close to the Mongrel as we are to you now,> Eofar told her. <Do you want to know if it’s really her, or not? How do you know Josten Drey isn’t playing the emperor for a fool?>
She didn’t trust him, but Rho could feel something deeper underneath, something naked and a little bit desperate. The moment she stepped out of the way, Eofar strode toward the block of ice while the guards kept everyone else back. Rho had little choice but to pull Dramash along after him.
The frost had been scraped away and the ice was remarkably cl
ear. Inside lay a woman with gray skin, black hair and an eye-patch. She had the long, muscular limbs of a Norlander, and a revolting collection of scars on her face and one of her bare arms.
<It’s not her,> Eofar announced. <It’s well done—very well done—but that’s an imitation. That is not the Mongrel.>
Rho could feel the outrage of the assembly behind him like the yowling of cats thrown into a sack. A chorus of denials and demands for Eofar to prove it battered into his head.
Eofar went over to the wall and grabbed a broad-axe from a display of weaponry.
<Stop!> commanded the captain, drawing her sword and running forward to stop him.
<What the hell are you doing?> Rho asked as Eofar sprinted back to the cart. <It’s not her. You already told them.>
<I obviously have to prove it.>
<Stand down, Captain Vrinna,> said the emperor from the distant throne and she stopped dead, raising a hand to halt her guards as well, but they kept their black-bladed swords pointed at Eofar. Rho heard the sound of claws scrabbling against the stone flags just before two drooling hounds with flaring, black-rimmed nostrils melted out of the darkness and loped toward them. Rho pushed Dramash behind him.
Eofar pulled down the back of the cart and leaped up onto the platform, then he swung the broad-axe and sank the blade deep into the ice until it stuck fast. Chips flew into the air as he worked it free again, then he struck at the block once again, twice, three times … By the last stroke he had chopped out a wedge close to the corpse’s neck. He changed the angle and struck sideways. A chunk broke away near her face and he stopped and rolled his shoulders, giving his arms a moment to recover.
As the emperor came toward them out of the darkness, his dogs bounded back to him and craned their necks up for a scratch from his bejeweled fingers. Rho had not seen him since before Trey’s death, but he had pictured “Emperor” Gannon many times since then: covered in his brother’s blood as he walked away through the trees.