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Captain Axtis came in, stamping against the cold and brushing rain off the shoulders of his cloak.
‘Tell me, Captain,’ Chella said. ‘When were the guard last called on to defend the Gilden Gates, when did they last take to the battlefield?’
‘Sixtieth year of the Interregnum, Madam Delegate.’ Without hesitation. ‘The battle of Crassis Plains, against the Holy Roman army of the false emperor Manzal.’
A generation ago. ‘Were you even born then, Axtis?’
‘I was two years of age, Madam Delegate.’
And showing grey hairs under that helm today. Chella wondered how they would stand against the dead of her master’s army, the quick and the slow, with the ghouls and the lichkin.
‘I came to say we should be moving on if you’re set upon a full escort the whole way to Vyene.’
‘Oh we are, Captain.’ Chella set down her goblet and stood. It would serve Axtis very well to put her and Kai upon one of those golden barges. To let the Danoob carry his problems away, to discharge his responsibilities to the river, and if the barge should sink with all hands, a small price to pay to keep Congression beyond the Dead King’s reach for another four years.
The carriage rolled on amidst the guard column, past woods and fields, town and cottage. Chella found herself watching the scenery, enjoying the warmth of rare sunshine between the rains, breathing in the scents of the countryside, the stink of farms. When the cry of ‘Honth’ shook her from her thoughts she bit her tongue to let the pain sharpen her. Life casts more spells than any necromancer and they can be twice as deadly in their softness.
‘How far?’ she called out to the driver.
‘A mile, two maybe.’
They creaked on for a few more minutes before rolling to a halt.
‘We can’t be there yet.’ Kai opened the door. Hedgerows, cattle lowing beyond. A surge of horse and gold-armoured bodies, and Axtis dismounted before them.
‘Lady Chella, another delegate—’
‘Get out of the way.’ A louder voice overriding the captain’s. ‘You can’t stop me – I’m on a peace mission.’
Axtis slammed the carriage door in Kai’s face.
‘You have no authority here, sir!’ Axtis used the shout he reserved for his men. ‘I suggest you return to the forward column.’
The sound of someone jumping from their horse. ‘I’m on a diplomatic visit, Captain. Your job is to facilitate such intercourse. If we delegates come to blows you may intervene.’
The carriage door rattled, a hand on the handle. Kai blocked the grille, staring down at the scene outside.
‘This has to be the representatives from the Drowned Isles, no? Who else would be following from the west?’ A loud sniff. ‘Doesn’t smell like the Dead King – who’ve you got in here, Captain?’
Kai opened the door. And backed away, half-pushed, half of his own accord, as Jorg Ancrath, clad in the blacks and reds of a road tunic, clambered in.
‘Chella!’ The boy turned one of his dangerous smiles on her, ignoring Kai.
‘Jorg.’
He sat on the bench opposite them, legs stretched out, boots muddy on the floor, at perfect ease. He flicked the long black tangles of his hair back across his shoulders, watching her with dark eyes, amusement touching the sharp angles of his face, the ugly burn a reminder of his extremes.
‘Two of you?’ Again that sharp grin. ‘Is that all the living that can be mustered from the Drowned Isles? And Chella, you’re no Brettan. I would have heard it in your voice.’
‘The Jorg?’ Kai turned her way.
‘A Jorg, certainly.’ Jorg leaned in, elbows on his knees. Outside, the guard clustered. ‘And it does seem I’m the object of unhealthy fascination in certain quarters. Isn’t that so, Chella?’ He let his hand fall to rest on the black skirts over her thigh. ‘I am of course married now, dear heart, so you must put romance from your mind.’
‘The Dead King—’ Kai began.
‘The Dead King loves me too, I think,’ Jorg said, fingers closing on her flesh. ‘He has watched me for years. Sent his minions to raid my brother’s tomb.’ He turned to face Kai, very quick. ‘Do you know why?’
‘I—’
Jorg turned back, fixing Chella with his stare. ‘He doesn’t know. Do you?’
‘No.’
‘How frustrating for you.’ Jorg released her and leaned back on the bench. Her leg burned where his fingers had been. ‘Shall we carry on? My column is just ahead waiting to cross the Rhyme at the Honth bridge.’
Kai stamped for the carriage to proceed. ‘From what I’ve heard, I am surprised that you would choose to ride in the Lady Chella’s company, King Jorg.’
‘She’s been telling tales, has she?’ Jorg leaned forward again, with the air of a conspirator. ‘Truth be told— Wait, I don’t even know your name. I know you’re a man of the Isles, I have one of your country men in my carriage, a Merssy man, Gomst they call him. I’m pleased to see the Dead King has sent at least as many Brettans to Congression as I have. But your name?’
‘He’s Kai Summerson,’ Chella said, anxious to gain some control. ‘So why are you riding with us, Jorg?’
‘Can’t I just enjoy your company? Might I not be pining for my lady of the mire?’ Jorg cast a lascivious eye along the length of her. Despite herself Chella felt the blood rise in her cheeks. Ancrath noticed immediately and grinned all the wider. ‘You look … different, Chella. Older?’
She kept her lips sealed. They jolted another hundred yards before he spoke.
‘In truth? I could think of no easy way to kill you all. And so to keep my son safe from you I need to watch you. Closely. If that should prove impossible I would of course have to resort to killing you the hard way.’
‘Son?’ Chella found it hard to imagine, and imagination was something that had returned in strength when the necromancy faded from her. ‘You have a son?’
Jorg nodded. ‘Even so. Another William, to make his grandfather proud. Though I don’t know if Olidan of Ancrath lived long enough to be a grandfather?’
‘If he’s dead I know nothing of it.’ Time was she felt each death as ripples in a pond, and the King of Ancrath would have made quite a splash – now though, she might have new eyes for the living world, but she lay deaf to the deadlands. Jorg’s fault, of course. She said it to herself again, hoping to believe it. Jorg’s fault.
Jorg frowned, just for a moment, replacing it with the smile he wore in place of armour. ‘No matter.’
‘I’ve no designs on your son, Jorg,’ Chella said. It surprised her to find that she didn’t.
‘And you, Kai Summerson? Are you a child killer?’ Jorg asked.
‘No.’ A sharp reply, the offence written on his face. It seemed laughable that a necromancer should rail against such a suggestion, but then she remembered Kai had killed no one since she took him. When you learn the dark arts amid the corpse-hordes of the Isles murder is no longer a pre-requisite.
‘Me, I have taken the lives of children, Kai. Baby boy, small girl, it means little. The lives of men even less. Do not cross me.’ Careless words scattered like broken glass for the Brettan to pick a path through. Chella came to Kai’s aid before he cut himself.
