Midnight Tides
‘If she’s not careful,’ Iron Bars observed, ‘that beast will start bucking. And she’ll find herself on her arse in the middle of the road.’
‘That would be an ill omen indeed,’ Seren said.
After a moment, the Preda managed to calm the horse.
‘I take it we have something of a wait before us,’ Iron Bars said.
‘King’s Battalion and Merchants’ Battalion at the very least. I don’t know what other forces are in Letheras. I wouldn’t think the south battalions and brigades have had time to reach here, which is unfortunate.’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘If we cross this field, we can take the river road and enter through Fishers’ Gate. It will mean crossing two-thirds of the city to reach my home, but for you, Avowed, well, presumably the ship you’re signed on with will be close by.’
Iron Bars shrugged. ‘We’re delivering you to your door, Acquitor.’
‘That’s not necessary-’
‘Even so, it is what we intend to do.’
‘Then, if you don’t mind…’
‘Fishers’ Gate it shall be. Lead on, Acquitor.’
The rearguard elements of the King’s Battalion had turned in the concourse before the Eternal Domicile and were now marching up the Avenue of the Seventh Closure. King Ezgara Diskanar, who had stood witness on the balcony of the First Wing since his official despatch of the Preda at dawn, finally swung about and made his way inside. The investiture was about to begin, but Brys Beddict knew he had some time before his presence was required.
Four of his own guard were on the balcony with him. Brys gestured one over. ‘Find me a messenger.’
‘Yes sir.’
Brys waited, staring out over the city. The air was oppressive with more than just humidity and heat. After the passing of the battalion’s rearguard, few citizens ventured into its wake. The battle at Brans Keep was still days away, but it seemed that most of the city’s residents – those who remained – had elected to stay in their homes as much as possible.
The messenger arrived, a woman he had employed often and one he knew he could trust.
‘Deliver a missive to my brother, Tehol, at his home.’
‘He will be on his roof?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Go, then.’
She quickly left. Brys strode into the narrow corridor that tracked the length of the wing on the second tier. At the far end steps descended to an antechamber that was part of the central dome complex. There, he found Finadd Moroch Nevath, sitting on a stone bench.
‘Brys, I have been waiting for you.’
‘Not too long, I hope. What do you wish of me, Finadd?’
‘Do you believe in gods?’
Startled, Brys was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I am afraid I do not see the relevance of that question.’
Moroch Nevath reached into a pouch at his hip and withdrew a battered tile, such as might be found among market readers. ‘When did you last speak with Turudal Brizad?’
‘The First Consort has not been in the palace – either palace, since yesterday,’ Brys said. ‘First Eunuch Nifadas ordered an extensive search, and it has been concluded that Turudal has fled. Not entirely surprising-’
Moroch tossed him the tile. Instinctively, Brys caught it in his left hand. He looked down at the ceramic plaque. Yellowed at the edges, latticed with cracks, the illustration reduced to a series of stylized scratches that Brys none the less recognized. ‘The tile of the Errant. What of it, Moroch?’
The soldier rose to his feet. He’d lost weight, Brys noted, and seemed to have aged ten years since joining the treaty delegation. ‘He’s been here. All along. The bastard’s been right under our noses, Brys Beddict.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The Errant. The First Consort. Turudal Brizad.’
‘That is… ridiculous.’
‘I have a somewhat harsher word for it, Brys.’ The Champion glanced away from the man standing before him. ‘How did you come to this extraordinary conclusion, Moroch?’
‘There have been Turudal Brizads every generation – oh, different names, but it’s him. Scenes on tapestries, paintings. Walk the royal collection, Brys – everything’s out in the hallway, about to be moved. It was right there, for anyone to see, should they find reason to look.’