“Yes, my lord.”

“Rakan, who did you say you’d left in charge at Khangset?”

“Sergeant Adrash, majesty. He’s a good man, northern campaign veteran. I detailed two-thirds of the detachment to stay behind with him, and he has the remains of the marine garrison to work with as well. They’re shaken up, but he’ll whip them back into shape fast enough.”

“How many men does that give him?”

“About a hundred and fifty, all told. Enough to put a cordon around the town, make sure word doesn’t get out about the raid until we want it to. We’ve posted penalty warnings about seditious talk and unlicensed meetings, built a gallows in the main square, and set a dusk-to-dawn curfew. Should have the place back on its feet inside a couple of weeks.”

“Good. That sounds like solid progress at least.” A sour glance at Archeth. “Can I take it we’ll be hearing some more about these dwenda?”

“I will begin the research immediately, my lord.”

“Fine. Let’s just hope the Helmsmen are feeling a little more cooperative than usual, eh?”

The same worry had been dragging at her ever since they left Khangset. She forced it down and manufactured a confidence of tone she didn’t feel.

“This raid represents a substantial assault on the realm, my lord. I believe that with those parameters, the Helmsmen will revert to wartime attitudes.” Yeah, Archidi—those we can still consider sane, that is. “I expect fairly rapid progress.”

“Rapid progress?” A raised eyebrow. “Well, I shall hold you to that, Archeth. As you say, this is an assault on the realm, and at a time when relations with our neighbors in the north are fragile, to say the least. We cannot appear weak. I will not permit a repetition of what has happened at Khangset.”

Archeth thought of the damage to the Kiriath harbor defenses, and wondered sardonically how Jhiral planned to exercise that particular point of imperial will if the raiders returned.

“No, my lord,” she intoned.

If, for example, the dwenda sailed up the river to Yhelteth, came ashore, and stalked the streets of the city as they apparently had at Khangset, phantasmal and to all appearances impervious to any harm human force could achieve. If they put to flight or slaughtered all these fucking humans, and then came like vengeful demons to the gates of the palace, and would not be kept out.

What would happen to Jhiral Khimran, Emperor of All Lands then?

Her own sudden ambivalence mugged her, jumped in her veins and belly like a fresh intake of krin. Unnerved, struggling with the jagged new thoughts, she forced recall of the shattered rib cage of a child, buried beneath charred and fallen timbers. Forced herself to remember that these fucking humans had once included her own mother.

It helped—but not as much as it should have.

CHAPTER 17

Grace-of-Heaven had two soldiers for him—sun-darkened, sinewy men of indeterminate age who stood around in the upper room at the tavern with arms folded and a latent threat of violence oozing from them like slow smoke. Ringil made them for Marsh Brotherhood muscle, on loan to Milacar no doubt as some kind of lodge-approved favor. Neither was visibly armed, but their loose black burglar’s garb could and probably did hide an assortment of close-quarters weaponry. They spared a couple of surprised glances for the Ravensfriend when Ringil first came in wearing it, but neither man passed comment. Thereafter they were closemouthed and watchful in the lamplit gloom, respectful enough to both Ringil and Grace, but without overdoing it. There was no discussion of payment and, interestingly, no mention of the dwenda.

“Your main problem,” Milacar warned them, “is going to be getting past the urchins.”

Which wasn’t a surprise, for Ringil at least. He’d had the realities of the landscape laid out for him that first night at Milacar’s place. Grace-of-Heaven, staring off the balcony with him, voice discouraged and faintly tinged, perhaps, with envy. Anywhere else, you’d only have the Watch to worry about, and they can be bought for a harbor-end blow job. Since the Liberalization, that’s all changed. The slave lobby had the Watch run out of Etterkal altogether, paid them all off at Chancellery level.

Ringil grinned. That’s a lot of blow jobs.

Yeah, well. Sourly. What I hear, it was Snarl that did the deals, so maybe she’s found her level. Anyway, the Watch get to mount nominal guard at the quarter boundaries, especially over by Tervinala, basically because that’s where the Empire merchants and diplomats hang out, and right now, despite all this mob xenophobia and shipbuilding, we are still supposed to be looking after them as valued mercantile partners. Meanwhile, Findrich and a couple of others I don’t know handed the streets of Etterkal over to the urchin gangs; they’re all on a retainer for news of anything out of the ordinary, and some fairly hefty beatings for failure to report. You wander into the Salt Warren alone with that chunk of Kiriath steel strapped to your back, the first street brat that sees you is going straight to Findrich, and you’ll have an honor guard taking you to see him shortly thereafter.

I’ll talk to Findrich, if that’s what it takes.

Yeah—you will if talk’s what he wants out of you. And what I hear, Findrich isn’t any more into conversation these days than he ever was. More likely he’ll just have them chop your fucking head off and give it to the dwenda. A long sigh. Look, Gil, why don’t you make life a little easier for us all and stay out of Etterkal for another couple of days, give me some time instead. I’ll get you your list.

Fair enough. He kept it carefully casual. But I’m still going in there, Grace. You know that, right? One way or the other, sooner or later, with or without your help.

Milacar rolled his eyes. Yeah, I know. One way or the other, last stand at Gallows Gap, all that. Look, just leave it with me, Gil. I’ll see what I can do.

What Grace could do, it turned out, was supply high-end clothing and even a few forged documents identifying Ringil as a Yhelteth spice merchant, domiciled in Tervinala for the winter, and in the market for something to sweeten his stay. It was a pretty good cover. With his mother’s blood and the years of rural living in Gallows Water, Ringil was dark-skinned enough to pass. And Yhelteth merchants of any means would hire local enforcers to accompany them through the streets as a matter of course, so Milacar’s on-loan muscle wouldn’t look out of place, either.

“And neither, fortunately, will that ridiculous sword of yours. Practically every imperial in Tervinala is wandering around with some kind of Kiriath knockoff on their belt these days, and most people can’t tell the difference from the real thing. Common as muck. Half the time, they’re selling them to pay off their gambling debts or clear the rent till spring. You’ve got one somewhere haven’t you, Girsh?”

The bulkier-built of Milacar’s two soldiers inclined his head. “Took it off some guy’s bodyguard in a fight. Piece-of-shit court sword, you couldn’t chop an onion with it. Not even half the weight of good steel.”

Grace-of-Heaven chuckled. “The demands of fashion, eh. Girsh here isn’t very impressed with the imperials.”

Ringil shrugged. “Well, merchant class, you know. Shouldn’t judge the whole Empire by them.”

“Watch it, Eskiath. You’re talking to a merchant, remember.”

“Thought I was talking to a city founder.”

The other soldier stirred, addressed himself to Ringil. “Do you speak Tethanne?”

Ringil nodded. “Well enough to get by. You?”

“A bit. I can do the numbers.”

Girsh glanced across at his companion, apparently surprised. “You know Tethanne numbers, Eril?”