Eir approached him. They assumed position, fingers locked, a close embrace, and more than ever she seemed small and vulnerable in his arms. She was now in one of those moods where she didn’t seem to want to look at him, wanted to pull as far away as possible in each dance step. Maybe he would try to patch things up between them by just shutting up.

The door opened to reveal one of the resident guards. ‘My Lady Stewardess, there is some urgent news.’

Eir stepped away from Randur quickly, as if she had been caught in some lewd act.

‘What news?’ she demanded.

‘Your sister Jamur Rika’s entourage is getting near the city, my lady. Garudas have sighted her carriage just under two hours away.’

TWENTY-THREE

The return of the elder sister, Rika, brought thoughts of his own family to Chancellor Urtica. Families were an important issue to him.

After all, he’d killed his own.

They used to ridicule him, and he just couldn’t cope with that, no, not the everyday references to sneering at his shortcomings. Gathered around the table at night, every night, they would start to berate him for his failings, especially his mother. Even when he qualified for the junior ranks of the Council his family would carp at him for not progressing up the ranks quickly enough. They would question his lack of friends, they complained that he didn’t earn enough; it seemed everything he did or did not do became a target, a focal point for savage criticism. Fearing that this constant undermining would ultimately limit his career prospects, the young Urtica decided one night that enough was enough.

Dispatching them had been a joy, a creative wonder, the kind of ingenious ploy to smile about as he remembered it. He contrived a way of tricking them into dropping something lethal in each other’s food. One night just after he had turned eighteen, a treat to rid himself of all the shame and humiliation, the sheer joy of watching them cough up blood, retch bile, yet still take time to berate each other shrilly as they realized what was happening. He had a watertight alibi – paying off several old friends for their word, with promise of power to come – and he’d faked an entry in his mother’s diary. When the Inquisition came they declared it an open and shut case. Sympathy had come pouring in from neighbours, for the poor boy so tragically orphaned. When he finally got away from their condolences, he began to savour the thrill to be obtained from the god-like power to terminate life. While he was engaged in the business of removing his family, he had taken the liberty to forge new wills – with ancient Jamur runes and seals and all – leaving more distant family members ostracized. Charitably, he gave them a little, because he was nice like that, but the majority of the wealth and estates came to him. Forgery, he thought at the time, is such a blissful art.

And soon there were others to suffer at his hand, like his older cousin in a freak sailing accident off the coast of Jokull, whose drowning was followed by a few drinks at the quayside celebrating the sudden inheritance of family estates on the east coast near Vilhokr. A glass to you, dearest cousin, for the comforts with which you’ve provided me. Cheers!

With his new-won independence and income, he had turned to the Ovinists. The traditional gods reminded him too keenly of his pious family. After all, a new faith for a new man!

Vaguely the whore he used last night had looked like his mother, a slender waif of a girl with sharp features. It brought back some complex thoughts to his mind. What does it mean, sleeping with a substitute for my mother? And in sleeping with whores, well, he was just becoming like his father, wasn’t he? Bohr, families can fuck you up… Urtica slid out of bed, walked over to the fire to throw another log on it, then on went his favourite green tunic.

A guard entered the room. ‘Sir, Commander Lathraea approaches the city with the new Empress.’

So, she was back at last, and it was time to see exactly how easily he might manipulate her.

He walked over to a window, pulled back the tapestry to reveal the view over the fore-city. A gust of wind whistled in, but he didn’t even feel it.

Such beauty, such potential… Until his gaze focused on the refugees camped outside the gates of the city, their numerous little fires already coughing smoke weakly into the air. Their makeshift homes stretched far into the distance, where disease was spreading rapidly. Decent people feared leaving the city. Resentment at this encroachment was growing, and with it a feeling of hatred.

Other concerns loomed now in his thoughts, first and foremost the final campaign against the Varltungs. He had to convince Commander Lathraea to be out of the way so that Urtica himself could assume full control of the military. The Empress, too, would need to be persuaded to put her trust in him, but that fitted in nicely with the troubles now erupting on the northern fringes of the Empire. In fact he needed Brynd’s expertise in handling this crisis, so that wasn’t just a lie.

Rika leaned out of the carriage, looked up at the grey sky. The wind whipped her hair around her face as she pulled strands of it back. ‘Why have we stopped?’ she asked.

Brynd rode over, the spires of Villjamur towering behind him on the hilltop, and the sight of the city sparked a thousand memories in her, and she was overcome by a strange sensation in her stomach. This was the home of her youth that she hadn’t seen for years. A part of her that she had almost forgotten about. It was an uncomfortable feeling to realize she wasn’t that same person any more. A famous ancient scribe had once recommended never returning to a place with happy memories, because it could never be the same. What about bad memories – would they diminish too?

She had to confront the girl – now woman – she had once been, and remember the day she had walked out on her family. Well, her father, anyway, but he was gone now.

‘I wanted to advise you of a problem, Jamur Rika, before you approach the gates of Villjamur.’ Brynd steered his horse till he faced her directly.

His sinister appearance: burning red eyes, black horse, black uniform, narrow white features belied his true nature. The brooch of the Empire glistened reassuringly on his chest. She had never seen anyone quite like him in her life. There was something about his demeanour that said she was safe in his hands, that he would protect her. It was those things that really mattered, not the colour of skin or eyes.

‘What is it you’re saying, commander?’ she demanded, hoping she sounded very much like an Empress.

‘I must warn you there are thousands of refugees outside the city gates. They are hoping to find protection inside the city during the Freeze.’

‘And they can’t come in?’ Rika said.

Mild regret in his eyes, despite his military firmness.

‘No,’ Brynd admitted. ‘It’s been decided there’s a limited capacity for Villjamur once the gates finally close. The city has to protect its own interests during the many years of ice to come.’

‘So please stop me if I’m incorrect in my assumptions that no one can come into the city? And these people will die here. In front of us. As we watch on?’

‘Pretty much,’ Brynd said. ‘But they’ll die anyway. Meanwhile military personnel will be allowed in and out – or people with the right documentation, of course. It’s the only way the city could last for so long.’

Rika pressed on, ‘And nothing can be done? Nothing in our hearts can be found for their plight?’

‘Not my place to say, Empress,’ Brynd replied. ‘There are many other things I’m involved with at the moment. As soon as I’m equipped and rested, the Night Guard will be leaving to investigate some skirmishes in the north.’