The Iron jackal

Thirty

‘What happened to you?’ Trinica asked, laughing. Then she saw the look on his face, and the laughter drained out of her. ‘What happened?’ she asked again, serious this time.

Frey sat down next to her on the broad stone steps that led from the shrine behind them to the river below. He was muddy and tattered, his hair was everywhere, and he stank of sweat and dead animals.

‘I’ve had a bit of a bad day,’ he said.

She reached towards him, hesitated, then brushed the hair away from his forehead with quick and uncertain movements. The concern in her eyes forced him to turn his head away as tears threatened. Exhaustion and fright had made him overemotional. He took a few breaths to get himself under control.

‘You want to see inside the shrine?’ she asked, out of nowhere.

He didn’t want to see inside the shrine. He couldn’t have cared less about it. But she sensed the state he was in. She sensed it, and pretended she didn’t, and she was giving him something to distract himself until he was ready to talk.

Damn, this woman was so right for him. Nobody understood him like she did.

‘Yeah.’ He nodded and managed a smile. ‘That’d be nice.’

She got to her feet, bringing her parasol with her, and held out a hand. He took it, glad of the excuse to touch her. The effort of standing up made him wince.

It was the old Trinica who had appeared today, the one he’d almost married. She was wearing short trousers, sandals and a shirt, exposing slender, marble-white limbs that glistened with an unguent for protection against sunburn. Frey hadn’t seen her wearing so little for more than a decade. Even beat up and filthy as he was, he suddenly found himself very interested in all that unclothed skin.

Her chopped-off white-blonde hair had been fixed into a style that she carried off well. While she still hacked her hair, these days she never did it so much that she couldn’t make something out of it when she wanted to.

She saw him staring at her. ‘What?’ she asked with a smile.

‘You know what.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Darian,’ she said, and it could have meant anything. But he thought she was pleased.

She was in a lighthearted, girlish mood today. Their sour parting had been forgotten, and there would be no apology necessary from either side. He was glad of that. He was rubbish at apologies at the best of times.

She chatted about nothing as she led him up the stairs towards the shrine at the top. Her manner was such a contrast to the horror he’d experienced on the way to meet her that his spirits began to return. So what if he looked a mess? Trinica had forgiven him. That was a result.

The shrine was a simple semicircle of white and weathered columns beneath a flat roof. It was plain in comparison to the grand and elaborate buildings he could see crowding the far bing the ank of the river and clinging to the bridges that spanned it. Dakkadians and Samarlans passed by, going unhurriedly about their business, or loafed on the steps, watching the boats on the river, but none came inside.

It was a relief to be out of the sun. The shrine seemed dim in comparison, even though it was open on all sides to the light. Inside the shrine, nine huge alabaster figures stood against the flat rear wall. None of them had a face. They were blank and smooth. There were six identical males and three identical females, the difference being the height, the shape of the body and the length of the hair. Other than that, there was no decoration at all. It was a white, quiet, empty place.

Frey looked from one statue to another, and back again. ‘Their gods are really boring, huh? Who are this lot?’

‘The Nameless,’ said Trinica, with a wry glance.

Frey snorted. ‘Should’ve known, really. Honestly, folks worship all kinds of shit. You know, I just found out that Silo believes he’ll be born again in another body after he dies.’

‘Of course he does. He’s a Murthian.’

‘How comes everyone knows about that except me?’

She patted him on the arm. ‘Books, Darian. You know, if you open one, you’ll find it full of words.’

‘Words, eh?’ Frey said. ‘Tell me more.’

‘Well, for instance, in books there are stories about the old gods of Samarla, and how they once lived on Atalon among their people. It was a paradise, and nobody wanted for anything. But the people became corrupt and decadent, and they stopped worshipping their gods. Evil grew in them-’

‘ Now it’s getting interesting,’ Frey interjected.

She gave him a look. ‘Evil grew in them, and this evil became manifest. A plague – the translation is literally soul-plague – swept through the land, killing the good. Many people died, but only the most pious, the most faithful. And then the gods began to die too. One by one they fell, killed by the ungratefulness of their subjects. And the evil people saw them die, and thought that they might not be gods after all, and made war on them. The gods departed the world in despair, rising up into the sky on a pillar of fire.’

‘Right,’ said Frey. ‘Pillar of fire.’

‘A little open-mindedness wouldn’t hurt you, Darian.’

‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Every time I open my mind, things fall out.’

‘That explains a lot,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, listen, you’ll like this bit. As punishment for the soul-plague, the gods unleashed seven great beasts of unstoppable power to destroy the paradise they’d created. They were called the Juggernauts. They roamed the land, destroying settlements, eradicating crops, slaughtering anything that moved. The people hid, and starved, and prayed to the gods for mercy. It took a hundred years of suffering before the Juggernauts stopped, disappearing as mysteriously as they came.’

‘So what’s up with the no-face thing?’ Frey asked, gesturing at the statues.

‘I’m getting to that. For hundreds of years after the Juggernauts, the gods were silent, and the scattered tribes reunited. In that time, a man called Nezzuath appeared, and he-’

‘Wait,’ said Frey. ‘Let me guess. He claimed he could speak to the gods.’

‘Oh, Darian. So cynical. You think you’re so wise in the ways of the world.’

‘Hey, I know the ways of the world. Let’s not forget, I wasn’t the one born with a silver spoon in my arse.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Just a colossal chip on your shoulder.’

‘Touche.’

‘Do you want to know about the Nameless Ones or not?’

‘Not really,’ he said. Then he grinned. ‘But I do love to hear you talk.’

‘Well, shut up and be educated, then.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, falsely contrite.

She composed herself again. ‘Nezzuath,’ she said, ‘claimed he could speak with the gods.’

Frey cracked up. She swatted him, but he couldn’t stop, so eventually she had to hustle him out for fear of offending the locals.

‘You’re a terrible student, you know,’ she said, as they walked down the steps towards a street that ran along the river bank. The parasol rested against her shoulder, casting her into the shade. She couldn’t stop smiling, and that made him smile too.

‘I’ve been told,’ he replied. Then he stopped and frowned, looking off into the distance.

‘What is it?’ she asked, catching the change in him.

‘Nothing, I…’ he said, still staring. Then hering. Th shook his head. ‘Sorry. There was a woman over there, a moment ago. I thought…’

He thought it was Samandra Bree.

No, it couldn’t have been. He’d only seen her from the back, for an instant, as she disappeared round a corner. It could have been anyone. She’d been wearing light travel clothes instead of a greatcoat, and she’d been bareheaded, with thick dark hair spilling down her back. She was a Vard, but there were plenty of Vards in Shasiith.

But still, something about the way she moved had caught his eye.

‘Darian? I’m still here,’ said Trinica.

He shook himself. Getting paranoid, Darian. No way Bree could have found you here. ‘Sorry. Nezzwozz-whatever could speak to the gods, yes. Then what?’

She gave him a look to check he was taking it seriously. He put on his best serious face. She closed her eyes and shook her head in mock despair.

‘Well, he claimed that the gods were still angry with the people for their ancestor’s faithlessness. He said they weren’t worthy to speak the names of the gods or look upon their faces, and they certainly weren’t worthy to worship them. The gods’ names would be stricken from the records and forgotten, their images erased. But there was hope: the gods had told him that they would choose one representative on Atalon to be their voice, and when they died the mantle would be passed on to their first son or daughter. Nezzuath, and his descendants. The people were meant to obey and worship him in their stead. And one day, when they were judged obedient and contrite enough, the gods would return and bring paradise again.’

‘But in the meantime, they had to do everything he said.’

‘Exactly. That was the first of the God-Emperors. The line’s remained unbroken for thousands of years since.’

Frey stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked back up at the shrine. ‘So that place isn’t really a shrine at all, then? It’s a reminder.’

‘Yes. It’s forbidden to worship there.’

‘Huh,’ said Frey. He sniffed. ‘I know I should find this culturally fascinating and all, but actually, it’s just a bit weird.’

‘You’re hopeless. I give up. Someone else will have to civilise you.’

‘Good luck to ’em.’

Standing there, the river flowing before them and the sun blazing in an azure sky, she put her arm around his waist and laid her head against his shgainst houlder. It was done so casually, and felt so natural, that it took him a few seconds before his mind caught up with the implications. His heart began to pump hard. He looked down at the top of her head, nestled against his collar. Her eyes were closed.

She’s holding me, he thought in disbelief.

She gave a little sigh. ‘Darian?’

‘Yes?’

‘You really stink.’

He burst out laughing, and the tension of the moment was gone. ‘You always did know just the right thing to say.’

She let him go. He was surprised at how sharp his disappointment was. She danced a few steps away from him, then gave him a childish frown. ‘I have a question.’

‘Which is?’

‘You are aware that it’s hot enough to fry a fish out here, aren’t you?’

‘I’d noticed, yeah.’

‘So why are you wearing a glove?’

Frey looked down at his hand, and the fingerless glove that covered it. His good mood faltered. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘About that…’

He wouldn’t show her in public, so they went into a nearby water garden where there would be privacy. On the way, he explained everything that had happened to him. The moment when he’d handled the relic and been bitten by it. The Samarlan sorcerer’s prophecy. His meeting with Crickslint and how they’d robbed the Mentenforth Institute. Silo’s homecoming.

He told her about the Iron Jackal, too, how it had appeared to him three times now. But he left out any mention of how the daemon was a patchwork of his subconscious; and how it had one of her eyes, the black eye of the pirate queen, and it was plated in pieces of the Delirium Trigger ’s hull.

He told her all that, but he didn’t think it hit home until he took off his glove and showed her his hand.

She sucked in her breath sharply. ‘Oh, Darian,’ she murmured.

The corruption was no worse than it had been the first day he saw it, but it never got any easier to look at. The black spot still sat in the centre of his palm, gangrenous tendrils radiating out from it. It didn’t hurt, and it didn’t restrict the movement of his hand, but he could feel its presence in his flesh. The daemonic mark, condemning him to death.

Unless he returned the relicned the to its rightful place. Unless he gave back what was stolen.

They sat on a bench in a stone arbour, beneath a ceiling of vines. Water trickled over rocky miniature waterfalls nearby. A lily pond spread out before them, and trees rose up beyond. Dragonflies darted through the air in jerks, and birds flitted from branch to branch. The water garden was a many-tiered maze of hideaways: a place of calm in the chaos of the city. Frey needed a bit of calm right now.

Trinica held his hand in hers, her gaze flickering anxiously over the mark, as if searching for a way to prove it a fake.

‘How long?’ she asked.

‘Three nights.’

‘And you have the relic?’

‘Back on the Ketty Jay. Still have no idea where it came from, though.’

‘What will you do?’ She sounded helpless.

‘There’s a place down south. A facility, like a work camp or a mine or something, hidden in the Choke Bowl.’

‘Gagriisk. I know of it.’

‘That’s where they’re keeping him.’

‘Who?’

‘The Yort explorer feller. The one who found the relic. Reckon he can tell us where it came from.’

‘So you have to get him out?’

‘Right. Basically, we’re gonna plough in there, shoot everyone, and rescue his arse so he can rescue mine.’

She let his hand go, and sat forward, staring out over the lily pond, her elbows on her knees. Her fingers twisted and knotted themselves. He wasn’t used to seeing her so agitated.

‘It’s a fortified target, Darian,’ she said. ‘Have you thought it through?’

‘We’ll have help,’ he said. ‘Fifty-odd Murthians. Revolutionaries or whatever.’ He shrugged. ‘They sound like they can fight better than my lot, anyway.’

‘You don’t have any more subtle way of doing it?’

‘I don’t have time for subtle.’

She looked down at the ground between her pale forearms. ‘Three nighuo; Threets,’ she said quietly.

‘Hey.’ He touched her shoulder, and she met his gaze. ‘I’m not dead yet, you know.’

She held his eyes for a moment, then turned away and nodded. ‘What can I do?’

‘I need the Delirium Trigger.’

Her brow creased. ‘You need… Why?’

‘The compound keeps a few aircraft on hand. A few fighters and a small frigate. Not much, but it’s too much for the Ketty Jay to handle, and both my outflyers are out of action. Fact is, if we launch a ground assault on that place, they’ll take to the sky and decimate us. But if the Delirium Tr-’

‘No,’ she said.

He was taken aback by her bluntness. ‘No?’

‘I’ll go with you if you want. I’ll fight with you if you need me to. Ask anything you like of me. But not my crew.’

‘You’re their captain,’ he said. ‘They’ll do what you say.’

‘Exactly. I’m their captain. And this isn’t their fight. They don’t know you, Darian. Most of them don’t even like you. What am I to tell them? That I’m leading them into battle for no reward? Risking their lives for no purpose that they care about?’

Frey felt suddenly exasperated. Her qualms didn’t seem all that important in the wake of the terror he’d recently experienced. ‘Don’t tell them anything!’ he said. ‘Last I heard, the Delirium Trigger wasn’t a democracy. If you say fight, they’ ll fight.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And that’s why I can’t ask them. Don’t you understand, Darian? Being a leader is a position of trust.’

‘I get that, Trinica!’ he said. He was getting frustrated and angry. ‘I’m taking my own crew into the firefight, remember? You don’t think I feel guilty enough as it is?’

‘But they’re your friends. They’re willing to stay at your side. They have a reason that my men don’t.’

‘Trinica, look at my hand,’ he said, holding it up.

‘I’ve seen it.’

‘Look again!’ he snapped. face="Times New Roman"›She glared at him sharply, then did as he asked. She couldn’t do it for long.

‘There’s no other way,’ he said slowly. ‘If you say no, I’m gonna die. It’s that simple.’

She didn’t say anything. Her jaw was clenched, the muscles of her neck tight.

‘It’s only a few aircraft,’ he said, softening his tone. ‘Your men won’t even have to break a sweat. Shoot ’em down. Drive ’em off. Whatever. We’ll be doing the dirty work on the ground.’

‘Don’t ask me to do this, Darian,’ she said. ‘Don’t make me choose between my crew and you.’

He closed his hand. ‘I don’t want to die, Trinica,’ he said. ‘The question is, do you want me to?’