Kellanved's Reach

Then he almost shook his head himself; in joining the Guard he thought he’d left behind all such concerns. Growing up, he had always held the mercenary company to be the paragon of merit and reward: be good enough, and you will be rewarded. Now it seemed that even here personalities and politics played their roles. Well, human nature, he supposed. We drag it with us wherever we go.

He looked to a worried Haraj at his side, now coughing mutely into a fist in a way that bespoke his anxiety, and whispered reassuringly, ‘Well … at least we joined before they did, hey?’

*   *   *

Once the novelty of her new position as chief bouncer in a high-class bordello wore off, Iko became bored. Guiding drunken nobles down halls and into carriages was, frankly, not a challenge to her abilities. Neither was arm-locking rowdy young bravos who thought they were tough.

Still, it was an engagement that allowed her to remain close to the palace, and she spent every spare hour haunting the roof-top garden, peering out across the city to the precincts now forbidden to her.

She was, she knew, an odd bird in a menagerie of exotics and misfits, and she was, rather against her better judgement, getting to know them. The lad she met the first night went by the name of Leena and preferred to be addressed as a woman. Fair enough. Likewise, there were women who catered only to women – it was a come one, come all establishment. Iko didn’t judge, because, after all, she was perhaps the oddest of the lot.

She was in the kitchens having breakfast, on call as usual, when Leena came rushing down the narrow servants’ stairs to announce breathlessly, ‘There’s fighting in the palace.’

Iko set down her tea. ‘Fighting? What do you mean?’

Leena pulled her dressing robe more tightly about herself. ‘Talk on the streets. The gates and doors closed. Perhaps even fires!’

Iko surged to her feet and charged up the stairs. She did not halt until she gained the roof and here she gazed, shading her eyes. There was indeed smoke over the palace grounds, and there was a much louder than usual clamour rising from the streets and markets all about. She stormed down to the exit and headed straight for the walled palace grounds. Citizens were milling about, talking of the clash of weaponry from beyond the walls, and seeing new, unfamiliar armed guards in the grounds. Iko ran even faster.

She charged for one particular stretch of wall, a low section that sided on the wildest portion of the gardens. Here she cast about and found what she needed: a street-hawker’s cart. Marching up, she yanked it from him and drove it against the wall, climbed on to it – ignoring the yelling owner – and jumped to grip the top of the wall. From here she pulled herself up and over, and dropped down.

That, she congratulated herself, went well. But then in her thoughts she’d been rehearsing just such an action for several weeks. She ran for the Sword-Dancers’ quarters.

A column of marching troops forced her to take cover behind a pavilion. She was astonished to see that they wore gold and black favours – the colours of the Fedal family, who had held the throne before the Chulalorn dynasty. And with them was a detachment of Dal Honese, armoured, but showing no colours. An alliance.

A dread such as she’d never before known gripped Iko now, and an iron band closed around her chest. She ran on, not able even to breathe.

The smoke was thickest around the Sword-Dancers’ quarters, and rounding a building on the square Iko saw why: the barracks still burned, collapsed, timbers still in flames. She slowed then, as if in a daze. A heap of the fallen lay before the smouldering ruins of the main doors: her lifeless sisters. Some in shifts and trousers only, many with their hair burned away, their flesh seared, but one and all pierced by countless arrows.

Bending, she took the whipsword from the still warm hand of one, and turned her head to the palace. She tightened her two-handed grip and ran for the nearest entrance.

A knot of Fedal troops guarded the door. Hardly one yell of surprise left their mouths before she was upon them, slashing and spinning. All fell in an instant. Then she was in, running for the king’s private quarters. Here the rooms showed the wreckage of a sacking. Fine ceramic vases lay shattered, desks overturned, sheafs of vellum records everywhere. And, here and there, fallen royal guards.

Passing one entrance she paused, and returned. Here lay a great number of Fedal and Dal Hon troops; they’d met strong resistance from a knot of Kan family guards. And among the fallen lay the Kan of family Kan himself, Leoto. He lay panting shallowly, his chased-iron hauberk only half done up, but sword in hand. Iko knelt next to him and his rolling eyes found hers.

He shook his head, chuckling. ‘So … couldn’t walk away, hey, Iko?’

‘Who?’ she asked.

An effort at a weak shrug. ‘The Fedal – and allies.’ He chuckled again. ‘It’s never where you’re looking, hey?’

‘The king?’