Emperor of Thorns

‘If God talks to anyone, Kent, it’s not that evil old woman back there. That faith you’ve found – you didn’t find it in church, now did you? You found it in pain and blood. Whatever reached out to touch you, it wasn’t a priest in robes.’

‘The holy spirit found me, Jorg. Christ Jesu, risen, led me out of darkness and cooled my burns.’ No ‘king’ today, no ‘sire’.

I don’t respect many men and Kent was never sharp enough of wit, never wise enough, never virtuous enough to inspire me. And his new credo, since the fire, seemed borrowed, other men’s dogma worn as a shield. But I respected his instincts as a killer and I liked the honesty of the man. And who was I to judge? I’d fucked a necromancer and killed a Pope within the space of a week.

‘I need to trust you, Kent.’ I spread my arms. ‘I need some of that faith. So listen to that spirit. Listen hard. And if I need to die for my crimes – be the one to strike me down.’

The cold wind blew between us. And I discovered I meant every word. I dared him, as I dared the storm long ago. Strike me down. I saw Gretcha slide from my blade, faint surprise in her eyes, and crumple to a small heap, bones and skin in a little girl’s clothes.

‘If someone had done this for me when I was a child it would have saved everyone a lot of trouble.’ I’d said it to her. I said it to the storm on a wild night atop the Tall Castle. I said it to Red Kent, his hands white on that Norse axe of his. ‘Do it!’

Kent dropped the axe. Shook his head. ‘We’re in this to the end, Jorg.’

I came back to the carriage. Miana, with babe in arms, Katherine, Gomst, and Osser were all outside, huddled in furs and cloaks against the wind’s icy fingers. They watched my approach through the guard as if the stench of my misdeed had already reached them, a cold mix of horror and disgust upon those pale faces.

‘Jorg? We heard fighting … there’s blood on you.’ Miana stepped toward me.

‘I made it right, my lady. As you asked me to.’

‘You killed her.’ Katherine spoke the words not in accusation but to hear them out loud, to see if they could be true.

‘She died. The how of it is a matter for discussion, for theological debate. And what of it? Has the hand of Roma supported the people of this empire or choked them? And hasn’t that grip grown tighter over the years that Pius spent spreading across the papal throne? The time has come for fresh blood, I say, for someone who actually believes in God to wear the silliest hat in Christendom.’

I looped an arm around Bishop Gomst’s shoulders. ‘Time for someone who doesn’t want to be pope to be pope. What do you say, Father?’

He looked up at me. I hadn’t realized how short he was, bent prematurely under years and cares, or perhaps how tall I’d grown. ‘You really killed her?’

I made a smile though it tasted bitter and said, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

And old Gomsty, though he was stiff from the carriage, and sore in heart, bowed his head to hear my confession.

44

Five years earlier

‘Vyene is the greatest city on earth.’ The guardsman sniffed again and wrinkled his nose. I probably did stink. It had been a long journey from the coast of Liba. ‘We don’t let just anyone in.’

The greatness or otherwise of the city was still up for debate. So far I’d ridden through a sprawl of industry and town houses, taverns and markets, strung out for miles along the Danoob. None of it particularly great or grand, but certainly well-to-do. The real Vyene lay hidden behind the high walls that had once enclosed the whole city. And the guard before me had his doubts about whether such a road-stained youth had any right seeing it.

‘I expect you let travellers in if they have coin to spend.’ I opened my hand to reveal five battered coppers from as many nations. A tilt of my palm had them slipping, and he caught them as they fell.

‘Don’t break any laws, or expect to get broken yourself.’ And he stepped aside.

I led my horse on through. Ten or more guards were performing the same sort of quality control on other hopefuls, most of the exchanges punctuated with loud and prolonged haggling.

‘Get along.’ I tugged on the reins. The mare – Hosana the seller had called her – ambled along. It’s not until you’ve ridden a camel, then a sway-backed mare, that you start to realize how very much you miss your own horse. Brath had always been a temporary replacement for Gerrod, but now I found myself hoping Yusuf lived up to his promise and had arranged for him to be taken back to Castle Morrow.

A heavy shower began to rattle down around me as I set off into the old city of Vyene, water vomiting in torrents from high gutters. Summer had started to head south. In the cold bays of the jarls winter would be honing his weapons, putting an edge on the north wind and preparing his advance.

Hosana and I found shelter from the downpour in the stables of the first inn we reached. That at least saved the bother of selecting a place to stay. I passed her reins to a lad with straw in his hair, and set off into the ale-room to secure a bed upstairs and a tub to wash off some of the road. ‘She’ll be dry before she reaches the stalls or I’ll want to know why.’ I flicked him a coin.

The ale-room stank of hops and sweat. A dozen travellers dotted among the tables and chairs, perhaps a few day-drinkers among them. I caught the inn-keep’s arm as he passed with a plate of steaming meat and gravy. I couldn’t tell you what meat, gristle in the main, and sinews, but it made my stomach growl.

‘I’ll have a room. Send up a plate of that if you can find any more dogs. An ale too.’

He nodded. ‘Take Seven. End of the hall. Throw Elbert out, he don’t pay no-how.’

And so I ended up in Seven on straw pallet, crawling no doubt, with the patter and drip of the rain outside and Elbert’s moaning from the other side of the door as he picked up whatever came loose when he hit the wall. Eat, drink, shit, sleep. In the morning I’d clean up and spend a little gold to dress something closer to my part. It would take more than velvets and suede to get me into the palace though. Nobody there would believe King Jorg of Renar had come alone to the Gilden Gates, without herald or retinue.

The cut on my cheekbone still ached. A careless moment in Mazeno Port, drunken sailor with a knife. With my head down on the straw I could hear the bloodsuckers moving, tiny dry feet tickling over the bedding. The ceiling boards held my attention, eyes searching the patterns for meaning, until sleep took me.

The comfort of shaving with your knife is in the knowing that it is honed to perfection. Aside from that it’s a chore and leaves you scratchy however sharp the blade. I went down to break fast with a brick of the local dark bread and a flagon of small beer. Outside, the street lay bright but the sunshine lied and the air carried the scent of frost.

I walked on further into the great city, leaving Hosana stabled at the inn. The Olidan Arms to give it its full title – I’d not noted it in the downpour that drove me there. Named not for Father of course but for one of the more famous stewards who kept Vyene in the name of Emperor Callin in the years he spent on campaign to expand our borders east.

Beggar children followed me, though I hardly looked moneyed. Even here in the richest of cities. Little blond children, remote descendants of past emperors’ by-blows quite possibly, starving in the streets.