City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array) Read online

  The stairs down to the servants’ chamber were protracted and twisted, carved from the bedrock upon which Cadra was built. Each step had been worn by hundreds of years of footfalls to such an extent that they dipped sharply in the middle. In places the ceiling came down so close to Artemi’s head that even she had to stoop. It amused her that the amorous soldiers would practically have to crawl through here to get to their women, though most would probably use their own rooms. She ran her hand along the polished walls as she descended: cold and glassy. The air cooled considerably, cloaking even the heat from the stand lamps that hid among the stones. She folded her arms and thought of the fire in her father’s house. Less of a house, really: perhaps more of a room. At least it had been warmer and more inviting than this dungeon.

  A pale whiff of smoke touched her nostrils as she approached the main chamber. Firewood and other flammable materials remained rare down here, so it tended to stay cold and smoke-free. In the exceptional instances when there were items to burn, everyone would crowd around the flame event as if it were a roast boar, filled with roast chickens. It was something of a social occasion. The black tunnel opened into the main hollow of the cellars. Its shape was uneven, asymmetrical and longer than it was wide. Leading from it were smaller cavities and hollows, all intricately interconnected. Each miniature chamber was a lodging of sorts, divided by smooth mud walls and curving pillars. This network of dens extended for a mile underground. Artemi had become lost in them on a handful of occasions, happening upon some unfortunately embarrassing situations.

  Privacy was afforded by hanging strips of cloth over one’s chamber but, if yours was badly situated enough to be part of a main thoroughfare, there wasn’t much point.

  Smooth pits in the mud walls held the feeble yellow light of stand lamps, and these were dotted around the main gallery. A few rays spilled out from the chambers that were occupied, the illumination lifting out the pits of the floor as if they were peaks. Thankfully the toilet block had been sealed with wooden doors in the last few weeks, which served to contain most of the smell. Artemi doubted that work had been completed at the request of a servant.

  The overriding aspect of the servants’ cellar, however, the greatest assault on the senses, was the noise. It wasn’t chatter, movement, snoring, building or laughter. It was the sound of distress: crying, howling, whimpering and moaning. At any one time a large proportion of the servants were suffering nalka. It had taken days for Artemi to grow tolerant of the sound. Sometimes in the night she would be awoken by a particularly vocal casualty. The entire situation was barbaric.

  She stepped toward the centre of the main chamber, where a crowd had gathered in a tight circle, idly wondering what was on the burning menu today. Maybe a pair of Lord Forllan’s shoes, or his smug head, if they were lucky! There was just enough space for her to squeeze to the front of the group. In the centre, enveloped in hot orange flames, was a pitch-soaked log. Artemi could not conceive of who could have obtained such a treat and how. The flames emanating from it were wonderfully hypnotic. She enjoyed the warmth for a few moments, savoured it, and then wove her way back out of the circle.

  Her own hollow was quite deeply embedded in the network. It would take her several minutes to reach it with no obstructions. She cut through the intervening chambers, carefully keeping her eyes on the course she needed to follow. Every five-or-so yards there was a small, circular hole in the ceiling; too small to fit your hand inside. During the day these acted just as the light wells in the city, and while they were surprisingly effective illuminators, they carried plenty of the cold air with them. Her feet made a scraping noise on the mud floor as she walked, setting a rhythm to the undulating wails. Another turn to the left brought her to her room, which was a little way off from the main routes and thus slightly more private. She drew a tattered curtain across the two entrances.

  Inside there was just enough space for a bed, made up from an old roll mat and a soft red blanket. In the corner was a foot-high, moulded fireplace. Blazes knew when that was last used. Caala said the chimneys had been blocked-off long ago, their openings taunting reminders of better days when servants were appreciated.

  Another linen maid had occupied the room before Artemi, but had been forced to vacate it when the king had placed his red scarves upon her. Benay-gosa accommodation was probably far better-appointed, though one rarely enjoyed it for long, Artemi mused. She loosened the lacing at the back of her blue dress and slipped it off. She could think of nothing more wonderful than diving under that red blanket, which she did, eagerly. Her eyes dropped shut and she slipped into semi-consciousness; her head full of thoughts of scarves and tall men.

  “Wake up!”

  Was that in a dream or real?

  “Artemi, love. Open your bloody eyes!” Caala was standing above her, hands upon broad hips.

  Artemi screwed her face up. It was still dark and she needed some sleep! “What?” she managed to utter.

  “What’ve you got yourself into, young lady? Didn’t I tell you to stay out of sight of those men? You know very well what will bloody well happen. I thought you would behave differently but, no, instead you paraded yourself around the main courtyard and decided to be smart to one of them!” Caala sat grumpily against the wall and drew her knees up. It was not possible to see her eyes in what little light there was, making her age a mysterious quantity. She looked the same as she had at twenty-five, if perhaps a little wider.

  Artemi sat up and attempted to organise her hair. “I just sai-”

  “I overheard him talking about you. Lord Forllan, of all people. Said this pretty red-headed girl had come up to him and shamed him for not doing his own washing.”

  “All the washing was to be done outside today. I just... bumped into him.” Artemi tried to look as innocent as possible.

  Caala took a deep breath. “Well, now you have to be on your guard. He knows your blazed name and thinks that you are feisty.” Her mouth twisted with the last word. “What if he takes you in front of the king and he takes a shine to you? That’ll be the end of you, my girl! Bloody... bloody blazes!”

  Artemi reached an arm around her friend. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be careful, I promise.” She tried to smile in an encouraging manner. “Do you want to do a little more reading tonight?”

  Caala looked up and nodded. She pulled a candle out from one of her infinite pockets, stood and collected a flame from the next chamber. Artemi reached over to her two volumes. “I think we should tackle a bit of Achellon tonight, don’t you? After all, it’s supposed to be where ‘The Bloody Blazes’ came from.”

  Chapter 2

  Silar opened the leaded casement of his bedroom window and looked out onto the gardens below. They weren’t particularly elaborate or impressive, and very little light made its way into them. Their design was governed by the same ethic as the rest of the castle: grey simplicity. He exhaled heavily through his nose and pulled his mouth tight. At least there were women here, flashes of beauty inside a dark prison cell. He turned his head to look back into his rooms, where he saw the tapered spears that protruded from each corner of the bed and the sleeping area that was a pile of rumpled white sheets with pillows scattered about. Silar smiled lazily to himself as he walked up to one of the corner lances and leant against it.

  His eyes followed the sinuous curves and folds of the linen. He reached out a hand and ran it gently between the ridges, causing the sheets to rework their creases and stir as they moved sideways. A dishevelled mass of brown curls emerged from the far end. It turned groggily and flopped to the pillow below once more, grunting as it did so. Silar stepped softly to the side of the bed and settled on the edge. He pulled some of the dark curls away from Lady Allain’s face and kissed her cheek. A smile touched her lips; she opened her eyes and serenely sat up to face him.

  “Are you on duty today?” she uttered in a husky voice, pulling her hair over her shoulders.

  “No. But I do have many meetings, starting with
King Acher. I’ll be late if I don’t leave soon.” He ran his fingers along her collar bone and down her shoulder. Shoulders truly were a most satisfactory area on a woman.

  “I suppose I had better get out of your bed then. And put some clothes on.”

  “There’s really no need for clothes.” Silar grinned.

  The lady pushed down the covers and swept both legs over one of his. He put an arm around her small waist and rose, bringing her elegantly to her feet.

  “I ought to dance with you at the next feast day.” she said, turning from him and walking towards her crumpled undergarments.

  “I’ll hold you to that, my lady.” He examined her behind and the curved arch of her back that led to it. She bent down to reach for her clothing, and consequently he swallowed a large amount of air. She was teasing him and there was no time for any of it. He clenched his jaw but did not tear his eyes from her.

  “Do you need some help with those?” he ventured.

  She said nothing but turned halfway towards him, wearing a small smile. It prompted Silar to fold his arms and properly assess her figure. Her skin was dark and sleek like taut silk. The sides of her full breasts were now visible to him, and they moved as her arms entered the sleeves of her shift. Bosoms were curious things: most of the time they appeared to have very little purpose other than to please men. Silar snorted as he recalled Beetan’s short and somewhat earthy word for them: norks. Wherever had that come from?

  Lady Allain looked at Silar quizzically and then returned to dressing herself. She raised her yellow silk gown over her head to slide it onto her body, where it hugged her curves quite admirably. Crossing the floor to reach her with feigned laziness, he began doing up the small buttons at her back. He was becoming very practised at these. Once he had finished fastening her bodice, he went to fetch a clean shirt from the wardrobe. The clothing smelled faintly of the laundry soap, a fragrance very specific to Cadra. He turned and donned the shirt, deftly crossing one half over the other before tucking the edges into his trousers. By the time The Lady Allain had gone to stand by the door, she truly looked rather respectable.

  He tilted his head to regard her. “Have you ever considered becoming a red head, my lady?”

  Lady Allain frowned a little. “Not really. Do you think it would suit me?”

  He strode up to her and kissed her deeply. “Perhaps. Shall I see you this evening?”

  “Perhaps.” She grinned and left the room, the only noise the slow swishing of her skirt.

  Silar studied his reflection in the mirror. He had not shaved and was looking fairly unkempt. Not the best way to present oneself before the king, but time was short; it would have to do. He buckled his sword to his waist, hauled on a pair of well-worn boots and grabbed the green and black army coat. The bedroom door noiselessly slid shut behind him as he marched down the broad hallway, his feet making just as little sound.

  He threaded his arms into the coat sleeves, ascended the curving stairs and began closing a diagonal row of buckles. The coat was tightly fitted, exhibiting four stripes of green across the chest and shoulders. These denoted the rank he held in Cadra’s army, which was lieutenant. Cadra had nine other lieutenants: every one in charge of a battalion nearing a thousand men. The battalions would take daily shifts guarding the castle and city, half of each guarding during the day and the other half at night. The responsibility sometimes pinched at Silar, but he wasn’t about to cry about it. The rank had been a generous gift from Morghiad, who would not be best-pleased at his impending delay.

  Silar stepped to the main doors of the Malachite Hall where two soldiers flanked each side in their Calidellian finery; both raised their eyebrows. He gave them a brief nod and pushed the giant, green stone doors open. The hall beyond was immense, glittering and, by Silar’s reckoning, just as dimly lit as the rest.

  It was similar to stepping into a colossal geode. Great chunks of polished green limestone jutted from the walls, their corners cut to simulate gemstones. The floor was of a black marble and interspersed with streaks of grey and flecks of white quartz. Square, malachite-edged mirrors clung to the lower perimeter of the hall, fronted by slender, tall and silver stand lamps. These had to stay lit even during the day, as the only natural light came from three lengthy, glazed slits in the ceiling. At the end of the hall stood nine men garbed in the black and green. Eight were lieutenants and the ninth, taller than the others and wearing a black cloak that touched the floor, was Morghiad. So, one man was later than Silar. That was something of a relief. He jogged to the men with his hand on hilt, offering them a nod once he drew close. Before them, on a low dais, sat King Acher.

  Silar proffered a bow to the broad man. The resemblance between he and Morghiad was very slight. The king was a head shorter than his son, brown-eyed, lump-nosed and lighter-haired. Something in the jaw line, possibly. Morghiad ought to be thankful he had taken his looks from elsewhere. The girls had always liked Morghiad’s looks. On one occasion the lieutenant had taken a fine, bright-eyed dressmaker back to his chambers only to have her ask if she could meet ‘the handsome and broody kahr.’ Silar had obliged, naturally, and then left Morghiad alone to deal with his adoring devotee. Riling the kahr created endless entertainment. The man worked so hard to reign-in emotion and keep his face free of animation that Silar could spend days thinking of ways to break him. Women made the man uncomfortable, that much was obvious. He hoped the kahr-captain would not think his being late for duty was another ruse.

  Morghiad’s close-shaven face and relaxed shoulders would have revealed nothing to lazy eyes; the whiteness of his knuckles upon his sword hilt, however, betrayed his mood. Beetan was the missing lieutenant of the group. He was probably recovering from the previous night’s excesses in a ditch somewhere.

  “Women keeping you busy, eh, Lord Forllan?” bellowed the king with a smirk.

  “Er...yes. Well...” He drew himself up. “Ladies are as they will do, sire.” He wasn’t even sure if that made any sense.

  “That they are, indeed! Hah! Why don’t you take the lead of your young friend here, Morghiad? Or aren’t you man-enough?” The king leaned towards his son.

  Morghiad gradually released the hilt of his sword, bringing whatever embarrassment or anger he had into check. He clasped his hands behind his back so that they were beyond sight. Evidently the king enjoyed baiting his son as much as Silar did. At least he was more merciful than the king with his teases, the lieutenant considered.

  Morghiad took a long, deep breath. “What arrangements do we need to make for the Gialdin Feast Day?”

  That was a celebration held to commemorate the destruction, and subsequent acquisition, of the small country of Gialdin. The state had been wealthy and its people charitable enough to support a welfare system. Orphaned children were housed, out-of-work men and women were given apprenticeships to develop new skills and injured nationals were given suitable work until they were recovered. Its capital shared the country’s name and had been crowned by an ivory palace, forged from Blaze Energy. The palace had been there for thousands of years, and was purported to be indestructible. Somehow, King Acher’s army had found a weakness within the white walls and had promptly set about levelling it. Its rulers, the Jade’an family, were each dispatched by Acher’s own hand at the conclusion of the battle, eighteen years earlier. The international community had reacted variously with horror and disgust when he achieved this, fearing that he had destroyed something sacred. To the king, it was one of his greatest accomplishments.

  King Acher twitched at Morghiad’s response. ”Boy, I am going to find you a little whore if it’s the last thing I do. Maybe a pretty noble one. I don’t know what it is you’re afraid of. Eh?”

  Morghiad’s shoulders tensed for a moment and then loosened. “We can discuss the matter later. I am here to talk about security.” His voice remained level, though the words came out slowly.

  The other lieutenants shuffled their feet and fiddled with their coat buckles uncomfortably.r />
  “This is security, boy; the security of our succession! It’s going to take nine years to generate an heir so you need to get started now! Now, now, now!” Acher punctuated each ‘now’ with a slam of his fist on the throne arm. His face had darkened considerably.

  “Well, it took you over three-hundred years to procure me so I rather think you are becoming over-anxious about the situation.” Morghiad stayed composed. Silar hadn’t noticed before how much the kahr blended into the colour scheme of the Hall. The uniform was an intentional match but the hair and eyes... curious.

  Acher growled: “The women were not... suitable. It took me a while to find your mother.”

  “Perhaps you would have had better luck if you hadn’t persisted in executing them.” Morghiad shut his mouth before uttering more. It was no secret that the benay-gosa frequently rejected the king.

  Silar re-adjusted his sword belt. The air suddenly felt very thick.

  King Acher leaned back into his arched throne and smiled with unbridled menace. “You think their superficial lives are worth something? Don’t want the wife to die, eh? It’s inevitable, boy. And, don’t forget, you killed your own mother. You’ll be avoiding battles next to try and save one of these precious women’s blasted husbands!”

  Morghiad blinked and ground his teeth. “We have fought some... unnecessary... battles in the last year, father.”

  “Unnecessary? Unnecessary?!” Acher exclaimed, wide-eyed. “This is something all of you lads need to realise.” He settled more deeply into his throne. “Have you ever noticed the difference between us and the other living things? The birds, the deer, the wolves and even the mighty plains tigers? Come on, men. No? Shoot any of them with an arrow, remove it and they bleed and die. Chop a leg off - it doesn’t grow back. If they become diseased, they die. They are engineered to expire. Yet they are the superior beings. Our world is cursed. We need battles because there are too many of us, crammed into our tiny countries.” Acher’s eyes became distant. “Death. Is. Necessary.”