delivered to The Dark Wings already, with a wagon
to carry it.
One-Eye was limp because he had been drugged.
Faced by a sea voyage, he became balky. He always does. Old in knowing One-Eye’s
ways, Goblin had been prepared. Knockout drops in his morning brandy did the
trick.
Through wakening streets we thundered, down to the waterfront, amidst the
confusion of arriving stevedores. Onto the massive naval dock we rolled, to its
very end, and up a broad gangway. Hooves drummed on deck timbers. Finally, we
halted.
I stepped down from the coach. The ship’s captain met me with all the
appropriate honors and dignities—and a furious scowl on behalf of his savaged
deck. I looked around. The four new men were there. I nodded. The captain
shouted. Hands began casting off. Others began helping my men unharness and
unsaddle horses. I noticed a crow perched on the masthead.
Small tugs manned by convict oarsmen pulled The Dark Wings off the pier. Her own
sweeps came out. Drums pounded the beat. She turned her bows seaward. In an hour
we were well down the channel, running with the tide, the ship’s great black
sail bellied with an offshore breeze. The device thereon was unchanged since our
northward journey, though Soulcatcher had been destroyed by the Lady herself
soon after the Battle at Charm. The crow kept its perch.
It was the best season for crossing the Sea of Torments. Even One-Eye admitted
it was a swift and easy passage. We raised the Beryl light on the third morning
and entered the harbor with the afternoon tide.
The advent of The Dark Wings had all the impact I expected and feared.
The last time that monster put in at Beryl the city’s last free, homegrown
tyrant had died. His successor, chosen by Soulcatcher, became an imperial
puppet. And his successors were imperial governors.
Local imperial functionaries swarmed onto the pier as the quinquireme warped in.
“Termites,” Goblin called them. “Tax farmers and pen-pushers. Little things that
live under rocks and shy from the light of honest employment.”
Somewhere in his background was a cause for a big hatred of tax collectors. I
understand in an intellectual sort of way. I mean there is no lower human
life-form—with the possible exception of pimps—than that which revels in its
state-derived power to humiliate, extort, and generate misery. I am left with a
disgust for my species. But with Goblin it can become a flaming passion, with
him trying to work everybody up to go out and treat a few tax people to
grotesque excruciations and deaths.
The termites were shaken and distressed. They did not know what to make of this
sudden, obviously portentous arrival. The advent of an imperial legate could
mean a hundred things, but nothing good for the entrenched bureaucracy.
Elsewhere, all work came to a halt. Even cursing gang leaders paused to stare at
the harbinger ship.
One-Eye eyeballed the situation. “Better get us out of town fast, Croaker. Else
it will turn into the Tower all over again, this time with too many people
asking too damned many questions.”
The coach was ready. Lady was inside. The mounts, both great and normal, were
saddled. A small, light, closed wagon was brought up and assembled by the Horse
Guards and filled with Lady’s plunder. We were ready to roll when the ship’s
captain was ready to let us.
“Mount up,” I ordered. “One-Eye, when that gangway goes down you make like the
horns of hell. Otto, take this coach off here like the Limper himself is after
you.” I turned to the commander of the Horse Guards. “You break trail. Don’t
give those people down there a chance to slow us down.” I boarded the coach.
“Wise thinking,” Lady said. “Get away fast or risk falling into the trap I
barely escaped at the Tower.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I can fake this legate business only if nobody looks
at me too close.” Far better to roar
to carry it.
One-Eye was limp because he had been drugged.
Faced by a sea voyage, he became balky. He always does. Old in knowing One-Eye’s
ways, Goblin had been prepared. Knockout drops in his morning brandy did the
trick.
Through wakening streets we thundered, down to the waterfront, amidst the
confusion of arriving stevedores. Onto the massive naval dock we rolled, to its
very end, and up a broad gangway. Hooves drummed on deck timbers. Finally, we
halted.
I stepped down from the coach. The ship’s captain met me with all the
appropriate honors and dignities—and a furious scowl on behalf of his savaged
deck. I looked around. The four new men were there. I nodded. The captain
shouted. Hands began casting off. Others began helping my men unharness and
unsaddle horses. I noticed a crow perched on the masthead.
Small tugs manned by convict oarsmen pulled The Dark Wings off the pier. Her own
sweeps came out. Drums pounded the beat. She turned her bows seaward. In an hour
we were well down the channel, running with the tide, the ship’s great black
sail bellied with an offshore breeze. The device thereon was unchanged since our
northward journey, though Soulcatcher had been destroyed by the Lady herself
soon after the Battle at Charm. The crow kept its perch.
It was the best season for crossing the Sea of Torments. Even One-Eye admitted
it was a swift and easy passage. We raised the Beryl light on the third morning
and entered the harbor with the afternoon tide.
The advent of The Dark Wings had all the impact I expected and feared.
The last time that monster put in at Beryl the city’s last free, homegrown
tyrant had died. His successor, chosen by Soulcatcher, became an imperial
puppet. And his successors were imperial governors.
Local imperial functionaries swarmed onto the pier as the quinquireme warped in.
“Termites,” Goblin called them. “Tax farmers and pen-pushers. Little things that
live under rocks and shy from the light of honest employment.”
Somewhere in his background was a cause for a big hatred of tax collectors. I
understand in an intellectual sort of way. I mean there is no lower human
life-form—with the possible exception of pimps—than that which revels in its
state-derived power to humiliate, extort, and generate misery. I am left with a
disgust for my species. But with Goblin it can become a flaming passion, with
him trying to work everybody up to go out and treat a few tax people to
grotesque excruciations and deaths.
The termites were shaken and distressed. They did not know what to make of this
sudden, obviously portentous arrival. The advent of an imperial legate could
mean a hundred things, but nothing good for the entrenched bureaucracy.
Elsewhere, all work came to a halt. Even cursing gang leaders paused to stare at
the harbinger ship.
One-Eye eyeballed the situation. “Better get us out of town fast, Croaker. Else
it will turn into the Tower all over again, this time with too many people
asking too damned many questions.”
The coach was ready. Lady was inside. The mounts, both great and normal, were
saddled. A small, light, closed wagon was brought up and assembled by the Horse
Guards and filled with Lady’s plunder. We were ready to roll when the ship’s
captain was ready to let us.
“Mount up,” I ordered. “One-Eye, when that gangway goes down you make like the
horns of hell. Otto, take this coach off here like the Limper himself is after
you.” I turned to the commander of the Horse Guards. “You break trail. Don’t
give those people down there a chance to slow us down.” I boarded the coach.
“Wise thinking,” Lady said. “Get away fast or risk falling into the trap I
barely escaped at the Tower.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I can fake this legate business only if nobody looks
at me too close.” Far better to roar
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