of the bad news.
Because,
despite all this wonderful technology, somehow (incredibly; uniquely, as far as
the drone knew... how in the name of chaos did a lump of meat outwit and
destroy a knife missile ?), the man
called Cheradenine Zakalwe had shaken off the tail they'd put on him after he'd
resigned the last time.
So,
before they did anything else, Sma and it had to find the damn human first. If
they could.
The
figure slipped from behind a radar housing and crossed the keep's roof, beneath
the wind-moaning aerials. It went down the spiral of steps, checked all was
clear beyond the thick metal door, then opened it.
A
minute later, something that looked exactly like Diziet Sma joined the tour
party, while the guide was explaining how developments in artillery,
heavier-than-air flight and rocketry had made the ancient fortress obsolete.
XII
They
shared their eyrie with the state coach of the Mythoclast, a cluttered army of
statues, and a jumble of assorted chests, cases and cupboards packed with
treasure from a dozen great houses.
Astil
Tremerst Keiver selected a roquelaure from a tall chiffonier, closed the
cabinet's door and admired himself in the mirror. Yes, the cloak looked very
fine on him, very fine indeed. He flourished it, pirouetting, drew his
ceremonial rifle from its scabbard, and then made a circuit of the room, around
the grand state coach, making a 'ki-shauw, ki-shauw!' noise, and pointing the
gun at each black-curtained window in turn as he swept by them (his shadow
dancing gloriously across the walls and the cold grey outlines of the statues),
before arriving back at the fireplace, sheathing the rifle, and sitting
suddenly and imperiously down on a highly-wrought little chair of finest
bloodwood.
The
chair collapsed. He thumped into the flagstones and the bolstered gun at the
side fired, sending a round into the angle between the floor and the curve of
wall behind him.
'Shit,
shit, shit!' he cried, inspecting his breeks and cloak, respectively grazed and
holed.
The
door of the state coach burst open and someone flew out, crashing into an
escritoire and demolishing it. The man was still and steady in an instant,
presenting - in that infuriatingly efficient martial way of his - the smallest
possible target, and pointing the appallingly large and ugly plasma cannon
straight at the face of deputy vice-regent-in-waiting Astil Tremerst Keiver the
Eighth.
'Eek!
Zakalwe!' Keiver heard himself say, and threw the cloak over his head. (Damn!)
When
Keiver brought the cloak down again - with, he felt, all the not inconsiderable
dignity he could muster - the mercenary was already rising from the debris of
the little desk, taking a quick look round the room, and switching off the
plasma weapon.
Keiver
was, naturally, immediately aware of the hateful similarity of their positions,
and so stood up quickly.
'Ah.
Zakalwe. I beg your pardon. Did I wake you?'
The
man scowled, glanced down at the remains of the escritoire, slammed shut the
door of the state coach, and said, 'No; just a bad dream.'
'Ah.
Good.' Keiver fiddled with the ornamental pommel of his gun, wishing that
Zakalwe didn't make him feel - so unjustifiably, dammit - inferior, and
crossed in front of the fireplace to sit (carefully, this time) on a
preposterous porcelain throne stationed to one side of the hearth.
He
watched the mercenary sit down on the hearth-stone, leaving the plasma cannon
on the floor in front of him and stretching. 'Well, a half watch's sleep will
have to suffice.'
'Hmm,'
Keiver said, feeling awkward. He glanced at the ceremonial coach the other man
had been sleeping in, and so recently vacated. 'Ah.' Keiver drew the roquelaure
about him, and smiled. 'I don't suppose you know the story behind that old
carriage, do you?'
The
mercenary - the so-called (Ha!) War Minister - shrugged. 'Well,' he said. 'The
version I heard was that in the Interregnum, the Archpresbyter told the
Mythoclast he could have the tribute, income
Because,
despite all this wonderful technology, somehow (incredibly; uniquely, as far as
the drone knew... how in the name of chaos did a lump of meat outwit and
destroy a knife missile ?), the man
called Cheradenine Zakalwe had shaken off the tail they'd put on him after he'd
resigned the last time.
So,
before they did anything else, Sma and it had to find the damn human first. If
they could.
The
figure slipped from behind a radar housing and crossed the keep's roof, beneath
the wind-moaning aerials. It went down the spiral of steps, checked all was
clear beyond the thick metal door, then opened it.
A
minute later, something that looked exactly like Diziet Sma joined the tour
party, while the guide was explaining how developments in artillery,
heavier-than-air flight and rocketry had made the ancient fortress obsolete.
XII
They
shared their eyrie with the state coach of the Mythoclast, a cluttered army of
statues, and a jumble of assorted chests, cases and cupboards packed with
treasure from a dozen great houses.
Astil
Tremerst Keiver selected a roquelaure from a tall chiffonier, closed the
cabinet's door and admired himself in the mirror. Yes, the cloak looked very
fine on him, very fine indeed. He flourished it, pirouetting, drew his
ceremonial rifle from its scabbard, and then made a circuit of the room, around
the grand state coach, making a 'ki-shauw, ki-shauw!' noise, and pointing the
gun at each black-curtained window in turn as he swept by them (his shadow
dancing gloriously across the walls and the cold grey outlines of the statues),
before arriving back at the fireplace, sheathing the rifle, and sitting
suddenly and imperiously down on a highly-wrought little chair of finest
bloodwood.
The
chair collapsed. He thumped into the flagstones and the bolstered gun at the
side fired, sending a round into the angle between the floor and the curve of
wall behind him.
'Shit,
shit, shit!' he cried, inspecting his breeks and cloak, respectively grazed and
holed.
The
door of the state coach burst open and someone flew out, crashing into an
escritoire and demolishing it. The man was still and steady in an instant,
presenting - in that infuriatingly efficient martial way of his - the smallest
possible target, and pointing the appallingly large and ugly plasma cannon
straight at the face of deputy vice-regent-in-waiting Astil Tremerst Keiver the
Eighth.
'Eek!
Zakalwe!' Keiver heard himself say, and threw the cloak over his head. (Damn!)
When
Keiver brought the cloak down again - with, he felt, all the not inconsiderable
dignity he could muster - the mercenary was already rising from the debris of
the little desk, taking a quick look round the room, and switching off the
plasma weapon.
Keiver
was, naturally, immediately aware of the hateful similarity of their positions,
and so stood up quickly.
'Ah.
Zakalwe. I beg your pardon. Did I wake you?'
The
man scowled, glanced down at the remains of the escritoire, slammed shut the
door of the state coach, and said, 'No; just a bad dream.'
'Ah.
Good.' Keiver fiddled with the ornamental pommel of his gun, wishing that
Zakalwe didn't make him feel - so unjustifiably, dammit - inferior, and
crossed in front of the fireplace to sit (carefully, this time) on a
preposterous porcelain throne stationed to one side of the hearth.
He
watched the mercenary sit down on the hearth-stone, leaving the plasma cannon
on the floor in front of him and stretching. 'Well, a half watch's sleep will
have to suffice.'
'Hmm,'
Keiver said, feeling awkward. He glanced at the ceremonial coach the other man
had been sleeping in, and so recently vacated. 'Ah.' Keiver drew the roquelaure
about him, and smiled. 'I don't suppose you know the story behind that old
carriage, do you?'
The
mercenary - the so-called (Ha!) War Minister - shrugged. 'Well,' he said. 'The
version I heard was that in the Interregnum, the Archpresbyter told the
Mythoclast he could have the tribute, income
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