been returned to their ancient bright glory.’
Sunlight shone on Ehrlann and he winced, snapping, ‘Higher, you fool!’
Jamaer raised the umbrella higher.
‘You can report all you like.’ Storo said. He crouched to retrieve a helmet from under the awning, pulled it on. ‘But the only report Anand will listen to is mine.’
Ehrlann dabbed at the sweat beading his face, took hold of the robes at his front. ‘Do not force the Court of Magistrates to bring formal charges, commander.’
Storo's gaze narrowed. ‘Such as?’
‘There have been unfortunate assaults upon citizens, commander. Harassment of officials in the course of their duties.’
Storo snorted. ‘If I were you, Ehrlann, I would not try to arrest any of my men. Jalor, for one, is a tribesman from Seven Cities. He wouldn't take to it. And Rell –’ Storo shook his head. ‘I'd hate to think of what he'd do. In any case, Fist Rheena wouldn't honour any of your civil writs.’
‘Yes. She would. The city garrison is not behind you, commander.’
‘Meaning you've bought them.’
‘Commander! I object to that language!’
‘Don't bother, Ehrlann. Hurl, Sunny … what's your opinion on the gate fortress, the tunnel, the arches?’
‘Good for fifty years,’ said Hurl.
‘It will fall – sooner than later,’ said Sunny.
‘There you go,’ Storo told Ehrlann.
The magistrate waved the switch before his face, eyed Storo. ‘Meaning … ?’
‘Meaning you have your gate. Open it to traffic tomorrow.’
The magistrate beamed, threw his arms wide as if he would embrace Storo. ‘Excellent, commander. I knew you would listen. All finished then. I must admit it has been an education dealing with you veterans – we do not see too many here in the interior. Tell me, just what was the name of those barbarian lands you conquered all to the glory of the Empress? Gangabaka? Bena-gagan?’
‘Genabackis,’ Storo sighed. ‘And we're not finished. Not yet.’
Ehrlann frowned warily. ‘I'm sorry, commander?’
‘That hill over there,’ Storo lifted his chin to the north.
‘Yes? Executioner's Hill?’
‘I want to take one man's height—’
‘Two,’ said Hurl.
‘Two man-heights off it.’
The switch stopped moving. ‘You are joking, commander.’ Ehrlann pointed the switch. ‘That is where we execute our criminals. That is where city justice is enacted. It is an ancient citytradition. You cannot interfere with that. It is simply impossible.’
‘It's not ancient tradition.’
‘Claims whom?’
‘My mage, Silk. He says it only goes back seventy years and that's good enough for me. In any case, you can strangle your starving poor elsewhere, Ehrlann. After you provide the labour to lower the profile of that hill we'll start on the moat.’
‘The moat? A moat? Where is that, pray?’
‘Right where you're standing.’ Storo picked up his weapon belt and dusty hauberk. ‘Good day, magistrate. Hurl, Sunny. I need a drink.’
Magistrate Ehrlann watched the veterans head to Dawn Gate. He peered down to the loose dirt, broken brick and trampled rubbish at his feet. Sunlight struck the top of his head and he flinched.
‘Jamaer! Umbrella!’
* * *
The fat man in ocean-blue robes walked Unta's street of Dragons deck readers, Wax Witches and Warren Seers – Diviner's Row – with the patient air of a beachcomber searching a deserted shore for lost treasure. Yet Diviner's Row was far from deserted. As the Imperial capital, Unta was the lodestone, the vortex, drawing to it all manner of talent – legitimate or not. Mages, practitioners of the various Warrens, but also that class of lesser ‘talents’, such as readers of the Dragons deck, soothsayers, fortune-tellers of all kinds, be they scholiasts of entrails or diviners of the patterns glimpsed in smoke, read in cracked burnt bone or spelled by tossed sticks.
Divination was the current Imperial fashion. As the day cooled and the blue sky darkened to purple, the Row seethed with crowds from all stations of
Sunlight shone on Ehrlann and he winced, snapping, ‘Higher, you fool!’
Jamaer raised the umbrella higher.
‘You can report all you like.’ Storo said. He crouched to retrieve a helmet from under the awning, pulled it on. ‘But the only report Anand will listen to is mine.’
Ehrlann dabbed at the sweat beading his face, took hold of the robes at his front. ‘Do not force the Court of Magistrates to bring formal charges, commander.’
Storo's gaze narrowed. ‘Such as?’
‘There have been unfortunate assaults upon citizens, commander. Harassment of officials in the course of their duties.’
Storo snorted. ‘If I were you, Ehrlann, I would not try to arrest any of my men. Jalor, for one, is a tribesman from Seven Cities. He wouldn't take to it. And Rell –’ Storo shook his head. ‘I'd hate to think of what he'd do. In any case, Fist Rheena wouldn't honour any of your civil writs.’
‘Yes. She would. The city garrison is not behind you, commander.’
‘Meaning you've bought them.’
‘Commander! I object to that language!’
‘Don't bother, Ehrlann. Hurl, Sunny … what's your opinion on the gate fortress, the tunnel, the arches?’
‘Good for fifty years,’ said Hurl.
‘It will fall – sooner than later,’ said Sunny.
‘There you go,’ Storo told Ehrlann.
The magistrate waved the switch before his face, eyed Storo. ‘Meaning … ?’
‘Meaning you have your gate. Open it to traffic tomorrow.’
The magistrate beamed, threw his arms wide as if he would embrace Storo. ‘Excellent, commander. I knew you would listen. All finished then. I must admit it has been an education dealing with you veterans – we do not see too many here in the interior. Tell me, just what was the name of those barbarian lands you conquered all to the glory of the Empress? Gangabaka? Bena-gagan?’
‘Genabackis,’ Storo sighed. ‘And we're not finished. Not yet.’
Ehrlann frowned warily. ‘I'm sorry, commander?’
‘That hill over there,’ Storo lifted his chin to the north.
‘Yes? Executioner's Hill?’
‘I want to take one man's height—’
‘Two,’ said Hurl.
‘Two man-heights off it.’
The switch stopped moving. ‘You are joking, commander.’ Ehrlann pointed the switch. ‘That is where we execute our criminals. That is where city justice is enacted. It is an ancient citytradition. You cannot interfere with that. It is simply impossible.’
‘It's not ancient tradition.’
‘Claims whom?’
‘My mage, Silk. He says it only goes back seventy years and that's good enough for me. In any case, you can strangle your starving poor elsewhere, Ehrlann. After you provide the labour to lower the profile of that hill we'll start on the moat.’
‘The moat? A moat? Where is that, pray?’
‘Right where you're standing.’ Storo picked up his weapon belt and dusty hauberk. ‘Good day, magistrate. Hurl, Sunny. I need a drink.’
Magistrate Ehrlann watched the veterans head to Dawn Gate. He peered down to the loose dirt, broken brick and trampled rubbish at his feet. Sunlight struck the top of his head and he flinched.
‘Jamaer! Umbrella!’
* * *
The fat man in ocean-blue robes walked Unta's street of Dragons deck readers, Wax Witches and Warren Seers – Diviner's Row – with the patient air of a beachcomber searching a deserted shore for lost treasure. Yet Diviner's Row was far from deserted. As the Imperial capital, Unta was the lodestone, the vortex, drawing to it all manner of talent – legitimate or not. Mages, practitioners of the various Warrens, but also that class of lesser ‘talents’, such as readers of the Dragons deck, soothsayers, fortune-tellers of all kinds, be they scholiasts of entrails or diviners of the patterns glimpsed in smoke, read in cracked burnt bone or spelled by tossed sticks.
Divination was the current Imperial fashion. As the day cooled and the blue sky darkened to purple, the Row seethed with crowds from all stations of
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