roar of approval from the men. Ringil held himself immobile and watched as they started to drag her back, started tearing at her clothing again where it was already ripped. She growled deep in her throat and thrashed against them. A breast spilled free, was grabbed and bitten into like fruit. Snarl yelled in pure fury. Someone levered her legs open, grasped brutally between. Another yell, sobbing this time, another chorus of whooping as the men heard, and saw. Then they lifted her bodily away, and closed around her like rats on rotting meat.
He stood. He stood and watched.
“Hengis.” Sudden shudder—he came to life and grabbed Hengis by the arm as the man drifted to join the rape.
“Hengis.”
“Jengthir, my lord.”
“Jengthir.” He nodded jerkily. “I mean it. If she dies, so does the man who caused it.”
“Course, my lord, no worries. I’ll see to it. Got a tender touch, I have.”
Jengthir grinned at him, tugged free, and was gone.
Ringil turned away from the boiling thrash of men, now collapsing to the ground, and the woman he’d given to them. He wanted to wipe a hand across his face, but dare not risk the gesture. He caught the legate staring bulge-eyed.
“Fuck are you looking at?” he snarled.
“You cannot do this.” The imperial was whispering it in Tethanne, maybe unaware he was speaking at all. “The Emperor will—”
“Will
what
?” Ringil followed the language shift, strode up to the legate, and smashed him in the mouth with the pommel of the Ravensfriend. The imperial went over backward with the force of it, and Ringil stood over him. Voice shouting to drown out the noises behind him. “The Emperor will
what
?
Tell me what your fucking Emperor will do!
”
The legate put a hand to his broken mouth, brought it away bloody, stared disbelieving at the wet red dripping off his fingers. Ringil dropped to a crouch beside him, forced his voice down to a corrosive, conversational rasp.
“If I know that fuck Jhiral Khimran, the only thing he’ll do when he hears about this is have it turned into some piece of harem fantasy theater, and then sit back and watch until he gets it up enough to join in. But I wouldn’t worry about it, your excellency, it isn’t going to be your problem.”
Behind them, Poppy Snarl shrieked and sobbed, and the men raping her roared with ribald delight. The legate heard, gaped at Ringil as if he were something summoned out of a crack in the Earth’s crust. He was trying to crawl backward, away from the gaunt, scarred face and what he saw in it, but his cloak was under him and he got no purchase. His boot heels slipped and slid on silk.
“What do you …” He was mumbling, numb with terror. “What do you think you’re—you’re doing?”
Ringil set aside the Ravensfriend, shook the dragon-tooth dagger from his sleeve. He grasped the legate firmly by the hair with his free hand, pulled his head back hard. He leaned in close, near enough to smell the man’s terror-soured breath, near enough to bestow a kiss.
“I’m abolishing slavery,” he said.
And opened the imperial’s throat.
CHAPTER 8
hey cast off mooring from the iron quays an hour after dawn—a leisurely enough start by military standards, but Archeth wanted plenty of light in the sky to reassure the men. She stood at the starboard rail and watched as the
Sword of Justice Divine
drifted out on the swirl of the river, started to turn in the current, and then stiffened and quivered as the oars dug in along her flanks. The stroke drum boomed belowdecks, the pulse of it throbbing up through the planking under Archeth’s feet, and she heard the caller start the cadence:
Bring me the Head of the Whoreson Pimp
—Severed at Dawn! Severed at Dawn!
Bring me his Best Whore all ’tired in Silk
—I’ve Whoresons to Spawn! Whoresons to Spawn!
Bring me the Purse that the Pimp stole from me
—All Emptied Out! All Emptied Out!
Bring me …
And so on.
She let
He stood. He stood and watched.
“Hengis.” Sudden shudder—he came to life and grabbed Hengis by the arm as the man drifted to join the rape.
“Hengis.”
“Jengthir, my lord.”
“Jengthir.” He nodded jerkily. “I mean it. If she dies, so does the man who caused it.”
“Course, my lord, no worries. I’ll see to it. Got a tender touch, I have.”
Jengthir grinned at him, tugged free, and was gone.
Ringil turned away from the boiling thrash of men, now collapsing to the ground, and the woman he’d given to them. He wanted to wipe a hand across his face, but dare not risk the gesture. He caught the legate staring bulge-eyed.
“Fuck are you looking at?” he snarled.
“You cannot do this.” The imperial was whispering it in Tethanne, maybe unaware he was speaking at all. “The Emperor will—”
“Will
what
?” Ringil followed the language shift, strode up to the legate, and smashed him in the mouth with the pommel of the Ravensfriend. The imperial went over backward with the force of it, and Ringil stood over him. Voice shouting to drown out the noises behind him. “The Emperor will
what
?
Tell me what your fucking Emperor will do!
”
The legate put a hand to his broken mouth, brought it away bloody, stared disbelieving at the wet red dripping off his fingers. Ringil dropped to a crouch beside him, forced his voice down to a corrosive, conversational rasp.
“If I know that fuck Jhiral Khimran, the only thing he’ll do when he hears about this is have it turned into some piece of harem fantasy theater, and then sit back and watch until he gets it up enough to join in. But I wouldn’t worry about it, your excellency, it isn’t going to be your problem.”
Behind them, Poppy Snarl shrieked and sobbed, and the men raping her roared with ribald delight. The legate heard, gaped at Ringil as if he were something summoned out of a crack in the Earth’s crust. He was trying to crawl backward, away from the gaunt, scarred face and what he saw in it, but his cloak was under him and he got no purchase. His boot heels slipped and slid on silk.
“What do you …” He was mumbling, numb with terror. “What do you think you’re—you’re doing?”
Ringil set aside the Ravensfriend, shook the dragon-tooth dagger from his sleeve. He grasped the legate firmly by the hair with his free hand, pulled his head back hard. He leaned in close, near enough to smell the man’s terror-soured breath, near enough to bestow a kiss.
“I’m abolishing slavery,” he said.
And opened the imperial’s throat.
CHAPTER 8
hey cast off mooring from the iron quays an hour after dawn—a leisurely enough start by military standards, but Archeth wanted plenty of light in the sky to reassure the men. She stood at the starboard rail and watched as the
Sword of Justice Divine
drifted out on the swirl of the river, started to turn in the current, and then stiffened and quivered as the oars dug in along her flanks. The stroke drum boomed belowdecks, the pulse of it throbbing up through the planking under Archeth’s feet, and she heard the caller start the cadence:
Bring me the Head of the Whoreson Pimp
—Severed at Dawn! Severed at Dawn!
Bring me his Best Whore all ’tired in Silk
—I’ve Whoresons to Spawn! Whoresons to Spawn!
Bring me the Purse that the Pimp stole from me
—All Emptied Out! All Emptied Out!
Bring me …
And so on.
She let
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