and suitably royal, but Fourth Circle was home to the nobles. Real people lived here, albeit rich and powerful ones, in houses that were ridiculous confections of wood and stone and paint and carved plinths, all set in lavish grounds that could have accommodated three times the number of houses but seemed to serve no purpose except to look pretty.
Rich men and their rich fancies. Never mind the slums in First Circle and the beggars holed up in the tanneries or the slaughter district. Still, it was wide open and defensible and another layer of protection between the palace and any invaders.
Crys snorted and wiped rain from his face. Rumours of unrest were one thing, but Rilporin couldn’t fall. Even the thought was impossible. He stood aside for a clatter of horses and their noble riders, peering up in case it was the Prince Rivil. Still couldn’t quite believe that. When the prince’d run out of copper knights to bet with, he’d started using silver royals as if they were nothing, and he’d given Crys all his winnings at the end of the night. He hadn’t counted it but he was pretty sure it was more than a month’s pay.
Crys felt a stab of shame at how dismissive he’d just been of the nobility. Rivil wasn’t like that and he was more than a lord. He was royalty and, yes, he gambled and drank, but he also rewarded those who served him and aided the king and the heir, Prince Janis, in running Rilpor. Rivil probably did more for the people than all the nobility put together.
Galtas, though. Galtas was as unpleasant as a runny shit, and the loathing was mutual. It had taken all of an hour for them to agree on that, and it was the only thing they did agree on. There was just something wrong about him, something inherently untrustworthy. Crys didn’t think he should have so prominent a position close to the prince. But maybe that was Rivil’s weakness? A certain blindness to the bad in people. It would be a shame if true. Crys found he didn’t want to see Rivil get hurt.
He exited the fourth circle into the silk and spice quarter of the third, the scents wafting despite the rain. He bought dried mint for tea to settle his stomach and some massively overpriced pepper to spice up the standard-issue breakfast pottage. This might be Rilporin, but it seemed rations were the same wherever you were stationed.
Rilporin, fairest city in the world. He reckoned the whole of Three Beeches, his home town, would fit in Fourth Circle with room to spare. The shops and stalls stopped selling silks and spices and he was in the craft district, with wares of all kinds on display, from tiny polished metal mirrors to knives, cooking pots and jewellery side by side with carved wooden toys and fine beeswax candles. It was a warren of delights, from the pretty girls selling their goods to the gossip they let fall so easily from their painted mouths.
By the time he’d got through the craft district into the cloth district his purse was lighter and he’d had to buy a pack to carry his purchases. Still, the new knife for his brother Richard and the wooden horse for little Wenna were worth every copper and more. Just a shame he couldn’t see their faces when they were delivered.
The sun was westering as he tucked the last of his purchases into his pack, and he slung it over his shoulder and hurried through the press towards the gate into Second Circle and the south barracks. Hungover was bad enough. If he was late as well, he may as well kiss his captaincy goodbye – again.
The south barracks were awash with the scent of fifteen hundred men living in close proximity. Feet and armpits and farts, mostly, the hint of sweat and blood souring the mixture further. Crys barely noticed; he’d been a soldier for twelve years and his nose had long since stopped recognising that particular odour.
The south barracks’ captains shared a small room away from the main dormitories, a luxury he hadn’t been expecting. He slid into it now, just as Kennett, his bunk-mate, was shrugging into his uniform.
Kennett whistled. ‘Cutting it fine, aren’t you?’
Crys flung the pack on to his bunk and tore at the buttons of his sodden uniform. He had one more, dry and mostly clean, which had been stuffed with packets of sweet-smelling herbs for the journey. He dragged it out of his chest and shook it out. ‘Got lost,’ he said.
Kennett eyed the pack and shook his head. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Lost. Right.’
‘What’s this Wheeler like, anyway?’ Crys asked as he towelled his hair and struggled into the dry uniform.
‘An annoying little shit, mostly,’ a voice said. Crys had his head stuck in his uniform and grunted in reply. ‘Stickler for the rules, particularly for punctuality,’ the voice continued.
‘Sounds charming,’ Crys said, his voice muffled. Kennett didn’t answer. The voice didn’t answer. Shit. Crys forced his head through the neck hole and looked over to the door. Really shit.
He snapped out a salute. ‘Major Wheeler? Captain Crys Tailorson reporting for duty.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Wheeler said. ‘You’re still getting dressed.’
‘I got lost, sir. A thousand apologies, sir.’ He buckled his sword belt, did up his buttons and dragged fingers through his hair.
‘Did you?’ Wheeler asked. ‘I trust it won’t happen again.’
‘Absolutely not, sir,’ Crys said and snapped into parade rest. Wheeler was taller than him, lean in the waist and broad in the shoulders. He stood with an easy grace that told Crys he knew exactly how to use the sword on his hip. His face was calm, his eyes curious and maybe, just maybe, the littlest bit amused.
‘Are you an arse-licker, Tailorson?’ Wheeler asked.
‘No, sir, never could get used to the taste. Just keen to make a good first impression.’
Wheeler huffed. ‘Well, you haven’t, so stop trying to ingratiate yourself and fall in.’ He gestured through the door and Crys saw his men. His Hundred. All listening to this little exchange with the greatest of enthusiasm. Crys saluted and marched past Wheeler into the corridor. He swept his gaze along the Hundred and found nothing to fault. What they thought was another matter entirely.
‘Our post, Major?’ he asked.
‘East wing of the palace. The heir and His Highness Prince Rivil’s quarters and surrounds. This is your lieutenant, Roger Weaverson. Rilporin born and bred. Take him with you next time you venture into the city, Captain. He’ll see you don’t get lost.’
‘Thank you, Major,’ Crys said, and nodded to Weaverson, a lanky youth with more spots than beard, but he too carried a sword and carried it well. ‘Lieutenant, Hundred, my name is Captain Crys Tailorson, late of the North Rank. I don’t know you yet, but I’ll come and speak to each of you during this shift. Any questions or concerns, please do speak up and I’ll see what can be done.’ He faced Wheeler again and saluted.
‘You have command, Captain,’ Wheeler said.
Crys nodded. ‘Lieutenant Weaverson, fastest route to the palace,’ he said.
They set out, his Hundred marching behind him, and Crys felt himself fall into the same rhythm, the movements as automatic as breathing. Weaverson took them on a circuitous route, and Crys had his earlier suspicion confirmed: the roads deliberately curved away from the gates in each circle to confuse and confound an enemy. Made it a bastard to do your shopping, but if this place was ever attacked, it’d be a blessing and no mistake.
‘So, Lieutenant, what should I know about my Hundred?’
‘Good men all, sir,’ Weaverson said, as Crys had expected. Never mind, he’d find out soon enough. ‘Can I ask a question, sir?’ Crys nodded. ‘Is it true about the Dead Legion and the Mireces, that they’ve allied to invade? You coming from the North, I thought you’d know the truth of it.’
‘I know nothing of it, by which you can assume it’s horseshit, Lieutenant. My ear is always pressed most firmly to the ground, and I haven’t heard it. The Dead have their own honour, their own code and their own gods. A version of our gods, really, when you get down to it. They’re a small cult within Listre and even if they did join forces with the Raiders, there aren’t