Retribution (Drakenfeld 2) Read online

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  ‘If only nations would realise that they have certain natural characteristics, if only they could understand and agree to each other’s particular nature, how simpler it would all be.’

  —D. H. Lawrence, ‘The Crucifix Across the Mountains’

  In memory of

  Laurie Blanshard

  Contents

  Waiting

  Kuvash, Capital of Koton

  Sulma Tan

  A Place to Stay

  Two Gods

  A Night Mission

  Show Us the Head

  ‘Of all the miserable places . . .’

  Morning in the City

  Queen Dokuz Sorghatan

  Schooling

  On the Rooftop

  No Party Tonight

  Borta

  Morning Analysis

  A Ring

  On the Rooftop

  Messages

  Further Analysis

  Where’s the Amulet?

  Dinner

  Depths

  Jewels

  The Manuscript Hall

  Days Later

  Innocent

  Lydia Marinus

  A Cartography of Murder

  Naval Exports

  A Quiet Tavern

  The Floorboard

  Who’s After Nambu?

  The Documents

  Chores

  The City House

  Return of the Guard

  Catching Up

  The Census

  The Koton Games

  ‘Who is this man?’

  Evening Discussions

  A Sprawling Villa

  The List

  All Tied Up

  The Final Names

  Bait

  I Know You

  Decisions

  Allius Golt

  Deep Blue Waters

  The Island

  Bones

  Answers

  The Return

  Blockade

  Departure

  About the Author

  By Mark Charan Newton

  Acknowledgements

  Waiting

  Standing perfectly still, I listened to the patter of the rain, mesmerized by its cadence as it brushed the leaves of the forest. Ahead of me four children from Bathylan, each of them wearing only a pair of short trousers and a ragged old shirt, played a game around the trees. One couldn’t help but smile at the way they endured the rain. Most adults tend to view the rain as a nuisance that soaks our clothes or delays our plans. We seek shelter under arches or loiter in taverns, scowling at the sky. But not these children. For them the rain brought a wonderful new dimension to their day. The sudden deluge delighted them and their faces creased in innocent delight.

  Sometimes I long to have such a view of the world again, and wonder what it might take to reclaim that perspective. But in over thirty years of life, a decade of which has been spent as an Officer of the Sun Chamber, the world has long since robbed me of my limitless optimism.

  This was a beautiful forest and my time here among the low, damp branches of hazel and ash was pleasant indeed, but I needed to head back to the settlement of Bathylan before the rain gathered momentum and really drenched me.

  Leaving the children to their games, I walked back towards the chasm. Standing at this precipice, my breath caught in my throat. Great heights were not an issue for me, but this enormous gap took even my breath away. A scar right through the forests and grasslands on the border of Koton and Detrata, it was a mile long and eight hundred feet wide, and an imposing sight. Down the cliff faces, birds spiralled towards their nests among the nooks, and at the very bottom, barely seen, were the white tips of a river in full flow.

  The wind began to pick up, offering relief from the humidity, as I strode across one of the four wooden bridges leading to the central village, which stood atop a single island of rock in the centre of the chasm. The bridge shifted this way and that under the pressure of my steps.

  Bathylan was a settlement no bigger in size than the largest and most sprawling of villas, but it had developed into an important diplomatic exchange point for trade and information. Situated on the border of Koton and Detrata, it owed allegiance to neither, though both flags could be seen on the rooftops: the black bird in profile on a yellow background for my home nation of Detrata, and the raised red stag on bold blue for Koton. Truth be told Bathylan had become an administrative island of its own, with tiny embassies and aged diplomats looking for a quiet life.

  One did not settle in a place like this. It was the sort of settlement that attracted travellers, a handful of well-established traders seeking to avoid tax, or spies, for it was well plugged in to the political scene. It was always easy to tell who the agents were. They always discussed, in a nonchalant manner full of casual hand gestures, that they were travelling on business, ‘researching properties’ or ‘investment opportunities’ on behalf of someone else. Imports and exports; the old trade. I made a point of smiling and revealing my Sun Chamber brooch to them, the flaming sun. It silenced some. Others thought it an opportune moment to pick my brain on various political agendas, showing no shame in their effort to glean information from me. Despite their presence, Bathylan, with its regular thoroughfare, and a gateway to the rest of the continent, was the perfect hub to rest for a few days while waiting for further orders.

  On the twenty-first day of our stay I peered out from the shelter of the balcony and sighed at the continual dreary weather. At the opposite end of the garden the blue of the flag of Koton could just about be made out. Beyond the Kotonese flag were the towering, forested and fortified hills – the rolling green vista of the high country – almost lost in the incessant drizzle.

  Upon discovery of a small library within the settlement, I had used its resources to brush up on my history of the nation before me. The current ruler, Queen Dokuz Sorghatan, had inherited the throne from her father, king Vehan Sorghatan, who had seized the throne in a military coup. For decades powerful rival factions had bickered over power within Koton, with no one clan ever maintaining overall control. The king’s bloody siege, known as the Night of Plunging Blades, had put an end to the matter once and for all and established him as the sole ruler. He had spent his final years in deep paranoia that someone would return the deadly favour to him. But he died peacefully two decades ago, and his only daughter, the young Dokuz Sorghatan, ascended the throne. It was claimed by the scholars who wrote lengthy pieces on Koton that the queen had since worked miracles with the nation and dragged it into the modern age, attempting to bury and rewrite the crude ways of the nation’s past – but I noted that the scribes themselves were of Kotonese o
rigin, and were hardly likely to claim otherwise.

  A figure tramped quickly up through the swamp-like gardens of the station post. As she marched along the deck her boots thudded on the wet wood. It was my companion Leana. She took the steps up towards me two at a time. Her wax coat was sodden, even though the journey to the gatehouse to check for any new messages was short. A thick leather cylinder was clutched in her hand.

  ‘Next time,’ she said, the water pooling by her feet, ‘you can fetch your own post.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ I replied, ‘it’s not that bad out there.’

  As if the gods themselves willed it, a jagged line of lightning split the skies. It was followed shortly by a stomach-rocking boom.

  ‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘let’s take a look at this. Hopefully, we’ll have orders to move on.’

  I took the dripping tube from her and noted the flaming sun in the wax seal – an icon of the Sun Chamber.

  At last.

  I hastily opened it and pulled out a rolled-up letter.

  ‘What does it say?’ Leana asked impatiently, every bit as eager as me to have a new job.

  ‘At least let me finish it first. It’s from Commissioner Tibus herself.’

  Lucan Drakenfeld,

  I do not like to leave our officers without purpose for long. With this in mind I am sending you to look into what may be a trivial matter, but it is local to your current position. We received a request from Sulma Tan, the Second Secretary to Queen Dokuz Sorghatan of Koton, to help locate the whereabouts of a senior bishop of the main temple of Koton. His name is Bishop Tahn Valin, and he has been missing for five days at the time of sending.

  You are to head to the capital city of Kuvash and you will liaise with Sulma Tan directly. Please note: only liaise with Sulma Tan. Koton is not a nation that looks often for external assistance. Its people are proud and Sulma Tan may have contacted us by mistake, for a second message followed immediately after, declaring that we were no longer required. We will disregard this message – use your discretion and send word as soon as you discover what is happening. The city has an exceptional messenger service, so I shall expect frequent updates.

  Finally, recent events in Tryum have, as we suspected, led to plans to press for a republic and continue without a king. The Senate is already conducting a radical overhaul of trade routes and distribution of the military. Be warned: things are not shaping up well in Detrata. The tensions are getting worse and could, potentially, represent a threat to the Union itself.

  On a lighter note, of the four proposed consuls elect for the first year, one suggestion is your friend Senator Veron. I hope this amuses you as much as it does me.

  Commissioner Tibus.

  I conveyed our orders to Leana.

  ‘About time,’ Leana replied. ‘Was there any news from Detrata?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens. Tibus mentioned Senator Veron.’

  Leana’s expression soured. ‘Has he drowned in a sea of his own debauchery?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I smiled, recalling my friend’s hedonistic lifestyle. ‘It turns out he’s a candidate for consul of Tryum this year.’

  ‘Spirits save us,’ Leana said, incredulous. ‘How does he do it? Can you imagine him in charge of a nation?’

  ‘In good times, perhaps, but not in the disarray we left it.’

  A royal nation without a king, heading deliberately towards becoming a republic, with a warmongering senate in control who were ready to break free from the united continent – the Vispasian Royal Union – and relive the ‘good old days’ of a conquering Detratan Empire. No, that was not a good state in which to have seen Detrata. I could only hope that Veron would be a voice of reason.

  We had been involved in creating the current upheaval and unrest, an act that was still playing on my conscience. We had acted in good faith and brought justice where needed – but this had been the unforeseen result. A political nightmare.

  There was little we could do about it so it was best to concentrate on the job ahead.

  We packed our few belongings, and I purchased a long wax coat – similar to Leana’s – from the village store. After settling our bill with the guest house, we set out towards Koton and a city that may – or may not – need our help.

  Kuvash, Capital of Koton

  We spent four days on the road, sleeping in basic hillside taverns. We ate freshly hunted meat by the dwindling flames of ancient hearths. Between the major cities of Detrata and Koton was a harsh landscape. People did not live here, they survived. What wasn’t forest was scrubland, populated by those hardy and determined enough to make the best of terrible conditions. Farmers had long been forced to create terraces to grow their crops and we could see them working in the fields from dusk till dawn. Goats, with their remarkable balance, were navigating the steep hillsides and fists of granite that pushed through the scrub. Boar clattered through the undergrowth of copses.

  The human company out here was nothing like the relative conviviality of Bathylan. In taverns men and women stared silently into their drinks. When they did talk, they discussed things such as sickening horses and failing crops. The disparity between this and my birthplace of Tryum, a city of high culture, where politics and art were discussed as frequently as the weather, was noticeable. Here people did not have the luxury to discuss intellectual matters – but were mainly concerned with getting through each day alive. This was how communities had existed for thousands of years. It made Tryum look rather petty.

  People regarded Leana with a predictable caution. No matter where we travelled in the less cosmopolitan regions of Vispasia, there would always be a second glance her way because of her dark-brown skin. Even I, who possessed some of the colours of the desert inherited from my Locconese mother, did not seem especially welcome judging by the glances. So we kept a low profile. We ate quietly, away from others, and contemplated the journey ahead. Our silence served to help us fit in with the stoic community.

  Only on one night did I suffer a seizure. It had been mild – perhaps a few heartbeats long at the most. ‘No more than a severely disturbed dream,’ Leana related to me in the morning. Thankfully I still had a small supply of the tisane I had bought from an apothecary in Tryum, a concoction that was supposed to help with such things. If anywhere the wilds of Koton were perhaps the ideal place for me to suffer an episode – away from prying eyes, away from somewhere word could spread that I had been cursed by the gods.

  If it were known that I suffered these fits my reputation would be tainted; even my compatriots within the Sun Chamber wouldn’t trust me. It was better that it remained a secret for as long as possible. Only Leana knew and, because of her different beliefs, she did not care about them. If only I could think the same way.

  Eventually we neared the sprawling, hilltop city of Kuvash, the capital of Koton. Though there was a central settlement of large stone structures, out towards the fringes were sprawling tented areas.

  To the east, dozens of horses were roaming freely on the grassy slopes and running across the plains – the whole herd flowing together like flocks of starlings in a late spring sky.

  Closer to us herds of white cattle – in spectacular numbers – were being driven by young boys on horseback, whooping and hollering to keep their charges moving. Like Leana, they rode without a saddle and she looked at them approvingly then threw a mocking glance at my well-padded Detratan saddle.

  The road took us through the tented settlements. Woodsmoke spiralled up from within the homes, only to be taken away by the wind. Men and women stood outside wearing more primitive clothing than I’d imagined. Rows of vegetables had been planted all around the area. Severed animal heads stood on poles as decorations. There was no order and it had a temporary feel to it, as if the smiling faces could pack up their homes and leave at any time. Nearby stood what I took to be a crude temple; outside the structure was positioned a straw ox or bull. A woman in black robes began to set fire to the straw, and a solemn congregation trudged in a circ
le around it.

  There was no outer wall to Kuvash. It was common knowledge that no Kotonese city had protective walls around its limits. If the Kotonese had an empire, and Kuvash was at the centre, the lack of walls might have suggested that these people had no need to fear invaders, that their empire’s military might was unsurpassed.

  No, Kuvash’s lack of walls was symptomatic of something else: it was a sign of a nomadic people attempting to adjust to urbanization. It had been two hundred years since the start of the Vispasian Royal Union, two centuries since the people of Koton had been allocated their nation. Even after all that time, there were still signs of a culture in the process of settling down, and the products of instability. Old ways died slowly.

  The more solid buildings of Kuvash were comprised of low structures spread over a steeply sloped area of the landscape. There were a few buildings of note that we could see: temples, of course, as well as old Detratan-style law courts that had survived the days of the Detratan Empire and since fallen into disrepair. Most notable of all, in the distance, was an immense white wall that contained a large area. It might have been the royal grounds, though it looked far too big for that.

  Sulma Tan would probably be found there. We headed in that direction.

  Urine from leather tanneries gave off a potent tang, even at this distance. The reek then mixed with horse manure and woodsmoke, gaining in intensity as we moved into the city. Dirt tracks eventually transitioned to firm stone roads, which were not as smooth as some cities I’d been in, but by no means the worst. The further inward we travelled, the sturdier the structures became – stone buildings of a practical design, without much care for ornamentation. Here and there were more formal, decorative structures, but they had fallen into disrepair, as if the more feral elements of civilization had reclaimed them and used the stone elsewhere.

  Eventually the place began to appear more like a typical city. Its streets became straighter and more sensible, unlike those in Detrata which often curved and twisted randomly. Washing was strung up between windows, and children ran up and down lanes playing games. There were many cats on the streets, too, clustering together in bewildering numbers – some with scraps of food in their mouths, others padding along the walls above and peering down on passers-by. Despite the dreary shades of buildings and clothing, there was the occasional spark of colour: a strip of blue cloth for decorating horses, or a red prayer flag. And of course everywhere was the banner of Koton, a red stag upon blue. No variation in theme or texture, simply this same bold flag, in an array of sizes, as if they had been imposed rather than arranged naturally.