City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [87]
‘Problem is,’ Malum declared, ‘that none of us wants to fight alongside a man like you.’
‘A soldier of the Empire?’
‘Someone who’s not right. Not natural.’
‘Not sure I follow you, sir.’
Malum then explained about having the commander tracked, about him being spotted seeking out the company of other men for a fuck – about having that male prostitute located, and a confession made in front of witnesses, before the man was executed with a crossbow bolt through the skull.
This conversation was so surreal that Brynd’s heart rate tripled in an instant. As word by word followed, he retreated further into himself, panicking that his secret should be exposed in such a careless manner – to this thug of all people. Even if it was only one man’s word against another, that signed confession might destroy his career.
As Brynd’s hand moved to his sword, Malum snarled, ‘Fuck you think you’re doing? Reckon you can kill me here, you can think again. I’ve fifty men waiting within sight, and if you make a move they’ll hunt you down despite how fancy a fighter you think yourself. Anyway, with that confession released publicly, we’d ruin you and your whole fucking army.’
It might have been a bluff, all of this, but as Brynd’s military mind reduced the situation to probabilities and chances, he realized quickly that the odds were not in his favour. ‘What do you want?’ he growled.
‘Now you’re talking,’ Malum whispered, in a more accommodating tone. ‘You’ll provide me with several thousand Jamúns. Say, enough to buy most of the city? A different city, of course, since this one might not even be here in a few weeks.’
‘Why threaten the one man offering a hope of defending this place? I could save hundreds of thousands of lives.’
Tough to tell behind that mask, but it seemed the thug appeared to consider this question for a while.
Brynd listened to the boats tapping against one another in the wind, providing an endless, gentle drumbeat that could drive a man insane.
‘I’m a real man,’ Malum grunted finally, ‘someone the likes of you just wouldn’t understand.’ He gave some curt instructions about where to leave the money, warning him to come alone or else. With a final sneer, he then faded into fog.
Brynd felt a perfect stillness surrounding him. His world had just imploded.
*
Brynd poked his head into the officers’ quarters where several of his own men were slumped in chairs, either reading or playing cards at a table under a large map of the city. ‘A word, lieutenant, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Of course, commander.’ Nelum set down his book, glanced at the others, who smirked as if he was in trouble. Someone joked, ‘Lavatory cleaning for the lieutenant,’ and the others laughed.
He bounded to his feet to follow Brynd.
Every footstep was loud, every breath clear and sharp as they moved along a corridor of the Citadel, heading outside to one of the walkways positioned behind the long crenellated battlement.
Late in the evening, and both moons were concealed by cloud. Only a few guards from the Dragoons were stationed up here, long-range archers with precise vision, the green and brown of their uniforms barely noticeable in this dim light. They saluted as the Night Guard soldiers passed them, curt and respectful, before returning their focus to the northern horizon.
Eventually Brynd and Nelum paused by a turret at the eastern edge of the Citadel, staring into the black distance. Taverns down below were emptying, with drunken songs and harmless screams from women.
‘Make of this information what you will, lieutenant,’ Brynd announced.
‘Go on.’ Nelum’s expression was sincere, and Brynd waited as long as he could.
‘Is everything all right, commander?’
He told him what had happened in succinct nuggets of information, being as discreet as he could, but ultimately coming clean about one fact: he was being blackmailed over a rumour that could corrupt everything they were working towards.