Free The Dark Defiles by Richard K. Morgan Page A

cottages, dwellings more hunched and huddled than the buildings lower down the hill. A brace of Tand’s men were loitering outside an opened door about halfway along the row. They were guffawing about something, but when they saw the approaching party, they stiffened into quiet and an approximation of drilled military attention.
    A curtain twitched in her peripheral vision. She didn’t bother to look around. You could feel the eyes on you all the way along the street. Gathered at the edges of the darkened windows and in the gap of doors cracked a bare inch open, waiting to slam. Watching, hating as the booted feet tramped by.
    It was the postwar occupations all over again.
    Greetings from the Emperor of All Lands—we come to you in peace and the universal brotherhood of the Holy Revelation.
    But if you don’t want those things, then we’re going to fuck you up.
    Tand had taken the lead. He nodded at his saluting men and stepped between them, ducking in under the low lintel. Archeth followed, into the soft glow of a banked fire in the grate, and candles lit against the day’s end gloom. There was a pervasive smell of damp from the earthen floor and the whiff of voided bowels to go with it. A sustained, hopeless keening leaked in from the next room. Three more of Tand’s mercenaries stood guard over a man stripped to the waist and strapped to an upright chair.
    Nalmur and the rest of the squad crowded in after her.
    “Well then,” said Tand. “Nalmur, will you do the honors?”
    Nalmur took a theatrical turn around the chair and its occupant. As Archeth’s eyes adjusted to the light, she made out bruising on the man’s face, crusted blood from the broken nose, a series of livid burn marks across chest and upper arms. His breeches were soaked through at the crotch. Nalmur dropped a friendly arm around his shoulders, and the man flinched violently against his bonds.
    “My lord, my lady—meet Critlin Tilgeth, first warden of the Aldrain flame, Hironish chapter. Master Critlin here likes to get together with his pals a couple of times a year in stone circles and invoke the spirits of the Vanishing Folk. Which they do, apparently, by dancing around naked and fucking each other’s wives senseless. I guess you got to find something to fill your evenings with up here.”
    Belly laughs from the men around her.
    “Get on with it,” she said harshly.
    “Yes, my lady.” Nalmur slapped the tied man amiably on one cheek. Straightened up. He switched to accented but serviceable Naomic. “Tell us about the grave again, Critlin. Tell us what you did.”
    “Yes. Yes, we dug—” Critlin swallowed hard. His voice sounded as broken as his face. Low and shaky, a pleading in it, like raindrops trembling on the underside of a roof’s edge. His eyes kept darting to the doorway into the other room, the source of the endless weeping. “We dug it up. We—we went at night. The day before Quickening Eve, when the waters are low.”
    Archeth frowned. “What waters?”
    “He means the gap at Grey Gull peninsula, my lady.” Nalmur, for all the world like a tutor helping out a feeble student under examination. “Says the currents bring more water in at certain times, make it harder to cross.”
    “But—” She shook her head irritably. “There was a dead sheep in that grave, that’s all we found. We didn’t …”
    They’d been using Tethanne, while Critlin gaped uncomprehendingly back and forth between this evil-eyed black woman and his tormentor-in-chief. Archeth made an effort, shunted the constant keening to the back of her mind, summoned her own creaky Naomic.
    “You, uh—you took the Illwrack Changeling out—and put a, uhm—deformed? Yeah—a deformed sheep in his place? What—position?—no, wait, what condition —what condition was the body in?”
    Critlin hesitated. He seemed puzzled by the question, maybe confused by her fumbling, error-strewn speech. Nalmur fetched him a massive clout across the side of the