‘The girl shook her head, eyes wide. “The bishop bids you come with all speed.”
‘“All right, all right … Where are my britches?”
‘“You are wearing them, Chevalier.”
‘“… Seven Martyrs, I can’t feel my legs.”
‘I pushed my knuckles into my eyes. My skull was pounding like I’d been thrice fucked in it. The lass stepped up as I tried to stand, and with her help, I wobbled upright, holding my brow and hissing with pain.
‘“Should I fetch more water?”
‘“What’s your name, mademoiselle?”
‘“Nahia.”
‘And with a sigh, I shook my head. “Just find my pipe, Nahia.”
‘Ten minutes later, I trudged through the mud towards Dhahaeth’s southern gate, freezing sleet about my shoulders, rats about my heels. Nahia followed, wringing her hands. I’d shrugged on my greatcoat, mercifully dry, and hauled on my boots, sadly still damp. But pulling on my kit, I couldn’t help being reminded of younger days. Glory days. And with Ashdrinker at my waist, I hoped I looked a fucksight more imposing than I felt.
‘The bishop waited at the gate. In the water-thin light, the militia lads looked even less impressive than they had last night. Word of my name had no doubt worked its way among their number. Talk of last night’s drunken fuckarsery in the pub obviously had too.
‘“Thank the Almighty,” the bishop began. “Chevalier, doom has come t—”
‘“Take your jewels in hand, Your Grace.”
‘A cry came from beyond the palisade, a voice that made the men about me quaver. “Bring him out! Eternity we might have, but we’ll waste it not on lowing cattle!”
‘I set boots to stairs, old nails creaking, climbing until I stood on the rough, splintering timber of the highwalk. I hugged the shadows like old friends, hidden behind the palisade’s highest spikes, the bishop following on my heels with clear reluctance. A dozen men stood up here, clad in worn leather armour and rusty tinpot helms. The skinny prick who’d given me lip last night stood among them, along with a man I presumed was their leader. He was a bulky fellow with a busted face and walnut skin, a whalebone pipe at his lips. Callused hands. Scarred chin. The only real soldier among them.
‘“Capitaine,” I nodded.
‘“Chevalier,” he grunted, looking beyond the walls. “Fine day to meet your maker.”
‘The man’s voice was steady, his jaw set. But every one of his fellows seemed ready to fill their britches. And peering between the timbers, I saw the source of all their fear.
‘A coach sat in the middle of the road. It was finely wrought; glossy black paint and gold trim, two lanterns casting a moon-pale light through the sleet. But instead of horses, the coach was drawn by a dozen wretched. Each had been a teenage girl before she was murdered. Ragged and rotten, they stared up at the men on the walls with nothing but hunger in their dead eyes. And sitting in the driver’s seat was something hungrier still.
‘It wore the shape of a young lass, too. But unlike the coldbloods hauling the coach, this one was a perfect beauty. She wore a leather corset, a half-skirt, high boots. Her lips were painted glossy dark, deep blue eyes ringed with kohl and framed by long black hair. Her skin was white as death, her chin smudged with faint stains of murder.
‘“Dyvok, I’d wager,” the capitaine grunted.
‘“No,” I replied, looking the coldblood over. “She’s a Voss.”
‘“Ancien?” the bishop asked, trembling.
‘I shook my head. “Just a fledgling, by the look.”’
The historian suddenly tapped his quill on the tome in his lap.
‘Really?’ Gabriel sighed. ‘Again?’
‘As to a child, de León,’ the vampire said. ‘How could you tell this one’s bloodline just by looking at her?’
‘Because I wasn’t fresh fallen from the last rains? You Chastains seldom travel by carriage. The Dyvoks were still busy razing the Ossway, and the Ilons were far too subtle to make an appearance this gaudy. But the Forever King’s get had grown arrogant after their famille’s successes in the Nordlund. All Shall Kneel was the creed of the Blood Voss, and Fabién’s children saw themselves as vampiric royalty, destined to rule the endless night from atop thrones built of the old empire’s bones. Rolling up to a peasant mudhole in a fancy carriage drawn by a dozen corpses was exactly a Voss’s style.’
Jean-Fran?ois nodded. ‘And the term you used? Fledgling?’
‘You know what a fucking fledgling is.’
‘Nevertheless, I would like you to explain it.’
‘Well, I’d like a glass of fine single malt and a courtesan with thousand-royale tits to read me a bedtime story, but we don’t always get what we want.’
The vampire glowered. ‘Margot Chastain, First and Last of her Name, Undying Empress of Wolves and Men, does.’
Gabriel bit back an insult, drew a calming breath.
‘There are three stages to a coldblood’s existence. Three ages to your so-called life. The new Dead are called fledglings. Young, comparatively weak, still shedding the remnants of their humanity and finding their way in the dark. After a century or so of murder, a fledgling can be thought of as mediae; a vampire in full possession of its gifts, extremely dangerous, and devoid of anything approaching human morality. The last, and most deadly, are the ancien. The elders.’
‘And you can tell the difference at a glance?’
‘Fledglings, sometimes.’ The silversaint shrugged. ‘Even though they don’t breathe any more, they’ll do things like gasp in surprise. Blink out of habit. A few even delude themselves that they can see mortals as anything other than meals. But everything erodes. Everything ends. And by the time you’re mediae, you’re something else entirely.’
‘Something more,’ Jean-Fran?ois nodded.
‘And much, much less,’ Gabriel replied.
The vampire ran his fingers along the feathered tips of his lapels, lanternlight glinting in dark eyes. ‘How old do you think I am, Chevalier?’
‘Old enough to have nothing left inside you,’ Gabriel replied.
And, unwilling to play the game, the silversaint returned to his tale.
‘I looked down on the coldblood from atop the palisade, weighing her up. She climbed off the driver’s seat, heels sinking into half-frozen mud. Stalking past those hollow, wretched girls hauling the coach, she approached Dhahaeth’s walls through the freezing sleet, altogether unconcerned about the arrows aimed at her chest.
‘I guessed she’d been no more than thirteen when she was killed, her body trapped a year or two shy of adulthood’s shore. Her smile was razor-blade sharp as she looked among the militiamen above. The fear of her washed the walls like pale fog.
‘“You are all going to die,” she declared.
‘One of the younger men lost his nerve at that. Loosing his crossbow with a sudden twang. The boy’s aim was true, but the arrow simply thumped against the coldblood’s chest as if she were made of ironwood. Eyes fixed on the lad who’d shot her, the vampire reached up and plucked the bolt free of her breast. Black lips parted, she licked the tip with a long, clever tongue.