Obsidian, p.1
Obsidian, page 1
ANGRY ROBOT
An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd
Unit 11, Shepperton House
89 Shepperton Road
London N1 3DF
UK
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Unveiling the truth
An Angry Robot paperback original, 2022
Copyright © Sarah J. Daley 2022
Cover by Mark Ecob
Edited by Simon Spanton and Andrew Hook
Set in Meridien
All rights reserved. Sarah J. Daley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
Angry Robot and the Angry Robot icon are registered trademarks of Watkins Media Ltd.
ISBN 978 0 85766 940 7
Ebook ISBN 978 0 85766 941 4
Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by TJ International.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my children
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
The thin, balding Harbormaster slurped oysters from the halfshell while he perused Raiden’s orders, his eyes pinched with concentration. Slimy mollusks disappeared down his gullet one after the other, the empty shells discarded with a staccato clattering onto the massive desk which took up half the stonewalled tower room. Raiden held on to his patience by his fingertips. So far, this tower was all he’d seen of the city of Sicaria, but for a glimpse of bright, pastel-colored buildings marching up the hillsides behind a high, crenelated seawall. A narrow window behind the harbormaster looked out over the bustling docks and caught the occasional waft of salt-air and dead fish. The sun was shining, bright and hot, but the sky held a strange, rose-colored haze.
Not haze. Raiden adjusted the strap of his heavy satchel, peering at the narrow aspect of sky. It is a Veil.
From the sea, Sicaria had seemed an ordinary city, but for the strange, translucent dome sheltering her. It had stretched beyond the dense cluster of buildings atop two high hills, obscuring the coast to the north and south like a shimmering bank of fog. But it wasn’t fog, it wasn’t haze; it was a powerful shield created by magic no one outside this island nation could comprehend, much less replicate. The Veils of Malavita protected its people from the broken, twisted magic which had – eons ago – laid waste to a once golden, fertile land. And the Brotherhood church which had raised and maintained the Veils for centuries were loath to share their secrets with their newest overlords, the Bhaskar Empire. Which was rather inconvenient as most of Malavita was a deadly wasteland unfit for human habitation.
As he watched a drop of brine land on the Imperial seal, Raiden touched the hilt of his sword and contemplated lopping off the man’s hand. It might speed things along. He was an Imperial emissary with diplomatic protection. What’s the worst they could do? Charge him a fine?
Finally, the man tossed the last of the oyster shells on a plate and wiped his fingers on a linen napkin. His thin lips pursed beneath an even thinner mustache. “It does not say who you are here to meet, just lists a ‘city-prince’. Why hasn’t this anonymous prince sent his men to fetch you? It’s not every day an emissary from the Empire arrives on our shores. And where are your guards? Where is your retinue?” He frowned at him. “How am I to believe you are who you say you are?”
Raiden bristled at his tone. No one spoke to the Commander of the Imperial Guard in such a rude manner. Not if they wanted to live. Almost immediately, he checked his ire. He was the former Commander of the Imperial Guard, and this troublesome little colony was his exile.
Still.
“The order is marked with the Emperor’s own seal, and it states very clearly who I am,” he snapped. “Captain Raiden Mad, Imperial Emissary to an honorable city-prince of Sicaria. I am here on a diplomatic mission which requires some discretion. Who I am meeting is irrelevant as I have Imperial permission to enter your city, and how I travel is my own concern, sir.”
The thin man shrugged. He wore a rich, brocade vest embroidered with tiny gemstones and it sparkled with the movement. “What do I know of seals? Or diplomatic missions? I am a simple agent placed in charge of this port. I can’t let just anyone into Sicaria. We have rules here, boy.”
“Captain.”
The man blinked. “What?”
“I am not a ‘boy’, I am a captain in the Imperial army, and you will address me by my proper rank.”
Another infuriating shrug. “What do I know of rank?”
“Apparently you don’t know much of anything.” Raiden leaned down and jabbed a finger at the creamy paper in the man’s hand. “There is my name in clear letters. In your language, I might add. Can you not read? The gods know we’ve conquered many illiterate people. I just didn’t realize Malavita was counted among such barbarians.”
“Conquered?” He chuckled. “No one has ‘conquered’ Malavita. Empires trade us like a pretty bauble. They come, they go, we stay eternal.” He waved a hand. “Yours is the same as all the others.”
Nostrils flaring, Raiden gripped the hilt of his sword and decided taking the man’s head would be far more satisfying than his hand. But he resisted the urge. This was a corrupt and lawless land, but he was an agent of the Bhaskar Empire. He was here to fulfill his duty. He would not be goaded by a casual insult. Reluctantly, he eased his grip.
“And I can read, captain,” the Harbormaster added. He tossed Raiden’s paperwork on his desk as casually as he’d discarded his oyster shells and leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his chest. A smile spread across his face as he eyed the satchel resting against Raiden’s hip. “And if you desire discretion… well, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”
An hour later, his properly authorized documents worn and begrimed from the myriad hands through which they had passed, been inspected, scrutinized, and once refused, Raiden entered the gates of Sicaria. Sweat soaked his crimson uniform jacket. He’d undone the top few buttons of his single-breasted coat, unwilling to open it all the way, though the air was thick, and the sun weighed on his head.
Shoulders back like a proper soldier, he made his way through streets clogged with people, wagons, carts, and noisy animals of every sort, including a camel or two among the more pedestrian donkeys and goats. Horses were rare. By the amount of manure clogging the gutters, he expected street sweepers were just as rare. The cobblestones were marble, stained and mottled with age and use, and the warren of buildings to either side – shops, homes, warehouses – were built from bright, decoratively carved limestone, or plastered in a myriad of pale pastels. Cascades of roses and geraniums fell from nearly every window and balcony.
In his crimson and gold uniform jacket, snug tan trousers and tall, shiny black boots, Raiden drew looks. There was an air of hostility which followed him like a bad smell. Though they had taken Malavita peacefully, the Bhaskar Empire was still a foreign ruler. Despite a land rich with precious gems, she’d been more trouble than she’d been worth to many of the Empire’s predecessors. The Emperor hoped to change all that with the royal charter Raiden carried in his satchel, the first step in a new venture.
A few Imperial Polizia wandered through the packed streets, a small badge of crimson emblazoned with a golden sunburst on their dun-colored jackets. He caught a few rude gestures aimed at their backs. Recruited from the locals, the polizia were rife with corruption. He kept clear of them.
Ahead of him, a disturbance ruffled the throng. The crowd parted for a group of men swaggering down the street shoulder-to-shoulder. These men weren’t wearing the simple tunics and trousers of their fellows. They were bare-chested, and wore short, wraparound skirts of pale linen covered by strips of armored leather pteruges, leaving their legs bare but for sandals laced up to their knees. Finely-tooled leather knife belts spanned their narrow waists, long, thin blades resting at their hips. Broad-brimmed hats shaded their hard eyes.
But their dress, strange as it was, wasn’t what set them apart. Even the knives at their hips weren’t as impressive as the tattoos covering nearly every inch of their bare flesh. Like peacocks among
His hackles rising, Raiden slipped into the shade of a storefront awning. He recognized these men by description. The Empire had entire books devoted to the Bloodwizards of Malavita, those tattooed magicwielders who used gemstone blades to shed their own blood for power, but these men were not common bloodwizards. They were the famous – no, infamous – Corsaro. Marked by their attire, and their swagger, these particular bloodwizards served powerful warlords calling themselves Capomaji. They held this land in thrall, extorting and intimidating people, especially in the more isolated Veils in the interior. They were a dangerous nuisance.
Raiden laid a hand on his sword hilt, watching the Corsaro strut down the street, the people scattering before them like mice before cats. It would be interesting to test them. How would their vile magic hold up against steel? But he eased his grip once the Corsaro had passed. The citizens of Sicaria seemed to release a collective sigh before going on with their business and he left the shelter of the awning. It was growing late, and he was due to meet Safire’s representatives soon.
A few inquiries pointed him in the proper direction, and after a dozen turns down the twisting streets he emerged onto a quiet avenue with shuttered storefronts and a taverna with a black rooster on its shingle. A red and white-striped awning shaded a few tables on a stone patio and wide-open doors led into the dim interior. Raiden stepped into the shade, grateful for the respite. He waved to the comely young woman serving a table of four and took a small table for himself. He could hear patrons inside the building laughing and talking, but he and the group at the other table were the only ones seated outside.
His gaze swept them, wondering if they were the representatives he was supposed to meet. Three of them wore loose, flowing silk shirts tucked into snug trousers, soft leather boots wrapped to their knees, and knife belts with only a single blade each. Blades made of quartz. The Brotherhood church, who created and distributed the gemstone blades, didn’t bother working with quartz. Most lesser blades were homemade. Crude and simple and nowhere near as strong as the “blessed” blades. Still, it meant these men could wield bloodmagic.
Their shirts were brightly colored, the oldest in red and the two younger men in blue and green. The shirtsleeves were bloused at the elbows with ribbons, leaving their tattooed forearms bare. Long, wild hair framed their narrow, swarthy faces, and long mustaches drooped around their mouths. Tattoos peaked from beneath their open collars. Not Corsaro, certainly, but bloodwizards nevertheless.
The fourth was a youth. Tall and slim, and dressed like a Sicarian in long trousers, sandals and a long-sleeved jacket, he had neither mustache nor loose, wild hair. His long, dirty-blond hair was contained in a braid, and he wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes.
A person going to the trouble to hide his eyes was usually up to no good. Suspicious, Raiden adjusted the sword tucked into his sash. The youth gave him a slow nod, as if he knew why he had shifted. Raiden looked aside. Cheeky brat.
Immediately, he dismissed the four. They couldn’t possibly be the representatives of a Malavitan city-prince. Especially one who’d served a year in the Imperial Army and distinguished himself during the Vulcaro Campaign. He had never met Dante Safire personally, but he knew him by reputation as a man of honor and integrity. It was why the Emperor was willing to grant the man a boon – once Raiden determined the feasibility of Dante’s request, of course. He wanted an Imperial charter granting him land and rights to raise a new Veil, which, while beneficial to the Empire, was a doubtful proposition. Malavita’s ruling class, the so-called “First Families”, were as beholden to the Brotherhood as the rest of the people. Strong in magic and the nominal lords of the Veils, nevertheless, they had no choice but to pay the Brotherhood their crippling taxes. Without the Brotherhood and their cryptic magic, the Veils would fail. And without the Veils, life was not possible in Malavita.
It was a frustrating situation for the Empire as vast tracts of Malavita’s interior – the blighted Wastes – could be reclaimed by new Veils, yet the Brotherhood was as parsimonious with their Veils as they were with their gemstones. They hadn’t raised a new Veil in over a hundred years, and the priests refused to impart their secrets to any bloodwizards outside of their organization. They kept the knowledge as close as their blades.
But when he’d appealed to the Empire for the charter, Dante Safire claimed he had the knowledge and the strength to raise his own Veil, a Veil for the Empire. It sounded too good to be true to Raiden, and he was prepared to refuse the charter. They had been burned before with ill-conceived charters. Not long ago, the Empire had granted charters to some of their own nobility and trading companies in an attempt to establish royal colonies within existing Veils – they’d learned the hard way that the Wastes were uninhabitable, at least by Imperial citizens – but even those attempts inside Veils had ended in disaster. Pit mines had failed to yield any quality gems, crops had fallen to blight, grapes had withered on the vine, and herds of hearty Imperial cattle had wandered into the Wastes to be transformed into twisted beasts. The locals had sniggered and mocked the foreign invaders until they had all fled. Without bloodmagic, the Imperials were at a disadvantage in this land.
Yet, if Dante truly could raise a Veil free of Brotherhood control and dominance, then the Empire would at last have access to their own gem mines. Cutting out the Brotherhood from the lucrative gem trade would be a profitable venture.
When the serving girl approached, Raiden ordered wine. The first glass of the cool, golden liquid soothed his throat and slaked his thirst. The second softened his muscles and eased the tension between his shoulder blades. He stretched his legs beneath the small, wrought iron table and slumped low in his chair, relaxing for the first time in what seemed like weeks.
The journey across the Trincarian sea had been long and dull. Losing himself in the practice of the Thousand Forms had been impossible on the cramped ship, and all he’d been able to do was think. His thoughts had circled around only one thing: the shame of his dishonor. He was – he’d been – a shield, born and raised to protect the Imperial family. Born and raised to kill any enemy who threatened them. Even as a boy, barely into his tenth year, he could pick an assassin from the crowd and kill them before they came near a royal family member. He’d always expected to sacrifice his life for his family, but he’d never expected to have to fall on a figurative sword. Death was preferrable to this – this exile.
The strain of the day beat against the back of his eyes, and thoughts of his homeland made him weary beyond measure. He closed them. Just for a moment…
A sudden shout of pain jarred his eyes open. He jerked upright, cracking a knee against the table and toppling his empty wine glass. It shattered against the paving stones. The noise made him wince, but no one else took notice. All eyes were on the man groveling on the patio, the innkeeper by his humble garb and snow-white apron. The pretty serving maid crouched beside him, her arms around him, weeping. Blood dripped from the innkeeper’s nose, and his hands were raised in supplication. A tattooed man stood over them, bare-chested in a skirt of armored leather strips.
Raiden hissed in a breath. Corsaro.
The tattooed man held a long, slim blade against his own forearm. The blade was of a pale green stone and parallel cuts stood out against his painted flesh.
“The tribute was due today, Alonzo,” he said. “Not tomorrow, not next week. Today!”
“Please, Vito. Please, I beg you! Business has been so bad this season, and the tribute has increased so much. I have nothing to spare!”
“Nothing? You have nothing for the man who keeps you safe? The man who protects your daughter from rapists and scoundrels?”
With a sob, the girl hid her face against her father’s shoulder. The innkeeper paled.
The man, Vito, shook his head. “This is no good. No good.” He applied pressure to the green blade. “I already gave you an extra week and still you give me nothing. Do you think my Capo will be gentle with me if I am gentle with you?”
“Please, good sir. Spare me–”
Snarling, the Corsaro man slashed his arm with his jewel blade. Blood ran black against his tattooed flesh. The pale green blade gleamed.
