The Warring States by Aidan Harte

Author:Aidan Harte [HARTE, AIDAN]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION / Fantasy / Historical
Publisher: Quercus
Published: 2015-04-07T00:00:00+00:00

Lord Geta muttered a blasphemy and drew his sword.

“Give it up,” said the man to his left. “There’s no way out of this.”

“He’s a grown man. I’ll take that bet,” said the one sitting opposite. “I always wanted an Ebionite sword. Where’d you get it?”

“I took it from an Oltremarine soldier. He didn’t mind, since I’d just killed him. And he—well, I assume he liberated it from an infidel in similar circumstances.”

“Geta! For the Madonna’s love, quit,” said the shriveled crone next to him, “before you end up betting your spurs.” Madame Filangeiri, the proprietor of Concord’s most exclusive brothel, wore a faded low-cut gown that had last been in fashion before the Reformation. The Dolore Ostello offered clients a range of nubile children and games of chance for those who still had money left over. She’d done well lately: Norcino’s fanciulli had hunted gamblers from their traditional street-corner haunts into gloomy attics and cellars like this one. Norcino’s objection to dice-throwing had nothing to do with the more traditional view that the habit ruined families; rather, that it was vain to contest with God, who had decided long ago how all throws must fall. Normally Madame Filangeiri was content to let her clients beggar themselves, but Geta was an old customer, and as close as she had to a friend.

“Madame, I don’t know much, but I know when to leave the table,” said Geta. “I am still hot.” His self-esteem had been increasing with every draft.

She sighed, and said dismissively, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. The wager’s three hundred silver and one heathen sword. Who’s in?”

“Saint Maria!” they heard from the streets above. “Queen of Concord!”

“I wish they’d shut up.”

The basement’s wood ceiling bulged with age and was shrouded in an inert smoke cloud; the only natural light came from a narrow little window that showed a sliver of the street through dirty brown glass. Hundreds of naked feet went by: a procession of murky, chanting ghosts the gamblers pretended not to hear.

“Who rolls the Die will tell a Lie,

Who rolls the Dice is full of Vice!”

Geta threw down his cards—the Horseman, the Tower and Virgin—and laughed greedily.

“Porca bestia!” The legionary who lost the bet exclaimed, “To lose to this—this—what are you anyway? You even made centurion yet?”

“Truth be told, I’m not sure what my rank is now. They’re always tearing off my epaulets or adding more bars, so I don’t pay attention anymore. I just do what I do and people follow.” Geta proffered his bar-laden shoulder. “What do they mean?”

The other man swallowed. “Um . . . Lieutenant . . .”

“Really? You should probably salute me then, Soldier. That’s the protocol, isn’t it?” As Geta reached for his winnings, there was a thunderous knocking from above and Madame Filangeiri paled beneath her thickly caked lead paint.

Geta chuckled. “Didn’t pay up this month, dear lady?”

“Bribe people who melt gold into bonfires? I’d sooner be fed to the Beast.” She kicked her sleeping doorman awake. “Get up and see who’s there—and tell ’em there ain’t no one here.

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