Lord-Captain Aerion Ilyleon
The Volantene, choking on blood, fell to Aerion's feet like a stuffed sack. The armor of the Lysene viceroy's guards seemed not bad, perhaps even of Qohorik make (if there was one thing those goat stepchildren of Valyria knew how to work with, it was metal), but no armor can protect a man from Valyrian steel, especially if he doesn't know how to fight.
"Here's what I can't understand," Mollono threw out, having dealt with his opponent, the last of this detachment. "There seem to be a hell of a lot of them, and they're armed not badly, but they fight like small children, you could take them with bare hands. Why such guards?"
"He fucks them, that's why," Fennes declared authoritatively. "Or watches others fuck his wife. I've seen such lords."
"Watched others fuck your wife?" Aerion smiled with his lips only.
"Oh, come now, Captain!" the former slave from Meereen was offended. "I'm a man, I fucked others' wives!"
"Wonder then what got your cock up: other men's wives or other men's looks?"
Mollono neighed like a horse and nearly doubled over, but this was just as well—an arrow whistled over his head. It found its target, however. The freedman looked back at the wheezing and gurgling and cursed:
"Damn it, Bo! How many times have I said: don't stand behind my back!"
The Summer Islander with long tangled braids and an arrow in his neck did not answer him. Aerion threw up his head, looking for the archer: the accursed garden of the viceroy's palace with its terraces and galleries offered too many opportunities for cover. But then the captain felt rather than saw movement in one of the arched windows of the second tier, and a couple of moments later a new arrow flew from there, which he calmly dodged.
At another time he would not have risked for nothing and exposed himself to others' swords and arrows—after all, a good captain's place is on the bridge, not in the front ranks of the landing party—but this time the task facing them differed somewhat from standard ones, and personal example in a difficult matter strengthens sailors' morale and, much more importantly, discipline. Naturally, he led only the best of the best to storm the Lysene viceroy's palace—three hundred men, less than a tenth of all his people, but these were proven veterans, hardened in many battles.
"Fennes!"
"Aye, Captain!"
The Meereenese rushed to the side, and another dozen sailors, his subordinates, rushed after him without extra instructions. They should be enough to clear the platform above, and they were not interested in more. They needed to find the viceroy, and quickly—all this fuss with Lys had already begun to come sideways to each of its participants.
When it came to another very profitable little affair, Ryndoon's words did not diverge from deeds (although he always talked more than was necessary). Having decided to get involved in the looming war on the Stepstones against Volantis, the King-Admiral decided to cheat and requested a deposit of three hundred thousand gold honors from the New Freehold and an obligation to supply his fleet with everything necessary for an attack on the communications of Tyrosh and the sunsetters.
The Triarchs agreed and sent emissaries with a beautiful letter of marque, which Racallio loved to examine and forced clerks to read aloud to him time and again. On the appointed day, the entire fleet of Ryndoon and his lord-captains weighed anchor at the Talon and set off via the Summer Isles to the notorious golden harbors of Lys, about which the peacock Lohar babbled incessantly.
For a month of travel, the King-Admiral entertained himself and the Volantene guests with conversations, feasts, libations, playful wrestling, cockfights (being a great lover of these amusements, the pirate always carried birds with him). The ships entered the port of Lys, where both the viceroy appointed by the Triarchy of the Freehold and the city magisters were already waiting for them as dear guests, but instead of emissaries, their heads rolled down the gangways onto the white stone slabs, followed by pirates unleashed onto the shore.
At first, it seemed the viceroy's guard wavered—the first onslaught coupled with the element of surprise nearly cost the Volantene his life, but contrary to Racallio's calculations, his guards fought desperately, bravely, and did not spare themselves, defending their eyk and the honor of the Freehold. Even the uprising of the urban poor, incited by the magisters and striking the Volantenes in the back, did not give the attacking cutthroats of the King-Admiral a decisive advantage. Apparently, the viceroy had been generous with a rich sacrifice to some god the day before, and the pleased benefactor protected him, allowing him to slip away.
The plan they had built with the ambassadors of the Lysene magisters at Barter Beach went straight to the Seven Hells (Peklo). Instead of a lightning-fast pirate onslaught supported by a rebellion of Lysene citizens and militia, they faced urban combat: Volantene guards stood in defense of the viceroy's palace and their own barracks with the stubbornness and heroism of the doomed, but the rest of the city was lost to them in the first couple of days. By the morning of the third day of fighting, the Square of the Five Gonfaloniers along with the magisterium was under pirate control, and at noon Ryndoon placed an outrageously tasteless crown of gold with large pearls, a plumage of Summer Islander bird feathers, and fur trim on his purple, shaggy head, proclaiming himself King of Lys and the Basilisk Isles.
Having barely pulled this vulgar wretchedness onto himself, Racallio decided to fulfill his old dream and announced the abolition of slavery in Lys. Perhaps he thought this would help him win the sympathies of the Lyseni and finally break the resistance of the New Freehold, but in Aerion's opinion, this was sheer idiocy, only adding to their problems.
Throwing a "coronation feast," the King-Admiral seemed to forget about the Volantene viceroy. Slaves who gained formal freedom rushed to vent accumulated malice on their former masters, robbing, raping, and killing with the blessing of their "people's" king. Magisters, together with those remaining loyal slaves and mercenaries who previously helped pirates press the Volantenes, locked themselves in their mansions and fought off the poor crowd thirsting for their riches. Racallio's people, not receiving a specific order, did not think to stick to the plan; instead of fighting the remaining Volantenes, they celebrated their admiral's coronation, robbed magisters together with rebellious slaves and immediately fought them to the death over booty, raped citizens—in short, behaved like decent pirates.
Without instructions from their leader, the lord-captains were left to their own devices. Maltak Narrow fully supported his King-Admiral, and his people drank and fucked as if for the last time, swore and stabbed each other over loot. A couple of dozen men from Aerion's crew also tried to arrange something similar, but the captain quickly reminded his sailors that booty could be divided only after victory, which they had not yet achieved. Ilyleon did not apply traditional punishments to them and ordered the sergeants to hang them quickly. Giving Racallio a day for revelry in his thoughts, upon its expiration, the captain began to implement the original plan independently, until the pirate army completely dissolved among the mad crowds. With some adjustments, of course.
Zhao, as always, showed caution and restraint characteristic of his people, and did not move far from the port, preferring to firmly control the approaches to it. Aerion liked the old man's decision: although he was a rare shit sometimes, when it came to business, he always left aside his pig curses and did not forget to cover those who were on the same side of the sword with him. The unrestrained revelry of Ryndoon pleased the YiTish no more than Ilyleon, and the two lord-captains agreed to act together without particular problems, sharing the burden of maintaining order at the harbors and warehouses.
Sharako Lohar, having brought his people home, at first rushed to be everywhere and first, wanted to become famous as the conqueror of the Volantenes, breaking the chains of the second slavery of the Most Beautiful of the Daughters of Valyria, then as the defender of the magisters, then as the intercessor of ordinary citizens from the unleashed poor, but the strength of his people was clearly not enough for such ambitious goals. After his trick with the coronation, Lohar looked at Ryndoon like a wolf, and every hour of the Admiral's inaction, when the Most Beautiful of Daughters was raped and torn apart by four forces, forced him closer and closer to the line of betrayal. Aerion did not even need to tell anything or convince the Lysene, only voice the conditions, which the latter immediately accepted.
During the week of virtual anarchy in the city, the positions of the party of panther-magisters, supporters of restoring independence, were considerably shaken: those who preferred cooperation with Volantis accused them that by the grace of the panthers, the Pearl of the Southern Seas was being robbed by ragamuffins of all stripes; similar thoughts visited doubters, and even those who at first supported the idea of a coup. Therefore, when Ilyleon came with Sharako to the rebellious magisters and asked if they were tired of robberies, they grasped at the opportunity to restore order like a drowning man clutches at a straw.
A short shout came from above, and the shooter from before fell from the balcony right onto the white marble slabs of the garden path.
"Clear!" Fennes shouted, hanging over the railing.
"What 'clear', he's alive," Lisaro Rogare was surprised.
The little son of that very magister, at the mere name of whom Sharako exuded poison, bile, and shit all at once, had to be taken along for three reasons. First, the panthers wanted to create the appearance of their participation in the storming of the palace at the highest level, and Lisaro turned out to be the only high-born youth crazy and ambitious enough to volunteer himself. To become a magister after his father's death, the family name Rogare might not be enough for him (not after Lysandro's adventures), so he tried to create his own reputation. Second, Lisaro knew the palace chambers not by hearsay—the Rogares lived here until they were thrown out the door by their own fellow citizens and Volantenes. Aerion was ready to bet half a pint of his own blood that old Lysandro dreamed every night of his triumphant return to the warm place, however, in reality, such happiness did not threaten Rogare. Finally, third, Rogare allocated a hundred of their people to cover the patriarch's heir, and swords during an assault were never superfluous.
"All the better," Aerion nodded and, approaching the still living, groaning guard, poked him with the toe of his boot. He did not react, and then the captain put Joy to his throat. "Where is the viceroy?"
"I-I..."
"I repeat: where is the viceroy? Tell me and you die quickly."
"I w-will s-say n-nothing..."
"As you wish," Ilyleon shrugged, kicked the Volantene's spread arms for convenience, and with a habitual movement severed his hands.
"But he might betray us!" Lisaro tried to protest under the soldier's screams.
"Who needs him? Bother with him yet," Mollono answered for the captain and spat right into the pool of blood flowing from the stumps. "How did he have balls enough to say 'no'. Usually they're all milk-sops..."
"Evidently, he was a veteran," Aerion threw out, turning his back on the one who had not really ceased to be yet. "And this is the household guard."
"Household in all senses. I'd even say bed-hold, but Fennes knows better."
"Knows better in all senses!" the latter shouted from the balcony.
"We are wasting time," the captain reminded, and his people, selected and drilled boarders, the best of the best, immediately gathered themselves, pulled up, ready for a new dash. "Lisaro?"
The Lysene blinked his violet eyes annoyingly dully. The captain spread his hands expectantly, and the sun flashed on the dark red blade of the sword—only this threat, which was not really a threat, but so, a reminder, forced the halfwit to realize what was wanted of him. Lysandro Rogare, of course, was also not a great sage, otherwise he would not have lost his game of thrones fifteen years ago, but he should have taught his son better.
"H-here," the heir of Rogare nodded toward the passage under the balcony on which Fennes had settled. "We are almost there. The Turquoise Hall is here."
Aerion moved the blade, and three sailors rushed in the indicated direction. This time Lisaro did not wait for a special invitation and hurried after, followed by the rest of the detachment led by Ilyleon.
"Here's what I thought, Captain," Mollono, who had settled nearby, said in an undertone. Aerion would have ordered another not to think, because he thinks for him himself, but the Meereenese gave sound advice and knew how to understand people, otherwise he would not have risen to personal assistant. "What if this Rogare is fooling us? We'll show up in this hall now, and they'll take us warm there."
"Rogare is not one of those forgiven twice. Our heads will not help him keep his own, he is capable of understanding that much. And he wouldn't send his heir into a trap."
"That is so, of course..."
"But?"
"Lest this Volantene escapes. Who will climb into these sewers?"
"He who holds life dear. If he doesn't climb here, then he'll climb through the baths, and Sharako awaits him there."
"Narrow, Captain, very narrow," Mollono spoke of any risk as a narrowness of a strait which a ship needs to pass at low tide, and under enemy fire at that, scraping the bottom on rocks. On the whole, he was a sensible lad, but there was even more caution in him than in old Zhao. It is always useful to have such a person at hand: doubting and fearful is capable of noticing flaws even in a seemingly perfect plan, but Mollono will see his own ship like his own Dothraki father.
"Well certainly not the slit of your whore-mother."
"She's far from Fennes's mother," the pirate smirked. With Fennes, who grew up in the same brothel, he had been acquainted since childhood, and since childhood they could not figure out whose mother was a bigger whore.
Like any other palace, the habitation of the Volantene viceroy of Lys, in which the first magisters of the city lived before him, and before them the viceroys of the Old Freehold, was built with such calculation that it could be left by several secret paths at once. Lysandro Rogare managed to render some of them unusable in revenge on his conquerors, but most of them led to those districts of the city where it was better for the Volantene eyk not to appear now: the port, the hippodrome, brothels—so in case of an assault, the viceroy had little choice and essentially boiled down to two holes leading into the city sewers. It remained only to catch the Volantenes before they managed to dive into their own shit.
The Turquoise Hall—a spacious room having practically no walls, faced the sea on one side and the gardens on the other. The floor was covered with a mosaic of pieces of turquoise, imitating gentle sea waves running onto a sandy shore, and the ceiling echoed it with bright blue skies and white marble chips. The imitation of the sea element, as the masters of Lys knew it, was successful, but Ilyleon also knew the other side of this honor—the very one on which a skull is minted.
"Pretty," Mollono whistled.
"Robbed worse," Aerion reminded. Take even that coastal palace on Leng... "Spread out!"
However, the order was belated. Scarcely had the captain finished speaking when a couple of dozen Volantene soldiers tumbled out of the doorway on the opposite side of the hall, and with them the fat viceroy himself. Seeing pirates among the turquoise mosaic waves, the Volantenes did not slow down, but only increased speed, apparently deciding to break through. Foolish, very foolish.
"To battle!" Ilyleon barked, and jumped to the nearest Volantene himself.
His mother's former compatriot raised his sword depressingly slowly—sometimes Aerion wondered why people, even seasoned warriors hardened in many battles, moved like sleepy flies in a fight. In the slits of the helmet, beautiful but not very suitable for real combat, the Volantene's face was distorted by annoyance when he realized he did not have time to draw his sword, and then inevitable fear. He did not have time to blink, and already lost his arm to the elbow along with the sword, and a heartbeat later the narrow blade of Aerion's sword entered the side into the gap between the armor plates and came out in the armpit on the opposite side.
Pushing the expiring opponent off the blade, the captain turned, already looking for a new one. The next Volantene, this time with a lush officer's plumage of feathers, at least managed to prepare and immediately took a defensive stance. He took the blow of Joy on a rectangular shield, and the blade slipped, leaving a deep notch on the round metal boss. In the next instant, the Volantene tried to counterattack, but again too lazily. Parrying another's lunge, Ilyleon curled his lips in disappointment and, making a deceptive feint, struck straight into the eye slit.
While the officer was falling, Aerion managed to look around. A hot skirmish boiled around: under the azure sky-ceiling swords rang, combatants shouted in battle courage and fever, bright red blood ran in real waves along the turquoise mosaic waves. Only the whistle of arrows and the rolling of the ship were missing, otherwise this fight was no different from hundreds and hundreds of others.
The captain's gaze picked out Fennes, almost cut in half; well, no one is irreplaceable. The green beard of the Myrman Morosh turned brown because of blood, but he still swung his axes. Mollono held on too, like his people. Lisaro somehow hacked at some Volantene, just as inept, surrounded by a ring of his bodyguards; Aerion, taking a couple of steps, slipped between them and relieved the latter of a prolonged death—unlikely Lisaro would have been its cause, however, leaving the viceroy's guard alive was not part of their plans.
Somewhere from the thick of the battle, the laughing fool Sharako emerged, saluted Ilyleon with both his swords at once, and immediately crossed them with a guardsman. More Lyseni appeared around; so that was why the viceroy did not slow down and run from Aerion's people—Lohar was already pursuing them and there was nowhere to run. Well, all the better.
The viceroy himself was found waving a sword in the very center of the skirmish; were he twenty years younger and five or six stone lighter, he would have made a passable opponent, but now the almost former ruler of Lys was far from that. Despair, so clearly readable on his face, with every heartbeat more and more resembled a death mask—the eyk, despite his build, was a tiger, and undoubtedly understood how the fight would end; another matter that, apparently, there was plenty of elephant blood in him too, since he feared it so much. It needed to be finished.
Joy flew up and with a whistle descended on the nearest soldier, taking off half his skull. A lunge or two, and another screaming Volantene stared at the bleeding stump where his hand had just been. Another swing of the sword—and the last guardsman standing between the captain and the viceroy fell.
Aerion felt the excitement of a predatory beast that had cornered a victim wash over him, but his eyes showed the opponent and what was around them with extreme clarity. The eyk, already Valyrian-white-skinned, had the blood drain from his face completely; Ilyleon saw the Volantene's lips flapping helplessly, making no sound, and large streams of sweat ran down his loose, unshaven cheeks and thick neck, flowing behind the damp and dirty collar. Aerion felt disgusted: he could understand cowards, but did not like slobs. Grimacing in annoyance, he intercepted Joy and with a single movement took off the eyk's head.
First it rolled on the floor, and then, a fraction of a second late, the body collapsed. One of his own noticed the radical turn and shouted joyfully; while everyone looked around, several skirmishes ended—pirates, unlike Volantenes, were not used to lingering. Soon everything was over.
Breathing heavily, Lohar with a cut on his arm approached Aerion.
"You are a shit, Ilyleon," he declared. "I wanted to slaughter this pig myself."
"You told me nothing."
"I drove him here on purpose when he poked into the baths! And generally, I, as a Lysene..."
"Had every right, yes, but what can you do if I was closer. Propose reviving him and trying again?"
"Fuck him, not a new life," Sharako grimaced and spat straight into the dead man's proffered cheek. "But you owe me, understood? For pleasure not received."
"I remember," Aerion nodded seriously. Lohar, for all his oddities and quirks, invariably showed himself a reliable ally and a good commander—Ryndoon had no bad ones. Doing business with him was quite convenient, with a certain reservation, of course: "Just look for a lover yourself."
"I already understood not to expect anything good from you."
Lohar chuckled, and immediately grimaced and hissed in pain—evidently, his wounds were not limited to a cut. Lisaro Rogare approached the captains.
"I am grateful... You delivered the Most Beautiful of the Daughters of Lys... I meant to say, of Old Valyria, that is Pearl Lys, from the unbearable yoke of New Valyria... New Freehold, and all residents, and magisters, and free slaves... that is and magisters, and free citizens..." the heir of Rogare jumped from Tyroshi to Lysene and back, got confused in memorized words, giving birth to contradictions delightful in their absurdity. Apparently, participation in the storming of the palace and proximity to death in the first battle knocked his memory out. Good thing he didn't shit himself from fear, otherwise many recruits met victory without a single scratch, but with pants full of shit. "This will remain in the history of the city forever..."
"We saved your life too, though your father doesn't deserve it," Sharako did not fail to remind him. The pirates neighed like horses: guffawing at a stupid joke was a natural reaction after a fight, but not timely. Aerion raised his hand, and everyone shut up at once.
"My father will know of this," Lisaro tossed his head proudly. "He will reward you worthily, especially when you bring him the viceroy's head and calm your... er... friends."
"That is if Racallio decides to calm down," Lohar objected.
Aerion stepped to the viceroy's head rolling away and picked it up by the white-gold hair. An ugly mask of fear froze on the puffy face of the Volantene, making it even more unattractive. And this was Old Blood!..
Sharako was right: "if Racallio decides to calm down." Forcing him to return to real business when he does not wish it himself is practically impossible, and Aerion did not overestimate his powers of persuasion regarding this impenetrable petty tyrant. Not only did everyone have to put up with his tyranny and mood changeable as the wind at sea, now his plans and dreams detached from reality had to be taken into account.
Everything pointed to the fact that Ryndoon did not intend to "calm down," and time was slipping through his fingers. At any moment, the remnants of the Volantene fleet could swoop down—dragon raids had battered it considerably, of course, but even these cripples would be enough for a drunken disunited crowd. In the end, the King of Tyrosh could show up in person, or even with assistants—from the back of the Blood Wyrm, there is surely no difference between Volantenes and pirates. To speak with the Targaryens, order had to be restored in Lys, and the sooner the better—no one will stand on ceremony with a city where anarchy reigns.
Ilyleon, tilting his head to his shoulder, looked thoughtfully into the glassy eyes of the viceroy. Ryndoon hindered his own people and allies, both existing and potential. Besides, this idiotic "coronation" and no less idiotic "decrees"... Ryndoon hindered, and something had to be done about it.
"Our Admiral is busy, and he dislikes it very much when distracted from important affairs. Mollono, find him and say his order is executed, and the viceroy is dead, you can even present this gift to 'His Grace'," Aerion pronounced the new "title" of their admiral with sarcasm; someone could not resist and snorted, many began to smile—that is good. "Just don't hurry too much."
"How much 'not too much'?" the Meereenese clarified efficiently.
"Can wait until morning. Surely not all Volantenes are killed yet, and inviting the Admiral to a palace where an ambush or a stray arrow might await him is impossible—he won't understand. Right?"
"Yes, Ryndoon does not forgive negligence," Lohar drawled; understanding of the future slipped in his narrowed violet eyes. Sharako, although a pomaded fool, was a quick-witted pomaded fool—others did not rise to lord-captains under Racallio.
"Let the palace be cleared."
"Father would like to... He would like to verify..." Lisaro bleated something.
Surely his old man wanted to check some caches left from his rule, something must have survived anyway. Aerion smiled soothingly at the nervous heir of the magisterial house and put his hand on his shoulder familiarly, as if they were old buddies:
"He will verify, don't worry. This is your first fight, right? Quite good for the first time. How many did you kill?"
"I-I don't know, didn't count."
"I remember three," a lie, but this idiot will hardly remember how many fingers he has on his hand now.
"Maybe..."
"Excellent result, believe me. In my first fight I took down only one," a lie again, but no one will check, and eyewitnesses have been guests in the Seven Hells (Peklo) for years. "Generally, this needs to be celebrated. Nothing makes you feel more alive than the blood of an enemy on a sword and a wench on a cock. Get what I mean?"
"Probably..."
Probably! No, Lysandro definitely needs to find himself a spare heir, his idiot son will ruin the family completely.
"I knew you were a quick-witted lad! But when you get home, tell your father I need to talk to him, I'll drop by a little later. And then he will verify... What did he want to verify there? Ah, however, not my business. You, mainly, pass on about the business, okay?"
Intense thought work was displayed on Rogare's face, but he nodded anyway. It remained to hope that the daddy was not dumber than the son.
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