Klyssen shifted on the bench to ease the pain in his tailbone. He’d been sitting still too long. Across from him, Harte gazed mildly out of the window into the clouded day, his face in three-quarter profile. A handsome face, a good Krodan face, orderly and firm of features. Klyssen loathed the sight of it.
Did Commander Gossen send you? he asked silently, for the thousandth time. Who do you work for?
Harte noticed his gaze and held it arrogantly. There was no deference there. Anyone would think he was Klyssen’s superior, rather than the other way around. Perhaps he thought he deserved to be.
Your time will come, Klyssen thought.
‘The trail is three days cold,’ said Harte. ‘We will be fortunate to find them now.’
Klyssen studied him owlishly through his spectacles. ‘What would you suggest, Watchman Harte?’ He never missed an opportunity to use Harte’s title when he could. He needed reminding that he was a mere watchman, and a watchman second class at that. Not an overwatchman like Klyssen. And certainly not an overwatchman in line to be Commander.
‘They’ll have gone to ground by now,’ Harte said. ‘Inform our spies. Cast the net wide. Better than chasing them all over the country.’
‘You don’t think our quarry is worth the effort?’
‘There are other ways to hunt him. How many weeks did we waste at Suller’s Bluff, waiting to spring your trap?’
The trap that didn’t catch him. That’s what you want to say, isn’t it?
‘I just think we could be doing something more productive for the Empire than this,’ Harte went on. ‘This land is riddled with sedition, and there are better uses for three dreadknights and two watchmen of the Iron Hand than—’
‘One of us is an overwatchman,’ Klyssen said prissily.
‘Of course,’ said Harte. His defiance was so bald, he didn’t even blush. ‘But perhaps, Overwatchman Klyssen, we wouldn’t be chasing our quarry with quite such vigour if you hadn’t rashly staked your career on it in front of Chancellor Draxis himself?’
Harte wanted a reaction; Klyssen gave him none. It was only a rash move if he failed, and he didn’t plan on failing. Salt Fork had made the Chancellor nervous, with the wedding – and a critical alliance with Harrow – so close at hand. By pledging to bring the leader of the rebels to justice, Klyssen had publicly thrown his hat in the ring to be the next Commander of Ossia, a position that everyone had assumed would go to Gossen’s sycophantic second, Oskar Bettren. If Klyssen could get his man, the Chancellor would be grateful indeed, and Gossen’s job would surely be his once the old slug was pensioned off to the motherland.
‘You need not worry about my career, Watchman Harte.’ Klyssen fussed with a button on his sleeve which kept slipping loose. He’d have to see a tailor about that. ‘For myself, I thank the Primus the trail is only three days cold. What good fortune we were so close, otherwise we would have no chance of catching them at all.’
The rest didn’t need to be said. If they’d heeded Harte’s advice and left the fugitives to perish in the mountains, they’d still be west of the Ostenbergs and the news wouldn’t yet have reached them. Despite Harte’s protests, Klyssen had insisted they travel to Crowbridge, on the east side of the range. In case the fugitives survived the mountains, Klyssen wanted to be there waiting for them. And so he was.
Harte hadn’t missed his meaning. He sniffed and looked out of the window again, trying and failing to hide his frustration.
There, thought Klyssen. Back in your place, for now.
He’d wanted Vecken as his partner on this task. Vecken was a good watchman, and not half so ambitious. But Vecken had been conveniently unavailable, so they’d assigned him Harte instead, who’d been a thorn in his side ever since.
Was he Gossen’s man, or not? Klyssen couldn’t prove it, but it was always better to err on the side of caution. Long experience had taught him that it paid to be paranoid.
Watch me, then, if you must, he thought. Maybe you’ll learn something.
They rolled into the stable yard of the Reaver’s Rest in the early afternoon and found soldiers already there. The bodies had been removed and rain had washed the blood from the cobbles. When the driver opened the door, Harte began to get out, but Klyssen leaned across and ensured that he was the first to step down.
Small details mattered with Harte. Every day was a battle to keep him from getting above his station.
The arrival of a black carriage bearing the double-barred cross inspired a skittish uncertainty in the soldiers, guests and stable boys alike. They began to wonder if they’d done anything wrong, examining themselves for sedition. Just as it should be, thought Klyssen, sweeping the stable yard with a narrow gaze. He wanted to stretch, to relieve his aching muscles after the journey, but he resisted the urge. He was the authority here, and authority didn’t ache, or tire, or become irritated or impatient. Authority was inhuman and perfect.
Captain Dressle, the most senior Iron Guardsman to travel with them, presented himself.
‘Show me the bodies,’ Klyssen said. ‘Then organise my lunch and send in witnesses. Stable hands, then servants. I’ll see the innkeeper last.’
‘Yes, Overwatchman.’ Dressle saluted smartly, fist across his chest, and headed off to obey.
Dealing with Dressle was a pleasure in comparison to Harte. He was respectful, trustworthy, capable and prided himself on doing a good job. Would that there were more like him.
‘Why not start with the innkeeper?’ Harte said. Ever questioning, ever contrary. ‘If anyone will know about the guests, it’s him. I thought speed was of the essence?’
‘If he’s seen me talk to everyone else first, he’ll wonder what they’ve said, and he won’t be tempted to lie or leave anything out in case he contradicts them. You know how people are in Ossia. Misplaced loyalties to the old ways tend to make them less than forthcoming.’
‘He’s Xulan, not Ossian,’ Harte pointed out. They’d learned as much before they set off.
‘His clientele are mostly Ossian, and Ossians don’t like informers. He won’t be eager to help us. So let’s make it easy for him to do the right thing.’
The bodies of the dead had been wrapped in hessian and laid out in a barn, away from the inn and guests. Klyssen’s men uncovered them and a cleric noted their names while a group of men waited to load them onto a gravedigger’s cart. The air was thick with a musty smell, but it had been cool these last few days and the stench wasn’t yet overpowering. Though Klyssen had a delicate stomach for food, bad smells and gore didn’t bother him. He’d seen enough corpses that they all looked like mannequins now.
Some were pierced, some slashed. One unfortunate had been decapitated and had an arrow through his cheeks. So many ways to die, but all the same result in the end. Klyssen wasn’t sure what clue the bodies might reveal, but he was ever thorough and liked to leave no stone unturned. He inspected each of the fallen, noting how they’d died, which had been neatly stabbed, which hacked and which shot. One among their opponents was clearly an expert swordsman. He killed so tidily that his victims were scarcely marked at all.
When he was done, he waved at the men to take them away. ‘That was a waste of time,’ Harte commented as they went back to the inn.
‘Time is never wasted in service of the Empire,’ Klyssen said, imagining Harte’s corpse being loaded onto the cart with the others.
Dressle had set up a booth for him in the common room, and he was brought a meal by a timid servant girl. It was good Krodan fare: lamb shanks in rich gravy, stewed greens, nutty yellow potatoes. None of that fussy, over-spiced Ossian cooking, or those vile eels they so enjoyed. Once he was ready, he sent Dressle to round up the witnesses in the corridor outside and had Harte bring them to him one by one. It was a particularly pleasing arrangement because it kept Harte on his feet and prevented him from eating. Instead, he was forced to stand by the booth, able to smell the food while Klyssen conducted his interrogations. Klyssen took no small satisfaction in
hearing his stomach gurgle. He hadn’t forgotten how Harte had executed the prisoner at Shoal Point without Klyssen’s permission, claiming the credit for himself.
It didn’t take long to build up a picture of events in the courtyard. Of the eight fugitives that had escaped his dreadknights, seven had survived. The Skarl was still with them, and so was the traitor’s boy and his haybrained friend. The druidess, too, though no one recognised her as such. And now they were travelling with a Sard and a Harrish noble. Likely he was the swordsman who’d so precisely impaled those men in the barn. But what was their connection to the others?
The fugitives could have kept their heads down and passed unnoticed. Instead they’d got into a fight in front of dozens of witnesses, ensuring they’d all be remembered. They might as well have blown a horn to announce their presence.
Klyssen sensed weakness. First, his quarry had fallen for the trap at Suller’s Bluff. Only the incompetence of the camp’s guards and an unfortunately timed breakout saved his life. Now he’d slipped up again. He was like a wounded animal, harried and exhausted. It was only a matter of time.
Finally, his meal long finished and washed down with a glass of strong Krodan red, he called for the innkeeper.
His name was Rapapet. He had a long, sensuous face and delicate hands, a fluting voice and a cat’s grace. Klyssen distrusted him instantly. The Xulans were godless, worshipping only their own bodies. Their shameless, overt sexuality and raw narcissism disgusted him. They’d rejected their deities for a doctrine of self-love and a cultish belief that they could perfect themselves without the need for higher powers.
In practice, of course, it was only the nobility who had enough idle time to explore their own orifices with such mystical fervour. The lower castes starved and slaved as they did in all lesser societies. The Xulans thought themselves sophisticates, but the way they neglected their own poor was barbarous.
Those who do not stand united will fall apart. That was a Krodan saying. The Ossians, predictably, had nothing similar in their language, and Klyssen suspected the Xulans didn’t, either.
‘This is a strange place to find a Xulan,’ he observed. ‘Deep in the heart of Ossia, far from anywhere.’
Rapapet spread his hands. Elegant lace ruffs surrounded narrow wrists. ‘Fate is strange, Overwatchman. I came here as a young man seeking adventure and fell in love with the woman who owned this inn. We had twelve happy years together, before Sarla took her. Now I own it.’
‘Sarla?’ Klyssen raised an eyebrow.
Rapapet smiled. ‘Forgive me. My wife’s gods became mine, and I keep them to honour her. Of course, I would also attend convocation to praise the Primus if I could, but the nearest temple is far from here.’
I bet you would, thought Klyssen. He adjusted his spectacles. ‘I’ll be blunt. My interest is in a man with a large scar across his throat. Do you know him?’
A hesitation. Deciding whether to lie. It was answer enough for Klyssen, but he waited for a reply nonetheless.
‘I know him a little,’ said Rapapet. ‘He was here a few days ago. He calls himself Garric now, though he used a different name before that.’
Right answer, thought Klyssen. ‘And you spoke to him?’
Another flicker of uncertainty. Calculating what he could safely say.
‘It’s a simple question,’ Klyssen said, sharp and quick, before he could formulate a response. Stop thinking. Tell me the truth.
‘Forgive me,’ said Rapapet, getting a little flustered now. ‘Yes, I did. We spoke in the common room, the night before the road patrol came.’
‘What did you speak of?’
‘He needed transportation for his companions. The two boys and the Skarl. Any city or town would do, he said. I knew of some merchants who would take them to Greenrock and he seemed happy with that.’
Interesting. ‘But they did not leave.’
‘No. I don’t know why.’
Klyssen believed that. Xulans were hard to read, especially the highborn ones; their faces revealed only what they wanted them to. But his instincts told him that this, at least, was true.
‘And Garric?’ he asked. ‘Surely he needed transport, too?’
‘He sought passage to Morgenholme.’
The slightest change of tone in his voice, the uncertain way he ended the sentence, told Klyssen there was more to say. He held the Xulan’s gaze. Specks of sweat were beginning to glisten on his shiny black scalp. ‘And?’
Rapapet looked down at the table, discomfited. ‘Then we talked of other things,’ he admitted. ‘He was interested in the siege engines of my homeland.’
‘Siege engines?’ This was a curious turn, and too bizarre to be false. People lied in a straight line; they thought they had to construct a narrative to be believable. But the truth usually came jumbled, and from all directions at once.
‘Yes. He had heard of the xattax – I think the translation is “fire-flinger” in Krodan. I am no student of history, but I told him what I knew. It was a … ballista of sorts that would throw great ceramic balls coated with pitch and set alight. The balls were hollow and held some alchemy that few understood. They destroyed their targets with great force, thunder and fire; but they often proved more dangerous to their users than their targets, and many were destroyed when the substance ignited prematurely.’ He made a dainty motion in the air, some Xulan gesture Klyssen didn’t recognise. ‘That is all I can say of them.’
‘An unusual thing to ask about.’
‘Yes. He was very interested. And after that, he changed his mind about Morgenholme. He asked if I knew anyone going north.’
‘And did he say where he was heading?’
That hesitation again. Klyssen decided it was time to push. ‘I have travelled far to get here, Xulan, and I don’t have time to waste,’ he said. Cool, controlled, detached. ‘You will not wait to be asked the correct question. You will tell me everything you know, and leave out nothing, or you will be arrested as a collaborator and I will have you hanged from the sign of your own inn.’
‘Wracken Bay!’ said Rapapet, almost before Klyssen had finished. ‘He was going to Wracken Bay.’
‘Why?’
Rapapet was frightened now. ‘I do not know! He asked me if I knew of a reliable Xulan merchant. I know of only one: my cousin Atatep. He’s a sailor who trades along the coast and often visits Wracken Bay to restock. But Atatep is a lawful man, I swear! I did not know that this Garric was wanted by the Iron Hand!’
You did not want to involve your cousin. Now I see why you were reluctant to talk.
‘If what you say is true, he will not be harmed. It is Garric I’m after. Did he say what he wanted from your cousin?’
‘I asked, Overwatchman, but he would not say!’
Rapapet was desperate for Klyssen to believe him. Klyssen gazed into his eyes until he was sure that he did.
‘You may go,’ he said. Rapapet sagged like a fish taken down from a hook. He hurried clumsily from the booth, all grace lost in his haste.
Harte sniffed. ‘I still say you could have started with him and saved us an afternoon.’
Klyssen ignored him. ‘Captain Dressle!’ he called, getting to his feet. Dressle walked over and saluted smartly. ‘Gather your men and send to the dreadknights. We leave for Wracken Bay immediately.’
‘What about my lunch?’ Harte cried indignantly.
‘You can eat on the road,’ said Klyssen, sweeping past him. He treasured the sound of Harte’s outraged curses all the way back to the carriage.
52
The morning was chill and damp, and the wind carried the threat of winter. Keel stood at the crest of a gentle rise, with the wide water of the Cut at his back and bracken rustling all around him. At the end of the trail was a small cottage of stone and thatch with a thriving vegetable patch to one side. Smoke unwound slowly from the chimney.
He’d been standing there for some time now, watching the cottage. Caught between the desire to run to the door, and t
he desire to turn around and leave unobserved. A tight band squeezed his chest and he felt lightheaded with nerves born of equal parts excitement and dread.
What are you afraid of? It’s your family!
But he was afraid. Afraid that things had changed. Afraid of the reckoning he faced each time he returned. Afraid this cottage would become his hutch.
He took a bag of coins from his pouch, weighed it in his hand. Krodan money from the Salt Fork coffers. It was more than he usually came back with, but it never felt adequate. Half of what he took had been spent on the way. Money always had a way of slipping through his fingers. Perhaps he just didn’t care about it enough. It was deeds, not coin, that brought him to life.
But his tales of adventure would get no welcome here. It was coin that counted, and in that he was always destined to disappoint her.
‘Keel, you’re a fool!’ he said aloud, to shame himself into action. ‘All this way, and you think of turning back? Stop wasting time out here, when your wife waits inside!’
Heartened, he replaced the bag of coins and set off down the trail, putting a swing in his stride. Yes, they’d fight. Didn’t they always? But there’d be love, too, as there always was. And how he’d missed her eyes, her smile, the soft, warm touch of her body. Roamer though he was, he’d lain with no other since they were married, and his step quickened at the thought of what the night might bring.
He thought of Tad, too. Strange, quiet Tad, distant and beautiful, the fey changeling they’d brought into the world together. He didn’t smile often, but when he did it was like the sun breaking over the sea. Keel ached to see that smile again. His son was a puzzle he’d never solve, but those occasional moments of connection, those small victories when his face cleared and there was laughter in his eyes, made all the struggle worthwhile.
Joy welled up within him and his doubts dissolved as he reached the door and threw it open. ‘Wife! To me!’ he roared. ‘I’m back!’
Two startled faces turned towards him. Their owners were halfway through a breakfast of fish broth and bread, sitting at a small table that stood against the wall of the stone-floored kitchen. One was Mariella, fairer to his eyes in real life than in his most rose-tinted memories. The other was his brother Fluke.
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