Edison was in a courtyard at the rear of a large, elegant house. The yard was paved with split stone and had flower beds bordering it on three sides, filled with ornamental shrubs and flowers. The fourth side was dominated by stables and a broad driveway that curved round to the front of the house. Water splashed gently from the fountain in the centre of the yard: three nymphs with shiny bronze faces gazed happily up at a satyr blowing a bubbling stream of water from reed pipes.
The house itself was built in a broad, low, Southern style, with a roof of terra-cotta tiles and a large veranda at the back. The master of the house occupied the first floor, while the ground floor housed the kitchen and staff. A single light burned in a kitchen window.
Choosing a ground floor window which showed no light beyond, the thief inserted a thin metal skewer between the bottom of the window and the frame, and eased the fastener open. A quick glance behind him, and he climbed inside, lowering the window but not refastening it.
Anton stood over the sleeping form of Samuel Carver. The man lay naked on top of the covers, where the servants had left him after they had carried him upstairs. Alcohol fumes and the smell of the piss-damp sheets hung over the bed. The sleeping man’s eyes roved under purplish lids, and between the snores, occasional words escaped his wet lips. Carver’s hair was closely cropped in an attempt to hide the fact it had thinned to almost nothing between crown and forehead. He had once had the solid muscle of a street-fighter, but now his pale belly shook like a lightly boiled egg in response to his snores.
Anton looked down at the unconscious body of his intended victim – a man who had grown wealthy by illegal trade and who had always placed profit above the human costs of any enterprise. This was Anton’s favourite type of prey: a deserving case. But this was almost too easy. He knew the man would not wake from his drunken stupor. Where was the challenge? The thrill came from the risk of discovery. Anton sighed and set about his task without enthusiasm.
Edison stood in the darkened dining room and took a deep breath. His heart was bumping a little faster and there was that wonderful tingling in his muscles that he always associated with breaking into a stranger’s house. Edison made a point of stealing only from those who could easily afford the loss: the garden and house were evidence of considerable wealth. This was the home of Samuel Carver, a former soldier and now a successful importer of fine goods and foods.
The house was richly, if unimaginatively, furnished. It was lavish but functional, a collection of expensive objects in a place, rather than a home. To Edison, it was obvious that this was a place designed to impress, a cold place meant to persuade its owner of his success and worthiness, a symbol of achievement. A thief can tell much about a man from the things he surrounds himself with.
Edison stood listening. The complete lack of movement in this part of the house struck him as odd. Even if the master and the majority of the staff were out for the evening, there should have been at least one guard patrolling. Several minutes passed without any sign of such a guard. Perhaps the man was dozing somewhere.
The master bedroom was on the upper floor. Edison let himself out of the dining room into the servant’s corridor. At the far end, through a half-closed door, he could hear three or four people, members of Carver’s staff, talking in the kitchen. Moving silently, Edison ascended the back stairs. He found himself in a dark corridor that led onto a landing at the top of the main staircase, overlooking the entrance hall. Nothing moved down below.
The door to the master bedroom was ajar. Edison stood at the threshold and listened. Silence. The hairs rose on the nape of his neck. He pushed the door and it swung soundlessly open. Samuel Carver lay in his bed, peacefully sleeping under the covers; the air heavy with the smell of wine and urine. Edison cast his gaze left and right before entering the room. The master did not stir, and the thief relaxed a little. This might be easier than he’d expected. He crossed to a large dressing table that had various items scattered on it. At the back sat a heavy box, its lid inlaid with an intricate pattern cut from various veneers. Edison sorted through the contents of the box with grey-gloved fingers, laying aside deeds and other papers, along with several ostentatious, and almost valueless, items of jewellery. He usually pocketed only pieces of the highest quality, but here there seemed to be none.
He removed three leather purses, all completely empty, and all that was left in the bottom of the box, lying on the faded blue velvet was a heavy gold ring. An inscribed wedding band like this could be easily identified if a thief was caught, so although it was a valuable piece of gold, the risk was too great. Confused, and more than a little annoyed, Edison turned, intending to continue his search in another room. Samuel Carver had not stirred. If only all men slept so soundly. His thought was interrupted by a movement.
A shadow beside the bed seemed to resolve into the shape of a man. A superstitious fear rose in him as the shadow, which had been there when he entered, now seemed to grow eyes that regarded him intently. Their gazes locked and they stood in silence.
Edison tried to discern the face in the gloom, but could not. He felt sure that this was not the missing house guard, but another who had entered unbidden. He realised that from his position, the intruder would be able to clearly make out the details of his face from the light of the fire. He wondered if his fear showed as plainly as it was felt.
“What brings you here, Master Edison?” the shadow whispered.
Edison was surprised at being recognised and could do nothing to hide the fact. He shrugged. “It seems we share a common purpose here this evening.”
“Have I accidentally wandered onto the stage, then?” Anton asked.
“Acting is not a highly paid profession. I must supplement my income on occasion,” Edison said. “But it seems that tonight my efforts have been in vain, you have beaten me to the spoils.” He hoped his disappointment and desperation did not show in his expression.
The shadow shrugged and smiled at him, white teeth glistened in the firelight. When the intruder moved towards him, Edison tensed, anticipating an attack. As he passed into the light, the hooded thief’s face was visible for a moment, and he winked and then was gone out of the door. Edison stood rooted for a moment, then the tension leaked from his muscles. He sighed, and made his way down to the front door.
Outside the thief faded into the shadows once more.
Chapter Nine
Captain Meg moved along the street as though she expected everyone to make way for her without a thought. Most of them did. The heels of her boots jabbed the cobbles as she strode down the street from the harbour. She had tracked the story-teller, Anton Leyander, to a small tavern a few streets away from the market place. The Dog and Duck was nowhere near as popular as her father’s inn, and was only a marginal improvement on the rougher dockside bars. Meg threw open the door and made her entrance. She was disappointed when not a head turned in her direction. It was a bright Autumn afternoon, but inside it was dark and cool as evening. Meg closed the door behind her and followed the gaze of the assembled patrons to a small space in the centre of the room from which chairs and tables had been cleared.
Anton was standing in the space, dressed in loose white shirt and black breeches, arms outstretched, his white painted face turned upwards towards the ceiling. Balanced on his forehead, between his eyebrows, was the pommel of a broadsword with a blade almost four feet long: the sword was swaying slightly as he tried to keep it balanced. The muscles in his neck were bulging and his unpainted neck was red and beaded with perspiration.
At the bar, a brass hourglass was being closely watched by the innkeeper.
“... known as the Dragon-Slayer,” Anton was saying. “Forged centuries ago. By dwarvish craftsmen. In their stronghold. Deep in the heart of a mountain.”
Meg strode towards Leyander. “Anton, I would speak with you,” she said. “There is something I would have you do for me.”
Anton cautiously turned his eyes in her direction.
The drinke
rs huddled at the surrounding tables turned to glare at her: coins were piled on a table around which most of them were huddled; some sort of wager was obviously underway. And she was interrupting.
“As you might observe,” Anton said. “I am. At this moment. Otherwise engaged. If you take a seat. I shall be with you shortly.”
Meg was not accustomed to being made to wait, but under the combined stares of the whole assemblage she was forced to acquiesce as gracefully as possible. “Very well, I shall position myself over there, out of your way. You,” she said to the innkeeper, “bring me some ale – in a clean mug.”
One of the patrons, a thin-faced man with receding dark hair, got up and moved to the bar and ordered another pint of ale. He stood watching the hourglass as the beer was poured: the bottom chamber was now more than half-full. The man took his mug and moved towards Anton. “If you harbour a desire for success in the theatre here,” he whispered into Anton’s ear, “you would do well to give Captain Meg the attention she demands: a word from her will get you a role on her father’s stage.”
“Is that so?” Anton said quietly.
“Without doubt,” the man assured him. “Though I will also warn you that she is a dangerous woman,” the man whispered, close to Anton’s ear. “I was of her crew once, and I felt more than the lash of her tongue.”
“What did you do to displease her?” Anton asked quietly.
“I did all I could to please her, believe me,” the man whispered. “But she is not easily pleased. I learned, to my cost, that she reaches the height of pleasure only after taking the cat to a man in her cabin. I bear the scars of the flogging still. She licked the blood and sweat from my body, and took me as I hung from the rafter in her bed chamber.”
The sword swayed suddenly, and there were assorted gasps and quiet exclamations around the table. Anton managed to keep the Dragon-Slayer in place, just, then risked a glance towards the hourglass. The thin man moved away.
“The hilt of the Dragon-Slayer is cut from an oak that was felled by lightning. And has been worn smooth by centuries of handling.” Anton continued his story, and all eyes were on the swaying blade once more. “The blade itself, as you can see, is engraved with runic script. The text is a spell designed to protect the owner of the weapon. Legend states that the bearer of the Dragon-Slayer. Shall be invulnerable in battle, whether he faces man or beast.
“Its most famous bearer is said to have been Brak Orson, the barbarian king. Who is believed to have hunted and slain the greatest of the great dragons.”
“And how did this legendary weapon come to be in your possession?” Meg asked, unable to maintain her silence.
“The man I had it from found it in the grip. Of a charred corpse in a deep mountain cavern.”
“You mean the legend is cunny breath?” one of the patron’s asked, brows furrowed.
“Many legends are. This sword does not have the power. To make its owner invulnerable. In fact, on balance, I would say the opposite is true. The Dragon-Slayer seems to bring its bearer nothing but harm,” Anton said.
“How so?” asked the furrowed-brow patron.
“Its last owner demonstrated this same balancing act to me. The sword slipped from his sweat-slick forehead. As it fell, the blade turned and sliced into his face. Cutting his nose almost perfectly in equal halves. It was most gruesome.”
“You took the bloodied sword from that man?” The questioner sounded surprised.
“Of course: I had won the bet. As I have now won this one!” Anton stepped back suddenly: the sword fell, turning in the air, and embedded itself deep in the boards at his feet.
Several in the crowd clapped politely as Anton bowed. The rest showed greater enthusiasm when he scooped up his winnings and passed half of them to the innkeeper with instructions to serve ale to everyone present.
Anton turned towards Captain Meg’s table, his expression clouding. The pommel of the sword had left a circular impression on his forehead, like the suggestion of a third eye. “Do you know him,” Anton asked, glancing over his shoulder. “The thin-faced one who spoke to me after you entered?”
Meg stared across the room. She shrugged. “He does not seem familiar. Why do you ask?”
“He claims to have known you.”
Meg stared across at the man again. Noting her interest, the man got to his feet and hurried out.
“No, he does not look like a man I would choose to crew my ship: see how he slinks away, glancing over his shoulder. How did he say he knew me?” Meg asked.
“Intimately.”
Meg threw back her head and laughed. “Now I find myself the victim of your joke. I cannot read the expression on your painted face, and so you have the advantage. I am pleased you can move me to laughter: there has been so little to amuse me of late.”
“Is that why you sought me out?” Anton asked. “So that I might amuse you?”
“Was your tale a true one?” she asked.
“Not a word of it,” Anton said, smiling. He sat down at her table.
“And the sword?”
“A left-over property borrowed from a troupe of travelling players.”
“Do they know you borrowed it?”
“I am sure they do by now.” Anton watched the innkeeper unsuccessfully try to pull the sword free from his floorboards. “Sir, please exercise caution,” Anton called across to him. “You know the weapon’s reputation.”
The innkeeper let go of the sword and looked down at it, then backed warily away from it.
“Now, captain, how might I be of service?” Anton asked.
“Your performances have captured my attention,” Meg said.
“Praise indeed, from Doran Jarrett’s own daughter,” Anton said.
“Ah, you know who I am,” Meg said. She seemed disappointed. “I came here because I wanted...”
“There you are, Meg!” Edric Edison said, appearing breathlessly beside their table.
“Edric, you are interrupting.”
“I am sorry, but I just had to see you,” the actor insisted. “It could not wait.”
Leyander rose and excused himself. Meg placed a hand on his arm.
“My father will soon begin rehearsals for a new play, something of a phantasmagoria, I am led to believe. There will be auditions for new players; you should attend,” Meg suggested.
“I should be pleased to attend, but auditions are by invitation only, and I am not invited,” Anton said.
“The auditions take place the day after tomorrow in the courtyard behind my father’s inn: I shall tell him to expect you,” Meg said.
Anton bowed and thanked the captain, though he suspected the invitation had been extended for Edison’s benefit rather than his own.
As Anton exited, Edison spared him little more than a glance and took the vacant seat, leaning in close. “Where have you been? I have searched everywhere for you,” he said.
“Why, is there some greater humiliation you have thought up to inflict on me?”
“I want to say that I am sorry,” Edison said.
“It is easily said.”
“I apologise for my actions the other day. I said those words, and did that thing, only because you mean so much to me. I had not realised it before. It is love. I have wondered the streets, feeling so very wretched. I have not eaten because my stomach feels so strange; my arms are heavy and shake uncontrollably; and my heart aches terribly.”
“It is not a lover you need, but a physician,” Meg said coldly.
“Can you not find it in your heart to forgive me?” Edison pleaded.
“You threw me into the harbour, and while I suffered some discomfort, there was no real harm done. You have my forgiveness,” Meg said.
“And what of your love?” Edison asked.
“You are my friend, Edric, of course I love you.”
“I had thought us more than friends.”
“We enjoy each other’s company, and I am sure we shall continue to do so. But what you feel is n
ot love. It is only an infatuation. You will be over it as soon as you meet someone new.”
“That is it? That is where you have been today, with someone new?” He turned towards the door, realisation dawning on his face. “Him? The white-faced clown?”
Meg smiled. “Perhaps.” She rose. “If you will excuse me, I have another appointment. Here,” she slid the mug of ale towards Edison.
“Him?” Edison asked again.
Meg left him sitting alone at the table.
“Shit!” Edison said.
Chapter Ten
Captain Torrance paced the floor, agitated but not really knowing why. Darkness had fallen, and the Guard House had quietened, as it always did. The rhythms of the castle were so familiar to him now that it was difficult to remember having lived anywhere else. Torrance had been Captain of the Guard in Sangreston for almost thirty years. He’d been promoted on the battlefield, where he had fought for his King. It did not seem so very long ago, but while he could ignore the scars, on a cold winter morning, the pain in his knee was a reminder of the punishment his body had suffered. But though his best years might be behind him, he could look back with pride, which was more than many men could. Age was something he thought about too often recently, but retirement was never a consideration. He had no life to retire to. After the death of his wife, the King’s Guard was all he had. He had not seen his daughter since her marriage to a man he refused to acknowledge as son-in-law, and he had never seen his grand-daughter. This he would admit as his only regret. In his mind’s eye, the girl had the same red hair and shy smile of her grandmother. He looked around, wondering if this was the room where he would end his days. A shadow passing his open door caught his attention.
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