by Tim Stead
“You are in her favour. The Snake. Sithmaree. She has granted you favour. As long as it lasts you are immortal. You will not age. But she has never done it before. You are the first.”
20 The Loyal Blade
It took a while to justify his actions to the king. Once Degoran heard of the bodies found in the forest and the manner of their death he questioned Narak at once.
“Assassins,” Narak said.
“There were assassins in the forest and you did not see fit to tell me?” the king asked. He was angry.
“You were always safe. I did not want to spoil your hunt.”
“It was hardly a hunt.” The king had not loosed an arrow all day, so elusive had been the game. “You should have told me. You will do so in the future.”
“I am here as your guard, King Degoran,” Narak said. “I am your guard because I choose to be. Do not forget that I am Col Boran’s, and not Avilian’s.”
“And not mine to command. You make yourself clear, Brash, but I would prefer not to learn these things from my foresters. I would prefer to at least maintain the illusion of control.”
It was a fair point. It did not serve Narak’s intent to undermine the king.
“I will inform you if I kill any more assassins,” he said. “These three were paid to do the job, and I mean to find the paymaster.”
“Three?”
A slip of the tongue, Narak thought. He had not wanted to lay the whole thing before Degoran. “Aye, three. I turned one of them and he will speak to me.”
“A man was sent to kill me and you let him go free?”
“Not precisely free, Lord King. I know where he is and can lay my hand on him any time.”
The king pressed him for the assassin’s name, why he had been spared and where he might be found, but Narak refused to say more. To do so might reveal his true identity to the king, and so in the end Degoran reluctantly dismissed him.
“You should wear a sword, Brash,” the king said as he left. “Farheim you may be, but I have never had a bodyguard before who went about unarmed.”
Again, it was a sensible suggestion. Narak did not need a blade. No man could harm him, and his strength and speed were enough to match any body of men he might meet, but he did not want to reveal his aspect to anyone, not yet. On his way out of the castle he picked up a blade from the armoury. It was a decent enough sword but a very ordinary weapon compared with his own, and it felt awkward belted to his hip. It had been centuries since he’d worn one there.
He strolled through Golt in the golden time of evening, when the sun has yet to fall below the rim of the world and some of the street lamps were already lit. The city was clean and glittered in the changeling light.
The Loyal Blade was a fine tavern in the best traditions of Golt servant houses. The sign that swung in the evening breeze showed a heroic figure holding a sword aloft and unusually for a tavern the art was quite well executed. Inside it was a little too warm for Narak’s taste and he looked around fruitlessly for his rendezvous before taking a seat as far from the bar as he could in a dark corner at the back of the main room.
A server promptly appeared and asked him what he wished.
“Do you have Telan wine?” he asked.
“We do,” the server said.
“Bring a bottle of your best and two glasses,” Narak told him, scattering a few coins on the table. The server went away, but quickly returned with the bottle and scooped up some of the coins. Narak poured himself a glass and tasted it. At least the wine was good. That was the one advantage of being in Golt – anything could be had for a price.
He wondered about the food. He was hungry and the taverns of Golt had a good reputation for the culinary arts. The food was excellent in the castle, of course, but it lacked the variety he was accustomed to. He raised a hand and almost at once the server returned.
“What food do you have?”
The man reeled off an impressive list, and Narak chose a Berashi lamb stew that had been a favourite of his when Caster had lived in Berash for a few decades. He had liked it stronger than most, with extra garlic and rosemary.
He sipped his wine and waited. He had not told the assassin to be here at a certain time, and he regretted that now. He might have to sit here all night. The stew arrived and he tasted it without great expectations, but to his surprise it was excellent. He set to eating it with considerable pleasure, the lean meat was tender, the vegetables had just enough bite to them, almost but not quite melting in his mouth, and the flavours were robust to say the least. Many scorned such hearty dishes as peasant food, but Narak had long since ceased to care what others thought.
The chair opposite him was pulled out and the man he had caught that afternoon sat down. His face was bruised from their earlier encounter, and he looked different dressed in cottons, a small man with pinched features, but he wore gold rings and his cottons were well tailored.
“My lord, I have come as you commanded,” he said.
“Don’t call me that,” Narak said. “Call me Brash.” The man nodded. “Now tell me what you can of the man who hired you.”
The assassin looked around the tavern nervously, but they were separated from the other patrons by a line of unoccupied tables.
“I cannot tell you much,” he said. “He is scarred here.” He drew his finger across his right wrist at an angle. “It is a white scar, raised up, so not from a blade – a burn, perhaps – and his hands were not the hands of a young man, but not old if you see what I mean.” He looked at Narak for approval, and Narak nodded.
“And the accent?”
“I have thought about it,” he said. “I said it was not Avilian, but it could be. They speak with a Berashi lilt in the north, and he could be a northern man.”
Narak knew what he meant. He was originally Berashi himself and all those centuries ago he had found it easier to understand northern Avilians. Both languages had changed, of course, but the kinship between the accents had endured. He had almost forgotten it.
“This is useful,” Narak said. “But you swore to help me find the man that paid you.”
“I have thought about it,” the assassin said. He licked his lips. “There is a man who might know more than me. He arranged for me to be present in The Green Hill so he might be able to send messages to the other.”
“Good. You will arrange for us to meet.”
“It may take a couple of days.”
Narak wanted things to move more quickly than that. He knew that the king had some plan in train and he was anxious that it should not fail. Tracing the money back to its source would remove an obstacle from Degoran’s path.
“I am impatient,” he said.
“It would be risky to move more quickly,” the assassin said. “If I do not follow the usual procedures it will arouse suspicion.”
Narak felt the door open, a slight breeze of city smells, and saw several armed men walk into the tavern. More than one of them glanced in his direction.
“What does this man look like?” he asked.
“Tall,” the assassin replied. “He has a trimmed black beard and wears a silver chain around his neck.”
Narak smiled. “I do not think we need to worry about arousing his suspicion,” he said. “The man at the bar answers to that description, and he has brought friends.”
The assassin looked round in alarm. It annoyed Narak that people did that. He should have ignored the threat, but now that their eyes had met the conflict was inevitable and immediate.
“Move aside,” Narak said.
To his credit the assassin was quick to obey, moving to the left, towards the door. The man with the beard strolled across the tavern floor as though he owned it, thumbs in his belt. He wore a sword and a dagger in classic Avilian style, and so did his men. Narak counted eight of them altogether. They followed their leader, clearing the bar as they came. He judged them to be disciplined, to know their business. They would probably be skilled by mortal standards.
&n
bsp; Narak met the leader’s gaze. There was an imperceptible weakening of the man’s stance.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I guard the king,” Narak replied.
“I see no king here.”
“A king may be guarded far from his person,” Narak said. “Indeed, the job may be done anywhere his enemies are found.”
“Then you are about your work today,” the barded man replied. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
“Will you not sit down and speak before you die?” Narak asked. “There are questions for which I must have answers.”
“You arrogant king’s men are all the same,” beard said. He drew his blade. It was all the answer Narak needed for now.
He flipped the table with his left hand. It was a heavy piece of furniture, and it took them all by surprise. Beard went down with four of his men as the oak crashed through them, and Narak was on his feet with his blade drawn. The three that remained were startled, and he killed the first before the man’s sword had cleared its sheath. One of the others cut at him, but he parried the blow with force and ran him through before he had chance to recover. The last man standing backed away so that Narak would have to step over the table and the struggling men beneath it if he wished to attack.
The men under the table were fighting their way free, so Narak picked up the chair his assassin had been sitting on and delivered a one-handed blow that rendered beard unconscious. His second blow shattered the chair on another man’s head, and that was enough to be sure he would never rise again.
He kicked the table aside.
Now he was in open space against four men. He stooped briefly to pick up a second blade from the hand of one of the dead and attacked them. It was unfair. The men were not armoured and Narak was very much faster and stronger than any of them, and his skill with blades was something they could never have expected, but he was in a hurry. He stepped into their midst, blades dancing, and he killed them all in less than a minute without having to resort to his aspect.
Silence fell once more. The tavern was mostly empty. A couple of patrons who had been too far from the door to run away cowered behind a table on the far side, the barkeep and one of the servers were behind the bar, but apart from that he was alone with his tamed assassin and the unconscious beard.
“What’s his name?” Narak asked.
“Drammen,” the assassin said. “Nils Drammen.”
“Berashi?” It was a Berashi name.
“So he claims. He has a dragon tattoo.”
Narak bent down and tore the man’s sleeve. Sure enough there was the distinctive tattoo of a Berashi Dragon Guard. He remembered Havil, Prince Havil, later king of Berash. Havil would have been ashamed that one of his own could stoop to this. In those days men had more honour it seemed.
He dragged Drammen to his feet, plucked the dagger from the stunned man’s belt and threw it aside.
“And what is your name?” he asked the assassin.
“Aran Telio,” the assassin replied. An Afaeli name.
“I will send you a message. Stay in the city but take care. After this they will be looking for you.”
“How will you find me?” Telio asked. “I am good at not being found.”
Narak smiled. “You will see that I always find what I hunt, Aran Telio,” he said. He slung the unconscious Drammen over a shoulder, threw a purse full of coins to the barkeep, “For the damage,” and walked out onto the street.
21 J
Rumours had spread slowly, which surprised Francis. There had been a ripple, a tiny wave of rumour about the killing of men by an invisible monster, a couple of mentions of the letter ‘J’, but no more than that. The incident had quickly been swallowed by the tide of gossip that washed too and fro in Afael.
That would not do at all.
He had not even learned from the rumours whose men he had killed. Some had it that they were king’s men, some said Falini’s, but others named them as thieves or assassins.
He needed to know, but he had nobody he could safely turn to for the information. The people of Dock Ward were not privy to the machinations of dukes and kings.
But he could always ask the general.
Francis didn’t trust the general, and there was the faintest of possibilities that the men had been his, but it was vanishingly small. The old man was retired, and his command now consisted of a couple of dozen men – hardly a private army.
He decided to visit the general again, but this time he would go alone, and he would use his thief gift. It would teach the general a little respect, perhaps.
He waited until after dark, but not too late. He had arranged for the house to be watched, and knew that the general took his evening meal quite late, and afterwards sat for a while with a pipe in his reading room mulling over papers, or that’s what he’d been told. Apparently the general’s servants were not quite as loyal as his guards.
He stood opposite and watched the house. The gate was clearly his biggest problem. He needed it to open. Even hidden from their eyes he could not pass through wrought iron bars. He decided to go for the simplest solution.
Francis brought a purse full of pebbles with him and stood opposite the gate in the shadow of a wall. He called his gift and felt the warmth spreading through his chest again. It was easy, surprisingly easy, and he had to admit that one part of him had thought that it would not come when summoned, that it had happened only once, but as he stood, invisible once more, he knew that he could trust this gift for ever. It would always come when called.
He threw the first stone. It went clean through the bars of the gate and rattled in the courtyard beyond. He moved a little to the side and threw again. His target was smaller from here, but more of it was the gate. The pebble clanged off the iron. There was a movement behind. One of the guards was looking to see what caused the noise.
The third pebble barely missed the guard’s head. Francis saw him jump back and swear. The gate started to open, and he threw again. This time he hit the man in the knee as he stepped out.
Francis moved. As the guard stepped out into the street he ran past him and slipped through the open gate. He heard the guard shouting in the street behind him, but ignored it and ran across the courtyard to the main door. He paused there to regain his breath. There would be a short while before the guards stopped looking out at the street, and he used that to open the main door and slip through. It shut with a quiet click, and he looked around.
The main house was different from his last visit. A pair of oil lamps burned in the hallway, bathing everything in a yellow light. He paused to get his bearings and heard a clink of glass from behind a door on his right. If their informant was honest that should be the reading room.
Francis let his gift go. He opened the door and stepped through.
The general was sitting in an armchair staring at the door. He looked surprised, then worried, then annoyed.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I have questions,” Francis said.
“I told the guards not to let anyone in.”
Francis ignored him.
“The men who died the other night, whose were they?”
“What men?”
“Soldiers. Outside the White Swan a week ago.”
Francis saw a spark of interest in the general’s face.
“That was your people?”
“Who were they?”
“Why do you want to know?”
The general was being stubborn, and Francis could not tell if the old man knew anything. He could just be fishing for information.
“I want to know who to hold accountable,” he said.
The general laughed. “Accountable?” His tone suggested that Francis could not hold a market stall accountable.
“Yes,” he replied. “Whose men were they?”
“Well, I suppose a force that can slay three of Duke Falini’s men should be taken seriously,” the general said, suggesting the opposite.
“Falini’s? They were Duke Falini’s?”
“So I understand.” The general leaned back in his chair and picked up his pipe. It had gone out, and he took some trouble relighting it. The old man’s dismissive air annoyed Francis. It challenged him to do something. Well, why not? He had a trick up his sleeve that none of them suspected. He would make them sit up and take notice.
He knew that Falini was in the city, and he knew where he lived. Everyone did.
*
It was well after midnight when he reached the Falini estate. Standing in front of the vast gates he wondered what he had let himself in for. He had thought it would be a simple thing to sneak in with his thief gift and kill the man, but looking at the gates and the buildings beyond he thought that perhaps he had overreached himself.
The gates were ten feet high and challenged the city gates for sheer size and obduracy. Two men stood outside, heavily armed and armoured. Throwing stones would do no good here.
He walked up the street, eyeing the high wall that surrounded the property. He could climb it if he had brought a rope, but he hadn’t, and the top of the wall, like the top of the gates, was too high to jump for.
Falini’s town estate was about five acres, he guessed, and he made the complete circuit in less that half an hour. There was a second gate at the back, but it, too, was guarded and too high to jump. Back at the main gate he slipped into the shadows of a lesser house and called his gift.
He would wait.
It took an hour. A wagon arrived. The waggoner spoke to the guards, and they sent him round the back. Francis heard every word, and as the man turned his wagon and began to drive it round the walls Francis ran behind it and jumped onto the back.
The waggoner turned and looked, feeling his weight tip the wagon, Francis supposed, but of course he saw nothing.
It took almost as long to ride around to the back gate as it had to walk there. Even so, it seemed only a few minutes until he was passing through the gate, a limpet on the back of the wagon, and as soon as he was through he jumped clear and looked about him.
As the gates closed again it occurred to him that it might be as difficult to get out as it had been to get in. He put the thought aside. He was in, and all around him the Falini estate sprawled in a bewildering mass of buildings. He had no idea where he might find the duke himself.
