by Tim Stead
Should have thought of that myself, Taranath thought. It was little more than common sense. Instead he’d opted for a plodding patrolman’s thorough approach.
“Well done,” he said. He waved Worrel to come and join them and crouched down beside the marks. Beside the hoof print there was the faint impression of a hand – the first physical evidence of their assassin, and it showed that he hadn’t ridden his horse across, but swum beside it, probably hanging on to the saddle.
“Now we know for certain,” he said.
He stood up and looked across the river to the east. It was empty land, windblown wild grasses with the odd twisted tree rising above it. Somewhere out there in the east was Silman’s ship, and with it the answers he sought. For the first time Taranath felt confident he would find them.
13 Castaway
Sam Hekman was stumped. He’d spent a morning listening to Arla and Corin briefing him on everything that had happened since the dead man had been found in a tavern three days ago, and he could make no sense of it.
Arla had made good progress. She had followed all the leads, prised information out of anyone and anything she could find, and still they were left with a stack of ignorance. They didn’t know very much at all. Three Darnese sailors had come to Samara and been killed by the same man. Their captain had tried to see General Grand, but had been rebuffed.
That, in essence, was it.
The basic facts were surrounded by dark hints and darker guesswork, but it didn’t help. They had no solid idea who had done the murders, or why. If there was a crime in the offing they had even less idea about it – the perpetrator, the victim and the motive all remained opaque.
“Taranath will find something,” Arla assured him, but Taranath was weeks from returning, and the crime could take place tomorrow, the day after, or in six months time.
“What can we do?” he asked Seer Jud, who had shared the briefing.
The Shan shrugged. “You can’t protect from a thing like this,” he said.
“You do on Cabarissa,” Corin protested.
“It is our culture that protects us,” Jud said. “The members of our staff are bound by clan loyalties, our food is prepared by our most loyal people and the punishments for betrayal are brutal. We wear clothing that protects, and frankly our senses of smell and taste are far superior to yours. I’m far from proficient and I could wipe out half of Samara without getting caught.”
The last comment didn’t endear him to the others much.
“You could at least get the king to wear gloves,” Corin said.
“I doubt he’d agree,” Sam said. “It would be a show of cowardice in his eyes – or something like that.”
“The gloves could be poisoned,” Jud said.
“How?”
“Simple enough – bribe a member of the king’s household to swap them with an identical pair. The effect would not be apparent until a second, or in this case a third substance was present, and the sudden death of the monarch could be put down to any number of causes.”
“So you can poison anything?” Corin asked.
“Simply put – yes,” the Shan replied. “As I’ve said before, the trick is to make the final trigger a common substance, but not too common, like a spice or a saddle oil. It’s an art, and I’m not a master.”
“Who is?” Sam asked.
“On Cabarissa? There are dozens.”
“In Jerohal,” Sam said.
“Perhaps twenty. It would not take long to speak to them all, but they wouldn’t necessarily tell you if they’d been commissioned with the work.”
“And how many of those would a Darnese merchant have heard of?”
“None,” Jud said. “To know the name of a master poisoner you would have to ask a Shan, and as far as I know I am the only Shan to have been away from Cabarissa since the fall.”
“But Pekkans have been to Jerohal,” Arla said. “One of them might have learned a name.”
“The conditions under which they trade would militate against it,” Jud said. “But I suppose it’s possible.”
“It is a pity that we cannot send word to Taranath,” Corin said. “He could discover this as well. He must be close to Pek by now.”
“We can do better,” Sam said.
“Better? How?”
“We can go to Jerohal.”
Arla looked at him with disbelief plain on her face. Corin stared. Jud shook his head.
“No, lawkeeper, they will kill you as soon as you set foot on land,” the Shan said.
“But they won’t kill you,” Sam said.
Jud stared. “You have a ship?” he asked.
“We can get one. The Sword of Samara.”
“A warship sailing into Jerohal – does that seem wise?” Arla asked.
“We could anchor in the harbour,” Corin said. “Go ashore by small boat.”
“You cannot go ashore,” Jud protested. “They will kill you.”
Sam stood up. “We will be guided by you, Seer Jud,” he said. “But it is a good idea. We may even learn the identity of the man who killed Captain Silman.”
“It is not a good idea,” Jud protested. “I have never heard worse.”
“The Pekkans trade in Jerohal,” Arla said. “Why not Samarans? We can trade – whatever – for information.”
“I need to talk to General Grand,” Sam said. “If we can take the Sword we can be there and back in a week.”
Sam left them – Arla and Corin discussing the merits of the idea and Jud shaking his head at the foolishness of it all. The Shan was probably right. It was a dangerous strategy, but if they could find the identity of the killer they might solve the case in one bold move, and that was too attractive a prize to cast aside.
Then again, it would be foolish for all of them to go. Sam reluctantly concluded that he should stay in Samara. He was, after all, the Chief. Arla could go. He trusted Arla to be cautious, and that would be a necessary quality on Cabarissa. Corin was still a little keen and might get himself into trouble, but Arla could keep him in check.
He reached the gates of the citadel.
“Lawkeeper Hekman to see General Grand,” he told the guard.
A soldier was dispatched to escort him to Grand’s quarters – a formality that Sam found irritating – and in a short time he found himself being ushered into the General’s alarmingly well armed rooms. He eyed the excessive collection of weapons as he sat in the indicated chair.
“What can I do for you, Sam?” Grand asked. They were friends, after a fashion, Sam and Darius. The General, then a colonel, had been the first of the Mage Lord’s men he had met on Samara Plain. He had been impressed, and apparently, surprisingly, it had been mutual.
Sam got straight to the point.
“I need a ship to go to Jerohal,” he said. “Is the Sword available?”
“To Jerohal?” Darius raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve doubtless heard that we have a Shan – Seer Jud – he will be going with us. I think we can make real progress on this… apparent threat.”
“I see.” Darius sat back in his chair. “You’ll have to wait ten days for the Sword,” he said. “She’s off to Blaye on the morning tide.”
“Ten days?” It was too long. Or Sam was too impatient. They were at a standstill and he wanted to be moving again, discovering new facts. He was certain that something very bad was in the offing, something that threatened Samara, but he couldn’t pin down exactly why he felt that way. That was the irritating thing about his gift, his insight – it floated in from nowhere, defied logic, and always seemed to be valid. It was only later that he would discover the path by which it travelled.
“You could charter a vessel,” Darius suggested. “The King would pay, I’m sure, if he thought it would help. He has a particular interest in this case.”
“I know nothing about ships,” Sam said. “How would I know a good one?”
“A good ship is one that hasn’t sunk,” Darius said, “and probably the
only one you can get to charter to Jerohal. Not many will be willing to make the journey. But don’t take my advice, you must have a lawkeeper with maritime experience.”
Taranath was the only one who sprang to mind, but there must be others. There were dozens of lawkeepers now and Sam didn’t know all their histories – not like the beginning when he’d have been able to detail each man or woman’s experience and background. There were even some he could not name.
“I will take your advice not to take your advice,” Sam said. “But you have not voiced an opinion of the central idea – of going to Jerohal.”
“I have none. It is dangerous, of course. The Kastan Delor will defend their land with ferocity, but I trust your judgement.”
That was gratifying to hear, but not particularly helpful. Sam left the citadel with the rather thin plan of finding a lawkeeper with some nautical experience and chartering a ship to Jerohal. He walked slowly back up the gentle slope, turning the idea over in his mind, but he had difficulty concentrating. There was something hammering away, like a warning bell, an idea that he just couldn’t summon. It would come with time, he knew, when his reason eventually caught up with his intuition, but for now he simply trusted the latter. This was important. He must do everything he could as fast as possible.
He was still mulling things over when he reached the door of the lawhouse, and was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of shouting from within. It was a woman’s voice, loud, angry and thickly accented.
Sam stepped through the door.
The woman with the voice was standing in front of Ulric, berating him, and the fat man was cowering behind his counter. Sam had never seen him so discomfited. The woman was tall, or at least taller than Sam, which wasn’t quite the same thing, and she was well dressed in the eastern style, a dress in a single piece bound loosely at the waist, a floor length cloak and a hood that was thrown back to reveal thick, braided, black hair.
“I have been robbed!” she cried. “And all you can do is tell me to wait. I want something done. Now! Before it is too late.”
Ulric’s eyes found Sam, and his relief was plain enough.
“Karana,” he said. “Here is the Chief Lawkeeper of all Samara himself.” It was a cowardly deflection, but Sam forgave Ulric at once. He braced himself for the storm.
She turned and looked at him, and Sam felt he was being examined, judged. He stared back.
She was a striking woman. Her skin was a shade darker than most women he knew, and her brown eyes flashed with a haughty intelligence. Her nose wasn’t straight, but ever so slightly curved downwards like a finch’s beak.
“You are the Chief Lawkeeper?” she demanded.
“I am Sam Hekman,” he confessed. “Chief Lawkeeper of Samara at your service, Karana. How many we help you? You say you have been robbed?”
“I have, and if you hesitate the bastard will get away.”
“You know who robbed you?”
“I do. My husband, and he is taking my ship.”
Could a husband rob a wife? Under Samaran law the property was held in joint, but this woman obviously wasn’t Samaran.
“What is the name of the ship?” he asked.
“It is the Bountiful Child,” the woman said. “He is preparing to sail. You must…”
Sam turned to Ulric. “Have a lien placed on the ship,” he said. “Send three squads. I want to be sure she doesn’t leave until this is cleared up. And while you’re about it find me a lawkeeper who knows something about ships.” He turned back to the woman. “Now,” he said, “Shall we go to my office and discuss this?”
The woman raised an eyebrow, but stopped talking and followed Sam through to his rather unimpressive office. She settled herself on one of the hard wooden chairs with a degree of apparent discomfort.
“Now,” Sam said. “What is your name?”
“I am Ishara Fandakari,” she said, as though he should recognise the name, but it meant nothing to him.
“Where from?” he asked.
“Sarata,” she said. Her tone berated his ignorance. “Fandakari was the second greatest trading house of Sarata.”
“Was?”
Now this was a question that she was reluctant to answer, or so it seemed to Sam. She looked at the table and picked at the hem of her expensive cloak.
“My brother died. There was no male heir,” she said.
“So you inherited?”
She shook her head. “Don’t you know anything about Sarata?” she said. “Women cannot own property, and because I was yet to marry when my father died I had sixty days to make a match before everything passed to a distant cousin.”
“You married in haste,” Sam said.
“Hardly. My father’s passing was not a surprise. He had been ill for some time and I had been deciding between a number of suitors. It is now apparent that I chose the wrong one.”
“Please explain.”
“He has divorced me,” she said indignantly. “He had the instrument drawn up in Sarata before we left and informed me this morning that I am no longer his wife, and that all that was once mine, the whole house of Fandakari, is his. He waited the minimum number of days before it was legal under Saratan law.”
“Forgive me, Karana, but if it is legal in Sarata then Samaran law cannot help you.”
“I know that,” Ishara said, scornful, “but he has settled nothing on me, and I demand an equitable settlement under Samaran law.”
It was a fine point of law, Sam thought. But she did have an argument. He would have to talk with Ella, who knew more about the law, indeed about most things academic, than anyone in Samara. It would have to come before a court, and it would probably be an Old Town court because the ship was in the docks.
“I will do what I can, Karana,” Sam said. “The law will not jump at my command, but I promise that the ship will not leave Samara until the matter has been decided before a court.”
She smiled. It was the first time that he had seen her smile and he thought that she looked quite beautiful when she was not scowling.
“I can ask no more of you,” she said. “I have been made a castaway upon your shores and you have helped me. It will not be forgotten.”
Sam wondered how that might serve him. He himself was a wealthy man these days. His salary had settled at eight gold a week, and he spent very little of it, banking the rest. On his last inspection he had over five hundred looking for gainful employment, but Sam had everything he needed – good food, a decent place to live, clothes, serviceable weapons and a job he loved. Could a man want more?
He walked Ishara to the door of the lawhouse, told Ulric to take a note of the inn she was staying at, and he watched her walk away down the street, regally impressive, cloak flowing behind her.
There was, he conceded, perhaps one thing.
14 Pek
The coastal plain had surrendered once more to cliffs, and the road had returned to the edge of the sea, affording Taranath quite dull views over the endless ocean. Several times a day he caught sight of a sail far out in the blue and each time he squinted to make out her sails, the number of masts, anything else, but mostly they were too distant.
They had paid their tolls the day before, leaving Sybelline Bridge far behind them, and they found the land beyond more sparsely populated. Villages were few, and tended to be grouped in small clusters that formed larger communities, loosely bound into mutual dependence.
The news everywhere was the same. Three men on horseback had hurried by, and only in one village had anyone caught sight of the man following them. A child had seen a figure on horseback in the poor light of dusk, and it had been riding across the fields north of the village some day and a half behind Silman and his men.
The more the assassin avoided people, the more certain Taranath became that he was, indeed, the assassin.
So it was that they came to the city of Pek.
Taranath had been to Pek a dozen times, but never before by land, and the city took him by
surprise. They rode across a series of dry valleys and gentle hills, all truncated by the sea cliffs, and coming over the last the city was suddenly revealed, no more than a mile distant.
Pek was white and emerald green. Most of the buildings were low. There were no great castles or towers, and the buildings spread evenly up two shallow valleys, one of which carried a river. There were trees everywhere, and everywhere they stood higher that the buildings. The city almost seemed to be set down in a forest.
“Pek,” Taranath said, as though introducing an old friend to a stranger. “Pek the beautiful, or so the Pekkans would have you believe.”
“It is very different,” Ansel said.
They rode down the short remaining stretch of the coast road into the city, making for the docks. They caused quite a stir, but Taranath knew that the king’s men were the root of it, heavily armed and armoured as they were. There were too few of them, fortunately, to be considered an invading force.
Taranath led them to an inn close to the docks. It was one he knew from his sailing days, and large enough to accommodate twice their number. He paid for two days in advance, settled himself at a spot in the public bar where he could see the door, and ordered a mug of ale which he sipped slowly.
Ansel and Worrel joined him.
“Should we not be questioning folk?” Ansel asked.
“Things work differently here,” Taranath replied. “Just wait.”
Ansel ordered a cup of wine and waited, watching the door. Worrel took a seat at the next table, also facing the door.
They didn’t have to wait long.
The door opened and a man stepped through. Taranath knew him at once, and stood.
“Finn Candros, by all that lives. Are you still wearing the chain?”
The newcomer smiled. “Radiant Taranath,” he said. “A lawkeeper now, and with a small army, I hear.”
“Travelling to Darna on the King’s business,” Taranath said. “The soldiers are for the road.”
“I’m told you’ve paid for two days,” Candros said. “So you have some purpose in Pek?”
