by Tim Stead
Arla gave the captain a paper for the bonus she had promised him and led the way back to the law house. It wasn’t much more than a twenty minute walk through the old town, but it was comforting to feel the rhythms of the city again, the sailors unloading on the docks, the sellers on Market Street hawking their wares with customary vigour and everywhere the smell, the unique aroma of Samara. She breathed in great lungfuls of it. It’s odd how a place becomes home so quickly. Two years ago the city had been a stranger, its people outlandish, its streets a labyrinth, but now it was as familiar as her own hands.
“This place stinks,” the Shan said. He was walking between Arla and Corin with Otway bringing up the rear, and more than a few people were staring as they passed by. It reminded her of Jerohal where she had been the oddity.
“It’s the sweetest perfume,” Arla said. “Once you get used to it.” She certainly preferred it to the dry mustiness of Jerohal. Samara seemed so much more alive than the Shannish city.
They came to the law house and entered. Ulric looked delighted to see them.
“Back from Jerohal!” he exclaimed. “All went well?” The fat man had been eating again, his chin shining with the greasy remnants of his last snack.
“We’re alive,” Arla replied. “Is the chief in?”
“Aye, and bored to paperwork. Go up at once.”
They went up and found the chief sitting in his office with his feet on the desk. His head was tilted back and his eyes closed. For a moment Arla thought he was asleep, but she saw that his lips were moving as though he was speaking to himself.
“Chief?”
Sam’s eyes snapped open.
“Arla. I thought you might be back today, or hoped as much. What did you find?”
Arla took a seat. Seer Jud climbed onto a box that was somewhat more accommodating of his stature and Corin stood at the door.
“Exactly what we expected,” she said. “There is a famous poisoner called Sage Dahl who created a game of three hands for our assassin – who went by the name of Jon – probably false.”
“Do you know the poisons? The antidotes? The intended victims?”
“No. Not exactly. The Sage would not tell us the poisons, only their applications, and he did not know the victims, but apparently there was some mention of a royal wedding.”
“Calaine and Bren Portina.”
“It would seem likely, but we have no proof.”
“It may even be misdirection,” Sam said. “But I don’t think so.”
“There’s one more thing. The Sage believed that he had been poisoned by the assassin, but I don’t credit that. I think he was being killed by magic.”
“Your reasoning?”
“Poison makes no sense. The Shan are better at it than we are. If he’d tried to poison Sage Dahl the Shan would have found an antidote.”
Sam turned to Seer Jud. “What do you think?”
“I would be surprised if there was a poison in Shanakan that Dahl didn’t know,” the Shan said. “But equally I cannot imagine that one of the mage lord’s pupils would do this, and where else is magic to be found?”
Sam leaned back in his chair, turned away from them and stared out of the window. He was silent for a long while. Without turning he spoke again.
“Why use magic that kills like poison, and why slowly?”
“Cruelty?” Arla wasn’t sure. “To mock the Sage? I don’t now.”
“So that we could find him, so that we might believe, as Sage Dahl clearly did, that he was poisoned,” Sam said.
“But that makes no sense,” Arla protested.
“I think it does. Our assassin has left us a trail of breadcrumbs. We have been diligent in following them, and doubtless they will lead us somewhere, but not necessarily to the truth.”
“I don’t understand.”
Sam turned back and addressed the Shan. “What is the point of a game of two hands, as you call it?”
“To kill without attribution. The victim dies and the poison is unknown. A hundred Shan could eat the second agent and only one die.”
“So if we are aware that such a game is in play, what purpose then does it serve? What purpose a game of three hands?”
Seer Jud shrugged. “For a Shan, none.”
“I agree,” Sam said. “He would be as well served by an arrow. There is no secret to preserve.”
“So you’re saying that the poisoning will not take place?” Arla asked.
“No, it will, because the poisoning is not the purpose of the game any more. I think we’re supposed to know about it. It may even be that we’re supposed to catch the poisoner. I don’t know. But I have an inkling that we’re being led around by the nose.”
“Our first duty, surely, is to protect the Do-Regana,” Corin said.
“We will certainly try,” Sam said. “But even if we succeed, and prevent any more deaths…” He stopped talking and shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. It’s all just supposition.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’ve no doubt that Portina can protect Calaine as ably as we, if he has knowledge of what is afoot. One of us must go there and tell him. The Sword is back in port and I will ask General Grand if we can use her. No, not you, Arla. I need you here. Corin can go.”
“I am best suited,” she said.
“Aye, and when Taranath gets back you can take his report with you – if Calaine is still in Blaye. You’re a good thinker. I need that thinking here.”
A rapping on the door preceded the appearance of Ulric’s head around the jamb. “Chief?”
“I’m busy, Ulric. Can’t it wait?”
“No.” The fat man looked almost scared. “I think you’d better come at once.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Now, Chief.”
Sam sighed and stood up.
“I’ll come,” Arla said. Ulric knew how important a matter they were discussing, and she was curious and a little alarmed that Ulric thought it urgent that the chief come to the front desk. They went downstairs and found a couple of lawkeepers watching over a man who looked both nervous and desperate. He was well dressed, but seemed a mite dishevelled.
“You’re the lawkeeper?” he asked.
“We are all lawkeepers,” Sam replied. “But I am Sam Hekman.”
“I must speak to you,” the man looked at the lawkeepers gathering around him. “In private.”
“I trust everyone here,” Sam said.
“I don’t,” the man said. “In private, please. I’m gambling with my life here and I don’t like the odds.”
He looked genuinely frightened to Arla. His eyes were wild and his hands were clinging to each other.
“Chief?”
Hekman glanced at her, and she nodded.
“All right. In private then. But my chief investigator will be witness to everything you say.”
“Yes, All right.” The man seemed relieved, and they took him upstairs to a vacant room. It was a bleak little closet with a slit window and two hard wooden chairs. Hekman put the man in a chair and took the other one for himself. Arla stood in the doorway with one eye on the corridor. He’d been promised privacy, and she’d see that he got it.
“Who are you?” Hekman asked.
“My name is Renat Candarian. I’m an agent for a Saratan trade cartel. There’s a plot against your city,” he said.
“Tell me,” Hekman said.
Candarian swallowed. He glanced up at Arla.
“They’re going to poison your princess,” he said.
“Just the princess?”
“No. They mean to kill the King of Blaye as well.”
Hekman looked up at Arla. This was exactly what they had surmised, but the chief was taking his time, getting the essentials.
“And how do they mean to do this?” he asked.
“Shannish poisons,” Candarian said. “And the first blow has already been struck.”
That was news. It must have been
done in Blaye. All the more reason to get Corin off as soon as possible and this news would guarantee them the Sword of Samara. It was vital that Portina knew the full extent of the threat.
“Do you know when the next attempt will be made?”
Candarian shook his head vigorously. “No. I only knew the first because I was supposed to present the knife, but I refused. It will be soon, though. They will not allow the alliance of your two cities.”
Sam sat back in his chair. “This much we knew – more or less. My chief investigator has this very day returned from Cabarissa where she learned the details of the poisoner and the plot. We are already moving to protect the princess.”
“But there is more,” Candarian said, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. “I can give you a name. One of the plotters is here in the city. I have seen her!”
Hekman didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed on the Saratan, but the question didn’t come. Arla knew the signs. She’d seen them before. Hekman’s gift had just kicked him in the gut. He knew something.
“The name,” Arla said. “Who is it?”
Candarian looked up nervously. He licked his lips again.
“Ishara Fandakari,” he said.
31 Arrest
Radiant Taranath felt the room surge around him. In a moment it seemed that everyone was on their feet, weapons half drawn. The tension in the room was thick enough to tie knots. The Darnese wardens, to give them their due, stood their ground, though he saw a flicker of doubt on the leader’s face.
Taranath alone remained seated. He sipped his ale.
“You’re joking,” he said, though he knew they were not. Darnese wardens were not famed for their humour.
“Not in the least,” the chief warden said. “You will come with us.”
“I don’t think so,” Lieutenant Genardy said.
“We can be back with fifty wardens in no time if you refuse.”
“Can you afford to lose so many?” Genardy asked, taking half a step forwards, which forced the warden half a step back.
“There’s no need for this,” Taranath said, laying a calming hand on the lieutenant’s forearm. He turned to the warden. “You are mistaken,” he said. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“We have a witness,” the warden said.
“A liar,” Genardy countered.
“What did your witness see, warden?” Taranath was genuinely curious. Either this was some paid dupe who accused them or possibly the murderer himself. He suspected the former, but there was always a chance…
“That’s not your business. You’ll get to face your accuser at trial.”
Dorcas Sloepicker stood up. “Are you familiar with the mayor of Pek’s seal?” she asked.
“I am.”
“And you know that from time to time he sends agents to enquire into matters on his behalf?”
“So they say.”
She produced a vellum document, decorated with spectacular calligraphy and finished with a heavy red wax seal. She offered it to the warden who took at and squinted at it for some time.
“It seems genuine,” he said. “But I’d want a better eye to look it over before I give it credence.”
“I am the mayor’s agent in good standing,” Dorcas said. “And I will swear by anything you care to name that I have travelled with these men from Pek and they have done nothing relating to piracy and murder in all that time. And this man,” she pointed to Genardy, “is an officer in the King of Samara’s regiment, so it may be that insisting on your cause will excite the enmity of both Pek and Samara, and have a good chance upsetting Blaye, too.”
Now the warden was clearly discomfited.
Taranath pulled out his lawkeeper’s badge and displayed it. “Add to that the fact that I am a lawkeeper officer from Samara, and you have the most unlikely collection of pirates and murderers, warden.”
“It is possible that I have been misled,” the warden conceded. “But it is not in my power to dismiss the warrant. You must come to the Hall of Trials and make your case there.”
Taranath stood up. “I understand,” he said. “I will come with you, but I would suggest that the lieutenant and his men, and the mayor’s agent remain here to be called as witnesses if the need arises.”
“I should come with you,” Dorcas said. “My credentials may not be believed second hand.”
“You will have to account how you came to be in possession of the ship,” the warden said.
“Well, that is simple enough,” Taranath said. “I never was. I merely captained her for the voyage.”
“Telling me serves no purpose,” the warden said. “But I will agree to take only you and the Pekkish woman.”
“Fine,” Taranath said. He turned to Worrel. “Keep yourself informed. If I have not rejoined you in a day proceed with our mission and keep the lieutenant and his men close. Find out what happened to the villagers and try to get word to me if you can.”
Worrel nodded. He looked grim.
Taranath allowed himself to be guided from the room by the warden and Dorcas followed. There was some danger in the situation. As a Samaran, even though he hailed from High Green, he would not be looked on kindly here. Dorcas should fare better, but there was a degree of corruption in Darna, and though he saw no sign of malice in the warden he could not be sure of what awaited him in the Hall of Trials.
He knew the city, but not so well that every street spoke to him, and so he was soon lost in the maze of small alleys, the houses all so similar, the junctions frequent and irregular. It was not long, though, until his confusion was banished by the appearance of the Hall of Trials itself.
This was one of the few stone buildings in Darna. Its builders had clearly thought that stone was imposing enough, and had eschewed all ornamentation. It was dark granite, a box upon a box, flat fronted, two tiers high with a narrow terrace around the upper storey. There were windows, seven of them, and a double door that allowed a faint light to leak out into the poorly lit street.
A warden stood either side off the door, each armed with a traditional metal-shod stave. They nodded a silent greeting to Taranath’s escort and he passed through the doors. The building was no more appealing on the inside. It seemed to consist of long, narrow, lamp-lit corridors, the air sharp with the tang of burnt oil.
They were split up – he’d expected that. Arla would have insisted on it in Samara, so it didn’t worry him unduly, but even so he felt a moment of unease at their parting.
He was alone now.
His escort led him to a room deep within the building. He was pushed through a door and found himself in what must have been an office. There was a desk, a half-dozen lamps turned up high, and a collection of chairs. One side of the room was glass, a considerable extravagance. The glass wall showed him a courtyard, but there were no fountains or flowers, there was no grass. He suspected that it might be a place of execution.
His escort followed him in and took up positions barring the door.
There was a man behind the desk. He studied Taranath in silence for a moment, then switched his gaze to the warden who had brought him here.
“This is their leader?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And the others?”
The warden behind him coughed nervously. “I brought in only one other, sir,” he said. “She is an agent of the mayor of Pek, and this one is a lawkeeper officer of Samara.”
The man behind the desk raised an eyebrow. “I see.” He was thin, hollow cheeked and, as far as Taranath could tell, blind in one eye.
“I think they may be innocent…”
The warden’s words were cut off by a gesture. “It is not your place to speak opinions, warden,” the man said. He turned to Taranath. “A lawkeeper, eh? So you’ve been branching out. You expect leniency because you are a city official?”
“I expect nothing but justice,” Taranath said. “And because I have committed no crime, I expect to go free. Soon.”
“
So what did you do with Silman’s body?”
“By now it’s been buried,” Taranath said. “In Samara. He was murdered, oh, it must be four weeks ago now, and two of his crew a day later.”
“And then you took his ship.”
“And then we sought his killer, who fled in the direction of Darna…”
“You accuse us?”
“Not in the least, but we believe that Kent Silman was killed as a result of something he learned on his last commission, and besides that we are seeking his heirs to know how to dispose of his estate.”
“So you brought his ship back here to give it away?” The man’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.
“No. The ship was abandoned and afterwards salvaged by the people of a village that lies between here and Pek. I helped them to repair it and sailed it here for them. I have no further interest in, or claim on, the ship. It belongs to the villagers by right of salvage.”
“Their claim will be examined in due course, but you have offered me no evidence, just words.”
“Just the truth. I am certain that you will also question the mayor of Pek’s agent and the villagers who sailed on the Gull. You will find that our accounts will agree in all important details.”
“Rehearsal,” the interrogator said.
“Truth,” Taranath countered. He had played this game dozens of times from the other side. He knew that he was being pushed, accused, insulted. The man was trying to beat him down. To make him angry so that he would utter some incriminating word or phrase – a lever with which to pry out guilt.
It went on for a while longer, but to little effect. Taranath was confident, and after all, he was simply telling the truth. It was encouraging that no physical violence had been offered as yet, but he knew that it was not unknown in Darna. The wardens here were not quite as scrupulous as Sam Hekman about torture.
Eventually the interrogator gave up. He recognised a brick wall when he saw one, apparently.
“You’ll be held until we can verify your story,” the man said.
“How long will that be?” Taranath asked. “I have work to do.”
“We have to verify. I’ll send a man to Samara and we’ll see if you’re lying.”
