by Tim Stead
“That’s true, but if I’m right it’ll be too late to shout for help when the kingdoms go belly up.”
“That bad?”
Sam shrugged.
Darius paced the length of the small yard several times. Sam watched. The general was a personal friend of Cal Serhan, but that friendship was not as robust as it had once been. Darius had left White Rock to take up his position here with the Mage Lord’s blessing, but the distance between them had inevitably grown. Serhan would come if Darius called – he probably always would – but there might come a time when he did not hurry to his old friend’s side as quickly as he once had and, besides that, Darius didn’t want to run to Serhan with every knotty problem. It made a mockery of his position in Samara.
All this Sam understood. But they had both witnessed the killings in Woodside and were among the few that knew the truth of it. The killer had been a Faer Karani, somehow returned from exile and having stolen a human body. They also knew that it was likely to happen again. The Faer Karan, whose reign of terror had lasted four centuries, were not dead. Somewhere in other places all but one of them still lived.
“Felice Caledon,” Darius said.
“The Lord of East Scar?”
“Of course.”
“What about her?”
“She visits Ella Saine from time to time, and she knows more about these Faer Karan goings on than even the Mage Lord.”
“Do you think Ella has a way to call her?”
Darius smiled. “I wouldn’t bet against it,” he said. “I’ll tell you what – I’ll speak to Ella. If she can help, then I’m sure she will. You carry on, wait for Taranath to report, and we’ll meet again in two days.”
Sam heard a noise, a scraping against the stone somewhere over by the archway that marked the entrance to this private courtyard. He turned his head, and just caught the patter of feet.
“What is it?” Darius asked.
Sam ran for the arch, stepped through it and paused at the top of the stairs. They were empty. Whoever had been there was gone. Darius came up behind him.
“Someone was listening,” Sam said.
“You’re sure?”
“He gave himself away and ran,” Sam said. “You have a spy in the citadel.”
“A spy? All the men here are Samarans, and none of them have any love for the Faer Karan.”
“Darius, someone was listening.”
“Curiosity perhaps. I cannot believe there is a traitor here. You know how loyal the king’s men are.”
“But not everyone here loves the king. There are servants, grooms, any number of Samaran citizens who might be persuaded to eavesdrop for a coin or two. We should have been more careful.”
“In future we shall be,” Darius said.
Sam stared down the empty steps. “The damage may already be done,” he said.
35 Burning Boats
Worrel ran. He was a quick man when he put his mind to it, but he’d forgotten the way back to the dockside tavern, and doubted that even the dim red light in the sky would guide him well enough, so he was forced to wait at the first junction for the wardens to catch up.
If ships were burning he had no doubt that they were Samaran ships, and that it had everything to do with the letters he had vouchsafed their captains. The warden closest to him pointed down the next street and Worrel ran again.
It was at least a little reassuring that it had seemed a total surprise to this warden with the impressive title. He could not say that he had warmed to the man, but he judged him honest, or at the least not guilty.
The sound of shouting up ahead told him which road to take at the next junction, and he ran on. He could feel his body tiring. Days on horseback and the waiting in the village and on the ship had robbed him of fitness, but he still had enough in him. He slowed a little, and in what seemed like moments he ran out beside the tavern and saw the docks ablaze with red light.
He stopped. For a moment he could not tell which ships were burning. There was so much light. It seemed that the sea itself was on fire. He ran forwards again, past the tavern and onto the docks. The heat pushed at him, stopping him again.
There were dozens of men milling around the docks, and slowly Worrel began to see a kind of order in the chaos. There were many short lines of men passing buckets from hand to hand, throwing them at the fires, and after all there were only two ships burning. Malin’s ship was still unharmed at the dock, although wisps of smoke rose above it. He approached and saw Malin on the deck near the bow.
“Malin!” he called. “How did this happen?”
“They tried to burn us,” Malin replied, jumping down. “Six men ran along the dock with fire and threw it aboard. If not for my chance meeting with you we would have burned too.”
“How so?”
“After I’d spoken to you I came aboard and tripled the watch. And I stood it myself, and just as well. We had water on their fire in less than a minute, but even so it was a close thing. It was some liquid they threw. It took some dousing, I can tell you.”
More people were arriving, but already the other two Samaran ships were lost. Their masts were towers of flame, and around their hulls the fire fought a rearguard action against the sea as they began to founder.
“Men have died tonight,” Malin said. “It’s murder.”
“It is.” Paneer had come up with them, and Worrel noted that he was barely out of breath. “The killers will be caught.”
“When?” Worrel asked. He gestured at the burning ships. “Samaran ships burned in Darna harbour, a Samaran lawkeeper in a Darnese jail – it is tantamount to a declaration of war!”
For the first time Paneer looked uncomfortable. His eyes sought out the burning ships, the men running to and fro on the docks. He turned to Malin.
“You’re Darnese?” he asked.
“I am,” Malin said.
“But you serve on a Samaran ship.”
“I do.”
“You know them, then, the Samarans. How will they react to this?”
“That depends on how you react to it,” Malin said. “They are a proud people, and if they think Darna had a hand in this they’ll cut that hand off, no matter the cost. Give them justice and they’ll thank you.”
Paneer sighed. “I had hoped to use this unfortunate business to cut out corruption root and branch, but it seems the time for games is over.” He pulled a paper out from beneath his coat and offered it to Worrel. “This is the Regent’s writ of innocence in your name. It protects you from blame in any action you may have taken up to this moment.”
“You had it all the time.” Worrel took the paper and examined it. It was exactly what Paneer had named it.
“Aye. We knew you were all innocent. Your officer, Radiant Taranath, is known in Darna. He traded here as a ship’s mate a dozen times and has an enviable reputation for honesty and fair dealing. There was not a man I spoke to but sang his praises, and the company he was in – the Mayor of Pek’s agent – it was impossible that the charges could be true.”
“And now?”
“Now we will see justice done, if not with plots and cunning then with staves and blades – follow me.”
Paneer strode away once more, past the blazing ships and down an unfamiliar street. Worrel followed, and behind him came Genardy, Pikket and the rest of the king’s men hard on his heels. They had all run to the docks and Worrel was glad of their company now. The light, heat and noise faded, and once again they were in the warren of crooked streets that was Darna.
Worrel walked at Paneer’s shoulder. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” the warden said. “I can’t trust them. We need muscle.”
It wasn’t long before he understood what Paneer meant. They stopped in front of a long stone building that had every appearance of being a stable. The warden banged on the door. It was quickly opened by a man in black chain mail, a steel breastplate catching the light in the street.
“Now?” the man a
sked.
“Now,” Paneer said. “All of you.”
There was shouting inside, it sounded like orders being barked at sleepy men. Genardy appeared by Worrel.
“I wonder how many he’s got in there?” he said. That, too, was quickly answered. The men poured from the building and formed up in three crisp lines in the street – twenty swords and ten archers all uniformly equipped in black and steel.
Genardy’s men were unarmed, and apparently the lieutenant wasn’t comfortable with that.
“You got any spare kit in there?” he asked the warden. Paneer looked him up and down.
“Hamber, give them swords and bows – whatever they want.”
The man nodded and Genardy’s men followed Hamber into the building, emerging a couple of minutes later with an assortment of deadly looking steel and wood. Paneer didn’t wait, but set off as soon as his Hamber had resumed his place at the head of his small army.
Worrel had to admit they looked effective, marching along the narrow streets like a black wave, neatly in step, setting up a clanking and rustling beat. He followed now, with Genardy’s men around him. The Samarans didn’t try to emulate the order of the Darnese, but ambled along, sticking mostly to the sides of the narrow streets, looking up at the windows opposite, their weapons in hand.
It seemed to the lawkeeper that the Samarans looked more like they were used to fighting, the Darnese more used to drilling, but he kept his peace.
They arrived at the Hall of Trials.
The wardens on the door were clearly frightened by what was approaching them. Worrel expected one of them to run inside, to raise the alarm, but they stood and stared. One of them stepped forwards. He obviously recognised the Deputy Lord Warden.
“My Lord..?”
Paneer ignored him. His only words were for Hamber.
“Surround the place,” he said. “Nobody is to leave. You and two others come with me.”
Genardy signalled silently and his handful of men split up, going to the front corners of the building. “We’ll stay out here,” he said. “I don’t fancy being inside that place.”
Worrel nodded. “I’m going in. I have to see it,” he said.
The pause was enough to give Paneer a head start and Worrel hurried after the Lord Warden, who had ploughed through the building like a storm. Shocked men and women stood in doorways, peering out, fear on their faces.
Worrel caught up with them in an office somewhere at the centre of the building. The room was suddenly crowded. A man, his face and knuckles white with fear, cowered behind the desk and half the space was filled with black clad soldiers. The Lord Warden leaned threateningly over the desk.
“I am here on the Regent’s warrant,” he was saying. “There is nothing I cannot do, and you – you are at the heart of it!”
“I have done nothing wrong,” the frightened man protested. “I have always done my duty here.”
Paneer spat. “You are the paid cat’s-paw of criminals. There have been murders done this night by your friends, and you will share the blame. Tell me where I can find them.”
“You are mistaken, Lord Warden,” the man protested. “I am simply a servant of the people, of the Regent, of Darna.”
“The best you can hope for is five years of servitude,” Paneer said. “You will lose your rank, your position, your freedom. But you still have a chance to save your life. Tell me who paid you.”
“Nobody has paid me, my lord,” the man said.
Paneer stared at him. Worrel thought that the Lord Warden might explode with anger, but in a moment he cooled and turned away. “Hamber, we’ll get our intelligence elsewhere. Cut his throat.”
The soldier sprang forwards and seized the man by the hair, dragging him forwards across the desk, and for a moment Worrel thought he was about to see a man killed with less ceremony than a farm animal, but the victim clung to the desk, fought to stay face down.
“No! Please! I’ll talk! I’ll tell you where they are!”
It was brilliantly done. The act had been so convincing, so physically, brutally real. Worrel had believed completely that the man had been about to die. He had even stepped back to avoid the expected shower of blood.
Paneer turned back from the door. Hamber’s blade quivered a foot from the man’s neck.
“Speak. Hold nothing back.”
“I only ever met two of them. One Saratan, the other a northerner. They’re staying in the Noble Suite at the Stone House Inn. I only agreed to detain the foreigners, my lord, no harm intended. I’m party to no murder.”
Paneer pulled a face. “Throw him in a cell,” he said. “We’ll finish this later. And get the Samaran and the Pekkish woman from wherever he’s put them. I want both of them with us.” He turned to Worrel. “So,” he said. “Progress, I think.”
“The man we are hunting,” Worrel said. “He is very dangerous.”
“So are my Black Watch,” Paneer said.
“He killed two sailors in an alley,” Worrel said. “A single blow to the heart for each, and they were chasing him with knives drawn, and as far as we know he butchered the crew of The Laughing Gull single-handed.”
“Sailors,” Paneer said. “What do you expect? I don’t doubt the man is a competent assassin, but faced with twenty men? Have no fear, lawkeeper. If your man is there we will take him.”
Paneer was probably right, but Worrel was uneasy about it. He couldn’t help recalling that their quarry had passed them in the night, made good ground and then left them in his dust the following day. It had been a remarkable piece of riding on a tired horse, even on an open road. Then there was the way the man had killed his victims – almost like a signature – even when they were armed. It was dismissive, arrogant, almost mocking.
But he had said his piece. He could do no more.
A commotion in the hallways announced the arrival of Taranath, escorted by two of Paneer’s soldiers. He looked none the worse for his day in prison.
“Worrel, report,” he said.
Worrel told him the tale as quickly as he could, just the bare bones – the Lord Warden, the offer, the burning ships and the warden’s change of tactic. He had barely finished when Dorcas Sloepicker appeared in the doorway.
“You’re all right?” she asked Taranath.
“Fine,” the officer replied. “They didn’t even question me. It was all a sham.”
“It was an outrage,” she said. “The mayor will hear of this.”
Taranath grinned. “Doubtless he will,” he said. “But remember to tell him that the man who arrested you is himself arrested and looking at a noose for his trouble. The hunt is back on, Dorcas.”
They went outside and joined Genardy and his men. Paneer was there, too. Apparently he was leaving ten of his soldiers to keep the Hall of Trials secure.
They set off again, Paneer and his black watch leading the way and the rest of them following in a less orderly fashion. Worrel’s unease was somewhat allayed by Taranath’s presence, and Taranath himself spent the journey talking to Genardy. The two of them seemed as thick as thieves, the king’s man nodding enthusiastically and copying the lawkeeper’s gestures. It looked like another plan was in train.
It was a long walk for such a small city, but eventually they came to the Stone House Inn. It was not, as the name suggested, made of stone, but boasted stone lintels and quoins, but otherwise appeared similar to the white-rendered thatched buildings around it, only substantially larger.
Hamber snapped out a series of orders and twelve of his men ran off in different directions to secure all sides of the building.
“Now we’ll see,” Paneer said. He walked up to the front door and pushed it open, a pack of men with weapons drawn hard on his heels.
“Ears open,” Taranath said to Genardy. “If there’s trouble you’ll hear it.” The lieutenant nodded and Taranath followed the Lord Warden into the hostelry. Worrel followed him.
It was busy inside, but the cosy atmosphere had already been sha
ttered by the time Worrel stepped over the threshold. The soldiers had fanned out among the customers and were eyeing them with malice. The customers had stopped eating, drinking and even talking. Paneer had found the landlord.
“The man in the Noble Suite,” he said. “Is he here?”
“Dain? In his rooms, lord,” the unfortunate innkeeper said. “He always eats in his rooms.”
“Show me.”
The staircase to the upper storey was wide, but the corridor down which he led them was less so, and the soldiers bunched behind Paneer. They stopped before a broad double door and the innkeeper pointed at it.
“Here,” he said.
Paneer was like a bull at a gate. There was no subtlety in the man, or if there was it had all been burned away by the fire at the docks. He hammered on the door.
“Open up and surrender in the name of the Regent!” he cried.
Even at the back of the press Worrel heard a voice from inside the room. It sounded alarmed, as well it might.
Paneer stepped back. “Break the door down,” he commanded.
Hamber and his men obeyed enthusiastically. The double doors were kicked aside and the black clad soldiers rushed through the opening.
Taranath followed, and Worrel brought up the rear. He was just in time to see a bizarre scene. One man lay on the floor. There was no blood, but he was clearly dying, his limbs jerking about in spasms, his lips drawn back in a rictus of agony. Even as Worrel looked at him he stopped moving and his head lolled towards them.
At the same time a second man stepped out from another room. He was carrying two blades. In his right hand he held a long sword with an elaborate guard and a slightly curved blade about a finger and a half wide. In the left he gripped a long, double edged dagger. He stopped for a moment, looking down at the corpse.
“Coward,” he muttered, and delivered a vicious kick to the dead man’s head. He turned to face the soldiers. He smiled. “I’ll have to kill you all myself,” he said.
On the last word he lunged forwards, quick as a snake, and took the leftmost soldier in the throat with a twisting thrust.
The room exploded into violence. It seemed that every black clad soldier stepped forwards at once, but it was entirely without success. The assassin simply avoided their swinging blades with unnatural speed and struck again. A second soldier fell dead.
