Halfway across, I realised the night's exertions had taken a far greater toll than I'd realised. An instant later, my chest slammed painfully into the guttering, and my knees cracked into the wall below. I grasped for a handhold. My desperate fingers found purchase beneath the edge of a broken tile, but these too had exhausted their strength, and I fell.
That should have been the end of me. However, I at last encountered some much-needed good fortune. Instead of coming to a bone-cracking halt on the cobbles below, I fell into the upper branches of a birch tree – one of many lining the street below.
I burst through the upper branches in a shower of leaves and broken twigs, hit my head against the trunk, and then tumbled out of the lower branches to fall the remaining six or so feet onto the uneven flagstones.
Lying spread-eagled on the ground, I ran through the woeful inventory of the night's activities. Stefan Dalrand, my only friend these last six months, was dead. His killer had escaped to who knew where. Everything hurt. What else, I wondered, could possibly make things worse?
I sat up to see that I'd drawn a small crowd of onlookers. No-one made any move to help. Possibly, they were waiting to see what stupidity the foreign devil would attempt next.
The crowd parted to reveal two constables. Their blue tabards seemed almost black in the darkness, and their drawn swords were very much pointed in my direction. Wincing at the flashes of pain from my bruised limbs, I raised my hands in surrender.
There we go, I thought. The perfect end to a perfect night.
Two
"Well, it certainly makes for an interesting story, my lord."
Only Quintus used that particular honorific. To others, I was sure, it appeared a respectful gesture: Quintus' gracious acceptance of a dark-skinned heathen from distant lands. But I'd too often seen the grim twinkle of amusement in his grey eyes. Quintus spoke thus not out of respect, but because he knew I hated to be so addressed. Not only was it a reminder of everything I had lost, but also a caution that I'd plenty more to lose should I consider working against him.
"It happens to be the truth," I replied, the Tressian language feeling as crude on my tongue as ever. I'd not managed to purge my Hadari accent; but then, I'd not really tried. Part of me revelled in how it lent a sinister inflection to the Tressian tongue. The rest of me didn't give a damn about trying to fit in.
"Perhaps so, perhaps so..."
Quintus tailed off, his thick brows furrowing in thought. Turning his back, he crossed the uneven floor to the great leaded window overlooking the busy streets. His thickset frame cast an imposing silhouette against the early sun. From that vantage point, the comings and goings below must have appeared little more than the busywork of insects swarming back and forth, but I doubted anything escaped Quintus' cool, calculating eyes.
Quintus was not a young man, and had both the heavy jowls and grey hair to prove it. He'd been captain of the Tressian constabulary for two decades years, and a decorated commander in the city's military for at least ten years prior. I knew the guard captain to be a master of observation, with an uncanny eye for detail. I'd have to speak carefully.
Whilst the captain silently communed with his city, I fidgeted, trying to rearrange the shackles into a more comfortable configuration. The chair I'd been manacled to, like much of the furniture in the gloomy office, had seen its heyday decades ago. The broken springs of its seat and backrest dug into my back something fierce. It was no good. The guard who'd chained me up knew his business.
"Are these chains really necessary?" I asked. There was no reply, not even a whisper of movement to acknowledge Quintus had heard. I cleared my throat. "Any chance of losing these shackles?"
Without so much as a glance in my direction, Quintus wagged a finger in admonishment. "Hush please, your lordship." His veil of politeness didn't quite conceal the mordant tone. "I'm concentrating, and do not take kindly to an interrupted train of thought." Without taking his gaze off the streets, he raised his voice, "Lieutenant Nierev, a moment of your time."
The lieutenant entered the room with an efficiency that spoke to the frequency of such summons. She seemed young – ridiculously young – to hold such a rank, and I wondered if she was a daughter of minor nobility foisted on Quintus to solve the problem of finding her suitable employment. "Sir?"
"Aha." Quintus looked the auburn-haired woman up and down, as if surprised to see her there. "Three things, lieutenant, that you will perhaps do me the honour of attending to." He held up three fingers, and ticked each off as he spoke. "Firstly, go down into the marketplace. Inform Constable Arval that, if he wishes to practise his silver-tongued speech on the prettier stallholders, he would be best advised to do so off-duty, or at least somewhere beyond my sight."
Nierev's lips twisted in discomfort. She clearly knew better than to interrupt her captain whilst in full flow, but her obvious chagrin boded ill for Constable Arval.
"Second," Quintus pointed at an unassuming building tucked in the shadow of the city wall, " take some men and have a poke around in that warehouse. To the best of my knowledge it's been between owners for nigh on three months now. However, that handful of scoundrels – you see yon fellow with the broad-brimmed hat – look entirely too much like they're standing guard for my liking. I've a suspicion that no honest labour lies within."
At this, Quintus paused, seemingly lost in thought. Silence reigned until Nierev finally took it upon herself to jolt the captain from his reverie.
"And the third thing?"
"Ah yes." The captain waggled his third finger. "Before you go, unchain our guest. We've a lot to talk about, and I'm quite sure he won't be so rude as to wander off before we're done." At this, he gave a small bow in my direction. "Isn't that right, my lord?"
I sat silently as Nierev produced a much-used iron key. She unclasped my wrist manacles and, after a nod of confirmation from Quintus, removed my leg irons as well. She did all this without comment or incident, but also without her eyes ever once meeting mine. The captain of the guard might pretend respect for the upstart foreigner, but not so his lieutenant. As for Quintus, I don't believe he took his steely grey eyes off me the whole time.
"That will be all, lieutenant." Quintus issued another nod, banishing Nierev to her appointed tasks. As the battered oak door swung shut, the captain sank heavily into his chair. For a long moment he stared at me, weighing something in his mind. "You're in a bit of a predicament."
A master of understatement, was Quintus.
"Here's you, hardly a citizen of good standing, discovered fleeing a house wherein was found a dead man of considerably better standing. You've no alibi, no witness and a tale that, whilst it certainly fits the facts, isn't exactly what I would call convincing." He leaned forward, eyebrow arched. "That about sums it up, wouldn't you say?"
"It's a pleasure to see a finely-honed intellect at work," I replied.
Quintus snorted with what could have been mirth or annoyance. "I grant you, it's probably weighing on your mind more than it is mine." Opening a drawer, he retrieved a clay tobacco pipe and peered at it thoughtfully. "I've got Sidarists holding vigil in parts of the city where no sane person would tread after dark. They've come to no harm so far, but that's largely because I've so many guards watching over them that you wouldn't believe. The rest is because gutter scum are intrigued by novelty as much as decent folk, and don't want to scare 'em off just yet. It's certainly not a miracle granted by their blessed lady, whatever the Sidarists might think – though I'll hazard a guess there'll be plenty of broken bodies for her mercy once the novelty wears off."
Transferring the pipe to his other hand, Quintus rummaged deeper in the drawer, his gaze never leaving my face. "Add to that the usual tide of house-breakers, cutpurses, footpads..." The hand emerged from the drawer, wrestled with a tinderbox, and lit the pipe. "...maniacs, schemers, murderers, drunks and good-for-nothing constables..." At this, Quintus broke off, took a long draw on the pipe and settled back in his chair. "Well, that's challen
ge enough for any man."
"It's a weighty burden." I waved my hand to disperse the acrid cloud building up between us. "Perhaps you should take a holiday, let Nierev prove her worth? I understand the Isle of Selann's picturesque at this time of year."
Quintus roared with laughter. "Aye, maybe I'll do that if ever I want to go mad with boredom, or else see the city overrun by criminality." He took the pipe from his mouth, and jabbed its stem at me. "But we were talking about your predicament, not mine, my lord." And with that, it seemed we were back on formal terms.
"Well..."
"In this particular case, however, your problem is my problem," Quintus jabbed the air with his pipe. "I happen to believe you."
He believed me; that was nice. However, I couldn't help but notice he'd arranged this cosy chat so that he was between me and the door. A wide gulf clearly remained between belief and trust.
"Glad to assist," I said, half-rising. "May I leave?"
"No, you may not."
Another jab of the pipe directed me firmly back into the chair. I winced as the venerable springs welcomed me with rusty arms.
"You may not have killed Dalrand, but I'd lay good money that you haven't told me everything that's rattling around in that head of yours." The pipe stabbed in emphasis. "You'd be well-served coming clean with me, right here, and right now."
"I've nothing more I can tell you, captain." I squeezed every drop of honesty I could muster into my voice.
Quintus took another puff, and gave me an old-fashioned look. "Don't insult me, my lord, and don't waste my time." He paused. "I'll tell you what, seeing as I'm such a generous-hearted soul, and you're such a paragon of trustworthiness, I'll share."
Quintus reached into another drawer, and tossed something into my lap. Frowning, I turned the object over in my hands. It was a length of thin and supple branch, its dark skin smooth and unblemished, save for a few broken spurs from which twigs or thorns had once sprouted. One end terminated in a mangle of split and shredded wood.
"This was the only thing of any interest in the whole room. Not counting the deceased," said Quintus.
"The murder weapon, I presume?"
"Aye. At least, it tallies nicely with the bruising about his throat. Wound tight around Dalrand's neck and held fast until he'd slipped away. Strangulation, that's what the good doctor downstairs would call it. Not a common way to go in our fair city, but then Dalrand was always a man of somewhat unique habits."
"Even so, that's a peculiar choice for a weapon."
"It's not even a weapon at all. Just a tree branch, and a thin one at that. Nevertheless, its use betrays a certain ingenuity."
"Or desperation. But the killer must have brought it with him, and it's an odd thing to carry by chance. Either he always intended to kill with it, or we're missing something."
I peered at the branch once more. Something was scratching at the back of my mind, begging for attention. But it had been a long night, and the thought danced away into the foggy depths of my brain before I could pin it down.
"I assume Dalrand was exactly as he appeared?" Quintus stood and walked to the window, smoke streaming behind him like a ghostly banner. "He wasn't an eternal or a cowled hiding in plain sight and laughing at us all?"
His back was now both to me and the door, yet I made no move to escape. Quintus was treading paths I hadn't considered.
The shapeshifters Tressians called 'cowled', might as well have been myth for all I knew of them, but I'd encountered a few eternals over the years. Rumour had it that they were effectively immortal, immune to the burdens of old age, and to most other mortal perils. There was otherwise nothing to mark them out from the general run of humanity. Whilst eternals were supposed to be reasonably rare, there were probably a few dozen lurking in the quiet anonymity of the city. That would be a constant worry for someone like Quintus. Immortality was all well and good if it was dedicated to a quiet and unremarkable life, but not if the recipient had blacker goals in mind.
I'd heard many theories as to what made an eternal – depending on who you spoke to, it was the result of anything from an exotic curse to an accident of birth – but, as far as I understood, no one knew for sure. Only a few days ago, Stefan had shared his own theory with me. He'd been certain that eternals were driven, determined to achieve some great work, or atone for some past crime – so driven, in fact, that their spirits had transcended death itself. Had that 'theory' actually been borne of personal experience?
"It doesn't seem likely," I said. "You can no more choke an eternal than stab, poison, immolate or drown them. It just makes them angry. They're well named: nothing short of cutting them into pieces and scattering the remains does the trick."
Quintus twisted to face me. Too late, I realised I'd said entirely too much. "And you, my lord, have personal experience of this?" The edge of professional menace was back in his voice.
"More than I'd like."
"Anyone I'd know?"
The appraising stare was there again, and I met it unflinchingly. "No one you'd miss."
Quintus held my gaze a moment longer. "Let's hope that is so." The level tone didn't hide the threat beneath. Then he shrugged and turned away. The matter was seemingly forgotten, but I knew he'd merely stored it for further contemplation.
"As for his being a cowled? Shapeshifters are just superstition; old wives' tales for foolish peasants."
My assertion was greeted by another snort and a great plume of pipe smoke. "You think so? And here was I thinking you to be a man of the world." Quintus perched on the corner of the desk, which being a well-carpentered piece of furniture, accepted the burden without complaint. "We had a bit of bother a few years back with one of the councillor's daughters. She went for a ride one day, and something else came riding back in her place. Even the dear, doting father couldn't tell the two apart. Caused a proper mess before we tumbled to it. Killed two of my guards, as well as its ersatz father." A scowl of revulsion flickered across his face. "And there have been others. Not many, but enough to convince me that the cowled are real – and cunning as starving wolves."
"Really?" I sensed opportunity for a little redress. "Anyone I'd know?"
A flash of pain, as soon buried as seen, touched those indomitable eyes. "You might be surprised."
An uncomfortable silence followed.
"You're the expert here," I said at last. "Does slaying a cowled require more than a strong arm and cold steel?"
"No." Quintus smiled thinly, and patted his scabbard. "Cold steel worked fine enough."
"Well, we seemed to have arrived at an impasse." I spread my hands wide. "Unless you think perhaps it's the work of the Shaddra?" The ancient black ash standing before the city's soon-to-be-finished cathedral was the source of many an old wives' tale.
Quintus roared with laughter, the shadow on his heart banished. "That old thing? Now who's giving credence to superstition? I don't doubt there's enough hate in her black heart to throttle us this very moment, if only she could tear her gnarled roots free of the ground and waddle up the stairs." He laughed again, placed the pipe back on the desk, and gestured towards the door. "Come, my lord, I've monopolised your time long enough. The morning's a-wasting."
The guard house whose creaking stairs I descended bore little resemblance to the one I had entered. When I'd been dragged in, I'd marked a distinct air of apathy about the place, natural to any working environment when the overseer is elsewhere, and his staff less than enamoured with their trade. Now, however, the place bustled with seven floors of activity as the city's finest continued their unsleeping war against the criminal element.
None of this was lost on Quintus, who kept pace at my side. He held his peace for the first few flights, but as we approached the ground floor, he leaned in close.
"And you say I should consider taking a holiday?" he asked softly. "They do little enough if I'm out of sight. What fate would befall, do you suppose, were I as far away as Selann?"
That was a touch un
fair. A good span lay between deliberate idleness and simple failure to reach Quintus' lofty standards. I was trying to compose a tactful way of pointing this out when Quintus drew away once more, stepping aside as a constable hauled a manacled prisoner up the stairs by the scruff of his neck.
Upon reaching the ground floor, Quintus bypassed the queue of citizens come to offer report or complaint to their protectors, and stepped up to the duty desk. "His lordship Edric Saran is leaving us, at least for a time, and I daresay he'd like his possessions back."
"Very good, sir." The harried-looking sergeant reached under the desk and produced my confiscated weapons.
I buckled the sword belt around my waist, slid the dagger back into the sheath above my left ankle and signed to confirm that all had been returned. Gods! How the Tressians loved their paperwork. For them, it was almost an act of worship, but what deity would be sufficiently dreary to revel in it, I had no idea. When I was done, Quintus thanked the sergeant and led me off.
A few moments later, we were through the guardhouse's oak doors and standing in the bright morning light. The city never looked better than in sunshine, when the white stone of the buildings shone with a dazzling brilliance. Even at this early hour, the streets were thronged with people going about their daily lives. Off to my right, the market was in full swing, the air abuzz with conversation and the scents of fruits, spices and smoked meats. To my left, a crowd gathered around Lieutenant Nierev's men, who themselves were cordoned around a band of manacled ruffians – presumably the yield of the warehouse raid.
A merchant, identifiable as such by his gold-trimmed furs as much as the guild medallion hanging around his neck, ploughed his way through the crowds. Two Thrakkian mercenaries kept pace, clearing bystanders from his path if they did not move of their own accord.
I took a swift step back, but not quickly enough for the nearer of the two mercenaries. He glared at me, gave me a shove for good measure, then placed a meaningful hand on the pommel of his sword to forestall retaliation. So intent was the Thrakkian on keeping eye contact with me, that he walked straight into Quintus, who, I was certain, had been behind me just a moment before.
Shadow of the Raven (The Reckoning Book 1) Page 2
