Shadow of the Raven (The Reckoning Book 1)

by Ward, Matthew

  "Back off! Unless..."

  The Thrakkian's harsh words and the scrape of his sword sliding from the scabbard sounded as one, and he turned to confront the upstart who had blocked his path. I watched with amusement as the mercenary's eyes met Quintus'. The colour drained from the Thrakkian's face and his next imprecation died upon dry lips. Returning sword to scabbard, the Thrakkian muttered a brief and subdued apology, then vanished back into the crowd and to his master's side as swiftly as dignity allowed.

  "Some people never look where they're going." Quintus wrinkled his nose in distaste at some of the more insalubrious aromas. "Anyway, I must leave you now, my lord. I've things to do, murderers to catch and similar." He smiled coldly, "And I'm sure I can always find you, should I have the need."

  "Well, I'm sure you'll lay your hands on the killer soon enough," I said, unable to resist a last barb.

  Not a bad final word, or so I thought, but the captain had a better.

  "Aye, I reckon so. But will it be before he lays hands on you? Witnesses are a terrible bother, and he's not to know you've been as silent as the grave, is he? Good day to you, my lord."

  With that, Quintus ambled back into the guard house, and I went to get some sleep.

  Three

  Great rivers of humanity flowed through the city streets, fed by a constant flow of merchants, constables, beggars, tradesmen, nobles and soldiers from the maze of alleys criss-crossing the city. Hawkers and entertainers plied their trade upon the fringes, backs pressed up against the walls and railings to avoid being swept along with the current. But it wasn't just law-abiding merchants and street vendors plying their business; less scrupulous trades were at work. A shrill scream of protest sounded as a pickpocket absconded with a noblewoman's purse. I caught only a glimpse of the vagabond, but doubted he got far; the crowds were full of Quintus' blue-tabarded constables.

  A few streets on, the crowds thinned, and the buildings changed. Gone were the colonnaded white mansions of the upper classes, replaced by ramshackle warehouses and the battered stone facades of commoners' townhouses. Tressia's wealth still came from the Silverway River, but little of that money lingered near the wharves. Most fed the fortunes of the already-wealthy whose mansions dominated the valley sides. Though its lords might say otherwise, there was no more equality in Tressia than there was in my homeland – we simply didn't pretend otherwise.

  My homeward route took me over the Lionhead Bridge, a marvel of engineering and white stone, marred by rows of snarling statues and golden beast-heads sprouting from its flanks. Far below, the majestic Silverway River eventually flowed past crowded wharves and harbour-side walls to reach the open sea. A dozen merchantmen lay moored at the dockside, their crews scurrying to unload the precious foodstuffs shipped in from the outer isles. My kinsmen had tried many times to seize those territories, to force famine and surrender upon our ancient enemies, but so far every attempt had failed. Tressia's armies might be overmatched, but its navies dominated the oceans.

  The recently-ended conflict between the Tressian Republic and the Hadari Empire had ebbed and flowed for centuries – so long, in fact, that it was now impossible to be sure which side had started it, and why. As I understood, the lords of the Tressian council were hopeful that there'd be no return to hostilities. Things had been going against Tressia for some time, and the republic's proud lords had little alternative but to accept the offered peace.

  In the Empire, matters were different. The Emperor was glad of the peace, but I knew too many warleaders who felt cheated by the end of the war. Even now, the influence of those men kept the bulk of the Hadari army in the field, camped only a few leagues from where I stood, alert for any excuse to renew hostilities.

  I watched the sailors at their toil, and wearily tried to make sense of the morning. Why had Stefan been killed? For that matter, what did Quintus know that he wasn't telling me? That he knew more than I did, I took as fact. Deception comes as easily to the guardians of the law as it does to those who break it, and for much the same reason; truth is a weapon, if properly honed. For all his fine words, Quintus didn't trust me, which meant he was either hoping I'd trip myself up, or he had proof I wasn't the killer. I wondered which it was.

  I glanced back the way I'd come. Two lions back, a fair-haired man leaned back on the parapet, his raiment hidden beneath a dark grey cloak, and his eyes careful to look in any direction but mine.

  I'd seen the individual in question several times as I had crossed the city, and on each occasion he'd been about as far away from me as he was now. Interesting. I pushed away from the statue, and pressed on. A dozen steps later, my shoulder brushed that of a traveller coming the other way. Under cover of the movement, I looked back to where the fair-haired man had stood. He was gone, but I doubted he'd gone far. Apologising to the citizen I'd jostled, and ignoring the disdainful glance more to do with the shade of my skin than my actions, I forged onwards.

  As I came to the end of the bridge, I considered my next move. It'd be child's play to lose my shadow in the tangle of dockside alleyways. However, that would yield no more answers than I currently had, and provoked two more questions, chiefly who was following me, and why? Picking up my pace, I veered into an alleyway and sheltered behind a stack of battered crates.

  I didn't have to wait long. I heard my pursuer come to a halt at the alley's mouth, and curse under his breath. Would he abandon his pursuit, or rush on into the darkness in an effort to reacquire me? The rapid thud of boots on cobbles answered my question. The shadow ran straight past, without so much as a look in my direction.

  Or rather, he tried to.

  Taking a long step forward, I grabbed one of my pursuer's arms, pivoted on my heel, and used the runner's own momentum to whirl him about and slam him against the wall. I was on him before he recovered, one hand clamped around his throat, the other holding my dagger's point level with his eyes.

  "Why are you following me?"

  He didn't answer at first, but the folds of his cloak had fallen upon. Whilst my ears waited, my eyes took in the blue tabard and the silver hawk's badge.

  Oh shades.

  "Because it's my job." The constable's voice shook, his tone more desperate than authoritative. "Get your hands off me!"

  "I can see that." I made a point of casting my eyes across his uniform. "Or rather, I can see that now." That was as much of an apology as I was prepared to offer. "I've already had one man try to kill me this morning. You'll understand if I'm ill-disposed to being followed."

  The truth was, I'd overreacted, and was already regretting it. I withdrew my blade and stepped back. The constable awkwardly straightened his uniform, then fixed me with what he supposed was an intimidating stare. A good effort, but I'd seen far worse.

  "Assaulting a constable is a serious matter," he said. "Even with your privileged status, it's good for twenty four months in the Pit."

  "Is it now?"

  I didn't want to spend even an hour in the Pit, as the Blackwater jail was affectionately known. The Tressians could call a stinking and rat-infested dungeon by whatever names they wished, but a stinking and rat-infested dungeon it remained. Even so, I was far from ready to make further apology to this young fool. Especially as I'd have bet good money that the constable was following me on Quintus' orders, rather than his own initiative.

  "However," said the constable, "I can see my own actions have been needlessly provocative, so the law will be content with a warning..." He droned on, working his way remorselessly through a legalistic caution. I wasn't really listening, but I made sure to grunt my assent whenever the constable paused. Finally, the lecture came to an end. "...and I release you under your own cognisance to obey forthwith the laws of our great city."

  "Thank you, Constable...?" I spoke with all the sincerity I could muster, which was not a very great amount, truth be told.

  "Jorcas Arval. Constable, second grade." His posture stiffened.

  "Ah, the tireless protector of the marketplace.
" A touch of colour came to Arval's cheeks. "Well, Constable Arval, I thank you for your understanding, and wish you the joy of the day."

  Offering an almost-sincere bow, I left the alleyway, and slipped into the crowds.

  *******

  The mansion serving as the Hadari embassy had once belonged to a spice merchant, and stood in private gardens at the heart of the Northern Quarter. I'd never asked what had happened to the merchant, nor did I care. But it was a particularly fine house, and a better legacy than most men left.

  A single-storey lodge stood adjacent to the front gate. As I approached, the door swung open and a tall, olive-skinned man strode out. His black hair looked impossibly dark in the sunlight; the burnished scales of his armour and green silks of his robes glittered like gems. He opened the gate and bowed deeply. "Welcome home, savir."

  I gave only a short bow in return, for I far outranked the havildar who commanded my bodyguard.

  He straightened. As ever, his proud bearing was as utterly in keeping with the traditions of our people as it was profoundly irritating to me. "We'd almost given you up for lost."

  "Where I go and when I return are my business, not yours, Jamar," I replied, and stalked up the flagstoned path.

  Jamar, never easily deterred, followed at a respectful distance. "Indeed, savir. However, your actions make our duty most difficult. Caution, to say nothing of protocol, dictates that you should have an honour guard with you at all times."

  I came to a halt and glared at him, though for all the effect it had I might as well not have bothered. "I don't need instruction in protocol. I am the ambassador, and I will decide what is proper. Is that understood?"

  There was a pause. "Yes, savir."

  "Good."

  Jamar wasn't yet done being infuriating. "The archimandrite's office has asked once again if you'll be attending the cathedral's consecration."

  I sighed. I'd little interest in Tressia's religious obsessions at the best of times, and the consecration ceremony promised a nightmare of platitudes and rhetoric. But my position, and thus my duty, dictated I attend.

  "I will give the matter consideration," I replied. Jamar wouldn't be happy with that, but nor would he think it proper to argue the point.

  I turned my back on the havildar and walked the last few paces alone, aware his eyes were on me every step of the way. Another of my bodyguard bowed as I passed into the entrance hall. I strode past without a word. I couldn't even remember his name. It began with an 'R', I was fairly sure. Romark? Romar? Ramar? Ramal? It was no good, I couldn't remember.

  Now in a thoroughly black mood, I passed into the hallway. Heavy drapes lay across all the windows. Chinks of light crept in here and there, but served only to deepen the shadows that gathered in the corners. I had eyes for none of it.

  I knew I'd badly mishandled the conversation with the havildar, and I felt no better for knowing it to be merely the latest in a long line of such disasters. Other than myself, Jamar and his men were the only Hadari in the city, yet I couldn't bring myself to trust them. I didn't want a bodyguard. That I had one was frustrating at best and, at worst, a ploy to make sure my brother's supporters would be aware of my every move. I was either treating honourable men with unforgivable rudeness, or I was due to be murdered in my bed one day soon. But there was, annoyingly, little I could do about either. With a last growl of frustration, I headed upstairs.

  The staircase, as befitted a house of such grandeur, divided halfway up. The carpet on the rightmost spur lay heavy with dust. If I'd a family, or at least some deputies, perhaps there'd have been a reason to use the chambers beyond. As it was, with but myself and a handful of others in residence, even the occupation of the east wing seemed ridiculous.

  Given half a chance, I'd have abandoned the upper floor altogether, but Jamar had been quite firm on the matter. The upper floor was more defensible, he'd said, should the embassy come under attack. He'd also assured me that I would find the rough nature of his men to be discomfiting – which was as polite a way of banishing me from their presence as I could think of. A tactful man, Jamar.

  I'd have hired more servants had the mansion been an embassy in anything other than name. Alas, I was an exile, not a true ambassador. The Tressian ruling classes cared even less for my company than Jamar his men did. Thus, the west wing remained a dusty and neglected series of rooms, its doors sealed and its glories forgotten.

  As I reached the small landing where the stairway split, I found my eyes drawn, as they always were, to the gilt-framed painting that dominated the hall. It was as tall as I, twice again as broad and, I was forced to admit, a masterpiece in oils.

  The painting depicted the closing scenes of a long ago battle – the very conflict that began Tressia's rise to pre-eminence amongst the kingdoms of the world. I had once tried to reckon the number of warriors in that scene, but had abandoned my count when it passed a thousand. The Tressian soldiers, identified by their heraldry of midnight blues, were clearly outnumbered, but fought with determination against a horde of enemies clad in golden armour and green silks.

  At the centre stood a great mail-clad brute of a man, his right foot planted upon a balcony's marble balustrade, his dark eyes alive with righteous anger. The warrior's arms were outstretched, his right hand clamped around his barbarian opponent's throat, his left about the enemy's sword wrist. His golden-armoured foe, clearly overmatched, was hoisted high over the balcony's edge and, judging by the scale of the soldiers below, was destined for a fatal descent.

  The barbarian's death would come as scant consolation, I was certain, to the silver-haired corpse at the brute's feet. It would, however, be welcomed by the slender Tressian lord who fought nearby, curved blade held firm before a dozen snarling attackers. Between the lord and the brute, huddled a boy and a girl. The boy seemed rightly terrified at the horrors of battle. The girl, though no more than five summers in age, was serene; some trick of the painter's art had suffused her gaze with resolve, and her posture with otherworldly calm. The young Sidara. Had she known what awaited her? Did any of us?

  A small plaque titled the painting 'Lord Droshna's Triumph'. When I'd first arrived in the mansion, vibrant patches on faded walls spoke of many other pictures recently removed. This one had remained as someone's idea of a joke.

  The barbarians against whom the Tressians fought were Hadari, and the warlord who struggled helplessly in Droshna's grasp, and would indeed shortly after plunge to his death, sealing the battle's outcome, was Kai Saran, long ago ruler of the Hadari Empire and my grandsire, though many generations distant. The painting's presence was therefore both an act of triumphalism served upon a foreign ambassador, and a subtle reminder of how that ambassador's own fortunes had shifted.

  I could have had the thing taken down, stored away in the west wing, or simply burnt, but I didn't. What remained of my self-esteem didn't want to rise to so petty a provocation, especially given that whoever placed the painting there probably wanted me to destroy it.

  I also knew just what Droshna had become a handful of years after the paint had dried, and I knew that made the tableau more embarrassing to the Tressians than it would ever be to me. I examined Droshna's face, at the determination that was perhaps a little too desperate – and too hungry – to be entirely wholesome. Had the artist known how Droshna's tale would play out? And what of my ancestor? Would he have approved of the path that had brought me here, or would he too have disowned me, like so many of our people?

  Of course, no answer was forthcoming. So I headed into the east wing and the quiet welcome of my bedchamber.

  Four

  It was fully dark when I awoke. I grimaced – I'd only intended to sleep until early afternoon, but my body had clearly decided it needed longer.

  I left the embassy by the side gate to avoid another not-quite-confrontation with Jamar. The first order of business was food. Then, perhaps, I'd take another look around Stefan's house. I still had the key in my pocket, and my instincts insisted I'd find
at least some answers within those walls.

  The streets were quieter now, with only a few ne'er do wells, amongst whose ranks I reluctantly counted myself, treading the cobbled road. Most walked with purpose, late for some family meal or perhaps fleeing from the same; others sauntered and staggered in that erratic way natural only to men well and truly in their cups.

  I took care to give the latter a wide berth, a caution born of unhappy experience. When most Tressians noticed the shade of my skin and the oddness of my garb, they were content to treat me with quiet disdain. However, the inebriated could always be relied upon to concoct some reason as to why a foreigner needed to experience honest Tressian wrath.

  My hunger led me down the hill to the dockside and the ramshackle watering hole nestling in the heart of a downmarket warehouse district. Jamar wouldn't have approved of the Silverway Tavern. In fact, he'd many times politely criticised me for eating in the city's less salubrious establishments. When I wouldn't be dissuaded, he'd then started accompanying me, to ensure I didn't fetch a knife in the back. Of course, my chief concern was that I didn't fetch a knife in the back from Jamar, so as soon as he discovered one watering hole, I was obliged to move on to another. As yet, Jamar and his comrades had yet to tumble to the Silverway, but it was only a matter of time.

  The Silverway Tavern was a curious building, one of the oldest in Tressia. Long ago, when it was still as pure and clean as the river that was its namesake, this part of the city had been much less industrial, and far more affluent. The dressed stone façade was entirely out of keeping with the timber-framed dwellings and brick storehouses looming over the rest of the riverside. A rotting jetty and a pair of loading doors high on the tavern's riverward flank betrayed its previous life as a warehouse, though to what trade it had answered I had no idea. Light blazed from the high windows, overpowering the flickering oil-fuelled lamps that framed the roadway, and serving as a stark contrast to the dark and shuttered warehouses nearby.