Shadow of the Raven (The Reckoning Book 1)

by Ward, Matthew

  I shook my head. I had an idea, but it was only a hazy one and I didn't want Quintus hammering after answers I couldn't give.

  "What in the world was it?" he asked.

  This part was going to be trickier. "A strawjack."

  "A what?"

  I grabbed Quintus' arm and led him down the canal, away from the constables. "A strawjack," I repeated, more quietly this time. "It's a wood demon, a golem. Out east, they're called whispering ones, because of the noise they make."

  Quintus looked at me as if I were going mad. Maybe I was. He was probably wondering whether he'd be better carting me off to a cell or to a recuperative sanctum – the kind where everyone talks very slowly and carefully, in the hope of avoiding violence.

  "I only know it from stories I was told as a child," I went on. "Tales about Fellhallow, the Court of Thorns and Twisted Jack. Cautionary stories, to rein in wild children. 'Mend your ways, or else Jack i' the wood will come for you'. That manner of thing. I never took them terribly seriously. I wish I had now."

  "So do I. You might be able to answer some of my questions." Quintus gazed out across the churning waters of the weir. "Fellhallow I know about, of course. Every few years some jumped-up noble-turned-general, his ability to think greatly outmatched by his ego, convinces the council he can march across that bloody great forest and attack the Hadari heartlands without ever encountering your armies." A cloud of smoke belched from the pipe. "Worse, every so often, the desperate buggers agree, always convincing each other that the previous failures had been challenges to overcome, rather than a stark bloody example of why good breeding doesn't always mean good brains."

  He practically spat out these last words, and I wondered, for the first time, about the social status of Quintus' forebears.

  "Twenty years ago, before I turned my attention from the wars of nations to the war on criminality, I watched half my regiment march into that godforsaken forest. Never saw any of them again. Official word was that they'd fought to the last man – somewhere near Kinholt – but I knew it was the forest that did for them."

  "We stopped trying to tame Fellhallow centuries ago," I said. "The occasional fortune seeker slips inside, I don't doubt, but let's just say it's the subject of cautionary tales for a reason and leave it at that. I won't waste your time repeating every rumour I've heard, because I don't believe most of them, but I do know that whatever goes on there, the strawjacks are a part of it."

  "Assassins and monsters," Quintus mused. "These are deep waters you're paddling in, my lord." He threw a look over his shoulder at the constables before continuing. "I'm still a little unclear as to how you beat this 'strawjack'."

  I sighed and let the unasked question hang in the air for a time before answering.

  "To be honest," I started, and then went on to lie. "I'm not sure myself. I assume the creature was dry as a tinderbox. That's why it caught light so fast."

  Arianwyn's curious exclamation was another thing I'd decided to keep to myself. That she'd used magic seemed obvious, but knowing how Tressia treated its mages, I didn't want that knowledge to spread. At least, not until I'd decided how best to use it.

  Quintus grunted, and I cursed my mistake. There was a reasonable chance he'd believe the strawjack had caught alight by fluke, but none at all that he hadn't learnt of the explosion that went alongside. I knew with a sinking feeling that I'd just burned a little of my stock. I couldn't afford to do that too often.

  "What now?" To my admittedly oversensitive ears, Quintus sounded disappointed, and not a little offended.

  "Food, sleep and a bath. It's been a long night."

  "Very well, my lord," Quintus said tightly. "We'll leave it there for now, but you and I are due a proper conversation about this."

  With that, he turned and walked into the night, the two constables summoned to his heels by terse command. I watched them go, then headed back up the hill towards home.

  This was growing increasingly difficult. In order to protect Arianwyn – a decision I'd made without thinking, and one that had been guided by only the haziest instincts – I'd alienated Quintus. Much more of that, and he'd lock me up just to stop me interfering. If I wanted to avoid being hauled into a cell in the very near future, I'd be well served to find him some answers. All well and good, but I currently had no idea how to uncover them.

  I picked up my pace. Sleep would help. Sleep always helped.

  Shortly after, I reached the top of the hill and turned off towards the embassy. I was in sight of the front gate when I heard a clatter of movement behind me. Before I could so much as turn, something heavy struck the back of my head.

  The world spun, and the ground rushed up to meet me.

  Eight

  I awoke in darkness, with a pair of shackles about my wrists.

  Once, many years ago, I met a philosopher who swore future experience was shaped by the sins of the past. I'd certainly spent a lot of time locked up or running for my life lately – and I probably deserved to – but this was starting to get ridiculous.

  My new home was a cell of some kind, with a venerable wooden door as the only exit, and a small window high on the wall opposite serving as the only source of daylight. That same daylight meant I'd already been here for some hours. It was a small consolation that I'd probably have no less than three people looking for me if I was kept here long. Not that 'looking for' and 'finding' could have been said to be remotely the same thing.

  I hauled myself into a sitting position atop the wooden cot, wincing as blood returned to extremities too long denied.

  My weapons were gone. I'd expected as much, but that didn't assuage the feeling of worry. The dagger could be replaced, but the sword was a sore loss. Otherwise, I found my possessions to be intact, or at least as far as I could tell – shackles being something of a hindrance when rifling one's own pockets. My coin pouch still clinked merrily away at my waist and the mysterious stone fragment was still buried at the bottom of my pocket.

  As for myself, I had a thumping headache and a lump on the back of my head. Other than that, I seemed relatively unharmed – if I didn't count the collection of bruises earned in the fight with the strawjack.

  I considered calling out for the inevitable guard, but decided I'd rather gather what remained of my wits. Sliding as far from the slops bucket as the tiny confines of the room allowed, I waited and considered my predicament.

  Who had I offended now? All the likely candidates were already accounted for. The strawjack, if it had survived, would have strangled me, or else torn me limb from limb. Quintus would never have let me out of his sight – and besides, I was fairly certain he'd have tackled me face on, not from behind. Constans was a possibility. He'd already tried to manoeuvre me into leaving the Silverway with him. Perhaps he'd returned to violently countermand my refusal.

  I sighed and kicked idly at the floor. Too much had happened in too short a space of time for me to get it all straight in my head, so I gave up trying. I did, however, promise myself that I would get some answers. Arianwyn had drawn me into something I didn't fully understand; she at least owed me an explanation.

  There was a flutter at the window, and a winged shadow fell upon the floor. For a moment, I entertained myself with the notion that the bird held the key to the door in its beak, and would drop it into the cell so that I could escape. But, unlike the legendary thief Apara Rann, who supposedly escaped a Thrakkian dungeon through such means, I had no influence over birds. The creature sat there for a moment, let out an amused-sounding cry, then took wing in a flurry of feathers.

  *******

  Several hours later, a key rattled in the lock.

  The cell door screeched open, and my gaoler walked in. His was a countenance only a blind mother could love, with a nose broken and badly reset many times, and a face that was a mass of scars. He pointed at the open door with a meaty finger.

  "Leaving, are we?" I asked.

  He said nothing, but pointed at the door again. Then, no long
er prepared to tolerate my reticence, he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and half-carried me out of the cell.

  It seemed I was wanted elsewhere.

  My feet barely touching the ground, I was frogmarched up several flights of stairs, down a corridor and finally into an enormous room so opulent that all it shared with the cell I had just left was that it had four walls. The carpet alone, in which my tiptoes now sought precarious purchase, possessed such a luxurious pile and extravagance of colour that its value was probably equal to that of Stefan's entire house and everything in it. Statues and paintings lined the walls, all of them expensive works – at least to my unpractised eye – and all placed in artful attempts to conceal spyholes in the walls. Whatever was about to happen, it would apparently have an audience.

  A door on the opposite side of the room opened, admitting two men. The first was a small, balding fellow who, judging by appearance and servile manner, was a flunky of some kind. He held a bowl of water and had a white cloth over his arm. The second man was another matter entirely. Tall and cadaverous, he moved with the kind of confidence that comes naturally only to the very rich or the very dangerous. This man, I felt certain, was both.

  Everything about him was grey, from his receding hair to the silver frames of his spectacles, and the tailored cloth of his high-collared tunic. In fact, the only flash of colour upon his person was a small amulet, a ruby set in silver hanging from a chain about his neck. No, I realised, not quite the only flash of colour; his hands were flecked with blood. I was, I realised as the grey man submerged his hands in the bowl, in a very great deal of trouble.

  As if hearing my thoughts, the grey man gazed at me with unblinking eyes and glanced at the guard behind me.

  "You can leave us now, Balgan." Polite. Very polite. Then again, he'd probably order my death in the same even tones. "I don't think the ambassador will give us any trouble." He shifted his attention to me again. "Will you, ambassador?"

  I tried to shrug – a more difficult action than you might think, given my state of restraint. The grey man nodded and returned to washing his hands. Balgan let me drop and left the room, the door closing behind him with an ominous thud.

  "My apologies for being such a neglectful host," the grey man said in a mannered voice. "I'm afraid that another of my guests was quite… demanding... of my attention."

  He rinsed his hands in the water and dried them on a cloth. At last taking his eyes off me, he meticulously chased the pinkish rivulets down the length of his thin fingers, making sure every last one was captured in the folds of material. This done, he dropped the cloth into the bowl and retreated to an expansive desk.

  The attendant, taking this as his sign to leave, gave his master a small bow and then exited the room through the door by which he had entered. The grey man took a seat behind his desk. I remained standing – no one had thought to supply a chair for me.

  "You do know who I am, of course."

  I offered a small nod. "I do indeed, Lord Solomon."

  I'd met Solomon once before, during the brief and farcical reception that marked the beginning of my ambassadorial career. The Tressian council may have been caught wrong-footed by the Empire's sudden willingness to discuss peace, but they were determined to do things properly, and had greeted me with all the pomp and ceremony an honoured guest could have desired. I'd found the whole thing embarrassing, and not a little distasteful. But then I knew full well – and hated – the circumstances that had brought me there.

  It was at the reception, in that whirl of dress uniforms and sparkling jewels, of tasteful entertainment and tasteless urbanity, that I'd first set eyes upon Solomon. Even then, with only the haziest knowledge of his actions and influence to guide me, I'd known this was a man I should on no account ever cross. He'd prowled around that room like a lean grey wolf in a crowd of fat, fluffy sheep. Half the nobles and councillors in that room had been in his direct pay, I knew. Most of the rest had been terrified into compliance by the threats of blackmail and abduction Solomon made as easily as breathing.

  Tressia may have been ruled by a council during the day, but at night, and in those dark places where even the righteous dared not tread, Solomon was master.

  Of course, I'd since learnt much more about Solomon's deeds; the kidnappings and torture he routinely employed to remove obstacles from his path; the bribes and carefully applied patronage he'd used to seize control of the praetorians – once considered the finest and least corruptible of all Tressia's soldiery.

  It was probably little solace to the Tressians that Solomon was a monster entirely of their own creation. Five years earlier, faced with a war that couldn't be won, an increasingly leaderless council, and a populace on the verge of revolt, Solomon had set about addressing the city's problems, one at a time. His trusted lieutenants infiltrated the insurrectionists and, one by one, the most vocal and charismatic of the rebels disappeared. There had been outcry at first, but Solomon had produced correspondence and confessions proving that, to the last man and woman, those who had vanished were traitors in the pay of the Hadari Empire.

  Even with such 'proofs', Solomon wouldn't have survived the resulting furore if he hadn't simultaneously struck out against the Hadari army. Even as his thugs were dragging Tressians from their homes, his assassins were at work in distant lands. My brother barely survived one such attack and, over a period of weeks, many advisors and warleaders were slain, wounded, or in fear of their lives. Before Solomon's assassins struck we'd been within six months of wiping Tressia off the map. As it was, the disruption dragged the war on for another five years, until my royal brother's untimely death.

  After his assassins had done their work, Solomon sank back into the shadows. He didn't have the knowledge to prosecute a failing war, so he left that to others, though always making certain that those others owed him sufficiently – or feared him sufficiently – to ensure that his plans continued apace. From then on he'd watched the world unfold, prodding the council in the right direction by placing appropriate words in proper ears at the opportune time.

  Citizens still vanished, I knew that much from Quintus, but there was nothing to connect Solomon to the disappearances save for his past reputation, and the cold, immutable certainties of those who knew his ways. Without proof, Quintus could do nothing.

  Solomon didn't want power for its own sake, for he could have been a tyrant by day as well as night whenever he chose to. That he was playing a game, I didn't doubt, but one with rules only he knew. Even worse, it appeared that I'd managed to stray onto the board.

  Solomon opened a drawer and produced a sheaf of papers. Placing them on the desk, he licked the index finger of his right hand, and flicked through them, one at a time. "You, of course, are Edric Saran: late of the Hadari royal family, former champion to the Golden Court, etcetera, etcetera."

  It was a statement, rather than a question, so I said nothing, silently wondering which of a dozen unpleasant ways this conversation was likely to go.

  "You'll have to bear with me, ambassador. I do like to make sure that the details are correct." Solomon turned another page. "Yes, that's right – you more or less held the Hadari army together five years ago; an impressive feat, all things considered. Most inconvenient."

  "A lot of good men helped me." I said coldly, hoping to put him off his stride.

  "No doubt, no doubt."

  Solomon was politeness itself, a man making seemly discussion with a colleague, but I knew that the thumbscrews would come when they were called for. He looked down and riffled through a few more pages, then traced a few words with an outstretched finger.

  "Interesting, I'd not seen this one before. You murdered one of my... associates before he could execute your brother." He gave a dry chuckle and peered at me over the top of his spectacles. "History is such a cruel teacher, but one with a fine sense of irony, don't you agree?"

  It was a simple provocation, but no less skilfully judged and delivered for all that. With those words, my nervous
apprehension of the last few hours boiled away beneath rising anger. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to hurl myself across that desk and choke the life out of the thin, evil monster who sat in front of me.

  Gritting my teeth, I forced the anger down. I'd not make it within three feet of the desk before one of the concealed watchers put a crossbow bolt in my back. Even if I got my manacled hands around Solomon's throat, there'd be no escape for me afterwards.

  Solomon leaned back in his chair and watched me with amusement. "I'm sorry, that's still a sore subject, I see."

  It was all an act, I was sure, and my reaction would doubtless be recorded in the file with everything else. Edric Saran: reacts violently when reminded of his brother's death. I wasn't surprised Solomon had a file on me. He probably had a file on everyone he'd ever met; he certainly had one on everyone who'd ever stood in his way, and I qualified on both counts.

  "And how is your uncle, the newly invested Emperor?" Solomon doubtless knew the answer better than I did.

  "I believe that his majesty, Eirac the First, is flourishing." I struggled for a neutral tone. "I can't be certain. We've been out of contact of late." I could play at insincere politeness as well as Solomon could.

  "It is such a shame when families fall out." Solomon toyed with his amulet. "But I didn't invite you here to prattle about such matters, pleasant as the reminiscences may be. No."

  He rose and walked towards me, hands clasped behind his back. "I think we can help each other. Oh, don't look at me like that. Is it so impossible that we might have mutual interests or, at least, convergent ones?"

  "Yes," I replied flatly.

  Solomon wagged a finger. "Ah, but we did, not so long ago, though I'll allow that those were most unusual circumstances." He didn't elaborate, but he didn't need to. It was even true, after a fashion. He bunched his knuckles, touched them to his lips and sighed. "I concede, we are not friends, nor are we ever likely to be. But that doesn't mean we can't co-operate when..."