Shadow of the Raven (The Reckoning Book 1)

by Ward, Matthew

  "Yes, but..."

  "Please don't be difficult." Arianwyn addressed Constans in icy tones. "I know you're making sure we've considered all options, but we are not assisting Solomon with anything. Ever. Do I make myself clear?"

  Constans held up his hands. "Of course, Ari. I never thought for a moment that we should."

  I wasn't sure whether or not to believe him. He had a ruthless streak, did Constans. One ill at odds with his irreverent nature.

  Arianwyn turned away from Constans and looked at me. "Edric, a little while ago I said that we needed your help. I think the situation has changed. I hope we're friends now, rather than strangers, but if I'm wrong, even strangers can work together in times of mutual need, can they not? Neither of us wants to see Solomon gain access to Otherworld."

  "Solomon's not the only party interested in the fragment," I reminded her. "Should we hand it over to Jack? That would at least ensure Solomon never got his hands on it."

  "I wouldn't guarantee that," Constans said. "Solomon seems to have agents everywhere."

  "Maybe so," Arianwyn argued. "But Fellhallow's a little beyond even his reach, surely?"

  Constans shrugged.

  "On the other hand," she went on, "I've read enough about Jerack to be a little chary of handing the fragment over. He doesn't exactly have a trustworthy history. Melanna Saran, Tyric Elas, Vyndir Reveque... There's no shortage of ill-omened tales concerning mortals who deal with the master of Fellhallow."

  "So we hold onto the fragment," I said, nodding. "What do we do when the strawjack comes looking for it?"

  Arianwyn shrugged. "We'll have to work that out when it happens. For what it's worth, I doubt a strawjack can get into the Tower of Stars."

  "Are we worrying over nothing?" I asked. "This is a fragment of a portalstone. Even if Solomon retrieves enough pieces, we don't know that he can recreate one."

  "Do you want to take that chance?" Arianwyn rejoined. "Dalrand thought there were three other fragments of this same portalstone within the city walls. The notes suggest that Solomon already has one. What if we reach the others before he does?"

  "How?"

  "It's possible he may not know where they are. We do. At least, we do if Dalrand's notes are correct."

  "So why don't we just hold onto this fragment? If all of the pieces are from the same portalstone, he can't rebuild it without our fragment."

  "Again, we don't know that," said Constans. "And I don't much like gambling the future on the assumption that Solomon can't lay his hands on someone who can botch three out of four pieces together into a functioning whole."

  I grimaced. He was right, of course. "Why not go the other way? Destroy it?"

  "How would you suggest we do that? It survived whatever cataclysm destroyed Darkmere. It was split, certainly, but it endured when practically nothing else did."

  I hung my head, accepting my fate. "Where do we go first?"

  It was Arianwyn who answered. "The vaults of the council palace; apparently, one of the fragments was concealed in an antique urn, which was then itself seized as contraband."

  "That's suitably ironic." Constans raised a questioning eyebrow. "Solomon's own council blocking his acquisitions, I mean."

  "He may already have that piece," Arianwyn cautioned. "He certainly has enough eyes and ears in the palace. If he hasn't, it's likely he'll learn of it soon. That's why we'll get that one first."

  "We'd better go, then." I rose, and retrieved my sword.

  "Not quite yet," she said. "We'll want to wait until it's properly dark before we go sneaking around the palace. That'll at least minimise the potential witnesses."

  I looked down at my remembrance ring again, a thought forming in my mind. "How much of a delay are you suggesting?"

  "No more than a couple of hours."

  "Good. There's something I'd like to take care of first. I'll probably need help."

  "Constans will go with you," said Arianwyn.

  Constans looked up. "Oh, he will, will he?" The words suggested annoyance, but he was still smiling as he unfolded himself from the chair.

  "If I'm to break into the vaults, I've preparations to make," Arianwyn explained coolly. "So unless you want me to ask Zorya...?"

  "No, it's fine," Constans assured her hastily. "Besides, Zorya would stand out even more than our friend does. Given his ability to fall into trouble, that's saying something quite profound." He turned to me. "Are you ready to leave now?"

  "Just about. But I'd like to check on Jamar on the way out."

  "Not a problem," he said. "However, if he's asleep, don't wake him. Mustn't upset Zorya."

  Sixteen

  Constans and I slipped away from the Tower of Stars without incident. Jamar had indeed been asleep when we left and I'd decided not to incur Zorya's wrath by disturbing him. Instead, I settled for asking Arianwyn to share the details of our discussion with him if he awoke before she too left the tower.

  It was strange to pass through a courtyard designed to accommodate so many warriors, and yet was as deserted as Lord Solomon's conscience. As we entered the gatehouse, we passed only two more sentinels. Both were seemingly constructed of the same stone as Zorya and, like her, crafted in the likenesses of young women. They were armed and armoured in the same manner as praetorians, with thick plate partially concealing their clothes and wicked halberds held at guard in their hands. I'd found Zorya unsettling; these I beheld with outright fear. There was something particularly intimidating about the glassy-eyed stare when combined with such armaments. The sentinels ignored us in favour of continuing their silent vigil and we spoke no word to them as we passed into the gatehouse.

  "Not all of them can speak," said Constans. "Or at least, there are several I've never heard speak. Perhaps they don't like talking to me."

  "How many are there?"

  "I'm not sure. I've never seen more than a dozen, and I couldn't tell you the names of more than three or four. They keep to themselves for the most part."

  We reached the main gate of the outer wall which, to my utter consternation, unbolted itself and swung outwards. I shook my head. "I don't think I'll ever get used to this city."

  Constans grinned. "The Tower of Stars is not a particularly representative example of a Tressian fortress. As far as I know, the rest are quite ordinary."

  "I know, but between this place, Otherworld, the strawjack, Zorya... Three days ago my life was bounded by certainties. Boring, tedious and soul-destroying certainties, but certainties nonetheless. Now it seems I can't go an hour or two without some legend crossing my path or something inexplicable happening."

  "At least you're not bored any longer."

  "True."

  "Well, we're outside," said Constans. "Do I get to know what you have in mind and where we're going?"

  We'd agreed to meet Arianwyn in the palace grounds at midnight but, as yet, I had not told Constans what it was that I wanted to do first. "I need to find the remains of my other bodyguards, Romark and Haril."

  "Fair enough," Constans said easily. "Is your humble guide permitted to know why?"

  I held up my left hand. Silver glinted in the fading light. "All my people wear one of these: a remembrance ring. When a body can't be taken to the family crypt, it's tradition the remembrance ring be returned so that family have proof of death. I want to recover Romark's and Haril's rings so that they can be returned to their families. I owe them that much."

  "It might be a while before you're able to travel home."

  "I could be there tomorrow if Arianwyn would consent to taking me through Otherworld, though I'm not sure of the reception I'd have. It doesn't matter. Until I have the rings, the challenges of how they're returned are irrelevant. Do you have any idea where we start looking?"

  Constans glanced at two constables, wending their way through the crowds. I gave silent thanks to Arianwyn for arranging alternative clothing. In my robes I'd have easily been spotted – that all Quintus' patrols had been warned to look out for m
e, I took as a given. In Tressian raiment, only the darker tone of my skin could give me away, and even that was unlikely to cause comment whilst I remained hooded and cloaked.

  "It depends." Constans didn't take his eyes from the patrol. "Normally, I'd say we'd need to indulge a spot of grave-digging. Most corpses without the benefit of friends or family are heaved into a mass grave within a few hours of their passing."

  The constables vanished out of sight around a corner. Constans started walking, gesturing at me to follow. "However, in this case, I think they'll still be in the constabulary morgue. Given the tangle of suspicions Quintus is harbouring about you, they're likely to have been treated as evidence. He'll have kept them as cool and unburied as possible until he's sure that there's nothing more he can learn."

  "Where's the morgue?" I asked, dodging an oncoming dray.

  Constans set a brisk pace through the crowds, moving effortlessly from gap to gap. "Where else? It's in the basement of the guard house."

  "Wonderful," I lied. "I hope Quintus is out on patrol. Or better yet, at home and sleeping."

  "Don't worry," he said encouragingly. "It'll be fine. You wait and see."

  *******

  A little while later, we stood in a heavily-dunged alleyway behind the guard house. It was not a pleasant locale – it led to the constabulary's modest stables. It was blocked by a massive iron gate, presumably in order to prevent the kind of intrusion that Constans and I were attempting. I'd already tried my assortment of skeleton keys to no avail, and Constans was now attempting to spring the gate with a set of lock picks he'd produced from somewhere about his person.

  "This doesn't seem to be going very well."

  Constans sighed. "Edric, you really must maintain a positive attitude. This is a setback, that's all." He stopped smiling, swore, and kicked the gate.

  "Positive attitude?"

  "Well, if you'd rather ask one of the nice constables if you could borrow the key, I'm certainly happy to let you give it a try. No? Then please be quiet and let me concentrate."

  After enduring of five minutes of Constans berating himself and the lock in roughly equal measure, I was ready to give up on the whole endeavour. "Constans..."

  There was a metallic click, and the gate swung inward.

  Constans looked at me with innocent curiosity. "Yes?"

  We made our way further down the passage, and took a left turn. Constans put a warning finger to his lips – the stables were just ahead. Fortunately, they were entirely bereft of two-legged life, and those horses currently in residence merely regarded us with that singular form of disinterest that only horses and young nobles can truly master.

  We crept down a stone stairway running alongside a sluggishly flowing stream – one of the Silverway's minor tributaries, or so I assumed. This led to a small courtyard, choked with dead and dying plants, surrounded on all sides by towering buildings.

  Here, at last, was a guard. Well, a constable at least, for a less attentive specimen would have been harder to find. He stood with his back to an open door, alternating between puffing on a cheap-looking cigar, and taking generous mouthfuls of some illicit beverage from a hip flask.

  We ducked out of sight.

  "These obstacles always pop up at the last moment." Constans shook his head. "I don't suppose you want the pleasure...?"

  "Not really." Just because I was now firmly on the wrong side of the law didn't mean I had any enthusiasm for clobbering constables.

  Fortunately, Constans had enthusiasm enough for both of us. Producing a dagger, he eased his way around the corner. He took aim, then gave a low whistle. The constable heard the noise, saw Constans...

  ...and collapsed as the dagger's hilt smacked into his forehead.

  Constans was already moving. He caught the hapless watchdog of the law, and his hip flask, before either could strike the cobbles. He lowered the unconscious constable with one arm, then raised the hip flask to his nose, savoured its bouquet and scowled.

  "What a terrible thing to do to apples," he opined. He took a drink anyway. "Are you coming?"

  While Constans retrieved his dagger, I propped the constable up in one corner of the courtyard and poured the contents of the hip flask onto his uniform. When he woke up, he'd hopefully assume he'd drunk more than he'd intended to and spilt the rest.

  After a careful look through the open doorway, Constans and I ducked inside. No one had thought to put up handy signs in the guard house, but it seemed Constans had been there before, because he led us unerringly down two stone flights of lantern-lit stairs and straight into the morgue.

  We only had to hide once, when a burly and red-faced figure heavily emerged onto the stairs. This was Emyl Boruta, the resident doctor, surgeon and gravesman. From what I'd heard, he was probably so drunk he'd not even notice us, or at least find nothing odd in the situation if he did. Even so, we elected not to take any such chance, and ducked into a small storeroom as the good doctor laboured heavily upwards.

  The morgue itself was small and appropriately gloomy, its off-white tiles illuminated only by a series of small, barred windows set high on one wall. The room was almost pitch black, the sun having set long ago, so Constans went out into the stairway and retrieved a lantern.

  The four stone slabs were chipped and stained, but only three held bodies. None were Romark or Haril. So much for that idea.

  Constans moved to a small desk in the corner and leafed through the pages of a leather-bound ledger. He read in silence for a minute while I kept watch at the base of the stairs.

  "Ah, here we are," he said. "You know, this handwriting is truly atrocious. It seems they were too badly burned to keep around for long..." I could understand that; the smell of charred human flesh was not pleasant, "...so they've buried them already. At Claygate cemetery, it says."

  A bitter taste gathered at the back of my mouth. "Well, that's that then, I suppose."

  "Perhaps not. Apparently their personal effects were removed beforehand, and... that's right... and placed in the morgue locker." Constans looked around the room. "Now, if I were a morgue locker, where would I be? Aha!"

  As Constans moved the lantern, the shadows shifted to reveal a small cupboard set into the far wall.

  "You take a peek in there," he said. "After all, you know what you're looking for. I'll keep an eye out for unexpected guests." He placed the lantern on the empty slab and left the room.

  The cupboard was locked, but here the skeleton keys did oblige me. After no more than three attempts, the battered door sprang open. The upper shelf held a thick sheaf of papers, but the far larger lower shelf housed nothing save for a small leather pouch, a handful of Thrakkian coins – worthless in Tressia – and a large iron key. Ignoring the other contents, I reached into the cupboard and retrieved the pouch. I loosened the strings and tipped the contents into my hand; I had indeed found the remembrance rings.

  I held the rings up to the lantern's light, trying to forget the macabre overtones of examining dead men's property in a room containing three corpses. The two were alike, crafted of silver and with a rolling knot work pattern set about the band. At first glance they seemed identical, but closer examination revealed intricacies of design that rendered them unique. Here and there, the silver was fire-blackened, and I wondered again how these men had died. Had they choked to death on the fire's foul vapours or been consumed by the flames? With a shudder, I turned my mind to other matters. Whilst a morgue might be an apt place for morbid thoughts, the speculation was pointless, and depressing besides.

  I tipped the rings back into the pouch and slipped it into my pocket. I had no idea which ring was whose, but it didn't matter – even if Jamar couldn't tell them apart, the respective families would be able to do so. I'd played my part and done my penance. It was time to get out of there.

  I closed and re-locked the cupboard – there was no point making things easier for any genuine thieves – and rejoined Constans on the stairs. He raised an eyebrow in silent question, t
ook the lantern and returned it to the wall bracket whence it had come. We then made our way back up the stairs as quickly as we could; with a little more luck we'd be out of the guardhouse before anyone had even realised we were there. Alas, luck was not prepared to remain with us.

  The challenge came as we crossed the first landing.

  "Who goes there?"

  A young constable emerged further down the corridor. The tone was questioning, rather than alarmed, but a commotion was sure to follow if we couldn't silence our challenger first.

  So did Constans. In his characteristic blur of motion, he sprang before the final word had fully escaped the constable's lips. Unfortunately, Constans' trailing cloak somehow became entangled on a door handle. It ripped free as he moved, but the slight tug threw him off-balance. As Constans struggled to maintain his footing, the constable shoulder-barged him.

  I joined the fight as Constans slammed into the far wall. My shoulder slammed into the constable's back, and the impact bore him to the ground. I winced, both at the sound of his skull striking stone and at the realisation that I'd attacked one of Quintus' guards with absolutely no hesitation. It had been necessary, I knew that, but that didn't stop me from fretting that the compromise between law and need had come a little too easily. Would I have killed the constable, if the need had been there?

  Uneasy, I stood back up.

  "Don't worry about me," Constans said in an affronted whisper. "I can get up by myself, thanks for checking." He hauled himself upright. "That was a particularly effective takedown."

  "I'm not terribly proud of it."

  "Better him with a sore head than us in the cells," Constans pointed out. "Quick, let's get this fellow out sight."

  With only a little difficulty we got the constable hidden away in the same storeroom we'd earlier used for shelter. Happily, it seemed the sound of the scuffle hadn't carried far, as we then managed to get out of the guard house, through the alleyway and out into the street without any further difficulty.