Synopsis
Militia rookie Ellen Mittal is well aware that the world cannot be reduced to simple questions of black and white, but she has no idea of just how complex and dangerous her life is about to become. The most vicious gang in the Homelands, led by the infamous Butcher, is extending its operations to Roadsend. By her oath as a member of the Militia, Ellen is sworn to uphold the rule of law, no matter what the cost to herself. But as the body count starts to rise, Ellen finds her task made all the harder by a wall of silence from ordinary citizens, a commanding officer with her head in the sand, and the attentions of an attractive young farmer who is probably not who she claims to be. Ellen must work out who to trust, because if she gets it wrong she might easily lose her heart, or her life.
Shadow of the Knife
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By the Author
Wolfsbane Winter
THE LYREMOUTH CHRONICLES
The Exile and the Sorceror
The Traitor and the Chalice
The Empress and the Acolyte
The High Priest and the Idol
THE CELAENO SERIES
The Walls of Westernfort
The Temple at Landfall
Rangers at Roadsend
Dynasty of Rogues
Shadow of the Knife
Shadow of the Knife
© 2008 By Jane Fletcher. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-356-3
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: March 2008
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editors: Cindy Cresap and Stacia Seaman
Production Design: J. Barre Greystone
Cover Image: Tobias Brenner (http://www.tobiasbrenner.de/)
Cover Design: J. Barre Greystone
Acknowledgments
This is the place where authors traditionally include lots of thank you’s, in an attempt to give the impression that they are not sad, antisocial individuals who spend all their time alone, hunched over a keyboard and never going out, but that the author does, in fact, have many friends. So, in keeping with this tradition, I would like to thank (in alphabetical order):
Aries for help with the policing;
Cindy for help in hiding my perversions;
Connie for sorting out my liaisons;
Jac for help with the sheep
Jo for help with the sex;
Joanie for asking some good questions;
Julie for laying me out;
Mary for help with the horses;
Paula for the rugby (nothing to do with the book, but still very much appreciated);
Stacia for knowing where to put the commas; the Thudders for some useful words (mostly clean ones);
Tobi for the cover;
Ze for giving my end the thumbs up;
and finally Rad for everything else.
Dedication
To my mother
Joan Millicent Fletcher
12/Dec/1925 - 24/Feb/2007
a thoroughly pleasant woman
Part One
Robbery With Violence
9 July 519
Chapter One—Black and White
The crew of the Alisha-Marie cast off its moorings and the barge moved away from the quay, slowly picking up speed as the current took it downriver, bound for the city of Landfall. As it drifted into the dusk, the skipper’s shouted commands carried softly on the warm evening air, a counterpart to the bleating of sheep from the surrounding hills. Eventually the shouts faded in the distance, leaving only the sheep.
In her black Militia uniform, Rookie Ellen Mittal rested her forearms on a rail, listening to the familiar sounds of her birth-town. The working day was coming to a close and the pens were empty. Around her, activity on the sheep docks was quieting, while that in the nearby Twisted Crook Tavern was rising. The voices from its taproom were the softest rumble, though it would be a rare night in Roadsend if they stayed that way.
“Having a nice time, are you? Gawking at nothing. How many sheep have to get stolen before you clowns stop farting around and put some effort into catching the scum who took them?”
The harsh voice jolted Ellen back to her surroundings. Jean Tulagi, owner of South Hollow Ranch, was glaring down at her from horseback.
“We’ve done everything we can.”
“Well, since you’ve done squat, I guess it proves the Militia are even more frigging useless than they say.” Tulagi urged her horse an intimidating step closer. “And supposing they do it again this year? How long do you think we can take these losses?”
“Lieutenant Cohen says it won’t be—”
“Your lieutenant has her head so far up her own ass she can’t tell whether it’s day or night. I wouldn’t trust her to—”
A new voice cut in. “If you have any concerns about Lieutenant Cohen’s competence, it would be more productive to make a formal complaint to a higher officer, rather than bitching about it in the street to a rookie.”
Ellen looked over her shoulder with gratitude. Sergeant Christine Sanchez had joined them and had clearly decided to take charge. Tulagi glared at the new arrival for a few seconds before steering her horse away without another word.
“Thanks, Sarge.”
Sanchez merely pursed her lips as she watched the farmer ride off, and then shifted her gaze to Ellen. “Come on. There doesn’t look to be too much illegal activity going on here. Let’s carry on with the patrol.”
Sanchez left the dockside, heading down a dogleg alley squeezed between the backs of warehouses. Her footsteps slipped into the firm, unhurried pace of Militiawomen pounding the beat, the rhythm unbroken even when she “shook hands” with the doors she passed, checking that none had been left unlocked.
Ellen fell in beside her. “Tulagi seemed pretty angry.”
“Wouldn’t you be, in her place?”
“Farmers always blame the Militia for their problems.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s always unjustified.”
Ellen frowned. Even though the sergeant had backed her up on the docks, it sounded as if Sanchez had more sympathy with Tulagi. Ellen tried to take an unbiased view. “I know we didn’t get her sheep back for her.”
“And we didn’t catch whoever did it.”
“You think we ought to have done better?”
“Could we have done any worse?”
Ellen thought about the question. “Probably not, Sarge.”
“And everyone knows we’ve given up on it.”
“But no new sheep have gone missing for months.”
“So that’s supposed to be an end to it?”
“Well, Tulagi was worried the thieves will strike again this year.”
“She’s not the only one.”
“Lieutenant Cohen is sure the gang have moved on.”
Sanchez stopped and swung to face Ellen. “And what do you think?”
In the fading light, Sanchez’s face was twisted in a taunting pout that might have masked either irritation or humor, or maybe a combination of the two. She was in her lat
e twenties, shrewd, firm, and capable. Everyone knew that she was the one who organized the day-to-day running of the Roadsend Militia, as well as making all operational decisions, except for occasions when Lieutenant Cohen wanted to make a show of being in command.
The series of thefts the previous autumn had been one of those occasions. Lieutenant Cohen had stepped in and taken over, issuing a series of orders that had made progressively less sense to Ellen. Yet it was hardly appropriate for a rookie to criticize a senior officer.
“I’m sure the lieutenant has her reasons for thinking what she does.”
“I’m sure she does too. Everyone always has her reasons. It’s a question of whether those reasons make sense to anyone else.”
“You think Lieutenant Cohen is wrong?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Ellen chewed her lip. Maybe Sanchez had not said it in so many words, but the implication was there. “Lieutenant Cohen is the one with all the information. Maybe she knows things we don’t, and that’s why she set our priorities like she did.”
“And that’s what you honestly think?”
“Does it matter what I think, Sarge? Our duty is to obey orders.”
“Like it says in the rule book, where it’s all written down in black and white?” Sanchez shook her head ruefully. “How about our oath to uphold the law?”
“But isn’t upholding the law all about obeying rules? I’m sure Lieutenant Cohen has it covered.”
“Oh to be seventeen again and untouched by cynicism!”
“I’m nearly eighteen.”
Sanchez threw back her head and laughed, then patted Ellen’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I used to be as naïve as you once. But take it from me, life can’t be reduced to simple black and white.” She resumed walking.
Ellen followed, feeling that she was neither as green nor as foolish as Sanchez had implied. Of course she knew the situation was not right, but what could she do other than hope for the best and follow her commanding officer’s orders to the letter?
At the end of the alley, they emerged onto Catsfield Road and turned toward the center of town. The streets were almost deserted and the few folk on view were all behaving in an exemplary law-abiding fashion.
“So what do you think about the stolen sheep, Sarge?” Ellen had spent the previous three minutes wondering if it was a breach of protocol to ask, but her curiosity had won out.
“What do I think?” Sanchez pursed her lips. “I think even if you allow for exaggeration and farmers making use of the fuss to swipe a few sheep from their neighbors, it’s still over five hundred gone missing. We’ve never had anything close to that number of thefts before. And stealing five hundred sheep is one thing, being able to unload so many for a profit is quite another. But I can’t see a gang going to the bother of stealing all those sheep just to let most wander off into the Wildlands.”
“You think there’s some other explanation? They weren’t stolen at all?”
“No. I think they were stolen by someone who works on a different scale to what we’re used to. Someone with a whole organization to call on. When I add it all up, I’m worried the trouble in Eastford has spread out here.”
“Oh.”
Over the previous months, the same idea had niggled at Ellen, but she had fought to dismiss her fears, telling herself that she did not know enough to understand what was really going on. Surely if there were reasonable grounds to think the Eastford gang might be involved, Lieutenant Cohen would have notified central command at once and asked for extra resources, rather than downplaying the thefts as she had. Cohen had decades more experience than any rookie. Yet now Sergeant Sanchez was also suggesting it as a real possibility. Ellen walked on in silence, mulling over the implications. It could not be true—could it?
They crossed a side street. The slow, deliberate pace gave Ellen plenty of time to look down it, but her thoughts were preoccupied and they had walked on another ten meters before she registered the face she had seen. Ellen came to an uncertain halt.
“Er...Sarge.”
Sanchez looked back. “Yes?”
“You know you were saying about trouble from Eastford?”
“And?”
“I think some of it’s here already. Except it was ours to start with.”
“What?”
“Down that last street, I think I saw Ade Eriksen.”
“Damn. Too much to hope that we’d heard the last of our little Adeola.” Sanchez sucked a sharp breath between her teeth. “What was she doing?”
“Just standing there.”
“Loitering?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, let’s go and say hello, and make sure she knows we remember her.”
They backtracked to the junction. Ade was in the same spot as before, leaning against a wall with her arms crossed. An alleyway opened directly behind her. Her pose was casual, as if she was just passing the time of day by propping up the wall, but at the sight of the advancing black uniforms, her manner changed. She pushed away from the brickwork and took a cautious backward step, retreating. Then she spun and dived into the alleyway, disappearing from view.
“She’s keeping lookout for someone.” Sanchez was slipping her heavy wooden baton free from her belt even as she started in pursuit.
Ellen chased after. It was a sure bet that whoever Adeola Eriksen was keeping lookout for was engaged in something illegal. Ellen had lived in Roadsend all her life and knew every pathway. The alley Ade had fled down was a dozen meters long, leading to a small courtyard where carts were unloaded. This section of town was mainly commercial, and a warehouse robbery the most likely crime. However, as soon as she left the main street, Ellen heard groans and the thud of blows echoing from up ahead, and then Ade shouted out, “Blackshirts.”
As they raced along the alley, the sound of Militia boots ricocheted off the brick walls like whip cracks. Ellen burst into the open a step behind Sanchez. In the center of the courtyard stood a small intertwined knot of figures—three women, assaulting a fourth. Ade skidded to a stop beside them.
At the arrival of the Militiawomen, the three attackers released their grip on the victim, who staggered away, bent double and whimpering. One of the hoodlums turned and fled, heading for an exit on the opposite side of the courtyard. Ellen expected the others to follow, but instead with Ade, they stood their ground, clearly ready to fight.
If the resolute response caught Sanchez by surprise, she reacted quickly, swinging her baton at the nearest woman, forcing the thug to duck. Before she had time to think, Ellen found herself face-to-face with another. The stocky woman was in her thirties, with a scar running down her chin and a nose that looked as if it had been broken on more than one occasion. Ellen was sure she was not a resident of Roadsend. The face was not one that could easily be forgotten.
The last of the daylight caught the gray sheen of metal across the woman’s knuckles as her fist swung for Ellen’s jaw. Ellen brought her baton across defensively. The crack of wood on bone drew a yelp of pain. The baton had made sharp contact with the woman’s wrist, knocking her arm aside. Ellen followed up with a solid backswing into her opponent’s stomach. The thug grunted as the air was thumped from her lungs and she curled forward, falling. Ellen completed the job by taking her feet from under her with a kick. The woman landed on the ground hard and made no immediate attempt to get up.
Ellen glanced across the courtyard, hesitating between securing the prisoner and going to help Sanchez. Despite being outnumbered two to one, the experienced sergeant had Ade in retreat. Ade’s accomplice also looked to be withdrawing from the fight, but then shifted to the side and slipped swiftly through the shadows to a position behind Sanchez. The woman darted forward and a knife flashed out, thrusting for Sanchez’s back. The attack took only an instant, giving no time for Ellen to shout a warning. The blade plunged into the black Militia jerkin.
Sanchez spun around, wrenching the hilt from the woman’s hand. She lifted her baton and t
hen froze. Her expression was a surprised frown. Clearly she realized that something significant had happened, but she looked more confused than alarmed. Then her right knee buckled, sending her staggering sideways. The thug moved forward, fists raised, for another attack.
Ellen charged across the courtyard, hoisting her baton. The sound of footsteps must have alerted the woman, because she ducked aside at the last moment. Yet she was too slow to avoid the blow completely. Ellen’s heavy baton connected with the woman’s collarbone to the unmistakable sound of cracking.
Ellen’s momentum carried her on. Her shoulder drove into her target’s back, catapulting the woman off her feet. She crashed to the ground and rolled over, squealing while trying to protect her broken shoulder, clearly no longer a threat. Ellen looked around. Ade and the other hoodlum had gone.
Nearby, Sanchez was on all fours, head sagging. As Ellen watched, the sergeant’s arms gave way and she slumped to the ground. Ellen dropped to her knees beside her. Rivulets of blood were trickling between the cobblestones. Ellen stripped off her own jacket to press around the protruding knife hilt and stanch the flow.
The sound of movement made Ellen look up. Ade had returned, but only to help away her accomplice with the broken collarbone. The fight was over. In a dim corner of the courtyard, the initial assault victim had recovered sufficiently to stand upright, but was swaying like someone drunk. Dark blood stained the front of her clothes. More was smeared across her face. Despite the gloom and the blood, Ellen recognized her: Sally Husmann, the owner of a warehouse on Lower Dockside.
“Get help,” Ellen shouted.
Husmann took a step backward. She did not look in Ellen’s direction, showing no awareness that the Militiawomen were even there.
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