Shadow of the Knife

by Jane Fletcher

  “How about the rest of the squadron? You weren’t all in the Three Barrels. Do you know where the rest were?”

  “Some stayed in the barracks all night. That’s where the officers were, making plans. Some came to the White Swan with us but went back when we moved on. I don’t think anyone was anywhere else.”

  “Okay. That’s good. It means I can start narrowing down suspects. So, in the Three Barrels, did you hear anyone talking details? Such as when you were supposed to assemble?”

  “No.” Mel’s answer was too short, sharp, and defensive.

  Ellen tried to be conciliatory. “Look. I understand you don’t want to name names. And I’m not aiming to pin the blame on anyone, but if I know which Rangers were talking the most, then I can work out who was close enough to listen in.”

  “I didn’t hear anyone shooting her mouth off.”

  “Okay. How about afterward?”

  “We all went back to the barracks. We weren’t completely stupid. We knew we had a big day ahead.”

  “All of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about Jay Takeda? It looked like she’d picked up someone.”

  “Jay was always picking up women.”

  Ellen noted that Mel had not answered her question. “The woman she picked up that night, do you know her?”

  “Never saw her before.”

  “How about since?”

  “No.” Mel’s tone was getting more surly.

  “Did Jay spend the night with her?”

  “What damned business is it of yours?”

  “Jay was clearly drunk, and this stranger latched onto—”

  Ellen got no further. Mel bounded across the space between them and grabbed two fistfuls of black shirt. “You’ve got a fucking nerve. Jay was a hundred times better woman than you could dream of being. She gave her life for us. And a little shithead like you dares wander in here, acting like you know the first fucking thing about—” Tears were in Mel’s eyes, though they did nothing to weaken the fury in her expression. She shoved Ellen away violently. “If I ever hear you say one frigging word against Jay, I’ll gut you. Do you hear me? Jay died...and...and it should have been me.”

  Mel picked up the discarded brush and hurled it at the wall with all her strength. The thunderous crash when it hit sent the horse skittering wildly in its stall, fighting the rope on its halter.

  Ellen had regained her balance after nearly falling. She ducked in reflex at the thrown brush, although she was clearly not the target. Mel glared at her, fists clenching and unclenching in rage, then she turned and marched from the stable without another word.

  *

  The Militia office on the sheep docks was tiny and functional. If three women were in the room at the same time they had to shuffle around to be able to open the door. A desk stood beneath the window, and a chest under it contained wads of receipts. A shelf to the side held a row of ledgers. The wall opposite had a couple of hooks to hang coats on. And that was it. After two days of standing at the desk, Ellen would have appreciated a chair.

  She clasped her hands behind her head and stretched, trying with limited success to ease the cricks. The wind had picked up outside, enough to shake the flimsy walls, and the resulting draft on her back was not helping. Checking the shipping records was proving every bit as tedious as she had feared. The only thing to be said in its favor was that it was proceeding far quicker than the pointless tour of the farms. Ellen had already tallied up the previous eight months’ worth of sheep through the docks, itemized by farm and barge. Another day should see the job completed.

  Before any boatload of sheep was allowed to pass through Roadsend, the skipper had to hand over signed receipts from the sellers. Furthermore, the skippers were familiar with all the farmers, and would know if the sheep came from someone who had no right to sell them. The biggest farms would sometimes fill a barge. More often, the sheep would come from several sources. The Militia officer on duty was supposed to make sure the numbers agreed, and to check a sample of the ear tattoos. The barge skipper was then given a transport permit and allowed to go.

  The system had served for years, keeping most of the farmers reasonably honest, but it was not foolproof, and it had not been designed with a view to a criminal working on the scale of the Butcher. Intimidating a craftswoman into making an illegal ear stamp or two would be nothing to her. She could also have the entire crew of a barge in her pay and she would certainly know people who could make good forged sales receipts. All of the papers Ellen had checked looked authentic, but she knew there had to be some forgeries among them.

  The cloning records held at the Temple would let Ellen know the maximum number of lambs each farm would have to sell. She was sure that when she made the final tally, the numbers would not crosscheck. When she knew which farms the gang were passing their stolen lambs off as coming from, she would recheck the receipts. She could even run them past the relevant farmers—after all, that was why the receipts were held in Roadsend, to be on hand in case of dispute. Surely the farmers would know the name of every barge that had legally carried their sheep. And, if all else failed, Ellen thought she ought to be able to work out the name of the barge that had taken exactly the number of lambs that year, to make the numbers balance.

  The door opened, admitting gusts of wind. Ellen slapped her hands on the papers to stop them from blowing around. Jude McCray peered in, her face revealing a raw curiosity that Ellen was getting used to. Her colleagues were clearly desperately wondering about what she was doing, even when, as at the moment, it was all pretty obvious.

  “Ah. I thought you’d be in here.”

  Ellen merely looked questioningly in reply.

  “I’ve got a message for you. A note was dropped off at the station.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “Don’t know.” Judging by Jude’s expression, she was lying. Presumably she had read the note on the way down, which meant it was not sealed, which in turn, Ellen could only pray, meant it contained nothing too sensitive or secret.

  Ellen sighed, laid her arm across the loose papers, and held her other hand out for the note. Sight of the handwriting on the outside made a pulse kick in Ellen’s stomach. She was fairly sure it was from Hal.

  Jude looked at the desk. “Do you want any help?”

  Ellen shook her head, although she was very tempted to say yes, just to share the stiff back. “No. It was good of you to bring me the note.”

  “I was passing.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  Jude continued to dither in the doorway. “I’ll be going, then.”

  “Right.”

  At last, Jude appeared to give up on the hope that she might be invited to take part in some exciting covert activity, and left. Once the door had closed, Ellen was able to take her hands off the loose papers.

  She unfolded the single-page note.

  Ellen,

  I said I wanted to help, and I think I may have done it. I’ve got an idea. If you come up to Broken Hills tomorrow lunchtime, I’ll tell you all about it. If you can’t make tomorrow, I’ll be in town the following night. Perhaps we could meet up in the Three Barrels.

  Hal.

  *

  Possibly Hal had been watching from an upstairs window, because she was waiting on the farmhouse steps when Ellen rode up. She stood, dusted down her trousers, and walked forward, carrying a bundle wrapped in cloth.

  Ellen was about to dismount, but Hal forestalled her. “No. Stay where you are.” She waved the object in her hand. “I’m bringing lunch. You can provide the transport. It’s okay. We’re not going far.”

  Hal lifted her arm to Ellen, clearly wanting a hand up onto the horse. Ellen laughed and obliged. Once Hal was in place behind her, she said, “You were confident I’d come?”

  “Optimistic.”

  “So where do you want to go?”

  “Down to the river. Near the jetty would be fine.” Hal wrapped her arms around Ellen. The contact f
elt so good. Ellen felt a smile stretch across her face, wide enough to make her cheeks ache.

  The wind of the previous day had died. Only faint wisps of cirrus marred the blue sky. Ellen guided the horse through the farmyard and down the hill to the river. About halfway there, she felt Hal’s lips brush the back of her neck.

  “That’s a bit distracting.”

  “Don’t complain. I’m keeping my hands still, aren’t I?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think you’d notice.”

  Ellen caught Hal’s hand, peeled it off her thigh, and returned it to her waist. “I noticed.”

  Hal directed Ellen to a spot a hundred meters downriver of the jetty, where the ground had not been churned to mud by sheeps’ hooves. A small clump of trees and bushes obscured the farm buildings from view, creating a secluded feel. They set the horse to graze, and then sat side by side on the grass. Sunlight danced over the ripples on the river. Autumn was still a month or more away, and the day was warm enough that the breeze off the water was welcome. Hal untied the cloth to reveal bread, cheese, slices of cold mutton, and fruit. She also had a flagon of beer. She removed the cork, took a swig, and passed it to Ellen.

  “Have you really got me out here just to have a picnic by the river?”

  “No. But it’s an added bonus.” Hal broke the loaf of bread in half.

  “So?”

  “I’ve heard that you’re checking the dock records.”

  “How do—”

  “I have my sources.”

  Ellen shook her head in bemusement. “Okay. What about it?”

  “I guess you’re looking for numbers that don’t add up.” Hal placed the chunks of bread on the cloth, inviting Ellen to take her share.

  “Maybe.”

  “Or forged documents.”

  “Again, maybe.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find any.”

  Ellen concentrated on the food. She knew she should not get drawn into discussing the investigation.

  Hal was not put off by her silence. “The reason I think you’re wasting your time is because I’ve thought of a way they can get the sheep past Roadsend without you noticing.”

  “How?” Surprise got the better of Ellen’s caution.

  Hal pointed at the river, waving the lump of cheese in her hand. “Small boats. You only check the barges. You don’t pay any attention to the small stuff—two-woman rowboats and the like.”

  “That’s because you could only fit a half dozen sheep on them, at most. And you couldn’t transport them all the way to Eastford.”

  “But you could take them as far as the marshland.”

  Ellen frowned, trying to see where Hal was going. “True. But what would be the point?”

  “Boats stick to the main channel through the marshes, but there are plenty of side branches deep enough for a barge to slip down, find a nice quiet spot surrounded by high reed beds, and drop anchor. Nobody would ever know it was there.”

  “With a kilometer of waist-deep mud before you got to solid ground.”

  “Which would keep curious eyes away.”

  “You couldn’t get the sheep to it.”

  “Not from the land, but with enough willing hands, you could lift them up, one at a time, from a small boat.”

  “It’d take a dozen trips to move a barge load of sheep.”

  “Yup. Two trips a day. They’d be done inside a week. With the profit margin on stolen sheep, they can afford to waste the barge crew’s time.”

  Ellen stared at the water, mulling it over. Hal was right. Dozens of small boats went up and down the river—shopkeepers transporting merchandise, farmers getting supplies, laborers moving building material. The river was the easiest way to transport goods. Generally, items were taken as close to their destination as possible by boat before transferring to horse-drawn cart.

  Hal said nothing more until they had finished their lunch, and washed it down with a last mouthful of beer. “So. Do you want to know where I got this idea?”

  “Innate deviousness?”

  “Nope. By working on the jetty. I’ve been at it the last four days, and while I’ve been working, I’ve been seeing the same boat go up and down the river. Closer to Roadsend, it would get lost in the rest of the traffic, but it’s more conspicuous out here. After the fifth time it went by I started to wonder who was wanting to move so much stuff.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “I saw it go up river about two hours ago.”

  The news jolted Ellen. “You think the gang’s barge is in the marsh right now?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Why didn’t you send an urgent message to the Rangers?”

  “Because I’d rather have lunch with you than with a patrol of Rangers.”

  “That’s—”

  “And it may be completely aboveboard. Maybe somebody has a large load of goods to shift, and can’t afford a bigger boat. But even if this boat I’ve seen is nothing to do with the gang, I still think it’s a good idea and I wanted to share it with you.”

  “Thanks. But the Rangers need to be told.”

  Hal’s voice became more serious. “That’s your job. At the moment, I’m having a picnic with a woman I’d like to think of as my girlfriend, though it may be a little premature. If you spot something suspicious and take action, I can say it’s nothing to do with me. If I call out the Rangers, from what I’m hearing in town, I’m looking to get my home torched and my head kicked in. And I don’t want that.”

  Ellen felt her stomach tighten. “No. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “How about the girlfriend bit?”

  All Ellen’s common sense told her to pull back. The situation was deadly serious and this was not the time to take risks or lose her self-control. She dare not get involved. Yet she could not help herself. Reason and restraint stood no chance against the passion Hal stirred up in her.

  “I think I’d like that.”

  Hal picked up the cloth with the remains of the food and moved it aside. She leaned forward, gently capturing Ellen’s mouth with her own. Ellen closed her eyes. Her world became the texture of lips and teeth and tongue. The soft exploration was broken for a moment as Hal shunted closer, so their bodies were in contact from hips to shoulder. Even this brief interruption was a wrench, although the end effect was worth it. Ellen wrapped her arms around Hal and lay back on the grass, pulling Hal on top. Every square centimeter of Hal felt good, pressed against her.

  For a while they lay entwined, kissing, and then Hal raised herself on an elbow. Ellen stared into the face hanging over her. Breathing became a difficult activity as she felt Hal’s hand slide up her side and cup her breast through the thickness of her clothes. Moving in its own instinctive reflex, Ellen’s body arched into the contact. She moaned. Hal’s hand moved to the top button of her shirt.

  Hal froze. “Shit.”

  The abrupt change in mood hit Ellen like a blow. “What is it?”

  “Fucking awful timing. It’s the boat I told you about.”

  Ellen wormed out from under Hal and sat up, shading her eyes against the sun. A rowboat was three hundred meters or so away, moving swiftly toward them with the current. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. See the green canvas covering the rear of the boat? That’s always there when they come downriver.”

  The boat was six meters long, manned by two women. The covered section was large enough to hold a half dozen sheep.

  Ellen shook herself, shifting mental alignment, and stood up. “Stay here.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to ask them to let me see what they’ve got in the boat. I’m in uniform. If they’re on the level, they’ll do what I say. And if they ignore me...” Ellen shrugged. “That will be our answer.”

  She left Hal by the trees and walked to the water’s edge. Ripples lapped against the mud of the undercut bank. The boat got closer. Neither rower was instantly recogni
zable from the back, although this did not mean much. Ellen waited until they were within hailing distance.

  “Hey. Can you come over here and stop a moment? I want to talk to you.”

  At the challenge, one woman glanced over her shoulder and then leaned forward to exchange a quick word with her companion. Initially, it seemed as if they would ignore Ellen and row on past, but just before they drew level with her, the one at the front dug an oar into the water as a brake, rotating the boat so it was heading for the bank.

  Ellen paced along beside the river, keeping level with the boat. After another thirty meters downstream, the rowers shipped oars and the gunwales knocked against the bank. Ellen heard the sound of the hull grating on shingle. One woman reached out and grabbed a fistful of long grass to steady the craft. Ellen was close enough to look down into the stern. The green canvas was moving perceptibly. There was definitely something alive under it—and then Ellen saw a sheep hoof appear beneath the bottom.

  The rowers clambered from the boat and faced her. A little too late, it occurred to Ellen that there was another way Knives might react to a challenge from a lone Militiawoman, other than simply ignoring her. Also, both were not complete strangers. One had a scarred chin and broken nose—the thug she had fought on the night Chris was stabbed.

  After the massacre of the 12th Squadron, the stakes were higher, and deadly force was no longer the second resort. Without hesitation, both rowers drew their blades and advanced. Ellen backed away, step by step, retreating up the riverbank. Step by step, the two armed women followed her.

  The sudden pounding of hoofbeats came without warning. A mounted rider charged through, between Ellen and her would-be assailants. Ellen had only an instant to identify Hal, wielding the pottery flagon like a bat, swinging it wildly. The Knife she was aiming at dived out of range of the flagon, tripped, stumbled, and went headfirst into the river. Water erupted like a fountain.