by Steven Gould
When they’d returned the carriage and Phillip to the townhouse, Leland left, mounted, with the escort. He still wore his dress clothes. “I can change at the estate,” he’d told Phillip. “If I splash mud on them now, it won’t matter. It’s pumpkin time.”
“You’re welcome to stay the night. No reason to ride back in the dark.”
Leland considered it. His head was still muddled from the drink and food. “No. The night air is what I need. Besides, I have a staff meeting at breakfast.”
By the time they’d reached the bottom bridge his head was clearing nicely, but he was yawning and thinking of bed. A rider hailed them on the other side of the bridge.
“Warden de Laal? Captain of the Eight Hundred?”
Now, how in the hell did he know that? The pennons were furled.
MAYBE IT’S YOUR MONKEY SUIT.
“Yes? What is it?”
The man was dressed well, riding a good horse. He had an educated voice.
“Halvidar Gahnfeld and several of your men are injured and the landlord of the inn your men demolished won’t let the a doctor attend them until he’s received recompense for the damages.”
Great! Just what I need. I hope the high steward doesn’t hear of this. “Well, we’d better go and see what’s what.”
They followed the messenger onto the Great Circle—the road that circumnavigated the plateau of the Upper City. After a quarter hour at a slow gallop, they came to the Lower City and, as there was still quite a bit of traffic, they slowed their horses to a walk. Five more minutes of twisting through narrow dirt streets and the messenger turned into the enclosed yard of the Good Landing. A wedge-shape shuttle, standing on multiple pillars of fire, was painted in faded colors on the sign above the inn’s name.
Leland narrowed his eyes. The inn had several windows made of multipaned rough yellow glass. They were all intact.
The messenger dismounted and tied his horse at the public rails near the stable end of the yard. He gestured. “If the warden would follow me?”
Leland turned to the soldier left in charge of the escort and said quietly, “Have you ever been in a barroom brawl, Coronet?”
“Uh, well, yes sir, I have.”
“Do the windows get broken?”
“Often.” The coronet looked at the front of the inn and frowned. Leland nodded. “Something isn’t right. Combat status—quietly.”
The coronet lifted his right hand and clenched his fist. The soldier behind the coronet snapped his jaw shut in midyawn and his eyes widened. The rest of the soldiers went from sleepy to wide awake.
Leland said softly, “I may say some crazy things shortly. Pretend I mean them, all right?”
The soldiers nodded, then, following Leland’s lead, they all dismounted.
Leland called across the yard. “One second, friend.” He beckoned to the man waiting before the unopened door. The man hesitated, then walked casually across. “Yes, Warden?”
“Would you be so kind as to wait here with these two soldiers?” He gestured to two of his escort. The two men stepped forward to stand at each side of the messenger. Before the man could answer, Leland said to the soldiers, “If this turns out to be a trap, cut off his head.”
“What! Are you mad?” the man said.
Leland turned back to him as all of the soldiers reached over their shoulders and drew the slightly curved swords from their sheaths. “Well,” he said, “is it a trap?”
He snapped, “Of course it isn’t a trap!” He started to edge away from the soldiers, but the bigger of the two reached out and closed one hand across the back of the man’s neck.
Leland smiled slightly. “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” He turned, as if to go.
“No, wait!”
“Yes?”
In a low, intense voice, the man said quickly, “I don’t know if it’s a trap or not. I was paid to take you the message. It’s not my fault if the person who hired me was lying!” He was sweating more than the temperature warranted.
“And who might that be?”
The man hesitated, then shook his head. “I never saw him before.”
HE’S LYING.
Leland looked back at the inn. He thought he saw movement at one of the upper windows. “Let’s tie the horses to the hitching rail,” he whispered. Then he pointed his thumb at the messenger. “Him, too.”
They moved, en masse, across the yard. The hitching rails were hidden from the inn’s upper windows by the eaves of the lower roof. The two soldiers tied the messenger’s wrists securely to the post. Leland took a bandanna out of his saddlebags and pointed at his mouth. One of the soldiers nodded and gagged the man, as well.
Visible between the stables and the inn proper was a passage, barred by a high wooden gate, leading toward the back of the inn. The coronet gestured at it and Leland nodded. “By all means—if it’s not locked.”
It wasn’t, but it was occupied.
The men waiting in the dark passage were armed with clubs, staffs, and daggers.
They seemed surprised when the door was opened, but charged out. More by accident than intent, the first one spitted himself on the coronet’s sword, but the next man struck the coronet down before he could untangle his sword.
“There he is!” someone shouted, and Leland realized that they were talking about him. A man with a short staff thrust at Leland’s belly and he pulled his hip automatically, letting it slide past his stomach. He grabbed the staff, putting one hand near the middle and the other at the free end, then twisted, pivoting the attacker’s hands up and across the man’s face. He thrust down then quickly, throwing the man to tangle in the feet of his compatriots.
Leland held onto the staff and blocked an overhand blow with a club, then dropped, making a circle with the ends of the staff, which slid down the club into the attacker’s hand. The club fell, but before it hit the ground, Leland thrust hard into the man’s belly, doubling him over.
Then he found himself crowded back as his escorts threw themselves forward slashing fast and furious. The men from the passage pulled back, but others came in through the gate to the yard and from the entrance to the inn. To make matters worse, the upper windows opened and two archers leaned out, though they held their fire.
Leland shouted, “Into the passage!”
He charged past his escort, the staff held at the ready, screaming “LAAL!” at the top of his lungs. Behind him, his men took up the cry.
One of the two men blocking the passage flinched back but the other thrust his staff out. Leland counterthrust, sliding off the line. Leland’s chokutsuki took the man in the throat and he went over backward, choking. The other man stepped forward, striking overhand with a club. Leland dropped his staff and went under the descending blow, striking the man’s stomach with his shoulder and lifting him off his feet. The air rushed out of the man’s lungs with a whoosh and Leland thrust hard with his own legs, pushing the body into the men behind him, fighting to clear enough space in the passage for his men.
A club blow glanced off the body in his arms and across his upper arm. He extended his arms, thrusting the body even higher, then stepped back, just in time to avoid another thrusting staff, coming at his groin. The body fell on the thruster’s arms, knocking the staff out of his hands and tangling his feet.
A man with a club jumped over the prone body and Leland leaned forward, as if to reach for the staff. The club man took the bait and struck down at Leland’s head. Leland slid off the line while meeting the other man’s club arm with his own. He blended with it, guiding it down and past him, then cut back up, turning the man’s arm over. He slipped his hand down to the outside edge of the man’s club hand and lifted while he twisted the hand and wrist back into the body. The club man gasped from the excruciating pain and flung himself to the side, trying to relieve the pressure on his wrist. Leland followed, pivoting around his center, throwing the club man across the passage to slam, back first, into the inn’s wall.
The next man jumped forward with a staff, thrusting. Leland twisted the other direction, this time putting pressure on the club man’s forearm, as if it was a sword, and cut out at the other side of the passage. The club man flew forward, tangling the staff as it thrust, before slamming into the side of the stable hard enough to crack boards.
Leland reversed again, back into the sankyo wrist pin, and cranked the man across the passage again. The man wasn’t able to follow as swiftly this time, and he screamed as tendons tore in his wrist. When he’d bounced off the inn wall yet again Leland shoved him forward, to tangle with the attackers at the end of the passage.
Leland glanced behind him. His escort was completely within the passage and had even managed to drag the coronet’s inert form with them. Four of them blocked the passage and the fifth was standing behind Leland, his sword ready, his eyes very wide.
Leland scooped up the staff at his feet and gestured for the swordsmen to join him.
“I would’ve been here before,” the soldier said, “but I was afraid I’d get in your way.”
Leland laughed.
There were three men left at his end of the passage, two with clubs and one with a staff. Leland’s laughter had a disquieting effect on them.
“Just hold them in the alley!” the man in the middle said. “The others will take care of them.”
Leland took a deep breath, then shouted “Laal!” again at the top of his lungs.
Beside and behind him, the escort echoed him.
Leland listened for a second, then shouted it again.
This time there was a faint echo. Leland wondered for a second if it was their own cry bouncing off the cliff face of the upper city, but it repeated, out of sync with their own.
“Louder, boys. The Seventh Hundred is drinking out there—help them find us! LAAL!” He slid casually forward and thrust suddenly at the other staff wielder. The man tried to block, but only succeeded in guiding the thrusting tip up into his forehead. He fell back. One of the club men jumped forward to slash at Leland’s extended arm, but the sword of the soldier beside him flashed out and took the man’s wrist. Club and hand fell to the floor.
The remaining man looked at the club in his hand, then at the sword and staff facing him. He turned and ran.
Leland looked around. The other four members of the Eight Hundred were holding their own. The narrow mouth of the passage and the bright steel of their swords kept the men in the yard from bringing their numbers to bear.
ECONOMY OF FORCE.
Leland took a look at the coronet, lying in the passage behind him. Blood oozed from an egg-sized bump at the man’s forehead, just under the hairline. He considered checking his pupil dilation, but there wasn’t enough light.
His men kept shouting “Laal” at the top of their lungs, in unison. Between their shouts, Leland heard more and more answering calls, coming nearer and nearer. He considered ordering the men to flee down the passage but was afraid they’d be at greater risk than they were now.
Then there was a brief increase in the assault, barely held back, and the attackers fled, running back through the inn or through the stable, as men of the Seventh Hundred poured into the yard through the main gate.
They weren’t armed, except for personal knives, but they were numerous and they were enthusiastic. It probably didn’t hurt that they’d been drinking.
Leland recognized one of the coronets of the Seventh. “Surround the inn. Let nobody in or out.” He pointed at a groaning figure stretched out on the pavement, the victim of his first encounter. “Take that man prisoner and any others you find. Check the passageway.” To his armed escort he said, “Search inside. We’re looking for any of our men, including Halvidar Gahnfeld and the two men he took with him. Be careful.”
He wanted to go in with them but was afraid that they’d try to protect him rather than themselves if it came to more fighting.
He remembered the original messenger, the one they’d tied to the hitching post, and he walked carefully between the agitated horses, talking soothingly to them. The man was there and still tied to the rail.
But his throat was cut.
Gahnfeld arrived then, not from inside the inn but on horseback, with the other two soldiers from the escort and several squads from the Seventh Hundred. He found Leland going through the slain man’s pockets and belt pouch.
Leland jumped up, surprised and pleased. “You’re all right!”
Gahnfeld blinked. “Well, yes, I am.”
Leland told him of the message he’d received. “We were ambushed. It would’ve been worse if I’d actually gone inside. There were men waiting inside, in the passage, and outside the gate.”
Gahnfeld looked grim. “Hmmm. I’m afraid both our messages were false. There wasn’t any fight—just a loud party that the landlord was quite pleased with. But since their pass was almost up, I collected the men and was heading back when we heard the commotion. Who is he?” Gahnfeld pointed his thumb at the body.
“The messenger. We tied him up when we suspected something was wrong. While we were trapped back there, somebody killed him.”
“Why didn’t they just set him free?”
“And if we ran across him again? He’s been silenced. What a cliché.”
One of the escort emerged from the inn and saluted. “I see you’ve found the halvidar, sir. We found the landlord and his family locked in the cellar—otherwise the place is empty.”
“Ah. What do they say?”
“The men showed up about an hour ago and chased out the regulars, then locked them up. That’s all they know. Shall we let them out?”
“What? They’re still in the cellar?”
“You said not to let anybody in or out.”
“Well, let them out!” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “Show them this man’s face. See if they recognize him.” He looked down at the blood-drenched clothes and added, “Just the landlord—keep the children away.”
The city police arrived then in force, and it was long time before Leland got to bed.
Chapter 13
NANKEN: BAD SWORD
A surprise attendee at the hearing was Zanna de Noram, heir apparent of the high stewardship. She came in alone and unannounced, and those in the room stood in a rippling pattern, as if she were a stone falling into a small pond.
In a loud clear voice she said, “Please sit and continue.” She accepted a chair near the front and folded her hands in her lap.
The commissioner of police, presiding, nodded. “We’ll hear from Investigator Sherwood, then.”
“Yes, Commissioner,” said a small man sitting at the back. He strode up and stood in front. “When the guard arrived at the inn, they found members of the Laal contingent in control of the area. There was the partly conscious Simon Grant, the murdered Roberto Dole, killed while tied to the hitching rail, and Pepito Smith, killed as he attacked the warden’s party. In addition, a severed hand was found in the passageway beside the inn. The owner, one Jason Li, was found near death down the street at the Winter Inn. He was saved by emergency blood transfusions, but remains gravely ill.
“Pursuant to your instructions, I’ve questioned the prisoners, Simon Grant and Jason Li, as well as the known associates of the deceased, Roberto Dole. Grant claims he was hired by Dole for the specific purpose of taking ‘an unspecified guide prisoner.’ Someone that Dole himself would guide to the inn. Without an opportunity to collaborate on their stories, Li says much the same thing, though, of course, I could not question him in great detail in his present condition.
“Pepito Smith is in the police logs, under suspicion for strong-arm activity. Roberto Dole has a criminal record and has served prison time for extortion, threatening innkeepers in the Lower City with gang violence. He is also suspected in the traffic of proscribed goods from hostile and previously hostile countries.”
The commissioner frowned, “What sort of goods?”
“Horse tack from Nullarbor, sir. Opium from Kun Lu
n. Olives from Cotswold.”
“Is there any motive established for Dole’s actions?”
“Only one, sir. He paid off several debts the afternoon before the attack. One must construe that he was hired. Unfortunately, none of his known confederates knows or is willing to tell us who hired him.”
“What about the others who attacked the warden’s party?” asked the commissioner. “Any leads?”
“Yes, Commissioner. Grant and Li are cooperating, but the confederates they’ve named have left the city or are in hiding with the exception of a man in the Lower City infirmary with a damaged larynx. He is unable to talk but, in writing, denies that he was part of the attack. His injury, however, happened late the night of the attack, and we’ll move him to the prison when his tracheotomy has stabilized.”
The investigator bowed slightly. “We are continuing our efforts, but that is the current extent of our findings.”
“Thank you, Investigator. That will be all for now.” The commissioner turned to the front row. “Warden de Laal, are you aware of any motive for the attack on you and your men?”
Leland, sitting beside Gahnfeld, stood. “No, Commissioner. No idea. If there had been attacks on any other unit commanders from the expeditionary force, I would’ve thought it an effort to undermine the military effectiveness of the Noram army, but I seem to have been the only target.”
Marshall de Gant’s aide, also sitting on the front row, said, “We can’t eliminate that possibility. All units have been warned to increase security—especially that of their officers. Dole’s traffic in Nullarbor goods is troubling; perhaps he was an agent for them?”
“Whoever killed him had to be among the attackers,” Leland said. “Perhaps whoever hired him also posed as one of those hired by him. If you run down the other members of the gang, perhaps you can winnow him out.”
The commissioner nodded. “Yes. That’s the focus of our investigation. Does anybody else have anything to add?”
When nobody spoke, Zanna stood. “I wish to emphasize that my father and I consider this investigation to be of the highest priority, Commissioner.”
