by James Evans
Hurlee climbed the steps ahead of Curteys and opened the door, holding it for her to pass through into the hallway. The entrance hall was tall and bright, a statement of political intent wrought in stone and glass. That the Imperial architects should deem it appropriate to build a two-storey entrance hall of such elegant proportions in the government building of a remote border town was a bold statement of the Empire’s resurgent power, wealth and confidence.
While Hurlee and Mauch gaped at the architecture like farm boys on their first visit to a city, a butler appeared through a door at the end of the hall and approached.
“Good evening, my lady. My name is Flattock. How may I be of service?”
“Good evening, Flattock. I am Deputy Governor Curteys from Ankeron West. I need to see Administrator Nison immediately on a matter of some urgency. Is he here?”
“Yes, my lady, although he is dressing for dinner. Should I interrupt him?”
“Yes. In fact, take me to him now and I’ll interrupt him myself. He’s an old friend and this issue can’t wait while he chooses shirts.”
Flattock looked sceptical but acquiesced and gave her a slight bow.
“Very well, my lady. If you would please follow me. I will arrange for refreshments to be sent for your men.” Flattock turned and walked back toward the door through which he had appeared and Curteys followed, interested to see what Nison’s private apartments were like.
Flattock led the way along a passage and into an inner hallway where a wide stair led up to the first floor. At the top of the stair Flattock turned left and paused at a door in the lobby.
“If you would please wait here, my lady, I will confirm that Administrator Nison is able to see you.” He turned and disappeared through the door only to return a few moments later. He opened the door fully and stood to one side to let Curteys enter.
“Please make yourself at home, my lady, and Administrator Nison will join you shortly.” Flattock closed the door behind her and she listened to his footsteps as he made his back to the stairs and down to the ground floor.
Curteys looked around the room as a servant discretely delivered wine and goblets. The short wall at the end of the room was lined with bookcases and Curteys ran her eye along the titles. She had known Nison for many years but never before realised he had a taste for early dynasty romantic poetry. She flicked carefully through a few volumes while she waited but she could summon no enthusiasm for the genre.
She replaced the book and turned away as the door at the end of the room opened and Nison walked in. He was dressed in a suit of black silk with a white shirt, evidently preparing to entertain as Flattock had said. Nison walked quickly toward her, smiling.
“My dear Yiliwyn, it’s so very good to see you.”
He grasped her hands in his and kissed her on both cheeks, then stepped back a pace and gestured to a pair of seats at a small side table.
“Please, take a seat. Let me pour you a little wine.” He paused and smiled again, then a frown crossed his face as he poured the wine.
“I am always glad to see you, of course, but what brings you here? Flattock indicated an errand of some urgency.”
“Thank you, Kaspar.” Curteys sat and took a sip of her wine to wash away the taste of the salt air from the crossing.
“I’ll come straight to the point. The transport ship The Gilded Branch is overdue. If it was running to schedule it would have docked sometime between the morning four days ago, and yesterday afternoon. By this morning there was still no sign of it and the prisoner transports always run on time. Frankly, we’re worried.”
Nison furrowed his brow and tasted his wine.
“A serious matter, especially for those on the vessel, but surely not a catastrophic loss. Was the vessel carrying anything of real value?” He paused, considering the likely cargoes, then asked with a rising sense of dread, “Why are you here? Who was being transported?”
“Abaythian Marrinek.”
Nisons’s hand shook and wine sloshed onto his robes.
“Marrinek? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. He was the only prisoner on board.”
“And you fear he has escaped? That he might have overcome his guards and fled to resume his previous… activities?”
“Maybe. We don’t know. Transportees have escaped before but...”
“Really?” interrupted Nison, “That’s something I didn’t know. I assume it happens infrequently?”
“Very, and please don’t publicise the fact.”
Nison raised his hands and nodded his head.
“That secret is safe, worrying though it may be,” he said.
“We took extra precautions, dammit. He was to be drugged for the entire voyage and unconscious upon arrival at Ankeron. There were extra guards on the ship - strongly talented individuals, I might add, not just the usual warders - in case of attack or mistake or escape. The dates of his transportation were known only to Governor Sterik and his counterpart at the jail in Malteron where Marrinek was held after his arrest. Even I didn’t know he was arriving until Sterik told me earlier today.”
Nison gulped at his wine while Curteys spoke and noticed the earlier spillage, mopping at it ineffectually with a handkerchief he found in a pocket.
“There was a shipwreck, four, no five nights ago...” Nison tailed off, thinking, then, “we found bodies, sailors I think, and wreckage in Grace Cove, a few miles down the coast.”
“Oh, dear god. Where are the bodies now?”
“Buried. They were all sailors, according to the report, but nobody knew… there was no reason to think it was anything out of the ordinary, just another ship lost in a storm, nothing left to identify it. You know how violent the summer seas can be, how unpredictable they are.”
Curteys sat back in her chair and put down her goblet on the table, her face now ashen.
“If the ship foundered in a storm he’s probably dead. It would be nice to have a body but I think we might settle for ‘almost certainly dead’. You are sure he wasn’t amongst the dead?”
“Yes, definitely. The eleven bodies we recovered all had Imperial naval tattoos, including their names. We didn’t recognise the ship so we took notes - height, weight, hair colour, that sort of thing - and prepared a report to be sent to Esterengel with the next slow despatch.”
“So there’s absolutely no doubt that Marrinek’s body wasn’t found?”
“No, not unless he’d taken another name and tattooed it on his arm twenty years ago in case he needed a disguise.”
She picked up her wine again and took another sip.
“So where is he? He might have drowned and washed out to sea but what if he didn’t? What if he didn’t die at all?”
But Nison was staring into the middle distance and didn’t seem to have heard. Curteys paused a few seconds, then said, “This wine is very good; is it local?” Nison looked round, seeming a little surprised to find her still there.
“Er, yes, I believe it comes down from the hills. Some forward-thinking businessman started planting vines around the time the town was being planned and he’s been shipping in some reasonable wines in the last few years.” He stopped again, distracted by something Curteys couldn’t see.
“Sorry, I think we may have missed something, some detail in the report of the shipwreck.” Nison finished his wine and put the goblet back on the table then walked over to the fireplace and pulled on the bell cord.
“It might be nothing but I would feel happier if we checked.” The door opened and Flattock glided in.
“Ah, Flattock. Could you please find Cranden and ask him to come to my office immediately.” Flattock bowed and disappeared back through the door.
“If you’ll come this way,” Nison opened a door, “I will try to find the report that describes the shipwreck.” Nison led the way to his office, passing through the empty clerk’s room, the desks now clear and tidy. He sat down behind the desk and began to search through the reports and folders in his filing tray
s as Curteys looked out of the tall window onto the main square, still thronged with people and stalls. Finally, Nison sat back, throwing his hands up in frustration.
“It’s not here, I must have sent it for filing.”
At that moment, a knock on the door preceded Cranden’s entrance.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Ah, Cranden, at last. I need Tredgar’s report on the shipwreck at Grace Cove. Where is it?”
“It’s been filed, sir. It contained nothing of obvious importance…”
“Well maybe it did and we just didn’t spot it. Dig it out, man dig it out. And find Tredgar.”
Cranden hurried out, returning a few minutes later with a thin folder. Nison snatched it from him and flicked it open, scanning quickly through Tredgar’s notes as Cranden retreated back the way he had come.
“That’s it. That’s the thing we missed.” He passed the report to Curteys.
“The Watch chased someone off the beach in Grace Cove where the bodies were found. They thought he was robbing the corpses but they lost him in the forest after he assaulted two of Tredgar’s men and stole a horse.”
Curteys read the report quickly, her face growing rapidly more ashen as she worked her way down the page.
“Dear fucking gods above. They followed his trail from the beach into the forest where he attacked them with a staff, one he might have cut himself just before they caught up with him.”
She looked up at Nison.
“Marrinek was a great swordsman and familiar with any number of weapons but the quarterstaff was his favourite. He was famous for it. What if he survived the shipwreck and escaped through the forest after attacking your men?” She flicked through the rest of the report.
“There isn’t a description. Maybe it wasn’t him, maybe he really did drown, maybe we’re worrying about nothing…” but she couldn’t shake the feeling, the fear and doubt and a chilling realisation that the Empire’s most feared traitor might be free and, worse, nearby.
“We could exhume the bodies, they’ve only been in the ground a few days; did Marrinek have any distinguishing marks?”
“He might have had an apprentice’s mark but that would have faded at death. I don’t know of any other marks but why would I? And who would know, except maybe his wife, and she’s beyond reach; we certainly couldn’t persuade her to travel here and look at week-old corpses that might or might not be her former husband. But we know the identities of the corpses - we can definitely rule them out so there’s no need to exhume them, no way that we might have missed him.”
“But you found only eleven bodies and there were at least twenty people on the ship when it went down, assuming it really was the Gilded Branch.”
Curteys went back to the report, re-reading it in the hope of finding some other clue, some scrap of comfort, some suggestion that Marrinek had just drowned. But there was no comfort in the short report and she threw it down on Nison’s desk in disgust.
As she did there was a knock at the door and Tredgar came in.
“I got your message,” he said to Nison, “and came as quickly as I could.” He bowed to Curteys, “Captain Tredgar, my lady, Heberon Watch, at your service.”
Nison completed the introductions then turned to Tredgar.
“The beggar your men encountered on the beach at Grace Cove and in the forest. Could you describe him?”
“The beggar? No, I’m sorry, I never saw him. We tracked him cross country but we didn’t catch up with him before he reached the town of Catshed.”
Curteys swore under her breath.
“We have to identify this man, Captain. Is your sergeant reliable, the one who had the run-in with the beggar? Could he give us a description?”
“Snare? Yes, I would say he’s reliable. I couldn’t say the same for the constables who accompanied him - they were all new recruits - but Snare should be able to give us a description.”
Tredgar looked from Curteys, who had clearly arrived recently and was still dressed for travelling, to Nison, whose normally impeccable clothes were disarrayed and showing signs of a spilt drink.
“I’ll find Snare and bring him here as soon as I can. Should we close the town gates?”
“Close the gates? No, I don’t think that will be necessary, just find Snare.”
Tredgar nodded and hurried out, closing the door softly behind him.
Nison sat back in his chair and opened one of the drawers in his desk. He pulled out a small flask and nodded toward a dresser beside the door.
“I have a little brandy, if you wouldn’t mind fetching the glasses.”
Curteys obliged, taking two of the tall curved glasses from the dresser. They sat, waiting for Tredgar’s return, sipping their drinks.
“If the ship was The Gilded Branch,” said Curteys, gesturing with her glass, “then the man may have been Marrinek. Are any other ships late or missing?”
“No,” said Nison, draining his brandy and pouring a second measure. Curteys held out her own glass and Nison splashed in a generous serving. They sat sipping their drinks for ten minutes, then another ten. Curteys was starting to wonder if Tredgar had got lost when here was a knock at the door and he came in, leading Sergeant Snare, who stood to attention in front of Nison’s desk and stared straight ahead.
“Sergeant,” said Nison, “we need you to tell us about the beggar that attacked you in the forest. Can you describe him?”
Snare had obviously been briefed by Tredgar to expect this question and he quickly rattled off a description of the beggar’s physical appearance.
“Was there anything else that struck you about him? Anything unusual?”
Snare considered this, frowning as he thought back over the fight in the forest.
“Well, my lord, I think he tried to compel Jared to give over his boots, and the lad has halfway to handing them over before I snapped at him.”
Tredgar shuffled uneasily and Nison looked at him in annoyance.
“That wasn’t in your report, Captain,” said Nison, glaring at Tredgar and clearly unimpressed by the omission. He turned back to Snare.
“Go on, Sergeant, what else can you tell us?”
Snare paused again.
“Now I think on it, my lord, he didn’t really sound like a regular beggar. It was his accent. He sounded rather like you, sir, begging your pardon. And he knew how to use his staff, proper quick he was, dangerous. I wouldn’t want to face him again.”
Nison looked at Curteys, who nodded.
“Thank you, Sergeant, that will be all.”
Snare nodded and saluted, clearly relieved, and left quickly. Nison rang the bell to summon Cranden.
“Captain,” said Nison, hardly able to believe what he was about to say, “we believe the wrecked ship in Grace Bay was the prison transport, the Gilded Branch, and beggar described in your report was Abaythian Marrinek. If that’s the case then you and your men probably had a lucky escape, although I’m not sure the same can be said for the rest of us.”
“Marrinek, my lord?” said Tredgar, frowning, “The Traitor? I thought he had been condemned to death months ago?”
“No, Captain, life imprisonment,” said Curteys, “which for someone like Marrinek might have been a very long time indeed.”
“We need to notify the Governor in Esterengel, although I haven’t the faintest idea what she’ll be able to do.”
The door opened and Cranden floated quietly into the room.
“Ah, Cranden. I need to send an urgent message to Esterengel. Have an aug-bird prepared for immediate despatch.”
“I’m sorry sir, we used the last one a few weeks ago and we are still waiting for replacements.”
“Dammit,” thundered Nison, his worn veneer of civil-service respectability failing completely under the stress, “we’re a bloody front-line garrison town not a third-rate farming village on the plains of Khemucasterill!” he pointed at Cranden, “How have we managed to run out of Esterengel birds?”
“It
seems the Master of Couriers made a mistake and sent us a crate of birds for Ironbarrow instead of Esterengel.”
Nison shook his head.
“Well what the fuck are we supposed to do with them?”
The homing birds, augmented for speed and stamina, were the fastest way to send messages across the Empire. Unfortunately, they would only fly to their home roost, so to send a message to Esterengel you needed an aug-bird that had been created in Esterengel.
“Find a courier and impress upon him the importance of the message. I don’t care how many horses are spent getting it to Esterengel.”
Cranden bowed and slipped from the room.
Nison stared at the door for a more moments to calm himself. Then he wrote a short description of the situation in an elegant flowing hand and folded the paper. From his drawer, he took a shaft of black wax in a charmed handle, sculpted to resemble a snake coiled around the wax. He held the device over the letter and concentrated briefly, focussing his will on the charm so that hot wax dripped onto the paper, then he pressed his ring into it to form a seal. He slipped the letter into a message tube and then sealed that as well.
“I want the courier to leave within the hour and this message,” he said, passing the tube to Tredgar, “must be delivered into the hands of the Governor herself. Understood? Nobody else, only the Governor.”
“Yes, my lord,” Tredgar gave a little bow and left quickly, following Cranden down the passage.
Curteys threw back the rest of her brandy and stood up.
“Well, this turned out to be a much worse day than I had expected,” she looked out of the window as the sun finally slipped beneath the horizon, “I’ll need somewhere to stay tonight and then in the morning I had best get back to Ankeron with the news. I don’t think Lord Sterik will be amused.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
