“You’re searching for something,” said Rodann and Katja heard the first stirrings of passion in his voice. “But you won’t find it in oblivion, however you get there.”
“And I suppose you have all the answers,” said Katja, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.
“No, I don’t. But I believe you’re concerned with more than your own gratification. You’re not the only one who’s lost. Many of us are feeling disconnected and betrayed.”
Rodann spoke as if his betrayal was very personal.
“Betrayed by who?”
“Everyone,” said Rodann taking another long drink. Katja noticed Teigan had still not touched her ale. “The world has changed and we need to change with it. Look at Queen Morganse. She gave the throne away and then reclaimed it, just like that.” Rodann snapped his fingers and a flush started to creep into his cheeks. “What about the line of succession? What about the laws of the land? She serves the people and yet we weren’t involved in her decision to reclaim the throne. We had no voice.”
“You want to get rid of the Queen?”
Rodann shrugged, perhaps unwilling to show his cards so quickly. “Let me give you another example. Most people follow scripture that is thousands of years old. The scribes had no way of knowing what life would be like when they wrote those holy books. So why do we hold to them so tightly?”
“Only idiots follow scripture to the letter. It’s about the spirit of the text,” said Katja, spitting her words out sharply enough to earn a frown from Teigan.
“Ah, but mostly we just do as we’re told,” said Rodann. “The priests guide us, often interpreting complex and conflicting passages, but they’re no better than us. Most of them are corrupt and unworthy. In the old days priests earned their position through sacrifice, through blood or celibacy, through the Iron Challenge or the Long Walk. Now they’re just people in silk robes spouting old words.”
“You’re not here for a religious debate. So what do you want?” asked Katja, starting to lose patience despite her best attempts. Her knuckles turned white on the handle of her blade. Katja knew she could slit his throat before Teigan drew her sword. Maybe she could even bury the dagger in the big woman’s chest if she moved quickly enough.
“To help bring about change,” said Rodann with passion. “And I think you want the same thing. I’d like you to meet with some of the others, just to listen to our ideas. After that, if you don’t agree, we’ll part ways as friends and you’ll never see me again.”
Katja eased her grip and considered her options. It was starting to sound as if Rodann and his group were involved in something far more complex than just an assassination. It sounded as if he wanted to start a revolution. On the surface his goal of challenging the status quo sounded like a heartfelt cause, but there was obviously more to it. Otherwise, why the need for secrecy and the obvious paranoia?
So far he’d not even mentioned Queen Talandra or blamed her for anything. Most of Rodann’s ire seemed to be directed towards Morganse, Queen of Yerskania. Katja doubted his anger would solely be directed at one person.
Putting the plot to one side a single question loomed large in her mind. Why her? Why had he specifically chosen her? There were many disheartened people in the city.
Katja considered killing them both and just walking away. Perhaps if they died the others would just fade away into the shadows.
She took a few deep breaths, pushed the impulse away and slipped the blade through the hole in her pocket and refastened it to her leg. Katja placed both hands on the table, considered the wine and took a drink. If they wanted her dead there were easier ways.
“I will listen, but I make no promises about anything else,” said Katja.
“We’re meeting tomorrow night. Just come with an open mind, that’s all I ask,” said Rodann, grinning like they were old friends. His smile still made a shiver run down her spine.
He gave her an address and a few landmarks to find the right door. While they’d been speaking Teigan had remained silent. She’d not reacted to anything they’d said, which made it difficult to read her. Katja would have to watch her closely to find out her role and why she’d become part of the conspiracy.
Rodann finished the last of his ale in two big gulps, glanced at his companion and gestured at her untouched ale. Teigan downed the whole mug in one long breath and moved towards the door, leaving Rodann to hurry after her. It left Katja wondering if perhaps she’d misjudged their relationship and in fact Teigan was in charge.
There would be time to think it over more thoroughly once she’d attended their meeting the following night. After paying and sending her compliments to the chef, Katja left to meet with Roza. They went to another tavern out of the way to talk, sitting in a quiet corner.
“Why did they choose you?” was the first thing Roza asked once Katja had explained what happened.
“I don’t know.”
“You should assume you’re being followed from now on,” said Roza. “Go about your duties as normal and if you need to talk, visit me at the shop during the day. They know we’re friends, so it won’t look suspicious.”
“What do they want with me?” asked Katja.
Roza shook her head, unable to provide an answer. “I’ll see what our people can find out about Rodann and Teigan. In the meantime be careful, and don’t take any risks.”
Roza left first and Katja considered going out again and losing herself in the music. Part of her wanted to just forget everything for a few hours, but paranoia, or caution now that she knew someone had been following her, won out.
Taking a roundabout path, regularly stopping to check for signs of pursuit, Katja gradually made her way home. If Rodann’s people had been following her they’d been very discreet.
Part of her mind kept track of her route and the people, but the rest remained focused on her conversation with Rodann. She kept turning it over and over in her head, thinking back to the other people she’d seen with him and Teigan the previous night, looking for a connection. There were too many possibilities to even try and form a plan. She needed more information.
Even as she ducked into a side street that led back the way she’d just come, Katja knew it would be prudent to be more vigilant than usual, especially as she went about her day job.
She crossed one of the main bridges, feeling a gentle wind from the sea against her skin like a caress. The tang of the salty water filled her nostrils, helped to clear her head a little.
She skirted the edge of several lively streets, packed with people drinking and wandering about in a haze, before heading north. A few more turns and then she could cut back across the river again and be at her front door in another half-hour.
As she turned a corner onto a narrow lane between rows of houses she spotted two men at the other end. They were deep in the shadows, studying the street and balanced on their haunches with their backs to her. Something about them seemed vaguely familiar and it took her a couple of seconds to remember. They were the two thugs who had been trying to rob the merchant a few nights ago.
Just as Katja started to back away one of them glanced around nervously. His mouth fell open and she put a finger to her lips, hoping he’d take her advice.
“You bitch!” he shouted, springing to his feet. His shout drew the attention of his friend, whose surprise quickly turned to rage.
“Don’t be stupid. Remember how this turned out last time?” said Katja, trying to keep them calm. “Just walk away.”
Both men drew daggers and slowly came towards her. Katja risked a glance over her shoulder, then turned and sprinted away, skidding around a few corners until she found what she needed. Several alleys crossed, creating an open area, which gave her some space to move.
One of the men had a bandage around his right hand, which meant the other one had the dislocated shoulder. Seeing them again up close she noticed the men had similar features, suggesting they were related. Both were armed with a dagger and they approached her cau
tiously this time, taking nothing for granted. To even the odds a little Katja drew the long blade from her pocket and the dagger from her boot.
The two men glanced at each other and nodded. Moving slowly they started to creep towards her from two different directions.
“Last chance to walk away,” said Katja, but they ignored her.
Taking a deep breath Katja tried to calm her nerves and slow the frantic beating of her heart. She waited as the men edged forward, watching both of them from her eye corners. When they were just out of her reach she feigned an attack towards one then launched herself at the other. Using both blades in wide circles she drove him back, making him focus on defending himself against her weapons. Which meant he completely missed her kick against the same knee she’d injured last time. With a howl he stumbled and then fell backwards onto his arse. Katja rushed forward and darted around behind him.
A blade whistled through the air behind her and the man on the ground tipped backwards to avoid being sliced by his friend. To make sure he stayed there Katja jabbed him three times in his right arm with the tip of her dagger. The wounds weren’t deep, but they made him howl and bled enough to keep him busy for a while.
The other thug rushed forward but she kept him back with her long blade.
“Kill her!” screamed the man on the ground, trying to stem the bleeding. Katja moved away, giving herself plenty of room. The thug started making threats about what he’d do to her, but she ignored him. Soon he resembled a gaping fish dying on the riverbank, his mouth flapping open and closed. Katja sniggered at the mental image and the thug flew into a rage. He charged and she ducked and span away. He came forward again and she danced away once more, mindful of the man on the ground. He might not be able to fight, but he could grab her legs.
The thug attacked, slashing left to right. She didn’t try to block, just kept moving away and to the side. He kept trying to corner her. In close quarters she wouldn’t be able to move or match his strength, so her best chance was to watch and wait. She didn’t have to wait long.
He lunged, trying to jab her with his dagger, but overextended. Instead of moving away she stepped forward, ducking under his arm. The thug hissed and span around, his hand coming away red from where she had cut him across the ribs.
“I could’ve killed you,” she told him. “Take your friend and go home.”
Stubbornness, or maybe pride, wouldn’t let him leave. He attacked again with a howl and when she tried to dart away his other hand snaked out, grabbing her by the shoulder. She flicked the blade towards his arm, scoring a long gash on his forearm. He screamed but held on and shoved her backwards.
Katja stumbled, dropped her dagger, but didn’t fall to the ground. She regained her balance in time for his shoulder to collide with her chest. Her back and head slammed into a wall, driving the air from her lungs, making stars dance in front of her eyes. One meaty fist closed around her throat and she gasped for air. With his other hand he pinned her knife hand to the wall.
A nasty grin stretched across the thug’s face. She cut it short, ignoring the hand on her throat and her weapon. Her free hand slammed into the shoulder she’d recently dislocated and the pressure eased on her wrist. She pulled her hand free then buried her long blade in the thug’s stomach. Both of his hands dropped to his sides and they stood face to face in silence. His face went slack and his eyes bulged in terror.
With a vicious twist she turned the blade, making him wheeze. Something hot and wet gushed over Katja’s hand, spattering loudly against the stones beneath her feet. His dagger dropped from loose fingers, clattering to the ground. After a few seconds his knees buckled and when his weight threatened to snap her wrist she let go and he collapsed.
A long L-shaped hole ran across his stomach. Red and blue ropey innards spilled out. Black blood spurted and gushed, soaking into the thug’s clothing before spreading out and forming a red pool around his body. It ran between the paving stones, giving the street a network of veins written in blood.
The other man was screaming, struggling to his feet. The noise would draw unwanted attention if it hadn’t done so already. Katja swept up the thug’s fallen dagger, stalked across the rotunda and buried it in his throat. Hot arterial blood splashed over her face and arms, in her eyes and mouth. Gagging and choking the thug fell back, both hands against his neck, vainly trying to stop the flow.
Katja sank to the ground, dripping with gore and blood. Both men gasped their final breaths and silence returned. Not far away she heard a faint trickling as blood found its way down the drains, mixing with filth in the sewers.
The adrenaline faded leaving Katja feeling hollow and exhausted. For some reason her teeth ached. She started to shiver and became aware of the cuts and bruises from the fight. Moving like an old woman, she retrieved her weapons, tried to wipe the blood from her clothes but only made it worse. She spat the blood from her mouth and stumbled home, sticking to back alleys and side streets. It took a long time, as several times she was forced to hide in order to avoid other people and squads of the Watch. At one point her exhaustion was so great she nearly fell asleep, her head dipping towards her chest, but fear of being caught woke her up.
Eventually she came to the right street but couldn’t go through the front door as every part of her clothing was soaked with blood. She darted into the alley behind the shops, counting the buildings until she found the right one. Thankfully she could see a light and as she approached the back door she heard movement inside.
Gankle opened the door slightly then threw it open, his mouth stretching wide in shock. Katja stumbled inside before he could ask his questions, her hip collided with the kitchen table and she fell onto the floor.
All remaining energy seemed to drain from her body and she lay there with her face pressed against the cool stone. Just before she fell into the black she felt strong hands lifting her and she stopped fighting, sinking into oblivion.
CHAPTER 15
Choss turned the mask over in his hands, carefully checking it for any spots he’d missed. The masquerade for the summer solstice wasn’t for over a month, but lots of people were already buying costumes, so he’d not looked suspicious. It would help for what came next. He’d picked up the black paint at a different shop and the wooden file from a carpenter. He’d widened the eye holes, smoothed off all the rough edges, the spiny ridge on the nose, the nodules on the cheeks. Now the garish pheasant mask had been reduced to a bone white oval which he’d painted black. It left his chin and mouth free, but everything else was concealed behind the mask.
It wasn’t quite a Drassi mask, but getting hold of one of those was impossible. None of the costume shops dared copy the distinctive teardrop style, a decision which had been mandated by the Queen. The Drassi were easy people to get along with, and trade with them was good, as long as you didn’t piss them off.
Every Drassi man had only one mask and they guarded it more closely than their money. The only way to get one would be to take it off a dead body, and that was extremely difficult.
Black trousers and steel-toed black boots, a black padded leather vest that left his arms bare, and long metal bracers on his forearms, finished his outfit. Choss pulled down the mask and stared at himself in the mirror. The perfect outfit for a bit of thieving or sneaking about. He knew he couldn’t move very quietly compared to some, being big had its disadvantages, but with the borders open again for trade, large men from Seveldrom were common in the city. If anyone saw him, all they’d remember was someone tall, dressed in black.
Choss tucked two punching daggers into his belt, their handles and his belt buckle blackened as well. He wasn’t used to hiding in the shadows, but he’d been around enough people who did it regularly to know the basics. He pulled on a grey baggy shirt over the top of his vest and weapons so it didn’t look completely obvious what he was about.
A little before midnight he followed groups of people heading towards the west end and Don Kalbensham’s turf. At this time of ni
ght plenty of people had already drunk a fair bit and were in search of other forms of entertainment. Although no one stopped and searched him, Choss knew when he crossed into the meat district. He could feel people watching and weighing him up for signs of being a potential troublemaker.
Choss merged with one group, sang along with them and swayed in time. Just another drunken reveller seeking a bit of a thrill, or maybe some company for an hour or two.
A few streets into the district he peeled off from the group, sprinted down a narrow lane between two of the long flat warehouses and found a shadowy corner. He stripped off the shirt, shifted the daggers around from the small of his back to the front of his belt and pulled on the mask.
Bracing his legs and arms against walls on either side, he slowly inched his way up the walls, finding footholds in the pitted stones. Choss rolled onto the roof and stayed low, looking out across the city. Only a couple of buildings stood higher than the warehouses in the meat district, and none of those were nearby. Beyond those he could see a good portion of the local area, including a couple of bridges in the district, and hear the hush of the River Kalmei. Up here the air was hot and sticky, but it would be a lot worse inside the warehouses, pressed up against people or herds of animals waiting for slaughter. From above the streets he studied the layout of the area, noting the streets full of light and loud with music. Just beyond them was a ring of silence. The streets away from the busy areas, the bars, the brothels and gambling houses, would be his best place to find corners where people bought their fix. Nearby would be derelict and shoddy hovels, dens full of half-conscious bodies piled on top of each other like kindling, oblivious to the world beyond their rush.
Choss carefully manoeuvred down to street level again and headed for these silent streets. His breathing sounded unnaturally loud in his ears, but he knew it was only his nerves. As the warehouses became less frequent he passed into an area once used to house slaughtermen. They still housed people who dealt in flesh, but now it was work of a different kind. Moans of pain and pleasure mixed together into one huge chorus until he couldn’t tell one from the other. The slapping of flesh on flesh and rhythmic creaking and grinding called out to him. It reminded Choss of how long it had been. How long since he’d been able to relax in a woman’s company and just be himself, not the fighter, not the Champ. The only exception was Munroe and theirs was a complex relationship. Everyone else looked at him in a certain way. He’d never be able to live up to their expectations.
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