Gabriella darted forward but was careful to not repeat his suicidal error.
As she reached the edge of the roof she saw the man roll face up in mid-air, and the glint of the crossbow's iron lath, just as his fingers clenched on the trigger bar.
Gabriella was already diving before the bolt was launched, flying headlong, out into the space between the roofs.
There was no sudden pain, so she knew the bolt had missed, but now she was also falling.
She slammed into the end of a cartload of straw bales a few seconds after the fugitive. He was already rolling out of the cart and onto the street between boatyards as she landed with outstretched hands. Gabriella rolled out of the cart and slammed onto the cobbles.
Tasting blood, she staggered to her feet. She stumbled off after the fugitive, drawing a sword. She held no illusions that it would be of any use against a crossbow bolt, but she didn't intend to give him the chance to launch another one.
The fugitive dashed towards the large double doors of a warehouse. A small door set into the main doors was ajar. He ducked inside, and Gabriella pushed through a moment later.
The warehouse was half empty, the remaining crates bearing rough scrawls identifying their ownership. It stank of mould and darkness. Bare wooden scaffolds and stairs led up to a catwalk halfway up the wall. The vast space was dark and gloomy, filled with enough pools of shadow to hide an army of ambushers, but there was plenty of dust on the floor, so it was easy to make out the fugitive's tracks.
Trying her best to stick to the shadows herself, Gabriella crept along after the footprints. They led to a trapdoor near the rear of the warehouse. She listened for any sign of the man. There was none. If the cellar was just a bolt-hole, well, even a cornered rat will fight, and the man she was chasing had already showed a willingness to attack. On the other hand, if there was a tunnel to a neighbouring building, or to Kalten's poor excuse for a sewer system, he could be long gone.
She broke off a piece of wood from a crate, opened the trapdoor and tossed it down into the hole, listening for any reaction. There was none, but the wood sounded as if it had hit something, very softly and quietly just before hitting the floor. Taking a deep breath, Gabriella leapt into the hole.
He was waiting for her ten feet down. If she had taken the ladder down she would have got his knife in her back. As it was, he got both her boots in the head, and they tumbled and rolled. The crossbow clattered into the darkness and Gabriella kept a hold of the fugitive's tunic.
He tried to throw her off, spinning and slamming her back against the ladder. Gabriella kneed him in the groin, and then slammed her elbow down between his shoulder blades when he doubled over. She punched him repeatedly before he could recover, then hauled him to his knees and smacked his head against the slick walls until he fell unconscious.
Shaking as she recovered her breath, she leaned against the wall. Was this the man who had shot Rhodon, or just a random sinner? Three people had attacked her as she pursued him, and at least two of them had done so specifically to end that pursuit. That fact suggested that he was more than a man taking an illicit drink.
Now her problem was going to be waking him up.
CHAPTER 3
Rodrigo Kesar watched impassively from a crenulated walkway. The position gave a good view of both the courtyard within the curtain wall, and the esplanade outside and was mercifully out of the way of the people who had to rush around to go places and get things.
Eminence Voivode had taken charge of several guards, and was having them cover the Healers rushing in and out the castle with their shields, as if he thought they were on an open battlefield under constant arrow-storms. Kesar couldn't fault him for his devotion, but he felt those guards could better serve by helping with the perimeter cordon being thrown around the city.
Eminence Fehr was in some kind of argument with vom Kalten's guard captain, and was gesticulating wildly. Doubtless she was trying to take direct control of his troops. Or perhaps she was blaming, or even implicating, them. Kesar wouldn't be surprised.
For his own part, Kesar was content to observe. That, after all, was his talent. The Anointed Lord would probably have heard the news by now relayed to her by a mage, but he doubted that she would want to take any action before reading the report that he would shortly write. Already a courier was being briefed to take a scroll on the first leg of its journey to the Great Cathedral in Scholten.
Rodrigo was careful to keep his expression calm and unreadable. It wouldn't do for anyone to think that an assassin could ruffle any of the Faith's higher ranks. Nor would it do to make light of things and potentially be proved a fool. Kesar always preferred to let others wonder what he was thinking. Usually he was thinking about probabilities. Not odds, he told himself; odds would have made him a gambler, while probabilities made him a mathematician and thinker.
There had been no further shots and so the most likely probability was that the bowman had been after Rhodon, and had already initiated an escape plan. That meant there was no further danger here, except from overly excitable guards getting in each others' way. Kesar had many questions, about who may have hired the assassin, and why, but he knew there was nothing that could be done until the person was found and made to confess his secrets. Until then, Rodrigo wasn't going to be stupid enough to get in the way of all those excited guards.
The ordinary Ducal soldiers of Kalten looked on warily as the Order of the Swords of Dawn took up positions in twos and threes around the esplanade. The Ducal Captain-at-Arms approached the stocky Preceptor DeBarres, commander of the Knights. Short but muscular, with a greying moustache and a pockmarked face, he was the military leader of the Order of the Swords of Dawn west of the Drakengrat mountains. He didn't look round from directing his subordinates as the Captain approached.
"Enlightened One… My troops have the situation under control."
"I'm sure you have, Captain, and you have my thanks for it. However, the Order will now take charge of security in the surrounding environs, for the sake of the safety of all. We'll try to inform you when we assign your troops to their new positions."
The Captain's face reddened, his lips thinning. "My troops — "
"Captain," DeBarres snapped gruffly. "You have done your duty to the best of your abilities but the Swords are now in charge here."
The Captain's spine stiffened, but, instead of saying anything, he looked towards a large, bear-like figure with a blond beard and aristocratic bearing. Duke Freihurr vom Kalten shook his head slightly, and the Captain stepped back a pace.
"Forgive my Captain's over-eagerness, Preceptor. We are all angered by the outrage that took place today."
DeBarres nodded, and led his men away. Freihurr leaned in slightly to his Captain's ear. "Don't be too offended. Whoever tried to kill an Enlightened One of the Final Faith is probably connected to the Brotherhood of the Divine Path" The Captain nodded, relieved that the Duke was taking his man's side. He was relieved, but not surprised; he had served Kalten for a long time, and appreciated the loyalty that the Duke had always showed to his people.
"Let these religious types handle their own arguments, while we keep out of it," Freihurr added.
The Captain nodded, wondering how, if these Knights were so special, they had failed to prevent the attack.
Gabriella rolled her prisoner over onto his front, and tied his hands behind his back with a rope taken from a nearby block and tackle. During the process, she gave him a quick search. He carried no more weapons. She stepped back, deciding not to tie his legs. She wanted him to be able to walk back to the castle. Waking, he mumbled incoherently for a moment before shouting and swearing. He was covered in dirt and bleeding from his scalp. He was pinched-faced, the sort of person who's features were made for sneering. He was trying that now, but it wasn't working.
She watched him thrash his legs around, trying to get himself free.
"This is an arrest by the Order of the Swords of Dawn, for morality offences contrar
y to the proscriptions of the Final Faith here in Kalten."
"Morality offences?"
"The consumption of hard liquor in a region where it's prohibited by Ducal law, for starters. Which I'll admit is a technicality. Attacking an Enlightened One of the Final Faith is a much graver charge."
Gabriella could barely keep her voice from shaking; she hadn't had time to really assimilate what had happened at the castle. She wasn't sure whether she should be angry or shocked, and settled for both.
"On your feet. We'll talk about extending the charge to cover the shot at Eminence Rhodon when we get back to the castle."
'The shot.' What else could she say? She didn't even know whether the Eminence was still alive, let alone whether this prisoner was responsible.
"Let's not. Kill me and be done with it!"
"For someone who just tried so hard to get out alive, you're suddenly very keen to die. Conscience troubling you? I think you might benefit from a nice long chat with our Confessors. Come on."
"You must be joking, bitch!"
With that, he lashed out with his legs, sweeping her feet out from under her. She crashed to the floor next to him, and he reacted immediately by wrapping his ankles around her throat, and trying to twist her head. Her neck exploded into fire, and agony flared between her collarbone and her ears. She grabbed desperately at his legs, trying to pry them away. It was like trying to bend solid iron bars.
With a roar, Gabriella drew one sword and slashed at the outside of his right thigh, keeping clear of the artery, and cutting across muscle. The man screamed and his legs loosened.
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Gabriella gasped.
Lightning-quick, he slammed his foot into her head, and her blade clattered away as she slid backwards across the floor.
Gabriella could see the pain explode in the fugitive's eyes as he bounced back onto his feet, but his wounds didn't stop him rolling for her fallen sword.
She lunged for him then, drawing her other sword, but he batted her blade aside with his and head-butted her. She fell back, dropping the sword.
He twirled the blade theatrically as he stood over her.
"This one's with love from the Brotherhood. Give their regards to Ludwig Rhodon when you see him in Kerberos!"
A flying white blur suddenly crashed into Gabriella's assailant from behind and she rolled to her feet as metal clanged beside her. When she had risen, the man's head was staring up at her. His body was still falling, next to a new figure. It was Erak Brand.
Gabriella shivered, and grasped his forearm tightly. Beyond him, six more Knights entered, as did a matronly woman in the white cloak of a Confessor.
"You're a hard girl to find, even after Markus reported you were heading this way." Erak said.
"What… what did you do that for?" she said, gesturing at the corpse.
"He was going to kill you!"
"He was going to try!" Gabriella protested.
"He might have succeeded."
She went over to the headless body and began searching through its clothes for anything that might identify the fugitive.
"Are you saying you go easy on me in sparring?" Gabriella said. "This man wasn't as good as you, and might I remind you who won our last bout?"
"I'm saying it doesn't matter how good a fighter is," Erak said. "You can always have a bad day. Everybody has some bad luck from time to time, and if it's when you're fighting for your life… The enemy only needs to be lucky once."
The Confessor prodded the headless corpse with the sole of her sandal. "Well, if this was the man who shot Eminence Rhodon, he was lucky."
Gabriella looked up at her, feeling a terrible sickening sensation.
"Did the Eminence — ?"
The Confessor shook her head. "I don't know about that. I mean this one died quickly. Lucky for him. I don't suppose he said anything before he left us for the pits?"
Gabriella shook her head. "Just best wishes from the Brotherhood."
Confessor Kamil didn't look very surprised. "Well, if he is the one who shot at Rhodon, I'd expect a Brotherhood link. Unless, of course it's a political game and he's from one of the Pontaine cities, trying to stir up trouble." She glared at Gabriella and Erak. "It would have been nice if you'd left him in a fit state to tell us." She sighed. "Still, perhaps the body will tell us something."
"Let's hope," Gabriella agreed.
CHAPTER 4
Mud spattered up from under hoof as a column of riders passed down a trail at speed. The bridleway was wide, the silver birches set far enough back that no-one need fear being pitched from their mount by a stray branch. The horses were a motley bunch of breeds and colours, and all but one of the riders wore shields strapped to their backs and iron helms, tinted to the shade of blood by the sun.
As the valley widened, and threads of smoke became visible rising from below, a second group of hooded riders waited in a village so small it didn't even have a name. A farm at each end was separated by a few stone cottages and wattle fences. A river of churned mud running parallel to the fencing passed for a road through fields frosted white. A forested ridgeline on the horizon separated the countryside from the cliffs of Kalten. The two groups met in the middle of the village and one man from each side dismounted to meet the other.
"Scarra," Goran Kell said. He carried himself like a soldier, or a noble, and despaired of the slouching fat man. Scarra was far from ascetic, and far from a fighter, but his family was rich, and that made him useful.
"Everything is prepared, Kell. Our man knows what he has to do. There's backup to cover his escape."
Kell smiled mirthlessly. "There's been a change of plan." He beckoned to a tired-looking youth who was waiting in his entourage, on a tired-looking horse. The youth trotted forward. "Tell Scarra what you've just told me."
"Ludwig Rhodon was shot not an hour ago."
"Excellent news!" Scarra exclaimed. "You know, my boy, I have had my doubts about this scheme, but it's a great relief to know that it was merely needless worry." A frown crossed his face. "Actually, isn't it a little early? I thought it was supposed to happen at the feast."
"Oddly enough," Kell said calmly, "I thought that too. I know that, and you know that. But it would have been nice if you'd made absolutely certain that Lukas knew that as well."
"He knew! Of course he knew the plan!"
Kell's expression didn't change. "Someone didn't. So I'm changing the follow-up, just in case. We can't remain in this area. The Swords of Dawn are scouring all of Kalten. I suggest you find a safe territory for a few days. That's certainly what I shall be doing."
Scarra stiffened. "You can't just leave like this!"
Kell raised an eyebrow. "You'd prefer if I stayed here, got caught, and told the Confessors where to find you?"
"We should — "
"We should leave and neither of us should tell the other where he's going." With that, Goran Kell returned to his horse and rode away, his entourage falling in behind him.
Karel Scarra suddenly felt very cold and alone. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be rising among his peers, basking in the glow of history.
He turned and walked back to his retinue. The waiting mercenaries wore tabards bearing a red dagger. By the time he reached them, he had worked out how to tell them that Kell had messed things up and fled. Yes, that explanation would suffice. The brighter thought struck him that perhaps he could make some advantage out of this. He had spent a great deal in bribes lately, so perhaps he could recoup some of the costs now, cutting down on some more outlay.
He composed himself, arranging his features into an expression that mixed anger, apology and, hopefully, some charm. He mounted his horse before addressing his personal guard of mercenaries, feeling that he would be more commanding from the saddle than from the ground.
"My friends, we are betrayed!" he announced dramatically. "Something has happened in Kalten that was not part of Kell's plan. And Kell has decided to flee, abandoning u
s to our fate. I have decided that we should not go with him, as he will doubtless lead us to disaster."
"What's the plan?" a shaven-headed mercenary with large ears and a scar across his brow demanded.
"We'll make for the vineyard, Hasso. There I shall pay you my share of your wage, and we'll decide our next — "
"Wait," Hasso snapped. He nudged his horse next to Scarra's, as the other men murmured among themselves. "What do you mean, your half?"
"Kell has taken half our funds with him."
Scarra felt a sudden chill. His instinct for survival struggled with his instinct to be tight with his money, and it was a case of the proverbial irresistible force meeting the immovable object. He smiled beatifically, hiding his fear.
"We hired you together, but while he robs you, I will stand by my promise, and pay what I owe…"
"You mean half of what we are owed, don't you?"
Scarra considered throwing himself on their mercy, but couldn't bring himself to do so. They were his employees, after all. Most of them were just thugs, not particularly intelligent and he was sure he could convince them that the absence of Kell meant the absence of half their fee. Scarra himself, of course, had been the richer of the two, and he could have paid the mercenaries their full fee many times over, but it was much more satisfying to smear Kell for running out on him.
"If Kell has stolen from you, there is little that I can do."
"We could ride after him," Hasso pointed out, "and take it."
"We could," the Captain of the Red Daggers said at last, "but we won't. We'd be fighting our own."
"Since when did that stop us, Sarkos?"
"Cut it out, Hasso," Sarkos snapped. He sighed. "Scarra has a point." Hasso grunted derisively. "And so long as you're in the Red Daggers, you'll show some respect to our employers."
"Respect?" Hasso scoffed. "You're going to swallow his guff and keep working?" He shook his head. "You might be that way inclined, but I can't say I am."
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