“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Daeholf said. “I’m sure I said a nice inn.”
“Trust me, there’s a place nearby with really great beer,” Trimas said.
“I hope they don’t make it with shit,” Daeholf said. “Because that’s what I think I’m smelling a lot of now.”
“Now who’s a princess?” Trimas said.
They turned a last corner.
“I really hope that’s not where you were taking us,” Zedek said as they looked at the sign for the slaughterhouse.
“Perhaps we took a wrong turn…” Trimas said, looking around in confusion.
“Yes, the first one off the main street it seems,” Daeholf said.
“If you’re done looking at the pigs, this way, gentlemen,” Kellan said, leading his horse back the way they’d come.
*****
Strope’s head ached, and he decided to bury it under a pillow to try and soothe it. Unfortunately, despite having spent the money on duck feather filling, this didn’t work for him, and sunlight was coming in through the shutters and burning his closed eyes.
He begrudgingly opened one and looked at the window. The sun wasn’t coming through the shutters, he hadn’t closed them.
He’d been too drunk to close them.
He groaned, rolled over to the side of the bed where his wife lay, and found she’d gone. Got up, got on. There was just her smell, and that was pleasant for a moment until his head screamed again.
The ball. He had drank too much at the ball and was now suffering for it. God, wasn’t he suffering.
They said that the most expensive spirits gave you the least pain the next day, in which case he must have drank the dregs of a dockers’ inn.
Wait … there was something about the ball, wasn’t there. Some fact he had tried to bury away, which he knew would be important.
He sat up, and his head felt like an overfilled waterskin wanting to explode, which was odd as his tongue and throat felt desperate for water. But sense was returning, and he stood, walked in his bare feet over to where he had dumped his clothes, and found his servants had done the right thing: taken the garments for cleaning, but left the small note he’d scribbled as he passed his study on the way home.
He’d been drunk. He’d been giddy with fun and society. But he had still managed to write clearly, because he had only had to write one word, and that word only had four letters.
Vika.
He rubbed the parchment as he thought to himself through the pain. The Thieftaker had asked how prepared the guard were. Not to arrest people, but for something bigger.
A battle, a riot, a rebellion?
What had she been getting at? What was the veiled part, what was the message she was giving him, what must he conclude?
Vika was measured and incisive. She could suggest things to you subtly. So what was she implying here?
He groaned to himself, pulled on a robe and stepped out in search of a drink. As he did so, he tried to make his brain form useful shapes, wake up.
He soon entered the kitchen of his property, where the cook and the other servants nodded.
“Food, water, please,” he said, sinking down into a chair and making everyone else both bemused and nervous. Cooks tended to like their domain free of the people paying.
A mug was placed in front of him and filled with the water collected from the wells that morning. He picked it up and drank it down in one, his mouth reacting as if it was nectar. The grime in there felt washed away, and a moment later a plate appeared with bread, cold meat and a pungent pickle.
Waving at the water to be refreshed, Strope began to eat. Began to settle himself. And he began to think.
Vika wasn’t asking if the guards were ready.
She was telling me the guards need to be ready.
The guards need to be ready.
And he could do that, he could make them so.
He sunk another mug of water, tore off another hunk of chicken, and smiled to himself. He could do this, and his head was clearing.
Shortly after, a messenger was sent from Strope’s household back to the guardhouse with an order. It was midday when Strope left his property to follow it up.
There were several guardhouses throughout the city. One of these was a large square building with a courtyard in the middle, to allow for training and practice, and about once a year someone tried to buy the land to put buildings on it. The guard had always opposed this, and the governor had always backed them, which was going to be useful now.
Strope stepped out of the carriage and marched through the building, receiving salutes from everyone. His headache hadn’t gone, but it had reached a controllable ache, and he had dressed his body up as if there was no issue: a polished, well-kept uniform radiating power.
A hand fell to his sword. He was dressed well, but he wasn’t a martinet. He could fight, and had in the military. What he needed to do was make sure everyone else could.
His order had started the process, and he was now entering the courtyard where an entire ten per cent of the guard had been called together. They stood in neat rows, they wore their full uniforms, complete with their mail and their blades.
A ripple of movement spread over the guard as Strope entered. Most now stood with ramrod backs and arms held in the military style. Why wouldn’t they, most of the guard were men and women who had retired from the legions and drifted into this work, half legal, half army anyway.
Only a few stood sloppily, those citizens who joined the guard from civilian life. Hopefully, by the end of the day, they would all be the same.
“Guards!” Strope began. “I have begun a series of additional training sessions so we are better prepared to deal with anything. You are to be the first, because I have the confidence that you will lead this with the intensity and dedication it deserves.”
Quite a few gave their odd military cheer, some even saluted.
A sergeant, stood at their front, now marched up to Strope and saluted with the sort of crispness that got you into the imperial bodyguard. Not the one that surrounded the emperor, but the one that marched on special occasions.
“Captain, is something afoot, sir?”
“We are just training for any eventuality.” But a good question nonetheless. A very good question.
“I will first inspect your equipment, to make sure it is being correctly cared for,” although a quick scan with his eyes suggested it was, “and then we will work on proper formations. That is the backbone of imperial governance: formation.”
“Yes sir!”
Maybe, he pondered, when everyone had had these extra sessions he should organise some sort of demonstration for the Thief Taker? A march of some sort, would that work? What did she like?
No one knew.
That was the thing about Vika. No one really knew what was in her heart, other than coldness. The sort of cold that has your own husband arrested.
And if she’d do that, would she arrest a leading guard commander whose troops weren’t efficient?
“Right everyone, blades out, let me see them.”
*****
Vika stalked up and down the corridor outside the office.
Probably the only man in the city who could summon her. And at a ridiculously inconvenient time too. What did the pompous ass want now? He might think he ran the city but as far as she was concerned he was wrong. And she hated being effectively at his beck and call. Maybe not for much longer.
“He’ll be right with you,” an aide said, looking nervous. Vika studied him for a moment. At least someone here accorded her the proper respect. She regained her control.
“Of course,” she said, stilling herself and smiling at him. A little bit of her enjoyed the look of fear her attention and smile instilled in the aide.
“Can I, ah, get you a drink whilst you wait?” the aide stuttered.
“No, I’m fine,” Vika said politely. That seemed to scare the aide even more. People had certain expectati
ons of her. And when she caught them off balance it unsettled them even more. She’d worked long and hard to gain her reputation and now it was a powerful weapon. She didn’t even have to threaten people that often anymore. And yet the Governor seemed oblivious to it. Maybe he was just stupid. Or maybe he wasn’t scared of her. Which meant he really was stupid.
Was he keeping her waiting on purpose?
The door opened.
“He’ll see you now,” a faceless official said without really looking at her before walking off down the corridor. Maybe someone else to learn some manners. Thoughts like that weren’t helping. She was angry at being pulled away from something important and when she was angry she made mistakes. In her dealings with the Governor she must be precise. She took a deep breath to calm her before stepping serenely into the room.
“Governor,” she said calmly.
“Vika,” the Governor said. First name, not even her title. Damn him.
“You wanted to see me,” she said after a moment.
“Yes, thank you for coming. I have concerns.”
“Concerns?”
“There has been a series of murders recently.”
“People die in the city every day, Governor.”
“These have been particularly brutal. They’re starting to draw notice. Notice in the wrong circles.”
“Indeed,” Vika said.
“You know to what I’m referring of course.”
“The Night Walker.”
“Yes. The Night Walker.”
Vika remained calm and silent, waiting for the Governor to speak again. There was an uncomfortable pause.
“Influential people are starting to worry. We don’t want influential people to be worried,” the Governor said eventually, looking slightly annoyed.
Sometimes it was about the little victories.
“Certainly not,” Vika said.
“The last victim drew particular attention. A priest. And one not without influence.”
Vika swore to herself. She’d been hoping to keep that quiet a little longer.
“The case is a particular priority,” she said. “I have a good man on it.”
“Find someone better or deal with it personally.”
Outwardly she remained calm but inwardly she was shocked. The Governor had never personally intruded on her area before, beyond the occasional polite suggestion that she might like to look into something. Not like this. And to do it so bluntly…
“Of course. It will be dealt with.”
“Excellent. I’m pleased to hear it. That will be all.”
Painting on the best smile she could manage, she left the Governor to get on with interfering in other people’s business.
Deal with it herself? Ridiculous.
Find someone else. Hmm. Perhaps… She knew just the person.
*****
“Everything in this city looks like it’s just been stopped from falling down.” Zedek finished the sentence shaking his head in evident despair.
Trimas looked over at his friend, confused. “What?”
“Anything that even approaches being an official or large building has all these other bits sticking out of it as if to keep the walls upright.”
“That’s a flying buttress,” Trimas explained.
“And the job of that is to?”
“I’m not an engineer. But originally to keep the walls standing because of the big curving ceilings?”
“To keep the walls standing,” Zedek repeated in triumph.
“No, no, I said originally, that’s why you have those big temples, but here, in Bastion, it became a fashion. A statement. We’re different from the capital, we’re different from the east or the south. Nothing is in danger of falling down, it’s just to make you go ‘wow’.”
Zedek turned and looked at a large stone lump up the street. “All it makes me want to do is run out of the way.”
“You lived in a city built into and out of mountains, didn’t they have buttresses?”
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Daeholf said, with a voice evidently bored of standing there listening to an argument over fucking buildings, “but do we really have to stand in this rain so you can do this?”
“Ah, right, sorry,” Trimas said, “I guess we better get moving.”
“The weather is worse than the buildings,” Zedek sighed.
“I’m with you there, the weather this far north is an acquired taste.”
“I grew up nearly this far north,” Daeholf reminded them.
“And you obviously acquired it,” Trimas replied.
“Nothing to make you feel more alive than being in a coastal thunderstorm.”
Trimas seemed to choke with laughter. “That is such a rural thing to say.”
“Your family are rural.”
“No, if you remember, they had estates in the country, that does not make them rural.”
“Palaces for their princess. Who is still standing in the rain not moving.”
“Ah,” and they set off through the streets.
“So what’s the plan?” Zedek asked.
“We have some time before Kellan tells us what’s going on,” Daeholf explained, “so I think we use it to get used to the city, see what we can see, get a sense of the place.”
“Does this mean I can buy a map?” Zedek said with a little too much excitement for someone of his age.
“Yes, it means you can buy a map. But not an expensive map.”
“The cheap ones don’t have the right things on them. You can wander into all sorts of trouble with those.”
Daeholf laughed. “Now there’s a conversation we can have, what trouble you got into.”
“Ah, yes, right.”
“Just charge Kellan for the map,” Trimas suggested.
“How much do you think this Karina is worth?” Daeholf mused.
“I reckon no one in authority has the first clue. But I reckon a lot.”
“I can see why they paved so much,” Zedek said, looking at the large flagstones beneath his feet, “we’d be knee-deep in mud.”
“We’re walking in a small river of rain and horse shit,” Daeholf pointed out, “what they need is better sewers.”
“Now who’s urban?” Trimas asked.
“When you’ve had to stop an attack from people who have crawled through sewers and any scratch is going to give you bloody rot, you kind of remember someone invented them. Might as well use them.”
“Well if Kellan puts us on the city council we’ll be sure to sort that out.”
“Where is he?”
“Doing dubious things probably.”
Zedek made a mental connection. “Speaking of dubious things, we should get some food.”
“That is where I am taking us…”
“The way you said that, Trimas, it makes me a little scared. Last time you got us lost.”
They followed him through the streets, until they were walking down the narrowest road they’d yet seen. He didn’t have to stop them, because they came to a building radiating the most confusing smells.
“What is this?” Daeholf asked Trimas.
“This is the best tavern in the city. It’s still here!”
“It looks like it grew itself and needs to be cleansed with fire.”
“Come in.”
“They better not recognise you.”
“I have never been thrown out of here.”
“I think I want to be thrown out…” Zedek said as they walked inside, marvelling at how the fug of smoke inside hadn’t stopped the aromas.
“I’d like your emperor’s platter,” Trimas called over to the staff, who nodded and pointed to a table.
Daeholf put his hands on the slightly sticky wood, and commented, “That’s going to be the most inappropriate name ever, isn’t it.”
“Just wait, they’re quick too.”
“Well, at least I can be secure in saying whatever happens here I’ve eaten worse.”
“You’re giving s
ieges a bad reputation.”
As if my magic, staff approached the table with ten different plates, all laden with food. It was placed before them, and ale was poured.
“Right, what do we have here,” and Daeholf reached out to the nearest platter to pick up a chunk of … something. “Seriously Trimas, what is that?”
“That’s shark.”
“Shark?” Zedek exclaimed.
“Yes.”
“The animal that’s all teeth and murder?”
“Also yes.”
“Who goes fishing for shark? And who thinks it’s edible.”
“Ah, it’s edible because the shark is treated and buried for a year before being dug back up and eaten, like this one here.”
Daeholf had paused, looking at the substance in his hand.
“This is year-old rotted shark meat?”
“Yep.”
“Alright, here we go.” He chewed it, chewed it some more, and swallowed it.
“What do you think?” Trimas asked keenly.
“It’s going to take some getting used to. But it’s not all that bad.”
Zedek groaned. “That’s coming from a man who’s eaten a rat’s anus.”
“You really are giving sieges a bad name, the pair of you.”
“Alright, pass the shark over, I’ll have a go.”
Trimas peered at a plate. “This one looks new. Hello, what’s this one?”
“White bears,” a staff member called back, “we import them from the, er, ice fields to the north.”
Daeholf nodded. “Import them. So pirates.”
“Sounds like it, let me tuck in.”
After a few moments chewing, Daeholf asked, “So what does white bear taste like?”
“Very much what I’d imagine a rat’s arsehole to taste like. You might find it nostalgic,” and Trimas grinned at Daeholf who just shook his head.
*****
Elena hadn’t managed to get the smell from out of her nostrils. A body, fished out of the harbour, having seemingly been weighed down with rocks.
Well, no seemingly about it, no one commits suicide by carrying their own rocks to the docks, and rocks don’t tend to send out rope tendrils to attach themselves to legs. So, a murder to solve, and the sad confirmation that the people above her in the guard were sending her to every horrific thing that happened to try and drive her out.
Knives of Bastion (An Empire Falls Book 2) Page 6
