Knives of Bastion (An Empire Falls Book 2)

by Harry Leighton

  Rek smiled hopefully in return.

  Vika’s smile dropped suddenly. She looked at him. “I know of you. A has-been passed over for promotion because of a lack of competence. You lost a cart loaded with weapons in broad daylight and you expect me to reward you for that?”

  Rek balled a fist. Vika looked at it and tilted her head. She smiled but it wasn’t friendly. Rek opened his hand quickly.

  “We’re done here,” the Captain said, ushering his men out as fast as he could.

  *****

  Trimas leaned over the bar. “I’d like two pitchers please.”

  The landlord looked confused. “Two of what?”

  “Oh anything,” and a distracted Trimas turned to look at the inn.

  A modest building, filled with people, all happily drinking away with none of the city guard in sight. They might have to keep it that way for a while. Thing was, there was a nagging at the back of his head, like he’d missed something.

  Trimas carried the pitchers to the table and sat down.

  “Two?” Zedek asked.

  “We need some time to reassess. We will spend that time watering our mental plants.”

  Zedek held a finger in the air. “One of you once told me of the old military adage, no ideas after the second pint.”

  “We’re not in the military,” Trimas explained. “We’re in, well I don’t know what business Karina counts as, and whatever it is we’re not very good at it.”

  Daeholf nodded. “We certainly have a learning curve to meet.”

  “We just started. We’ll get the hang of asking questions.”

  “Zedek, this isn’t asking questions of normal people. This is asking questions of people frightened for their livelihoods and their legs. Three rough looking blokes walking in mentioning trouble clearly isn’t the way forward.” Daeholf finished and poured a drink.

  “This is true.”

  “But I did my bounty hunter thing okay, it got rid of the guard.”

  “Yes, about that. Let’s not do it too often. I’m not sure why it worked.”

  “Because I have the skills.”

  “We just need to work out which one it is.”

  Trimas ran a hand through his hair and concluded a wash would be in order. Once they summoned up the resolve to leave this inn and keep…

  Trimas saw the chandler entering the inn and walking over to the bar and suddenly realised what he’d been missing.

  “Chaps, we don’t ask cold questions. That’s not yet our style. This is our style,” and he leapt up, grabbed the full pitcher and snaked his way across the floor.

  “Sorry for the misunderstanding earlier,” he said, causing the chandler to turn. “How about this pitcher as a peace offering?” He smiled, and the chandler looked at the vessel.

  The man was a stranger, but he was in a safe place offering a good drink. What could go wrong?

  “Maybe I was harsh to judge…”

  Daeholf and Zedek were watching the small exchange, and then saw Trimas lead the man back to their table.

  “God, it worked,” and Daeholf smiled at the newcomer.

  “Help yourself,” Trimas said and poured the man a large mug.

  “Thank you. So who are you?”

  “We’re setting up a butcher’s shop,” Daeholf began. “Well, we bought an existing business and are now installing ourselves. But our research on the area went a bit wrong!”

  The chandler took a deep gulp and nodded to himself. “This is good.”

  “They’ve invented it since I was first here.”

  “First here?” The chandler looked at Trimas. “Army?”

  “The same.”

  “And you came back to start a business?”

  “Yes. You won’t believe what the other places were like. Hey, drink up, plenty where that came from. Don’t be stingy.”

  The chandler nodded, leant back into his chair and kept the mug in his hand for easy and regular sips.

  “You all soldiers?”

  “Him and me. We met him after.” Fingers were pointed.

  “I thought about it when I was a lad.” The man felt his stomach warming and his head unknotting from a hard day’s work. “My dad would have killed me though. Family business or nothing for him. Shame really.”

  “It’s overrated,” Zedek told him.

  “Is it?” Daeholf asked.

  “Hearing the stuff you say, yes.”

  “It wasn’t all sieges.”

  “You wouldn’t know if you only heard you.”

  “A siege?” The chandler leaned in.

  “Yeah, tell you what, let’s have some more drinks and I’ll dredge the siege up when I feel like telling a good long story.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Daeholf found the first pitcher was now empty. He picked up the second.

  “If you’re really lucky, Trimas here will tell you everything he knows about pigs.”

  The chandler turned to Trimas. “What?”

  “He means, while I have recently learnt how to chop pigs up and sell them for consumption, I learned in the legions how to coat them in grease, set them on fire and send them towards some southern troops who really, really wouldn’t expect it.”

  “Did you really do that?”

  “Oh, no, sorry, it was a theory lesson. It’s an interesting theory until you factor in the way your army actually wants to eat the pigs.”

  “Would they be cooked as they charged?”

  Trimas smiled and got deeper into character. “The thing about that is the top crisps but the flesh stays raw. So you have to still properly cook it. Once someone has properly prepared it, of course.”

  “Like your new business!”

  The chandler’s eyes were wide, and he was swinging his mug wildly.

  “We hope the local community sees it like that and buys from us.”

  “I’m sure they will!”

  Trimas turned, waved a hand and managed to use it to order two more pitchers.

  Zedek leaned in. “So, any difficulties in the area?”

  *****

  Elena knocked on the door, and felt as well as heard it rattle loosely in the frame. How was it even standing up? She wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t part of the planning department, and they tended to focus on the grand buildings.

  Then she breathed a sigh of relief because if there had been a fully functioning guard planning officer, it was the kind of job she’d have been shunted into as a punishment.

  There was no time for further thoughts as the door opened, and a woman stood there holding a baby. She still had her mother’s stomach, and the dead eyes of a woman who was awake every two hours.

  “Hello, I’m from the guard and…”

  “I ain’t done anything.”

  “No, it’s nothing you’ve…”

  “If they’ve complained about him crying tell them to mind their own fucking business, they’ll have kids one day.”

  “No, nothing you’ve done wrong, no complaints, nothing bad at all I assure you.”

  The lady looked cynically at Elena. “What is it then?”

  “A murder was committed in the square behind your house. I am wondering if you heard anything?”

  “Oh. That. I… I was awake a lot that night, with the boy. He cries a lot, if someone was screaming, I didn’t hear it.”

  Elena pondered. Babies could be loud, but louder than someone being mutilated?

  “Nothing suspicious at all?”

  “No.”

  Elena nodded. That was, in itself, a clue. Someone with the presence to kill silently. The method of murder, the way the bodies were slashed apart suggested a maniac, some sort of beast made flesh. But no one had heard screams. So this beast had enough control to be careful.

  The locations bore that out. No one rended on a thoroughfare with witnesses, always lured alone and out of the way enough for butchery.

  Elena felt like shivering. It was one thing to be on the trail of a monster, but another to know it
was capable of stalking you back and hiding in the undergrowth.

  “That all?”

  “Have you seen any suspicious people round here?”

  “I’ve lived in this city for twenty years. All my life. Everyone is suspicious. Thought you’d think that. Being in the guard an’ all.”

  “I see your point. Thanks for your time.”

  Elena turned away and realised she probably shouldn’t put it off any longer.

  There was someone who’d be able to fill her in on details, someone she had been avoiding talking to.

  Someone with a reputation for being strange.

  She had to go talk to the coroner, see what he said about the bodies. See if anything wasn’t in the report.

  God, the report had been weird enough.

  She strode through the city, and realised she was looking at everyone, assessing whether they could be the killer, what they would look like with bloody hands, smeared faces, running in clothes they had to…

  Running in clothes?

  No one had reported a bloody figure on the streets. So the killer was covering up.

  The spark faded immediately. It was Bastion in the winter, everyone was covered up. It would be suspicious if someone wasn’t. But someone carrying a spare cloak or coat?

  It was a start.

  A building loomed ahead. In the summer the morgue stank when there was a corpse inside, but in the winter they left all the windows open and bodies froze on the slabs. Which was why, having knocked on the door, it was opened by a man in a full coat of fur.

  He was so tall he towered above Elena, but was so thin he seemed to have been sliced in half. Which, given why she was here, wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  “Yes?” he said in a slow, drawn out voice.

  “I’m Sergeant Elena, and I’d like to speak to you about the Nightwalker.”

  “Of course,” and he smiled, exposing his teeth. “Such a striking killer.”

  “Er, yes?”

  “Do come in.” He swished back into the building, and Elena followed him through until she was in a room where corpses lay on slabs, the same room where his desk was set up. He sat behind it, crossed his slender fingers, and said, “Do ask away.”

  Elena looked at the corpses around her. Clearly she wasn’t getting a seat.

  “I have read your reports.”

  “I pride myself on them. I have, for a long time, harboured the feeling the guard didn’t read them, not at all.”

  Which, Elena concluded, was a situation she now understood. “They were very detailed.”

  “And yet you are still here?”

  “I was wondering about what caused the wounds. You focused on the wounds themselves.”

  He tilted his head. “Would you not agree that the wounds are the most … fascinating part?”

  Fascinating wasn’t the word she’d use. “I think they can tell us a lot.”

  “But you wish to discuss the tool. The paintbrush used on this canvas.”

  Elena realised the tingling feeling in her arms was her skin crawling. Time to focus on the point. “Well, what sort of blade would be needed to make these wounds? Long, short, wide? What murder weapon am I looking for?”

  “I see. These are not sword wounds. These are not axe wounds. They are made by a knife, of average length, the kind everybody carries, but very, very sharp.”

  “So a common implement, but perhaps uncommonly kept?”

  “Yes. Perhaps. You have been hoping for something unusual.”

  “It would have been a help.”

  “You should appreciate the bodies and the man that did it. Not the tool.”

  “It’s a man?”

  “I misspoke, it could be a woman. A midwife would be perfect.”

  “Sorry?”

  “A midwife. Someone who can walk the streets with blood on them and not be suspected. Your killer could be a midwife.”

  Elena nodded. At least this man had said something sensible.

  “Tell me, how do you get a job as a coroner?”

  “Not many last. You need to be of sturdy stock.”

  Or, Elena concluded, sick in the head. “I better be going.”

  “Any time you have any more … fascinating bodies, do come along.”

  “Thank you for the offer.”

  *****

  Hot.

  He felt hot.

  The forge was next door and he could hear his cousin, the smith, hammering away but it was winter and out in the side shed he could still see his breath steam.

  And yet he was hot. Sweating.

  Sweating uncontrollably.

  He undid his tunic to let in some air. It didn’t help. He mopped his brow with his sleeve, breathing rapid.

  His heart racing. Blood pounding in his ears.

  Stomach rolling, Regis felt the urge to be sick. He put the knife and the strop down and got off his stool, kneeling down and bending over. A couple of dry heaves later he straightened up feeling no better.

  He was trembling. Sweat still running down his face. He mopped his brow again.

  Out, out.

  He needed to get out.

  All he wanted to do was get away. But to where?

  Breathe. Breathe slowly.

  Like he’d been told. He was safe. He was with family. He was in no danger.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  Ting went the hammer in the other room. Ting.

  Breaking his concentration.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  It… He couldn’t focus. He had to get away.

  Home. Get home.

  Safety. And then?

  That wasn’t helping.

  Home. Safety.

  Regis struggled to his feet, wobbling. He felt the urge to run, just run, but he quelled it with difficulty. Trying to force himself to act calmly, sweat pouring, heart racing, he covered over the selection of knives and sharpening stones with a cloth.

  Out. Breathe. Home. Safety.

  Regis’s mind raced uncontrollably.

  Try.

  Breathe. Either the smith had stopped or he couldn’t hear the ting of the hammer over the rushing in his ears.

  Breathe.

  He opened the door to the shed and walked into the forge, each step a thousand miles. The smith had paused for a breather. He noticed Regis enter and looked at him, concerned.

  “Are you okay?” he said.

  “I’m okay,” Regis said, sweat pouring from his brow.

  “It is hot in here,” the smith said.

  “Yes,” Regis said, distantly.

  “Done for the day?” the smith said.

  “Yes. I’m going home,” Regis said.

  “Same time tomorrow then?” the smith said.

  “Maybe,” Regis said. Breathe. He walked quickly across the forge to the exit.

  “Thanks for your help today,” the smith said.

  “Okay,” Regis said distantly, blood still pounding in his ears. He opened the door and stepped out into the street.

  “Bye then,” the smith said.

  “Bye.” He closed the door.

  Outside.

  Breathe.

  He was out. It helped. A little.

  Breathe. Air. Outside.

  It helped. The rushing in his ears receded. A breeze caught his sweat-drenched clothes and he felt a chill.

  He put a hand against the building and tried to force his nausea down.

  He needed to get home. To safety.

  He quelled another dry heave.

  Get home. Safety.

  His sister might be home.

  Though he wasn’t sure if he hoped she was there or not.

  Regis set off along the street, somewhere just short of a run.

  *****

  “Have you ever done a day’s hard work in your life?”

  Trimas had just stepped into the shop, what was to be their shop, and heard this old voice coming out at him from the next room. Feeling a twinge of guilt about his upbringing, he stepped
through with his hands up to verbally defend himself, at which point he found Daeholf attempting to stop hysterics and Erik stood looking confused.

  “He said that, didn’t he,” Trimas asked Erik.

  “Yeah.”

  “I see. So you are also a mimic, marvellous.”

  “I can do one voice…”

  Erik was watching the two, unimpressed. “Is this a routine you’ve got going on?”

  “We have been deduced,” Zedek said, coming in through a back door.

  “We’re all here then,” and Trimas clapped together a pair of hands he wished were more calloused. Not that years in the military hadn’t roughed them up a bit. “So, what is the first thing we do in opening a butcher’s shop?”

  “Put a sign on the door?” Zedek suggested.

  “Under new ownership. Yes!” Trimas turned, but was stopped.

  “Lads,” Erik began, “you’re not here before the sun is up for no reason. You’re here because we have to prepare today’s meat.”

  “Oh, yeah. I suppose having something to sell would help.”

  “That, Trimas, is probably the second rule of business.”

  “And what, Daeholf, is the first?”

  “Don’t invest in your business.”

  “I’ll have you know the estates of my family increased in value during my tenure as head of the family.”

  Until you were exiled.”

  “Details.”

  “If we start now we’ll finish before the customers starve,” Erik sighed.

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “The lad came this morning. There are five carcasses outside in the yard. They need bringing in, washing down and cutting up ready for sale.”

  “In the yard?”

  “Ignore the princess, we’ll get on with it,” Daeholf said, nodding at them and starting them towards the yard.

  “A lot to be said for princesses,” Erik said wistfully.

  Soon they’d carried the meat inside, and were standing before one carcass now resting on a bloody butcher’s table. Daeholf had slipped on the mail glove you held it with, and held a huge cleaver ready for action.

  He addressed the meat, then began to cut away with confident and strong slices, the flesh and gristle yielding easy. Soon the body was no more, and a pile of meat sat ready.

  “Good job,” Trimas felt he had to admit.