Knives of Bastion (An Empire Falls Book 2)

by Harry Leighton

  So where did that leave him? Maybe he could pick the papers up himself. He could probably manage sitting on the end of the bed, maybe dragging the stuff towards him with his feet. That might work. And it would be good to see how far he could move. If he had to. He could always stop if it looked like he was going too far. He shifted the blanket to one side, off his legs and shuffled down the bed. It hurt. Moving hurt a lot. But he could. A small victory to savour in an otherwise fantastically frustrating day. He moved carefully. He was still weak. He’d been told that he’d lost a lot of blood. That had taken a lot out of him. Slowly but surely he moved, face a mask of concentration and pain and he made it to the end of the bed without incident.

  Sieges and wars. Insane limb-transplanting mages. And yet at the moment this felt like his greatest achievement. Shuffling a few feet to the end of the bed. Pathetic. But he couldn’t help the small sense of elation. Which, for the moment, was overriding the pain. Well, here he was. Step one, done. Step two next. He reached out with his foot but, still weak, he overbalanced, tumbling to the floor, landing hard.

  “Aargh,” escaped, strangled from his mouth. “Fuck. Fuck. FUCK,” a moment later. Between gritted teeth. He listened to see if his stupidity had drawn any attention. No. It didn’t seem to have done. That was a blessing. Maybe. Though maybe it might be a problem if he had done himself more damage...

  He looked down at the stitches on his chest. Nothing had torn. He wasn’t bleeding as far as he could tell. He hurt even more than he had before, not that he’d have thought that possible previously, but his idiocy didn’t seem to have done him any further damage. He’d landed on his left arm. After that mess in the war and the axe injury he had less feeling in it than his right. It didn’t hurt that much now. He could still move it. So once again, he’d been lucky.

  And ... since he was on the floor anyway, he might as well gather the papers up. He blinked, eyes watering. Most of them were in reach. Both arms still worked so he stretched and started grabbing the papers. Each stretch drew a muffled curse but soon he’d collected the majority of them back up. But not all. And frankly there were still enough on the floor to look like he’d thrown the tantrum. He looked around from his position on the floor, hoping he might see something of use. That spear Zedek had chucked under the bed. It was just in reach so he grabbed it. Using it carefully, it gave him the extension he needed to gather up the last of the parchment. He stuffed them back in the satchel before tossing it back on the bed.

  So no tantrum anymore. Victory. Except. Here he was, laying on the floor like a fool. Which would also take rather a lot of explaining. At least he’d not knocked the shit bucket over and covered himself in his own mess. Had he? He looked at himself carefully. He couldn’t see anything. The bucket was at the side of the bed and he’d fallen off the end. He was probably safe.

  So now all he had to do was get back into bed. Hah. Easy. Just stand up and jump in. That was plan A but he had to admit there was little chance of him pulling that off. So what was plan B? Did he have the strength in his arms to haul himself back onto the bed? He had enough to lever himself into a sitting position easily enough. But this little quest had been a real exertion. First things first, he sat up. His vision swam and he had a moment of dizziness but it passed. He lifted himself a little, using the end of the bed until he managed to get his feet under him to sit on. From there to getting his knees under him, vision swimming all the time. One last push. Arms and legs together. He just made it onto the bed before passing out.

  *****

  “Do you need me to be somewhere in relation to the window?”

  Vesek looked up at the man, and attempted to work out what he’d just said. In relation to the window? People really spoke strangely round here.

  The ones at the top of society seemed to speak an entirely different way to the people at the bottom, those in the middle were confused, flitting between the two, and Vesek felt like he’d had to pick up three different languages to read and work in Bastion. He supposed he could have focused on just the elite, as they spent the money on his pictures, but artists weren’t supposed to be part of the elite.

  They were supposed to be the lucky few allowed into the gilded halls.

  “I would like the natural light on you, yes, so if perhaps you could sit here…” and he gestured to the right spot.

  Not that anything would make this man’s jowls look good, which was why Vesek was going to have to leave them out.

  You work hard to create an artistic style, you have a stroke of luck or genius when people start to buy you, and then you have to do portraits of the rich to keep the information flowing. Typically, and he supposed the same was true of every artist, if you changed it all to money.

  “Just put the chair at this angle, you sit at that and … yes, I think that’s perfect.”

  The room was a library, grand and filled to bursting with volumes no one would ever read, and now the master of the house sat in his pomp.

  The painting would have a library, it was true, but there was the small matter of the centaur servants to paint in around the decor. Some people had the strangest requests…

  ...and Vesek was known as the strangest artist, so he answered them.

  He went back over to where he had the canvas set up, and looked at his tools arrayed on a side table. Some sketching first.

  “Have you ever seen such a library?”

  Vesek didn’t look up as he picked up just the right piece of charcoal and decided not to reply ‘I saw one better last week when I painted a merchant’ because the old money didn’t like being told about the new.

  Painting, it seemed to Vesek, was fifty per cent creativity and fifty per cent politics, telling and showing people what they wanted.

  “You have a very impressive building, I feel quite small,” he did reply.

  “It has taken my family six generations to build this library!”

  And how many of them read a book?

  “Impressive. Such a sense of history.”

  “I suppose you like the paintings we have on the ceilings. Over a hundred years old and no fading. There was an artist!”

  Yes, make the person you’re paying look small, it really helps his ego.

  “I must confess, I can’t paint a ceiling, too much damage to the back.”

  And I need my back for a long time after this painting is done.

  “What are you painting me in again?”

  “It is oil based.”

  “Then why the burnt stick?”

  Vesek sighed internally at the sudden realisation this man was not only going to keep talking, which wasn’t ideal, but that he was going to talk argumentative nonsense.

  “It is to give me some early shapes and structure to work from.”

  “Start with the family nose.”

  “Of course.”

  Perhaps I could cut it off? That would certainly be interesting. But perhaps it would be better to steer this chat somewhat.

  “So, I hear you’ve been liaising with Vika, our famous thieftaker.”

  “Oh yes. Famous! Infamous if you are a scoundrel!”

  “Quite.”

  “I bet you meet a lot of them, being an artist.”

  “I meet people from across society. Some are less honourable than others.”

  “Then tell me, do they fear Vika?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Good.”

  “They fear the Nightwalker too.”

  Vesek saw the man’s jaw open and his jowls wobble and no sound come out. Finally he said, “He will be caught.”

  “I hope so, we are all terrified.”

  “Then tell your, er, ilk, that Vika has fired the last investigator for poor results.”

  That was a surprise. Either someone in the guard had missed something, or there was an undercurrent here.

  “I will. A change of personnel?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who is the new investigator?”

  “Sti
ll to be decided.”

  “Ah, a chance for someone to make their name.”

  “Exactly!”

  “And … not something you have influence over.”

  “Oh I could name the replacement if I wanted, but I shall leave it to Vika.”

  Now that would be an attempt worth seeing. It would fail, Vesek knew, and this man would be put in his place. Oh to make that happen and be a spy under a table.

  “Should you be onto the sticky stuff now?”

  “The ‘sticky stuff’ is the oil. We will move onto that when ready.”

  “Won’t it dry?”

  “Not for a long time. We have all day.”

  “Yes. Yes I can sit all day. Just like my father. A prodigious sitter for paintings.”

  “I have seen a lot as I was led up here.”

  “You would have liked to paint my father.”

  Perhaps we could dig him up.

  “I like painting anyone.” Especially important people. He had a positive catalogue of the great and the good in this city.

  Yes, an actual catalogue.

  *****

  It wasn’t easy firing someone.

  Okay, Elena had been suspended and might, at some point in the future, be allowed back, but it was still almost firing someone. And it wasn’t easy.

  The words themselves were clues. Firing someone, derived from a rather nasty habit of tying people to posts and burning them that an emperor had, in a rare moment of actual human concern, banned. But the words had stuck as a skewed commentary, and now Vika had fired Elena.

  Vika was sat at her desk thinking.

  She knew all about Elena. Everyone in the guard knew all about Elena, but Vika was possibly one of the few people who admired the woman’s ability to fight through and enact the laws in impossible odds. Vika could understand that attitude, even if Vika worked both for and against that.

  She hated having to fire Elena. She’d been angry at how the governor had spoken to her, and had fired Elena while under the influence of that anger, but she didn’t actually regret the decision, she didn’t let the anger affect the judgement.

  Vika was a politician, in part, and she knew a change had to be seen to be made, no matter how Vika thought of Elena. Changes had to happen. But there was one problem.

  Vika now needed to appoint a replacement to the case.

  Vika had already fired the best person to be on the case.

  There was the possibility of taking it on herself, but let’s be honest, you can’t run an entire city guard, and the entire underworld in said city, and not be caught, while also running around looking for a serial killer. Which meant you had to hire someone to do it.

  She might have been thinking, but there was plenty of reading material around her.

  Files. Personnel files.

  Vika had come to the guard with a few odd notions that only her meteoric rise had allowed to take hold and root, and one of those was files on all the guards, as well as the criminals, to better join things up. People had objected, because why should the guards have files, they were the ones doing the right thing, but now Vika could probably vanish in a puff of red smoke and the file system would remain.

  Modelled on the imperial chancellery wouldn’t you know.

  So, she had files, and she needed a replacement. That meant browsing, assessing, thinking, coming to swift conclusions, and them forming a short list. Then picking someone.

  It did cross her mind to appoint a team, but she was stopped by the rest of her mind pointing out these things worked best with one person in charge appointing their own people who were clearly below them in rank, rather than causing chaos with two or three people named from the start.

  And, of course, the fact Vika preferred to work in sole command.

  So, one person. A shelf full of files. Who to pick.

  The guard were predominantly older men and women who’d retired from the military. She had nothing against soldiers, and they made for excellent guards, with an emphasis on following the law instead of orders. She wouldn’t change that.

  She did feel, however, she would need someone who’d had more initiative drummed into them. An officer then? But they tended to be higher up in the guard.

  So someone who’d joined the guard young? Someone like her, a career investigator?

  She pulled her vulpine smile. Someone was going to get the chance to follow in her footsteps.

  The pile of investigator’s files was on the table, but one was in front of her.

  Him. Why not him.

  She’d sent a messenger out, and the speed with which her staff could travel the city and contact people was another one of her innovations. She liked speed. She liked contact to be fast. She wished for a tame mage to assist, but then they’d all be blown up in their sleep.

  It had been long enough, so Vika stood and looked out of the window, until she saw her messenger return with a man. About thirty, hair that was kept functionally cut rather than showing off, with keen eyes surveying everything.

  Promising.

  She smoothed her dress and stood behind her desk, waiting for the knock. When it came, she called, “Come in.”

  The man she’d seen entered with a confident bearing, eyes still looking hungrily for information.

  Very promising.

  “Kasan, pleased to see you again, do come in.”

  “Thank you, Thieftaker. We met last year I believe.”

  “Yes, do take a seat,” and she sat. He followed, feeling at ease. He had a distinct vibe he’d been called for good reasons.

  “I have been looking at your record. Very impressive work.”

  “Kind of you to say so.”

  He didn’t look arrogant, just pleased.

  “You combine a fine eye for detail, as shown by the way you deciphered the accounts of that merchant, with an ability to think widely, as shown by the way you found where said merchant had hidden his stash.”

  “It was a challenge I and my colleagues met.”

  “Good. And as a reward you are being promoted.”

  “That is excellent news.”

  “You are going to be in charge of capturing the Nightwalker.”

  Vika was going to continue. She had a few more sentences for her reward speech, but an odd thing had happened.

  Kasan had suddenly looked terrified.

  “The Nightwalker?”

  “Yes, you must have heard of him.”

  “Of course. Everyone has.”

  “Then I’m sensing a problem?”

  “Sergeant Elena fai… No, no problem,” and he caught himself and tried to look happy again.

  Good God, Vika thought, the only other person in the city who rated Elena as an investigator, and I have to call them in.

  “If there is any doubt in your mind Kasan…”

  “None at all,” and she could tell from his eyes there was.

  “I know this is a difficult, high profile case. But you have to solve those to succeed, and I believe you have the ability.”

  Although, she had to admit she was second guessing herself. She couldn’t keep appointing people who didn’t get anywhere, it would show her off badly soon. Perhaps this was the wrong man for the job.

  No, she’d read the files. He was the best candidate. He wasn’t perfect, evidently, but he was the best.

  She would have to manage him.

  “Let me tell you about the case…”

  *****

  Elena was walking briskly through the streets, hungry but determined. Her limbs were tired and she needed to eat, but she also wanted to solve some problems in her head.

  Regis had inspired the problems. He’d been talking with her, and she’d been telling him about the case when he said it was obvious the Nightwalker was an ex-legionary archer. Must have taken skill to hit Daeholf like that, the legion was the place for that.

  But was it?

  Regis had seemed adamant, and he’d been in the legions. But Elena was perplexed and was now he
ading to someone who’d help.

  She’d considered asking Daeholf, who was a scout, and Zedek, who was apparently very good with a bow, but she was killing two birds with one, er, arrow by visiting the city’s archery school. This way she could get answers, and maybe get some leads.

  The school was outside the walls because they needed a flat area to shoot down and that area cost money, less outside, and as the houses began to thin, after they’d already degraded in quality, she came to a building next to a fenced-off field.

  The archery school. Run by an ex-legionary, teaching the rich by day how to hunt and show off, and offering free lessons for people who’d committed to a legionary intake in the night.

  People were coming and going, with bows in hand or tied to their backs, the latter looking very awkward. Elena watched these wannabe archers and looked at the weapons, and realised the skill required to be on a rooftop with one.

  “Hello?” a man said as he came out, wiping his hands with a cloth. “I can see you watching us.”

  Observant… This was very promising.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about archery if I may.”

  “Of course. Are you thinking of learning? Or have a child who wants to?”

  “I’m a … working for a bounty hunter. You might have heard there have been attacks in the city with a bow.”

  “Yeah, yeah I heard. All bow news filters back here.”

  “So, what skill level do you need to run across a roof, stop, turn, take a shot that hits a moving target, and then resume running.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  He laughed. “I couldn’t do it. You’re looking at proper training, proper skills. High level.”