by Tom Lloyd
Shanatin had to stifle a smile at the idea of Sergeant Timonas under questioning. Fortunately the gloom of night hid his reaction and Fynner only paused at the movement, not bothering to waste any more time on him.
‘You’ll stick beside me,’ Fynner ordered. ‘You’ll only get in the way otherwise. If Timonas arrives first I will want you to confirm his identity.’
The witchfinder bobbed his head in acknowledgement and followed Fynner to a dark stone house at the corner of the street. The chaplain produced a key and let himself in, then led Shanatin up to a room on the first floor that smelled of mould and rotten wood. They gingerly settled themselves down on the broken furniture, positioned so they could watch both directions from behind the tattered curtains covering the windows.
Shanatin took care to test a rickety stool before easing himself down onto it. The last thing he needed was to further incur Fynner’s wrath – the chaplain’s plans were going to go sufficiently awry already.
Captain Perforren slipped out of the tavern’s rear door and walked slowly through the yard. It was lit by a single lamp in the window of the back room, barely enough for anything other than to make out the lines of the privy. Perforren checked inside the shed for drinkers relieving themselves, and after confirming it was empty he headed for the gate beyond it, slipping the bolts as silently as he could and making his way into the street outside.
He waited a long while in the shadows for a tail to appear, but after five minutes he concluded there was no one watching him that night. Head down, the collar of his coat turned up, Perforren hurried across the street and turned east. The message had been too short for explanations, and the messenger was as nondescript as the coat he’d handed over, but the man had certainly played the part of a fervent follower of Ruhen to Perforren’s satisfaction.
Drinking companion has urgent information. Meet at small bridge in Yatter. Bring only those trust completely.
At any other time Perforren would have laughed in the man’s face and knocked him down, but times were far from normal. Ruhen’s Children remained a limited presence in Akell, enough to annoy the Devout Congress but not distract their enthusiasm from the violence they inflicted on their own Order. Sergeant Kayel – Ruhen’s bodyguard, who’d visited Perforren and Knight-Cardinal Certinse one night for a drink – had promised them help to take back control of the Order. They had been waiting patiently for weeks now, enduring the insults and iniquities the fanatics of the Devout Congress regularly imposed upon the Order’s secular majority.
It was a half-hour journey to Yatter, a small, poor district in the east of the quarter where foreigners comprised most of the inhabitants. It had fewer inhabitants since the Menin conquest, but night patrols still walked the streets and Perforren was forced several times to hide from soldiers whose allegiance would not be apparent until too late. Eventually he found himself at a stone arch behind which, during the day, a smallholders’ market took place.
It was a secure vantage point from which he could see the bridge he’d been directed towards, but when he arrived the streets on both sides of the river were empty. The bridge was only five yards across, and no taller than waist-high; there was nowhere to hide aside from crouching under the bridge itself. He waited and watched, listening intently for sounds in the street beyond, but aside from the distant, regular tramp of a patrol he heard nothing. Above the building ahead he saw a sliver of Kasi, well on its way to the horizon: that meant midnight was not far off and the darkest part of the night had begun. As though to confirm that thought, a cloud drifted over the greater moon, Alterr, and what little he’d been able to see in the street faded.
‘Seen anyone?’ came a whisper in his ear, and Perforren’s heart jumped into his throat. He was reaching for his sword even as he realised it was Kayel who’d spoken. The big mercenary grinned, hands resting easily on the knives in his belt.
‘No one,’ Perforren said once he’d recovered himself. ‘Unless you were followed, we’re alone.’
‘Good. I’ve got something to show you.’ Kayel indicated the bridge ahead of them and started off, not waiting to make sure Perforren was moving. The captain took one look behind, wondering how Kayel had come through the market so silently, then hurried to catch up. It sounded like his light footsteps were the only ones in the street: Kayel’s moved without sound and Perforren guessed the soles of his boots were covered with something to muffle the noise. For once he wasn’t wearing his long white cape, preferring instead a dark jacket covered with black-painted steel links. In the spirit of stealth he wore a peasant’s cloth cap to shade the pale skin of his face, and Perforren noticed the man was serious enough about secrecy to eschew his usual gaudy, jewel-hilted bastard sword. Instead he wore only his daggers and a plain short sword like any nightwatchman in Yatter might carry.
At the bridge Kayel paused and looked around. They were alone as far as Perforren could see, and Kayel seemed similarly satisfied.
‘So?’ Perforren whispered.
Kayel’s smirk returned as he pointed down the largest of the streets ahead of them. ‘Look.’
Perforren did so. ‘I don’t—’
Something whipped across his throat and Perforren felt a rush of cool night air on his skin, then something warm spilling over his skin. He tried to speak, but the Land tilted underneath him and a sharp flood of pain stuck him so hard his knees buckled. He staggered, and felt his thigh strike the bridge. The impact twisted him around and he saw Sergeant Kayel watching him, eyes glittering with infernal delight.
Perforren put a hand to his throat and felt something wet there as the chill of night enveloped him. His knees crumpled underneath him and he sank slowly down, his back against the bridge, transfixed by the sight of Kayel. In moments the pain started to fade and his mind grew heavy. The Land started to recede as his limbs grew cold and his vision darkened, drifting further and further until, with the softest of sighs, Captain Perforren of the Knights of the Temples went still.
Ilumene gestured behind him and wiped his dagger clean. Looking down he saw the late captain’s blood slipping closer to his boots. He deliberately lifted one boot then the other, slipping off the cloth coverings from the sole of each and stepping squarely into the widening pool of blood. Footsteps came from behind him and he turned to see a small man scamper over, barefoot and dressed like a tramp in ragged clothes.
The man was of a similar age to Ilumene, but there the similarity ended. He had a fleshy face that looked too big for his slim body, and a tangled thicket of hair dark enough to be Farlan or Menin.
‘Find yourself a nice spot down Balap Street,’ Ilumene ordered as he carefully trod bloody footprints across the bridge to the other side. ‘You saw men in witchfinder uniforms run that way, get it?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Good. Got me some arson to do now.’
The agent recognised that as a dismissal and raced off, careful to keep his feet away from the bloody trail Ilumene was leaving so carefully. The renegade Brotherhood man followed until the blood was nearly used up, then he slipped the coverings back onto his shoes again and checked around once more. There were no shocked faces in sight, nor vengeful troops, but that would change soon enough.
A distant voice broke the quiet: the long, low cry of a dying animal or a person whose mind was broken. Ilumene felt a frisson at the sound. It was followed by voices, so quiet he could barely hear them: it could have been monks chanting a prayer, it could have been the whisper of witnesses to his latest crime, but he knew it was neither. There was a sour taste in the air that made him tighten his grip on his knife and looked up into the sky. The clouds were thin and drifting slowly, but against them he saw movement as though dark coils of shadow were overlaying them.
‘Right again, Master,’ he said with a tight smile. ‘The boundaries are weakened; the sound and scents of the other lands touch us now.’
He disappeared silently into a side-street and took an indirect route west, skirting the streets used by th
e patrols. Before he was halfway to his destination the first human calls went up, and he allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. They were as attracted by the spilled blood as the Dark Place had been.
‘He’s taking his time, witchfinder,’ Chaplain Fynner muttered. ‘If you’re wasting mine, it will go hard on you.’
‘This is what the message said!’ Shanatin protested, a hot flush of fear in his cheeks as he spoke. When the chaplain rounded on him Shanatin didn’t need to feign his emotions.
‘I hope so, for your sake.’
The Devout Congress had appropriated the long arcade of shops in the northeast of the quarter that for centuries had sold temple offerings to the faithful. In these troubled times it now resembled a conveyor belt of tribunals. In the cold stores below they obtained their evidence, while magistrates heard the accusations and passed sentence above. The sentences weren’t carried out on site, but Shanatin guessed that was simply because it lacked the public arena High Priest Garash preferred.
Anything could lead to an arrest – and when you did the work of the Gods, those you arrested were never innocent, otherwise those guided by the spirits of the Gods had made an error, and how could that ever be? Shanatin recognised the looks in the eyes of the fanatics and their followers: some believed, some saw an opportunity. But the much-abused fat fool of the witchfinders was an expert on bullies. With no fear of retribution, the worst of humanity was brought to the surface. Shanatin wasn’t so certain of his standing with Azaer that he dared test the shadow’s loyalty to its followers, but he knew he was on the right side if he opposed such men.
‘Timonas’ll be here,’ he insisted, ‘and Perforren too.’
The chaplain returned to his vigil at the window and Shanatin relaxed a touch. The street was empty and quiet outside, and the strong stink of mud rose in the warm summer air. He squirmed as a trickle of sweat ran down his back, but stopped at a look from Fynner, flinched and edged closer to the window, realising Fynner would have struck him had they not been trying to keep quiet. Before a threat followed however, there came the sound of feet in the street below.
Glad of the distraction, Shanatin peered between the half-dozen remaining shutter slats. They had seen a few false alarms, but now the witchfinder felt a flicker of fear in his stomach as he recognised the brass plated cuirass and red sash that denoted a low-ranking officer of the Order. The man walked without haste, remaining as unobtrusive as possible, but his polished armour caught Alterr’s pale light and seemed to flash a warning to Shanatin.
‘A captain of the Order,’ Fynner whispered, voice laden with anticipation. ‘It must be Perforren – our prey is most obliging.’
‘Unless his dose has worn off,’ Shanatin muttered, to himself as much as anything, but Fynner was in an obliging mood and took the bait.
‘Worn off? I thought you said he’d have plenty from last time.’
‘Sure, if he’s only buying for hisself. If he’s got himself a friend in the same situation, they’ll both be needing their next dose soon. Message did say it was urgent, might be he needs more before he can pass any test.’
Fynner released Shanatin’s arm and thought hurriedly. They were waiting to catch Captain Perforren in the act of buying a potion that would suppress dormant magical abilities. Any officer hiding a capability for magery, as they believed their quarry was, would be in serious breach of the Order’s Codex of Ordinance, quite aside from the stricter regulations imposed by High Priest Garash’s Piety Congress. That Perforren was aide to Knight-Cardinal Certinse, supreme commander of the Knights of the Temples, made him a prize worth waiting for.
‘That’s why you brought the squad of witchfinders, ain’t it?’ Shanatin asked, not giving Fynner too long to think.
‘I brought them because this is under their jurisdiction,’ Fynner said angrily. ‘You implied Perforren would have no magic to command when we arrested him.’
‘Probably he doesn’t! He’s been hiding who he is all these years, not practising … I’m just sayin’, wouldn’t want to be the one to arrest a mage with nothing to lose.’
Chaplain Fynner stared at Shanatin’s fat, guileless face for a few seconds before realising the witchfinder was making sense; the troops could restrain Perforren and Timonas well enough themselves, so no need for himto be at the forefront if he resisted.
‘Well, then, where’s your man Timonas?’ he muttered, returning to the window.
Down below they saw the man they asssumed to be Perforren stop at a corner and check around it before he secreted himself into the shadow of a doorway. All fell silent again, and it was five minutes or more before any other sound broke the night. Rather than a second set of footsteps, Shanatin heard more distant noises, distorted into nothing recognisable by the city streets.
He didn’t know what sort of disturbance had caused it, but Luerce, first disciple of Ruhen’s Children, had been very clear in his instructions. Shanatin glanced at Fynner and was relieved to see the chaplain wasn’t looking to be in any hurry to leave their vantage point. They needed a witness to report back, and with any luck Fynner’s testimony would heat up Garash’s hair-trigger temper and push this internal struggle over the edge.
It wasn’t long before Sergeant Timonas of the witchfinders appeared from the other direction, in time to play his small part in matters. Shanatin watched the man anxiously; he knew Timonas was innocent in this, but the bastard deserved everything he got. He found himself holding his breath as Timonas approached the corner with far more caution than Perforren had, looking in all directions as though bewildered he was there at all.
‘Well?’
Shanatin looked over and realised Fynner was staring expectantly at him. Timonas wasn’t wearing his black and white uniform, of course; the man had more sense than that, having received an anonymous note that his life was in danger.
He nodded and gestured at the newcomer. ‘It’s him, for certain.’
Fynner reached up and, checking neither of the men was looking his way, drew the curtain away from the shuttered window. The lieutenant in charge of the squads was watching for his signal and in the next moment a door burst open a short way down the street Timonas had just walked along. The two men panicked at the crash, but in the next instant a second clatter came from down the next street and then a third from somewhere below where Shanatin stood.
‘Drop your weapons!’ someone yelled as Shanatin hunkered down at the window and watched events. Timonas was standing like an idiot – Shanatin could see his stupid thick jaw hanging open in astonishment as he turned, first one way, then the other, to watch the onrushing troops. By contrast Perforren was already moving with purpose, drawing a pair of swords.
Shanatin jammed his knuckle in his mouth as he tried to suppress a gasp of surprise, but the sound was echoed by Fynner anyway as Perforren broke into a sprint from a standing start, covering the ground to the nearest squad before the last man had even made it out of the building. One slender sword slashed open the first soldier’s throat, even as the second was piercing the side of another. Perforren kept moving, slipping between the spears of the next two, hopping left and right, almost with the grace of a Harlequin.
Both soldiers reeled away, to be immediately replaced by a fifth and sixth, but those too were no match for Perforren’s speed. He deflected one thrust and darted right around the shield of the other, kicking high into the man’s shoulder and knocking him into his comrade even as he chopped up into the elbow of a third soldier.
Gods, a Harlequin – dressed up and made to look like Perforren?
The remaining men of the squad, thrown back by the force of his attack, now fanned out to surround him, but Perforren stood his ground. He stopped a moment and his voice cut through the confusion, but he was not speaking any words Shanatin could recognise. Abruptly he slashed through the air between himself and the last troops and a blinding white light tore in an arc after the tip of his sword. The light whipped across each of the men and ripped through their armour l
ike paper. They fell without a sound, a gaping wound stretching across the chest of each from which Shanatin glimpsed the white stubs of ribs.
Shanatin felt a hand drop onto his shoulder and almost shrieked before he realised it was Fynner, stunned by what was happening.
‘Merciful Gods, it’s true and more,’ Fynner mumbled in shock. ‘He’s a trained battle-mage!’
Loud, angry voices came suddenly from a side-street, and in the next moment another squad of Devoted troops burst into view. Fynner gasped: these men weren’t under his command. In the moonlight their unit markings were clear on their shoulders. He could easily make out the designation: C11, Knight-Cardinal Certinse’s own élite troops, the Tildek mounted infantry. Most had been co-opted into service by the Menin, but Certinse had been allowed a regiment of personal guards to remain with him.
‘It’s an ambush,’ Fynner gasped, leaning heavily on Shanatin as though all the strength had gone out of him. ‘They’re here to kill us all.’
The Tildek infantry charged straight for the witchfinders, howling furiously and giving them no time to steady themselves. The squad of witchfinders were not front-line troops and they quickly collapsed under the assault, half of them dropping in the initial rush. The élite troops swamped their foes, battering through them with rare savagery so that in seconds they were all on the ground, dead or dying.
‘Sergeant!’ yelled Perforren, striding towards them with blood trailing from his swords, ‘those men too!’ He pointed to the remaining squad who’d surrounded the terrified Sergeant Timonas and then found themselves frozen to the spot as they watched the unexpected onslaught. ‘They’re murdering officers loyal to the Knight-Cardinal!’
Invoking their commander’s name seemed to be enough and with a roar they charged at the last remaining men who fled, only to be run down before they’d gone twenty yards. They were butchered to a man.
