Katarina laughed lightly. ‘Oh, no, Steven. If I leave you alone you will only get yourself in trouble.’ Her expression grew serious. ‘The Meracians invented intrigue and betrayal. You cannot trust anyone.’
And what about you? Can I trust you? Tol wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
‘Except me, of course,’ Katarina added brightly. ‘You can always trust me, Steven.’
Tol decided to stay quiet, sure that if he said anything he would only make things worse, somehow upsetting the tempestuous little spy.
Katarina sighed in exasperation, and Tol realised that – yet again – he had chosen poorly.
‘Go and get your things,’ she told him, all trace of warmth gone, ‘we are nearly there.’
*
The salty tang of the sea followed Tol and Katarina as they wound their way through the narrow dockside streets, Stetch following in their wake like a bad smell. The streets were a zigzag of switchbacks and dead-ends, new buildings springing up with little regard to passage through the city. All of them were painted brightly, blue, green, orange, pink, but this close to the sea Tol could make out fading patches where the sea air had eroded the paint.
Katarina led them deeper into the city, the avenues widening as they left the docks behind. To Tol’s right he could see the white towers of the royal palace, glimmering in the afternoon sun and looming over the city like a stern father.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘Towards the central district,’ Katarina replied. ‘There are one or two decent inns near the bridge, but far enough from the nobles’ district itself that we should not draw undue attention.’
‘There’s a whole district of nobles?’ Nothing a good fire couldn’t fix.
Katarina tsked in irritation. ‘Two rivers split the city into three districts. The isle between the two rivers is home to wealthy merchants and Meracian nobles, while the common folk inhabit the two outer districts. The king, of course,’ Katarina gestured towards the palace, ‘lives on the small isle at the bay’s centre, bridges linking it to all three districts.’
She has a funny idea of what small means, Tol thought as he glanced at the palace towers. Then again, the rich have a funny way of looking at most things. The Gurdal horde arriving in High Mera would probably level things though, and if Tol didn’t do something about the Meracian army’s lazy approach to warfare then the nation would almost certainly fall. Once the army is past the Spur it’s wide open land, nowhere to snarl them up and pin them down. Unless the Meracians organised themselves, the Gurdal would face nothing more than token resistance – small military units that could easily be overwhelmed. And somehow I’ve got to make them see that. Tol sighed. I don’t even know where to start.
The roads widened further as they strode deeper into the city. Tol began to see merchants now, their clothes as loud and brash as their buildings, bedecked with bells and stones and more lace than Tol had ever seen; frills and cuffs and embroidered patterns – more lace than any respectable man ought to wear.
Katarina began describing the city as they walked, a droning lecture much like those Father Michael used to bore Tol with. He tuned it out, drinking in the sights as the late afternoon sun began to fade, eventually hearing the soft susurration of waves somewhere to his right. The trio reached a crossroads, and Tol glanced right, stopping in his tracks as he saw the bone-white bridge that linked High Mera’s western district with the palace at the bay’s centre. Two cloaked guards leaned against the slender pillars at the foot of the bridge, and Tol was surprised such narrow stone didn’t crack or crumble under their weight. A sword-straight span of stone crept out over the bay, wave tips nearly brushing its underside. The bridge was empty of travellers, and looked so fragile that Tol wondered if anyone ever used it. A low balcony of twisting straw-thin struts guarded the walkway’s outer edges. That’s one way to avoid visitors, Tol thought. Make it frightening as the Pit and people won’t trouble the king unless there’s no choice. The ornate curls and flower leafs protruding from the rails, though, they just seemed unnecessary; a flowery Meracian touch, as needless as their frills and lace. Unless the idea is to cut travellers to ribbons as they cross. A marching army might find themselves short of blood as they tried to cross such a structure. Especially if they’re running to avoid the arrows raining down from the palace. Tol chewed his lip. Maybe they’re not as foolish as they appear. It was a troubling thought. A foolish enemy was, after all, predictable, and much easier to shepherd. Forcing the fools to war might be harder than Kalashadria thinks.
He sighed again, and turned back to the road, colliding with a cloaked traveller. He opened his mouth to apologise, but the man was already cursing as he stumbled past.
‘Fool,’ the cloaked figure snarled over one shoulder. ‘Watch where you’re going.’
‘Look where you’re going yourself,’ Tol retorted, all thoughts of apology evaporating. ‘You bumped into me as much as I did you.’
‘Impertinent fool.’ The figure turned back towards him, face half-hidden by the cloak’s hood. ‘I demand satisfaction, oaf!’
Tol’s already had his hand on the hilt of Illis’Andiev. ‘How about I just kill you now?’ he said, taking a step towards the slight man.
‘A foreigner?’ The cloaked man sounded almost pleased. ‘You are in a cultured land now, barbarian. In High Mera, honour is found on the duelling ground.’ The man pulled himself up straight, head tipped down. ‘Dusk, tonight, at the duelling ring. Be there, or be forever known as coward.’
The man spun on his heel, hurrying off towards the docks without waiting for a response. I’m a fool, Tol thought with a shake of his head. In town for less than a bell and already I’ve a pointless duel. Damn my temper. He released his grip on Illis’Andiev and hurried off after Katarina and Stetch. The pair had not waited for him, but after a few moments Tol heard Katarina’s voice again, and followed the sound to its source. He decided it might be better not to mention the duel. Although, he thought, I’m not sure how she could think any less of me.
Their journey came to an end at another bridge, this one joining the western district with the central district that was home to the Meracian nobility. The east leg of a broad, paved crossroads ran to a sturdy stone bridge, easily wide enough for a couple of ox-drawn carts to pass with room to spare. Shorter than the first bridge, this was functional, a stalwart structure of bricks and mortar with thick colonnades supporting a shoulder-high handrail wide enough to seat even the most ample of arses. Katarina slowed at the crossroads though, angling the trio towards an inn perched on the north-east corner.
‘The Ninety-Third Passage,’ she announced. A slight smile creased her lips as she glanced at him. ‘A little touch of home.’
6.
The Ninety-Third Passage reminded Tol of another inn, the one after the Maw where he had been warned by the innkeeper of the ambush which lay ahead. The staff were all Sudalrese, and the tavern room was dashed with touches of Sudalra: brightly-coloured oil paintings, yellow teardrop lanterns flickering on the walls, and the pungent aroma of spices emanating from the kitchen. A little touch of home indeed, Tol thought as he dropped onto a chair beside Stetch and Katarina. They were nestled in the corner, the pair with their backs to the rear wall so both could see the door. Stetch, of course, also had a good view of the bar, and Tol didn’t think it was an accident. He shifted slightly in his chair, uncomfortable at both his position and Katarina’s gaze, which kept drifting to a point six inches left of Tol’s head.
‘Your room is acceptable?’ she asked.
Tol scratched his tunic. Duke val Sharvina had provided him with a supply of clothes and a purse of Meracian coins, but the thin cotton felt strange and alien after the heavy winter woollens that had kept Tol warm (or at least kept him from freezing) on his journey across Norve. ‘Fine, thanks.’
Katarina’s eyes darted towards the door again. ‘Good.’ She drummed her fingers on the table top. ‘I have decided to help you,’ she
announced in tones that suggested he was privileged indeed.
‘Well, aren’t I lucky.’
‘You are,’ Katarina confirmed, ignoring the sarcasm completely. ‘If your friend’ – she pronounced the word as though it was soured wine – ‘has understood the situation here correctly, then I would expect the Council of Lords know who has been most vocal in their opposition to the war.’
‘So, what? I just march in there and ask them who’s the tra—’
Katarina kicked his shin under the table and shot him a venomous warning glance. He opened his mouth, but her attention had already moved on.
‘Thank you,’ she told the serving girl with an easy smile, leaning back as the girl transferred three mugs of warmed wine onto the table. Katarina watched the girl depart, her large eyes finally drifting back to Tol. The easy smile had disappeared.
‘What did I tell you?’ she asked in a tired voice. ‘I warned you, Steven, of how these people love their plots and treachery, and still you insist on talking loudly in a common area.’ She shook her head, and Tol’s heart sank as he saw the disappointment writ on her face. ‘Shouting the t-word? You really should know better.’
‘Sorry,’ Tol mumbled. ‘I – I thought that here would be safe, with all your countrymen.’
Katarina leaned forward, her face inches from Tol’s own. ‘If you remember nothing else,’ she said, her voice almost lost above the chatter of patrons, ‘remember this: trust is where betrayal begins.’
Katarina flung herself against the back of her chair, and snatched up her mug of wine. ‘It would be nice if we could all trust people from our homeland, but you know better than that, Steven. Would you have suspected betrayal by your own people in Kron Vulder? Yet it happened.’
‘They’re not my people,’ Tol muttered.
She waved away his protest with dancing fingers. ‘The point still stands. The Sudalrese people are less likely to betray their own kin than others – the teachings of Thirellius are known to all of us, and followed by most – but betrayal starts small, Steven. All it takes is one serving girl slipping a snatch of conversation to the wrong person and your purpose here could be undone. I can guarantee,’ she continued, ‘that at least one of them reports to one of the lords: a few coins in exchange for news of travellers, all invested for moments like this.’
Tol glanced around the room. One woman behind the bar and two more delivering drinks and collecting glasses. They all look so innocent. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
Stetch chuckled. ‘Could question them.’ He paused and leered at one of the serving girls. ‘Hard.’
Katarina shot him a dark look, the implication not lost on her. ‘I think one of you is quite enough, without half a dozen more springing up in nine months.’
Stetch fell silent, but gave Tol a quick wink when Katarina wasn’t looking.
‘I trained for the battlefield,’ Tol said. ‘All this,’ he waved his hand around the room, ‘it’s all foreign to me.’
Katarina raised an eyebrow. ‘Then perhaps you ought to listen to someone who was raised in such an environment?’
Tol grinned. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ He picked up his mug, a wisp of steam still rising from its surface. ‘You were saying about the lords?’
Katarina lowered her voice, and leaned forward slightly. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘though I think it best we have such conversations in my room in future.’ Tol nodded and she continued, ‘While it is of course possible to put the Council of Lords to the question it is something of an… inelegant solution, and one that brings its own perils.’
Katarina must have seen Tol’s confusion because she sighed heavily. ‘If what your friend claims is indeed true, then only someone with great influence could stall the nation’s efforts to martial their army,’ Katarina explained with an echo of patience, frayed fast. ‘That means a lord, and announcing your purpose to the whole council is a sure way to bring down the wrath of whomever has changed sides.’ She frowned. ‘Unless that is your intention – to draw them out?’
He sighed. ‘No.’
‘Then perhaps save that plan for last, and only use it if all else fails?’
She said it with a faint smile, and Tol couldn’t help but grin in return. ‘Yeah, sounds sensible, I guess.’
‘Good.’ Katarina’s eyes swept the room. She reached into the neck of her tunic, her hand slipping inside to brush her own breast. Tol stopped breathing, watching the noblewoman and wondering what she was doing. Her hand emerged a second later, a cream envelope in her fingers, most of it hidden behind her palm. The whole process took about two seconds, and Tol realised that to a casual observer it would appear as if Katarina had merely scratched an itch. His eyes followed the envelope as Katarina’s palm drifted to the tabletop, sliding the small cream missive across to Stetch. Being a letter, Tol thought, might not be such a terrible life. Especially if he got to travel like that one.
Equally casually, Stetch’s big hands dropped to the table, the warrior seemingly adjusting his position. As his body shifted, his arms slid back over the lip of the wood, the envelope disappearing with such speed that Tol almost wondered if he had imagined the whole thing. The letter hidden, Tol remembered to breathe, and drew in a long, slow breath as Stetch’s cold eyes fixed on Katarina, a question in his raised eyebrow.
‘Deliver that to Lord Calderon,’ Katarina told Stetch, ‘and await his response. Should he invite me to dinner this evening, please inform him that it would be my pleasure to accept.’ She glanced at Tol. ‘And ask if I might bring a friend with me.’
Stetch stared at her impassively, with a degree of attention that Tol found unsettling. Katarina, however, just shrugged off the baleful glare. ‘Well?’ she snapped. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Stetch rose deliberately slowly, scraping his chair noisily along the floor as he slid it back under the table. With a last glare at Katarina he sauntered towards the exit.
‘He’s more trouble than he’s worth,’ Katarina muttered. ‘I swear Father’s punishing me.’
‘For what?’
Katarina started, and Tol guessed she hadn’t intended to speak aloud. ‘Who knows; anything less than perfection seems to anger him.’ She sighed and composed herself, the walls coming up again in front of Tol’s eyes. ‘To business,’ she said. ‘Lord Ren Calderon has provided my Father with valuable intelligence over the years, and has proved himself a friend to Sudalra.’
‘He can help me?’ Tol asked. ‘Are you sure we can trust him?’
Katarina’s expression turned sombre, and the uncertain girl of a few moments earlier was instantly gone, replaced by a lord’s daughter. ‘I shall not endanger such a valuable asset to my homeland,’ she said, her voice strong and firm. ‘But Lord Calderon knows well the state of the Council; from him we may yet learn the identities of those who seek to thwart the war. The rest,’ she said with a shrug, ‘will be down to you.’
Tol heaved a sigh of relief. At last he had a direction, an idea of where to start. Perhaps my task is not so difficult as I thought. ‘Thank you.’
‘You are welcome, Steven. And as for the matter of trust,’ Katarina smiled, ‘it does no harm that Lord Calderon is married to a certain aunt of mine. A second or third cousin of my father; I forget which. Still,’ she added brightly, ‘it is enough to bind the lord to Sudalrese interests.’ She shrugged. ‘As long as they do not go against his own, I suppose.’
‘It’s more than I was expecting,’ Tol admitted. ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I will find a way for you to repay me,’ Katarina said. ‘Not that,’ she added hastily, a slight blush colouring her cheeks.
Tol nodded. He hadn’t really thought that was an option; they had so little in common, and Katarina seemed to view everyone below her station – which, he admitted, was most people – as servants or tools. Probably a lucky escape, Tol thought. ‘What about your task here?’ he asked, trying to set his mind onto something other than the rise and f
all of Katarina’s chest. ‘Do you have a plan?’
She smiled. ‘I always have a plan.’
*
Katarina did not elaborate on her plan, and instead insisted on boring Tol with what she thought were useful facts about High Mera’s various noble houses and the allegiances of various lords and ladies to court factions and cliques. From what Tol could tell, it seemed the lords changed sides several times a week, and more than one seemed to find no problem with claiming kinship with opposing factions at the same time. The correct way to sear fish, how to hold a sword, the finer details of penmanship or embroidery; none of these seemed below the squabbling nobles. And despite this, Tol thought, the King still can’t bring them to heel. The only thing they can all agree on is that lace is the height of fashion, and no man should be bereft of such fabric. He sighed softly as Katarina droned on, nodding at what he hoped were appropriate moments. Even if the army does get moving, he thought with a sour taste in his mouth, they’ll probably be too busy trying to look the part and miss the battle entirely. How much worse can it get?
Stetch rescued him a few minutes later, appearing at their table with a tankard of ale that was already half-drained. ‘Eighth bell,’ he grunted at Katarina.
‘We do not have long, then,’ she replied, eyes fixed on the warrior’s tankard. ‘I had best dress for the occasion.’
Tol glanced to the inn’s window and saw the sky already darkening; dusk was fast approaching. ‘I’m going to stretch my legs,’ he said as Katarina rose gracefully from her seat. ‘I’ll meet you at the lord’s home.’
Katarina pursed her lips but gave a tight nod. ‘Do not be late,’ she warned him. ‘Lords do not like to be kept waiting, and tolerate such offence only from their equals.’ She brushed down her tunic, chest straining at the fabric. ‘Ladies appreciate such behaviour even less so.’ She drifted towards the back stairs, and Tol relaxed as Stetch heaved a massive sigh of relief. He followed that by heaving the tankard to his lips and draining its contents in one gargantuan swig.
Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Page 4
