Darkhaven

by A. F. E. Smith

  As if the thought had called it up, she heard a knock at her door. Turning away from the window with a roll of the eyes, she went to open it. She couldn’t decide what was worse: being bored or being visited by Owen Travers.

  ‘Lady Elisse.’ Sure enough, it was him: sketching a bow, face and voice deferential, but with the snooty look that told her he despised everything about her from her calloused hands to her country twang. ‘May I come in?’

  She shrugged, ungracious. ‘I can’t stop ya.’

  He walked into her living quarters, glancing around as though he hoped to catch her doing something she shouldn’t. Well, he’d be disappointed; she didn’t have anything forbidden to do, except go outside – and she didn’t quite dare to break that prohibition, not when Florentyn himself had laid it upon her.

  She’d asked him about Travers, in the early days when he actually visited her, but he’d shrugged it off. Travers doesn’t approve of half-bloods, Elisse. And indeed, I would prefer a full-blooded heir myself. Sadly, the elements have not seen fit to provide me with one. Ayla, and not Myrren, is my Changer child. A scowl had touched his face briefly before he forced it into a smile. Still, should she prove intractable, you provide me with an alternative.

  Watching Travers now as he prowled through her rooms, Elisse wrapped her arms protectively around herself. Florentyn had found her, had brought her here to Arkannen; no matter how much she longed to return home, she wouldn’t show it. She wouldn’t let this Helmsman intimidate her. She was better than that.

  ‘Would ya like something ta drink, Captain Travers?’ she offered, keeping her voice cool and polite. She might not be a lady, as he saw it, but she could still behave like one.

  ‘No, thank you.’ He sat down on her chaise longue, arranging his sword, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of his multicoloured coat. He seemed oddly ill at ease. ‘Elisse, I need to talk to you.’

  The look he gave her was almost sympathetic; it scared her.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, sinking into a chair opposite him. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Lord Florentyn.’ Travers glanced down at his interlocked hands, then back at her face. ‘He’s dead.’

  Dead. The world spun around her. She grasped the arms of the chair for support, trying to make sense of something senseless.

  ‘How? He wasn’ ill, was he?’

  ‘No, my lady.’ Travers’ face darkened, and he shot her a glare as if she were responsible. ‘He was murdered. By a Changer.’

  ‘A Changer?’ Even more incomprehensible. Elisse began to wonder whether she was imagining the whole thing. ‘Who?’

  ‘Ayla escaped from Darkhaven on the same night,’ Travers said. Then, as though it were the logical continuation of what he was saying, ‘I promised Lord Florentyn I’d look after you, Elisse.’

  ‘Yeah – yeah, I know, I –’ She couldn’t marshal her words into a coherent sentence. ‘But – are ya saying it was Lady Ayla who killed him?’

  ‘That’s what the Helm believe. After all, she is the only known Changer in Arkannen, though Myrren would have us think otherwise.’ He looked up, a warning in his pale eyes. ‘They mustn’t find out about you, Elisse, either of them. You’re a threat to them.’

  She nodded, suddenly frightened. ‘I know. I won’ leave my rooms, I swear.’

  ‘Good.’ Travers leaned forward, intent. ‘Remember, if Ayla can kill her father in cold blood, then she could kill you just as easily.’

  Elisse bit her lip. ‘But she doesn’ know where I am, does she?’

  ‘No.’ Travers gave her a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring. ‘And we need to keep it that way. Which is why I’ve arranged protection for you.’

  ‘Protection?’

  ‘Someone to guard you. Make sure you’re safe.’

  She suppressed another roll of the eyes; now Florentyn was gone, she’d be depending on Travers to see her through this. Best to keep him sweet. ‘I know wha’ protection is, Captain Travers. I jus’ don’ see what a single Helmsman can do against a Changer.’

  ‘The woman I’ve hired to attend you isn’t a Helmsman,’ Travers said. ‘She has certain … specialist skills. She’s undertaken to act as your personal guard until this situation with Ayla is resolved.’

  Personal guard. So did that mean the woman would be her bodyguard, Elisse wondered with dour humour, or her jailer? The way Travers looked at her, she wasn’t sure if he was more concerned with keeping her safe or keeping her locked up. And even if the Helm did catch Ayla, would they ever let Elisse go back home? Or would she be stuck in Arkannen for good, forced into complying with the plans Florentyn had set out before his death?

  ‘She’ll be here tomorrow,’ Travers said. ‘In the meantime, you need to stay out of sight. Keep the curtains drawn and the door locked. I’ll let you know when there’s news.’

  ‘All right.’ Elisse was full of questions – what’s this woman like? what’s her name? does she know why I’m here? – but she kept them to herself. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts, which meant the quicker she could get rid of Travers the better. In fact, maybe she could hurry him along a bit. ‘But if I’m ta have company, could ya have some Kardise tea sent over? I’m running low.’

  ‘If you wish.’ As she’d expected, Travers leapt to his feet as though someone had stuck a pin in his backside. It was the same every time she started asking for things: he ran away before the list got too long. She suspected he found it demeaning to be waiting on a country girl like her – but since she wasn’t allowed out, and he and a few trusted Helmsmen were now the only people in Arkannen who knew she was here, he didn’t have much choice.

  ‘And some o’ them little sweet biscuits,’ she added for good measure, offering him a guile-free smile.

  ‘Very well. I’ll order them for you.’ By now he was at the door. Straightening up from another bow, he fixed her with an intent stare. ‘Remember, Elisse, don’t let anyone see you. Your colouring alone is enough to get people asking questions, even if they come up with the wrong answers.’

  With that, he departed. Once she was certain he’d gone, Elisse tipped her head back in her chair and closed her eyes. She felt drained and tired; she didn’t have much energy these days, cooped up within these walls. So she stayed where she was and thought about Florentyn Nightshade: the abrupt way he had come into her life, and the abrupt way he had left it. She knew she ought to be upset, to mourn him; yet now her initial shock had faded, what remained in its place was emptiness. He’d uprooted her, taken her away from her mother and her home, left her drifting and anchorless like a cloud of yellowroot seeds on the wind. She couldn’t return to her old life, but as yet she had no idea what the shape of her new life would be. And since it wasn’t safe to leave Arkannen, at least not yet, there was nothing to do but wait.

  ‘Looks like we’re on our own, kiddo,’ she said to the silence of the empty room. ‘I guess we’ll just have ta make the best of it.’

  ELEVEN

  As soon as he caught sight of the Gate of Steel in the distance, Caraway came to an abrupt halt. He’d gone the long way round through the fourth ring, avoiding the Ametrine Quarter – today was exactly the wrong day to bump into any of his former colleagues from the Helm – but even so, the gate had crept up on him before he was ready for it. It left a dull ache in his chest, as if he’d been stabbed with a blunt blade and was slowly bleeding to death. He hadn’t been up here for five years: not since he stumbled away from Darkhaven with sword and heart both newly broken, knowing he could never return. Now he gazed at the sharp blades that lined the archway like a set of vicious metal teeth, and remembered anew the first time he’d walked through that gate: how proud he’d been finally to be setting foot in the hallowed fifth ring, the training ground he’d dreamed of all his young life.

  Still. That was the past, and he’d wallowed in it too many times already. Yes, he’d lost everything. Yes, he could really do with a pitcher of ale right now. But he had a purpose again, and he w
asn’t going to fail this time. So he squared his shoulders and kept walking. If he ignored the pain for long enough, maybe it would go away.

  Technically he shouldn’t even have been allowed into the fourth ring; he wasn’t a respectable enough citizen to have a home there, and he certainly hadn’t been invited in by any of the residents. But the members of the city watch who guarded each of Arkannen’s seven gates knew what he’d been, and what he’d become. Their embarrassed eyes slid over him as though they could be infected with his outcast status just by looking at him. As a result, as long as he didn’t try to climb too high through the city, he was given the freedom to wander where he liked. It wasn’t something he had ever taken much advantage of – all the inns were in the outer rings, after all – but now he was going to put it to the test.

  As he approached the gate ahead of him, the two guards straightened up and stepped forward to block his path. Theirs was not just the upright posture of good discipline; it was the rigidity that went with an awkward and potentially unpleasant task.

  ‘Breakblade,’ one of them said, his gaze resting on a point somewhere beyond Caraway’s left shoulder. ‘Can we help you?’

  They’re not going to let me in. The longing for a drink tingled in Caraway’s fingers and toes. He forced himself to speak clearly and calmly, as if his presence at the Gate of Steel were an everyday occurrence. ‘I need to see someone in the Warriors’ Hall. I’ll be there and back before you know it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Caraway.’ The other guard looked directly at him, a hint of sympathy in her eyes. ‘You know the rules. You have no business here any more.’

  Caraway tried a smile. ‘In that case, could one of you please carry a message to my … friend? Once he knows I’m here, I’m sure he’ll come out.’

  The male guard shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Look, Art Bryan owes me a favour, all right?’ A headache was gathering behind Caraway’s eyes, making his voice uneven. ‘And I need to collect it today, so can you please just tell him I want to speak to him?’

  The two guards exchanged doubtful glances.

  ‘Art Bryan?’ the woman said. ‘You mean the weaponmaster?’

  Caraway nodded. ‘Assistant weaponmaster in my day, but yes. Him.’

  She hesitated, then spread her hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here.’ Then, at a fulminating look from her colleague, ‘What’s the worst that can happen? Either Bryan’ll come out, or he’ll tell me to tell Caraway to piss off.’ She glanced back at Caraway, eyebrows raised. ‘And you will piss off if he asks you to piss off, won’t you, Breakblade?’

  Caraway shrugged. ‘If he won’t speak to me, I don’t have any reason to be here.’

  ‘Right.’ She turned on her heel and walked through the gate, leaving the male guard glowering.

  ‘Quite hot for the time of year,’ Caraway offered in what he knew was a pathetic attempt at small talk, and the other man spat at his feet.

  ‘Shut up or I’ll make you.’

  Fair enough.

  As Caraway waited in silence, trying to breathe through the pounding headache now attacking his eyeballs, it occurred to him that the female guard could just lurk out of sight for a while, then come back and tell him Bryan didn’t want to see him. And what would he do then? He didn’t have any other contacts worth mentioning, other than a large number of innkeepers and bar staff. How would he keep his promise to help Ayla if he couldn’t find anything out? He couldn’t bear to fail her. He had already hurt her enough.

  By the time the female guard came back into view, he’d almost convinced himself she would be alone; it was with considerable surprise that he recognised Art Bryan’s hulking form at her heels. Bryan was the sort of man who dominated a room, a sparring ground or even a street simply by virtue of being in it, and not just because he was built like a box full of bricks. He radiated an aura of sheer stubborn will that affected everyone in his path. And yet, although he was one of the most feared figures of the fifth ring, he was also one of the most admired. He didn’t take any shit, but nor did he give any; even the hapless apprentices who bore the full brunt of his scorn ended up respecting his fairness.

  He was also one to offer credit where it was due – which was why he hadn’t hesitated to admit his debt to a young Tomas Caraway, after an incident with a runaway horse that could have ended his career for good if Caraway hadn’t been there to stop it. Looking at the glare on his face now, though, Caraway didn’t think gratitude was uppermost in his mind.

  ‘By ice and steel, if it isn’t my most notorious student.’ Bryan stopped a short distance away, eyebrows drawn so close they almost touched. His voice was a penetrating bellow, honed by years of shouting instructions at the recalcitrant youths in his care. ‘What in the name of all the powers do you want, Caraway?’

  ‘Six years ago, you said you owed me.’ Caraway stood square and took it on the chin, trying not to remember all the times this man had berated him on the training floor, back when they were student and teacher. Back when he had a future. ‘I’ve come to call in the favour.’

  ‘And here was I thinking you’d drowned that memory in ale.’ Bryan scowled. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, you know that.’

  ‘Do I?’ Bryan folded his arms. ‘Seems to me I don’t know you at all.’

  ‘You at least know me well enough to be sure I would never intentionally have hurt Kati Nightshade,’ Caraway said softly. ‘A man can’t train a clumsy boy into a half-decent Helmsman without learning what he’s capable of, and what he’s not. Isn’t that what you always said?’

  ‘That’s assuming you ever were a half-decent Helmsman,’ Bryan replied. ‘Sometimes I have my doubts.’

  It was like a punch to the guts. Caraway closed his eyes a moment, breathing through the pain. ‘Then that’s it? You’re not going to help me?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Bryan’s voice was gruff. ‘Whatever I may think of you, I won’t have it said that I don’t keep my word.’

  That was what Caraway had been counting on: his old mentor’s innate sense of honour. He began to stammer out his thanks, only to be stopped by Bryan’s upraised hand.

  ‘What is it you want? Make it quick, Caraway. I’m in no mood to linger.’

  With a glance over Bryan’s shoulder at the two guards, who weren’t even trying to conceal how avidly they were listening, Caraway lowered his voice. ‘I need some information. I need to know if the Helm have been doing anything out of the ordinary over the last month or so. You’re there when they’re training, you must hear them talk … has there been anything at all that struck you as unusual?’

  Bryan assessed him through narrowed eyes. ‘What’s this about, Caraway? I swear to you, if I find out you’re up to no good I’ll –’

  ‘You’ll have heard the rumours about Lord Florentyn’s death,’ Caraway said. ‘They’re saying Lady Ayla did it. I intend to prove them wrong.’

  Bryan’s brows quirked upwards. ‘So that’s what this is? Atonement?’ He contemplated that a moment, then sighed. ‘I don’t see that you stand much chance with that one, boyo. And I don’t see what the Helm have to do with it, either. But for what it’s worth, there is one thing that might interest you: Owen Travers recently hired a sellsword. And not just any sellsword, either. He hired Naeve Sorrow.’

  Now we’re getting somewhere. Caraway knew Sorrow, at least by reputation. Who didn’t? Eight years ago, when he’d first arrived in the fifth ring, she’d already made a name for herself as a mercenary. It was whispered that no job fell outside her remit, however difficult and however dirty – as long as the price was right.

  ‘Do you know what Travers hired her for?’ he asked, hopeful, but Bryan pulled a face and shook his head.

  ‘I only know about it at all because I saw the two of them together in the fifth ring. Travers invited Sorrow to spar with him, and afterwards they talked business.’
/>
  Caraway nodded thoughtfully. It wasn’t much, yet it fit his suspicions. Travers must have hired the sellsword to carry out the attacks and make it look as though Ayla had done it. The Helm were obsessed with the Nightshade bloodline; Florentyn’s decision to raise his half-blood daughter above his pure-blood son must have turned them against him. So they’d had him killed and implicated Ayla in the murder, allowing Myrren to reclaim what they considered to be his rightful position – and, at the same time, the Helm gained more power. Much more persuadable … wasn’t that how Travers had described Myrren? Yes, clearly the Helm would prefer it if Myrren inherited his father’s seat rather than Ayla.

  Coming out of his reverie, Caraway met Bryan’s frown with a tentative smile, more relieved than he could express to have been given something – however small – to go on.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Reflexively he fired off a military salute, then caught himself doing it and wanted to give himself a good shaking. A bitter edge crept into his voice as he added, ‘Consider your debt paid.’

  He turned to leave, but was stopped by Bryan saying his name. He looked back over his shoulder; Bryan was watching him from beneath heavy brows.

  ‘When did you last have a drink?’

  Not recently enough. Caraway shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Yesterday. Does it matter?’

  ‘Of course it matters.’ Bryan snorted. ‘I’m not giving you my hard-earned money just so you can piss it down the drain.’

  Caraway stared at him. ‘But I didn’t ask you for –’

  ‘Are you telling me you don’t need it?’ Bryan demanded, and Caraway looked down at his feet.

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘Then take it. And don’t ever show your face up here again.’