Darkhaven

by A. F. E. Smith

  She made no objection as he placed it around her shoulders, nor did she resist the pressure of his hand as he eased her back down into a lying position.

  ‘It was exactly how it used to be when he was alive and I felt him Change,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘Like icy fingers prickling over my skin. Strange – I felt it the night he died.’

  Already Caraway could feel her shivers lessening beneath his spread palm, the presence of the extra layer driving out the chill. He crossed back to his side of the room and looked ruefully at the thin blankets on the floor. By now he was familiar with every nail and splinter in the floorboards, and without his coat to protect him he had no doubt that the acquaintance would be furthered considerably.

  ‘Tomas?’ Ayla’s voice was small and somehow far away, as if she were speaking to him from beyond the threshold of sleep. ‘Do you think it’s wrong of me to be relieved that he’s dead?’

  Caraway swallowed over the ache in his throat. ‘No, Ayla. I don’t.’

  She said nothing more, and soon the rhythm of her breathing changed. Caraway lay awake and uncomfortable until dawn, wondering whether it really had been just a nightmare, or whether he should reconsider the possibility he had previously dismissed as too difficult to investigate: the possibility that there was another Changer in Arkannen.

  In the morning Ayla handed him his coat without a word, but he saw something in her eyes he hadn’t seen before. He thought it might be gratitude, or at least the beginnings of it. Perhaps she was starting to accept that he might not be all bad – in which case, he’d better not say anything about how shaky he was feeling after an entire day without alcohol.

  It’s pathetic, Caraway, he told himself. You weren’t nearly this desperate even a month ago. Yet at some point over the last few weeks, he had given up even trying not to succumb to the lure of an ale-cup. Maybe Ayla had re-entered his life just in time.

  ‘I’ll get you some breakfast,’ he told her, shrugging the coat back on, and she nodded.

  ‘Do you need more money?’

  The question was asked in condescending tones, dissolving in an instant the tentative rapport he’d thought was growing between them. Perhaps he had imagined that look in her eyes. Perhaps it had only been wishful thinking.

  ‘I’ve got enough,’ he mumbled. Avoiding her gaze – he just knew she was about to ask where he’d got the money from, and he didn’t think what remained of his battered pride could take the admission that it was given to him as an act of charity – he ducked out of the room and went to find food.

  Once he’d taken care of Ayla’s breakfast, Caraway set off in search of one of Arkannen’s most notorious sellswords. Naeve Sorrow didn’t live in the fourth ring – or at least, she hadn’t five years ago. Instead, like Caraway, she rented a place in the first ring, amongst the frantic and never-ending activity of the city’s industry. Unlike Caraway, however, her presence there was through choice rather than necessity. She lived in an expensive suite of rooms overlooking the Floating Gardens, which meant that rather than the stink of animal skins and waste, she woke every morning to birdsong and the scent of rare flowers. As for what she’d done to earn the money she needed to live in a place like that … well, Caraway had heard the rumours, but none of them had ever been substantiated. That was why she could charge so much. All anyone knew was that she’d do anything if she was paid enough, and whether it was legal or not didn’t come into the equation. She’d been a thorn in the heel of the Helm for as long as Caraway could remember, which was why it was so odd that Travers should have hired her … unless, of course, the Captain of the Helm was doing something he didn’t want anyone else to find out about.

  Caraway’s route to the Floating Gardens took him through the fashionable shopping district, so he made a brief detour to a high-class perruquier. The painted and perfumed female wig-maker looked at him askance when he walked through the door – a man who needed a good shave and wore a coat with holes in the elbows wouldn’t usually be welcome in such an establishment – but as soon as Caraway revealed the glossy strands of Ayla’s hair, everything changed. Caraway was offered a glass of fresh pomegranate juice and some ever-so-discreet bartering, before escaping with a blonde wig and two ranols in his pocket. He got the impression that the perruquier didn’t care if he’d slaughtered a Nightshade and thrown the body into the river, so long as she got hold of that hair. No doubt some wealthy lady would cause a sensation by wearing it to her next social function.

  Swinging the bag containing the new wig, Caraway crossed the Half-Moon Bridge and entered the Floating Gardens. One of Arkannen’s most popular attractions, the gardens had been created by deliberately flooding an area of the city beside the river. A series of vast rafts drifted on the surface of the water, a chain of man-made islands linked by wooden walkways. Each raft was layered with enough earth to allow plants and even small trees to take root, and rare specimens had been brought in from every corner of Mirrorvale as well as its neighbouring countries. As a result, the gardens were a haven for waterfowl and other birds; their calls, combined with the splashing of the water over artificial rockeries and miniature waterfalls, made the place seem like a small portion of countryside within the walls of the city. In winter coloured lanterns were hung in the trees, but now – at the height of summer – the air was full of the drone of insects and the warm soft scents of open flowers.

  I should bring Ayla here, Caraway thought. She’d probably like it. Then he remembered how unlikely he was to do anything of the kind: even if the blonde wig was sufficient disguise for Ayla to visit such a public place, and even if they had the time to spare from the investigation they had undertaken, there was no reason why she would want to go anywhere with him on a social basis. For her, their association was no more than an inconvenient but necessary business arrangement.

  Annoyed with himself, he hurried along the walkways without looking too closely at the beauty around him. Sorrow’s rooms were on the far side, part of a tall white building that rose up out of the gardens like a ship floating on the surface of the water. Caraway glanced at the double-faced clock set into the upper part of the wall: the hand on the inner dial was pointing to the top left corner, while the hand on the outer dial pointed almost directly right. About halfway through second bell – Sorrow could easily have left for the day by now. Still, there was only one way to find out. He had already decided not to walk up to her front door and start asking her questions; if she was working for Travers, there was no chance she’d answer them. Instead, he positioned himself in the shadow of the floral archway that was the exit closest to the building, and settled down to wait.

  He could see why Sorrow chose to live here, if live here she still did: it was a tranquil part of town. The clatter of the trams was never completely inaudible anywhere in the lower rings, but here it faded to a muted rumble like the merest hint of thunder on the horizon. Far clearer was the bird singing somewhere nearby; Caraway thought it was probably a honeyfinch. He closed his eyes as the dappled sunlight danced over his face, a changing pattern created by the leaves of the scarlet creeper overhead as they fluttered in the breeze. For an instant he was a child again, before he left home, before he came to Arkannen to fulfil the single bright dream of his life and saw it crumble into despair. A child in a summer meadow, with all of life’s vast possibility ahead of him …

  The abrupt whirring of the clock shattered the illusion. Caraway opened his eyes, regrets and pressures settling back on him like a heavy weight, as it chimed the third bell in ragged unison with the more distant clocks throughout the city. At the same time, the front door of the building ahead of him opened and a woman with very short fair hair emerged, carrying a holdall. Caraway didn’t need the twin swords strapped to her back or the air of aggression she exuded to tell him this was Naeve Sorrow; she looked exactly the same as she had five years ago. Relief pouring through him – that she still lived here, that she was only just leaving her rooms, that he hadn’t missed her by daydrea
ming – he let her get some way ahead, then left the shelter of the archway and followed her.

  Sorrow was of average height and build, for a woman, but her reputation made her seem larger. As she strode through the streets of the first ring, anyone who knew anything about her did their utmost not to get in her way. That meant she was easy to follow – the swathe of bowed heads and averted gazes she left behind her was as conspicuous as the tram tracks that partially encircled the lower rings – but it also made it hard to stay out of sight. Several times Caraway had to turn aside or stay well back for fear of being noticed; after all, his quarry wasn’t exactly a novice to this game, and he had no doubt that if she spotted him she would either turn on him or give him the slip – neither of which was a desirable outcome when all he wanted was to find out where she was going.

  Once she reached the second ring, Sorrow hopped on a tram and rode it round to the Gate of Wind, which gave Caraway time to relax. He stood at the opposite end of the carriage from her and kept her visible from the corner of his eye, but other than that he was free to let his thoughts wander. Inevitably, they returned to Ayla, where they lingered with a sort of self-indulgent misery. He was almost glad when Sorrow got off the tram and he had to concentrate on following her again, passing through the Gate of Wind and into the third ring. As usual, the ground around the gate was plastered with old news-sheets that people had read and discarded. Caraway looked down and saw Florentyn Nightshade’s face staring back at him; he imagined disapproval in the dark eyes and the tight-pressed lips.

  I’m doing my best, my lord, he told the old Changer silently. I won’t let your daughter down like I did her mother. I promise.

  He almost lost Sorrow a couple of times in the freight sector of the third ring; several large airships had come in with cargoes, and the unloading areas were bustling with activity. Finally both of them reached the fourth ring, where Sorrow turned left, taking the south road towards the Gate of Steel. Caraway followed with a degree of unease. This way led to the Ametrine Quarter, which meant Helmsmen – and the last thing he wanted was to draw any of his former colleagues’ attention to himself. What was more, if it turned out that Sorrow was heading for the fifth ring, he already knew he wouldn’t be able to follow her. Of course, she might simply be going for some weapons training or sparring practice: being in the pay of Owen Travers didn’t mean that every single thing she did would be on his behalf. Thus for all Caraway knew, this exercise might turn out to be completely pointless. Still, he’d come this far. He didn’t want to return to Ayla and tell her he’d given up unless he absolutely had to.

  There were fewer crowds up here during the day than there were in the lower rings, which made Caraway feel conspicuous. Eventually he jogged up a side alley until he reached a street that ran parallel to the main road on the inner part of the curve. Once there, the shorter distances made it easy to catch up with Sorrow and then keep her in sight down the alleys that connected the two streets. In that way they passed through Obsidian, Charoite and Cerussite, until finally – in the Ametrine Quarter, the one Caraway had been dreading – Sorrow didn’t appear at the end of one of the alleys. Caraway sprinted down it, and caught sight of her going up one of the streets that branched off the opposite side of the road. The Avenue of Rowans. So she was going to visit someone in the Helm.

  He reached the near end of the avenue in time to see Sorrow turning left down a side alley. She had quickened her pace, and he could see why. A little further up the road, several Helmsmen were gathered – more than were commonly to be found standing in the street, even in the Ametrine Quarter. A crime scene? Some sort of accident? Caraway didn’t stop to wonder any further. He followed in Sorrow’s footsteps, only to find that she had paused at the end of the alley and was looking back over her shoulder. He retreated in the direction of the street, pulse racing, wondering if she had seen him. Then he was forced to step aside into the concealment of a doorway as two of the Helm walked past. He stood there hardly daring to breathe, willing them not to look in his direction, but they appeared to be too deep in conversation to notice him.

  ‘… wasn’t just an ordinary stabbing or a theft that went wrong?’ one of the men was saying. The other shook his head.

  ‘Seems it was the same creature that killed the old Changer. Must’ve happened late last night …’

  Then they had moved on past, leaving Caraway frowning. Another attack: that would fit with Ayla’s nightmare, if such it could be called. The same creature had struck again, and she had felt it Change. Which, as far as he could see, proved two things. First, there was indeed another Changer in Arkannen, making his task both harder and more confusing. If Travers hadn’t hired Sorrow to kill Florentyn, it was hard to see where she fitted into the picture – though, of course, it was possible he was about to find out. Second, and far more important, Ayla wasn’t guilty of her father’s murder. How could she be? She hadn’t left the first ring last night. So if the same creature had carried out both attacks, she wasn’t responsible for either.

  Caraway had never believed her guilty – or at least, he had never wanted to believe it – but all the same, the conclusion made him buoyant. It was all he could do to stop himself whistling as he followed Sorrow through the back alleys to rejoin the Avenue of Rowans a short way beyond the milling Helmsmen. The houses here were in one long terrace, several stories high. Caraway lurked in an alley mouth and watched as Sorrow crossed the street to open one of the front doors, then disappeared inside.

  Once he was sure she wasn’t going to come back out straight away, he emerged into the middle of the road and stood looking at the house. The windows looked back at him, empty and secretive. An ordinary terraced house of the kind that Helm families often shared. What would Sorrow be doing here? Perhaps he should just walk up to the door and turn the handle, try and find out which flat she had gone into.

  He was about to approach it when a flash of movement caught his eye. He froze, staring up at the top floor of the building. If he was seeing what he thought he was seeing, he knew exactly which flat Sorrow had entered.

  Because there was a woman at the window. And she looked an awful lot like Ayla.

  FIFTEEN

  The knock at the door came at the same time as the clock on the mantel chimed the fourth bell, startling Elisse out of a doze. She struggled upright, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Her hair was all rumpled from lying against the cushioned arm of the chaise longue; she smoothed it down before getting to her feet and going to open the door. There was a woman standing on the landing outside, a leather holdall in one hand. She had cropped blonde hair that looked almost white against her honey-coloured skin, and her face was set in a forbidding scowl.

  ‘You shouldn’t have answered the door,’ she snapped before Elisse could say a word. ‘I could have been anyone.’

  Elisse’s gaze moved from the woman’s face to the row of throwing-knives strapped across her chest, and then back up to the twin sword hilts protruding over her shoulders. Since no normal person walked around carrying enough weaponry to sink a merchant barge, this must be the bodyguard Travers had promised. Elisse retreated a few steps as the woman stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.

  ‘I was expecting ya,’ she offered in an attempt at self-defence, but her new bodyguard shrugged it off.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. If you want to stay alive, you have to be cautious.’

  Leaving her bag lying on the floor as though she expected Elisse to pick it up, she strode into the living room and over to the front window, where she set an eye to the narrow gap between the drapes without actually touching them.

  ‘What –’ Elisse began, but the woman waved her to silence.

  ‘On my way here, I suspected I was being followed,’ she said, still peering out at the street. ‘Now I’m sure of it. There’s a man standing outside, watching this house.’

  She turned on her heel and marched back to the door, brushing past Elisse, who was still hesitating just inside the
room.

  ‘Stay here,’ she flung over her shoulder, before leaving as quickly as she had come. Half nervous and half curious, Elisse stole over to the window and peeped through the gap. The bodyguard was right: there was a man standing on the opposite side of the street. Elisse didn’t think she recognised him, but it was hard to be sure. She pulled one of the drapes aside ever so slightly, leaning forward in order to see better, then froze.

  The man had noticed her.

  He was looking directly at her.

  She had an instant to take him in: brown hair and skin, an arrested expression on his face. Then he turned and hurried away, slipping down the first side alley he reached. Next moment the blonde woman appeared on the street where he had been, looking left and right with an irritated frown, some kind of black metal device in one hand. Biting her lip, Elisse drew back from the window before she could be seen. She really didn’t want her new bodyguard to know that she was the one who had inadvertently scared off the stranger. She had no idea who the man was or what he wanted, but from what she had seen of the two of them, the woman was by far the more intimidating.

  By the time the blonde woman walked back into the room, Elisse was at a safe distance from the window and felt able to meet her glower with an enquiring glance. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’d gone before I got down there.’

  That metal device was still in her hand. Elisse eyed it with some trepidation as she said, ‘Ya didn’ tell me ya name.’

  The woman flicked her a quick, dismissive look. She was clearly still on the alert, poised on the balls of her feet as she scanned the opulence around her. ‘Naeve Sorrow.’

  ‘Sorrow,’ Elisse repeated. ‘As in sadness?’