Martius pursed his lips; his eyes glimmered in the lamplight. He fixed Ashferon with a long gaze. “There is no denying it. I see grey in your hair too, I fear.”
“Mortality is an inevitability ’tis true.” Ashferon shrugged. “There is no getting away from it. What was it that old Altus used to teach us?”
“You’re born, you live, you die.” Martius altered the tone of his voice, making it sound cracked and old. “These things are a certainty. It is what you do whilst living that matters.”
Ashferon nodded. “He was a good teacher.”
A long silence followed. Villius found himself staring at Ashferon and his silent companion. They looked quite the oddest couple that he had ever encountered. Ashferon was lean and thin. At first impression he had seemed the same height as Martius, but he was actually a good two inches taller. There was something about the man that put Villius on edge. There was a sense to him that he knew everything, or thought he did, an air of superiority. As if to confirm Villius’s suspicions, Ashferon glanced at him.
In the alley behind, the rats began to scurry around again, busy about their business. Villius rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. The tattooed giant turned towards him in response. The giant’s gaze seemed fixed in a permanent frown. Villius wondered, should the need arise, if he could take the man down. Best not find out.
Finally, Martius broke the silence. “You got my message?”
“Why else would I be here?” Ashferon raised his chin slightly.
If any slight was intended, Martius seemed to ignore it. “Good point.”
The silence blossomed anew. Villius could not stop himself looking from one man to the other. Martius, in his stance and his bearing was like steel, as ever. What was missing was his apparent cheerfulness in the face of stress.
Who is Ashferon to put you so on edge? But Villius was not sure that it was the strange-cloaked man. The truth was that General Martius had been grim since the night of the attack. The lady Ellasand still had not woken, despite the ministrations of Doctore Nessius. Who would not be grim in such circumstances?
It was Ashferon that broke the silence. “He wasn’t easy to find. Somewhat of a willow the wisp, this Jhan Guttel.”
“But you did find him?” Martius’s tone was sharp, impatient.
Ashferon rubbed his chin. “Well, less me and more Tituss here.” He gestured absently at the tattooed behemoth beside him.
Tituss nodded his great head, the muscles in his neck stretched like so many cables. Villius imagined he heard them groaning with the strain of it.
Martius turned his attention to Tituss and a true smile touched his lips. “My thanks to you, goodman Tituss.”
Tituss nodded again. He did not smile but his fixed glower seemed to lessen for a moment.
“I gave him the areas to search of course.” Ashferon waved a hand as if thanks to his giant companion were unnecessary. “Tituss is very good at getting people to speak though.”
Tituss nodded his great head in agreement.
I am sure he is, Villius wanted to say, wondering if the giant was mute or whether, perhaps, he chose not to speak in order to appear even more imposing.
“Where is he?” Martius fixed his gaze upon Ashferon. “We do not have time to wait. We must move now.”
In reply to Martius’s gaze, Ashferon sniffed indifferently and gestured to Tituss. “We will lead you there. He almost slipped my grasp. Quite the intelligent scum, our Master Guttel. I had thought to find him near the docks where the others of his type hang around. But it would appear that he has higher aspirations.
Martius’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Where is he, Ashferon?”
Ashferon smiled a thin-lipped smile, span around and marched back down the alley. “We are headed to the merchants’ quarter.” He called over his shoulder. “It all makes perfect sense really. His father was a merchant, after all.”
It was a long walk to the merchants’ quarter through some of the less salubrious parts of the great city of Adarna.
Why did he arrange to meet us in the Stink when he knew where Guttel is? Villius had rarely visited the Stink – the local name for the docklands – it was not the kind of area that a young nobleman would frequent. As they passed out of the Stink, they entered the so-called ‘buyers’’ district. As they did so, they began to hear revelry from the bars and bordellos that littered the area. Villius had never really used the buyers’ district himself, but he had known many men at the academy who regularly visited their favourite houses during their years of training. For Villius it was an unnecessary distraction from his training; besides, his family would find a good match for him when the time came.
It will not be long now. The thought struck him like a blow but there was truth in it. At twenty-six years, he was of marriageable age, if not a little old.
The ground sloped up from the docks, and as they gained height, the quality of the housing and accommodation improved. Some of the houses looked relatively fine; Villius knew that this was where the more expensive purchases of the buyers’ district resided. If the rumours were to be believed, some of the women here were as rich as princesses and twice as beautiful.
They crossed Bakers’ Street with ease – as a main artery for the city it was wide enough for four carriages to travel abreast of each other. Where in the day it was a bustling danger zone of horses, carts and people, at this ungodly hour it was relatively deserted.
The other side of the road marked the edge of the merchants’ district. The houses were, on the whole, large and imposing. Some even had small plots of land or gardens. Oil lamp poles – which had been scarce up until now, even in the buyers’ district – stood every fifty yards or so along the roadside. Villius spotted a pair of militiamen patrolling down a side street. The merchants paid the city well to ensure their security, and it struck Villius as cunning indeed that Guttel might hide out in the very area that he might seek to rob. If he is a thief. As far as Villius could tell, no one was completely sure what Guttel’s business was, although all seemed to be agreed that it was bad – as testified to by his men being paid to spy on General Martius.
Eventually, Ashferon raised a hand and brought them to a halt. “That’s it.” He pointed to the corner of a road where a house stood, isolated and in relative darkness, within a small plot of land.
“What do we do now?” Martius asked.
The words made Villius uneasy, at first he did not know why, but then he realised that he had never known the general not to lead. Martius clearly did not revel in Ashferon’s company, but he did seem to trust his judgement.
“Tituss.” Ashferon gestured to his silent companion.
Tituss moved across the road with a speed and stealth that denied his bulk. His feet did not seem to make a sound as they touched the ground. Within moments, he reached the plain brick wall that surrounded the property and, without so much as a whisper, clambered over it.
He moves like a cat. Villius admired the man’s prowess. “What happens now, sir?” he asked Martius, unable to maintain his silence as the tension grew.
Martius raised an eyebrow. “I am afraid it is not my plan, Proctor Villius.” He nodded his head towards Ashferon.
“We wait for Tituss to do his work.” Ashferon clarified. “He shouldn’t take long.”
The problem with waiting for something, Villius had always observed, was that the very act of waiting made something last longer. The seconds dragged as he imagined what might be happening beyond the wall.
What are you doing here? he had often wondered since being selected from the academy – by Martius himself – to be the great general’s aid. The desert border with Farisia seemed a distant nightmare now. His posting to the hinterlands had shocked him and his family; it was considered a dead end – possibly literally – for the individuals sent to the west. Villius had not complained though. Duty and discipline were the keystones of military life and he could not, would not, sully the Danus family name by complaining. Bei
ng accepted for leadership training and thus returning to the capital had been an enormous stroke of luck, but it had not passed his attention that the risk to his own life seemed to have, if anything, increased since he took on one of the most treasured posts in the army as the primus general’s assistant.
“There he is.” Ashferon broke the silence matter of factly. Tituss had vaulted the wall again and now stood waving them on. “Let’s go.”
Villius could not contain his concern. “Sir?” he asked Martius as he trotted at his side.
Martius did not reply; his gaze fixed on the wall and the house beyond.
“Sir?” Villius would not be ignored. This was too important. “Are you proposing that we break into Tuttel’s house?”
“Yes, Villius.” Martius’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp.
“Sir.” Every fibre of Villius’s being was torn between loyalty to the man before him and his need to obey the strictures of society. Breaking and entering was a crime. Not worthy of a man of the general’s station. Not worthy of a Danus either, for that matter. “I must counsel against this course of action. The repercussions if we are caught could be huge. You have enemies who would take advantage…”
They reached the wall. Without a word, the giant Tituss vaulted over to the other side again.
“Sir?” Villius had to be sure the general heard him. The man was in the throes of grief for his wife, and grief made people do strange things.
Martius stood facing the wall. He lowered his head slightly and pursed his lips.
“We have to move.” Ashferon’s voice sliced through the night. “There are militia patrolling.”
“Go. We will attend you shortly.” Martius did not look at Ashferon as he spoke.
“Suit yourself.” Ashferon clambered up the wall and disappeared.
Villius felt warm but his breath misted before him. Martius turned to face him, his mien stern and formal.
“I thank you for your advice, Villius.” A frown creased Martius’s forehead. “You are right of course. This action could well be folly, but I need to know who attacked my family. I need to know who it is that I am fighting.”
Villius could not face the general’s gaze. Pangs of shame and doubt lashed at his conscience. “Sir…” His voice cracked. “You know that I would follow you into the underworld. I just...” He took a deep and calming breath. Martius’s gaze bored through him. “I just... Your house does not need more trouble. Sir...” Show some backbone. The voice of his father chided him. You are a man. He straightened his back and returned the general’s gaze as best he could. “It is my duty as your proctor to serve and protect you. I would be derelict in my duties if I did not counsel against this course of action.” The nub of it came to him then. “How can we trust this Ashferon? Who is he?”
The tramp of boots filtered through the night. Sound travelled strangely in the city. Echoes could rebound off the brick and stone and confuse the senses, but it sounded like militiamen to Villius.
Martius glanced towards the sound. He paused for a moment, perhaps making a decision himself. Then he smiled and clapped Villius gently on the shoulder. His eyes twinkled with mischief, or perhaps hope. “Ashferon may not be terribly likeable, but he is true. Trust me.” He gently squeezed Villius’s shoulder. “Do I have your trust, Villius? Do I have your loyalty?”
“Of course, sir.” Villius knew no other answer. I would die for you, my general.
The steady tramp of boots grew louder. There was no doubt now. The militia approached.
Martius nodded. “Good.” He jumped up and grabbed the wall, pulling himself atop it so that his body lay flat. “Now let’s go then, shall we?”
His decision made, Villius quickly followed suit. He winced as his scabbard scraped along the bricks, his mind amplifying the sound so that it screeched through the night like an angry cat. He imagined the running footsteps of the militiamen. Then he was over. His back rested against the bricks of the wall; they were still warm with the heat of the afternoon sun. His body pulsed against the wall as his heart thumped in his chest. For a second, it felt as if his life was joined to the inert and solid edifice.
Then a hand grabbed his forearm. Martius’s eyes glimmered in the night.
Martius nodded gently as if checking one last time that Villius was truly on board – as if assessing his resolve. “Let’s go,” he whispered and, crouched low, ran towards the house where Ashferon and Tituss stood waiting by the back door.
As he approached, Villius spotted two prone forms lying against the wall near the door. He could not take his eyes off them. Would Martius sanction murder?
“They aren’t dead.” Ashferon spoke as if reading his mind. “Tituss just knocked them out and administered a sleeping draft.” He shook his head slightly as if dismissing Villius from his thoughts, then withdrew some small metal tools from his pockets and knelt at the door lock. A few seconds later, a small click announced its opening.
Villius took a deep breath and said a prayer to the gods. For better or worse, they were past the point of no return.
Ashferon stepped back from the door. “Tituss,” he whispered and gestured with his hand. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
Tituss opened the door just wide to slip through and passed into the shadows beyond. A muffled thump sounded from inside, followed some time later by running footsteps and a strangled yelp.
Then silence.
An all-pervading silence as the night seemed to draw in around them. Villius expected the alarm would be raised at any moment, but the crushing quiet continued unabated.
The door opened wide with a creak. The giant form of Tituss stood silhouetted against the soft lamplight within. He nodded at Ashferon and held three fingers of his right hand loft.
“Three men inside,” Ashferon concluded.
“I would never have guessed.” Martius replied, his tone uncharacteristically laconic.
Ashferon either did not hear the comment or chose to ignore it. “Did you get him?” he addressed his mute companion.
Tituss’s brow rose and he pursed his lips. He tilted his head to one side slightly, his gaze hinting at reproof.
Ashferon raised a finger and wagged it towards Tituss. “I think I will take that as a yes.” He squeezed past the giant and strode confidently into the house. “Upstairs, I presume?” He did not wait for an answer but vaulted the stairs two at a time.
Martius followed him. “My thanks, Tituss,” he said as he passed the behemoth.
Tituss shrugged in reply then gestured for Villius to enter.
Villius stepped into the house and quickly followed Martius up the stairs. The spiced perfume of Farisian incense assaulted his nose. Jhan Guttel clearly had not forgotten his western roots.
They found Ashferon in a large bedroom. He was pacing in front of a chair. On the chair sat Jhan Guttel, gagged and bound – his eyes gleaming murder.
“Nice to see you again, Master Guttel.” Martius sounded conversational as he strode into the room, as if he was welcoming an acquaintance to dinner.
Guttel’s eyes widened in shock and he released a muffled grunt in reply.
Villius felt a whisper of movement behind him as Tituss – who seemed to possess some magic that allowed him to move with great stealth – entered and closed the door behind him.
Ashferon continued to pace before Guttel; his feet sank into the silk and wool pile of the ornate Farisian carpet that filled most of the room. He held one hand to his chin, absently rubbing his short stubble. If he did shave, he had clearly forgotten today.
“I would like to introduce you to an... acquaintance of mine.” Martius’s eyes seemed to be plumbing the depths of Guttel’s soul. “Master Guttel, this is Simeon Ashferon.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “That is Danus Villius and behind him is Tituss.” Martius raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, friend Tituss, I do not know your first name...”
Tituss raised his eyebrows and shrugged his huge shoulders.
Martius tur
ned back to Guttel. “Well, Master Tituss you may not know – although I am sure you will not forget him. Have you heard the name Simeon Ashferon before though?”
Beads of sweat glistened on Guttel’s forehead. His eyes were wide but his pupils barely visible, like pinpricks. He shook his head, eyes darting from Ashferon to Martius and back.
Ashferon, meanwhile, paced between Martius and Guttel as if neither of them existed.
Who is he? Villius could barely contain the question. Simeon Ashferon. There was something in the name that should have sparked a glimmer of recognition. Simeon Ashferon. I have heard that name somewhere...
“No?” Martius raised an eyebrow. “Oh well, no matter. Ashferon here used to work for the old emperor.” He switched his gaze to follow the pacing man before him. Ashferon’s green cloak swished behind him as he turned to pace the room again. “Remind me, Ashferon, what was your title again?”
“Inquisitor,” Ashferon replied absently. “Grand Inquisitor.” He moved to stand before a bookcase and began examining the contents intently. “Goodlan’s almanac, very good master Guttel. A player of the great game I see?” He seemed to be speaking to himself as much as anyone else.
Grand Inquisitor Ashferon. The words took a moment to percolate through to Villius’s subconscious. Grand Inquisitor Ashferon! A name from the past, but one shrouded in dark rumour and mystery. He kicked himself for not realising, but then who would suspect this strange and ragged man? The inquisitors were a whisper on the wind. A tale to scare children at night.
Ashferon spun around and raised a finger in the air. “Do you mind if I continue, Martius?”
Guttel rocked in his chair, sweat dripped freely from his forehead now. He bared his teeth in a rictus grin around his cloth gag.
“Not at all, Ashferon. Not at all.” Martius took a step back and folded his arms across his chest. His mien was grim as death itself. He stared unblinking at Guttel.
Ashferon resumed his pacing before Guttel; his feet caressed the carpet so that every step was accompanied by a rhythmic swoosh. “Do you know what inquisitors do?” he asked gently without looking at Guttel.
The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3 Page 2
