CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk (The Wish trilogy)

by Russell Thomson

  As he walked towards the harbour, Smoke scanned the western sky. The grey blanket of cloud had now passed, replaced by white powdery giants, their bases kissing the tops of the high peaks that flanked the Inner Sea. As the billowing pillows thinned, large patches of blue sky appeared. Smoke smiled inwardly, sunlight; a promise of warmth and the taste of sharp shadows.

  The Troopers Cuss sat beyond the outer wall, close to the old harbour where the smaller inshore fleet moored and next to the warehouse district with its timber towers, cranes and winches. Smoke took up a discrete spot, a place where morning shadow would let him fade into the black discretely should he need. The king’s assassin urged the last clouds to pass and the morning breeze to stay steady from the west. His craving for shadow needed feeding, it was a compulsion he was not ashamed of, the majic wanted to be used and it craved his presence.

  As the bustle of the harbour grew, Smoke left his shaded corner and walked the dockside, careful to keep a weather eye on the door to the inn. As he stopped to eat at a small stall selling boiled shrimp and steamed cockles, Grave stepped into view, exiting the outer wall by the main seaward gate before turning and entering the inn. It was mid morning, too late for breakfast and too early for a mid day break but just right for a flagon to awake dulled senses and relieve the shakes.

  Grave’s visit was short, a quarter hour and no more, the tracker returning the way he came. Smoke followed. Drunkard as Grave was, Smoke kept well back, careful not to lose sight of him but conscious also that any high clan tracker worth his salt, would sense when he himself was being tracked. Grave chose a route that led towards the keep, joining the already growing crowd on Moonrise Avenue that had started heading for the central square.

  The maiming was still some three hours away, the early crowd clearly keen to make a festive day of it; wander the vendors stall that lined the inner wall, seek out the best vantage point and bag the best position to view the morbid spectacle. Satisfied that Grave was doing just that, Smoke returned to The Inn of the Glamorous Mare.

  Ember sat in a booth near the bar, his head on the table.

  ‘Are you awake,’ said Smoke

  ‘Barely………….’ slurred Ember. ‘The pull on my crest grew worse as the sun rose so I decided to ward myself with some peaty spirit and black beer.’

  ‘Did you go to the stable as I asked and did you buy more Heartease from Dolly Chair?’

  Ember raised his head slowly. ‘Yes and yes, and whilst I was there I also persuaded her to let me touch her breasts…………….’ Ember laughed at Smoke’s shocked look. ‘I jest dear Smoke……………but it would be a lie to say it did not cross my mind,' Ember lowered his head once more, his chin fold pressing down on the table. ‘I have fulfilled my task for the day, now be off and let me sleep.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re out of luck Master Squall, have you forgotten that the maiming of the teller is due to take place this afternoon?’

  ‘Ah..........a spectacle that should not be missed,’ said Ember as he pressed himself back up into a seated position.

  ‘Indeed. I need you to sober up and quickly. The square will be packed and I need a second pair of eyes.’

  Ember leaned back and drew several deep sobering breaths. ‘And did you find Grave?’ he asked, his voice steady.

  ‘I did, he went to the market to buy some smoked eel and a stoppered jug of wine before he settled himself down on a wall on the south side of the square. He’s picked himself a nice sunny spot with a good view of the Crier’s Plinth and I think it’s safe to assume he’ll stay where he is until the mutilation is over.’

  ‘It is probably apparent to you that I am less than sober,’ said Ember sarcastically, ‘and since I do not possess a Purification Charm there is only one other restorative I know that will quickly banishes the effects of too much brew.’ Ember made to rise and failed. ‘Spank Pip.’

  ‘That’s risky,’ replied Smoke, ‘it could also nullify the Heartease and awaken the pull. I don’t want you wandering off in a crowd while I’m trying to follow Grave.’

  Ember’s head flopped back, hitting the rear of his high backed chair. ‘If you want me to call on my bond and make you I will, if it’s a choice between the pull and standing in the sun while I dry out and suffer a splitting headache,…………….’

  Smoke furrowed his brow. ‘………Ok, I’ll relent. There’s an apothecary at the corner of Shoal Lane, but if they don’t have any, you’ll just have to trust to luck that we find another vendor on our way.’

  ---

  The maiming was an event not to be missed, it was a rarity in itself but the fact that it was a Teller made it all the more interesting. The apothecary was well provisioned, the Questor choosing a heady mixture of spank rolled in black smoke leaves, together with a small pouch of Pip Dust to snort. On leaving the store, Ember immediately lit one of his pungent rolled leaves, drawing the remedy into his lungs and exhaling with a phlegmy cough.

  The walk uphill to the square was a struggle and Ember’s slow pace and lack of hurry frustrated Smoke. His wandering gait improved as the spank infused his blood but his slow waddle did not. The south side of the giant square was full, the crowd shoulder to shoulder, forcing Smoke and Ember to the low corner near to the eastern wall of the keep. Their view would be limited as proved the case when the Priest Master mounted the Crier’s Plinth and called the crowd to prayer, only his chest and head being visible above the sea of heads.

  Prayers over, Smoke’s scanned the south side of the square and was relieved to find Grave still there, the tracker perched high atop the wall, jug in hand. The noise of the crowd increased as preparations for the mutilation progressed, the sound of marching troops, trumpet calls and raucous cheering filling the air. For no reason that he could explain, Smoke’s turned his gaze south, this time, Echo Grave was gone.

  Smoke tugged at Ember’s sleeve. ‘For some reason, the tracker has given up his prime vantage point. It makes no sense, unless, he has a stronger pull to follow. Here’s some coin,’ said Smoke proffering a small handful to Ember.

  Ember looked with distain at the modest sum. ‘I know,’ he said ‘enough for the day but not enough to buy a mule or a berth to Flick’s Pier. I can read you like a book Master Smoke. Go chase your echo, I’ll be fine, Spank is a wonderful curative.’

  Smoke turned and left, pressing through the crowd before seeking out a narrow side lane and slipping into the shadow. Coursing through the shadows Smoke explored the lanes leading out of the south side of the square. His search proved fruitless. Returning to where Grave had last sat, a familiar profile lounged against the wall.

  ‘I can’t see you but I can smell you,’ said the Questor quietly. ‘Follow me.’

  Smoke followed, discretely taking solid form as soon as they turned out of the square. ‘How did you do that and how do you know for sure where Grave’s gone?’

  ‘Whilst you master Smoke slithered your circuitous way around the crowd, I just walked straight towards where he last sat. I compelled a path and when I got here, I asked a few compelling questions, easy.’

  ‘A moon headed lad, I presume he was your young Master Cloak, was dragged away by two prefects, down yonder.’ Ember pointed a stubby finger towards the lane leading to the Low Master’s Gate. ‘Grave slipped down from his perch and headed after them. The crowd was so intent on the bloody spectacle that no one paid much attention.’ The crowd in the square roared and applauded. ‘The deed is about to be done, I don’t want to miss it and feel disappointed,’ said Ember.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll able to find yourself a good spot with a clear view. For now, I’ll keep trailing Grave. If you feel the pull towing on your crest, smoke a leaf and place a few drops of Heartease on your tongue…………………..and Ember. Thanks.’

  As he walked away the Questor oozed honey, the crowd in front of him unconsciously parting then closing behind him. Having no interest in the spectacle Smoke turned away. The lane down to the academy was lined with high gar
den walls, the ivy clad stone on the far side deep in shadows. Smoke walked on a few paces more before stepping into a shady alcove, the king’s assassin touching the shade and instantly dissolving into the shadow.

  Grave stood near the academy gate his mottled cloak pulled over his head. Had he not moved he would have been near invisible, the colours of his rumpled cape merging with the rough cut stones of the boundary wall against which he rested. Smoke stopped twenty paces back, the west wind keeping his distinctive scent upwind of the tracker. When Grave turned and stared hard at the ivy clad wall where Smoke’s shadow lay the assassin froze, holding his breath until Grave turned away, his attention now focussed on the person exiting by the Low Master’s Gate.

  Smoke had no doubt that the person who walked briskly off down the Prefect’s Glebe could be none other than the teller’s shill, the one Cloak knew as One Button. Grave moved off, Smoke followed at a distance, conscious that the swirling breeze in the glebe could draw his scent forward. The narrow lane ran due south, the high sun robbing it of useful shadow. Cloak was safe for now, the lad locked fast in the academy detention cells. Now however for some unknown reason Grave had turned his attention away from his prize and onto One Button. This was a loose thread that Smoke needed to tease.

  Smoke recalled Cloak’s tale. How Grave had gloated and goaded him with a gruesome tale of One Button’s torture and imprisonment. How he had boasted about ensnaring and imprisoning One Button and how by now One Button would be just another nameless corpse. Perhaps, thought Smoke, that future had yet to be written.

  ---

  With his scent now lost amongst many Smoke followed on closely, peering down from his high hide as One Button wove a mazy route across the Low Town. Some yards behind Grave followed, the tracker using the milling crowd to his advantage as he instinctively shielded himself from view. Grave was good, very good and Smoke suspected that the young shill’s caution was more a result of her complicity, than any sense that the dastard trailed her.

  Disappearing into a narrow vennel One Button entered the back yard of a shabby tower, before climbing the rickety timber stair that clung precariously to the outer wall. As the youth climbed to the top floor and disappeared from sight, Grave turned and walked swiftly back the way he came, the tracker stopping only briefly to buy a stoppered jug of cheap peat spirit before heading deeper into the Low Town.

  At the rear of the old temple, hidden from prying eyes sat a graveyard. A carved plaque sat above the doorway, a sacred name, many generations old and probably long forgotten. It was written in stik, an old script once used by clerics and said to be from the language of the First Fathers. The graveyard was a ruin, a sad relic, grey, mouldering and lifeless. As if in sympathy with the dead the sun chose that moment to disappear behind a heavy cloud, the withering shadows forcing Smoke to slip back into solid form. At the far end, Grave, jug in hand, entered the morthouse and closed the door. Outside, broken clay bottles littered the ground, remnants of his excess, a midden and a clear sign to Smoke that the tracker’s lair had been found.

  ---

  As he turned to walk away, Smoke felt a tug on his bond, a summons from Ember and an unwanted reminder to Smoke of his rash decision to link himself with Master Lardon Legs. Leaving the Low Town, Smoke passed through the East Gate and took the Outer Road around the town walls. As he had anticipated, his walk around the town wall proved to be swifter than crossing through the town, the assassin soon passing the south gate and then onwards to the ornate west gate and the harbour quarter. Entering the Glamorous Mare, Smoke first checked the snug before climbing the stairs to check their room. Ember was nowhere to be seen.

  Concentrating, Smoke searched for the tiny pull of the bond and followed the tug. He was relieved when the pull led him north away from the harbour, a sign to Smoke that Ember had not as he feared succumbed to the pull of Cold Choke. Pausing at every junction Smoke refined his bearing, the king’s assassin finally stopping outside an inn called the Fluttering Moth. The inn lay just off the Grand Avenue and from the décor it was clear that the Fluttering Moth was not a bawdy drinking house, rather an establishment that catered for gentlemen in need of home comforts. Ember sat near the window of the upper lounge, a glass of wine in his hand, a haze of leaf smoke drifting around his head.

  ‘What kept you? I’ve turned down three offers in the last half hour and am running out of excuses…………except the excuse about not having enough money that is.’ Ember beckoned Smoke over to the window and drew the curtain aside. ‘Look there,’ said Ember pointing down and across the road. ‘The tall tower on the far side is called the Beetroot Brothel, the one next to it with the canopy over the front door, is a hostel called the Calm Poet……………..now, look to the side ally between the two towers.’

  Smoke drew air through his teeth.

  ‘I thought that might be your reaction. They arrived by galley a few days ago. The one on guard is called Goose Beam, as well as being a high clan warrior he’s a sword talent. He is close guard to a Low Royal Weaver called Star Light Willow and if I’m not mistaken, they are the ones who chased you up the cirque wall at Cold Choke.’

  ‘I suspect they are not here on a social visit,’ said Smoke

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Ember ‘and one other thing, she has a squad of ten skirmishers with her and four close guard, if I recall, she only had six and three when she reached Flick’s Pier.’

  Smoke stared down at the street and absently tapped a finger to his temple. ‘This does not make sense. Why would the lady and her troop bide here in Delta Crossing when as I understand it, our good friend Master Echo Grave is the one commissioned to capture the boy? If Grave’s role is to deliver the boy to young Lord Hinge, why does the Weaver need to come here, why not just go directly to Flatstone Hinge’s keep?’

  Ember sipped his wine and shook his head ‘One thing for sure, the lady and her troop are not here by chance. Weaver's love their gold and they don’t waste their time idling and biding,’ said Ember.

  Smoke stepped back from the window and poured himself a small glass of wine from Ember’s near empty flask. ‘I think I know,’ said Smoke, ‘I think she is here to eliminate a threat, kill a man whose talent with a sword is best overcome by majic, and, a man who is effectively the last witness.’

  ‘Odium Nail......the only person left living who knows about the boy’s flight.’

  ‘Yes, and whilst good Mistress Willow takes care of the Sword, good Captain Beam and the rest of her troop hold off the competition.’

  In salute, Ember raised his glass from the arm of his chair ‘A bull’s eye methinks. Grave is employed to uses his natural talents and is sent out to scour the wet muddy forest whilst Lady Green Witch’s troop dispose of any factions who pose a threat to her plan.’

  ‘Given that they have little time to play with they must have come here confident of success.’

  ‘More likely those who commissioned her looked beyond the veil.’

  Smoke frowned. ‘If that is so, why does the Weaver not have foreknowledge of our intervention?’

  Ember crossed his arms over his ample belly and mused. ‘Presuming she is acting on a tell, there are potentially two factors. The first is ‘turbulence’. Most low Tellers use this excuse on a regular basis to explain away their inaccurate predictions but good Tellers suffer as well when there are too many others stirring the mist to see what lies along the same path. The second is ‘distance’. The further into the future they look the more shadowed the tell becomes. Even good Tellers make mistakes and the further forward they look, the less accurate the telling. Our trip back in time has caused an intervention, one that has possibly changed the boy’s future.’ Ember laid aside his now empty glass and sat forward in his chair. ‘If you think about it Master Assassin, when the weaver woman was charged with her mission, she was guided by what was visible beyond the veil at that time. Our journey here has introduced turbulence, stirred the mist and in doing so has likely changed that vision.’

&n
bsp; ‘Let’s hope your right.’ Said Smoke tossing Ember a small purse. 'There's four full silvers in there, more than enough for a good skin full of good wine and a woman young enough to be your daughter. Do you have enough smokes and tincture?’ Ember nodded. ‘Stay here for now, I’ll be back in the early hours, and Ember,’ said Smoke wagging his finger in mock reproach. ‘I suggest save your honey, I don’t want to return here to find all the whore's fawning over you or fighting over whose turn it is next.’

  Embarrassed by his own libido the portly inquisitor grinned, a smile that wrinkled his whole face and showed too many teeth. With a nod, Smoke left, the afternoon was wearing on and he had much to do.

  TWENTY FOUR: Kidnap

  Echo Grave watched on as One Button closed the gate below the Low Masters Tower and enter the Prefects Glebe. A coincidence? He thought not, he had never believed in coincidences and such a convergence was no coincidence.

  He had found himself a high perch with a clear view of the Crier's Plinth and had been looking forward to witnessing the maiming of the Teller when his eyes were drawn to the Sword's lad. What had caused the fracas he did not know but the lad's indiscretion had clearly been enough to warrant his immediate expulsion from the proceedings. The two who dragged him backwards through the crowd and down the lane to the Prefect's Confines were in a hurry and none to gentle, the pair returning at a run as they made their way back to the square.

  The boy was the adopted son of Odium nail, the Sword of the Keep and his comely wife Dolly Chair. He was one of a pack of lads who hung around the inner harbour and swung on the booms of the moored fishing fleet. If he had still been drunk, he would have blamed the ale for guiding his thoughts but today he was as sober as he’d been for months. The urge to follow had been fierce, so much so that against his will he had left his lofty perch and made for the lane. He had hid a discrete distance away from the Low Masters Tower, waiting and watching when to his surprise the Shill had appeared, unpicked the lock on the gate and entered the school grounds.