by Julia Knight
“All those things will still be needed, and the terms met. There’s enough of the gold left to, ahem, persuade a councillor or two to side with you. But with the prelate weakened, your position becomes stronger, our plans less risky. Far better than hanging the culprits and losing any clue to what the prelate is planning against you. A brilliant plan of Lord Egimont’s, don’t you agree?”
Licio looked like he was still trying to work it all out but managed a compliment, watching Sabates for his reaction all the while. “Yes, yes, I think so. Maybe next time, Egimont, I could be informed beforehand though? Your king would appreciate it.”
This last was said in the sort of patronising tone most people reserve for pets and small children. If any other man had used that manner with him, Egimont would have called him out, taken him to the duelling guild and settled it like gentlemen. Not something one could do with a king who’d seemed fair and generous and turned out to be naïve at best. Not something you could do with a king at all, if you wanted to keep your head.
Sabates interrupted smoothly before Egimont could make any comment he might later regret.
“But of course, your highness. We just don’t want to bother you with little details.”
Licio settled down a little. “Good. Well, maybe you can go through the papers and find out what’s missing, Sabates. And Egimont, shouldn’t you be off chasing your little peasant thieves?”
With that the king turned on his heel and left. When the door had shut behind him, Sabates said, as though to the air, “What an insufferable prick. Sort through his papers – I’m a magician, not a filing clerk!”
He turned to Egimont and they shared a look. “Neither are you,” Sabates said. “Or you shouldn’t be. Why are you working at the prelate’s office?”
“Because my father thought it would be beneficial to show willing with the new government.” A small lie, but one that might suffice.
Sabates tapped his fingers on the table and narrowed his eyes. Egimont wondered if he knew how much of a lie it was. “Ah yes, your dear departed father. An interesting case. I’m surprised he had time to say anything, considering. And do you regret following his advice?”
Odd, the look on Sabates’ face. He seemed as implacable and unreadable as ever, but there was something else there. Some eagerness behind the eyes. And his hands – Egimont found his gaze drawn ever more to the hands, to the patterns on them, ever changing, ever shifting in trails of blood red. The patterns moved from a noose to a crown to crossed swords.
Egimont frowned, perturbed, but couldn’t take his eyes from them. Didn’t want to. They made him want to spill his soul, and he couldn’t muster a glib lie. “Yes. Not at first, of course. Not for a long time. I believed in the prelate, utterly. He saved my life once, promised me everything if only I would do as he asked, showed the whole country that he was fair to ex-nobles, that his new regime was fair to everyone.”
“And then?”
The crossed swords in Sabates’ hands faded away to nothing, but still Egimont couldn’t seem to stop.
“The guild. He promised it to me, promised that one day I would be the guild master and run it for him, the way he wanted, orderly, like clockwork. An anachronism, he called the guild, a throwback to the old, chaotic ways, and he hated it as much as I did. And then…” He trailed off – it was all still too raw and complicated, even with the patterned hands drawing him on. “He betrayed me, he betrayed everyone,” he finished at last. No need for details – for a man like Egimont, brought up to believe in honour and duty, betrayal was enough. Bakar had forgotten his promise of the guild, had meant it as no more than a throwaway remark perhaps, but Petri hadn’t forgotten. Petri couldn’t forget.
“And then Licio offered you a way to get the revenge you craved? You didn’t care what sort of man he was, as long as you got that revenge. You’re very similar to me in many ways, Lord Egimont. Many ways.” Sabates” glance was sharper than knives.
“And what about you?” Egimont wasn’t sure where the question had come from, only that it burned in his head along with other, more traitorous notions. “Why are you here, doing what he asks?”
A smile from Sabates, a cool thing barely twitching his lips, but so different from his usual bland mask it seemed like a belly laugh. “Because I want not just revenge of my own, as I told you; I’ve plans of my own too.” He held up a hand when Egimont opened his mouth to protest. “Not on your kingdom. Or not much. But this kingdom is the key to many. The right man behind the king… and for that I need men I can trust.”
Again their eyes met.
“I need men of their word, men that other people, royalists and workers alike, will trust. Like you. True and noble men, sadly deceived by the prelate’s lies and willing to help me redress the balance even if it means following, or appearing to follow, a fool. In the meantime I’ve other work for you to do – on behalf of the king, naturally.”
Chapter Seven
Kacha watched Vocho pacing up and down, wearing a groove in the threadbare rag rug that was just about the only colour other than mud grey in Cospel’s one-room shack.
“They must say something,” Vocho kept saying. “And be worth something. But if we don’t know what they say, how can we get the money?”
They’d ridden here like the hounds of every hell were after them, until even Kacha’s bloody-minded horse drooped with fatigue. Finally they’d had to slow, but Vocho seemed gripped with some fever and nothing like the easy-going brother Kacha thought she had. They hadn’t spoken much, even as they rubbed the spent horses down and got them settled in a mean patch of grass around the back. Not even to ask Dom how he’d beaten all those men.
Dom sat in the room’s only chair, a broken thing that might dump him on the floor any second. Yet he sat there like he was a king and it was a throne, one hand wafting a lace handkerchief in front of his nose, and looking as pin neat as though he’d just got dressed for a society ball. He watched Vocho’s pacing and arm-waving with a faint grin. Kacha couldn’t shake the impression he was enjoying himself immensely. Possibly because he didn’t realise just how much shit they were in.
Cospel, after finding grain and hay for the horses and seeing to the riders’ various minor wounds, sat bewildered and silent. He’d known Kacha and Vocho long enough. Once they’d passed their final tests, the guild had assigned him to them as their valet and general person who got things done. Duellists weren’t much noted or trained for real life outside the walls of the guild except in execution of their clients’ desires, mainly because most were nobles. Cospel had been with them through a lot, but Vocho’s sudden passion seemed to unnerve him.
“There must be some way we can find out what these say,” Vocho said.
“I’d rather discover how Egimont found us, and what he’ll do to find us again.” The sight of Egimont at their door looking ready to kill them, and particularly her, had shaken Kacha more than she wanted to admit. She hated the fact that her first thought had been that he’d come to apologise, beg forgiveness. The realisation it was the chest he was after had been a crushing blow but one that sharpened her loathing.
Vocho threw her a look, and she knew what he was about to say but wasn’t quick enough to stop him.
“Why is Egimont after us? You, dear sister. Perhaps the chest was just his excuse to track you down. I saw how he looked at you.”
“Like he wanted to kill me. No, it was the chest he was after. But why? Why Egimont of all people?”
Vocho shrugged. “That was not a killing look, Kass, more like a kissing one. Maybe if we find out what the papers say, we’ll find out your why, and then we’ll know what to do.”
Kacha wanted him to be right about Petri, and she’d seen the look, but she didn’t want to hope. Far, far safer to hate instead. “Or perhaps we could just dump them and get out of whatever mess this chest has got us into. Petri looked pretty bloody serious to me, and he’s not a man to stop when he’s set his mind on a thing. Let’s get out now, whil
e we still can.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Vocho struck one of his poses – the one he thought made him appear noble of purpose and full of derring-do, but actually made him look like he had a squint.
“I wasn’t thinking about fun, Voch.”
He finally stopped pacing and stood in front of her, face serious for once. “You never do, lately. You used to be daring and reckless – not as much as me, but good enough – and above all fun. Pompous old Eggy sucked it out of you, bit by tiny bit, turned you into a… a… clockwork mannequin of what he thought a woman should be. I miss the old you, the real you. So, time to get some fun back in our lives! And some Kass back in my sister. Maybe get her a few other things back too.”
It was the first time in months she’d seen him with anything approaching a bit of life in him, wearing the grin that always meant a world of trouble for everyone else. Maybe he was right – she was tired of being angry, but it was her only defence against Petri, against the tangle inside her when she thought of him. Against the thought that she’d fucked up, this once, hadn’t been perfect like Eneko had always expected her to be. She’d been wrong about Petri, which rankled, and maybe Vocho was actually right about him, which rankled even more. She’d wanted to please Petri, be perfect for him as she was driven to be for everyone else, and so, bit by tiny little bit, she’d changed.
Now she wanted to go back to being the sort of woman who laughed loudly and often, who swore and cussed and went her own way. Maybe she could get back there, and maybe she couldn’t, but it had to be worth a try. Besides, even if they dumped the papers, Petri wouldn’t know they had. If they were that important, that valuable, then Petri wouldn’t stop. He never did, once he set his cap at something. Constant to the end, one of the things that had drawn her to him in the first place. It seemed like less of a virtue now. First things first: they had to get out of here before he found them again, that was certain.
“All right,” she said at last, then wiped her face after Vocho planted a great big kiss on her cheek. But she was laughing too, at the sudden change in Vocho and the unexpected and just as sudden change to herself. Fun. It’s going to be fun, like it used to be; just keep hold of that thought. Of course there was the part Vocho wasn’t mentioning, the bit about if they got caught they were up for the block. But there was no going back, not to the farm. They had to keep moving or die. Much as she hated to admit it, Vocho was right about finding out what the papers were. They could maybe use them to bargain for their lives. At the very least they might be able to return them. It was that or spending their lives robbing people, always hoping no one recognised them. Petri had, and look how that had turned out.
“Excellent!” Vocho said, expansive now. “So, first things first. Cospel, we need a translator. A good one. No idea what language we need translated. Off you go.”
Cospel’s face fell. “But—”
“What?” Vocho had the papers all laid out in front of him now and was looking them over as though he could already understand them.
“I think,” Dom murmured from his chair, “that Cospel, while undoubtedly a servant of much initiative, would struggle to find a translator of anything in this region.”
Vocho cocked an eyebrow his way, and Kacha could see her own thoughts mirrored on his face. There was something different about Dom now, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.
“I suggest therefore,” Dom carried on with a flick of his handkerchief, ridding himself of some imaginary speck of dirt on his knee, “perhaps Reyes. I’ve never been, you know.”
“Ah well,” Vocho began. His left eye was twitching. What lie he was going to spout now? “You remember what I said about our father?”
Dom smiled, and Kacha wondered how she’d ever thought him an idiot. “Oh yes, I suspect Reyes is difficult for you. For me, however, it’s not a problem. I could take the papers, get them translated and return them.”
Vocho’s eyes narrowed. “Strange how you were there just as Egimont turned up.”
“It would be strange if I hadn’t then helped you to escape him, hmm?”
Vocho and Kacha exchanged a glance.
“All right, so why did you help us?” Kacha asked. Dom seemed less, well, less a bumbling pillock than he had been. Perhaps he’d just lost the silly manners that were all the rage lately. He’d certainly bumbled the swordplay. It was a miracle he hadn’t stabbed himself.
Dom shrugged, but the nonchalance fell flat as he turned pink about the ears. “Oh, well, you know. I mean, um, well. I saw them as I got to my horse, and thought perhaps it meant trouble for you, that your father had found you. If I can help in any small way, it would be my pleasure.” He stood up and smoothed out an imaginary crease in his jacket. “You’ll want to discuss it, obviously. I’ll leave you to it while I see to my horse.”
He left the hovel like a king leaving an audience.
Vocho blew out his cheeks. “There’s something very odd about him. I mean, he’s a bumbling idiot, with a sword or without, only… is he even who he says he is? There’s something more to him than he’s letting on.”
“I don’t think we can claim the moral high ground there,” Kacha said. She looked after Dom thoughtfully. “But we could use someone who can get into Reyes without being arrested. He’s right there – probably nowhere else to get those pages translated, except perhaps the king’s palace. Either is going to be dodgy as hells for us to get into, and even if we did manage it, well, having a man on our side with some ready money and an influential father could be a big advantage. And he didn’t have to help us, but he did. I say we bring him along. But keep an eye on him.” If they had to go to Reyes – and they did – then taking Dom seemed like it might be worth it. And if they got into Reyes without being spotted they had a hope of disappearing into the crowds in Soot Town or the docks, where Petri would never find them. Probably. That thought shouldn’t give her a shaft of regret.
“You’re grinning,” Vocho said. “You’re enjoying yourself already, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” Enjoyment might be a bit strong for what she was feeling.
“Maybe, my arse. I haven’t been this excited since that time we stopped the heist on the bank. Duels in the streets, down back alleys, across rooftops. Now that was fun. This is going to be even better, I can feel it in my water.”
Kacha rolled her eyes, but she was grinning like a fool. This could be fun, something to take her mind off her old life, and a way back in for them. Best to think that and forget the death bit. Whatever was in those papers, it was important enough for Egimont to come after them with ten men. Something didn’t smell right, and if there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was not knowing the answer to a riddle.
“OK,” Vocho said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Cospel, tell Dom he’s in. Then go see what you can find out about him. Here.” He threw a few bulls in Cospel’s direction. “Buy a few men a few pints and see what you can dredge up. Buy a few women some too. Rumours and hearsay have been the downfall of many a good man, even more so when they’re true. Oh, and get some decent breeches for Kass while you’re out. No man should have to see his sister in her bloomers.”
By the time Dom came back in, Kacha had joined Vocho in poring over the papers, trying to glean what they could from the smudged and charred crests that headed the parchments.
Interlude
Eighteen years earlier
Springtime on the docks was the best time Vocho could remember. The smell of salt and fish guts, the newly minted sun warming the jetties, the screech of the gulls and, best of all, the traders from every corner of the world – or so they said.
The dolorous tolling of the bell on the god-buoy out in the harbour warded away the deep-sea creatures and gave safe passage to any and every craft who wanted in. That day the harbour was crowded with traders, nut brown and white as fish bellies and everything in between, loading, unloading, shouting their wares to the shopkeepers and merchants onshore. S
pices from Five Islands offloaded in barrels that leaked their fragrant dust. Silk from far Beroa, where they said it was hot enough to send men mad, furs from the myriad of tiny valley kingdoms in the far south, where it was under snow for half the year, shark meat from the Vergon Islands, where great trees like giants ruled, beef, elk, whale meat and all that went with it, blubber and oil and bones, funny little crabs the size of his hand that held barely a shred of meat, but which when you tasted it was good enough to make your eyes cross.
Vocho trailed Kacha, as he always did, dogged her, annoyed her because a reaction was better than being ignored, which is what she aimed for when she was with her friends.
They dawdled by the spice trader, inhaling the scents of a different world. The sailors would tell them stories of vast deserts that would dry a man up, of searing heat and burning cold, of the strange spirits that wandered there that would lure a man to his death. Sailors from other boats joined in, told them about the hairy man-like beasts that roamed the frozen snows of the south and preyed on anyone stupid enough to leave their village at night, or the trickster spirit-gods from sweltering jungles who stole naughty children. Dock rats like Vocho and the rest were good luck to superstitious sailors, who wouldn’t set foot in Reyes proper because they thought the clockwork was cursed, the Reyens and their dead god with it. So they were tolerated, given odd little treats like the crabs. Further on was a small sturdy ship from the south with rugged-looking men unloading grey and brown and the brightest white furs. The men sang a sad song as they worked. Vocho didn’t understand the words, but he didn’t have to; it was in the melody, in the way they sang – of home, of a far port, of the people and lands left behind.
The group of dock rats wandered and scampered and ran shrieking through it all, until the spring sun lowered and it was almost time to go home. Then at the head of a jetty they spotted a crowd, more people than Vocho thought he’d ever seen before, excepting the time in the square, but he tried never to think of that. They hurried towards the press of people, not wanting to miss a spectacle. Maybe it’d be the fire-eaters again – Vocho had loved those and almost given Ma a stroke and earned himself a scalping from Da when he tried it at home.
