Mark turned and began scanning shop signs.
He would never again see Holt alive.
CHAPTER 15
HUNTED
Mark walked for an hour without seeing a clothing shop. Just as he began cursing with impatience, he looked down a perpendicular street to see tables of cloth and clothing in front of multiple shops. Smiling, he quickened his pace. With so many to choose from, he opted to start with the first one, only to be turned away. The owner had no interest once he realized Mark wasn’t a customer. The second shop’s workers had too many customers for Mark to wait. Approaching the third and fourth shops resulted in the same outcome as the first, but the fifth was more promising. A woman with graying hair was vociferously expressing her opinion of the ridiculous offer a potential customer had made for a cloak. Mark waited until they settled on the amount and the woman was free.
“Pardon, Sen, but is the shop owner here today? I have a potential business opportunity I’d like to discuss.”
She waved toward the nearest shop door without looking at Mark and moved to a couple who had stopped to look through a table of pants.
Inside, a teenage girl and a man about the woman’s age talked with customers. Mark wandered through the shop until the man was free and approached him.
“What can I help you with, Ser? We’ve a good selection of shirts just put out for sale. For today only, I’m willing to sell them for a fraction of the usual price. You won’t find a better selection for a man your size.”
“Actually, I’m not here to buy anything, but I’m planning to start a significant new business here in Kaledon, and I’m looking for tradesmen such as yourself who might be interested in providing advice and possibly forming a relationship with my new business.”
“New business? What kind of new business?”
“It’s cloth production. I plan on offering high-quality cloth at half the current prices. I’m sure a tradesman such as yourself can see the profit potential.”
“Cheaper cloth—”
The shop owner’s obsequious manner dissolved. He stepped away, as if to avoid being too close to Mark. His eyes narrowed, and the fingers of one hand drummed along his pants leg.
“What’s your name?”
“Mark Kaldwel,” slipped out of Mark’s mouth before caution prevailed.
The man swallowed hard, and his Adam’s apple bounced up and down. His fingers stopped drumming, and his expression turned blank.
“Well . . . I’m always looking for new opportunities, Ser. I’m a little too busy right now, but what if you come back at the next cathedral bell? Then we’ll have time to talk.”
The last hourly bell had rung about thirty minutes ago, but Mark wasn’t planning to wait near the shop. His internal alarms signaled something was “off.”
“That’ll be fine, I’ll wander over to the next shop and look at their clothing. But I won’t talk to the owner about this opportunity I’m offering until you and I can meet.”
He left the shop and walked past the woman in front dealing with a customer, her back to Mark. He hurried across the street and stood between two racks of clothing, hidden except for an inch-wide separation of hanging coats and dresses. It gave him a view of the shop he’d just come from.
As soon as he took his position, the owner came out of the shop and spoke animatedly to the woman, who shook her head. The owner yelled something into the shop, and the girl came out. After a brief exchange, the girl ran off. She passed within feet of Mark but didn’t notice him.
The owner walked to the front of the shop Mark had said he would visit, looked in briefly, then went back into this own shop. Mark moved six or seven shops farther along the street and did his best to imitate a large man browsing through clothing. He estimated that fifteen minutes later the girl returned, followed closely by five men. One of them was dressed like the market day manager. The other four looked like trouble and wore common Frangelese clothes.
The girl ran into the shop and came back out moments later with the owner and the woman following. The owner pointed to the shop Mark had said he would visit. The five men ran into the shop, only to exit seconds later to begin checking more shops. Mark ran down a narrow passageway to the next street, then quickly walked two blocks before he stopped to think.
What’s going on? he wondered. The man’s manner changed when he heard my name, then he sent for the authorities or whoever those men are. But the shop owner had only just met me, so how could he know of me?
Maybe his name might be known from either the safety pin or the leaf spring sales, but why would a clothing shop owner be alerted to watch for him? It was as if there were a widespread notice to be on the lookout.
Another thought jolted Mark. What about Holt? If the trigger was Mark’s name, Holt might mention it while talking to shopkeepers. He had to find Holt to warn him, but he wouldn’t know the man’s whereabouts until they met at mid-day.
Mark continued another five blocks until he came to a clothing cart in a small square. There was no apparent shop connected to the cart, so Mark gambled that whoever was interested in Mark Kaldwel might not alert every street cart. He couldn’t hide his size, but to alter his appearance, he bought a stocking cap, a coat of a different color and design, and a scarf. The temperature wasn’t cold enough to require more insulation, but neither was it so warm that added clothing would be immediately noticed.
Having obscured his appearance as much as he could on short notice, Mark went directly to the cathedral and the plaza. In one corner of the plaza, fifty to sixty men in shabby clothes sat huddled against a low masonry wall.
Kaledon’s version of the homeless? wondered Mark.
Taking a chance, he located a view of the plaza, squeezed into a gap among the men, arranged his attire to obscure his face, and waited. Two hours passed to the mid-day bells. No sign of Holt. Three times, he thought he either saw the same five men or other groups moving with a similar sense of purpose. Four hours. Finally, after five hours, he left the cluster of men, many of whom were sleeping.
Blacksmith Stillum’s place was two miles away, but Argah’s was on the way. By the time Mark approached the shop and the second-floor home, the sun had set an hour earlier. His progress had been slow. He didn’t know what was happening, but slinking in the shadows along narrow passageways and constantly checking for followers seemed prudent.
Mark peeked around the corner of an alley a block from Argah’s. On a bench in front of the shop sat someone who looked like Holt Firman. Mark couldn’t be sure because the only light was from the shop and dwelling windows. Suddenly, a carriage with two lanterns mounted beside the driver passed the shop. In the added illumination, Mark confirmed Holt’s clothing and physical shape.
Mark inhaled and exhaled more deeply than he had for hours. Holt was safe.
From the alley, his left leg began a stride into the street but froze before the foot touched down. The sitting man had sagged to one side, his head flopping forward. A voice yelled something Mark couldn’t make out. A second voice responded from a different location. A man ran out of the shadows and caught Holt just as he fell face forward. The man slammed Holt back against the shop’s outer wall. Holt’s head flopped one way, then the other, both beyond the normal possible range.
There was no doubt. Holt’s neck was broken. He was dead.
The air seemed to suddenly turn chill, as Mark tried to absorb what he didn’t understand. What was happening? Who were these people? Had Holt been murdered? Whatever was happening, Holt’s body was being used as a lure.
Maybe Argah can explain, thought Mark, grasping for footing.
This speculation was followed by fear that his collaborator was also dead.
Mark needed information. If Argah was alive, he was the best source. Mark had to get inside Argah’s dwelling, but how many men waited inside and outside? How were they armed? Mark carried only a knife, having left all the firearms at Stillum’s.
He needed to divert the attention of the
men waiting in the street. But how? His mind proposed several schemes, some impossible and some ridiculous, before settling on one with a low risk, even if he was dubious of the approach. He went back down the alley to the next street, then several blocks farther, where illumination indicated nighttime activity.
He chose a seedy pub as his most likely recruiting ground. Among the patrons at a bar was a man standing alone. He was dressed in what looked like a uniform. Mark sidled up to him and ordered beer. Halfway down the stein, he asked the man, “I don’t recognize the clothes. Are you with the magistrate?”
“Hah! I wish. That way I could steal from the people, instead of wearing this silly garb as a toll-taker on the Urslow River Bridge.”
Mark took a chance. “How would you like to make a large silver?”
By Mark’s estimation, the coin equaled about $50. He’d considered a larger denomination but decided it would raise too many suspicions.
Startled, the man frowned. “A large silver? To do what?”
“I’m running away with a man’s wife. I don’t live here, and once we’re out of Kaledon, he’ll never find us. The problem is that he’s suspicious and has several men watching their house. I want them to leave watching the home long enough for me to go to her and the two of us disappear. I need someone to go running to the house and yell out that ‘Mark Kaldwel' has been seen among men staying at the Grand Plaza.”
“The homeless and drunkards?”
“Yes. If you would do this, just yell out that Mark Kaldwel was hiding among those men. If anyone questions you where you got the information, say you don’t know who it was, just someone who seemed important. That’s all you have to do.”
“And you’ll give me a large silver? It’d have to be up front. I wouldn’t want to do this and find you disappeared.”
“Of course.” Mark pulled out a large silver coin and laid it on the bar top.
“And that’s all I have to do? Just yell out what you said?”
“That’s all. What’s your name?”
“Hurkyl.”
“All right, Hurkyl. Show the coin and say a man you never met before offered it to you to run and give the message. Tell them he said he’d be waiting in front of the cathedral. When they leave, come back to where I’ll be waiting and watching, and I’ll give you a small gold coin.”
“A silver and a small gold? She must be quite a woman.”
“Who can tell why a man fancies a specific woman?”
Hurkyl accompanied Mark, and they made their way back toward Argah’s street. There, they stood in the shadows a block away.
“There it is,” said Mark, “the craft shop on the bottom floor with the drunkard sleeping in front. The man and wife live up the side stairs to the second floor. There’s at least one man inside and several hiding along the street.”
Mark took out a small gold coin and stuck it between two bricks in the wall they stood next to. “In case I’m not here, grab this other coin and go.”
Hurkyl gulped a deep breath and took off running. Half a block from Argah’s, he began yelling, “Hey, hey! People looking for Mark Kaldwel! He’s hiding at the Main Plaza!”
Hurkyl repeated the words three times before two men rushed from an alcove and threw him to the ground. Two other men appeared from across the street, and the door to Argah’s home opened. Light from inside briefly outlined a man, until he raced down the second-floor steps from the residence to join the other four who now held Hurkyl upright.
Mark couldn’t make out words, but the voices were loud. The man from the house shook Hurkyl by his shirt. Hurkyl said something, then pulled the silver coin from a pocket and pointed in the direction of the plaza.
More voices. Arguing. The man from the home grabbed another man’s arm and pushed him in the direction Hurkyl pointed. More voices, mainly a “command” tone from the man who seemed to be the leader, and the four outside men ran off toward the plaza while the leader went back inside. Mark stepped farther into the alley, as the four men passed his position without glancing to the side. Moments later, Hurkyl stumbled into the alley.
“What the devil did you get me involved in? That wasn’t a suspicious husband with his relatives. I’m lucky they believed what I said and didn’t kill me.”
Hurkyl swallowed and shivered. “And that man in front. I think he’s dead?”
Mark pulled the coin from the bricks and added another small gold, showing them to Hurkyl. “Did it sound like there were more men inside?”
“How do I know!? I was busy wondering whether I was about to be killed.” Hurkyl panted several times, then shook his head. “It didn’t sound like it.”
Mark handed the coins to Hurkyl.
“Disappear.”
Hurkyl complied.
Mark looked toward Argah’s. No matter what Hurkyl thought, there could be more than one man inside. One or more, how were they armed?
This is a bad idea, Mark thought, as he looked for a different way into the shop. A narrow passageway ran along the rear of the jewelry shop. He remembered another set of stairs inside the shop that led to the residence.
Mark reached the back of the shop and looked for a way in. He grunted in disgust when he found an old door closed off by timber sections. Then, in the dim light, he spied in the brickwork what must have been a small window. It had been closed by a different style of brick. Mark pulled out his knife and began digging at the mortar. After ten minutes, he was still working on the first brick. He felt anxious that the four men would fail to find their quarry at the plaza and would return to the shop.
With a push on the knife hilt, the blade point broke through, and the knife lurched forward several inches. When Mark pulled the knife out, the brick rotated enough that he could grab a corner. After several back-and-forth jerks, the brick came free. Mark dropped it on the pavement and listened. Nothing.
He could now reach his hand into the hole but worried he’d make enough noise to be heard. The cathedral bells began ringing the beginning of the new hour. Mark frantically tore at the bricks before the bells finished. In his adrenaline rush, it never occurred to him how astonished an observer might be on seeing a man ripping a brick wall apart by hand. Finally, before the last cathedral rang, the hole appeared large enough.
He worked to pull himself through the opening, using contortions of arms, shoulders, and hips. Halfway through, he momentarily became stuck. Then his hips cleared the opening, and he fell face-first onto a dusty floor. He waited a minute to listen. His dark-adjusted eyes made out a storage room. By chance, he had landed between boxes filled with scrap metal.
He rose and moved cautiously through a hanging-bead curtain into Argah’s main workroom. His only weapon was his knife, now missing its tip. He needed something more and opened wooden shelving that held two-inch-diameter brass bars, used as feedstock to make Argah’s products. He pulled out one of the four-foot bars and hefted the weight. He imagined hitting a human being with it. He’d never killed anyone, but after seeing Holt’s lifeless body, he wouldn’t hesitate.
He took off his boots and walked carefully across the heavy plank flooring, then up the stairs. He gently put his weight on each step to minimize creaks. At the top, he listened with an ear to the wooden door. He heard an angry man’s voice and a second person moaning. The door latch didn’t squeak as he lifted the handle. When he opened the door a finger-width, the voice was clearer.
“Where’s the rest of the coin?”
A cry followed the smacking sound of fist on flesh.
“I’ll beat this bitch to death unless you tell me where you’re hiding the rest. There has to be more. You’ll tell me before the others return.”
“Please! I’ve told you where everything is in house. There is nothing else.”
Another blow and a cry. It was Argah begging, so the moans must be from his wife. Mark hadn’t heard a second voice, and the assailant’s words supported that he was alone. Mark waited, barefoot, until the man began ranting again, then ran
into the room.
The two older persons were bloody and tied to chairs. A man stood in front of the woman, his fist raised for another blow, when something—a creak of the floor, a rustle of Mark’s clothing, an instinct—caused the man to turn. Mark swung the bar only enough to stun, rather than crush the man’s skull as he wanted to. The bar struck his cheek and the side of his head. He dropped to the floor as if deflated.
“Oh, merciful God, Mark. Oh, God,” cried Argah. “I thought they killed you, too.”
Mark checked the downed man. He was breathing and semiconscious, a pistol and a knife in his belt—both of which Mark took away. He freed Argah and gave him the man’s knife to cut his wife’s bindings. Argah carried her to a sofa-like piece of furniture and gently laid her down. He ran for water and cloth while Mark secured the assailant to one of the same chairs his victims had been tied in.
“They came this afternoon. Five of them. They had your man Firman with him. They already knew his name and wanted him to tell them where you were. He said he didn’t know, but they beat him and beat him. They did terrible things to him—putting hot metal to his body, using one of my long needles to stab into his joints, and other things I didn’t watch. I closed my eyes, but his screams will haunt me the rest of my life.” Argah shook himself, as if to push the memories away.
“I think the man on the floor is their leader. He kept saying not to damage Firman’s face, in case they needed to use him as bait to draw you in. Then, about two hours ago, the leader decided Firman had told the truth, in which case they didn’t need him. Another man, they called him Roka or Rokan or something, twisted Firman’s neck.” Argah shuttered. “I could hear the bones break.”
“Who are they!?” asked Mark.
“They’re from Brawsea. I knew from their accents. I heard them talking among themselves. It sounded like they were from Brawsea guilds. At least, they kept talking about ‘guild this’ and ‘guild wants’ . . . I can’t remember everything, but they knew about you and your textile project. Several times they said the words Tregallon and looms.”
Passages Page 19
