“Time to move,” he said, standing up. He no longer needed the bread he carried. He could afford more. By the time his money ran out it would have molded away, anyway. He’d entered Corianth like a beggar. He would leave the city as a gentleman. And gift his old rags to the poor. Which wasn’t him anymore.
He looked at the birds crowding around. Arrogant seagulls had followed the pigeons and strutted close. It was little enough food to go around so many beaks. He threw it to them and they squawked and spluttered to fight for it. Like he might have once, but never again.
“Let’s get me out of these rags, washed, and dressed up some. And leave this city while we can.” His heart skipped a beat. “Will you come with me?”
Jerine put her arm in his. “You’re the last person I want to leave. I just wish the others wouldn’t.”
A Little Green Bracelet
Miggy
Miggy wiped down the benches, and listened as Pieter returned. His hurried footsteps disappeared upstairs. She put down her cleaning cloth.
It was time to act.
The common room was empty, except for Tam Candles. He drank with a smile, waiting for the reward he’d been promised. She locked the front door, and looked out the window to the street to make sure no one approached.
Miggy stepped into the hallway that led to the stairs. She waited a moment to control her breathing. “Tam? Pieter’s calling for you.”
She grabbed Tam as he hurried past, and hurled him against the wall. She slammed a fist into his chest so that he couldn’t cry out, then lifted him up by the throat. And squeezed with both hands.
He tried to kick out, but his legs flailed uselessly. He couldn’t pull her arms away. He grasped for something inside his tunic.
Miggy leaned against him so that he couldn’t draw a dagger. She pushed on his neck as hard as she could.
His face darkened from red to purple. His eyes bulged. His tongue lolled drunkenly, like one last insult.
Disgusted, impatient for that last death rattle, she dug in her thumbs.
There was a crack and Tam Candles went limp.
She gently lowered his body to a crumpled heap. A soiled stink rose from it.
There was no blade in his hand — just a little green bracelet, with an Eye of Pollos. She kicked it away.
Miggy waited to catch her breath. It had been a quiet enough death. Not enough to disturb Pieter.
Someone rapped on the door to the Sailors Arms. She froze, tense, ready to pounce on any sound and smash the life from it. The door rattled again, strong enough to make the bell tinkle.
“We’re closed!” she shouted, and waited as the noise stopped. She had no intention of being disturbed. Pieter made preparations to leave, and she couldn’t allow that. Lord Rodrigan had given the kill order.
Miggy stepped over Tam’s body and went to the storage alcove. She opened a cupboard and took out the two crossbows she’d hidden there, and the quiver of bolts. She loaded each one in turn — held their weight in her hands, and tested their balance. She was ready.
Stairs creaked as she strode up. She kept her gait steady, even though she blocked the only escape. Better to keep this clean and simple.
Miggy knocked on the door with an elbow, then stepped back with both crossbows level in front of her.
“Yes?”
“Tam Candles is with me.” She kept her voice calm though her heart beat fast. “He says it’s something to do with that scroll.”
Footsteps approached. A floorboard creaked. The lock clicked, and the door opened. Pieter smiled. “Yes?”
She loosed the first bolt and it struck through his chest. Pieter reeled and stumbled to fall on his back. She stomped in, and planted a foot firm on his tunic.
Blood bubbled up from the wound. Pieter gagged as he tried to speak. She placed the other crossbow against his forehead and pulled the trigger bar.
The air cracked. Pieter’s head thudded back, impaled to the floorboards. His eyes rolled, then closed. A gurgle came from his mouth.
Miggy nodded, satisfied that he was dead.
Pieter’s desk was strewn with scrolls and a few books. She’d long copied everything of interest for Lord Rodrigan. After she’d done so for her true master.
Smiling, she threw the crossbows to the floor. She stepped over the body of Pieter, and out from the room.
Something to Believe in
Erin
Erin poured another cup of wine, ignoring the pitcher of water to mix it with. The Lion Inn’s common area was quiet. No one took notice of her alone at a table.
She gulped down her drink. The taste was bitter, sharp, and made her gasp. She refilled her cup.
What had she said at the presentation? What had she done wrong? Had she been too ignorant? Too arrogant? All her life she had worked toward that moment. To what end? It had all come to nothing.
Her hand trembled as she lifted the cup.
If Mallian had agreed to wait then that would have been some consolation. Instead, he had told her that if she was to become his woman, she must give up everything for him. It was no fair choice at all, to choose between life or love.
It had not been an easy decision to make.
She had determined to continue to her presentation, in the hope he would welcome her back. Why should she not think that? He had soon made it plain otherwise.
Erin gritted her teeth and sucked at the wine, her chest too tight. It had all been just another misjudgment on her part, and she had become very good at those. Every time she tried to do the right thing, her good intentions blew back in her face, like hot ashes.
Even after the children of Pora shivered and died, she had clutched at her faith, despite her doubts. Even after the greed and hypocrisy she saw on her journey here, she had continued on, though she walked in grief and disbelief. Silence answered all her prayers. What more could she do to reach God?
Her soul had been ripped out, and there was nothing left inside. There was nothing the world could hurt anymore. There was nothing left of her.
Her body trembled and her shoulders shook. She buried her face in her arms — tried to make herself too small to see. So no one would see her crying. The last thing she wanted now was attention from anyone. Pretending they cared. Pretending they understood. Her life had been taken away, and she was left with nothing.
She hated the Order. She hated God. She hated herself. Everything.
Finally, the tears stopped. Erin attempted to compose herself. She wiped her eyes, and the snot from her face, and took another gulp of her drink. She gasped at the sour taste and refilled the cup again.
Life was so stupid. And cruel, and vain. Those who preyed upon others found their reward. Those who prayed for others found nothing but emptiness.
She had always tried to believe. Now she didn’t even believe in herself. After everything she’d done and gone through, she just needed someone to believe in her.
Dizziness surged from her stomach. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick.
Everything stood still. And then seemed to slowly, slightly, roll. The next she knew, she was laid on the floor, her cheek resting on cold tiles.
Didn’t hurt, and quite comfortable, really. No need to get up. Tired. This would be as good a place as any to rest. She could stay here and sleep. Sleep forever.
Something tugged at her. “Come with me!”
The words shocked her to cold attention. She slowly looked up. It was that serving lad. Always after money. Well, she wasn’t giving him none. She didn’t have anything more to give. She had nothing. Nothing!
Tomis tried to pull her up. “He said he’d give me more if he talked to one of you in private. He wants to know all about the duke.”
She had no idea what he talked about, but then, it was hard to think. She allowed the boy to guide her to her feet. She stood. Waves of nausea rolled through her body.
“Come on, he’s just gone upstairs. You’ll have to be quick or you’ll miss him.” Tomis tugged a
t her. “The door to that room sticks, but don’t worry, I can kick it open.”
“Missed ... who?” she asked.
The boy leaned in close, and whispered, “Master Rodrigan.”
“Who?” Erin staggered along with the lad, for no other reason than he pulled her along, and she had nothing left to hold on to.
Unwelcome Visitors
Rodrigan
Rodrigan wedged the door shut and turned. “You must leave immediately. They’ve murdered Serannos.”
Molric was seated on the bed. The lights on his bracer flashed. “Murdered?”
“At the Citadel of the Guard.” Rodrigan pulled his hood back and opened his robes to move more freely. He loosed his sword and held the blade by his hip. He’d given his kill orders. Someone else had done the same. “Your wagon is here. We must go, now, before they move against you.”
Molric got up and pushed scrolls into his bag.
Rodrigan silently cursed that the man wasn’t already prepared. Hadn’t he expected to leave today? Hadn’t he been warned to do so quickly? Rodrigan’s troopers blocked the Avenue of the Emperors and held the city up, just for him!
News of the death of Serannos would spread like wildfire. There were too many factions within the Order to idly sit by. Father Dinemetis was the gravest threat. There were others: Batrada, Guidon, Lindil. Too much had already happened today, and events threatened to run out of control.
Especially that presentation.
He’d long given orders to be informed, immediately, should a letter of recommendation ever come from the Cardinal Pontifex. It had been a precaution, not an expectation.
And yet it had happened. His daughter was alive, and here in the city. But Father Arrolin had been at dinner, and Father Haralder had dismissed the girl. Rodrigan had no idea where she would be now, and was in no position to search for her. She could have left Corianth already. She might not even be his daughter, but if he could look into her eyes he could at least judge for himself.
But if the girl was who the letter claimed her to be, then Rodrigan could invite her to join their cause, and become his heir. Once the Cardinal Pontifex came out from hiding, she could become High Priest for the College of Ministers. The commons loved a dynasty, and Rodrigan might give them one. The problem was how to find her, then persuade her to join with him.
“My dear Rodrigan, please cease your pacing. It will not make me finish any faster.”
Rodrigan stopped, though his muscles itched to move. Had Molric not finished packing his things yet? They had to go, and now, before unwelcome visitors arrived.
“Whatever your fears, I am safe and prepared. Buck Monkin taught that lesson well.” Molric’s smile dropped. He stared at the door. “Two people approach ... ”
Rodrigan lifted his head. Footsteps neared. Then stopped, outside.
There was a shout and a bang at the door. Rodrigan’s heart hammered. He moved into stance with his blade. The door thumped hard again. He coiled his arm back, ready to thrust.
The door was kicked open — two figures broke in.
Molric shrieked. He dropped the scrolls and pointed his hand. The lead intruder crumpled to the floor.
Rodrigan swung out, and slashed at the second attacker.
The world stopped.
His blade was a line of perfect steel. It floated in the air. A shaft of lamplight rippled along it.
A pair of girl’s eyes looked up at him.
Sharaya looked up at him. Her soft voice implored him to stay with her. Rodrigan caressed her forehead, her cheek. He assured her that he was hers, now and forever. He would remain with her, else fear to lose her.
The sword point sliced through the acolyte’s robes at the shoulder. Individual threads sprung back, so cleanly severed that the movement did not disturb the rest of the cloth.
Sharaya rounded a hand about her swollen belly. Rodrigan kissed after it like an afterglow. He swore before Omicron, Pollos, and the Light that he would protect the babe with his life. Sharaya smiled up to him.
The pressure through the hilt subtly changed. The blade pierced the skin and slid into flesh. It moved upward and cleanly through every fiber of muscle it touched.
He breathed in Sharaya’s hair, for the scent of dewberry oil she used on it. Father Nicoras had a plan to hide mother and child somewhere safe, beyond reproach, and the reprisals of Wrenis. There was a cost. For their safety Rodrigan must not see them.
The blade slipped in deeper, severed a bone. It continued up into the neck.
“Promise me,” Sharaya said, and her voice died away. Her face faded like mist but her eyes remained. In those of their child. His daughter. They had named her Erin. She stood before him now.
Horror surged through Rodrigan. He tried to pull the blow. It took an age for his arm to obey. The blade glided out by her throat.
The world slammed into him.
Rodrigan breathed hard. Shock stilled his body and his sword to the air.
Erin looked up with surprise. She opened her mouth, as if to speak. Blood surged out. She collapsed on her face without a word.
Air rushed to Rodrigan’s ears. Then silence. Erin lay still. Blood began to pool around her head.
Rodrigan’s arms trembled. Blood had spurted across the blade, and sprayed his breastplate. His daughter’s blood. He touched it with a shaking finger. And stared in disbelief. It was on the walls, everywhere. He looked again at the girl he’d slain. Erin ...
Molric heaved a bag to his side and yanked Rodrigan’s arm. “Quickly, we must leave!”
The movement shook him enough to follow in flight. Rodrigan stumbled over the bodies, and out from the door. He stopped and dumbly looked back. He’d killed his own child. Their child. Sharaya’s child.
“Come!” Molric commanded, as he half-dragged Rodrigan to the stairs.
Someone has been Murdered
Sirath
The swagger went out of Sirath’s step as they neared the Lion Inn, and the press of a crowd stopped them.
Ahead, Cardinals’ Men sat on horseback and blocked the road. Father Murrano’s enforcers. They surveyed the sea of faces. The air was alive with confusion, anger, excitement.
Sirath glanced about as if with bemused curiosity. To avoid being noticed. Inside, his guts wrenched. Had the Order tracked them back to the Lion Inn? Did they search for that bishop, and for them?
If they sought a street rat, they wouldn’t find him. Sirath wore the new clothes that he’d bought — a long crimson doublet, and matching shoes with curled-up toes, a loose-fitting white cotton shirt, and green hose. He looked like any other well-to-do man of the city. The only thing missing was a hat. But after being barrel-bathed and barbered, he wanted to show off his hair looking neat and trim.
Not to the Cardinals’ Men, though.
He’d not had the time for tailoring, despite the fine fabrics from Kariandari that enticed with their brilliant colors. So he’d bought quality used clothing that had no stink or bloodstains. It was good to have money to pick what he wanted, instead of whatever rags he could find, or steal. And his new clothes nearly fitted well — the hose wore a bit baggy, leaving a cool draft on his legs whenever he moved. And as he’d not bought used small clothes, for fear of catching some nasty disease, his bits were left swinging free as he walked. That was an odd feeling.
He’d barely bothered to haggle for anything, not wanting to waste the day doing so. Besides, wary merchants had watched him, and some assistants had followed him around. One had stood so close behind that Sirath had felt their breath on his neck. Even if Sirath had been tempted to grab something, he’d noticed many items were fixed in place with hidden wire. It had been an urge to take a petty revenge. Such as tease them with his gold, or use Jerine’s council warrant to threaten them. Else pretend he was a wizard who could cast a spell to make any merchant sell their wares for a penny — a trick Cal had once used to great effect. But Sirath hadn’t wanted to invite too much attention there.
And he
didn’t want it here.
The Cardinal’s Men shifted warily.
Sirath turned his back on them, and wondered whether he shouldn’t just leave.
The day had dragged on too long as it was. Jerine had stopped at various apothecaries, alchemists, and druggists to buy dry wares. Sirath had waited impatiently, all the time just wanting to return for his mules. Now it might be better for them both to just turn tail and leave the city with the foot traffic. The animals would be worth a little silver, but he’d a bag of gold at his hip. Better to live safe with that, than risk everything for a few guilders.
He faced Jerine. “We should head to the gate.”
“Oh, look!” she said. “There’s Dalathos ... and, my, Ulric, too. Come along, Sirath.”
She pulled him along like a lover. Sirath didn’t want to be nearer the troopers, but he didn’t fight Jerine’s grasp — he enjoyed the feel of her soft hand in his.
The crowd squeezed open as Jerine pushed through. There was wonder and fear in other people’s voices — a curse was upon the city, and another fire might have broken out ahead.
Jerine stopped by the plinth for a gold statue, and greeted Dalathos. Tilirine was there, too, but Jerine barely acknowledged her. Instead she spent too much time cooing over some big man in mail, with an ax and a crossbow at his hip. It took a moment before Sirath realized it was Ulric. Sirath smiled — Ulric looked all the more like a guard for a traveling merchant. That suited Sirath just right. He put on a voice, “I say, fine fellow, I do love your new arms.”
Ulric frowned without recognition. He blinked. “Sirath?”
“Alright, alright, try not to let everyone know who I am.” Sirath glanced to the troopers, now far too close. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
Dalathos stared at Sirath. “Should have got yourself something useful, like a sword.”
Sirath knew that would just invite a fight from other swordsmen, seeking to test themselves, or show off. Better to run from confrontation. A little knife for defense would have been good, but they’d wasted enough of the day as it was, and he could buy a dagger as soon as he was outside the city. Sirath shrugged. “I wouldn’t know how to use one.”
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 21
