by Mark Robson
‘Krider!’ he called loudly. ‘Krider, get in here now, please.’
The door opened almost instantly and the old servant entered quietly. Krider’s eyes too showed the puffy redness of recently shed tears, but his emotions were under control as he bowed stiffly before the King.
‘Yes, your Majesty?’
‘Summon the fastest message rider. I wish to send a letter to our neighbour, Emperor Surabar. There has not been an assassination in Thrandor for over a hundred years and I’m not about to stand by and let this go unanswered. Get the stables to prepare their best horse. I want my letter in the Emperor’s hand in a week.’
‘Yes, your Majesty, at once,’ Krider said, bowing again.
Malo knew that to get to Shandrim in a week was impossible, but he was determined to speed the Royal Messenger on his way with all possible urgency. As soon as the old servant had closed the door, Malo went to his desk and began composing his letter of protest. He pulled no punches with his language, laying blame for this atrocity firmly at the Emperor’s doorstep. As he signed it off, he hesitated for a moment. Was he being too hasty? This was a damning missive that could easily spark a war. ‘No,’ he resolved firmly. ‘The time for rationalising things away has long since passed. These last few months have seen one act of violent madness follow another. Let Surabar see my anger and grief at this latest act of aggression. I’ll not play the meek ruler of a minor kingdom any more.’
Femke hit the floor and rolled smoothly into a fighting crouch, a knife drawn and her arm ready to hurl it with all force. Scanning the room in an instant, Femke realised that Shalidar had gone. How far he had gone was not certain – her instincts told her he had left the building, but there was little point in taking unnecessary chances. Femke was not about to go through the house to the front, as it gave far too many opportunities for Shalidar to prove her wrong. Instead, she snatched up her pack, threw in her belongings and slung it over her shoulders.
Moments later, Femke left the house through the kitchen window. Like a spider she climbed the rear face of the building, drawing her body up onto the shallow slope of the slate-covered roof. The aches and pains in various parts of her body were still present, but for the moment it was her professional pride that hurt more. The assassin’s stealthy approach in the house had taken her by surprise, and now Femke was determined not to let Shalidar totally win the day. Stubborn perseverance drove the spy to push her body beyond weariness and pain.
With her senses heightened by the dangerous nature of the situation, Femke crept silently up to the peak of the roof and surveyed the road below. For a full minute her eyes probed the dark corners and shadows of the street, looking for the assassin. Surely Shalidar could not have gone far in the short time that she had waited, motionless, in the kitchen, she thought, unable to believe that the slippery character could lose her so easily. He could still be in the house below her, but again her gut instinct told her otherwise. He may also have anticipated her taking to the rooftops. If he had, he would hug the near side of the street to minimise his exposure to her aerial view.
‘OK, Shalidar, which way have you gone?’ Femke whispered to herself. ‘If I were you, where would I go? I would go . . . left, I think.’
Mind made up, Femke pushed her body into a crouching run along the rooftop, keeping as low as possible and trying not to skyline herself against lights higher up the hill. It would not do to give Shalidar his wish by getting herself caught by Royal Guards within minutes of leaving the house.
At least Femke was now dressed more suitably for stealth in her dark clothes. Her clean face and hair were less likely to draw attention to her in a crowd, but she had not had time to change her appearance significantly. Anyone with a reasonable description of her would easily recognise her as the Shandese Ambassador.
Fortunately Shalidar had caught up with her before she had used the few disguise elements that resided in her pack. A couple of mouth inserts to change the shape of her cheeks, together with the wig of dark hair to replace the light coloured one that she was currently wearing, and Femke knew that she would look very different from the description given to the Royal Guards. As soon as it was safe to do so, she would effect the transformation.
Femke reached the end of the line of houses and crept back up to the peak of the roof. Sure enough, she located the assassin in the adjoining street. He had company. A patrol of Royal Guards was talking to him. Given his gestures, he was giving them directions to the house where he had left Femke.
‘Damn you, Shalidar, but you’re a smooth son of a—’
Femke did not complete her muttered curse, for she had to duck back down behind the peak of the rooftop to avoid being seen by the patrol. Sliding gently and completely under control down to the edge of the rear of the house, Femke started searching for a convenient route back down to ground level. The corner of the building proved suitable, with ample hand and footholds.
Within a few moments she had descended and slipped out into the street near to where she had seen Shalidar with the guard patrol. The guards had already moved into the cross-slope street in the direction Shalidar had pointed. Femke caught a fleeting glimpse of the assassin disappearing around a corner some way down the hill into a parallel street. She knew she would have to be extremely careful if she were to track Shalidar successfully. He would employ many of the tricks that Femke had tried to trap him with when she had been running from Count Dreban’s house earlier. Her experience of the assassin told her that he was also likely to have a few novel tricks and traps of his own, so she would have to be doubly careful.
Shalidar would expect her to follow him, but a sudden thought crossed Femke’s mind that made the whole dangerous chase scenario irrelevant. On the day that she had entered Mantor with her four companions she remembered seeing someone who had looked like Shalidar disappearing into one of the larger houses some distance up the hillside from here. Femke grinned as she recalled exactly where the house was.
‘I’ll bet my last copper sennut that’s where you’re staying, Shalidar,’ she muttered gleefully. ‘It’s time to change the rules. We’ve been playing cat and mouse under your rules for too long. Now you can fiddle to my tune for a while.’
Taking care to avoid being seen for some distance, Femke worked her way along streets in a completely different direction from that in which Shalidar had headed. Then, deep in shadow, tucked down a quiet side alley, Femke removed her pack and extracted her limited items of disguise. The wig and mouth inserts would do the job well enough for this evening, Femke decided confidently. Tomorrow it should be easy enough to augment her supplies from the market stalls in the lower city streets. By lunchtime tomorrow, Femke knew she would be all but invisible.
An hour later, settled into a small room in one of the inns in the lowest level of Mantor, Femke eased herself into the narrow bed. Despite the aches and pains that riddled her body, she slipped instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep, confident that nobody would be able to trace her overnight.
The sun had been up for several hours when Femke awoke, and the smell of cooking food wafting in through her open window set her stomach knotting with hunger. It was then that Femke realised she had not eaten anything for a full day, which explained the ravenous emptiness that gripped her now.
With a groan of pain, Femke rolled out of bed and slowly straightened her body as she got to her feet. There was not an inch of her body that was not hurting, but after collecting the bowl of water and small bar of soap left outside her door, Femke was pleased to discover that most of the aches and pains receded with movement. Many of her muscles were stiff from the abuse she had dealt them the previous day, but providing she did not attempt anything overly strenuous for the next day or two, the minor injuries she had sustained during her flight should heal quickly.
As Femke adjusted her wig in the mirror, it suddenly occurred to her that it was Shalidar who had been through her pack at Count Dreban’s house, rather than the Count as she had first assumed.
There was no point in taking any unnecessary risks, she decided. Therefore, Femke resolved that as soon as she had finished breakfast, the first task of the day would be to get a couple of completely new sets of clothes and a more comprehensive set of items with which to build disguises.
It transpired that the heavenly odours of food that had drifted into Femke’s bedroom had not been coming from the kitchens of the inn, but from one of the stalls outside. All along the lowest street of Mantor, market stalls lined either side. As far as Femke could tell, the market was a semi-permanent one. Poorer merchants hawked their wares from ramshackle stalls in direct competition with the more permanent shops in the buildings on the road.
Several stalls were serving sandwiches. Thick slices of steaming-hot hog roast, dipped in rich gravy and placed between two slabs of freshly baked bread, made for fine eating. Each vendor claimed loudly that his or her sauce was the best in Mantor. Femke could quite appreciate them all telling the truth, depending on one’s taste.
Femke gathered her knapsack of belongings and left the inn to join the lively bustle in the street. The innkeeper had insisted on being paid in full the night before, so there was no bill to settle. Femke doubted she would stay in the same place twice for the next few nights. It was better, she decided, to keep a random element to her whereabouts for the time being. In her heart, Femke hoped that with her experience in the field of intelligence gathering, she would be able to collate enough evidence to nail Shalidar quickly. That way she could repair any diplomatic harm done by this whole affair before it got out of control.
Femke would have been far more at home tackling the problem had she been in Shandar. Shalidar was more comfortable here than Femke. The assassin had clearly visited Mantor before.
With a huge, hot meat sandwich in her hand, Femke weaved through the great market street, looking for suitable clothing and other necessities. Everything she needed was available in abundance. Femke could have spent her money ten times over, but she was aware the small amount of gold she had grabbed during her escape from the Palace would need to last. Spending it all on the first day would not be wise. Stealing money was always an option, but it carried an element of risk.
It had been several years since Femke had survived in her home city of Shandrim by making free with the money of others, but she was more skilled at the art now than she had ever been in those bleak days. If Femke had not been the best young pickpocket in Shandrim, then she had been one of the best. For several years she had survived comfortably from her harvesting of purses and trinkets, which she had fenced on the black market. During that time she had never come close to getting caught. Then one day Femke had chosen the wrong target and her life had changed for ever.
In retrospect, attempting to pick the pocket of Lord Ferrand was actually a most happy mistake, for it was he who had turned her unusual collection of skills into something productive and legitimate. He had trained her in the art of being a spy.
The process had taken some time – particularly learning the etiquette of the Nobility and the finer arts of acting like a Lady of Court. However, Lord Ferrand had been patience personified throughout the training process and he had possessed a wonderful way of finding something good in even her most disastrous attempts at new skills.
Femke had lived at his house throughout the process, cut off from the outside world until her new Master was content she was ready. With constant encouragement and coaching, Femke had changed from a streetwise urchin girl into a sophisticated and highly skilled spy in under a year. Femke had never known such an enjoyable time during her earlier childhood years. Her family home had never been a happy place. Therefore, the restrictions that Lord Ferrand had placed on her freedom had not irked her much. They had also not stopped her from testing the Lord’s limits and resources, but Femke quickly realised these were more than adequate to contain her. As he had caught her picking his pocket when they had first met, so the Lord had apprehended her in the act of trying to slip out on a sly visit into the city. Ferrand’s seemingly all-seeing abilities, together with his warning that he would throw her back out on the street if she ever disobeyed him again, were sufficient to keep Femke contained.
Femke had high hopes that she would somehow resolve the situation here in Mantor before it came to stealing, but it was comforting to know she would not starve – whatever happened. She knew whom she was up against, which removed the uncertainties of yesterday. If Shalidar had not decided to gloat, then it could have taken her weeks to discover who was behind the sting. Shalidar was a known quantity. Therefore, it should be straightforward to work out what precautions to take as she gathered information.
Patrols of Royal Guards were in evidence on the street, but none showed any interest in Femke. Given a couple more hours, the young spy knew she would be able to walk the streets without apprehension. Like a human chameleon, Femke would simply disappear into the background of life in the city.
Femke took her time choosing two new sets of clothing and made discreet enquiries as to who supplied the Palace with uniforms for the Royal house staff. She remembered overhearing a conversation between two of the servants whilst she was in the Palace. One of the senior maids was due to retire shortly. The snippet of information would be most useful.
As a spy, Femke had been taught that lies were always best when based around incontrovertible facts. This way, the vague hints that Femke dropped as to the nature of the maid’s position she hoped to fill, when combined with the fact that there was a known upcoming vacancy, meant that, if questioned, the people whom she had talked with would piece fact and fiction together to fit the situation. In effect, the vacancy made Femke convincing and she quickly learned the name of the uniform supplier.
A short while later the spy acquired a maid’s uniform for the Palace. This was purchased under the same premise. There were no questions asked and Femke did not volunteer any information, instead allowing the merchants to draw their own conclusions.
A visit to an alchemist provided an oil that, when rubbed onto her body, would darken her skin to a deep golden tan for up to a week at a time. Femke also bought bleach to lighten her real hair to a pale blonde and some make-up materials for colouring the lips and eyelids in the fashion popular amongst the ladies of all classes in Mantor at present. She purchased another wig of dark hair in a different style from her current one and was pleased with both its fit and quality. The wig makers here in Thrandor had progressed their techniques well beyond the expertise of the Shandese, and Femke vowed she would never buy another Shandese wig again.
Later that afternoon, having taken a room at a different inn, Femke emerged a different woman from the one who had booked in a short time earlier. Nobody paid her any attention in the inn or on the street outside. The new, non-uniform, clothes had been chosen specifically to deflect interest rather than attract it. It appeared she had chosen well.
‘OK, Shalidar, let’s see what you’re up to, shall we?’ Femke muttered to herself. ‘Firstly, a visit to the house I saw you entering a few days ago, I think.’
Femke knew that establishing a link between Shalidar and Baron Anton was not going to be easy. Furthermore, proving Shalidar had murdered the Baron, when her brooch had been found in his dead hand, would be tricky, if not impossible. Comparison of the knife wounds would also demonstrate a match with her blades, but Femke knew that such evidence should be viewed as circumstantial unless her missing knife had been found at Anton’s murder scene. The second murder may help. It meant Shalidar would need two alibis. That could tip the balance in Femke’s favour a little, but it was too early to tell.
It took an hour to walk up through the city to the large house where Femke had seen Shalidar. For what felt like an age – but was barely more than a minute – Femke studied the large detached property, lost in thought.
‘Are you all right, miss? Can I help you?’
The voice of a passing merchant caused Femke to start slightly. She had been aware of his presence, but the
spy had dismissed him as being irrelevant and no threat. Alerts were now triggered throughout her brain and body. Anyone taking an interest in her spelled danger, so Femke answered with care, trying not to arouse any further undue interest.
‘I’m fine, sir, though if I may be so bold as to ask, do you know to whom that beautiful house belongs? The design of the building and the gardens is enchanting.’
‘Indeed, yes! That house belongs to one of the few regular Shandese merchants here in Thrandor. He has been trading in Thrandor for some years now and is well respected for his honesty and business acumen.’
‘His name wouldn’t be Shalidar, would it?’ Femke asked, already knowing the answer.
‘Shalidar, that’s the one. Do you know him? A nice man by all accounts, though I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t suffer a hard time over the coming weeks,’ the merchant said, lowering his voice for the last sentence, as if sharing a secret.
‘I know of him by reputation, sir. He’s to have a hard time, you say? Why is that?’ Femke asked curiously.
‘Surely you’ve heard the news? Firstly, the Shandese Ambassador killed Baron Anton the night before last, and it’s said she struck again last night. Count Dreban was the victim this time. Naturally the situation has sparked more bad feeling towards the Shandese, if that’s possible.’
‘I had heard something of the sort,’ Femke replied, nodding knowingly. ‘There are patrols out all over the city looking for her, I understand. Please, sir, indulge me for a second. Although I’ve heard of Merchant Shalidar before, I was not aware that he owned property here in Mantor. Has he had the house long?’
‘Some years I believe, miss. He’s been trading in Mantor for a long time, though I believe he has interests in many other places around the world – a wealthy man by all accounts. I believe he’s in the city now, though he often travels. Before he arrived about a week ago, he’d not been seen in Mantor for some time, but in view of the recent troubles that’s probably wise. I expect he’s wishing he’d stayed away a bit longer, in light of this Ambassador affair.’
