by Mark Robson
The plates of food the guards pushed through the slot were no better. Femke had been delighted when she had seen the outlines of cutlery in the dim light of the cell. But the joy was short-lived for the knife and fork proved to be wooden. Nowhere within the confines of the small chamber was there anything that could be used to pry, pick or poke at the door locks effectively. Without some sort of outside aid, Femke had nothing that would enable her to make a break for freedom.
Once the young spy had established she could not escape, she bent her mind towards working out exactly how Shalidar had anticipated her moves so cleverly, and how to prove it had been he who had killed Anton and Dreban.
Thinking back to sequences of events and the timescales involved, Femke constructed scenarios in her mind. The spy set aside her own beliefs and used her objective expertise to study the facts as the King would see them.
Shalidar appeared to have castiron alibis for the time of both murders. From what Kalheen had said before Femke was caught, the assassin was hosting a dinner party at his house at the time of the first murder and had somehow managed to be in the Palace over the approximate time the second murder took place. If Femke took Kalheen’s word as a reliable source, then it indicated that Shalidar could not have murdered either man. If Kalheen was not reliable, then lots of possibilities opened up.
What had Kalheen been doing out in the corridor in the middle of the night? Had he really been looking to help Femke, or was he in league with Shalidar? Kalheen had set her running from the Palace in the first place with his message that Anton had been killed. Had Kalheen been genuinely concerned for her, or was he simply looking to make her appear guilty of the crime? The more Femke thought about the servant’s role in this affair, the more of an enigma he became. Was he really observant enough to identify her when she was in disguise, or had he been following her for some time beforehand?
Then there was Shalidar. So much of the information available about the assassin and his role here did not add up. It could be the case that having had his plans foiled in Shandar, the assassin had decided to come to Thrandor to pursue a legitimate trade as a Merchant here in Mantor. This, Femke decided, was most unlikely. Shalidar was at the height of his powers as an assassin. Why would the man give up something he was a master of, simply because one of his plans had been thwarted? Femke could think of no reason. Then again, if Shalidar had killed Anton and Dreban, then who had paid him for the hits? The Assassins’ Creed did not allow them to kill for personal revenge or pleasure. Allowable kills (other than for money) were those that prevented their anonymity being breached.
It was possible, as Count Dreban had indicated, that the jealousy of one of the other Noblemen had offered a motive for hiring an assassin to kill Baron Anton. It was also possible that Count Dreban had riled someone enough to warrant hiring an assassin. What was difficult to resolve were the chances of those killings being ordered for reasons unrelated to the framing of Femke. The probability of no link was very remote, particularly given the young spy had been in the perfect place to pick up the blame on both occasions. This meant either Shalidar was breaching the Assassins’ Creed, or he had arranged to be paid to kill both Noblemen. He might have justified the kills on the grounds of maintaining his anonymity, but he had already told Femke the kills had been paid hits.
No matter how Femke jiggled the pieces of the jigsaw around, they did not fit. One thing was certain: Shalidar was not working alone here in Mantor. With hindsight, that should have been obvious from the beginning. Femke kicked herself for not realising sooner. That Shalidar had a house here showed he was no stranger to Mantor, and would therefore have associates and possibly a whole network of contacts around the city. This would explain how he had managed to continue tracking her after he had disappeared following their encounter in the lower city.
Shalidar had deceived Femke with a similar trick before in Shandrim, yet Femke had not considered the possibility of him doing it here. It was a simple enough ploy but, with the stress of the situation, Femke had failed to take precautions against it. The assassin must have organised someone to follow him discreetly, she realised, maintaining enough distance to see whether anyone else was trying to do so. He could even have had a tail on the tail if he was being particularly careful. The basic principle was simple: the assassin would set off on a random course to a predetermined rendezvous point where, if his shadow had seen nothing, he would get a signal that all was clear. If Shalidar did not get the signal, then he would lead whoever was following him on a wild goose chase or into a trap.
Femke had decided not to follow Shalidar the night of Count Dreban’s murder. However, given she had thought to have gained the initiative, she had neglected to check if she was being followed. Whoever Shalidar’s arranged tail was had simply locked on to her and followed her right to the tavern where she had taken lodging for the night. Once her tail had decided she was staying the night, he would have reported her location to Shalidar, who would then have arranged to have the place watched for her to emerge.
Femke was particularly irritated to realise she must have been followed the following day as well. Shalidar knew everything, she decided grimly. He knew exactly what clothes she had bought, when, and from where. If he had, as she now suspected, arranged a small team of people to follow her every move, then he knew she had visited his street, asked questions about his house, and more importantly that she had entered the Palace in disguise late in the evening. In short, she had neglected one of the basic rules of spying: never focus on something without considering that others could be watching you.
‘Oh, Shand!’ Femke cursed suddenly. ‘Reynik! I didn’t warn him!’ She swore again.
It was too late now to help the young soldier. He would know nothing of Shalidar’s network of operatives. All Femke could do was to pray that he stayed out of trouble.
Reynik was frustrated. He had surreptitiously observed Shalidar’s house for a couple of days and seen nothing suspicious. It had not taken long to find out where the man lived, as many people appeared to know of him. However, catching sight of the supposed merchant was proving more problematic.
It had crossed Reynik’s mind that Shalidar might be his uncle’s killer. If that was the case, then Reynik had a particular interest in proving him guilty of the murders here at the Palace. Unless he could spot him, however, there seemed little likelihood of finding out.
Reynik sighed and moved away from the house again. He did not want his observation of the property to become obvious, so he restricted his viewings to short periods. He would just have to be patient, hope for a bit of luck and keep trying.
The young soldier had not gone far when he noticed he was being followed. A quick glance behind showed four men striding down the road after him. They did not look friendly. Reynik’s heartbeat accelerated as he realised they were coming after him.
‘Calm down,’ he told himself silently. ‘You don’t know that for certain.’
Reynik took the next right turn into a little side street to see if they would follow. They did. More than that – they accelerated, running towards him. Should he run away? If he ran and they caught him, he would stand less chance in a fight than if he stood his ground here. Distance running had never been one of his strengths. He did not want to try to fight four of them. It was hardly good odds, but it was not yet certain they were looking for a fight. Reluctantly, Reynik decided to let them approach to see what they wanted.
When they saw Reynik turn to face them, the four men slowed slightly. The lead man’s face twisted slightly into an ugly smile. His look did not bode well, Reynik decided. Not one of the men was blessed with good looks. They were all burly with tough-looking faces. As they approached, they spread out and encircled him.
‘Good evening, gentlemen, what can I do for you?’ Reynik asked politely, focusing his attention on the man who had grinned. He appeared to be the leader.
‘You’ve been watching a certain ’ouse,’ the man said in a gruff voice. �
��The master don’t like it. ’E says you’re to stop.’
‘Watching a house?’ Reynik asked innocently. ‘Which house might that be?’
‘You know full well which ’ouse. We’re ’ere to show you that watchin’ the ’ouse is bad for yer ’ealth,’ he answered, his grin becoming wider and uglier than ever.
‘Very well then. I’ll make sure I don’t watch any more houses. Thanks for the warning.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
At the leader’s nod, the four men attacked simultaneously. Reynik was ready. He spun, his right foot lifting into a high kick that sent one of the men behind him spinning to the floor. Almost at the same time, his left hand flashed out to strike a blow at another man’s throat. The impact stopped him in his tracks as he clutched at his adam’s apple in shock and pain. But fast as he was, Reynik could not stop all four of the men.
Even as he struck the second man, a third grabbed him in a great bear hug, forcing his arms to his sides. Before Reynik had a chance to think about trying to break free, the leader of the band of four drove a fist hard into his stomach. He tensed against the blow as best he could, but was still left winded. The grinning thug followed his first punch with a roundhouse to the side of Reynik’s face that connected with such force he wondered for a moment if his jaw had broken. He knew in that instant if he did not break free in the next few seconds, he would be completely at the men’s mercy.
The thought filled him with fear and an inner strength he did not know he possessed. Using the leverage of being held from behind to his advantage, Reynik drove his right foot up with all the force he could muster into the leader’s groin. As the man doubled over with a look of sick shock, Reynik’s left knee followed up the kick by smashing into the man’s face. He went down like a pole-axed cow.
Having lifted both legs up, Reynik then forced them back down again, driving his heels down as hard as he could onto the feet of his captor. The man roared with pain and his grip loosened just enough for Reynik to take advantage. With a rolling twist, the young soldier flipped the fourth man over his shoulder so that he crashed into the man who Reynik had previously hit in the throat. Both of them went down.
Reynik quickly looked around. The man he had felled with his first kick was just recovering to his feet. The other three were all down. This was not a fight Reynik wanted to prolong, so he decided it would be best to leave before the odds switched back against him.
Still slightly winded, he staggered away at a jog. As he suspected would happen, the one man who had regained his feet made no move to follow. Reynik knew he had been lucky. If he met them again they would be more wary, and his chances of getting away with a couple of bruises would be slim.
Femke had tried on many occasions to engage the guards in conversation. For the most part this was unsuccessful, as fraternising with the prisoner was against their rules. However, one of the younger guards had eventually begun to open up and talk to her when he was on duty. Worn down by the boredom of the long shifts, he started by giving occasional one-word answers to Femke’s questions, whilst listening to her jovial-sounding chatter. Although he never told Femke his name, he did talk openly about all sorts of subjects to pass the time.
The guard spoke extensively about his family and how they had always lived out in the countryside, never wanting to come anywhere near a city, much less the capital. She learned that the guard’s mother had worried terribly about him joining the army, but was terribly proud when he had been chosen for the Royal Guards. His voice was warm when he spoke of spending his first wages on having a street artist draw a sketch of him in his uniform, which he had then sent home for his mother. It now sat in pride of place on her mantelpiece.
Femke heard all about the guard’s new girlfriend, their dreams and aspirations for a nice house in the upper city before retiring, wealthy and happy, back to the countryside. He had great hopes of becoming a captain in the Royal Guards one day, which would provide him with the financial means to reach his domestic goals, and he bemoaned the fact he had missed a chance to gain rapid advancement during the recent conflicts. Instead of going where the action was, he had been set another guard duty, protecting the Royal Treasury.
As the guard spoke of his time guarding the Royal Treasury, a tiny seed germinated within Femke’s mind. Ideas began to flow. The problem was, the seed could develop into anything from the tallest, most magnificent tree of a master plan to the smallest, most insignificant weed. All she could do was to nurture it in the hope it would prove to be a wonder when it was fully grown.
By Femke’s count it was the afternoon of the fifteenth day of her confinement when the sound of multiple sets of feet descending the stairs set her heart pounding with apprehension. Were these the men who would take her to the King’s Court for her trial? Had the King decided to progress the trial without allowing her any independent representation?
The young guard had recently gone off shift. Femke knew there was no use in asking the current guard for information. But she did not have to wait long for an answer.
‘Open the door. Let the priests in,’ ordered a voice to the current guard.
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, and the sound of jangling keys and bolts being drawn back heightened Femke’s apprehension further.
Did the presence of priests mean she was to be blessed then executed? Had there been a trial in her absence? Her heart was pounding in her chest and she wrapped herself in her blanket, sitting back on the small cot bed to hide the nervous shaking in her arms and legs. The door was thrown wide open. Three figures dressed in dark brown robes entered the small cell with the guard.
‘You may leave us alone with the prisoner,’ one of the priests said, in a serene voice. ‘I’m sure this one young girl will not harm us in the few minutes we’ll be here.’
‘Very well, Priest, but you know what charge she is being held on, don’t you? Murder. The girl is a killer, Priest, so don’t get too complacent.’
‘We’ll be careful, Captain. Thank you for your concern. Please allow us to keep one of the torches so we can see whom we’re blessing. We’ll then complete the task our goddess has called us to,’ the priest intoned calmly. ‘Now, child, we are priests of Ishell, and we’re here to . . .’ the priest began, his voice lowering as he spoke until Femke found she had to strain to hear what he was saying to her.
The door thudded shut, but with one of the priests still holding a torch, the little cell was filled with more light than Femke’s eyes could cope with. Holding her hands as shields against the brightness and squinting for all she was worth, Femke tried her hardest to focus on the man who was talking to her in a low voice.
As soon as the door had shut, the lead priest took a glance at it to ensure that the viewing plate was definitely shut and then threw back his hood. Femke blinked in astonishment as she registered who was standing in front of her.
‘Lor—’
He clamped a hand over her mouth and grinned. ‘Surprise!’ he whispered with a chuckle. ‘Come on, let’s get you out of here.’
As he whispered, the other two men started chanting prayerful-sounding incantations to mask their conversation. The sound filled the small chamber with solemn tones that were somehow both fitting and yet out of place.
‘But how?’ Femke whispered back, shivering slightly with excitement and the discomfort raised by the doleful sound of the chanting. ‘If we overpower the guard, there’ll be more to contend with around the Palace.’
‘Don’t worry, Ambassador, we’ve figured it all out,’ whispered a familiar voice. Reynik pulled back his hood to reveal his boyish grin as he resumed his chanting. His lip was split and swollen on the right side of his mouth, but otherwise he looked fine. Femke was so pleased to see him alive that she gave him a spontaneous hug. Questions filled her mind, but she knew this was neither the time, nor the place for a discussion.
‘There won’t be any need for violence,’ Danar assured her, a touch of jealousy in his tone at the show of affe
ction to Reynik. ‘Ennas here has agreed to take your place for a while. Hopefully he’ll be able to keep the guards fooled for some time before they realise you’re gone.’
‘Ennas? Do you realise you’ll then be an accessory to my escape and will be held accountable for it?’ Femke asked, not wanting to place him in danger.
‘Don’t worry, Femke, I’ll be ready to leave when the time comes,’ Ennas replied, removing his robe and tossing it over to her.
‘You! I take it the Emperor sent you to fetch me?’ Femke asked, recognising Ennas immediately as one of the better Imperial spies.
‘Actually, the Emperor thought you’d still be on the loose. I’m surprised you were caught so quickly. You must be slipping,’ Ennas commented softly, his face twisting into a teasing sort of grin.
‘Don’t! I’ve been well and truly stitched up from the moment I stepped through the city gates. I’ll tell you about it some time,’ Femke breathed, her voice full of suppressed anger at her ignominy. Moving swiftly, she divested herself of the tunic and threw it to Ennas. ‘Sorry about the smell,’ she said with a grin as he caught the unwashed garment. ‘The Thrandorians don’t believe in allowing their prisoners much in the way of personal hygiene.’
Ennas wrinkled his nose, shrugged, and then drew the long tunic over his head. Femke was dressed in the priest’s robe equally quickly. With a flush of pleasure she pulled the hood up, allowing the cowl to droop down low over her face. Grabbing the blanket, Ennas wrapped it around himself and lay down on the cot bed with his face away from the door.
