The Righteous Blade

by Stan Nicholls

  His wagon drew up outside a large building with barred windows and guards at the door. The cage was unlocked and, accompanied by a pair of wardens, his ankles shackled, Kinsel was taken in.

  There were another fifty or sixty convicted men inside, huddled miserably on a line of benches. They wore manacles, with long chains running through them, so that all were bound together. Kinsel was shoved towards the nearest bench. A guard barked and its occupants slid along to make room for him. Then a smith knelt and fussed with the manacles, and Kinsel became part of the chain-gang.

  It was cold, and the shapeless convict uniform of rough cloth Kinsel now wore offered little protection. The place was silent apart from the rattle of chains and occasional wheezing coughs. They were waiting for something, but nobody explained what. Half an hour later, he found out.

  A muscular barrel of a man swaggered in. He was completely bald, save for a pencil-thin, black moustache, and his tanned skin looked oiled. He sported leather breeches and a sleeveless leather jerkin, unbuttoned over a hairless, bare chest, despite the season. On his upper right arm there was a tattoo of the Gath Tampoor dragon emblem. His boots were thick and heavy, and he had wide, studded bands on both wrists. A large and elaborate gold buckle secured his belt, from which hung a sheathed knife with a curved blade. He carried a coiled, barbed whip.

  ‘The basic facts of your new life,’ he announced, his voice deliberate and penetrating. ‘I am your overseer. You are scum. You call me sir, or master, or god. Or better yet, you don’t call me at all. My word is law; your lives are worth less than a peck of salt. You jump when I say so. You work until I tell you to stop, which isn’t often. If I tell you to plug a hole in the keel with your arse, you do it. If you’re called upon to fight, you will do so with savagery and at the expense of your own wretched lives if I think it’s necessary.’ He was walking along the line, scrutinising the faces of his charges. Very few met his gaze. ‘Everyone on board without shackles is your better, and to be obeyed without question. But your first allegiance is to me. If you displease me in any way or fail to obey an order quickly enough, you will be punished. That ranges from a flogging to losing a foot; from having your eye taken out with a hot brand to feeding the sharks. Where we’re going is none of your business. What we do once we’re there is nothing to do with you.’ He’d reached Kinsel, and obviously knew who he was. ‘We don’t go in for favouritism.’ He was staring at him. ‘Nobody cares who you were in your old life, which from this minute is over, done with, forgotten. High born or low, it’s all the same to me, and this.’ He held up the whip. ‘Oh, and if you survive for thirty years the Empress gives you a pardon. Don’t get too excited; nobody’s earned one yet.’ He was on the move again. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that we’re catching the night tide. Your sea voyage begins within the hour. I’d like to say that I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I will. Only I know you won’t.’ He turned and strode out.

  A group of men arrived with buckets. They went along the line doling out ladles of brackish water and small hunks of stale black bread.

  Ten minutes later, the chain-gang was on the move, shuffling out of the building with encouragement provided by the whips of the overseer’s deputies. They were herded to the gangplank of a ship of the line, then led below decks.

  The ship’s hull was fitted with benches, port and starboard. Each bench seated two men. They were beaten into them and their wrists shackled to the great oars that projected from slits cut into the hull. Their ankles were chained to sturdy rings set in the floor. Kinsel found himself next to an elderly looking, bone-thin man with broken teeth. When they were all in place, the overseer appeared.

  ‘As this is your first time,’ he announced, ‘we’ll begin nice and easy. Get your hands on those oars!’

  A drummer began to pound out a rhythmic beat.

  Kinsel took hold of the oar, and felt a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

  22

  Night had fallen on the city.

  In a quiet residential street in an unremarkable quarter of Valdarr, a carriage was discreetly parked in the shadow of an overhanging tree. The carriage was defended by elaborate counter-eavesdropping charms, and its driver had been sent on a meaningless errand.

  Inside the carriage, behind drawn blinds, two people were deep in conversation.

  ‘We’ll go through it again,’ Devlor Bastorran insisted.

  ‘If we must,’ Aphri Kordenza replied wearily, ‘but I understood the first three times. I’m not stupid, you know.’

  ‘I need to be sure you’re clear on every detail. This is an extremely risky operation.’

  ‘We’re used to risky situations. Trust me.’

  ‘Get this one wrong and it’ll not only go badly for me, it’ll go very badly for you. Both of you. Get it right and you’ll have everything you want.’

  ‘You’ll arrange to have our condition made permanent?’

  ‘That’s what we agreed.’

  ‘And you’ll pay for it?’

  ‘I said I would.’

  ‘Soon?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes! You have my word. Now can we please run over it again? Good. What time do you have be there?’

  ‘A little before midnight.’

  ‘Right. Allowing enough time to get in, do what you have to and get away. You’ve got to be out of there before the chimes. Understood?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘The room has two ways in. You’ve no need to worry about the entrance inside the house. The one you’re concerned with is the emergency exit. You get into that through the door in the alley at the rear of the building. It’s the only door there, and besides it’ll have a guard stationed outside.’

  ‘And I’m to kill him.’

  ‘Yes, and don’t botch it. Leave him alive and we’re both finished. Because you’re going to approach him with this.’ He held up a rolled parchment bearing a red wax stamp. ‘My personal seal. This will win his confidence and allow you to get near enough to do the job. What two things must you be sure to do at this point?’

  ‘Kill him conventionally with a blade; no magic. And get the seal back.’

  ‘That’s vital. Leave it at the scene and it’s our death warrant.’ He slipped a hand into his tunic pocket. ‘Then you use this key to open the door. Drag the guard’s body inside and lock the door behind you.’

  ‘And that’s when I separate from Aphrim.’

  ‘Right. You leave him to guard the entrance in case anybody else comes along. That’s very unlikely because there are only a couple of copies of these keys, but I want to cover every eventuality. So, you’re in the building. What next?’

  ‘I go up the flight of stairs and there’s another door.’

  ‘Which you open with this key.’ He dangled it in front of the meld. ‘Do it quietly. When you’re through that door you’ll find yourself in a small curtained alcove. Beyond the curtain is his private study. The outer door, the one that leads to the rest of the house, is going to be locked, so you won’t be disturbed. Chances are he’ll be working at his desk, and that has its back to the alcove. So you should be able to approach without him knowing, providing you’re stealthy enough.’

  ‘I do stealth very well.’

  ‘If he isn’t at his desk, you’ll still have the element of surprise. But should he see you coming and put up a fight, don’t assume he’ll be easy to take.’

  ‘I’ll be prepared for that.’

  ‘I can’t emphasise enough that he has to be dealt with just like the guard; no hint of magic. When you’ve done the deed, mess the study up a bit. Make it look as though there’s been a fight, assuming there hasn’t, of course. Then smash the door you came through, from the far side. It’s got to look as though someone’s battered their way in, not used a key. His study’s in a fairly remote part of the house and it’s wood-panelled, so you’re all right making a certain amount of noise, but don’t overdo it. Oh, and make sure the lock’s turned when you break the door. If somebody notices
it’s unlocked and broken, that’s going to give it away. Tell me what happens next.’

  ‘Down the stairs to Aphrim, and we do the same to the door there; smash it.’

  ‘That could be the most dangerous point. If somebody should walk past, or you attract attention breaking the door–’

  ‘We’ll kill them.’

  ‘Yes. It’s important nobody gives your description. Obviously that would ruin the plan. But again, no magic.’

  ‘You can count on it.’

  ‘I hope so. I wouldn’t want a repetition of the brawl you had with Caldason and that woman.’

  ‘That wasn’t of our choosing. They were following us.’

  ‘And that’s worrying. If they followed you from my HQ they’ll suspect we’re connected.’

  ‘Doesn’t do them any good though, does it? Who are they going to tell who’d believe them? Anyway, by then Caldason’s going to have a lot more to worry about.’

  ‘I suppose so. Here.’ He handed over the keys and the seal. ‘And I want them back, as we arranged.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘One other thing. If you were thinking of using them to try a little blackmail on me, forget it. Not only would you not get the reward, I’d have every paladin in the city out looking for you. With orders to kill on sight.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Once this job’s done, Aphrim and I are going to be out of your hair forever.’

  That was exactly what Devlor Bastorran had in mind.

  A reception was being held at Ivak Bastorran’s palatial town house.

  The guest list was select and the hospitality lavish. Many of Bhealfa’s most influential families were represented, and there was more than a smattering of the great and good from Gath Tampoor who were stationed in the colony. A small orchestra played in the mansion’s ballroom, and couples in the latest imported fashions had taken to the floor.

  In an adjoining reception room, Ivak and Devlor Bastorran, resplendent in their dress uniforms, greeted guests, a trickle of whom were still arriving, despite the lateness of the hour.

  ‘It was an excellent idea of yours,’ Ivak said, ‘to honour Laffon like this.’

  ‘I see it as politic, uncle. Now that the CIS has been given the go-ahead to operate outside Gath Tampoor proper, he’s likely to be an even more powerful man. He certainly seems to have found favour with the Empress. It doesn’t hurt the paladins to be on good terms with him.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re here to think of this kind of thing, Devlor. These diplomatic shenanigans aren’t my forte. Never have been.’

  ‘Quite so, uncle. But the credit really belongs to you, for allowing your home to be used tonight.’

  ‘I can see you’re going to be a great asset to the clan leadership one day, my boy.’

  ‘Thank you, uncle. I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘But not too soon, what?’ He laughed.

  ‘As you say, sir. Ah. Here comes the guest of honour himself.’

  Laffon joined them, a crystal wine glass in his hand. Devlor thought it typical of the man that it contained nothing stronger than water.

  ‘It’s a wonderful gathering, gentlemen.’ He flashed them a rare smile. ‘Thank you again. It was good of you to arrange this at such short notice.’

  ‘We’ve been intending to do it from the moment we heard you were coming,’ Devlor lied. ‘It seemed appropriate to have you here following Rukanis’ successful prosecution, in which you played such a vital role.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ the older Bastorran added.

  ‘You’re too kind,’ Laffon replied, lifting his glass to pallid lips.

  ‘Of course, this should be seen as a double celebration,’ Devlor said.

  ‘How so?’ Laffon asked.

  ‘Apart from Rukanis’ guilt being established, we have cause to commemorate your other triumph, Commissioner, in respect of the CIS being given so much greater responsibility in the war we’re all fighting against the terrorists.’

  ‘The Empress did my organisation a great honour in bestowing such trust on us. We’ll all be doing our best not to let Her Highness down.’

  ‘Gods bless her,’ Ivak declared, taking a swig from his brandy glass, which he then deposited on the tray of a passing servant.

  ‘I’m sure there’s absolutely no danger of you or your esteemed organisation disappointing the Empress,’ Devlor said. ‘And it goes without saying that the paladins will always be keen to co-operate with you in every way we can.’

  ‘As will the CIS with the paladins,’ Laffon returned in a show of equally transparent insincerity. ‘I very much look forward to our working as closely together in future as we just have in respect of the Rukanis case.’

  At that point, Devlor’s aide, Lahon Meakin, approached, bowed and begged their pardons. He whispered briefly in the younger Bastorran’s ear, and as quickly withdrew.

  ‘I do apologise,’ Devlor told them, ‘but a trifling matter requires my attention for a moment. If you’ll excuse me…’

  ‘Certainly, my boy. The work goes on, doesn’t it? There’s no rest for the upholders of the law. You go ahead. I’ll keep the Commissioner here company.’

  Devlor smiled and exited.

  The message Meakin had delivered to him, as earlier instructed, was merely a reminder that midnight was a little more than a quarter of an hour away. And midnight, as paladin tradition dictated, was the hour when an honoured guest was toasted.

  Devlor walked out of the reception room, nodding and smiling at guests he passed, and into an adjacent chamber which in turn led to the hallway where the front door was. He lingered there for a moment, exchanging the odd word, then retraced his steps back to the reception room.

  Laffon and his uncle were still engaged in conversation.

  ‘Everything all right, my boy?’ Ivak enquired.

  ‘Perfectly, uncle. Only I’m afraid it’s necessary to take you away from our guest for just a moment.’ He looked to Laffon. ‘A small decision has to be taken in respect of the wine we’ll be having later. It’s very much a matter for the head of the household.’

  ‘Of course. I quite understand.’

  ‘Surely you can take care of it, can’t you, Devlor?’ Ivak said, piqued at the prospect of being dragged away.

  His nephew glared at him. ‘It really would be best if you could come yourself, uncle.’

  ‘Oh, very well. Excuse us, Commissioner.’ He was led off grumbling.

  Devlor took him to another, less crowded room.

  ‘Uncle, the fact is I told a little white lie back there.’

  ‘You did? You don’t want me to select the wine?’

  ‘No. This has nothing to do with wine. It’s a matter I thought best dealt with away from prying eyes. A messenger just arrived with this.’ He turned his jacket to one side, revealing an envelope poking out of his inside pocket.

  ‘What is it?’

  Devlor leaned in and whispered, ‘It bears the seal of the Empress herself.’

  Ivak’s eyebrows rose. ‘A message from the imperial court?’

  Devlor nodded. ‘Under the circumstances I thought it best to be discreet.’

  ‘You were absolutely right. Hand it over, it could be urgent.’

  ‘And possibly sensitive. It’s certainly going to be of a private nature. Perhaps it would be best perused in your study, with the door locked. Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Yes, good idea.’

  ‘Here, slip it into your pocket; there’s no sense in letting everybody know about it. You get on. I’ll make your excuses.’

  They parted at the foot of the staircase.

  Devlor returned to Laffon. He invited several others to join them. Then one or two more. Before long, the younger Bastorran was at the centre of quite a group, amusing them with his fund of anecdotes and stories of clan exploits.

  Two floors above, his uncle had secured his study door and was sitting at the desk. When he took the envelope from his pocket, he noticed someth
ing odd about it. It bore a wax stamp, but the wax was flat and unadorned. There was no imperial seal, as Devlor had told him. Puzzled, he reached for a paper knife and slit open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of vellum. He unfolded it and found that it was completely blank.

  It was unlike his nephew to play stupid tricks on him. He felt there had to be some kind of mistake. Perhaps Devlor had accidentally given him the wrong envelope. But why he should be carrying around a sealed envelope containing a blank sheet of paper was beyond Ivak’s understanding. There was nothing for it but to go back downstairs and get it sorted out.

  As he rose from his chair he heard a faint noise behind him, and started to turn.

  He almost managed it.

  Downstairs, Devlor was finishing an elaborate tale about a paladin campaign from a century before when Meakin appeared at his shoulder and politely coughed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s almost midnight, sir.’

  ‘Nearly time to toast our guest. Uncle’s the one for that.’ He looked about the room. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea, sir.’

  ‘Ah, I remember. He said he was going up to his study. Probably engrossed in some paperwork or something and forgot about his guests. That’d be typical of Uncle Ivak.’

  ‘Would you like me to go for him, sir?’

  ‘No, don’t worry yourself, Meakin. I’ll pop up there myself. You all keep yourselves amused,’ he told the guests, ‘charge your glasses, and I’ll be back down with him in a minute.’ He headed for the stairs, walking casually and exchanging smiles with everyone he passed.

  When he got to the first landing, and was sure he couldn’t be seen, he flew up the steps two at a time. Arriving at the study door he rapped on it and called his uncle’s name, just to be sure the meld had done her job. There was no reply so he got out his spare key and let himself in.

  Kordenza had done her job, and a thorough one at that. His uncle was slumped over his desk. He had multiple stab wounds in his back and there was blood everywhere. There was no question that he was dead. Devlor went over, snatched the envelope and blank sheet of vellum, which were speckled with crimson, and stuffed them in his pocket.