Items of furniture had been overturned, and various bits of bric-a-brac were scattered around. The meld had made it look as though there had been a fight, as instructed. He moved to the alcove, where the curtain had been left open, and saw that the door beyond was smashed. Way down at the bottom of the back stairs lay the body of the guard. So far, so good.
Now it was his turn, and there was no time to waste. He unsheathed the ceremonial sword he wore, and which he’d had sharpened to a razor keenness the day before. Steeling himself, he ran it swiftly across the outside of his left thigh, cutting through uniform fabric and skin. Blood began to flow. Changing hands, he did the same with his right arm. Then he gulped a breath, raised the blade to his cheek and slashed it. Not deep enough to leave a scar, but sufficient to draw blood copiously. He was proud of not crying out when he did it.
After a quick look around to make sure everything seemed right, he ran to the door.
‘Murder!’ he yelled from the landing. ‘Help! Murder! Call out the guard!’
Within seconds there was a thunderous sound on the stairs as a mob ascended.
He slumped against the doorframe, sword dangling from his fingers, blood dripping from his wounds and streaming down his face.
Meakin appeared, with Laffon close behind. Following them came a mix of guests and paladins, weapons drawn.
‘Sir!’ his aide exclaimed. ‘What happened?’
‘Murder,’ Devlor croaked, letting the sword fall from his grasp. ‘In there. Murder.’
Laffon plunged into the study, three paladins at his heels.
Meakin stayed with his master. ‘You’re hurt, sir. Let me see.’
‘I don’t…think it’s…too…bad.’
‘Let’s get you sat down, sir.’ He steered Devlor to a high-backed chair standing against the landing wall, and carefully began tearing the cloth away to expose the wounds.
Laffon reappeared. ‘What happened?’
‘When I…got up here, the door was…locked. No…reply. Fortunately I had a key. Found…Uncle Ivak.’
‘Take it easy, sir,’ Meakin said.
‘No. Must…catch him.’
‘Who?’ Laffon asked. A number of shocked, white faces were staring down at Devlor now.
‘We fought. I got in…a couple of…blows, I think. But he…took me…unawares. Must go…after him.’
‘Three men have just gone down those back stairs in pursuit,’ Laffon told him. ‘And it looks like there’s another dead man at the bottom of them.’
‘The…guard. Poor devil.’
‘But who was it, Bastorran? Who did this?’
‘Caldason. The outlaw…Reeth Caldason.’
‘He did this?’
‘Yes, and nearly did for…me, too.’
‘I don’t think these wounds are too serious, sir,’ Meakin reported, dabbing with a cloth. ‘Lots of blood, but not too deep, thank the gods.’
‘I’ll be…all right. Just a…shock.’
‘Was he alone?’ Laffon said.
‘Far as I could…tell, yes.’ Bastorran’s breathing was more regular, and a little colour was coming back to his cheeks.
‘Funny thing, someone battering their way in like that. You’d think your uncle would have been alerted and put up a fight, or raised the alarm.’
‘Perhaps Caldason did have somebody…with him. But I only…saw him.’
‘Well, it’s a damn audacious thing to do.’
‘That’s what these people…are, Commissioner. Brazen. Reckless. And they’ve taken my…uncle, the bastards.’
‘If this just happened, hopefully they haven’t got far. We could catch them yet.’
‘You know what this…is about, don’t you, Laffon? Rukanis. It’s revenge for that damn traitor.’
‘The timing certainly seems indicative.’ He stared at him. ‘You sure you’re going to be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ve taken worse knocks than this.’ He was calming. ‘But suppose this is part of a…general uprising? The first blow of many?’
‘I suppose we should be alive to that possibility. You’re the Clan High Chief now, Bastorran. What do you want to do?’
‘Come down hard on them. Really hard. Make them pay. Do I have your backing?’
Laffon glanced at the open study door. ‘You do.’
Somewhere outside, a bell was chiming midnight.
23
At dawn the following morning a number of covered wagons converged from different directions on a hidden cove on Bhealfa’s south-eastern coast. Their journeys had been risky, both in terms of what the wagons carried and because they’d had to defy the curfew to arrive so early. But sound planning and good luck served them well, and they made their rendezvous without incident.
Resistance planners had been working for years on the logistics of moving thousands of people and all manner of cargo from diverse parts of Bhealfa to the new island state. Having six wagons reach the same patch of seashore at approximately the same time was child’s play by comparison. So it was that they all rode onto the beach within a space of less than a quarter of an hour.
A ship was anchored not far offshore. The sea was choppy and the vessel rolled slightly as it breasted the foam-flecked waves. In the grey sky, dark rain clouds were forming, and clumps of grass on the edges of the sandy beach were flattened by a brisk wind.
Caldason, Serrah and Kutch disembarked from various of the wagons, along with most of the three-score strong band of Resistance fighters Reeth captained. They were met by the ship’s skipper and a handful of his crew, who’d ferried themselves across in a large rowboat.
The last wagon to arrive bore Quinn Disgleirio and the remainder of the band.
He hurried to the others. ‘Have you heard the news?’
‘What news?’ Serrah said.
‘We’ve been travelling all night without a stop,’ Caldason explained.
‘Well, we had to stop,’ Disgleirio told them. ‘Nearly lost a wheel about halfway here, not far from a village. They’d even heard about it there.’
‘Heard what?’ Serrah repeated.
‘Ivak Bastorran’s dead.’
‘Gods.’
‘Yes, and that’s not all. He was murdered, right in his own house in Valdarr. While some kind of party was going on, would you believe?’
‘Was it anything to do with us, the Resistance?’ Serrah asked.
‘They’re saying it was. Actually…prepare yourself for a shock, Reeth. The paladins say it was you.’
‘Me?’
‘The old man’s nephew, Devlor, not only swears you did it, he claims he was wounded fighting you off.’
‘That’s insane. What’s supposed to have happened?’
‘The story they’re putting out is that last night a lone assassin killed a guard and battered his way through two locked doors to get to Ivak. Then he, or you as they’d have it, stabbed him in the back a number of times.’
‘A knife in the back doesn’t sound like your style, Reeth,’ Serrah said.
‘No. I would have wanted to see his face while I did it.’
‘Could it have been the Resistance?’ Kutch wondered. ‘And maybe they mistook somebody else for Reeth?’
‘It had nothing to do with us,’ Disgleirio stated adamantly. ‘We would have known.’
‘And Devlor Bastorran’s unlikely to mistake someone else for me,’ Reeth said. ‘Not after our last meeting.’
‘Good luck to whoever it was, I say,’ Serrah decided. ‘And what if you are blamed for it, Reeth? You would have done it given the chance, wouldn’t you? Though not in the back like a sneak.’
‘That’s all very well,’ Disgleirio told them, ‘but there’s the repercussions to take into account. The top man in the paladins gets murdered and somebody known for his hatred of them gets the blame. They link you with the Resistance, Reeth, and it gives them just the excuse they need to crack down even harder. Not good news when we’re coming up to the move.’
‘Th
e more I think about it,’ Reeth said, ‘the more it stinks. Everybody in the Resistance knows a killing like this is only going to make life more difficult for us. If you ask who stands to benefit most, maybe they should be looking nearer to home for the killer.’
‘Shit,’ Serrah hissed. ‘Devlor.’
‘He’s the likeliest suspect.’
‘Well, yes. But I meant: shit, now he’s in charge. What with that and Laffon turning up here…’
‘Things are going to get rough.’
‘I said you were better out of it for a while, Reeth.’
‘There’s nothing we can do about any of this now,’ Disgleirio stated. ‘Let’s just concentrate on the mission in hand, shall we?’ He scanned the rough track leading down to the beach. ‘I wonder what’s happened to Darrok?’
‘Why is he sailing with you, Reeth? I thought he was going to make his own way back to the island.’
‘Last-minute change of plan, Karr said. Probably can’t bear to be parted from his gold.’
‘Talking of which,’ the skipper put in, ‘we really should be loading it. We’ve got the morning tide to catch.’
Disgleirio nodded. ‘How do you want to handle this, captain?’
‘Bring the wagons further down the beach and get your men to start chaining the gold into our rowboat. My crew are waiting to stow it, and I’ll get them to send over more boats to speed things up.’
‘Fine,’ Reeth said. ‘Let’s get it organised.’
It took over an hour to transport the crates of gold to the ship. As the last rowboat set off, the lookouts Caldason had positioned signalled an arrival. Shortly, two carriages pulled in.
‘Looks like your man finally got here, Reeth,’ Serrah reckoned.
‘Just when the hard work’s finished. Good timing.’
The occupants of the carriages disembarked. It was the same party who had attended the meeting in Valdarr: four bodyguards, one of them female, clad in black leather and bristling with weapons. And leading them, their charge, Zahgadiah Darrok, seated on his hovering disc.
‘Good morning,’ Darrok grated.
‘You took your time,’ Caldason replied. ‘Much longer and we wouldn’t have been here.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you don’t mean that.’
‘Really? Ever hear the expression time and tide wait for no man? It’s true, Darrok, even for you.’
‘Well, we’re here now. Where’s the gold?’
‘The last of it is just going on board.’
Darrok looked out at the ship. ‘That’s a fairly compact vessel.’ There was a note of criticism in his voice.
‘She’s a brig,’ the skipper informed him. ‘Two-masted, square-rigged. Built to be swift. My crew’s well armed, but speed’s her best weapon. You might find it a little bit cramped on board, but the journey’s going to be shorter.’
‘You do know there are pirates in the waters we’ll be navigating?’
‘I know it very well, Master Darrok. Me and my crew have had more than one run-in with them. It’s the reason Patrician Karr picked me for this trip. The buccaneers in those parts go for bigger, heavier craft because they rely on force to overcome their prey. I’ve found the best defence is not letting them get near enough.’
Darrok looked satisfied. ‘I bow to your superior knowledge, captain.’
The skipper glanced out to sea. ‘The boats will be coming back any minute. Get yourselves ready to embark.’
Everyone set to picking up their gear.
‘Well, this is it, Reeth,’ Serrah said. She surprised him with an embrace and a warm kiss to the cheek. ‘Look after yourself,’ she whispered.
‘I will,’ he replied softly. ‘And do me a favour, will you? Keep an eye on Kutch.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll see he’s all right.’
They parted, and after a look that lingered just a second longer than mere friendship might dictate, Serrah moved off to wish the band members good luck.
Caldason bid farewell to Kutch warrior style, their right hands firmly grasping each other’s forearms. The young apprentice was noticeably touched by such an adult gesture.
‘Behave yourself, Kutch. Do as Serrah says. And try to keep away from those damn blinkers.’
The boy smiled. ‘I will. Come back to us soon, won’t you?’
‘You won’t know I’ve been away.’
Caldason’s goodbye to Disgleirio was brisker, more businesslike.
‘Here they come,’ the skipper called out as the rowboats reached the shore.
The wagons and carriages departed, then almost another hour passed getting everybody and their kit over to the ship.
‘You weren’t joking when you said conditions were cramped,’ Darrok complained to the skipper as he scrutinised the crowded vessel.
‘You’ve got a cabin. Mine, in fact. The rest of your people are just going to have to rough it in with you, or down in the hold with the rest. It’s no more than I’m asking of my own crew.’ He turned to Caldason. ‘I might be able to find a cabin for you, too, if you want it.’
‘Don’t bother. I’m happier sleeping on deck.’
‘Really?’
‘I always prefer the open air if I can get it.’
‘Let’s hope the weather holds, then.’
‘If it doesn’t, I’ll join the others below deck.’
‘Suit yourself, Master Caldason. My suggestion to you all is that you try to get some shuteye now. You look as though you need it, and it’ll stop you getting under my people’s feet.’
‘Good idea,’ Darrok agreed. ‘I’ll see you later, Caldason.’ He glided off, his bodyguards in tow.
‘You might find the stern the best place to settle down,’ the skipper suggested to Caldason. ‘I’ll have somebody bring you a blanket.
‘Thanks.’
Ten minutes later the ship was underway, and Caldason settled down to rest in a corner of the deck. He didn’t feel particularly tired. His mind was occupied with thoughts of Ivak Bastorran’s assassination, and the mission ahead.
But soon the ocean’s gentle rocking lulled him, and he closed his eyes.
It was unlike anything he’d experienced before.
He was looking at a landscape he didn’t recognise. It was blanketed in thick snow. What he could see of the terrain was harsh and unwelcoming. Here and there, clumps of mean, colourless scrub poked through the whiteness. Some tall, craggy rocks were exposed, with sickly lichen clinging to them. A few skeletal, half-dead trees were framed against a slate sky. The cutting wind swirled snow flurries all about.
It was murderously cold. But he knew this without actually feeling it, the way a cook knows a boiling cauldron is scalding hot without needing to touch it. To him, the cold was an abstract thing. Beginning to look around, his eyes adjusted to the gloom.
He saw the city.
It sat on a mountain plateau a great way off, but still appeared large. And it was swathed in sparkling lights.
The instant he saw it, he began moving towards it. But not of his own volition–he was literally drawn.
He found he was some distance above the inhospitable waste, and moving rapidly. The land beneath flew by, a wilderness of white, punctuated by laden pine trees and rock formations crackling with frost. He saw frozen rivers, and a solid lake with a surface turned milky by the layers of snow. At one point he spied a paralysed waterfall, its motion stilled, glistening.
Travelling ever faster, he came to a vast plain that ran to the edge of the city. Encamped on the plain was an immense army, its numbers beyond count. Innumerable tents spread over many acres. Myriad campfires twinkled like burnished rubies.
Then he was hurtling straight at the city’s fortified walls. With a stomach-turning lurch he swooped over them, and was looking down on the patchwork of buildings and streets they shielded. There were thousands more people here, engaged in a frenzy of activity.
As he descended he saw that the city’s inhabitants were marching, building, gathering, rallying,
swearing oaths, defending the walls, strengthening the gates, handing out weapons, hiding their children in cellars, sharpening blades, nocking arrows, boiling vats of oil, loading trebuchets, nailing shut their windows, vowing suicide pacts.
With no more mass than a feather, he floated to the ground. The streets were bathed in light. Dazzle and gleam seeped from every side, in stark contrast to the bleakness outside. Walking unseen, unsuspected, he took in the atmosphere. He knew the patriotism, felt the hope and despair, smelt the fear.
A faint rumble quivered the ground, giving pause to everyone around him. It faded. Another, stronger vibration followed. Men looked to the angry skies; mothers clutched their babes. A further shock came, more powerful yet. Buildings shook, pottery fell and shattered, the coloured glass in a temple window cracked from side to side.
There were cries, screams, entreaties. People ran. Horses bolted. Wagons overturned and spilt their loads.
Then, one by one, and in batches, all the lights started to go out.
He plunged into darkness too, a total, all-embracing absence of light that felt like a tightly stitched shroud. Faintly, he heard the sound of a thousand, thousand throats roaring in triumph from outside the walls.
He fell helplessly through endless black velvet. The drop lasted a second, or perhaps all eternity.
Sensation flooded back. He was on the top of a flat, snow-covered hill. Ahead of him, there was a large marquee.
A man stood at its open flaps. He looked unremarkable. There was nothing particularly distinctive about his build, his clothes or his bearing. He possessed the sort of face that, once seen, was quickly dismissed from memory.
Yet he shone with an indefinable quality that made him fabulous.
They looked deep into each other’s eyes. And the world ceased turning.
Caldason sat up, fighting for breath.
It came back to him that he was stretched out on the deck of a ship pitched by waves. A mixture of sea spray and drizzle had soaked him through. His lips tasted salty and his bones ached.
He leaned back his head and let the soft rain caress his face.
The Righteous Blade Page 23
