by Matthew Ward
Footsteps tracked away left and right, towards the sunken-roofed warehouse, and away towards the wrought-iron street-gate. Safe. It wouldn’t last.
A rumbling stomach reminding that his last meal lay long in the past, Altiris sifted poor options.
No hope of fighting the Drazina, not unarmed. That left evasion, but he’d singularly failed at that so far. And if he got clear, where could he go? He needed food, and sleep. Constans would have helped, but dawn lay long in the past. By now, the boy would’ve left the Hayadra Grove and returned to the palace. That left returning to Stonecrest – something he’d sworn not to do – or handing himself in at one of the constabulary watch houses. Safer than letting the Drazina take him, but it would involve Lord Trelan as surely as showing up at Stonecrest’s gate.
“I see him!”
Altiris tensed. Dregrat’s instincts, earned on Selann and honed in the city’s back alleys, warned of the Drazina’s ruse just before it drove him from cover. Still, the leftmost footsteps were coming closer.
Time to go, while he still could. Where would wait.
Footsteps to his left, towards the street. Right, it was. Get to the warehouse. Jump to the next roof. Shoulders pressed against tarpaulin, Altiris crept away.
“Got you!”
No ruse this time. Not with a Drazina blocking the steep valley between the crates. Altiris flung himself aside, shoulder scraping against covered timbers. A hand tugged at his coat tails. Straight line became a tightening arc, slamming him against the opposite crates.
Vision crowding with dark spots, Altiris gulped down a breath full of rain-sodden canvas. A knee cracked on cobblestones as the Drazina kicked his leg away. A cuff to the head sent red spots rushing to join the black.
“Get his hands bound,” growled a voice. “I want those fifty crowns Hollov promised.”
They forced Altiris’ hands behind his back. Struggle earned him a second, heavier cuff. Constans had been right, he thought groggily. Hollov was taking things personally to levy a bounty of a year’s wages.
Should’ve gone south.
Altiris’ captor leaned closer. “Settle down, sonny. Dead pays less, but I’m not a greedy…” A wheezy grunt sounded. The captor’s grip slackened. “What the—?”
A scream. The soft, wet rasp of a blade on skin. A warm, wet spray splashed Altiris’ neck.
The grip on his arms fell away. Crying out in revulsion, he reeled about. Both Drazina lay dead. Above their bloodied gorgets, ripper’s grins beamed at the moonlit sky.
Hawkin stepped over the corpses. Raising a sardonic eyebrow, she pressed the flat of a fouled dagger to her lips. “Hush, my bonny. You’re safe with me.”
Altiris wiped a hand across the back of his neck. It came away red. The warm, copper stench set his stomach lurching. “I bet.”
Bells chimed in the streets. Shouts and running feet. Too many to count.
Hawkin smiled sweetly. “Or you could stay here.”
She ran for the warehouse. After a moment’s futile hesitation, Altiris did the same.
The Privy Council chamber door opened a crack. Raldan leaned into the room, his face frozen in an expression of permanent disappointment – one many cited as proof that he’d not so much earned a career in the constabulary as been destined for it. “You wanted to see me, my lord?”
“Indeed.” Sliding eyeglasses from his nose, Josiri rose. So peculiar to sit at the head of the table. To hold sway over a chamber where the Republic’s worthies had conspired to destroy his family and subjugate his people. But for Anastacia’s sly smile – she was not so much seated in the chair opposite Josiri as draped across it, her barely skirted legs hanging over one arm – he might have thought it a dream. “Join us, captain.”
“Captain?”
Eyes crowding with suspicion, Raldan took a seat beside Jezek, weather-stained constabulary tabard tawdry beside the archimandrite’s scarlet robes. On the other side of the table, Commander Hollov – an unsmiling woman of middle years now commanding those Drazina left in the city – drummed impatient fingers against the tabletop. Konor Zarn, representing the trader’s forum, had at least made an effort to sober up, although his half-lidded eyes wandered readily.
By contrast, Anastacia’s bright eyes and flushed cheeks betrayed an early start on Stonecrest’s wine cellar – and not for the first time in recent days. Josiri suspected Jezek might have lectured her, were he not studiously averting his eyes from a dress whose neck and hemlines didn’t so much flirt with respectability as elope with it and thereafter leave it penniless in the gutter. For her part, Anastacia revelled in Jezek’s veiled disgust as readily she did Hollov’s jealousy and Zarn’s open admiration. Not all pleasures of the flesh were pleasures of the flesh alone, and she’d missed them badly.
“The Lord Protector left the city in my charge,” said Josiri. “I leave the constabulary in yours. You’ve more than earned it. And as head of the constabulary, you’ve a right to hear this first-hand.”
“Which is what?” Hollov scowled. “I’ve business enough rounding up the perpetrators of yesterday’s riot without mystery and intrigue… my lord.”
“Actually. You don’t.” Josiri slid an envelope along the table, its blue wax seal agleam in the lantern light. “I’m declaring amnesty for everyone who took part in that disaster.”
Hollov broke the seal, read in silence, then glared at him. “Amnesty?”
Anastacia grinned. “It means he’s pardoning them.”
“There’ll be misery enough in coming days,” said Josiri. “I won’t borrow from tragedies past. We have become a nation of closed minds and empty hearts. Perhaps we always were. Perhaps I’ve played my part in that. We need to be better. Starting today, we will be.”
Colour touched Hollov’s cheeks. “Drazina lost their lives at the docks. What of their justice?”
“Or their victims’?” Josiri retorted. “I know I’m gaining a reputation for wandering wits, but I’m not blind. I’ve seen your knights’ labours up close, and looked away more than I should. When I say the amnesty’s for everyone, I mean everyone. Be satisfied with that.”
Zarn’s gaze snapped into focus, a wry smile forming beneath. It vanished just as swiftly. Hollov’s scowl did not, though it did alter form, outrage adopting worried tinge. In that moment, Josiri knew without doubt that the Drazina had secrets he’d as soon as not uncover.
Jezek nodded sagaciously. The timidity Josiri had thought an unswerving part of his character had vanished as soon as Viktor left the city. The Lord Protector had that effect on churchmen. “Forgiveness is the highest virtue, commander.”
“Is it more important than security?” she snapped. “How am I to keep order if we set the rioters loose?”
Josiri almost felt sorry for her. Might have done, but for how recent events had opened his eyes. “You won’t.” A second sealed envelope joined the first. “I’m rescinding the Drazinas’ authority to enforce the law. That includes checkpoints, patrols, custodianship of the Vaults. Everything. You will return to barracks and await further orders.”
Raldan cleared his throat. “My lord, if things turn ugly again… No Drazina, no Lady Reveque…? The constabulary haven’t the numbers to keep the streets quiet.”
“Then we’ll use other means.” Josiri shuffled his notes, careful as ever in recent days that his blighted memory didn’t lead him to overlook something important. “I’m also ordering the government ration restored. The trader’s forum have agreed to handle distribution, and provide security. They want everything back to normal just as much as we do.”
Zarn offered a boozy grin and thumped a fist on the table. “Indeed!”
Hollov glared. Anastacia rolled her eyes. Raldan offered a slow nod. “It might work.”
“You’re a fool.” All pretence of respect had fled Hollov’s eyes. “The streets will eat us alive.”
Josiri held her gaze. Should he repeat Viktor’s confession of provoking the uprising? Would anyone believe? “There we
re grievances. I’m settling them. Had anyone done similar twenty years ago, my mother would be here instead of me, and we’d all be spared the burden of this conversation.”
“And if I refuse the order?”
A shiver chased along Josiri’s spine. An excellent question, without ready answer. If the Drazina refused his order to stand down, he lacked the swords to compel them, and that would be the end of his slender authority. But such odds had seldom bothered Viktor. He wouldn’t let them bother him.
“We are a Republic of laws, not revenge. I’m closing the door on this miserable chapter, and I expect you to do the same.” He paused, lending aspect of afterthought to what was in fact cold calculation. Wandering memory or not, he’d no need of notes for this. “Lord Droshna gave me this authority knowing what I’d do with it. He can only be halfway to Tarvallion. By all means, send a herald to confirm my instructions. That is… if you think you know his mind better.”
With an impotent – but entirely audible – snarl, Hollov looked away. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
She strode from the room, leaving behind a chamber less oppressive than before. One by one, the others followed – all save Anastacia.
Josiri intercepted Raldan before he reached the door. “Keep a close eye for trouble, Erik. From whatever quarter it hails.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And spread the word about Lieutenant Trelan, if you would. I want him found and brought back to Stonecrest.”
Raldan clasped a fist to his chest and departed.
Josiri sagged against the table, worn away by the need to project confidence.
Anastacia unfolded herself from the chair. “Didn’t Viktor warn you against favouritism towards kith and kin?”
“Viktor isn’t here.” He shrugged. “And how can it be favouritism if all sins are forgiven?”
“I can’t wait to see you try that one on Viktor.”
“The least of my concerns. There’s nothing to say he won’t reverse everything when—”
“If.”
“When he returns.”
Anastacia kissed him on the cheek. “Maybe you shouldn’t let him. You handled that well enough.”
“High praise indeed.” Josiri hesitated. “You might have worn something suitable.”
She crooked an innocent eyebrow. “The dress? It is suitable. I look stunning.” Offering a rather less innocent smile, she slid her hands about his waist. “I can always take it off. It’s not like there’s anyone here any longer.”
So hard to tell if she was joking. Especially as Josiri wasn’t sure if he wanted her to be. “I think I’d like to get through at least one day in charge of the Republic without a hint of scandal, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Who’s talking about hints?” The smile broadened. “If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing with abandon.”
Anastacia leaned in for a kiss, the sweet, sour tang of wine heavy on her breath. Hands gentle but firm about her wrists, Josiri disentangled himself. “Not the time to test the theory.”
“Spoilsport.” Affronted moue dissolved into a grin.
Josiri returned it willingly. For all his tiredness, he felt better than he had in months. As if a black cloud had come unmoored from his thoughts. Yes, there was every chance Viktor would be furious, but that was a problem for the future.
And he’d survived Viktor’s wrath before.
At every moment expecting the door to burst open and admit a furious Tzila, Calenne eased the fourth window-board to the floor and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Or its lack. While the gap in the inner boards provided all the space she’d ever need to make her escape, the outer boards – replaced that morning – stared back in silent mockery.
“You really should have made more progress by now,” breathed a voice at her ear.
The memory of her pulse racing, Calenne spun about. The Raven, unswervingly in his male aspect, stared at her from no more than a handspan away.
[[Leave me alone!]] hissed Calenne.
The Raven twitched a shrug and made no move to comply. To her surprise, Calenne found she was glad. With Viktor ridden to war, she’d no visitors at all save Tzila, who was no use for conversation or consolation. And though the Raven’s expression wasn’t entirely friendly, he seemed more solid than before, more mortal man than caged starscape.
He shrugged and stared past her shoulder. “My point stands.”
Calenne growled, frustration getting the better of good sense. [[There’s no way to prop the outer boards in place once I get them free. I had to push them all the way loose last night.]]
“And yet you’re still here.”
[[They fell into the square. I thought the noise would draw someone.]] She glared, daring him to suggest that she’d bottled out at the last minute, terrified of the vast, empty city below. [[This morning, men came with ladders and set them back in place. I have to start over.]]
“Then do so.” For all his easy manner, anger growled beneath the words. Anger, and what sounded like pain. “Or perhaps you prefer pining for your gallant Viktor?”
Viktor. Part of her longed for him to return, but the rest…? [[If you’re not here to help, go away.]]
His eyes flashed. “Are you asking for my aid?”
Calenne went still. She’d led a sheltered life, certainly. But not that sheltered. One did not ask favours of the Raven and end well. Whatever she and Viktor had become, she wasn’t about to be a pawn in his quarrel with the Raven. At least, not under any terms other than her own. [[No.]]
He tutted. “Please yourself. But you might want to put things back. I fear your jailor is coming to check on you.”
He stepped past her, and was gone. Calenne stared at the empty space left behind, then frantically busied herself with the boards. She had the last in place just as the door creaked open.
[[Yes?]]
Tzila offered no reply, not even her customary bow, and strode into the room. Her hidden gaze took in sofa, books, Calenne… and finally the window.
Phantom heartbeat tripping faster, Calenne stepped closer. [[I heard the workmen this morning. You needn’t worry – I hid. I don’t want people to see me like this.]]
Four statements. Three truths, one lie. For she hadn’t hidden. In fact, she’d been struck by perverse temptation to remove the inner boards and lay herself bare. Might have followed through, but for fear that the shock might have sent the poor man plunging from his ladder.
The sallet helm’s empty stare remained fixed on the window, for all that Calenne stood between. Fighting mounting panic, Calenne fished for a change of topic – anything to break her jailor’s fixation.
[[Won’t you stay? I could use someone to talk to. At least when I was at Branghall, I had my brother. There’s no one here.]]
At last, Tzila’s gaze left the window. Calenne flinched as her right hand came up, then stood frozen as fingers curled to stroke her porcelain cheek. Gentle. Soothing perhaps, had she been able to feel it. The gesture stirred half-forgotten memory. Not just the touch, but the tilt of Tzila’s head – the slight easing of her rigid poise. Calenne could almost see the reassuring smile, hear words gently spoken. So familiar it was maddening.
[[Who are you, Tzila?]]
Tzila froze, a soft, hollow moan swelling to fill the space between them – the only sound Calenne had heard pass her lips.
[[You can tell me,]] said Calenne. [[It can be our secret. Viktor need not know.]]
The moan deepened to an animal growl, more wolf than woman. Tzila snatched her hand away and spun on her heel. The door slammed, Calenne’s secrets intact, but in possession of more questions than ever.
“Is the sack really necessary?” asked Altiris.
“Not my secrets to give away, are they, my bonny?”
Hawkin’s tone offered no leeway, so he lapsed into silence and pieced together what clues he had. They’d travelled a long way north through the city before Hawkin had insisted on tying the sack over his head,
and a considerable way further after that. Not that distance alone meant anything. She could have led him in circles for all he knew. But the chair was soft and well upholstered, the room warm and smoky with a recent fire. The sounds of the city – such as they were at that hour – were distant. Come morning, bells and ships’ horns might offer some clue, but now? He could be anywhere. At least she’d left his hands free. That alone offered hope that some extravagant murder wasn’t on the cards.
Then again, given recent luck…
A door creaked somewhere off to Altiris’ right. Carpet deadened the footsteps.
“Can I at least get something to drink?” he asked. “It’s been a trying day.”
The door clicked shut. Glass chinked on glass, followed by a glug of liquid. A glass pressed against Altiris’ knuckles. “Here.”
A man’s voice, and familiar, though it took a moment to place. The Merrow. Shoulders prickling, Altiris took the glass.
Shadows shifted beyond the sack’s rough weave. “Hawkin, my dear… is there a reason you present my guest thus?”
“It amused me,” the reply came from somewhere off to Altiris’ right.
The Merrow sighed and set about unwinding the belt from about Altiris’ neck. Soon after, the sack was gone, and Altiris found himself staring up at a face that had been awash in drunkenness at Elzar Ilnarov’s funeral.
“Konor?”
Zarn smiled. “Ah, so we are friends, after all. That should make this conversation easier.”
“I don’t… I don’t understand. You’re the Merrow? But you’re a—”
“Respected member of society? Rake? Drunkard?” He shrugged and settled in a chair on the other side of the hearth. “I must beg ‘no longer’ to all of the above. But the trappings are sometimes very useful. Make yourself contemptible and no one heeds your actions.”
“So it’s all an act?” Altiris took a swallow and glanced about the room as the brandy did its warming, calming work. One of Woldensend Manor’s drawing rooms. “But you’ve lost as much as anyone to the wreckers.”