“That’s the Arch,” Cainen said, taking a moment to take it all in. “We’re in the Arch quarter now. The parish of the well-to-do.”
The wooly-headed scholars of the University quarter would have known the history of the thing. They would have known which ancient ruler had raised it up, and what triumph it would have commemorated; be it a conquest, the ascension of a new imperator, or the deification of an old one. The common folk of the city, however, did not care overly much about all that – to them it was simply a thing that had always been there; the Arch, the chief monument of Auvand’s Arch quarter, the city ward for which it was named.
“Well,” Cainen sighed. “There’s no sign of lady crimson dress, big fell–”
“Shh!” Kozef hissed. “Do you hear?!”
Cainen fell silent immediately, and listened carefully.
There was the distant sound of hooves, clattering hard and fast against the cobblestones. It was coming towards them, from the direction of the Arch.
The mercenaries, without so much as a word exchanged between them, retreated into the dark and concealing shadows of the nearest alleyway. They lingered carefully at the corner, keeping vigilant of the approaching stranger.
They saw the rider come into view, and watched as he crossed the plaza in a great haste, passing straight under the colossal archway. He did not bother to slow down and admire the arches’ fine but weather-worn bas-relief, the coffered soffit or the remarkable entablature.
After the rider passed under the archway, however, his steed’s pace began to slow. By the time he left the plaza proper and entered the street, his gallop had slackened into a lazy trot. The horse’s pace had turned into a slow, ambling walk by the time the rider was within striking distance of Kozef and Cainen, and the mercenaries could see immediately that the rider, currently, posed little threat to anyone.
The man was slumped forward – hunching over his saddle-bow, with his face almost pressed into the horses mane. Sprouting out of his back and shoulder they could see crossbow quarrels – three altogether – and each one was buried almost down to the fletching.
The rider continued to sink forward, until his cheek was flat against his horse’s mane. He sank further still, slipping to one side of the animal, and he fell awkwardly from his saddle and smacked into the cobblestones below with a hard thud. His left foot was still lodged in its stirrup.
The mercenaries made their way over to the stranger quickly. Cainen knelt beside the fallen rider while Kozef disengaged his foot from the stirrup.
“What happened, my friend?” Cainen asked him.
The stranger was lying on his side in a growing trickle of blood – he would no doubt be on his back, of course, were it not for the protruding crossbow bolts. His eyes were wide with shock and wild with fright.
“I have to return to the primate,” he gasped. He reached a hand out, grasping for nothing in particular.
Cainen took the man’s hand in his own and clasped it tightly.
“What is your name, my friend?”
“I have to return to the primate,” he muttered. His teeth were wet and red. “I have to get it back to where it will be safe.”
“What is your name?” Cainen asked again, gently. “Mine’s Cainen. And this is Kozef.”
“Pierron,” the rider gasped. His breathing was ragged. “I’m a member of the primate’s guard – and I have to return to him! The Polecats, they hit us hard. On Widow’s avenue, not far from the Squire’s Gate… They went for the decoy. And I was able to flee… But I have to return to the primate…”
The man trailed off, and finally let out a great shuddering sigh. He closed his eyes and went quite still, and Cainen could feel the clasp of his hand suddenly weaken, as the life drained out of his body.
The Fennishman felt for a pulse at the wrist, and then lowered the man’s hand.
“He’s done for,” he sighed.
“Here we are worrying about an old trinket and three pieces of silver taken from our purse,” Kozef said. “While poor Pierron here had to worry about the three crossbow bolts in his back. And whoever put them there. The Polecats, whoever they might be! And this business with the primate, too, whatever it is.”
“Well, I don’t think this fellow has to worry about anything anymore,” Cainen muttered.
“Look,” Kozef said, pointing towards the corpse’s waist. “He is still clutching his belt-bag tightly, do you see there?”
Cainen looked down at Pierron’s other hand. He could see it, grasping tightly at the leather purse attached to his belt. Cainen realised, then, that the man’s hand had been fixed there at least since his fall from the saddle.
It was a curious thing, Cainen realised – a rider, grievously wounded by three quarrels, falls from the back of his mount and hits the hard cobblestones below. Amidst his death-throes, he used one hand to receive solace from a stranger while the other maintained a firm grip on his belt-bag.
“Whatever is in there, it must have been deathly important to him.” Kozef, it seemed, had been thinking the same thought.
Carefully, Cainen disengaged the belt-bag from Pierron’s dead hand, undid the buckle, and lifted the flap.
There was only one item inside the bag – an object wrapped up in a fine linen cloth. Cainen lifted it out, stood up straight and unwrapped it.
It was a jewel, Kozef could see. But not any old piece fashioned from precious stone and polished up to a high shine. It was not the fraudulent glass earring of a high-class harlot, nor was it the garish ruby-and-silver necklace with which a rich merchant might adorn his young wife’s throat as a show of wealth and status. It was a wondrously beautiful thing to look upon, and the fact that it was surpassingly ancient and positively invaluable was plain to see.
The stone itself was the size of a small apple. It was perfectly, exquisitely round in shape, and across its surface it possessed what seemed like a million fine facets. Set around the stone was a thick band of wrought gold and what appeared to be ivory, and cut intricately into the ivory were depictions of some pagan imperator conquering and subjugating. The detail of the low relief was astonishing – Kozef could see the billowing cloaks and mantles, the armour made of fine iron scales and segmented bands. Altogether the diameter of the artefact was almost as great as that of a man’s splayed hand.
Around them the light of the full moon fell upon them stark and clear, filling the street. The stone caught the moonlight and shattered it brilliantly, throwing out a hundred thousand fine shining prismatic lances. At times it seemed even to pulsate – the thing was alive with radiance. It seemed perhaps not of the mundane world of men, but a thing of the stars and the heavens.
“This is no mere jewel,” Cainen murmured. “It is a piece of history. A piece of the Old Empire.”
“What is it, Cainen?”
“I don’t know,” the Fennishman said. “But I have a notion. When I was at the monastery, my old abbot told us the story of the imperator Caelummar. Men called him ‘the Proud’, and regarded him as one of the greatest rulers of the Old Loscia. He fancied himself pre-eminent in might and majesty of all the rulers of the world, and he was correct, more or less. But one day he heard tell of a magnificent jewel beyond compare, dug up in one of the small kingdoms far to the east. He and his generals made war against that kingdom, brought it into the imperial fold, and Caelummar claimed the prize for himself. He and his legions returned to Loscia in glorious triumph, holding the shining jewel aloft so that all might look upon it – and the people of the empire called it the ‘Star of Caelummar’.”
“But later on, people would also call it ‘Caelummar’s Folly’, for the jewel would bewitch him and captivate him, making him blind to all that was occurring just at his shoulder. Soon enough it led to his downfall. The generals who had helped him to win that foreign kingdom and its priceless jewel betrayed him and assassinated him, and one of their number then had himself proclaimed imperator and succeeded to the August Seat as Caelummar’s successor –
Antommias the Merciless.”
“Could it be, small man?” Kozef asked, his eyes wide with wonder. “Could this truly be the jewel from that story?”
“I’d be willing to bet the value of this thing that it is Caelummar’s Folly. What else could it be?”
“Whatever it is or isn’t, small man, it’s a firebrand!” Kozef said, grimly. “Brightly burning. Beautiful and captivating to look upon, yes, but it will scorch your hand no matter how you clasp it. And its light will draw others out of the dark. Others who we have no interest in meeting.”
“No pawn-broker will take it from us,” Kozef continued. “Our lives are in danger as long as we hold onto it, I think. It would be best if we were to set it down on the flags and just walk away, and forget about ever seeing it.”
“Or you could hand it over to me,” came a voice from somewhere above them.
Kozef and Cainen turned their gazes skyward. On the ceiling of the nearest house, perched like a bird on the roof’s peak they saw a shadowy figure, silhouetted against the brightness of the full moon.
“And what business is it of yours, gable pigeon?” Kozef grumbled, taking the swaddled relic from his comrade and packing it away in his belt-bag. “Come down here and tell us. Let us see you properly and speak eye-to-eye.”
“Simply set it down and walk away,” the figure hissed. “You need not worry about it. You yourself said that would be the best course of action.”
“Sure, maybe we’ve changed our minds already?” Cainen quipped. “I’m thinking this is just what we need, me and the big fellow. We’ve had it in mind to buy a couple of castles, you see. I want one on a cliff, and he wants one on a lake. This pretty piece should help with that. What’s the cost of a decent castle, these days?”
“Hand it over, you fools!” the stranger snapped. The voice, they realised, was that of a woman. “You’ll bring a mountain of grief down on your thick heads.”
“That voice!” Cainen exclaimed, cocking his ear. “It’s you, isn’t it?! The harlot in the crimson dress. You she-fiend, give us back what you stole from us!”
There was silence for a moment, and then a wicked giggle.
“Obviously, I’m no whore, not truly,” he said. “Stealing is my trade. And yes, I took the coin you hoped to pay me with and the silly little brooch you won from that bumpkin lord’s coffers. Mere trifles. You can have them back. But only if you first put the relic on the ground and step away from it.”
“A little silver brooch and some coins in exchange for this mother-of-all-treasures?” Kozef asked. “We truly would be fools if we were to accept that deal.”
“It’s in your best interests to hand it over to me, you blithering imbeciles!” she hissed. “You have no idea what you’re playing with. There are men who’ll do murder on you and grind your bones to meal just to see that artefact.”
“If you want it, maidamme, come and take it!” Kozef grumbled.
Although they could not be at all sure, the silhouetted woman seemed then to narrow her eyes and scowl at them – just then, however, her head turned to one side and she seemed to notice something far off to the north that gave her pause.
Kozef and Cainen themselves then turned to look northward – towards the plaza and the great ancient triumphal monument – and saw a band of men on foot swiftly passing through the archway, heading in their direction. When they emerged out of the shadows of the great arch, the stark moonlight fell upon them once again, and Kozef could see that it gleamed brightly off the blades of assorted knives and short-swords.
Kozef shot a quick glance back upwards, and the shadowy she-thief was nowhere to be seen. She had seen the men approaching and had immediately made herself scarce. He knew that he and his comrade, perhaps, should do the same.
“Quick! Onto the horse!” Cainen exclaimed.
Kozef did not argue.
With as much haste as they could muster the two mercenaries dashed towards Pierron’s horse, which, left to her own devices, had wandered away several paces up the street. Cainen grasped the beast’s bridle-strap and thrust one foot into the nearest stirrup, ready to climb up into the saddle – but something swift and sharp whirred through the night air and struck hard, burying itself into the steed’s rump just beside the tail. A crossbow bolt, no different from the ones that had ended Pierron’s life.
The poor beast let out a shriek and bolted away in a sudden mad fury, knocking Cainen backwards into Kozef’s arms.
It seemed that their feet, then, would have to suffice.
They rushed down the street away from the approaching band of armed men, heading the same way as the frantically-galloping horse.
Just as the mercenaries drew closer to the nearest corner – a place where the street they were currently dashing down intersected with another avenue – a second band of armed men, some six strong, came suddenly tearing around the corner and blocked their retreat. One of them carried a lantern.
“Ho!” the armed strangers shouted at the two vagabonds. “You two! Halt right there!”
Kozef and Cainen turned about immediately and ran back the way they had come. They had no interest in exchanging pleasantries with them either.
It became immediately apparent, however, that there was nowhere for them to go. They found themselves in a straight section of street without any intersecting avenues or alleyways down which they could quickly flee. And soon enough, they were caught in the middle of the street between the two bands of armed men. There were six to one side, and twelve to the other.
In the hurried haste of their flight, neither Kozef nor Cainen had taken the time to closely inspect either squad of armed assailants – and had assumed that they were both smaller contingents of a greater force. Now, however, they could see that that was likely not the case, for the two groups of men were decidedly different.
The men of the smaller group were outfitted in assorted armours – open-faced helms, kettle hats and arming caps, chain hauberks and brigandines overworked with vivid red leather or broadcloth. Their throats were, for the most part, protected by steel gorgets, and they wielded voulges, spears and short swords.
On their breasts, just beside the left shoulder each man wore a bright badge. They were standing too far away to distinguish fine detail, but Kozef already knew what the charge would have been, for he had seen it more than once throughout the previous day – a wild and rampant unicorn, yellow on a field of vivid red, surrounded by a dark blue border. The arms of the city of Auvand.
They were men of the city watch, tasked with patrolling that part of the city and apprehending anyone who might be out prowling after nightfall. Garbed in their bright attire and carrying aloft a shining lantern, they were no doubt meant to be seen from a distance by any curfew-breakers there in the Arch quarter.
It was clear that the other band of men, however, had little interest in being seen. They wore no armour, only simple and practicable clothes dyed in dark hues – greys, blacks, browns and dark blues, which seemed to help them blend into the shadows of the night.
Each man wore headgear pulled down quite low, obscuring their eyes or much of their faces from view – felt caps, floppy wide brimmed hats, coifs, berets, hoods and chaperons. The dark men wielded an assortment of weapons – all rather small, and easily concealed: there were short swords, knives, daggers and cudgels. Kozef could see that some of them even wielded crossbows: not the big heavy winch-operated things that one would see in castle sieges – but surprisingly light, almost delicate instruments that he had never seen before. He thought back to poor Pierron slumping over his horse’s neck, his back plugged full of nail-like crossbow bolts.
“Good evening, saigneurs,” called out one of the dark men. His voice rasped like rusted iron against stone, and the greeting seemed to pass straight over Kozef and Cainen’s head, being directed at the city watchmen. “We have some important business with these two men.”
The man who appeared to be the leader of the city watch patrol stepped forward three pac
es. About his mouth he had a small black beard that came to a point beneath his chin. He glared straight between Kozef and Cainen, keeping his eyes fixed on the large band of darkly-garbed men. His mouth was set in a hard line, but his eyes glared anxiously.
“Ha!” he replied. “Polecat business?”
The man with the raspy voice strode forward three paces and spoke again. “You are correct, master watchman. For who else could we be but Polecats? You and yours are watchmen from the Cygnet street watchhouse, is that correct? Near the bakeries?”
“That is correct,” affirmed the man with the small black beard.
“And the captain of your watchhouse is still Bastier Morat, is he not?”
“He is.”
The leader of the dark men turned to his comrades then, and exchanged a few quick words. He then turned his face back towards the watchmen.
“It would seem, then, that there has been an unfortunate oversight,” the man said. “For you should know that your captain has already received his gratuity from our society treasurers. As have many of the watch captains in this city. For on this night in particular we are conducting a very special operation, and it would simply not do to have watchmen blunder into us while we are seeing to this business of ours.”
“A gratuity?” the head watchmen spat. “You mean a bribe, I think. But Bastier Morat cannot be bought.”
“I think you’ll find that he can be bought,” the dark man said. “And that he most certainly has been bought. You ought to return to your watchhouse right now and ask him yourself.”
The head watchman looked back to his comrades then, and the group proceeded to chatter – nervously and hurriedly – amongst themselves. The head watchman turned back then and opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by the man with the rasping voice:
“Even if what you think is true – and that your Bastier Morat has not been bought by our treasurers – well simply look at what is before you, my friend, at this very moment. There are six of you, and twelve of us.”
Crooked Streets Page 13