Gosling looked down at the thin figure sprawled on the ground, face pale with pain and slick with cold sweat; he knew he ought to be able to finish Anton easily, and yet, even in his present state, with his face contorted in a grimace and his long, dark hair plastered to face and neck in wet strings, Anton Leyander seemed to possess the confidence of some inner strength, and this – along with past experience – worried Gosling, making him wary. Could it be that Anton still possessed some vestiges of the dragon-magic?
Anton’s vision clouded, eyes rolling as his brain considered the possibility of unconsciousness again. “Why do you do this?” he asked, lips dry.
“We ourselves have no reason,” Gosling answered. He raised the crossbow.
“You are mad, then?” Anton asked.
Gosling frowned and lowered the crossbow a few inches. “You think me insane?” he asked.
“It was you who informed me that you were without reason.”
“I meant only that Bryn and I had no reason to kill you.”
“Then you will allow me to go on my way, without further hindrance?” Anton asked.
“You misunderstand me deliberately, I think. While we two have no personal reasons to desire your death, we are employed by another who does.”
“Does what?”
“Have reason to wish you dead.”
“I see,” Anton said. “And what reason does your employer have?”
“I am not certain of his reason.”
“Then he is mad?” Anton asked.
Gosling sighed. “This is growing tiresome, why prolong it? Have you any last words?” he asked, raising the crossbow again.
“At least tell me the name of the man who has sent you to murder me.”
Gosling looked to his partner. Bryn shrugged: what harm could be done, Anton would be dead soon enough.
Anton unsheathed his sword while the two were distracted, but doubted that he’d have the strength to fight even one of them.
“We were hired by a man who called himself John Smith and wore a false beard so that we might not recognise him,” Gosling said.
“A little taller than you, dressed in black, spindly legs?” Anton asked.
Gosling nodded.
“His name is not John Smith,” Anton said. “It is Henrik. He will pay the fee for the contract, which presumably you will split. But which of you will claim the additional bounty for killing me?”
Gosling glanced toward Bryn, who was now approaching them.
“What bounty?” Bryn asked.
“Ah, Gosling has not told you of the reward offered by Lady Julianne for the killer of her husband?” Anton asked.
“I do not know of any reward,” Gosling said.
Bryn pushed Gosling aside and stood over Anton, sword drawn.
“Well, of course he must deny it now,” Anton said. “Having kept it secret.”
“Kill him and be done with it!” Gosling said.
“But the reward?” Bryn asked.
“There is no reward.”
“Hah!” Anton said.
“You intended to keep it all to yourself?” Bryn asked.
“Believe me, he is lying: there is no bounty. But if it did turn out to be the truth, I would – of course – split the sum equally with you.”
Seemingly satisfied, Bryn nodded: he turned back to Anton and raised his sword.
“You would accept an equal division, even though it was you alone who rode down the victim and performed the assassination?” Anton asked.
Bryn lowered his sword and turned to Gosling. “He has a point.”
Gosling sighed. “Very well, we shall split the proceeds six parts to four, with you taking the greater portion for killing him,” he said.
“Seven to three,” Bryn said.
“All right, seven parts to three. Kill him!” Gosling snapped.
Bryn smiled and raised his sword once.
“Did you notice how quickly he agreed?” Anton asked. “Are you not suspicious? I think he does not intend to share the rewards: he will kill you on the way back into town and keep it all.”
“This is ridiculous!” Gosling said, tossing the crossbow aside and drawing his own sword. “I will kill him myself.” He stepped forward, but Bryn turned to block his path.
“No. If anyone is to kill him, it shall be me.”
“Then do it!”
“The sooner you kill me, the sooner your own death will come,” Anton warned Bryn.
“Silence!” Gosling hissed.
Anton felt there was a real possibility that he could provoke them into attacking one another, allowing him to make his escape while they fought. “Do you think your friend so stupid, that he will fall for your murderous plot?” he asked Gosling.
“I have no plot,” Gosling said.
“He thinks you stupid,” Anton said to Bryn.
Bryn frowned.
“I do not think you stupid,” Gosling said to him. “Nor do I intend to kill you over some non-existent reward. Anton simply seeks to distract us, to set us at each other’s throats, so that he can then escape.”
“Is that true?” Bryn asked, turning to Anton.
“Well, of course it is, you idiot! Have you no brains?” Anton asked, exasperated. “How do you manage to work with this puddinghead, Gosling?”
“I myself sometimes wonder,” Gosling admitted.
Bryn roared. Blade flashing in the sunlight, he lunged at Anton.
Still sitting against the boulder, Anton gripped his sword, raising it at the last moment. He deflected the blade, and Bryn’s sword left his hand and went spinning away into a rock pool. The blond assassin cursed and stomped off to retrieve it.
Gosling rushed forward and stood over Anton, sword raised.
“How many times will you try to kill me?” Anton asked.
“I’m sure this will be the final one,” Gosling said.
“I saved your life in Drake’s Spur,” Anton said.
Gosling spread his arms in a wide shrug. “What can I say? People keep offering me money to kill you.”
“Let me go. If I leave and never again return to Sangreston, how is Sheldrake to know that you did not succeed in your task?” Anton asked.
Gosling wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, regarding him suspiciously. “Sheldrake?”
“Henrik – your ‘John Smith’ – is Sheldrake’s manservant.”
“And you know this how?” Gosling asked.
“Sheldrake is the only man who wishes me dead,” Anton said.
“I doubt that,” Gosling said. “How do I know this isn’t another of your tricks?”
Anton threw his sword on the ground at Gosling’s feet. “If that isn’t enough to persuade you, perhaps these are.” Anton took a leather purse from his belt and emptied the silver coins into the sand at Gosling’s feet.
Gosling bent to retrieve the coins. “What is to stop me taking these and killing you anyway?” he asked. But when he straightened and raised his sword, Anton was gone.
Anton crouched motionless in a ledge on the cliff face. He had expended the last of his strength pulling himself up there, and would be able to do little more to save himself if the assassins discovered him there.
“Where is he?” Gosling asked, looking around him, peering behind boulders.
Bryn shook his head, wiping the water from his sword with the sleeve of his shirt. He had seen Anton pull himself up into his hiding place. He watched Gosling playing hide-and-seek, and shook his head. “And Anton called me puddinghead,” he muttered. Bryn laid his sword on a rock and began climbing towards the ledge.
“Where are you going?” Gosling called.
“I will throw Anton down to you,” Bryn shouted down. “Stab him if gets up again.”
“Where is he? I can’t see him?”
“You can’t see anything,” Bryn muttered.
“I heard that!”
Bryn reached the ledge and cautiously peered up over the edge, fearing attack.
Anton sat cross-legged on the ledge, his back against the cliff face: a dozen small rocks sat in the palm of his hand.
“Do you sit on the eggs of a gull?” Bryn asked, pulling himself up onto the ledge.
“Someone has to protect them from vermin,” Anton said.
“And you will fend me off with a handful of pebbles?” Bryn asked. He drew his knife and brandished it.
Anton looked down at his hand. “These aren’t for you.”
“No?” Bryn frowned.
Anton edged away from Bryn, keep his back close to the cliff and the seat of his breeches in contact with the ledge. He looked over the edge, seeing water below him now. “How well do you swim?” he asked.
Bryn looked down, seeing the deep water below the cliff. “Well enough,” he said. “You will risk jumping?”
Anton shook his head and smiled. With a sudden movement, he sent the handful of pebbles up into the air and clattering into the rock face above and behind him.
Bryn’s frown turned into a look of fear as the cliff seemed to erupt suddenly, the air suddenly full of beating wings and the screams of seabirds. Bryn raised his arms to try and protect himself as the gulls attacked, trying to drive him away from their nests. Anton covered his head with his arms and sat back, presenting as small a target as possible. Bryn staggered back, the heels of his boots going off the edge of the cliff. For a moment he teetered there, balanced in his toes, and then he went over backwards. Several birds followed him down, to make sure he was gone, and then wheeled away screeching victoriously as Bryn hit the water.
As the birds returned to their roosts, Anton edged forward and peered down at the sea. He could see the widening circle of white bubbles where Bryn had hit, but there was no sign of him. Anton held his breath, waiting for the assassin to surface. Had he hit his head on rocks beneath the surface? For the longest time, there was nothing: the surface of the sea swallowed all sign of Bryn’s plunge and waves slapped against the bottom of the cliff. And then a head broke the surface and sounds of gasping reached Anton’s ears. He let go of his own breath, and turned back to his own predicament. An upward climb offered the best chance for escape. He stood, testing his weight on the swollen knee. There was a deep crack in the cliff face that he ought to be able to climb, without disturbing the nesting gulls. He glanced back, to make sure Gosling wasn’t creeping up behind him, and then started to climb.
“Help me, throw me a rope!” Bryn cried. “If I die here, I will come back and haunt you, you little turd!”
“Did you just call me a turd?” Gosling shouted.
“It was a term of endearment...!”
Chapter Forty-Six
It was a large tub. A masterpiece of the coopers’ art. Each curved stave lay flush with its neighbour, two iron rings securing them without the aid of a single nail. Sheldrake had not considered it before, but it occurred to him now that the servants must set the tub on its side and roll it into his chamber, like a giant wheel, and set it down before the fire. He wondered where it was kept when it was not here. He had never seen it empty. He knew that the water was heated in the kitchen downstairs and brought up in huge kettles. One of the kettles stood beside the tub now: after he had washed, he liked to top up the tub with more hot water, and to be left alone to think. He rarely pondered the mundane logistics of his bath. These thoughts, he knew, were crowding out of his head the things he did not want to think about. Were the farmers, in their fields, plagued with thoughts? Decisions to be made? Or were their lives simpler – filled with the fundamental needs of survival? Were their decisions made for them as a result of the harsh circumstances? And should he, the Captain of the Guard, feel this envy for their lifestyle? He leaned back and closed his eyes.
“Hello Sheldrake.”
Sheldrake’s eyes snapped open.
Anton Leyander sat in an armchair near the fire, facing the tub. His shirt was dirty and stained with blood.
“Do not get up,” Anton said. “Let me get you a drink, you look like you have seen a ghost.” He rose and moved to the side table where glasses and a brandy decanter were set on a small tray.
Sheldrake watched him limp back towards him with the drink. He leaned forward suddenly, seizing Anton’s wrist and spilling the brandy. “You are flesh and blood!” Sheldrake said.
“Did you think me a phantom?” Anton asked, passing Sheldrake the full glass, and returning to the decanter to refill the spilled one.
“I sent men to kill you.” The glass in his hand shook.
“Ah, yes, sorry about them,” Anton said.
“Sorry?”
“They didn’t suffer,” Anton said. “Well, not much.”
There were soft plops as he threw two dark objects into the tub between Sheldrake’s legs. Instinctively, Sheldrake tried to move away from them, sitting higher in the tub.
“Souvenirs,” Anton said.
Sheldrake reached into the water, drew out the two objects and examined them. Ears. Their severed edges dark. One ear whitish, with a heavy gold ear-ring, the other smaller, darker. He tossed them aside, his face twisted in disgust.
“You should not send fools to do men’s work,” Anton said. He tut-tutted reprovingly. “Drink up,” he said brightly.
Sheldrake swallowed the liquor, held back the cough as it burned his throat. He leaned over to set his glass on the floor beside the tub.
“I am very disappointed in you – sending assassins after me. Wasn’t I worth your personal attention?”
Hunched over in the bath, hugging his knees, Sheldrake watched Anton turn to the mirror and unfasten his shirt. He pulled his shirt up over his head, let it fall to the floor. His movements were slow, painful. His body was bruised and grazed as a result of his recent confrontation.
Anton turned and saw the expression on Sheldrake’s face. “You’re wondering how I recovered from my treatment in your dungeon,” Anton said. “I have friends with access to the old magic. I have even used myself, on occasion.” He moved towards Sheldrake’s wardrobe, threw open the doors.
Sheldrake looked around wildly, trying to locate something he could use as a weapon. He found nothing, not daring leave the relative safety of the tub.
“What am I going to do with you, Sheldrake?” Anton asked over his shoulder.
Sheldrake tried to make himself smaller in the water, to present less of a target when Anton approached with whatever instrument of punishment he was reaching into the wardrobe to extract.
When Anton turned towards him, Sheldrake flinched. Then he laughed, relieved. Anton was holding one of Sheldrake’s shirts. Anton’s face was pale and sweat stood out on his brow. Sheldrake smiled weakly as Anton pulled on the shirt.
“Why did you send those two after me?” Anton asked. He leaned against the bedpost.
“You pretend that you do not know?” Sheldrake asked. “You were Eòghan’s fool!”
Anton smiled and nodded.
“You heard me confess my ambitions,” Sheldrake said. “I had to ensure you could not repeat what you heard.”
Anton nodded again, but did not reply.
Sheldrake sat in his cooling bath water considering his predicament. “Eòghan did not believe you when you told him of my plotting,” he said finally. “He thought it a joke. Why should anyone else think otherwise? And who could you tell? I am Captain of the Guard, there is currently no authority above mine to whom you could appeal. And any report you make of my activities would reveal your own deception in gaining entry to Eòghan’s chambers as a simple fool.”
Anton considered this and nodded slowly. “It would not benefit me to be revealed as the fool, given the fool has been charged in his absence with Lord Eòghan’s murder.”
“It would be to our equal advantage never to speak of what occurred within the castle walls,” Sheldrake said. “We could each bring about the ruin of the other, and of ourselves, by breaking our silence.”
The water in the tub was cold now, and a soapy scum was forming on its surface.
“A mutual tongue-holding on this matter would serve all of our purposes,” Anton said. “Except the one.”
“Which of our purposes remains unserved by our agreeing to remain silent?” Sheldrake asked.
“My intention to see that you pay for what you have done,” Anton said.
“Why do you care that Eòghan is dead?” Sheldrake asked. “What was he to you?”
“Eòghan, Torrance, the Scarlet Hood, and a young guardsman called Conrad – there are battles where fewer men were killed,” Anton said. “Those men deserve justice. I will have you confess your guilt over the rooftops.”
Sheldrake laughed. “Torrance’s spirit said the same thing. I am not afraid of any torment men or phantoms may threaten.”
“That sounds very much like a challenge,” Anton said, smiling. “I accept!”
“I am not afraid to die,” Sheldrake said.
“There are far worse things than death,” Anton said, “and worse than your little chamber of horrors downstairs. Death shall not be your fate.”
Sheldrake shivered: “What will you do?” he whispered.
Anton frowned, then shrugged. “For the moment, my only intention is to drink a vat of wine to dull the pain, and then I will sleep,” he said, straightening. He turned and limped across the chamber towards the door. “I will see myself out.”
Sheldrake held his breath until the door to his chamber closed.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The blacksmith’s yard was dark and empty at this hour of night. The smell of burnt charcoal hung on the breeze. The old man, who was not named John Smith, stood in the shadows by the neighbouring barber’s shop and waited.
A figure, dressed in black, approached from the street.
“You are early, Mr. Blade,” the old man said softly.
“And you, sir, will be late.” The shadowy figure drew his sword and moved towards the old man.
“Sir? Is that you? What are you doing here? It is dangerous for you to be here, you may be seen: I am about to meet the assassins.” The old man backed off as far as he could and came up against the barber’s shop door. The point of the sword rested in the soft folds of his throat.
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