Back From Chaos

by Yvonne Hertzberger

  Long years of training had taught him such skills. But his captors must not know that. His survival depended on anonymity and his ability to convince them that, in his assumed identity, they had nothing to fear and possibly an ally to gain. So he stumbled more than necessary, bumping into each man that held him, gleaning information as he did so. One smelled like a heavy drinker, the odour of sour wine penetrating through the scent of barley from the flour bag over his head. The other badly needed a bath. No refinement there. He could also tell they were inexperienced in taking prisoners. Not trained soldiers, then. Good.

  The men shoved him roughly down by a pillar set in the floor, trussed him up to it and bound his ankles. They were obviously taking no chances. Confident that he could not escape, they removed the bag from his head. Klast gave himself a moment to adjust to the dimness of the warehouse and looked around. What he observed confirmed his suspicions. This warehouse stored casks of cooking oils and sacks of flour.

  Four men sat around on casks, pulled into a semicircle around the pillar Klast sat tied to. The fifth sat on a stool to the side, half hidden in the shadows.

  As soon as he spoke, Klast recognized the voice as that of the man from the bath. Klast’s opinion of him rose a couple of notches. This was no fool. Not only had he not revealed himself at the bath, he had not met him in the common room afterwards and had made no effort to contact him since. And he had managed to capture Klast and bring him here unseen. Klast knew he would have to proceed very carefully. He needed to gain this man’s trust in order to infiltrate the conspirators. Failure likely meant death, not an option he cared to think about. Klast made a show of looking warily about him, straining to see the man in the shadows. He knew enough not to speak first.

  “Seems ye be unhappy with the changes in Bargia. Bin mouthin’ off about the new lady,” said the man in the shadows.

  Klast remained silent. He needed more clues before deciding how to respond. He felt carefully behind his back for the familiar feel of the blade he kept hidden in his belt.

  He had commissioned the finger-length blade to his exact specifications years ago. It fit neatly between the two leather layers of his belt at the back where he could reach it with his hands tied. Klast had removed the stitching from the belt and had re-stitched only the outer layer, so that the change remained invisible. In all his scrapes, no one had ever discovered it. The secret had saved his life on more than one occasion. With each new belt he bought he always took out the stitching, placed the blade in between the layers, and stitched up the outside layer to look like it had never been altered.

  Yes, he could still feel it. The movement served as much to keep circulation going as to reassure himself he could retrieve it, as his fingers had begun to go numb. The bindings had been pulled expertly tight. The men had relieved him of the dagger in his boot and the larger one visible at his side, but had missed this hidden blade. He did not think he would need it, but in the event that they left him tied up alone, it would allow him to free himself.

  Shadowman went on. “What be yer name, and why be ye so interested in the doings of the lord and his lady? Ye ask a lot o’ questions fer a trader.”

  “Name’s Mirral. And what’s it to you what I say or think? No harm in sayin’ my mind, last I heard. No crime to talk. And who be you, anyway?”

  “I be askin’ the questions. Best talk so we dinna have to make ye. Could be, if I get the right answers, I might let ye in on a thing or two.”

  Klast gave a derisive snort and kept still. He didn’t want to appear too stupid, but not too clever either.

  The next half span had Klast treading a fine line between arrogant self-importance and servility. He tried to convince the leader that he could be trusted, and that he also knew enough to be useful if action had to be taken in a pinch. In the end, the leader decided he did not want to make the decision on his own.

  “Ye seem t’ speak true,” Shadowman told Klast, “but just t’ be sure we be able t’ use a man like you, I be checkin’ wi’ the boss. I be leavin’ ye the light, but I willna untie ye ’til we get back.” With that he stood up and motioned the rest to follow him out the door.

  “Ye dinna think he needs a guard on ’im?” one of the men asked, looking back from the door.

  The leader chuckled. “He isna goin’ anywhere. Best no one talks to ’im ’til we get word what to do with ’im.” With that he locked the door, and Klast found himself alone.

  Within moments, Klast had cut himself free and replaced the small blade back in its hiding place. Then he made careful note of the placement of his dagger and boot knife. They lay on the floor in shadow, next to the stool the leader had sat on. He could not change their position without giving himself away, but wanted to be able to grab them swiftly if needed. He moved them just a little closer, hoping no one would notice since they remained in shadow. While he worked, he looked carefully about and set up an escape plan. He toyed with the idea of leaving but discarded it immediately, shaking his head at his own stupidity. Disappearing would not only prevent him from getting the information he needed but would also give him away.

  The lamp they had left burning for him stood a few feet from where he sat, just out of reach of his boots. He drew it closer, so that he could reach it instantly. This warehouse had been kept exceptionally clean. The floors were swept and all bags and casks neatly piled. Klast remedied this by breaking open a bag of flour and laying a trail from the bag to the lamp. He kept it small so that, in the dim light, it was almost unnoticeable. Next, he opened a small clay jug of oil and poured it over the flour trail in a thin stream. These he scuffed together, so that they looked like dirty boot marks left behind by his captors. If blame were to be laid, it would fall on them.

  Klast knew the grave risk he took by starting a fire in the warehouse district. If it spread out of control, it spelled disaster for the city. The warehouse buildings were built mostly from wood. Many had small docks at the back, where irrigation streams allowed offloading of the boats that arrived via the river.

  But Bargia had also been well planned for the possibility of fire. By law, each warehouse had to have two full wagon widths of open space around it. This space had to be kept clear at all times. While many traders obeyed this law loosely, and most warehouses had at least some debris piled outside, Sinnath was not one of them. Klast knew Sinnath obeyed the law to the letter. He owned a number of warehouses under his family business, and he always kept them clean and clear. Sometimes being a stickler for tradition and control could be an asset. Klast hoped this warehouse, on this particular day, would not prove the exception and that those adjacent also remained free of debris. He could not risk going outside to check. He did remember that the warehouses on each side of this one also belonged to Sinnath, so he could be reasonably confident about at least these three.

  He had some time yet before the men would arrive back, so he used it to stretch arms and legs that had become cold and cramped tied to the post. When he heard the commotion at the door that announced his captors’ return, he positioned himself back at the post as though still tied.

  ~65~

  FIRE!

  “’E’s back ’ere, sir.” That was the voice of the group’s leader, whose name Klast still had not been able to confirm. The man was cagey. But Klast thought he went by Markel.

  Another piped in with a nervous laugh. “Got ’im tied up good ’n tight.”

  “Bring that other light. I will want to get a good look at his face when I speak to him. I can tell if a man can be trusted.”

  That voice clinched Klast’s reservation about fire. He knew Sinnath would recognize him, even in poor light, in spite of his disguise. He could not risk that. With a swift kick he knocked over the small oil lamp by his feet and waited just long enough to see the start of the dense black smoke he knew would soon envelop the room. Even as he confirmed that the oil had caught the flame, he had his dagger back in his belt and the boot knife in his hand. He fled to the back in
the dark, just ahead of the smoke. It was well that he had planned his escape route. He had kept his eyes closed at the last, while waiting for the group to return, so that they needed no further adjustment to the dark. Even so, the dim light from the fire became so blocked by smoke he soon found himself moving by feel.

  Klast just managed to flee behind some barrels, as Sinnath and the others rushed in yelling, “Fire!”

  He heard Sinnath shout in fury, “Where is he? You idiots!” before he was forced back by the flames, coughing.

  As Klast exited by a small side door and ran through the shadows, he could see that the warehouse already burned beyond saving. A quick glance confirmed that the one next to it had nothing in the way, much to his relief. He watched from a hiding place under an overhang by the door of the next building as the group stumbled out, shouting for buckets and water. No one heard. All Bargia’s good citizens lay asleep in their beds.

  He watched Sinnath eye the building and the surrounding street. The man’s nervousness told him that Sinnath realized the precariousness of his position, out here so late at night when he ought to be in bed. He watched Sinnath stride away quickly, pulling up the hood of his coat to hide his features and keeping to the shadows, as Klast had. Klast let him go and chose different prey. He had seen and heard enough to confirm Sinnath’s treachery, but knew that his word alone would not be enough to convince the people, possibly not even the other members of the council. He needed more.

  As Klast watched the men helplessly trying to put out the fire with water from the canals, he chose his victim. The man who had tied him up seemed too stupid to keep his mouth shut, a bully who most certainly would prove too cowardly to keep silent under pressure. When the man stumbled close to where Klast hid, he wrapped an arm around his throat from behind before he could squawk.

  Klast growled softly into his ear as he held his knife in front of the man’s eyes. “One sound and that breath will be your last.” The warning was more to instil fear than out of need.

  The commotion around the fire had by now attracted attention from newcomers, who began to pour out of nearby streets and alleys, buckets in hand.

  The man gave a tight nod, which was all he could do given the grip about his neck.

  “Let us take a short trip to see Lord Gaelen. I am certain he will have some questions for you.” Klast released his grip long enough to slip a rope around his captive’s neck, which he tightened just enough to let the man know his breath would be cut off if he pulled on it. Klast had readied the makeshift noose with the rope they had used to tie him to the post.

  With the noose firmly in place and no rope left with which to tie the fellow’s hands, Klast hissed in his ear, “Place your arms inside your belt, to the sides where I can see them.”

  When his captive tucked his hands in his belt just to the wrists Klast gave a tug on the rope and growled, “Deeper!” The man gasped and quickly complied, pushing his hands as far as he could reach, so that his elbows sat just above the edge of his belt. Klast hiked the belt up as far as it would go and gave the man a small shove. “Walk.”

  Klast took him by back ways and narrow alleys, with enough turns both to thoroughly confuse his prisoner and to stay out of sight of curious eyes. Once inside the walls of the castle, Klast grabbed a lamp from its peg on the wall. At the last, they arrived at the same small, windowless cell where Klast had left Brensa those long eightdays ago. Klast shoved the man in, barred the door and removed the noose, all while holding his boot knife ready.

  The fellow eyed Klast, and at a nod from him removed his arms from his belt and rubbed them where its edge had pressed into his skin. Klast ordered him to remove his belt and boots. He set them beside the door, dropping the small dagger the prisoner had carried into one. A cursory check of the blade had revealed that it was almost uselessly dull.

  Then Klast shoved him to the floor in a corner and thrust a battered bucket into his lap. “That is to piss in. Miss and you’ll never please a woman again.”

  The man’s eyes widened in fear as they fell on the knife still held menacingly in Klast’s hand. He nodded spastically, his hands moving instinctively to protect his manhood.

  Klast grabbed the handle of the lamp he had taken from the hall and turned to leave. To his surprise the prisoner uttered a strangled, “No! Leave the light!”

  As Klast turned back to look at him, he recognized the same stark terror he remembered from years ago in Rand’s victims. He felt a small pang of sympathy but dismissed it immediately. Fear of the dark would make the traitor more tractable when they returned to question him.

  “I need it, I’m afraid,” Klast said coolly and shut the door, taking the boots and belt with him. He placed them behind a loose stone in the wall that had been hollowed out for just such a need before he strode off to speak with Gaelen.

  He found Gaelen in a rare moment of repose, taking an early tea in the garden with Marja. Brensa sat in the sun doing needlework, out of earshot but within sight should her lady need her. It was she who noticed Klast first, as she always did. Her eyes went to the gate as the guard opened it to admit him. Her embroidery stilled in her lap, the needle halfway through a stitch. She met his eyes briefly as he entered, then smiled shyly and looked away as he approached Gaelen and Marja.

  Gaelen’s head came up as Klast spoke.

  “My lord, I must speak with you in private immediately. There is a new development with regard to the news you seek.”

  Marja’s eyes narrowed at this, though she said nothing. As Gaelen rose, she sighed in resignation. Gaelen’s one shoulder rose with a small shrug of apology.

  Klast stopped on the way out to acknowledge Brensa. Her eyes had been boring a hole in his back, and he could feel the longing there. “It is good to see you stronger and well again, Brensa.”

  His heart gave a painful lurch, as her face fell at his failure to say more. She looked so forlorn. Earth, he was no good at this! He must try harder to be friendly. But how? What else could he say to her? He did not want to lead her on.

  Klast knew that his own longing matched hers, but old habit had led him to withdraw from her again. Surely she could understand that they could not be together … could she not? He shook his head in frustration.

  Anyway, he expected Gaelen would soon send him away again on another mission. She would have to learn not to count on him. He wondered why that thought gave him no satisfaction.

  ~66~

  MESSALIA

  Messalia was mildly surprised when she found herself wakened by her guard in the middle of the night. This happened only rarely. When it did, the visitor was always important. The man had orders to send all others away until morning. So it piqued her curiosity when the guard told her the identity of her night visitor.

  Messalia arrived in the hall to find Sinnath pacing and led him into her private study. Neither spoke a word until both were seated.

  Messalia opened. “Tea is on the way Sinnath. I must say I am surprised by your arrival at this early span. I am not accustomed to being roused out of my bed, and would not do so for many. Your need must be great, so I will not engage in idle talk. Tell me what has occurred while we wait for the tea.”

  She leaned back in her chair and regarded Sinnath through lidded eyes, trying not to study his agitation too obviously. There was something going on, and she needed to be on her mettle. She could afford no mistakes. They lived in dangerous times.

  Sinnath, for his part, was clearly too worried to notice Messalia’s calculated observation of him. She could see that something had shaken him badly and left him off balance. Yet, he still retained enough self-control not to blurt everything.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Messalia. I apologize for the early span. I have just come from one of my warehouses, which burns to the ground as we speak. While it does not ruin me, as I have others, nevertheless its loss will be felt.” He hesitated, as if not sure how to proceed.

  A small knock came at the door, an
d Messalia rose to admit the servant woman bringing tea. The poor woman had dressed hastily, and had left her hair still covered with her nightcap.

  Sinnath’s gaze fell on the currant bread, butter and honey.

  So, he was hungry, Messalia mused. She used the distraction to make a show of pouring and serving tea as she continued to evaluate the situation. His hands shook as he accepted the plate and buttered his bread. She set the teacup on a small table beside his chair and noted that he added far too much honey compared to last time, another symptom of his distress.

  She set her own cup and a plate with a small slice of the bread and honey beside her on her writing table and sat down to wait. Before she opened her mouth she wanted more information. Things must be desperate indeed.

  Sinnath swallowed a large bite, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively, and folded his hands together between his knees to control their tremor.

  “I was called to the warehouse a few spans ago by a worker of mine. He said he saw a light inside, and he heard voices. Rather than accost the intruders, he came immediately to fetch me. He is not a fighting man, you see, and had no means to arrest anyone.”

  Messalia smiled to herself as she watched Sinnath examine his thumbs, hands still stuck between his knees. When she did not immediately speak, he raised his head to study her face. He would read nothing there, she knew.

  Messalia noted the sweat appearing on his brow. Finally, she took pity. “What is it you wish from me, Sinnath?” She took a sip of her tea, watching his face over the rim of her cup.

  Sinnath threw his hands open in a gesture of helpless inquiry. “What does it mean? What does it bode? I need to know what it is safe for me to do. These are unpredictable times for Bargia.”

  The last was added to cover his realization that he had spoken almost with panic, not thinking clearly. The gesture gave Messalia a small shiver of delight. The man was positively squirming.

  “These are indeed unpredictable times for Bargia, as you say, Sinnath. We have had changes in leadership, a new lady, added a demesne under our rule and suffered losses from the plague. Things have been unsettled and will continue so for some time. This much is apparent. Yet what these things bode for you is hidden to me. My sight has given me nothing about you, particularly.” Then, in a soft, soothing tone, she added, “Perhaps, if you can be more specific in your questions, more will come to me.” It did not hurt to make a show of compassion.