by Tim Stead
It all looked simple from where Francis sat, but he knew it was clever. Falini had used his enemy’s success against him. He’d lost hundreds of men in the process, but he’d won the city. That was something to bear in mind when he killed the man. Blood for blood. He would have to be careful.
The battle was over by midday on the second day. Many of Falini troops were out of the city hunting down what remained of Derali’s forces and no doubt pursuing the duke himself. That was their business. Francis made his way back to the town to speak to General Delarsi.
He found the guard on the gate doubled, but they let him through with hardly a murmur. Delarsi was waiting for him.
“I thought you’d come,” the general said. He was pacing in his reading room, wearing out his carpet. “It’s time to move,” he said.
“The north of the city is in chaos,” Francis said. “Half of Falini’s troops are scattered about the countryside and Derali’s men are in full flight. But I need a couple of days.”
“Days? No. We need to act now.”
“Derali’s men are finished. If I cut off the head of the snake it will be easier to quell Falini’s men.”
The general paused in his pacing and stroked his chin. “Kill Falini? Now? It would be effective, but are you sure you can do it?”
“I killed his father.”
“So you did, but the young Falini knows that, and he knew the precautions his father took, and he’s no fool. He’ll be expecting you.”
“Just give me two days.”
“No. In two days he’ll have his men back in harness, patrols in the streets, strong positions secured all over the city. We need to hit him now while he’s disorganised, while he thinks he’s won.”
“But if I kill him…”
“If you fail we will have lost our chance. I’ll give you one night. If you can kill him tonight well and good, but in the morning the city regiments will move, it’s the most I can do.”
Francis considered the proposition. He’d have no time to inspect Falini’s precautions, no chance to test his strategy. He’d have to go in cold. Add to that the fact that he had no idea where Falini the younger spent his nights, and it seemed an impossible prospect.
But he had to try. He had to try for Calitanto, for Rubel, for Johan and all the others whose blood stained Falini’s family.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
The general smiled, and Francis knew that the old man would be pleased either way. Succeed or fail, the general would be rid of a problem.
Night was the best time for killing. Francis spent the afternoon making sure that he was ready. He took the opportunity to walk past the Falini estate in daylight and noted that the gates were heavily guarded, that the walls were thick with patrols, and all the measures that had been put in place by the older Falini had been maintained or enhanced. It was going to be almost impossible to do the job in one night.
He stopped at a food cart in a nearby commercial street and ate a bit of burnt meat on a stick. He sat on a step and thought about it. Even using his gift he knew that the patrols were so frequent that his grapple would be heard and seen, he would be pursued from the moment that he climbed the wall. There would be no serving maids opening the kitchen door this time. His chances, if he was honest, were slim.
He needed a better plan. He had to find a certain route to Falini, a way to find him quickly, to kill and be gone.
He remembered the horsemen on the dockside.
He had not really thought about them, but it seemed that he had killed them merely by grabbing at them with… something. But what? And could he do it again?
There was only one way to know for certain.
He walked back to the Falini estate, careful not to pause as he walked along by the south wall. He saw three patrols, each comprising three men, and picked the second man in the second patrol. He paused, looked up at the wall and reached out.
Physically he bent down and pretended to tug at his boot laces, but in his head he was almost blind. He imagined the red hand again, reaching for his chosen victim.
This time it felt different. There was a sense of control that he’d lacked before, and he could pause, almost feel the glow of the soldier’s existence warming whatever sense it was he was using, and he hesitated, just for a moment. A man’s life, he thought. Then he tugged. There was a rush of heat in his chest, a feeling of power.
He heard shouting nearby, and stood up, glanced across as any passer-by might to see what the commotion was about – a man collapsed on the duke’s wall. He allowed his glance to linger for a count of three and then walked on.
It worked. It was a power that he could summon at will, and that was both a comfort and a frightening thing. It seemed that he was accumulating gifts – the thief gift, the healer’s gift and now this. He had never heard of it, this killing by will alone, but it gave him a new card to play. Now he need fear no one.
*
He waited until evening. His new plan was bold, some would have called it stupid, but it had several things going for it. He had something that Falini desperately wanted, and that would be enough. He left his blade and grapple at home. He would not need them tonight.
Seven guards loafed outside the main gate, confident, perhaps, that the thing against which they guarded would choose a less obvious point of entry, but Francis walked up to them just as the sun was setting and the street was filled with a reddish yellow light, almost like a thousand thousand candles blazed down from the surrounding roofs.
“I have information for the duke,” he said.
The guards were alert at once. Their chief approached him and stood a little too close, forcing Francis to take half a step back.
“What do you know?” he demanded.
“For the duke’s ears alone,” he said. “I know who killed his father.”
The guard grabbed the front of his shirt.
“Tell me!”
Francis was a smith, a big man and strong with it. He shrugged off the guard’s grip. “You think I’m stupid?” he asked. “If I tell you you’ll claim the reward yourself.”
This was a risk. It was possible that a greedy and disloyal guard would try to wring the information out of him, and he would have to kill them, but he was pleased to see the chief guard look at him with disgust.
“You’re in command,” he said to one of the others, and then to another “Arran, you come with me.” One of the guards detached himself from the group and followed Francis as he was led through the gate and along the gravel road that led to the big house. It looked alive with light, and there were people everywhere. For the first time Francis began to realise that his escape was going to be the hard part of this.
The front door opened at the guard’s knock, and a man stepped out, blocking the door.
“What’s this?” he said, staring at Francis.
“Claims to know who killed the duke,” the gate guard said.
The door guard looked Francis up and down. “If you’re lying you’ll lose your head,” he said.
“I’m not lying,” Francis replied.
“So who was it?”
He shook his head. “I’ll only tell the duke.”
The door guard slapped him, hard. “You’ll tell me, or you won’t get past this door,” he said.
Francis hadn’t anticipated quite so public a confrontation. If he killed these men now he would be seen by twenty or more others.
“Fine,” he said. “If the duke doesn’t want to know…”
The guard went to hit him again, but Francis caught his arm and pushed him back. He was promptly grabbed from behind, but stepped back and twisted free. There were only three of them.
“Duke’s standing orders,” the chief gate guard said. “He’ll want to question the man himself.”
A tense few seconds followed while the door guard glowered. Francis stared back at him.
“All right, but we search him first.”
The door guard carried out the search, r
oughly, pushing Francis to and fro in an attempt to provoke him, but he stayed calm. He was getting close.
“What are you?” the gate guard asked.
“Master Smith,” Francis replied. “I work down by the docks.”
“Dock Ward?” the door guard sneered. “We should burn that rats’ nest out.”
Which was why Falini had to die, why these men had to be prevented from having their way with Afael. Thousands would die if Francis failed tonight. There had been a tiny spark of uncertainty when he’d walked up to the gate, a thought that perhaps this was the wrong thing to do, but the door guard’s words snuffed it out.
Thoroughly searched, he was taken inside the house, now surrounded by four guards. He knew the layout from his previous visits, but had never seen it lit up like this. He was surprised by the colours, the rich chestnut of the panelling, the deep reds and greens of the rugs that covered the floor and the dark stone between them.
He almost expected to be led up the staircase, but of course the young Falini, fresh from his triumph at the city walls, would not yet be abed. He was taken though a room filled with paintings, and couches set about to sit and admire them, and onwards into a sitting room of sorts where several men were clearly celebrating their victory.
He’d never seen the young duke, but it was obvious which he was. He was the youngest in the room, and everyone there was turned towards him, their new lord, their next king. A moment later they all turned to look at Francis.
“What’s this?” Falini asked, the smile still lingering on his face. He was handsome, Francis supposed, but there was a chill in his eyes.
“This man says he knows who killed your father, my lord,” the gate guard said.
The smile vanished. Falini stood. The cold eyes drilled into Francis’s own. “Really?” he said. “What’s your name, man?”
“Gayne,” Francis said. “Francis Gayne, master smith of Dock Ward. There’s a reward, I heard.”
Falini stepped around the chair he’d been sitting in and came face to face with Francis. The guards around him tensed. “Aye, a reward,” he agreed. “Ten thousand for the man who brings me my father’s killer.”
“Is the money here?” Francis asked.
Falini smiled. “It is,” he said. “Mikkel, bring the money out. Show it to him.”
One of the men left the room.
“You’re an avaricious man, Gayne. Gayne by name and nature. You’ll be rich if you know the name, dead if you don’t. How does that make you feel?”
“Rich,” Francis replied. He’d become part of Falini’s performance now. Everyone else in the room was watching, waiting for the denouement. Falini plucked a dagger from his belt. It was a pretty thing, jewelled hilt, blade etched with abstract patterns, but none the less deadly for that. He rested the point on Francis’s chest.
“You’re certain?” he asked.
Money or not, name or not, Francis realised that Falini had no intention of letting him leave the room alive. He could see it in the young duke’s eyes. This was just a game to him, and if he found his father’s killer that was a bonus.
“Quite certain,” Francis said.
“Will you give us a hint, Master Gayne?” he said. “A little clue so we might guess while we wait?”
It was a taunt, Francis supposed, but he could play a game as well as the next man.
“A clue, my lord? As you wish. The man that killed your father is in this room with you.”
He saw Falini’s eyes widen a little. The duke half turned and looked at his companions. “Truly?” he asked. His tone suggested that Francis had at last piqued his interest. “Or perhaps it’s you?” he said, turning back again. Francis shrugged.
“You’ll find out when I see the money.”
With perfect timing the man the duke had called Mikkel returned with a modest but heavy wooden chest. He set in on a table and opened it. Even from half way across the room Francis could see the glint of gold. Ten thousand was more money than he’d see in his life. He was once again impressed and thankful that nobody had betrayed him.
“There’s the money, Master Gayne,” Falini said. “Now let’s have the name.”
Francis looked around the room. He certainly had their attention now. He allowed his eyes to lose focus, turned his attention inward to the power that surged up inside him. He was aware of then standing around him. He reached out.
“It was me,” he said. “I killed him.”
“You?” Falini was inches away, the knife in his hand wrapped in white knuckles, his eyes bright.
“Just like I’m going to kill you,” he said, and snatched at them with his power. It was like cutting the strings of festival puppets. Everyone in the room fell lifeless at the same instant, a chair tipped over, a table broke as one of Falini’s guests crashed onto it.
It was different from killing the guard on the wall, different from the three horsemen on the docks. He felt full, bloated and feverish. The back of a chair lent him support and he clutched it, breathing deeply for a moment.
The light headedness passed.
He was standing in a room full of corpses, and ten thousand in gold winked at him from a few feet away. He stooped and picked up Falini’s jewelled knife, tucked it into his belt and stepped over the duke’s body. The chest of gold was heavy, but he was damned if he was going to leave ten thousand lying around for someone else to steal. He tucked it under his arm and went to the window. Outside he could see guards patrolling the gravel. He couldn’t open a window. They would see it at once.
He went to the door and listened. It was quiet outside, but he was sure that there were more guards in the corridor. He had seen them there on the way in, and he had no reason to think that they had left.
He could kill them, of course, but that option was unattractive. He felt that another few lives taken in that abrupt way would weaken him to the point of disability. He found that he was sweating, and shook his head to clear it again. He felt tired, too, deep down in his bones.
Another thought struck him – a way out. He turned it over in his mind, not quite sure if he was thinking clearly, but it seemed to work. He looked around the room. One of the windows was a bay, and the bay was filled out with a shelf, a sort of window seat, he supposed. That would do.
He called his thief gift. He walked carefully to the door and lifted the latch as quietly as he could, pushed the door open a couple of inches, and retreated back to the bay window.
He curled up against the glass and watched. It took the guards outside less than a minute to notice that the door was open. He saw movement through the crack, and a hand slipped inside and pulled the door open a foot.
“My lord?”
This enquiry was met with silence, and so a moment later a guard’s head came around the jamb and for a few seconds he stared at the scene before him, the scattered bodies, the spilled drinks and broken furniture.
What followed was chaos. Men shouting and running everywhere. About fifty men came and went over the next hour, and after that there came men who took the bodies away. Through it all Francis remained still and silent on the window seat, watching it all. He had no doubt that men were hunting him all across the duke’s estate, but nobody, as he had guessed, thought to look for him in the very room where the deed had taken place. It went against all nature for him to stay, and that was exactly why he had.
Towards dawn the candles in the room were snuffed and Francis was left alone. He slipped off the window seat and moved across to the door. It had been left ajar, and he slipped out into a deserted corridor.
It was so easy that he almost laughed. He walked to the front door and found it unguarded – there was nothing left to protect. He slipped out carefully and closed it behind him. There were still people about, but the numbers were smaller and they seemed unfocussed and erratic.
A guard ran towards him, and he had to step out of the way. It would be a while before they found who the rightful heir might be, and by that time it would all be
over. In an hour or so the city regiments would seize this place. He was tempted to stay and watch, but weariness swept him again, and he thought it best to get home to his bed and what little sleep he could retrieve from the night.
He walked out through the gate, which was flung wide. All discipline had faded from Falini’s guards, and for the first time Francis wondered who the men with the duke had been – his commanders perhaps? That would explain it. He had cut off a hatful of serpent heads this night.
He walked on, taking a back road route to his home. He kept hold of his gift out of habit more than anything and drifted into his own street just as the eastern sky was bleeding pink.
Sleep wooed him persuasively. There were things he must do, things to ensure that General Delarsi wasn’t made king, to see the ordinary people of Afael seize the reins of power, but it would all wait until tomorrow.
He almost didn’t see them.
It was a noise that alerted him – a quiet voice in the shadows, a man speaking a word and being hushed.
He stopped and woke himself fully, stared into the shadows. By dawn’s thin and early light they were little more than shadows themselves, three men who crouched and whispered behind a cart, hidden behind the barrels it carried.
Francis crept closer, listened harder.
“He’s not coming,” one of the men said.
“I told you to keep quiet,” another hissed back.
“It’s dawn,” the first man said. “He’d be back by now if he was coming. The duke’s men must have killed him.”
“He could be right,” the third man said. “Look, it’s getting light. We should be getting back.”
The third man’s voice he recognised. He was one of the general’s gate keepers, a man he’d spoken to a dozen times. So it seemed that the general had sought to overcome two obstacles in one night. Francis backed away. Now was not the time. He needed to rest, and tonight he would find no rest here. Keron would have a corner he could sleep in, and tomorrow would be soon enough to settle his account with General Delarsi.
Blood for blood. Death for treachery.