by Tim Stead
That was clever, he had to admit. The man had put him on the other side from justice, even though what he was proposing was no more than Francis had done on a smaller and more directed scale.
“I am no stranger to justice,” Francis said. “I confess that I have been its instrument, and might be again, but victors should be generous to those that had not the courage to stand with them. Do you not agree?”
There. He had made his own threat.
“I see no reason not to clean house,” another man said.
“We do not yet own the house,” Francis rebuked him. “The city and the country share a name, but Afael is not merely a city.”
“It is all that matters,” the North Ward man said.
The rest of the council waited for Francis to reply. He was sure that many men here agreed with the sentiment. The city was all they had ever known, and indeed it was all that Francis had ever known, but Francis had spent time with Johan, and he understood.
“Do you eat North Ward grain?” he asked.
“I eat North Ward bread,” the man said.
Francis slapped the table in frustration. “And bread is made from grain, and it’s not grown in the city.”
“Your point?”
“We need the rest of Afael – not just grain, but meat, fruit, other foods, and they breed horses, train them – the list is almost endless.”
“We can buy grain. We have gold. We can trade with them for the things we make.”
“And Kenton and Derali will allow this?”
“Derali is broken, and Kenton has proven his reluctance to challenge us,” the North Ward man said, almost sneering.
“Kenton proved his reluctance to challenge Falini and Derali, but with them out of the way he will see the field as his, especially if he can draw Derali and what remains of his army to his side. He’ll overmatch what we have in the city by two thousand men.”
“I think we should vote on it,” the North Warder said.
“Vote on what?” Francis scoffed. “On whether anything but the city matters or the punishment of criminals you have yet to define? There can be no justice that names a man criminal for something he did that was counted civic duty when he did it. Laws cannot look backwards and blame a man for breaking their pre-existence.”
“We shall see,” the man said. “I have proposals drawn up that I will present to this committee at our next meeting, and in accordance with the rules we shall all speak and we shall all vote, and we shall see.”
Francis sat back in his chair. He could not deny them this. It was what he had wanted, even if the foolishness of it was unexpected. A proposal, a discussion and a vote was all he could have asked for.
But why?
There was nothing but vengeance in this. The city would not benefit in any way. If anything it would divide the city and make it easier for Kenton to take it. Could the North Ward men be working for Kenton? It didn’t seem likely. It was more probable that they were bound to Chaini in some way. Could Chaini be Kenton’s man? That, too, seemed unlikely. He had judged Chaini to be a man who acted in his own interest and no other’s.
But he could be wrong. He could be wrong about everything.
“Know this,” he said. “The war is not over. We have not won. This committee needs friends in the city, and not enemies. If you go ahead with this you will be throwing away everything that we have gained.”
60 The Oaken Shield
The arrows had done no damage, but Cain was still trapped with the others, and he believed that time was running out. He had no plan, other than to think of one, but his mind was refusing to oblige.
Sheyani was playing her pipes, and even through the thick oak door they would be having their effect on the men beyond. Cain and Caster wore the copper discs that made them immune, but the duke’s guard beyond would be feeling despair and the inevitability of defeat.
“So, do we sit here until they die of old age?” Caster asked.
Cain looked around the room. There was a table, a dozen or so chairs, silver paper weights, a scattering of cups. It was not much to work with. He thought again of the drop into the city. Once he would have assumed that he could survive such a fall, but he was no longer certain. A century had taught him that Farheim were not as invincible as legends would have it, and even if he survived it might be hours or even days before he could walk or speak. It was a desperate plan, a last throw of the dice. He was not there yet, not quite.
He looked at the door. Its two inch thick oak was all that kept the guard from peppering them with arrows. It gave them room to move and time to plan, and it was only a matter of time before some bright spark of a guard officer burned it down.
The table was made of the same oak, dark and hard. It, too, would make a good shield, but it was larger than the door, a full fifteen feet long and five feet wide at a guess. He could lift it. He had Farheim strength, but…
He knelt by the table and examined it. It stood on three pairs of legs, each pair braced at the top by a thick beam a few inches below the table top, and again by a second beam a few inches from the ground. He stood again and ran his hand across the ancient oak. This was the same table he had stood at a century ago with Narak and Quinnial. It was probably older than he was, but in the end it was only a table.
“How good are those blades of yours, Caster?”
Caster drew one. It had a dull finish. “Good,” he said. “They were made for Narak long ago. They were a gift after we survived the last Great War. Why?”
“Will they cut oak?”
Caster smiled. “You have a plan,” he said.
“Will they cut oak?” Cain repeated.
“Of course. You mean the table?” He raised his blade, but Cain stopped him.
“Here,” he said, pointing. “Cut across here, as close as you can.”
Caster’s blade flashed and the table collapsed, the last three feet falling away from the rest. Cain turned it over.
“Now here,” he said. “Just below the upper brace.”
Caster cut twice more and what remained was a section of oak table three feet by five, the stubs of two legs braced by a beam. Cain picked it up, tucking his left arm beneath the beam and holding it before him. “You see?” he asked.
“A shield,” Caster said. “We have made a shield.”
“Now do the same at the other end and we shall have two.”
Caster cut the table again, his ancient blade slicing through the wood as though it were no harder than cheese, and he picked up his own shield. “Just the two of us?” he asked.
“Sheyani is no hand with a blade and better use on the pipes, and, no offence, Lord Dunsandel, the lord could not lift such a shield.”
“None taken,” Dunsandel said. “You think you can face a hundred men with those?”
Cain shrugged. “They’re already afraid. It shouldn’t take much to break them.”
Caster nodded, hefting his huge shield on his left arm. “It’s going to be strange fighting with just one blade. How do you want to do this?”
“You’re as good with the left hand?” Cain asked.
“Good idea,” Caster switched the shield to his right arm. “So we go through as fast as we can and then I’m on the left, you the right. We’ll move my way and you can defend the rear. Good enough?”
“Good enough.” He knew that Caster was better with a blade. Even before becoming Farheim the sword master had been formidable, and now only Narak and perhaps Skal could compare. Cain was confident enough of his own skills to hold the rear. He would have to concentrate on protecting Caster, managing his shield so that Caster could do the sharp work on the other end.
He turned to Dunsandel.
“Close the door after we go,” he said.
Cain opened and closed his fingers on the grip of his blade. He rotated his shoulders a little, trying to let the tension go. It was always like this before a fight. He’d be all right once it began, but for a few moments it seemed that his whole body was tr
ying to lock up, to stop him. He looked across at Sheyani, and met her eyes above her pipes. She didn’t miss a note, but Cain saw everything in those eyes – past and future, hope and fear, longing and regret.
A rush of anger rose up inside him, and he used it, turned it into strength and determination.
“Now,” he said.
Caster kicked the door open, and at once his shield collected a small forest of arrows. Cain heard them, a staccato drum roll, even if he could not see them. Then he was through the door, crouching slightly, keeping his own shield as close to the floor as he could so that arrows could not pass beneath it.
He heard the door slam shut behind him, and almost at once a soldier sprang into view, sword raised, and Cain killed him with a single thrust. The noise was incredible – it was as though a hundred men were all shouting, a hundred swords striking, arrows clattering off every surface, seeking the elusive gap that would be pain for Caster or Cain.
He shuffled back, following as Caster stayed close to the wall, working his way round to where the archers were gathered, and he became aware that the stone flags beneath his feet were slick with blood, and where he stepped on the carpet it made a sucking noise.
Someone grabbed at the edge of his shield and he struck at their fingers. He didn’t even hear the man cry out, but there was blood and he had control of the shield again. He was almost quick enough.
He felt pain, and looked down to see that an arrow had found its way past his defence and pierced his calf. The thing was lodged there, and he was bleeding profusely. All he had to do was reach down and pluck it out and the pain would stop, the wound would heal, but one hand held his shield and the other his blade.
The distraction was almost disastrous. He looked up to see a man swinging at him, and swiftly parried the blow, but not before the sword had cut his shoulder to the bone. It hurt, but of course it healed at once. He beat aside the man’s second thrust and stabbed at his face. His assailant shrieked and fell backwards, and another stepped into view. Cain limped a step backwards, following Caster, keeping the shield up. He was forced to parry again, and again beat a blade and kill a man.
Taking advantage of a moment’s respite he dropped his blade and struck the tail of the arrow with the flat, driving it further through his calf so that the point emerged the other side. That hurt a lot.
“Are you all right?” Caster shouted.
“A moment,” he called back.
Caster paused and Cain reached down again with his blade. This time he hooked the back of his blade under the barb of the arrow head, and with a flick of his wrist tore the shaft clean through his leg. The wound healed at once. The pain went away.
“Carry on,” he shouted.
They advanced again. They must be getting close to the archers by now. Caster had made steady progress around the edge of the room, and Cain tried to remember the geography of the place and match it to what he had seen in his one glance through the door. The archers had been towards the back, and on the left, where they were now, there was a doorway.
He was lucky. He’d remembered the door just in time, and he swung round just as Caster passed in front of it, keeping his shield between him and the room.
There were two archers positioned about twenty paces down the corridor, and they loosed as soon as they could. Cain cut one of the arrows out of the air, but he couldn’t stop both, and the second caught Caster just below the shoulder bade.
“Step on,” Cain shouted.
He kicked the door against the wall, not having a free hand to pull it, and it bounced out a little, giving him the extra foot of cover he needed. Both arrows from the second volley missed him, and then they were past the door. He stepped closer to Caster and tucked his blade under his shield arm for a moment, trusting once more to luck, and to the probability that the castle guards had stayed away from him to give the archers a clear shot. He used his free hand to rip the arrow from Caster’s back.
“Obliged,” Caster said.
He retrieved his blade in good time to defend again, and spent the next brief spell in killing two men who came at him, hoping, perhaps that an arrow or two had slowed him down.
A cry and a sudden motion from Caster alarmed him, but he realised that it was a cry of triumph, and turned in time to see the sword master fling his shield at the last remaining archers – three of them – who were smashed by the whirling table top. Caster drew his second blade.
“Now to finish it,” he said.
Cain kept hold of his makeshift shield. He had never mastered the two bladed style, and fought the Berashi way with sword and shield for preference, but he turned and followed Caster in his demolition of what remained of the castle guard.
It was an education. He’d fought beside Narak before, but never with Caster, and the two men, both with twin blades, were quite different in their approach. Narak fought with a straightforward brutality. He used his whole body as a weapon, striking with hands, feet and elbows, never wasting a blow, and the blades were always there to finish the work when needed. Caster was prettier, more subtle. His blades were silver snakes that danced around his opponents’ weapons and struck with all the speed of a viper. It seemed almost effortless.
Cain cleaned up behind him, took care of those who tried to come around behind Caster’s deadly blades. Several of the castle guards ran for it, heading down the corridor where the two archers had been. The archers had fled, too, and that was all right with Cain. He’d always been inclined to let folk live when he didn’t have to kill them. They were only obeying their commander, after all. He doubted they would try again after this.
When it was over the two of them stood in a sea of bodies. Caster looked around him, as if not quite able to believe that they had prevailed. He wiped his blades slowly and carefully, and slid them back into their scabbards. He walked over to a cabinet that had somehow survived the carnage and rescued a glass and a bottle of wine. He poured himself a glass and downed it in one. He looked across at Cain.
“Thirsty work,” he said.
But it wasn’t arrogance that shaped Caster’s words. Cain knew he’d never done this before, never killed on this scale. That was Narak’s game, and Caster was shaken by it, troubled by it, just as Narak had been at Afael five centuries ago. He could see it in the sword master’s eyes. He put a hand briefly on Caster’s arm.
“Necessary,” he said. He walked over to the door to the conference chamber and knocked. “It’s me,” he said. “It’s done.”
The door sprang open and Sheyani rushed out. She seized Cain in a brief, intense embrace. He held her for a moment.
“We survive again,” he said.
61 The Discovery of a Crime
Something was wrong. That much was obvious to Callista even as she made her way down the stairs for breakfast. There was a tense air about Sithmaree’s house, the servants hurrying a little more that usual, heads down, exchanging whispers in side corridors.
She restrained her curiosity and took her seat at the dining table as usual. Sithmaree was not present, and she ate a light breakfast, a little ham and cheese, a little bread and a cup of herb tea.
She heard someone at the door, and waited to see if the Snake had returned, but instead a man she vaguely recognized came to the dining room door.
“Eran Callista, I have a message for you from Eran Pascha.”
“Yes?”
“She bids you come at once,” he said.
Callista had almost finished eating anyway, so she abandoned what was left on her plate and went out into the hall. A servant was already waiting by the door with her coat. She found it mildly annoying that the servants should know so much more of what was going on than she, but made a mental note that in future she should swallow her pride and ask. In fact she could do that now.
“What’s going on?” she asked the man holding her coat.
“It’s not my place…” he began.
“Not at all. You know and I don’t. Please tell me.”
> “A man has been murdered,” the servant said, dropping his voice so that only she could hear, and as she slipped on her coat he added: “A Durander mage, so they say, and Mordo is missing.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled at him by way of thanks and stepped out of the door into a bright morning. A murder at Col Boran? It seemed impossible that anyone would be so reckless. But it had already happened once, she reminded herself, and right in front of Wolf Narak himself, and yet the perpetrator has escaped detection.
She walked quickly, and even as she walked she considered the other piece of news. Mordo was missing. It seemed clear, if the gossip was true, that he was either another victim or the killer. She could not imagine him in either role. She had spoken to him only yesterday and he had seemed his usual fussy, mildly obsequious self, if a little worried about the broken tile. She could not think of a reason for anyone to kill Mordo, nor a cause that would bring him to kill someone else.
Pascha was sitting by the fire in her rooms, surrounded by a gaggle of Duranders. When she saw Callista arrive she held up her hand and they faded into silence.
“You.” She pointed to one of the Duranders. “Summarise everything you’ve told me so far.” She waved Callista through the crowd to sit at her side, and the Durander mage, an elderly man with a neat, white beard, began.
“When Mordo failed in his duty this morning we searched for him. His rooms were empty, certain possessions missing. It was discovered that a horse was also missing. We alerted the Eran and were provided with the key to the vault, which we opened. There we found the body of Mage Boragis. He was a Haileite and involved in the investigation into the killing of Mage Josetin. He had been poisoned. A further search revealed no sign of Mordo. We assume…”
“No assumptions,” Pascha said. “You found everything in order?”
“We did. Pelion’s crown and your own books were present and unharmed.”
“I will check them myself,” Pascha said. “That will be all. You can go now.”
The Duranders seemed less than happy at being dismissed and they withdrew slowly, reluctant to relinquish their special status as advisors to the god mage. Pascha waited until they were gone.