by Tom Lloyd
There was a renewed smattering of laughter as the rest of the room pictured the burly and somewhat portly Lynx in a dress. He glowered and brandished the note.
‘Says there’s a costume waiting for me at some shop. What sort of a bloody city has costume shops?’
‘One that takes the Skyriver Festival pretty damn seriously,’ laughed Llaith. ‘You’ll find that out if you’re outside after nightfall without an escort in a dress. The ladies round here rather enjoy their chance to birch any man they get their hands on.’
‘What’s the costume?’ Sitain asked.
Lynx squinted at the note. ‘Ah, huh. The Knight o’ Blood.’
‘Hopefully not big enough to fit our own Knight.’
That did make Lynx smile as he pictured it. The company sergeant who wore the Knight of Blood badge was called Reft – a giant of a man at least half a foot taller than Lynx and with a physique suitable to the more fanciful depictions of gods. As large as he was, Lynx would be flapping around like a little boy wearing his father’s clothes if the costume fitted Reft.
‘Wait, hold on a moment.’ Himbel pushed himself up from the table, one finger raised like a man on the edge of revelation. There was an air of wonder about him that cut through the black cloud of hangover on his face and the room quietened. ‘The Knight’s companion to the Prince, no?’
‘So?’ Llaith asked before pausing. His eyes unfocused a moment later. ‘Oh. Oh my.’
‘Oh what?’ Sitain demanded, looking around. She realised all the men in the room had gone very still. ‘What’s wrong with you all?’
‘They’re called the prince cards, but in lots o’ decks they alternate their princes.’ Llaith croaked. ‘The high cards of Blood and Stars are often a Princess instead.’
‘So?’
‘Have you seen a Princess of Blood card?’
The pieces clicked into place. Sitain gave a disgusted sound, knowing perfectly well some of the company had seen Toil naked and the rest had heard about it at great length.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, get a grip the lot of you.’
‘Certainly what I’m picturing,’ Llaith muttered.
‘Well.’
‘Now there’s a thing.’
‘Can we all go to this ball?’
Lynx beamed at them. ‘Reckon I’ve got an appointment to keep, then. You lot have yourselves a good evening.’
The costumier was in a quiet, upscale part of town. Lynx took a moment to inspect the sign outside: Shohn do Osterain & Family. The accompanying date showed it had been in operation for over a hundred years and no fewer than five noble crests declared the quality of their customers. This was an old-money, rarefied establishment that was principally a tailor to the upper classes, but also produced bespoke costumes for the various masked balls and city-wide festivals so popular in Su Dregir.
Lynx found himself grinning as he knocked on the door, amused that Toil would patronise such a stiff-necked shop. He had on his battered black overcoat, veteran of many a journey and skirmish not to mention nights sleeping on the ground, a tricorn hat and the grey jacket that now sported his company badge – the Stranger of Tempest. The badge itself was more than a little over-dramatic, the stylised upper half of a man with coat collar turned up and hat pulled low. The basket hilt of a sword peeked over one of the Stranger’s shoulders while a raven perched on the other.
The door opened and a thin-lipped steward peered out at Lynx.
‘Tradesman’s entrance,’ he hissed, faint disgust in his voice, ‘round the back.’
With that the door was shut in his face.
Lynx sighed and knocked again, this time making sure he was scratching himself as uncouthly as possible when the man opened the door again.
‘Customer’s entrance,’ he said before the man could speak. ‘Given I’m a customer.’
Lynx took a pace forward so he was looming over the steward, a withered greying man with small round glasses sat on the tip of his nose. The steward wore an immaculate brown velvet tunic with a florid device incorporating the interlinked initials of the house’s name. The tunic’s folded-back cuffs were held in place by gold pins sporting the same device.
‘Customer?’ the steward said dubiously. He looked Lynx up and down. ‘Ah. Our Knight of Blood, of course.’
‘Clever boy.’
‘Yes, I believe I can recall the particulars of Madam’s order. Hard-wearing cloth required instead of silk and satin, no grey permitted. That detail certainly puzzled us for a while, but revelation awaits all who wait.’
Lynx scowled as the steward looked him up and down again. The news that Toil had made special requests was not unsurprising, but still unwelcome. Apparently the woman had noted the drab greys that Lynx, as a Vagrim, tended to favour and was having none of them today.
A message from a veteran spy or just an eye for detail? he wondered, but before he could come to a conclusion the steward went on.
‘Yes, yes – what else did she include now? Ah, generous allowance to the torso; what is known in the trade as warrior’s chest, veteran’s waist.’
That last bit caught Lynx’s attention, though it all came out in the monotone prattle of a clerk listing details, careful not to enjoy any implication that might be drawn.
‘A request for the extra stiff collar,’ the man continued, ‘reverse orientation of the hat to afford better view, a—’
‘Wait,’ Lynx interrupted. ‘Better view of what?’
The man paused. ‘Well sir, usual practice is to tilt and pin the hat so that the left-hand side of the face is the more exposed, affording one a better look at your surroundings while your companion stands on your right.’
‘And she asked for the opposite?’
‘Indeed. Normally that is to ensure a man pays greater attention to his companion, but given sir’s, ah, canvas of the self, perhaps she wishes to have sir’s bold personal facial statement made as visible as possible to those noble souls who are less dramatically adorned?’
Lynx felt a surge of vexatious sentiment and desire for the demonstration of pugilistic prowess.
‘It’s not a bold personal statement,’ he said in a level tone.
‘No? My apologies, sir, an erroneous assumption on my part.’
‘Yup. The tattoo’s just there to cover up a prison designation.’ At that the steward faltered so Lynx continued with a small amount of relish. ‘This canvas was painted by a Hanese army magistrate, because apparently ripping your commanding officer’s guts out isn’t to be encouraged.’ He edged closer to the man. ‘Was there anything else in the instructions?’
The steward gave a little cough and continued in a small voice. ‘Ah, indeed. What else? Oh, yes. One final stipulation beyond the usual service. Tight across the shoulders, reinforced seams there.’
‘Why?’
‘I would not like to hazard a guess as to Madam’s motivations.’
‘Tight across the shoulders?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Lynx paused. ‘To make it harder to punch the first person who pisses me off?’
‘That might be the resulting effect of such efforts, yes, sir.’
‘Sensible precaution,’ he conceded. ‘What with me having something of a hair-trigger temper, especially when I’ve been drinking. Just ask any of the people I’ve killed. Which you can’t, of course, what with all of ’em being dead and all.’
The steward bowed and backed out of the doorway. ‘Would sir like to come in for his final measure and fit?’
‘Reckon I would. Got any wine on the premises?’
‘We like to cater to our customer’s every wish,’ the steward muttered.
Lynx nodded. ‘Bottle o’ wine it is then. And maybe best you forget the bit about the shoulders. I wouldn’t want to think you’ve cramped my style.’
‘No, sir.’
3
(Now)
‘Yeah, these. I can explain.’
Even as he said it Lynx knew how stupid he sounded, but
the words spilled out as though obeying some fundamental law of nature.
To his credit the watchman just raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh right. Care to guess how many times I heard that before?’
Lynx paused. ‘Has anyone been dumb enough to say that while standing in a room with two bodies on the floor?’
‘Now you mention it, not often.’
‘Less often when they’re dressed as the Knight of Blood, I’m guessing.’
Lynx didn’t have a clue what he was saying, let alone why, but he was desperately trying to buy time to think of something before he was marched into a cell at gunpoint.
The watchman inclined his head, mage-gun remaining steady. ‘Knight of Blood, eh? I was thinking you were a bit fancy for yer average murderer. Still, it’s not adding much weight to your argument.’
‘I didn’t kill them.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Folk reported a disturbance a while back, that’s why I’m here. But you could be just that stupid, or not finished searching for something. Either way, I reckon we’ll find out back at the patrol-house where it’s nice and warm.’
‘I don’t really have time for that.’
‘Sonny, I think it’s safe to say you’re going to miss the ball.’
‘Now you’re just laughing at me.’
The watchman cracked a small smile. ‘Trust me, from this end o’ the gun it’s a lot fucking funnier.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine.’
‘First off, though, how about those guns?’
‘These ones?’ Lynx said, doing his best to nod towards the pistols strapped to his chest without getting his head blown off.
‘Yup, unless you got any others to hand? They loaded?’
‘Yes – just icers. I ain’t stupid.’
‘Reckon we’ve already covered that portion of the conversation. But sure, let’s go with not entirely stupid and not in the mood to get shot at the first twitch I don’t like. Ever seen what an icer does to a man up close?’
A recent memory appeared in Lynx’s mind. A woman named Tyn, one of the mercenary company he’d recently joined, and the back of her head exploding in a chill cloud of blood and brains.
‘Too many times.’
‘A fighting man, eh?’
‘Merc.’
‘Oh well, o’ course now I’m revising my whole theory about you being stupid and a murderer, now that I know you earn your living killing people for any sod willing to pay. That makes you the gentle, intellectual type, right?’
Lynx hesitated. ‘This is a lot more entertaining than all the other times I’ve been arrested.’
The eyebrow was raised again. ‘Freely admits to repeatedly being in trouble with the law in the past. Nope, certainly not stupid enough to hang around two dead bodies.’ He took a pace backwards. ‘Slowly, with two fingers, remove the guns, then the blades, and put them on the table. And remember all those times you seen people with holes blown in ’em while you’re doing so.’
‘I’m picturing them vividly.’
‘Good.’
Lynx took a step forward and the watchman flinched, his mage-gun wavering. For a split-second Lynx was sure he was going to die right there. But then a look of astonishment crossed the man’s face and the muzzle of his gun tilted down. Lynx blinked and belatedly saw the black fletching protruding from the watchman’s chest as the man gave a gasp of pain. He staggered back and coughed, bubbles of black blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. His knees wobbled and gave out under him while Lynx watched dumbly, the watchman sinking ponderously before pitching abruptly forward and falling dead on his face.
As he landed the gun went off and, as it turned out, saved Lynx’s life. While the crash of the gunshot hammered at his ears, the white flash of light illuminated the room beyond the sharp square of moonlight the watchman lay in. It revealed a dark arm reaching out from the half-open cupboard. He gave a roar and slammed his shoulder against the door, trapping the arm long enough for him to make a grab at it.
Lynx hauled back and dragged the assassin into the room. They both stumbled over one of the bodies as the assassin tried to stick Lynx with a dagger and Lynx levered the assassin around by their arm. Pulling the assassin off-balance, Lynx used his greater bulk to hurl his opponent across the room. The black-and-white costumed figure pitched through the air and smashed into the fireplace with a dull thud, but Lynx didn’t wait to see how badly they were hurt. He pulled a pistol and took aim.
He fired and the white trail punched into the assassin’s chest. They crumpled in a heap over the fire’s embers and was still. Ears ringing with the sound of gunshots, Lynx stared down at the latest corpse for a moment while his brain caught up with events. Then he grabbed a chair and pulled it to the cupboard, wedging the back under the handle so no one else could come through.
Of course there’s a bloody escape route in the cupboard, his frantic brain supplied, this is Toil we’re talking about – oh gods.
He looked at the dead assassin with mounting panic before realising it wasn’t her. Toil was a large woman and well-built. This corpse was small and lithe; he’d not have tossed Toil so easily across the room. The face was covered with a white cloth mask, some sort of design painted across it, and another crumbling black moon on its chest. No number this time, but the second badge depicted a kneeling figure, one hand upraised as though asking for alms, the other holding a dagger.
Shouts from the street cut through the buzz in his ears and Lynx felt a jolt as he realised how this would look to any more watchmen. They wouldn’t be so chatty with a murdered comrade at their feet; they’d just shoot Lynx dead. He started towards the door automatically before checking himself.
Not that way, shit – where?
He looked at the cupboard but dismissed it. He didn’t know where the tunnel might come out nor who else was in it. His eyes were drawn to the balcony door. Not the finest choice, but he didn’t have many. He tried it and found it locked, but a hefty kick burst it open and then he was outside in the light of the moon and the Skyriver.
A dusting of frost sparkled on the long rooftop balcony and illuminated a single wooden bench at the far end. Lynx glanced over the balustrade and saw figures running on the ground below, more shouts echoing around the houses. He holstered his pistol and ran the length of the balcony, using the bench to jump up at the roof behind and kicking away at the brickwork to try and get up.
After a panicked moment he managed to haul himself over the edge and on to the shallow tile roof. From there it was half a dozen yards until the apex of the roof where he could half-clamber, half-slide down the other side. That led him to a wide path of coping stones running around the corner which ended abruptly at a gable. He jumped the gap across the face of that and continued, trying to get as far from Toil’s rooms as he could before he found a stairway down to the street.
Painfully aware of how obvious he was in the moonlight – and silently giving thanks for the interconnected sprawl of houses in Su Dregir – Lynx gasped with relief when he crossed another rooftop and saw what he was looking for. A wide wooden stair led down the side of a building from upper-level apartments. All he had to do was move along the ridge of one more stretch of roof and drop down, praying to whichever of the shattered gods had got him this far that no one chose that moment to leave their home.
He paused at the edge of the roof as he caught sight of the city’s crescent bay glittering in the dark. The districts and docks were studded with hundreds of lanterns and bonfires illuminating the various public fairs. Above the water the sky was deepest blue running to black, the stars sharp pinpricks in the sky as evening relinquished its grip. The air had a sharp chill thanks to the clear skies, but the worst of winter was over. Despite the city’s exposed position on the shore of the great lake Parthain, the breeze was not as biting as it had been in recent weeks.
To his relief Lynx saw no one pursuing him across the rooftops. The clamour from Toil’s street remained muted by
the buildings in between rather than spreading to the streets below him. Lynx dropped down and padded to the stairway, keeping to what shadows there were as he inspected the street beyond. It was busy despite the darkness. The festivities would run all through the night in many parts of town, so even this relatively quiet district would see costumed people walking in all directions.
Fighting the urge to hide in the shadows and think, Lynx set off down the stairway and stepped on to the street. He crossed and headed away from the main street, cutting down one alley into a larger tree-lined boulevard. There he could see lanterns strung between stalls and people dancing on a raised platform. He headed that way, pulling his cloak tight around his costume and removing the feathered hat from his head.
‘Hey, you!’
Lynx’s head whipped around. He almost had his fingers around the grip of his pistol before he realised it was a young woman speaking – clearly not a member of any sort of militia or part of a masked group of assassins. Her dress was a riot of colour in the lamplight; orange, yellow and brown for the main, so short it barely made it to halfway down her thighs where red stockings were visible above tall boots threaded with ribbon. She wore some sort of masked headdress of bright feathers that extended down to a small beak over her nose, but still it was the remarkable amount of cleavage on show that he had to tear his gaze from.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’ A coquettish smile appeared on her face as she raised a birch switch and began to flex it experimentally. ‘New to town?’
‘I … Well, yeah.’
‘Ah now, I’d like to say there’s an exemption from the rules for out-of-towners, but there ain’t – all you big strong men get your backsides tanned if you don’t follow the rules of the festival.’ She tilted her head. ‘Sorry, just the way it goes. Tonight’s our night.’
‘How about,’ Lynx said hurriedly, ‘we come to some other arrangement?’
‘Oh yeah?’ Her smile swiftly became calculating and Lynx felt a moment of relief that she really did seem to be a prostitute rather than just poorly dressed for the weather. ‘Sounds expensive, mind.’