by James Evans
Nandy came in through the rear door.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Fetch Elaine. And bring a pot of coffee.” Nandy nodded and ducked out of the room. Elaine came in a few moments later and Madame Duval waved at her to sit in the chair that Marrinek had recently vacated.
“That man, Bay or whatever he’s called, is going to cause trouble for us or for the North End gang or for the Flanks Siders or for the Watch, until someone hangs him. He has some big ideas but I don’t trust him, not yet. Maybe never,” she sipped at her coffee, “so we’re going to be cautious. Close the door to all but our most important clients. Don’t let anyone in today who you don’t already know and get the other two bouncers in from wherever they’re skulking; I want lots of hands around in case something happens. Make sure they’re fed and comfortable but keep them sober, and don’t let them bother the girls or the clients.”
Elaine nodded.
“And find out how that bastard got in without coming through the front door. Get a locksmith in, if we have to.”
“I’ll have someone look at the front door as well, I think,” said Elaine, a degree of concern on her face, “he was at the bottom of the stairs and I’m sure the bell didn’t ring. Maybe he did something to the lock.”
“Yes, have the front door checked as well. And strengthened, if that’s possible. For the moment, get Shad to bar the side door.” Elaine started to object but Madame Duval was firm.
“Bar the door. They will have to use the rear door for today at least, possibly tomorrow.”
Elaine stood up and opened the door, then, turned back to Madame Duval, frowning.
“Was I wrong to buy the twins?”
“No,” said Madame Duval, sighing, “we couldn’t have left them with Gander, the man was a vicious, unreliable, ignorant, untrustworthy beast. Let’s just try to make sure today doesn’t get any worse.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE CITY OF Esterengel sprawled across the floor of a wide, shallow valley, flooding across the plains on either side of the river Kacoost and flowing over the low hills to smother the countryside in a thick layer of palaces, temples, warehouses, shops, houses and slums. The earliest settlement - a small fortified outpost - had long disappeared under the Imperial fortress-palace of Traebarn as successive Governors had extended or enhanced the complex with new walls, apartments, towers, halls and keeps.
Now the fortress-palace was vast, a town within a city. The ever-practical Imperial government had turned the fortress-palace into a centre of regional administration and pulled within its walls all the offices of state that were required to manage the western region. At the heart of the complex stood the keep, large enough to be considered a major castle in its own right and housing the private apartments of the Governor. Two concentric walls encircled the keep, each containing the barracks, armouries, stables and forges needed to sustain the fortress-palace in the event of a siege.
Not that a siege was likely, not here, so deep within the Empire. There hadn’t been an attack on Esterengel for over a hundred years but Imperial planners and engineers had long memories and planned on even longer timescales. Traebarn had been built for a future where it might stand alone against an invader or, though the thought was never spoken, against a rebel army intent on raising a new Emperor.
The palace was not all fortress, though. Amongst the fortifications were gardens for private or public entertaining, fountains and shaded paths for relief from the heat of the long summer months, elegantly trained climbing plants whose scents and colours softened the military bearing of the fortress. Each successive Governor had tinkered with the palace, tearing down only to rebuild as fashions or technologies changed. Ballrooms, apartments, dining halls, pleasure gardens; all had evolved over the decades as tastes changed and the Governors increasingly saw Traebarn as a home to be enjoyed rather than a remote posting to be endured.
The growth of the palace had mirrored the increasing size and importance of the city itself, which was now second only to Khemucasterill, the capital, in terms of population and wealth. The city crowded around the outer wall of the palace and was itself protected by two long walls punctuated with gatehouses and guard towers. As the population had grown and space within the walls had become ever more scarce, new houses and tenements had been erected outside the walls, extending the suburbs of the city and slowly swallowing the small villages that had dotted the plains.
By the time the courier from Heberon crested the final hill above Esterengel and rode down into the valley it was late evening and the sun was sinking through red-tinged skies. He had ridden hard and made excellent time, changing horses at the regular waypoints along the road and stopping only briefly for food and water, so that a journey that would normally take four or five days had been completed in only twenty-six hours. He was exhausted.
His tired horse trotted along the road toward the southern gate in the outer wall, slowing to a walk as the road grew busier and houses began to cast long shadows. Most of the farmers, hauliers and travellers had already returned home or reached their destinations but the roads were now filling with people looking for entertainment. The main road was crowded with people heading for inns and taverns and on the few public spaces and parks between the buildings tumblers, musicians and strolling players performed, hats or instrument cases set before them to catch coins tossed by their amused audiences.
Through this light-hearted crowd, the courier guided his horse, eventually passing under the inner wall as the sun disappeared behind the western hills. He dismounted and led his horse along the main avenue to the Traebarn palace, heading for the modest gate used by guards and servants. Here he stopped to show his badge of office to the men on watch before finally leading his horse into the fortress where he was able to pass it to a stable boy. Around the yard and along the walls lamps were being lit as the long day ended. Those who had been on duty for much of day were retiring for their evening meal; the night watchmen and guards who would stand duty overnight were moving purposefully around the fortress, securing the smaller gates and checking that all was as it should be.
The courier hefted his bag on his shoulder and followed the path to the main part of the fortress. The corridors through which he stalked were empty except for a few servants still running errands and he made his way quickly to the administrative offices in the keep where the clerks worked. During the working day, these areas of the fortress would be busy with men and women performing the myriad tasks required to manage the city and its province but at night the rooms were mostly empty. The courier had to search through several offices before he found a secretary, yawning over an accounts book as he worked through a stack of receipts and invoices.
The courier leant against the frame of the open door. There was a clerk sitting at a small desk, dressed in the sober blue and grey uniform of the Imperial civil service, scratching away at a paper. The courier paused for a moment to see if he had been noticed, knocked on the wooden panelling when it became clear that he hadn’t. The clerk, startled by the unexpected visitor, looked round sharply and knocked a pile of papers onto the floor.
“Now look what you’ve made me do,” he complained, moving to collect the fallen documents, “what are you doing wandering around at this time of night?”
“I have an urgent message for the Governor, from Heberon.”
“From Heberon? Nothing urgent ever comes from Heberon - it’s all receipts and reports and boring, boring notices.” The clerk looked with distaste at the letter held in the courier’s hand and sighed.
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” said the clerk, “are the sheep rebelling again? Or maybe there’s been a rain of frogs?” he asked, searching the courier’s face for any hint of humour. He sighed.
“Does it need a reply tonight or can it wait till morning? You can see how much work I’ve got to get through and if I have to start disturbing people at this time of night...” he tailed off as he caught the look on the courier’s face.
/> “When did you say you left Heberon?”
“I didn’t. I left yesterday evening,” said the courier wearily, “I changed horses five times and rode through the night because the Captain told me to get the message here as soon as possible. He was very definite about that. No stops, not even to sleep. And I haven’t eaten since this afternoon.”
The clerk sighed again.
“Right, fine. I’m Krant, by the way. I can’t get you to the Governor but we can try to find her private secretary, Rincon. Will that do?”
He stood up and stretched, hands on his hips as he twisted back and forth.
“I’m a martyr to these chairs, you know, dreadful! Like little wooden torture devices designed to break the spirit of man. They’ll be the death of me one day.”
The courier stood at the door, a complete lack of sympathy showing on his face. He waved the message tube at Krant.
“Ah yes, sorry.”
Krant stretched once more, then squeezed past the courier into the corridor.
“Secretary Rincon’s office is this way, although he may well be somewhere else.”
Krant led the way down the corridor and into a larger hallway where he stopped before a set of double doors. He turned back to the courier.
“Are you sure you want an audience? I could just take it in for you? No? Right, well, here we go.”
He knocked on the left-hand door and pushed it open, stepping through into a large chamber, plainly furnished. The courier followed him in to find a man of medium build and indeterminate years sitting behind a desk, reading; Secretary Rincon, he assumed. The man looked up as Krant moved to stand in front of the desk.
“My apologies, sir, but there is an urgent message from Heberon,” he said, flapping his hand at the courier. The man scuttled forward and placed the message tube on the desk in front of Rincon.
“From Administrator Nison, sir.”
Rincon looked at the message tube with a certain lack of haste before waving Krant and the courier back.
“Wait over there. Is the Administrator expecting an immediate response?” asked Rincon. When the courier shook his head, Rincon picked up the message tube and broke the seal with his thumb. He pulled out the message, broke the second seal and quickly scanned the contents.
Then he stood up so fast he knocked over his chair, startling Krant, who took another step back. Krant had worked in the offices at Traebarn for almost four years and this was the first time he had ever seen Rincon react to anything. It was a deeply unsettling experience.
“This is dated yesterday; when did you leave Heberon?” said Rincon, almost shouting.
“Yesterday evening, sir. It’s been a long day.”
“You’ve done well to get here and you have my thanks. Krant, see that this gentleman is fed and watered and alert the Guild that we will have more messages to despatch shortly. Go, go!”
Rincon swept around the desk heading for the door and ushering them from the room. He locked the door behind him and almost ran down the corridor, leaving Krant and the bewildered courier standing alone.
“Well, I suppose we had better make a start. I’ll show you to the kitchens, although what Cook will make of you I don’t know.”
Krant sighed again, squared his shoulders and struck out back along the corridor to his office.
“Come on, it’s this way.”
Rincon hurried along the corridor, the message grasped in one hand. He wasn’t prone to self-doubt - nobody at his level of the Imperial civil service could afford the luxury and the long years tended to weed out the weak or easily stressed - but he stopped at one point to read the message again. It looked no different, and no better, on second reading:
I regret to inform you that a transport ship, The Gilded Branch, foundered five days ago off the coast at Heberon. The only passenger was Abaythian Marrinek. Reports suggest he is alive and has escaped west to the town of Catshed. His location is unknown.
It was signed ‘Adm. Nison’, a name familiar to Rincon through his steady stream of tedious, workmanlike reports. Solid, reliable and not given to flights of fancy; a man unlikely to write until sure of his facts. A man, in short, who couldn’t easily be dismissed or ignored. Dammit. What with reports of skirmishes on the north-western borders of the province and the Emperor’s continuous demands for additional troops and resources to accelerate his eastward expansion plans, this sort of embarrassing failure was really very inconvenient.
He hurried on, heading for the private quarters of Lady Camille von Crarne, Governor of the western province and the Emperor’s direct representative. He swept past the guards at the entrance to the royal apartments, entering the part of the palace set aside for the Governor and, should he happen to grace the city with his presence, the Emperor and his entourage.
The contrast between the functional layout of the administrative wing and the decadent opulence of the private royal apartments could hardly be greater. The polished wooden floors of the clerk’s offices contrasted strongly to the thick carpet of the apartment, warmed from beneath by a network of lead pipes carrying hot water through power-crafted stonework. The plain oak-panelled or white-washed walls of the working areas of the fortress were here replaced with alcoves lit by charmed lanterns cunningly concealed to illuminate without intruding and housing elegant power-wrought sculptures of stone or beautiful vases of paper-thin ceramic on finely turned pedestals of exotic hardwood. Paintings and tapestries hung on the walls between the alcoves and the ceiling was decorated with more charmed lanterns so that it seemed to glow, casting a gentle light over the corridors, stairways and public hallways between the private suites.
At the top of the stair near the Governor’s suite Rincon passed a delicately ornate tea service displayed in a cabinet that rose almost to the ceiling, a gift from the Emperor and newly arrived with a company of soldiers from the far south-east of the empire, site of the army’s most recent conquest. Rincon shared Lady Camille’s obsession with fine porcelain and it was only today that the cabinet had been installed and the set displayed. He barely noticed it as he hurried down the corridor, so disturbed was he by this evening’s news.
He eventually stopped outside Lady Camille’s suites and spoke to her bodyguards.
“Is her Ladyship free?” From behind the door came the muffled sounds of music and laughter.
“I believe she is entertaining some of the musicians from this afternoon’s command performance, sir, along with some of the local, ah, nobles.” The guard seemed a little embarrassed, although Lady Camille’s pleasures were neither secret nor unseemly. Rincon paused, nodded, then knocked on the door. The guard opened it just far enough to allow Rincon to slip into the outer chamber before he closed it quietly.
Rincon stood for a moment, orienting himself within the normally familiar room. For this evening’s party, the high ceiling had been hidden under great sweeps of brightly coloured material. The walls were hung with more of the same fabric and the carpets that normally covered the floor had been replaced by a number of huge overlapping rugs. Dozens of silk cushions arranged in piles at various places had replaced the everyday chairs and furniture that were usually present. The overall effect was to give the chamber the appearance of a tent in the style of the southern desert traders, albeit on a rather larger scale than might normally be expected and without the sand and the camels.
Rincon made his way across the room as quickly and politely as he could manage, manoeuvring carefully between the groups of nobles who were clearly enjoying the selection of food and drink being distributed from trays by servants dressed in uniform flowing robes of grey and red. Some of the nobles may have been surprised to see him, a mere civil servant, intruding into the party but they were quick to smile and bow and make space for him; in the complex world of court politics, Rincon had both power, as the gateway to her Ladyship, and influence. None of the nobles here this evening could afford to incur his displeasure.
On the far side of the room, Lady Camille was lyin
g under a shade on a huge pile of cushions. Two servants in grey and red stood to either side and cooled her with huge fans made from bamboo and the features of an exotic bird. Lady Camille was holding a glass of white wine in one hand and picking dates from a glass bowl with the other, popping them daintily into her mouth while around her sprawled her closest friends and admirers. Rincon bowed when he was eventually able to stand before her and flicked a discrete coded hand signal to indicate an urgent, but not immediately dangerous, situation.
For the benefit of the guests, he said, “My apologies, my lady, but something… unusual… has come to my attention.”
“What ho, Rincon.” she said in a jolly voice, saluting him with her wine glass. Rincon kept his face straight but inside he groaned. Lady Camille rarely drank enough for it to affect her behaviour but tonight, in familiar company and the presence of several very old friends, she had clearly decided to enjoy herself. She clicked her fingers and waved at Rincon.
“Take a glass, Albert, and pull up a cushion or three. Here,” she said, pushing the glass bowl toward him, “have a date. They really are very good.”
Rincon took a glass from the tray and sipped the wine. He flicked the hand signal again, hoping this time that she might notice, but she was already turning back to her conversation. He sighed.
“It is a matter of some urgency, your ladyship.”
“Can’t it wait till morning?” said one of the men lying on the cushions just outside Lady Camille’s shade.
“My lord, I’m sorry, but I do not believe that it can.”
Rincon turned back to Lady Camille and flicked his hand signal for the third time.
“Please, my lady, if I might just have a few minutes of your time?”
She sighed and looked around for somewhere to put down her glass. A servant stepped in smartly from behind her and relieved her of it before stepping back out of the way.