by Tim Stead
He searched the pockets again, and this time with a little more luck. There was a small leather pouch in the man’s right pocket. He eased it out and pulled open the drawstring. It wasn’t much, really. The sum of a man’s life tumbled out into his hand – two gold coins, four silver and a small square of folded paper. He opened out the paper and found writing on it.
Laughing Gull, Sunset, dock three. One silver per sea day. Two silver loading and unloading.
It was the sort of scrap that passed for a seaman’s contract. It told him the name of his ship, where and when to find it, and his rates of pay once part of the ship’s company. It seemed a pitiful amount, but wasn’t that bad considering the man didn’t have to stump up for his food or lodgings. The important thing, the very important thing, was that this man had signed aboard the same ship as the man back at the lawhouse. Corin was prepared to gamble that the other body here was yet another ship mate. Somebody was killing off the crew of the Laughing Gull.
He stood up and looked about the alley for other clues to what had passed here. He saw a knife in the gutter and went to look at it. It was a typical sailor’s weapon, sturdy but cheap. It had probably been used to trim ropes, to cut food, to scrape away at the bits of wood that sailors seemed to enjoy shaping.
“Borana, what do you make of it?” he asked.
She had been pacing up and down the alley while Corin had been examining the bodies. Now she stopped.
“The alley’s a dead end, so either they chased a man in here or he chased them. I think they did the chasing.” She pointed to the man lying face down. “He was carrying a knife, the one you found, and I think he was the first to die. Their quarry turned on them, killed that one first while he was still running, and then faced the other. They were outclassed. By the look of it they never had a chance.”
Corin nodded. It made sense of everything, except why they would be chasing their killer in the first place. That was one thing they might never know. He showed the scrap of paper to Borana.
“They were on the same ship with the dead man Arla picked up this morning,” he said. A thought occurred to him. “A sailor carries his world with him.” He pointed to the man lying face up. “Where was his?”
They both cast about the alley once more, but there seemed nothing more to find.
“Stolen?” Borana suggested.
“Why rob one and not the other?” Corin countered. But he had the answer to his own question. “That’s why they chased him. He stole that one’s money and they chased him.”
“But it wasn’t a robbery,” Borana said. “It was a killing. He just wanted them somewhere quiet where it wouldn’t be seen.”
“It’s a theory,” Corin said. “A good one. Now we have to find people who saw it. If we’re right it would have begun where there were a lot of people.”
“Market Street,” she suggested.
“Aye, but first let’s speak to folk here. You try to get something out of the crowd down there and I’ll speak to the woman who found them.”
Borana walked towards the end of the alley and Corin rapped on the door the other lawkeepers had pointed to. Nothing happened for a while, so he rapped again, harder this time. He was rewarded with the sound of a plaintive voice from within, and a moment later the door eased open a couple of inches.
“Lawkeepers,” he said to the eye that peered out at him. “I want to talk to you about what happened.”
The door swung open, revealing a small woman of advancing years. She peered up at him.
“Are you an officer?” she said. “They said there’d be an officer.”
“I am Officer Longday,” Corin said. “What did you see?”
“Nothing,” she said. “There was just a lot of noise and shouting, so I had a look out the window and there they was, just lying there, bleeding.”
“Dead,” Corin said.
“How would I know? Anyway, they were lying there, so I called a street boy and had him run for your lot.”
“And you didn’t see the man who did it, who killed them?”
“Killed them? No. Like I said, they were already lying there when I looked.”
“And you didn’t see anyone else?”
She squinted at him. He’d seen that look before. She was deciding whether or not to say something.
“We really appreciate your help,” he said. “It’s always an honour to meet a citizen who cares about the law, and every little detail helps.”
“Well, there was a man at the end of the alley,” she said. “But I only saw him for a moment, sideways through the window.”
So she had seen the killer. Corin restrained himself. He wanted to grab her and wring every detail from her.
“Can you tell me anything about him?” he asked.
“He was tall,” she said. “I think.”
Worse than useless. “His clothes?”
“White shirt, or jacket. Dark pants. I think he was carrying something – a bag of some kind over one shoulder. He turned left.”
Left was away from Market street, but with a description like that there was no point trying to follow him. He had ten minutes on them if not thirty, and there would be dozens like him within three streets.
“Nothing else?” he asked.
She shook her head. “He was only there for a moment,” she said.
And that was it. She had no more to give. Corin thanked her and moved back into the street. He saw that Bilan the death man had arrived and was crouched over one of the bodies like a stringy black vulture. He admired Bilan’s abilities, but found the man quite repulsive in other ways.
“Can you tell me anything?” he asked.
The death man looked up at him, eyes squeezed shut against the bright sky. His expression was not particularly warm.
“You need to talk to Commander Crail,” he said. “These men were killed with the same blade as the man this morning.”
“I guessed that,” Corin said. “They served on the same ship.”
“Well, now you can do better than guess.”
“Anything else?”
“Each killed with a single blow. This killer is skilled at his art.”
Corin didn’t consider murder an art, but he nodded. At least he knew that this was a man to be wary of.
“Thank you, Bilan,” he said.
He walked towards the end of the alley and met Borana coming back.
“Nothing,” she said. “They all claim they got here after the killings.”
“And no men in white shirts carrying a bag?” he asked.
Borana grinned. “Is that what she saw? No, nothing like that. We’d never be that lucky.”
“Well,” Corin said. “I suppose we’d better get over to Market Street.
8 A Meeting
Renat Candarian leaned back in his chair and pretended to sip at his wine. Everything about this meeting worried him, but he was a man of honour, and duty bound to follow his orders. Renat wasn’t a soldier. He was a merchant, a Saratan merchant, but that meant he owed loyalty to the head of his cartel, and his orders were clear. He must cooperate in this insane venture.
Emari, the Darnese, leaned forwards, his eyes fixed on the blind man opposite.
“You’re certain that this will not come back on us?” he asked.
The blind man smiled, his opaque eyes moving randomly about the room above Renat’s head in a manner that he found profoundly disturbing.
“Quite certain,” he said. “The captain was killed before he had a chance to impart anything to the king’s men and the others, who knew very little anyway, have been dealt with.”
“So the whole crew is dead?” Emari pressed.
Renat didn’t really know what Emari was – soldier or merchant or something more sinister – and he didn’t want to know. But he knew what the blind man was. He was the assassin’s agent.
“All dead,” the blind man confirmed.
“And the lawkeepers?” Renat asked. He had respect for the lawkeepers in Sama
ra. They were not easily bought and had a knack for solving crimes. They worried him.
The blind man made a dismissive gesture. “ShinJo will slip through their fingers as always.”
ShinJo was the assassin. It was his job-name, and would change when this work was done, the blind man had explained. Nobody knew what he looked like – hence the blind go-between.
“Yet it is unfortunate that he has been forced to kill so many in the city,” Renat replied. “And so obviously.” It was a rebuke. The assassin was supposed to work silently, unnoticed, invisible. That was why he had been chosen.
“Unfortunate,” the blind man said. “Yes. The captain was unusually resourceful.”
“The whole plan might have failed if the soldiers on the citadel gate had been more capable. If he had spoken to General Grand…”
“But he did not,” the blind man said. Renat detected a spark of irritation, of wounded pride, perhaps. He wondered at that.
“You are loyal to him,” he observed. “But you know in the end he’s going to kill you. You will know too much.”
The agent nodded. “Aye, and that will be a sad day for me, but when I lost my eyes I became nothing – a piece of rubbish on the streets of Sarata, kicked about by children, spat on by men and women alike. He picked me up and gave me a purpose. I eat well. I sleep on soft beds. I dress in fine clothes. If it is a short life at least it is a good one, and anyway longer than I would have had in Sarata.”
“Even if you can’t see him you must know his voice.”
The blind man laughed, shaking his head. “In Sarata he is Saratan. Here he is Samaran – and it is perfect. He can change his accent as easily as his coat and even I cannot pick it. It is what he says that I recognise, and not his voice.”
“So what is next?” Emari asked.
The blind man reached down by his feet and picked up the wooden box that he had brought with him. He placed it on the table and Renat leaned forwards to examine it.
“A fine piece of work,” Emari said.
It was true. The box was blackwood, and gleamed with many years of oil and caresses. It invited the latter. The lid was expertly carved with the image of an oak tree. He could make out the distinctive shape of the leaves on the tree, but just in case of doubt the carver had carved a large oak leaf below the tree. The oak leaf was a symbol of trust, but Renat suspected the opposite was appropriate.
“Open it,” the agent said.
Emari opened it, and within the blackwood there was a nest of red velvet, and in that lay a knife of exquisite beauty, it’s handle thickly wrapped in black cloth. The blade was naked, and decorated with an intricate design, a falcon diving towards the point. The work was excellent.
Renat knew something about blades, and the metal’s dull gleam spoke to him. “This is mage steel,” he said.
“So I am told,” the blind man said.
“A knife like this is priceless,” Emari said. He touched the blade, running a finger down the etched steel.
“A gift fit for a princess,” the agent said. “A gift from the merchants of Sarata on the occasion of her betrothal.”
“You’re giving this to Calaine?” Renat asked. “Is it poisoned?”
“It will not harm you, or her” the blind man assured him. “But do not remove the cloth wrapping more than an hour before you present it.”
“Betrothal?” Emari asked.
Renat was surprised that the Darnese didn’t know. His own people had picked the news up a week ago, even though there had, as yet, been no public announcement.
“To Portina of Blaye,” Renat said. “The king is in Blaye agreeing the terms. Your people in Darna did not tell you?” It was, he had discovered, the motivation behind the hiring of ShinJo, the reason for their being here in this room. Neither of them had been trusted with the cause, though he suspected that the blind man knew. Renat was very aware of the adverse ramifications for both Sarata and Darna of such a match. The King of Sarata had dreamed of an empire and he feared the same dream had possessed Samara. In Renat’s opinion it was a mistake. Samara and its royalty were obsessed with Samara and rarely thought beyond their borders, but for all that there was a favourable relationship between this great city and Pek, while Sarata and Darna languished in disapproval. A fracture between the western cities would reinvigorate Sarata’s dreams of domination.
“So what is the purpose of the knife?” Emari asked. “Why is the hilt so wrapped if there is no poison?”
“You do not need to know that,” the blind man said. “And it is better that you do not. We are, of course, giving an identical knife to Portina.”
“You plan to kill them both?” Emari asked.
The blind man sighed. It was a bald question, and one that Renat knew the assassin’s agent would never answer. Instead the man turned his unseeing eyes towards Renat.
“You will deliver the knife when we tell you. That is all that is required of you.”
“I will,” Renat confirmed. It would be about a month after the official announcement, he thought. It had to seem credible that the Saratan merchants had heard the news, collaborated in the selection and purchase of a worthy gift, and had it shipped.
“Good. Well that is all then.” The blind man stood and picked up his cane. He turned and took a couple of steps to the door. It was remarkable how accurate he was with his memory, but even so it took his questing hand a few moments to locate the latch. “I will send you word when the time is right,” he said.
The door opened and closed and Renat was alone with Emari. The latter drained his cup of wine and slumped back in his seat.
“He scares me,” Emari said.
“What? The blind man?”
“Aye. It feels like he’s the assassin’s hand around my throat. I’d be happy to never see him again.”
Renat had to agree. The blind man struck him as a sort of predatory corpse. There was very little about him that seemed human. He wondered what he had been like before he lost his eyes. But it was the assassin that scared Renat. The crew of the Laughing Gull had died because they’d seen his face. How likely was it that Renat and Emari would survive this episode knowing what they did? He would have to make plans if he wanted to live. There would have to be a reason for the assassin to spare him. He was certainly not going to rely on the good will of his cartel.
9 Hekman
A commotion down the hallway broke into Sam’s reverie. He had been browsing the death man’s preliminary reports on the demise of a sea captain in a tavern. The cold brutality of it reminded him of the very worst of men they had dealt with as lawkeepers. The case interested him. Arla was looking into it, but Sam, as Samara’s chief lawkeeper, had every right to put his nose in wherever and whenever he felt the urge.
He pushed the paper aside when he heard a man shouting and the sound of running feet. He stepped out into the corridor to the sound of excited voices, and followed them towards the front of the building. He reached the main entrance just in time to see a black door, a magical portal, fade into wisps of darkness, and to see the creature that had stepped through it.
It was a Shan.
It stood looking around itself with an air of anxious uncertainty, surrounded as it was by a clutch of alarmed lawkeepers, some of whom had their hands on their weapons.
“Back to your work,” Sam told them, and they went. He was still faintly surprised whenever they obeyed him. They were all practical men and women, skilled in weapons, hardened by their lives, and Sam was no more than a former fisherman who’d had an incredible streak of luck.
He was left facing the Shan. It was a foot shorter than Sam, and Sam was a small man. He had no idea what the protocol was when addressing a Shan, or what rank or status it owned, but it must have powerful friends to arrive via a black door. There were a handful of mage lords now, and the last two Faer Karan. It could have come at the behest of any of those.
“I am Sam Hekman,” he said. “Chief lawkeeper of Samara. What can I do for you?”
The Shan studied him for a moment, pausing more to calm itself than anything else, Sam thought. It had clearly been alarmed to be surrounded by armed men.
“I am Seer Jud,” the creature said. “My friend persuaded me that at least one Shan should be in Samara to help with keeping the law. It seemed unfair to ask another to do what I would not.”
“Your friend? The Mage Lord?”
“That is what you call him,” Seer Jud confirmed. “You have a use for me?”
There was a time when Sam had thought a Shan the most useful tool a lawkeeper could possess, but years had passed and he had become accustomed to doing without. The Shan had a gift. It was said that you could not lie to them without their knowing it, and that would make Sam’s job a great deal easier.
“Of course,” he said. “But you have just arrived. Do you have anywhere to stay?”
Seer Jud looked at him in a way that Sam recognised. The answer to the question was obvious.
“No. Well, we can provide. Would accommodation in the law house be acceptable?”
The Shan looked about it at the spare furnishings and bare walls. “In a pinch,” it said. “Though I am accustomed to something better.” It turned and looked at Sam again. “It may surprise you, but I am not eager to sample the delights of the city. If you can provide me with rooms that are not completely intolerable I will probably never stray from this building.”
Sam nodded. He understood. The history of human Shan relations was littered with dead and dispossessed Shan. A human city would be a terrifying place. He stepped through to where Ulric sat by the front door. Ulric, he was confident, could find anything in Samara that he needed. The fat man had proved himself time after time.
“Ulric.”
The man swivelled on his chair and stared at the Shan, which had followed Sam into the room.