by Tim Stead
“Best not,” Worrel said. “It would only give them a reason to look for us. Besides, your captain is taking a letter to Hekman – we’d be better served if you saw that reached its destination.”
“As you like,” Malin said. “Good luck.” He turned and retreated down the street and Worrel looked round the corner again at the Rest. He saw the door open and a man go in – one of the other king’s men, perhaps.
“Looks all right,” Pikket said.
“We’ll find out, I guess,” Worrel said.
The street seemed longer than he remembered it. He paused before he put his hand on the door and looked back down the way they’d come. It was empty, a few lamps burned steadily in the still air, and yet to Worrel it seemed sinister – every strangeness a threat.
He opened the door and stepped boldly into the inn.
“You’re back then.” Lieutenant Genardy said. He was sitting at the same table, but not alone. There was a man sitting at the end of the table where he could see all of Genardy’s men and the door with a turn of his head. He seemed relaxed, but the room was tense.
“Who’s he?” Worrel asked, pointing. The man smiled at him, but it was a humourless smile, more controlled irritation than warmth. He was not a young man, and the lines on his face suggested that smiles were strangers in that territory.
“He can speak for himself,” Genardy said.
“Indeed I can,” the man said. He didn’t stand. He didn’t lean back. He sat upright as though it was the only way a man could sit. “I am Deputy Lord Warden Paneer,” he said.
“And?” Worrel sought refuge in the terse manner that had served him so well over the years.
“You are the lawkeeper Worrel.”
“I know that.”
“It is possible that we may be of service to one another.”
“Do all these stick men work for you? Did you have Taranath arrested?”
“No – to both.” Paneer drummed his fingers on the table a couple of times. “But I want to arrest you,” he said.
“I can’t stop you,” Worrel said.
“But I need you to agree to it,” Paneer said. “I will arrest you as a witness, perhaps. There will be no charge, and you will report back to me everything that you see and hear.”
Worrel pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Explain.”
Paneer sipped daintily at a glass of water and replaced it carefully on the table before he spoke. “I am the warden’s warden,” he said. “My master is the Regent himself, and it has come to my notice, and his, that certain elements within the wardenship of Darna are perhaps a little too eager to please those with wealth and influence.”
“They’re taking bribes,” Worrel translated.
“To put it crudely, yes. I have spoken to some who spoke to those that shipped in with you, and it seems that we have an opportunity to discern the, ah, rotten apples in our barrel.”
“Look to the man who gave the arrest order,” Worrel said.
“A somewhat obvious step,” Paneer said. “We have, of course, noted the individual, but it is likely that the condition has spread beyond his level and we want to take the opportunity to smoke out as many as we can.”
“So how does arresting me dig out your rotten fruit?”
“You will be placed in a strategically located cell. You should be able to hear things that reveal the identities of those that I seek. I will see to it that you are well treated and provided with paper and ink.”
“No.”
“No?” Paneer was clearly a man unaccustomed to the word.
“I am a lawkeeper of Samara, and I’m here to do a job for my chief, my city and my king. I don’t have time to do your work as well.”
“The order of your priorities is interesting. What if I undertake to put the power of the Regent himself behind your enquiries once mine are done?”
“Time is of the essence, and you’re not the Regent.”
“But I do have his ear. My problem, you see, is that you are the only man I can trust with the task, saving your officer, of course, but he was snatched up before I could speak with him. Indeed, it was his arrest that alerted me to this opportunity.”
“I could do it,” Pikket volunteered. “I could be arrested. I could listen and write notes.”
Paneer studied the sergeant with obvious distaste. “A plain speaking soldier? I think not. You will forgive my presumption, but those who fight for a living are usually devoid of the subtlety required.”
“Then we are at an impasse,” Worrel said.
“You would be wise to see reason,” Paneer said. “With your officer in a cell it will not be long before you join him. If you allow me to pick you up as a witness I can ensure that you are exonerated and released. They will not dare pick you up again if you have the Regent’s writ of innocence.”
Worrel had to admit that it made sense. He’d had the same thought himself. If he tried to carry out his orders how far would he get?
“How can you be sure I’d hear anything?” he asked.
Paneer smiled his humourless smile again. “Whisper galleries,” he said.
“There is a time limit,” Worrel said.
“Yes, I know,” Paneer sighed. “Those letters that you sent to Samara. I would guess we have eight days before there is some response.”
So he had been right, in a way. He had been watched and followed, but not by the regular wardens. This man had allowed him to send his letters – or had he? Could Worrel be sure that he had not gone onto each ship and fetched the letters back?
“My investigation must proceed,” he said.
“Let us assume that I am right,” Paneer said. Worrel guessed that it was an assumption he was used to. “And that we have eight days. I propose that we split those eight. You will spend four in prison for me, and then I will lend you my power for your investigations, for four, and then you and all your companions may leave the city and return to Samara with whatever you have gleaned.”
It was a fair offer.
“How can I trust you?” Worrel asked. “You could keep me under lock and key until your own problem is resolved, then kick me back to Samara.”
Paneer shrugged. “I give you my word,” he said.
Looking at Paneer’s face it wasn’t a very comforting guarantee. The man looked as trustworthy as a hungry wolf in a meat locker. But for Worrel it was still a good deal. The walls of possibility were closing in around him. This was at least a chance to make headway, even if only a slim one. There was the bonus that Paneer had not really threatened him, and it was a tool the man undoubtedly possessed.
He called for an ale. One of the many things that Arla had taught him, had taught them all, was to take your time over irrevocable decisions. It wasn’t always possible, or course, but the idea was that you made the decision and then sat back and looked at it. Was he being manipulated? Obviously. Was there a better or even a comparable alternative? Not really. What would happen if he did nothing instead? The future was a closed book, or at best an opaque one. He had already dismissed a run to Samara and was committed to Darna – or was he? Malin’s ship left in the morning. That was still hours away. Was there anything he could achieve in Samara that his note could not? Perhaps, but not a great deal. There was an alternative, though.
“Lieutenant Genardy,” he said. “Pick a couple of your men. I’m sending them back to Samara in the morning.”
Genardy looked like he was going to ask a question, but just nodded.
“Warden Paneer, I will do as you ask, but only after I have seen these men depart Darna. Is that agreeable?”
“It is, and I admire your circumspection, lawkeeper.”
Worrel offered his hand to seal the bargain and, after a moment’s hesitation, Paneer took it with apparent reluctance. He expected the warden’s hand to be limp, but it was surprisingly firm. His skin was cool and dry.
“I will see you tomorrow, then, on the docks, at dawn,” Paneer said.
“
At dawn.”
Paneer stood to leave, but at that moment the door to the street burst open and a warden all but tumbled in from the street. Paneer was first to him. The old man was fast despite his age.
“What is it, Contel?” he demanded.
“Fire!” the man said. He had clearly been running and was out of breath, reaching for his meaning between gasps. “The Docks! Ships! Ships are burning.”
33 Exclusion
“Outside,” Sam said.
Arla followed him into the corridor and watched as he closed the door and leaned against it. She found him difficult to read, but for once she was certain that he was worried.
“I can’t be a part of this,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I know her,” Sam said. “She’s a… friend. We have a business arrangement.”
“You and Fandakari?”
He nodded. “You will lead the investigation,” he said.
“If you vouch for her…”
“No. You will be thorough and honest. We make no allowances.”
Arla knew that he meant it, and she admired him for that. The law was above anything for Hekman. She wondered if she would be the same about Malin.
“Then I’ll have to ask you questions,” she said.
“I suppose you will,” he said.
“So how do you know her?”
Hekman told her the story – the court case, his offer of a loan, her counter-offer of partnership, the house, the first payment he had received.
“Clearly there are two interpretations, chief,” she said. “One charitable, and the other not so.”
“Which is why I cannot be involved.”
“I understand, of course,” she said. But privately Arla trusted Hekman’s judgement. The chief oversaw all recruitment and his opinion was always respected. The only failure that Arla knew of was a big one, but that had been in the days when he was desperate for competent lawkeepers, and the man had been an expert in the art of deceit.
“Do you know where I can find the Fandakari woman?” she asked.
“She’s staying at an inn in Morningside,” Hekman said. “Ulric knows which one. But you’d be advised to question this man thoroughly before you approach her. She’s no fool. She can dissemble with the best of them.” He smiled. “You should have seen her in court.”
“I will talk to Candarian first,” Arla said. “What will you do?”
Hekman’s face changed. He frowned. “I have to speak to the general,” he said.
“The general?” she asked.
“A private matter.” Hekman stared at the floor for a moment, then nodded to Arla and set off down the corridor at a brisk pace, not looking back. She watched him go. Best to have someone else present when she questioned their witness, she thought, so she followed in Hekman’s steps to the top of the stairs.
“Corin!”
She didn’t have to call twice. Corin came up the stairs at a run.
“What is it?” he asked.
“We have a witness to question.”
She led the way back to the room, and she and Corin took their seats in silence. Renat Candarian looked nervous – almost ready to run – but Arla and Corin settled themselves deliberately. They were good at this.
“So,” she said. “Tell me your story. Begin at the beginning.”
The tale unfolded haltingly. Candarian was not fluent, and Arla thought it was because the man was trying to minimise his own part in it, which Arla judged to be significant. But Candarian was now a reluctant pawn in this game, however it had begun. There was no other explanation for his coming forwards the way he had. He wanted out.
She heard about the blind man – doubtless the same one the cook had mentioned, about the assassin that nobody ever saw, about the daggers that had been gifted to Calaine and the King of Blaye. Candarian’s story lifted the lid on a small but detailed part of the plot.
“And Fandakari,” she asked. “Where does the Fandakari woman fit into all this?”
“All my orders have come from the cartel,” he said. “The Fandakari cartel.”
“And when did you receive the first instructions that took you down this murderous path?”
“Four month’s ago,” he said. “That’s when we were told to meet with the blind man, to accept his orders. The message came in code with the Fandakari seal upon it. It could not have been falsified.”
Four months ago was before the court case, before Ishara Fandakari had come to Samara. It was possible that the whole thing had been a performance, a ruse to position her here and gain the trust of influential people, or Sam Hekman in particular. Who better to befriend if you wanted to know if Samara’s lawkeepers were uncovering your plot.
It was a question she should have asked Hekman. Had she asked him anything? Did she drop hints about things? Was she curious about his work?
She could ask those questions later. Now she had sufficient cause to speak to Fandakari, and that, she knew, would be a delicate matter. There was no evidence against her but Candarian’s word, and that itself was no more than supposition.
“You have to protect me,” Candarian said. “They’ll kill me if they know I’ve talked.”
“You can stay in our cells,” Arla said. “It’s the best we can do. You’ll be guarded day and night and free to go when you feel safe.”
Candarian hesitated only briefly. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll stay in the cells.” A less terrified man would have demanded a guard at his home – especially a well-to-do man like Candarian.
“Take him down,” she said to Corin. “And make sure that the guards understand he is a guest, here for his protection and not a malefactor.”
Left alone in the room, Arla stared at the wall. She wasn’t looking forward to her next task. She suspected that when the chief had named the woman a friend he had been understating the matter, and she did not want to be the one to break that bond. Hekman would expect nothing less than the truth, rigorously dug out from wherever it was hiding, so if Fandakari was guilty Arla would be damned either way. She just had to hope that the woman was innocent.
34 An Old Secret
Sam walked down to the citadel at a leisurely pace. It was a sunny day, but the first hint of an autumn wind was blowing in from the sea and he was glad of his cloak.
He didn’t want to leave the lawhouse, but it was the right thing to do. He trusted Arla to be thorough, to be fair, but even so it felt like he was betraying Ishara.
There were hints of evening in the sky, the sun barely above the rooftops as he walked down Market Street to the Strand. He preferred this route, even if it was a few hundred paces longer. Here there were people all around him going about their every-day affairs. He paused at a fruit stall and picked up an apple, gave the woman a copper for it and walked on. He passed a couple of men haggling good naturedly over a bolt of cloth, a woman trying on hats, a couple of men drinking tea at a roadside vendor’s. They were talking about the forthcoming royal wedding, the worst kept secret in Samara.
He paused when he got to the Strand, sat on a low wall and bit into the apple. It was sharp and sweet at the same time, a bit like life, he thought. Sam gnawed it down to the core, plucked off the stem and crunched up the rest of it. He could never bring himself to throw the core away, even now that he had money to burn. Somewhere inside he was still a Gulltown boy.
He turned right, away from the docks and in a short while he came to the citadel gates. There were four soldiers on duty, more than he’d seen before.
“To see the general,” he said. The sergeant in charge nodded.
“Follow me,” he said.
Sam was led across the great courtyard, but where he expected to turn left he was led right, up a stairway, and in a few steps they passed through an archway and came to a small courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard a thick post had been set into the stone, heavily bandaged with sacking, and it was under assault from the general, who was stripped to the waist and swea
ting at his work. It was simple stuff, backhand and forehand cuts, one after the other, and an occasional thrust. Strength work.
“General?” the soldier spoke and Darius let fly with a final forehand hack that sent torn sacking flying. He turned.
“Sam. Just give me a moment.” He sheathed his blade and laid it aside, went to a bucket and poured water over his head and picked up a towel. As he rubbed himself dry he walked back across the yard. “What is it?” he asked. “Progress?”
“Some,” he said. “The plot is real. The danger is real, but there’s something else behind it.”
“Something else?”
Sam shook his head. “I can’t say what it is, but I’m sure the assassination is no more than a front for what’s really happening.”
“Someone is trying to kill the royal families of Samara and Blaye and it’s a front? That’s ridiculous.”
“I confess it seems a wild thought, but not so wild if, well, the wrong people are behind it.”
“Who?”
“You remember that thing in Woodside a couple of years ago?” Sam asked.
“You mean that thing we swore that we’d never speak of again – swore an oath to the Mage Lord?”
“Aye. That.”
“You’re not serious.”
Sam shrugged. “The alternative is worse.”
“And what could be worse?”
“Someone with malice towards Samara and Blaye using magic, and not just simple tricks, to advance their cause.”
“You mean one of the Mage Lord’s pupils.”
“Or someone else. Not all magic was lost from the world when the Faer Karan came – as we learned to our cost.”
Darius scratched his head and grimaced. “Are you sure about this?”
“No. But Arla thought she saw magic at work in Jerohal, and something about this whole plot feels wrong.”
“So you think we need help?”
“I don’t have your contacts,” Sam said.
“And the sort of contacts that I have are generally quite busy and don’t like to be called out on supposition, Sam. You haven’t got anything, really. You’re not sure.”