A Game of Three Hands

by Tim Stead

  It didn’t look good to Worrel. He himself was armed with only a knife, and that half the length of the assassin’s. Taranath wasn’t armed at all, but that didn’t stop the big man from pushing forwards.

  “Flank him, you fools,” he shouted. “Go either side. Get behind him.”

  It was a good idea, but Taranath’s advice had also been heard by the assassin, and as the soldiers moved left and right he backed towards the window, using it do defend his back.

  Worrel wondered at his officer’s unaccustomed lack of subtlety.

  *

  In the street outside The Stone House Lieutenant Genardy stalked along an alley, looking up at the building. There were many windows down this side, but only a few of them glowed with lamp light. He watched them intently. Pikket was round the other side doing the same thing. Taranath had warned him that he expected an escape attempt, an open window, but the streets were guarded now – three of the Darnese soldiers to a side.

  He was lucky.

  A leaded window up above him opened and a face looked down. In the background he could hear someone hammering on a door and a voice shouting. He recognised the voice. It was that old stick of a warden.

  The window slammed again.

  “Ida! Bats! Here! Now!”

  Two of his archers came sprinting down the street.

  “That window there,” he pointed. “Draw on it and be ready to shoot.” He couldn’t expect too much, he knew. Neither archer had shot in anger with these borrowed Darnese bows, but Ida and Bats were his best, and if anyone could hit a mark with a stranger weapon it was them.

  One of the Darnese soldiers approached him.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded. “The Lord Warden wants these men alive.”

  The soldier was young and without rank. The lieutenant had ten years and considerable seniority on him.

  “Look, son,” he said. “You have your orders and I have mine. Don’t get in my way.”

  The soldier retreated, still looking unhappy.

  “Stay ready,” Genardy said.

  He heard the unmistakable sound of steel on steel. The light flickering in the window was occluded. Genardy saw a white shirt. He knew that the Lord Warden and his soldiers were dressed in black, that Taranath and Worrel were in blue and brown.

  “Shoot!”

  Bowstrings hummed in harmony and there was a sound of breaking glass. The figure in the window vanished.

  “Bats?”

  Bats shrugged. “I hit lead,” he said.

  “Ida?”

  “Glass. If that was a man, he’s bleeding.”

  “Good. Draw again. Shoot on my word.”

  *

  The assassin was winning. Worrel had never seen a man so quick and sure with a blade. He was fighting three men at once and looked in total control. Now that he had secured his back against the window no more than three could come at him.

  Worrel looked around to see if there was anything he could use as a weapon. He had to admit that Paneer was doing his part. The old man was in the front rank and striking at their quarry with considerable skill, even though his only weapon was a steel capped staff.

  There was a sound of broken glass and the assassin stumbled forwards, cursing. As he half turned Worrel could see an arrow protruding from one shoulder. Yet even now he fended off two blows from the surrounding soldiers, and it was only Paneer that struck home, his staff smacking against the side of their quarry’s head. The man cursed again and stumbled back once more, swinging his blade wide, forcing the soldiers to jump back. One wasn’t quick enough and lost the use of an arm.

  The assassin cried out again, and this time fell forwards onto his knees. That was enough. Paneer knocked the dagger from his hand with a sharp blow and one of the soldiers leaped forwards to seize his sword arm. But the wounded man wasn’t finished yet. He struck the soldier a blow that rendered him senseless and began to climb to his feet once more.

  He was too slow. Two more men jumped on him, then two more. The floor became a screaming, writhing bloody mass of arms and legs as the assassin tried to fight free again, but it was too much. In less than a minute he was pinned down and bound with stout ropes. He was spitting and cursing, still fighting against the ropes, trying to lash out with his feet at anyone who came within range.

  Taranath stepped round him and opened what remained of the window. He looked down and saw Genardy and two archers lowering their bows.

  “Good work,” he called down. “You saved lives tonight.”

  Worrel was impressed. He knew Taranath had been up to something with Genardy, but he had no idea how this had been worked.

  “How?” he asked. Taranath smiled.

  “Every room has a window,” he said. “The door is usually opposite, so it made sense that he’d back against it, or pretty close. I could have been wrong, though. He could have found a wall or a corner to guard his back, but you can’t jump through a wall to escape, can you?”

  Taranath knelt beside the body of the first man to die – the assassin’s companion. He carried out a brief examination, studying the fingernails, the eyes, the man’s gums and teeth.

  “Poison. He took his own life.”

  “That’s why our friend here called him a coward.”

  “Aye, but we’d best search our bladesman here to make sure he’s not similarly equipped.” He sat on the struggling man’s legs and reached inside his pockets, ignoring his struggles and curses. He pulled out a small phial that held three tiny white spheres.

  “Bastard,” the assassin said.

  “Save your strength, Dain, or whatever your name is. You’re going to die hard.”

  Dain glared at him, but stopped talking. The Warden’s soldiers hauled him to his feet. There were four bodies lying on the floor, and two men were injured, and they’d been lucky. Without Taranath’s chancy arrow trick it could have been a lot worse.

  The assassin was dragged down the stairs and through the public lounge of the inn. Those few customers that had not fled at the sound of fighting stared open mouthed at the bloodied procession.

  Once in the street the Lord Warden fell in beside Taranath and Worrel.

  “We have our man,” he said. “You can be sure that we’ll tell you anything relevant that we learn when questioning him.”

  “I’d like to take him back to Samara,” Taranath said.

  “Out of the question,” the warden said. “He’s killed three of my men, a hatful of Samaran sailors, and who knows what other crimes he’s done? We’ll find out. We’re not as squeamish as you Samarans.”

  Worrel half agreed. He knew that Sam Hekman was dead set against torture. It was rumoured that he’d been on the other end of it, that it was how he’d acquired his limp. But a man like this assassin, well, he couldn’t think of anyone more deserving of harsh treatment.

  “His first crimes were committed in Samara,” Taranath said.

  “Against Darnese folk,” Paneer countered.

  Worrel understood. This wasn’t really about Silman and his crew. There was a threat to the crown of Samara, and Taranath didn’t want that coming out in a Darnese torture house.

  “We’ve travelled hundreds of miles to fetch him back,” Taranath said.

  “You’re welcome to witness the interrogation. You can even ask questions,” Paneer said. “But he’s staying here and dying here.”

  The Samaran was in no position to insist. He was in Paneer’s city, surrounded by Paneer’s people. Worrel thought his officer might find a way to get Dain to Samara, but he couldn’t see how.

  They rounded a corner and the procession stopped. There was a shadowy figure standing in the middle of the road ahead of them, cloaked and hooded, but, Worrel noted, it was quite a small shadowy figure. Whoever it was had clearly known that they were coming this way.

  “Move aside,” Paneer said.

  “I want to examine your prisoner.” It was a woman’s voice.

  “I don’t think so,” Paneer said. “We’re
on the Regent’s business, so give us the road or we’ll walk over you.”

  She laughed.

  It was a good laugh, not wicked or cynical, but the music of delight.

  “Oh, Paneer,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to try that. Anyway, I’m here to help.” She threw back her hood, raised one hand, and the alley was filled with bright, white light. “I am Felice Caledon,” she said. “Mage Lord of East Scar.”

  36 Interrogation

  Arla and Corin walked slowly. They were zigzagging up the gradually steepening roads into Morningside, but it was not the gradient that slowed them. It was Arla. She couldn’t put off this duty any longer, but she was still struggling with the question of how to approach it.

  Ishara Fandakari was a clever woman, used to power, and quite capable of deception, and there was only one man’s word against her. If Arla questioned her directly the walls could go up and she would learn nothing. Better by far, she thought, to be oblique. But even that subtlety would invite an answering subtlety that might well be far greater than her own. In essence, she was probably over matched.

  So her subtlety must appear to be direct.

  They arrived at the Golden Star, the finest inn that Samara possessed, in the early afternoon. Arla had sent a man to watch the place and she knew that Ishara was there, but even so she was surprised to be waved up the stairs to the Saratan’s rooms by the landlord.

  “Anyone from the law house is welcome,” he told her.

  It was hardly the act of a guilty person, and Arla recognised the danger of doublethink – that the guilty ape the innocent because they know it will deceive. The plain truth was that the guilty usually behaved as though they were guilty.

  She knocked on the door and was surprised a second time when Ishara herself opened it. Arla had expected a servant.

  “Arla Crail,” she announced. “Is it all right if we ask you a few questions?” She was careful not to insist.

  Ishara smiled. “Of course.” She stood back and let them enter. The room wasn’t as tidy as Arla had expected. The table, big enough to dine ten people, was strewn with papers and a decanter of pale wine stood next to a small plate of miniature cakes, bright like baked jewellery.

  Arla stood awkwardly, not sure if she should sit, but Ishara waved at the chairs. “Please, sit. Wine?”

  “Just a taste,” Arla said. Accepting a drink would put Ishara at her ease.

  She sat and Corin sat to her right. Ishara poured a finger of wine into a glass finer than anything Arla had ever drunk from and put it down on the table. Arla sniffed at it, allowed it to touch her tongue. It was sweet and buttery, heavy with flavour, like honey, but the alcohol cut through to lighten it.

  “Have a cake,” Ishara said. “They go very well.”

  Arla shook her head. “Thank you, no.” She sipped the wine.

  “Questions, then,” Ishara said. She leaned back and waited, alert and curious.

  Arla looked out of the window. There was only sky, so high up in Morningside was the inn. It was a beautiful, clear blue.

  “Do you know a man called Renat Candarian?”

  “Of course,” Ishara replied. “He was House Fandakari’s agent in Samara. I suppose he still is. Is he all right?”

  “He’s in perfect health,” Arla replied. “What can you tell me about him? What kind of man is he?”

  “Competent as an agent,” Ishara said. She smiled. “He was not quite ruthless enough, I suppose, to be a great trader. I liked him for that, but it probably cost the house a hatful of gold every year.”

  “You’d have preferred him to be more concerned with profit?”

  Ishara shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “He has a reputation for honesty, so that went some way to making up for it, and anyway, I’ve grown to appreciate honesty as a strategy.”

  “Have you seen him since you settled here?”

  “Candarian? No. He’s House Fandakari. He works for them.”

  It was a flat dismissal, and if it wasn’t honest Ishara was a master of deception – but then again, perhaps she was.

  “I’d like to ask some questions about House Fandakari,” Arla said. “Do you mind?” Asking permission was a deliberate ploy again. How could she refuse?

  “Of course not.”

  Now comes the interesting bit, Arla thought.

  “When did your…former husband join House Fandakari?”

  Ishara pulled a face. “I made that particular error seven months ago,” she said.

  “So you were married for only five months?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he would have had access to everything from that time?”

  “Everything?”

  “Codes, seals, the things he’d need to give instruction to your agents.”

  “Of course. You’ve never been to Sarata, have you?” Ishara smiled a crooked smile and poured herself another glass of wine. “Women have very little status there. As soon as I married I became subservient to him. He had full control.” She sipped her wine. “He’s done something, hasn’t he? He’s used Candarian in some unsavoury way.”

  The guess made the next step difficult. Arla ignored Ishara’s question.

  “But you had a seal too,” she said. “And you would have been familiar with the codes?”

  “Of course.” She pulled on a chain around her neck and extracted a ring from beneath her clothing. “The seal of House Fandakari,” she announced. “I thought I could use it to disrupt his new empire, but it hasn’t been necessary. He’s doing poorly enough on his own. Do you need me to translate something?”

  “Forgive me, Trader Fandakari, but do you mind if I ask the questions for the time being? It’s what we’re used to.”

  Ishara waved a slightly irritated hand at the air as though shooing away a fly. “Of course. Sorry.”

  But in fact she had her answer. Ishara still had a seal. Her erstwhile husband also had one. Either could have sent the letter to Candarian, or they could have colluded. The split between them could be false. Now was the time for the final tactic. She wanted to see if she could shock Ishara into betraying guilt.

  “So can you tell me why Candarian should accuse you of plotting to kill the Princess Calaine?”

  Ishara stared at her, mouth slightly open, eyes blank. The shock part had worked, no doubt about it, but Arla could see no sign of guilt.

  “Me?”

  Arla didn’t answer. She waited. The words people said when they were accused were some of the most revealing they ever uttered.

  “Me? No. What the fuck would I have to gain from killing the princess? This is insane. Did Candarian say it was me? No. It was the seal. That’s why you asked about it.” She leaned forwards with a strained smile. “Does Sam think I did this?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Arla replied. “But an accusation was made. It has to be investigated.” Her question was revealing, too.

  “If you have the letter I can prove that I didn’t send it,” Ishara said.

  “How?”

  “The seals are different. Each family member has a unique seal.”

  “Maybe that’s why Candarian thought you’d sent it.”

  “Nonsense,” she snapped, and held up an apologetic hand. “Sorry, no. He wouldn’t know – or probably not. It’s not that obvious and we don’t advertise it.”

  “Show me.” Arla had to admit that she was curious.

  “How can I show you with just one seal?”

  “Then give me the seal and I’ll compare it with the one on the letter.”

  “Better if I do it,” Ishara said. “I can tell you whose seal it is.”

  “No.” Arla held out her hand.

  “You still don’t trust me,” Ishara observed, raising an eyebrow.

  “It’s not about trust,” Arla replied. “I am a lawkeeper. Sam insists that we do things a certain way. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve been accused of. It doesn’t matter if I trust you or think you innocent. I wish people would grasp
that.”

  Ishara studied her for a moment. She looked undecided. She lifted the chain that held the ring from around her neck and offered it to Arla.

  “This is all I have left of my family, or my father, my home. Don’t lose it. I want it back.”

  “It will be returned,” Arla said.

  “Now let me explain. Look at the seal.”

  Arla looked. The ring was heavy, solid gold with a detailed picture etched into the front. The ring was too big to be worn comfortably, being about the size of a crow’s egg.

  “You might need a reading glass,” Ishara said.

  “Do you have one?”

  “Not here.”

  “So what am I looking for?”

  “Look down the left hand side. You see marks – like seagulls?”

  Arla squinted, and yes, there were four gulls – double curves like squashed ‘m’s – down the left. “I see four,” she said.

  “Good. Now down the right side, how many do you see?”

  “Six. No. Seven.” They were very small and difficult to count.

  “Seven,” Ishara said. “This is the forty-seventh seal of the house of Fandakari.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Not quite. Just to make sure, you can look at the stook of corn represented on the bottom right, just below the gulls.”

  “I think I see it. It’s tiny.”

  “Yes. Under a glass you’ll see that there is a single head of wheat standing up from the stook. It bends to the left. If I was a man it would bend to the right.”

  “Ishara, this is ridiculous. These details will never show on a wax seal.”

  “They might, especially the dots. You only have to look at the ones on the right. Nobody alive has three on the left.”

  Arla handed the ring back. “I don’t need this if all I’m looking for are birds.”

  “You’ll be looking for eight marks,” Ishara said.

  “Your former husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forgive my ignorance, but what’s his name?”