A Game of Three Hands

by Tim Stead

“Manoran Fandakari.”

  “He took your name?”

  “He took the house name.”

  Arla looked at Corin. He nodded to indicate that he didn’t have anything to add.

  “Well, that was all we wanted to know,” She said. “Please stay here in these rooms until we let you know you can leave.”

  “But you’ll have a man watching me anyway,” Ishara said.

  “More than one, and they’ve been there a day already,” she replied.

  Ishara smiled. “I won’t run,” she said. “I’ve no reason to, and nowhere to go if I had.”

  They left Ishara in her rooms and went back out onto the streets of Morningside. Arla took a couple of deep breaths.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  Corin grinned. “She’s sweet on the chief,” he said.

  “Which is something you’ll never mention again,” Arla said.

  “As you say. But I don’t think she’s guilty.”

  “Difficult to prove,” Arla said. “I doubt Candarian still has the letter. He’d be a fool to keep a paper that could hang him.”

  “Unless he foresaw a time when it might serve him – like now.”

  “Well, what we think is unimportant. We’ll have to see if Candarian kept it. If not…” she shrugged. “Back to square one.”

  37 The Mage Lord of East Scar

  Taranath had met Serhan once, very briefly, a couple of years ago. To be fair it had hardly been a meeting. Taranath had been a new recruit and Serhan had been speaking to Hekman and Councillor Saine, but brief as it had been, it was the total of his experience with Mage Lords.

  He thought it probably trumped everyone else in the street.

  Most of the soldiers were afraid, but the Samarans less so. They knew Serhan as a friend of their city. He had protected them. The same could not be said of the Darnese.

  He knew her story, of course. Everyone did. But nobody else was saying anything, so he stepped forwards and bowed.

  “Karana,” he said. “It is an honour to be in your presence.”

  “Lawkeeper Officer Radiant Taranath,” she said. “You are exactly as Ella described you.”

  He was surprised to be recognised. “Indeed?”

  “She has a gift for it,” the Mage Lord said. “But you seem to be a lawkeeper short.”

  It was a sudden pain to realise that he had almost forgotten the loss of Ansel. “We came the last leg by sea,” he said. “There was a storm. She was lost overboard.”

  But Felice Caledon’s eyes had moved on. She was staring at their prisoner. She stepped closer and held her hand higher so that it shone in his face.

  “You!” she said. “I hadn’t thought to see you again.”

  Paneer stepped a little between them. “You know this man?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Last time we met he was an Innkeeper at White Rock.” She turned back to the prisoner. “Your brother sends his regards – or he would if he wasn’t dead.”

  She studied his face, but to Taranath’s surprise the captured assassin didn’t seem afraid. Instead he appeared to be angry, he strained at his ropes and tried to kick his legs free.

  “Hold him tight,” Felice Caledon said. “I want to examine his hands.”

  She walked round behind the struggling man, stood quite still for a moment and closed her eyes.

  “What is it?” Taranath asked.

  “He stinks of it,” she said. Her eyes opened. “Magic. It’s like he’s been dipped in a trough of pig shit.” She grabbed his wrist and twisted his hand upwards. He was wearing three rings on his right hand. Felice stepped back, grabbed a piece of the assassin’s torn shirt and ripped it from his back. “Look,” she said.

  Taranath looked. Paneer, Genardy, Worrel and Dorcas all looked. In the bright light from Felice’s magical hand they could all see. His back was unmarked.

  “We hit him at least twice!” Genardy said.

  “Three times,” Taranath said.

  “How is this possible?” Paneer asked.

  Felice went back to the rings. She touched each of them carefully and when she seemed satisfied she pulled one of them off. She offered it to Taranath. “Here, put this on.”

  He was reluctant. “I’d rather not,” he said.

  “It won’t hurt you. Quite the opposite.”

  He took the ring from her fingers, noticing for the first time how very small she was – a full head shorter that him – and her hands were delicate, the nails neatly clipped, and clean. He slipped the ring over a finger, surprised that it fitted so well.

  “What am I supposed…?”

  She moved quickly, faster than he’d have thought possible. A knife was in her hand and the next instant his hand was ablaze with pain. He clutched it in surprise, blood dripping onto the street.

  He swore. Genardy stepped forwards, his hand somewhat foolishly on the hilt of his sword, but Taranath appreciated the gesture.

  “Look at your hand,” she said.

  He opened his hand and stared down. Even as he looked the thin red line – all that remained of the wound she had inflicted – vanished.

  “Magic,” he said.

  “The other rings are the same – magic. They do different things. I’m going to take them back to Serhan. He might know who made them, might be able to see.”

  Taranath had no idea how that might work, so he nodded.

  “It still hurt, you know,” he said.

  Felice smiled. “I lied, didn’t I,” she said.

  A faint hiss in the air made them all duck, and their prisoner was falling, an arrow protruding from his chest. The soldiers scattered to the sides of the road, blades coming out, arrows plucked from quivers. Taranath flung himself flat.

  Felice remained standing. She reached out a hand and touched the air. It was like setting fire to lamp oil. A flame sprang into existence and leaped back along the arrow’s arc. Somewhere in the darkness of the next corner a bow incandesced into fire. The man who’d shot at them fled.

  Felice turned at once to the fallen assassin. She placed her hand on his chest and mouthed words that Taranath didn’t recognise while the rest of their company regained their feet and Paneer’s men ran to the corner in pursuit of their attacker.

  “Is he dead?” Taranath asked.

  Felice wiped the blood off her hand. “As a doorpost,” she said. “The arrow got him through the heart. He was gone by the time he hit the ground.”

  “So we’ll get nothing from him,” Paneer said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Felice said, standing again. “Or not a great deal. I know who and what he was. He couldn’t have told us more than that.” She turned to Paneer. “I’ve marked the man who shot him. If he runs to the others we’ll soon know where they are and you can clean up the nest. As to your men – I’ll heal those who were wounded, but the dead are beyond my skill.

  “After that I’ll take these back to Samara. There’s nothing more to be gained here and I need to talk to Ella and the General.”

  Paneer bowed. “I thank you for that kindness,” he said.

  “This could have gone better,” she said. “But there’ll be no suggestion of war now. You can assure the Regent of that.”

  She turned to the wounded men and Taranath watched as she healed them, quite aware, suddenly, that she hadn’t killed anyone.

  38 Danger

  “Two years ago,” Felice said, “we discovered that the Faer Karan – some of them – had found a way back to Shanakan.”

  Arla stared, speechless. She had believed completely, up until this moment, that Serhan had banished the creatures for good. She looked around at the others gathered at the table. The General and the Chief didn’t seem surprised at all. They looked grim and nodded. They had both known of this. Ella Saine looked as surprised as Arla.

  “One of them killed several people in White Rock, and another murdered several candidates at Woodside. An attempt was made on my own life, which obviously failed, and the creatures were banish
ed once more.”

  Arla felt that she was being inducted into a secret society, that the plots on the one side were matched by the layered secrets on the other. It made her wonder if there were still more layers beneath this one.

  “There was another group active at Woodside, and throughout White Rock’s domain, that called themselves ‘The Free’. They acted against the Mage Lord and failed. Most of them killed themselves.” She held up a small glass bottle half full of tiny white pills – one that Taranath had brought back from Darna. “With these. The assassin that died in Darna was the same man that had run the tavern in White Rock, so we are certain that this plot was nothing to do with the Faer Karan. It was The Free.”

  “But we are not safe,” Hekman said. “In spite of everything that we have done, all of Taranath’s fine work in Darna, the threat still remains.”

  Arla shifted on her seat. “Frankly, I don’t understand,” she said. “The plot is exposed. The plot behind the plot is exposed. Are you suggesting that there is yet another layer?”

  Hekman shook his head. “It is simper than that,” he said. “The Free, whatever their aims might be, are implacably opposed to the Mage Lord Serhan. They will do anything they can to disrupt his work, to kill his friends, to bring him into disfavour with the people of Shanakan.

  “They wanted to draw Samara into a war with Sarata, to make Samara the aggressor so that Serhan would be forced to act against the city. Their plot to kill Calaine and Bren Portina might well have done that. They left us clues, tried to provoke an incident with Darna. It all ran the same way. Now they are left with the remnants of their assassination plot. Killing the King of Blaye and the King of Samara’s only child would end the succession in both cities. It would result in a chaos greatly beneficial to them. It was pure luck, really, that the Mage Lord Felice recognised the assassin.”

  “And it has nothing to do with the Faer Karan?” Arla asked.

  Felice Caledon laughed. “Not a chance,” she said. “If there’s one thing The Free hate more than Cal Serhan it’s the creatures he overthrew.”

  “So we are back to the beginning,” Arla said. “Someone is trying to kill Calaine and we don’t know who it is. Only this time we have no leads to follow, just the name of a group whose members could be almost anyone.”

  “We know the proposed method,” Sam said.

  “Do we?” Arla spread her hands. “Everything we found out was what they wanted us to find out.”

  “You have a point,” General Grand said.

  “And these men are willing to die for their cause, whatever it is,” Arla went on. “It’s generally accepted that you can kill anyone if you’re prepared to die doing it.”

  The General exchanged a look with Hekman. “We have to do our best,” he said.

  “And they’ve suffered losses,” the chief said. “Ten of them died in Darna. When Paneer trapped them they killed themselves rather than surrender.”

  “There could be hundreds of them,” Arla said. “We know almost nothing about them – who their leader is, what they’re trying to achieve – nothing.”

  “They originated in a town called Sorocaba,” Felice said. “It’s in White Rock lands. Their leader was a man called Rollo. Serhan killed him years ago, back when the Faer Karani Gerique still ruled there. They call Serhan ‘The Usurper’. That’s pretty much all I know.”

  “There is one lead,” the chief said. “House Fandakari. Arla has been investigating.”

  Arla was surprised. She had not expected Hekman to make this a public discussion. She’d have bet her salary that he’d want to know in private first.

  “You want to hear it now?” she asked.

  “Now,” he said, but his eyes slid away. He looked down at the table.

  It was a coincidence that Arla had the evidence with her. She had finished the investigation that morning and been called here.

  “As you wish,” she said.

  She pulled two documents out of a bag that she’d been carrying. Both bore heavy green wax seals. “To my great surprise,” she said, “the Fandakari agent in Samara, one Renat Candarian, has kept nearly every document that he ever received from House Fandakari.” She pulled a reading glass out of the bag and passed it, and the first document, to Hekman.

  “This first document was sent by Ishara Fandakari when she was in Sarata. She has confirmed this. If you examine it carefully you will see that there is a group of seagulls represented on the right of the seal. Fortunately House Fandakari uses a very high quality wax. Can you count them?” she asked.

  The chief squinted. His lips moved. “Seven?”

  “I thought so too,” Arla said. “Now look at this one. It is the document that ordered Candarian to cooperate with the assassin.” She passed the document to Hekman and he squinted again. This time he took longer. “Eight?”

  “So it seemed to me,” Arla said. Hekman passed the documents and the glass on around the table.

  “What does it mean?” he asked.

  “According to Ishara Fandakari each seal of House Fandakari is unique. You can tell from the seal who composed and sent the document. This second, again according to her, was sent by Manoran Fandakari.”

  “The seals are different,” General Grand said, putting the glass down. “But this second letter is quite clear. House Fandakari was colluding with, or even part of, The Free.”

  “But Ishara had no knowledge of it,” Arla said. Sam stared at her.

  “You’re sure?”

  “The seals are flimsy evidence, so I took Seer Jud to see her this morning. She is completely innocent of the plot. She had no knowledge of it.”

  “You made her swear it to a Shan?” General Grand said.

  “She agreed to do it,” Arla said. “So that there could be no doubt.” She looked at Hekman.

  “My understanding,” General Grand said, “is that the Shan pick up a lot more than a yes or no. They see inside you, and perhaps a little into your future.”

  “Seer Jud is discreet,” Arla said.

  There was a pause around the table. Which of us do not have secrets they do not want revealed, Arla thought, things that we’ve done, things that we wanted to do, opinions that we keep quiet?

  “Can we touch this Manoran Fandakari?” the general asked.

  “Not if he stays in Sarata,” Ella Saine said. “And I think he will, after this.”

  “Can you do anything, Karana?” the General turned to Felice.

  “I could, but it might start a war. Crimes in Samara are not tried in Sarata, Darius. They may even be applauded.”

  “So that’s a ‘no’ then.”

  “We can write to the king of Sarata – inform him that he has a snake in his city. He might act if we stress that the Free may be a threat to his own authority,” Ella suggested.

  “Writing a letter hardly seems adequate,” Darius said.

  “But if it gets something done – it’s cheap and easy,” Hekman said.

  “We’ll do it then,” Darius said. “But if we ever catch Fandakari outside Sarata I want the man in chains under the law house. I want him tried and hanged.”

  “Assuming he’s found guilty,” Hekman said.

  Darius laughed. “Of course,” he said. “Now to other business. Calaine returns on the Sword the day after tomorrow. Portina will come on his own ship a day or two after that. A week from today there will be a formal betrothal ceremony in the Great House. Sam will see that they are guarded and safe – you can have as many men as you need, Sam – and we must be watchful about the king as well. That’s all. Do your best.”

  Darius stood. The meeting was over. Arla walked to the door, but saw that the chief hadn’t moved. He was still sitting by the window and staring out of it. She walked back and stood beside him.

  “Problem, chief?”

  “Dozens,” he said.

  “You did the right thing,” she said.

  Hekman looked up sharply. “The right thing?”

  “She underst
ands. Talk to her. You’ll see.” She turned and walked away before he could think of a reply.

  39 Ishara

  The streets leading up into Morningside seemed impossibly long. Sam had done a lot of things in his time as a lawkeeper – many of them difficult – but he had never felt guilty about any of them until now.

  But he’d had no choice.

  The lawkeeper half of him knew that the accusation against Ishara had to be investigated, and so he’d passed it to Arla, not being able to trust himself to be impartial. It was the only thing he could have done.

  Even so, the other half of him had disagreed. He wanted to protect Ishara, and most importantly he wanted to trust her. And he did. That part of him that jumped to conclusions trusted her without reservation, but the rest of him had been unsure. He’d felt it in the moment that Arla had declared Ishara innocent, and the certainty of the Shan’s word on it. He’d felt relief, a lifted weight. But that meant he’d doubted. It meant he didn’t trust her.

  He turned into the street and saw the Golden Star squatting like a fat merchant at the far end, its cream walls, leaded windows and black beams radiating prosperity. The tavern sign swung in the cool breeze that carried the smell of commerce up from the river, but there were no squeaking hinges here.

  He went through the door into a warm lounge that smelled of fresh bread and roses with a hint of bacon. Comfortable chairs were scattered around like gentlefolk at a society ball, twos and threes set a discreet distance from each other. This was not a room that ever saw sweaty crowds and rowdy songs, spilled beer and sudden, drunken fights.

  The landlord smiled at him. “Good day to you, lawkeeper.”

  He didn’t smile back. “Ishara Fandakari,” he said.

  “Up the stairs, Aki. The door at the end of the corridor.”

  He nodded his thanks and went up the stairs. His legs felt heavy, his arms somehow loose, his tongue thick in his mouth. He plodded across thick carpet, came to the door and stood for a moment, hand poised to knock, listening for any sound from within.

  He could hear nothing.

  He knocked.

  Silence. His ears strained, but there was nothing. He raised his hand to knock again, but the door opened, catching him with his hand in the air.