by Tim Stead
“How much do you charge for your rooms?” Taranath asked.
“Two silver a week,” she said.
“And these men have paid for a week?”
“Two.”
Taranath pulled four silver coins from his purse and dropped them into the woman’s hand. “For your trouble,” he said.
The silver apparently dissolved all her objections. She led them up a narrow staircase that creaked beneath their boots. The house was dim inside, and smelled of boiled vegetables. At the top of two flights they came to a door. It was locked, but the woman produced a key and opened it.
“Please wait outside while we have a look around,” Taranath said.
“Don’t make a mess,” the landlady warned him.
Taranath stepped through the door and looked around him. It struck him at once that it would have been almost impossible to make a mess in these rooms, short of breaking up the furniture. The room was empty. There was no sign that anyone had ever lived here.
“The bed chamber,” Worrel said.
Taranath nodded. He opened the door. Here was something worth seeing – four bedrolls were laid out around the room, and there was no sign of the bed itself having been used. It was unusual, but not evidence of any wrongdoing. There were a couple of sacks here, too. The sort that you might see roped around a man’s back on a journey, or slung in a wagon.
He pulled open the neck of the nearest and poked inside. It seemed to be mostly soiled laundry, and it was certainly light enough for that to be all it contained. He looked across at Worrel and saw that the man was pulling a face.
“Slovenly,” Worrel said.
Taranath was about to discard the sack he held, but as an afterthought he shook it. It rattled. The noise was faint, but there was no doubt. Something inside the sack rattled. He inverted it and emptied the contents onto the bed. It was, as he had first thought, mostly stale, sweat-stained laundry, but two other items stood out. The first was a book, a slim black-bound volume that appeared to have no title on the plain leather cover, and the second was a small glass phial half filled with small, white spheres.
“It’s them,” he said.
Worrel emptied the other sack, but there was nothing remarkable about its contents. He stuffed it all back in again, and Taranath did the same except for the phial and the book, both of which he pocketed.
They looked around the room, but found nothing else of interest.
“We’ll put a watch on the house,” Taranath said. “If they come back we’ll have them.”
They went downstairs, thanked the landlady and hurried back to the Kalla Tree. He told Gilan’s patrolmen to keep looking and then headed back to the Law House at a fast pace. Within twenty minutes there were half a dozen lawkeepers in street clothes loitering both front and back of the boarding house.
The day passed slowly. Hour after hour the men waited for the northerners to return. Taranath went back to the house himself, but only passed by on his way to the Kalla Tree. He couldn’t risk being seen outside by anyone. He’d been all over the streets that afternoon in a red tabard and a bronze badge and every man and his dog knew him for a lawkeeper. So he sat with Worrel in the tavern and sipped a mug of ale.
The lawkeepers were still using the tavern as a base, and men came and went. They were far enough away from the boarding house that Taranath didn’t worry about it. He sat and talked to the officer of each group that came through. Now that he’d found them he knew that Gilan’s resources would be generously lent to the cause.
Arla arrived. She sat at the table.
“Any news?”
“Nothing. It’s getting dark, so they should be back soon, whatever they’re about.”
“I don’t like it,” Arla said. “What have they been up to all day? Are you sure the woman didn’t warn them?”
“The building’s been watched since we left it. No-one’s come in or gone out. There’s no way a message could have been passed.”
“There are a hundred ways,” Arla said. “A closed or open window, a drawn curtain in a specified room, an ornament placed where someone approaching the house can see it. None of it would mean anything to us.”
Taranath had to admit she had a point. “But there’s no reason for her to favour them, unless she’s one of the Free herself, and I don’t see that.”
“You said her father came here from Sorocaba. That’s where the Free started.”
“Should we have taken her to the Law House?”
Arla shook her head. “You had no cause.”
Even so, Taranath felt that he’d failed, somehow, in not seeing what he should have seen, or knowing what he should have known. He would have to be more careful in future. But Taranath had something he could use to redeem himself. He pulled out the small black book he’d found in the sack in the rented room.
“I found this,” he said, holding it up between thumb and forefinger. Across the room a man staggered to his feet, knocking the table in front of him. Drinks were spilled and the man apologised. He threw a few coins on the table and hurried out the front door. Taranath watched him go.
“What?” Arla asked. She turned her head in time to see the door slam behind the departing customer. Taranath was still holding the book up.
“This book,” he said. “They had it in a bag. There’s no title and I can’t read what’s in it.” He continued staring at the door as Arla took the book from him and thumbed through it.
“I think it’s in Ancient,” she said.
“It doesn’t look that old,” he said.
Had the man who’d just left seen the book and left for that reason? It was almost impossible to tell, but the timing was suspiciously coincidental. He leaned over to Worrel.
“That man who just left,” he said. “See if you can pick up his trail and follow him. Take a couple of men.”
Worrel stood. “You want me to arrest him?”
“No. Just follow. See where he goes.” Worrel hurried out.
Arla was still looking at the book, but she hadn’t missed his exchange with Worrel. “Trouble?” she asked.
“Coincidence,” he replied. “That man left in a hurry just after I showed you the book.”
“Perhaps it’s important,” Arla said, handing the slim volume back. “You should take it to Ella Saine. She could read it.”
“Now?”
“It could be something we should know about. I’ll stay here.”
Taranath nodded. It would make a change. He’d been warming a seat for the last two hours and a stroll up to Morningside would be just the thing to clear his head. As much as he’d like to be here when the assassins were caught or killed, he had confidence in his colleagues. They would do what needed to be done.
He walked down towards Market Street and turned right when he got there. He was still a little uncertain of finding his way through the maze of old town streets that would have given him a quicker route, and he didn’t want to get lost.
Market Street was packed up and closed down. The smell of cooked food still lingered, but only a few people trod the cold cobbles this late, and most of them seemed to be going to or from taverns, judging by their erratic gait.
He came to the end of Market Street and walked on. The road became more deserted. All gentlefolk would have withdrawn into their homes by this hour, and the lower slopes of Morningside were empty, lights shining from windows, the night lamps already lit.
That was where they sprang their trap.
44 The Running Man
Worrel paused in the deepening twilight outside the tavern. His eyes took a moment to adjust from the comparative brightness of the lamplight inside. He looked down the street in both directions and caught a glimpse of a figure hurrying away towards Morningside.
“There,” he said.
He’d picked two archers from the off duty patrols lounging in the Kalla Tree, men he knew, and the three of them set off in pursuit. It was difficult to be stealthy about it. Their quarry had a hundred paces o
n them, and there were dozens of alleys and lanes in the old town, down which he could vanish if they couldn’t close the gap. He just had to hope the man didn’t look behind him before they caught up.
They jogged up the slight incline, and Worrel was thankful that they had little armour. Their woollen trousers and tunics rustled faintly as they ran, but so slight a noise would not carry, and being light meant they were quick. They closed steadily on the distant figure.
Their quarry turned and was out of sight. Worrel ran faster, feeling his breath growing short. If they lost the man altogether he would have failed. They reached the corner and he paused, dragging in air, and rested his hand on the corner of the building. He looked down the next street and saw their man at once, but he was no longer alone. Four men stood in a group about thirty paces away, and one of them saw Worrel as he peered round the corner. He shouted, and the others all turned and looked.
It was a frozen moment. Worrel’s two archers arrived, and because he had stopped, so did they, and the three lawkeepers stared back at the four assassins.
“Shoot!” Worrel said.
At the same moment the men in front of them ran, two went right, still heading for Morningside, and the other two broke left, towards the river.
The archers were quick to get arrows on the string, but they both picked targets on the left. One of the arrows struck the side of the building as the men ran behind it and the other flew lower, and Worrel thought he heard the sound of a good strike, the noise of a steel arrowhead cutting flesh, a gasp of pain.
Worrel ran again, but he was only half way to the next corner when he realised that the two men who’d fled to the right were out of sight. He pointed that way.
“See if you can follow them,” he said to the archer running beside him and the man peeled away.
Worrel reached the corner. The road that led away towards the river was little more than a crooked lane. It jinked from side to side and one of the men they were chasing was already out of sight. The other was dead. The body was lying just around the corner, and it was obvious that he hadn’t died of his wounds. The arrow had taken him through the calf, which meant he couldn’t run. He’d taken his own life rather than be caught.
Worrel ran past. He reached the first turn and saw that two even smaller lanes led off this one, giving three options to their quarry. There was no sign of him down any of them.
“I know this part of town,” his remaining archer said. “If he’s got an ounce of sense we’ve lost him. This place is a warren.”
The other archer was back at the junction when they returned. He shook his head and Worrel’s heart sank. He’d lost three of them, and had no idea if the dead man was the man they’d been following.
He had failed.
Worrel bent down and searched the dead man. As expected there was nothing to find. His pockets were empty and his purse contained no more than a single silver coin and a handful of copper. There was no jewellery, no papers, but he did find a knife, a long, wicked looking thing strapped to the dead man’s thigh.
“No way that arrow killed him,” the archer said.
“Poison,” Worrel said. “They take poison if they’re caught.”
“I’d heard that,” the archer said. “But it’s crazy. Why kill yourself? What’s the point?”
Worrel looked at the knife’s blade. “I have no idea,” he said.
45 The Book
A man stepped out of an alley ahead of Taranath – no more than ten paces away, and he was holding a crossbow. The weapon was already aimed at his chest. It was a shot that even an idiot couldn’t miss. He heard a scuff on the street behind him and half turned his head to see than another man with another bow had stepped out of the darkness.
He was surprised that he was still alive.
“Well?”
“Give us the book,” the first man said.
So the book was important. He eyed the crossbow. It was held quite steadily, and it was too far away for a lunge. But again, thinking about it, he was still surprised that they hadn’t just shot him.
He reached into his pocket and felt the smooth leather binding. The man in front of him didn’t miss the movement.
“So you do have it,” he said. “Give it to me.” He held out a hand.
Taranath tried to think of a way out of this. He needed time.
“Why don’t you just shoot me and take it?” he asked. If they were going to do that it would already have happened, but even so, he knew that he was pushing his luck. There had to be a reason.
“Just give me the book,” the man said. “Or we will.”
Taranath stepped closer to the wall and his assailants stepped out in to the road to keep their shots clear. The thought crossed his mind that he could get them to shoot each other, but it was so ludicrous that he dismissed it at once. He was dead if he didn’t do as they wanted.
The book itself couldn’t be that valuable. It made no sense. There must be other copies, whatever it was. He decided to gamble. He was standing under one of the house lamps and he carefully reached up and opened the window on one side of it, pulling out the guts of the thing – a clay reservoir for the oil and an adjustable wick that emerged from the top.
He took the book out of his pocket and held it out so that the man with the crossbow could see it, then tipped up the lamp so that oil poured over the black cover and soaked the pages. He touched the flame to the book and fire engulfed it. His fingers, too, briefly blossomed with flame, but he dropped the book and flapped his hand vigorously and the flames on his fingers died.
The man with the crossbow stared at the burning book.
“Why?”
“Pride,” Taranath said. “I can’t have it – you can’t have it.”
The man shook his head. “You city dogs are all crazy,” he said.
“So you’re not going to shoot me?”
The man with the bow took a step back. The bow lowered a couple of inches. “No.”
Taranath followed him a step.
“Is the princess safe?” he asked. “Is the King of Blaye safe?”
The man shook his head. “On your own head,” he said. “The ones who are going to do it – we can’t find them.”
Taranath moved forwards again. “What’s the plan,” he said. “Help me to stop them.”
“Help you?” He laughed. “It’s your problem now, and if you take another step I’ll put a bolt through your thigh.”
Taranath watched him edge away, backwards, step by step. He’d been right. The gamble had paid off. These men had been ordered to pull back, to stop what they were doing. Otherwise they would just have shot him and taken the book. It was the only thing that made sense.
The man ducked into an alley. Taranath turned round. The man behind him was long gone and he was alone in the street again with a smouldering pile of ash and a sore finger. He put the drained lamp back in its casing and carried on walking. It was only minutes until he reached the Saine house and banged on the thick wooden gates. They were opened almost at once.
“I have to see Councillor Saine,” he said. “It’s urgent.”
The servant stood aside and he stepped into the courtyard. The door was closed and bolted behind him.
“Follow me, lawkeeper,” the servant said.
He followed. They went up a staircase at the side of the house and then up another, narrower flight that led to a landing. There were three doors here and the servant knocked on one of them.
“Lawkeeper Taranath to see you, Ima,” he said.
The door opened and Ella Saine stood there, dressed in a simple gown of white cotton. Her hair was tied back in a thick tail behind her neck and she stared out of a room lit by a dozen lamps.
“So late?” she asked.
“Arla said I should come at once,” Taranath said.
Ella looked at him for a moment, her face quite unreadable. “Come in, then,” she said. “Sit. Tell me what this is about.”
He went inside. The room wa
s obviously a study of some kind. The top of a large table was almost entirely covered with neat piles of paper and parchment. There were sticks of wax, an assortment of seals and a short vase that seemed to be full of pens. An ink well stood to one side.
Taranath lowered himself into a comfortable chair.
“We found a book,” he said. “One of the Free had it tucked into a sack full of laundry, only we couldn’t read it. Arla thought it might be in the ancient tongue.”
She held out her hand. “Let me see it.”
“There was a problem bringing it here,” he said. “I was stopped and threatened by two men with crossbows, so I burned it.”
Ella stared at him again. “So why are you here?” she asked.
“I cheated.” He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of loose pages. “I tore them out with my fingers while I stalled them,” he said. “I think I got about a third of them before I had to burn it, but I had to burn it or they’d have known.”
Ella snatched the crumpled papers from his hand. She smoothed them on the table and bent over them. For a while she said nothing, but he could see her lips moving, her eyes flicking to and fro’ as she read.
“Is it ancient?” he asked.
She ignored him, shuffled the papers, read more. He decided to wait. She would tell him something when she needed to, and the betrothal wasn’t until tomorrow night. He hoped he wouldn’t have to wait until she’d read all of the pages.
“This is fascinating,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s written in ancient, but it’s a modern work – no more than a few years old.”
“Why is that fascinating?”
Ella looked up from her reading. “Do you remember the story of the Wizard of Sorocaba?” she asked.
“I’ve heard of it somewhere, but no, not really.”
“The story, though I can’t vouch for the truth of it, is that the Wizard was a childhood friend of Cal Serhan, the Mage Lord. They met some time after Serhan came to White Rock – before the fall. There was a disagreement, and they fought. Serhan killed him, but in killing him he saved the town of Sorocaba. That’s what they say.”