Shadow of the Knife

by Jane Fletcher

  A dozen or so women were at the tables, drinking alone or with friends. A further small group of three were leaning against the counter, tankards before them. They stared at Ellen with manifest hostility, but said nothing and made no attempt to intercept her as she crossed the taproom to the bar.

  An elderly barkeeper waddled over. “What will it be, pal?”

  Despite the “pal” the barkeeper’s manner was distant, as if she was half ignoring Ellen. Her eyes were on the counter, the ceiling, the wall, never once fully touching on Ellen. Maybe the woman was practiced at doing her job without seeing things.

  “A half, please.”

  The drink arrived and Ellen paid the money. As she received her change, for the merest instant the barkeeper’s eyes met hers, and Ellen realized she had misjudged the woman. The barkeeper saw everything.

  Although the urge to hide in the shadows at the edge of the room was overwhelming, Ellen took her drink to the middle table. Her best hope was to overhear loose gossip, and she could not do that by skulking in a corner. She needed to be in the midst of things.

  As she sat down, the other customers glanced at her and then returned to their conversations, showing no reaction, either welcoming or hostile. Ellen took a mouthful of her beer. To her surprise it was not watered down, or off. But then, her fellow customers were not the sort of people any sensible barkeeper would want to upset. Ellen could easily believe that they were all thieves, thugs, and swindlers.

  Ellen adopted a dejected posture, head slumped, staring morosely into her drink. She wanted to play the part of someone with a lot of time and little money, dragging out a half for the sake of somewhere warm and dry to sit. Surely a dozen women like that came through every week.

  Yet, although her eyes were downcast, her ears were locked on the conversations around her, tuned to anything significant that might be said. Unfortunately, as time plodded on, it became clear that her fellow drinkers were all engaged in conversations of the utmost banality.

  Apparently, Bernie had kicked out Steph, because she had been playing around. Dez had enjoyed her sister’s birthday, even though her mother had suffered a minor yet predictable mishap with her knee. And Ren wanted a new job because she was tired of stinking of yeast, although everyone agreed it was not a bad smell.

  At some point, the barkeeper lit two small lanterns. Ellen studied their wavering reflection in the surface of her beer. Was it all a waste of time? What had she been hoping for? Someone to say, “I’ve heard that Susan Lewis will be in the main square at half past two tomorrow”? The only thing of note that was likely to happen was for Ade Eriksen to walk in and spot her. While Ellen wanted to interview Ade, in the current setting she would be in no position to ask questions, and would not live long enough to report back with answers, anyway.

  Ellen drained her tankard and stood up. She might as well go back to her lodgings at the Ace of Spades. Yet she still could not bring herself to follow Hal and Gomez’s advice—to deliberately do nothing and report it as a failure. She would have to think of something else, just so she would know in her own heart that she had honestly tried her best.

  “Cheers, pal.” The barkeeper waved in Ellen’s direction, still without appearing to look at her.

  On impulse, Ellen switched direction.

  The three women at the bar eyed her suspiciously. They were large women, with calloused hands and sour expressions. Their clothes were work-worn and much repaired. Their feet were encased in heavy boots. At least one had a bulge in her pocket that could have been a weapon.

  Ellen leaned on the bar, as far from the thugs as she could. The barkeeper came and hovered nearby.

  “What is it, pal?”

  “I was just wondering. A friend of mine, I think she drinks in here from time to time. Her name is Susan Lewis. Do you know her?”

  As she spoke, Ellen realized the stupidity of her question. For all she knew, the barkeeper might be Susan Lewis. However the woman merely shook her head.

  “Afraid I don’t know her. What does she look like?”

  Ellen waved her hand dismissively. “It’s okay. I can look her up elsewhere. Thanks.” She turned and made her escape from the Red Dog.

  Outside, dusk was falling and the rain had gotten harder. In this part of town, streetlights were nonexistent—not that there were any people walking around who might have benefited from them. Soon it would be too dark to see where she was going. Ellen turned up the collar of her borrowed shirt and set off at a quick march, hoping to get back to the Ace of Spades without getting either lost or completely soaked. She had covered no more than thirty meters when she heard the inn door open and close behind her.

  Ellen looked back. The three thugs had also left the taproom and were standing outside the doorway. The light was not good enough to be sure, but Ellen had the nasty feeling that they were staring in her direction. She continued walking at an even sharper rate.

  Then she heard footsteps and voices. They were following, at a pace that matched her own. The temptation to run almost took over, but Ellen managed to keep control. Running would only make herself conspicuous. Maybe her visit to the Red Dog had been foolhardy, but she had given the thugs no reason to follow and assault her. Most likely it was pure coincidence that they had left the inn so soon after she did. Once on the street, their only options were to turn either left or right, giving an even chance that they would head in the same direction as herself. They were walking quickly, but the weather did not lend itself to a casual amble.

  Yet, despite all the logic, Ellen felt her heartbeat race. Her palms grew sticky.

  At the next junction, Ellen turned right, onto a narrower road. This also was deserted. It was clearly not an area of town to stroll around after dark. She jogged a dozen meters to put a bit more space between her and the women from the Red Dog, but slowed again to a walk in time for when they would reach the junction. She did not want them to see her running.

  Ellen walked on, but her head was turned over her shoulder, looking back. She saw the three women turn the corner without hesitation, following her. Ellen did not wait to see more. She fled. She had been the quickest of the Militiawomen in Roadsend. The thugs from the Red Dog did not have the look of sprinters. Ellen prayed the looks were not deceiving.

  At the end of the road she turned another corner. A short way on, a narrow alley led off to the right. Without thinking, Ellen ducked into it. Yet even as she did so, she knew it was a bad move. She did not know the town. The alley might well be a dead end. She might have just trapped herself.

  The alley bent left, then right. Around the next corner it broadened into a small courtyard. The light was so poor that Ellen knew this mainly by the change in echo. Unable to see where she was going, Ellen collided with a wall of wooded slats that shook under the impact. By touch, she realized empty crates were stacked in a corner of the yard. She dived behind them, squeezing herself between the boxes and the rough brick wall.

  Ellen closed her eyes.

  Silence—except for the thudding of her heart. The minutes trickled by.

  Ellen leaned her head back against the wall. Cold rain fell on her face, into her eyes. She had been stupid all around. Stupid to go to the Red Dog. Stupid to ask the barkeeper about Susan Lewis. And stupid to think the thugs had been chasing her. Her nerves had made her into an even bigger fool than before. She wiped the rain from her face and slid out from behind the crates.

  Before long, Ellen was out of the roughest area of town and onto a main thoroughfare. The buildings here were better repaired, the piles of refuse were gone, and the road was busier, with other pedestrians in sight. Ellen even thought she recognized where she was, although it was too dark to see the landmark temple roof. Again she set off at a brisk pace. The Ace of Spades was on the quieter north bank of the river. If she was right, the bridge over the Little Liffy was near at hand.

  The wide street terminated on the river embankment. Ellen turned left, toward the bridge. The cloud was breaking up an
d the first glimmer of moonlight shimmered on the water. Another five minutes would see her safe in her lodgings.

  Ellen’s pulse had just returned to normal when, no more than twenty meters away, she saw them—the same three thugs. They were ambling toward her, talking among themselves. They looked up and spotted Ellen at the same moment. This time there was no doubt. One raised her arm and shouted and then all three charged forward.

  Ellen turned and tore back along the embankment. Few people were about to watch her race by, and none made any move to intervene. Ellen doubted they would come to her aid, if she was overtaken. Her heart was pounding, but fear added speed to her legs, and from what she could hear, the thugs were not gaining on her. If anything, their voices and footsteps were fading behind, falling back.

  Ellen rounded the corner of a large, featureless building. Ahead of her the path along the embankment abruptly widened out into a broad open expanse of flagstone—the docks. They were now deserted, the hectic daytime activity ceased. Moored barges were dark, silent hulks on the riverbank. Her pursuers were now too far back to hear, but Ellen kept running. Then she saw a light over a doorway and two women talking beneath it—two women in black uniforms.

  At the sound of Ellen’s racing footsteps, the women broke off and adopted a defensive stance. Only then did Ellen remember she was not in uniform. Not that it was a crucial point. Surely they would protect her anyway.

  “What’s up?” one challenged.

  “I need...I...they...” Ellen staggered to a halt, bent double and gasping for air.

  “What is it?”

  A hand grabbed a fistful of the shirt on Ellen’s shoulder, pulling her upright. “Hey. Don’t I know you? You’re the one who arrived here today.”

  The grip became less rough, guiding her around to lean against the wall while she caught her breath. In the light of the overhead lantern, Ellen recognized the square-faced Militiawoman from the morning.

  “Is that the one the captain said we’re supposed to keep an eye out for? From Roadsend?” the other asked.

  “Yeah. That’s her,” the woman answered her colleague and then turned to Ellen. “So what’s up?”

  “The Butcher’s Knives. Three of them. Chasing me.”

  The effect on the two women was immediate, as if every muscle in their bodies simultaneously tightened. One pushed open the door of the building behind her. “Get in here.”

  The room was clearly the Militia dockside office, larger than the one at Roadsend, but no more elaborately furnished. Ellen sank against the wall, feeling herself trembling, with shock, delayed fear, and now relief.

  A Militiawoman lit the lantern on the desk. “So what happened?”

  “I’m trying to find someone. I went to the Red Dog Inn.”

  “You went to the Dog?” Stunned surprise was evident in the woman’s voice.

  “Damned lucky to still be able to run,” the other said.

  “Who did you want to find?”

  Ellen was too fraught to care about watching her tongue. “Ade Eriksen. I think she’s in Eastford keeping an eye on Susan Lewis.”

  “Susan or Susie?”

  “Does it matter?” Ellen shrugged. “I guess she might call herself Susie.”

  “It’s not a her. The Susie-Louise. It’s a barge on the Roadsend sheep run. I’ve seen Knives hanging around it.”

  “No. Lewis, not Louise. And it’s not a barge that I’m...” Ellen stopped as all the words registered. She shook her head, confused. “The Susie-Louise isn’t on the Roadsend sheep run.”

  “That’s what the paperwork says. And I don’t know where else the sheep come from, because they’re onboard when the Susie-Louise gets here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t hallucinate sheep.” The woman sounded mildly irritated. “If you don’t believe me, check the records. They’re in the files.”

  Ellen turned around, bracing her hands on the desk, her mind racing.

  “Do you want us to escort you somewhere safe? Where are you staying?” the other Militiawomen asked.

  “The Ace of Spades, but...um... actually, I would like to check the records.”

  “You sure? Tell you what. We’ve got an hour left of our patrol. You can lock the door after we go, so you’ll be safe here. We’ll come back and collect you on our way home. I live out that way.”

  Ellen nodded slowly. “Thanks. That would be great.”

  *

  An hour later, Ellen put down the pen, folded the sheet of paper, and slipped it into her pocket. She would do a final crosscheck when she returned to Roadsend, but in her own mind it was unnecessary. She did not need more evidence.

  Over the previous year, the Susie-Louise had unloaded five hundred sheep at the docks in Eastford, and had taken another three hundred through, bound for Landfall—half spring lambs and half older sheep. The barge had completed twelve round trips. Yet Ellen had never seen it during her stints as the officer on dock duty. What was the chance of that if the barge was conducting legitimate trade?

  Even more conclusively, Ellen had not long finished her audit of the shipping log, and while not consigned to memory in its entirety, it was still fresh in her mind. She was certain she had never once seen the name Susie-Louise on a sales receipt.

  The final check would be when she compared the record of the older sheep off the Susie-Louise against those stolen the previous autumn. Ellen was willing to stake anything that the ear tattoo numbers would match up.

  The Susie-Louise had left the Eastford docks two days earlier, bound for Roadsend. Ellen shook her head at the thought she would have passed it on the river, going in the opposite direction. She had to take the very first barge she could, and hope she got to Roadsend in time to stop the Susie-Louise before it started its return journey.

  If she was not in time, the Rangers back in Roadsend might get the chance to intercept the following load, but it could not be relied on. If what Captain Gomez suspected was true, then at least one member of the Eastford Militia was a spy. When the Butcher found out that the Susie-Louise had been identified, she would surely switch barges.

  A knock on the door announced the return of her escort. Ellen left the docks in their company, but she would be back at first light, praying she could get quick transport upriver.

  Chapter Twelve—The Barge Skipper

  Even though everyone was clearly making an effort to include her, Ellen still felt out of place in the Rangers’ mess hall. It was not just her uniform. Maggie LeCoup, at the end of the table, was also not dressed in the green and gray. However, in Maggie’s case, it was because the Ranger sergeant was disguised as a civilian.

  The sixteen Rangers eating dinner in the mess hall were the top-notch patrols that central command had assigned from Fort Krowe. The two days Ellen had spent living in the barracks with them had been an experience rarely granted to outsiders. She had been given an insight into an exclusive secret world that might be hers, if she chose to seek admission.

  Ellen remembered Captain Gomez’s words about the Rangers being too tightly knit to crack apart. Sitting in the middle of the patrol, Ellen could almost see the bonds holding the women together. The Rangers approved of her, but she was not one of them. Not yet. They would willingly work with her, but they would not die for her as they would for their own—as Jay Takeda had done.

  The Ranger sitting opposite speared a chunk of meat on her fork and held it up, examining it critically from all sides. “I wonder how long it’d take before I got tired of well-cooked mutton?”

  “A damn sight longer than it takes to get tired of the cats’ piss they call beer in Macsfarm,” another replied.

  “Goddess, I hope we don’t get sent there next.”

  More Rangers joined in. “It’d be better than a winter freezing our tits off with Northern Division.”

  “Or down by Coldmouth. The sand gets everywhere.”

  “Coldmouth would be warmer.”

  “Remember how the sand chafes? Y
ou don’t want to know where I got blisters last time we were there.”

  “I know where you got blisters. You told us.”

  “Frequently.”

  “Offered to show us as well.”

  Ellen listened to the conversation, playing no part. There was no part she could play, but she hung on each word, feeling a bubbling excitement. The trip to Eastford was the farthest she had traveled—the farthest she might ever go in her life, if she stayed in the Militia. The places the Rangers spoke of were enticing names on a map. Ellen loved her parents, and Roadsend was her home, yet she wanted to see more of the world.

  Maggie LeCoup said, “Don’t overdo it on the mutton, because I think you’re going to be eating it for a while to come, even after we sort out the Butcher and her Knives.”

  “You reckon we’ll be assigned to Eastern Division for winter?”

  “And beyond. What I’ve heard is they’re still trying to work out what to do about the 12th, work around what’s left or disband the squadron and build a new one from scratch. Either way, they aren’t going to sort it overnight. Eastern is going to be down a squadron. On top of that, there’s going to be some reorganization. HQ thinks this all got out of hand because the sheep thefts were treated as a paperwork problem for the Militia, and we weren’t called in soon enough. In the future the Militia are going to be responsible only for what happens in town. Everything else will go straight to us. Eastern Division is going to have more work and fewer Rangers. I reckon HQ will want us to fill in until they can build up the numbers.”

  “Where are they going to get the recruits? Do you think they’ll let women who narrowly failed retake the test?”

  “They may have to, but it will be last resort.” Maggie frowned. “I think they’ll start with trying to get more Militiawomen to apply.”

  The Ranger opposite Ellen nodded at her. “How about you? When this is all over, have you thought about joining the Rangers?”

  The question was one Ellen had been asked repeatedly over the previous two days. “I’m not sure.”