by Richard Ford
Kaira waited. They would have to make a move eventually; it was only a matter of time. A sharp intake of breath warned of the first attack, as the one with the club rushed in, closely followed by his smaller friend.
She ducked the cudgel, spinning just in time to avoid the billhook but it still tore a slice in her tunic. With her hand flat and solid she managed to strike out, hitting the smaller man in the throat, enough to make him back off, but not quite hard enough to be fatal — Palien might not appreciate her killing his men, but she reckoned maiming might be acceptable.
The cudgel came down once more, and Kaira braced her legs, catching the wooden weapon in her hands and stopping it mid strike. Her attacker had just enough time to furrow his brow in confusion before she wrenched it from his grasp and rapped it across his head, dropping him like a sack of old spuds.
She got the cudgel up in time to stop the billhook as it cut in once more, its wielder now recovered. It struck her weapon, sending shards of splinters flying, and its sharp point lodged in the wood. The man tugged on it, trying to wrench it free, but it was stuck fast, and Kaira was not about to let go of the cudgel. With a growl of frustration he released it, relying on his crude shank, stabbing out in three swift strikes which Kaira easily avoided.
With a quick swipe she batted the shank from his hand. He opened his mouth to curse her, but she was quicker than his profanity, bringing the cudgel up, the billhook still stuck in it, and smashing him under the jaw. His mouth clamped shut, biting down hard on his tongue and sending a spray of blood from his mouth as he fell backwards and landed in a heap.
Kaira looked around for the next attacker but none came. All she received was a slow clap of the hands from Palien, who looked strangely amused at the easy besting of his men.
‘An impressive display,’ he said admiringly. ‘You weren’t lying, were you, Buttercup?’
‘I never lie, Palien,’ she replied, though Kaira doubted the truth of that.
‘But what to do with you? You’re far too pretty to act as a strongarm, though I’m sure if you turned up ready to collect a stipend from the traders we protect they would be falling over themselves to pay up. What to do, what to do?’
‘I have a suggestion,’ said Buttercup, moving in and almost touching Palien. He didn’t seem to mind her getting so close. ‘Perhaps she would be best suited to keeping Ryder in check. She could keep him alive while he finalises the deal with Bolo, and if he’s failing in his duties, pissing too much of our money down the drain, she could apply some gentle persuasion to keep him on track. Ryder would be much more inclined to listen to a woman, especially one with such obvious skills.’
Palien raised an eyebrow as he thought on it. Then he nodded. ‘An inspired idea. For a beauty like this Ryder will roll over and let his tummy be tickled. I remember now why I keep you around, my dear.’ Buttercup smiled. ‘All right, I think I can trust you to make the arrangements. And try to find something better for her to wear. She looks as if she came in with the last load of refugees.’
Kaira took all this in silence. Her blood was still pumping from the thrill of real combat, but she managed to suppress her urge to carry on, to smash Palien for his insolence, to slap Buttercup until she begged for mercy.
For now, she must bide her time.
After bidding Palien farewell, Buttercup led Kaira from the cellar, a grin on her face.
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ Kaira said, when they had put the building far behind them.
‘Of course I’m pleased with myself. That went far better than I could have possibly planned. Well done, by the way. Your display was exemplary.’
Exemplary? Kaira took no special pleasure in such an achievement. She was a defender of the weak and helpless — despite the thrill of combat, it gave her no pleasure to inflict pain on others, but she was all too aware of what they expected of her. ‘That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To act the mercenary, until I must act the assassin.’
Buttercup stopped abruptly, and pulled her to one side of the street, her features darkening.
‘You are here to help me find the power behind the Guild so that we might destroy it. The Guild seeks ever more wealth and power: they would enslave every innocent in the Free States if it meant achieving that goal. You are a weapon, Kaira Stormfall, a weapon that will strike down the evil that infects this city. It is what you were born for.’
‘But how can this fulfil that aim? I am to act as nursemaid to a servant of this Palien. How will watching over a lowly criminal help me achieve my mission?’
Buttercup smiled once more. ‘Lowly criminal? Oh, Merrick Ryder is much more than that. He has a long and intimate history with the Guild. He also has the ear of its leaders. For months I have worked with Palien, trying to get an audience with them, but to no end. Ryder was given his current task by the leaders of the Guild themselves. Should he succeed it is highly likely they will wish to congratulate him in person. And if he fails they will want to see him killed with their own eyes. If you aid him as we are planning, you will be at his shoulder when he meets them, for whatever reward they choose to give him. Then you will have your chance to strike.’
‘If this Ryder is so important why does he require me? If he’s so valued by the Guild’s masters, he must be able to take care of himself.’
‘He doesn’t know he requires your aid yet, but he will. Once you have his trust you must stay by his side until the time is right.’
‘And how will I gain his trust?’
Buttercup grinned, putting her arm into Kaira’s like an old friend and guiding her on through the streets.
‘You just leave that to me.’
TWENTY-FIVE
The Tower of Sails was an ancient structure, built from rocks hewn out of the black cliffs that ran the length of the coastline. It looked out over the great crescent shaped bay, in itself an ingenious construction, which could comfortably moor a thousand ships. Though past its heyday it was still a bustling hub for freight, sprouting myriad trade routes across the Midral Sea, with galleons, caravels, brigantines, pinnaces and more coming and going in their hundreds every day. And it was from the Tower of Sails that all this movement was plotted, controlled and docketed in intricate detail.
As a structure of such importance it was guarded day and night by the Harbourwatch, their crown and anchor livery proudly displayed on tabards covering their red lobstered plate. Their distinct halberds stood ten feet long, the blades fashioned to resemble flying sails.
No one was allowed entry to the tower unless they had the correct authorisations, lest they interfere with the inner workings of the harbour’s administration. An audience with the harbourmistress herself needed to be applied for in writing, and it might take up to a tenday before the proper permissions were granted.
It took Merrick Ryder less than an hour.
‘Would you care for some wine?’ she asked. ‘Or perhaps something a little stronger?’
The harbourmistress stood next to a polished oak cabinet housing an array of wines and spirits, some in intricately blown glass bottles, others in decanters or moulded bronze jugs.
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having, Terese,’ Merrick replied, flashing his smile at her.
Terese was approaching her middle years, older than Merrick usually liked, but still relatively attractive. Though her hair was turning grey, it hadn’t lost its lustre, and her face was lined but far from wrinkled. Years presiding over Steelhaven’s vast harbour from a leather-bound chair had left her with a little extra weight about her arse, but Merrick could put up with that. He’d never minded a bit of meat on a woman.
‘Something stronger it is,’ she said, pouring two glasses of golden liqueur from a decanter.
She walked over and handed him the glass, then sat on the edge of her huge desk. ‘So, what can I do for you … or is there something you can do for me?’
There was a twinkle in Terese’s eye, and the suggestion certainly wasn’t lost on Merrick. He would have
loved to show her; loved to have bent her over the desk and given her what she was asking for, but he doubted that was the way to go. Some women were all about that, all about giving themselves to the moment, but despite Terese’s flirtation he doubted she was that kind. Her desk was too meticulously tidy, every ledger in date order on its proper shelf, her quills arranged in order of size by the inkwell. There were no scrolls or manuscripts strewn about, everything had a place. It told him Terese was methodical, in control, and bending her over her desk might be momentarily pleasurable, but it probably wouldn’t get him what he needed.
‘I’m here representing certain parties,’ Merrick said after sampling the liqueur. It was hot and sweet. Whether Terese would prove similar was yet to be discerned. ‘Parties who appreciate speed and efficiency. Their cargo is perishable, and they need to be in and out of port within a night. These are parties who also reward discretion. Parties who would be willing to pay generously should you be able to accommodate their needs.’
‘Really?’ she replied, taking a sip from her glass. When she lowered it there was a half smile on her face, but nothing else.
She’s good, thought Merrick. And clearly this isn’t the first time someone’s offered her a bribe.
There were two ways to handle this. You could either try to keep talking and hope that something you said would resonate, that something you offered might sway them into accepting. Or you could keep quiet, wait for them to make the next move, give you a clue as to their price.
And everyone had a price.
Terese’s office was clear of sentimentality, but the furniture was finely crafted and expensive, a tapestry hung on one wall depicting trade routes throughout the Midral Sea which must have cost a fortune, and there were two paintings by old masters even Merrick recognised, and he was certainly no connoisseur of the arts. This room was not kitted out by a harbourmaster’s earnings. Terese had to have something else on the go, some other scam on the side that paid handsomely. Merrick knew if he kept quiet long enough, she would indicate just how handsomely.
‘How’s the drink?’ she asked after the silence had seemed to go on for an age.
Her resolve was starting to crack. ‘It’s fine,’ Merrick replied.
Another pause. More dead air in which they simply gazed at one another.
‘So who are the parties you represent?’ she said finally.
‘Like you care?’ he replied, smiling again so she could see the white of his teeth.
That got him a smile in return.
Then it was gone.
She placed her glass down on the desk beside her and fixed him with a steely glare. ‘I’ve worked this harbour for twenty years,’ she said. Suddenly Merrick felt like a child being scolded by his nursemaid. ‘Many of the laws and regulations by which this harbour is run were put in place by me. One of them is the penalty for smuggling which, depending on the cargo in question, can run from a hefty fine to the loss of fingers and even to the gallows.’
This wasn’t going quite as well as he had expected. Merrick leaned forward and placed his own glass down beside hers. ‘I see. Then it appears we have little left to talk about.’
Her smile returned. ‘So eager to see me, and yet so quick to leave? Sit down, boy, and let me tell you how it is.’ She stood and walked behind her desk, easing herself into her chair so slowly the leather creaked as though it were in pain.
Down to business.
‘It will cost three hundred crowns per ship. That will guarantee you a berth for one night, complete discretion, and you stay out of the docking ledger. I want the money in advance and once it’s delivered you won’t try to contact me again. Are we clear?’
Fucking damn right. ‘As a bell, Terese,’ Merrick replied, smiling his best smile.
This time she didn’t return it.
‘Then if there’s nothing else, I’m a busy woman.’
She stared at him, but Merrick had already got the message. He couldn’t leave the tower and the smell of rotting fish behind him quick enough.
Back on the streets he felt elated. His heart was pounding and he could still taste the warm liqueur on his tongue. What he needed right now was a victory drink.
But where to go?
There were a thousand drinking holes in the city, and Merrick had drunk in pretty much all of them. This called for something special though; there was nothing like celebrating with friends and he wanted somewhere familiar, somewhere he’d be welcomed. There was only one place for it … The Soggy Dog!
Of course the last time he’d been here, there’d been a slight incident when he was caught cheating at cards. That in itself wouldn’t have been so bad if the man that caught him hadn’t subsequently found out Merrick had been sleeping with his wife. But surely everyone would have forgotten about that by now … wouldn’t they?
When he reached the door of The Soggy Dog he paused. Was it such a good idea? His hand drifted to the hilt of the sword by his side.
There was always that. The one thing he could rely on.
He opened the door, readying himself for a tirade of abuse, steeling himself for a flung stool or table or worse.
They never came.
‘Ryder! It’s been too long!’
Merrick looked across the tavern to see Uli the barkeep smiling at him from behind the bar. Carefully, Merrick made his way across the alehouse. He saw his old friend Olleg playing cards with Gerlin in a booth, and gave them a nod and a smile. Olleg raised one podgy hand and waved back, whereas Gerlin just scowled. Gerlin had never liked him anyway, so it was a bit much to expect a hug and a kiss from that end.
Karll was also standing at the end of the bar, giving Merrick a sideways glance as he approached. Not surprising after what his wife had done, but it wasn’t all Merrick’s fault.
‘What’ll it be, Ryder? Usual?’ asked Uli.
Merrick didn’t really have a usual; he drank ale, wine, spirits … whatever was on offer, but who was he to question his favourite barkeep?
‘Absolutely,’ he replied. ‘And a round of drinks for all my friends.’ With that he slapped a handful of coppers on the bar top. ‘Keep them coming, Uli. And have one yourself.’
At the promise of free drinks, Olleg and Gerlin finished their card game and practically fell over one another in their rush to get to the bar. Olleg sported a wide grin that split his fat face. Gerlin still wore his scowl.
‘Ryder, you old dog,’ Olleg bellowed for the entire bar to hear. ‘Where’ve you been hiding yourself these past few days?’
‘Here and there, Olleg. You know me — places to go, people to see.’
Olleg laughed and gave him a knowing wink. Uli placed a row of tankards on the table and filled them with wine from a pewter jug.
‘More like people’s wives to see,’ said Karll suddenly, raising his head from his drink and giving Merrick a reproachful look.
‘I never meant it to go so far, old friend,’ said Merrick, grasping one of the tankards and offering it to Karll. Olleg and Gerlin also took one. ‘Here’s to water under the bridge. We’ve all been friends a while now. Let’s drink to the future, not dwell on the past.’
‘Aye, the future,’ said Olleg, raising his tankard.
Reluctantly, Gerlin and Karll raised their tankards and the four of them, along with Uli, drained them with gusto.
When they’d all slammed their tankards back on the bar, and Uli began to fill them once more, Merrick slapped Karll on the arm.
‘Never mind, old mate. Have another drink.’ Uli had filled the tankards by now and Merrick was quick to offer Karll another one.
‘Yes, another drink,’ shouted Olleg. ‘I don’t remember a woman I couldn’t forget after a good drink.’ He raised his tankard to the ceiling.
Merrick furrowed his brow trying to follow the fat gambler’s logic, but it was too early in the day for any of that, and he satisfied himself by draining his tankard and demanding Uli fill it again.
Four rounds later, the room was satisfyi
ngly hazy and the four of them were laughing together again like old times. It was good to block out the world and the Guild and mad slavers, to have a drink with friends without the threat of imminent violence.
The afternoon seemed to go by in a blur. Olleg laughed longest and loudest, but as ever became less annoying the more Merrick had to drink. They even managed to raise a smile from Karll, and it seemed Olleg had been right about the forgetting his woman thing. Gerlin tried to retain his sour expression, but Merrick managed to win him over eventually, and they were soon laughing like little boys about nothing in particular.
As the sky outside started to darken, a gaggle of drunken seamen stumbled in, doubling the number of patrons in an instant. A couple of them looked as if they were up for a bit of trouble, calling Olleg a ‘fat fucker’ on more than one occasion, as well as spotting Merrick for a preening fop — but he couldn’t argue there. It only took two rounds of ale for them to settle in though, and in no time the whole bar was joined together in a raucous chorus of ‘The Bosun’s Lost his Rigging’, quickly followed by a few verses of ‘My Dog Digs Deep Ditches’. Olleg insisted on singing the ‘put a stoat right down his britches’line louder than any of the sailors.
In all the excitement, Merrick realised he hadn’t taken a piss since he’d arrived — no small feat considering the amount he’d had to drink — and stumbled out the back, still laughing at Olleg, at the sailors, at life in general.
He breathed an audible sigh as his piss broke free and pattered into the gutter. Merrick had always pissed like a horse and derived much pleasure from it — many said it was a sign of good health and who was he to argue with that? Once finished he fumbled to tie the drawstring of his breeks, glancing up at the moon, which glared back down at him, fat and blood red.
The killing moon.
‘Not a good sign, is it, Ryder?’ In his surprise he almost caught the end of his pecker in the knot he was tying. ‘Red moon’s a bad omen.’