Dark the Night Descending (The Paderborn Chronicles Book 1)

by Jennifer Bresnick

  A strange, strangled, shrieking noise made her jump before she realized it was coming from the mouth of one of the blacksmiths, who appeared more curious than threatening as he spoke the neneckt tongue.

  “I’m sorry?” she said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Can I help you, miss?” he said again in her own language.

  “Oh. Yes, actually. I was wondering about these rings. They’re so pretty. Do you sell them?”

  “I can’t sell you one of those, miss, but I can make you one special if you like.”

  “But I want this one,” she replied, picking up an ornate sample. “I’ll give you a pound for it.”

  “I’m sorry, miss. Those are spoken for.”

  “What a pity. How about these?” she asked instead, pointing to a medallion inscribed with a popular blessing for peace.

  “Those too, I’m afraid.”

  “Goodness,” she exclaimed, laughing a little. “You must have a very big shop somewhere. Could I go there to buy something?”

  “They don’t go to shops, miss,” the other neneckt said. He looked younger, and he was grinning at her eagerly before the first elbowed him in the ribs to get him to shut up.

  “They’re commission,” he said, his glare making the second man’s smile evaporate.

  “I see. Someone must really like their trinkets,” she laughed again, dropping the ring back into the bucket and giving the second man a winning smile. “Do your people fancy them, then? I thought it was only us poor humans who put such stock in these things.”

  “We sell them to your kind after they go – ow! Hey!” the younger blacksmith yelped when his partner dropped a shaping hammer on his foot. “That bloody well hurt.”

  “Every shop in the marketplace has souvenirs for you, miss,” the first man said firmly. “I think you should go have a look at them instead.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to be a nuisance. Good day, sirs,” she said, curtseying a little and nodding particularly at the more talkative blacksmith before she turned away. She had to bite her lip to keep her smirk from running away with her.

  Commission, indeed, she thought as she slowly paced away. And just who was commissioning armfuls of paltry knickknacks? Someone who wanted to turn a few hours of ironwork into gold.

  “Miss!” she heard the younger smith call out behind her. She took a quick moment to compose her face before turning towards the sound.

  “Yes?”

  “Here,” he said, holding out the ring she had admired. “It ain’t worth more than a shilling, so don’t you worry yourself about it.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she cried, acting delighted. “How very, very kind. I really had no notion of getting you in any sort of trouble,” she added, putting her hand on his arm in concern. “I hope there wasn’t a problem.”

  “No, miss. Not at all.”

  “I’m just always so curious,” she continued. “I’ve never seen such lovely work. You must do most of the details yourself.”

  “Well, yes, miss,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “I knew it. A man with such kindness in him is always gifted in his work. You really should have your own shop. It must all go somewhere very important if you can’t sell it to people like me.”

  “I don’t really know, miss,” he said, his grin doubling in width as she piled on the compliments. “Constens just takes it away.”

  “Constens?”

  “Him,” the blacksmith said, looking around for a moment. He was pointing towards a man leading a tired-looking horse with a small half-cart to the forge. “It goes to the city-folk, I’m told. Don’t really care as long as I get paid, miss, if I’m being true honest.”

  “Of course. You know, you ought to get paid a lot more than whatever you do. This ring is lovely, and I shall treasure it. I know just the stone to put in it. You have a wonderful day now, do you hear?”

  The man nodded and bowed a little as she walked away, but not before she took a second, hard look at Constens. Dark hair and neneckt eyes. An uninspired face. As long as he bore those features, she would remember him.

  But she couldn’t follow him right away. Hanging about and staring at him while he loaded the buckets and boxes onto his cart would simply be foolish. Where had he come from? She hadn’t been paying attention. She would simply have to find a quiet, concealed place to wait while he finished his work and headed back to wherever the iron trinkets went.

  It was easier said than done, however. It was nearly midday and the pleasant weather had drawn many workers to the outdoors. There was a gaggle of human kitchen girls shelling peas under an awning, and some maids hanging sheets to dry in the sun on long lines strung hither and yon. Even the chandlers had taken their dipping into the open air, pouring hot wax into long, thin molds with wicks sticking out like coarse hairs, taking advantage of the breeze to cool their faces as they worked over the sweat-inducing task.

  She would just have to wander for a while, making a wide, haphazard circle to diffuse any suspicion. The parasol was helpful in avoiding conversation, and no one paid much mind to her, even though she was clearly better dressed than the serving people.

  Her stroll was rather enjoyable, actually, and she very nearly forgot to loop back around to the blacksmiths to see if Constans had finished yet after taking a seat on a bench and being lulled into a daydream by the dull, rhythmic thumping of a woman churning an enormous tub of butter.

  When she did return to the forge, she found she was too late. He had left.

  “Blood and ashes,” she muttered as she looked around the courtyard for any sign of his horse. “You idiot girl.”

  She thought she heard the sound of the cart’s wheels running over the cobbles from around the corner, and hurried towards the noise to see if she was correct. She wasn’t. It was a different cart, this one loaded with fruit and casks of wine. But the detour allowed her to see the tail end of Constans and his cargo headed down a wide pathway that ran between the backs of two rows of workshops.

  Megrithe practically ran flat out so as not to lose him again, only remembering to slow down to a properly sedate pace when she was alone with the cart in the empty space. She stopped and stooped down to fiddle with the lace on her boot, trying to hide her face, as Constans turned around to see if whatever was rattling around on the cart was about to fall off. It was a silly thing to do – who tied their shoe in the middle of a deserted alley? – but the neneckt didn’t seem to notice as he adjusted the position of one of the buckets. He didn’t even look at her as the nag jolted forward again.

  She waited until he had gone around the corner before she dared to follow him. He had halted the cart a few feet down the crossroad, and she peered around the edge of the building to sneak a look. The wagon had stopped outside a door, and he was passing the pails and baskets to another figure, who piled them up on a shadowy landing for a staircase that led down underground.

  “Just brilliant,” she murmured disappointedly as she tried to see where the passage might lead. It would be difficult to enter such a place without a convincing story. This was obviously not a public area, and it was not necessarily someplace she wanted to risk being caught before she could think up a good lie to help her out of the situation.

  She turned back into the alley and leaned flat against the solid brick as she thought. Her Guild card had always gotten her wherever she needed to go when she was in civilized territory, but there was no use mourning the lack of such an easy tactic. This was a neneckt place, and so she would have to think like a neneckt. She wondered if there was some way to turn her irises silver.

  The thought of dropping some stinging potion into her eyes made her blink hard and keep her lids closed until the blurring of preemptive tears went away. No, that would certainly not do. She had no desire to go blind from some witch doctor’s madness.

  The horror of the thought of losing such an essential part of her world made her open her eyes again, but the moment of contemplation turned out to
be disastrous. The inattention had allowed someone to sneak up on her – someone who quickly threw a burlap sack over her head and clamped a hideously strong hand over her mouth to stop her screaming as he dragged her bodily away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Arran’s sore head had abated by the time Faidal led him casually past the guards on the citizens’ gate to Tiaraku’s palace. While neneckt could access the underwater city from many points on the island, by way of long tunnels cut deep through the rock to join the surface with the depths of the sea, much traffic still entered through Tiaraku’s sumptuous portal, and humans and ocean dwellers alike swarmed the grounds at all hours of the day.

  He was still feeling slightly wobbly, though, and the lingering taste of seaweed on his tongue made him wrinkle his nose and spit on the ground every once in a while, earning him an exasperated look from Faidal when they entered the neneckt king’s property.

  “So what are we looking for, again?” Arran asked to take his mind off the sensation. “Forges?”

  “Not just any forges. There are iron shapers here that make ordinary things, too.”

  “We need to find traces of the browning,” Arran guessed. “Don’t they need heat to work the colorant?”

  “Yes. But not that much heat. It can’t happen under water, but it certainly can be done underground. I think I know where I need to go.”

  “Very well,” Arran said, swallowing the saliva he had been about to expel when a pack of maids in frilly aprons traipsed by with linens piled high in their arms. They didn’t look his way, but he didn’t want to start attracting negative attention. “Lead on, wise one.”

  Faidal ignored his sarcasm and took him on a wide loop around the edge of the pleasure grounds, the heady scent of fragrant blossoms and flowering trees temporarily relieving the salty tang.

  “Still feeling a little off, are we?” Faidal asked eventually as Arran wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “It won’t go away.”

  “Good. That means it’s working.”

  “What is? The headache powder?”

  “Yes, of course. Here, let’s go this way,” Faidal said, turning a corner, where it was suddenly much quieter. There was nothing to divide the area from the workshops and stalls and gathering places not a stone’s throw away, but it seemed to be a more private quarter, less busy than the courtyards and the gardens.

  “Ah,” Faidal said eventually as they approached a brick building that looked just like every other building. The only difference was a small cart with a nearly knackered horse drooping in the harness in front of an open doorway.

  “This is the place?”

  “I think so.”

  Faidal started forward, but a movement caught the corner of Arran’s eye and he pulled the neneckt back again, sparking an indignant protest. “What are you –”

  “Shhh,” Arran hushed him, standing flat against the wall. “Look.”

  Faidal looked over where Arran was nodding to see the back of Megrithe’s head as she ducked out of sight again. “Bloody hell,” the neneckt said, surprised and just a bit admiring. “She’s sharper than I thought.”

  “She’ll have something sharp for us, too, if she catches us.”

  “Not if we catch her first.”

  “What? No. No! I am not kidnapping a Guild inspector,” he hissed as he interpreted Faidal’s wicked grin. “That is several large leaps over the line.”

  “It’s not kidnapping. She obviously wants to see the counterfeit as much as I do. I just want to persuade her to work with us first. A little fright never did anyone any harm. I’m not going to hurt her.”

  Arran knew he didn’t have that long to think about it. She could disappear at any moment, and Faidal was probably right. It was time to take control of the whole sordid charade, and Megrithe had as little right to be poking around Tiaraku’s business as they did. They were on equal ground at the moment. This might be their only chance to tip the scales in their favor.

  “Fine,” he said eventually. “But don’t scare her too much, all right? You have a kerchief or something?”

  “No need,” Faidal replied, fishing around in the pocket of his coat and taking out a burlap sack and a short coil of rope.

  “Why the hell did you bring that?”

  He shrugged. “Just in case.”

  “Gods above. Let’s just get this over with. And leave the rope, will you? I think we can handle a girl between the two of us, you mad bastard.”

  Faidal obligingly put the cord back in his pocket before silently indicating that he would go around the other end of the alley to try to cover the other exit. Arran nodded and watched as he disappeared.

  He was just going to stay put unless Megrithe tried to run. And then he would…probably just watch her run, he thought sourly as he waited to hear the sounds of the woman’s distress.

  He should never have agreed to any of this in the first place. Faidal had better be able to pluck his lost pendant out of the water on the first try for all the shit he was putting up with to humor him.

  Megrithe let out a scream that was instantly muffled, and Arran stuck his head into the alley to see if Faidal needed any help. He was dragging the inspector away from Arran.

  “Hey, where are you taking her?” he whispered, hurrying towards them.

  “In here,” Faidal replied, nodding towards a door, shifting his grip on Megrithe’s wrist as she struggled against him. “Open it.”

  Arran had to jam his shoulder into the elderly wood to get the latch to shift itself, and took a moment to look around the dark, dusty storage room before beckoning Faidal in and shutting the door behind them, standing in front of it in case Megrithe tried to escape.

  “Let me go!” she cried when Faidal took his hand away from her mouth. “I’ll have you hanged, you filthy son of a bitch. Let me go.”

  Faidal pulled the cloth from her head and she instantly glared around in fury before her anger melted into shock and surprise when she saw who her captors were. The surprise split into an impish grin and she started to laugh.

  “Oh, you are in such trouble,” she taunted. “Such trouble, you naughty boys.”

  “She doesn’t seem that upset,” Arran said quietly to Faidal as she smiled at them brightly.

  “You’re right.”

  “Hoping to load up on more treasure, are you?” she asked, straightening her hat and smoothing her hair after her rough handling. “Dogs do always return to their vomit.”

  “Troublesome little flies tend to do the same,” Faidal said. “You’ve been buzzing around once too often, my dear.”

  “And you are not too worried about catching flies with honey,” Megrithe said. “Foolish. I could add assault on a Guild inspector to your lengthening list of charges. Five years in the cells at the very least – on top of everything else.”

  “On the contrary, miss. I want you to help us. Or at least to follow us.”

  “Where?”

  “Exactly where you were worrying that you couldn’t go. Down to the forges. I can take you,” Faidal told her.

  “Why?” she asked, suspicion creeping into her voice.

  “Because I want you to see that I had nothing to do with it,” Arran cut in. “I want you to end the hunt.”

  “My hunts only end when the quarry is taken down, Mister Swinn,” Megrithe said archly. “Will I end up with a trophy to mount on my wall?”

  “I hope so, miss. But I can assure you that I am not the prize you are after.”

  Megrithe stared at him hard for a moment, and then nodded. “I am willing to consider the fact that you may have been duped, Mister Swinn,” she said. “You do look a bit thick, after all. If you can prove it, I will consider your options.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “As for you,” she added, turning to Faidal, “I want my cards back this instant. All of them.”

  “I don’t have them.”

  “Then I don’t have time for you,” she replied.

  “Are y
ou really in a position to be setting terms?”

  “I rather think so,” she said. “You will need my good word when I get back to Paderborn.”

  “No. He does,” Faidal said, pointing at Arran. “I have no need to be afraid of you. I have a hundred faces, and you barely even know one of them.”

  Megrithe’s sly smile returned as she leaned over to whisper something in Faidal’s ear. Arran didn’t know what she said, only that it made the neneckt’s face go white with horror – or maybe with fear – as she leaned close and cupped her hand around her mouth to hide her secret as she spoke.

  Faidal looked like he was going to be sick. Megrithe straightened up and brushed at her skirts as if nothing had happened, but the neneckt practically bolted from the room, still pale as a ghost. A moment later Arran heard the sound of him retching onto the ground.

  “What did you say to him?” he asked, edging away in case she had a similar blow to deal to him, too.

  “Something he evidently didn’t want to hear,” she replied. “But I think he’ll be a little more cooperative now.”

  “Right,” Arran said nervously. “Listen, I’m sorry he was rough with you just then. It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Save it for the tribunal, Mister Swinn,” she told him. “I’m not interested in your excuses.”

  “Well. Um. I better see if he’s all right,” he said after standing there in silence for a while, not entirely sure what he should be doing.

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  Arran stepped outside. There was a small puddle of sick in the dirt, quickly absorbed by the sandy surface. There was no Faidal. He glanced back over his shoulder at Megrithe, who was standing perfectly contentedly in the storeroom without appearing like she had the intention to run. He took that as a sign that he could look out the end of the alley without fearing that she’d bolt on him, but a quick search showed no sign of the neneckt. Maybe he had just gone elsewhere because he didn’t want them to see that he had been ill.

  “He’ll be back in a moment,” Arran said brightly when Megrithe gave him a questioning look. “He just – um. He just went somewhere.”