by Tim Stead
When the lieutenant was relieved, Gayne followed him and his fellows back towards their barracks. Shortly before the barracks gate the lieutenant peeled off from the others and walked on alone into a quieter part of the city. It was late afternoon by now and most folk were still working, so here, where people mostly had their dwellings, it was almost deserted. Gayne walked more quickly, closing to within two good strides of his prey.
He chose his moment carefully. The man ahead of him turned a corner and for a moment they were alone together. Gayne let go his thief-gift.
“You and I must talk,” he said.
The lieutenant whirled, cat-quick, and a knife was already in his hand.
“You,” he said.
“Me,” Gayne agreed. “And now you will tell me everything. Who ordered the attack? Whose man are you?”
“I will tell you nothing,” the lieutenant said.
He was half a head taller than Gayne, broad shouldered, young, but it made no difference. Gayne could crush him in a moment, but first he wanted answers.
“It may take a while, but you will,” Gayne said. He took a step forward.
Then the lieutenant did the most extraordinary thing. He stabbed himself. He turned his knife and plunged it into his own chest. For a moment Gayne stared. This was something he had not expected, but the man would not escape so easily. Gayne leaped forwards. He would heal the man, get what information he needed and then kill him in his own time and in a manner of his own choosing. He laid a hand on the lieutenant’s chest, allowed power to flow from him.
A sharp pain rocked him back, and with horror he saw that the lieutenant’s knife was now protruding from his own chest. He fell, clutching at the thing, cutting his own fingers on the blade. It took a massive effort to calm himself, to seize the weapon and pull it from his flesh. The pain was monstrous, but once the blade was gone he could heal himself, draw power into his own body, knit the flesh, make whole the ruptured vessels and cracked bone. Within a minute he was able to roll onto his knees, breathing heavily, and struggle to his feet. The pain was gone, but he felt swollen and slow, and rubbed unthinkingly at the rent in his tunic where the weapon had pierced him.
The lieutenant was dead. Now all the power in the world could not bring him back. Gayne stood there for a moment above the dead man, trying to understand what had happened. He had been defeated. His link to his enemies, the ones that mattered, was gone. Gayne had never seen a man kill himself before and the act had made a deep impression on him. It frightened him that a man would die to keep a secret, especially since it was his enemies who did so. He would have to be careful, and shield himself at all times.
Yet that was impossible with Callista Dalini in Afael. She would know he was burning power. She would see his shield. But he had not seen her since the battle at the wall. Perhaps she had gone. He would send someone to check discreetly if she was still resident at The Eagle’s Bow.
He climbed out of bed and stripped, washing carefully with the bowl of water on the dresser, pausing to examine the unblemished skin where he had been stabbed the day before. Gayne had moved from his rooms. The Burned Ship was now his home. He had taken a room there and installed Keron, Mordo and others in the adjacent rooms. It was a convenient arrangement.
He picked up his shirt. It was stained with his blood and torn where the dagger had pierced his chest. He looked at it for a moment, then threw it aside, uncomfortable with the reminder of his mortality. He would not be so foolish again.
He dressed in a fresh shirt and pulled on breeches and boots and a light coat before going downstairs to break his fast with the others. They were sitting around the fire, and conversation died when he came in. They were afraid of him. Even Keron, who was Farheim, was afraid of him. The only one that seemed to revel in his power was Mordo.
Gayne filled a plate from the counter and sat among them.
“The council meeting is before noon,” Keron said.
“I have not forgotten.”
They ate in silence for a while. He was aware of Mordo watching him, waiting for the right moment. When he stuffed the last piece of egg-stained bread into his mouth Mordo spoke.
“I wonder if I might be permitted to do you a service?” he said.
“And what would that be?”
“This… incident yesterday. I have time on my hands. I would like to investigate it. I am not without resources, but I would like to be allowed to hire a couple of men to help me.”
Gayne thought about it. Mordo was no fool and he might be able to uncover something that Gayne himself could not. He had the time.
“Why not? But no more than two men. You must be discreet.”
Mordo inclined his head. “Of course, Councillor Gayne. I will be as discreet as a mouse in a city of owls.”
The reply was unexpectedly jaunty, and Gayne studied him. Mordo seemed happy. He had wanted this task very much. Gayne wondered at that.
He and Keron left The Burning Ship and walked through the streets of Dock Ward, crossing the bridge and making their way to the council hall. It was a bright, cold morning, but Keron seemed to share his low mood and they did not talk.
There was a buzz of excitement around what had once been Falini’s palace. It had become a pastime to wait and watch and hear the discussions of the council. Gayne wasn’t happy about that. Some council business should be conducted in secret. It wouldn’t do for every spy in the city to know every detail of their arguments, to know every decision the council made as soon as it was decided.
Already there was a tendency for the work to begin before they took their seats. Some sought support for plans, others to forge alliances of a more permanent nature, so Gayne was unsurprised when a councillor approached him in the ante-chamber. The man was from East Ward and not especially known to Gayne. They drew to one side and took a seat.
“I wish to discuss an amendment with you,” the man said.
“What is it that you wish to amend?” Gayne asked.
“Johan’s manifesto,” the man said. “There is a problem.”
“A problem?” Johan had spent his life on that document. He had considered every possible fault. Gayne had been there with him, had seen him change it a thousand times, scribbling by candle light long into the dark hours.
“Yes. It is the guilds, you see.”
“I do not.”
The man waved a hand at the milling council members and the throng that surrounded them. “These are not rich men,” he said.
“They are not,” Gayne agreed. “Do you think the city must be run by rich men?”
“No, no, you misunderstand. It is the guilds that concern me. All men – most men – desire wealth. It brings comfort, security, a better life. Johan’s scheme makes the guilds rich and the elected councillors remain poor. How long will it be before the guilds see that they can rule?”
“You are suggesting that the guilds will bribe the councillors?”
“It is already happening,” the man said. “Look around you. Do you not see the smiling men with heavy purses, the councillors with new clothes?”
Gayne looked about him. The man was probably right. There was a new air of swagger and wealth about the assembly. He was surprised that he had not noticed it. But Johan had not been wrong.
“A crime is a crime,” he said. “Those who have bribed and taken bribes will be found out and punished.”
“You cannot use dragons all the time,” the man said.
“There are other ways to discover things,” Gayne assured him. He thought of Mordo. If the man was able to find out who had been behind the attempt on his life, he would set him to solve this puzzle, too.
The ringing of a bell signalled the start of the council session and Gayne went in and took his seat beside Keron in the chamber. He chose not to speak today, but sat in his chair and watched and listened. It was different. A new tone had crept into the proceedings and he did not like it. Many of the councillors now sounded pompous to his ears. They were swolle
n with a sense of their own importance. They used long, meaningless phrases and gestured grandly when they spoke and their eyes were not on their fellows but sought out friends in the gallery.
How had he not seen this? The question was fatuous. He had been absorbed in his own vendetta, his hunt for the lieutenant and his masters. He had allowed his desire for personal revenge to distract him from Johan’s dream. It would no longer be the case.
He studied each man who spoke, tried to judge what advantage they sought and for who, but quickly realised that he was in the middle of a web that had been spun about him. Many still spoke for the city, for its people, but those who no longer honoured their oath were many.
He looked across at the representatives from North Ward. That was where the trouble had started and he had thought it stopped there. He found that the North Ward men were looking back at him, watching him. He smiled, and he saw them frown.
50 Mordo
Mordo Tregaris knew a chance when he saw it, and this was exactly what he wanted, what he needed. The reason he had come to Afael, that he had brought the crown and Pascha’s books here, was to gather power to himself. Now he would seek out the men who had plotted to kill Gayne and that would be his step up. He would no longer be a tutor, a mere teacher. He would be a power.
He considered Gayne a dangerous man, but not especially clever, and if Gayne was going to rule Afael, which Mordo saw as inevitable, he would be Gayne’s left hand. He would be the hidden, dark and unaccountable side of that power.
Gayne had discovered some members of the group that had tried to kill him, but the list he had obtained had turned out to be false, and Gayne had already killed those who had given him the list. That had been a novice’s error.
Mordo had already chosen the men he would hire. He had been looking for such characters for weeks. He left messages for each at a tavern called The Red Cow and made his way north to the barracks of the first city regiment. He walked boldly up to the gate.
“You there,” he said, pointing at one of the guards. “Come here.”
The man strolled over. “What do you want?” he asked.
“One of your officers was killed last night,” Mordo said. He knew that Gayne hadn’t claimed the kill – he never did – but he’d told them all the details last night.
“What’s it to you?” the guard asked.
“I’m investigating on behalf of the council,” he said. “They want to know the details.”
The man stared at him. A challenge, Mordo thought, but he stared right back, not smiling. The guard looked down.
“The council, eh? Well, I suppose you’d better come through.” He stepped aside and Mordo walked through the gate. He waited just inside. The guard would know nothing. There would be an officer in charge.
A runner was sent and, after a brief spell kicking his heels, he saw a man striding purposefully towards him. The man held out his hand as he approached.
“Major Farkis,” he said. “You’re from the council?”
“Investigator Tregaris,” Mordo said, giving the man’s hand a firm press and wearing an expression of concern. “Some of the councillors are worried about what happened.”
“Ah, well, that’s good, I suppose,” the Major said.
“What was the dead man’s name?” Mordo asked.
“Delaris, Lieutenant Malik Delaris.”
“And he was stationed here, lived here?” Mordo pointed at the long barrack buildings.
“Gods no,” the Major said. “Delaris stayed with his uncle. That’s where he was going when he was killed.”
“I see,” Mordo said. It was pathetic, really. Gayne could have had his answers just by following the man home. “And his uncle is…?”
“Tollan Chaini. He’s a merchant.”
“Do you know if the lieutenant had a favourite tavern, a circle of friends?”
Major Farkis shrugged. “I couldn’t say. He was a well-respected officer, but kept apart. Those with money often do.” He frowned. “We are investigating this ourselves,” he added.
“Of course,” Mordo unleashed his smile. “But there may be some… connections that you don’t know about – things that are known to the council alone. You understand?”
“Meaning that you can’t tell me, I suppose.”
“Exactly. However, I am grateful for your cooperation. I will mention it in my report.”
The Major’s frown deepened. “A report?”
“Of course, but do not concern yourself. The council will look favourably on those who have helped to resolve this matter.”
The Major nodded, but his frown stayed in place. That was good. Mordo liked people to be worried. He liked to give them cause to worry.
He left the barracks. It seemed that he had already solved the case, but he needed to be certain. Mordo was careful. It would be unwise for him to go to Chaini’s house alone. If the man was guilty, he simply had to kill Mordo to protect himself. He needed muscle.
He walked back to The Red Cow. It had been an hour since he’d left messages there and there was at least a chance that one of the men he sought had stopped by.
He walked into the bar. The Red Cow was a low place, a tavern where you were as likely to be robbed as served a drink. The floor was filthy and the whole place smelled of sweat, stale beer and vomit. It didn’t bother Mordo. He carried a knife as sharp as any man’s and had the skill to use it. He leaned on the bar and surveyed the room. He was lucky. One of the men he sought was here, drinking alone in a corner.
Mordo watched him for a while. He was a big man with a square jaw and cropped hair. He looked poor, but Mordo knew he wasn’t. His name was Eridani and he was an assassin. He was actually one of the best assassins in Afael, but he’d work for as little as five silver coins. It was a miracle that he’d never been caught, or perhaps it was something else.
After a while the assassin raised his head and looked back at Mordo. He didn’t look annoyed. He didn’t look anything. He just stared back, like a mirror.
Mordo smiled. He picked up his ale and walked over the Eridani’s table and sat down opposite. The assassin didn’t stop looking at him. He didn’t even blink. Mordo put a heavy purse on the table.
“I’d like to buy you a drink,” he said.
“Got one,” Eridani said.
“But sooner or later you will want another.”
The assassin looked down at the purse and nodded. He picked it up and emptied it onto the table. Seven gold coins rolled and gleamed on the soiled wood.
“That’s a lot of dead people,” he said. “You the one who left the message?”
“I am, and I don’t want you to kill anyone. Not yet.”
“What’s this for, then?”
Mordo sat back and sipped his ale. He had to be careful with Eridani. The man was used to killing, and didn’t seem to be motivated by money. Mordo guessed that he liked killing. He asked less because he wanted to be busy. What could he offer such a man? Apart from the gold he only had two cards to play. One was doubtful and the other quite wild.
“How would you like to work for the council?” he asked.
Eridani looked at him for a moment then burst out laughing. It was a disturbing sight. Eridani had a face that wasn’t designed for laughing. Mordo continued to stare at the man and the assassin quickly subsided.
“You’re serious?”
“Never more so.”
“And what would I do for the council?”
“Kill people.”
Eridani pointed to the coins that glittered on the table. “They have soldiers for that kind of killing.”
“Some things must be done quietly,” Mordo said. “Not so much in the light of day. And sometimes questions must be asked. The work would be varied.”
Eridani shook his head. “I like my life as it is. I am my own master.”
Mordo smiled again. He knew that confidence was a trick, one that he had long mastered. He played his last card.
“That is no longer
an option,” he said.
Eridani’s face hardened. He leaned forward slightly. “Are you threatening me?”
“Do you know whose gold this is?”
“Yours? No, wait, the council’s?”
“Neither. It belongs to the one man in the city that you fear.”
“I fear no one.”
“Not even a man who walks through walls, a man who kills ten men in a room and leaves not a mark on them and then vanishes?”
Eridani blinked. “J?”
“He has used that name.”
“You are working for him?”
“If you like I will give you his real name and you can regard this gold as payment. Try to kill him. That is the alternative.”
Eridani licked his lips. He was tempted, Mordo could tell. Sometimes men felt the need to test themselves, to pit themselves against legends. Sometimes that was how greater legends were made, but after a moment the assassin shook his head.
“It’s magic, what he does. It has to be. I wouldn’t stand a chance.” Even so he looked at Mordo, hoping for a sign, perhaps, that it was not so, but Mordo smiled at him again.
“You are a wise man, Eridani,” he said. “I promise that you will not regret this.”
“So what will he want of me?”
“For now, you will work for me,” Mordo said. “There will be gold and there will be people to deal with, but do not kill unless I say so. Do you understand?”
Eridani narrowed his eyes. “How do I know you’re not trying to gull me? Can you prove you work for him?”
Mordo shrugged. “You have the gold. You can choose to believe me or not as you wish, but decide now.”
“Are we killing someone tonight?” the assassin asked.
“Probably not,” Mordo said. “Unless things get out of hand.”
Eridani drained his cup and scooped up the gold on the table with one deft pass of his hand.
“Well,” he said. “Are we going?”
Mordo stood up and walked out of The Red Cow. The street outside was quieter that it had been. That wasn’t very comforting with a man like Eridani behind him. It was all a bluff, and if the assassin stuck a knife in Mordo’s ribs he could walk away free as a bird, but Mordo had confidence in his games, if not in this man’s character. He was more accustomed to playing honest men, and that was a concern.