Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  He turned north and Eridani fell into step beside him.

  “If you’re lying,” the assassin whispered. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”

  “If I’m lying,” Mordo countered, “I would have already poisoned you.”

  Eridani laughed. “I watched the barkeep pour my drink and I never let it leave my sight.”

  “Your drink? Why would I poison your drink? That would be so obvious.” He felt the assassin look at him, felt him miss half a step and perhaps for a moment Eridani half realised that he had underestimated Mordo.

  “What then?”

  “The note, of course.”

  “But the barkeep handled the note…”

  “And he would have been paid in coin that carried the antidote. He’d have had a headache – no more.”

  “There is an antidote?”

  “There is always one more card to play,” Mordo said.

  That seemed to shut Eridani’s mouth for a while and they walked in silence for a few minutes, but the assassin’s curiosity was unstoppable.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “You don’t need to know,” Mordo said. “But I’ll tell you. The man is called Tollan Chaini.”

  “Chaini? I know him. He pays promptly.”

  Mordo should have expected that. A man like Chaini would probably have hired men like Eridani more than once.

  “When we get there you will remain silent,” Mordo said. “I will speak, you will stand by and look menacing. Chaini knows who you are?”

  “He does.”

  Mordo closed his eyes for a second. “Of course if you decide that Chaini is a better payer you won’t get the antidote,” he said. Always another card.

  He heard Eridani’s steps falter bedside him.

  “You didn’t,” he said.

  “There is only one way to find out.”

  After that they walked in an uneasy silence to the merchant’s door.

  Chaini lived in a big house. It was the largest private residence that Mordo had seen in Afael and it invited feelings of envy. It wasn’t new, but looked in fine condition. The wall that shielded the gardens from the street was high and recently repointed. The garden that he could see through the wrought-iron gate was formal and crisply so. The hedges were trimmed with military precision and the paths were clear of weeds. Beyond the garden the house rose in a pleasingly ramshackle fashion – the sort of disorder that suggested a long occupation and a lot of money.

  He tried the gate, but it was locked. There was a bell rope to one side and he pulled it angrily, aware that anyone with real power would not be held at bay by such a mundane device. After a while a man came and peered through the ironwork.

  “Yes?”

  “We are here to see Tollan Chaini,” Mordo said.

  “Your business?”

  “Is with Tollan Chaini,” Mordo said.

  The man examined them through the gate. “Might I at least know your name?”

  “I am Investigator Tregaris,” Mordo said.

  “I see,” the man said. “And why would that be of interest to Tollan Chaini?”

  Mordo suppressed an urge to shout at the servant. Instead he made a mental note of the man’s face.

  “I am looking into the circumstances of his nephew’s death,” he said. “I have questions.”

  “Ah, yes, well in that case you may enter. He will want to speak to you.” The servant took a key from around his neck and turned it once in the keyhole. The lock clicked open and the gate swung back. They stepped through and the gate was locked behind them. “Follow me,” the servant said.

  Mordo followed with Eridani on his heels. They crossed the immaculate garden and came to a painted front door that was ostentation even given the size and grandeur of the house. They were led through this portal into a hallway that was larger than all the rooms at The Burnt Ship put together. It was lit by no less than fifty candles and boasted a polished marble floor and paintings that hung every few feet along its walls.

  “Wait here, please,” the servant said. He didn’t wait for a reply, but walked down the corridor and turned right, leaving them alone. Mordo glanced at Eridani, but the assassin seemed quite at ease, standing with his legs slightly apart and his eyes fixed on nothing, though he noticed that one of Eridani’s hands was resting on the hilt of a partially concealed knife.

  Mordo took a couple of steps and studied one of the paintings. It was a dull but, he was prepared to bet, faithful image of a portly man in clothes that had long passed out of fashion. An ancestor of Chaini’s perhaps?

  The servant returned to the hallway and beckoned them. Mordo walked the length of the room and followed the servant into a comfortable fire lit drawing room.

  Tollan Chaini – it could be nobody else – sat in a padded chair before a wide desk that faced the door. There were papers on the desk and a candle. The rest of the room was all soft chairs and elegantly carved tables. Layers of brightly coloured rugs softened the floor. Chaini himself was leaning forwards, waiting to see who it was that wished to speak with him. When Eridani entered behind Mordo the merchant quickly lifted a small crossbow from beside him and placed it on the desk.

  “What do you mean by bringing an assassin into my house?” he asked.

  “It’s interesting that you know him on sight, Trader Chaini,” Mordo said. “But you need not fear him. He is here to protect me.”

  “From what? I am a trader.”

  “Who keeps a loaded crossbow by his chair.”

  Chaini looked at Eridani, who had positioned himself against the wall next to the door. “Point taken,” he said. “Ash said you were investigating my nephew’s death. Do you know who killed him?”

  Mordo made a mental note of the servant’s name. “As a matter of fact, I do. He killed himself.”

  Chaini’s hand twitched next to the crossbow. “That’s a lie,” he said. “He wouldn’t.”

  Mordo frowned. It was a concerned expression that he had practiced in front of a mirror. “If I explain the circumstances, you will understand,” he said.

  “Then do so.”

  Mordo stepped forwards and pulled out the chair opposite Chaini. He sat with the crossbow pointed at his heart and no more than two feet away. He reached out and pushed it a couple of inches to one side. “That’s better,” he said. He leaned back and folded his hands. “A few weeks ago there was an incident at the river gate. A number of soldiers died. They were attempting to kill a member of the council, but they failed. The commander of that unit and the only one who got away was your nephew. Yesterday he was recognized and confronted. He killed himself rather than reveal the names of his associates.” Mordo leaned forwards. “Those who planned it,” he said, staring hard at Chaini.

  Chaini had turned white, and for a moment Mordo mistook that for fear, but Chaini half rose from his seat with an angry roar and slammed both fists down on his desk. The crossbow jumped an inch into the air, landed and shot its bolt across the room, slamming into the window frame.

  “That fucking stupid little prick!” he shouted. “I told him. Stay away from fucking Gayne, I said. I told him a dozen times.” He pointed at Mordo. “You’ll not pin this on me,” he said. “I knew nothing and I certainly didn’t put him up to it. I’ll swear that in front of as many dragons as you can find.”

  Mordo was impressed. Perhaps he had been wrong. This might not be the simple case he had first thought. He was almost convinced that Chaini was innocent.

  “Then you will help us find those behind the plot,” he said.

  “Damn right I will,” Chaini snarled. “Ash! Get in here. Now.”

  The door opened almost at once and the servant stepped in. He looked afraid.

  “You listen at doors,” Chaini said. “Tell these people what I told my prick of a nephew about Francis Gayne.”

  “You told him to stay away,” Ash said. “You told him not to go near Councillor Gayne under any circumstances. You told him that Gayne was too dangerous.”


  Mordo sighed. “Trader Chaini, I can hardly accept your own servant as a credible…”

  “Shut up,” Chaini said. He turned back to Ash. “That tavern – the one where they used to meet – what’s it called?”

  “Sir…”

  “What’s it called, Ash?”

  “The Wheatsheaf.” Ash was clearly uncomfortable, but Chaini was relentless.

  “And the names, Ash, the names of the men he met there?”

  Ash looked at the ground. “Sir, these things are secret…”

  Mordo was fascinated. The servant, Ash, seemed to have knowledge that his master lacked. He could not imagine how such a situation had arisen, but it probably had something to do with the dead nephew – some sort of understanding between them. Perhaps Ash had been the lieutenant’s servant.

  “There were many names,” Ash said.

  “Then you will write them down and give them to this man,” Chaini said. Ash hesitated, standing between the desk and the door, torn between loyalties. Seeing this, Chaini pulled open a drawer and fumbled a fresh bolt onto the crossbow.

  “You don’t understand, Ash. Not only did these men cause the death of my nephew, but they have imperilled this house, me, my family, my fortune. You will write down the names.”

  Ash still hesitated. “Are there not more important things?” he asked.

  “If you don’t do as I ask, I will shoot you, I swear it,” Chaini said.

  Mordo stepped quickly between the bow and the servant. “No need for that, Trader Chaini,” he said. “If he will not speak here, we will take him with us.” Was it really possible that this was an act, Mordo wondered? The implication that the servant knew what the master did not, the refusal, the threat, and if the servant died, he was to believe the information lost? That would never do. “I think you should put down the bow, Trader. Eridani?”

  The assassin stepped forwards and eased the weapon from Chaini’s hand. Ash lost his colour. All resistance had left him.

  “I will write the names,” he said.

  Mordo watched him walk to the desk, take up a pen and dip it in ink. He wrote for a minute, refreshing the pen several times before he finished. He handed the paper to Mordo and Mordo studied the names. There were eight of them.

  “Is this all?”

  “All that I know,” Ash said.

  Mordo looked at Chaini.

  “If he says that’s all he knows then it is,” Chaini said.

  “I’d like to be sure,” Mordo said.

  “Then I suggest you arrange a dragon court.”

  Torture would be quicker, Mordo thought, but possibly less reliable. He didn’t have much experience of it. On the other hand, Chaini was still a wealthy and well-connected man. It was possible that he could cause Gayne some inconvenience and Mordo didn’t want that. He needed Gayne to be pleased with him.

  He shrugged. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be here if we need to ask more questions,” he said, giving Ash a pointed look. He motioned to Eridani and the assassin opened the door. “We know the way out.”

  On the street Mordo paused and looked at the names. He didn’t know any of them, but quickly committed them to memory. He put the list in his pocket. All in all, he thought the incident had worked out quite well. He had enough now to go to Gayne.

  “You didn’t let me kill anyone,” Eridani said.

  “There’s a good reason for that,” Mordo said. “They’re both more useful alive.”

  The assassin was unmoved. “So?”

  “It’s a bigger game than you think,” Mordo said. “If you play your part well enough, you’ll live to see that.” How much bigger was a question Mordo had yet to decide. Perhaps it was even bigger than Gayne suspected, bigger than Afael City, bigger even than Afael. Only time would tell.

  51 The Queen

  A day’s march short of Wester Beck Narak had decided on a plan. If there had been an ambush laid for King Degoran then he would find it and spring it. He didn’t want the King anywhere near the fighting. The problem was time. He needed to do it all in a night.

  He did not doubt that enemy scouts had spotted their approach. Hundreds of men on horseback would be difficult to miss. The plume of dust they’d kicked up would probably have been visible twenty miles away. Besides that, Narak had smelled men in the woods around them. They could have been woodcutters, but he couldn’t rely on that and now they had all gone.

  He selected a defensible camp, a low hill tucked into a river bend, and as the sun set, he went to the King.

  “You will be safe here,” Narak said. “I will scout ahead.”

  Degoran was pacing, which was unusual and suggested that he was keen to be at Alwain’s men.

  “Safe? Is my Queen safe? If I could march by night I would.”

  “I must spy out the land,” Narak said. “We must know where she is held, what men are about her and how they may be disposed of. I do not doubt that they mean her harm if their plan is blunted.”

  The King sat. For a moment he held his head in his hands. “I do not doubt that you can discover these things, nor that they are important, but forgive me if I am impatient to punish these men, to see them dead. But she is more important.”

  “You will wait here until I return?”

  “My word on it,” Degoran said. “But if there was a way that I could come with you…”

  “I know,” Narak said. He understood. The king was torn by two equal passions. He wanted revenge for the insult, the outrage that these men had committed. At the same time, he was almost frantic with worry about his family. He wanted to ride to their rescue, but was frightened that in doing so he would precipitate their killing. Narak was the better bet.

  He left the king fretting in his tent and walked out of the camp into the woods. Here the smells and the feel of the night were familiar, and Narak assumed his aspect almost without thinking. But here in the forest he did not become the chimera of dragon, man and wolf to which he had become accustomed, but merely a wolf. That surprised and delighted him. He had not thought it possible any more.

  There was a difference, though. The wolf mind, that separate part of him, had always dominated in this form. Now it was a shadow behind his man-mind. It informed him, but did not command. This denied him the escape he had always enjoyed as a wolf, the freedom to live in the moment, and he regretted that.

  He ran tirelessly through the trees, breathing everything that was around him. There was a faint scent of men again, but nothing fresh. It lingered like a dull, stale mist about the brilliance of the native perfumes of the forest.

  There were other wolves here, but he did not call them. He was afraid that they would not know him with his human consciousness and besides, what he did this night must be done alone.

  In an hour he covered twenty miles, and here again there was a scent of men, but fresher. He paused on a ridge and look down through the tops of the trees towards Wester Beck. He could see the angular shape of the roof, a light glimmering through curtains. There were men, too. About a dozen of them stood in pairs around a broad perimeter. They watched the night with blind eyes.

  Narak loped down the back slope, taking his time. As a wolf he could not be surprised by men at night. He would smell them a hundred feet before they heard or saw him.

  And here they were, a small band, perhaps half a dozen, in a group off to his right. He swung that way, curious. He could see no reason for men to be out here. It was too small a party for an ambush and there were no other scouts out this way. The attempt to ambush the King would take place tomorrow, he guessed, and would be prepared before dawn. That was many hours away.

  He slowed as he came up to them, moved with supernatural stealth, and paused when he had clear sight of the group. There were, as he had guessed from their scent, a round half dozen. The strange thing was that five of them were asleep, tucked down in a hollow behind a fallen tree. The other man sat by the trunk and gazed towards Wester Beck.

  Narak settled down and watched and breathed t
heir scent. It was odd. He would swear that these six had been living rough. They almost smelled like creatures of the forest. Foresters, perhaps? Even wolf eyes could not make out the detail of their clothing in this light, so he could only guess, but it seemed likely that they were not Alwain’s men. Yet they had set a watch as soldiers might.

  Narak changed. He knew that dragon eyes were even better than a wolf’s. His view cleared. Now he could see that the six men were indeed soldiers. There were swords, a couple of bows, but again he could not see how these could be Alwain’s. For a start they seemed to expect whatever trouble there might be to come from the direction of Wester Beck.

  “Who are you?”

  His voice struck the sentry like a lash. The man whirled, waving his blade before him in the dark like a blind man’s cane. He kicked out with his foot, waking one of the other men.

  “We are discovered,” he shouted, and at once there was a scrambling in the hollow as men found their feet and their weapons. Narak watched them. He could have killed them seven times over in the black night, but he waited patiently until they were all facing him.

  “Who are you?” he repeated.

  “Who are you?” One of the men demanded. It was a fair question, he supposed, and the one who asked it was interesting. The voice was young, the way he moved in the dark suggested a man not fully grown – perhaps sixteen or seventeen – and yet he seemed in command.

  “I am Wolf Narak,” he said.

  “Wolf Narak is with the King,” the youth replied, disbelieving.

  “I was with him at sunset,” Narak replied. “He has come to take back Wester Beck and retrieve his queen. He will be delighted to know that you are safe, Prince Chillarin.”

  There was a silence in the hollow. They were waiting, Narak guessed, for the Prince to speak.

  “How do I know you are who you say?” Chillarin asked. There was hope there, now.