by Tim Stead
As the starless night swept in, the last spark of life in him seized upon a random thought and held it for a moment.
Serhan is going to be really angry.
19. Woodside
Woodside was not as Felice had imagined it. She had thought it a town. She knew that it was the home of the law, White Rock’s law, and that a great school had been built there. She knew that there was a tavern.
To begin with they were stopped on the road just shy of the first buildings. A group of guardsmen in the colours of White Rock barred the road, having laid a spiked hurdle across it, a thing of such weight that it would take many men to lift. The wagons slowed to a halt and she could hear a heated discussion between the guards and the wagon master drifting back on the warm air. She was about to step down, to find out the cause, when she heard hoof beats and looked back to see Sabra and her guard contingent galloping towards the van of their column. The lieutenant caught her eye and gestured that she should stay where she was. She pulled her head back in and waited.
In a little while Sabra rode back with another guardsman and stopped by her wagon. The guardsman dismounted and climbed up into the wagon.
“You’ll ride into Woodside with me,” the lieutenant said.
“Why?” She eyed the horse. It did not look as relaxed as Sabra’s.
“The wagons are being held here. They’ll camp. You’ll be safer in Woodside.”
“Why can’t we ride the wagons into Woodside?” Felice was genuinely curious and not a little concerned. In addition she didn’t like the idea of riding a strange horse any distance. She’d only ridden the lieutenant’s horse, and that only for a few hours around the camp fires.
Sabra sighed. “It would be easier if you obeyed instructions, you know,” she said. “There have been two killings, both the dead were candidates. More guards have been brought in from White Rock. The town is not safe.”
“Then where are you taking me?”
“To the Kalla House.”
“You’re going to lock me up?”
“We’re going to protect you.”
Well, at least she would be able to serve the warrant that had brought her here. She eyed the horse again. It was a typical guard mount, a bay mare of average build. It stood with the reins hanging loose, waiting patiently.
“The horse will bear you easily enough, Ima,” the guardsman said to her, perhaps sensing her apprehension.
She climbed down from the wagon and up onto the horse as gently as she could, careful to gather the reins before she mounted, careful not to alarm the beast.
“Follow me,” Sabra said and nudged her horse forwards into a walk. Felice did as she was told and they passed slowly up the string of wagons. People turned to look at them, perhaps wondering who it was that was being brought into Woodside ahead of them; an important person, perhaps a criminal. She tried to look relaxed, but sitting atop a great strange horse she was anything but. She could feel its powerful muscles moving smoothly beneath her, and she gripped the reins and the pommel of the saddle with both hands.
The barrier was not moved from the road. A narrow path had been cut through the trees to one side, and they threaded their way through this, emerging onto the road the other side. There were more guardsmen here, and they looked at her, too. Did they know something that she didn’t, or had they simply heard of her quest to find justice?
They rode on and the guards were left behind. They entered Woodside. It seemed nothing more than a typical village. From this side she could see the ordinary village houses, the narrow lanes between them. They rode through the square, past the Kalla Tree and on, down more narrow streets until they came to a tavern. The tavern was huge for the village, and it was on one side of a new square, larger than the old one, and here was the Kalla House. But it was not this building that held her attention. Beyond the tavern there were newer, larger houses on broad streets, just as you might find in a town. They were the houses of merchants, of the prosperous, but even these stayed her eye for only a moment. Beyond them, and set apart from the growing settlement, was the great school. Even the little that she could see of it revealed it as a structure of concentric rings. The outer ring was of double height, a series of buildings set about a greater, taller building, a round building like a white tower of massive girth. From here she could see that the central building was pierced by a great archway, and that within lay a garden. She glimpsed green, and she thought she saw the glitter of water, a fountain perhaps.
More disturbingly she could see that between the new town and the school there was a freshly built fence of great strength, and gates, and the gates were guarded. Around the fence she could see groups of men walking. More guards, she supposed.
“We are here, Felice.”
Sabra was already dismounted. She was leading her horse around the side of the Kalla House to where stables had been built. Felice lowered herself to the ground and led her docile mount through to where it might enjoy a rest, and hay and water. She copied the way that Sabra looped the reins around a horizontal bar, and followed her into a side door, into the Kalla House.
Inside it was a scene of chaos. They had come directly into the guards’ room, and what would normally be a tidy space was now filled with men, and the spaces that they had marked out for their bedrolls. Behind a broad counter the cells were also filled, and she could see men sleeping, packed into the space like arrows in a quiver.
All this for two killings?
Sabra spoke to a guard officer, and Felice moved closer so that she could hear what was said.
“…brought here by black door,” the officer was saying. “Just yesterday while you were still on the road. A hundred extra men.”
“And the slain,” Sabra asked, “they were candidates?”
“A boy and a girl,” the man replied. “Not only candidates, but among those most like to be chosen. Both killed with a single knife thrust to the heart. Serhan has brought a man up from Samara to discover the truth, and we are to obey him.”
“Is he guard?”
“No,” the man sounded disgusted with the idea. “He is a stick of a man who can barely wield a sword.”
“So why is he here?”
“He is commands the Halls of Law in Samara. They say he understands the ways of evil men, and it is true that he says things, seems to know things that we cannot.”
“Sam Hekman,” Felice said, realising at once who they were talking about, remembering the busy, thin man who had seemed so overwhelmed by his role. She remembered him as helpful, even kind.
“You know him?” Sabra asked.
“I met him twice. He helped me when I was in Samara.”
“Well,” the other guard officer said. “You can meet him again. He has taken one of the back cells, one with a window, as his own room. One of those cells is reserved for you and Sabra, so you will be neighbours until we catch the killer.”
Felice wanted to see Hekman. She wanted to see him at once. Not because she had anything to tell him, or because he was a special friend, but simply because he was nearer to home that these others, he was someone from when she had been a little closer to the old Felice than she was now. He belonged to the past. She stepped out of the guard room by the other door and found herself in a corridor. There were bedrolls on the floor here, too, but they were not in use.
Back cells they had said. She walked towards the back of the building and found a door. She heard Sabra call her name, but she ignored it. She went in.
In this room, more of a passageway than a room, there were no bedrolls, but a row of six doors, all wedged open. She looked into the first one, and there he was. Paper was beginning to cover the walls, and a small desk held neat piles of the same. Bringing order to chaos seemed to be a principle weapon in Hekman’s armoury, and here he was doing it again. He sat at the desk, head bowed, looking exactly as she remembered him. He was reading something. His concentration seemed complete, but even so he was aware of her. He held up a hand, and she waited.
In a moment he finished what he was reading and looked up. Almost at once there was a spark of recognition, and his hand groped about in the air as if reaching for a memory.
“I know you,” he said. The hand stopped moving. “Caledon,” he said. “Felice Caledon. How do you fare, Ima? I had not expected to see you here.”
“This is where Karnack came,” she said. “He is here.”
“Here? Yes, of course. It seems so long ago that I saw you in Samara.”
“How is Ella Saine?”
“I have not seen her since you left, but I believe she is well.”
“And you have been brought here to find a killer?”
“Yes,” he smiled a wry smile. “It makes a change to be seeking only one. Something of a holiday, if you see what I mean.”
“Well, now you have two.” She pulled the warrant from her pocket and put it on the desk in front of him, and he perused it briefly.
“I remember it,” he said. “A guardsman. Your brother murdered in Yasu. The man answered the call, so he is a candidate.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from a tray and thumbed quickly through them. “Karnack. Peet Karnack. Guard Sergeant. Yes he is here, but there is a problem, Ima.”
Felice stared at him. “A problem?”
“Yes. The school has been fenced off. The gates are closed. Nobody is allowed in or out. The Mage Lord has taken these precautions to protect the candidates.”
“But how can you find the killer? He may be within the school already.”
“It is a point I put to the Mage Lord myself,” Hekman smiled. “So I am excepted from the rule. I may come and go. No others.”
“You must take me with you.”
“Defy the Mage Lord? I do not think so. I was at the battle of Samara Plain, and he is already enraged by the killing of two candidates. I will not risk his displeasure.”
“Karnack is a killer. Where can I find justice if not here at the Kalla House?”
Hekman looked down at his papers again. He rubbed his chin. “I will speak to the Mage Lord,” he said. “It is all that I can do. Perhaps he will permit me to take Karnack from the school.”
“Why would he not?”
“I do not know. It depends on how he values Karnack as a candidate. He may be selected for training.”
“No,” Felice had not even considered the idea, but it was possible. Her brother’s killer as a mage, powerful, untouchable. “No. There must be justice, even so. If not, I will seek it myself.”
“You must not act rashly, Ima. I will speak to the Mage Lord on your behalf. I am confident that he is fair and just. You must wait here for a day and be safe. I will speak to him tomorrow.”
“Safe? It is not safe here.” She already had an idea who the killer might be, and if she was right, there was no safety anywhere, but she could see no reason for a Faer Karani to want her dead.
“There are guards here,” Hekman said. “No killer would dare to strike here.”
“And what if the killer is one of the guards?”
“That cannot be. The ones stationed here have been brought down from White Rock after the first murder. They cannot be responsible.”
She realised that she could not tell him; could not say that a Faer Karani could take any body, could be anyone. If she was right. She was sworn to secrecy, and dare not break her oath. The Ekloi were at least as dangerous as the Faer Karan, and she could not have both turned against her. All that she knew that might help Hekman was bound up by that oath, but there was still one thing that she might do.
“I can find the killer,” she said.
Hekman studied her carefully. “And how would a merchant’s daughter from East Scar go about finding a killer?” he asked.
She took a deep breath and explained about the knife, how it was magical and had the ability to find things. She told him what Borbonil had said, and how she had used it to escape from the marshes. The rest she could not say, for it bore directly on the Ekloi and their secrets. When she had finished she drew the knife and showed him the blade, and how the knife balanced in her hand.
“It is a tale, I grant you,” Hekman said. “But finding the way out of a marsh and finding a killer are quite different things.”
“I am confident.” It had worked to find Raganesh. It had worked to find Alder. She was more than confident. She was certain that Pathfinder could find the killer.
“I must tell you, Ima,” Hekman said, and he was clearly uncomfortable. “I am not familiar with magic. I do not use it, and I do not trust it. However, I would be a fool to allow such a tool to go unused. It is a chance to find the assassin before another candidate dies, so tomorrow I will speak to the Mage Lord, and then we will see.”
“I will wait,” she agreed. “I will wait one day.”
She turned away from Hekman to find that Sabra was standing close behind her. The lieutenant was close enough to have heard every word of their conversation, every word about the knife.
“Even your pockets are full of surprises, Felice,” she said.
Felice said nothing, and Sabra showed her where they would sleep. One of the cells had been fitted with two crude bunks, and there was little space between them. Just enough room at the foot of each for their few bags. They were tight quarters indeed, but compared with the rest of the guard it was luxury.
In such a crowded place Felice was desperate to find some measure of solitude, and in the end she found it on the roof. Here there were no bedrolls, and although four guards stood at their posts and others sat around a table eating and playing cards, there was enough room up here for her to sit apart from them and be alone with her thoughts.
She looked towards the school, and for a time she watched the guards moving in regular patterns around the fence. A wagon approached the gate, and was permitted to enter, but only after the drover had stepped down and walked back towards the village. One of the guards climbed up to the drover’s seat and guided in inside the fence. The gate was closed again and the wagon was searched, then taken up and through the archway. She saw no sign of life other than the guards, so the candidates must all be confined to their rooms.
Somewhere up there, in one of those buildings, was Karnack. She had not been so close since the night that Todric had died, and she searched inside herself for what it was that she felt. She was surprised to find no anger, no pain. Everything inside her was reduced to symbols, like so many numbers stacked up on a balance sheet. But she could not make it right because there was so much that she did not know. In her system, back in East Scar there had been profit and loss, expense and income, but now the world did not divide into two simple columns, and she could not even give some of them meaningful names. Were the Ekloi an asset or a liability? Could the Faer Karan be used to turn a profit? And what kind of profit? Nothing seemed to be clear cut any more. For a trader, life was simple. If at the end of the day there was more money in your pocket, then that was a measure of success. Home, too, had been simple. She loved her family and they loved her. There was no question to be answered. Other people did not matter. To be sure you treated them fairly and expected the same in return, you smiled and they smiled, but it was all the same if they did not. Now the actions of strangers had become critical, a matter of life and death, so that when they smiled you needed to know if they were honest, if they meant what they said, or if some other desire drove them to deceive.
“Your thoughts, Felice?”
Sabra had come up quietly and sat beside her. She had not heard her. The lieutenant offered her a cup of jaro, which she accepted.
“Are my own,” she replied.
“Then I will tell you mine.” Sabra said.
“As you wish.”
“You story of the knife tells me much, but makes nothing clear. I thought you were playing with it, the knife, I mean, back at White Rock when we sat at table in the colonel’s rooms. I saw you spin it, and I saw it point to Alder. That was when something began between you. What did you ask the knife to find?
”
“A better travelled person,” she replied. The words were true, in a way, but she had spoken in a facetious tone.
“Something happened in the town the day before. You were shaken when you came back. You were worried. The colonel saw it. That’s why she asked me to watch you. You were looking for something, using that knife, and you found it in Alder, and he knew that you had, somehow. I have no idea what you found, why you found it, or what you and Alder did in the town the next day, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Please don’t ask me, Ennis,” she used Sabra’s given name for the first time. It was a way of drawing them together, asking her to trust.
“I have no questions,” Sabra said. “I know that there will be no answers. I just want you to know that I see things, that I am no fool, and that my bow and blade are at your service, should you need them.”
“Thank you.” She felt grateful, and relieved that Sabra did not press her with questions. The only answers that she could give were uncertain poisons to her certain world, words that would bring fear and danger and no clear course of action. Indeed, she had no clear course herself. She had volunteered to find the killer, but if it was, as she suspected, a Faer Karani that they sought, then what purpose would that serve? Could Hekman arrest it? Her hope must lie with the Mage Lord. He was here. He had banished the Faer Karan once, and must do it again.
They drank jaro again, and Felice wondered what message Hekman would bring to her tomorrow.
20. The Killer
Felice had barely finished breakfast, a hurried handful of bread and cheese eaten in a corner of the guard room, when Hekman appeared again. He’d been gone when she awoke – to the school, the guard officer behind the desk had told her.
“Come with me,” he said.
She licked the last crumbs from her fingers and hurried to follow him. He walked quickly for such a small man, and he was already outside by the time she reached his side.
“You have the knife?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He said no more, and in a moment she realised that they were walking towards the school, towards the fence and the gate. She was overcome by a sudden feeling of apprehension. She was certain that she was being taken to meet the Mage Lord, the magical figure that ruled the entire world, the father of justice, the conqueror of the Faer Karan. But there were things that he did not know, and she was afraid that he would discover.