by Anthony Ryan
“Allow me to introduce you to Master Alveric,” the king said as the bland faced man bowed to him. “He’ll be your tutor for the next few weeks. Skilled as you are, the mere fact of your capture indicates you have a great deal yet to learn. You’ll find him a kindly teacher, for the most part, with many a clever trick to impart. I call him my Lord of Foxes. You, however,” the king’s gaze switched between Derla and the now squabbling crows on the gibbet, “will be my Lady of Crows. You do know how to play Warrior’s Bluff, I assume?”
The Lady of Crows was one of the cards forming the Noble Suit found in the standard Asraelin card deck. The more superstitious souls amongst the gambling fraternity tended to regard it as an ill luck card, the kind that would turn up in a winning hand only for the victor to keel over stone dead a moment later.
“I know the game very well, Highness,” Derla said.
The king gave Master Alveric a slightly smug glance before moving back from the parapet. “I’ll leave you to get better acquainted,” he said. “It’s unlikely we’ll meet more than once a year from now on. But rest assured, any instruction you receive from my Lord of Foxes is to be regarded as a Royal command.”
Derla curtsied as he walked away with a brisk step, his two guards hurrying in his wake.
Master Alveric stood regarding Derla in silence for a second, a faint animosity discernible behind his otherwise placid gaze. Not his idea to recruit me, she realised.
“Go home,” Alveric said abruptly. “Resume your normal routine, re-establish your standing amongst the criminal element.” With that he turned to go.
“King Janus said you would be my tutor,” Derla said.
Alveric paused to offer her the briefest glance. “Your education has already begun,” he told her before turning and walking away once more, Derla hearing him add in a low mutter, “the first lesson being the value of following instructions.”
Chapter 7
“Put it on.”
Derla eyed the garment set out on the table. It was a dress, finely crafted from silk and lace with a red and black skirt and bodice to match. Fine as the dress was her attention was mostly occupied by the sheathed dagger that sat beside it. “Will it fit?” she asked. “My dimensions are a little out of the ordinary. You may have noticed.” She favoured Master Alveric with a smile and arched eyebrow.
“It will fit perfectly,” he said without any discernible change of expression. “Put it on.”
Derla sighed and glanced around the unadorned dining room. She had woken this morning to find a note had been pushed under her door sometime during the night. On it the location of this house had been printed in small, neat letters. It was a plain free standing, two-storey dwelling positioned halfway along Hawker’s Street, the kind of place a man might buy when he’s done well for himself, but not so well as to secure a residence in the Northern Quarter proper. Alveric had answered the door after the first knock and led her wordlessly to this room where the dagger and the dress were waiting.
“You expect me to strip in front of you?” she asked Alveric.
“I do,” he replied, as tonelessly as before.
“Despite my occupation I do retain some notions of modesty, you know.”
“No.” A certain hardness crept into Alveric’s voice then, his eyes locking with hers. “You do not, because the king requires it. As he requires you to put on this dress.”
She swallowed a tart reply and turned away, hands moving to the laces on her bodice. She forced herself to undress without any obvious haste, unwilling to allow him the notion that she might be flustered. “I usually insist on payment up front,” she said, turning to face him, a hand on her hip. She had expected some sort of advance, an attempt to extort services from her or face a return to the unlit cell beneath the palace.
“A small mole on your right upper thigh,” he said. “A deep crescent shaped scar on your shoulder. Distinguishing marks that will enable me to identify your corpse should it be discovered without a head.” He nodded once again at the dress. “Put it on.”
He hadn’t been lying about the fit. The dress had evidently been made for her, without benefit of a measuring string. It was in fact the most well tailored garment she could remember wearing. It was also remarkably light and she couldn’t contain a small laugh of appreciation as she strolled from one end of the room to the other. A garb that, to all appearances, should have rendered her clumsy and short of breath in fact allowed for remarkable comfort and ease of movement.
“Quite a gift, Master Alveric,” she said with a curtsy. “My thanks, sir.”
He ignored her and moved to her discarded clothes which now lay neatly folded on the table. A moment’s rummaging and his hand emerged holding her curved gutting knife. “This is effective,” he said, setting the weapon aside. “But too messy. Precision,” he lifted the sheathed dagger from the table and tossed it to her, “will be your watchword from now on.”
Derla’s hand explored the dagger’s plain, redwood handle for a moment. Like the dress, it fitted her perfectly. Drawing the knife she found it had a six inch blade with an edge that seemed to cut the light as it caught it. “Very nice,” she said, hefting the weapon. “Feels a little light though.”
“Lightness equates to speed,” Alveric said. “And speed is more important than strength.” With that, he punched her in the stomach.
The blow was hard enough to make her stagger, grunting in pain, but not so hard as to be incapacitating. Derla’s reaction was swift, street-honed instincts making her lash out at Alveric’s eyes with the dagger. He made no move to evade or block the blow and it was his calm, narrow gaze as the blade flashed closer that made her stop. The tip of the dagger hovered next to his left eye, twitching as she struggled to contain her anger.
“You do like your tests, don’t you?” she asked, stepping back and returning the blade to its sheath.
“The people you will be set against,” Alveric replied, “will test you far more than I ever will. This is not a game and we are not engaged in chasing phantoms. The threats to the Crown and the Realm are real and manifold.” He ran his gaze over her once more, nodding in slight satisfaction. “A good fit. More dresses will be delivered to you tomorrow. You will find each has several concealed pockets for weapons or messages. Familiarise yourself with them and report here after the midday bell for more instruction.”
* * *
“Eyes.”
“Blue.”
“Hair.”
“Light Brown.”
“Accent.”
“North Asraelin with a touch of the Renfaelin border country.”
“Rings.”
Derla hesitated, her mind racing to recall every detail of the man she had been instructed to observe. He wore gloves, she remembered. Thick gloves, the kind worn by a cavalryman. So no rings. She began to reply then stopped as her memory dredged up an additional detail, something she hadn’t been aware of her eyes capturing at the time.
“A thin band on the small finger of his right hand,” she said. “Silver or steel. Worn over his gloves.”
Alveric looked at her across the table. Derla had been reporting to this house every seven days for the past six weeks and in that time she hadn’t seen another occupant besides Alveric. She would knock on the front door, he would admit her and she would be led to the dining room. The first two weeks had been taken up with his particular brand of instruction, usually involving a brief but bruising round of hand-to-hand combat in which she invariably came off worst. It had quickly become apparent to her that Alveric was a far more dangerous individual than she could ever hope to be. She could fight, she knew that, but she also knew herself to be a brawler at heart. The streets had taught her the value of combining aggression with a certain lack of restraint. Alveric was a craftsman in comparison, countering her every clumsy move with a fluid grace and economy of movement that left her in no doubt as to her own skills. She did improve, however, learning his more obvious tricks and even managing to dodge a blow
or two. But it was only when she managed to wrestle herself free of a chokehold that he called a halt to this phase of her instruction.
“Your first assignment,” he said, handing her a rolled up piece of parchment. Derla unfurled it to find it held a few lines of script set down in the same neat hand as the note that had been pushed under her door; ‘Forty to fifty years old. Bearded. Wears shoes of red leather. The Sea Horse Inn.’
“Follow and report,” Alveric told her. “Do not be seen.”
So she followed the man with the red leather shoes and reported on his movements. The next week she followed a plump washer woman employed at a nobleman’s mansion. This week the young Realm Guard cavalryman with the steel or silver ring. With every new assignment the amount of information she was expected to provide increased and it was a continual marvel to her that her mind managed to accumulate so much detail. But then, the knowledge that Alveric might tell the king that her usefulness had in fact proven illusory was a persistent and effective spur to enhanced efforts.
“His companion at dinner?” Alveric enquired.
“A sailor, garbed as a South Cumbraelin but his accent was poor. I’d guess Meldenean.”
“Guess?”
Derla swallowed a sigh. Alveric was irksomely insistent on a formal and uncoloured report, free of what he termed ‘ill-informed conjecture’. “It is my belief,” Derla said, “that the subject’s dinner companion was a Meldenean attempting to disguise his origins with his garb and a false accent.”
“Their conversation?”
“Ribald talk of the best whores and taverns to be found in the city. However, I have never heard the names of the whores they mentioned. Also, one of the taverns they spoke of burnt down two years ago.”
Alveric’s gaze grew ever so slightly more intent, his trim frame inching forward in his seat. “And what did you conclude from this?” he asked. Derla had yet to see this man exhibit any obvious emotion but knew anticipation when she saw it. He’s hoping for a wrong answer, she realised.
“They were speaking in code.” She reached into her bodice, plucking a thin paper scroll from between her breasts and laying it on the table. “A verbatim account of their conversation,” she said, managing to keep the self-satisfied tone from her voice. “Which I believe will assist in deciphering said code.”
Alveric’s eyes flicked to the paper before he reclined, making no move to pick it up. “What do you know of a ship called the Margentis?” he asked instead. Derla had become accustomed to such abrupt changes in subject. Every time she completed a task he would offer no thanks, or any indication as to the quality of her work, and simply issue a new set of instructions. She suspected she would never know what use might be made of the information.
“It’s a Meldenean freighter,” she said. “Works the Redflower trade from Volaria. The captain’s never been openly linked to piracy but he’s known to bring stolen cargo here once a year to fence on behalf of his fellow captains from the Isles.” Derla hesitated, but only for a second. The information she was about to reveal was dangerous, but she no longer harboured any doubts as to which king presented the most potent threat in this city. “A man named Hunsil has a monopoly over all pirate goods landed in Varinshold, although he’s better known as One Eye these days. There’s always a celebration of sorts when the Margentis arrives, the most prominent members of the criminal element gather aboard ship to whore and drink, apart from Hunsil himself who’s rarely seen outside his den these days.”
“Whoring and drinking,” Alveric said. “What about gambling?”
Derla recalled the smug expression on the king’s face that morning atop the gatehouse when he asked if she knew how to play Warrior’s Bluff. So, this is what he spared me for, she surmised.
“Dice and such,” she replied. “But there’s only one game that matters. The Invitational. The best gamblers in the Realm will be invited to take part in a game of Warrior’s Bluff. It’s always the richest game of the year, each player is required to have at least five hundred golds in their purse before sitting down. None can leave the table until they lose every coin or win the game.”
“You have attended this celebration in the past?”
“Just once, some years ago. It wasn’t to my professional tastes. I prefer a more civilised and less inebriated clientele.”
“There is a man, a recent arrival in the city who has nevertheless rapidly acquired a reputation for skill at cards. It is believed he will soon receive an invitation to join the game aboard the Margentis. You will make his acquaintance, win his trust and accompany him to the ship when the time comes.”
Derla frowned. This was the first time she had been instructed to make herself known to a subject. “As you wish. Where do I find him?”
“Most nights at the House of Blue Orchids. I trust you’re familiar with the establishment.”
“It’s a Redflower palace and whorehouse, not one of the nice ones. I’ll need ten silvers to pay off the owner before she’ll let me in. A matter of courtesy, you see.”
“Keep a tabulated list of any expenses incurred. It will be paid in full at the conclusion of your task.”
“My task being to simply keep this card sharp company?”
“His presence in this city is the result of a royal command, although he is officially a favoured guest of the king and may enjoy all the freedoms afforded any other Realm subject. It is important that this fiction continue. Your task is to ensure that his recreational pursuits don’t see him floating in the harbour with his throat slit.”
Alveric leaned forward once more, meeting her gaze and speaking in a soft, flat tone that left an unwelcome chill in Derla’s breast. “Rest assured,” the Lord of Foxes told her, “that whatever favour you enjoy with the king will disappear should any harm come to this man. Your continued survival is now entirely dependent on his.”
Derla nodded, managing to contain the growing list of questions crowding her head, except one. “Might I know his name?”
“His name is Sentes Mustor, Heir to the Fief-Lordship of Cumbrael. He’ll be easy to find by virtue of his accent and the fact that he’s invariably by far the drunkest soul at any gathering.”
Chapter 8
“Cowards I call you!” Sentes Mustor rose to strike a pose rich in theatrical disdain as the last of his opponents slunk away from the card table. An untidy pile of coins lay beside the Cumbraelin’s overturned cards which, Derla was surprised to see, displayed a poor hand; the Blind Blacksmith being the most high-valued card and the five others all drawn from the lesser suits. In all, the hand’s value amounted to less than half that of Mustor’s final adversary, and yet this overly vocal drunk had managed to bluff his way to victory. The entire game had lasted barely two hours, something of a record in Derla’s experience.
“Is there no one in this den of vice with the stomach to face me?” the Cumbraelin demanded, sweeping his wine cup from the table, raising it high and spilling a portion of the contents in the process. Beyond the glow of the lantern suspended above the table the shadows stirred with a few grumbles and muttered insults, but none of the Blue Orchid’s patrons rose to the taunt. Instead, the clientele preferred to return their attentions to their paid companions or overpriced drinks.
Sentes Mustor maintained his pose for a few seconds, his expression of resolute challenge slowly subsiding into resigned chagrin. “Clearly, I’ve milked this particular teat dry,” he sighed, sinking back into his seat. He took several long gulps from his wine cup before setting it down and embarking upon a clumsy attempt to assemble his winnings into some semblance of order, muttering, “My brother always said true skill was more a burden than a blessing.”
“‘The measure of a man lies in how he profits from his labour.’” Mustor looked up as Derla stepped into the light, his brows raised in surprise and, she was gratified to see, no small measure of carnal interest. “‘The humble woodcutter who spends his earnings on food for the needy,’” Derla went on, “‘is to be valued m
ore than the man who carves the finest statue and fritters his wealth on vice.’”
“What an unexpected delight,” Mustor said, getting unsteadily to his feet, “to meet an Asraelin lady educated in the Ten Books.” He bowed, one arm across his midriff and the other extended to the side in what she assumed was the Cumbraelin courtly fashion. “Lord Sentes Mustor, my lady. At your service.”
She responded with a curtsy. “A pleasure, my lord. So,” she moved to his side, leaning close to collect the cards, lingering a second to allow him to catch the scent of her perfume before circling the table to retrieve the others. “Shall we play?”
“You are fond of cards then, my lady?”
“I play fairly well, so I’m told.” Derla took the seat two chairs away from his, a decently enticing remove that allowed the lamplight to play over her cleavage to good effect. She met his gaze and gave a small smile as she shuffled the cards, her hands working the deck with unconscious precision.
“Fairly well won’t do, I’m afraid,” Mustor advised with a regretful wince. “Not against me. And I shouldn’t wish to alienate so charming a companion. Why don’t we have a drink instead?” He waved his wine cup and a serving girl duly arrived bearing a fresh bottle and another cup for Derla.
“Are you new to this house, perhaps?” Mustor asked Derla as the girl poured the wine. “I feel certain I would have recalled seeing you here before.”
“I am not employed in this establishment,” Derla replied, fanning the cards on the baize. “I merely came to play and will consider myself sorely aggrieved should you deny me, my lord.”
Mustor’s eyes narrowed a little as he raised his cup to his nose, though the smile lingered on his lips. “A pale red from the Mentari vineyards,” he said, sniffing. “One of the south facing slopes. Three years old. It rained more than usual that summer.” He took a sip and pursed his lips, shrugging. “Passable, but Lord Mentari should really stick to the whites. Too much sand in his soil for a decent red. I’ll have to write him an advisory letter one of these days.”