As the busiest port in the world, a river of goods, and more importantly information, flowed from the docks throughout the city and beyond. There were now more spies of all nationalities spread out across the city, and the entire west, than ever before. The moment the war ended and the official documents were signed, merchants were keen to get on the road again. It had been the perfect disguise. Katja had been among the first group of agents to arrive in the newly liberated Perizzi with merchant wagons from Seveldrom.
As an agent for Seveldrom, all of Katja’s information went directly to Roza, the local head of the network. Last time Seveldrom hadn’t done enough to prevent the war. Roza had made it very clear it wouldn’t happen again, and that those orders came directly from the top, from Queen Talandra.
This was Katja’s first assignment and so far it had been uneventful. Most of her time had been taken up with establishing the business and convincing everyone that she was who she claimed to be.
As far as most people in the city knew, she was Perizzi’s first religiously independent director of last rites. It was a position which gave the Seveldrom network a unique insight into any unusual deaths in the city. It also provided her with a good reason to travel anywhere in Perizzi without it looking suspicious.
Her pale skin and black hair marked her as Yerskani, which made it easier for locals to trust her. Only a few knew she’d been born and raised in Seveldrom. Her loyalty was to her Queen and the country of her birth.
As she turned the last corner and the shop came into view, Katja paused to look for observers, as a man had been following her a few nights ago. He always kept his distance and tried to stay out of sight, but she’d heard the scuff of his shoes and once caught a glimpse of his face from her eye corner. It suggested he’d received some training, or perhaps they were just skills learned on the streets. Whether innocent or otherwise it didn’t matter, she’d managed to lose him in the warren down at the docks and had not seen him since. Even so it paid to be cautious and patient.
Once satisfied that the shop wasn’t being watched, Katja crossed the street and went in through the front door. A small chime rang above her head as she opened and then closed the door. Summoned by the sound, a pale, gaunt man with wispy brown hair dressed in a hooded grey robe drifted out from the back room.
“Greetings,” he said with a friendly yet sympathetic smile before he saw it was her. The smile slipped and his normal annoyed expression replaced it. She was sure that Gankle must question his decision on a daily basis about going into business where he had to deal with the living. He seemed much more comfortable with the dead. They didn’t speak, or chew, or breathe, all of which annoyed him. “What took you so long?”
“They thought I was going to charge them extra.”
“If they were expecting it then maybe you should.”
Katja shrugged. “They want us to handle everything. Can you speak to the Patriarch at the Maker’s church?”
Gankle’s expression turned sour. It would mean leaving the shop and talking to someone other than her. Nevertheless he inclined his head. “I’ll take care of it.”
Katja followed him into the visitors’ room and flopped down in one of the large comfy chairs, hooking a leg over the armrest. Gankle sat down opposite with practised grace, lifting the hem of his robe and brushing out the creases, as if they were at court and it was made from silk and not wool. Katja’s bored eye roamed over the different religious symbols hung on the far wall, the shelves lined with sacred texts and books of poetry, the aromatic candles, charms and a hundred other bits of paraphernalia required for her role. The ritual was what really mattered to the bereaved. It gave them a path to follow amid the chaos. A raft to keep their head above water in the storm for which there didn’t seem to be any end. Grief seemed to embarrass some people, as if crying and aching for those who were gone wasn’t the most natural thing in the world.
“This came for you while you were out,” said Gankle, handing her a folded note with a broken seal. “You need to see her immediately.”
Katja pretended he hadn’t spoken and took her time reading the note because she knew it annoyed him. Years ago Gankle had been an agent for Seveldrom, and although officially retired, he seemed to think his former status allowed him to get involved. His only jobs were to provide Katja with a place to live and to corroborate her position, but he often seemed to forget.
“The note sounds quite urgent. I should see her straight away,” said Katja, struggling not to grin at his annoyance. She left Gankle grinding his teeth and went out the front door.
Following her training Katja took a slightly circuitous route, stopping occasionally to look in shop windows, checking her reflection for followers with the pretence of being interested in the goods behind the glass.
Stopping off at a bakery Katja went inside and bought a small fish pie then ate it on the curb outside where a few children lingered. They asked her a few questions about her grey robe and when her answers proved boring the children quickly lost interest. While they talked she scanned the crowd, looking for anyone familiar she’d already seen this morning. One or two people gave her a curious glance but no more than that. Satisfied that she wasn’t being followed, Katja wasted no more time.
As she reached the spice shop the midday bell had just started to toll at a nearby church of the Maker. She pushed open the door and a woman with red hair behind the counter looked up, a friendly smile on her face. It didn’t waver or change in any way, but Katja saw a slight tightening around her eyes.
“Welcome,” said the spice merchant, gesturing at the racks of pungent herbs and spices arranged on the hive-like shelves. A heady scent of a hundred different perfumes raced up Katja’s nose, making it twitch before she sneezed three times. She approached the counter and the shopkeeper shook her head slightly, gesturing towards the chairs by the window.
The spice merchant picked up a few items, incense and herbs often used in funeral rites, before going into the back room. Katja knew anyone could walk through the door at any time and she needed a valid reason for being here. The less she had to lie the more she could stretch the truth to make it convenient.
Katja sank into one of the chairs and stared out of the window. The spice merchant emerged a few minutes later with some pastries and a pot of tea. Only when the tea had been poured into two glasses and they had both nibbled at a spiced pastry did they speak.
“Your note said it was urgent,” said Katja.
“I’ve received some distressing news from a reliable source,” said Roza, blowing a loose strand of red hair away from her face. With a sigh she unfastened her hair before tying it back again in a tight pony-tail. Katja didn’t think it suited her. It made her forehead too proud, but perhaps that was the point. In the right clothing Roza would turn heads, but dressed in an unflattering man’s shirt and loose cotton trousers, with her hair scraped back and no make-up, it told a stranger everything they needed to know about her.
She had no time for frippery or decoration and her business came first. Katja knew Roza actually wore a thin layer of powder on her hands and face which paled her ruddy Seve skin, but no one ever got close enough to see it. There were other local girls far prettier, or at least more approachable, that men would pursue. It allowed Roza to be in plain sight and observe a great deal while going mostly unnoticed. Katja wondered if Roza was ever lonely, then realised her mind had been wandering.
Katja cleared her throat. “Can I ask where the news came from?”
Roza pursed her lips briefly before speaking. “It’s reliable. It came from the Butcher.”
Katja swallowed hard and drank a sip of tea which suddenly tasted bitter. There were many stories about him and all of them extremely brutal. A year ago no one had heard of the Butcher, but now he was well known in the underworld as a ruthless crime boss. No one dared cross him and any attempt to encroach on his territory was met with messy results. Sometimes he settled for chopping off both feet, but if he deemed the insu
lt severe he took their hands as well. The victims were always still alive when people found them, screaming in pain or pleading for death.
When Katja had asked about him all Roza would say was that he was loyal to Queen Talandra. Any questions about his identity were met with a stony silence.
“How worried should I be?”
“Very,” said Roza, letting her mask slip for a second to show Katja her level of concern. “There are rumours about a plot to murder Queen Talandra when she comes here on a state visit.”
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with dread. Their Queen was still a relatively young woman, and new to the throne, having inherited from her father who was assassinated during the war. Despite that she had achieved much in a year. Ties between Seveldrom and the west were stronger than ever, particularly with Yerskania. Trade had increased to pre-war levels and she had worked hard to maintain peace through some difficult times. She’d negotiated several treaties, provided warriors and aid to Shael, and even reached out to the Morrin to try and help with their troubles.
The Queen had also survived two assassination attempts but had not publicly blamed anyone, despite rumours that the killers had been from Zecorria or Morrinow. Many in the west loved her for what she had done during the war and since. Anyone with a grain of humanity, or sanity at least, would be hard pressed to find a reason to hate her. Unfortunately there were many who lacked both.
There were a number of ridiculous stories floating around about Talandra. Tales of ritual murder, torture, corruption and blackmail to get people to do what she wanted. Someone in the west was intent on undermining Talandra and all of her good work. Part of Katja’s job in the last year had been tracing the stories and passing the information to Roza. Someone was then dispatched to eliminate the story at its source. There had not been any stories for a while, but now a new threat had arisen.
“Do we have any idea who’s behind it?” asked Katja.
“That’s the problem. I’ve got everyone working on this, but the information is conflicted. One source claims it’s a group of Morrin extremists, determined to destroy Seveldrom. They blame our Queen for their ongoing troubles at home. Civil war is still raging in Morrinow and many have died.”
Katja grimaced. More nonsense intent on besmirching the Queen.
“A second source claims it was a group of Chosen from Zecorria who escaped the purge. Even though no one actually knows who did it, they believe Talandra killed their King.”
Despite widespread persecution by every nation, a small contingent of Chosen still existed in Zecorria. The fanatical cult which had grown up during the war still believed their late King, Taikon, had been a prophet and living God who would rise again. On the surface, Zecorria seemed quiet, cautiously trading with its neighbours, but inside its borders the story was very different. There were still marches and people claiming to be Chosen speaking out in public against the new Regent, but so far the violence had been limited. Roza and other agents believed the most vocal were merely mouthpieces for the real Chosen who had been driven underground.
“If our Queen was murdered here, the dead would choke the streets,” said Roza, gritting her teeth. “What happened to Shael would be nothing by comparison. The west would tear itself apart looking for the killer and every Seve would march to war, bent on revenge.”
A year wasn’t a long time. The fear of war had been buried, but it had not gone away. A tiny spark could easily turn the nations of the west against each other.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Katja.
“Find out if the rumours are true. Is there a plot, or is it just disgruntled people in the north? Call in every favour, speak to every contact, just find out.”
“How long do I have?” asked Katja.
Roza shook her head, deep worry lines creasing her forehead. “I don’t know. Maybe a few days. The date of the state visit hasn’t been set, but it’s a long trip from Seveldrom. So unless we can find some compelling evidence to dissuade her, the Queen will be setting off very soon.”
“And if I find whoever is planning this, what then?”
“To accomplish something so big would require a lot of resources and money. If you find the group responsible, then keep digging until you find out who is funding them. We have to make sure we get the whole network before making a move.”
“What kind of move?”
Roza’s smile showed far too many teeth. “We kill every single one of them until the streets run red.”
CHAPTER 3
A hundred familiar smells hit Choss as he stepped inside the converted warehouse. Stale sweat, spilled beer, and blood were the strongest. They mixed together to create something that felt like a homecoming. With them came a stream of memories. Countless hours of training, the crunch of bone on bone, the slap of meat hitting the canvas. Above and beyond them all was the roar of the crowd chanting his name. The sound used to fill him to the brim until he thought his ears would burst. Glory days.
A straggler on their way to the fight jostled him and the glow faded. He shook his head, cast off the memories and went deeper into the arena. That’s what he called it. Most others just called it the ring, or the pit. But he’d been trying to get them to move away from that for a couple of years now. Away from the dark old days when two men would go into the ring and only one would come out on his feet. Even further back it had been worse. One came out bloody and the other a cold hunk of meat.
Choss walked down one of the narrow channels between the tiered seats and stopped short of the front. He didn’t want to be seen. Even so a few people above his head spotted him and word began to spread. He reached up and shook hands, offered friendly smiles and turned his head slightly when one woman tried to kiss him on the mouth and had to settle for his cheek. A quick glance at the crowd showed there weren’t many empty seats. The ring announcer was getting the crowd going and Choss could feel tension building in the air.
He melted away into the shadows and approached a door guarded by a thick-necked man called Jakka. With a big bald head like a melon and tiny ears that stuck out, some would think him a good target for jokes. Until they saw how broad he was across the arms and shoulders. Until they saw the size of his hands, the scars and sunken knuckles. Jakka might have a bit of a paunch, but even the most arrogant spoke with respect to the old fighter.
“Good crowd tonight, Champ,” said Jakka without looking up from his book.
“I was just thinking that.”
Jakka pulled the tiny pair of spectacles off his nose and offered a broken-toothed grin. “Bring back a lot of memories?” he asked and Choss just grunted. “Tempted to get back in there?”
Choss considered it, then shook his head. “I can do more out here. For all of us.”
“I admire your spirit, boy, always have. It’s what made you a champion. And I’ll do what I can to help, but you know my thoughts. The aristocracy don’t want us.”
Choss had heard it from Jakka and plenty of others. Over and over again. It stung, but only a little. To show there were no hard feelings he gripped the big man on the shoulder as he went past into the back.
As Choss walked down the corridor his broad shoulders brushed the walls on either side. At the far end were two doors. Behind one he could hear a low rumble of conversation. Fighters getting ready for their time in the ring. Behind the other the sharp rasping voice of Vinneck as he lectured someone. A younger voice tried to speak but Vinneck cut them off. Choss knew that tone so he waited outside. A minute later the door flew open and a young man with red hair stomped away up the corridor.
“Who’s next?” asked Vinneck.
Choss went inside and closed the door behind him. “Just me out here, Vinny.”
“Thank the Maker,” rasped Vinny, pouring himself another cup of foul herbal tea. They’d been partners in the business for two years now, but long before that Vinny had run the fights with other people. They’d all fallen away, some to drink, others to venthe, some just got tire
d or bored and wanted out of the business. One even tried to rob Vinny and the fighters of their money.
Choss had still been in the ring back then, a new face coming up through the ranks. Thankfully they’d caught up to the thief before he could get out of the city. They’d left him alive, but beyond that Choss didn’t know what happened. Probably crippled for life or dead from the beating they’d given him.
The long years, or maybe the many back-stabbing deals, had taken their toll on Vinny. He looked old and worn out. He was thin as a broom handle with skin like old leather. What little hair he had was ash grey, clinging around the back. The top of his head was bald and mottled with brown spots. He looked weak until you saw his eyes. Any fighter could break him physically, it wouldn’t be worth calling it a fight, but none of them had a tenth of his brains.
“Those boys, they want more for doing less,” said Vinny, jerking his head towards the changing room.
“Is that why you showed Lostram the door?”
“He showed all the signs,” said Vinny as he added two lumps of sugar to his tea. He took an experimental sip and grimaced, then added another lump. A few doctors and even a couple of expensive surgeons had taken a look at his stomach. At first they thought it was something he’d eaten, or maybe the creep that made people waste away in months or sometimes even days. But Vinny had kept living, so in the end they’d shaken their heads and sent him away. An old herbalist had given him the recipe for the tea and it seemed to help with the pain for a while.
“The boy has talent, but he’s impatient. He wants riches and women. Wants to travel the world.”
“About that—”
“Don’t,” said Vinny, holding up a claw-like hand. “I know what you’re going to say. Please, don’t.”
Choss felt his temper flare but gritted his teeth and waited for the fire to fade. He counted in his head until he felt calm. “I won’t leave it alone.”
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