Every week, from the age of eight when he’d been strong enough to lift a sword, until the day he’d stormed out of the house, Fray’s father had trained him to fight with a sword. Over the years the lessons had paid off when he’d found himself in trouble and they were proving useful again.
By the time he’d washed the sweat from his skin and sat down to eat in the mess, Fray’s stomach was growling. The cook took sympathy on him, perhaps because he too had heard the news, or maybe he just thought Fray was skinny and needed fattening up. Either way he didn’t complain about the double portion of roast sandfish with black beans, carrots and buttery potatoes.
As Fray mopped up the last of the tangy cheese sauce with a slab of rye bread, Byrne sat down opposite.
“Ready?”
“Yes. Where are we going?” asked Fray.
“Someone reported a missing person. We’ve identified him as our third victim from the silver ring found on the body.”
“So who was he?”
“He’s called Rann. He was a labourer down at the docks. The others in his crew will be coming off shift in a little while.”
“I’ve been thinking about the bodies,” said Fray. “They reminded me of something from a previous case in my father’s journals.” Byrne didn’t react so he pressed on. “I checked last night and this has happened before. Bodies being drained of all energy.”
At first he thought Byrne wasn’t going to answer. He kept staring around the mess hall, scanning the room but not really looking at anything in particular. Fray didn’t remember him being so distant.
“It was similar,” Byrne responded at last. “A woman was killing people and assuming their identities. This is different though. It’s the beginning of something much larger.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Fray. “Does it have anything to do with my father’s last case?”
“We need to get down to the docks,” said Byrne, getting to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Fray wanted to ask him more about what had killed his father but Byrne’s expression told him the conversation was over.
The Guardians had told Fray very little, but he heard a number of rumours. Dozens of dead bodies, a strange cult and even weird coloured lightning seen over the city. No one he spoke to had actually seen what had happened. Only Byrne and the Old Man knew the truth and neither of them was talking. It was almost as if they were afraid, but of what Fray didn’t know.
By the time they’d walked down to the docks all ships coming in were tied up for the night. A few were still unloading goods but almost everyone had stopped working. The waterfront bars and taverns were already swarming with people eating and drinking, and the main street was crowded with faces from all over the world.
Fray spotted several men who’d probably been at sea for days. They were rushing into the cheap brothels as fast as their bandy legs could carry them. Those less desperate and with more money casually strolled along with working girls or boys on their arm to find somewhere a little more refined. Merchants, soldiers, warriors, sailors, dock workers and a hundred different craftsmen all drank beside each other without incident. It reminded Fray of what it used to be like before the war, although there were some noticeable differences.
There were few black-eyed Zecorrans in the crowd. Any Zecorran merchants he spotted were surrounded by well-armed bodyguards or Drassi warriors. Vorga hated crowds, and people as a general rule, so they never drank at the seafront bars. Fray also didn’t spot a single golden-skinned face from Shael.
Although no one said anything or stared at him and Byrne, Fray felt a ripple pass through the crowd in their wake. Some of the looks were hostile, some curious but mostly people just noticed the uniform. They passed a squad of the Watch and Byrne exchanged a nod with their leader but didn’t stop to talk.
“Every night we station squads all along the waterfront to keep the peace,” said Byrne, pointing at another squad a little further ahead. “It’s quiet at the moment, but they’ll be busy later tonight. Helping to turf out the drunks and rowdies, breaking up fights before anyone gets killed.”
“Did you ever work the docks?”
“When I first started in the Watch,” said Byrne. “It’s brutal and it can be dangerous. You learn to trust your squad mates and grow eyes in the back of your head.”
Not for the first time Fray wondered if the other novices would come around, or if he would forever remain an outsider.
“I want you to listen but also to study the men when I ask them questions,” said Byrne. “Since you can’t always use your Talent, and shouldn’t rely on it, you’ll have to develop more traditional ways of reading people. Look for signs that they’re lying, nervous, hiding something. Listen to how they say something as well as what they say. We’ll talk after.”
“I understand,” said Fray.
They passed two more squads of the Watch before Byrne pointed at a third group stood beside a group of four burly men. The men were sat drinking at a table outside a tavern called The Fierce Fowl. The unusual wooden sign showed a chicken attacking a dog.
“Guardian Byrne,” said the squad leader, a lean-faced man with a long T-shaped white scar on his right cheek. “These are the men.”
Fray did as instructed and studied the four men carefully. Three were locals, with light brown or blond hair. The fourth man had mixed blood, being much taller than the rest, but with the pale hair and eyes of a Yerskani. All four were dressed in steel-toed boots, worn but tough-looking leather trousers and leather vests with padded shoulders. Fray noticed that all had broad shoulders, arms corded with muscle from handling goods all day, and that their fair skin had tanned from a life spent working outdoors. Caps and bandannas poked out of pockets and their hands were scarred and callused from their work.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” said Byrne. “And I’ll try to catch the person who killed him, but I need your help.”
“What do you want to know?” said the tallest man, sipping his ale. Fray noticed the others didn’t look annoyed that he’d spoken up first, suggesting they were happy to defer to him.
“What’s your name?” said Byrne.
“Lorgan.”
“Had you known Rann for very long?”
Lorgan took another drink while he fished for the answer. “About five years now, sound right boys?” he asked and the others agreed.
“Had you noticed anything unusual in the last few days? Had he been moody, or upset, or did he seem worried about anything?”
“No, mostly the opposite. His bastard of a father died a couple of weeks back and he was due a share of money. Split three ways between him and his two sisters. Still, it was enough to keep him happy for a while.”
“Where do his sisters live?”
“Somewhere just over the border in Morrinow. They’ve got a bakery, I think. Guess all the money will go to them now.”
“Was Rann married?”
“Nah,” said Lorgan. “He visited a friend’s widow from time to time, but it wasn’t serious. Mostly he paid for it when he had the urge.”
“It can get pretty lively down here at night,” said Byrne, gesturing at the crowds. “Rann ever get into any trouble?”
“I won’t claim we’re priests of the Blessed Mother,” said Lorgan, choosing his words carefully. “We don’t go looking for trouble, but if someone spills our beer, we’re likely to talk to them about it. At length.”
“That’s understandable,” said Byrne. “Did Rann ever upset anyone who’s likely to hold a grudge?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“What was he like when he’d had a few too many drinks?”
Lorgan grinned, showing a set of surprisingly even white teeth. “Rann didn’t drink. His bastard of an old man was a drunk, so he swore off it for life. Never touched a drop.”
Byrne raised an eyebrow. “Good for him. So what did he spend his money on? Food? Buying gifts for the widow?”
“He and Bav liked to spend some on the
fights, down at the arena. The rest he sent to his sisters.”
“Who’s Bav?” asked Byrne.
“We were a six-man team. Bavram’s been in bed the last two days with a dodgy gut. Probably something he ate.”
“Where does Bav live?” asked Byrne, taking out a notebook for the first time. He wrote down the address and then put it away again. “So what happened that night? Anything different?”
Lorgan finished the last of his beer but Fray noticed Byrne didn’t offer to buy him another or let him go and buy one. “Same as always. We had something to eat, a couple of the lads went to see local girls, and we stayed dockside all night. Rann and Bav left together for their beds, ’cos they live close by, and that was it.”
Fray watched the other men as Lorgan spoke, studying their expressions and body language. They looked tired, saddened by the loss of their friend, and he didn’t believe they were trying to deceive Byrne.
Byrne asked Lorgan a few more questions, going over some of the details, but nothing significant emerged.
“I won’t keep you any longer,” said Byrne, gesturing at Lorgan’s empty glass. “Thank you for the help.”
“What will happen when you catch who done it?” asked Lorgan.
“The final decision for a crime like this is up to the judge,” said Byrne, “but most of the time it means beheading.”
“Sounds fair to me,” said Lorgan before he and the others went inside for fresh drinks. Fray hurried to follow Byrne as he strode away from the docks and the Watch returned to their post.
“Tell me what you thought of them,” said Byrne over his shoulder. “Lorgan and the others.”
“My instincts tell me they are what they appear to be. Honest men, a little rough around the edges, but I didn’t sense any deception. They weren’t nervous or worried, none of them fidgeted and they were all focused, despite the drink. They want us to catch the killer.”
“Agreed. They want to help and cared about their friend. Lorgan’s a straightforward man and he didn’t ramble, despite the beer.”
Byrne ducked around a swaying pair of sailors, who tripped and collapsed on top of each other laughing all the while. They must have started drinking very early. Fray hurdled the pair, who cheered, but he didn’t stop to take a bow. The Watch would pick them up soon enough.
“I made sure they’d started drinking before we spoke to them. It’s an old trick, but it works.”
“It makes them talkative,” surmised Fray and Byrne favoured him with a brief smile.
“But you have to get there early. Arrive too late and they’ll ramble on. If you time it just right the drink will loosen their tongues. It means we don’t have to drag the answers out of them.”
“But they wanted to help.”
“Even so, this way they’re more likely to tell me all the details, not just the ones they think we want to hear.”
“What happens now?” asked Fray.
“Now, we look for a connection between the three victims. Speak to their friends and family again, speak to Bav. He was probably the last person to see his friend Rann alive.”
“Is there any chance I could see the other bodies?” asked Fray. “I might be able to see something you missed,” he continued, tapping the side of his head.
Byrne shook his head. “One’s been given to the Maker and is a pile of ashes, and the other one’s been buried. We can’t hold on to bodies for long before crying relatives and priests start showing up.”
On the one hand Fray could sympathise. The thought of delaying a final goodbye or performing last rites for several days would be unbearable. On the other hand he could see how useful it would be for the Guardians to be able to study a victim’s body for clues. For the first time since putting on the uniform Fray felt what would no doubt be one of many moments of frustration about being a Guardian.
“So what do we do now?” asked Fray.
“See if any of the relatives will talk to us. Try to find Bav and hope that we catch him at home.”
“You don’t think his illness is genuine?”
Byrne’s laugh was more than a little cynical. “Don’t be naïve. There’s no such thing as coincidence.”
“Are you saying he’s involved?”
Byrne shrugged. “Either that or he’s another victim, and so far no one has found the body. We need to find him.”
Glancing up at the darkening sky Fray realised another day was almost over. If Byrne’s theory was true, the killer could strike again any day now. It felt as if they were stumbling along, but Byrne didn’t look too worried. Fray’s instincts told him there was much Byrne and the Old Man weren’t telling him about this case. He didn’t know if it was somehow connected to what had happened to his father, but he was determined to find out.
CHAPTER 14
After another emotionally tiring day Katja decided to treat herself to a steak from Seveldrom. It was possible to buy beef raised here in the west, but the quality wasn’t as good, and she needed a reminder of home.
She had enough time to get something to eat and then meet Roza for another night of watching the most suspicious group they’d seen. The big swordswoman had proven to be more elusive than anticipated. They would have to keep a close eye on her, as well as on the man with the red beard, who appeared to be the leader.
There were several taverns more luxurious than the Golden Goose, but as somewhere to eat, Katja knew it was one of the best places in the city.
The chef, a portly man in his fifties, had lived an extraordinary life, criss-crossing the entire continent for years. In every place he’d taken away something from the local cuisine. All of his experience, combined with thirty years to hone his craft, resulted in some delicious creations.
The chef emerged from the kitchen to present Katja with her meal. With a flourish he whipped the white cloth off the plate and set it down. A juicy steak, small but the height of four fingers, sat on a plate of yellow rice mixed with red berries. A moat of thick black gravy surrounded it and the dish was finished with a spicy green relish on the side. The combined aromas made her stomach growl and the chef grinned at the sound.
“Enjoy,” he said, backing away as she dug in with vigour.
Just as Katja was mopping up the last of the rich gravy with some bread, a shadow fell across her table. She ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would go away and leave her in peace to savour the tastes swirling around her mouth.
Two people sat down opposite and it took her considerable effort to keep chewing and not choke on her food.
“My name is Rodann,” said the man with the red beard. He gestured at his companion, the tall Seve swordswoman Katja had been following. “This is Teigan.”
Katja took her time, washing down the last of the gravy with a mouthful of red wine. She wiped her mouth and then sat back, resting one hand lightly on the hilt of the blade strapped to her thigh. This couldn’t be a coincidence, which made her wonder how much Rodann knew. Had he or Teigan seen her and Roza following them?
“What do you want?” asked Katja.
Rodann’s smile reminded Katja of a generous merchant she’d seen giving away sugared almonds to street urchins in northern Yerskania. The poisoned nuts had killed seventeen children before they managed to stop him.
“That is what I was going to ask you,” said Rodann, “because I know you’re not going to find it in the places you’ve been looking.”
Katja looked at Teigan who met her gaze but didn’t react. Her expression could have been carved from stone. The spark of life behind her blue eyes was the only indication that she was alive. While Rodann looked soft, with plump cheeks and woollen clothing, Teigan dressed in leathers, cut her brown hair short and her face was lean and angular.
“What does that mean?” asked Katja.
“We know all about you.”
Katja laughed and gestured with her free hand. “Tell me. I want to hear this.”
Rodann opened his mouth but then frowned and gestured at the b
ar. “Give me a moment. Another?” he said, gesturing at her glass of wine, but Katja declined.
She and Teigan sat in silence while Rodann waited at the bar to order a drink from the barman.
“So if he’s the talker, what do you do?” she asked.
Teigan glanced briefly at her and then away, studying the room and the crowd. “Negotiate,” she said, tapping the hilt of her sword.
Rodann returned a couple of minutes later with two mugs of ale and a glass of wine for Katja. Both she and Teigan didn’t touch their drink but Rodann took a few large gulps before settling himself.
“I know that you came to this city with an idea,” said Rodann, gripping his mug with both hands as he stared into its black murky depths. “And you’ve done something remarkable. Others will copy, but you were the first. I also know that despite being immersed in so many religions, it’s left you feeling hollow and unfulfilled.”
Katja stifled her anxiety, carefully schooling her features and keeping her breathing slow and even. She was right. Someone had been following her. She thought she’d lost them, but perhaps they’d just been more careful. It would explain how they knew so much. However, so far Rodann showed no indication that he knew she had been following him and Teigan.
Instead of showing concern she simply raised an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”
Rodann’s brown eyes were sympathetic. “Why else would you go to places like the Cave? Or drink in one low-down bar after another with your friend. What’s her name?”
“Roza,” said Teigan. Katja stared at her in shock, but Teigan’s attention remained elsewhere. At the moment it was on two merchants in the far corner conducting business in hushed whispers.
“Ah yes, Roza. A sad story,” said Rodann. “Forced to give up her old life and take over the spice shop when her poor uncle died. She’s just as lost as you.”
Katja eased the blade out of her pocket but kept it pressed against her leg. As clever as he thought he was Rodann had no idea that she and Roza were anything other than what they appeared. However, it was possible Rodann was simply playing with her. Katja tightened her grip on the blade.
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