by Mark Robson
The tray of food was steaming, and the aroma of it set her stomach rumbling the moment the innkeeper brought it in through the door. Femke waited until he left and then tucked in with some enthusiasm of her own. The beef had been cooked for longer than she preferred, but the vegetables were as she liked them and the thick, meaty gravy masked any dryness of the meat. The ale was strong. As soon as she took her first sip she was glad that she had only ordered a small glass. Overall, the meal was just what she needed.
Replete, she put the tray on the small dahl table and opened her saddlebags. Within a few moments she had spread the contents over the bedcovers. It was time to move again, time to utilise her unique talents for disguise and deception.
Off came the red curls and the dark blue riding dress and boots. On went a wig of dark brown, shoulder-length hair, a tunic and trousers of cream and brown respectively, topped with a hooded cape of darkest black. Brown leather ankle boots finished the outfit. A pot of flesh-coloured cream changed the complexion of her face and hands to a darker shade. Having done so, Femke then took her make-up pencils and, using the small wall mirror, changed both the colour and shape of her eyebrows. A vial of sticky black liquid and a tiny round brush served to darken her eyelashes, and a further vial and brush decorated her eyelids.
The overall effect was remarkable. The person looking back at her from the mirror looked nothing like the one who had been there but a few moments earlier. Femke admired her handiwork for a few seconds, then gathered her weaponry and concealed it about her person.
It was a shame to have to leave the dress, but she could not carry it. The saddlebags were bulky and did not lend themselves to being carried far, but she did not want to advertise the fact that she had been in disguise by leaving everything behind. The dress was one thing, but her other changes of appearance were something else.
Femke took the length of rope from the bed, and looked around for somewhere to secure it. There was not much choice. Her best anchor point was a bed leg. The bed was up against the wall nearest to the window already. All she needed to do was to drag the bottom of the bed across until it was under the window. The bed was heavy and solidly built. Once in position it would be unlikely to go anywhere.
Moving the bed was a slow job, as she did not want to transmit the noise of moving it through the floor. The last thing she wanted was the innkeeper knocking on the door to find out what she was up to. Once it was right underneath the window, Femke tied the rope securely to one of the foot-end legs.
The innkeeper had appeared a decent-enough fellow, so she put an appropriate amount of money on the chest of drawers to pay for her accommodation and food. It was unlikely that she would be able to return to the inn to take her horse, so the innkeeper was set to do rather well at her expense.
She slung the saddlebags over her shoulder, wrapped the rope around her back and, holding on to the rope tightly, she climbed out through the window. Step by step she shuffled down the wall. Balance was not easy to maintain with the saddlebags weighing her down on one side, but she was careful and made the descent without incident. Once on the ground, she ran silently across the courtyard to see which street the back gate opened into.
Dusk had given way to full dark. It was hard to make anything out in the back street, but Femke was confident of her bearings. She could not take her saddlebags with her to the next inn – without a horse they would raise too many questions. Slipping out into the darkness, she drew her hood over her head and crept along the streets looking for a likely alleyway in which to conceal them. She did not have to go far, which was a blessing as the bags were heavy.
The alley she chose was littered with discarded rubbish. Femke took a few moments to bury her saddlebags under a pile of old cloth and other discarded junk. Having done so, she sniffed gingerly at her hands. They stank. If she could, she would have to clean them before seeking out another inn.
She returned to the mouth of the alleyway with her thoughts focused on looking for a water butt. If the street she entered had not been so silent, she would never have heard the whisper of the descending cosh. As it was, she had no time to avoid it. Instinct helped her to fall with the blow, lessening the impact, but it was not enough. The hollow-sounding thud as it hit the back of her head, together with an explosion of yellow stars in her eyes, were the last things she experienced before the vacuum of unconsciousness sucked her into its void.
Shalidar paused for a moment in the shadows. He was directly opposite Lord Tremarle’s town house. The immediate effects of the truth serum had worn off. Shalidar had regained full control of his mental functions again, but had been left with an intense headache. He felt as if someone had pierced the back of his head with a metal spike and was tweaking it at random intervals to deliver extra-sharp lances of pain. It was excruciating, but things could have been worse. If the Guildmaster had paused just a little longer between his second and third questions, Shalidar’s life would have been forfeit. He shuddered at the memory.
As soon as he had been asked what he had been doing in the Palace at the time of the Emperor’s death, Shalidar had realised his error. If left to answer for long enough, he would have revealed his intention to kill the Emperor. He had thought his truthful answer that he had been looking for Wolf Spider would allow him to control his reaction to the serum. He had been wrong. The serum had allowed him no control at all. He had felt compelled to tell everything, rather than just the part he wanted. He had been fortunate the Guildmaster had interpreted his reluctant admission that he had also been looking for Femke as his only secret from that question. A pause of a few more seconds and Shalidar knew he would have told more – much more.
Once again he had gambled. Once again he had emerged triumphant. There were times when he felt invincible, but this was not one of them. He had pushed his luck to the limit this time. He was no fool. He knew this sort of luck could not last forever. A certain amount of prudence would now be required if he were to see his ultimate plan through.
He checked the street. It was clear. A glimmer of light leaked out between the drapes in Tremarle’s drawing-room window. Despite the late hour it looked as though the old Lord was not yet in bed. Shalidar was pleased. It meant he would not have to make much noise to attract his attention.
With a second quick glance up and down the street, Shalidar limped out into the open and across to Tremarle’s front door. He gave the door three quick raps with his knuckles. He paused for a second and did it again. Lord Tremarle did not keep him waiting long.
‘I wondered if that might be you. Come inside. Quickly.’
Shalidar did not answer, but limped in through the door and across the hallway to the drawing-room. Tremarle closed the door and followed him, also closing the drawing room door as he entered.
The fire had burned low, but the room was comfortably warm. Shalidar gingerly lowered himself into one of the armchairs near the fireplace. It felt good to take the weight off his injured leg. Tremarle crossed the room to the drinks cabinet and held up two glasses.
‘Drink?’ he asked.
Shalidar thought for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t usually, but I believe I will, thank you.’
As he moved to pour two generous glasses of red wine, Tremarle could not help but take several glances at the man he was to adopt as his son. Both of his true sons were dead. Both had died in unfortunate circumstances – the eldest, Danar, as a direct result of Surabar’s blackmailing him into going to Thrandor.
Would he have been as proud of Danar if he had just assassinated the Emperor? It was a ridiculous question. If Danar had lived, Tremarle would have had no reason to see the Emperor dead. As it was, Shalidar had brought Tremarle’s vengeance to fruition. He had avenged the death of his eldest son and earned his place at Tremarle’s side. He was of perfect age and maturity to take Danar’s place as heir to the House of Tremarle. It was still the House of Tremarle while he lived. Why should he not choose a strong successor, rather than allow the noble name of Tremarle to die
, his House subsumed into another as if it had never existed?
As he walked across and handed Shalidar one of the glasses, he looked into the calm eyes of the assassin. The eye contact gave Tremarle further feelings of assurance that he had made a good choice. Shalidar might be cold, but in time he would make a formidable leader for the House.
‘So what happened?’ Tremarle asked as he sat down in a chair positioned to the other side of the fireplace. ‘I heard the Imperial Bell. I therefore conclude that you succeeded, but I see you have suffered an injury. Is it bad? Do you need any medical aid? Are the two incidents related?’
‘It’s bad, but I’ve suffered worse. I took a crossbow bolt in the leg during my exit from the Palace. It was unfortunate, but injuries are a risk that one in my profession learns to live with.’
‘I hope you feel your reward on this occasion will be worth the pain you have suffered . . . son.’
‘You have signed the legal adoption?’ Shalidar asked.
‘Yes. It’s on my desk. I’ll show you before you leave. The only reason it’s not been lodged with the Court is that I was waiting to show it to you first.’
‘That was most thoughtful of you, Lord Tremarle. As it happens, it might be better if you wait until my leg has healed before submitting it. Several people saw me with the bolt in my leg during my escape. The authorities will no doubt have the militia look for a man with a wound in his right leg. I would not want to bring them to your door. It would be most unfortunate if someone were to tie the person running from the Palace with your newly-adopted son. There are plenty of Noble Houses who will fall under suspicion for the Emperor’s death. Let’s not invite trouble by giving them a reason to investigate our activities.’
‘Quite right!’ Tremarle said emphatically. ‘However, I might be able to help speed your recovery a little. I have an expensive ointment in my possession for just such a flesh wound. I bought it from a magician in anticipation of one of my sons coming home with a duelling injury. They were both rather impetuous. Danar in particular was renowned for his dalliances with the young Ladies of the Court. He was ever in danger of being challenged. The magician assured me that the ointment would speed up the healing of flesh wounds several fold.’
‘The use of such an ointment would be much appreciated,’ Shalidar admitted. ‘Is it somewhere to hand?’
‘Indeed. Wait there, I’ll just be a moment.’
Tremarle put down his glass, got up and left the room. Shalidar sipped at his wine. It was a good vintage, but the combination of his headache and the constant throbbing pain in his leg seemed to sap something from the flavour. He wanted to get up and look at the papers that declared him heir to the House of Tremarle, but to do so would be to invite more pain. He thought better of it.
The old Lord was not long. He returned with a plain earthenware pot, which he handed to Shalidar.
‘Use it sparingly. I’m told it is very potent.’
‘Thank you. I shall.’
‘Now, Shalidar, as you are now my adopted son and heir, I wondered if we might discuss how to best present you to the Court. How many of the nobility would know you by face as a member of the Guild?’
Shalidar thought for a moment. ‘I think I can safely say that no more than one or two from the Court would know that for sure, though some others might suspect. Those who do know are sensible enough to keep their mouths shut. I was seen openly in the Palace for over two years, so many know my face and name. However, to my knowledge, the only people aside from select clients who knew I was a Guild member were the Emperor and a few of his spies. Most thought I was one of His Imperial Majesty’s advisors, which, in a manner of speaking, I was. Advisors go in and out of fashion, so no one has questioned why I’m no longer in Imperial favour. In truth, I have managed a successful business as a merchant in my spare time for years now. Recent events in Thrandor have damaged the business, but it has not been destroyed. I intend to rebuild it in due course.’
‘A merchant,’ Tremarle repeated thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that would be respectable enough, assuming the goods you’re trading in are of sufficient standing.’
‘I’ve traded in expensive cloths, quality silverwork and jewellery. I’d say my business was respectable enough for most.’
‘Yes, yes! No offence was meant. That will be fine – more than acceptable as an occupation for the heir to the House of Tremarle.’
‘Indeed,’ Shalidar agreed, ‘but will it be good enough for the heir to the Imperial Mantle?’
‘I beg your pardon! What are you talking about, Shalidar?’
‘It’s quite simple really, father. I’m asking you to propose yourself as a candidate in the succession.’
CHAPTER SIX
Reynik’s attention was dragged from his book by the sound of the librarian suffering a loud coughing fit. As he looked up he became aware of the stiffness in his back and shoulders. He had not realised how long he had been sat motionless, reading. The librarian had risen from her table, but was doubled over and coughing as if something were choking her. Was she gesturing? His eyes swept across to the main doors. Two men in dark cloaks had just entered. As soon as he saw them his blood ran cold. He ducked down to hide behind his book, but it was too late. Cougar had seen him.
Reynik did not know the other man, but it was likely he would be another Guild member. His heart raced. He had to get out of the library – and fast! The only weapons he had about his person were his knives. Cougar was wearing a sword. At first glance the other man appeared to be unarmed, though this was unlikely to be the case. Reynik’s options were limited. All the windows in the library were far too high to reach. There were some side doors, but for all he knew, they could lead to dead ends. His only sure way out was through the main door at the front. To get there he would have to get past the two men.
Closing the book, Reynik got to his feet. Thinking fast, his mind spun with possible options, but as fast as ideas came he dismissed them.
Cougar brushed past the librarian. He touched the other man’s arm and silently indicated Reynik’s position. They split without exchanging a word and walked forward with deadly purpose. Cougar closed in from Reynik’s left, while the other man approached from his right. Reynik held his position. If he moved, the two assassins would alter track and corner him. At present they were between him and the one known exit. They had all the angles covered. His thought was to draw them in close and then somehow create an opening through which to make his escape. Unfortunately it was the ‘somehow’ that was causing him the problems.
‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing? If you two gentlemen are thinking of making trouble, then you can leave right now.’ The librarian bristled with anger, her coughing fit miraculously forgotten.
Reynik grabbed the largest of the books from the table. ‘Get out of here. They won’t leave witnesses,’ he advised her urgently, his head moving from side to side as he tried to watch both men approach. ‘Run! Don’t get involved.’
As if to confirm Reynik’s summation of the situation, Cougar drew his sword. The librarian’s eyes went wide as realisation dawned. She gave a squeak of terror, turned and fled across the library, stumbling over her feet as she went. She disappeared out through one of the side doors. Reynik noted which one she had gone through, as it was likely to lead to an exit. Cougar noted it too.
‘There’s nowhere to go, Wolf Spider. You’re mine this time. Your spy friend was captured last night, but your fate is not to be so kind. The Guildmaster wants nothing from you other than your head.’
Reynik’s heart sank. They had Femke! He had to get away. If she had been taken to the Guild headquarters, there would be no way out for her unless he could stay alive.
The assassins were getting close. Their cold eyes held no mercy. Reynik met their stares with what he hoped was a cool front. Inside he was on the verge of panic. It was his final flitting scan around the library for anything he might have missed that sparked inspiration. Hope flared.
In
a single spinning motion Reynik flung his large book at Cougar, turned, picked up his chair and hurled it at the other man. The solid-looking assassin brushed it aside with an arm as if flicking away an imaginary fly, but the projectiles had given Reynik the vital second or two he needed.
Without pause, Reynik vaulted up onto the table. To the two assassins’ amazement, however, he did not cross it and run for the door as they anticipated. Instead he turned and exploded into a froglike leap back towards the huge bookcase behind the table. He grabbed the top, finding a good handhold as the bookcase tipped with the impact of his weight. For a moment, he thought the bookcase was going to fall, but it faltered and then rocked back towards the upright. Clinging to the top, Reynik waited until the critical moment and then threw all his weight backwards to accelerate the movement of the bookcase back towards his attackers.
For a moment it appeared his weight was not enough, the bookcase teetered once again at the point of no return. This time, however, Reynik’s weight on the down-going side made the vital difference. The two assassins, Cougar with sword raised and ready to strike, suddenly found themselves bombarded by a deluge of falling books, followed by the crushing weight of the huge wooden bookcase.
Reynik tried to throw himself clear, but realised too late that this was impossible. The only thing that saved all three men from being crushed by the massive weight of the bookcase was the strength and solidity of the table at which Reynik had been working. The bookcase impacted the table and stopped with an almighty crash. Reynik landed awkwardly, colliding first with the far side of the table before falling to the floor. The remaining books from the top three bookshelves fell on top of him. The two assassins were trapped in the narrow wedge between the bookcase and the table, having been first buried under the majority of the falling books.
Reynik groaned as he rolled over, gaining first his hands and knees, then staggering to his feet. He felt bruised and battered, both front and back. There was a noise of movement under the table. At least one of the two assassins was trying to get out. The warm rush of adrenalin burned in his belly once more. Forcing his pain-filled body into a lurching run, he crossed the library towards the front door. As he ran, he saw the shocked face of the librarian peering round the side door through which he had seen her run a few moments earlier.