Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1)

by LeClerc, Patrick

  “So what have you done?”

  For the first time since he'd entered the Commander's office, Sergeant Niath smiled. “I went out and got a few unusual ones.”

  * * *

  Trilisean sat crosslegged in the shadow of a chimney, her cloak spread beneath her against the chill of the slates. She waited motionless, watching the gates of the estate across the broad street.

  It was the home of Enenth “Digger” Diathorn, known publicly as a florist. He was known privately as the head of organized crime in a large section of South Laimrig, from the canal to the old Farmers' Gate, on the west road out of the city. His nickname was said to have come from the number of shallow, unmarked graves he'd filled with rivals on his way up the ladder.

  She wasn't casing the place for a burglary. One would have to be stupid to steal from Digger. She wasn't afraid of the man, exactly, but he was a bad man to cross, and there was no point courting that kind of trouble. She was watching his house because he was Smiley's boss. And Smiley was Moread's boss.

  And it was Market Day.

  After Sergeant Niath had left her with his ultimatum, she had done some thinking. All the contract work she'd gotten from Fayl had come on Feast day, the day after Market Day.

  So the decision to offer contracts must be made no later than Market Day.

  Moread wouldn't have turned to mugging without Smiley's order, and Smiley was a tough enforcer, an efficient underboss, but he wasn't the kind of innovator who'd come up with such a shift on his own. That had to have come from the Digger.

  But not everything could have. Digger couldn't have ordered an attack in the Old Gardens. He probably didn't care about burglaries. There had to be others working with him.

  Someone had called a meeting each week, and after that meeting, the nature and severity of crimes changed. And if one wanted to meet and discuss sowing chaos, it would be easy to travel and meet in the crowds and traffic of Market Day without being noticed.

  But where did he meet, and with whom?

  When you don't know what's going on, she thought, find someone to follow. Maybe they know.

  An hour after sunset, the gate of the estate opened and a closed coach emerged.

  I am so good, she thought.

  She rose and followed the coach by rooftop. Less traffic and fewer witnesses up high. The coach led eventually to a crumbling, abandoned estate, near the old port. Nobody used that side of the harbor much since it had silted in and river traffic was down anyway. There was no gold and no interest in dredging it.

  So. Where to go from here. She knew one of the conspirators, and where they met. That was something. Maybe enough for Niath.

  But she wanted more. She wanted a list of names. She wanted enough that Niath and his watchmen could crush the movement. As much as she hated to admit it, the sergeant was right. Whatever this cabal had planned, the price would be heavy in blood, and it would fall hardest on those least able to roll with the blow.

  But there was no way to know what lay beyond that wall. There would be guards. Not a problem if she'd scouted ahead, but not worth walking into blindly.

  So…wait until she saw people enter or leave, and take notes. Not as exciting as robbing the place, but duty calls.

  Duty.

  She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Start doing things like this without even being paid, and people might start expecting it.

  Still, if you're going to do a thing, do it right. Professional pride demanded it.

  If they kept the meeting secret, they'd leave with their identities hidden. Well wrapped up. Unmarked coaches. Cloaks. Big, floppy hats.

  The only way to really find out who was in there was to go over that wall and see. She looked at the roof across the street, next to the manor. High enough and close enough to see over the wall into the courtyard, and to leap to the wall if all was clear. Sloping tiles, and a wider street to jump than she'd like, but nothing she hadn't done before. If anyone could do this, then Niath wouldn't have come to her.

  Only a few laborers were on the street, making their way home, bearing their shovels or picks or whatever it was workmen used. A few hired muscles wandered just outside the wall, making sure the passing laborers didn't take too close an interest. She waited until the hired thugs wandered out of sight, then backed up the roof, took three quick steps and leapt across.

  She landed lightly, flexing her knees to absorb the momentum, let her weight settle, adjusting for the slope of the roof. Perfect.

  Until a loose tile gave way and slipped off.

  She felt herself sliding, scrambled for purchase on the fog- slick slate, spread her weight as best she could to slow herself as she slid down, then rolled off the roof with a silent curse.

  Trilisean dropped as gracefully as she could, landing on her feet, letting her knees bend and falling on her side, rolling as she hit the cobbles, taking the impact on the meat of her shoulder and hip, protecting her head and hands and knees and elbows. Bruised flesh would heal, broken bones might mean the end of a career.

  She came up in a crouch as she finished her roll. She hadn't made much noise.

  But the falling slate had.

  Two guards rushed out of a gate in the wall. Trilisean turned and saw two more appear at the far end of the alley.

  She cursed. Four men, two on each side, less than twenty paces away. She tensed to spring, waited for them to move, to show her the opening.

  The two who'd come from the gate moved forward, the other two spread out to cover the street, prevent any flight.

  “And you thought it was just a cat,” said the first man to his comrade.

  “Looks like one,” said the second. “And we all know what curiosity does to cats.” He pulled a long, curved knife as he walked. His companion let a length of leather-wrapped iron bar fall from his sleeve into his hand.

  A glance over her shoulder showed that the other two had also drawn weapons. That didn't matter much, the ones who were closing would show her the opening. She forced her breathing to slow and deepen, taking the fear and channeling it into energy for the rush.

  As she watched the two thugs advance, she saw a dark shape detach from the shadows, a shovel poised over its shoulder.

  She cringed. A workman trying to play hero would stand no chance against four of the organization's leg breakers. He might give her a chance to escape before they worked him over and dropped what was left in the harbor, but she didn't want that on her conscience. Not that she'd admit to having one, but she preferred to work alone because she accepted the consequences of her choices, and didn't want anyone else to have to.

  But the shadow didn't give the war cry and stomping charge of the amateur. It accelerated over five fluid steps, and delivered a quick, strong swing of his shovel at the head of one of the advancing enforcers. The shovel clanged on the enforcer’s skull and the man crumpled to the cobbles, his limbs spilling like a loosely tied sack, his knife clattering away.

  The second man spun as he heard his comrade's head ring, advancing lightly on the balls of his feet, feinting high with his weapon and striking at his enemy's knee.

  The shadowy apparition seemed to fall for the first attack, raising his shovel to defend, but then snapped the head of the tool down, batting the attack aside, and brought the butt end of the shovel around, punching it into the thug's stomach.

  The enforcer grunted and collapsed to his knees.

  Trilisean's face broke into a grin. Only one man moved like that.

  “You can't let me out of your sight for one night?” she asked.

  The other pair started forward, but Conn hurled his shovel like a javelin, making them pull up short to avoid it.

  “Let's go!” Conn shouted.

  “Reading my mind,” Trilisean agreed, springing to her feet and dashing off.

  She led Conn through a series of quick turns down some dark, narrow alleys. After a few blocks, they emerged onto a busy street, and blended with the crowds.

  * * *

&nbs
p; “So,” said Conn, handing Trilisean a glass of wine. “How much did you find out?”

  “Not much,” she admitted, taking a long sip. “I know where they meet. I know one of the principals.”

  “Time to plan our next step.”

  “We need more. I can give Niath what I have, but if we want to stop this mess– “

  “Oh, we can't stop this mess,” Conned grinned without mirth. “It's coming. And it's going to be a glorious mess.”

  “So if we can’t stop it, what is this plan of which you speak?”

  “Maybe we can't stop this mess, but I think we can steer it a bit.”

  * * *

  Niath leaned on the crumbling rail of the King's Bridge and drummed his fingers. The nobles were organizing. They were finished with the Baron. The bloody fool had been letting the city slide into the abyss for years and they did nothing. Now that they were feeling the bite, even a day's delay was too much.

  They wanted action. No, he sneered, they demanded action. And they wouldn't get it. The Watch was stretched too thin, tied up with chasing the Baron's missing tart, the mire of politics preventing anyone from taking charge and accomplishing anything. There would a coup.

  And it would be a bloody mess. As useless as the Baron was, he had legitimacy. Nobody else did. Nobody had a clear claim. Nobody had enough backing that the others would fall behind them. It would be an ugly struggle, and the vultures would have a feeding frenzy.

  * * *

  “Ioresh!” Conn called to his young apprentice. “You still want to play soldier?”

  “Aye!”

  “Well, go round up a half dozen students you can trust. Men who can keep their heads and follow instructions, even if they aren’t the best swordsmen. And bring ‘em here tonight.”

  The young man's face broke into a grin as he turned and walked out of the room. Conn sighed. The boy was older than he'd been, he reminded himself. But the Jarvings hadn't given him much choice. Well, it's not like there was much choice now.

  Better to take a little risk and try to steer this mess than to hunker down and live with the consequences. He walked to the storage room and looked over his own little armory. He gathered up a bundle of arrows, bodkin points for defeating mail, and a file. It's not the worst plan I've ever worked, he thought.

  “This is madness,” said Trilisean.

  “But it's my kind of madness.” Conn grinned.

  “No argument there. But say this works– “

  “Say it does.”

  “You delay the cataclysm. Plenty of the conspirators will still be out there. The ringleader will still be anonymous. Maybe it will take them some time, but they'll make another move.”

  “Some battles win you a campaign, and some just give you space to breathe, lass.”

  “In that case,” she said, “you get us that breathing room. I'll win this campaign.”

  * * *

  Sergeant Niath gave his instructions to the troop of watchmen, observing closely to see how they took them. Most of the faces were nervous. They expected trouble, it was Market Day night. The city would be filled with farmers come to sell their wares and drink the proceeds. The whores, tavern keepers, and pickpockets would suddenly acquire a work ethic. The friction of the crowds and the fumes of the liquor against the tinder of tension already in the city would need just the faintest spark to roar into cataclysmic life. Most of the Watch were cynical enough to be sure such a spark would make its appearance.

  He held down his own misgivings. He had only the word of that mercenary. “The spark can be stamped out tonight. But you don't want to know too much or be too close. Just help me keep the damage from spreading,” was all the man had said.

  Niath trusted him, and his companion, the sneak thief, as much as he needed to. More than anyone else in this city. They saw the danger, saw the threat and saw how politics would keep anyone else who could stop it from wanting to stop it. He knew they wanted to keep the lid on this hellish cauldron as much as he did, and they had no superior officers tying their hands.

  But he had no idea what they planned, and he feared what it might be. Would it work? Probably. Nether of the pair were zealots or martyrs. They'd want a plan they could survive. But would it be on he could stand by and watch, or would he feel compelled to stop it?

  But could he stop a messy plan that might save the whole thing from going over the falls?

  Probably best he didn't know more.

  “Why are we forming the cordon here?” asked Constable Tardash, breaking into his worrying.

  Niath just looked at the man until light dawned. “Sergeant?”

  “This is where trouble will come. If it starts tonight,” the sergeant replied.

  “But that's the High Street,” Tardash plowed on. “Why would trouble come from that way?”

  Watchmen to either side of the man stepped away.

  “We have information, Constable. We stand here and keep the bridge clear. Any armed men are to be turned back, anyone resists, he gets the truncheon.”

  “But Sergeant, shouldn't we be keeping the rabble on this side, rather than the gentry on that one?”

  Niath sighed. He did not have time or patience for this. Not this night. Not any night, but especially not this one. Tardash wasn't exactly stupid, but he didn't have what the sergeant called situational awareness. The boy could quote ordinances and regulations and procedure, but couldn't see danger if it were chewing on his arse.

  “That's good thinking, Constable,” he said gently. “You'll make Captain some day, you keep that up.” He walked slowly to the young watchman, putting a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Let me explain this a bit more clearly, so we understand what's happening here.”

  “Alright, Sarge,” said Tardash

  Niath suddenly snapped his head forward, breaking the young man's nose. As Tardash reeled, the sergeant punched him in the stomach, then grabbed him by the belt and the collar of his tunic, marching him to the railing of the bridge As the younger man began to struggle, the sergeant bounced his head off the railing.

  Constable Tardash blinked the stars from his eyes and looked down into the swirling water. He was balanced precariously on the railing, only the sergeant's iron grip on his tunic keeping him from plunging in.

  “That, Constable Tardash, is the river. You see those culverts that empty into it?” Niath asked in a calm, conversational tone.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the younger man gasped.

  “That is sewage. Now, sewage is waste. Waste is trash, offal. Things that don't work anymore. Things that are useless. A burden. Things that don't do what they should, but get in the way of you doing what you need to do. Make sense?”

  “Yes, Sergeant!”

  “That's what winds up in the river, Constable. Not useful things. No wise man would throw anything useful in that cold, dark, filthy water. Nothing that performed the way it should,” he paused, leaned forward and whispered in the young watchman's ear. “Would you call me a wise man, Constable?”

  “Aye, Sarge!” Tardash nodded. “Very wise!”

  Niath pulled the man back, helped him stand and straightened his tunic.

  “Now you understand things.” He smiled. “Don't ever hesitate to ask if you need things explained. That's how we learn.”

  * * *

  Ioresh lurked in the shadowy alley between two buildings and stole a look around the corner at the assembled troops. Conn was right; the nobles were expecting trouble. Looking for it.

  A company of maybe fifty infantry, armed for street fighting, not the field. Swords and small shields, not spears and halberds. Most of the rank and file had mail shirts and helms. The leader was mounted and had greaves and vambraces as well.

  Conn had forbidden the men from wearing armor. “I want you to move quickly, not slug it out. You'll move faster without armor, and you'll want to move faster with nothing but wool between you and a steel point,” he'd said. Ioreshsaw the logic in that, but had voiced another concern.

&n
bsp; “As for steel points…” the younger man had asked.

  “These bodkins have the tips filed flat,” Conn said. “But aim for the best armored enemy. Good mail over a quilted gambeson should stop them, but if you hit some poor conscript in a leather jerkin, it might still punch through. We want to taunt the troops, not kill them. This will work, and we’ll dodge the worst of the balme, but if we stat killing soldiers, we’ll never get a lid on the slaughter.”

  “And if we hit somebody in the gap in his armor?”

  Conn had shrugged. “Combat is not an exact science. But at least it'll be a nob who gets pierced.”

  Ioresh smiled. “And once I start bouncing shafts off the troops?”

  “Get their attention then fall back. Try to stick to the narrow alleys. Keep ahead of them, leapfrog your teams. We want them to chase you to where we want them, but don't get caught. They've been upset of late, and even blunt arrows will trigger their tempers.”

  Ioresh shook his head.

  “Having second thoughts, lad?”

  “No sir. But it's not what I expected.”

  “You should be happy, lad. Not only are you getting your wish of being a soldier, you're leading real troops. Just make sure those troops don’t catch you.”

  He nodded to two of his companions, who fanned out, taking up positions in the shadows. Another team of three young archers was in position two streets back.

  Once he saw the others in place, he took one of the blunted arrows from his quiver, knocked it and drew, pushing the bow up and out with his left arm as he drew the string back with his right, feeling the muscles of his arms and shoulders and back bunching with the effort, then loosing as his point of aim settled on the target.

  It was the first time he had ever shot at a man. He shoved the thought aside, clearing his mind, just concentrating on the draw and loose.

  The shaft struck the mounted officer in the shoulder and recoiled off. The man hunched over at the pain of impact, then looked up searching the shadows for his assailant. More arrows struck the assembled company, as Ioresh and his companions loosed as quickly as they could, then fled.