Godwell hesitated and then nodded. "Of course. I'm sorry, my lord."
"Don't be. When the Endura is involved, a healthy degree of suspicion is nothing less than a survival tactic." He pointed. "Left here. Makeblise wants us at Farmers' Gate."
They marched in silence for a minute or two. The streets were still quite full: late traders pushing barrows of goods, roadsmiths carrying picks and oil-burners for clearing frozen drainage channels, women with bags heading to the markets, shaggy geemounts huffing steaming breath as they hauled heavy wagons and flocks of shoats in the road. The lanterns had been refilled and lit anew, and no more snow had fallen since angelus. Everything looked, superficially, normal.
But something had changed. Roder couldn't tell what it was, or even why he thought that anything was amiss. All he knew was that, in some indefinable manner, Igantia was different.
"My lord?"
Godwell's word startled Roder from his reverie. "Hm?"
"After the boy's body was removed from the alley, I spent some time there. I think there might have been something we missed earlier."
Roder looked at him sideways. "You mean something I missed."
"I didn't say that, my lord. I could be wrong, but it seemed to me that there was more blood there than should have come from the boy."
"There seemed quite enough to me, but go on."
"There were separate patches. Some further up the alley, and some spots heading away."
"God almighty," snapped Roder, almost breaking stride. "You're telling me the killer left a trail?"
Godwell spread his hands. "I couldn't tell if it was from the killer, or another victim. There were splashes that made me think the latter, unless the killer was wiping blood from a weapon as he ran."
"Footprints?"
"I couldn't tell, my lord. Some of the alley was sheltered from the snow, and what did lie was thrown about in some struggle." Godwell reached into a pouch at his belt, and drew out a folded sheet of parchment. "I had one of the juniors sketch what I found. Atercotte, he's good with a pen."
Roder took it from him, and held it so the light from nearby lanterns fell across it. Unfolded, the parchment showed a neatly-drawn plan of the alley, with the body sketched in. Further up the alley small patches showed the location of the spilt blood, disturbed snow and other features. "What's this? Here, at the other end of the alley?"
"Footprints, my lord."
"Whose?"
"Everyone's. The other end of alley opens up into Calder Lane. By the time the boy was found it had been stamped flat by the residents."
"Heading for church," sighed Roder. "Bless them for their piety, but it makes our job no easier." He handed the parchment back to Godwell. "This is good work, lad, and commend Atercotte on his penmanship."
"Aye, my lord."
"Oh, and Godwell?"
"Sire?"
"The boy wore good clothes. Once this business is over, contact the watchtowers in the upper city, and have them send marshals out to the businesses there. I'd bet someone's missing a clerk."
"I'll spread the word."
They rounded a corner, bypassing the broad square that lay within Farmers' Gate and moving instead down a parallel side street. Roder knew this area well - the gate led from the fields outside the wall almost directly into the mazelike lower city. It was an obvious point of entry for Daedalus operatives, coming in from the wilds with whatever heresies they had been able to scavenge. Roder had led dozens of searches here, and more than one heretic had been hung from the wall-spikes above the gate.
In daysummer the gate admitted swarms of labourers and farmers, along with their animals, their wagons, and all the supplies they took into the city or out from it. When the sun was in the sky and the Eye of God looked down on his creation, policing the square became almost impossible. There was simply too much activity, and all of it was essential to the survival of the city.
What Makeblise was doing running a search in nightwinter was a mystery. Little farming could take place when the sun was gone, so traffic through the gate would be almost nothing. It was pointless.
Roder had his orders, though, and the first of those was to rendezvous with Makeblise at the north edge of the square.
The man was waiting for him, as expected, and he was not alone. Three Endura soldiers stood with him, their armour gleaming under snow-white tabards, their broad-bladed spears held vertical. As Roder and the patrol approached, Makeblise was joined by another white-clad warrior.
The two exchanged a few hurried words, which ceased when the sheriff came within earshot. He saw the fourth soldier salute Makeblise and then turn and scurry away.
"Are your spies telling you what you want to hear, my lord?" Roder held up a hand, and the patrol halted behind him. Makeblise, favoured him with a small bow, barely more than a nod.
"Observers, sheriff. It would be an odd spy who wore his uniform so openly."
"Really?" Roder knew that Makeblise must have marshals in his pay, but there was little he could do about it. For one thing, he couldn't afford to lose the manpower, even if it was traitorous. "I beg to differ. Never mind. What do your observers tell you?"
"That there are three members of the Daedalus senior council about to enter the city, after some nameless activity in the wilds. If allowed back into Igantia they will initiate a series of atrocities designed to bring law and order in the city to its knees."
"For what purpose? Wouldn't that go against every aim Daedalus has?"
Makeblise frowned again. Twice in one nightwinter, thought Roder sourly. "Sheriff, you would do well to keep your own council about what aims Daedalus may or may not have. That is my concern. Yours is to apprehend the councillors. Take them alive if possible, but be aware they may be armed with heretical devices."
"Wonderful." Roder stamped away, back to his men. He brought Godwell close. "Take a patrol and get over to the gatekeeper. The square's pretty much clear - once this pious whoreson gives the word the three are well inside, I'll signal you. Lock the gate behind them."
Godwell saluted sharply, gathered the four closest marshals and hared off. Roder turned to those left with him.
"Follow my lead. Alive if you can, but don't be afraid to cripple. I'd sooner these 'councillors' lost a hand or two than set off some devil-machine inside the city."
With that, he paced back to where Makeblise stood with his warriors. The position gave him a good view of the square, while he remained largely out of sight. The Endura might have been an arrogant troupe of bastards, but they were no fools.
"You see them?"
Makeblise nodded. "I do. Just heading past that first row of stalls."
Roder squinted, peering into the square. Sure enough, there were the three; a large, hulking man, a smaller fellow and a tall, slender woman. They were wearing what he could only describe as an approximation of labourers' clothing, but even from across the square he could see it was a dismal effort at disguise. Even the way the three walked, carried themselves, was strange.
As he watched, the hourbell tolled distantly behind him, seven times to mark the end of matins. The feeling that something was different about the city came back to Roder then, hard. It felt like a dislocation, as though the world had tipped slightly and he hadn't gone with it.
With their strange, mismatched clothes and their odd stride, the Daedalus councillors seemed to be a centre for that feeling. It was focused on them.
He snapped his visor down, raised his gloved left hand, and drew his sword with his right. There was a whisper of steel from behind him as the patrol followed suit, and across the square he saw Godwell lift his own blade.
The woman stopped in mid-pace and spun. For a split second, Roder realised that she was looking right at him.
"Take them," he growled, "and if they resist, take them apart."
6. WANTED
Red was halfway across the square when she saw the soldiers coming towards her.
Her first reaction was one of stunne
d surprise. She and her companions had been inside the city for a minute, maybe less. The disguises they had cobbled together didn't look too unconvincing, as long as the light wasn't good: no one had given them much more than a cursory glance as they had joined a small group of peasants on their way through the gate.
In spite of all this, ten men in leather armour were running towards her with their swords drawn.
There was a grinding sound behind her, and she glanced back to see more soldiers hauling the gate closed. "Balls," she muttered. "Guys, we've been rumbled."
The soldiers would be on her in a few seconds, at the rate they were pounding across the flagstones. Red stepped to one side, giving Godolkin and Harrow a clear view and then took a second to size up the situation.
On more than one occasion, Red's life had depended on her being able to determine quickly just how much trouble she was in at any given moment, and over the years she had become very good at it indeed. Within seconds she had judged the size of the square, how long it would take her to reach any point of it at a flat run, and how difficult it would be to lose herself in the shadows. The men heading her way looked lean and fast, but their wargear was history-vid stuff at best - quilted leather surcoats, a few scraps of tattered chainmail, kettle helmets with brass faceplates and short swords but no ranged weapons that she could see.
There were more coming up behind her; she could hear their footfalls. "Boys?" she breathed.
"Blasphemy, our plan-"
"Sneck the plan. Just get clear and head for the city centre, okay?"
"Thy will be done." She saw Godolkin drop into a fighting crouch, the robe he had fashioned thrown back over one shoulder to leave his arms free. On her left, Harrow had simply turned himself side-on to the onrushing soldiers, his arms hanging loosely, fingers slightly curled. A Tenebrae assault stance, easily mutable, ready for any eventuality.
Except, perhaps, what happened next: the soldiers stopped.
They clattered to a halt a couple of metres away from the trio, moving quickly to bar their way, swords held at the ready. Some of the blades, she was encouraged to notice, wavered perceptibly in the air, although whether through nervousness or fatigue it was impossible to tell past the visors.
"Hi there," Red said brightly, for want of anything better to say.
One of the soldiers stepped forwards, lowering his sword. His faceplate was more ornate than that of his fellows, chased with silver and worked into a scowling mask. "You and your companions will yield to me, my lady."
There was a strange accent to his voice. He sounded determined, but quite calm, confident.
Things seemed to be playing out quite differently to her encounters with Accord authority, Red noted: there was nothing in the demeanour of these men that told her they were ready for anyone with her capabilities, or of the unreasoning hatred that came from Iconoclasts or their allies. By the look of things, the men before her were here to bring her in for some infringement of local custom, not slaughter her on the spot for the length of her teeth.
That made a change, if nothing else.
"On whose authority?" rumbled Godolkin, and Red smiled to herself. It was a smart, if somewhat desperate move. A bluff could seldom make such a situation worse, and any information it elicited could come in handy later.
The mask angled towards the Iconoclast. "By direct order of the provost, giant. Now place any infernal devices you carry on the ground, and kneel."
Most of Red's guns were back on the ship, but she had a plasma derringer tucked into her boot that she had no intention of giving up. "Sorry, pal. Nothing to declare."
The mask turned towards her once more. Past it, Red saw a new group hurrying into range; a spindly man in a white robe and three soldiers with halberds. Unlike the first arrivals these warriors looked glossy and well-equipped, with full-face helms and gleaming plate armour showing under their robes. Red's assessment of how much trouble she was in went up a notch.
Some of the leather-clad soldiers saw them too, and tensed. Even past the lowered visors, Red could see their demeanour change.
"Sheriff!" the slender man called out as he strode closer. "Why do you delay? Chain them or cut them down."
The masked soldier snarled under his breath and then called back without moving. "You do your job, my lord, and let me do mine!"
"Your foolishness risks us all! Cut them down!"
The sheriff didn't move, but to Red's left a sword went up and back.
She ducked away from it, slapping the sheriff's weapon clean out of his hand and shoving him over, hard. The blade she had seen on her left was swinging down, but she was already diving past, tearing it from its owner's grip and punching him in the face. He went over, the faceplate of his helmet caved in.
The sheriff was scrambling to his feet. His helmet had come off, and Red caught a glimpse of his face; seamed with age, his hair a shock of grey. Then the rest of the swords were coming at her, and the time for sightseeing was well and truly over.
These new arrivals, whoever they were, had managed to turn a simple arrest into a free-for-all in a matter of seconds.
Beside her, Godolkin had turned on his heel and was striking out at the soldiers behind them. Harrow had already taken two of his opponents down, his hands and feet finding weak spots in the quilted armour. Red saw him drop under a sword and hammer, the edge of his hand slamming into the soldier's arm, drawing a sharp scream and a crack of breaking bone.
They were still too close to each other, and Red was in danger of getting bunched in. She swept the legs from under one man and leapt over him as he tumbled, cartwheeling away to land next to the sheriff. He was trying to get up, favouring his right leg, and reaching for his fallen sword. Red kicked it away and hauled the man to his feet.
"Tell your boys to back off, grandad," she hissed, "or someone's going to get killed."
If he had an answer for her, she never heard it. A glittering halberd-blade whined towards her out of nowhere, and she had to hurl the old man away to avoid both of them being struck by it.
One of the white-clad warriors had reached the fray. As Red went back, he diverted the halberd in mid-slice and sent its tip hissing at her face. She had to scramble out of the way, unbalancing herself on the icy flagstones, and only avoided a third blow by rolling over on her shoulder and letting the blade strike sparks off the ground next to her head.
The man stepped back, spinning the weapon in a humming arc before bringing it back under his arm, his free hand held out ahead for balance. It was a fighting style that Red hadn't seen before, but it was fast and brutally effective. Of all the soldiers who had attacked her, it was this one who had come closest to taking her head off her shoulders.
He'd seemed quite unconcerned about carving up his own man, too. Red noted that as she jumped to her feet. It was quite obvious that she was looking at two separate, and quite possibly rival forces here.
Things were getting interesting.
The halberdier was still moving backwards, giving himself more space. That was his weakness, she realised. The weapon was long - it had a good reach, but it was useless close up.
Behind him, more soldiers were appearing at the edge of the square. Red cursed. "Time to go, fellers!"
A sword whirled past her and bounced off the flagstones. "If you insist, Blasphemy," Godolkin replied, sending another man flying with a vicious swipe. "Harrow?"
"Just give the word, holy one!"
She paused, feinted left and then powered forwards. "Now!"
The halberdier had fallen for the feint, and moved to block a blow that never came. Instead Red moved to the right, past the wide, gleaming blade of the halberd, and grabbed the weapon's haft, using her momentum to haul herself up onto it.
The man fell back. Red rode the halberd up, gripping it like a vaulting pole and then used the extra swing to leap high over the soldier as he tumbled. She heard the clatter of armour as he went down, and something whispered past the back of her head, but by that time
she was already running away.
The sounds of combat turned instantly to the scuffling and outraged shouts of pursuit, but within moments all the noises were far behind her. Red's bad diet over the past few weeks had affected her in all kinds of ways - her night vision wasn't as good any more, her bones ached and her complexion was a wreck - but it didn't stop her running at speeds most humans could only dream of. She was at the edge of the square before the footfalls behind her had crossed half the distance.
The square was surrounded by structures on the two long sides; twin rows of shadowy buildings that reared up three storeys to meet sharply sloping roofs. From a distance they looked like sawblades, but as Red got within a few metres she saw that they were storehouses, their fronts adorned with winch-supports and crude wooden cranes. What little light there was came from a scattering of lanterns, but none came from within the buildings.
Red thought for a second or two about breaking into one, but quickly discounted the idea. That would leave her trapped, and her plan was still to get into the city and lose herself among its streets. If the soldiers caught up with her again, she might not be able to escape them so easily a second time.
There were, however, narrow spaces between some of the buildings. Red ducked into one, scurrying between the plaster walls, avoiding the icicles that hung from above and the heaps of frozen litter underfoot.
A gate stood at the far end of the alley, but it wasn't locked. Red went through fast and quiet, closing it behind her and then scampered away. She was trading speed for stealth, now, and it seemed to work. There were a few shouts from the front end of the alley, and the sounds of running feet, but they faded quickly. In the poor light, she had managed to get out of the square without anyone seeing exactly where she had gone.
She waited a few more seconds to make sure no one was in sight and then set off again.
She kept moving, heading towards the heart of the city. At first she tried to stay out of sight, and worked her way along narrow lanes and back alleys, but as she got closer to the centre she found herself among more and more people. If she kept skulking about in the shadows, someone would eventually spot her and probably think she was a common criminal. The last thing she wanted was to have the alarm raised again.
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